Cyberpunk Patriarch-Chapter 101 – There Is a Big Rat in Night City!

Arthur leaned against the Porsche, cigarette tucked between his lips, and took a slow drag while mentally reviewing his current inventory of cybernetic body parts. Mantis blades? Stolen from Oda. Feet? Lifted straight from Adam Smasher's gear locker. His optics? "Liberated" from an Arasaka lab during a blackout raid.

All signs pointed to a singular, inevitable conclusion.

"...Man, me and Arasaka really have a destiny."

Maine paused mid-load, halfway through shoving a reinforced prosthetic torso into the car's rear compartment. He turned, wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, and muttered, "If I were Adam Smasher, I'd stomp you like a roach, you Night City rat."

Arthur grinned. "Heh. If I were Adam Smasher, I'd have better taste in backup gear. And maybe a real face."

Maine chuckled and resumed stacking the rest of the crates. By this point, his nerves were starting to settle. This wasn't Arthur's first time doing something suicidal like looting an Arasaka asset. Hell, it wasn't even the second.

If anyone had a bounty on their head that would make the corpos salivate, it was Arthur.

"Eh," Maine shrugged. "I doubt Smasher even notices this kinda crap. Dude's busy crushing skulls for contracts worldwide. He's got better things to do than chase a chromehead with sticky fingers."

Arthur stretched his arms and yawned. "Exactly. Technically, I'm not even stealing. I'm salvaging. These are welcome-back gifts. Smasher's way of congratulating me for not dying."

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Arthur tapped the trunk of the Porsche. "That's the kind of generous man he is."

Maine gave him the world's flattest stare.

"Anyway," Arthur continued, "you keep loading. I'm gonna grab Silverhand's old ride. She's parked in a container at the far end."

Silverhand's Porsche 911. Mint condition. Gleason had kept it polished like a shrine. And now? It was Arthur's.

He strolled out of the hold, keycard and access chip in hand, and jogged across the deck to the container. Using the ship's crane, he pulled the container out of the corner and set it gently near the ramp.

One swipe. Click. The doors slid open.

And there she was.

The 911 sat like a polished relic from a lost world, spotless beneath a layer of protective field shielding. Even the red trim glowed like blood in the fading afternoon light.

Arthur whistled. "Oh yeah. Daddy missed you."

He popped the door open and climbed in. Everything purred to life. Every dial, switch, and chrome-etched Johnny Silverhand insignia was perfectly maintained.

As he messaged Maine, the big man soon arrived, arms full of gear. Arthur popped the back hatch, and Maine immediately began stuffing the stolen loot inside like a frantic mall Santa with zero packing strategy.

Arthur winced. "You could at least sort it."

"Nope. If it fits, it sits."

Ten minutes later, everything was stuffed in. Arthur pointed to the passenger seat.

"Hop in."

Maine looked at the cramped seat, then looked at his enormous frame. With great reluctance—and a few curses—he folded himself into the car like a sleeping bag being packed too tight.

Arthur laughed. "You look like a cybernetic pretzel."

Maine groaned, already regretting every life decision that led to this moment.

Arthur closed the trunk, pulled the container door shut behind them, and locked it from the inside. Then, with a few precise button taps on the digital panel, the crane lowered the container down to the dock's vehicle bay.

Outside, the security cameras didn't even blink. Everyone figured it was Gleason taking Silverhand's car out for another joyride.

No one stopped them.

The container doors creaked open. The Porsche's engine roared to life. Arthur slammed the accelerator, and the antique vehicle launched down the dock, tires screaming, chrome gleaming like the legend it carried.

---

By sundown, they were halfway across the city.

Back at the Arasaka lab, Adam Smasher sat slouched in a reinforced chair, his brain aching like it hadn't since he was still flesh and bone.

He'd spent the whole day acting as a guinea pig for the Arasaka tech division—testing out neural dampeners, signal boosters, smartlink recalibrators. They'd even tried strapping a hydration system to his spinal tank.

"Idiots," he muttered.

If he still had tear ducts, he might've wept.

Why did Arasaka pour billions into R&D just to test it all on him? His brain was tired. His processors were tired. Even his combat reflex dampeners were tired.

He sat in the back of a heavily-armored transport, fingers twitching as data feeds poured into his vision.

In the front seat, his assistant—a young corpo flunky—glanced nervously in the rearview mirror.

Smasher's voice, low and metallic, cut through the silence.

"Anything interesting happen while I was out?"

The flunky nearly dropped his tablet. "Uh—yes, actually! There was a... minor incident in Watson. Cyberpsycho attack. Trauma Team, MaxTac, and Arasaka personnel were involved. Pretty heavy damage."

"Details."

"Well, they said the cyberpsycho was unusually fast. Used a red laser mantis blade. Kinda like the ones Mr. Oda used to carry."

Smasher froze.

"...Red laser?"

"Yes, sir. The guy apparently tore through a whole MaxTac squad. Eyewitnesses said the mantis knife tech looked familiar—outdated, but elite-grade."

Smasher's synthetic jaw flexed.

He remembered that blade. The exact blade.

A prototype Oda had developed... then lost.

Stolen.

By him.

He narrowed his eyes, processing data with machine-like speed. There shouldn't be anyone in Night City with access to that blade. Not unless—

Unless that cockroach was still alive.

The rat.

The one that should've died more than a decade ago. The one with the silver tongue and the bad habit of looting Arasaka's leftovers.

He muttered under his breath. "No... he had cyberpsychosis. He disappeared. They said he'd gone insane. He should be dead by now."

The transport turned a corner, approaching the northern dock.

And there, slumped in a security booth, was a guard.

Fast asleep. Scratching his ass like a sitcom extra.

Smasher's eyes narrowed further.

The scene was... familiar.

Too familiar.

Same kind of guard. Same kind of lazy.

Just like that time—more than ten years ago—when someone broke into an Arasaka lab and stole a prototype weapon out from under their nose.

Same sloppy scene.

Same signature.

Smasher stepped out of the car. The ground shook under his weight.

He approached the booth. The guard didn't stir.

Something reeked in the air.

Not oil. Not sweat.

It was the scent of legacy.

And the scent of rats.

"I know this feeling..." Smasher whispered.

"...So

meone's back."

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