"I recently bought a piece of land here in the Badlands..." Arthur started casually.
Mitch nearly choked on his cigarette. "Bought? You bought land here? What the hell for? You trying to lose money in style? Just give it to me next time, I'll blow it at Twist Street for you. At least then it'll be a party!"
Arthur smirked and shrugged. "Come on, I'm just trying to survive, same as everyone else. Besides, if I don't buy it, Night City's gonna chew me up and spit me out. Rules in the city, rules outside the city—either way, you're stuck playing someone else's game."
Mitch thought for a second, then grunted. "Depends where you bought it. You'd better pray there's no Knife Club squatters or night-ghost psychos squatting near your new backyard. Otherwise, you're buying yourself a front-row ticket to hell."
Arthur nodded. He'd already considered that risk. That's partly why he'd come to the Aldecaldos' camp in the first place. If you needed to understand how to deal with rats, you asked a rat. If you needed to survive in the wilderness, you asked a wanderer.
"I picked a spot next to the Biotechnica protein farm," Arthur said. "It's not exactly paradise, but it's relatively safe. Not a lot of people hanging around."
Mitch gave a low whistle. "Biotech, huh? Lucky dog. Say, any chance you could swing us a discount with them? I've been dreaming about those juicy cricket steaks. The big bugs. When you bite 'em, it's like poppin' a fat, meaty zit—gushes right into your soul!"
Arthur made a face, nose wrinkled. Mitch always had a way with words.
In Night City, "protein" didn't mean steak or tofu. It meant bugs. Industrially grown, genetically optimized, and processed into a slurry that could mimic meat, if you didn't think too hard about it.
Biotechnica held nearly half the city's protein contracts. Their "meat" ranged from gourmet cricket patties for corpo brunches, to worm-based pastes sold in vending machines. Earthworm patties were cheapest, and it showed. They had an earthy, gritty taste and a smell that could rot teeth.
Most people didn't ask what they were eating. In Night City, ignorance wasn't just bliss—it was survival.
As Arthur and Mitch continued chatting, a familiar figure approached. Saul. He gave Arthur a firm handshake and then ruffled David's hair.
"Still hanging around biotech's backyard, huh?" Saul said with a smirk. "What's the Umbrella Company planning to dig up next—gold?"
David glanced around at the arid expanse of yellow sand and trash. "Gold? Out here?"
Arthur laughed. "That's what we call irony, kid. Out here, gold's got nothing to do with metal."
He gestured toward the horizon. "This land's a gold mine for folks who don't mind getting their hands bloody. Out here, there's no laws, no enforcers, no netcams. Just you, your gun, and whoever you can get to follow you."
David listened closely.
"This place," Arthur continued, "is a treasure chest for anyone ruthless enough to open it. You get manpower out here. Real manpower. People desperate enough to dig holes, guard trucks, grow crops—even fight. Smuggling, salvage, mining... you name it. There's money in chaos. That's why the biggest bastards always end up rich."
David nodded slowly, the weight of the truth settling on him.
Turning back to Saul, Arthur said, "I need workers. A crew to clear out my land. People to dig, weed, level the dirt. I need a wall thrown up around the whole place, a few buildings—maybe even a barracks. And I need them quick."
Saul raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like half a city."
"Well, it ain't gonna build itself."
Arthur paused, eyeing Saul playfully. "So... you ever done contract work?"
Saul blinked. "What, like fixer work?"
"No. Like foreman work. You're gonna be the guy. I need a contractor. You, your clan, your logistics people—everyone. I'm offering you a job."
Saul rubbed the back of his neck, clearly caught off guard.
Arthur leaned in. "Three or four months of work. Real pay. No corpo bullsh*t. No sensors up your ass. Just honest credits. You round up your people, and you'll be in charge of getting it all done."
There was a long pause. The kind of pause that told Arthur Saul was seriously thinking about it.
"To be honest," Saul finally said, "that sounds good. Real good. We've got elders who can't find work. Kids who need food. Hell, I got logistics techs and half a dozen drivers just waiting for something to do."
"But," he added with a sigh, "there's one problem. I'm already working a job."
Arthur's grin faded slightly. "Let me guess. Biotechnica."
Saul nodded. "Yeah. They made an offer, and I said yes. I've got people inside their ops now. It's mostly transport and security."
Arthur spat into the sand. "You really trust those corpo bastards?"
"No," Saul said honestly. "But they're paying. And they said if we prove ourselves, there might be a longer-term contract."
Arthur scoffed. "That's the same line they feed every desperate clan from here to Arizona. And when they're done with you, they'll bury you in the sand and send a voucher to your family for a discounted meal."
"You think I don't know that?" Saul shot back. "But this isn't about me. I've got mouths to feed."
Arthur folded his arms. "So what—you're gonna die a corpo slave? Saul, they don't see you as a person. You're a number in their logistics chain. And the moment that number goes negative, you're gone."
He took a deep breath and stepped closer. "What I'm offering? It's risky, sure. But it's ours. We build it. We own it. We control it."
Saul looked at Arthur with unreadable eyes. Then he looked out toward the biotech facility, barely visible through the haze.
"This place's got more ghosts than corpses," he muttered.
Arthur grinned. "So let's make some noise and give the ghosts a job."
Saul snorted. "You're a damn lunatic, you know that?"
Arthur nodded proudly. "Yeah. But I'm your lunatic."
A moment passed.
Then Saul held out his hand. "Fine. You've got yourself a foreman."
Arthur took it with a firm shake. "Welcome to the nightmare."
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