Arthur could tell he had thoroughly annoyed Lucy, which was no surprise. Then again, in Night City, it didn't matter much. Annoying someone was the least offensive thing you could do in a place where people regularly blew up cars just to get better parking spots. This was a city where consequences were just stories parents told their kids to help them fall asleep. Nobody actually cared, and even fewer remembered by the next day.
"By the way," Lucy suddenly asked, her voice shifting into a lighter tone, though her eyes remained sharp, calculating, "what's the deal with those 'graphics girls' you mentioned earlier?"
Arthur could feel the change in her posture, the deliberate attempt to shift the conversation, to move things into safer waters. After all, he now had leverage over her, and Lucy was far too experienced—far too smart—to let herself remain at a disadvantage for long. She'd grown up with chaos snapping at her heels, fled from places people didn't escape from, and lived to tell the tale. Reading a situation was second nature to her.
Still, curiosity had snuck its way into her voice. The term he'd thrown out wasn't one you heard every day, and something about it had hit close to home.
Arthur took a moment, glancing out toward the Voodoo Gang members who had been put to work cleaning up the factory grounds. Some were dragging corpses like trash bags, others sifting through crates and old tech pieces that had accumulated dust and blood over the years. The inside wasn't much better. The stench of mildew and machine oil hung in the air like a curse.
He inhaled deeply from his cigarette, letting the smoke settle into his lungs before answering.
"To put it simply," Arthur began, "a 'graphics girl' is like... a computer accessory. A tool with a heartbeat. Let me give you the short version, so you don't die of boredom."
He paused for dramatic effect, exhaling a slow puff of smoke.
"A long time ago—way before Night City was the pit it is today—people were obsessed with a thing called virtual currency. To get it, they needed high-power machines. The key was the GPU—graphics cards. These things were so valuable that people hoarded them like treasure. And the ones managing all that processing power? Well, they got nicknamed 'graphics girls.'"
Lucy blinked slowly, unimpressed. "So... you're telling me it's a story about computer parts? That's it? Seriously, Arthur. You could've led with that and saved us both a headache."
Arthur chuckled, unfazed by her deadpan delivery. His eyes twinkled like a kid who had just remembered the punchline of a bad joke.
"But wait, there's more," he said. "The old captain's ship is ready to set sail! You ready, sailor?"
Lucy sighed but played along, raising two fingers in a mock salute. "AYEAYE, CAPTAIN!"
Arthur's grin widened. "Why does that sound so familiar? Wait... isn't that from some ancient cartoon? The one with the yellow sponge who lived in the sea? Used to air back in the days when people watched TV instead of plugging BDs into their skulls."
Lucy raised an eyebrow, arms folded. "You really are an archivist, huh? If you're gonna go nostalgic on me, at least offer up some useful info. Don't tease me with sea sponges and expect me to be impressed."
Arthur barked a laugh. "Don't get greedy. Anyway, enough about cartoons. Let's talk work. You know Dakota?"
Lucy tilted her head, leaning against the wall again. "The fixer out in the Badlands? The old lady who practically runs the west side? What about her? Is she finally getting married?"
"Don't tempt me," Arthur muttered. "I might just stick a grenade up your—never mind. No, she reached out about a job. There's a group of nomads—Aldecaldos—rushing toward Night City with a Militech tail behind them. Apparently, they stole something important. Get this: it's a container of ashes. A relic from Militech's dearly departed. Touching, right?"
Arthur's expression twisted into something between amusement and contempt. "Anyway, Dakota picked up the job and passed it to me. Said I'm perfect for it."
Lucy sighed through her nose. "So you're telling me Night City needs you to play judge, jury, and executioner again?"
Arthur chuckled. "I prefer the term 'administering justice.' Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Lucy didn't answer. Instead, she crossed her arms again and looked toward the half-dismantled factory.
"I'm staying here. Someone's gotta babysit this dump while you're off playing cowboy. I'll keep watch, finish organizing the cleanup, and ping you when it's safe to send in your gear."
Arthur nodded as if he'd expected that. "Fair enough." He turned to leave but paused at the door.
"Oh, and one last thing," he said without looking back, "some guy's delivering a chicken to my place later. Make sure it gets there safe—and don't even think about stealing a drumstick."
Lucy groaned. "You're unbelievable."
Arthur laughed as he climbed into his car. The Sword in the Stone looked like it had been through a war—which, to be fair, it had. Its armor plating was pockmarked with bullet holes, the windshield cracked in a spiderweb pattern. But the engine roared to life like a loyal beast, refusing to give up.
Lucy watched him drive off and, with a tired sigh, pulled out her phone.
"Maman?" she said, her tone casual. "Yeah, it's me. I need a full background on Arthur. Everything. School records, arrest history, favorite underwear brand—dig up the whole file."
She paused.
"No, it's not because I have a crush on him! Please. He's 40. He's a cyberpsycho. I mean, yeah, okay, he's not bad-looking—but that's not the point!"
By the time Arthur arrived on the edge of the Badlands, more than an hour had passed. The car wheezed to a stop, engine coughing like a smoker on his last legs. Arthur jumped out and lit another cigarette—one of Lucy's brand, because he'd run out of his own.
"Ah," he muttered as he inhaled, eyes scanning the endless, dust-covered horizon, "now this is the smell of the Badlands."
The landscape stretched like a cracked canvas—barren, dry, and washed in radioactive sunset light. Jagged rocks and rusted car husks marked the terrain, while storm clouds loomed in the distance. Sandstorms hissed like angry ghosts.
Arthur coughed, spitting to the side, and flicked his cigarette into the wind.
"Lovely," he muttered, wiping grit from his eyes.
He tapped a few buttons on his holo-display, bringing up the coordinates Dakota had sent. He was close. Somewhere nearby, a group of desperate Aldecaldos were likely waiting for help—or, more realistically, waiting to be obliterated by Militech if help didn't arrive.
Arthur cracked his knuckles, adjusted his jacket, and smiled to himself. In a world where sanity was optional and survival was improv, he was exactly the kind of guy this city needed... or maybe the one it deserved.
"Let's see how much chaos we can stir up today," he muttered, stepping forward into the storm.