Arthur wanted to swing his fists again and again. He didn't know why he was here, but everything he experienced felt real, as if he were living through it himself.
Damn it—the feeling of fists pounding his body couldn't be faked. It was no different from being beaten for real.
But something blocked his consciousness. No matter how frantically he tried to throw punches, the body gave no response.
Arthur felt like a beast trapped in a cage, while outside, a pack of yapping mongrels barked without end.
Until—
Led by that so-called "father," a group burst into his home and slammed him to the ground without a word.
They bound him with ropes like livestock, blindfolded him, and dragged him off to who-knew-where.
After a long, jarring ride, everything around him fell into silence.
"Who's this guy? So tall, but looks like he doesn't even have two ounces of meat on him."
A sudden voice cut through the stillness, followed by the blindfold being ripped away.
Arthur blinked as his vision cleared. A man in a white lab coat stood with his back to him, busy at work.
"Furl, you're fucking disgusting. Always bringing pig meat home. Don't think we don't know what you do with it."
The reply came from Arthur's other side—a hulking figure with a face buried in rolls of fat and a balding head, looking every bit the greasy pig farmer.
"Disgusting? Boye, you've got some nerve calling me that!"
You pocket every bottle of anesthetic the company sends.
When we take parts, how many pigs have spasmed from the pain and ruined perfectly good components because of you?"
"Save it. The higher-ups haven't said a word.
My son's going to the company school. What's wrong with making some money?
Everyone in Night City knows how expensive those damn schools are."
The fat man—Boye—stood at a machine, his voice thick with resentment as his hands pressed harder on the controls.
He cut Furl off impatiently, barking again in his coarse voice.
"Shut your damn mouth already.
Look at this one!
His body's practically all stock parts. We've hit the jackpot this time."
He turned, and Arthur finally saw his face.
A cruel grin twisted his flabby features, yellowed teeth jutting out, veins bulging at his temples and forehead.
But worst of all were his eyes—gouged out and replaced with a pair of black, warped prosthetics.
Their design and installation were crude and cheap. Jagged black metal protruded from his sockets, tangled black-and-red wires burrowing deep into the flesh of his cheeks.
"Hurry up! Anesthetize him. This one's body is still mostly stock. If we don't, it'll be a waste."
If a pig's body was full of cheap, low-grade Cyberware, ripping it apart didn't matter. But Arthur's body was worth far more, and Boye knew it.
He could almost see stacks of cash beckoning him closer.
In this age, Cyberware was everywhere. Capitalists used it to control the middle and lower classes, preaching endlessly about its convenience.
They told you to sell your organs, replace them with better Cyberware, and even make a fortune in the process—as if it were free money.
But they never mentioned the cost of maintenance, or the crushing toll on the nervous system, especially the brain.
The more Cyberware spread, the tighter capital's grip became.
Meanwhile, the value of healthy biological organs only skyrocketed.
The wealthy bought young, healthy organs again and again to delay aging and indulge themselves in life.
"He's not going anywhere. Why rush?
Ha! Or are you in such a hurry to take your useless son to Clouds for his first time?
He's of age now, isn't he? Still a complete waste of space. An idiot."
The pervert who always brought home meat stepped closer to Arthur, holding a silver IV catheter.
The red light in Boye's cyberware eye flickered wildly when he saw him.
"Mention my son again, and I'll rip that disgusting face of yours off and plaster it on the wall."
His voice was icy, and as he spoke, the butt of the gun at his waist slipped out, pressed into the folds of his belly.
"I surrender, I surrender—it's my fault!"
Furl smirked, clearly not taking the threat seriously.
His words dripped with sarcasm as he leaned his head forward in mock surrender.
"Your son? He'll never make it to Clouds. You're all just spineless cowards."
It was clear his status was higher than Boye's. Furl wasn't afraid of pushing things further.
The red light in Boye's shoddy cyberware eye flared, but at last he forced himself to calm down, and it dimmed again.
"Hmph!"
Furl sneered, then drove the IV needle into Arthur's wrist.
He lifted his head, pulled out a vial of yellow liquid, and pushed it into the line above the catheter.
Though the memories Arthur had inherited were bitter and dark, though the body's original owner had little contact with the outside world, he still understood the basics.
Like now—his cheap excuse for a father had clearly sold him off, to none other than a pack of Scavengers.
The obscene profits from organs and Cyberware had spawned these vermin.
They hid in the city's shadows, usually preying on society's trash—junkies strung out beyond reason.
But there were always exceptions: rich brats seeking thrills, or middle-class families driven to ruin...
In the end, anyone could be their prey.
Once in their hands, no matter who you were, you'd be stripped for parts and sold on the black market.
Arthur could only watch helplessly as it happened. The yellow liquid trickled slowly through the tube into his veins.
He thrashed like a madman, but it was all in his head—his resistance useless, unable to move the body at all.
God only knew how many years he had endured this nightmare—able to see, to feel, but never to act.
Then, suddenly, the machine beside Boye shrieked with an alarm so loud it made the vial above Arthur's catheter tremble.
"Fuck! What the hell now?"
On the small monitor, the display flashed red. The three heart rate lines collapsed into one flat, unbroken line.
"His heart just stopped—every vital sign is crashing!"
Panic laced Boye's voice as he fumbled frantically with the controls.
"Damn it! What did you inject him with? His organs are shutting down!"
Furl scowled at Boye's monitor, then bent down to check the vial.
It should have been fine!
This guy had been bought with the boss's money. If something went wrong, he'd be the one to pay.
Gritting his teeth, Furl pulled a pneumatic injector from his coat, hoping a high-grade emergency shot would buy enough time to finish the job.
He jammed it against Arthur's chest, slammed the plunger, and pressed the trigger.
A hiss, like air leaking from a punctured ball, filled the room. Both men stared at the screen.
Nothing. The heart rate line stayed flat—lifeless.
Silence fell. Dead organs were worthless—worth even less than a dead pig.
The boss would have them strapped to this very table and carved up like meat pigs to recoup his losses.
After a long, tense silence, Furl finally spoke, his words cutting through the heavy air.
"You'll take the blame for this, Boye. This one's on you."
His tone allowed no argument, his posture that of a boss making the call.
"No! Furl—it was the drug!
It was you! You!"
Boye's jowls quivered, his head shaking so fast it was like a seizure.
"Wrong, Boye. It was you. Whoever did it carries the blame, no matter what."
Furl's face showed practiced sincerity, like a superior soothing a subordinate.
"Don't worry. I'll speak to the boss on your behalf."
Boye had made plenty of enemies with his stinginess.
Among monsters in human skin, he stood out—clinging to that useless son of his and dragging himself down with the burden.
His face crumpled, the red glow of his shoddy cyberware eye dimming.
"Please... I... I have a son... I beg you, don't throw me under the bus."
If both of them shared the blame, they'd suffer, but at least have a chance to live.
As long as they both insisted it was the pig's fault—and with Furl's favor in the boss's eyes—it might work.
But Furl clearly had no intention of taking the fall. His expression stayed just as earnest as he said,
"Enough nonsense. Whoever made this mess has to clean it up. We all need to be honest."
Furl would never sacrifice himself for anyone else. That was something only a fool would do.
And he didn't consider himself a fool.
...
(70 Chapters Ahead)
p@treon com / GhostParser