Lucy stood frozen, unsure what to say. Beside her were two individuals—each insane in their own special way—casually discussing their shared madness as if it were a business plan.
A bar for members of the Terrorist Mobile Team? That idea alone was enough to give any Night City local a heart attack. These people were sanctioned cyberpsychos—walking weapons granted immunity by the city's most feared enforcement unit. Killing one wouldn't bring justice; it would summon airstrikes.
Melissa's attention shifted to Lucy. Her eyes scanned the netrunner with a gleam of curiosity and mischief, like a shark evaluating a new toy. After a tense beat, she finally spoke.
"Well, your little girlfriend's quite the beauty. I wouldn't mind if the three of us... you know, had a little fun sometime."
Lucy's face flushed crimson. She froze, her mind locking up under the weight of sheer disbelief. Was this woman serious? She couldn't even begin to form a reply.
Arthur sighed and took a long drag from his cigarette, frowning. "I've told you before, Melissa—bisexuality is a condition. Didn't your doctor prescribe medication for that?"
Melissa rolled her eyes, smoke coiling from her lips like a slow snarl. "For the last time, Arthur, it's not a disease. Maybe if you read a book instead of lurking in alleys, you'd be more evolved. And anyway, you're the only man I've ever loved. Shouldn't you feel special? You're benefiting from my affection."
Arthur scratched his head. He looked like a man about to drop the dumbest comeback Night City had ever heard. Then, his face lit up.
"You know what? That's actually a solid point. Yeah, I don't have a comeback. Carry on—keep doing your thing."
Before Melissa could respond, Lucy broke from her trance and punched Arthur hard in the back of the head.
"What the hell are you saying?!" she yelled. "You're making everything worse! Flirting? Now? We're knee-deep in a massacre and you're out here acting like it's a bad rom-com!"
The chaos around them had mostly died down. The remaining Voodoo Boys were either dead or retreating. Even their top-tier netrunners knew better than to mess with the MaxTac unit unless they had a death wish—or a sponsor from Arasaka.
Melissa turned away from the mess, watching her team clean up. Then she turned back to Lucy, a dreamy gleam in her eye.
"You don't see it?" she asked with unnerving sincerity. "The bullets, the gore, the fear—it's a ballet of violence. A raw, beautiful dance of survival. This is real art. I get high just watching it."
Arthur gave her a sideways glance. Great, she's even worse than before, he thought. Whatever quack doctor signed off on her release from therapy deserved to be shot. Maybe twice.
Lucy's face had gone pale, her posture stiff. She'd heard stories about the instability of MaxTac members, but hearing Melissa talk like that made those stories feel tame.
"You're completely insane," Lucy muttered, looking away.
Melissa didn't seem to mind. She turned back to Arthur and smirked.
"Remember the old days? You used to take me to shows like this. Said they were the pinnacle of urban culture."
Arthur groaned. "That was a long time ago. I'm reformed. These days, I'd rather go watch a curated braindance at the Ritz Bar."
Melissa pouted, then brightened again when he added, "Okay, fine, it's artistic. But your squad could use more finesse. Less blood spray, more... precision."
That childish bounce returned to her step, and Arthur mentally braced himself. For a second, he saw the girl she used to be—before she'd lost her mind to bullets and bloodlust.
He shook it off. No time for nostalgia. Melissa was a walking hazard now.
Just then, one of her bloodied officers approached.
"Mission complete. Escort or extraction?"
Melissa hesitated, casting a look at Arthur. Then she sighed and said, "Extraction."
Before leaving, she turned to him with a grin. "Don't forget to call. Take too long, and I might just come knocking—blades out."
Arthur watched her board the hovering transport, a cigarette dangling from his lips. At last, relative peace.
His peace didn't last long. His phone buzzed, and a familiar screech burst through the receiver.
"Arthur, you piece of s**t! Are you seriously flirting with that MaxTac psycho?!"
Arthur didn't even flinch. "Maman, please. Don't be dramatic. You've dated worse. Besides, everyone knows Night City relationships expire faster than street food."
A long pause. Then, Maman's voice returned, quieter now. "What do you want?"
Arthur kicked open the rusted doors of his "factory"—a concrete dump filled with broken crates and the scent of mildew.
"First, I'm opening a business here in Pacifica. I need workers. Clean records only. Can you help?"
"You're serious?"
"Do I sound like I'm joking?"
"...Fine. I'll send you some names."
"Second, this place is a landfill. Send someone to clean it. I think I even saw one of your aunt's old towels here."
"You f**ker," Maman hissed. "Say another word, and I'll bury you under that towel. What else?"
"Lastly, I need Placid to butcher me three kilos of free-range chicken. I'm making soup."
"...I hope you get audited by Militech," Maman muttered before slamming the line shut.
Arthur chuckled. Life in Night City might be hell, but it was his kind of hell.
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