???
Turns out...
You have to pay extra.
Arthur smiled. Of course.
Big companies like them — they didn't lack anything except decency.
If throwing money could kill the Voodoo Boys, then the Net Surveillance Company would gladly pay double to buy their lives.
The network monitor pinched the bridge of his nose, looking slightly pained. He really couldn't understand why these cyberpunks never liked to speak plainly.
"Alright, Mr. Arthur," he said finally, "please forgive me. I'm a very standard science and engineering type. Let's try to be more pragmatic in our future conversations, shall we?"
He adjusted his glasses — a nervous tic — and leaned forward.
"So. What exactly does Mr. Arthur want from our network surveillance company?"
Arthur grinned, crossed his legs leisurely, and said:
"Science and engineering? I thought all you corporate types were backstabbers pretending to be saints.
Even if you don't lie, you sure know how to keep a poker face."
The net monitor smiled awkwardly but didn't refute it.
Arthur continued casually, voice smooth like oil on rusted gears:
"You've checked my background already, haven't you? You know what I'm planning next."
"And once this hits the street, every pharmaceutical company that's been fattened by selling inhibitors will want my head on a platter."
Arthur's tone sharpened, and the network monitor stiffened slightly.
"I already have a few options lined up. But one ally isn't enough."
"I want you," Arthur said, tapping the armrest, "to stand up publicly at the right moment and take a hit for me."
The net monitor immediately shook his head, panicking.
"No, no, no—Mr. Arthur, we don't intervene!"
"Our company's strength comes precisely from staying above these... conflicts. We maintain neutrality! That's how we gained trust — by being everyone's friend, no one's enemy."
Arthur shrugged.
"Relax. I'm not asking you to strap a bomb to yourself."
"Just... do what you do best. Spread a few rumors. Muddy the waters."
The network monitor hesitated.
Spreading rumors, manipulating public opinion, adjusting a few figures on a report — that was practically their daily bread.
It wasn't "neutral," but it wasn't openly hostile either.
"I see," he said slowly. "If it's just some, ah, misinformation, we can consider it."
Arthur smiled.
"Good. You see, I know you guys aren't as clean as you pretend to be.
You've been telling the world that Blackwall is perfectly safe.
Everyone — and I mean everyone — in Night City knows that's bullsh*t."
The network monitor coughed lightly and decided to change the subject.
"Forgive me, Mr. Arthur, but wouldn't it be easier to sell your discovery to a big pharmaceutical company directly?"
"You'd make a fortune. A real fortune. More than you ever would selling doses individually."
Arthur laughed.
He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.
"And give them the right to bury it forever?"
"To keep selling their inhibitors and raking in blood money?"
He shook his head slowly, almost mockingly.
"If you people are willing to work hard for the 'good of the world'... then maybe, just maybe, I can do a little something for the world too."
The network monitor's expression darkened slightly.
He finally understood.
Arthur wasn't chasing a quick fortune.
He wasn't even chasing fame.
He was chasing power.
Real, rooted power.
Money and technology weren't what made a giant like Arasaka terrifying.
People did.
It was the tens of thousands of families tied to their payroll.
The politicians, the soldiers, the scientists, the workers — all dependent on the corporate tit to survive.
When hundreds of thousands of lives relied on you for their next meal,
you became untouchable.
You didn't need mercenaries or assassins.
Your mere existence became a deterrent.
You didn't climb the mountain.
You became the mountain.
Arthur understood that.
He wasn't interested in being a rich man on someone else's leash.
He was building something deeper.
A foundation.
If Arthur just wanted quick money, it would be easy.
He could take a few safe mercenary gigs, wait for the right political upheaval, short Arasaka stocks, and walk away filthy rich.
He could retire in some tropical city, sipping synth-vodka under neon sunsets.
But so what?
In Night City, the richer you were, the bigger the target painted on your back.
Money without power was just a slow ticket to an early grave.
Arthur leaned back, letting the implications hang heavy in the air.
The network monitor was silent for a long moment, then finally spoke.
"...Alright.
We'll prepare some assets to stir up the water when needed.
We'll spread the right rumors, discredit the right targets, amplify your story at the critical moment."
"But I must emphasize," he added quickly, "we can't engage directly. No open warfare with the corps."
Arthur grinned and gave a lazy two-finger salute.
"Wasn't expecting you to strap a bomb to your own ass. Just do what you're good at."
As Arthur was about to stand, he paused and snapped his fingers.
"Oh, one more thing. I want you to prepare something for me."
The network monitor sighed.
"What now?"
"A legal identity. Brand new. Clean. Registered."
The monitor blinked, then laughed lightly.
"This? Easy.
We do it all the time for special customers."
Night City was crawling with stowaways, undocumented scavvers, escaped corpo experiments, you name it.
Slipping a ghost identity into the system was child's play for a net company that had a finger inside every database.
"Just to confirm," the monitor said dryly, "you're not asking for, say, a new identity for someone who blew up a megacorp HQ recently, right?"
Arthur rolled his eyes.
"If there was a guy like that, he wouldn't need you to wipe his record.
Relax — just a simple deserter."
The monitor exhaled in relief.
A deserter was nothing.
A walking body. Not important.
As Arthur finally walked away, he couldn't help but smirk.
Money is good.
Power is better.
But people — people were everything.
And Arthur had just taken another solid step toward building his army of them.
[End of Chapter 83: Money And Power Are Based On People!]