"Well, looks like you used to be a bit of a rogue..."
V shrugged.
"Used to be? You think what I do now is by the book?
Being a mercenary sure as hell doesn't make me a law-abiding citizen."
Arthur replied, even giving it some thought.
He reflected on the difference between his old life and now—things seemed easier these days. Back then, they had to scout and plan every job themselves. Now, Fixers handled all that.
"True enough. With corps running everything, the law doesn't mean much anymore."
After a short walk, they were back at Jinguji.
The shopkeeper had returned, and Arthur's new outfit was laid neatly on the counter.
"Take a look at my work—I never let a customer down."
He gestured toward the folded suit, a dark coat on top.
"I figured... it'd take longer."
Arthur said, surprised.
"Come on, Arthur.
In this day and age, fixing people doesn't take long. You think making clothes does? Go on, try it."
V urged.
"Hope I don't end up looking like a clown."
Arthur muttered, stepping forward and keeping his distance from Zane as he took the clothes.
...
When they left again, Arthur was in a completely new outfit.
A deep gray suit with fine vertical pinstripes and subtle gold trim at the collar and hem.
It was simpler than the formalwear he remembered—at least there wasn't a choking bow tie. Still, he twisted his neck uneasily.
The suit fit well, but maybe he just wasn't made for this upper-class look.
"Arthur, relax a little. This trip is about unwinding."
V said with a grin, watching him fidget.
"Dancing's worse than working. I'm not built for it."
The car sped down the highway. V rolled her window down, the wind rushing in and tossing her dark hair.
"Then you really are born to toil."
She leaned back, pale yellow shades on, a smile tugging at her lips.
"Me? Workaholic? Look at you. You were so wiped you passed out. You're worse off than me."
Arthur shot back, the conversation distracting him from his discomfort.
"That's only temporary. Once I'm in a higher position, I'll have others do the work."
She said it with confidence. And it was true—at her age, climbing so high in Arasaka's counterintelligence division wasn't easy.
Arthur leaned back in his seat.
"Maybe. But I don't think it's as simple as you imagine."
...
The ball was being held at Konpeki Plaza, a luxury hotel under Arasaka, built right on the Arasaka Waterfront.
Night City's prosperity depended heavily on its massive ports, and Arasaka controlled one of the most important.
The Arasaka Waterfront was corporate territory, through and through. By the time V's car turned down the road, it was already packed with limos and luxury rides heading the same way.
"Looks like we're not late."
V eased into the line of cars.
"And remember—don't drink too much."
She clearly hadn't forgotten Arthur's first night at Lizzie's, drunk and embarrassing himself with Jackie.
"Relax. Surrounded by these pompous bastards? I won't feel like drinking anyway."
Arthur grumbled.
Konpeki Plaza loomed ahead, built almost as a mirror of Arasaka Tower.
The tall, black structure rose like a tombstone at the end of the road.
Only the Arasaka logo glowed faintly high above, cold and unwelcoming.
They parked and stepped out.
The massive columns over the entrance supported an overhang that covered the gates like a looming roof.
Flowerbeds lined the approach, enclosing a courtyard where guests in lavish clothes mingled and talked.
"Quite the crowd. Looks like your rival's got pull."
Arthur muttered.
"Yeah. Abernathy. She's sharp.
Doesn't outrank my boss by much, but she's got that pig dancing circles around her."
V replied, voice low, leading the way inside.
Two guards with a Scan device waved them through without issue.
"If your boss is such a pig, you should've planned ahead."
Arthur said with a hint of meaning.
"Against enemies, he's a fool.
Against his own people? Different story. He won't even give you the chance to change course."
V muttered as the elevator carried them up.
The ball was inside one of the Plaza's restricted halls.
When the doors opened, the light was warm, flattering.
The space was lavish but not gaudy, its size wrapped in refined materials.
At the far end, twin stone staircases rose to the second level, where private booths of sofas overlooked the hall.
Soft music drifted through the air. Guests mingled in small groups, quiet but engaged.
"This is better than I expected.
At least there aren't idiots upstairs pointing fingers at everyone below."
Arthur muttered.
"I can already picture what you went through—self-important hosts."
V chuckled, lifting two glasses from a counter and handing him one.
"Come on. Let's find a quiet spot."
As they walked, plenty of people nodded at V with polite recognition.
But when their eyes landed on Arthur, they lingered strangely.
"What's their problem?"
Arthur whispered.
"They keep staring at me."
V stole a quick glance at him.
He marched stiffly, shoulders rolling with each step, the sharp suit sitting awkwardly on him.
"Posture, Arthur. Right now, you look like you came here to rob the place."
Arthur tugged at his cuffs, shrugged, and ignored it.
At the hall's far end, a terrace stretched into the night, offering a view of the docks below—alive with constant motion.
Beyond them, the black sea shifted restlessly under the stars.
"Our mission here is to relax."
V said as she sank into a chair, sipping her drink slowly.
"No food? Damn. Arrogant and stingy—just what I'd expect from these people."
Arthur sat beside her, scowling.
"Serving cheap synthfood would only hurt her image.
And natural food? Pulling that off at this scale would bleed Abernathy dry."
V explained casually.
"Abernathy's Arasaka's Special Operations Director. Classic case of power without profit.
If she wanted to skim money, she could—but it'd tank her promotion."
"Speaking of natural food... you know any suppliers?
Maybe I should buy some."
Arthur said, remembering that perfect steak.
Back then, they had the real thing too, but none of them knew how to cook it—didn't even drain the blood.
Just raw, iron-stinking meat. A total waste.
That was all Pearson's fault.
...
(70 Chapters Ahead)
p@treon com / GhostParser