Chapter 13: Brother Patient
Finding a cyberpsycho in Watson North wasn't exactly like chasing a ghost—but it was close.
Arthur knew the rules of the game well. Cyberpsychosis wasn't a one-size-fits-all affliction. Some afflicted went full-blown horror show—murderous rampages, limbs flying, cops screaming, MaxTac pulling out heavy artillery. Those poor bastards? Not worth the effort. Let the Trauma Team clean up that mess.
But others... the quiet ones? They were the real threats.
Those cyberpsychos sat like statues—obsessed, blank-eyed, silent—until someone tripped the wire in their mind. Then? They lit up like ticking time bombs.
Luckily, Regina Jones wasn't a clueless fixer. Her netrunners had pinpointed this psycho's last known location near the edge of Watson North. One less needle in the urban haystack.
Arthur rolled up in his dented ride, parking near the pinged zone. He spotted the target almost immediately.
A bald, older man stood atop a rusted shipping container. His tattered coat flapped in the toxic breeze, and in his hands rested a massive, custom cannon—more like a piece of anti-armor artillery than a gun.
Arthur lit a cigarette and leapt up beside him with practiced ease. The stench hit him immediately—an unholy blend of sweat, rust, and decay.
"Look, brother," Arthur said casually, waving smoke away from his face, "I'm not saying cyberpsychos have to smell like roses, but basic hygiene? Kinda important. You're turning this whole block into a biohazard."
The man didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared into space, his fingers twitching around the trigger of his absurd cannon.
Arthur leaned in, grinning. "Good news. There's this girl who's fallen for you. She's got a voice like an angel, a killer bod, and only one working eye. A little violent, sure—but hey, nobody's perfect. Don't blow it, yeah?"