Chapter 33: Talk!
The middle-aged man with a thick, wiry beard didn't flinch at Arthur's comment. Instead, he chuckled, eyes twinkling with a mixture of relief and mischief, and extended a firm hand. Arthur accepted it, their palms clapping together in a gritty handshake that spoke louder than words. It wasn't just a greeting—it was an olive branch offered on the dusty edge of a new alliance.
Anyone who could single-handedly eliminate a Militech convoy, especially in a place as lawless as the Badlands, was worth both respect and wariness. Thor, the bearded nomad, understood this instinctively. Arthur wasn't just another merc; he was a weapon in human form—dangerous, sharp, and potentially useful. In a world where strength often dictated survival, aligning with such a man wasn't just smart. It was essential.
But Thor's offer wasn't solely out of practicality. That was what set wanderers apart from the hardened, chrome-drenched residents of Night City. Out here, far from the flickering neon and corporate propaganda, some semblance of humanity still lingered. People respected grit, but they valued trust. Life among the nomads was brutal, but not heartless.
Arthur leaned casually against his battered car, The Sword in the Stone, letting the beer in his hand rest on the roof. "Welcome to Night City, Thor. Closest thing to hell with electricity. You smell like you crawled out of a scrapyard covered in exhaust fumes."
Thor laughed heartily, slapping his knee. "Don't worry, I did crawl outta hell. Escaped Militech with my ass intact, and believe me, that's a victory. Name's Thor," he said, the humor in his voice not masking the exhaustion beneath.
Arthur nodded knowingly. He'd heard stories. Thor wasn't new to the game. Years of wandering, scraping by, and holding together whatever pieces of his clan he could—all that etched itself into his sun-scarred face. He was the kind of man who didn't seek trouble but often had it dropped in his lap.
Thor turned and motioned to the others clambering out of the old vehicle behind him. "That bald guy lugging the crate? Mitch. The moody one next to him is Scorpion. And behind the wheel—Panam."
Arthur stepped forward, offering a handshake to each. "Arthur Martinez. Just call me Arthur. Small-time merc, Night City born and broken. You need help, jobs, or someone shot—I'm the guy."
Scorpion raised an eyebrow. "Small-time merc? You blew up a Militech convoy. Either you're modest or full of shit."