"I thought you'd be enjoying some peace now," Arthur said, puzzled. They'd just escaped corporate pursuit—this should have been their time to rest.
"But our savings are nearly gone... We're just researchers and security staff. In Dogtown, there's no way for people like us to make a living." Melanie's voice remained calm, as if she were describing someone else's hardship.
"Dogtown isn't like the outside world. No corps, no need for people like us. Maybe we adults could scrape by somehow... but there are children we have to take care of." Her words carried quiet urgency.
This was no place to settle. Violence ran rampant here, and every sign of weakness was blood in the water.
Melanie's group already faced a serious problem. Too many men had been killed. Their wives and children, raised under corporate protection, weren't prepared for this kind of life.
"We might end up against Hansen. Things could get even more dangerous here," Arthur warned.
"But sitting around, waiting for death—that's despair." Melanie's voice was quiet but unshakable. "If this keeps up, we'll scatter, swallowed up by Dogtown.
Those kids could end up in Hansen's Barghest, in gangs, even as Scavs... but most probably won't live long enough to grow up
Her thoughts drifted to her own past—wandering the streets, dealing with corpses every day. She had managed to break free of that path, even dragging a few others with her.
It was hard to imagine that a short woman from the streets could become a researcher instead of ending up as a sex doll rotting in some cheap motel. But she knew exactly what that fate meant.
Arthur nodded and didn't press further. Melanie was a leader—she knew what she was doing, and that was enough. "Word is this job comes with backup. Not just muscle. So if you keep your heads, things might turn out better. There's no shortage of people willing to risk their lives for cash."
"So... can you be more specific now? What exactly are you planning to do?" Melanie asked, studying his face.
Arthur paused, then shook his head. "It's still early. No pressure on you. If, when the time comes, you think it's not worth it, you can walk away."
...
Arthur spent the next few days roaming Dogtown.
Not far from Night City's EMB Stadium, there were still a few relatively clean hotels. Arthur had been staying in one of them.
Over time, he pieced together a clearer picture of Dogtown. It wasn't huge, but it wasn't small either. Run-down, yes—but not poor. The collapse of order had left plenty in misery, but money still flowed.
If Night City's brutality simmered beneath the surface, Dogtown's was laid bare. As long as you didn't cross the BARGHEST, this place was a paradise of freedom.
If he had to compare, it felt like the Wild West he remembered. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to like it. As Dutch would say, he'd become a traitor in thought—a fool corrupted by civilization.
Maybe it was because this time, he stood at the bottom. Freedom here meant violence without restraint. Once, he had been the one dealing it out—hell, he still was. The ones who provoked him? They were already rotting in the sewers.
The heist itself went smoothly. Arthur rode up, drew his gun, and tore the two-vehicle convoy to pieces.
It was broad daylight, yet passing cars calmly detoured around.
He put down the organ-harvesting scum still twitching on the ground, then took his time searching the wreckage.
Dogtown wasn't Night City—no NCPD breathing down your neck, and cash flowed freely here. These past few days, he'd had more cash than he could easily spend.
Once he had the item from the Gig, it was over. Simple as strolling through a market.
With everything finished, Arthur's bike rumbled low as he headed for the drop point Mr. Hands had given him.
The place was tucked away in a corner, but bustling with people. Using scraps of material, they had thrown together makeshift shelters in the ruins—homes of a sort.
Thankfully, even here his neural map stayed clear. Arthur found the "house" without trouble.
Thin blue steel sheets had been hammered into wood and packed earth. The front door, no sturdier than the walls, was just another rust-eaten sheet of steel, held in place by two wires.
He double-checked the address. This was the place. Pulling the sheet aside, he peered in.
He couldn't bring himself to call it a door.
Inside was dim but surprisingly spacious. They'd dug through the wall behind the shack, expanding into the ruins.
Shadows moved within, one figure stepping forward cautiously.
"...Is that Mr. Hands?" The voice belonged to a middle-aged man, though his exact age was hard to place.
"Uh... I've got the package from the Gig. Here to deliver," Arthur said plainly.
"Would you like to come in? We'll need to contact Mr. Hands for confirmation." The man stayed hidden in the shadows, his face unseen.
Arthur weighed it. Trust in the Fixer—and the manageable situation here—was enough to step inside.
Before his eyes could adjust to the dark, a shout cut through the air.
"Arthur!?"
Damn it. They'd called his name. His hand was already on the pistol grip at his waist.
"It's me...! Riel!"
The voice rang out, excited. As Arthur's vision adjusted, he saw a man sitting in the dark.
It was him—the man with the broken leg.
"What a coincidence." The man struggled to stand, introducing him to those nearby. "This is the one who saved my life."
A hand pressed down on his shoulder, stopping him from rising.
"It was nothing."