The stench in the air was suffocating, thick and clinging like rot beneath the skin. No matter how fiercely the desert wind howled, it could never quite carry the stink away. If anything, it only stirred the putrid scent, churning it up and pushing it into your lungs like poison. This was 2076. Humanity had long since learned to control radiation, terraform dead zones, and even reprogram bacteria to purify the air. But Taipingzhou and the Badlands? They weren't part of Night City. And what didn't belong to Night City was abandoned.
Anyone with real money wouldn't be caught dead here. They'd be lounging in the upper floors of the Ritz Bar, sipping overpriced synth-whiskey while watching a Braindance idol perform for a crowd too numb to care. But here? This place was where the unwanted drifted to die. No one ca here unless they had nothing left.
Even birds had forsaken the region. The Bird Extermination Act saw to that. The locals joked that Night City was the only place birds refused to migrate through. It wasn't just a joke, though. It was policy.
Arthur adjusted the old, clunky walkie-talkie strapped to his chest. The device was a relic, probably older than he was, patched up more tis than he could count. He twisted the dial to a private channel, holding it up to his mouth.
"This is Arthur," he said, voice crackling through the static. "Dear wanderer friends, I've arrived at the location. Report your arrival ti."
Using this outdated tech felt like a slap in the face, but there were no alternatives. Out here, in the digital wasteland beyond Night City's grid, brain implants and neural relays were useless. The Badlands were a dead zone, and only analog communication had any chance of working.
The response ca after a pause. "This is Saul from Adecado," a rough, tired voice growled. "Password, please."
Arthur smirked, flicking the cigarette from his lips. "I'm not a cyberpsycho."
There was a mont of silence, then, "Password accepted. Bang bang bang! Damn it! The address is sent—get here fast, or you might have to visit hell for your reward!"
The walkie-talkie buzzed violently with the sound of gunfire before the transmission cut. Arthur frowned, tossing the device onto the passenger seat beside his half-loaded gear.
"Doesn't sound like a picnic," he muttered.
He fired up The Sword in the Stone—his battered, bullet-scarred car that sohow still ran like a beast. The engine roared with chanical defiance, and he peeled out toward the coordinates Saul had sent.
People like Arthur—the holess, the wanderers, the exiled—were always walking a thin line. Out here, it wasn't just the heat and radiation that would kill you. gacorps like Militech and Arasaka saw everything as a potential asset or a threat. And when a nomad crew stumbled onto sothing valuable, they rarely realized who they were stealing from until it was too late. That was when the corporate enforcers arrived.
The deeper into the Badlands he drove, the louder the thunder of gunfire grew. Explosions blood on the horizon like infernal flowers. Arthur's hand drifted to the pistol tucked into his waistband. It was barely more than a peashooter against what he suspected was coming.
"I need better weapons," he muttered. This wasn't going to be a clean job.
A convoy of rust-covered wastelanders tore past him on the cracked asphalt, sand trailing behind them in huge plus. Monts later, a sleek black caravan followed. The contrast was stark. These weren't desert rats. These were Militech specialists, armor polished, weapons gleaming. Their trucks were fortified like tanks.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. He tossed the pistol aside and slamd his foot on the gas. As the car surged forward, he activated his prosthetics. His vision sharpened, ti dilating as his combat augntations kicked in. With a hiss, he leapt onto the roof of his speeding vehicle.
The wind ripped at his coat, but Arthur didn't slow. His mantis blades snapped out with a tallic shriek, gleaming wickedly. He jumped, landing on one of the Militech SUVs mid-motion. Bullets whizzed past, tracers lighting up the air.
He slashed through the roof, carving open a path with precision. His right blade plunged downward, spearing the driver. The SUV veered, tal grinding against concrete before erupting in a fireball. Arthur leapt to the next car.
A shotgun blast nearly took his head off. He ducked, grabbed the shooter, and hurled him overboard. Twin grenades followed, the explosions sending twisted tal and black smoke skyward. Arthur landed hard but kept running, blood pumping.
He didn't stop until he was several hundred ters away, panting beneath the shade of a crumbling overpass. His coat was scorched, his hands slick with oil and blood. But he was alive.
Hours later, the sun began its descent. Arthur stood at the edge of the Gobi Desert, the remnants of ancient infrastructure silhouetted in the amber light. He lit another cigarette and squinted at the dust cloud growing on the horizon.
A battered Toyota rolled up, wheezing like it might fall apart at any mont. Saul jumped out, beard tangled, arms open wide.
"Arthur! You mad bastard!"
He wrapped Arthur in a bear hug, reeking of sweat and grease. Arthur grimaced and pushed him off.
"Next ti, bring a shower."
Saul laughed, slapping Arthur's shoulder. "You did good, brother. Help like that doesn't go unnoticed. You got friends in Adecado now."
Arthur nodded, lighting another cigarette. "Just keep the corps out of my rearview."
They stood in silence, staring across the cracked land. The Badlands stretched endlessly, cruel and untad. But for Arthur, it was the only place that made sense.
Out here, you didn't need masks. Just reflexes, firepower, and a willingness to dive headfirst into madness.
And Arthur had all three in spades.
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