Cyberpunk Patriarch-Chapter 98 – News About Adam’s Hammer!

Arthur was still pacing around the lot outside the factory, idly thinking about how to get David to lighten up. The kid had been through a meat grinder the past few weeks, and Arthur figured a little fun might help shake the blood and trauma off his brain.

Then, out of nowhere, Maine broke the silence.

"You hear? Adam Smasher's in town."

Arthur froze mid-step, turned slowly, and blinked at him.

"You mean that walking tin can? What the hell's he doing here? Visiting his cockroach cousins?"

He popped open a bottle of sparkling water from a nearby vending machine—one of those weird unmanned ones that only responded to old, hardwired neural codes. After a long swig, he let out a sigh.

Adam Smasher, or as Arthur liked to call him, Adam Hammer—because subtlety was not in the man's vocabulary—was a monster. And not just in the mechanical sense. The man was inhumane before he became a full-body conversion nightmare.

No, cyberware didn't make Adam Smasher a sociopath.

He was already one.

When he was still flesh and blood, he had one rule for merc work—he wanted full license to destroy, maim, and kill however he pleased. And companies kept hiring him.

Arthur always said, if the Mechanicum existed in this world, Adam would've been their high priest. His motto? More metal, less man.

Of course, that put him at odds with Morgan Blackhand, the other legend of the pre-Collapse era. Adam tried to challenge Morgan more than once, but the man never bit. Probably because he didn't feel like babysitting a toaster with a god complex.

Smasher's loyalty to Arasaka wasn't patriotism—it was practicality. They needed a monster, and he needed a lab to rebuild what little was left of his human parts after a few unlucky rocket barrages. Arasaka made him whole again—cold steel and death drive, all in one chrome-plated package.

"Guess Arasaka's pet monster needs a tune-up," Arthur muttered.

Maine dragged a chair over and slumped into it, causing it to groan under the weight of metal and regret.

"I think it's related to that last mission we ran," he said.

That got Lucy's attention. She stepped forward, eyes sharp. "The data job?"

Arthur glanced her way. "You mean the one where we almost got diced by half of NetWatch and sent into orbit?"

She nodded. "We didn't get all of it, but we snagged a chunk of something valuable. Looked like black-grade tech schematics. Smasher might be here to test the upgrade that info was tied to."

Arthur's cigarette paused halfway to his lips. "Prosthetic... what now?"

"Prosthetic King Kong," Lucy said. "Some kind of Arasaka custom rig. Looks like they strapped a construction site to a gorilla."

Arthur nearly choked.

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"Oh that thing. The oversized muscle suit from the old files. Didn't David wear that thing once?"

It came back to him now—bulky, impractical, absurd. Arthur always thought it looked like someone tried to armor a dump truck with rage issues.

No wonder Smasher wasn't thrilled.

Truth be told, Arthur thought Smasher was wasted on the battlefield anyway. Guys like him and Blackhand were relics. No matter how powerful you were, a warbot with an AI brain and a missile rack was always going to be more efficient.

Besides, battlefields were for bombs and meatgrinders, not personal vendettas.

If you really wanted to use someone like Smasher effectively, it was for high-level assassinations, fear tactics, or bodyguard work. Things where reputation mattered more than raw firepower.

Still, Arthur wasn't focused on the monster himself.

His mind was turning in other directions.

He stood up and began pacing again, the way he always did when a new idea started forming.

"You know how he got here?" he asked. "Did they fly him in on a military transport? Or did he come in solo?"

Maine looked thoughtful. "I heard he came by sea. Private vessel. No escort. Supposed to stay in the city for a week, then head back to Neon."

Arthur's eyes lit up.

That smile started creeping across his face again. The one that made his crew uncomfortable.

He'd been itching for an upgrade ever since he unlocked those mechanical and prosthetics blueprints from the system. But without materials, he was stuck. And advanced upgrades weren't something you crafted in a junkyard with duct tape and hope.

He needed rare alloys. Stabilizers. High-end data cores. The kind of stuff you couldn't buy—at least, not legally.

But now? Opportunity was knocking. Loudly. With a titanium fist.

Arthur sidled up to Maine, throwing an arm around the man's wide shoulders.

"Maine, buddy. Brother. Comrade."

Maine visibly shivered. That grin. That tone. It meant trouble.

Big trouble.

"Don't 'brother' me. I've seen that look before. Every time you smile like that, someone ends up bleeding or flying out of an airlock."

Arthur laughed. "No, no. Nothing that serious."

He scratched his head. "Okay, maybe a little serious. But hear me out. How'd you like a new pair of arms? Gorilla-class. Straight outta the latest R&D bin."

Maine perked up. "For real?"

Arthur nodded. "Brand new. Latest combat-grade prosthetics. Guaranteed to make you the envy of every chromehead in Watson."

Maine started thumping his chest like a gorilla on nitro. "Say less! You need muscle, I'm your man. What's the job?"

Arthur looked around, made sure no one was close, and lowered his voice.

"There's a place. Off-grid. Old Arasaka storage complex. Rumor says it's where they stash prototype gear before shipping it to Neon."

Maine frowned. "You sure it hasn't already been raided? Places like that don't stay secret for long."

Arthur grinned. "Exactly why I want to hit it now, while Smasher's in town and security's distracted. The guards will be too busy cleaning his boots to watch their backs."

Maine scratched his chin. "Still smells like bait... but damn if I don't want those arms."

Arthur leaned in, whispering like a street prophet. "You know what they say: 'The cheese is always in the kitchen.'"

Maine blinked.

"Wait a minute... I've heard that one before."

He rubbed his temple, feeling an odd itching sensation on his scalp. Something wasn't right. That line. That metaphor. It triggered a memory he couldn't quite grasp.

"Arthur... you used that line the last time you almost got me killed!"

Arthur just smiled wider, tapping his temple. "You're remembering things. Progress! We might have to get your brain checked—looks like it's growing."

Maine sighed. "I swear, one day you'll say the wrong poetic nonsense, and I'll just throw you off a rooftop."

Arthur clapped him on the back. "That's the spirit! Now get some rest—we're gearing up tomorrow. Time to grab ourselves some treasure."

Because in Night City, fortune didn't favor the bold.

It favored the reckless.

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