Cyberpunk Patriarch-Chapter 99 – The Arsenal of Adam’s Hammer

Industrial Zone, North Watson District.

The scent of oil and scorched metal lingered in the air like an unwanted memory. The skies were murky, smog choking out the sun, and broken cranes loomed like skeletons over gutted warehouses.

Maine crouched behind a rusted-out trash bin, struggling to fit his massive frame into the narrow space without tipping it over. His skin-tight muscle shirt was soaked with sweat and regret.

"Dammit, Arthur... Next time I trust you, just put a collar on me and call me Fido."

Across from him, Arthur peeked out from behind another garbage can, his gaze fixed on a towering freighter docked in the distance. He looked absolutely delighted.

"Relax. Didn't I say it'd be easy? Like a mouse stealing cheese in the kitchen," Arthur grinned, squinting at the distant ship. "There's nothing but maintenance workers here. We sneak in, sneak out. No one gets shot."

Maine gave him a deadpan look, one twitch away from slapping him upside the head. "You mean to tell me," he growled, "that this whole op... is to loot Adam Smasher's personal gear?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you."

They were at the forgotten edge of Night City's industrial heart—a port that once buzzed with economic power. But an old quake had fractured its foundations, and corporate investors never bothered to rebuild. The port, however, remained. Barely.

And that freighter?

It was Smasher's—a mobile arsenal the size of a stadium, carrying weapons, upgrades, and enough experimental chrome to turn an entire platoon into cyberdemons.

Everyone knew Adam Smasher didn't just carry one loadout. He had backups. Spares. Specialized prosthetic gear for every occasion, stored in off-grid locations. This ship was one of them.

Arthur wasn't just here to admire it.

He needed materials.

Top-shelf alloys. Prototype actuators. Compact reactor cores. The sort of stuff Smasher wouldn't blink at but Arthur could turn into genius-tier weaponry or high-performance mods.

The black market was dry—junk gear and recycled scav bits. He wasn't about to build his dream rig out of spare toaster parts.

Arthur lit a cigarette, sucking in the foul mix of industrial fumes and nicotine like it was fresh mountain air. It was ten in the morning. According to his research, Smasher was currently busy with some Arasaka R&D experiment in a lab across the city.

It was the perfect window.

Just then, a loudspeaker crackled from the ship nearby, playing some low-effort news broadcast.

"Good morning, citizens of Night City! Our top story—still no arrests in the Watson massacre! NCPD claims local gang interference has made arrests... unlikely. As always, membership with the Trauma Team saves lives!"

Arthur chuckled. "Man. Blaming the gangs again. That's classic."

Without missing a beat, he slipped from cover and sprinted across the lot. In one fluid motion, he vaulted over a railing and landed inside a side room near the dock's loading zone. A bored guard inside didn't even get the chance to stand before Arthur floored him with a palm strike to the temple. The radio died seconds later.

Maine followed, checking every corner. "No cams?"

"None," Arthur confirmed. "Lucy's working her magic."

He tapped his neural comms. "Hey, babe. Can you wipe the dock's cam grid?"

A sigh answered. "I'm on it."

Click.

Arthur blinked. "...She didn't even yell at me?"

Maine raised a brow. "Should we be worried?"

Arthur shrugged. "Stockholm syndrome, maybe?"

A moment later, the network pinged: Surveillance Clear.

With zero alarms and total access, they made their way toward the freighter. Arthur led the charge, climbing the rust-covered stairs without hesitation.

Security locks?

Who needs 'em?

Arthur drew his laser mantis blade and sliced through the keypad like it was paper. Maine, watching the glowing edge of the weapon, drooled a little.

"You sure I can't have one of those?"

"You can pry it off my cold corpse," Arthur grinned.

Maine muttered under his breath. "Don't tempt me..."

The door opened into the main cargo bay—and there it was.

The Arsenal of Adam Smasher.

The room was cavernous. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting sickly shadows across chrome racks, armored crates, and weapon mounts.

Three of the walls were covered in military-grade gear. But the back wall—oh, that was something else.

Encased behind reinforced glass was the prize.

A full backup prosthetic body. Custom-designed by Arasaka exclusively for Adam Smasher. Chrome-black plating, integrated subdermal reactor cores, smartlink fusions, and a spinal interface that looked like it had been ripped from a mecha god.

Arthur stepped forward, practically drooling. "Oh baby... come to papa."

He pressed a hand to the glass and let out a low whistle. "This thing... is art."

Maine glanced around. "This place is a goldmine. We could strip it and still be selling parts in 2079."

Arthur already had his neural scanner active, logging every piece of data. Each weapon, implant, and upgrade was noted and mapped.

He was in love.

Then Maine, being Maine, had to ruin the moment.

"I've been staring at this thing for five minutes," he said, "and I don't see where the d**k is."

Arthur choked on air.

"What the hell, Maine?!"

"I mean, seriously. It's a full body conversion unit. Where's the... you know. The equipment?"

Arthur turned slowly, blinking in disbelief. "You broke into a legendary cyberpsycho's armory... and that's what you're worried about?"

Maine shrugged. "Man's gotta have priorities. Functional design."

Arthur groaned. "That's it. You're banned from speaking for the next ten minutes."

Ignoring him, Arthur activated his plasma cutter and began disassembling the lock on the prosthetic case.

This thing wasn't just high-end—it was one-of-a-kind. Even if he didn't wear it himself, he could part it out, retrofit the components into lighter frame upgrades, or sell individual modules to select clients.

But most of all, this was leverage. Arasaka didn't give this stuff away. Owning it meant Arthur now had something to bargain, or—if needed—something to wield.

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"Pack up what you can," he told Maine. "And grab that rotary plasma cannon. I'm sure Lucy would love it as a birthday present."

"You're insane," Maine muttered. "I love it."

As Arthur loaded the backup body into a magnetic crate, the dock lights flickered—once, then twice.

Something in his gut twisted.

He looked up.

"...Time to go."

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