"Who the hell are you?!"
"You looking to die?!"
The punks shouted angrily. In front of them, the tall man held Mike's arm like a noodle, completely immobilized.
"I'm talking to you! Let go or I'll—Aaaagh!!!"
Mike turned, saw Arnold, and exploded in threats—but before he could finish, a sharp crack echoed, followed by a blood-curdling scream. His face twisted in agony as he collapsed.
Arnold's grip tightened like an eagle's talon, snapping Mike's forearm like a chocolate bar, bending it at a grotesque angle.
"Shit—he's not playing!"
Life on the streets made punks sensitive to danger. Seeing this strange armored man attack without a word, they panicked and drew their guns.
"Die, asshole!"
Mike collapsed, wailing, and seven or eight pistols aimed at Arnold's head—but Arnold moved faster than their fingers could.
Lightning fast, his fist—big as a bowl—buried itself in one thug's gut. The man's intestines twisted, eyes bulging as he vomited up his dinner with stomach acid.
Without pausing, Arnold spun and swept his leg like a log, knocking two or three thugs down. Their dropped guns clattered across the ground.
Moments later, only groaning punks remained.
"D-d-don't move! I'll shoot! I really will!"
The last thug trembled, pointing his gun at Arnold.
Arnold looked at him—coldly.
Snap.
The thug blinked. His gun was gone.
He looked up—Arnold opened his hand, letting the crushed pistol fall with a clatter.
"Monster—Monster!!" the thug screamed, bolting away.
The others, terrified, scrambled after him despite the pain, afraid Arnold might crack their skulls next.
Impressive—her creation indeed.
Watching them flee, Berry felt decidedly pleased.
This level of power was nearly mid-game V territory—and this was just a rare-grade chassis cobbled together with limited resources.
If someday she had money and could craft a few legendary-grade combat frames? She'd stand at Night City's top instantly. Adam Smasher? She'd kill one whenever one showed up.
Satisfied, she turned Arnold to leave—
But something caught her eye.
The bullied kid hadn't run off. He'd staggered up, blood still dripping, and stared at Arnold with swollen eyes.
Normally, someone rescued would bolt home—or find a medic.
Arnold paused and looked at him. The silent pressure was overwhelming.
"...Thanks for saving me, but… I can't leave…"
Seeing Arnold stop, the kid guessed he was the reason. Holding his bleeding nose, he explained, "They went to get Lauren—their gang boss. They'll come back. They know where my family lives… If I run now, Lauren will skin them alive."
Berry was speechless.
She hadn't expected that.
Cowardice? Helplessness?
Maybe both—but more than that, she felt it was numb, hopeless resignation—the kind beaten into people living in hell.
Arnold's face didn't change—still rigid and stern.
Arnold moved—kicking up a pistol and tossing it to the kid.
The kid clutched it, confused.
Was he supposed to fight?
Or… end himself?
Arnold didn't explain. He just turned to leave.
"Uh—!" the kid called out. Arnold stopped. "Um… thank you. And… your clothes are torn."
Arnold looked down. Sure enough, the protective suit she'd grabbed from the workshop had ripped from armpit to thigh, exposing half of his bare white butt.
The silence grew awkward.
Arnold stripped off the top half of the suit and tied the sleeves around his waist.
A man could go shirtless—but absolutely could not show his butt.
That was Berry's final line as a "proper man."
Anyway—even if it wasn't for the kid—Berry couldn't leave things unresolved.
Following the punks' tracks, Arnold returned to the street. Still empty, except for a homeless man warming his hands over a trash can fire.
The trail led to a neon-lit bar.
As Arnold approached, the muffled thumping of club music grew louder.
A familiar place—Lizzie's Bar, territory of the Mox.
Under its massive sign stood two Mox girls with baseball bats and bun hairstyles—exactly like in the game.
She'd never visited Lizzie's in real life.
Months in Night City, she'd only been to the Afterlife and a few diners with V and Jackie. Places like this? Never.
The reason was stupid but true—she stood out too much. Pretty, clean, no cyberware: a mark of rich families. Only wealthy, traditional households would let their kids go without augmentations, because money solved all inconvenience.
A naïve, wealthy girl wandering into a nightclub alone? Every predator would see walking cash.
She couldn't even count how many women in the Afterlife tried to lure her somewhere private—from street punks to corporate office ladies. V and Jackie usually had to throw them out.
If even her "home turf" was like that, she could only imagine what other clubs were like. She was terrified she'd get drunk and carried off by some predatory older woman in under half an hour.
And why only women? Because Berry's attraction was absolutely, definitely toward women—only they had a chance at tricking her into bed.
Well, might as well check the place out. Grab the punks, bust their boss's teeth, maybe pick up some clothes for Arnold. Buying new ones cost money, after all.
Arnold marched toward Lizzie's Bar.