"Mr. Arthur," Delamain's chanical voice ca through politely, "who is famous among cyberpunks, is not just a stray dog on the streets."
Arthur chuckled as he leaned against the taxi door, adjusting Gloria carefully in his arms. "Famous? Tch. Where's that reputation co from? I'm no god. Just another fool who people decided to toss up onto a pedestal."
He waved Delamain away casually.
The black taxi humd off into the neon night, leaving Arthur and David standing outside the weather-worn building that housed Victor's underground clinic.
David clutched Arthur's worn black duffel bag, staring at him with a mixture of awe and suspicion, as if trying to find cracks in the man who'd bulldozed his way into his life just hours ago.
Arthur smirked at the kid's wide-eyed stare.
The truth was simple: the original Arthur Martinez hadn't been much in Night City terms.
Just a cyberpunk a little more violent, a little more reckless, and maybe a little luckier than most. His mission success rate was high, but it wasn't because of finesse—it was because he completed contracts with overwhelming, brutal force.
That kind of fa in Night City wasn't lasting. One bullet, one wrong move, and even the "famous" ended up rotting in a gutter.
If Arthur hadn't crossed over, if he hadn't been given this second chance by fate—or whatever cosmic joke was at work—the original Arthur would have ended up exactly the sa. Another naless corpse, dissolved into the background noise of the city.
Arthur shoved open the rusted iron gate next to Misty's closed psychic shop. Misty had long since clocked out for the night.
The gate was locked with a basic padlock. Arthur snorted, grabbed it, and squeezed.
CRUNCH.
The lock deford like tinfoil in his prosthetic-enhanced grip. He tossed the twisted tal aside like trash and pushed the gate open with his shoulder.
David, who had been trailing behind uncertainly, gawked openly at the display of strength.
Arthur noticed—and decided it was ti for a little education.
He jerked his thumb at his own body and said, "More than 70% of this at suit isn't original, kid. That's why I lost it back then. Cyberpsychosis isn't so random curse—it's just part of the deal when you turn yourself into walking scrap tal."
As they descended the dim stairwell, Arthur kept talking, voice low and serious.
"Don't be surprised. And don't think I'm bragging either."
"This is what being cyberpunk ans."
"Take a job. Get so eddies. Get new chro. Take bigger jobs. Get more eddies. Get even better chro."
Arthur flicked his fingers like he was ticking off items on a list.
"And you just keep spinning that wheel until sothing breaks. Maybe your hand. Maybe your lungs. Maybe your brain."
He tapped his temple aningfully.
"When you start trembling for no reason... when you can't control your rage... when even the ds stop working..."
Arthur's voice went cold.
"That's when you know the wheel's spun too far. And you're not a person anymore. You're a problem to be solved."
David swallowed heavily, gripping the duffel tighter.
Arthur's boots thudded against the cracked concrete as they finally reached Victor's clinic.
The tal curtain over the entrance was half-drawn. Arthur didn't even slow down—he simply shoved it aside and ducked inside.
Inside, the place was alive with noise.
Cheers, curses, the heavy bass of so pirate boxing match blaring from an old screen.
Victor, the clinic's owner, was slouched in his chair, one cybernetic hand lazily tapping at a tablet as he watched two atheads beat each other half to death in an illegal underground fight.
He didn't even glance up.
"People who show up at this hour," Victor muttered, "are never here for anything good."
Arthur grinned.
"You're absolutely right," he said, voice dripping with amusent. "Because I'm here to squeeze you dry, old man."
Victor's head snapped up.
The gruff cyberdoc stared at Arthur for a long heartbeat.
Then a slow, wide smile cracked across his scarred face.
"Well, I'll be damned," Victor said, standing up so fast his chair scraped across the floor. "Arthur Martinez, back from the dead."
"I figured you either snapped and got flatlined outside the wall," Victor said, stepping forward and clapping Arthur on the shoulder, "or you found so cozy trash heap to rot in."
Arthur shrugged.
"Turns out I'm too stubborn to die. Lucky you."
Victor laughed. A real laugh, deep and genuine. It was rare in Night City—and Arthur felt so of the ever-present tension in his shoulders ease a little.
"You look good, man," Victor said. "Sharp. No dead eyes. Guess whatever rehab you found out there actually worked."
Arthur nodded toward Gloria, still cradled in his arms. "Don't flatter yet. Got sothing for you first."
Victor's gaze shifted—and softened.
He imdiately grabbed a stool and gestured for Arthur to lay her down.
"This her?"
"Yeah. My wife. And that punk over there—" Arthur jerked his chin toward David, who flinched "—that's my son."
Victor let out a low whistle.
"Well, hell. When you go dostic, you don't half-ass it."
He connected a diagnostic cable to Gloria's neural port and started scanning her vitals.
The screen lit up with streams of data.
Arthur leaned casually against the wall, lighting a cigarette and exhaling a thin stream of smoke.
"I found her in a scavenger den," he said. "Brought her out myself."
Victor's face darkened.
"You serious?"
Arthur nodded grimly.
"She was at the Night City Rehabilitation Center."
Victor grunted. "Rehab my ass. Everyone knows that's just a front for body scavengers. Bastards probably would've ripped her apart if you hadn't shown up."
Arthur's eyes were hidden behind smoke, but his voice was quiet and lethal when he said, "I made sure they won't be ripping anyone apart ever again."
Victor didn't ask for details.
n like them didn't need them.
After a few minutes, Victor pulled off the scanner and leaned back, sighing.
"She's lucky," he said. "Couple broken ribs. Lung's punctured—gonna need replacing. So minor brain swelling, too. But nothing that'll kill her."
He glanced at Arthur aningfully.
"Good prosthetics cost money, you know."
Arthur waved a hand.
"Money's not the problem. I'm not putting second-hand junk into her."
Victor smiled faintly.
"Top-of-the-line civ-grade, then. Alright. Gim a few hours. She'll be good as new."
Arthur stubbed out his cigarette against the wall, grinding it out slowly.
"Do it," he said simply.
David watched all this unfold with a strange feeling building inside his chest.
He didn't know what to think.
This man—this stranger—had co crashing into his life like a hurricane.
In one night, Arthur had saved his mother, killed a building full of scavengers, and treated saving lives like it was just another Tuesday.
He didn't fit any of the images David had built up in his mind about his father.
He wasn't so sad, broken man who had abandoned them.
He was... sothing else entirely.
Maybe... maybe he really is my dad, David thought, confused and uncertain.
Arthur caught his gaze.
"What's with the face?" Arthur asked gruffly.
David opened his mouth—and then closed it again.
Finally, he just muttered, "Thanks."
Arthur grunted. "You owe ."
He jerked a thumb toward the clinic's battered couch.
"Crash there. We've got a lot of work to do tomorrow."
David hesitated.
Then he nodded, moving stiffly toward the couch.
As he settled in, listening to Victor's tools clinking in the background and Arthur's low conversation with the old ripperdoc, David realized sothing else:
For the first ti in a long ti, he didn't feel completely alone.
Maybe... just maybe... things were finally about to change.
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