Arthur's eyes gleamed with the fire of decision as he grabbed David's wrist and pulled him toward the elevator like a man chasing destiny.
David stumbled along, confused. "What's going on now?"
Arthur didn't answer right away. Instead, he muttered under his breath, speaking into the air as if negotiating with a ghost. "Delamain, don't give me that garbage about 'route unavailability.' I know you've got units nearby. Yeah, yeah—charge a handling fee. Double it? You damn robovac. No wonder you outlasted half the corpo fleet."
The elevator arrived with a hiss. Arthur dragged David into the underground garage, where a sleek black Delamain vehicle already waited—paint gleaming under flickering fluorescents, engine purring like a tiger ready to pounce.
Inside the cab, Arthur jacked his neural link into the dashboard. A soothing voice greeted him instantly.
"Welcome back, Mr. Arthur. Destination recognized: Night City Rehabilitation Center. Estimated arrival in ten minutes."
Arthur leaned back, pulled the cigarette from his lips, and exhaled a spiral of smoke with a casual smile.
"I should've told your mother long ago—boys don't grow up right if they don't see blood early."
David frowned, nerves coiled tight in his stomach. "What do you mean? What's going on?"
Arthur took another drag and let the silence build before answering. "The 'Rehab Center' isn't what it seems. Sure, they wear lab coats and flash certifications—but they're just scavengers with a medical license."
David blinked. "What?"
Arthur's tone darkened. "If you're conscious, they bankrupt you with inflated medical bills. If you're not conscious—like your mother—they don't wait. They harvest implants. Rip them out, patch up the holes, and dump the rest. Most of those chrome scraps end up in black-market mod dens or get filmed in underground braindance snuff reels."
David paled. "You're saying... I sent her there... to die?"
Arthur handed the boy his cigarette without hesitation. "Don't just sit there and cry. Smoke it. You've earned it."
In a daze, David took a drag. The taste of burnt paper and chemical nicotine was foul, but he didn't complain.
Arthur reached into his bag, pulled out a sleek kinetic shotgun labeled Kill—a beast of a gun. Reliable. Ruthless. Forums joked it could blow a hole through time itself.
He racked the shotgun with a metallic ch-chk, inspected the rounds, then reached beneath the seat and revealed two grenades. Without flinching, he tucked them into his coat. He lit another cigarette as if prepping for a dinner party.
"Delamain," he said coolly. "Wait here. I'll be back in a few."
"Of course, sir," the AI replied cheerfully. "Billing updated. Good luck."
Arthur opened the door, shotgun slung over his shoulder, and stepped into the dirty glow of the city. David followed hesitantly.
As they neared the facility's glass double doors, the effect was immediate. Citizens screamed. Some ran. Others filmed. A few brave idiots even dialed NCPD.
The entrance to the Night City Rehabilitation Center gleamed under flickering signage. A pair of guards moved to block their path, but Arthur didn't slow down.
He smirked, flicked his cigarette aside, and turned to David.
"Ready for the party, kid?"
"I—"
BOOM!
Arthur's foot slammed into the reinforced door. The metal shrieked and buckled inward, crashing off its hinges as the frame collapsed. Arthur marched in like a stormfront, shotgun glinting in the sterile hospital lighting.
David rushed after him, heart pounding, fingers tightening around the pistol Arthur had gifted him. This wasn't real. Couldn't be. But his body refused to stop.
A startled doctor emerged from the hallway, face pale as he saw the armed duo.
Arthur raised his shotgun, calm and deliberate.
"Gloria Martinez. Red hair. Admitted today. Where is she?"
The doctor stammered, hands slowly rising. "Uh—s-sir, I… Are you—visiting?"
Arthur tilted his head, unimpressed.
BOOM!
The shotgun barked. The doctor's body dropped like a rag doll, blood splattering across the walls.
David screamed, stumbling back. "What the hell are you doing?!"
Arthur reloaded with practiced ease. "Wrong answer."
David dry-heaved in the corner, the stench of blood and gunpowder punching into his gut. No vomit came—just the sound of his body trying to expel trauma.
Arthur pressed forward, a one-man siege engine. A second doctor attempted to pull a sidearm from beneath his coat. Arthur moved with terrifying speed. Bang! Bang! Bang! Three shots, three hits. The man toppled over the railing of the upper level, crashing down with a sickening thud.
"Stay close," Arthur barked, glancing over his shoulder.
David wiped his mouth and followed. He didn't want to. Every instinct screamed to run. But something deeper—something primal—kept his legs moving. The pistol in his hand now felt heavier, realer.
Room by room, hallway by hallway, Arthur moved like a specter of vengeance. His cybernetics enhanced his reflexes, his aim, his processing power. He was a soldier from another world—this world—just far more ruthless than most.
Some staff fought. They died. Some surrendered. Arthur let them live.
They finally reached a cold, dimly lit corridor near the emergency surgery wing.
Arthur paused, eyes scanning rapidly.
"There."
He pointed to a reinforced door at the end.
David hesitated. "How do you know?"
Arthur's eyes flickered faintly, HUD dancing with real-time data.
"Trust me. I didn't crawl through time and warzones just to be wrong about this."
He kicked the door open.
Inside, Gloria Martinez lay unconscious on the operating table. Her red hair was disheveled, dried blood clinging to her scalp. Dozens of wires snaked from her body to nearby monitors. A tray of surgical tools sat nearby—prepped and waiting.
Arthur's jaw clenched. "They were going to rip her apart like a used drone."
He nodded at David. "Stay by the door. Watch our backs."
David nodded stiffly, pistol raised with shaking hands.
Arthur carefully disconnected the machines and lifted Gloria into his arms with surprising gentleness. The weight didn't bother him. What bothered him was the memory of how many like her ended up as discarded parts in some corpo crate.
"Let's go."
As they moved back through the halls, the wail of approaching sirens grew louder. The NCPD was closing in. The hospital's panic protocol had triggered, locking down nearby roads.
But Arthur wasn't worried. Delamain's cab still sat outside, engine purring.
"Welcome back," the AI intoned. "Shall I initiate retreat to designated safehouse?"
Arthur grinned and slid into the back seat, placing Gloria carefully beside him.
"Yeah. Burn rubber."
David climbed in last, his eyes darting between his unconscious mother and the shotgun resting on Arthur's lap. His world had collapsed and rebuilt itself in a matter of minutes. He didn't know who this man really was, but the blood on his hands was the price of truth.
As the taxi accelerated into the neon-stained dark, Arthur lit another cigarette, exhaled slowly, and looked at David.
"This city doesn't care who you are. Doesn't care who you were. It only cares about whether you've got the spine to fight back."
David looked out the window, watching Night City blur into streaks of red, violet, and steel.
"…Then I'll fight," he whispered.
Arthur grinned. "That's my boy."
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