Victor stroked his stubbled chin, mulling over Arthur's ramblings. He finally shook his head with a soft chuckle, the glint of worn wisdom in his eyes. "The brain's always been off-limits, y'know? God's last fortress. We've made arms from steel, swapped eyes for scanners, but the mind? Still the biggest mystery in this chrome-plated circus."
He sipped his whiskey, slow and thoughtful.
"Even with all this tech, no one really understands what's goin' on under the hood. The meat's still fragile."
Victor had seen enough insanity in Night City to know that not everything needed a clean explanation. Ghost stories, rogue AI hauntings, net-divers whose souls never came back—nothing surprised him anymore.
"So…" he asked, raising an eyebrow, "what now? You gonna dust off the merc suit? If you stepped back into the Afterlife, half the bar would piss their pants."
Arthur leaned back, stretching his legs as he stared at the low-lit ceiling. "Nah," he said at last. "Let the young blood chase glory. I'm too old for that sh*t."
He paused, then added with a smirk, "Maybe I'll start a noodle cart. Sell beef offal near Arasaka Plaza. Be the next street-food king. What do you think?"
Victor snorted. "Where the hell are you gonna find beef?"
Arthur froze, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Right. Synthetic everything. Forgot the city's food pyramid is basically protein paste and edible dye."
The thought trailed into silence. Then something clicked.
Suppressors.
He hadn't touched the system's suppressor blueprint since the day it landed in his neural archive. In all the chaos—David, Gloria, the rescue—it had slipped through the cracks. But now… maybe that was his angle. The black market was desperate for suppressors. If he could stabilize production, tweak the code, and find a skilled enough netrunner…
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It might be more profitable than merc work. And a hell of a lot quieter.
As the idea began to take root, a knock echoed from the clinic door. Victor returned moments later, arms full of boxes—replacement parts, fresh implants, surgical mesh.
Arthur got the message without a word. He motioned to David, then hoisted him up by the collar like luggage. "Time to scram, kid. Surgery's not exactly a spectator sport."
---
They moved to the front lobby. David flopped onto the sofa, his curiosity still burning.
"Hey," he asked suddenly, "can we go to the Afterlife one day?"
Arthur poured himself another drink from Victor's bottle and narrowed his eyes. "Call me that again and I'll plant my size-42 boot so far up your ass you'll taste leather."
David flinched, instinctively shielding his backside. "...Dad."
Arthur grinned. "Much better."
He downed a sip, then leaned back. "Sure, I'll take you to the Afterlife. But don't expect fireworks. It's just a bar. Neon lights, overpriced drinks, and too many egos stuffed into leather jackets."
David tilted his head. "But that's where all the legends hang out, right?"
Arthur lit a cigarette. The flame flickered, casting shadows across his face.
"The only legends in the Afterlife are fools waiting to get exploited or wild dogs climbing over corpses for a bite of the pie. Smuggling, espionage, murder-for-hire—it's just a crime market with a liquor license. Night City's a cesspool, and Afterlife is its penthouse suite."
David's shoulders sagged, the illusion breaking. "Damn… but I still wanna try a Johnny Silverhand."
Arthur chuckled. "That garbage? It's tequila, beer, and chili sauce. Tastes like regret and revolution. You could make it at home and puke for free."
He paused, then looked at David again. "And you're too young to drink anyway. If you wanna go, you'll need your mom's blessing."
David groaned. "Figures."
Arthur watched him quietly. He'd never thought of himself as a father, let alone to a teenager. Mentorship? Maybe. But raising a kid? That felt like trying to climb Arasaka Tower in slippers and a bathrobe.
Still, the kid had guts. Maybe there was something worth building here.
---
Victor reappeared an hour later, his coat stained with oil and blood, but his hands steady.
"She's stable," he said, dusting himself off. "Should be conscious in about thirty. You know how to handle the inhibitors better than I do."
Arthur nodded, relieved.
Victor looked from Gloria to David, then back to Arthur. His face softened. "Your kid's grown. Feels like yesterday we were arguing about who had the better aim in that underground firing range."
Arthur smiled faintly. "Ten years gone in a blink."
He handed Victor another drink and clinked their glasses.
"So," Victor said between sips, "no more gigs? No more running into gunfire for a couple of eddies?"
Arthur stared at his drink, then looked around the room.
"Nah," he said quietly. "I reached the top. I've already killed for fame. Burned bridges. Buried friends. What's left? Blow up Arasaka Tower again for the sequel?"
Victor chuckled. "Could call it Arasaka 2: Tower Harder."
Arthur smirked. "Cute. But I'd rather flip burgers. Live quiet."
Victor nodded. "Good. Living's underrated."
They let the silence sit.
Victor had seen so many mercs die chasing shadows—legends who thought immortality came from kill counts or flashy exits. In the end, they all ended the same way—on a cold slab or burned to ash.
Even Johnny Silverhand, the rebel icon. What was left of him now? A ghost in a machine. A drink in a bar. A story told by fools too young to know the ending.
---
Suddenly, a low cry came from the back.
Gloria staggered out, her body trembling but upright. Her skin was pale, hair clinging to her face, but she was awake.
Her gaze flicked around, confused—until she saw David sitting nearby.
"David…"
Her voice was hoarse but filled with emotion. David was at her side in a flash, catching her before she could collapse.
Arthur stood still, smoke curling from his cigarette. He exhaled slowly.
Victor watched from the side, smiling. "Tougher than she looks."
Arthur nodded. "Always was."
Gloria gripped David's hand tightly. The last thing she remembered was metal crushing the front of her car. Now, her son was alive. She was alive. And there, behind it all, stood Arthur—silent, but present.
A piece of the family she'd buried in her heart had somehow risen from the ruins.
Arthur stubbed out his cigarette, watching the moment unfold. He didn't know how long this fragile peace would last. But right now, for the first time in a long while, he wasn't running.
And that was enough.
---
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