"Hey, you heard the whispers? The Old Captain's sailor has crawled back from hell. Word is he's stirring up the streets again. Scavs are losing their minds over that cyberpsycho from last night."
Arthur Scott didn't need to hear the rumors. He was the reason they existed.
As he walked through the industrial husk of Santo Domingo, boots crunching over broken glass and rusted bolts, his phone buzzed. The name on the cracked screen read:
Muammar Reyes – "Old Captain"
Arthur swiped to answer.
"Arthur, you old dog!" Reyes's voice was as coarse as ever, worn from whiskey, smoke, and too many late-night negotiations. "Back from the grave? Thought you'd gone flatline years ago."
Arthur exhaled slowly, a faint grin on his lips. "Still breathing. You still charging ten percent on air?"
"I've upgraded to fifteen," Reyes shot back. "But if you're alive, come find me. I'm low on debt collectors and men who know how to shoot straight."
"I need wheels," Arthur said flatly.
The Old Captain laughed. "Same Scott. I'll send you a list. Pick one. But don't blow it up this time, yeah?"
The line clicked dead before Arthur could respond. Classic Reyes—efficient, impatient, and never sentimental.
Arthur pocketed the phone and looked up at his destination: a cluster of abandoned warehouses slumped at the edge of the city like decaying giants. The smell of oil, trash, and despair hung thick in the air. The buildings were stripped bare—steel bones left to rot. But they had two key advantages: isolation and space.
Perfect for a deal. Or a firefight.
Arthur approached the largest shutter and knocked sharply. Then, with a smirk, he called out: "Takeaway from hell!"
Nothing but the wind.
Then came a voice behind him—gruff and suspicious.
"Takeaway? From hell?"
Arthur didn't flinch. He felt the cold click of a weapon press against his back.
He took a slow drag from his cigarette. Time stretched thin.
Turning just slightly, Arthur's optics locked onto the figure—a bulky man with a wide stance and a chrome arm that had morphed into a missile launcher.
Maine.
Arthur didn't hesitate. In a blink, he moved—pistol drawn, pressed to Maine's lower spine before the man could blink.
"The takeaway," Arthur said, smoke curling from his lips, "comes with a trigger warning."
Maine stiffened. "Friend," he said slowly, sweat beading under his collar, "maybe we should talk before someone gets ventilated."
Arthur held the stare a second longer, then lowered his weapon.
"I told you before—stop acting on impulse. You've already got enough chrome to be your own scrapyard. You'll get yourself killed one of these days."
Maine blinked, recognition dawning. "Wait... Arthur? You bastard!"
Arthur stepped back, letting his pistol slide smoothly into its holster. "In the flesh."
Maine stared, dumbfounded. "You're alive? After all this time?"
Arthur shrugged. "Depends on your definition of 'alive.'"
Maine shook his head in disbelief, then turned to lift the warehouse shutter. "Come in. And don't disappear for ten years again."
---
Inside, the warehouse was dimly lit, scattered with crates, empty bottles, and worn punching bags. A few cyberware mod stations lined one wall, all patched together from scavenged tech.
Arthur took a seat at a scratched metal table while Maine poured two glasses of amber liquid.
Arthur raised his drink, sniffed it, and smiled. "Real whiskey. You've upgraded."
Maine grinned. "Lifted it off a Militech exec. Poor guy had expensive taste and cheap guards."
They drank. The burn was real.
"You still twitchy?" Maine asked after a moment, trying to sound casual.
Arthur leaned back. "You mean the cyberpsychosis?"
Maine hesitated. "Yeah."
Arthur grinned. "Let's just say... me and the devil came to terms. I run some errands for him now."
Maine blinked. "That supposed to be a joke?"
Arthur didn't answer. Instead, he slid the small, black crate across the table.
Maine opened it slowly. Inside lay the Sandevistan—polished, humming faintly with dormant energy. A prototype spinal rig. Sleek. Dangerous.
"Gloria sent this," Arthur said. "Told me you were looking for heat."
Maine stared at the implant, his face shifting from awe to wariness.
"This model… it's not street-grade."
Arthur nodded. "Corp lab escapee. The kind they want you to find. They leak these into the underworld like bait—let someone test it in the field. If it fries you, they get their data. If it doesn't, they come reclaim it."
Maine frowned. "You knew and still brought it?"
Arthur leaned forward. "I also knew you'd get it from someone else if I didn't. Better the devil you know, right?"
Maine exhaled slowly, processing.
"So what now?" he asked.
Arthur finished his drink. "Now, you don't screw it up."
Maine stared at the implant, silent for a beat. "You know... the scavs are buzzing about last night. Rumors say a chrome ghost slaughtered a whole crew and vanished."
Arthur stood. "Let them talk."
Maine looked up. "Was it you?"
Arthur pulled out a fresh cigarette and lit it. The flare lit up his eyes—calm, cold, confident.
"I'm not a ghost," he said. "But maybe I haunt people."
He turned toward the door.
"Hey, Arthur—" Maine called out.
Arthur paused.
"It's good to have you back."
Arthur didn't look back.
"Don't let that Sandevistan kill you."
And then he stepped into the night, his silhouette vanishing into the electric blur of the city beyond.
---
Meanwhile, back home…
David leaned against the window, eyes fixed on the corner where his father's borrowed ride had disappeared.
Gloria sat nearby, sipping from a chipped mug.
"Your dad…" she muttered, almost to herself, "he's something else."
David nodded slowly.
He wasn't sure what Arthur was. Savior? Psycho? Ghost?
But for the first time, their home didn't feel empty anymore.
Whatever Arthur was—he was theirs.
---
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