After a simple dinner, the household settled down for the night. Arthur lay in bed, his mind spinning with thoughts. One hand absently held Gloria, shifting her up and down—not for any real reason, just to keep busy. Even if he couldn't feel hunger anymore, the tactile sensation helped ground him.
His eyes drifted toward David, sleeping peacefully on the old sofa nearby. A flicker of irritation crossed Arthur's face. It was time to leave Santo Domingo. The plan to start generating real income was finally coming together. The suppressor chip would be distributed through black-market channels—accessible to cyberpunks and civilians alike.
The company hadn't been officially registered yet, but that was the least of Arthur's concerns. He'd sell first and file for certification later. After all, that was how corporations in Night City operated—rules were more like loose guidelines. The average citizen wouldn't bat an eye unless something exploded in their face.
But the real problem wasn't legality. It was the Animal Gang. Arthur hated dealing with them. They were all roided-up slabs of muscle with more brawn than brains. Worse than the Voodoo Boys in his opinion—at least the Voodoo gang had a plan, twisted as it was.
He let out a sigh. Wasn't this supposed to be a step toward leaving chaos behind? Yet everything seemed messier by the day. His gaze shifted back to Gloria. Leaning in close, he whispered something quietly in her ear.
Her face immediately flushed. She glanced at David, still fast asleep, and quickly pulled the covers up to her neck. A soft hiss followed, accompanied by the quiet clink of metal. A moment later, the subtle mechanical hum of a neural jack disconnecting broke the silence.
The next morning, Arthur rose groggily. He rubbed his temples, still feeling the effects of the previous night. Gloria had nearly bolted on him—things had escalated faster than expected. If he hadn't exercised control, they might've woken up to one very awkward family breakfast.
Gloria was distant this morning. Her expression as she glanced at David was sharp, verging on cold. David, still gnawing on a piece of synthetic bread, caught her look and froze mid-bite.
"Did Mom just look at me like I'm trash?" he mumbled to himself.
He tried to shake off the thought. "No way. She's just tired. Right? She still loves me. Probably."
Arthur, meanwhile, was standing at the window, watching Night City wake up. A trauma team AV zoomed past the apartment, its engines screaming. Over a loudspeaker, the familiar, cold voice of the trauma team declared, "Client location locked. Beginning retrieval."
Farther off in the distance, another AV tore through the sky—this one belonged to the MaxTac unit. Cyberpsychos leaped from the aircraft like demon-soldiers, their augmented limbs glinting in the morning light. They moved between rooftops with predatory grace. From street level, it looked like a chaotic circus of death.
Gunshots rang out. Somewhere, a fire roared to life. Sirens wailed.
"Good morning, Night City!" the radio host's voice exploded from the building's intercom. Stanlina's overly cheerful tone dripped with sarcasm as she narrated yet another day of madness.
Arthur shook his head, pulling on his clothes. "Night City hasn't changed at all in ten years," he muttered.
He walked over to the table, eyeing the cold, stiff bread. "Yesterday, I had real chicken. Today? Synthetic sponge posing as food. What a come-down."
David stood beside him, still munching with a grimace. The synthetic loaf had a texture like damp cardboard. Neither of them complained much—it was routine by now.
They left their apartment together, the hallway already stinking of vomit and alcohol. Garbage bags lined the narrow path. One unlucky resident was passed out against the wall, drooling on himself, half-covered in a stained blanket.
"Smells like Night City," Arthur muttered, stepping over a puddle of something he didn't want to identify.
Some residents wandered the corridor in tattered clothes, VR visors strapped over their faces, mumbling nonsense. Makeshift cups hung around their necks, but most people ignored them. They were the forgotten—lost in digital illusions, dreaming about lives they'd never live.
As they stepped into the early morning haze, David gave Arthur a suspicious look.
"What?" Arthur asked.
David didn't answer. He just kept staring, as if waiting for something.
"You think I'm gonna make you steal a car again, don't you?" Arthur said, finally realizing.
David blinked, then nodded slightly.
Arthur's mouth twitched. "Come on. I've got class."
He pulled a key from his pocket and spun it on one finger. "Friend gave me a ride yesterday. No need to steal today. We wouldn't want to upset the fine gentlemen in the Sixth Street Gang, right? They probably miss us."
David sighed in relief. "I'm pretty sure they pray every night that you stop needing their cars."
They walked over to where the bike was parked. Surprisingly, it was still there. No one had touched it.
"Cool," David said, jogging ahead. "Is this... a Brennan Apollo?"
"Sharp eye," Arthur replied.
The Apollo wasn't glamorous or fast, but it was dependable. Built to survive the Badlands, it was perfect for off-road hauling and avoiding trouble. Not something the average city punk would covet, which explained why it hadn't been stolen.
Arthur fired up the engine, its deep growl cutting through the morning buzz. He handed David a helmet. "Not Scorpion's, but it'll do," he said.
The bike was a gift—passed down by one of the wandering tribes Arthur had helped. It came with dual fuel tanks and a rugged design. Not flashy, but it would get them where they needed to go.
David climbed on behind Arthur. The bike rumbled beneath them, ready to face another day in Night City. Chaos, corruption, and concrete awaited—but at least they had wheels and each other.
Visit our Patreon for more:
patreon.com/Samurai492