Cyberpunk Patriarch-Chapter 2: You Don’t Even Want to Call Me Daddy!

After thinking for a moment, Arthur suddenly clapped his hands as if a light bulb had gone off above his head.

"Right! What the hell am I stressing over?"

It had been more than a decade since the original Arthur lived here. His wife and child must have moved out long ago—or worse, gotten themselves killed somewhere in the ruthless streets of Night City. It was entirely possible that the people living in this apartment now had no relation to him whatsoever.

The thought made Arthur breathe a little easier. He straightened his shoulders and walked up to the door, intending to get a closer look.

But the moment he approached, a notification window popped up on the lower left of his retinal HUD:

[Unpaid rent detected. Pay immediately to regain access? Yes/No]

Arthur's mouth twitched violently.

Sure enough, the ghosts you try to avoid will always find a way to grab you by the ankles.

He sighed and muttered under his breath, "If it's a blessing, it won't be a curse. If it's a curse... well, f*** it, I'll deal with it."

Resigned, Arthur clicked Yes.

Almost instantly, there was a click as the electronic lock disengaged. At the same time, his account balance dropped painfully.

Steeling himself, Arthur stepped into the apartment.

The familiar stale air of recycled oxygen, sweat, cheap food, and plastic greeted him like an old friend. Tossing his worn handbag onto the battered sofa, Arthur took a quick scan of the room.

No one.

But it was definitely lived in.

Clothes were scattered around, a few open food wrappers and cheap energy drink cans littered the table, and a local Night City news broadcast crackled from a beat-up radio on the counter.

Arthur snatched a bottle of fizzy water off the table, twisted it open, and took a deep gulp.

"System," he commanded internally.

[Ding~ Sign-in successful! Congratulations to the host for acquiring: Suppressor Manufacturing Blueprint.]

Arthur paused mid-drink as fresh knowledge downloaded itself into his mind. He rubbed his temples, absorbing it.

Suppressors.

An alternative to the traditional inhibitor drugs used in Night City. Whereas inhibitors were chemical cocktails designed to keep a heavily-modified body from rejecting cyberware—or the mind from fracturing—suppressors did it through integrated neural chips. No need for constant refills. Plug it in once, and your body would be fooled indefinitely.

Arthur's lips curled into a smirk.

No wonder this technology wasn't common knowledge. Big Pharma wouldn't want anything interfering with their endless inhibitor sales. Why let customers fix themselves permanently when you can bleed them dry selling them overpriced injections for life?

Suppressors were a threat to corporate profits—and in Night City, that was a death sentence.

He touched his chin thoughtfully. This thing could cause a storm if leaked into the market.

And maybe... that was exactly what he needed.

Arthur was lost in thought when suddenly—

BANG!

A loud crash echoed from the ventilation duct above.

In a flash, Arthur pulled the pistol from his waistband and leveled it at the source of the noise, his body dropping instinctively into a low, ready crouch.

From the vent, a boy tumbled out gracelessly, wrapped in gauze and wearing a battered school uniform. A bulging black plastic bag clattered down beside him.

Arthur blinked.

David?

David Martinez?

The pieces clicked together at once.

So this wasn't just some random squatter.

This was David's home.

And if he connected the dots correctly... that would make Arthur—

David Martinez's father?

For a moment, Arthur just stared as David scrambled to his feet, hands raised high in surrender when he saw the gun aimed squarely at him.

"Uh... I'm just here to grab some stuff, choomba," David stammered quickly, his voice cracking with nerves. "I don't wanna cause trouble! I'm leaving right after!"

He clearly mistook Arthur for some corporate thug sent to evict squatters.

Arthur said nothing. He leaned back lazily onto the sofa, stretching out with his legs crossed and one arm hanging over the backrest, casually keeping the gun trained on David.

He let a smile creep onto his face.

"I'm gone for just ten years," Arthur said, voice dripping with mock hurt, "and this is how you greet your old man? Not even a 'Welcome home, Dad'?"

David's jaw dropped.

"...Huh?"

Confusion twisted his face into a tangled mess.

Old man? Father? What the hell was this guy talking about?

David's mind raced, and an absurd thought occurred to him: Had his mother remarried while he was gone?

It made a weird kind of sense. His mom had been alone for years, busting her ass to keep them afloat. Maybe she'd found someone.

David clenched his fists and set his jaw.

"My father's dead," he said stiffly. "I'm not calling anyone else 'Dad'. But... if you're marrying my mom... then, I guess, I can call you Uncle."

Arthur nearly choked on his own spit.

Uncle?

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Uncle?

Good grief. This little brat needed a serious attitude adjustment.

"Bang!"

Arthur nonchalantly fired a round into the floor just inches from David's foot.

David jumped three feet straight up, his hands flying higher.

"Whoa, whoa! What the hell?!"

Still lounging, Arthur twirled the pistol in his fingers and smirked.

"Call me Daddy."

David's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. He glanced from Arthur's relaxed posture to the blackened bullet hole at his feet.

He swallowed hard.

"...Dad."

Arthur grinned from ear to ear.

"Good boy!"

Laughing, he hopped up, walked over, and slapped David on the back hard enough to nearly topple him. Then he shoved the pistol into David's hands like a prize.

"Consider this your first gift from dear old Dad."

David blinked at the weapon.

It was a beat-up Unity—basic, reliable, cheap. Hardly glamorous, but in Night City, a gun was worth its weight in eddies and blood.

"Thanks... I guess?" he muttered, awkwardly tucking it into his waistband.

Arthur chuckled and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply.

"Now," he said, exhaling a puff of smoke, "where's your mom?"

David's smile faltered.

He shifted uncomfortably.

"There was... an accident," he mumbled, staring at the floor. "Some corpos crashed into us on the way home from school. We didn't have insurance. She got hurt bad. I had to... I had to send her to the Night City Trauma Rehabilitation Center."

Arthur's heart clenched, but he masked it behind a sarcastic grin.

"You're a real filial son, huh?"

David scratched his head, misunderstanding the tone, and chuckled sheepishly.

Arthur sighed, stood up, and grabbed the black bag David had dropped earlier. He dumped its contents out on the couch: a few worn clothes, a set of textbooks, and a couple of outdated neuralware chips.

Typical.

He popped open his own duffel and dumped out the clothes inside, revealing two rifles—one high-end Nova 88 shotgun, and a second, sleeker Nekomata precision rifle.

Arthur zipped the bag back up and slung it over his shoulder with a satisfied nod.

"Time to get moving," he said.

David stared at the guns, then back at Arthur.

"...You really are my dad, aren't you?"

Arthur smirked around his cigarette.

"Kid, by the time we're done, you're gonna wish you were adopted."

He clapped David on the shoulder again, a little gentler this time.

"Now let's go get your mom back."