Cyberpunk Patriarch-Chapter 3: Are You Ready for the Party?

After dumping the contents of his duffel and grabbing his gear, Arthur's eyes lit up with excitement. Without hesitation, he grabbed David by the wrist and sprinted toward the elevator.

"Come on, no time to waste!" he shouted over his shoulder.

David stumbled after him, utterly confused. His mind still spinning, he blurted, "W-where are we going?!"

Arthur didn't answer right away. As the elevator doors slid shut and they began descending to the underground garage, Arthur pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, thinking quickly.

He tapped his personal link. "Delamain, spare me the crap about availability and regulations. I know damn well you can get what I need. Fine, fine—charge me the handling fee. Double? Tch. No wonder you survived the vampire economy."

David watched him with growing alarm as Arthur casually negotiated like he was ordering takeout, not planning whatever reckless stunt he was obviously about to pull.

Ding!

The elevator doors opened, revealing the underground garage bathed in flickering yellow light. Parked neatly in one bay was a familiar black Delamain cab.

Arthur pulled David along and shoved him into the backseat before climbing in himself. Once Arthur connected his neural link to the vehicle's system, the doors auto-locked with a reassuring click.

"Destination set: Night City Rehabilitation Center. Estimated time of arrival: 10 minutes."

Only after hearing that did Arthur finally remove the cigarette from his mouth and exhale a long cloud of smoke.

He turned toward David, his voice suddenly grim.

"I should've told your mom... never raise a kid to be too obedient," Arthur said, his cigarette smoldering between two fingers.

David shrank back a little. "Wh-what are you talking about?"

Arthur inhaled again, the ember at the tip of the cigarette flaring briefly.

"Night City Rehabilitation Center," he said slowly, as if savoring every bitter word, "is just a scavenger front. Looks official on the outside, but inside?"

He flicked ash out the cracked window, his tone turning razor-sharp.

"If the patient's conscious, they bleed 'em dry with insane medical bills. If they're unconscious... they rip out the implants and sell 'em on the black market to the twisted bastards filming black market braindances."

Arthur's voice cut through the stale air like a knife.

David froze.

The color drained from his face. His hands curled into trembling fists against his lap.

He had heard rumors. Dark ones. Horror stories whispered in corners of the Net. About scavengers running illegal BD studios, about broken bodies and stolen cyberware.

He never thought...

He never imagined...

It could happen to his own mother.

Arthur didn't need to look to know David was spiraling into a full-blown panic attack. So, without ceremony, he yanked the cigarette from his mouth and jammed it between David's lips.

"Save it," Arthur growled. "You're gonna need your hands steady where we're going."

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Still trembling, David instinctively puffed on the cigarette, coughing slightly.

Meanwhile, Arthur unzipped his duffel again and withdrew a weapon.

A heavy, sleek shotgun gleamed in the dim light. It was a Kill kinetic shotgun—famous on the streets for its brutal stopping power, rumored to punch a hole clean through time and space if you squeezed the trigger hard enough.

David's eyes widened.

Arthur barely gave it a second glance. He checked the magazine, racked the slide, and pulled two grenades from a hidden compartment under the seat.

As Arthur tucked the explosives into his jacket, he lit another cigarette and gave Delamain a brief command.

"Wait here. I won't be long."

"Understood, Mr. Arthur. Billing has been updated to your account. Wishing you success."

Arthur chuckled darkly as he ruffled David's hair.

"Time for a party, kid."

Before David could protest, Arthur yanked open the cab door and dragged him out into the humid night air.

Ahead of them loomed the Night City Rehabilitation Center—a grimy, peeling building lit only by neon graffiti and the sickly glow of malfunctioning streetlights.

The second Arthur stepped into view with a shotgun slung casually over his shoulder, the surrounding crowd reacted immediately.

People scattered like rats.

Some screamed. Others ducked behind parked cars. A few thrill-seekers fumbled for their phones, eager to upload the next trending braindance of a firefight.

Some even dared to call the NCPD.

Arthur grinned around his cigarette, eyes glinting.

Above them, the neon-streaked sky was choked with smog, and the bloated full moon hung low and heavy, casting a surreal light over the scene.

A perfect night for chaos.

He blew out a smoke ring and glanced at David, who was clutching the shotgun awkwardly, white-knuckled.

"Ready for the orgy, kid?" Arthur asked, voice disturbingly cheerful.

"I-I—"

BANG!

Before David could stammer out a full sentence, Arthur kicked the rehab center's main doors clean off their hinges.

The metal doors clanged to the ground with an ear-splitting crash.

Arthur strolled in without hesitation, kinetic shotgun gleaming menacingly.

David hesitated for a beat, panic written all over his face, then swallowed his fear and rushed after him.

Inside, a few startled orderlies peeked out from behind counters and rooms. A middle-aged doctor in a grimy lab coat stepped into the hallway, confusion etched across his face.

"You—"

He never finished the sentence.

Arthur had already raised the Kill shotgun, the barrel practically kissing the doctor's forehead.

Through his enhanced optics, Arthur could see every detail—the rifling inside the barrel, the faint glow of buckshot cartridges.

The doctor raised his trembling hands high.

"I—I surrender!"

Arthur gave him a predatory grin.

"Good boy. Now listen closely. A woman named Gloria, redhead, car accident, checked in this afternoon. Where is she?"

The doctor stammered. "I—uh—well, you see, patient information is—confiden—"

BOOM!

Arthur's shotgun barked once.

The blast missed by mere inches, shredding a wall panel behind the doctor's head and showering the room with sparks and debris.

The message was clear.

Wrong answer.

Before the doctor could recover, Arthur heard the unmistakable click of safeties being switched off.

Security had arrived.

Half a dozen armed goons in scavenged body armor rushed in from the second floor, weapons raised.

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

The world slowed down.

Thanks to his neural accelerators, Arthur moved like a ghost through syrup.

He yanked David backward, ducking behind a shattered desk just as gunfire tore through the air where they'd been standing.

Arthur smoothly raised his shotgun and, moving with precision that bordered on artistry, fired three rapid shots.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Each blast sent a body crumpling to the floor above—grunts of pain echoing through the building.

Time snapped back to normal speed.

The thugs' corpses hit the floor with sickening thuds.

David, now crouched beside Arthur, dropped his shotgun and vomited onto the cracked linoleum. His body heaved, but nothing came up.

He hadn't eaten all day.

Arthur gave him a sympathetic pat on the back.

"First time, huh? Don't worry, you'll get used to it."

David wiped his mouth, face pale and sweaty, but nodded determinedly.

Arthur racked the shotgun again and stood up, surveying the carnage.

No alarms yet. That was good. Meant they still had time.

"Let's move," Arthur said, his voice a growl.

"Time to get your mother back."