Wine splashed under the lights, catching the dull glow. Laughter echoed across the table, rippling through the glasses and sending waves across their surfaces.
"This year's been full of surprises... Who would've thought I'd actually retire? Never in a million years."
Maine roared, foam and spit flying from his wide mouth. His forearm was thinner than before, but still thick as he gripped a mug the size of his arm.
"Shame, though. Didn't even get the chance to make a name for myself before I had to tuck tail and run."
The buzz of alcohol spread through his head as Maine slammed the mug onto the table with a heavy clang.
Of course, he had no intention of coming back—drunk words were just that.
In his line of sight, Pilar had his unmodified cybernetic legs brazenly sprawled across the table. The black pry-bar frame was half-extended, its paint already chipped and worn.
What had really shaken Maine back then wasn't Pilar's mangled flesh, or even the raving, twisted cyberpsycho they'd faced.
What truly sent a chill through him was Pilar lying on the ground, staring blankly at Rebecca with that look in his eyes.
The look of someone staring death in the face. Pilar wasn't afraid of dying—but even his dim brain understood one thing. If he went down, his dumb little sister wouldn't last long on her own.
"Take a look at these legs! Cyber-style, clanking and rattling... And my hands—check out these long fingers!
Gotta say, my gun shop's already made a name for itself in Little China!"
Pilar crowed, his cheeks sunken into bone, though his hands still gleamed gold.
"Ugh!! You dumbass brother. If you waste one more cent on useless chrome, you can go chew on the scrap metal yourself."
Rebecca sat perched on the back of her chair, too far from the table to reach, so she just hugged a bottle of liquor to her chest.
As she spoke, she kicked her brother square in the shoulder—showing no respect for the disabled.
"You oughta eat more anyway, before your iron ass rusts."
...
The lively mood only grew stronger with time, even in this quieter corner. Across Night City, the lights burned brighter than usual.
"By the way... V, how's the place coming along? You've been running around for days over this."
Arthur's raspy voice carried across the table, cutting through the noise and making V glance his way.
But it wasn't V who answered—it was Jessica, seated opposite her.
Her white lace cap sat neatly on the windowsill.
"Planning to move to Westbrook! But the houses there are kinda steep. I mean, Sis V's planning to buy one."
Whenever she had downtime, V liked to hang around Jessica—it was just habit at this point.
"Yeah..."
V shrugged, slumping back into her chair, answering with indifference.
"Those damn corpos should all rot in hell."
If their whole families died off too... maybe the government auctions would finally be affordable."
Her words came out muffled, as if she were chewing something.
"Great. Maybe you can steal a house too, then hitch it to a train and haul it off."
Arthur muttered irritably, and Jessica nodded in agreement.
"Housing in Night City mostly circulates through rentals, so actually buying one's a pain..."
Her thoughts drifted to her old apartment. Jessica had faked her death to escape... by now, Militech had probably reclaimed the place.
She wanted to buy it back someday... If things went smoothly, maybe in a few years. Not impossible.
"Relax... If I ever buy, it'll be after retirement.
Last thing I need is to get kicked out by the corps like a stray dog—and still be crying over my own kennel."
V let out a long sigh, sounding resigned.
"So, for now, I'm just renting."
With that, she clapped Arthur on the shoulder.
"How about we go car shopping tomorrow? Your old junker—hope you don't mind me saying this... but it's falling apart.
Picture this: we're on a gig, high-speed chase down the highway... and your tires just give out."
Arthur didn't argue. Checking his balance, he knew he could afford a decent ride now.
If there was one thing he still hadn't gotten used to, it was prices—houses were outrageously expensive. Back in the West, prime land had been as common as cheap rags in a general store.
Lost in thought, Arthur leaned back against his chair. Damn, he felt like he'd forgotten how to spend money.
"I'll come find you tomorrow! That's settled."
V put an end to the discussion.
The lively banquet dragged on late into the night. By the time they left, it was officially 2077.
Arthur grabbed Rebecca, who was clowning around in the hallway, and finally headed out the restaurant doors.
The diner was tucked away, right beside an elevated highway. Yet it didn't feel dark here—hundreds of meters away, neon signs burned bright. Looked like an apartment block.
"Damn it, Arthur, put me down!
I swear I'll smash your ass with Iron Guts!"
"Quiet down! The car's here—unless you'd rather ride in the trunk."
A shake of his arm, plus the threat, was enough to shut Rebecca up.
In Arthur's arms, she strained to lift her head, arms crossed stubbornly, her puffed-out cheeks looking like a squirrel hoarding nuts.
Two Delamain armored cabs idled at the curb. Pricey, sure, but... Arthur had almost forgotten how to spend money.
He yanked open the door and tossed Rebecca inside, the familiar ad chatter filling the air as he climbed in after her.
The mechanical voice activated, confirming the pre-programmed route to their destination.
"Hey, sir. I remember you."
On the small screen up front, Delamain's familiar pale bald head appeared, made up with zombie-like eyeliner.
"What an honor—to be remembered by a hunk of iron. Maybe I should go brag about it to everyone I know."
Arthur's raspy voice curled with sarcasm.
But Delamain clearly missed the tone, responding in his usual strict formality.
"There's no honor in it. My database automatically records all clients who have used this service three or more times. Many other passengers meet the same criteria as you."