Buying a car wasn't complicated. Maybe out of some unspoken agreement, all the automakers had set up their dealerships along the same street.
In the end, Arthur casually picked a Quadra Type-66. As for the model... well, he hadn't bothered remembering all those specs. He just chose one that looked good.
It was a car full of raw power.
Its jagged angles and sharp edges, paired with rugged, unrefined lines, gave it a brutal, muscular presence.
The whole body gleamed with a dark silver finish. Its front looked fierce, and with the black rims almost blending into the tires, it resembled a crouching black panther.
Best of all... it wasn't even that expensive.
"Let's go... The dealership's temp manager will handle the paperwork. The key part is syncing the brain-computer interface protocol. That'll take some time to match, so you won't need to come all the way back for it."
As V explained, she was already walking back toward the old ride. Arthur's junkyard-salvaged classic didn't have anything close to those features—its onboard computer was ancient.
This time, V drove while Arthur sat in the passenger seat, silently watching the road ahead.
The sun was still hanging low. He'd gotten up in the late afternoon, and now, with the sun sinking westward, he felt...
Nothing, really. His mind was already set on which bottle of booze to crack open later.
"I've got a feeling..."
V suddenly broke the silence from the driver's seat, startling the old car with her voice.
"This year's my lucky one. What do you think?"
She tilted her head slightly toward him as she spoke.
"We said that every year. No one ever said they were in for bad luck."
Arthur's thoughts drifted far away. The flickering image of campfires danced before his eyes—blurry, hard to pin down.
He had forgotten so much...
"Yeah! Get rich, fuck Night City.
Maybe we should come up with a badass name... for our crew."
V didn't notice Arthur's subtle shift in mood—it was too faint to catch.
Some memories are like knickknacks sitting on a shelf. No matter how meaningful they once were, they just sit there in your line of sight. Always there, just gathering dust.
The chatter picked up when Jessica leaned forward, her head poking between the seats.
"How about usingVik's Clinic as our name?
Now that I think about it, Vik's Clinic doesn't even have a name."
Clearly excited about the topic, the girl's eyes sparkled.
"So what, we come up with a flashy name? Makes it easier when someone tries to hunt us down."
Arthur's flat tone killed the mood instantly.
"Then let's talk about something useful... When do we start?"
Resting her hands loosely at the bottom of the wheel, V adjusted her bug-eyed shades with one hand.
"We've had nearly a month off. Maybe it's time to take a Gig, before those damn Fixers delete our contacts."
Arthur shrugged, his gravelly voice heavy with resignation. "Come on... we've got enough cash for now. If we don't spend it, it'll rot in our heads."
He meant his personal account. Since wallets were in their heads these days, the others knew exactly what he meant.
"Listen. If we save, we could buy a place, maybe even start a small company.
Or we could build a reputation, climb up Night City's ladder through the megacorps' contracts.
We can't be mercs forever... someday we'll need to retire."
Her palm pressed against the wheel, fingers tapping without rhythm as V laid out her thoughts.
Behind them, Jessica kept her head between the seats, staring curiously. "Will we leave behind our own liquor in the Afterlife? Maybe I should even come up with my own name."
Was a name really that tempting? Or did every kid just dream of being remembered in stories passed down?
Arthur shook his head, his raspy voice merciless. "I've already got titles for you... 'The Abductee,' or maybe 'Scavengers' Leftovers.' How's that sound?
Uh...
Damn it, the Afterlife's menu is written on your tombstone. Oh... right. People don't have tombs anymore. Just a little box with a projected tag.
Not a good place to be—but at least there's no rush.
Get there when you're supposed to..."
Jessica shrank back a little, pouting, then winked playfully at Arthur from the back seat.
V lifted the corners of her lips, suppressing a laugh as she smoothed things over.
"Enough, Arthur...
We'll be fine. We're a crew, not made of sex-doll chrome.
...
But who knows?"
No merc could promise a Gig would never fail. Just like no one at war could promise no casualties.
Lying to yourself never worked. You couldn't live in fear, but pretending death didn't matter was just as bad.
"Anyway, that just means our vacation could last longer..."
Arthur's gravelly voice was cut short as V interrupted.
"When I find a solid job, I'll ping you on comms.
Our channels are 'legit,' so let's just call it... tourism. A vacation."
Arthur grumbled in protest. "No sane person would call that a vacation."
"Look, we could always hit up our old pals... the Scavengers, or the Maelstrom gang.
Their loot's trash, but it covers the booze."
Her words came quick, and with a press of the pedal, V's old car plunged into the flow of traffic on the elevated highway.
Time slipped away. Though V kept talking about finding a Gig, the days passed quietly—at least for Arthur.
When V came for him again, Arthur was still snoring on the couch by the coffee table.
At least the apartment floor wasn't buried in bottles this time. Not because Arthur had changed—Jessica just kept sneaking in to clean, which left him restless and annoyed.
"Wake up... Damn it, if you keeled over in here one day, we'd never know."
V swept the bottles off the table, dropped onto it casually, and shoved Arthur's shoulder.
"Mmm~ Mmm!
I'm up... I'm up..."
Struggling to open his eyes, Arthur mumbled as he rubbed his face roughly with both hands, trying to loosen stiff muscles.
"What is it? What's going on?"
"Our house is ready. Which means... it's time for you to move." V gripped his shoulders to keep him from toppling onto the floor.