"The operation went well, but she is still in a coma and has not regained consciousness. We will keep her for observation for a few days."
Santo Domingo. Rancho Coronado.
A low-ceilinged clinic in a converted farm unit. A shirtless doctor in a stained apron sat across David and delivered the report like a weather readout. The lights hummed. The air smelled like bleach over old smoke.
After the crash, nobody helped David and Gloria. Trauma Team arrived, confirmed they were not subscribers, and left. So David dragged his unconscious mother here by himself.
His Arasaka Academy uniform was covered in dust and scuffed at the seams. A bandage crossed his forehead; a small strip of dermal tape bridged his nose. He looked exhausted and raw.
"Can I see her?" he asked.
"Sorry. The cheapest package does not include visitation," the doctor replied, without blinking.
In Night City, everything runs on eddies. Even hospitals sell tiered packages, and the distance between cheap and premium is an abyss. David had grown up inside that truth, so the answer did not shock him.
What should have shocked him lived in the room itself: the dim hall, the peeling paint, the surgeon's muscles gleaming under a filthy apron. Anyone with street mileage would have felt the wrongness. David did not. Not yet.
"Here is the bill. Sign for it. These are your mother's effects," the doctor said, dropping a black bag into David's hands. "Please settle within three days."
David stared at the bag, then at the bill on his holo. Even the "cheapest package" totaled more than he could carry.
Cigarette smoke slid into his lungs without warning.
"Ahem."
He coughed. Nobody should be smoking in a clinic. He turned and saw them: a man in a sharp suit that did not belong in this building, and a woman with neon-pink hair tapping ash from a cigarette. Rocky. Lucy.
Lucy studied David openly. She had not expected Rocky to cross half the city to a hole-in-the-wall clinic in Santo Domingo for a high-school kid in an Arasaka blazer. Seeing the uniform, she doubted the "future legend" line, then let it go. She trusted his read more than her own reflex.
"Hello. Do you need something?" David asked. It was a big hallway, yet they had walked straight to him.
"Running an errand," Rocky said, then nodded at the uniform. "I am curious. Why would an Arasaka Academy student come to a place like this?"
"Car crash," David said. "My mom is unconscious, so I brought her here. I am not from a rich family. I can go to Arasaka Academy because my mom works herself sick. Real hospitals cost too much. I cannot afford them."
Rocky's mouth lifted, not unkind. "Touching. Does your mom have red hair?"
David blinked. "How do you know her Do you know my mom?"
"I guessed," Rocky said. "You seem all right. Here is a gift."
He signaled Lissandra.
A surveillance feed opened in David's interface. An operating table. A red-haired woman is on it. Surgical tools lay out around her, half of them crusted brown. Graffiti smeared the wall. Dried blood blackened in the corners. This was not a hospital. This was a butcher floor.
Even David understood now.
"Mom."
It came out small and broke in the middle. The woman was Gloria. He had carried his mother into hell with his own hands.
He grabbed his head. His right leg bounced without permission. Watching illegal black braindance had taught him the shape of Scav work; seeing the real thing stole his breath. The shapes around the table were not doctors. They were Scavengers with guns and steel.
What do I do. How do I save her.
He swallowed. The men in the feed were fully armed. He had never fought outside a braindance file.
He looked at Rocky. "Can you help me Save my mom. Are you a hacker, a merc, an agent It does not matter. Please help me. I can pay you."
Rocky shook his head. "No. You made this choice. You bear it."
The line hit like a switch flipped to off. Hope guttered.
Rocky moved before it died completely. He drew a pistol, racked it, and tossed it to David.
"You want to save her. Then go save her. The tool is ready. Show me what you can do."