A seriousness settled on Arthur's face. This body's appearance was identical to his past life – a young, handsome face, though pale. His blue eyes held a spark, as if announcing his arrival to this brand new world.
"That name's pretty famous in Night City, you know. Your surname, I mean." Viktor's tone was light, clearly trying to lighten the mood.
"Famous in this goddamn city? Can't imagine it's for anything good. Maybe I should change it." Arthur twisted his shoulders. A sense of weakness seeped relentlessly from the depths of his body and soul, making him profoundly uncomfortable.
Even at his sickest, he'd never felt this frail, unable to muster the strength to even lift an arm.
"Hah, you'd be wrong about that. The man I'm talking about is a legend in this city. Plenty of young punks try to follow in his footsteps, hoping to catch a glimpse of his myth."
Arthur raised his skeletal arm, gesturing with it towards Viktor. "Hope he's not a bag of bones, a matchstick that'd snap with a touch."
Viktor shook his head, a smile on his face as he looked at the self-deprecating Arthur. "A legend, weak? And he's a solo, a merc."
"Worshipping a killer… figures, in this city full of Scavengers and dreamers."
"You're something else," Viktor said, looking at Arthur's impassive face, a mix of exasperation and amusement. "You really love to argue, don't you? Who'd you pick up that nasty temper from?"
The comment made Arthur think of two people: Dutch, and the original owner's father who sold him to the Scavs.
Whatever Dutch was now, it had nothing to do with him anymore. But the one who sold him out? Arthur wasn't about to let that slide.
And those Scavs who deserved to be skinned alive!
He, Arthur Morgan, had almost been killed by a few insects!
The edge of Northside Industrial, in Watson.
Near the low buildings under the elevated highway, police vehicles of various sizes were gathered.
A group of NCPD officers had surrounded a building. The flashing red and blue warning lights occasionally lit up their faces, mirroring their tense mood.
Inside the cordon, a pot-bellied middle-aged man stared intently at the shadows beyond the building's entrance. One hand gripped the walkie-talkie at his collar, his knuckles white with the force.
The seventh floor, that hall… packed with bodies.
It was obvious – a Scavenger den. What the NCPD feared wasn't the rats, but the one who killed the rats.
A cyberpsycho. The social scum most likely to appear amidst Scavenger "carcasses."
With their division's tech expert still not in position, the brain-computer network's defenses were virtually nil.
The reconnaissance team, to avoid potential netrunner attacks, had severed their brain-computer links and were using backup walkie-talkies.
The fat captain at the entrance didn't dare call the team inside; unexpected noise might wake those crazies up.
To avoid accidents, he had to wait quietly, agonizingly for their call.
"Static….. static….."
Rough noise came from the walkie-talkie on his shoulder, gradually clearing into a clear male voice.
"Sir! Area secure."
As these words landed, everyone around visibly relaxed, letting out a deep breath.
"What's the situation?" The fat man keyed the walkie-talkie, asking for a report.
"Sir, no survivors. Not even a single intact piece of meat left."
"Goddamn Scavs. Secure the scene. I'm bringing the rest up now." Stomping his police-issue boots, the fat captain walked straight in, passing through the laser-generated cordon.
It flickered rapidly, changing from green to yellow – seemingly identifying the intruder – before quickly returning to green.
The NCPD team quickly secured the scene. They were old hands at this. Just identify the bodies here, make sure no one important was among them.
As for the killer?
Who cared?
Bums, poor folks… these bottom-feeders weren't worth their concern.
By noon, a young man was walking slowly towards the area, head bowed.
He had spiky brown hair, hands shoved in his pockets, head down, charging forward mindlessly.
Until a green cordon blocked his path.
The boy froze, his eyes fixed on the line as if hypnotized.
He looked up in a panic—
Yes, the hospital that took his mom was right here.
He charged in like a madman, ignoring the red-flashing cordon behind him, scrambling up the stairs on all fours.
Must be a crime scene somewhere else. This damn place is near Northside, it's always messy.
Probably another shootout, a stray bullet, a suicide.
It can't be the hospital. Mom must be awake by now, waiting for me.
"Huff… huff…"
The boy rushed up to the seventh floor in one go. The hospital door was right around the stairwell corner.
He leaned heavily on the railing, his neck seemingly weighed down, gasping for several breaths before finally looking up.
A green cordon was stretched across the door. Two NCPD officers in blue uniforms stood nearby, smoking.
The boy's heart seemed to shatter with an audible crack. For a moment, he even forgot to breathe.
"What happened?" he rushed to one officer and asked. "What's going on here? My mom was inside, getting treatment."
The officer frowned at him, waved a hand, and replied impatiently, "Treatment? Even a ghost that went in there got dismantled.
This was a Scav den. Everyone inside is dead."
The words hit the boy like a sledgehammer from the void, crashing against his eardrums.
Buzz—
A deafening roar exploded in his world.
The officer's mouth was still moving, but the boy couldn't hear anything anymore.
He had delivered his critically injured mother to a Scav den.
Those carrion-eating wild dogs… he had personally, with his own hands, sent his mother to this place.
His vision went black, and he collapsed to the ground.
After a long darkness, the boy struggled, slowly opening his eyes. A voice reached him from afar.
"Sir, the kid's awake."
"Wake him up. Tell him to go find his mom's corpse himself. Goddammit, whoever wants to go back in that hellhole can."
Footsteps approached. Then he felt a few pats on his cheek.
"Kid! Kid!
If your mom's in there, go find her yourself.
Hey!
Time to wake up, kid."
"Are you sure there were no survivors? My mom was only admitted the day before yesterday," he asked, unwilling to give up.
"Stop wasting time. Alive, dead… we don't know.
But my shift's almost over. If you keep dawdling, just piss off." The officer was blunt, even grabbing his clothes and hauling him to his feet.
The hall was a mess, transport beds askew, though the white sheets on them were neatly placed.
"There. Go look. Belongings are on them, you handle it yourself." The officer gestured vaguely, then pinched his nose and retreated.
The boy, like a zombie, began pulling back every single white sheet, one by one.
One… another… until he stood at the very back of the hall, looking at all the exposed "true faces."
His mother wasn't there.
Watson, Little China.
In the basement clinic nestled in the messy neighborhood.
Viktor put down his equipment, nodding for Arthur to get off the operating chair.
"Slight dislocation in the wrist joint, but nothing serious.
Apart from the potential long-term effects of that unknown drug, you're pretty much in perfect health now."
"Thanks, Viktor. I feel a lot better." Arthur indeed had lost that utterly feeble air, though his body still looked dangerously thin.
"Call me Vik. I like your style, kid. Would like it more if you watched your mouth a bit." Arthur's new body was only in his early twenties, definitely a kid to Viktor.
"If you're willing to give me a few days on the medical bill, I'm sure you'd grow on me even more." He was flat broke, didn't even have money for his next meal.
"Hah, a few days is no problem. Figured you didn't have much scratch on you."
Someone who just escaped a Scav den, and almost completely original too? Having money would be strange.
Arthur rubbed his forehead, looking down. His uncharacteristically raspy voice held a hint of evasion. "If it's possible… I could also use some guidance on… living here. Support would be even better, of course."
Here he was, in debt, and now he needed his creditor to lend him a hand.