Cyberpunk Patriarch

In the world of cyberpunk, prosthetic technology had become so commonplace that it was a source of dark humor. Some joked that steel factories could recruit people off the streets as raw materials because the steel content in their bodies far exceeded that of iron ore.

Prosthetics were classified into civilian and military-grade categories, further divided into high-end custom designs and low-end mass-produced models. Yet, the strongest and most advanced prosthetics weren't always the best choice.

As the saying goes, too much is too little. The more powerful and invasive the cybernetic enhancements, the more detached they made the user, sometimes pulling their very soul out of their body. For ordinary people, civilian-grade prosthetics were sufficient—they caused minimal rejection and often didn't require neurosuppressants or immunosuppressants.

---

Arthur checked the balance displayed on his retina and sighed. Guilt crept in as he rubbed the back of his neck. "If the bill exceeds what I've got, I might need to owe you for now," he muttered.

Though Arthur's original self had spent years taking on risky tasks, most of the money had gone toward upgrading equipment, buying medication, and other essentials. What savings he did have wouldn't stretch far when it came to top-tier prosthetics.

Victor shrugged casually, his cybernetic eyes glowing blue as he started ordering the parts Arthur needed online. Night City never truly slept, and Victor's clinic was always ready for emergencies.

Arthur turned to David, patting his shoulder and gesturing toward Victor. "If you ever get hurt, kid, run here. Victor's the best ripperdoc in Night City. Doesn't matter if someone blows a hole in your head—he'll patch you up good as new."

David listened, wide-eyed, clearly impressed.

Arthur continued his exaggerated praise, grinning. "This guy has patched up fighters who've been beaten half to death, their blood splattered all over the floor. He even fixed someone who had a full-on brawl with Adam Smasher and lived to tell the tale. Honestly, Victor deserves a medal—or at least a banner!"

Victor chuckled and shook his head, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Keep blowing smoke, Arthur. If someone actually blows your head off, I'll save myself the trouble and send you straight to the crematorium."

Arthur flipped him off playfully. "Screw you."

Victor smirked, sliding his chair over to a cabinet. He pulled out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey, then poured a shallow amount into his glass and a generous helping into Arthur's.

"Not exactly medical protocol," Victor admitted, "but hey, old friends deserve a drink. Just don't expect me to operate drunk."

Arthur raised his glass, clinking it against Victor's. The whiskey burned as it went down, warming him. As he surveyed the clinic, Arthur couldn't help but shake his head at its dingy state.

"Victor, your place hasn't changed at all these years," Arthur remarked. "How do you even get business here? This place looks like a morgue."

Victor rolled his eyes, but Arthur was just getting started.

"You know what you should do? Move to the city center. Find a prime spot, hire some high-end designers, and build the fanciest clinic Night City's ever seen. I'm talking about a penthouse clinic with a garden, a pool, and a full-blown spa. Get a receptionist with a perfect British accent to greet clients with, 'Sir, how can I assist you today?'

"Charge insane fees—like 18,000 eddies for a simple antivirus patch. Three years in, you'll be the richest man in Night City."

Victor nearly choked on his whiskey, struggling to keep a straight face. "You're delusional. Even if I sold my soul to the banks, I couldn't afford that. But sure, let me know when you build this dream clinic. I'll come work for you."

Arthur laughed, scratching his nose. "Fine, fine. But you can't blame a guy for dreaming big."

---

Victor leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass. His expression turned serious as he studied Arthur. "So, has your cyberpsychosis really been cured?"

Arthur hesitated, swirling his own glass before taking a sip. "Honestly? I don't know. The symptoms—shaking hands, nausea, losing control—they just stopped. I didn't take any meds or do anything special. It's like one day, it was just... gone."

Victor frowned, skeptical. "You sure you didn't try some experimental treatment? Cyberpsychosis isn't something that just 'goes away.' It's terminal."

Arthur shrugged. "I know it sounds crazy. Maybe God was fishing for gold in the cesspool and accidentally hooked a piece of sh*t like me."

Victor chuckled, but there was a glint of curiosity in his eyes. Cyberpsychosis had always been considered incurable, but every now and then, strange exceptions surfaced. Some turned to occult practices, believing in divine intervention or mysterious powers. Meditation, prayer, and rituals were dismissed as pseudoscience, but in rare cases, they seemed to work.

Arthur, of course, wasn't about to reveal his true secret—that he was a time traveler inhabiting this body.

---

The two men fell into a comfortable silence, sipping their drinks. The dim glow of neon lights cast eerie shadows across the room.

Arthur broke the quiet, glancing at Victor. "Seriously, though. How do you keep this place running? Night City chews people up and spits them out. Doesn't it get to you?"

Victor shrugged. "I've made my peace with it. This city's chaos, but it's home. As long as I can help people like you and your family, it's enough for me."

Arthur nodded, a rare moment of sincerity crossing his face. "Thanks, Victor. For everything."

Victor smiled. "Don't mention it. Just don't make a habit of getting yourselves half-killed. My whiskey stock can't handle it."

The two men shared a laugh, the tension of the night momentarily lifting.

---

As they finished their drinks, Victor stood and stretched. "I'll need a few days to finish Gloria's work. Get some rest. You've got a long road ahead."

Arthur nodded, turning to David. "Come on, kid. Let's go. Tomorrow's another day in this hellhole."

David followed, still processing everything he'd seen and heard. The father he barely knew had returned, and the world he thought he understood had just gotten a lot darker—and a lot more complicated.

------------------–––--––-----------------------------

Visit our Patreon for more:

patreon.com/Samurai492