Cyberpunk Patriarch

Arthur could hear the underlying tone in Ms. Melissa's words loud and clear. But sweet romance? With a cyberpsycho? That was a recipe for disaster. Cyber madness and sweet love didn't belong in the same sentence. What would a date even look like? Dinner at the morgue? An autopsy show for dessert?

"Melissa, listen," Arthur began, trying to sound calm. "I have a lot on my plate right now. How about this—once I finish up, I'll take you out to dinner. We can talk about everything and catch up properly. Deal?"

Procrastination was Arthur's go-to strategy when cornered. It wasn't a solution, but it bought time.

After a pause, Melissa replied, her voice laced with amusement. "Fine, dear Arthur. But don't keep me waiting too long. I've been quite... lonely, especially without completing the last step all these years."

Arthur suppressed a shiver as goosebumps crept up his arms. Her words were unnerving, and his discomfort only deepened. The idea of anything "intimate" with a cyberpsycho was terrifying. He couldn't risk getting too close. Cross-infection of madness wasn't scientifically possible, but with his luck, who knew?

Putting his phone down, Arthur turned his attention to the drooling patient slumped in the back seat. "Brother, what do you think I should do? There's a cyberpsycho out there who's into me, and I can't turn her down. If I do, she might kill me."

The man in the back didn't respond, his glassy eyes staring blankly. His muttering was unintelligible, and a small puddle of saliva had pooled beneath him.

"Ah, I see," Arthur said, nodding as though the patient had delivered profound wisdom. "Stay calm, right? Pretend nothing happened unless she brings it up? Genius! No wonder you're a philosopher—even with a condition like cyberpsychosis!"

Satisfied, Arthur dialed Regina's number again. He couldn't afford to drive this old patient all the way to the wasteland safe house. That would take hours, and time was money.

When Regina picked up, Arthur got straight to the point. "Hey, Regina, the mad dogs showed mercy and let me go. I'm still in northern Watson. Can you send someone to pick up this patient?"

Regina paused, clearly puzzled. "Wait, what? The Terrorist Mobile Unit let you go? They're not exactly known for their mercy. Did you... make friends with them?"

Arthur smirked. "What can I say? Maybe cyberpsychos like me have a way with people."

Regina sighed, muttering something under her breath. "Alright, I'll send someone over. Just park somewhere visible. They'll find you."

Arthur parked on the side of the street, waiting until a yellow car pulled up next to him. A middle-aged man in a black suit and sunglasses stepped out, his demeanor cold and efficient. Without a word, he opened Arthur's back door, grabbed the patient by the hair, and started dragging him toward the yellow car.

"Hey! Show some respect to my philosopher brother!" Arthur protested, jumping out of his car.

The man in black hesitated, clearly confused. "What do you want me to do, then?"

Arthur crossed his arms, thinking for a moment. "At least don't mess with his hair. It's one of the last things he has left. Hair transplants are expensive, you know!"

The man sighed but complied, adjusting his grip. Instead of the hair, he grabbed the barrel of the patient's oversized steel cannon prosthetic and hauled him into the car. Arthur nodded approvingly, pleased with the man's newfound sensitivity.

With that taken care of, Arthur climbed back into his car and headed toward the Ritz Bar. Not for entertainment—he had business to take care of. Judy could help edit some footage he'd acquired, and maybe he could get a feel for how much Night City had changed in the past decade.

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Arthur reached Little Chinatown. Neon lights bathed the streets in vibrant colors, and the air buzzed with the energy of nightlife. Parking haphazardly, Arthur stepped out and stretched, his face glowing pink under the flickering neon signs.

The Ritz Bar's entrance was as colorful as ever. Neon-lit figures of women adorned the walls, their poses sultry and suggestive, though many wielded weapons—axes, bats, even chainsaws. The imagery sent a clear message: fun was welcome, but trouble wasn't.

Two members of the Mox Gang stood guard outside, their plastic-like cybernetic bodies gleaming under the lights. Their outfits were skimpy, designed to entice, but their expressions radiated toughness. These weren't ordinary gangsters; they were far more dangerous.

One of them, a woman with fluorescent pink hair, looked Arthur up and down, a bubble of gum popping between her lips. "Well, well. Never seen you around before, handsome uncle."

Arthur smirked, running a hand over his stubble. "Handsome, huh? Thanks. I just got back to Night City. Thought I'd see if the Ritz still lives up to its reputation."

The woman laughed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Ritz Bar? Reputation? Oh, sweetie, this place is as gritty as it gets. But you'll fit right in. Go on, Uncle."

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. The city might have changed, but the people? Still the same. He stepped inside, ready to dive headfirst into whatever chaos awaited.

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