"Hey, I heard the old captain's sailors have crawled back from hell. They're really making a big fuss, showing off their power. The scavengers are going crazy looking for that cyberpsycho from last night."
"Dear Captain, your sailor finally climbed out of that quagmire. I'm still short of funds for the time being. If you're alive, come find me."
The caller's name on Arthur's terminal was Muammar Reyes. Not many people in Night City knew him by that name — everyone just called him Old Captain.
He was the most famous fixer in Santo Domingo. A sharp, ruthless middleman, but by Night City's rotten standards, Old Captain was actually good people.
At least, he didn't lie about the risks of a job. If he said it was suicide, it was suicide. And he always paid. No one was waiting three weeks and a gun threat just to get their eddies.
Arthur and Maine used to live under Old Captain's hand back in the day. Arthur remembered it well — Maine had just broken into merc work, still carrying dreams bigger than his fists.
Life had been simple: you got hired, you risked your ass, and if you were lucky, you got paid and lived to drink afterward. If not? Another merc would loot your corpse before the Trauma Team even noticed you died.
"You also know you've been gone too long," Old Captain said, his tone somewhere between a chuckle and a warning. "No one's gonna trust an old fossil until you show 'em what you got. I'll try to find you something alive and paying."
Arthur leaned back in his seat, cigarette dangling from his lips.
He wasn't surprised.
In Night City, cyberpunks were disposable commodities — rotated out faster than discount braindances. Fame lasted three months, tops. After that, even your friends forgot your name.
You died fast, and nobody cared.
Living fossils like Arthur? Rare as honest corpos.
"Please," Arthur muttered. "A living fossil's got experience. Better completion rates. Those pups don't know what they're missing."
Then he remembered something and tapped the cigarette on the edge of the car window.
"By the way, Old Captain," Arthur said. "I need wheels. Just got back and my legs are getting tired."
"Ha!" Reyes laughed over the line. "No problem. Sending you a list. No defaults, Captain. Pay up front."
The call ended, and just in time, too — Arthur's blacked-out ride rolled into a grimy warehouse district.
Rusting shutters. Filthy air choked with rotting industrial waste. Rats big enough to mug you scurried under broken neon signs.
Santo Domingo's forgotten edge.
Perfect for business. Perfect for murder.
Arthur crushed his cigarette underfoot and approached a battered rolling door. He knocked casually, three times.
"Delivery!" he called out, smirking. "Special order — takeaway straight from hell."
While waiting, a voice suddenly growled behind him.
"Takeout? What f***ing takeout?"
Arthur didn't flinch.
He felt the cold kiss of a gun barrel press against his waist.
Most men would've panicked. Arthur just took a slow drag from his cigarette, letting time itself seem to crawl. The smoke spiraled lazily into the dead air.
In that frozen moment, Arthur reached under his coat, drew his pistol, and jammed it against the attacker's ribs.
Time snapped back to speed.
And standing there, frozen stiff with a transformed cyberarm ready to launch missiles at Arthur's spine — was none other than Maine.
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"Takeout from hell," he said coolly, blowing smoke in Maine's face.
Maine blinked, realizing just how close he was to being ventilated.
No Sandevistan to bail him out this time.
"Shit, choom," Maine chuckled nervously, retracting his cyberarm. "Could've given me a damn heart attack."
Arthur withdrew his pistol, twirled it once in his fingers, and slid it back into his waistband like nothing happened.
"You've always been too jumpy," Arthur said, shaking his head. "It's a miracle you're still breathing."
He flicked his cigarette butt into a puddle of oil and tossed the long metal box into Maine's arms.
Maine caught it on instinct, still staring at Arthur like he'd seen a ghost.
The face. The voice.
It clicked.
"Arthur?" Maine gasped. "No way. You're still alive?! Where the hell have you been for ten f***ing years?"
Arthur shrugged like it was no big deal. "Vacation."
Maine barked a laugh and clapped Arthur on the shoulder hard enough to rattle his bones.
"Come inside, choom. We got catching up to do."
The rolling door groaned open, revealing a dimly lit warehouse stuffed with weapon racks, spare cyberware, and enough dust to bury a small child.
Arthur stepped inside and slumped into a battered chair. Maine poured them each a shot of real whiskey — not that synthetic gutter piss most bars served.
Arthur sipped it and nodded approvingly.
At least some things in Night City hadn't changed.
"You really cured it?" Maine asked after a long moment, voice tight.
"You beat cyberpsychosis?"
Arthur tapped the side of his skull with two fingers.
"Let's just say Satan needed a secretary and I declined the job. Working freelance now."
Maine snorted into his drink.
"You lucky bastard," he muttered. "I thought you were done for. Half the crew bet you'd either fried your brain or got scrapped for parts by now."
"Shows what they know," Arthur said with a crooked grin.
Maine finally opened the long box — revealing the slick chrome spinal implant inside.
Sandevistan.
Arthur leaned forward slightly, his voice low.
"You sure you want this?"
Maine's hand hovered over the device, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.
Arthur could tell he understood — this wasn't your off-the-shelf Sandevistan.
This was a lab-rat model.
Unstable. Dangerous.
Arthur exhaled smoke and added quietly, "Company special. Came off a corpse so fresh, it's still bleeding profits."
Maine grinned.
"You know me, choom. Risk's half the fun."
Arthur shook his head in mock pity.
"One of these days, Maine, you're gonna gamble wrong."
"Yeah?" Maine chuckled, slapping the box shut. "When that day comes, I'll go out swinging."
Arthur stood up and stretched, flexing mechanical joints that whirred quietly.
He felt stronger than ever. Faster. Sharper.
The past didn't matter.
Night City didn't care who you were yesterday.
All that mattered was today.
Survive today.
Arthur headed for the door, tossing one last glance over his shoulder.
"Don't die before the real party starts."
Maine gave him a two-finger salute, a rare serious expression crossing his face.
"You too, Captain."
Arthur stepped into the smog-choked streets, pulling another cigarette from his jacket.
Night City swallowed him whole again.
And this time, he was ready to tear it apart.