Chapter Text
Night City, August 5, 2075
Megabuilding H4, Arroyo, Santo Domingo
But that's why you gotta prove them wrong. You have to work hard and rise through the ranks. My son, at Arasaka Tower’s top floor! I can just see it. You've got this, D. You're my son.
What top floor? Maybe yesterday, or the day before that, David Martinez might have believed it. But now? Just a pipe dream. Not even his pipe dream, either. It had been Gloria’s dream, not his. She had wanted him to go to a good school and get a good education, and a good, stable job as an exec at Arasaka. He would have lots of money. He would be comfortable, safe, never starved for anything. Happy, even. Growing up, she never had any of it. She just wanted a good life for her son. That was why she had worked so hard, pushing herself to the limit, taking job after job. But now, it was all gone. She was dead, and that dream had died with her, along with any conviction David had to it. Those last words echoed in his head, but they had little substance to them. Empty, meaningless sounds that his mind refused to let go of.
He sat on the worn syn-leather couch in silence, his gaze distant, empty, as he stared out the wide glass window before him. Below, Night City hummed with life. Thousands, no, millions of neon lights never switching off. The countess scents and odors of bad street food, CHOOH2 exhaust, burning trash, and the odor of human waste mixing together in that wretched sea of concrete, steel, and glass.
It was just earlier that day that it had happened. David and his mother were driving home after a tense conference with the principal of Arasaka Academy, when they were suddenly caught in the crossfire of a gang attack on the way out of City Central. The resulting car crash had flipped their car. David, aside from a mild head wound, was unharmed, although stuck in the car. But his mother’s fate was far worse. He remembered it clear as day; 24 hours hadn’t even passed yet. The flames were what came to mind first. Then, her body. He recalled that terrifying sight, his mother, laying prone on the ground, limp and unconscious, her back turned to him. MOM! He had screamed. MAMA, NO! He remembered that spark of hope that had emerged as an AV, painted white and red, had alighted on the scene, dispatching a squad of Trauma Team agents. But they ignored her. He should have known, back then. Gloria wasn’t a client; the car that had been beside them, the target of the gangers, was. So, like a pebble by a roadside in the Badlands, they had so callously left her there.
David’s eyes were glazed over, red and puffy from all the tears.
Tears. David couldn’t remember the last time he had cried like that. Hell, the last time he cried at all.
The doctor had said Gloria was in a coma, that there might be a chance she could be saved. David had clung to that hope. And yet, not quite two hours later, she was declared dead, her heart-rate going flat. Cremation was the only option. They didn’t have the eddies to preserve and bring home the body.
David had stared there, blankly in the dark, at the foot-long aluminum canister that contained his mother, set on the coffee table in front of the couch. For hours, he sat there in silence, eyes wide. Wordless, thoughtless, naught but a state of shock. It was not until the sun had long set that he finally said a word. “…My mom is dead,” he muttered, a faint, dull ache welling deep in his cheeks, beneath his eyes. “I won’t see her again. She’s… gone.” He sat for a few more seconds as his vision had blurred with tears. He had crumpled, shrinking into himself, ugly-crying; tears soaking his face, nose running uncontrollably, his face contorted into a grimace that expressed a pain far beyond physical possibility, sobbing in the way that causes the entire body to convulse with each choked moan. He didn’t know how long he had cried; it never occurred to him to keep track of the time.
People usually don’t pay attention to time when they’ve just lost everything they cared about.
Eventually, the tears dried, and given a little longer, the sobs followed suit. That was three hours ago, David observed, checking the time on his holo. For the past three hours, he had sat there, remembering his mother’s last words, staring down at the world’s most wretched, disgusting, fucking shithole possible, all made by human hands. A shithole that David was unfortunate enough to call home. Again, he remembered those words. My son, at Arasaka Tower’s top floor! Gloria had said. She believed it, too. David was smart enough, and he had perfect scores. He just didn’t want to. Not when it was hurting her like it was. And look where it had gotten her.
“Sorry, Mama. No kid from ‘Santo will ever be a suit.” Not anymore. Not with her gone. David knew that, at least, to be an irrevocable truth. He narrowed his eyes grimly. In what direction would he have gone, he wondered, if he had never enrolled in the Academy? He flicked his gaze to the far wall, where an elongated black case rested, covered in a thin layer of dust. It was a guitar case. It was David’s. When he was in his early teens, he had been obsessed with becoming a rockerboy. His dearest dream then was to be like Kerry Eurodyne, the Rubicones, hell, even Silverhand himself. His mother, seeing his passion, encouraged it, telling him that even if he was gonna be a corpo, he might as well have a hobby he was good at. So, for his fourteenth birthday, she spent something around 30,000 Eurodollars on an electric guitar as his sole birthday gift. He had been enthusiastic, at first, and had a striking talent for it. But proper lessons were ten times more expensive than the guitar itself, and learning by ear was borderline impossible. As a result, David gave it up six months later, deciding to focus entirely on his studies. Perhaps if he had worked harder to learn, he could have convinced his mother that he could find a different path, as a rocker. Maybe she would’ve let him. And if he had dropped out, then she and David would never have been there at the meeting with the principal. They never would have been on that road out of city central, and they never would have crashed. And Gloria would never have gotten hurt. She would still be alive, she would still be there in their apartment, with David. He wouldn’t have to be alone.
But none of that happened. She was dead. Dead people don’t come back, they had their chance. David was alone, just himself against Night City. What a terrible fate. I ain’t ever gonna be another Silverhand either, David thought. Lost that chance a long time ago.
David sighed, shifting slightly. He leaned back, moving his eyes away from the urban hive outside. Instead, his eyes settled on a plastic bag resting on the table beside the urn. It contained his mother’s possessions and clothes, what she had on her before the crash. The hospital hadn’t looked through any of them, saying that their insurance didn’t cover anything dangerous found on a patient, and had given David her clothes to avoid the toxic particles in the smoke that came from burning synthetic textiles. He leaned forward, taking the bag in hand. Might as well see what she had, he thought, Maybe something to… I dunno, remember her by?
The first thing he pulled out was her shirt, her pants, her… (David decided to dig around her undergarments; seventeen may have been manhood by NC standards, but he still got extremely skittish around such intimate matters and objects). Finally, he pulled out a bulky jacket with a high collar. It was the jacket Gloria always wore as an EMT for REO Meatwagon, the first-response medical aid company employed by the city. All medics for the corp wore them. It was bright, fluorescent yellow, with silver-white reflective stripes like the vests construction workers wore. It was meant to be high-visibility, so no car would accidentally hit an EMT on the job. It was a little worn, but in relatively good shape.
David looked it over once more. It looked like it might be a bit of a large fit, but he could make it work. I’ll take this, he decided. It’s what she always wore. All I have left, really. As he moved to try the jacket on, he heard a rustling, and a clak as something fell out of the right-hand pocket of the jacket. In the dark, a sliver of silver glinted, reflecting a distant city light. David reached down with a furrowed brow, settling his hand on the object. He lifted it from the shadow of the table, holding it to what little light there was. It was about a foot long, wrapped tightly in the cloth of an old, torn t-shirt. Not just torn, but stained with a dull, reddish-brown mark. “Blood…?” David murmured. As he looked at it, it became immediately clear what the object was. It wasn’t hard to see the shape of the barrel and handle under the makeshift ‘packaging.’ David undid the knot that kept it bound, unfurling the shirt.
Yep. David beheld the pistol in mild interest as the bloodstained cloth fell to the floor. It didn’t resemble anything he’d ever seen before; he was at least sure that it wasn’t a model used by 6th Street. Its barrel was long and sleek, narrow and rectangular, silver with red accents. The handle, like the accents, was a bright crimson metal, molded with ridges meant for a steadier grip. He checked the barrel for a brand name, but the writing was scratched out, completely illegible. The design was a bit outdated, David observed. Most modern weaponry was flashier, bigger, louder. This was much more simple, sophisticated, efficient. It looked custom-made, actually. David was aware that his mother would often take a sidearm when she went out, in case of a need for self-defense (something almost always necessary in Night City). But never much more than a Lexington. Something this size was too big to easily conceal. Not only that, but it was a bit too flashy for someone like Gloria. Not her style. And there was no way she had the eddies to buy something custom. Ah, I know why, David thought to himself. While she tried to hide it, David had realized very early on that REO Meatwagon wasn’t her own source of income. Among other things, Gloria also did work as a fence, selling and trading stolen goods to mercs and gangers. Made sense if she had planned to sell it, but hadn’t been able to, because of the crash. Turning it in his palm, David felt the cold metal against his skin. It was eerily relaxing, he found. He almost understood why the gangers acted so arrogant all the time; just having iron on you makes you feel powerful.
He turned it to its left side, and froze.
Engraved into the left side of the barrel, scratchy as if by knife, were three words. “Last true friend,” David muttered, breathing quietly out. “…Weird thing to write on the gun. Must’ve belonged to someone else before. Flatlined, I guess.” He examined it further, and found a rectangular cartridge on the bottom of the barrel, just past the trigger. He pressed a switch and pulled it out. Inside, lined up, were sleek metal cylinders. “It’s loaded? …damn.” David shivered, seeing the unused ammunition. Putting the magazine back on, he set down the gun. There was something about the idea that it was loaded, that he could fire it just at the pull of a trigger, that deeply unnerved him. He sighed, looking back at Gloria’s jacket, laying out on its back on the couch seat beside him. And there was another strange artifact hidden in it, to his surprise.
Fastened to the inside of the jacket’s back was a square clear plastic package, held on with a few pins and clips. Inside it was a metal object. It wasn’t a gun, David decided, as its appeared to be some kind of gadget set into a metal vertebra, with a yellow strip of wiring extending from the bottom like a tail. A light on it glowed a dim green, flickering every now and then. “Cyberware?” David asked to no one in particular, reaching for the jacket. That had to be it, though he hadn’t seen that kind of cyberware before. Curious, he took a still of it with his holo. Maybe I’ll send a pic to Doc later, see what he thinks, David thought. Setting the jacket in his lap, he looked down at the three objects with a gaze of newfound curiosity. “The hell did you leave me, Mama…?” He murmured.
He turned his eyes back to the gun resting on the table before him. Slowly, he reached out and gripped it again. “Last true, friend, huh?” David said, giving a grim, weak smile. “Guess you are, huh? I’m alone, now. Just you an’ me, choom.”
Tightening his grip on the iron in his palm, David turned, looking back out through the window, seeing Night City and the black sky above, beams of neon light reaching high towards the heavens. Heavens that humans had sundered, long ago. No, there never was a heaven. You’re dead and that’s it. You get your one chance, and after that, you’re gone. Gloria had her chance, and it was taken from her. For all David knew, he’d flatline the very next day, or in three weeks, or twenty years later. No telling when it would happen. Every day was a fight just to keep on living. That’s just how Night City was. In the blackness above, there was only the moon hanging in the sky, outshining the stars around it. David stared at it silently, as he felt a deep, heavy emptiness rise in his chest. In that moment, there was no one in the world but the Moon, David, and the things Gloria left behind.
“Things’ve changed, huh? About time, NC. About damn time.”