Watson District, North Industrial Zone.
Inside the abandoned warehouse the Maine Crew called home, the lights flickered like dying neon veins.
When David walked in that morning, he noticed immediately that something was off.
Half the crew was gone.
No Maine, no Dorio, not even Jackie Welles, who usually dropped by just to share a smoke and a few bad jokes.
Only Pilar was there.
And he was… busy.
The lanky techie was sprawled across the sagging couch like a man who'd fused with it, still half-wearing his chrome rig, BD cable plugged straight into his neck. His pants were halfway to nowhere, and his glazed eyes twitched in rhythm with whatever very special program he was running. The air was thick with the unmistakable cocktail of sweat, lube, and sizzling holo-feedback.
David froze in the doorway, caught between walking back out and pretending he'd gone blind.
Then—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The door to the back room flew open, and a furious voice cut through the warehouse.
"YOU PIECE OF SHIT BROTHER!"
Rebecca stormed out, pink pistol raised, eyes blazing like twin barrels of neon rage. Without hesitation, she started shooting—each bullet sparking inches from Pilar's head.
"You can't watch your damn pornos in your own room like a normal person?" she shouted, unloading round after round. "You think I wanna hear you moaning over my gun cleaning playlist?!"
"Holy crap, Rebecca! Chill!" Pilar yelped, diving off the couch, tearing the BD wire from his port. "You'll fry my implant! I was right at the good part!"
Rebecca snarled and flipped him off. "Good part my ass. I swear, the trauma of being born your sister must've been divine punishment."
"Hey! Don't say that!" Pilar protested, clutching his chest in mock pain. "You wound me!"
Rebecca rolled her eyes so hard David thought they'd reboot.
"Uh…" David finally managed, scratching his neck awkwardly. "Good afternoon, Rebecca. Pilar. Uh… nice to see you both… alive."
Both siblings turned toward him at once.
"Oh, hey, David," Pilar said, blinking. "When'd you get here?"
"Just now," David replied quickly.
Pilar chuckled nervously. "Ah. So… you didn't see… uh…"
David gave a knowing smirk. "Don't worry, Pilar. We're both men here. I get it."
"That's not… I mean… damn it!" Pilar threw his hands up. "That's not what I…"
Rebecca burst out laughing. "He's asking if you saw him jacking off, David."
David raised his hands in surrender. "No, ma'am. I saw him… doing something. But then you started shooting, and I'm pretty sure my brain just crashed."
Pilar sighed in visible relief. "Good. 'Cause if you had, I'd have to commit suicide out of pure embarrassment."
Rebecca cocked an eyebrow. "You're a pervert, not a samurai."
After the laughter faded, Rebecca leaned on her weapon and said, "You picked the wrong day to drop by, kid. Maine, Dorio, and Jackie all headed out early. I've got half a dozen busted guns waiting for a rebuild, so I don't have time to run you through drills."
"That's fine," David said. "But… you know where they went?"
Rebecca nodded, popping a bubble with her gum. "Yeah. They went to see some ripperdoc named Viktor. Last night, Maine and Jackie got caught in a crossfire during a gig. One of the sex dolls involved dropped something… interesting."
David frowned. "Interesting?"
Rebecca grinned. "A Militech-grade Sandevistan. Military issue."
That made David's eyes widen slightly.
Rebecca continued, "Maine's been talking about getting one for months. Guess luck decided to flirt with him for once. Jackie said he knew a doc, best in Night City, and led them there. Dorio tagged along to make sure Maine didn't do something stupid."
David nodded slowly. "Thanks, Rebecca. That helps."
She waved it off. "Go do your thing, kid. Just try not to walk in on any more… traumatizing scenes, yeah?"
"Yeah," David muttered. "Noted."
…
Viktor's Clinic.
Under the dim amber light of the underground ripperdoc den, Maine lay shirtless on the reinforced operating table, his chrome-plated muscles twitching under the scanner's hum.
Dorio stood nearby, arms crossed, watching with her usual mix of patience and concern.
"Hey, old Vic," Maine grumbled, "we've been here nearly two hours. You gonna keep me waitin' or what? Just slot the damn thing already."
Viktor pushed his glasses up his nose and exhaled.
"Maine," he said quietly, "there's nothing wrong with the Sandevistan."
Maine blinked. "Then what the hell's the holdup?"
Viktor looked him dead in the eye. "The problem's you."
Maine froze. "What?"
Viktor gestured to a holopad beside him. "Your body's a walking scrapyard, big guy. You've got mismatched hardware from half a dozen suppliers, black-market patches from three different eras, and at least two unregistered neural syncs."
He flipped the pad toward him. "You're running at critical overload."
Maine's eyes darted over the screen—lines of red, blinking warnings, full-body vitals screaming in error.
More than two-thirds of his biological metrics were flagged danger.
Dorio's lips tightened. "If he forces the install?"
Viktor didn't hesitate. "Best case is he drops dead before I can stitch him up. Worst case—his behavioral chip fries and he goes full cyberpsycho."
The room fell silent, filled only by the faint hum of cooling fans.
Viktor set the pad down. His voice softened, but his tone stayed firm. "You know the rule, Maine. More chrome means more strain. Even the toughest of us have limits. Cyberpsychosis doesn't hit overnight—it builds up, quiet, piece by piece."
He leaned closer. "And you're already on the edge."
Maine clenched his fists, his massive frame trembling under the weight of the words.
He'd spent years building himself into the man he was—part flesh, part steel, all strength. Power was everything in Night City. Power meant survival. Power meant no one could ever make him feel small again.
But power came with a cost.
And the bill was coming due.
Viktor handed him the data pad again. "Take a good look. The red zones? That's your body begging for mercy."
Maine stared at the holographic display, silent. For the first time in years, he felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Fear.
Dorio placed a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe you should wait, love. Get some maintenance first. Don't rush it."
Maine didn't respond.
Finally, Viktor sighed. "Other docs would've just taken your money and let you die on the table. Hell, they'd strip your body for parts before it cooled. But you're Jackie's friend, and that makes you mine."
He met Maine's gaze. "So no. I'm not letting you walk out of here a corpse."
…
For a long while, the only sound was the faint buzzing of neon outside the clinic window.
Then Maine chuckled—a dry, tired sound.
"Guess you're too good a man for this city, old Vic."
Viktor gave a small smile. "Maybe. But someone's gotta be."
And in that dim, flickering light, surrounded by chrome and ghosts, Maine finally leaned back on the table and closed his eyes—torn between pride and mortality.
Because in Night City, everyone paid a price.
And his was coming soon.