Alright, Faelan had to admit that maybe he hadn't taken all the factors into account when making that decision.
It wasn't planned, call it fate or karma.
After all, what did he know about structural architecture?
"I admit I didn't expect you to be so creative with the escape plan," Kiwi said, panting as they moved as discreetly as possible through an alley behind a fast food place and collapsed against a large dumpster to catch their breath out of sight. "Crushing the server with tons of rock and turning it into a pincushion with roots was a good idea. Securing the hard drive? Very clever," she added with genuine admiration in her voice. "But taking down half the factory afterward? What a distraction!"
They weren't the only ones who took advantage of the chaos to bolt once the cracks began spreading and large chunks started falling everywhere—no one would be looking for them for at least a week.
"Yeah, yeah, that was totally on purpose," Faelan said as he caught his breath.
It wasn't!
How could he have known that collapsing the basement would cause such a massive chain reaction?
The factory was probably too old—or corners had definitely been cut during construction. Either way, he was keeping that medal.
The incident quickly hit the news in every place they ran through. The damage wasn't exactly minor. It's fascinating how pain attracts reporters like carrion.
"Shit..." Faelan saw that rescue efforts had already started. "Kiwi, look."
"Hmm?" The blonde turned to look at the large screen glowing at the nearby intersection.
It showed two bodies in pretty bad shape—and he said bodies with certainty, because no one could survive in that state. The point is, they recognized them immediately, familiar with every adult in the factory well enough to tell even from a side profile.
"Is that our ex foreman and...?" Kiwi's eyes widened as she recognized the second body.
"Doctor Famir," Faelan confirmed, sadness in his voice. He hadn't expected the kind man to become a casualty of their escape. "Shit, shit! It should've been Kondraki!" he said, slamming his fist against the dumpster.
Kiwi stared at the screen for a moment, then looked away.
"It's not your fault," she said, a little worried about her friend's mental state.
Beatings? Sure, they were kind of a daily dish at the factory.
Maybe she got fewer than Faelan, but she wasn't exactly spared.
If it wasn't them, someone else got hit to set an example. They had long developed a certain numbness to it—but no one had ever died...
Especially not someone kind to them.
"Kiwi, I was literally the trigger for the whole collapse." Faelan lifted his sunglasses to look her straight in the eyes. "Just… Ugh!" He rubbed his eyes, frustrated. "Just… when we're safe, let's make a tablet or something for him someday, alright? It's the least he deserves."
Kiwi looked into his eyes searching for something: panic, confusion, pain…
"Okay," she nodded, relieved to see this wasn't going to crush Faelan with guilt. Because if it did, maybe she would've fallen with him. "We're almost at the place we can hide out for now. Come on—one last run."
She grabbed her bag and took Faelan's hand as they kept moving. People were distracted by the news, and they had to make the most of it.
Following her mental map, Kiwi took a shortcut through an area with a double door that turned out to be more rundown than expected. They had to push hard together to get it open.
The rusty door gave way with a screech louder than they wanted. Kiwi slipped through first, quick and quiet, scanning the area cautiously. Faelan followed close behind, holding his old hood with one hand to keep the wind from pulling it down as they ran.
They descended a metal staircase that creaked as if it might collapse. They were expecting a forgotten tunnel or access to the sewers. Instead, they found a warm basement, dimly lit by old fluorescent panels, filled with the smell of metal, disinfectant, and sweat.
A medical stretcher, ripperdoc tools, boxes of discarded prosthetics. And at the back, a man staring at a worn boxing glove. His dirty coat spoke of a recent deep cleaning of the place. He crossed his arms and turned to face them as soon as he heard them.
"Didn't expect visitors so soon," he said with a deep voice. "I've only been open for twenty minutes."
Kiwi had already started backing up, ready to bolt as panic crept in—she had clearly relied too much on outdated intel.
There shouldn't be anyone here!
Faelan, on the other hand, froze when he heard the voice and saw the odd object—something he'd never expect to find in a ripperdoc clinic. Along with the old television in the corner...
"You've got to be kidding me!" he thought, dizzy.
The man stepped forward. Kiwi raised a large screwdriver she'd taken from the factory—a makeshift weapon for mutual protection. She doubted she could outrun this adult, especially now, and he already had several visible implants.
Faelan saw this and tried to step in before things escalated… and tripped.
His hood snagged on a hanging metal bar he hadn't noticed. Startled, his sunglasses hit the floor in a panic.
Artificial light struck his now bare head.
That was enough.
"NO!" Faelan knew he'd messed up.
Purity isn't a virtue; it's a wound that burns in the eyes of the world.
The air seemed to thicken. The sweat on Viktor Vector's brow—from working hard to open his clinic—turned to ice. Something in his genes, in his brain, in his instinct, reacted instantly. A sacred emptiness. Awe and fear all at once. As if a celestial being had just descended into his basement along with two scruffy kids.
But the boy wasn't normal. Those impossibly green eyes full of life, short hair the color of dark ash left behind after a great forest fire, and the faint budding of antler-like horns. His facial features weren't extraordinary, but their proportion and arrangement made them almost too perfect.
Vik squinted analytically, unblinking, trying to make sense of it. Faelan only backed away, clutching the torn fabric over his head and retrieving his glasses, stepping out of the light.
Kiwi was frozen, also seeing her friend without the hood for the first time—and now understanding why he'd always avoided the topic.
"What are you… kid?"
Silence. Kiwi looked at Faelan with the same question in her eyes. The confusion of an eight-year-old had never been so clear on her face.
She knew her friend had mystical crap going on—but this?
This was another level.
"...It's complicated," Faelan whispered, gripping the fabric tighter, visibly afraid of what just happened.
Did his voice tremble just now?
Vik sighed and walked toward them, passing by a stunned Kiwi without taking the screwdriver. He knelt in front of the boy, studying him with the eyes of a tired ex-combat vet.
"Well. Whatever you are... this city already hates you for it," he said, scratching his scruffy beard. "And that already makes you one of mine."
He glanced between Kiwi and Faelan, as if piecing together a puzzle only he could see. The thirty-six-year-old man was having a very weird day. At most, he'd expected a couple of threats when opening his business.
Not… whatever this was.
"The basement's got space. It's not the Hotel Embers, but the water's less dirty than the street. If you don't cause trouble and help out a bit, you can stay."
Kiwi blinked, not quite believing it.
"Why…?"
"Because no one let me stay when I was your age," Vik replied without looking back. "And now, there's no one to stop me from doing it."
He walked over to an old console with cracked screens.
"I'm gonna need names, at least," he said, typing something. "I don't like talking to ghosts."
Kiwi hesitated, but Faelan decided to speak first this time.
"I'm Faelan Verdant Kusanagi."
Vik raised an eyebrow, recognizing part of the name's implications.
"Celtic and Japanese heritage, huh?" He nodded while typing. "And you?"
"...Kiwi," she replied in a dry voice.
"Like the fruit?" Vik raised a curious eyebrow.
"More like the bird," Faelan added. "Doesn't fly, but it'll scream if you catch it."
Vik let out a short nasal laugh at the unexpected joke, breaking some of the tension.
"I like you two. I'm Viktor—but you can call me Vik."
He crouched and opened a compartment under the surgical bed. He pulled out two blankets, a bottle of water, and a bag of expired synthetic food.
Faelan wondered internally if Vik had forgotten they were there and missed the expiration date—or if he had bought it expired on purpose.
"This is what there is. It's not gourmet, but if you can handle the diarrhea, you'll survive."
Kiwi and Faelan exchanged glances.
Food and water weren't a problem for them; as long as Faelan had access to some soil and a container, he could produce clean water and organic food at will.
They stepped forward and took the blankets and the bottle, but left the bag untouched.
Vik raised an eyebrow but didn't ask—he simply placed it somewhere visible.
Once the adrenaline wore off and hunger hit, they'd eat. He had no doubt about it.
"What is this place?" Faelan asked, even though he already knew.
"A real clinic for fake people," Vik answered, adjusting his gloves and returning to work. "I fix what others break. Or what Night City decides to throw away."
"And why are you letting us stay?"
Vik paused. He turned with a look that wasn't exactly warm, but it was honest.
"Because you… weird kid with glowing green eyes and a face like a horned altar boy… you made me feel something. Like God was staring at me from the bottom of my basement."
Faelan shifted uncomfortably—he hadn't meant to accidentally trigger his second trap: the partial traits of SCP-166.
This trap was also the reason why he couldn't use cyberware—he could only operate external machines.
"And because she—with that screwdriver and that determined look," Vik nodded toward Kiwi, "looks ready to kill for you. If that ain't family in this city, I don't know what is."
Kiwi inspected the blankets and set them aside for now, slipping the screwdriver away… for now. Her face was no longer guarded, but she still wasn't relaxed—she'd be watching every move Vik made.
She didn't want a repeat of the foreman incident, but she couldn't deny this place was a hundred times better than what they had planned.
"You can stay down here," Vik said, pointing to what looked like a small storage room next to the bathroom, complete with a vent and, to their relief, no surveillance. "Don't get me into trouble, don't bring me any rats with implants, and stay out of my fridge. And if you learn something along the way… all the better."
He turned on some soft, old music—distorted guitars leaking through a poorly mounted speaker on the ceiling, clearly a half-baked fix.
"Welcome home. Or the closest thing you'll have to one for a while, I guess."