In the dim hall, transport beds lined both sides, crooked and tilted like discarded junk.
Each was draped neatly with white sheets, the pale fabric casting an eerie chill under the weak light.
But Arthur had seen far worse. The West was full of twisted freaks who preyed on people, and every last one of them, he'd sent straight to hell.
Following the direction of the sound, Arthur yanked away the nearest sheets.
The stench hit him hard—thick with rot and blood—nearly killing his will to keep looking.
What lay beneath were mangled corpses, barely human anymore.
This wasn't a hall—it was a dump. A graveyard. There couldn't be a survivor here.
He was about to dismiss it as his imagination when the sound came again. Breathing. From his left.
Arthur grabbed the corner of another sheet and tore it back.
A woman in her thirties, dressed in a yellow uniform, lay beneath it.
Her face was swollen with bruises, her limbs bent at unnatural angles, like a broken doll.
A deep gash tore across her throat—a wound that should have been fatal.
Yet under the light, the laceration gleamed with a faint metallic sheen.
With every breath, the grotesque wound opened and closed.
The scavengers must have mistaken her for dead and dumped her here.
As for why she was still alive?
Heh. In this cursed age, if monsters could survive four bullets, why couldn't a woman survive with her throat slit?
Arthur grabbed her clothes, straining to sling her over his shoulder—
but pain shot through his wrist, sharp enough to make him flinch.
The pistol's recoil had fractured the bone. He couldn't even lift her.
So he twisted the sheet into a makeshift rope and strapped her to his back instead.
"Fuck, she's heavy."
Arthur muttered as he left that place behind.
...
At night, Night City had a different flavor than during the day.
Its streets glowed with neon lights and wild outdoor holograms, while just enough darkness lingered to hide the filth.
Outside the building, the air stank of industrial waste—sharp and acrid, like paint mixed with poison gas.
Arthur instantly knew where he was—
Watson, the Northside Industrial District.
But capital had abandoned this district long ago. Rust clung to the iron fences along the streets. The factories were lifeless husks, weeds breaking through their foundations, giving the place a desolate air.
The Maelstrom gang infested these ruins, proof that the nights here were anything but safe.
No one liked to talk about this ugliness. If Night City was a beauty, then this place was the festering boil on her skin—oozing pus.
Arthur picked his direction and headed south.
A row of high-rise apartments walled off the Northside Industrial District from the rest of Night City, like a thin veil hiding the sore.
His steps grew heavier. Dizziness gnawed at his mind, the drugs still working through his body.
His muscles felt like they were dissolving, his strength ebbing away. The world twisted, spun—then collapsed into darkness as he hit the ground.
...
He was back in the black void, like the cell where his soul had once been chained.
His host's memories and emotions surged toward him, overwhelming and relentless.
Memories so sparse they felt out of place in time—yet the emotions within them were immense, enough to tear his soul apart.
Grievance. Innocence. Rage. Hatred. And finally, numbness.
Even with Arthur's will, his soul felt on the brink. If these emotions pierced him, madness would take him.
He fought desperately, clawing for escape.
But the tide of emotion swallowed him whole, chaos splintering his thoughts. Death loomed closer.
"Hey! Kid, wake up."
The voice came from outside—low, hoarse. Like a lifeline thrown into the abyss.
Arthur clung to it, forcing his eyes open despite the sting.
Through blurred vision, he saw a man leaning over him, worry etched on his face.
When the man noticed him stirring, relief softened his expression. He straightened slowly and stepped back.
"Ugh."
The pain hit Arthur all at once—his body felt as though it was being torn apart, inch by inch.
He tried to sit up, but the agony slammed him back down.
Flat on his back, he managed to rasp out a few broken words.
"Where... this... ah—"
The rest was lost to another cry of pain. His throat burned, like hot coals stuffed down it, forcing him silent.
"Easy now. Rest.
Your body was injected with an organic neurotoxin. It left you paralyzed for a while."
Through Arthur's blurred vision, the figure moved to a nearby console, its face bathed in cold blue light.
"To restart your nervous system, I had to increase the dosage of certain drugs. That's what's causing the phantom pain.
But don't worry—it won't last long."
The man's tone was steady, calm—oddly reassuring.
"It's a miracle you're alive. When I brought you back, your nervous system had almost completely shut down."
Arthur didn't answer. He just lay there, enduring the pain, clinging to the fact that he was alive.
Better this than having his soul torn apart by emotion.
And something had changed. His soul had fused completely with his host's memories.
The detachment was gone. The barrier between him and this world had vanished.
He really was alive again. In another world. A world that looked like the future.
But civilization… ha. He'd been driven to the brink by it once before. And from the looks of things, this world hadn't turned out any better.
...
Gradually, the pain ebbed away, and Arthur's vision cleared.
The room was dim, but surprisingly dry and clean.
Not far from him, a man lounged in a chair, eyes fixed on a small screen that occasionally erupted with wild cheers.
Oddly enough, even in the darkness, he wore pitch-black sunglasses.
Noticing Arthur stir, the man turned, amusement in his deep voice.
"Looks like you're on the mend. Best check yourself over—make sure nothing permanent stuck."
Arthur forced himself upright. He was strapped to a high-tech surgical chair, surrounded by monitors tracking every part of his condition.
Holding his head, he spoke in his trademark raspy voice—his first real words since arriving here.
"What the hell happened to me?"
"You were injected with something I've never seen before.
It's made of macromolecules, but it tricks neural cells into letting it in, entering through endocytosis.
Bottom line—I didn't purge it from your cells. Which means you're still at serious risk."
The man walked over. His black hair was neatly cut, but that was about the only neat thing about him.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark shirt stretched tight across thick muscles. A tattoo covered most of his left arm.
He didn't look like any doctor Arthur had ever met.
"So I'm still a dead man walking, huh?"
Arthur lowered his head, voice barely above a whisper.
"Stay optimistic, kid.
Like I said, I don't know what that drug will do to you. Its effects are still unknown."
The man gave Arthur's arm a firm pat. The casual familiarity wasn't unwelcome—there was an honesty about him that cut through everything else.
"Optimism's never done anyone harm, right?"
Arthur let his hands fall from his head, meeting the man's gaze.
Living again—though fused with his host's memories—this world still felt unreal.
But this doctor's presence grounded him, if only a little.
"What's your name, Doc?" he asked.
"Viktor. Viktor Vektor. And I wouldn't call myself much of a doctor."
He chuckled, then tilted his head at Arthur.
"And you? Surviving the Northside Industrial District—that's luck in itself."
Arthur managed a faint smile, his voice hoarse but steady.
"Arthur...
Arthur Morgan."
...
(70 Chapters Ahead)
p@treon com / GhostParser