Chapter 13: Who's Your Daddy?

Chapter 13: Who's your daddy?

Appartement 2B wasn't anything special at all. You could find a similar lay-out in almost every hab unit scattered across the less well-off (though not completely destitute yet) districts of Night City, though at the very least it was still a step up from those areas that had truly fallen on hard times, such as large parts of Watson which had turned outright decrepit over the years. Or Pacifica, for that matter, though supposedly the jewel of Dogtown, the Black Sapphire, stood tall as a shining beacon to post-corporate excess and illegally gained wealth.

Not something this part of Coronado could hope to offer, especially some random, out of the way hab block that I had requisitioned for the meeting with the top Fixer of Santo Domingo, Muamar 'El Capitan' Reyes. Inside, the run-down apartment reflected the gritty, utilitarian aesthetic typical of Night City's middle-tier living spaces. The entrance led directly into a cramped hallway, its walls a patchwork of faded paint and exposed wiring, hinting at the many tenants who had come and gone, each one having left their mark (sometimes literally). To the left, a small kitchenette was barely separated from the living area by a flimsy partition, featuring outdated and unplugged appliances and a flickering neon light that barely managed to cast a greenish hue over the cracked countertops.

The living area reminded me starkly of the hab unit from that cop that V manages to talk out of committing suicide (Barry, I think? Or was that the name of his pet turtle?), though less cluttered, if more grime-covered. A worn-out couch, its fabric fraying at the edges, faced a wall-mounted holo-screen, which occasionally sputtered to life with static-filled images of Night City's chaotic broadcast channels. The single window in the room, reinforced with steel bars, was squarely oriented on the back wall of the adjacent apartment blocks, showing nothing but faded brick-work and equally grimed up windows just an arm-length away.

So much for a room with a view.

The window's pane was smeared with grime, filtering the city's neon glow into a dim, surreal light that barely illuminated the apartment's interior, though considering its state, that probably did it a favour. A narrow doorway led to the bedroom, which was little more than a glorified closet. A thin mattress lay on the floor, covered with mismatched sheets and a few pillows. Above it, a small shelf held a collection of personal items of the last unfortunate that was this apartment's tenant: a framed photograph, the depicted people now long gone or dead, a couple of trinkets, and a thin roll of Eurodollars which I pressed into David's hands without a word. The room's sole light source, a flickering bulb hanging from an exposed wire, cast long shadows on the walls, making the small space feel even more claustrophobic.

After taking just one look at the mottled matrass on the torn-up floor, I decided to place the still comatose Gloria on the ratty couch in the living room instead, at least to give her better back-support if not better hygiene. I don't think 'hygiene' has been on the landlord's check list for several decades now. I'm not even sure if it features in his dictionary come to think of it.

Large parts of this entire appartement building had stood empty for a while now, a familiar sight across the poorer districts of the city that I had always found somewhat strange. Hell, some entire high-rises, built to corpo specs and expectations no less, stood silent and empty in Pacifica, and yet the City has been struggling with a homelessness epidemic for years now. Why didn't people just move into the waiting, available space? At least, in those cases where entire apartment complexes hadn't been turned into some Scav butcher's shop, or a Claw drug lab. Honestly, you'd think half of those gangoons have a secret degree in interior decorating or something, considering how eager they are to renovate the inside of entire buildings into the ideal junkie hide-out, without breaking down the facade entirely.

Even after a lifetime living on the wrong side of the law in a cyberpunk dystopia, I still hadn't quite gotten used to how in NC, you could walk past some buildings downtown every day and if not for the smells (and, occasionally, the screams) you'd never even known there was nothing but a thin pane of fading plaster between you and Night City's bloated underbelly.

Huh, maybe that's why so many buildings in the struggling districts are left to rot away in hollow solitude. I guess for most civvies, they're better off taking their chances out on the street instead of chancing holing up in an abandoned hotel room for the night, only to realize come morning you've accidentally been squatting in a gangoon's supply closet when they start busting down the connecting walls. A mugger out on the street might rob you of what little eddies you got left, maybe even the clothes on your back if they're really desperate, but gangoons will just as likely rob you of your fucking organs and chrome to re-sell on the black market. The scavs aren't the only ones dealing in that type of biz after all, they're just the only boostergang crazy enough to make it their entire lifestyle.

These days, I tend to forget that criminals are actually, you know… a threat to most people, instead of would-be corpses and walking loot bags.

Still, I've eaten enough lead for one week already, so much like the homeless in NC, I'd rather not chance running into a drug den myself, especially with David at my back and his mother slung over one of my shoulders, so Appartment 2B would have to do.

Even if David couldn't help but look somewhat constipated as he stepped into a pile of soggy Buck-a-Slice boxes, the mold having feasted heavily on the Styrofoam it seems. Whether said Styrofoam had been provided by the boxes, or the pizzas themselves, well that was hard to say. Not that I disagreed with the disgusted look the kid gave the room; having super-senses like mine could really suck sometimes, especially when you lived in the parts of Night City that I tended to frequent. The smell coming from what once was a fridge alone (clearly left filled when its power got cut) was enough to make me want to pick it up and throw it through the nearest wall and straight into an adjacent building instead.

That'd probably leave a bad impression on El Capitan though, even if an impromptu additional window would air out the cramped room somewhat at least, so I restrained myself. Barely.

Speaking of the fixer, I hadn't mentioned to David what this was all about, so he looked understandably nervous as he sat on the edge of the couch next to his mother, though he had made sure to take some of the scattered screamsheets and dirty magazines (in both senses of the word) and lay them over the ratted cushions as an improvised blanket first. Still, the lean teenager seemed to take comfort in mine and Dorio's presence, the large woman having joined in without a word of complaint once I signaled David to finish up his work-out early. Most of Maine's former crew, including the big chrome-head himself, had been enjoying some down-time after the stressful escape from Autowerks out in the Badlands. However, much like me, Dorio had been itching to stretch her muscles a bit and protecting the squirt she had taken under her wing from the big bad fixer was as good an excuse as any.

Not that I thought it'd come to blows with Muamar Reyes. The man had been keyed up from the revelation that his ex-wife and son had ended up in a gangoon's claws (quite literally, at that), but I didn't think he'd take it out on me directly. Even if he got some strange ideas in that head of his (underneath that awful, awful haircut), I considered him barely a threat to Dorio, let alone me.

Sure, his Iconic shotgun Santa Maria packed a hell of a punch, but so did my… well, punch and I could move my muscles much faster than he'd could aim a gun. If he brought any Huscle along, I'd just throw them Dorio's way, let her work off some steam instead.

Hell, maybe we'd let one live and put him up against David, get the kid some live sparring experience?

Wait, no. Dammit, Simba, say it with me, again: hardened criminals are a threat, not a training exercise! What was I thinking, putting up a fifteen year old kid against professional Huscle?!

Honestly, I was starting to sound more and more like my mother at this point, and that was a scary thought, for me and for all of Night City at that.

The sound of an engine approaching pulls me from my despondent musings and my ears prick up as I try to determine what's coming. Hmm, small engine, high revs, so a lightweight sports car, but the rumblings of the motor aren't as throaty as Archer likes to make 'em, so that rules out a Quartz (which, while certainly a bucket of fun, had sadly become too small for me to drive by the time I was David's age). Considering this whole deal is somewhat of a personal errand, I'm betting it's Muamar's own ride, a sweet Mizutani Shion, likely the turbo-boosted MZ2 version.

I signal David and Dorio ,who only hear the car coming a couple of seconds later. It's something I've noticed over the years, especially when it comes to Edgerunners: in NC, changing up your body (or stats) is as easy as hitting up your local ripperdoc, dropping a bottle of your preferred aenesthetic and waking up after your nap with all the musculature, skin tone and facial features you always dreamt of seeing in the mirror. For cyberpunks like Maine this of course meant cramming yourself full of weaponry and enhancements to speed, strength and durability and the like. But what people, both civvies and cyberpunks very rarely tend to do, is upgrade their senses as well, beyond chipping Kiroshi knock-offs of course.

While my strength is in a league of its own, I've found it's my superior senses that have often given me the edge in a gig where it pays to have eyes in the back of your head so you could see others before they could see you.

Not literally, mind you. I've heard stories of Maelstrommers trying to implant just that, since they tend to customize their faceplates so drastically anyways, what's adding a few eyes more? All of them tend to go insane (well, they're Maelstrommers, so they go more insane, I guess), plagued by continuous bouts of nausea, disorientation and paranoia, which often leads to excessive throwing up to the point they either zero themselves, or get zeroed by an annoyed fellow gangoon who just got sick all over his freshly polished leather spiked boots. Some of them wise up and have the mods taken out before things get out of hand, but I've heard Animals talking about how one 'Strommer got so fed up with the things, he took an angle grinder to the back of his own head and tore them out himself.

Exaggeration? Maybe. Honestly, if it were any other gang than fucking Maelstrom, probably, but with those borgheads? I wouldn't bet ennies on it, but sounds plausible enough.

By now, the others' inferior hearing have heard the car as well, right as one of its doors is loudly slammed shut. Dorio is still leaning against the wall, toned arms crossed over an exposed chest which is only covered by an unfastened flak jacket with my logo stamped on its back, making her look like she's doing a cosplay of MK9 Sonya Blade (meaning, the best Sonya Blade) without the ponytail, but my eyes still spot the tightening of her muscles and the laser-focused glance she shoots the door of the apartment from underneath her blonde locks. The woman may look as if she's just relaxing against the side of the room, but she's just using the wall behind her as a push-off point to explode into action should it be necessary.

Would probably bring the wall down too while she's at it, given her strength.

David's reaction is almost the opposite of Dorio's more subtle one as he jumps up from the couch to his feet, hands balling into fists. I can tell his instinct is telling him to reach for a weapon, but despite his occasional begging (and Rebecca's enthusiastic prodding) I've decided against arming the other teen. The more normal he remains during our time with us, the easier it will be for him to reintegrate with his fellow civvies in normal society.

I hope, at least.

He's under my protection for as long as I'm 'hired' as his Huscle, but that does not make him part of the gang, despite Ma's suggestions.

"Simba? What's going on?" the kid asks and while Dorio doesn't react, the shift of her gaze shows she's interested as well.

"Take it easy kid. I contacted a fixer to help you and your mom to get back on your feet again, once… well, once Gloria's gotten a new pair of feet. Turns out the guy knows you two and wants to see you in person." I rumble from where I'm standing tall in the middle of the room.

I had considered just sweeping all the broken and disconnected junk from the cracked countertop and plop my large ass down on that as an impromptu seat, but if I tried that, I'd probably leave behind half the fabric of my pants plastered to its surface, that's how sticky and gross it was.

And since I didn't want to walk around in what would've basically amounted to assless chaps while talking with the most important fixer in all of Santo Domingo while he was having a heartfelt reunion with his estranged family… so yeah, standing it was.

"Alright? Sure, but why here? Why meet in secret?" David presses, unwilling to be brushed off like that.

Annoyingly, the more time he spent with the gang and with me in particular, the more he seemed to forget the healthy dose of fear he felt for me given my performance as a cyberpsycho while saving his mother. It was good to see the kid grow a spine to back up his previous blustering, but it also tended to be somewhat annoying in situations like this.

"It's a private matter between the three of you David. Not something to have out in the open for all the gang to see. Remember, a bunch of those guys got rolled into the fold only very recently: sure, their previous Alpha wasn't as well-liked, or perhaps as feared, as Ma and I, but that doesn't mean they can't cause trouble if they catch wind of the wrong things at the wrong time. Hell, even some of the Animals which I know are solid might mess things up even without meaning to. Best to do this behind closed doors." I explain, before my head whips towards the door.

David and Dorio look surprised for a few moments, before a harsh banging announces the resident fixer's arrival.

"Come in, it's unlocked!" I yell and I've barely even finished my sentence before Muamar 'El Capitan' Reyes practically barrels into the cramped apartment, the Iconic shotgun Bloody Maria clenched in his hands and a wild look in his eyes.

It's enough for Dorio to almost spring into action in a flying tackle, but a quick commanding gesture from me keeps her at bay, for now at least.

"Where is she? Where is my-…" Muamar's shout dies in his throat as his eyes land on the still form of Gloria lying on the couch, red hair spilling across her face in a crimson halo.

For a moment, the man is completely frozen, his body eerily still as he drinks in the sight of the Martinez woman and I'm pretty sure he hasn't even seen the rest of us, so absorbed is he. Eventually, he manages to draw a shuddering breath before hesitantly approaching the comatose woman with slow, careful steps, as if he's afraid he'll wake her.

The Iconic shotgun is forgotten at the foot of the couch as the man sinks to his knees, one tattooed arm slowly coming up to brush Gloria slightly sunken cheek. By my side, David stiffens up and I place a large clawed hand on his shoulder to keep him silent for now. I can almost feel the questions burning within him, but they can wait until Muamar has had his little moment. Better not to interrupt people when they're in a state like this.

El Capitan's eyes rove over Gloria's still form and I can see his shoulders tensing when they come to her legs. David threw his jacket (or well, Gloria's still, actually) over his mother's lower body, but even so, the cut-off point below the knees, where the fabric sags pitifully, is so clear to see, Muamar doesn't even need to shift the garment to understand.

"Did… did you do this?" the man's voice is low and cold, a stark difference to how he sounded on the holo.

"No. The people I rescued her from did that to her."

For a moment, the fixer doesn't react, before nodding, once.

"Who were they?"

"Most of them are corpses now. The man who is mainly responsible however is still out there, though I got people hunting for him-." I begin to explain, before he interrupts me.

"His. Name."

Despite not having moved or even raised his voice, El Capitan sounds so fucking seething, I bet he'd give any roided-out Animal a run for their money in the animalistic rage department.

"Jacob Shipman." I eventually concede, mostly out of curiosity for his reaction.

"Shipman. Shipman. Jacob Shipman. Alright. Ok." The fixer mutters under his breath, before turning to face me.

Underneath the ridiculous bowl-cut and mullet combination, Muamar's eyes are red-rimmed and utterly furious, though thankfully it doesn't seemed to be aimed my way. More like at the world in general, and one, soon-to-be very dead asshole in particular.

"You are hunting him?"

"Got people sniffing his trail yes."

"You haven't tracked him down yet?"

"Biotechnica is likely covering his tracks, giving him a safe house to lie low in. We'll catch him, eventually. We always do."

Muamar nods a few times to himself, before refocusing back on me.

"Anything I can do to help, any people I can spare, any intel I can send your way, it's yours, all of it. I don't fuckin' care about the fuckin' eddies. Ask whatever the fuck you want, I don't give a shit. But, you will give me one thing in return." The fixer bites out, his tone intense and voice brooking no argument.

Getting a sense of déjà vu, I merely raise an eyebrow at the man's anger.

"Oh? And what is this one thing El Capitan wants in return for my help I wonder?"

"When you find him, you don't kill him. You bring him to me and I put a round through the fucker's skull." Muamar says as he holds his Bloody Maria in a white-knuckled grip.

'Oh yeah, definitely déjà vu.' I think to myself as I glance down at David besides me.

"You'll have to take that up with the kid, believe he called dibs first." I rumble while gently nudging David forwards, who understandably shoots me a panicked look of betrayal at how I'm reducing the distance between him and what he can only assume is a man on the verge of going cyberpsycho.

"The kid? You mean, Gloria's…" Muamar questions, his eyes widening as they land on David.

For a moment, the two of them simply stare at each other in silence, peering at the other as if it will reveal the answer to all the answers that must be tumbling around their skulls right now. Interestingly, Muamar apparently does find something as his eyes dip to David's torso, landing on the gold chain that the kid always wears around his neck.

"That cross… Is it… may I?" the renowned fixer asks in a surprisingly soft voice, the intensity and rage of before replaced by something almost unsure and hesitant, gesturing at the kid's jewelry.

David stiffens, shooting a quick nervous glance my way, but at my encouraging nod he takes a step forwards as he gives Reyes a nod. The fixer doesn't miss the exchange and something like melancholy creeps into his eyes as he approaches the son of his wife.

Slowly, hesitantly, a hand comes up and takes a tender hold of the cross, lifting it up and tilting it slightly in the dim overhead light. Muamar slowly shakes his head with an incredulous scoff.

"I can't believe she kept it, after all these years… she told me she was gonna throw it away, you know?"

"What?"

"This necklace… it's not some cheap fake, bought of a street stand kid. This is gold. Actual gold, none of that synth Kitch crap." The fixer presses, and a soft smile flits over his face, filled with distant memories.

"I bought it for your mother. It's part of a pair, you see: one for her…"

The man trails off, before lifting one of his own chains, bearing a strikingly similar cross to the one that David is wearing.

"And one for me. My last attempt to say sorry, even if I knew already, it wasn't gonna work anyways. So, I brought a pair. So that, even if we weren't gonna stay together, some small part of us would always be connected."

Muamar lets go of the cross, ruefully shaking his head and making his strange haircut flit around his face, which seems to have aged a decade in the past few minutes.

"Of course, the moment I told her that, she threw that damned thing so hard at my face, she made sure I would always have something to remember her by."

With that he brushes his bangs away from his forehead, showing a thin, faded scar running from just above his right eyebrow back towards his ear and I wince. It's hardly an impressive wound by itself, I'm sure that if I didn't have my healing factor I'd be absolutely covered in such scars and much, much worse. But I do know from experience (on both sides) that headwounds tend to bleed like they were the river Nile and God just got pissed off again. And to do that with a piece of jewelry?

'Damn woman, you don't play around.' I muse to myself, shooting the unconscious Gloria an impressed look.

When Ma finds out, she'll probably change her tune and insist we train the woman up with the gang.

"I don't… she never told me that. She gave it to me when I was very young and told me it belonged to someone special. I… I've been wearing it ever since." David's voice brings me from my musings, and I glance towards him as he picks up the cross around his neck as well, looking at it with new eyes.

I can understand his shock. If what Muamar is saying is true (and I'm inclined to believe it is), and that thing is made of real gold, then the kid has spent the better part of his life walking around with something that's worth more than their entire hab block, furniture and all combined.

That's a terrible weight to carry around your neck when you're young and poor. No wonder Gloria never told him.

"But… why did she throw it at you? How come you were dating my mother and why did it end between you?" the kid asks and Muamar lets out a deep sigh at that, sinking back onto the couch next to Gloria, shooting the woman a melancholy look.

"We started dating when we were younger. Grew up around the same neighborhood but travelled in different circles, you know how it goes. Not exactly a great place to grow up in: the water supply, it was poisoned, chemical dump off from fuckin' corpos who didn't give a rats ass if the little people fuckin' lived or died. Saw more people die when I was still a kid than during all my years as a fixer." Muamar says bitterly, elbows resting on his knees.

He glances at Gloria again and the anger visibly seeps out of his tired form.

"It shaped both of us. She went the medical route, wanted nothing more in the world than become a doctor, help people that had gotten sick. I wanted to go corpo, since at the time, I figured that was the only way I could guarantee our people would not get sick in the first place. Big dreams for small kids from an even smaller part of town, but I guess that was what drew us together. We met during a big party. I got myself a spot as a 'paid intern to the assistant to the branch manager', so me and my people, we threw the whole block this huge fiesta. Met her there and instantly… and I do mean instantly, knew I wanted this woman to become my wife. Only reason I went corpo was to provide for my people, for my familia: one that I wanted to build with her."

"So why didn't you? What happened?" David says, engrossed in the fixer's tale and to be honest, Dorio and I were right there with him.

Muamar chuckles at the question, but it's a tired, embittered sound.

"What happened? Life happened, kid. I began to realize you can't change a corp from within… not as a corpo yourself. The only people with that power are the people who own the fucking corp and you can't become people like that without becoming corpo yourself… and losing everything else of yourself in the process. In corpo life, you got two choices: fuck others, or get fucked. So, I dropped out. Tried to find ways to provide for my people in other ways."

"You became a fixer."

"Si."

"But why would that make my Mom so angry? I mean, I get that she must've been disappointed you quit the corpo life. She always pushes me to stay in Arasaka Academy, rise up the ranks there-"

"Wait, Gloria put you up with 'Saka?" Muamar asks incredulously and David stammers a bit at the intensity in the fixer's gaze.

"Uhh, yeah. Been enrolled in their Academy for a few years now… I… haven't been back for a while now. I don't think I'm still enrolled. They were already pretty pissed with me, but then, they're always pissed with me, always finding ways to screw Mom over or raise the admission fees, or the administration fees, or the book and uniform prices-!"

David was working himself up into a state, so I placed my large hand on his head, keeping the kid in place as he lets out a deep breath. Muamar just looks up at us in surprise.

"Where'd she get the scratch to pull that off? Did she finally make it as a doctor, or-"

"Guess that's where I come in, Boss?" Dorio interrupts, stepping up to the other side of David and at my nod, she continues.

"Gloria was working as an EMT when we first met her. Knew her through a friend of ours. Since she was so good at putting people back together, that gave us an idea; what if she used that skill to pull people apart instead? Sell off the chrome to people with eddies to spare?"

Muamar frowns in distaste and shoots Gloria an uncomfortable look.

"She went Scav?"

"She only went after stiff ones, so no. Also never joined a gang and absolutely refused to use a fixer, we had contact with her directly. Unusual, but I can understand why now, I guess. 'Sides, distrust for fixers seems to be going around these days." Dorio shrugs as she shoots me a look, which I promptly and gallantly ignore completely.

"Eh, that's something of all ages. People will always try to save an eddie, even if it means losing their arm." Muamar mutters, though he's not really paying attention to us, instead gazing at Gloria's still face.

"To think, she was that desperate… I knew she didn't approve of my new life, but mierda, I thought I had shown her how fucked up the corpo world is! To want to put her son in that life…"

He sighs, before shooting David a tired look.

"I think I owe you an apology, kid. I think me becoming a fixer is what caused your mother's obsession with making sure you don't follow in my footsteps and fall off the corpo path. I don't know if she didn't understood the dangers of that life, or didn't want to understand… but she saw the dangers of my new life all to clearly." The fixer begins, placing a hand on the bright EMT jacket with a mixture of fondness and regret in his eyes.

She was already working as an EMT when I dropped out of the corpo life and began setting up gigs. I wasn't a big deal back then. People knew me, sure, but most knew me as a corpo sell out. Had to spread my network, find the right agents and of course, the right clients. At that point, all of 'em were tough to come by, but the cheap mercs? The fucked up clients? The gigs that make you feel you need a shower on the inside? NC fuckin' drownin' in 'em and you better believe I had just put on my best fuckin' swimwear. I was willin' to do anything, set up any gig if it meant providing for your mother. To make sure she could pursue her dream of becoming a doctor."

He shakes his head ruefully.

"Of course, as an EMT, she was often the one called in to clean up the mess afterwards. Take care of the collateral. While I was shifting around eddies and skimming my cut off the top and filling my pockets, she was out there on the streets, helping people reattach their fingers again after they were torn off by a merc I hired. She got suspicious, of course, but I think for a while she didn't want to believe it. And it was nice, finally having real food each night, finally having a roof over our heads that didn't have any holes in them. For a while, we tried to make things work like that, but looking back on it now, I think we both felt it couldn't last."

Muamar falls silent for several long moments and it's only David's gentle prodding that pulls him out from whatever memory he had fallen into.

"It all came to a head when a gig went completely south. Dead bystanders, dead client and of course, a still alive target. Total shitshow. So, naturally, it was one that Gloria was called in for to come and help. She found my merc, lyin' in the middle of the street, surrounded by bodies and a pool of his own blood. Gloria, bein' the woman I fell in love with, still hauled him into the back of the ambulance. She was pregnant at the time."

The bombshell is dropped casually, but I can see David's entire body tense up as he's standing ramrod straight. I can almost hear his muscles straining, but either thanks to the shock or his own curiosity, he doesn't interrupt the fixer from continuing his story.

"Of course, that don't mean she got time off. So, she's still working on my merc, tryin' to move her belly around while also tryin' to keep him from bleeding to death, while she was sowing his arm back on. And guess what? Right as his blood stops pouring outta him, her water breaks. So what does she do? Just goes right back to stitching, and even in the back of a driving ambulance, covered in blood and about to give birth, she still managed to save the arm. Afterwards, she delivered her baby herself and my merc got to cut the umbilical cord with the mantis blades in the arm that Gloria had just saved."

That story is a new one to me and judging by their surprised looks, the same goes for David and Dorio as well.

"All for nothin' in the end, I'm afraid. Had to zero the merc myself when he came to report in, tie up the loose ends of the gig. But on the drive over, he had become so impressed with Gloria, he told her everything… including my name. When I came home that night… never before have I ever felt so low, so like I'm… like I'm nothing. Seeing her, sitting there at our kitchen table underneath our only light, a baby, our baby cradled in her arms… with the purest look of disgust on her face when I walked in, it… my world was over. I knew it, we both knew it. I ran out of there, bought these two crosses but by the time I came back, she had already packed all her stuff. A friend of hers from the hospital would help her move her stuff, but that night, it would be the last time I saw her and our child. She wouldn't even tell me his name, probably hoping I would never find her or him again. I tried giving her the necklace, so she'd have some eddies at least if she sold it and that's when she gave me this." The fixer finishes, pointing at the thin scar hidden underneath his ridiculous bowl-cut.

"Dirty money from a dirty coward, she told me. And she left. And she took our son with her. I could've tracked her down. I've wanted to, so so often. Wanted to see her. Wanted to see what had become of our son. But I never dared. I wanted to respect her wishes, showed her I cared even after my fuck-up… kept no tabs, sent her no money. All I did, once, was have a net-jockey of mine go through a list of births of that year under the name Martinez. Took some sifting, but eventually a list of a dozen, became a list of just a few, and eventually a list of only one… David."

"So… that means that…"

"Yes, David. I am your father."

//

AN: Sorry for yet another short chapter. I want to finish up with Martinez family drama as quickly as possible and get back to some action, let Simba cut loose with a ton of blood and body parts as befitting the Edgerunners anime. I'll probably bring Adam Smasher in for that, but I think after Shipman has finally been dealt with.

Head on over to my Patreon if you want to vote on which story will get updated next!