March 6, 2068
David Martinez
"Morning already…" David muttered, staring up at the ceiling.
"Good morning, Night City! This is your ever-faithful news anchor, Henry Cavill."
News again… Mom must be up already, David thought, still caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness.
"Strange things are stirring in the streets of our beloved city," the anchor went on. "Word on the net is there's a new gang causing a stir — calls itself The Rogues. But the real story isn't how they showed up — it's why. One of our reporters scored an exclusive with one of their members, and you won't believe what they uncovered…"
The anchor let the tension hang in the air for a few seconds, milking the suspense like a seasoned showman.
"About three or four days ago, over at a strip club called Lizzie's, one of the girls was found murdered. The culprits? Members of the infamous Tiger Claws. Now, most club owners would've laid low and kept quiet — but not Elizabeth Borden. She took matters into her own hands. Grabbed a regular axe, hacked the bastards to pieces, and strung their corpses up outside the club. The Claws didn't take that lightly. That same night, they hit back hard. But the assault was stopped cold — by an unknown mercenary whose identity remains a mystery. And just like that, the city lit up like a powder keg…"
"Sweetheart, time to get up."
A gentle knock preceded Gloria's entrance. She peeked in with a smile. "You awake already?" she asked, watching her son fumble through the fog of sleep.
"Y-yeah…" David yawned, trying to blink himself into coherence.
"Get moving. Breakfast's almost ready." She lingered a beat, then turned and closed the door behind her. "And don't fall back asleep!" she called from the hallway.
"Yeeeeaaah…" David groaned.
It took him a few eternal seconds to gather the will to move. Eventually, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and padded barefoot toward the shower. The moment he stepped into sensor range, a blast of cold water smacked into him like a punch.
The shock did the trick — he was instantly wide awake, though not exactly grateful for it. He yelped and bolted out of the stream.
"Is this thing busted?" he grumbled, glaring at the water like it owed him an apology. After a pause and a sigh, he forced himself back under, bracing for the next icy hit.
"Gah — freezing!" he hissed, teeth chattering as he grabbed a towel.
Once dry, he shuffled back to his room, leaving a faint trail of wet footprints. His eyes landed on a neatly folded black T-shirt on the shelf. For a moment, he just stood there, zoned out. Then he blinked, snapped back to reality, threw the shirt on, got dressed in a rush, and headed for the door.
"Morning, Mom. Morning, Dad." David gave his usual lazy wave as he dropped into his seat at the table.
"How was the water?" Jeremy asked with a smirk.
"Hilarious," David muttered, rolling his eyes — already certain who'd rigged his morning shower.
"Contrast showers are great for your system, Davy." Jeremy raised a finger like he was passing down sacred wisdom, then turned back to his tablet.
"Anything going on?" Gloria asked without looking up from the stove.
"Everyone's still buzzing about that Elizabeth Borden stunt," Jeremy said with a sigh. "Other than that, same old. Kress is quiet — too quiet — and Myers is suddenly everywhere. Whatever's coming, it's not gonna be pretty."
"What about you, hon? Got any news?" Gloria turned to her son with a soft smile.
"Almost done with Level Two of the training course," David said, smoothing down his hair without thinking.
"Already?" Gloria blinked. "You just turned twelve, and you're nearly through the whole curriculum?"
"It's not that hard," David mumbled, eyes drifting away.
"Well, I'm glad you're making progress. Just don't burn yourself out, alright?" Jeremy gave him a proud nod.
"Alright, dig in." Gloria set the plates down with smooth precision, drawing their attention to breakfast.
They ate in relative silence, broken only by the clink of silverware and the soft drone of the radio host still going in the background. When he finished, David stood up first and quietly carried his plate to the sink, rinsing it under Gloria's watchful — if slightly surprised — gaze.
"Mom, can I head out for a bit?" he asked, already halfway into the hallway.
"You can — but be careful," she said, closing her eyes briefly in assent.
"Davy, take this with you."
Jeremy slid a holster across the table — complete with a pistol and three spare mags.
"Seriously? Don't you think it's a little early for that?" Gloria frowned. "What if the cops stop him?"
"Sending a kid out there unarmed? Not exactly smart," Jeremy shrugged, winking at David. "I'd rather pay a fine than sit here worrying every time he walks out the door. And the kid's been killing it at the range — and not just there." He grinned, clearly hinting at their late-night combat drills.
"What are you even teaching this child?" Gloria sighed, shaking her head.
"Only what he needs to stay alive," Jeremy said, still grinning. "You know as well as I do — people think twice when they see you're carrying."
"You're not wrong... but I still don't like it," Gloria murmured.
"Alright, I'm heading out. And — hey, thanks for breakfast."
David scooped up the Lexington, slipping it under his jacket with practiced ease.
"Stay sharp out there," his father called after him.
Once outside the apartment, David stretched with a satisfied sigh, then gave his thigh holster one last tug to make sure it was secure. He'd strapped it on just before heading out, and a few quick moves confirmed everything was sitting right. Satisfied, he cracked a grin and strolled down the hallway toward the elevator.
Luckily, it was empty. He rode it down to the ground floor and stepped into the megatower's main lobby. It was early, but the place was already buzzing. Didn't bother him much — he felt different with a weapon on. Safer. Like the city couldn't lean on him so hard.
As he stepped outside, sunlight slammed into his face like a flashbang. He squinted, shielding his eyes with one hand.
"So... where to?" he muttered, blinking into the glare. Without thinking, his fingers drifted to the chip port at the base of his neck — a reflex he'd picked up whenever his thoughts started to wander.
Whatever. I'll just walk. See where I end up.
Hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, he headed off at a lazy pace, aiming in the general direction of the canal that split Arroyo from Glen. The streets were already alive with early risers, moving like their lives depended on it. Most were funneling toward the metro station a block from the tower. Just beyond that was the canal — lined with a narrow promenade, like the city was trying to convince itself it cared about looking nice.
"This is NCPD! Pull over immediately or we will open fire!"
The shout came from behind — sharp and sudden.
"What the hell?!" David spun just in time to see a car scream past, tearing up the street at full tilt. A squad of cruisers came chasing right after, sirens blaring. The wind blast from their passing nearly knocked him sideways.
"And it's not even noon yet," he muttered, running a hand through his now thoroughly wrecked hair.
Once the noise faded, he scanned the street — nothing else stood out — so he kept walking like it never happened. You lived here long enough, that kind of chaos just became background noise. High-speed chases, gunfire, bodies — just part of the scenery.
He reached the canal without further incident. Or at least, nothing new — unless you counted running into that same getaway car again, which, somehow, he did. The cops had finally caught up to it, but the suspects weren't going quietly. The takedown played out like they always did: fast, violent, and final.
The crew opened fire. The cops answered with twice as much. Everyone on the other side went down, hard — and a few unlucky bystanders got caught in the crossfire too. The gang hadn't cared who they hit. Neither did the cops, by the looks of it.
"Yo, boss. Chilli con carne and an apple juice." David slid a crumpled five across the counter.
"Fifteen minutes," the cook grunted, snatching the bill and vanishing behind the greasy kitchen curtain.
David picked a table and dropped into the seat, slouched halfway down with his eyes drifting toward the massive billboards lining the canal. In Night City, ads were like oxygen — everywhere, impossible to avoid, and completely invisible to anyone who'd lived here more than a month. Holo-voices screamed catchphrases from every angle, the kind of sensory overload that'd snap a tourist in half by lunchtime. For locals? Just background noise.
"Order up, amigo."
The deep, booming voice of the old Mexican cook snapped David out of it.
"Enjoy," the man added, setting the tray down by the pickup counter.
"Thanks."
David grabbed the tray and headed back, zoning out again as he started in on the synthetic slop. Honestly? Not bad — if you could ignore the chemical aftertaste. He nodded to himself as he finished off the last few bites, then let out a quiet, satisfied burp.
He reached for the juice, popped the tab with a flick, and took a couple slow sips like he had all the time in the world.
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