Dexter DeShawn.
The moment Arthur Vale saw that familiar face on the stretcher, memories of the future surfaced in his mind.
Betraying teammates.
Shooting V when everything spiraled out of control.
Trying to bury the truth.
But if he stripped away emotion and hindsight—what was DeShawn, really?
A coward?
Or a man crushed by forces far beyond his weight class?
Arthur's thoughts moved calmly, methodically.
In the Konpeki Plaza disaster, Evelyn Parker cut out the middleman and pushed for a reckless 50/50 split with V. She ignored the costs DeShawn had already paid—hiring a top-tier netrunner, arranging Delamain transport, acquiring military-grade hardware, and preparing cleanup contingencies.
And then—
Saburo Arasaka died.
The death of Saburo Arasaka was not a local problem.
It was a world-shaking event.
No fixer in Night City—no matter how experienced—could survive the wrath of Arasaka after that.
DeShawn panicked.
He killed V later not out of cruelty—but desperation.
His career was over the moment the Emperor fell.
No mercenary would trust him again.
No corporation would tolerate him.
It was heaven's will crushing a small man.
Arthur exhaled slowly.
"Fate destroys you," he murmured inwardly, "not your fighting."
And compared to Evelyn Parker?
DeShawn at least understood the board.
Evelyn had only seen money.
She had betrayed the Voodoo Boys, betrayed her employer, and pushed amateurs into a job even legendary fixers wouldn't touch.
The result?
Jackie dead.
T-Bug burned.
V hunted.
Night City reshaped.
If blame were divided fairly, DeShawn was not the only guilty one.
He was merely the weakest piece caught in a storm.
---
Arthur returned to the present.
Little Bain stood proudly beside the stretcher, clearly expecting praise.
Arthur looked at him calmly.
"How did you end up with DeShawn? I thought he vanished."
Bain scratched his head.
"I took a delivery job from Old Captain. Santo Domingo run. Delivered a Mizutani to Pacifica. After that, I saw DeShawn getting jumped. So… I helped."
Arthur's eyes sharpened slightly.
Old Captain.
"Muammar Reyes?" he asked casually.
Bain nodded.
"Yeah. You said we needed a fixer. We're operating in Santo Domingo, so I talked to him."
Perfect.
Arthur masked his satisfaction.
If nothing unexpected happened, DeShawn would go into hiding for two years after this attack.
Which meant—
Right now was the perfect window.
The perfect subject.
The perfect test.
---
"Put him on the table," Arthur said calmly.
Bain obeyed immediately.
"Wait outside," Arthur added. "He still has a pulse. As long as I'm here, he won't die."
Bain hesitated for half a second.
Then nodded.
"Thanks, Brother Ji."
The workshop door closed.
Silence settled over the room.
---
Arthur removed DeShawn's blood-soaked jacket.
The right arm was gone from mid-forearm.
The cut was clean.
Placide had done precise work.
Arthur measured the wound carefully.
Internal bleeding had been temporarily controlled, but not properly treated.
He examined bone fragments, nerve endings, tissue alignment.
Then he glanced toward the cybernetic arm he had prepared earlier.
Golden plating crossed his mind for a second.
Too flashy.
Too symbolic.
DeShawn needed function, not legend.
Arthur injected anesthesia without hesitation.
DeShawn's massive body relaxed.
Then—
Arthur moved.
Metal rang against metal as he modified the cybernetic limb on the workbench.
Because there was no need for integrated weapons, he focused purely on stability and durability.
Kinetic support segments reinforced the forearm.
Exposed neural connectors extended from the socket.
Fifteen minutes.
Precise.
Efficient.
He cut open the bandage.
Blood seeped slowly.
Using medical forceps, Arthur carefully separated flesh.
Then he pressed the cybernetic arm against the exposed bone.
"Click."
The internal clamps locked.
A low hum vibrated through the limb.
Dozens of thin neural probes extended automatically, drilling microscopically into bone and nerve pathways.
DeShawn's body trembled despite the anesthesia.
Pain signals flared—
Then stabilized.
Arthur monitored the connection metrics.
Signal latency: minimal.
Rejection response: none.
Within minutes, the prosthetic synced.
He nodded.
"Good."
But the surgery was not finished.
---
Arthur turned toward his workbench.
He picked up one of the small chips he had completed earlier.
The Mind Controller.
Not the acceleration chip.
DeShawn did not need enhanced cognition.
He needed alignment.
Arthur had refined the design carefully.
This chip would not force obedience immediately.
No crude "Master" reflex.
Instead—
A subtle adjustment.
Increased friendliness.
Heightened goodwill.
Gradual cognitive reshaping.
And inside Arthur's own body—
A signal recognition module.
Once active, it would accelerate the bonding process.
After 48 hours, the neural pattern would finalize.
Even if the chip were removed later—
The psychological shift would remain.
Engraved.
Permanent.
Arthur opened a precise incision near DeShawn's spinal base.
Inserted the chip.
Closed the wound seamlessly.
Signal strength stabilized.
No anomalies.
DeShawn's breathing evened out.
---
Arthur cleaned his hands slowly.
He felt no guilt.
No hesitation.
This was not cruelty.
This was strategy.
Night City ran on leverage.
DeShawn was a fixer.
A middleman.
A bridge between mercenaries and power.
And Arthur was building influence.
He called toward the door.
"Bain. Surgery's finished."
The door opened.
Bain stepped inside cautiously.
DeShawn lay motionless—but stable.
His new arm rested naturally at his side.
"It worked?" Bain asked nervously.
Arthur nodded.
"He'll live."
Bain exhaled in relief.
"You're amazing, Brother Ji."
Arthur did not respond.
Instead, he looked at DeShawn's sleeping form thoughtfully.
Within hours, the chip would begin adjusting neural chemistry.
Within two days—
Dexter DeShawn would see Arthur not just as a savior.
But as someone worth trusting.
Worth supporting.
Worth backing.
Arthur turned away from the operating table.
Outside, Santo Domingo's industrial lights flickered under polluted skies.
Inside the workshop—
A new alliance was quietly forming.
And this time—
When Night City's storm arrived,
Arthur Vale would not be a pawn.
He would be holding the strings.
_______________________________
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