PRIVATE What’s Up Doc?

[Ryan Graves]

Ashlar Clinic
Heywood, Night City
@Anders Whitard



The neon haze of Heywood bled into the night as Ryan "Redline" Graves parked his cyberbike outside the Ashlar Clinic. He pulled the key from the ignition, pausing to glance up at the building. The glowing sign above the door buzzed faintly, its sharp blue light cutting through the humid air. This place had always been a beacon for the broken and the ambitious alike, where chrome dreams got tuned to perfection.

Ryan slid off his bike, adjusting his jacket as he approached the clinic. His boots hit the pavement with a steady rhythm, and he pushed through the reinforced glass doors, letting them hiss shut behind him. The waiting room was as pristine as always, sterile yet strangely comforting. It wasn't just the smell of antiseptic or the hum of machinery; it was knowing Anders Whitard ran a tight ship. If your gear had a problem, he'd fix it. If you had a problem, well, he'd probably fix that too—if you listened.

The receptionist perked up as he approached. Her voice chirped, sugary sweet and synthetic. "Welcome back, Mr. Graves. Your appointment is in room—"

"Two," Ryan said over his shoulder, already walking past. He tossed a quick wave without turning around. "I got it. Thanks."

Second door on the right. He knew it like muscle memory.

He stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind him with a faint pssht. The room was dim, save for the cold blue glow of diagnostic screens and a few scattered holo-displays floating in the air.

Ryan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Still tuning up the future one part at a time, old man?" he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Need a Basic Smart Link install. Just enough to get my gear synced up without frying it—or me."

Leaning back in the chair, Ryan smirked faintly. He tapped the unlit cig in his jacket pocket, resisting the urge to light it. No smoking in Anders' clinic—it was practically the first rule here. Instead, he let his thoughts drift to the conversations he'd had in this very room over the years. Advice on gigs, on chrome, on surviving the grind of Night City. Anders had seen it all and then some, and Ryan always left with a little more clarity.

"How's biz?"

 

[Anders Whitard]

---

@Ryan Graves

Anders sat fixing the small unit on the sterile workbench, focussed intently on its micro components. He stopped when he saw Ryan leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed like he had all the time in the world. Anders tilted his head, his sharp eyes taking in the younger man's stance. There was that air of cocky indifference Ryan liked to carry, but Anders knew him well enough to see the tension beneath it. Always wound up tight, that one.

For a moment, Anders just stood there, lips pressing into a faint smile. Then he shook his head and let out a low chuckle.

"So, today you use the front door, hmm?" His accent was thick, each word carefully placed like he was testing their weight. "Must be feeling brave in your old age. Or maybe lazy. You are not becoming lazy, Ryan?"

Without waiting for an answer, Anders walked further into the clinic, tossing a grease-streaked rag onto the workbench. His sharp gaze didn't miss the faint motion of Ryan's hand drifting toward his jacket, and before the cigarette could make its escape, Anders pointed a finger, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

"Nein, no smoking in here. How many times I say this? The last thing I need is the smell of burned city in my clinic. It already stinks of ozone and regret."

Anders turned to the holo-screens, flicking his fingers through the air. A few schematics appeared, bathing his face in cold blue light. He worked silently for a moment, his weathered hands moving with the precision of someone who had been fixing things—and people—for far too long.

"Smart Link, ja?" he said over his shoulder, arching a brow at Ryan. "Basic install is nothing special. You don't need me for that. So, tell me—what's the real reason you are here?"

There was no edge to the question, just quiet curiosity. Anders liked Ryan, after all. The kid had good instincts, even if he made dumb choices sometimes. Still, Anders didn't push. He busied himself with the tools, laying them out with a kind of care that suggested he found comfort in the routine.

After a moment, his hands stilled, and he glanced sideways at Ryan, his voice softening. "Ryan," he said, almost hesitating. "Have you spoken to your Nessa, ja?"

He didn't look at Ryan directly, as if giving him room to brush off the question if he wanted. "I know, I know... it is not my business. But... family is tricky. I understand this. You don't always have the chance to fix things later, you know? I think... maybe you should call her. She is good people, even if things are... complicated."

He straightened, letting the faint smile return to his face. "But what do I know? I am just an old man with grease under his nails and too many opinions. You do what you want."

Anders gestured toward the chair near the workstation, his voice brightening just enough to lighten the air. "Now, sit down. Let's make sure this Smart Link does not fry your gear—or your brain. I am too old to be scraping you off the floor." He gave Ryan a quick grin, one part tease, two parts genuine care.

---

 

[Ryan Graves]

Ryan leaned back like he owned the place, though the sharp hum of Anders' tools reminded him who really ran the Ashlar Clinic. His arms rested on the edges of the chair, one hand drumming a faint rhythm while his gaze wandered across the holo-screens. "Front door today," Ryan said with his usual dry wit. "Figured I'd do you a favor for once, save you the trouble of locking up after me." He shot a sidelong glance toward Anders, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

Anders didn't look up from his work, but Ryan caught the slight shake of his head and the muttered "lazy, not brave," that followed. A creature of habit, he gestured his hand, and before Ryan could even think about reaching for his cigarette, Anders' finger rose, cutting through the air like a blade.

"Yeah, yeah," Ryan said, leaning back with a soft chuckle. "No burning city in the temple of tech, I remember."

When Anders brought up Nessa, the smirk faltered, his gaze shifting to the tools on the workbench as if they might hold the answer to something he couldn't quite say out loud. "It's... complicated," Ryan muttered, his voice lower now, almost drowned out by the faint hum of the clinic. "Sis is, well..." He didn't add more, and Anders, in his way, let it drop, shifting the tone back to business.

"Smart Link's basic," Ryan said, gesturing lightly to his hand. "But I'd rather have your work than some ripperdoc who still uses garage tools. And maybe I'm here for more than just the install." He paused, his tone sharpening slightly. "You've got a knack for reading this city. I need to know what's moving out there. What's worth keeping an eye on."

There was a moment of quiet before Ryan added, softer now, "You've always been good to me, Anders. Appreciate it." He offered a faint grin, leaning back a little further in the chair. "But don't get too comfortable with the compliments, choomba. Let's get this Smart Link done before I start sounding like a corpo's PR flack."



@Anders Whitard

 

[Anders Whitard]

---

@Ryan Graves

Anders didn't look up from his work, the hum of his tools filling the clinic. His blue eyes stayed focused on the delicate circuitry in his hands. "Flattery? It does nothing," he said, his German accent giving his words a deliberate, clipped tone. "No discount. And no faster either."

He set one tool down and picked up another, his movements steady and precise. "Smart Link? Simple, ja? Plug it in, easy enough. But making sure it works, that your brain doesn't melt when you use it? That is where the skill is." A dry chuckle escaped him. "Good thing you came to me, not some ripperdoc with tools from the scrapyard. They don't care if you live or die. Me? I care—mostly because I don't like cleaning blood from my floor."

Finally, he glanced up, his sharp gaze locking onto Ryan for a moment. "The city?" Anders gave a short laugh, shaking his head. "It is always the same. Corporations sell shiny toys, make people fight over scraps. Gangs think they are kings, but they fight over trash. Nothing new. But you—what are you sniffing for this time, Ryan?"

He leaned back slightly, setting his tools aside, though his posture stayed taut, like a spring ready to snap. "And Nessa," he added, his voice quieter, though no less firm. "You don't say her name for nothing. 'Complicated' means trouble. Always trouble with you."

Anders fixed him with a steady stare. "I help you because you've been useful, ja? But don't play games. I'll fix your link, fine, but if you want more, you tell me the truth. No half-answers. So, what is it? Business or trust—you choose."

---

 

[Ryan Graves]

Ryan sat in the chair, his off-hand braced against the armrest as Anders prepared to work. The hum of the tools filled the room, sharp and precise, much like the man himself. His jaw tensed as the slight sting of the procedure pulsed through his fingers, but he kept to his usual demeanor, cool, and detached.

The mention of the city earned a faint chuckle from him. "Same grind, same vultures," he said, his tone flat. "You know how it is. Some corpos are looking to bury the other guys, and they don't care how many bodies they stack in the process. Gangs? They're just stepping stones for anyone who wants to cash in. Me? I'm just sniffing for the payday that keeps me out of the gutter."

"And Nessa…" he began, his voice faltering for half a second before he caught himself. "I'm just.." He paused, searching for the right words. "..I'm keeping tabs. Can't afford to burn that bridge, even if things with sis are… messy."

He finally turned his head, locking eyes with Anders. "You want the truth? Here it is choomba, business and trust aren't two different things for me. They're the same game. I trust you to do this job right because I know you're good at what you do. And you trust me because I keep coming back, don't I? You burn the wrong bridge, the whole thing comes down."

Leaning back in the chair, Ryan tilted his head slightly. He sighed briefly, he relented. "I got a gig lined up that may put us in the crosshairs of some major league hitters. Quick smash and grab, intel checks out.. but.. I need Nessa to crack the security tumbler. Old school 'ganic way. Something the corpos can't trace."

His tone went flat, "I'm putting together a small crew for the job. I just don't know Anders, I got a bad feeling about it. But she deserves a life out of this city. This is the ticket out."



@Anders Whitard

 

[Anders Whitard]

---

@Ryan Graves

Anders leaned back, setting the soldering iron down with a faint clink. His face barely shifted, a ghost of a grin flickering across his lips. The neon glow from the window caught the sharp lines of his features, casting half his face in shadow.

"Ryan, you look like a man who knows when things go bad," he said, his voice low and measured, each word carefully chosen. "That feeling in your gut? It's not wrong. You'd be smart to listen."

He tapped the table lightly with a metal finger, his movements slow and deliberate. "Nessa—she's good, no doubt. But asking her to take this risk? To step into the crosshairs? That's big. For what? Freedom? Hah. This city doesn't let people go. You try to leave, it pulls you back. Every time."

Anders shrugged, his servos giving a faint whir. "I understand. This isn't just about the job. It's about trust, about burning bridges. Every time you burn one, you risk everything around it going up too. You trust me to fix you, to keep your chrome running. That's the deal. But trust also means I tell you when you're walking into trouble."

He leaned forward now, his icy blue eyes locking onto Ryan's. "This crew, this job—it feels wrong. I can't say why, but it does. Corpo dogs, street gangs, they don't play fair. They don't leave loose ends. You take Nessa into this, you make sure she stays out of the fallout. No mistakes, no screw-ups. You owe her that much."

He sat back again, his focus already shifting as he picked up his tools. "I'll get your gear ready. But when it goes bad—and I think it will—don't expect me to be happy pulling you out of the fire. And if it burns you down? This city won't ever let you forget."

---

 

[Ryan Graves]

Ryan's head tilted slightly as he watched Anders work with a calm that bordered on nonchalance. His left boot rested on the rung of the stool, and his hand soon to be more machine than flesh remained steady under the surgeon's tools. The neon glow from the Ashlar Clinic bathed the room in an eerie mix of red and blue, flickering faintly like a dying heartbeat. When Anders spoke, Graves's smirk barely shifted, but his eyes gave him away. There was a sharp, calculating glint that flickered beneath his calm veneer. He listened, letting the German's words hang in the air before responding, the faint hum of Anders' tools filling the silence between them.

"You know, Anders, you've got a real talent for making everything sound like a funeral sermon," he said, his tone dry but not without a hint of humor. His fingers drummed idly on the armrest, the faint metallic ring of chrome-on-steel filling the space between words. "But you're not wrong. This city's a meat grinder. You either keep moving, or it spits you out in pieces."

He glanced down at his hand, the exposed circuitry catching the clinic's dim light. "Nessa? I owe Nessa. I'm not planning on dragging her down with me. If anyone's gonna catch the fallout, it'll be me. You've got my word on that."

Ryan leaned his head back against the chair, his eyes drifting up to the ceiling as if seeing something far beyond the clinic's ceiling. "I've burned bridges before. Hell, sometimes I lit them just to stay warm. But I've learned this much: if you're too afraid to take the risk, you'll never get anywhere in this town. People like us, Anders? We don't get clean breaks. We get what we take, and there is no such things as happy endings in Night City.."

The solo's gaze shifted back to Anders, his eyes narrowing slightly. " @Nessa Graves deserves a better life, I owe her that. So, I'll make sure she comes out clean, whatever it takes."

@Anders Whitard​

 

[Anders Whitard]

---

@Ryan Graves

Anders leaned back slightly in his chair, the neon glow from the Ashlar Clinic casting faint streaks of red and blue across his face. His expression was calm, almost amused, as if Ryan's words were an old story he'd heard a dozen times before. He reached for a rag to wipe his hands, his movements casual, unhurried—like a man who had all the time in the world, or didn't care if he didn't.

"You know," Anders started, his voice carrying a faint edge of dry humor, "for a guy who looks like he wrestles Death for fun, you sure do sound like a street poet. You practicing for open mic night, or is this just how you sweet-talk chrome docs?"

He tossed the rag aside and gave Ryan a quick once-over, his pale blue eyes twinkling faintly in the clinic's dim light. "Don't get me wrong, it's a good speech. Inspirational, even. But you might want to save it for someone who doesn't see wires sticking out of their hand every time they scratch their nose."

Anders gestured lazily toward Ryan's exposed cybernetics. "Nessa's lucky to have someone looking out for her, no argument there. You've got the whole 'self-sacrificing hero' thing down. Real classic. But here's the thing about heroes, Ryan: they're usually the ones who end up on the floor while everyone else walks away."

He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. "Now, I'm not saying you shouldn't play the part. It's a good look on you. But maybe, just maybe, don't take all the heat yourself. Share the love. This city's already chewing you up; no point handing it the silverware too."

Anders sat back again, his eyes flicking briefly to Ryan's hand as he grabbed his final tool. With a few deft adjustments, he secured the last of the repairs. Satisfied, he gave the freshly tuned circuitry a tap, the faint metallic ping cutting through the clinic's hum.

"There. Good as new—or at least as good as Night City lets anything stay," Anders said with a grin, tossing the tool onto the workbench. "Now, before you ask, I'm feeling generous today. Let's call it 950 eddies. Discount for your poetry skills."

He waved toward the payment terminal. "But don't get used to it. Start expecting charity, and next thing you'll be asking for free repairs. This is a business, not a community service."

Anders leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his tone softening slightly. The humor in his voice remained, but now it carried a thread of earnestness. "Take care of that hand, yeah? And yourself. Nessa's not the only one who needs you in one piece, even if you don't believe it."

He stood up with a stretch, a faint groan escaping as he arched his back. "And if you're gonna burn a few more bridges, do me a favor—make it a proper show. This city loves a good light show, and I wouldn't want to miss it."

With a flick of the switch, the clinic's tools powered down. Anders gave Ryan a mock salute, his smirk lingering. "You're all set. Try not to get it shot up again too soon, yeah?"

---

 

[Ryan Graves]

Ryan sat there, stretching his freshly tuned cybernetic palm. Smooth. Efficient. Anders did good work, always did. But that didn't mean Ryan had to like the lecture that came with it.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah, well, poetry doesn't pay the bills. And neither does pacifism in this city." He rolled his wrist, resting his arm on the chair. "You got a point, though. 'Bout heroes. They do end up flatlined more often than not." His lips twitched into something between a smirk and a grimace.

"Guess that's why I don't see myself as one."

His eyes lit up sky blue as the Kiroshi optics went briefly to work. Without hesitation, 950 eddies was transferred over to Anders, more than fair, considering the coats of the implant otherwise. And considering Ander's usual rates, it was damn near generous.

The payment beeped its confirmation, and Ryan leaned back, stretching out his newly repaired hand with a nod of satisfaction. "Appreciate the work, Anders. And the discount." His smirk returned, tired but sharp. "And if I do burn more bridges, you'll be one of the first to know. I don't do quiet exits."

Standing, he adjusted his jacket, giving the clinic one last once-over before heading for the backdoor. He paused just long enough to glance back over his shoulder. "Try not to miss the show." Then, without another word, he stepped out, throwing up a peace sign in his wake.


@Anders Whitard