Chapter Text
The cold static of a nightmare clung to Gilbert like damp clothes. He thrashed, not violently, but with a desperate, silent struggle against unseen hands, against the metallic tang of betrayal and the ice-blue glare of Adam Russo’s eyes. He saw the glint of chrome on a dozen barrels, heard the dull thud of his own cyberware arm hitting the grimy concrete of a Night City alley, the roar of sirens, the chilling click of restraining cuffs. The familiar taste of synth-protein and stale air from a holding cell, the constant hum of a shame he knew wasn't his to bear, but had been forced upon him by the system.
He jolted upright, a choked gasp caught in his throat. His blood-red eyes, usually so keen and clear, were wide and unfocused, shimmering with an electric blue luminescence that echoed the phantom fear still buzzing behind his optic implants. Sweat plastered his albino hair to his forehead, and his muscles, conditioned for brutal efficiency, felt strangely weak, trembling.
He was alone. The space beside him in the narrow bunk of Amelia’s camper was empty, cool to the touch, the blankets undisturbed. A wave of desolate quiet washed over him, amplifying the frantic thrum of his own heart. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the images back into the shadowy corners of his mind, to reassert control. Just a dream, Gilbert. Just a fucking dream.
He reached for the old-world quarter on the silver chain around his neck, his thumb finding the smooth, worn surface of the coin. He focused on the cool metal against his skin, a grounding sensation. The hum of the camper’s internal systems, the distant whisper of the Wastes wind against the reinforced shell, the faint scent of Amelia’s coffee from the tiny galley – these were the sounds and smells of home now. Not the sterile chill of a holding cell, nor the oppressive smog of Night City. He was safe. He was free.
He opened his eyes again, the blue shimmer in his irises slowly fading, giving way to the familiar, intense red. He clenched his left hand, the cybernetic digits flexing, the internal mechanisms a faint, comforting purr. A testament to his survival, his strength. A weapon, a tool, an extension of himself. He’d survived the betrayal, the arrest, the brutal interrogation. He’d found his way out, thanks to Amelia.
A sudden, sharp thud against the camper door jolted him from his thoughts. Before he could even process it, the door creaked open, admitting a blast of frigid morning air and a small, wiry figure.
"Papa! You awake yet?"
Ramsey.
The six-year-old was a whirlwind in miniature, a human perpetual motion machine. His sandy-brown hair, perpetually defiant, stuck up in a chaotic mop, and his bright blue eyes, so like Amelia’s, danced with an almost alarming curiosity. He was already dressed, or rather, attired in a pair of overalls that were definitely a size too large and adorned with liberal splatters of what looked like dried purple paint and engine grease. There was a smudge across his cheek and a tiny, intricate contraption of scavenged wires and circuit boards clutched firmly in his small hand.
All traces of Gilbert’s lingering nightmare evaporated, replaced by the warmth that always bloomed in his chest at the sight of his son. The scowl on his face softened, a genuine, if still slightly sleep-muddled, smile touching his lips. He ran a hand through his own spiky, white hair.
"Morning, squirt. What’s got you bouncing off the walls this early?" Gilbert’s voice, usually a rough rumble, was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the crass nature he often displayed to the world. A man could be a mercenary, could curse like a sailor, but children – children were sacred.
Ramsey, oblivious to his father’s inner turmoil, bounded to the side of the bed, his knees bumping against the metal frame. "Mama said breakfast is almost ready! She’s making her special synth-pancakes! And look!" He thrust the wire-and-circuit contraption forward, his blue eyes wide with pride. "It’s a sonic-repeller for the Waster-rats! I built it this morning! It hums when you turn this dial!"
Gilbert sat up fully, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk. He leaned down, peering at the device with feigned seriousness. "A sonic-repeller, huh? That’s some high-tech stuff you got there, champ. You sure it won't just make the rats breakdance?" He winked, a faint blue shimmer returning to his eyes for a fleeting moment as he focused on the intricate wiring.
Ramsey giggled, a bright, uninhibited sound. "No, Papa! It’s tuned to a specific frequency! Frit even helped me find some of the capacitors!" He tugged at Gilbert’s shirt. "But Papa, your eyes were doing the blue thing again. Were you having a bad dream?" His voice dropped, suddenly empathetic, his usual boundless energy momentarily subdued by concern. Ramsey, for all his youthful exuberance, possessed a keen observational sense, a product of growing up in a world where vigilance was paramount.
Gilbert instantly stiffened, then relaxed. He knew he couldn’t fool Ramsey, not entirely. He ruffled the boy’s messy hair, a rare moment of tenderness that he allowed himself with his son. "Just… some old junk rattling around in the attic, kiddo. Nothing to worry your bright little head about." He gave Ramsey a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "But you’re a sharp one, noticing that. Don’t go telling Mama, alright? She worries enough." It was a half-truth, but one born of affection. He never liked burdening Amelia with his past demons, despite their shared future.
Ramsey nodded solemnly, a secret pact formed between father and son. "Okay, Papa. But you look… tired." He tilted his head, his gaze unwavering.
"Mercenaries don't get 'tired', kiddo," Gilbert scoffed playfully, pushing himself up. The well-oiled joints of his cybernetic arm whirred softly. "We just… recharge our enthusiasm." He stretched, his broad shoulders popping. "Now, what's this about synth-pancakes? My stomach's been doing its own sonic-repeller routine."
He rose from the bunk, pulling on a worn, dark grey tank top that showed off the intricate lines of his cybernetic arm. The metal gleamed faintly in the dim morning light filtering through the camper’s small windows. He made a quick pass at his face with a damp cloth, scrubbing away the last traces of sleep and nightmare sweat. He glanced at his reflection in the small, scratched mirror bolted to the wall – the stark white skin, the piercing red eyes that held a lifetime of battles, the faint blue shimmer that still occasionally flickered within them. He looked like an impossibility, a relic and a future all at once.
"Come on, Papa!" Ramsey was already halfway out the door, his rat-repeller clutched like a prized relic. "Mama said if we don't hurry, Waster-foxes will eat all the pancakes!"
The thought of Amelia, always so practical yet so full of life, brought another, deeper wave of calm over Gilbert. She was the anchor to his present, his future. His wit, her cunning, their shared disdain for corporate tyranny – they were a formidable pair. And Ramsey, their bright, curious son, was their testament to hope in this harsh, unforgiving world.
Gilbert followed Ramsey into the main living area, which doubled as a kitchen, workshop, and everything in between. The camper, though compact, was surprisingly well-organized, a testament to Amelia's efficiency. Tools and communication gear were neatly stowed, and a small, collapsible table was already set with three synth-plates and re-used chopko cups.
Amelia stood by the small, scavenged hot plate, flipping a thick, golden-brown pancake onto a stack. Her short blonde hair gleamed under the overhead light, and the golden cybernetic stripes under her eyes and across her chest shimmered subtly as she moved – more aesthetic than functional, a defiant statement of self in a world that tried to define you. She moved with an innate grace, a quiet competence that Gilbert admired more than anything.
"Well, look who finally decided to join the living," Amelia said, turning with a wry smile, her blue eyes, sharp and intelligent, meeting Gilbert’s. There was a knowing glint in them, a subtle acknowledgement of the restless night he’d had, a silent question hidden behind the casual greeting. She didn't need him to tell her about the nightmares; she knew. That was Amelia. She saw everything, but she also knew when to give space.
"Couldn't resist the allure of your culinary genius, my dear Amelia," Gilbert replied, his voice regaining some of its usual crass charm, though softer than he’d use with anyone else. He ambled over, placing a hand gently on the small of her back. His respect for her, for her strength, her intelligence, her unwavering moral compass, was absolute. She was a revolutionary with a heart, a formidable opponent of the corporations, and the only woman who could truly infuriate him and melt his pragmatic heart in the same breath.
"Oh, careful, Beilschmidt, or I might start believing you," she teased, but leaned into his touch for a moment. Her scent, a mix of synth-fabric softener, old-world spices, and something uniquely her own, was a comforting balm.
Ramsey was already at the table, eagerly pouring himself a cup of rehydrated nutri-juice. "Mama, Papa said he was just 'recharging his enthusiasm'!" he announced proudly, as if repeating a profound truth.
Amelia’s eyes flickered to Gilbert again, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Is that what we're calling it these days, love? Not ‘wrestling with inner demons fueled by corporate scumbags’?" Her tone was light, but the underlying concern was palpable.
Gilbert just grunted, taking a seat beside Ramsey. He pulled a pancake onto his plate. "Something like that. Besides, if I didn't have inner demons, what would I even talk about over breakfast?" He took a bite, savoring the surprisingly good taste of the synth-pancake. "Damn, Jones, these are actually not bad today. You finally figured out the right ratio of rehydrated protein powder to actual flavor?"
Amelia laughed, a clear, bright sound that filled the small space. "Funny, Beilschmidt. Just eat your breakfast." She sat across from them, her gaze sweeping over her family – her wild, brilliant son, and her albino mercenary, both so utterly unique, both so completely hers.
Ramsey, meanwhile, was already deep in thought, between bites. "Mama, Papa, if I used the sonic-repeller on the camper, would it stop the dust storms from getting inside too? Because then I wouldn’t have to clean my building blocks so much, and I could build a full-scale replica of Night City!" His blue eyes sparkled with the sheer audacity of the idea.
Gilbert choked on his pancake, then grinned. "Now that's a question, kiddo. Think you could make it work?"
"Everything starts with a theory, Ramsey," Amelia interjected, a rare softness in her voice as she looked at her son. "But maybe we start with the Waster-rats first, alright? One problem at a time."
Gilbert watched them, his heart swelling with a quiet, fierce pride. The nightmare, for now, was a distant echo, drowned out by the vibrant presence of his family. He might be a former mercenary, an albino with a cyber-arm and shifting red eyes, a man who had seen too much darkness. But here, in this humble camper in the Wastes, surrounded by the people who mattered most, Gilbert Beilschmidt found his truest purpose. He was a husband. He was a father. And for today, that was more than enough. He reached across the table, ruffling Ramsey's hair again, a strong, gentle hand resting briefly on Amelia's arm.
He was home. And he was awake.