Chapter 1: (Don’t fear) The reaper
Notes:
• Prologue, let's go ! (Version 3.0, yup, changed stuff again)
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
All our times have come
Here but now they're gone
Seasons don't fear the reaper
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain
We can be like they are
Come on, baby
Don't fear the reaper
Baby, take my hand
Don't fear the reaper
We'll be able to fly
Don't fear the reaper
Baby, I'm your man
La, la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la, la
Fear wasn't usually Johnny's thing, but he couldn't shake the cold dread that had been clinging to him since V's last seizure. The image of her body crumpling in that elevator after her chat with Hanako fucking Arasaka was seared into his brain like a bad trip he couldn't shake off.
He'd had to seize control of her meat, drag her unconscious ass through the neon-lit streets to Viktor's clinic. Now, he watches helplessly as she struggles to push herself up from the ripperdoc's chair, her movements unsteady as she stumbles toward the table. One pill of Omega Blocker, one pill of Pseudoendotrizine, and a gun.
Fear wasn't usually Johnny's thing, but the way V's staring at that iron like it's her last friend in Night City? That shit terrifies him more than any corp squad ever could.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
After Misty retreated downstairs with a gentle reminder to take all the time she needed, they both knew the bitter irony of those words — time was the one thing V was running out of. Johnny sit in front of her, near the edge of the roof. “Fuckin’ scared me, know that? Thought you were on your way out.” he says, his voice laced with genuine concern.
"No, still here," V replies, her voice barely above a whisper.
Johnny can't help but notice how small she looks, perched on that rooftop like a broken bird. All that swagger and confidence she'd maintained since Hanako's call has crumbled away with this latest relic malfunction, leaving her raw and exposed. The neon lights of Night City paint harsh shadows across her face, highlighting the exhaustion etched into every line.
"For now," he adds, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
Johnny watches the storm brewing in those gray eyes of hers as they dart between the pills and the gun, both options lying there like accusations. She's trying to hide it, but he can see the wheels turning in that head they share — weighing odds, counting costs, running scenarios. He feels every flutter of fear, every spike of determination, every moment of doubt as if they were his own. Their minds have become so thoroughly entangled that sometimes he forgets where he ends and she begins.
He stopped fighting against his feelings for her weeks ago — what's the fucking point when you share someone's soul? They've evolved into something beyond partners, beyond friends, beyond the simple equation of two people sharing the same brain space. They've become something new, something undefined, their existence intertwined in ways Night City's never seen before.
Johnny watches as V lights up, the familiar motion bringing a ghost of sensation to his own fingers. The cherry glow illuminates her face in the darkness as she inhales deeply, seeking that nicotine hit they both crave. He's passed his smoking habit to her, just one more thing in the growing list of his mannerisms she's absorbed like a sponge. Though it goes both ways — he's picked up her habits too, learned to be something closer to human again through her influence.
Thinking back to when this whole shit show started, Johnny remembers V in her signature style — that goofy-ass tank top with the stupid smiley face, paired with a spiked leather jacket she'd stripped off some unlucky Maelstromer's corpse. Dark jeans and scuffed combat boots completing what he'd initially thought was a decent enough look - "At least it ain't some corpo suit or that overpriced Neokitch garbage," he'd muttered to himself back then.
But now? Fuck. Now she's practically his twin, and ain't that a mindfuck and a half. His dog tags hang between her breasts like they belong there, his leather pants riding low on her hips despite being a size too big. The cherry on top? A perfect replica of his Samurai jacket, courtesy of Rogue. It's like she's become a female version of him, a mirror image in more ways than one. The only thing she couldn't quite pull off were his shoes, which were way too big for her. If she had started dyeing her blue hair black, Johnny couldn't have been more concerned.
Yep, fade to Johnny. What a creepy show.
When Johnny had caught V getting ready for her meet with Hanako, decked out in his gear like some kind of tribute, something cold and heavy had settled in his digital gut. She'd looked like she was suiting up for her last stand, preparing to face the Arasaka princess while wearing his colors like war paint. The sight had stirred up a cocktail of emotions he wasn't ready to sort through.
In the elevator ride down, he'd reached for her hand without a word, hoping to leech some of that eerie calm she was radiating. He'd watched her white-knuckled grip on his tags, eyes squeezed shut against whatever storm was brewing in her head. The rockerboy gritted his teeth. Dressed to kill, ready to face Hanako, but refusing to admit to herself that deep down she had accepted losing the war. Not against their enemy, but ready to take the bullet that will save him.
But Johnny wasn't about to let that happen. Johnny shoved down the tsunami of feelings threatening to drown him, focusing instead on decoding V's emotional maze. Beneath all that carefully constructed calm, there was something worse — an emptiness that spoke of acceptance, of knowing that no matter which way they played this, someone was gonna end up bleeding.
She knows damn well she doesn't owe Hanako shit, but her heart's bleeding for the one person she's actually gonna betray by telling the corpo princess to fuck off. The only one she couldn't save, no matter how many times she reached out. Even though that stupid fuck turned his back on her when she needed him most.
Damn, why'd she have to add this clusterfuck to her already mile-long list of problems? He wished she could've learned that you can't save people from their own stupid choices without getting her heart ripped out in the process. Seriously, fuckin' 'Saka and their talent for making everything worse.
He lets out a heavy sigh, metal hand running through his hair. "Y'know, should call anyone you wanna say goodbye to."
"Worst case scenario — that what you expect?" Her voice carries a hint of challenge, but he can hear the underlying fear.
Johnny shakes his head, his expression uncharacteristically grave. "No, but whatever you decide, the risk's gonna be high. If things don't go our way..." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Just fuckin' do it. Anyone you gotta talk to, now's the time. Pills can wait."
"Nah, not really my style... goodbyes." She tries to sound casual, but fails miserably.
He exhales heavily again. Typical V, making everything harder than it needs to be. "V, should call... him."
She lets out a laugh that sounds more like a choked sob as she fights back tears, and Johnny feels his chest constrict at the sight. "To tell 'im what, Johnny? 'Sorry, I'm about to ruin everything that our friendship was built around'? Fuck." Her voice cracks slightly before hardening, like she's trying to convince herself more than him. "He doesn't care about me, he just needed me to help him get his life back, that's all."
"Damn, V..." he mutters, his voice a mixture of sympathy and frustration at her stubborn denial.
Rising from his spot, Johnny moves to sit on the large white icebox between their chairs. A single tear escapes down V's cheek, catching the neon lights of Night City, and he reaches out with his organic hand to grip her wrist. The ability to touch her still throws him for a loop, even after all this time — feeling her warmth, the softness of her skin. The Relic's letting him do this somehow, though he's got no fucking clue how or why.
His thumb traces the metallic lines on V's wrist, following the seam where Realskin meets the housing of her Mantis Blades. Sometimes he wonders how she hasn't gone full cyberpsycho with all the chrome she's packing, but then he remembers — he's the one who really fucked with her brain.
Johnny laces his fingers through V's, and she grips back like he's her lifeline in Night City's chaos. "Just fuckin' call him already. Say your goodbyes, tell him he's got pretty eyes, or whatever other sappy shit you need to get off your chest for closure."
The darkness clouding V's face breaks for a moment as she lets out a genuine laugh, and Johnny feels a weight lift from his chest at the sound. "Hold up — you realize that's the second time you've brought up his beautiful eyes?" she teases, a ghost of her usual smirk playing at her lips.
"Ain't enough of a liar to deny facts," he shoots back with a real smile — not his usual smirk or bitter grin. Hell, he'd say just about anything right now to keep that spark of life in her eyes.
"Dunno, Johnny." V's voice wavers with uncertainty. "Haven't heard a peep since that selfie he sent to let me know he wasn't dead in some gutter. Hanako mentioned he got his ass somewhere safe. Probably won't even pick up the damn holo."
"Could always leave a message," he suggests, giving her hand another squeeze. Her smile might be weak as fuck, but he can tell she's coming around. "Really think you should do it, V."
"Yeah, sure, why the fuck not?" She straightens up slightly, a hint of her old fire returning to her voice. "Got nothing else to lose at this point."
Johnny retreats to the roof's edge, lighting up a smoke and pretending to admire Night City's neon hellscape while keeping V in his peripheral. He ain't about to hover while she does this, but he sure as fuck isn't leaving her alone either.
Her Kiroshi optics cast a blue glow across her face as the holo rings. The seconds stretch like years, each one driving another nail into her heart as the call goes unanswered. He doesn't need to look directly at her to feel her fighting back tears, forcing that brave smile she always wears when she's about to break. Then comes the beep — message time.
"Hey, Goro..." Her voice already wavers. "Damn, I don't even know why the hell I'm tryin' to call you. Prolly tossed this burner since everything's nova between you and Hanako now. I'm happy for you, ya know? For real. Got what you wanted, mostly. Maybe not Yorinobu's head on a platter, but you're back home, right? But... oh, fuck—" The words catch in her throat.
Now she's really losing it, tears streaming down her face, and Johnny feels his heart shatter as he tries to look away, unable to bear the sight.
"Sorry... Goro, listen up. You're a friend, and I trust you, really. But I met Hanako, and I... I just can't trust her. Wish I could, but that ain't in the cards. So gonna be honest with you — I’m about to do somethin’ real stupid, and wanted to say goodbye." She takes a shaky breath. "Look, I know all you want is your 'Saka life back, but if you ever feel like tryin’ out the nomad life, hit up Rogue about contacting Panam. Tell her you're my friend and... The Aldecaldos, they're family, get me? They'll show you what freedom tastes like, in my memory. So..."
Another sob breaks through her carefully maintained composure.
"Won't keep you long. Just... Goro, give yourself a chance to ghost Arasaka, leave that corpo life in the dust. Hit the road, feed stray cats, and stay exactly who you are. Be more than some loyal soldier — be Takemura, that impulsive gonk who can't take a decent selfie to save his life. You're kind, honest, smart as fuck, and actually fun when you let yourself be. And those eyes of yours, damn, they're really pretty. Ah, yep — embarrassin' myself again. Watch out for bakenekos. So glad to call you my friend. Please don't hate me for this... goodbye."
She hangs up, and Johnny's hit with a tidal wave of her misery mixing with his own. The line between their consciousness is blurry as fuck, but he knows she's the one who needs someone right now. That she needs him to be strong for both of them. Without hesitation, he's on his feet and dropping to his knees in front of her, pulling her down to sit on the concrete with him. She needs this hug as much as he needs to give it — fuck being a hardass all the time, some moments call for something real.
He holds her tight against his chest, gently rocking as her ragged breathing slowly steadies. The neon lights of Night City paint them in shifting colors as he murmurs into her hair, worry bleeding through. "Fuck, V... What the hell was that about?"
"Not sure..." Her voice is muffled against his chest.
Johnny catches her chin with his metal hand, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. A chill runs through him at the emptiness he finds there — she looks fucking exhausted, worn down to nothing. "Thinkin' about eating a bullet, aren't ya? Saw how you were eyeing that iron back at Vik's..."
"Not the worst way out for me," she admits quietly, "but can't do it. You'd flatline with me."
"Damn straight you can't, and I won't let you anyway. We got options, and I ain't about to let you down now." His flesh hand traces the heart tattoo on her arm, a smirk playing at his lips. "Johnny and V 'till the end, remember?"
That pulls a weak laugh from her. "Right. Hey, weren't you supposed to be some legendary asshole or somethin'?"
"Not with you, princess. Those days are long gone," he says, meaning every word. She lets her head fall against his shoulder, and he presses his lips to her forehead, a gesture so gentle it would've shocked the old Johnny Silverhand.
“It was good you called. Wish I'd had the chance to," Johnny confesses, his voice unusually soft. After a heavy pause, he adds, “Come a long way to get here, haven’t we? Just think – it all started in a fuckin’ landfill.”
“Mhm. Then you tried to kill me.” V reminds him, a hint of their old banter creeping back into her voice.
“See, exactly what I mean. Tryna save your sorry hide now. You can let me do that. Or you can try Panam and her tarmac rats, but then their lives’ll weigh heavy on your soul. Or you take Arasaka’s ‘deal’, but then … you’ll have your own soul on your conscience.”
She stays silent for a minute. He knows the deal with 'Saka is off the table. And she wouldn't risk the life of her new best choom. He wishes she would let him take the wheels, but he knows — damn her kindness — she doesn't want to involve Rogue either.
“Kinda tough deciding which of your friends get to die, isn’t it? Good news is you got this on choom who’s already dead. And he’d be honored to join you on a wild, suicide run. You, me and Arasaka Tower. Kinda sounds like a Eurodyne lyrics, I know, but trust me — we’ll go fuckin’ nova.”
And — hell yeah! — his words seem to have rekindled a flame in her eyes.
“This plan, what would it entail, exactly ?”
“‘Plan’? Well, might be how Rogue operates. I say you grab the hottest iron you can find, stride the Tower’s front door and cut your own path down to the lower levels. If Mikoshi’s deep underground like Hanako claims it is, you’ll just have to find the elevator.”
“If I gotta die, rather fall into my grave gun in hand and on fire. And not drag anyone down with me.”
They share a knowing smile, and Johnny untangles himself from their embrace, rising to his feet. That spark's back in her eyes, the one that makes her pure V, and he makes a silent vow to keep it burning till the end.
“Huh, you just discovered what it takes to become a legend …” He takes her wrist, helping her to stand. “Grab your iron — let’s mobilize.”
Love of two is one
Here but now they're gone
Came the last night of sadness
And it was clear she couldn't go on
Then the door was open and the wind appeared
The candles blew and then disappeared
The curtains flew and then he appeared
Saying don't be afraid
Come on, baby
And she had no fear
And she ran to him
Then they started to fly
They looked backward and said goodbye
She had become like they are
She had taken his hand
She had become like they are
Come on, baby
Don't fear the reaper
As she's about to go through the Tower's security gate, she notices that Johnny is already three steps ahead of her, sporting that trademark shit-eating grin that screams trouble. He points at the nearest guard, eyes gleaming with mayhem. "Time to party like it's 2023."
Fuck yeah. They might not be packing a full arsenal — just a few grenades and Johnny's Malorian with spare ammo — but that iron's staying holstered for now. She's saving those bullets for one specific chrome-plated bastard, the one who murdered her friend decades ago. A promise made in that shitty room of the Pistis Sophia burns in her chest — as long as Smasher's still breathing, death ain't an option. If she has to reduce this whole fucking tower to rubble to keep that promise, so be it. She'll torch Night City to the ground to avenge Johnny. Until then, she'll keep fighting, no matter what hell comes her way.
V approaches the security guard who motions for her to halt. In one fluid motion, her mantis blades snap out with a metallic hiss, and before the guard can blink, his throat's opened wide. Blood sprays across her face like war paint, marking the start of her rampage.
Four more corpo rats in the room haven't caught on yet that death's come calling. V doesn't waste a heartbeat — her reinforced tendons fire like pistons as she launches herself at the nearest target. The blades slice through his ribcage like butter, and another body hits the floor.
The second guard's barely got his iron cleared from its holster before V's on him, moving faster than a greased bullet. His head parts company with his shoulders, painting the sterile corpo walls with an abstract of arterial red. The remaining guards are finally getting their shit together, but V's beyond caring — she knows Johnny's got her six.
“Careful, this’s their house. Got a gameplan all polished and rehearsed.”
She slides across the polished floor as bullets tear through the space she occupied a split-second ago. One graceful leap carries her onto her next target, mantis blades finding home in soft flesh. One more corpo fuck to go. He's fumbling with his reload, hands shaking like a junkie needing a fix. Drenched in blood and chrome gleaming, V knows she must look like every corpo's cyberpsycho nightmare. Maybe she's been riding that edge longer than she thought. But there's no time for that kind of soul-searching now.
A double jump launches her skyward, mantis blades dancing in the fluorescent lights, and another body joins the growing collection on the floor.
"Holy fuckin' shit, V! That was some next-level shit!" Johnny's practically vibrating with excitement. "Take a breather before the next round, you beautiful goddamn maniac!"
If this is gonna be her last night in Night City, might as well make it one for the history books — the merc who turned Arasaka Tower into her personal killing floor. As they push deeper into the lobby, V spots two massive security mechs already scanning for her position. Pressed against the wall's corner, she decides those grenades are burning a hole in her pocket. With practiced precision, she lobs them at the mechanical monsters. The explosion rocks the foundation, leaving nothing but smoking husks where the mechs once stood.
In the aftermath of the blast, V feels Johnny's chrome fingers brush against the nape of her neck, cool against her overheated skin. The gesture hits different now, knowing these might be their final moments together. Even in this blood-soaked chaos, his touch grounds her, reminds her she's not alone in this suicide run.
“‘Fore the first tower went up in smoke, labs were underground." Johnny explains, voice low and urgent. “Elevator’s what we want. Shit, needs an access token. Need to find a guard with some chops, status. He will have it.”
The sound of boots on marble announces another wave of corpo soldiers flooding the room. V takes a deep breath, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Time to paint these pristine walls red. No quarter given, no mercy shown.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
The lobby's fallen dead silent except for V's ragged breathing bouncing off chrome and marble. Her body's pushed to its limits after fighting through endless waves of corpo soldiers who kept coming like fucking roaches. But she's still standing, queen of this blood-soaked castle she's created.
Johnny takes a long drag of his pixel-perfect cigarette, watching as V meticulously flicks her mantis blades clean — a deadly dancer cleaning her props after the show. The chrome whispers back into her arms with that distinctive mechanical purr he's grown familiar with.
In his time, Johnny's run with Night City's deadliest solos, seen the best of the best at work, and while V might not be winning any sharpshooting contests — except with his Malorian, which she handles like it was made for her — her close-quarter combat skills make those legends look like drunk brawlers in a Watson back alley.
She moves like some chrome-enhanced spirit of vengeance, her small frame turning into a deadly advantage against opponents twice her size. How many Arasaka-trained soldiers did she just send to meet their corpo gods in under five minutes? Now she's wading through her own personal red sea, methodically searching corpses with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times before. Johnny watches her work, caught between awe and terror at this beautiful harbinger of death he's somehow grown to love.
Then she's beside him again, that wild post-fight smile lighting up her blood-spattered face as she dangles a magnetic card between them like a trophy. "Access token. Should get the elevator movin'."
To Johnny's absolute fucking disbelief, V casually lights up a cigarette she must've lifted off one of her victims. "Damn princess, you serious right now?" he asks, torn between amusement and concern.
V laughs, the sound echoing off the corpse-littered walls. "You really gonna give me shit about smoking? You?" She waves at his digital cancer stick with a smirk that's pure Night City attitude.
She moves toward the elevators with lethal grace, every step purposeful, like she owns this corpo temple she's just desecrated. Johnny follows, unable to take his eyes off this force of nature. The magnetic card grants them access, and they step into the elevator together. As they begin their descent into Arasaka's belly, V grinds the cigarette under her boot.
"V?" Johnny breaks the heavy silence.
"Yup?"
"You holdin' up okay?"
"Sure, sure." Her voice carries that edge he knows too well — the one that says she's running on pure adrenaline and spite.
"Huh. Netrun Operations Control — sounds like a good place to run a megafacility from."
"We plug in your output there, see how she settles in," V responds, checking her weapons one last time.
"Not really my output anymore.” Johnny corrects her softly, then adds with genuine concern, “I'd expect a warm welcome down below if I were you," Johnny warns.
"Good. If we're goin' out, it better be with fuckin' fireworks," V declares, and Johnny sees that familiar fire burning in her eyes — the same one he saw in his own reflection decades ago.
"Gonna be an ambush, no doubts. Just focus — you're better than them," Johnny encourages, his faith in her absolute and unwavering. After all, she's proven herself to be the best partner he could've asked for in this suicide run.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
"Sure hope your ex output performs as advertised," V says with a smirk, though her eyes remain sharp and alert.
"Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Johnny quotes with his trademark cockiness, but there's steel behind the bravado.
Alt's digitized voice suddenly fills the space, echoing through the tower's speakers like a synthetic goddess. "Security system overridden. I have assumed control. Personnel threat neutralized. Mikoshi awaits."
"C'mon, let's fuckin' move!"
"Arasaka netrunners have infiltrated the tower's systems," Alt's altered voice warns, "Stopping their advance takes priority. Proceed alone — I've cleared your path, but time is critical. Elite security forces are in pursuit."
They hit a dead end — a massive metal curtain blocking their way. Johnny calls out with diminishing hope, "Alt? You still with us?!" The silence that follows is deafening.
"What's the deal with this fucking door?" V growls, getting her hands under the metal barrier. Using every ounce of her augmented strength, she starts lifting — the door rising millimeter by agonizing millimeter. The sound of heavy, mechanical footsteps approaches from behind, and Johnny's the first to recognize that distinctive rhythm.
"Smasher!!" he shouts, voice tight with decades-old hatred.
V barely rolls under the rising door before Smasher's massive frame crashes through it like it's made of paper. She scrambles to her feet, facing the towering cyborg — more machine than man now, a monument to everything wrong with Night City's chrome obsession. He approaches with the casual menace of an apex predator.
"Pathetic meat. Bold. And Stupid." His synthesized voice drips with contempt.
V leaps back, mantis blades snapping out with a metallic hiss, her heart thundering against her ribs. Smasher seems almost amused by her show of defiance.
"You spared Oda. So very... human! And disgusting. Mercy is disgusting," he sneers, each word calculated to provoke.
Johnny watches, tension radiating from his digital form as V drops into her fighting stance. She's coiling like a spring, Sandevistan primed and ready, mantis blades gleaming under the harsh lights. Her augmented muscles tense as she prepares for a double jump, every fiber of her being focused on finding the perfect moment to strike.
"Where's Rogue?! The old cunt too scared to join this raid?! Once I'm done turning you into scrap, I'll hunt her down!" the borg's artificial voice booms through the corridor.
Just one more fucking second.
"This is your ruin!"
Now.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
"Is this... pain? I'd forgotten the sensation..." Smasher's synthesized voice wavers as he kneels, armless and defeated. V stands before him, eyes cold as steel despite the blood pouring from her leg wound. Her mantis blades retract with a soft hiss before she draws the Malorian, aiming it between Smasher's optics with unwavering precision.
"Johnny Silverhand sends his regards."
"Are you fuckin' with me now?" Smasher scoffs, disbelief in his mechanical voice.
V turns to meet Johnny's gaze, a moment of shared triumph passing between them. Her eyes soften just for him before she faces Smasher again, lips curling into a devil's smile.
"Took down Johnny's arch-enemy. Gotten good, I guess — damn, it feels nice," she savors every word like it might be her last.
The gunshot echoes through the chamber, and Smasher's chrome carcass crashes to the floor with finality. V staggers back, trying desperately not to put weight on her mangled leg. A Relic malfunction floods her vision with red static, and she collapses with a pained groan that tears at Johnny's soul.
Rolling onto her back, she lets out a hysterical laugh that bounces off the walls. "We did it, Johnny! Fuckin' zeroed the bastard!" Her voice rings with fierce triumph even as blood stains her teeth.
Johnny drops beside her, clutching her hand like it's his last anchor to reality. Her calf is a bloody mess, hemorrhaging too fast, and fear grips him like it never has before. "Thanks, V. Almost done now, sweetheart. Gotta get up, Mikoshi's right through that door," he urges, fighting to keep his voice steady while his world crumbles.
But her smile — that fucking smile that's become his reason for existing — breaks something inside him he thought died decades ago.
"Nah, Johnny. No fuckin' Mikoshi for me. Alt can blow the whole thing," she declares softly, her fingers tightening around his.
"The fuck are you talki—" Johnny starts, panic clawing at his throat, but V cuts him off with a gentle squeeze of his hand.
"Hey, shut up for once and listen!" Her voice is weak but determined. "It's over now. I'm done with this bullshit. I just... wanted one last wild ride together and to keep my promise about Smasher. Remember when you asked if I'd take a bullet for you on a battlefield? Well, I took a damn rocket," she explains, tenderness and exhaustion mingling in her words. She coughs up more blood but still manages to cup his cheek with her trembling hand, thumb wiping away tears he didn't know were falling. "Sorry to leave you with the body in such a lame shape," she whispers, trying to joke even now. "Hey, no tears, okay?"
But it's too late — for the first time in fucking forever, tears stream freely down Johnny's face, and he doesn't give a fuck about hiding them. This woman, this incredible fucking woman who changed everything, is slipping away, and he can't stop it.
"No time for that. Now you're gonna take the wheel, patch up the leg as best you can, and delta the hell outta here," she commands weakly, still trying to protect him even at the end.
"V, don't you dare..." Johnny pleads, voice cracking as he pulls her closer, pressing his forehead to hers.
"It's okay. Really. Body's yours," she says with gentle finality, her fingers tracing the lines of his face like she's trying to memorize them.
"Don't do this to me!!" Raw anguish tears through his words as he holds her tighter, as if his embrace could keep her soul from slipping away.
"Was really nova to meet you, Johnny." Her last words are barely a whisper, filled with all the love they never needed to speak aloud.
Johnny's back in control, and the pain that rips through him isn't just from their mangled leg. His screams echo through the empty corridor, raw and primal, tears streaming down his face unchecked. He wants to rage, to destroy everything around him like he did fifty years ago, but their fucked-up leg won't let him. V's just... given up, retreated to some dark corner of her own brain, waiting to fade away like she thinks she fucking deserves to.
He can still feel her, but it's different now — like trying to hold smoke in his hands. She's slipping away, accepting her fate with that same quiet determination she showed when she spared Oda, when she refused to drag Panam or Rogue into this suicide run. When she saved him. Always thinking of others, never herself. Stupid, beautiful, selfless gonk.
"No... no, no , NO!" His voice breaks as he starts crawling, leaving streaks of blood across the once pristine floor. Every movement sends white-hot agony through their leg, but he doesn't give a shit. Physical pain is nothing compared to the thought of losing her. "You can't do this to me! You fuckin' CAN'T! You don't get to check out like this, V! You hear me?!"
He drags their broken body forward, inch by excruciating inch, his determination fueled by fifty years of rage and loss and this new, devastating love he never expected to feel again. The door to Mikoshi seems miles away, but he keeps going, their blood marking his path like some twisted breadcrumb trail.
"Didn't let you die in that landfill," he grunts through clenched teeth, "Not gonna let you die here." Their leg is screaming, vision blurring from blood loss, but he won't stop. Can't stop. "Just... just hold on, princess. Almost there..."
He can barely feel her now, her presence fading like a dying echo. But he refuses to let go. Not after everything they've been through. Not after she showed him how to be human again. The door's just a few meters away, might as well be a fucking mile, but he'll get there if it kills him. He'll drag her stubborn ass back into this body even if he has to fight her for it.
"V!" A voice cuts through Johnny's despair, and his blood runs cold with recognition.
Fuck. With V's muscle memory guiding him, Johnny draws the Malorian in one fluid motion, aiming straight at the intruder. There stands Arasaka's loyal dog, Goro Takemura, looking like some corpo angel of death in his pristine white samurai suit that seems to mock the carnage around them. He holds a Shingen submachine gun in his hand, but thankfully, the business end is pointed toward the ground — small fucking mercy.
Takemura's augmented eyes scan the room methodically, before freezing on Smasher's demolished frame. His composure cracks for just a moment, genuine shock painting his face. The legendary psychopath, Arasaka's most feared enforcer, lies in pieces — arms torn off, his supposedly indestructible frame reduced to smoking scrap. Even in death, Smasher's chrome corpse radiates menace, a testament to the monster he was. Takemura's seen the borg's handiwork firsthand, knows exactly how many skilled operatives ended up as red mist trying to take him down.
His gaze snaps back to V's blood-soaked form, finally understanding just what kind of fight went down here. The fact that she's still breathing — even barely — after going toe-to-toe with Night City's deadliest killing machine is nothing short of miraculous.
Moving with calculated precision across the blood-slicked floor, Takemura steps carefully around Smasher's remains, as if the borg might somehow reactivate. The bodyguard stops just out of reach, finally seeming to register the hatred radiating from behind the gun barrel.
"V, I will not harm you..." Takemura's voice carries genuine concern, but Johnny's heard enough lies to last two lifetimes.
"Bit fucking late for that, isn't it?" Johnny snarls through gritted teeth.
With deliberate slowness, Takemura places his Shingen on the ground. Johnny studies his face with decades of paranoia and fresh memories of V crying herself to sleep after this bastard abandoned her. But all he sees in those chrome-rimmed eyes is raw panic and what looks like genuine worry. Slowly, against his better judgment, Johnny lowers the Malorian.
"You missed her by a minute. Want me to take a message? Though last time you left without saying goodbye, so maybe that's your style," Johnny's voice drips with venom, each word calculated to hurt.
The change in Takemura is instant — concern morphing into cold fury. "Silverhand. What have you done? Is she..." His hand twitches toward the discarded Shingen.
"Wow, calm the fuck down, 'Saka dog. Didn't do shit to her — unlike some people here, I actually give a damn about V. She's still in here... barely hanging on. Need to get her to Mikoshi, force her back in control before she fades completely," Johnny explains, every second of delay feeling like torture.
Takemura's chrome eyes flicker to V's blood-soaked form, genuine horror crossing his features. "And all this blood?"
Johnny looks down at their body, practically painted crimson. "Most ain't hers, but got a bad leg wound that needs attention," he explains with mounting urgency. "Well, you gonna help ‘er, or you gonna abandon her again when she needs you most?"
The barb hits home — Takemura flinches like he's been slapped. But his response comes without hesitation. "Tell me what must be done."
Johnny studies him for a long moment, weighing fifty years of corpo hatred against V's desperate need for help. Finally, he growls, "Right. Gotta connect her to Mikoshi — right behind that door. Once she's jacked in, I can drag her stubborn ass back where it belongs. But I swear, you fuck us over again, and I'll make sure these hands are the last thing you ever feel around your throat."
With a curt nod of understanding, Takemura moves to support Johnny, carefully wrapping an arm around V's waist to keep her injured body upright. Together, they make their slow, painful progress into a circular chamber that screams 'corpo tech' from every pristine surface. Their labored footsteps echo ominously as they approach the massive red pillar dominating the center — Mikoshi's physical heart, bathed in a crimson glow.
"Alright, alright, set her down here," Johnny manages through gritted teeth. "I'll jack her in, and you help me get her into the coolant. Just... just make sure she doesn't fuckin' drown, got it?" The tremor in his voice betrays his fear, despite his attempt at maintaining control.
Takemura hesitates, his chrome-rimmed eyes clouding with what looks suspiciously like genuine concern. "Silverhand..." he starts, choosing his words carefully, "I have conducted my own investigation, and there is a possibility that you both may discover some... disturbing information once you enter cyberspace. Should this prove true, I possess something that might aid you when the moment arrives. I sincerely hope I am wrong, and it will not be necessary."
Johnny's already fraying patience snaps like a worn guitar string. "Fuckin' cryptic as always, ain't ya? She's slipping away while you're playing twenty questions. No time for your mysterious bullshit."
Fighting through the agony in their leg, Johnny begins the connection sequence, carefully lowering V's body into the coolant. The liquid feels like ice against their wounds, and he can't completely suppress a hiss of pain. He catches Takemura's augmented eyes fixed on him with an unreadable expression and looks up to meet his gaze.
"Takemura."
"Mh?"
Johnny pauses, the weight of what he's about to do finally hitting him full force. He knows what's coming — knows that to save V, he'll have to let go. Leave her. Die. And fuck if that doesn't terrify him more than anything, not knowing what will happen to her. But V needs someone who'll have her back when he's gone. And despite everything — despite the anger, the betrayal, the corpo loyalty — Takemura came back. Maybe that counts for something.
"Ya better take care of her." His voice is soft but carries the weight of a dying man's last request. It's not just about keeping her head above water for the next few minutes — it's about all the minutes after, when he won't be there to watch over her anymore.
Takemura's eyes widen slightly, understanding dawning on his features as he realizes what Johnny's really asking. The bodyguard's usual stoic expression softens just a fraction, and he gives an almost imperceptible nod — a warrior's promise.
The darkness claims Johnny before he can say anything else, but somehow, he knows V won't be alone. It's not much, but it'll have to be enough.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
Without hesitation, Takemura's augmented eyes scan the massive pillar with military precision, searching for anything that might help save what remains of V. His attention locks onto several narrow slits beneath the connection port, and his hand moves to his pocket, retrieving a small metallic case with the practiced efficiency of a man used to planning for every contingency. Inside lie two biochips — one gleaming blue like Night City's neon skyline, the other blood-red like the wounds that brought them here. His cybernetic fingers select the blue chip, sliding it into one of the slits with surgical precision.
The seconds crawl by like years, each moment of silence increasing the weight in his chest. V's empty shell lies there, no breath, no pulse — just a vacant vessel waiting to be reclaimed. For once, Takemura's legendary patience feels more like a curse than a virtue. Then — finally — the biochip flares to life with an ethereal blue glow, confirming what he had dreaded. His jaw clenches, but there's no time for regret or second thoughts.
Moving with careful urgency, he lifts V's lifeless form from the coolant, water cascading from her chrome and clothes as he gently positions her beside the pillar. Her skin is death-pale, no sign of life in her still features. With steady hands that belie his inner turmoil, he retrieves the glowing chip from the pillar and approaches her neural port.
"Forgive me, V," he whispers in Japanese as he slots the chip into place, adjusting her head gently. "I hope this gift proves worthy of your trust."
Takemura kneels beside her motionless form, his usually stoic demeanor cracking under the weight of what's at stake. This woman — this incredible, infuriating, noble fool of a woman — had shown him a world beyond corpo loyalty, had made him question everything he thought he knew. And now her very existence depends on technology he barely understands, on desperate measures and last-minute gambles.
His lips move in silent prayer to whatever force might be listening. He's seen too much in his long service to believe in simple miracles, but for V, he's willing to hope for one. Time stretches like molten chrome as he maintains his vigil, his enhanced optics never leaving her face, watching for any sign of life returning to this empty shell.
Suddenly, V's body jerks violently, her back arching as if struck by lightning. Her first breath comes as a desperate gasp, like a drowning person breaking the surface. Color floods back into her pale cheeks, and her heart thunders to life beneath her ribs, fighting to remember its rhythm. Her fingers twitch, muscles remembering how to move, synapses firing back to life one by one.
"V!" Takemura's voice cracks with relief as her eyes finally flutter open.
But that relief turns to concern as he studies her gaze. Her eyes are unfocused, glazed with tears, staring through him rather than at him. She seems lost, disconnected, as if her consciousness hasn't quite settled back into her body. Takemura remains frozen, fear gripping his heart — has he failed? Was he too late?
Then, like dawn breaking through storm clouds, awareness begins to seep back into her expression. Recognition flickers in her eyes, weak but undeniable. Takemura kneels beside her, gently taking her hand in his, his voice soft with reverence. "You are alive, V. You are finally back."
"Goro?..." Her voice is barely a whisper, confusion clouding her features. "Where... where is Johnn—" The question dies on her lips as exhaustion claims her again. "...Johnny..." she manages weakly before slipping back into unconsciousness.
With a heavy heart, Takemura turns to the central column. He retrieves the red chip from his case and plugs it into the port. After a few moments, it pulses with a crimson glow — confirmation of success. He carefully removes it and returns it to its box. "I am only doing this for you, V," he murmurs softly.
Alt's artificial voice suddenly fills the chamber, emanating from hidden speakers. "Johnny has informed me of what you've done. A fair warning — I will now proceed to destroy Mikoshi from within. Nothing will remain."
Despite his focus on V's unconscious form, Takemura's military instincts snap to attention at the unknown voice. His eyes dart around the chamber, decades of training making him assess potential threats even as he cradles V protectively closer. Yet the voice's message resonates with his own intentions.
"Whoever you are," he responds with grave certainty, "ensure it is thorough. This abomination must never rise again." His attention returns immediately to V, her shallow breathing driving him toward the exit as the first sparks begin to dance across Mikoshi's pillar surface.
With practiced care, he gathers V's limp form into his arms, one hand supporting her knees while the other cradles her shoulders. Her head rests naturally against his neck, each shallow breath a reminder that she's still fighting. Medical attention is crucial now. He moves swiftly toward the exit, his stride purposeful despite his precious burden.
Behind them, Mikoshi's central pillar begins to spark and crackle with arcs of blue electricity. While Takemura takes satisfaction in knowing this technology will soon be destroyed, he knows time is critical. He needs to reach the elevator and get V to the roof, hoping his arranged backup hasn't been delayed.
Notes:
♫ Chapter Song: Blue Oyster Cult - (Don't Fear) The Reaper
Author's rambling: Hey! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! In the next one, we're gonna need to rewind. Hopefully, it'll all make sense, and I didn't end up writing too much nonsense as English isn't my strong suit. I have a few more chapters already written, and I'll be posting the next one in a week's time.
Chapter 2: The Passenger
Summary:
Let's restart all this mess once again :)
Chapter Text
I am the passenger
I stay under glass
I look through my window so bright
I see the stars come out tonight
I see the bright and hollow sky
Over the city's ripped back sky
And everything looks good tonight
“If you intend to live, you must reenter the ring. The bell has already tolled. Tom’s Diner. I am waiting.”
The man on the other end of the line abruptly ends the call, leaving V with a static-filled silence that seems to mock her. With a deep sigh, she recognizes the truth in Saburo Arasaka's former bodyguard's advice; she needs to regain her composure and fast. But seriously, did he really need to be such a gonk about it?
She knew better than to keep him waiting, though. V hauls herself off her sofa, making her way across her modest apartment, each step a reminder of the ticking time bomb in her head. Living in Megabuilding H10 isn't so bad, all things considered. Sure, the apartment ain't exactly a corpo penthouse, but it's optimized to be comfortable enough for a merc on the rise. Despite the neighbors being louder than a Maelstrom rave, the building's smack dab in the heart of Little China in Watson. It's a stone's throw from both Vik's ripperdoc clinic and the Afterlife — perfect for patching up and picking up jobs. V feels a personal connection to the place that goes beyond convenience; it's where Jackie helped her find a home.
V's heart sank as she recalled the memory of her friend's death. Flashbacks of her choom's lifeless body being left with Delamain, destined for a one-way trip back to his family, cause her breath to catch in her throat. The memory stings, but V doesn't have the luxury of drowning in her emotions right now. She's painfully aware that if she doesn't find a solution to her condition soon, she'll be joining Jackie, and time's ticking away fast.
Shaking off the ghosts of the past, V strides over to her closet, rummaging through her collection of clothes. She snags a simple dark gray tank top, giving it a quick sniff to confirm its freshly laundered scent. Satisfied, she shucks off the pajamas Misty had given her on a previous visit — a touching gesture that V appreciates more than she'd ever admit — and pulls the tank top on.
Next comes a pair of jeans so faded and comfortable they might as well be a second skin. They hang low on her hips, but a belt keeps them from entering truly scandalous territory. After checking the outside temperature on her Kiroshis, she decides to throw on a light, camo-patterned, sleeveless green jacket.
V glances at herself in the mirror, noting with a smirk that there's nothing particularly interesting to watch. Still, she reminds herself that Takemura has seen her in a much worse state before. Hell, he'd scraped her off the garbage heap where Dex had left her to rot. At least this time, he won't be telling her she smells like shit. Small victories, right?
She saunters into her bathroom and begins to touch up her hair. Her fingers dance through her locks, rearranging the side-swept strands until they fall just right, the longest deep blue-dyed pieces cascading over her collarbones. She notices the shaved portion on the left side of her skull could use some attention, but she shrugs it off. That's a problem for tomorrow's V.
Out of sheer vanity, she dabs on a little perfume. The sweet blend of rhubarb, vanilla, and woody notes fills the cramped bathroom, momentarily masking the ever-present smell of the city. As a finishing touch, she applies a smudge of black eyeshadow to her eyelids, giving her gaze an added intensity.
V makes her way back towards the front door, each step filled with determination. She slips on her combat leather boots, adorned with metal spikes on the back of the heel. They're as much a weapon as they are footwear, and she ties the laces tight.
At last, she's as prepared as she'll ever be to face Takemura and whatever new shitstorm Night City's cooked up for her. Time to meet the man who saved her life, and maybe, just maybe, figure out how to save it again. With a deep breath, V steps out into the neon-drenched chaos of Night City. The game's still on, and she's not about to fold.
Since Tom's Diner ain't far from her digs, V decides to stretch her legs and walk, hoping the brief jaunt might help clear the static from her brain. She could find her way to Tom's blindfolded and hammered, having hit the joint with Jackie more times than she can count after jobs that stretched 'til the neon started to fade. They'd always cap off their night by stuffing their faces with syrupy pancakes, a ritual that now brings a bittersweet smile to V's lips as she navigates the grimy, bustling streets.
V could brag about knowing Night City well. Some neighborhoods, like Heywood where she cut her teeth and learned to survive, are etched into her bones more than others. During her two-year exile in Atlanta, she couldn't shake the ache for home - this concrete jungle of broken promises and shattered dreams. It's a city that'll chew you up and spit you out, but it's her city, dammit.
Before she knows it, V's standing outside Tom's Diner, the greasy smell of frying oil assaulting her nostrils and reminding her empty stomach that it's been too long since she's had a proper meal. She pushes through the door, the bell jingling overhead, and spots her mark almost immediately.
Goro Takemura is sitting here, nursing an orange cup of coffee — tea ? — in his hands, while staring out the window like he's trying to solve all of Night City's problems with his gaze alone. V takes a moment to size him up from the doorway. His face is a mask of indifference, but there's no missing the coiled tension in his shoulders beneath that crisp white shirt. The collar's undone, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the chrome work on his neck. His black hair, streaked with long ribbons of gray from the temples, is pulled back into a tight, no-nonsense bun. V finds herself wondering about his age - late forties, fifties, maybe older? In this day and age of rampant body modification, age is just a number some ripper can change on a whim. Some gonk looking barely out of their thirties could be pushing eighty, all thanks to top-shelf implants and fancy corpo rejuvenation treatments.
V bites the inside of her cheek, her mind drifting back to the first time she laid eyes on Takemura at Konpeki Plaza. She'd been cowering behind a massive pillar, trying her damnedest not to piss herself or give away her position. Watching him glide down those stairs in a suit that probably cost more than her entire year's earnings had left her slack-jawed and trembling. Even with Adam Smasher's nightmare-inducing bulk in the room, it was Takemura who'd made her blood run cold, his aura screaming 'apex predator' louder than any neon sign. He'd scanned the place methodically, optics glowing an eerie red, checking every shadow and crevice to ensure his employer's safety. When he'd walked right up to her hiding spot, stopping mere inches from her face, V had been equal parts terrified and fascinated. In her panic-addled state, she'd had the absurd thought, 'fuck, he's hot,' without even realizing it.
As the embarrassing memory comes flooding back in vivid detail, V figures something must've been seriously wrong with her noggin, even before that damn chip decided to play demolition derby with her gray matter. She's always had a thing for danger, treating it like a drug she can't quit, but getting the hots for a guy who'd flatline her without so much as blinking during a high-stakes heist? That's a whole new level of fucked up, even for her.
Shaking off her thoughts, V strides towards the table, the rhythmic clunking of her boots catching Takemura's attention. His eyes methodically scan her from head to toe before he barks an order to sit down, his voice carrying the weight of someone used to being obeyed. V rolls her eyes at his bossy demeanor but complies nonetheless, sliding into the worn vinyl seat across from him. Takemura continues, his voice a mix of surprise and approval,
“You do not look so bad. Then, in the car, I doubted you would survive.”
“Why’d you help me, anyway?” V leans back, crossing her arms defensively.
Takemura's response is immediate and matter-of-fact. “I needed you to live. That hasn’t changed.”
“This about the biochip ? That’s why I’m here ?” she can't help but ask, her voice tinged with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
Takemura leans forward, his cybernetic eyes seeming to bore into V's soul as he carefully chooses his words. “Mh. I hear it is damaged beyond repair. Any attempt to extract it would be disastrous, fatal for you.”
V's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Huh. Vik likes to talk, I guess…”
“Not many could do what he did. You should be thankful.” he admonishes, his tone carrying a hint of respect for the ripperdoc's skills.
V's grateful for Vik and knows that without his help, she'd be pushing up daisies by now. She redirects the conversation to the main point, her voice taking on a more serious tone, “What’s it you actually want from me?”
The conversation between V and Takemura grows increasingly frustrating for both as they hash out the topic of Evelyn Parker. Realizing that the discussion was leading nowhere, V decides to get up and leave. But Takemura interrupts her exit strategy, his hand landing on her shoulder with surprising gentleness, encouraging her to sit back down.
V glances sideways at Takemura's hand, her eyes tracing the intricate metallic lines that adorn his long fingers, wondering what kind of high-end cyberware he's packing. She can't help but think about how many lives those hands may have ended, efficient and deadly. A disturbing thought creeps into her mind — what sort of feeling his hand would produce if it moved a few centimeters to wrap around her throat, the cold metal a stark contrast to her warm skin. Dammit, V! Focus!
Turning her head away to avoid looking at his hand, V finds herself caught in Takemura's gaze, which appears desperate and intense. She's completely derailed by him, suddenly aware of how close he's gotten while trying to prevent her from leaving. Her hormones are going haywire, and she can't ignore the sudden, unwelcome attraction she feels towards him.
Then he softly speaks — oh, the way he says her name !— "V, wait. I need you." And just like that, she knows she's in deep shit, her resolve crumbling like a house of cards. She gives in and sits back down, while silently cursing and wondering why she always finds herself in these fucked-up situations. She hopes her pale skin isn't betraying her with a telltale blush, despite her growing embarrassment.
They chat for a while, exploring their options like two rats trying to find their way out of a maze. But Takemura keeps shooting down V's ideas with the precision of a sniper, insisting that their only choice is to seek help from Arasaka. It's complete bullshit, V thinks, her frustration mounting. The guy only cares about avenging Grandpa 'Saka and the megacorporation, his loyalty unshakeable. V has zero faith in this plan. Even if they succeeded in their mission, why would Arasaka lift a finger to help her? Out of gratitude? Hell nah. V isn't that gonk.
They agree that she should pursue other leads while the man tries to contact people who may have remained loyal to him. They promise to keep the other informed of their respective progress. Getting up from the booth, he asks her to contact him if she finds Hellman. Sure, why not.
After what feels like hours of circular arguments, they finally agree that she should pursue other leads while the man tries to contact people who may have remained loyal to him. They promise to keep the other informed of their respective progress, a fragile alliance forged in desperation. Getting up from the booth, Takemura's voice takes on a softer tone as he asks her to contact him if she finds Hellman. Sure, why not. Finding the guy is crucial to her survival, the key to unlocking the answers she's been searching for.
As Takemura leaves, his presence lingering like the aftertaste of strong coffee, V can't help but feel a little confused. She isn't sure if this meeting will prove to be a positive development or just another dead end in the labyrinth of Night City. But she knows she has to be cautious, her instincts screaming at her to stay alert. She can't let her guard down just because she feels attracted to Takemura, no matter how alluring his mysterious aura might be. The consequences could be disastrous, and V has already learned that lesson the hard way, the scars of past mistakes still fresh. She has to stay focused on her mission and trust nobody, not even the man who saved her life. Trust is a luxury she can't afford, and survival is the only game that matters.
V barely has a moment to process her encounter with Takemura when the world around her glitches, and Johnny Silverhand materializes, dropping nonchalantly into the seat Takemura had just vacated, his rockerboy swagger filling the space. The last time V had seen him, the digital terrorist had been openly hostile, ready to flatline her without a second thought. Now, he's lounging across from her, acting like they're old chooms sharing a drink. V winces, her head throbbing as she tries to guess what fresh hell he has in store for her.
As if nothing had happened, Johnny launches into a monologue, his voice dripping with cynicism, "Zapper-dumple and filth. In some way, Night City never changes. Arasaka’s still a despotic machine, and the world’s on a collision course with chaos. But hey, at least Rogue’s still alive.” He practically melts into the booth, throwing his feet up onto the table with a resounding thud, boots gleaming under the diner's harsh fluorescent lights. V gives him an incredulous look, wondering what the hell he's playing at.
“You know, you got some nerves." V hisses, her voice low and dangerous. "First, you’re out to kill me, now you wanna be my pal ? Make like nothing happened ?”
“You know you don’t gotta speak out loud to talk to me ?”
V's previous exclamation had drawn several curious glances from other customers, their eyes gleaming with interest. She can't help but feel irritated by their sudden attention, rolling her eyes at their reactions. Duh. It was hardly unusual for people to talk to themselves in Night City — half the population was probably conversing with their own personal demons right this second.
“What do you want ?!” V growls, this time keeping her lips sealed and projecting her thoughts directly at the infuriating construct.
“I’ve processed some shit, changed my mind. Don’t want you dead anymore.”
V raises an eyebrow. Oh, that's so kind of him. “Go fuck yourself, dickwipe !”
“Hey, wasn’t easy for me, either." Johnny retorts, his voice taking on a defensive edge. "You woke up in a landfill, I woke up in your head. Wrestling with your thoughts, memories. Think we’re even. And I’ve taken a step back, looked at things… Think we might be able to help each other. We could start with Rogue. Her and I go back to the stone age.”
Damn, that shit really pisses V off. First Takemura trying to force her to go crawling back to Arasaka, and now Silverhand wanting her to beg for help from the damn Queen of Fixers? Fuck that noise. V never appreciated being told what to do.
When V was a teenager and seriously considering becoming a mercenary, she was told that due to her weak build, her only chance was to turn to netrunning, or at the very least specialize in long-range weapons. But due to her argumentative nature and sheer stubbornness, V instead opted to focus on hand-to-hand combat. Even though today she couldn't launch a ping or even shoot straight to save her life, give her a dagger, knife, or saber and V becomes an incredibly dangerous opponent. With her current katana, which she lifted from Saburo Arasaka himself, she was downright lethal.
V narrows her eyes in annoyance, her mental voice dripping with venom, “You’re the ghost of Christmas past, asshole. Any friend you had’re either dead or so old their memory’s gone.”
"Johnny Silverhand died a legend," he counters, his ego practically radiating off his digital form. "Nobody forgets that." He punctuates his statement by sliding his aviators back on, the gesture making V's skin crawl.
V cringes at Johnny's audacity, her patience wearing thin. She has far better things to do than deal with his egomaniacal delusions. “So you fuckin’ know Rogue. What do I say to her ? Got a talking brain tumor claims it’s her old friend Johnny ?”
Johnny's laugh is sharp and bitter, like cheap tequila burning down your throat, “Trust me, Rogue’s heard dumber shit than that. Way back when you weren't even an itch on your daddy’s ballsack.”
“Don’t need convincin’," V retorts, her mind flashing with unwelcome images. "Seen your memories. Gross.”
“Rogue’ll dance to any tune I play her." Johnny boasts, his confidence bordering on delusion. "Just get us to the Afterlife.”
V lets out a heavy sigh, feeling more exhausted by these useless conversations she had today than if she'd just gone ten rounds with a cyberpsycho. While she could walk away from Takemura — if she wasn't so easily distracted by the man's charm — she can't really avoid the voice that's taken up permanent residence in her skull. So, for once, she agrees to let someone else have the last word, if only to shut him up.
“Okay fine, Johnny. Let's go see Rogue. She's the best lead we got to find Hellman” V concedes.
“Hah! You can be reasonable sometimes!” Johnny crows, his smug satisfaction grating on V's last nerve.
"Can you just shut the fuck up now, please?" V snaps, her frustration boiling over lik
After the interaction with Johnny, V immediately bolts from the diner, feeling too drained to even consider choking down the greasy food or watered-down coffee. She knows she can always grab a drink at the Afterlife if she needs to take the edge off. After the nerve-wracking start to her day, a cold beer — or whiskey, depending on how things go with Rogue — sounds like a slice of heaven.
She steps out into the neon-drenched streets of Night City and can't help but wonder what fresh hell awaits her at the Afterlife. Between Takemura's misplaced loyalty to Arasaka, Johnny's wild schemes, and now the prospect of facing down the legendary Rogue, V feels like she's juggling live grenades. With a deep breath, V sets off towards the Afterlife, ready to face whatever chaos the city decides to throw her way next.
As V weaves through the bustling streets leading to the Afterlife, she's forced to dodge honking cars and swerving motorcycles, her reflexes honed by years of surviving in Night City. The acrid smell of exhaust fumes and the constant buzz of neon signs assault her senses, a stark reminder of the city's relentless pace. Despite a few near misses that set her heart racing, she eventually arrives at her destination, a mixture of relief and irritation coursing through her veins.
Descending the worn concrete steps, V gives a curt nod to Emmerick, the hulking bouncer whose cybernetic eyes scan her briefly before allowing her passage. She pushes her way through the throng of mercs and wannabes, their voices a cacophony of deals being made and broken. The air is thick with the scent of cheap cigarettes, alcohol and sweat.
V sidles up to the bar where Claire is mixing drinks. They exchange pleasantries, Claire's voice tinged with genuine sympathy as she offers condolences for Jackie's passing. With a flourish, she creates a drink in his honor — ‘The Jackie Welles’ — a concoction as bold and vibrant as the man himself. V accepts the drink gratefully, raising the glass in a bittersweet toast to her fallen choom.
As V makes her way towards Rogue's private booth, the atmosphere shifts. The legendary fixer is embroiled in a heated argument with a younger woman, their voices rising above the club's pulsing beat. V hesitates, caught between approaching and retreating, but the decision is made for her as the woman storms off, shoulder-checking V as she passes, uttering a warning to be careful who she was doing business with.
V turns back to Rogue, who seems utterly unfazed by the altercation. She guesses that the fixer had seen it all before, and it was just another day in the life of this kind of woman. The fixer's steel-gray hair and sharp eyes speak of decades of dealing with Night City's worst. With a deep breath, V approaches the table and slides into the seat across from her.
As they begin to talk, Johnny materializes behind his former flame, his digital form flickering in the club's neon glow. "All these years... It's really her. Fuckin' Rogue, just kickin' it back on a couch at the Afterlife," he muses, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "Don't mess with 'er. She's got MR-eyes. See right through you. Give 'er the truth," he advises V, his tone uncharacteristically serious.
V finds herself trapped in yet another exasperating dialogue, this time with the legendary Rogue. The fixer's reputation for competence is well-earned; she could undoubtedly unearth the information V desperately needs with minimal effort. However, Rogue's expertise comes with a hefty price tag — 15,000 eddies, a sum that eclipses V's carefully hoarded savings for her dream of installing a pair of Mantis Blades.
The thought of postponing her coveted upgrades is a bitter pill to swallow. Despite the ticking clock of her condition, V's stubborn pride refuses to let her dip into those hard-earned savings. With a resigned sigh, she informs Rogue that she'll return with the eddies later. She knew that the next few days were going to be a painful grind for her. She would likely have to take on a series of thankless gigs just to scrape together the funds she needed to pay Rogue.
Disappointment weighing heavy on her shoulders, V exits the Afterlife, the pulsing bass fading behind her as she steps into the neon-drenched night. She leans against the club's grimy wall, her mind racing as she considers her next move.
Who could she contact to quickly find a job and collect the eddies necessary to pay Rogue? Regina seems like a solid option — capturing cyberpsychos is dangerous as fuck, but the payout could be worth the risk. Alternatively, she could try to get in touch with Wakako, the old fixer with whom she's built a decent rapport. Maybe the cunning old lady could arrange a rescue mission or some other type of high-stakes gig to help V quickly gather the funds she desperately needs.
In a burst of electric blue light, Johnny materializes beside her and, for once, he keeps his trap shut. Oddly, behind her own sense of annoyance, V feels something else - a strange cocktail of disappointment, regret, and a hint of sadness. But those feelings ain't hers. Nor is the nicotine craving that's been gnawing at her since her convo with Rogue.
She observes the digital construct out of the corner of her eye. He, too, leans against the wall, his trademark aviators hiding his eyes. While his closed-off face doesn't reveal much, V can tell from the way he fiddles with his rings and the tension in his shoulders that he's wound tighter than a spring.
V weighs her options. She's still pissed at the rockerboy's attitude, given their previous violent altercation and the bullshit conversation earlier. But she also feels his discomfort almost as if it were her own, and that's a seriously unpleasant sensation. She thinks back to the man's proposal from their meeting at Tom's Diner, where he'd said they could help each other. Despite his cocky demeanor, V decides to extend an olive branch and try to put their previous conflict behind them.
“Hey, you okay?” V asks the man beside her, trying to sound casual despite the weirdness of talking to a digital ghost.
The man doesn't seem eager to cooperate, his response barely convincing. "Mh? Sure, whydja ask?"
Despite his reluctance to open up, V can sense that something's off. As they stand together in silence, she suddenly gets a whiff of his physical craving — the urge for a cigarette hitting her like a punch to the gut. "Look, I know that's not true. Probably a Relic effect," V says, trying her best to sound reassuring. "Just like I can sense that you're dying for a smoke."
The man continues to look at her with a frown, seemingly ready to spit out some snarky remark. Undeterred, V quickly adds, "Do you want me to find us one?" in a friendly tone, hoping to ease the tension by offering him something he's clearly jonesing for.
Johnny's attitude does a complete 180, from annoyed to surprised. He raises an eyebrow and pushes his sunglasses down to assess V closer, like he's seeing her for the first time."Huh, ya don't smoke," he says, clearly bewildered by her offer.
V shrugged it off. “I used to smoke back in the day, but I kicked the habit. But I can tell you're itching for one, so you want me to grab us a pack?”
Johnny nods his agreement, and V gives him a quick nod back. She saunters over to a group of young punks chilling on the steps leading to the Afterlife. After a brief chat and exchange of eddies, V returns with a few cigarettes. She hopes that this gesture will help thaw the ice between them.
V sparks up a cigarette, and instantly, Johnny feels the calming effect of the nicotine through their bond. They stand against the wall in companionable silence while V finishes the smoke. She stamps out the butt with her heel, grinding it into the dirty pavement. Without facing him, she murmurs, "I can't say I missed it, but it makes me feel better."
Johnny ain't the type to easily show gratitude, but he appreciates what V just did for him. So, he decides not to say thanks, but at least say something. "Seein' Rogue like that, it was fuckin' weird."
"Like what? Old?" V asks, curious about what's eating at the rockerboy.
"Nah, it ain't about 'er age," he says with disdain dripping from his voice. "It's about how she's parkin' 'er ass on a damn couch, hiding behind some fuckin' gorilla in the Afterlife. She used to be one of the most badass mercs I knew, but now she's all about the damn business," he spits out the last word like it's poison, "trying to charge you a freakin' astronomical fee for info that could be the key to saving your life."
V stays quiet for a moment, chewing on Johnny's words. Then she sighs, the sound heavy with resignation. "I get it, man. It sucks. But that's how it is with fixers. Can't fuss over the price, or I'll screw things up with one of Night City's top dogs."
Johnny seems content to let V carry on, so she continues, her voice tinged with frustration. "I got some eddies stashed for upgrading my chrome."
"Use 'em," Johnny insists, a hint of impatience in his voice. "The sooner we pay Rogue, the sooner we get what we want, the sooner we fix this shitshow."
"Ain't that easy," V pushes back, her stubbornness rearing its head. "Long-term, that's not the right call. We dunno where this'll go. Might have to spend even more cash before it's over. Better chrome means I can tackle risky, high-payin' jobs."
"Alright. C'mon, let's roll," Johnny says, a hint of respect in his tone. "Time to get you some jobs that'll fill your pockets." With that, he disappears into thin air, leaving V alone with her thoughts once more.
V peels herself away from the wall and slips the leftover cigarettes into her pocket. Determinedly, she makes her way to her apartment, feeling a newfound motivation to gear up and find some lucrative work that'll help her get back on track. As she walks through the neon-drenched streets, V can't help but feel a strange mix of hope and trepidation. She's just taken the first step towards an uneasy alliance with Johnny Silverhand, and only time will tell if it's the right move. But in Night City, sometimes you gotta dance with the devil you know, even if that devil is a digital construct living rent-free in your head.
Get into the car
We'll be the passenger
We'll ride through the city tonight
See the city's ripped backsides
We'll see the bright and hollow sky
We'll see the stars that shine so bright
Oh, stars made for us tonight
As the days blur into a neon-soaked haze of gunfire and cold coffee, V's life becomes a relentless hustle through Night City's grimy underbelly. Johnny, a silent observer in her mind, watches with a mix of grudging respect and irritation as she tears through Watson's mean streets, chasing every eddie like her life depends on it — which, in a fucked-up way, it kinda does.
V's taking on gigs that'd make most mercs shit their pants: from petty smash-and-grabs to high-stakes rescue ops where she's pulling hostages outta the fire like some chrome-plated avenging angel. She don't even flinch at the dirty work of putting gonks in the ground, slicing through enemies with a cold efficiency that sends a clear message to anyone dumb enough to cross her — fuck with V, and you're asking for a one-way ticket to the afterlife.
As she rakes in the bounties from the NCPD, leaving a trail of bodies and spent casings in her wake, Johnny can't help but feel a twinge of admiration for her balls-to-the-wall attitude. The way she navigates Night City's treacherous landscape, dancing on the razor's edge between life and death, reminds him of his own glory days — not that he'd ever admit it out loud.
During these action-packed days, Johnny's interactions with V begin to take on a slightly friendlier tone, though he still finds the young merc annoying as hell — her smart-ass mouth, invasive thoughts, and those godawful kleptopunk outfits grate on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Little irritations like her habit of drinking cold coffee and blasting that ear-bleeding noise she calls music — Tinnitus, for fuck's sake, seriously? — only add fuel to the fire of his frustration. Her inability to shoot straight pisses him off to no end, and she's always throwing herself into messy close combat instead of picking off enemies from a safe distance like any sane person would. Let's not forget her late-night fantasies about that 'Saka bastard who pulled her outta the trash, or the endless stream of fixer calls at all hours.
But hey, at least Johnny ain't bored outta his skull anymore. It's a hell of an upgrade from being, y'know, dead and all. There's something kinda entertaining about being stuck in the head of someone with a bit of wit. They've had some decent moments, even shared a few laughs, like when V had to haul the Flaming Crotch Man to a ripperdoc. After dumping the poor bastard at the clinic, they spent ages in the car, cracking jokes and laughing their asses off at his expense.
And then there's the cat. Just a couple days back, they found the scrawny thing practically on V's doorstep. Of course, she took the little fucker in, grabbed some grub, and set up a shitter for her. She even went along with Johnny's name suggestion — Nibbles. Now the hairless gremlin's made herself at home in V's apartment.
Johnny's always had a soft spot for cats, and this one's no exception. Sometimes, Nibbles stares right at him, like she can actually see Johnny when she shouldn't be able to. These moments make Johnny feel like his existence is acknowledged, like he's actually real. It's a nice little boost for his fucked-up psyche.
As the days blur together in a haze of gunfire, neon, and cold coffee, Johnny finds himself almost enjoying this bizarre second chance at life. Sure, it ain't perfect — far from it — but it's something. And in Night City, sometimes that's all you can ask for.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
After busting her ass non-stop for over a week, V finally scrapes together enough eddies to cover both her chrome upgrades and Rogue's fee for the intel she's after. She's beat to hell, sporting a collection of bruises that'd make a prize fighter wince, and there's a nasty gash on her arm where a stray bullet decided to say hello. But fuck it, she's got the cash now. A fat stack of eddies, and she's earned herself some serious street cred with the fixers, too. In record time, she's made it clear that V ain't just another gonk with a katana — she's a force to be reckoned with, reliable, efficient, and professional as fuck. The go-to merc for jobs that need to be done yesterday and done right.
V's riding high on a wave of good vibes. Even Johnny seems to have given up on his ‘let's wreck V's life’ campaign, staying mostly cordial these days. Sure, he still tosses sarcastic remarks her way like confetti at a corpo party, but V don't sweat it. If anything, his jabs tend to crack her up more often than not.
After giving Nibbles a quick scratch behind the ears, V heads out of her apartment, humming along to the elevator's tinny background music like she's starring in her own personal music video. She's off to the subway to hit Wellsprings, where a ripperdoc's got those fancy mantis blades she's been dreaming of. Even though her wheels are still in the shop after that clusterfuck with the rogue taxi — which reminds her, she's gotta have a word with Delamain about that — and she's gotta deal with the sardine can that is Night City public transport, nothing's gonna rain on her parade today.
V rolls up to the ripperdoc's clinic right on time, greeted by a sight that's rarer than a honest corpo — a doc with no visible implants. The guy's built like a brick shithouse, with short black hair and muscles that could bend rebar. After a brief chat about his surprising lack of chrome, V lays out her upgrade wishlist and hops into the medical chair, ready to get sliced and diced.
The clinic's clean as hell, and the doc works with precision and speed. After a lengthy operation, V admires the sleek metallic lines marking her forearms where her new blades will emerge. Feeling flush with eddies and high on the promise of new tech, she decides to splurge on some subdermal armor too. Hell, with these shiny new enhancements, she figures she'll make back those spent eddies in no time.
Strutting out of the clinic like she owns the whole damn block, V's itching to take her new combat mods for a spin. Since she's still in Heywood, she decides to ring up the local fixer, Padre, to see if he's got any small-time gigs that need doing. Lady Luck must be riding shotgun today, 'cause Padre's got just the thing — a simple snatch and grab job for a Militech SUV that's been boosted by some Valentinos with more balls than brains.
A few minutes of hoofing it through Heywood's neon-drenched streets, and V's staring down the garage where her target's stashed. She takes cover behind a nearby crate, scoping out the scene. She counts about a dozen Valentinos, which should be manageable if she plays her cards right. V cooks up a plan to take them out in small groups, keeping things quiet and clean — well, as clean as things can get.
Finally, she spots her opening — two Valentinos who've wandered away from the pack, probably looking for a place to spark up. V moves in like a shadow, her new blades unfolding with a whisper of steel on steel. Before the gonks can even register what's happening, V's on them like a cyber-ninja outta hell, taking them both out with efficiency.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
The rest of the job goes smoother than synthetic skin, and within ten minutes, V's behind the wheel of the Militech SUV, cruising towards the drop-off point with a shit-eating grin plastered across her face. She can't get over how preem her new combat mods feel, especially those blades — they're an extension of her body, fluid and deadly as a river of mercury.
After delivering the vehicle and basking in Padre's congratulatory call, V checks the time and realizes it's already mid-afternoon. Rogue's likely holding court at the Afterlife by now, so V gives herself a quick once-over for any telltale bloodstains before heading to the club.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
V weaves through the packed crowd in Afterlife, her eyes locked on Rogue's booth. In Night City, every second counts, so she wastes no time with pleasantries. As soon as she's within earshot, she transfers the agreed-upon amount and announces,
"Got the cred for the Hellman job."
Rogue's response is as cool as ever. "Fine," she says, her cybernetic eyes flashing crimson as she initiates a holo call. "Andres Hellman — flick me the detes."
With a subtle nod to the bartender, Rogue signals for drinks and gestures for V to join her in the booth. She regards V with a mix of curiosity and respect.
"Don't see that often, determination like yours. Must really need this guy."
V's reply is blunt, her voice tinged with urgency. "Matter of life and death."
A wry smile plays on Rogue's lips. "Heh. Haven't heard that for a while, either."
As Claire arrives with their drinks, Rogue instructs her to leave the bottle. The fixer and the merc raise their glasses in a silent toast, while Johnny observes from the sidelines, his gaze fixed on Rogue with a mix of nostalgia and something harder to define.
The moment is interrupted by the arrival of a young man who silently slides a small box in front of Rogue before disappearing into the crowd. Without missing a beat, Rogue retrieves a chip from the box and slots it into her neural port.
Johnny shakes his head, his voice dripping with disbelief. "Queen of the Afterlife. Who woulda thunk..."
As the data streams through her system, Rogue's cybernetic eyes pulse with blue light. She turns to V, her expression unreadable. "Got a shard for you — intel, interesting stuff."
V takes the proffered chip, her eyes scanning the information as Rogue outlines the plan to extract Hellman. The job is a paradox — simple in concept, yet dauntingly complex in execution. They'll need to intercept a Kang Tao AV before it reaches Night City's airspace and extract Hellman from it. The catch? It'll require venturing into the Jackson Plains, deep in the Badlands — territory V's unfamiliar with.
Sensing V's unease about the unknown terrain, Rogue suggests bringing in someone who knows their shit about the area. V asks if Rogue's got anyone in mind, and she fires back without missing a beat. "Panam Palmer. She can't count on her clan anymore, but she's a true nomad. She knows those lands. And she will help you. Won't have a choice."
“‘Won’t have a choice’?” V repeats, frowning, “Does not sound enticing — not for her, not for me.”
Rogue's laugh is sharp and humorless. “Enticing comes at a price you can’t possibly afford.”
V's jaw sets, determination flashing in her eyes. “Can’t possibly afford to blow this chance at nabbing Hellman.”
“Your operation, your call,” Rogue shrugs, her nonchalance a stark contrast to the gravity of the situation.
Johnny, still perched on the edge of the table, looks as uneasy as V feels. He leans in, his voice low and urgent. “Gotta bad feeling, V,” Johnny alerts her with a troubled expression.
Taking Johnny's warning to heart, V turns back to Rogue, her voice laced with suspicion, “Why’s Panam gotta help me? I sense a catch. Pretty big one.” she inquired.
Rogue's expression sours, but she answers nonetheless. “Occasionally, Panam moves merch for me. Last job… well, wasn’t a good day for her.”
“She run into a hitch?” V probes, sensing there's more to the story.
“Complete bust, actually” ogue confirms, her tone matter-of-fact. “Lost the goods and her ride. Panam’ll do anything to get the load back. Means her dignity — I know her.”
V nods slowly, processing the information. “Ok, I guess I can try to help her. But if we don’t kown where to look, I mean…”
“We do. I do.” Rogue interjects.
V fights the urge to roll her eyes. Of course, this woman knows every fucking detail. "Fine," she says, resigned. "Lemme hear what you know.”
“Rocky Ridge, ghost town just outside Night City. Panam knows where. You’ll go there, get the merch back. Wheels, too. Naturally, you’ll call her first. Sendin’ you her detes.”
“All clear. Thanks.” V says, standing up.
Johnny's getting antsy, his spectral form pacing behind her, “Ugh, finally. Let’s get outta here.”
V couldn't agree more. Dealing with Rogue is like trying to crack a safe — every bit of information comes at a price, and you never know if you're getting the whole story. After a curt "good luck" from the fixer, V makes her way out of the Afterlife, her mind already racing with plans and contingencies.
Once outside, V takes a moment to catch her breath, the cool night air a stark contrast to the stuffy interior of the club. She fishes out a pack of smokes, offering one to Johnny out of habit. He nods, a ghostly smile playing on his lips. V's come to realize that these small gestures — sharing a smoke, exchanging quips — help keep the peace between them. Besides, she admits to herself, she's missed the habit more than she'd care to admit. Fuck her struggles to quit smoking in the past.
As she lights up, savoring the first drag, V pulls up her holo to make the call. A young woman's face appears, her features sharp and wary. V recognizes her as the same woman who'd warned her about Rogue on her first visit to the Afterlife.
"This Panam?" V asks, trying to keep her tone neutral. "V here."
Panam's response is immediate and bristling with suspicion. "V who? V where? How did you even get this number?"
Fantastic, V thinks, suppressing a sigh. Seeing Panam's obvious annoyance, she decides to cut straight to the chase. "From Rogue," she says, bracing for the reaction.
"Oh. Great. Fuck." Panam's face contorts as if she's just bitten into something sour. Her voice drips with sarcasm as she asks, "Where's that old war horse want to kick me now?"
V tries to smooth things over, keeping her tone light. “This thing between you and Rogue? Couldn’t care less. Got a job for you.”
“Good," Panam replies, her voice laced with frustration, "but I’m overextended for the moment.”
V sees her opening and takes it. “With the merch and your car? Getting ‘em back ? I can help with that.”
There's a pause, and V can almost see the gears turning in Panam's head. Finally, she responds, her voice cautious but tinged with hope. “The rail freight yard on Bonita Street, the one hugging the city line. We’ll meet there.”
“See ya.” V replies, ending the call with a quick tap.
As the holo fades, V takes stock of her situation. The meeting spot's a fair distance away, and this part of the city's notorious for its shit public transport. She realizes with a mix of excitement and trepidation that she's gonna have to boost a car to make it on time.
With a final drag on her cigarette, V flicks the butt away and heads into the shadowy alleys, her eyes scanning for a suitable ride to jack. As she moves, her new mantis blades hum beneath her skin, a reminder of the danger and opportunity that await. Whatever comes next, V knows one thing for certain — Night City's about to get a whole lot more interesting.
Notes:
♫ Chapter Song: Iggy Pop - The Passenger
Hey ! First thing, thanks so much for the Kudos and the bookmarks !
Hope you all enjoyed this chapter ! See ya soon ♥
Chapter 3: You've Got a Friend
Summary:
Because how to not love Panam.
Notes:
Version 2.0 :)
Wow, long time no posting, sorry chooms ! I'm sorry, was busy falling in love with Astarion (and a bit Gale and Karlach too) from Baldur's Gate 3.
✿ It's Phantom Liberty time ✿ I really hope for a happier ending for V & Johnny (sadly I don't have many hopes for Goro :/ )
Enjoy this chapter ♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
You just call out my name
And you know, wherever I am
I'll come runnin'
To see you again
Winter, spring, summer or fall
All you have to do is call
And I'll be there
You've got a friend
Johnny sprawls across the back seat of Panam's rust bucket, invisible to the nomad chick who's oblivious to the rockstar ghost chillin' behind her. The two women up front are yakking away like there's no tomorrow, their voices filling the car as they cruise towards the Aldecaldos' camp. Johnny can't help but smirk at the instant chemistry between them — it's like watching two long-lost sisters finally reunite at a family barbecue, only with more guns and less potato salad.
Despite the occasional bickering and snapping at each other, Johnny catches the smiles that dance across their faces during the conversation. Through his psychic link with V, he senses her feeling incredibly at ease in Panam's company. It's like watching two puzzle pieces click together, and Johnny knows from experience that sometimes, two people are just destined to cross paths.
As the desert landscape rolls by outside the window, Johnny's thoughts drift to Kerry for the first time since his unexpected resurrection. He remembers the day they first met, that instant connection that sparked between them. From the get-go, they both knew they were gonna be tight, even if they didn't exactly expect the same things from each other. Sure, they'd met under shittier circumstances than these two chicks, but it didn't matter — they clicked anyway. Now, as he watches the budding friendship before him, Johnny can't help but hope that Ker is still alive and kicking, doing great just like good ol' Rogue. He hopes his old friend managed to overcome the Silverhand disaster and carve out a life for himself.
Lost in his musings, Johnny's pulled back to the present when he hears Panam insulting Rogue, calling her a ‘frigid old bitch.’ He can't help but laugh — if only Panam knew how not-frigid Rogue used to be. As the car slows, approaching the nomad camp, it stirs up memories for Johnny of his time hiding among the nomads after the clusterfuck that resulted in Alt's death. But before he can sink too deep into those troubled recollections, the car grinds to a halt, and the doors swing open.
V trails after Panam as she strides towards two men waiting for them at the camp's edge. The nomad's face lights up with a cheerful smile as she greets them warmly, then introduces V to the duo. Panam wastes no time diving into the reason for their visit, explaining to Mitch and Scorpion the shitty situation she's found herself in and how desperately she needs their help. However, things don't pan out as Panam had hoped. Mitch and Scorpion reluctantly inform her that they can't leave the camp to lend a hand, their expressions a mix of regret and frustration.
Panam's frustration builds visibly, her face clouding over as she starts cursing about someone named Saul. V, piecing things together, figures this must be the clan's leader — and clearly not on Panam's Christmas card list. When Plan A falls through, Panam switches to Plan B — borrowing gear. To her visible relief, the two men readily agree, offering words of encouragement before she storms off into the camp, determination etched in every step. V has to jog to keep up, not wanting to lose sight of her new ally in the bustling nomad camp.
As they weave through the encampment, several nomads call out to Panam, greeting her warmly and peppering her with questions about the latest news. They also inquire if she's planning to return to the fold, their voices tinged with hope. These interactions leave V pondering why Panam, who's clearly valued by her clan, would choose to leave it all behind for the neon-drenched streets of Night City. She can't help but wonder if it's all tied to this Saul character who keeps coming up.
They arrive at a small olive-green tent, its interior cramped with two uncomfortable-looking beds, tightly wrapped sleeping bags, an assortment of gear, and a smattering of tools. Leaning against a battered chest is a formidable sniper rifle, which Panam scoops up before asking V to carry a mysterious box emblazoned with the Militech logo. Laden with their newly acquired items, the two women make their way back to the car, loading everything into the trunk before bidding farewell to Panam's friends and climbing back into the vehicle.
The drive to Rocky Ridge passes in a blur of dust and conversation, giving the two young women a chance to really get to know each other. As V had suspected, Panam's got some major issues with her clan's leader, which drove her decision to ditch the nomad life and try her luck in the big city. It's clear as day that Panam's got a problem with authority figures, but V can't help but appreciate this shared trait. There's something refreshing about Panam's blunt honesty and fierce independence that resonates with V, making her feel like she's found a kindred spirit in this dusty corner of the Badlands.
The ghost town they roll into is a real shithole, the kind of place that makes you wonder if the apocalypse came and went without anyone noticing. Abandoned buildings stand like rotting teeth in a dead man's mouth, their windows dark and empty. Wrecked cars, more rust than metal, litter the streets like discarded toys. Sand, that eternal invader of the Badlands, seeps into every crack and crevice, slowly reclaiming the town for the desert. It's a place frozen in time, silent except for the occasional whisper of wind through empty doorways.
Despite the desolate surroundings, V feels an odd sense of calm wash over her as she takes in the ruins. There's something almost peaceful about this forgotten place, like the world's most depressing meditation retreat. Before long, they cook up a plan to set up an ambush for the Raffens, moving with the efficiency of two people who've known each other for years, not hours.
With everything set up, V positions herself on the roof of a small building near the fusebox. The corrugated metal creaks under her weight, warm from the day's heat. She settles in to wait, her eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the Raffens. The sun hangs low in the sky, painting the desert in shades of orange and red, like the whole world's on fire.
Suddenly, Johnny materializes beside her, his form shimmering slightly in the fading light. "Got a smoke?" he drawls, his tone suggesting he's not really asking so much as demanding.
V rolls her eyes so hard she's surprised they don't fall out of her head. "Not familiar with the word 'please', huh?" she retorts, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Ah, fuck off," Johnny fires back, but there's a hint of amusement in his tone. He clears his throat dramatically before continuing, "V, you sweetheart, light of my days, princess of all fuckin' gonks, can you please, pretty please smoke a cigarette for me?"
V can't help but giggle, her good mood infectious. She fishes out a cigarette and lights it, taking a long drag before blowing the smoke right in Johnny's face.
"You're welcome, you asshole," she says with a grin. As she continues to smoke, the familiar scent mixing with the dry desert air, she asks, "So, Panam, what do you think of her?"
Johnny takes a moment, his spectral form shifting as he considers. "Gotta say, I like her. Girl's got a pair. Honestly, V, never thought I'd ride with the nomads again." He pauses, his expression unreadable. "I know, I know she left the Aldecaldos, but you can feel it too, can't you? Clan's in her blood and bones. In her heart. Don't think she'll let us down."
"As long as we don't mess up the mission, and make sure we get her car back," V agrees, flicking ash off her cigarette. The ember glows bright in the gathering dusk. "But yeah, got a good feelin' about her too." She takes another drag before asking, curiosity getting the better of her, "So, you hanged out with nomads before, Johnny?"
"Yeah, for two years, near fuckin' New Mexico. With Santiago..." Johnny trails off, his voice taking on a distant quality. He seems to be looking at something far beyond the horizon. "One time, we really messed up a job. We had to haul our asses far away from Night City, or we were totally fucked."
V senses there's more to the story, but she doesn't push. Sometimes, with Johnny, it's better to let sleeping dogs lie. The sun sinks lower, casting long shadows across the abandoned town. The warm glow bathes everything in a surreal light, making the decrepit buildings look almost beautiful in their decay.
As they wait, the anticipation builds, thick and heavy in the air like the calm before a storm. V can feel it in her bones, that familiar mix of excitement and fear that comes before a job. She checks her weapons one last time, the cool metal a comforting weight in her hands. In the distance, a cloud of dust rises on the horizon. The Raffens are coming, and it's showtime.
The mission goes south faster than V can blink. SHer plan to sneak around and snag Panam's car key without a sound goes to shit when a Raffen chick with a mohawk catches her red-handed. V's forced to take her out, but the damage is done. She's been spotted, and all hell breaks loose. Thank fuck for Panam and her sniper skills, raining down cover fire from the rooftop as V dives into the fray, guns blazing. Together, they mow down the Raffens, leaving nothing but corpses and silence in that eerie ghost town.
As they rifle through the bodies, V's fingers close around Panam's car key. She hands it over, feeling a rush of satisfaction. But Panam's face is stormy — Nash, that backstabbing prick, is still in the wind, and Panam's thirst for revenge is far from quenched.
The ghost of Dexter Deshawn's betrayal still haunts V, a constant reminder of unfinished business. Takemura may have denied her the pleasure of personal payback, but she'll be damned if she lets Panam suffer the same fate. So when Panam suggests they track down Nash and his Raffen buddies, V's all in, come hell or high water. Rogue and her orders can go fuck themselves.
They leap into the Thorton, Panam gunning the engine with a vengeful roar. As they tear towards the hideout, the air inside the car turns blue with a barrage of curses, both women unleashing their pent-up rage against the traitors who've wronged them. The vehicle hurtles into the gaping maw of a tunnel mine, its headlights cutting through the oppressive darkness. Panam, her eyes glinting with determination, glances at V. "Ready?" she asks, her voice tight with anticipation. V nods, her body already thrumming with adrenaline. Without another word, Panam floors it, sending them charging deeper into the cavern.
They screech to a halt as their adversaries come into view, the Raffen gang members materializing like specters in the gloom. In a heartbeat, V and Panam are out of the car, weapons at the ready. V's Mantis Blades slide out with a metallic hiss, gleaming wickedly in the dim light. Panam's rifle is already spitting lead, the muzzle flash illuminating her face in staccato bursts.
What follows is a symphony of violence, a brutal dance of blood and chrome. V's Mantis Blades whirl and slash, cutting through flesh and bone with terrifying ease. She's a whirlwind of death, her enhanced reflexes allowing her to dodge bullets while dealing out swift, merciless strikes. Panam, meanwhile, is a force of nature with her rifle, each shot finding its mark with deadly precision. The air fills with the acrid smell of gunpowder, the metallic tang of blood, and the agonized screams of the dying.
Through the chaos, V spots Nash, the architect of their misfortune, attempting to flee up a metal staircase. With inhuman speed, she closes the distance, her Mantis Blades singing through the air. In one fluid motion, she plunges the razor-sharp blades deep into Nash's gut, the chrome extensions easily piercing through flesh and internal organs. Nash's eyes widen in shock and pain as V, with a grunt of effort, hefts him over the guardrail. As Nash plummets, V calls out to Panam, ensuring her friend doesn't miss this moment of retribution.
From her vantage point, V surveys the carnage below. Bodies litter the ground, some still twitching in their death throes. Satisfied that the threat has been neutralized, she descends the stairs, her boots clanging against the metal steps. On the ground, she finds Nash, a broken and bleeding mess. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he futilely tries to stem the flow of blood from his ruined abdomen.
Panam approaches, her face a mask of cold fury. She levels her gun at Nash's head, the barrel mere inches from his sweat-soaked face. "Burn in Hell," she snarls, her voice dripping with venom. The gunshot echoes through the cavern, deafeningly loud in the sudden silence. Nash's head explodes in a gruesome display, bone fragments and brain matter painting the ground in a macabre abstract. The light fades from his eyes as what's left of his ruined skull thuds against the blood-soaked earth.
Panam doesn't even blink at the gory aftermath of her vengeance. Her fingers are already dancing across her phone screen, scrolling with purpose until she finds Rogue's number. When the call connects, her voice bubbles with unbridled excitement, like a street kid who just pulled off their first big score. But as the conversation unfolds, Panam's face darkens, her triumphant grin twisting into a scowl that could curdle milk.
V tries to give Panam some privacy, but in the echoing cavern, every word bounces off the walls. Johnny materializes beside her, his digital form flickering in the dim light. His face is a mask of disgust and disappointment as he listens to Rogue's voice. "Fuck me, V. That ain't the Rogue I knew," he growls, shaking his head. V bites her tongue, resisting the urge to remind the spectral rocker that fifty years is a long time, even for Night City.
The call ends with Panam spitting out a "fuck" so venomous it could melt chrome. She jerks her head towards the exit, a silent command that brooks no argument. They're back in the Thorton before V can blink, Panam's fingers already punching in another number. This time, it's some 6th Street lowlife, hammering out the details for the drop-off of their hard-won loot.
The drive to Sunset Motel stretches out in tense silence, broken only by the rumble of the engine and the occasional crackle of the radio. When they pull up, three guys are lounging against a van, their postures deceptively casual. But V's seen enough street fights to recognize the coiled tension in their stance, the way their eyes dart around, always alert.
Panam's out of the car in a heartbeat, all business as she strides towards the 6th Street crew. V, her nerves still singing from the earlier firefight, eases her door open. Her fingers brush the grip of her pistol, ready to draw at the first sign of trouble. After all, in Night City, a deal's only as good as the firepower backing it up.
Lady Luck finally decides to throw them a bone, and the deal wraps up smoothly. Panam even scores a fat bonus for her trouble, a rare win in this fucked-up city. With the 6th Street goons in the rearview, Panam's mood lightens like a storm cloud breakin'. She turns to V, a grin playing on her lips, and suggests they wet their whistles to celebrate. Without waiting for an answer, she's already making tracks for the motel, leaving V to play catch-up.
As V hits the stairs leading up to the bar, her world goes sideways. Her vision fritzes out like a cheap BD, and the coppery taste of blood fills her mouth. She spits, red droplets splattering on the worn steps. A message flashes across her retinal display, Relic Malfunction Detected. Fuck. V grits her teeth, riding out the wave of nausea and disorientation. After a few agonizing moments, the glitch subsides, leaving her shaky but functional. She straightens up, takes a deep breath, and pushes through the bar's entrance.
The joint's a real dive, the kind of place that makes you want to take a shower just by looking at it. The floor's tacky underfoot, a cocktail of spilled booze, blood, and fuck-knows-what-else that's probably been accumulating since before the Unification War. Faded posters plaster the walls, their edges curling in the humid air, while half-dead neon signs struggle to cast their sickly glow over the patrons. The lights flicker and buzz like they're on their last legs, matching the weary vibe of the place.
Despite the grungy atmosphere, or maybe because of it, the sparse crowd seems oddly at home. Loners nurse their drinks in dark corners, while small groups huddle around rickety tables, sharing war stories or plotting their next score. There's an unspoken agreement here — everyone's got their own shit to deal with, so mind your own fucking business. V's eyes scan the room, quickly spotting Panam. The nomad's already claimed a spot at the bar, leaning casually against the scratched surface as she chats up the bartender — it’s obvious she’s a regular here. The easy smile on Panam's face is a stark contrast to the intensity from earlier, like she's shed her battle-ready persona along with the desert dust.
Wanting to give Panam some time to chat with the man, whom she seems to know well, V takes the opportunity to check her messages. Amongst the usual spam from fixers trying to offload overpriced wheels, she finds a message from Mama Welles, simply asking V to give her a call back. The young merc's heart sinks as she reads the message, a mix of guilt and dread washing over her. She knows she can't keep Mama Welles waiting any longer, despite the fear gnawing at her gut.
With a heavy sigh that seems to come from the depths of her soul, V decides to bite the bullet and make the call. She's been avoiding this conversation, unsure of what to say to someone who has lost their only son while she herself survived. A part of her screams that it should have been the other way around, that it should have been Jackie who lived, who deserved a future more than she did. The weight of survivor's guilt sits heavy on her shoulders as she hits the call button.
To V's surprise and relief, the call goes relatively smoothly. Despite the guilt churning in her stomach for not reaching out earlier, V senses that Mama Welles doesn't hold it against her, or at least not too much. The older woman's voice is warm, if tinged with sadness, as she informs V that an ofrenda for Jackie will be held the next afternoon. V readily confirms her attendance, eager to pay her respects to her fallen choom and to support the woman who had once embraced her with such kindness.
As soon as the call ends, V pushes aside the lingering emotions and rushes over to join Panam at the bar. As she approaches, she notices the nomad seated on a worn red barstool, a half-empty beer already in hand, and another one waiting for V. The sight of the cold brew is a welcome distraction from the heavy thoughts swirling in her mind.
V slides onto the nearby barstool, intent on drowning it all out with a drink to commemorate their victorious mission. The two women raise their glasses, toasting to the recovered Thorton and their blossoming friendship, the clink of their bottles a small celebration in the dingy bar. Panam swiftly finishes her second beer, and V inquires about Hellman's extraction plan. Panam responds with a lazy grin, explaining that they'll need a good night's rest at the motel before getting down to business the next day.
V lets out a weary sigh and rubs her temples, feeling the day's exhaustion start to weigh on her like a ton of bricks. She swivels on her stool and signals the bartender for another round of beers, the prospect of more alcohol a welcome distraction from her heavy thoughts. Turning back to Panam, she continues their conversation, her voice tinged with a mix of fatigue and resolve.
"I won't say no to a good night's sleep, and we can hash out the details in the morning. But here's the thing — we'll have to put a pin in the action for a bit. I've got something I can't miss back in Heywood early afternoon tomorrow. It's non-negotiable."
Panam takes a swig of her Broseph Ale, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "No sweat, V. Your op, your rules," she says with a shrug. "Let me guess — hot date?"
V chuckles, but the laughter dies quickly on her lips, replaced by a somber expression. "Shit, I wish it was a date. It's... it's for my best choom. He kicked the bucket recently. His family's throwing an ofrenda, and I gotta pay my respects."
"Fuck, V. I'm sorry," Panam's voice softens, genuine concern replacing her earlier playfulness. "What happened to him?"
V hesitates, weighing her options. There's something about Panam that feels right, like the beginnings of a real friendship. Trusting her gut, V decides to lay it all out. She scans the bar, making sure no one's eavesdropping, then leans in close to Panam, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "You remember that clusterfuck at Konpeki Plaza a few weeks back?"
Panam's eyebrow shoots up. "The murder of one of the richest gonks on the planet? Even buried in the ass-end of the Badlands, I couldn't have missed that shit. It was all anyone could talk about for days."
"Well, Jackie and I were smack in the middle of that shitstorm," V reveals, her voice a mix of sorrow and frustration. "We were on a job, trying to swipe something valuable, when we ended up front-row to grandpa Arasaka getting flatlined. We tried to bail, but I was the only one who made it out breathing. Jack', he always had my back, throwing himself in the line of fire. Used to say he was fucking bulletproof. This time... this time he wasn't."
A lone tear threatens to spill from V's eye, glistening in the dim bar light. She swipes it away with a quick, angry motion before it can make its traitorous journey down her cheek, leaving a faint smear of grime in its wake.
"They pegged us for the old bastard's killers. Can you believe that shit? As if Arasaka's top-shelf troops weren't enough of a nightmare, we had the whole hotel staff on our asses too." V shakes her head, a humorless chuckle escaping her lips. "We managed to get to a car before they caught up, but Jackie... he was fucked up bad. Multiple gunshot wounds, blood everywhere. He didn't make it to our meeting point."
V pauses, her fingers tightening around her beer bottle until her knuckles turn white. When she speaks again, her voice has hardened, edged with a razor-sharp anger that could cut glass. "I had to ditch his body in the car, tell the AI to take him back to his family. Can you imagine how that felt? Leaving my best friend's corpse behind like yesterday's trash?" She takes another long drink, draining the bottle. "I had to meet the fixer who set us up for the job. But this fucking coward, he got spooked, thought he'd be linked to the murder. Wanted to tie up loose ends, get rid of any witnesses to the heist. So he put a bullet in my skull."
To illustrate her story, V forms a makeshift pistol with her fingers and presses it against her temple, tracing the path of the scar left by DeShawn. Though the mark's nearly invisible after surgery, she can still feel it, a phantom reminder of her brush with death. Panam watches, mouth slightly agape, captivated by the motion.
"I survived by some fuckin' miracle. Woke up in a goddamn landfill, surrounded by trash, just in time to see that backstabbing fixer get his brains blown out by Saburo Arasaka's ex-bodyguard. Talk about karma, right? And now, get this — they're tryin' to pin the old man's murder on this bodyguard, like he's some kinda accomplice in a grand conspiracy. So this bodyguard, he drags my half-dead ass to a ripperdoc, saves my life, but in doing so, he robs me of my chance to get some sweet, bloody payback on that scumbag fixer who tried to zero me. And now, as if my life wasn't complicated enough, he wants me to team up with him to expose the truth about his boss' murder. Like I don't have enough shit on my plate already, you know?"
V falls silent, taking a long pull from her beer to soothe her parched throat. Panam gawks at her, eyes wide as saucers, and seizes the moment to chime in. "Holy shit, V!" she exclaims, her outburst drawing a bleary-eyed glance from a nearby drunk. Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she continues, "This is some crazy shit, and I gotta hear more. But not here. Hey, Noah!" she hollers, catching the bartender's attention. "Toss me a bottle of whiskey, will ya? And we'll need a room. Twin beds. Just for tonight."
Noah slides a bottle towards the nomad before flinging her a key attached to a garish plastic keychain. V shoots Panam a quizzical look.
"So what, we hittin' the sack already?"
"Nah," Panam responds, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips. "We're havin' ourselves a good old-fashioned slumber party, complete with booze and a blow-by-blow of your wild-ass adventures. Don't worry, I'll drive you back to Night City tomorrow morning. You'll make it to the ofrenda with time to spare."
"Fuck it, why not!" V chuckles, pushing herself off the barstool. "Never had a chance to do the whole slumber party thing before. Let's do this!"
Panam nods, snagging the whiskey and key as she follows V's lead. They weave their way towards the exit, tossing a friendly nod to the bartender. Sidestepping a garish snack vending machine and a couple so wasted they're practically melded together, they make their way to room 206 in the rundown motel, ready for a night of drinking and storytelling.
If the sky above you
Grows dark and full of clouds
And that old north wind begins to blow
Keep your head together
And call my name out loud
Soon you'll hear me knockin' at your door
The room is a perfect reflection of the motel's overall state of disrepair. Two twin beds of dubious cleanliness are separated by a rickety bedside table, its surface scarred and stained from years of abuse. Atop it sits a lamp that looks like it's one flicker away from giving up the ghost. In one corner, a cheap plastic table is flanked by two equally flimsy chairs, their surfaces marred by cigarette burns and mysterious stains. The floor is a minefield of discarded trash - empty beer cans, crumpled fast food wrappers, and other unidentifiable detritus left behind by previous occupants who clearly didn't give a shit about tidiness. A thin film of grime coats every surface, testament to the establishment's lackadaisical approach to housekeeping. The bathroom, if you can call it that, is little more than an afterthought. Instead of a proper door, a tacky acrylic bead curtain sways gently, offering the barest illusion of privacy. The whole place reeks of stale cigarette smoke and cheap air freshener, a futile attempt to mask the underlying mustiness.
Despite the room's sorry state, neither V nor Panam seem particularly bothered. They've both crashed in far worse dumps before, and right now, any horizontal surface that isn't actively crawling with vermin looks like the Konpeki Plaza.
Panam sets the whiskey bottle on the bedside table with a dull thunk before flopping onto the right-hand bed. She lets out a long, satisfied groan as she sinks into the lumpy mattress. After the day they've had, even this sorry excuse for a bed feels like a slice of heaven. V kicks off her combat boots, grimacing slightly at the funk that wafts up, before clambering onto the other bed. She leans back against the wall, the peeling wallpaper rough against her skin.
Panam pushes herself up, grabs the bottle, and takes a hearty swig. The cheap whiskey burns going down, but it's a welcome warmth. She passes the bottle to V before breaking the silence.
"So, first slumber party, huh?" she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.
V takes a pull from the bottle, wincing slightly at the harsh taste. "Yeah, unless you count growin' up in a gang-run orphanage in Heywood. We had like six kids crammed into each room, bunk beds stacked three high. Not exactly the kinda place for heart-to-hearts and makeovers, you know?"
"Shit, that's a rough way to start out," Panam says, her tone softening with sympathy.
V shrugs, passing the bottle back. "It's pretty fuckin' standard for Night City. Can't really bitch about it — at least I had a roof over my head and usually enough grub to keep my stomach from growling too loud. But yeah, not exactly what you'd call a party atmosphere."
"Damn straight, that doesn't count," Panam declares, taking another swig. "So come on, spill it. Tell me about this heist that went tits up."
V hesitates for a moment, weighing the risks. Talking too much about the job could potentially land her in even deeper shit, but something in her gut tells her she can trust the nomad. Maybe it's the alcohol loosening her tongue, or maybe it's just the desperate need to unburden herself to someone who isn't tied up in this whole mess. Whatever the reason, V takes a deep breath and begins to tell her story, the words spilling out like water from a broken dam.
"Alright, here's the fuckin' deal," V starts, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She pauses as her peripheral vision glitches, Johnny materializing against the bathroom wall. Behind his ever-present shades, his face remains impassive, arms crossed over his chest. Though he stays silent, his presence is a palpable reminder of the shit-storm V's found herself in. Taking a deep breath, she plunges on.
"Me and Jackie, we got tapped for this gig to swipe some high-tech bullshit from Yorinobu Arasaka's swanky-ass penthouse at Konpeki Plaza. We're talkin' top-shelf security, the works. So there we are, right in the goddamn room, when our netrunner starts freakin' out, saying Yorinobu's on his way back. No time to bail, so we had to hunker down. Within seconds, Yorinobu struts in with his fuckin' bodyguard. Ever heard of that psycho chrome-job, Adam Smasher?"
Panam nods, a shiver visibly running down her spine, while Johnny's expression tightens, his jaw clenching visibly.
"So this walkin' tank of a borg is just lurkin' there, and I swear those dead-ass eyes of his are borin' right through our hidin' spot," V continues, her voice a mixture of awe and lingering fear. "But before we can really start shittin' ourselves, an AV touches down on the penthouse pad. And who steps out? None other than the big man himself, Saburo fuckin' Arasaka."
"Hold up," Panam interjects, her eyes wide as saucers. "You're tellin' me you had a front-row seat to old man Arasaka's last moments?"
V reaches for the bottle, taking a long pull before continuing her tale. "It gets even more gonk than that. So the old bastard shows up with his personal attack dog..."
"The one who ended up pullin' your ass outta the fire, right?" Panam cuts in.
"Yeah, that's the one. But hang on, there's more shit to wade through before we get there. So this bodyguard, Takemura, he does a sweep of the room. Walks right past us, coulda reached out and touched the guy. But then, the Arasakas go all cloak-and-dagger, tellin' their muscle to take a hike. Once it's just father and son, things go from tense to fuckin' nuclear. Out of nowhere, Yorinobu just... snaps. Launches himself at the old man, starts chokin' the life outta him right there."
"No. Fuckin'. Way!" Panam gasps, her jaw practically hitting the floor.
"Oh, you better believe it, chica," V responds, her tone deadly serious. "This is some grade-A, classified shit we're talkin' about here. Needs to stay between us, got it? This kinda intel could get you flatlined quicker than you can say 'corpo backstabbing'. The less people know about this clusterfuck, the better chance we all have of keepin' our heads attached to our shoulders."
“Don't worry. My lips are sealed," Panam assures, miming a zipper across her mouth. "So, what the fuck went down after that?"
V takes a deep breath, her eyes momentarily unfocusing as she recalls the chaos that followed. "Yorinobu locked down the whole damn hotel faster than you can say 'cover-up.' He fed everyone some bullshit story about his old man being poisoned. When Takemura got back to the room, I could see it in his eyes — he wasn't buyin' what Yorinobu was sellin'. We managed to slip outta the room eventually, but had to make a gonk move and jump onto a lower roof to dodge a patrol. That's where Jackie got fucked up. And just to put the cherry on top of this shit sundae, the tech we were supposed to swipe got damaged in the fall... but that's a whole other can of worms. Like I said before, we made it out of Konpeki by the skin of our teeth, but Jackie... he didn't make it. When I met up with my fixer, the bastard decided to tie up loose ends. Next thing I know, I'm starin' down the barrel of his gun."
"Fuck, V. And here I thought I had it rough with shady fixers. You've been through the wringer," Panam says, her voice laced with sympathy.
V shakes her head, pushing away the flood of dark memories threatening to overwhelm her. "After the shot, everything went dark. Woke up in a goddamn landfill where that piece of shit dumped me. As I'm diggin' myself out of the trash, who shows up? The fixer himself, with Takemura hot on his heels. But as soon as Takemura thinks he's got what he came for, he puts a bullet in the fixer's skull. Turns out, Takemura had called Yorinobu, thinkin' he'd found daddy's killer... That's when shit really hit the fan. Yorinobu must've freaked, 'cause he couldn't risk anyone pokin' holes in his poisoning story. Next thing we know, we're dodgin' Arasaka assassins left and right. We barely made it out alive, and Takemura managed to drag my ass to a ripperdoc. But now he's persona non grata at Arasaka — they've branded him a traitor, maybe even an accomplice to Saburo's murder. Me? I'm flyin' under the radar for now. My name hasn't been officially tied to this clusterfuck... yet."
Panam nods slowly, her brow furrowed as she processes the information. "Fuck, V. That's one hell of a shitstorm you've landed in. I can't even begin to wrap my head around what you've been through."
V takes another long pull from the bottle, her expression a mix of weariness and determination. "Yeah, Night City's a real bitch sometimes. But hey, I'm still breathin', right? Gotta keep pushin' forward."
Panam reaches over, giving V's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "That's the spirit, chica. So now this Takemura guy wants to blow the lid off this whole mess?"
V sighs, her gaze distant as she contemplates her situation. "Yeah, he's askin' for my help. Says he can lend me a hand with... a pretty fuckin' serious problem I've got. We're talkin' life or death here. But I gotta admit, the idea of teamin' up with a corpo lapdog makes my skin crawl..."
Panam raises an eyebrow, sensing there's more to the story. "I hear ya. But I'm pickin' up on a 'but' here. Am I right?"
"Yeah... As much as I hate Arasaka's guts — like any sane person in this city — I gotta admit that Takemura himself... he doesn't seem like total scop," V muses, her voice thoughtful. "There's somethin' about him that makes me think he might actually be on the level about helpin' me. Maybe I oughta give him a shot, see where this gonk plan of his leads."
Johnny, who had been silently brooding in the corner, his spectral form flickering in the dim light, can finally hold his tongue no longer. He facepalms dramatically, nearly dislodging his ever-present shades, the sound of his hand hitting his face oddly audible despite his incorporeal state. "Oh, for fuck's sake, V!" he mutters, his voice dripping with exasperation.
V's head snaps towards Johnny, her eyebrow arched in curiosity. "Yes?" she asks, her tone a mix of amusement and irritation. "Got somethin' to add to the conversation, rockerboy?"
"Oh, you bet your ass I do!" Johnny's voice is sharp, cutting through the stale air of the room like a knife. "I've been bitin' my tongue, listenin' to your little delusion about that corpo lapdog. But if you're seriously talkin' about trustin' him, I gotta step in before you do somethin' monumentally stupid."
V's eyes narrow, her posture stiffening. "My... delusion? Care to explain what the hell you're on about, Johnny?"
Johnny pushes off from the wall, his form seeming to solidify as he strides towards V, frustration radiating off him in waves. "Fuckin' gladly! You can't just trust someone 'cause you've got a damn schoolgirl crush on 'em!"
"I... I don't..." V stammers, caught off guard by Johnny's blunt accusation.
"Oh, don't play dumb with me, V," Johnny cuts her off, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I know exactly who's been starrin' in your little wet dreams when you wake up all hot and bothered. Remember, I'm in your fuckin' head!"
V's face flushes red, a mix of embarrassment and anger coloring her cheeks. "Oh, piss off, Johnny!" she snaps, her mental voice rising.
Johnny responds with a sardonic grin and a raised middle finger before dissolving into a shower of pixels. V stares at the spot where he stood, her mouth hanging open in disbelief at the exchange that just transpired.
"Uh, V?" Panam's voice cuts through V's stunned silence, dragging her attention back to the present moment. The nomad is looking at her with a mixture of concern and confusion, her head tilted to one side. "You're starin' at that wall like it just insulted your entire family tree. You okay there, chica?"
V blinks rapidly, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Oh, shit. Sorry 'bout that," she mumbles, running a hand through her hair. "Guess I zoned out for a sec. Uh, let's change gears, yeah? We've been diggin' through the dumpster fire that is my life long enough. How 'bout you tell me a bit about yourself?"
Panam's face lights up with a mischievous grin, her eyes twinkling in the dim light of the motel room. "No problem at all! I've got some stories that'll make your hair stand on end," she replies, reaching for the bottle of booze. "Buckle up, 'cause you're in for one hell of a ride."
Over the next hour, Panam regales V with a tapestry of tales, each one more colorful than the last. She paints vivid pictures of her youth spent roaming the sun-scorched Badlands with the Aldecaldos, her words bringing to life the freedom and camaraderie of nomad life. Between sips of their dwindling liquor, she recounts her most outrageous smuggling jobs, each story punctuated by V's incredulous laughter. As the bottle nears its end, V can't shake the feeling that this isn't just the beginning of a partnership, but the foundation of a friendship that could weather even Night City's harshest storms.
Their laughter crescendos as Panam delivers a particularly raunchy punchline, the sound echoing off the dingy motel walls and cementing the bond between them. Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, V suggests, "How 'bout we keep this party rollin'? I'll grab us some sodas and snacks."
As V steps out into the cool night air, the contrast between the stuffy motel room and the open space hits her like a splash of cold water. The raucous sounds from the bar have faded, most of the drunken patrons having stumbled home or passed out. Looking up, she's struck by a rare sight in Night City — stars peeking through gaps in the ever-present light pollution. It's a fleeting moment of serenity amidst the city's relentless chaos, and V takes a deep breath, savoring the tranquility.
She approaches the S.C.S.M., its neon glow casting eerie shadows across the parking lot. With practiced ease, she punches in her selections: a NiCola Fire for Panam, its spicy kick perfect for her fiery friend, and a ChroManticore Lime for herself, the citrusy tang already making her mouth water. She grabs two XXL burritos as well, their warmth seeping through the wrappers and into her hands.
Back in the room, V tosses Panam her share of the loot before flopping onto the bed, the ancient springs creaking in protest. As she begins to unwrap her burrito, her phone buzzes insistently. The screen lights up with a series of messages from an unknown number, their content as clear as mud to her alcohol-addled brain. Feeling a bit fuzzy, she passes the phone to Panam. "Hey, Pan', I know we've been hittin' the bottle, but I just got some weird-ass messages. Can you make heads or tails of this gonk shit?"
Panam's brow furrows as she squints at the screen, her voice taking on a mock-serious tone as she reads aloud, “At night, from the den located after the fifth bamboo in the hamlet, the fox goes out to hunt… He quenches his thirst at the watering hole. While waiting for your arrival, he takes shelter in the shade of the cherry blossoms… The fox is cautious. It shall emerge when it is sure that the water was not poisoned.” She pauses, looking up at V with a mix of amusement and confusion. "Well, either I'm way more plastered than I thought, or these messages are some next-level crazy. You got any friends who talk like they swallowed a fortune cookie factory?"
As Panam hands the phone back, realization dawns on V's face. "Ah, shit. Yeah, I know someone who'd totally pull this cryptic bullshit. Gotta be Takemura."
V quickly taps out a reply, her curiosity piqued. Within seconds, the screen lights up again, a fresh barrage of cryptic messages flooding in. She rolls her eyes so hard she nearly strains something, then passes the phone back to Panam. "Go on, read what Mr. Mysterious has to say now."
Panam's eyes scan the screen, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. She lets out a theatrical giggle, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "Well, well! Quite the charmer, ain't he? Regular smooth talker, this one."
V lets out a long-suffering sigh and stuffs her phone back in her pocket before finally unwrapping her burrito. She takes a massive bite, savoring the greasy, spicy goodness. "You know what's really fucked up?" she says around a mouthful of food. "He's got this weird-ass charm. Like, in his own stange way." She swallows hard, washing it down with a swig of her drink. "He's all about that corpo bullshit, always yappin' about Arasaka this, revenge that. But... he did save my ass, even if it was just 'cause he could use me to achieve his own damn goals. And his way of talkin', that fuckin' voice... And let's not forget, the guy's a goddamn snack."
Panam lets out a knowing "Uh-huh" and raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. V feels a sudden need to justify herself, like she's seeking validation from her new friend.
"Ya know what I mean? He's fuckin' weird. A real corpo to the bone, but there's somethin' about him that just... sticks with ya. It's hard to explain without soundin' like a total gonk."
Panam takes a moment to let V's words sink in, her expression thoughtful as she chews on her burrito. Finally, she responds in a casual yet understanding tone. "Yeah, I get what you're layin' down, V. Sometimes the most unexpected peoples can surprise the hell outta you. Corpos might be all about their agendas and shit, but hey, if the guy's got some redeemin' qualities, it's hard to ignore. And if he's easy on the eyes to boot, well, that's just a bonus." She smirks, teasing V a little. "Hey, who am I to judge? We all got our weaknesses, right? Just make sure you don't let his charm blind you to the bigger picture. Trust your gut, choom."
V sinks back into her pillow, feeling the weariness from the eventful day starting to take its toll. She pinches the bridge of her nose and mutters to herself, "Damn, Johnny's gonna give me so much shit for this..."
Panam, sprawled on her side and mirroring V's posture, latches onto the offhand comment. "Hang on a sec, V. Who's this Johnny guy? Some old flame you can't shake off?" she probes, her eyes glinting with curiosity.
V's reaction is instantaneous — she bursts into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, the kind that makes your sides ache. When she finally catches her breath, she manages to choke out, "Oh fuck no! Not in a million years. Definitely not that. Anything but that!" Another wave of giggles hits her, and she has to wipe tears from her eyes. "Fuck, sorry!" V wheezes, trying to regain her composure. "Just... just forget I said anything. I'm beat to hell and back. Think it's time I catch some z's before I say more stupid shit."
Panam, understanding V's need for rest, nods in agreement. "Yeah, sounds like a solid plan, V. We've had one hell of a day. Get some well-deserved rest, and we'll tackle whatever gonk shit comes next when you're feelin' fresh."
"Thanks," V replies. She switches off the bedside lamp, enveloping the room in darkness. "Thanks for this, Panam. It felt good to open up and share all this crap with someone. Once we nab Hellman, we should definitely do somethin' like this again, whaddaya think?"
"My pleasure," Panam responds. There's a moment of hesitation before she continues. "You know, ever since I left the Aldecaldos behind, even though I'm still on good terms with most of 'em, I've felt pretty damn alone. So, it's really great to meet a new friend like you. Anyway... Anyway. When do you wanna meet up again to plan the Hellman operation?"
"Definitely not tomorrow, that's for damn sure," V replies. "With Jackie's ofrenda and havin' to meet Takemura and his contact in the evenin', I'm gonna be completely drained, both physically and mentally. I'll give you a call as soon as I can, but it'll be real soon, alright? We can't afford to miss this opportunity."
"No problem. Just make sure to fill me in on how it goes, yeah?" Panam responds.
"'Course," V assures her. Her eyes begin to close involuntarily, the weariness taking over. "Night, Panam. I'm really glad I met ya."
"Same here. Sleep tight, V," Panam says.
With that final exchange, both of them sink into a well-deserved slumber, ready to recharge for the challenges that lie ahead in the neon-drenched chaos of Night City.
Notes:
♫ Chapter Song: Carole King - You've Got a Friend
See you next time, and have fun with Phantom Liberty ♥
Chapter 4: Bridge Over Troubled Water
Notes:
As if the base game hadn't broken my heart enough, Phantom Liberty smashed it into a million pieces. I'm still not doing well because of that. As a result, it's caused a significant writer's block for the subsequent chapters, which is why I wanted to wait a bit before posting. Now that I'm able to write again, here comes the continuation! I'll try to be a bit more regular with my updates.
V 2.0 :)
xoxo ♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When you're weary
Feeling small
When tears are in your eyes
I'll dry them all
I'm on your side
Oh, when times get rough
And friends just can't be found
As the morning sun creeps through the beaded curtains of the Sunset Motel, V stirs from her booze-induced slumber. She sits up, letting out a groan that's half yawn, half hangover. Squinting at the clock, she realizes the morning's half gone already. "Fuck me," she mutters, dragging herself out of bed. Next to her, Panam's still dead to the world, snoring softly with a trail of drool staining her pillow.
Careful not to wake her new friend, V slips on her boots and sneaks out of the room. The desert air hits her like a slap to the face, crisp and clean — a stark contrast to Night City's perpetual smog. She takes a deep breath, savoring the moment before her nicotine cravings kick in.
The S.C.S.M. beckons like a chrome oasis, and she punches in her order with the precision of a caffeine addict. While waiting for her liquid salvation to cool, she leans against the railing, soaking in the desert's eerie calm. It's a far cry from Night City's constant chaos, broken only by the occasional whoosh of cars on the nearby road.
V fishes out a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket. She lights one up, inhaling deeply and watching the smoke curl lazily in the morning air. Her mind wanders to the day ahead — Jackie's ofrenda, the meet with Takemura. A lump forms in her throat as she thinks about her fallen choom.
When the coffee's no longer tongue-scalding, V stubs out her cigarette and grabs a second cup for Panam. She heads back, pushing open the door to find her new friend sitting up, looking about as fresh as week-old pizza.
"Mornin'," Panam croaks, eyeing the cups in V's hands like they're holy relics. "Tell me that's coffee."
"You bet your ass it is," V replies with a smirk. "Wasn't sure how you like it, so I kept it simple — black as night, no sugar. That cool?"
"It's fuckin' perfect," Panam says, accepting the cup like it's a holy relic. She drags herself out of bed and collapses into one of the plastic chairs that's seen better days. V sets the still-steaming coffee in front of her on the rickety table before taking a seat herself. Panam takes a long swig and lets out a satisfied groan before asking, "So, where am I dumpin' you off? Straight to your choom's ofrenda?"
V glances down at her blood-spattered threads from yesterday's Raffen rumble. "Shit, no. Gotta swing by my digs first. Can't show up to a funeral lookin' like I just crawled outta the Combat Zone."
Panam winces, noticing V's state for the first time. "Yeah, no kidding. A shower wouldn't hurt either, chica. Where's home?"
"Little China, Megabuilding H10," V replies, draining the last of her coffee.
Panam nods, and they lapse into a comfortable silence, nursing their coffees like they're the only thing keeping them upright. Once the cups are drained, they haul themselves downstairs. Panam tosses the room key in the return box, and they climb into her trusty Thorton.
The ride back to Night City is filled with easy banter, both of them dancing around the heavier topics looming on the horizon. V watches as the barren landscape gradually gives way to the looming skyline of Night City, a jumble of neon and chrome piercing the morning haze.
All too soon, they're pulling up to V's megabuilding, a towering monument to overcrowded living. V hops out, leaning back through the window for a final word. "Thanks for the lift. I'll keep you posted on the next shitshow we're diving into," V says.
"You better," Panam replies with a grin, revving the engine. "See ya, V!" She peels out, her horn blaring a cacophonous farewell that probably woke half the block.
As V raises her hand in a final farewell to her newfound friend, she turns to face the looming megabuilding, its imposing structure a stark reminder of the cramped, overcrowded life that awaits her. The elevator ride to the eighth floor feels like a descent into melancholy, her mood darkening with each passing floor. The prospect of the afternoon ahead weighs heavily on her mind — the thought of facing Mama Welles, of confronting the raw grief of Jackie's loss, sends a shiver down her spine. And then there's the evening to contend with; a mix of anticipation and unease churns in her gut at the thought of meeting Takemura again. The unknown identity of their contact is just another fucking cherry on top of the shit sundae her life has become. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Stepping into her apartment, V's eyes immediately search for Nibbles, finding comfort in the sight of the feline curled up in peaceful slumber next to that ridiculous iguana egg — a stark reminder of the heist that turned her world upside down. She approaches quietly, her fingers gently stroking the cat, eliciting a contented purr that momentarily soothes her frayed nerves. With a sigh, she checks Nibbles' bowls, mechanically going through the motions of caring for her feline companion — a small semblance of normalcy in her chaotic existence.
Frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, V strips off her blood-stained clothes, leaving a trail of discarded garments in her wake as she makes her way to the bathroom. The shower, with its pathetically weak water pressure, does little to improve her mood. She stands there, letting the tepid water cascade over her body, washing away the grime and blood but doing little to cleanse the weight of her troubles. Emerging from the less-than-satisfactory shower, V wraps herself in a towel, using another to roughly dry her hair as she pads back to the main room.
As she approaches her closet, Johnny materializes on the couch, his spectral form seemingly engrossed in watching Nibbles' grooming ritual. Without a hint of self-consciousness, V drops her towel to the floor, her body bare to the room. She's long since abandoned any pretense of modesty around the engram — what's the point when he's literally in her head? Reaching for a pair of underwear, she slips them on with practiced ease, her mind already racing ahead to the challenges that await her in the hours to come.
The young merc moves through her apartment like a ghost, her hands mechanically gathering clothes and tossing them onto the bed in a haphazard pile. As she begins to sort through the garments, her mind drifts into a fog of grief, each piece of fabric a stark reminder of the life she shared with Jackie. The weight of loss presses down on her, suffocating and relentless, as she matches dark pants with equally somber shirts, smoothing out dresses that she once wore on nights out with her now-fallen choom.
With every fold and arrangement, the darkness of mourning engulfs her, threatening to swallow her whole. The thought of facing Misty's quiet pain, Vik's stoic anguish, and the shattered heart of Mama Welles intensifies her desolation, creating a maelstrom of emotions that swirls within her like a raging storm in the Badlands. V finds herself paralyzed, staring blankly at the array of clothes scattered across the bed, unable to move as if anchored by the crushing weight of her sorrow.
Time stretches on, an agonizing eternity measured in heartbeats and shallow breaths. The heaviness in her chest makes even the simplest actions feel like insurmountable tasks, as if the entire weight of Night City's towering megabuildings is pressing down upon her. In this moment, she's adrift in an ocean of grief, unable to summon the will or energy to swim to shore.
"Fuck, V, breathe!" Johnny's voice cuts through the silence like a gunshot, shattering the spell that had held her captive. V gasps, suddenly aware that she'd been holding her breath. She turns to find the rockerboy's digital ghost standing beside her, his signature aviators perched atop his head, dark eyes glimmering with what could almost be mistaken for concern.
"Dammit, Johnny," V whispers, her voice thick with anguish that threatens to choke her. "How the fuck am I supposed to face them? How can I walk into a room full of people who loved Jackie, who're torn apart by his death, and tell 'em I'm sorry when I'm standin' there, alive, because of some sick cosmic joke?"
The knot in her chest tightens, a vice grip of torment as she contemplates the pain awaiting her at Jackie's ofrenda. The thought of witnessing the raw grief of his family and friends, of hearing their sobs and seeing the tears carve paths down their cheeks, feels like a weight threatening to crush her very soul. It seems wrong, almost obscene, for her to be there as a living, breathing reminder of fate's cruelty while Jackie lies cold and still.
How can she offer condolences when every breath she takes feels like a betrayal? Each step towards that funeral is a cruel reminder of her continued existence in a world where Jackie's vibrant life has been snuffed out. The prospect of facing their devastation amplifies her own grief, multiplying her feelings of helplessness and inadequacy until they threaten to consume her entirely.
V's gaze lock with Johnny's, and she catches a flicker of empathy in his usually hardened gaze. The rockerboy pauses, his brows furrowing slightly as if wrestling with unfamiliar territory. When he finally speaks, his tone is surprisingly gentle, almost hesitant. "V," he begins, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "I get it. The weight of survivor's guilt, the feeling of being left behind while others are gone... It's a fuckin' heavy burden to bear."
Her eyes widen slightly as she absorbs his words, caught off guard by the unexpected understanding from the usually abrasive engram. She finds herself nodding slowly, acknowledging the truth that resonates in his words.
"I know it's painful," Johnny continues, his voice filled with a rare empathy that seems to fill the room. "But you can't blame yourself for what happened. Life dealt us a shitty hand, and we can't control that any more than we can control the corpo rats running this city. What you can do is honor his memory in your own way, in how you live your life — fight the good fight, stick it to the man, all that jazz."
His words strike a chord within her, resonating with a sliver of hope amidst her guilt-stricken despair. A glimmer of acceptance begins to seep into her heart, slowly easing the vice-like grip of her self-blame.
Johnny takes a step closer, his eyes locked with hers, and his voice lowers to a near-whisper. “I don't usually give advice, but… fuck it, here goes. Don't make the same mistake I made — say goodbye to the people you love. You know what I mean, right? Jackie Welles was your best choom, and you don't find a lot of straight-up peeps like that in NC. Best thing you can is remember them.”
Taking in a deep breath that seems to fill her lungs with renewed determination, V nods, a flicker of resolve igniting in her eyes. She swallows hard, an act that seems to settle her frayed nerves, before whispering, “Thanks, Johnny. I think I… needed to hear that. I will go to the ofrenda. For Jack. He deserves a proper farewell.”
Johnny acknowledges her words with a nod before turning away and making his way towards the couch, a spectral cigarette materializing between his fingers. Without glancing back at her, he adds one final instruction, his voice filled with its usual stubborn edge. “Oh, and one more thing. If anyone asks, I didn't just say all that to you. Got it?”
V lets out a quiet chuckle, grateful for Johnny's fiercely-guarded understanding. “Got it,” she replies softly, allowing a small smile to grace her lips. At that moment, they share an unspoken bond, a silent understanding that passes between them like a current of electricity.
With renewed purpose, she quickly selects a pair of dark jeans and a simple black shirt, opting for long sleeves to conceal her combat implants — no need to remind everyone of the violence that took Jackie. Hurriedly, she returns to the bathroom to apply some makeup, a thin veneer of normalcy to mask the turmoil beneath. Once finished, she lights a cigarette and takes a deep inhale, partly to calm her nerves and partly as a gesture of gratitude towards Johnny. Through their unique connection, she can sense the comfort that nicotine brings him, a small pleasure in their shared existence.
She stands there, silently smoking, with Johnny seated by her side, his presence a strange comfort in the quiet apartment. With half an hour left before she has to set off for Coyote Cojo, she cherishes the quiet, allowing herself a moment to gather her thoughts and steel herself for the emotional gauntlet ahead. The smoke curls lazily in the air, a physical manifestation of her swirling emotions, as she prepares to face the grief-stricken faces of those who loved Jackie, to confront her own loss, and to say goodbye to the friend who showed her the heart of Night City.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
The reunion with Mama Welles surpasses V's expectations, the older woman's kindness washing over her like a warm embrace. V can't help but feel a pang of guilt for ever doubting Mama Welles' reaction.
Now, V finds herself in Jackie's garage with Misty, sifting through the remnants of a life cut short, searching for an item to bring to the ofrenda. s they uncover various objects, each one a snapshot of Jackie's vibrant existence, Misty shares the stories and memories associated with them, her voice soft and tinged with nostalgia. V's hand hovers over a bottle of tequila, but her gaze is drawn to a well-worn book. "Ernest Hemingway?" she asks, curiosity coloring her voice.
“Jack read it a dozen times. Always before a big job,” Misty reveals, her eyes misting over with memories. “He believed the guy who wrote it was tougher than Morgan Blackhand.”
V's fingers trace the book's spine. "Have you read it? Is it any good?" she asks, regret lacing her words.
“I, uh… I never got the chance. Misty admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "But you know what? You should take it with you, read it. It might give you some courage for the shit you're facing right now."
“Yeah, you're right,” V nods, carefully slipping the book into her bag. “And it will make me remember Jack. I'll still take the bottle for the ofrenda, though."
Misty offers V a smile, a bittersweet mixture of beauty and sadness that seems to encapsulate their shared loss. As they step out of the garage, V feels compelled to convince her friend to join the ceremony. To her surprise, Misty hesitates, harboring some misguided belief that she won't be welcome. With fierce determination, V works to reassure Misty, emphasizing how integral she is to this gathering, how deeply Jackie had loved her, how she was his family in every way that mattered.
The ofrenda unfolds in a haze of incense and sorrow, the air thick with memories and unshed tears. Familiar faces from the Valentinos and even Padre himself are in attendance, each sharing stories that paint a vivid picture of Jackie's larger-than-life personality. Vik sits beside V, a silent pillar of support as they listen to the outpouring of love for their fallen friend.
When it's V's turn to speak, she steps forward, her voice wavering but strong as she recounts her adventures with Jackie. She places the bottle on the altar, a final toast to their shared dreams. As the ceremony continues, glasses are raised in Jackie's honor, the clink of glass a bittersweet symphony of remembrance.
After the formalities, V finds herself at the bar, sharing stories and laughter with Pepe and Vik. The alcohol flows freely, loosening tongues and easing the ache of loss, if only for a moment. Feeling a sense of responsibility, V approaches Mama Welles, her voice low and earnest as she pleads Misty's case. She emphasizes how much Misty meant to Jackie, how she deserves a chance to be part of this family that Jackie loved so dearly. After that, she feels it's time to leave. She takes a moment to bid farewell to Pepe, Vik, and Mama Welles, expressing her gratitude for the chance to honor Jackie's memory.
Mama Welles' parting gift of Jackie's motorcycle leaves V feeling both honored and overwhelmed. The weight of responsibility settles on her shoulders as she exits the bar through the back, her steps heavy with emotion and the effects of the day's events. The cool night air hits her face, a stark contrast to the warmth of the bar and the memories shared within.
As V makes her way towards the garage, Johnny materializes beside her without warning. His sudden appearance startles her, the digital construct's face etched with an uncharacteristic urgency.
"V, you should sit down," he says, his voice gruff but tinged with concern.
Confusion furrows V's brow as she looks at him, her mind still clouded by the emotional whirlwind of the ofrenda. "Why? What's going on?" she asks, her voice laced with suspicion and a hint of fear.
"Holy fuck, V, listen to me for once!" Johnny's voice carries a sense of urgency that cuts through V's hesitation. The intensity in his eyes is enough to make her comply without further question.
V obediently lowers herself to the sidewalk, unconcerned about the grime and dirt beneath her. The cool concrete seeps through her jeans, grounding her in the moment. Within seconds, a violent fit of coughing wracks her body, each spasm feeling like it might tear her apart from the inside. She forcefully spits out a spray of blood into her hand, the metallic taste filling her mouth as her vision begins to blur. Black and white dots dance in front of her eyes, creating a dizzying kaleidoscope that threatens to overwhelm her senses.
Sensing her distress, Johnny crouches beside her, his face a mask of unreadable concern. He waits patiently for the crisis to subside, his presence a strange comfort in the midst of her physical turmoil. The sounds of Night City fade into the background, muffled by the pounding of blood in V's ears.
As the coughing finally subsides, V slowly regains her senses. She wipes her blood-stained hand on her jeans, leaving a dark smear that serves as a stark reminder of her deteriorating condition. Taking a few deep breaths, she tries to steady herself, each inhale feeling like a small victory. Once she feels able to speak without triggering another fit, she turns to Johnny, her voice hoarse and weak. "Did... did you feel that crisis coming?"
Johnny straightens up, his expression serious, the neon lights of a nearby sign casting an eerie glow on him. "Uh, yeah. Had a gut feeling something shitty was gonna go down. Didn't wanna see you smashing your head on the fuckin' sidewalk."
V lets out a small chuckle, the tension easing a bit despite the gravity of the situation. "Damn, man. Well, thanks. Appreciate the lookout."
Without another word, Johnny vanishes into a cloud of pixels, leaving V alone with her thoughts and the lingering taste of blood in her mouth. She remains seated for a few more minutes, giving herself time to recover and process what just happened. The sounds of the city gradually return — the distant hum of traffic, the occasional shout or laugh, the ever-present buzz of neon signs.
Finally feeling strong enough to stand, V gathers her strength and makes her way to the garage. As she approaches Jackie's motorcycle, a wave of emotion washes over her. The bike stands as a testament to her friend's life and dreams, its chrome and steel gleaming under the harsh garage lights. V runs her hand along the smooth surface, feeling both honored and burdened by the responsibility of caring for this piece of Jackie's legacy.
With a determined mindset, she mounts the bike, the familiar rumble of the engine as she starts it up feeling like a bittersweet embrace. V promises herself that she will take the utmost care of this machine, treating it as an extension of Jackie himself. As she revs the engine, V can't help but feel that a part of Jackie is with her, guiding her through the treacherous path that lies ahead.
When you're down and out
When you're on the street
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you
I'll take your part
Oh, when darkness comes
And pain is all around
Thanks to her newly acquired wheels, V tears the streets, arriving home in record time. As she parks Jackie's motorcycle in her megabuilding's garage, the familiar scent of oil and exhaust mingling with the ever-present stench of the city, she contemplates shooting a message to Panam. The nomad's fierce loyalty and no-bullshit attitude have quickly endeared her to V, and she finds herself wanting to share the events of the ofrenda. Taking advantage of the elevator's slow ascent, she pulls out her device and begins tapping out a message to her new choom, her fingers dancing across the screen.
Once inside her apartment, V barely manages to give Nibbles a quick scratch behind the ears before collapsing face-first onto her bed, the mattress creaking in protest. She lets out a muffled groan, feeling like she's been run over by a tank. The emotional toll of the ceremony honoring Jackie's memory, combined with the Relic's violent malfunction, has left her feeling drained and weak. She can't help but grudgingly acknowledge that without Johnny's timely intervention, she might've ended up kissing the filthy pavement.
But V knows she can't afford to wallow in self-pity or dwell on her uncertain fate. The looming meeting with Takemura is scheduled for after sunset, leaving her with precious few hours to prepare. Why not catch a quick nap before diving headfirst into this new clusterfuck? She has no idea how the encounter will play out, especially given the bodyguard's mysterious connection. With a heavy sigh, she closes her eyes, hoping to snatch just half an hour of rest. Just that, nothing more.
Of course, when V jolts awake, she discovers that ‘half an hour’ has stretched into something much longer. She practically catapults herself out of bed, a string of colorful curses spilling from her lips. Johnny materializes nearby, watching her panic with an amused smirk plastered across his face. Thankfully, a quick glance out the window reveals that the sun has only just begun its descent, gifting her with some extra time before true nightfall.
With a determined set to her jaw, V decides it's time for another wardrobe change. If this meet-up is gonna go sideways — and let's face it, when doesn't shit hit the fan? — she needs to be ready to throw down. She opts for her full merc getup, an outfit that screams fuck around and find out. Dressed to kill.
She keeps her comfortable jeans but sheds the shirt she'd worn to the ofrenda, replacing it with a sleek, dark tank top that allows for maximum mobility. Over this, she dons a gray leather jacket adorned with wicked-looking spikes and bearing the distinctive Maelstrom logo. This trophy, originally belonging to that psychotic bastard Royce, serves as a constant reminder of the life she ended just before the ill-fated heist. The jacket's short sleeves give her arms plenty of freedom, perfect for unleashing her Mantis Blades should things go south.
Satisfied with her battle-ready appearance, V's about to step out when her gaze falls upon Jackie's book. With Takemura's penchant for showing up on his own damn schedule, she figures she might as well have something to occupy her time while waiting. She tucks the well-worn volume under her arm, a small piece of Jackie to carry with her into whatever shitstorm awaits.
Astride her newly acquired Arch, V weaves through the traffic, the powerful engine purring beneath her as she makes her way to Channel Street docks in no time. The makeshift dumping ground, masquerading as a street, lies just beyond the bridge connecting the neon-drenched districts of Kabuki and Japantown. As she pulls up, the stench of rotting garbage and polluted water assaults her senses, piles of trash bags dotting the landscape like diseased tumors on the city's skin.
V dismounts, her eyes darting across the area with the practiced efficiency of someone who's survived more than their fair share of ambushes. She catalogs potential access points and hiding spots, her merc instincts kicking into high gear. The whole setup leaves a sour taste in her mouth, and she can't shake the feeling that this meeting could go tits up at any moment. With a resigned sigh, she runs a hand through her electric blue locks, deciding to make the best of a shitty situation. She plops down on a concrete barrier beneath a flickering lamp post, its sickly yellow light casting long shadows across the trash-strewn ground. Remaining vigilant, she kept a watchful eye on her surroundings while opening her book.
As night fully descends, wrapping the city in its smog-choked embrace, V glances over her shoulder. Beyond the polluted river, the skyline of Night City looms like a neon-lit fever dream, massive billboards and holographic advertisements painting the night in a kaleidoscope of artificial colors. Her gaze sweeps the area once more, and she spots one of those enigmatic tarot cards that only she and Johnny seem to perceive, its ethereal presence a stark contrast to the grime-covered wall it adorns. V makes a mental note to pick Misty's brain about these cryptic images, hoping her esoteric friend might shed some light on their significance. Whether they're just glitches in her fucked-up neural pathways or something more profound, V clings to the hope that there's some rhyme or reason to their existence.
Just as she's about to dive back into Jackie's book, the rumble of an approaching vehicle breaks the relative quiet. An old, beat-up van emerges from the darkness like a ghost ship, pulling up alongside her motorcycle with a wheeze of worn-out brakes. Takemura steps out, and V takes a moment to size him up. She notices he's added a worn leather coat with a high collar to his ensemble since their last rendezvous at Tom's Diner, no doubt an attempt to conceal the high-tech implants adorning his neck.
This single garment speaks volumes about Takemura's current predicament: aged and battered, leaving V to wonder if he lifted it off some poor schmuck or scrounged it from a second-hand store, given his newfound status as a broke-ass rōnin. It's a far cry from the sleek, corpo-approved attire he once sported, now serving as a thin veneer of anonymity in a city that would eat him alive if they knew who he really was. With his top-of-the-line implants disabled and no longer offering the protection he's grown accustomed to, the coat stands as a pitiful last line of defense against the myriad dangers lurking in Night City's shadows.
Takemura approaches V with measured steps, his posture a blend of caution and weariness. "It's good to see you, V," he offers, his voice carrying an unexpected softness that catches her off guard. The gentle tone stands in stark contrast to the harsh neon glow reflecting off the polluted water nearby, creating an almost surreal atmosphere.
Taken aback by this uncharacteristic warmth, V finds herself momentarily at a loss for words. Their previous encounters had been fraught with tension and urgency, making this cordial greeting feel almost out of place. She sets Jackie's book aside, her fingers lingering on its worn cover as if drawing strength from the memory of her fallen friend. "Seems pretty, uh, secluded here," she finally responds, gesturing with a sweep of her arm to the desolate docks surrounding them, the piles of trash and abandoned shipping containers looming like silent sentinels in the night.
Takemura leans against the rusty fence beside her, his body language a mix of fatigue and vigilance. "It is appropriate for such a secret meeting," he replies, his eyes scanning the area with the practiced efficiency of a man who's spent a lifetime watching for threats.
V's gaze lingers on the man standing beside her, taking in the details she'd missed at first glance. The exhaustion etched across his face is unmistakable, dark circles under his eyes telling a story of sleepless nights and constant vigilance. The sight stirs something in V — a mixture of concern and curiosity. She finds herself wondering about his current living situation. Has he managed to find a relatively safe refuge in this unforgiving city, or has he been reduced to sleeping in the back of that beat-up van he rolled up in?
Before she can stop herself, V blurts out her question, her usual lack of delicacy shining through. “What the hell happened ? Look close to awful.” The words hang in the air for a moment, and V inwardly winces at her own bluntness.
Takemura, however, doesn't seem offended. His gaze remains fixed on the distant lights across the river, a kaleidoscope of neon reflecting in his tired eyes. "You see a man robbed of his implants, money, and dignity. Look well." He pauses, finally turning to meet V's gaze, his expression a mixture of resignation and determination. "It's not all bad. I am mostly unnoticed in the streets."
"Shit, I'm sorry, Goro," V blurts out, immediately regretting her tactless approach. It's only when Takemura gives her a puzzled look that she realizes she's just addressed him by his first name. Despite her limited knowledge of Japanese etiquette, she's aware that using someone's given name is usually reserved for close bonds. Still, she chooses not to backpedal. What's said is said.
Goro appears unfazed by V's casual use of his first name, his eyes instead drawn to the book resting beside her. "Hemingway?" he inquires, a hint of surprise coloring his typically stoic tone. "I would not have presumed that you harbored an appreciation for such literature."
"What? Can't a petty thief like me appreciate a good book?" V snaps back, her voice sharp enough to cut through the polluted air. The words leave her mouth before she can stop them, born from a cocktail of grief and exhaustion. Goro's eyebrow arches slightly at her sudden outburst, prompting V to calm down. "Shit, I'm sorry, again," she mutters, running a hand through her blue hair. "It's just... today's been one hell of a clusterfuck. It was Jackie's ofrenda — his funeral ceremony. This book and the fuckin' bike were his. They told me to keep 'em as a way to remember him."
"I understand," Takemura replies, his voice softening as he turns to face the young merc. The flickering light paints his face in shifting hues, highlighting the weariness etched into every line. "You are referring to Mr. Welles, your partner in the Konpeki Plaza heist."
"Yup," V sighs, the single syllable heavy with unspoken grief. "Looks like you've done your homework."
"Obviously," he responds, his gaze shifting away momentarily, as if wrestling with some internal debate. "I... I'm relieved to hear that he had a proper ceremony. It's a right that everyone should be entitled to, regardless of the paths we've chosen in life."
V's brow furrows, confusion and suspicion warring on her face. "How that, he was able to have a proper ceremony?" she asks, her voice tight. "Why wouldn't that have been possible?"
This time, Takemura averts his gaze completely, visible discomfort etched across his features. "All I can say is that you did the right thing by swiftly returning Mr. Welles' body to his family. Arasaka had... hopes of retrieving his remains." He cuts off V's impending barrage of questions with a dismissive wave. "Do not ask me why. It's just information I overheard on Arasaka's communication channels before I was expelled..."
As if summoned by the ominous revelation, Johnny materializes beside V, his form flickering like a glitchy hologram. He paces back and forth, anxiety radiating off him in waves as he chain-smokes a spectral cigarette. His agitation seeps into V's consciousness, prompting her to light up a smoke of her own, the acrid taste a poor distraction from the dread building in her gut.
Johnny's thoughts race at a mile a minute, his digital consciousness working overtime to piece together this new, disturbing puzzle. Pushing his glasses onto his forehead, he stops in front of V, his face a mask of barely contained rage and horror.
"Fuck me sideways, V," he spits, his southern accent, usually imperceptible, slightly resurfaces with his increasing agitation. "I've been wracking my brain, but there's only one goddamn reason those 'Saka bastards would wanna steal your choom's corpse. You've seen my memories. The Soulkiller. That shit only works if the body's still fresh. They wanted to fuckin' use him for that!"
V's eyes widen as Johnny's theory clicks into place, a sickening realization that feels like a punch to the gut. If Arasaka had managed to get their corpo claws on Jackie's body, they would've undoubtedly exploited it to extract every last bit of intel on the heist and hunt down everyone involved. The mere possibility ignites a firestorm of rage and anguish within V, her breathing quickening as she stares at the trash-strewn ground, her hands clenched into tight fists.
"V," Takemura's deep voice resonated through the polluted night air, cutting through the cacophony of V's inner turmoil like a blade. He approached her with measured steps, his weathered hand coming to rest on her shoulder, an unexpected gesture of comfort. Without conscious thought, V's fingers wrapped around his wrist, her grip tight enough to betray her inner distress. Her eyes, a swirling mix of anger and anguish, locked onto his, seeking an anchor in the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.
As their gazes met, V felt her racing heartbeat begin to slow, the steady presence of the ex-Arasaka bodyguard grounding her in the moment. Gradually, she loosened her vice-like grip on his wrist, but Takemura didn't withdraw, his hand remaining a comforting weight on her shoulder.
"Shit. It fuckin' sucks," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant hum of the city. "They wanted to interrogate him. Use Soulkiller on him. Thank fuck they didn't get the chance..."
"Yes, indeed," Takemura acknowledged, his tone calm but tinged with a hint of something darker. "Arasaka has quite... unconventional methods when it comes to extracting the desired information."
Johnny, unable to contain his rage, materialized beside them, crackling with fury. "Motherfuckers... evil!" he spat, his words echoing in V's mind like a furious mantra.
To V's surprise, Takemura made no move to defend his former employers. Instead, he and V shared a moment of weighted silence, the unspoken understanding between them palpable in the neon-lit darkness. With a gentle squeeze of her shoulder, Takemura finally withdrew his hand, leaving V feeling oddly bereft.
As the storm of emotions began to subside, V decided to steer the conversation towards more pressing matters. "Hey, you know... about Hellman..." she began, her voice steadier now.
"Yes?" Takemura responded, his attention fully focused on the young merc.
"I got a lead. A real solid one," V explained, a hint of pride creeping into her voice. "Made some new contacts who are willing to help me nab him. If everything goes smooth, I should have my hands on him in a few days, tops."
"And how do you intend to achieve this?" Takemura inquired, his tone a mixture of curiosity and concern.
"Gonna hit up a Kang Tao convoy," V replied, her response carrying a hint of challenge, daring Takemura to object.
"V, that poses a significant risk," Takemura cautioned, his brow furrowing with worry. "Are you certain about your course of action? Do you have a well-thought-out plan?"
"Don't sweat it, everything's under control," V replied, her casual tone belying the fact that she was, in fact, flying by the seat of her pants. The truth was, she was counting on Panam for the actual plan, but she had no intention of divulging that information to Goro. "I'll give you a heads up once I've got Hellman, as promised."
"Hm," Takemura muttered, clearly not entirely convinced by V's bravado. His eyes, reflecting the neon lights of the city, searched her face for a moment before he spoke again. "Just be careful, don't get yourself killed. If the situation deteriorates, do not hesitate to contact me."
V's eyebrows shot up in surprise at his offer. "Why, you gonna lend a hand?" she asked, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice.
"Of course," Takemura replied without hesitation. "Our interests align. And, as I've mentioned before, I have unfinished business with Hellman."
As they stood there, surrounded by the detritus of Night City, V found herself reevaluating her opinion of Takemura. Despite his corpo background and rigid demeanor, there was something undeniably human about him — a complexity that defied easy categorization. In this moment, with the weight of their shared goal hanging between them, V realized that having someone willing to watch her back was a rare and valuable thing indeed.
With a nod, V steers the conversation back to their current predicament in this dimly-lit alley, long after the sun has dipped below the skyline. The air is thick with the scent of garbage and cheap synthetic food, a stark reminder of their less-than-ideal meeting spot. "Well, not that we're keeping a tally or anything," V drawls, her voice tinged with impatience, "but your friend… When's he showing up? And who is he, by the way?"
Takemura leans against the fence, the metal creaking under his weight. "Oda?" he asks, his voice low and measured. "He should be here any moment now.”
V raises an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “Willing finally to give me the spec on ‘im?”
“He is Hanako-sama’s bodyguard.” Takemura replies quietly.
V's eyes widen, unable to mask her astonishment. "Hanako Arasaka's?" she blurts out. "From the carrier at anchor in the bay? Saburo's daughter?"
Takemura nods solemnly. “Yes. And if he believes you, we will next meet with her.”
"Great. Fuckin' fantastic," V mutters under her breath. Just what she needed — another high-ranking Arasaka exec to deal with. The upcoming rendezvous was looking less appealing by the second. She turns to look at Goro, who seems unnaturally calm despite the high stakes. Maybe it's just part of his corpo training to keep his emotions in check.
"Sure you can trust him?" V probes, searching Takemura's face for any sign of doubt.
"Yes," comes his simple reply.
“Pff” V can't help but roll her eyes. “Convincing, very.”
Takemura's expression hardens slightly. “I have nothing to lose. Is that better?”
“Worse." V retorts, "‘Cause I got plenty to lose!”
Before she can press the issue further, the sound of an approaching vehicle cuts through the night air.
"By car, huh? A good sign," Goro comments, his eyes fixed on the sleek black vehicle gliding towards them. "He is usually camouflaged."
The car comes to a smooth stop, and a figure emerges, moving towards them with purposeful strides. As he approaches, he executes a respectful bow towards Takemura, the gesture fluid and practiced.
V finds herself taken aback by the newcomer's appearance. He's young, sporting a haircut not unlike her own, but his is a rich ebony black that seems to absorb the surrounding neon light. His suit is impeccably tailored, probably custom-made, and screams 'corpo' louder than any words could.
The young man turns to Takemura, his voice crisp and professional. "Is this her? Your thief?"
V and Goro's eyes meet briefly before he redirects his gaze to Oda. "She is my witness, V," Takemura corrects, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"Can speak for myself, you know," V interjects, her words sharp enough to cut through the tension. Oda's attention snaps to her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the blue-haired merc standing before him.
The tension in the alley ratchets up a notch as Oda's eyes bore into V. "So speak," he says, his voice as unyielding as reinforced concrete. "I have been told you know things."
V squares her shoulders, meeting his gaze head-on. "Was there. Saw what happened," she declares, opting for blunt honesty. "Yorinobu strangled the old guy."
"Silence," Oda snaps, his hand slicing through the air. "Not one word more." His finger jabs accusingly at V, eyes narrowing. "You will bring death to your door."
Takemura steps between them, his posture tense as if anticipating a brawl. "But it is the truth!" he insists, his voice rising. "Hanako-sama must hear it!"
Oda's lip curls in disdain. "My one concern is to keep her safe in this city forgotten by the gods."
"Is she in danger?" Takemura's question carries a note of genuine concern.
"Now? No," Oda replies, his tone clipped. "Yet during the parade to honor Arasaka-sama? Most certainly."
Frustration bleeds into Takemura's voice. "I bring you this witness to his murder, and you dare to worry about a silly parade? Fool!"
Oda's response is swift and cutting. "Correct. Unlike you, I have not yet failed to keep my oath to do my duty."
The words hang in the air like a toxic cloud, and V feels a surge of indignation on Takemura's behalf. It's a low blow from Oda, one that completely disregards the reality of what went down in Konpeki Plaza. Takemura couldn't have done jack shit to prevent Saburo's murder, not when the old bastard had kicked him out of the room just minutes before Yorinobu decided to go patricidal. The injustice of the accusation hangs heavy in the air, thick as the smog that perpetually blankets Night City. V's patience, already worn thin by the night's events, finally snaps. This pissing contest between corpo loyalists has gone on long enough, and it's time to steer the conversation back to what really matters.
"But you can't ignore the truth!" she exclaims, her voice echoing off the grimy alley walls.
Both men swivel to face her, momentarily startled by her outburst. After a beat of silence, Oda shakes his head, disgust evident in every line of his face.
"The only thing I regret is that I came here to meet you," he spits, then turns to Takemura. "There is a price on your head! I do you a favor by not cutting it off and taking it straight to Yorinobu-sama."
V's patience, already worn thin, snaps. "Sorry, but... this gonna take much longer?" she drawls, sarcasm dripping from every word.
Ignoring her completely, Oda continues to address Takemura. "What would you do now were you in my place?"
Goro's response is immediate and unflinching. "I do no favors. I would deliver your head to Yorinobu-sama."
"Consider yourself lucky that I am not you," Oda retorts, bitterness lacing his words.
V's had enough of this corpo dick-measuring contest. She pushes off from the barrier she's been leaning on, taking a step towards Oda. "Oda!" she barks, "We're talkin' about a guy who killed his father to seize control of Arasaka! Gonna take an interest in this or not?"
Oda's response is as cold as disappointing. "I will not," he states flatly. "But I will let you leave this place, this city, unharmed. If I see either of you again, I will not be so lenient."
With that, he pivots on his heel, striding towards his vehicle with the practiced efficiency of a man used to making quick exits. As he retreats, Takemura calls out a final warning, his voice tinged with something that might be regret. "Be very careful, my friend. We are all so far from home."
Oda doesn't even flinch at Takemura's parting words. He slides into his vehicle with the fluid grace of a trained bodyguard, the tinted windows swallowing him up like Night City swallows dreams. As the sleek car purrs to life, Johnny materializes next to V, his digital form flickering in the neon-tinged darkness.
"Good fuckin' riddance," he drawls, a spectral cigarette dangling from his lips. "One Arasaka whackjob is already plenty."
V can't help but nod in silent agreement, her eyes still fixed on the retreating taillights. She turns to Takemura, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Fine friend, there," she quips, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Got any more?"
Takemura's face remains impassive, either missing or choosing to ignore V's tone. "Alas, only him," he replies, his voice tinged with a hint of regret.
V fishes out a cigarette, the familiar ritual a small comfort in the clusterfuck of a night. As she lights up, the harsh cherry glow illuminating her face in the dim alley, she exhales a cloud of smoke and says, "Well... can't say we didn't try."
"We tried, yes," Takemura nods, his eyes distant as if piecing together a puzzle. "And obtained something useful... What Oda said... They return to Tokyo after the parade..." He pauses, turning to V with a spark of hope in his eyes. "Do you not see? The parade. It is our chance, perhaps."
He leans against his van, the vehicle creaking slightly under his weight. "If, somehow, we can get to Hanako-sama..." he continues, his voice low and intense. "We must do a proper reconnaissance first. We will need a precise map of Japantown." His gaze locks onto V's. "It is our turn to call on friends. Do you know a fixer who could help?"
V doesn't hesitate for a second. "Know just the fixer dame," she says, flicking ash from her cigarette. "Wakako Okada. Runs a pachinko parlor on Jig-Jig Street. Old bird's got her talons in every pie in Japantown."
Takemura nods, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. "We must pay this woman a visit," he states. Then, almost as an afterthought, "Will you join me?"
"Sure, why not," V shrugs, stubbing out her cigarette under her boot. "Not like I got any better offers tonight."
With that, she heads to the passenger side of the van, her footsteps echoing in the now-empty alley. She can retrieve her bike later; Jig-Jig Street isn't far, and right now, the promise of a solid lead is more enticing than the open road.
V settles into the van's worn passenger seat, the faux leather creaking under her weight. As she's about to close the door, Goro slips into the driver's side, his movements fluid and precise. He extends his hand, offering her a familiar object. "You almost left your book behind," he says, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement.
"Damn," V whispers, taking the book with a grateful nod. "Thanks, Goro."
Goro simply nods in acknowledgment, his face a mask of concentration as he turns the ignition key. The van rumbles to life, and a soft jazz tune flows from the radio, filling the interior with its mellow tones. As they pull away from the curb, Takemura's brow furrows in confusion. "Jig-Jig Street... What is this name?" he asks, his accent wrapping around the words.
“Just a Night City name” she responds with a shrug.
Goro shoots her a sideways glance, his lips quirking into a small frown. "Beware — you mock me... too often," he states, his tone caught between amusement and exasperation.
Unable to see how she could have been making fun of him, V decides not to push further. Instead, she inquires, “You all right, Goro ?”
“Yes.” he gives her another perplexed look, as if the question makes no sense to him, “Why the sudden concern ?”
V's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. "Uh, just asking? Does everything with you have to have an ulterior motive?" she retorts, her voice rising slightly.
Goro's expression softens, a flicker of regret passing over his features. "I apologize, that came off wrong. I, em... I am simply not used to such questions." He briefly takes his eyes off the road to meet V's gaze. "People like me — either we are doing well, or we are in a grave."
V's jaw drops slightly, taking in Takemura’s words. "Wow, rough stuff, Goro. Better get used to it though, I kinda got a habit of caring for people in my circle. So long as you're riding with me, get ready for more of these check-ins. I like to know that my chooms are doing alright, and if they're not, then I'm all about stepping in if I can."
Surprise flashes across Goro's face, quickly replaced by a look of quiet contentment. It's clear he wasn't expecting this kind of camaraderie from the street-smart merc. "It is... unexpected," he admits, his voice softer than usual. "But I appreciate it, V. Truly."
After this exchange, a comfortable silence settles between them, broken only by the smooth jazz floating from the speakers. V leans her head against the cool glass of the window, watching as the city's endless array of lights blur into streaks of color. She occasionally steals glances at Goro, noting the way his cybernetic eyes reflect the neon signs they pass, giving him an almost otherworldly appearance.
As they near their destination, the atmosphere outside the van begins to shift. The vibrant neon lights and luminous paper lanterns of Jig-Jig Street come into view, bathing the van's interior in a kaleidoscope of colors. The air seems to pulse with energy, even through the closed windows. Goro navigates the crowded streets with the precision of a seasoned driver, smoothly pulling the van into a tight parking spot.
As soon as the van comes to a halt, Takemura springs into action, his efficiency on full display. He exits the vehicle with swift precision, making a beeline for Wakako's pachinko parlor. His laser focus allows him to navigate through the sensory overload of Jig-Jig Street, seemingly oblivious to the garish neon signs, the pungent mix of street food and cheap perfume, and the numerous Joytoys who line the sidewalks like living mannequins, their come-hither looks bouncing off his stoic exterior.
V, on the other hand, can't help but be drawn into the vibrant tapestry of Night City life. Her attention is quickly snagged by a domestic drama unfolding in the middle of the street. A woman, her face contorted with rage, stands in the center of the road, her voice rising above the constant hum of the city as she hurls accusations of infidelity at her cowering partner. The spectacle draws a small crowd of onlookers, their faces a mix of amusement and secondhand embarrassment.
It's only when the woman's shrill voice fades into the background that V realizes she's lost sight of Takemura. "Shit," she mutters, breaking into a brisk walk to catch up. As she approaches Wakako's place, she spots Goro leaning against the door frame, his arms folded and his face a mask of barely concealed annoyance. A few paces away, an elderly man sits on a rickety plastic chair, his rheumy eyes fixed on Takemura as he chatters away, clearly under the misguided impression that Goro is a famous late-night comedy host and is desperate for him to recite his famous catchphrase.
The whole scenario, coupled with Takemura's exasperated look, entertains V and she can't resist the sudden urge to poke fun at him. "Hideshi, don't leave this poor guy hangin’," she urges, pressing Goro to go along with the charade.
Takemura's response is a sight to behold. With a dramatically loud sigh of exasperation, he announces, in a booming voice, yet completely devoid of any hint of enthusiasm, "Better buckle up!!"
The silence that follows is so thick you could cut it with a mantis blade. V, caught completely off guard by Goro's unexpected compliance, can only manage a stunned "Wow..." The elderly man, his face a picture of disappointment, looks at Takemura with sad, watery eyes. "Hino-san... what happened to you?"
Without missing a eat, Goro responds in the same deadpan tone, "I do not know. I do not recognize myself." The delivery is so perfect, so utterly devoid of emotion, that V has to bite her lip to keep from bursting into laughter. Takemura then turns to her, "Are you happy? May we go?"
"Fine, let's go," V manages to reply, struggling to keep a straight face as she follows him into the parlor. The cacophony of gaming machines engulfs them, a symphony of electronic beeps and chimes that seems to energize Goro. He leans in close to V, his voice barely audible over the noise. "That was close. He almost recognized me. But... a comedian?!"
This time, V can't contain herself. She erupts into a fit of giggles, her laughter a stark contrast to the mechanical sounds around them. "With your sense of humor, why not?" she shoots back, wiping tears from her eyes.
Goro gives her a perplexed look, clearly unsure whether to be offended or amused. His eyes scan the room, taking in the flashing lights and the rows of transfixed gamblers. "Mmm... How I missed the sound," he mumbles, almost to himself.
V files this tidbit away for later exploration, her curiosity piqued by this glimpse into Goro's past. But now isn't the time for a deep dive into his history. They have a mission to focus on. With a nod towards the back of the parlor, V signals for Goro to follow her to Wakako's office. The bouncer at the entrance, a mountain of a man with more chrome than flesh, recognizes V immediately. He steps aside with a curt nod, granting them entry.
As V and Goro step into Wakako's office, they're greeted by the sight of the elderly fixer engrossed in a heated phone conversation. The room, a stark contrast to the chaotic pachinko parlor outside, is bathed in a soft, amber glow from antique lamps. Wakako notices their arrival and holds up a finger, signaling them to wait. Her voice, sharp and authoritative despite her age, cuts through the air as she wraps up her call — likely with Rogue, V surmises.
Wakako's eyes scan over the pair as she ends the call. "V, so nice to see you," she greets, her tone warm but calculated. Her gaze shifts to Goro, a hint of curiosity flickering in her eyes. "And your charming friend is...?"
V has no intentions of disputing Wako's assertion that Goro is charming. Unable to resist the opportunity for mischief, schools her features into a mask of seriousness. "Hideshi Hino — the comedian," she declares, fighting to keep a straight face.
Goro's reaction is instantaneous. He whips around to face V, muttering something in rapid-fire Japanese that doesn't need translation to convey his exasperation. Switching back to his mother tongue, he bows politely to Wakako, introducing himself properly.
The conversation that follows is as smooth as can be expected in Night City — which is to say, peppered with veiled threats, subtle power plays, and the occasional sardonic quip. V even manages to slip in a playful jab about DeShawn's untimely demise, earning her a sharp look from Goro. To their relief, Wakako agrees to provide the necessary information free of charge, her own grudge against Arasaka evident in the tight set of her jaw.
After expressing their gratitude, Goro and V take their leave, stepping back into the neon-drenched chaos of Jig-Jig Street. They find a quiet spot next to a low wall, the perfect place for a clandestine conversation amidst the bustling crowd.
“A delightful, mature woman.” Takemura remarks, his eyes still on Wakako's parlor. V arches an eyebrow, suppressing herself from cautioning him against becoming potential husband number six, considering the doomed destiny of those who've had the misfortune to marry Wakako in the past. Goro continues, oblivious to V's amusement, “This information… it could be just what we needed. But I will try to investigate further. I will stay here some time and call some associates. The moment I learn something new, I will let you know.”
As they talk, V's stomach lets out a growl loud enough to be heard over the street noise. She hasn't eaten all day, and for a moment, she considers inviting Goro to grab a bite. But before she can voice the thought, Johnny materializes, his digital form flickering in the neon lights.
"For real, V?" he grumbles, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The dude makes a single wisecrack and you're all set to invite him to dinner? Damn, I shoulda tried cracking jokes back in my time, would've surely bagged some free grub!"
V subtly flips Johnny off, careful not to let Goro notice the gesture. Johnny's smirk widens, clearly enjoying her discomfort. "C'mon, let's call it a day. You can eat something when you get back home," he nudges her.
With a sigh, V concedes the point to Johnny. Exhaustion is creeping up on her, and she still needs to retrieve her bike from the docs. Reluctantly, she turns to Takemura, "Stay safe, Goro."
"You as well. Until next time," he responds, a fleeting smile ghosting across his lips before his stoic mask falls back into place. V gives a final wave and turns away, melting into the sea of people.
As she disappears into the crowd, Goro's gaze lingers, following her until she vanishes from sight. The neon lights paint the street in a kaleidoscope of colors, but for a moment, all he sees is the afterimage of V's retreating form. With a shake of his head, he turns back to the task at hand, the sounds of Jig-Jig Street swallowing up the moment like so many others in this relentless metropolis.
Notes:
♫ Chapter Song: Simon & Garfunkel - Bridge over Troubled Water
See you next time !
Chapter 5: Desert Song
Notes:
• Hey ! Delayed merry whaterver and just in time happy new year !
No pictures for this chapter, I'm not using my usual computer :/ will update later.Done !
V 2.0• And thanks for your comments DreadRedQueen ♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dark and dirty
Like you have never seen
A mind so twisted
With thoughts so unclean.
My heart is racing
All tattered and torn
The first rays of dawn creep through the grimy windows of V's apartment, painting the cluttered space in a soft, hazy light. V stirs, her eyes fluttering open, a rare occurrence for the usually late-rising merc. The previous day's exhaustion had hit her like a freight train, causing her to collapse into bed fully clothed, forgoing her planned meal. Now, her stomach growls in protest, a stark reminder of her neglected needs.
Rolling over with a groan, V's gaze lands on Johnny, his spectral form sprawled across her couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if trying to decipher some hidden message in the peeling paint. She fumbles for a cigarette on her bedside table, the familiar ritual drawing Johnny's attention.
"Geez, V," he drawls, "Ditch the smoke and get some grub, will ya? You're running on empty, and it ain't exactly a blast for me either."
A smirk tugs at the corners of V's mouth as she lights up, the smoke curling lazily around her face. She flips Johnny off, the gesture both playful and defiant. "Morning to you too, dickface!" she quips, her voice still rough with sleep. "I'm gonna clean up, then we're off for some pancake action at the Diner, cool?"
Johnny responds with a nod, returning the favor by flipping her off with both hands before turning his attention to Nibbles, who's just leapt onto the couch, curling up near his incorporeal legs. V drags herself to the bathroom, the promise of food spurring her on. After a quick shower, she gives her clothes from the previous night a cursory sniff before shrugging and pulling them on.
As she steps out of her apartment, the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hallway assaulting her eyes, V notices a small plastic bag hanging from her door handle. Curiosity piqued, she opens it to find Jackie's book nestled inside, accompanied by a handwritten note. The elegant script reads, 'As I understand, this book holds sentimental value for you as it belonged to your friend. You left it in the van. Please take care of it — 竹村 五郎.'
V's Kiroshi optics helpfully translate the Japanese characters, though she hardly needs the assistance to recognize Goro Takemura's name. A warm, fuzzy feeling spreads through her chest, catching her off guard. She retreats back into her apartment, carefully placing the book on the shelf by her bed, a goofy smile playing across her features.
The air shimmers, and Johnny phases into existence beside her. With a theatrical flourish, he smacks his forehead, his face contorting into an exaggerated expression of disbelief and annoyance.
"Damn, V," he exclaims, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "when a corpo watchdog figures out where you fuckin' live, you should be freakin' out, not sporting a stupid grin! What's next? Gonna invite him over for a sleepover and braid each other's hair?"
V rolls her eyes, unfazed by Johnny's dramatics. She turns to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. "You're actually surprised he knows where I live? The first time we agreed to meet, it was at Tom's Diner, a stone's throw from my place. You thought that was a happy accident?" She shrugs, her tone nonchalant but with an edge of defensiveness. "He made the effort to return my book instead of waiting till our next encounter or just not bothering at all. That's what people call being considerate. You might wanna try it, sometimes. Might make you less of an asshole."
Johnny scoffs, pacing the small room. "Considerate? Wake up and smell the corpo stench, V! This ain't about being nice. It's about keeping tabs on you. Damn, V, your hormones are making you lose your marbles. Next thing I know, you'll be writing his name in hearts all over your diary."
V's eyes narrow, her patience wearing thin. She steps closer to Johnny, her voice low and threatening. "Drop dead, Johnny. Oh wait, you already did. If you keep yapping crap, forget about those pancakes 'cause I ain't touching grub 'till tomorrow, just to piss you off. How's that for considerate?"
With a dramatically drawn-out sigh that seems to last an eternity, Johnny fades into nothingness, his form dissolving like smoke in the wind. The sudden silence in the apartment is almost deafening, broken only by the distant hum of the megapole never-ending bustle.
Taking advantage of these brief moments of peace, V pulls out her phone. Her fingers hover over the screen for a moment before she types out a quick thank you text to Takemura. It's simple, just a few words, but she finds herself agonizing over each one, trying to strike the right balance between gratitude and casualness.
Message sent, she tucks the phone away and heads for the door, the promise of pancakes calling her name. As she steps out into the hallway, the harsh fluorescent lights once again assaulting her eyes, V can't help but feel a mix of emotions swirling in her chest — gratitude, confusion, and something else she's not quite ready to name. With a shake of her head, she pushes those thoughts aside. Right now, all that matters is breakfast and the day ahead. Night City waits for no one, not even a merc with a ticking clock in her head and a growing soft spot for a certain Arasaka bodyguard.
The morning sun climbs higher in the smog-choked sky as V, her stomach contentedly full and her system buzzing with her third cup of coffee, taps out a message to Panam. The nomad's swift reply crackles through: a cryptic hint at a plan and instructions to rendezvous at the Sunset Motel's garage after nightfall. With hours to kill and nothing pressing on her plate, V decides it's high time to settle accounts with Delamain over her wrecked ride.
The streets blur past as V weaves her bike through the chaos of mid-morning traffic, the wind whipping at her jacket. She pulls up to Delamain HQ, its sleek facade a stark contrast to the grime-coated buildings surrounding it. Inside, the reception area is a cacophony of irritated voices as customers wait impatiently for their turn to speak with the AI. V, never one for waiting in line, sidesteps the queue and marches to the front, fixing the other patrons with a glare that could melt chrome, daring them to challenge her.
After a brief exchange with Delamain, V secures her compensation, but the AI's request for a private word piques her curiosity. Following a surprisingly cute drone through the labyrinth of the garage, dodging mechanics and half-repaired cabs, V finds herself in the control room. Delamain's face, pixelated and eerily human, fills the massive screen as he lays out the problem of his rogue cabs. V, sensing an easy payday, agrees to help, mentally adding ‘cab wrangler’ to her ever-growing list of odd jobs.
By the time she wraps up her chat with Delamain, it's not even lunchtime. V finds herself with time to kill before her evening rendezvous with Panam. The weight of the Relic in her head serves as a constant reminder of the ticking clock, pushing her to pursue every possible lead. Her mind wanders to Evelyn Parker, the enigmatic mastermind behind the ill-fated heist that started this whole mess.
Goro's words about Evelyn's disappearance echo in V's mind. Given the woman's sharp wit and cunning nature, V figures that if Evelyn wanted to vanish, she'd have done a damn good job of it. Still, with hours to burn and nothing to lose, V decides to reach out to the young techie Evelyn had introduced her to before the heist — the braindance expert with the vibrant hair and sharp tongue.
Judy's surprise at hearing V's voice crackles through the phone line, her tone a mix of disbelief and wariness. It's clear she'd written V off as another casualty of the Konpeki Plaza disaster. However, the moment Evelyn's name leaves V's lips, Judy's demeanor shifts dramatically. Her voice hardens, her words becoming clipped and evasive. Before V can press further, the line goes dead, leaving her staring at her phone in frustration.
"Well, ain't that just peachy," Johnny materializes, leaning against a nearby wall. "Looks like your people skills need some work, V."
Ignoring Johnny's jab, V makes a snap decision. If Judy won't talk over the phone, she'll have to do this face-to-face. Hopping on her bike, V weaves through the crowded streets, the neon-drenched buildings of Kabuki blurring past as she makes her way to Lizzie's Bar in record time.
The familiar sight of Rita, the Mox's ever-present bouncer, greets V as she pulls up. A quick exchange and a mention of Judy's name are all it takes for Rita to wave her through, her trusty baseball bat tapping idly against her leg. Inside, the bar is uncharacteristically quiet, with only a handful of Moxes scattered about. V wastes no time, heading straight for the basement — Judy's domain.
As V descends into the dimly lit basement of Lizzie's Bar, the air thick with the scent of circuitry and soldering iron, she stumbles upon a heated exchange between Judy and another Mox. The unfamiliar woman's voice, sharp and accusatory, echoes off the concrete walls, while Judy's responses are clipped and defensive. Wisely choosing discretion over curiosity, V lingers in the shadows, her back pressed against the cool metal of a server rack, until the argument reaches its bitter conclusion and the other Mox storms out, her heavy boots thundering up the stairs.
In the aftermath of the confrontation, V cautiously approaches Judy, who sits slumped at her workstation, bathed in the ethereal glow of multiple monitors. The techie's usually vibrant hair seems dulled in the harsh light, her face a canvas of conflicting emotions — irritation etched in the furrow of her brow, worry lurking in the shadows beneath her eyes. As V steps into view, Judy's gaze snaps up, her expression hardening into a mask of suspicion and barely concealed hostility.
Recognizing the delicate nature of the situation, V employs every persuasive tactic in her arsenal, her voice low and earnest as she attempts to navigate the minefield of Judy's defenses. She assures the techie that her intentions towards Evelyn are pure, driven by a desperate need for answers rather than any malicious agenda. V's words dance a fine line between revealing too much and saying too little, each sentence carefully crafted to chip away at Judy's resolve.
As the conversation teeters on the brink of failure, V makes a calculated risk. With a deep breath that does little to steady her nerves, she discloses the dire situation with the biochip nestled in her brain — a ticking time bomb that threatens to overwrite her very existence. The revelation hangs heavy in the air, and V watches as Judy's expression shifts, suspicion giving way to a complex cocktail of shock, sympathy, and grudging understanding.
Finally, the walls come down. Judy's posture softens, her shoulders sagging as if under the weight of a burden long carried. With a mixture of frustration and barely concealed worry, she admits her own ignorance regarding Evelyn's whereabouts. However, she offers V a glimmer of hope — a lead pointing to Clouds, an upscale dollhouse ensconced within one of Night City's towering megastructures.
As V prepares to leave, this fresh lead burning in her mind like a newly ignited fuse, Judy reaches into her desk drawer. Her movements are hesitant, almost reverent, as she withdraws a sleek cigarette case. Judy's fingers trace the patterns one last time before she passes it to V, her voice barely above a whisper as she asks for its return to Evelyn.
Just as V turns to depart, the cigarette case a comforting weight in her pocket, Judy's voice cuts through the humming silence of the basement. The hardened exterior of the young techie cracks, revealing a vulnerability that catches V off guard. The earlier defensive tone melts away, replaced by a genuine concern that tugs at something deep within V's chest. Judy's request for updates on Evelyn's whereabouts is tinged with an emotional depth that speaks volumes about their relationship.
Without hesitation, V agrees to keep Judy informed of any progress in her search. As their eyes meet, an unspoken understanding passes between them. In that moment, the air seems to shift, the earlier tension dissipating like smoke in the wind. Judy's thanks, delivered with unexpected sincerity, lingers in V's mind as she ascends the stairs, leaving the basement behind.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
The imposing H8 megatower looms before V, its gleaming facade stretching endlessly into the smog-choked sky. As she steps into the elevator, the sleek doors sliding shut with a whisper-soft hiss, Johnny materializes beside her, a cigarette dangling from his lips, wisps of non-existent smoke curling around his fingers. "Keep your fuckin' eyes peeled," he drawls, his voice a gravelly whisper in the confined space. "Tiger Claws probably got this whole goddamn building under their thumb. One wrong move and you'll end up sliced and diced."
V acknowledges with a curt nod, her reflection in the mirrored walls revealing the tension in her jaw and the determined glint in her eyes. She knows she has to play it cool this time, every instinct on high alert as the elevator ascends smoothly towards Clouds.
The doors part with a soft chime, revealing the opulent reception area of the high-end dollhouse. V approaches the reception desk, where an attractive woman with electric blue hair styled in intricate space buns greets her with a smile that's equal parts inviting and practiced.
V's inquiry about Evelyn Parker is met with the frustrating news that no one by that name works there. The receptionist, her smile never faltering, suggests V can come in as a regular customer. Cringing internally at the idea but seeing no other viable option, V reluctantly agrees, her fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the sleek surface of the reception desk.
After being handed a datapad displaying a list of compatible dolls, its screen glowing with an array of attractive faces and enticing descriptions, V selects a guy named Angel. The soft beep of the system confirms her choice as she pays the necessary fee. With a slight grimace, she heads over to the locker area, the plush carpet muffling her footsteps.
As V reluctantly stows away her compact piece, each click of the locker mechanism feeling like she's shedding a layer of protection, Johnny materializes. He's sprawled in a nearby chair, legs stretched out carelessly, a smirk playing on his translucent lips. His gravelly voice cuts through the ambient hum of the dollhouse, "Only two willin' to spread their legs for you? Sad."
V's response is swift and sharp, her voice low but venomous. "Go eat a dick, Johnny." She pauses, frowning slightly as she glances back at the reception area. "Though, it is strange that she pitched Skye to me. Ain't exactly swingin' both ways. This one's probably more your speed."
Johnny's eyebrow arches, a peculiar pout twisting his features. It's an expression V can't quite decipher, but she doesn't have time to dwell on it. With a shake of her head, she strides purposefully towards Angel's pod, its sleek surface gleaming under the subdued lighting.
Approaching Angel's pod, V is greeted by a man with gentle features and a soothing voice that seems to caress her very nerves. The ensuing minutes prove to be an exercise in frustration for the young merc. The doll, his eyes seeming to peer into her very soul, speaks of her impending doom, her ambitions, and the difficult choices that lie ahead. His words, though meant to be comforting, leave V feeling exposed and uneasy, as if he's reading a script written from the darkest corners of her mind.
One piece of advice from Angel resonates with V, cutting through the haze of discomfort: "Never look back. If you must kill, kill. If you must burn all the world to the ground, then let it burn." The words echo in her mind, a mantra that speaks to the part of her that's been forged in the unforgiving crucible of Night City's streets.
But dammit, she didn't come here for a therapy session with a robohooker — she came to find Evelyn Parker. Having had enough of the unsettling experience, V utters her safe word — ‘Samurai’, chosen specifically to get under Johnny's skin, a small act of defiance against the construct sharing her headspace.
When Angel inquires if he did something to upset her, his features shifting from serene to concerned, V assures him that's not the case. She explains her true motive for being there, her voice low and urgent, eyes darting around to ensure they're not overheard.
The doll's demeanor changes subtly as he processes this information. He informs her about a recent unpleasant incident between Evelyn and a customer, though he doesn't know much beyond that. His voice drops to a whisper as he suggests that V pay a visit to Evelyn's booth and, more importantly, have a chat with Tom, a doll based in the VIP section who is a close friend to the woman she's seeking.
V begins her investigation by carefully examining Evelyn's cubicle, which quickly reveals itself to be a disturbing crime scene. Splatters of dried blood mar the once-pristine surfaces, their rusty hue a stark contrast to the sleek, futuristic decor. The air is thick with the lingering scent of fear and violence, making V's skin crawl. A holographic replay of the incident, courtesy of the NCPD, flickers to life, casting an eerie blue glow over the room. As V watches the scene unfold, she realizes with a sinking feeling that the customer wasn't the aggressor — it was the doll who suddenly snapped, her movements erratic and violent. The telltale signs of cyberpsychosis are evident, but V's instincts scream that there's more to this story. She can't shake the suspicion that someone might have remotely tampered with Evelyn's behavioral chip, turning her into a weapon against her will.
Finding no further clues in the blood-stained cubicle, V sets her sights on infiltrating the VIP area. She positions herself near the entrance, affecting a casual pose against the wall, her eyes scanning the area. When one of the Tiger Claw bouncers breaks away from the group and heads to the restroom, V seizes her chance. With the grace of a street cat, she follows him silently, her footsteps muffled by the pulsing music of the club. In one swift, practiced motion, she knocks him out with a firm blow to the back of the head, catching his limp body before it hits the ground. After stashing the unconscious guard in a secluded corner, she rifles through his pockets, her fingers closing around a smooth piece of plastic — a VIP access card. A smirk plays on her lips as she pockets her prize, her ticket into the exclusive section of Clouds.
With newfound confidence, V strolls into the VIP area, her posture relaxed but her senses on high alert. She quickly spots Tom and approaches him, her voice low and urgent as she explains her mission. To her relief, Tom proves to be immediately cooperative, his eyes widening with concern as he listens to V's account of Evelyn's disappearance. While he can't provide much additional information, he does drop a crucial name — Woodman, the man in charge of the dolls. Tom's voice takes on a conspiratorial tone as he assures V that if anyone knows the truth about what happened to Evelyn, it would be him.
Undeterred by the fact that Woodman's office lies in a restricted area, V sets out to navigate the labyrinth of Clouds' back rooms. She moves with fluid grace, expertly weaving past oblivious guards and disabling security cameras with quick, practiced movements. As she slips through what appears to be a dressing room, she notices two dolls lounging on plush sofas, their vacant eyes barely registering her presence. Amidst the chaos of discarded clothing and makeup, V's gaze lands on a familiar jacket — Evelyn's, tossed carelessly aside as if its owner had vanished into thin air. On a whim, she also grabs an ostentatious, bright pink katana, its gaudy appearance at odds with the somber mood of her mission.
Continuing her search, V crosses a dimly lit hallway, her footsteps echoing softly on the polished floor. In another room, she discovers Evelyn's purse, its contents still intact — a time capsule of the missing woman's life. As V sifts through the personal items, a sense of dread settles in her gut. The evidence paints a grim picture: Evelyn didn't just choose to disappear. And whatever happened to her, it ain't good.
V strides into Woodman's office, her senses immediately assaulted by the pungent aroma of grease and cheap cologne. The man himself is a picture of sleaze, perched behind his desk like a bloated toad, occupied with scarfing down a massive, dripping scop-burger. He barely acknowledges V's presence, only deigning to mumble through a mouthful of processed meat:
"Hey, no clients allowed in here. Be a dear and close the door on your way out, would ya? As you can see, I'm very busy." His voice is as oily as his meal, each word dripping with condescension.
Every fiber of V's being recoils at the sight of this man, her disgust intensifying with each word that slithers from his greasy lips. Despite the bile rising in her throat, she forces herself to swallow her revulsion, recognizing the need to play nice — at least for now — to extract the vital information she seeks. As she engages him in conversation, she carefully weaves in a few thinly veiled threats, her tone dancing on the knife-edge between charm and menace.
Finally, Woodman capitulates, his shoulders sagging as he grumbles, "All right, fine. I'll lay it on you straight. Girl you're lookin' for... Parker? She ain't here." His eyes dart away, unable to meet V's piercing gaze.
"Tell me something I don't know," V snaps back, her patience wearing thin as Woodman casually rises to pour himself a glass of amber liquid. "Like, where is she?"
Woodman's lips curl into a sneer as he takes a long, deliberate sip of his drink. "Think you know how things work around here, but you don't know shit," he scoffs, "Dolls aren't here to give you pleasure and satisfaction out of the goodness of their soul. They're workers. Their job's to generate profit."
V's eyes narrow, her voice low and dangerous as she presses, "Evelyn stop pullin' profit?"
"No denyin' that, sadly for her," Woodman shrugs, his casual dismissal of Evelyn's fate making V's blood boil.
"Saw what she did to the client," V insists, leaning forward, her hands gripping the edge of Woodman's desk. "She get spiked or something?"
Woodman's face twists into a grimace as he recalls the incident. "Whatever or whoever fried her circuits, it came from outside our subnet. They played their deck like a virtuoso." He shakes his head, a hint of grudging admiration in his voice. "Her chip was fuckin' rot. Believe you me, we tried to fix it. Didn't even come close."
V's suspicions are confirmed—a remote hack, likely executed by an exceptionally skilled netrunner. But the mystery of Evelyn's subsequent fate still looms. She furrows her brow, her voice tight with barely contained frustration as she demands, "This you talkin' it out straight? What happened to Evelyn?"
"Got an order from up high to recycle her," Woodman replies with chilling nonchalance, as if discussing the disposal of a broken appliance rather than a human being. "I found a ripperdoc who was willin' to take a look. Said he knew something or other."
V's patience finally snaps, her voice sharp as a razor as she growls, "The ripper — name and address." Her hands clench into fists, itching to wipe the smug look off Woodman's face.
Seemingly oblivious to the danger radiating from V, Woodman waves dismissively towards a door at the end of the room. "Goes by Fingers. Clinic's in some god-forsaken alley up on Jig-Jig Street. Wanna find Evelyn, look there. And don't come back here. Ever." He takes another sip of his drink, his tone dripping with finality. "While you're at it, take the elevator. Quicker you're outta here, the better."
Without deigning to utter another word to the repulsive man, V stalks towards the indicated exit, her every movement taut with barely contained rage. The elevator descends swiftly, whisking her back to the lower level of Clouds. With efficient movements, she retrieves her firearm from the locker, the familiar weight of the weapon providing a small measure of comfort. As she passes the reception, V offers a curt nod to the host, she finally bids the Clouds goodbye.
As V boards another elevator to descend the building, the air around her shimmers, and Johnny materializes beside her. His face is etched with concern, an unusual sight that immediately puts V on edge.
"V, brace yourself," he warns, his gravelly voice laced with urgency. "The Relic's about to malfunction. It's not gonna be pretty."
No sooner have the words left his lips than warning messages begin flashing across V's vision, a crimson cascade of digital distress signals. Her body betrays her, wracked by a violent coughing fit that leaves her palm speckled with blood. She stumbles, desperately trying to steady herself against the elevator's cold, unforgiving walls as the world spins around her.
As the elevator doors slide open with a soft chime that seems to reverberate painfully through V's skull, she staggers out, her legs barely supporting her weight. She manages to stumble to a secluded corner of the room, collapsing onto a nearby crate in a futile attempt to regain her composure. But this time, the crisis refuses to abate, its grip on her tightening with each labored breath.
Johnny paces nervously in front of her, his agitation palpable. "Ugh, the hell's that?" he growls, running a hand through his hair. "No, no, dammit!" His distress, mirroring V's own, is a stark reminder of their intertwined fates.
Finally, he settles on the floor before her, flashes of light flickering around him. "It's all goin' too slow," he mutters, his voice a mix of frustration and fear. "Gonna decomish before we learn how to rip the chip out. Look at you—don't look in any condition to find Hellman."
V, her voice raspy and weak, manages to retort, "I'm doin' my best, Johnny! What the hell ya want from me?"
Johnny's expression shifts, a glimmer of something—hope, perhaps, or desperation—flashing in his eyes. "I got a get-outta-jail-free card. I'd be a fuckin' fool not to take advantage." He swivels away, conjuring a cigarette and lighting it with a practiced flick of his wrist. The familiar gesture is oddly comforting in its normalcy. "See, me and Arasaka, we got a half-century-old score needs settling, and I plan to do it. That's what I need you for." He takes a long drag, the smoke curling around him in ethereal wisps. "Listen, I know things, where we can save your life, who can help us do that. You'll get rid of the chip, I'll smash 'Saka — win-win, kid. Soulkiller's what we need and Mikoshi's how we grab it."
V, too drained to argue, decides to follow Johnny's lead. With a trembling hand, she lights her own cigarette, the familiar rush of nicotine providing a modicum of relief. "Okay," she concedes, her voice steadier now, "so, this Mikoshi — what is it, exactly?"
Johnny's eyes light up, eager to explain. "Ok, basics. If you're jacked in, cruisin' the Net, Arasaka can use Soulkiller, an AI, to trap, fry and pack away your psyche, your mind and your soul. Followin' so far?"
"Sure," V nods, the pieces starting to fall into place. "That's how you became a construct."
"Exactly," Johnny confirms, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. "Now, Mikoshi's the place Soulkiller operates out of, where it stores its victims' engrams. Fifty years back, ops on the human mind — Mikoshi was the sole place on Earth where they did anything like that. Bet it still is today." His eyes lock onto V's, intense and unwavering. "Tellin' ya, all roads lead there. It's where we'll settle our biz — you yours, me mine."
V nods again, signaling her understanding of Johnny's explanation. The rockerboy-turned-construct heaves a sigh, "You feelin' any better now?" he asks, a rare note of genuine concern in his voice.
To V's relief, her vision has cleared, and the crushing pressure in her skull has subsided. As she cautiously rises to her feet, testing her balance, Johnny chimes in with his usual bravado, "C'mon, let's get back on track with our hooker hunt."
Just as V steps out of Megabuilding H8, her holo chirps to life. Wakako's stern face materializes, her voice urgent as she outlines a new gig. A woman has been snatched by Tiger Claws, and V's skills are needed for an immediate rescue.
V exhales deeply, the weight of yet another life settling on her already burdened shoulders. Evelyn's trail will have to go cold for a bit longer — there's another damsel in distress who needs saving right now. As she sets off into the neon-lit streets, V can't help but wonder if she'll ever catch a break in this relentless urban jungle.
The sun dips low on the horizon, painting the city skyline in hues of orange and purple as V emerges from her latest skirmish. The Tigers Claws lie scattered in her wake, their once-fearsome presence reduced to nothing more than cooling bodies and discarded chrome. The rescued woman, still trembling from her ordeal, has been safely delivered to Wakako's waiting arms. V's victory, however, comes at a cost — a katana slash across her side, not deep enough to be life-threatening, but certainly demanding attention.
As she makes her way back to her apartment, the city's neon signs bathing the streets in their garish glow. V's mind races, acutely aware of the ticking clock. Her rendezvous with Panam looms on the horizon, but the nagging urgency of the dollhouse investigation gnaws at her conscience. Detailed probes like these demand time — a luxury that seems to be slipping through her fingers like sand in an hourglass.
Back in the relative safety of her apartment, V tends to her wound with practiced efficiency. The sting of antiseptic and the pull of sutures are familiar sensations, almost comforting in their normalcy. Task completed, she collapses onto her couch with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, her body finally allowing itself to feel the exhaustion of the day.
With a mischievous grin, V cranks up the volume on a techno station, the pulsing beats filling the small space. As if on cue, Johnny materializes, his face contorted in a grimace of disgust.
"Damn, your taste in music needs a serious reboot," he grumbles, dramatically flopping down onto the sofa next to her.
V can't help but chuckle at his predictable reaction. "You're just peeved 'cause I'm not a Samurai superfan, aren't ya?" she teases, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "That I don't get all hot and bothered over the dulcet tones of Johnny Silverhand?"
Johnny's lips curl into a smirk, his eyes hidden behind his ever-present aviators. "Oh, fuck you," he retorts, his voice a mix of annoyance and amusement. "And I know you like my voice, no point lying to the guy living in your head." He pauses, his tone softening slightly. "But seriously, one of these days, I'm gonna drag your ass to Japantown. There's a shop that sells kick-ass vinyls there, assuming it's still around. I'll introduce you to some real music."
"Okay, deal," V responds, her voice lacking its usual spark of defiance.
The absence of a sharp retort catches Johnny's attention. He slips off his sunglasses, his piercing gaze scrutinizing the young merc. Behind the facade of relaxation she's currently sporting, he can spot traces of unease. It's subtle, but the tightness in her shoulders is noticeable, almost tangible to him, as if the tension were his own to bear.
"Got your wires twisted about Hellman?" Johnny inquires, his gravelly voice carrying a rare hint of concern that seems to catch even him off guard.
V's eyes snap to him, a flicker of surprise dancing across her features. It's a look Johnny's becoming all too familiar with — that momentary shock whenever he displays a shred of genuine human compassion. If he's being honest with himself, a concept he's still grappling with, Johnny's just as surprised by his own behavior. Since when did he start giving a damn about the emotional state of the person next to him? Maybe it's the Relic acting up, he muses. If this fuckin' chip is slowly molding V into his likeness, there's a chance it's a two-way street.
Or perhaps, and this thought unsettles him even more, it's simply V's presence that's causing this shift. The mere contemplation of this possibility brings a wave of discomfort that Johnny would rather not navigate. Dwelling on what he might become, or V's grim fate, or acknowledging their unique bond and its potential implications — it's all too much. Nope. He shoves it all aside, refusing to dive into those deep and uncharted waters of introspection.
Retreating behind the safety of his aviators, Johnny props his feet up on the coffee table with an exaggerated nonchalance, averting his gaze from V as if her response holds no interest for him. But the silence that follows is heavy with unspoken thoughts, the air between them thick with tension that even the pulsing beats of the techno track can't fully dispel.
Finally, V's voice cuts through the electronic cacophony, her words measured and tinged with a hint of vulnerability that she rarely allows to surface. "Yeah," she admits, her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the apartment's grimy windows. "Let's just say, hypothetically, Panam's scheme to nab Hellman works out... I find it hard to swallow that this guy, who likely ticks every box for your typical corpo rat, would move a muscle to help us." She pauses, her fingers absently tracing the fresh stitches on her side. "We're talking about a guy who jumped ship from Arasaka to Kang Tao the minute things went south."
"Bingo," Johnny shoots back, his tone deliberately casual and unfazed, a stark contrast to the intensity lurking behind his shades. "Means this shithead's got a survival instinct that's second to none. Give him a little shake-down, and he'll cough up everything he knows." He leans back, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Corpo rats like him, they're all the same. Wave a big enough stick, and they'll sing like a fuckin' canary."
V just nods, her silence speaking volumes. The weight of their situation, the ticking clock of her mortality, seems to hang in the air between them, as tangible as the smoke from Johnny's ever-present cigarette. They both sit in silence, letting their thoughts dilute in the electronic music spitting out from the radio, each lost in their own internal struggle.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
As night descends upon Night City, V feels a surge of relief at the prospect of leaving her apartment. The promise of Panam's company acts as a balm to her frayed nerves, offering a welcome distraction from the gnawing unease that's been plaguing her throughout the evening. She mounts her bike, the engine's roar echoing off the towering skyscrapers as she weaves recklessly through the neon-lit streets, her hair whipping wildly in the biting night breeze.
The urban jungle gradually gives way to the vast expanse of the Badlands, the city's oppressive presence fading in her rearview mirror. As V pulls up at the motel, the stark contrast between the bustling metropolis and the desolate wasteland strikes her anew. She parks her bike, the crunch of gravel under her boots a welcome change from the constant hum of city life.
Her eyes quickly find Panam's Thorton in the garage, the nomad's legs protruding from beneath the vehicle like some bizarre automotive birth. "Hey Pan'!" V calls out, her voice carrying a hint of the relief she feels at being here.
"Hello!" Panam's muffled voice responds from under the car. "I'm just checking the suspension. The hydraulics have to be shipshape — we're in for a bumpy ride." There's a scraping sound as Panam shuffles her way out, rising to her feet with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to maneuvering in tight spaces.
Wiping her grease-streaked hands on a soiled towel, Panam's eyes meet V's, a mixture of concern and curiosity in her gaze. "How you holding up?" she inquires, her tone softening. "You get through your choom's memorial okay?"
V feels a lump form in her throat at the mention of Jackie, but she manages a small smile. "Yeah, was a bit sad, but it felt good, ya know? It was nice getting to say a proper goodbye to Jackie and see all the people who loved him coming to pay their respects." The words come out steadier than she expected.
"I get you," Panam nods, understanding etched on her features. Then, a mischievous glint enters her eyes. "And about that meeting, you know, the funky messages you got the other night. With your attractive corpo buddy..."
V feels a flush creeping up her neck, recalling their somewhat buzzed chat where she'd perhaps painted Takemura in an overly flattering light. "Goro, yeah. And well… our meet-up with his contact didn't exactly go off without a hitch," she admits, a touch of embarrassment coloring her words. "But we did snag some useful intel and when you boil it all down, I had a pretty good evening."
"Ah, when the guy's top-notch..." Panam responds with a cheeky wink, her implication clear as day.
Feeling the need to steer the conversation back to safer waters, V clears her throat. "Mhmm. Back to business," she interjects, her tone taking on a more serious edge. "Come up with anything? For Hellman, I mean."
A satisfied grin spreads across Panam's face, her eyes lighting up with the excitement of a well-crafted plan. Using her collection of wrenches and screwdrivers as makeshift visual aids, she begins to outline her scheme. The garage transforms into an impromptu war room as Panam's plan unfolds, her hands moving animatedly as she explains each step.
The core of the plan, V realizes with a mix of admiration and trepidation, involves deploying an EMP to force Kang Tao's AV into an emergency landing right in the heart of the desert. It's a brilliant strategy, blending technical know-how with good old-fashioned audacity. As Panam concludes her explanation, V can't help but hope that Hellman had the foresight to buckle his seatbelt, because the landing is likely to be anything but smooth.
The Thorton's engine purrs to life as V and Panam climb in, their easy banter filling the cabin with a comfortable warmth that contrasts sharply with the chill desert night. Panam takes the wheel with the confidence of someone born to the nomad life, and they set off, the open road unfurling before them like a ribbon of possibility.
As they cruise along, the southern expanse of the Red Peaks dump site sprawls out beside them, a vast wasteland of discarded stuff that seems to stretch endlessly into the darkness. In the chilling late-night hour, the rusty mountains of trash stand silent and devoid of life, yet oddly serene under the moonlight. The juxtaposition of this man-made desolation against the star-studded sky creates a haunting beauty that neither woman can fully ignore.
Panam's voice cuts through the quiet hum of the vehicle, her words tinged with a hint of excitement. "We're close to our destination," she announces, before adding with a note of insistence that V has come to recognize as the prelude to an impromptu lesson, "But first, I wanna make a quick pit stop. You need to get familiar with the car's turret. Trust me, it'll come in handy later."
With a smooth turn of the wheel, Panam guides the Thorton to the side of the road, , the tires crunching as they come to a stop. As the dust settles around them, the impromptu lesson on turret handling is about to begin.
V syncs up with the car via her personal link, her neural pathways lighting up as she connects to the vehicle's systems. Panam initiates a diagnostic check, her brow furrowing as an unexpected error message flashes across the display. Just then, Johnny materializes in the back seat, his sudden appearance causing V to start slightly.
"And now, Panam, here's Johnny!" he announces with a theatrical flourish, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Great work, V."
Oblivious to Johnny's spectral presence, Panam informs V with a hint of concern, "Looks like the implant in your neck's got some kinda virus." V is quick to reassure her friend that it poses no threat to her car. For the next half hour, V finds herself at the helm of the turret controls, unleashing a barrage of firepower on wrecked autos and trash heaps. It's a surprisingly cathartic experience, the explosions lighting up the night sky and sending showers of debris raining down around them. V can't help but grin, the adrenaline rush a welcome distraction from the weight of her predicament.
As the Thorton roars back to life, Panam's satisfied nod signals the end of V's impromptu turret training. The desert landscape blurs past them as they resume their journey, the car's headlights cutting through the inky darkness. The silence that falls between the two women is soon filled by Johnny's voice, a constant companion in V's mind.
True to form, Johnny launches into one of his trademark anti-corporate tirades. His rant ebbs and flows like a toxic tide, touching on familiar themes of corporate greed and societal decay. However, as his diatribe winds down, there's a shift in his tone. With a mix of grudging respect and dawning realization, Johnny admits that V's attitude and actions are starting to mirror his younger self from decades past.
V mulls over this observation, the implications sending a shiver down her spine that has nothing to do with the desert's night chill. She finds herself conceding, albeit reluctantly, that perhaps they do share more common ground than either of them had previously acknowledged. In a moment of defiant humor, she retorts that it might be the rockerboy who's becoming more like her, not the other way around.
Johnny's quick and vehement denial of this suggestion is as predictable as it is defensive. The exchange hangs in the air between them, eerily reminiscent of the conversation they'd sidestepped just hours before in V's apartment. Yet, despite the discomfort it brings, there's a sense of progress in having these thoughts out in the open. The unspoken tension that had been building between them seems to dissipate somewhat, replaced by a grudging mutual understanding.
Their introspective moment is interrupted as Panam brings the Thorton to another halt. She points out the solar plant nestled in the valley below, its panels glinting faintly in the moonlight. "Alright, here's the plan," she begins, her voice taking on a more serious tone. "We infiltrate the area, overload all the systems, and then wait for the perfect moment to trigger the EMP."
Noticing the fatigue etched on V's face, Panam's expression softens. "Why don't you catch some shut-eye while we wait for the go-ahead? You look like you could use it."
Feeling the weight of the day's events pressing down on her, V nods gratefully. She repositions herself in her seat, trying to find a comfortable spot in the confines of the car. As she closes her eyes, the last thing she sees is Johnny in the backseat, his expression unreadable behind his aviators. The desert night stretches out around them, vast and indifferent, as V drifts off into an uneasy sleep, the next phase of their daring plan looming on the horizon.
The first tendrils of a tangerine sunrise are just beginning to paint the horizon when Panam gently rouses V from her brief slumber. As they resume their drive towards the plant, the early morning stillness is broken by a heartfelt conversation about Panam's clan and her current solitary status, the nomad's voice tinged with a mix of longing and determination.
Upon reaching their target, V syncs up with the turret once more, her neural pathways humming with anticipation. Her preparedness proves invaluable as drones swarm them the moment Panam encroaches on private property. The air fills with the buzz of propellers and the sharp crack of gunfire as V skillfully takes down the mechanical assailants one by one, her aim true and her reactions lightning-fast.
Using her car as a battering ram, Panam crashes through the front door in a shower of sparks and twisted metal. She leaps out, her voice urgent as she instructs V, "Handle the system overload! I'll rig the detonator!" The two work in perfect sync, each focused on their task with laser-like precision.
As they bolt back to the Thorton, eager to make a swift exit, Johnny materializes, radiating anxiety. "V! Get the fuck out befor something happens to the chip!" he urges, his voice tight with concern. V's snide retort dies on her lips as Johnny suddenly starts glitching, his form flickering like a faulty hologram. A pained expression contorts his features as he clutches his head before fading away entirely.
"Johnny!" V's panicked cry echoes through the car, startling Panam. Before the nomad can question her outburst, Johnny reappears, gasping for breath and visibly shaken. He takes a moment to compose himself, slumping back into the rear seat before assuring V, "Okay, I'm fine. It's... it's OK, just... It's OK, I'm fine... Yeah. Just — DELTA THE FUCK OUT."
Far from reassured, V forces her attention back to Panam and the journey ahead. The nomad guides them to a cliff overlooking the plant and its relay antennas, the perfect vantage point for their trap. As Panam hands over the detonator, her voice is steady but tinged with excitement, "Hold off until I give the signal, got it?"
Despite the inherent danger of their venture, a palpable sense of anticipation hangs in the air. The thrill of potentially bringing down a corpo AV and sticking it to the suits is intoxicating. They wait in silence, drinking in the scenic vista and the serene ambiance of the early morning desert.
Suddenly, Panam's voice cuts through the quiet, her finger pointing towards a specific patch of sky. "There! Over Pacifica!" she exclaims. V's fingers tense on the detonator, waiting for the cue. At Panam's nod, she begins hammering the device, her heart pounding in her ears. For a few agonizing seconds, nothing happens. Then, with a low hum that quickly builds to a deafening roar, the EMP surges forth, disrupting the AV's trajectory.
The aircraft wobbles but doesn't fall. In a breathtaking display of quick thinking and sharpshooting, Panam leaps from the car, yanks a rocket launcher from the trunk, and lets loose a missile at the airborne vessel. The projectile streaks across the sky, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake before finding its mark. The AV, now truly crippled, nosedives towards the arid expanse of the desert.
Elation courses through them as they restart the car and race towards the crash site. However, their jubilation is short-lived. Through the static-filled radio, they catch fragments of a conversation between Panam's comrades, Mitch and Scorpion, discussing plans to investigate the crash site and potentially aid survivors.
"Mitch! Scorpion! It’s Panam! Don't go near the AV! I repeat — do not approach the AV!" Panam shouts into the radio, her voice tight with urgency. But the EMP-induced interference garbles her words, rendering them unintelligible. Left with no other recourse, Panam floors the accelerator, pushing the Thorton to its limits. The engine roars in protest as they tear across the desert, a cloud of dust in their wake, hoping against hope to reach their friends before it's too late.
As they approach the crash site, the air suddenly fills with the ominous buzz of Kang Tao drones. V's fingers fly over the turret controls, but to her dismay, the weapon jams. Without missing a beat, Panam engages the autopilot and flings open the car's roof hatch, attempting to manually rectify the issue.
The nomad's deft hands work quickly, but not without consequence. A sudden burst of electricity arcs through the malfunctioning turret, sending a potent jolt through Panam's body. She lets out a pained gasp, her muscles seizing momentarily before she manages to shake off the worst of it. Gritting her teeth, she slides back into the driver's seat, her movements slightly sluggish but determined. With the weapon system back online, V unleashes a barrage of fire upon the offensive drones. The air fills with the staccato rhythm of gunfire and the satisfying explosions of the mechanical assailants as they're blown to pieces.
As the last drone falls from the sky in a shower of sparks, they crest a hill that provides a clear view of the downed AV. The wreckage lies sprawled across the desert floor, a twisted metal carcass billowing thick black smoke. V's initial relief at their success is quickly overshadowed by concern for Panam, who's clearly more affected by the electrical shock than she's letting on.
Before V can voice her worry, Mitch's voice crackles through the radio, his words punctuated by the sharp crack of gunfire. Panam's face pales, her jaw set in a grim line as she maneuvers the Thorton behind a large boulder near the crash site. From their position, the scene below is a chaotic tableau of flame and smoke, the details obscured but the danger palpable. Panam, her movements still slightly jerky, reaches for a Bounce Back and administers it to herself. As the healing compound courses through her system, she instructs V to use the drone for reconnaissance.
As V interfaces with the aerial drone, guiding it over the battlefield, she tries to calm an increasingly frantic Panam. The nomad's usual cool demeanor has cracked, her voice rising with each passing second as she frets over the fate of her clan members. The drone's feed paints a grim picture. Multiple Aldecaldo vehicles are surrounded by Kang Tao combat mechs and foot soldiers. Bodies of fallen nomads litter the ground, their forms unnaturally still amidst the chaos. V's heart sinks, but a flicker of hope ignites as she spots Mitch — alive, but held at gunpoint by an enemy combatant.
Panam instinctively moves to rush in, but V restrains her, pointing out her compromised physical condition. Instead, V volunteers to infiltrate the skirmish below, rescue Mitch, and bring back any other survivors. She argues that Panam will be more valuable providing cover from their current position. After a moment of tense deliberation, Panam reluctantly acquiesces to the plan.
With a final glance at the nomad, V leaps from the vehicle and dashes towards the horrifying tableau unfolding below. The acrid smell of smoke and burning metal fills her nostrils, and the distant sounds of combat grow louder with each step. V's mind races, formulating a plan of attack as she descends into the chaos, acutely aware that lives hang in the balance of her next moves.
The sky is falling
On this setting son
Echoes of silence
Ringing loud and long
This isolation
Is the king of pain
A lost horizon
In an ocean of flames
The ensuing battle is a maelstrom of chaos and violence, with enemies swarming from every direction. Yet, against overwhelming odds, V emerges victorious — her reflexes honed to a razor's edge as she systematically neutralizes the Kang Tao soldiers and disables their hostile turret. Panting heavily, her clothes sticky with sweat and splattered with blood, V hastily contacts Panam, urging her to join the fray.
In a matter of moments, Panam materializes at V's side, her eyes wild with a mix of relief and determination. Without missing a beat, she directs V towards the AV's sealed door. Together, they pry it open, revealing a tense standoff within — the pilot, his face a mask of desperation, holds Mitch at gunpoint. V engages the soldier in conversation, her words a carefully crafted distraction. Mitch, seizing the opportunity, breaks free with a well-placed elbow to his captor's solar plexus. In that split second of chaos, Panam's reflexes prove lightning-fast — her gun barks once, the bullet finding its mark between the soldier's eyes with chilling precision.
As the adrenaline ebbs, Panam and Mitch take stock of their injuries, finding themselves battered but largely unscathed. However, Mitch's subsequent recount of events delivers a devastating blow — Scorpion, their friend and fellow nomad, lies among the fallen. The news hits Panam like a physical force, her legs buckling as she collapses onto a nearby crate. Mitch kneels beside her, offering what comfort he can, while V can only stand by, her heart heavy with empathy for their loss.
Curiosity piqued by their timely arrival, Mitch inquires about their presence. V explains their role in the EMP attack and her ongoing pursuit of the AV's passenger. In response, Mitch reveals that Hellman, accompanied by a small contingent of bodyguards, had fled westward in commandeered nomad vehicles.
Panam, her grief momentarily overshadowed by a burning desire for retribution, suggests following their tracks. V insists she remain with Mitch, but the nomad's resolve is unshakeable. Her voice trembling with a mix of sorrow and rage, she reminds V of her pledge to assist and declares that the attack on her clan has made this personal — she won't let the perpetrators escape unpunished. Mitch, a knowing smile playing on his lips, advises V not to argue, remarking that Panam's stubborn will always prevails in the end.
Entrusting her car to Mitch's care and instructing him to swiftly rally the Aldecaldos for backup, Panam begins hunting for tire tracks. Upon locating them, she announces their pursuit will be on motorcycles. The women mount their bikes, the engines roaring to life as they follow the Kang Tao trail across the sun-baked desert to an abandoned gas station.
Parking their bikes out of enemy sight, they take a moment to survey their surroundings. The dilapidated structure is crawling with patrolling adversaries, and menacing security turrets stand sentinel at key points. V steals a glance at her new choom, noting Panam's barely concealed injuries and the dangerous glint of anger in her eyes.
"Listen, Pan’," V says, her voice low and steady, "I'm gonna reconnoiter the area first. Get the lay of the land, maybe find a less risky entry point. We'll keep the holo lines open. If shit hits the fan on my end, you create a diversion from here, got it?"
Panam's face contorts with reluctance, but faced with V's unwavering determination, she grudgingly acquiesces. With a nod of understanding between them, V begins her stealthy approach, circling wide around the rocky terrain to the building's rear. Utilizing her reinforced tendons, she vaults over a towering metal fence with feline grace, then swiftly ascends the stairs leading to the rooftop. By some stroke of fortune, she manages to remain undetected throughout her approach.
Atop the building, V locates an access hatch. With one last sweeping glance at the hostile-infested landscape below, she takes a deep breath and drops inside, plunging into the unknown dangers that await within.
As V drops into the dimly lit interior, she's startled to find herself face-to-face with the station's owner. The old man's unsettling calm belies the gravity of the situation as he explains, in a voice barely above a whisper, that Kang Tao has commandeered his premises and confined him to his office. Surprisingly helpful, he divulges Hellman's location without hesitation. V, appreciative but cautious, thanks him and advises him to stay put for his own safety.
V ascends the creaking stairs leading to a small room overlooking the garage. Her heart races as she realizes she's face-to-face with her objective. Hellman, looking worse for wear with an injured leg, sits in a chair, attended by a single guard whose back is turned to her. V's mantis blades extend with a soft snikt, ready to neutralize the threat before an alarm can be raised. However, as the soldier turns and spots her silhouette in the doorway, his eyes widen in fear. He raises his hands in surrender, taking cautious steps backward.
V's cybernetic eyes rapidly scan the guard from head to toe, and she realizes with a start that he's nothing more than a green recruit, probably on his first assignment. A quick scan reveals his true role — he's just a paramedic. With a resigned sigh, V swiftly closes the distance between them, Hellman's bewildered gaze following her every move. In one fluid motion, she knocks the guard out cold, catching his limp form before it hits the ground and gently lowering him to the floor.
Her attention shifts to Hellman, the cause of all this chaos, who hasn't dared move a muscle. Faced with V's steely gaze, Hellman's composure crumbles, and he launches into a rapid-fire volley of questions, "Who sent you? Who are you working for? Yorinobu Arasaka? Do you wish to take me back or...?"
Johnny materializes behind him and shoots Hellman a look of utter contempt before addressing V, his voice dripping with disdain, "Pathetic fuckin' rat's got nowhere left to scurry off to. He's outta lifelines." A pause, then, “Shut him up, already.”
V's lips quirk into a sardonic smile, her gaze still fixed on the trembling corpo. "Not a fan, I take it?" she retorts.
Johnny snorts, crossing his arms. "You haven't found a fan in him, either," he remarks matter-of-factly. "Motherfucker doesn't know who to be scared of more — you or Arasaka."
Moving closer to Hellman, whose eyes are darting between V and the empty space where Johnny stands, V says with cold detachment, "Don't take this personally." Before Hellman can react, her fist connects with his temple in a swift, precise strike. The corpo rat collapses from his chair, crumpling to the floor in an unconscious heap.
Leaning against a nearby desk, Johnny jogs V's memory. "Seem to recall you were gonna tell Takemura when you got Hellman," he drawls, a hint of disapproval in his tone.
V nods, already scrolling through her contacts. "Yeah, just a sec. I'll call 'im."
“Just remember — you have Hellman, and that’s one helluva card.” Johnny adds, his voice taking on a more serious note, “Try to win something with it.”
V pauses, her finger hovering over Goro's number. She turns to Johnny, her eyes flashing with irritation. "Takemura saved my life, remember?" she retorts, her voice sharp.
But Johnny, ever the thorn in her side, persists, pushes off from the wall, moving closer to V. "Because it was in his fucking interest to do so," he counters, his voice low and intense. "Still just biz. He’s no friend of yours.”
V dismisses Johnny's cynical remarks with a frustrated middle finger. She punches in Takemura's number, her fingers trembling slightly from the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. When he answers, she cuts right to the chase. “Goro ? Good news. Got Hellman.”
“Alive?” Takemura's voice crackles through the line, sounding surprised, “What did he say?”
“Alive, alive." V confirms, glancing at the unconscious guy on the floor. "Not too talkative now. Taking him to the Sunset Motel.”
A beat of silence follows, as if Takemura's weighing his next words. Then, unexpectedly, he asks, "Are you alright?"
The straightforward query brings a smile to V's face, warming something inside her. "Yep, Goro, I'm still rollin'. Can't say things panned out exactly according to plan, but I'm still in one piece."
"That's good," Takemura responds, audible relief in his voice. "I will come to you. Keep him there until I arrive."
"You got it. See ya," V says, ending the call.
She brushes off Johnny, who rolls his eyes at her smile. Bending down to lift Hellman, she nearly trips — the jerk's heavier than he looks. Still, she manages to hoist him onto her shoulder and starts toward the exit. As she squeezes through the doorway, part of her wishes she'd just gone in guns blazing against Kang Tao's troops — would've made this whole sneaking out with an unconscious captive thing a helluva lot easier.
To V's immense relief, she finds no enemies lying in wait as she emerges; the place seems eerily deserted. As she cautiously descends the stairs, the massive garage door groans open, revealing Panam standing with her hands on her hips. Behind her, an impressive array of vehicles — cars, vans, and motorbikes — all adorned with the vibrant Aldecaldo colors, form a makeshift barricade. Scattered around are numerous nomads engaged in hushed conversations, their eyes darting warily to the surroundings.
“Looks like your new choombas are here.” Johnny drawls, nodding towards several Kang Tao soldiers sprawled motionless on the ground, "And looks like they tidied up."
“Is that him?” Panam asks as V approaches, her eyes lock onto the unconscious man slung over her shoulder “Take him outside, toss him on the bike.”
Grateful for the chance to offload her burden, V trudges the few meters to the waiting motorcycle. As she unceremoniously deposits Hellman onto the seat, Panam sidles up next to her, closely followed by Mitch. The older nomad's presence suggests he's rallied the clan to lend a hand. They pepper V with questions about her plans for Hellman, to which she responds cryptically, "Just gotta ask him a few important questions. He's my ticket to staying alive."
Their conversation is interrupted by the approach of a towering figure. The man, clad in dark attire that seems to absorb the dim light, sports shoulder-length black hair and a matching beard that frames his stern features. V's eyes are drawn to the intricate Aldecaldo-themed tattoo adorning one of his muscular arms.
"Saul," Panam acknowledges, her voice devoid of its usual warmth.
The Aldecaldo leader offers a tacit nod of gratitude to V for her role in Mitch's rescue. However, Mitch, ever loyal, is quick to point out that Panam's intervention was equally crucial in saving his hide. The air grows thick with tension as Panam attempts to convince Saul that she wished she could've done more for the others. Saul's response is a deafening silence that speaks volumes. Despite V and Mitch's efforts to back Panam, Saul remains unmoved, his stoic expression betraying nothing. With a final, cutting remark that visibly wounds Panam, he turns on his heel and strides away.
In the wake of Saul's departure, Mitch leans in close to Panam, his voice low and earnest. "But he gives a damn about you, Panam. As soon as he heard what had happened, he ordered us to follow you. He was worried something would happen to you." Mitch's weathered face softens as he continues, "Look, maybe you two don’t see eye-to-eye at the moment, but you're family. And Saul will do anything for family." He extends an invitation for her to return to their camp, his eyes pleading, but Panam hesitates, doubt clouding her features.
After Mitch reluctantly takes his leave, V turns to Panam, her voice gentle but firm. "Saul, Mitch — they really treat you like family. Maybe you should give them a chance?"
Panam's expression wavers, a mix of longing and uncertainty. "I... I need time to think," she finally says, not entirely dismissing the idea. V counts it as a small victory.
Their farewell is warm, filled with promises to stay safe and keep in touch. Just as they're about to part ways, an Aldecaldo's frantic voice crackles over the radio, warning of incoming Kang Tao reinforcements. In a flurry of movement, the nomads scatter, engines roaring to life.
Before peeling out, Panam tosses V a set of keys. "Keep Scorpion's bike," she shouts over the din. "He'd want you to have it."
As V hoists the still-unconscious Hellman onto the motorcycle, Johnny flickers into existence beside her. "Two dead friends, two inherited bikes," he muses, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "Starting to see a pattern here, V."
Choosing to ignore Johnny's morbid observation, V kick-starts the bike. The engine roars to life, a fitting eulogy for its former owner. With Hellman secured, she guns it towards the Sunset Motel, leaving behind a cloud of dust.
Notes:
♫ Chapter Song: Def Leppard - Desert song
xoxo !
Chapter 6: Indoctrination
Notes:
• Wow, six months without posting anything? Woopsie.
Got the next chapter already ready to be posted, so it shoudn't be too long this time aha
• Thanks Pure_Serendipity for your comments :)Updated to version 2.0
Enjoy ♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In times of great vexation,
When one must choose between what's right and wrong.
Freedom, so they say,
Amounts to the choices you have made
Through all the arbitrary rationale concerning liberty.
Freedom, I must say,
Exists within unconditioned minds.
The road to the motel stretches out endlessly before V, forcing her to maintain a cautious pace. The unconscious Hellman, slumped against her back, threatens to slip off at any moment, adding to the tension of the journey. As the afternoon fades into evening, the sky painted in hues of orange and purple, V finally spots the flickering neon sign of the Sunset Motel in the distance.
Pulling into the parking lot, V cuts the engine and takes a moment to gather her strength. Hellman, still out cold, is a dead weight as she hoists him over her shoulder. She staggers up the stairs, her muscles screaming in protest, sweat beading on her forehead despite the cool evening air.
Reaching the room she'd shared with Panam the other day, V fumbles with the key before giving up and delivering a swift kick to the door. It flies open with a resounding crash, slamming against the wall. Without ceremony, she grabs Hellman by his expensive collar and hurls him into a nearby chair. The corpo slumps there, head lolling to one side, as V takes a seat opposite him, her eyes boring into his unconscious form.
Everything about Hellman screams 'corpo', and it sets V's teeth on edge. His perfectly coiffed hair, the thin-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, even the cut of his undoubtedly overpriced suit — it all reeks of corporate excess. V fights the urge to spit in disgust, her fingers itching to mess up his pristine appearance.
Taking a deep breath to quell her rising anger, V quickly taps out a message to Takemura, sharing her room number. Then, leaning forward with a wicked grin that doesn't quite reach her eyes, she delivers a stinging slap across Hellman's face, demanding him to wake up.
The slap does the trick. Hellman stirs awake, beginning to move about and scans his surroundings perplexedly. Confusion evident in his voice, he asks, "Where am I? What is this place?"
Ignoring his inquiries, V cuts straight to the chase, her tone sharp and demanding. "Wanna talk about your little invention. Biochip you made for Arasaka."
Hellman's brows furrow, "Fine. But let's get one thing straight first. Yorinobu Arasaka didn't send you?"
"No," V responds curtly, deliberately withholding any further information.
A hint of relief passes over Hellman's face, quickly replaced by a calculating look. "This means you must have an offer for me," the suit dares to respond to her, "If your boss will pay more than Kang Tao, I believe we can talk."
V's anger flares up at the suit's audacity. Fuckin' corpo-rats and their goddamn obsession with money! In a fit of frustration, she forcefully presses down on the man's injured knee, eliciting a pained wince from him. Irritated, she snaps back at him, making it clear that there's no offer on the table. She reveals the harsh reality that the very tech he designed is slowly killing her, not holding back any details. And then, she drops the bomb about Johnny.
At the mention of Johnny's name, Hellman's demeanor changes instantly. His earlier bravado evaporates, replaced by an intense curiosity that borders on scientific greed. He leans forward, wincing slightly at the movement, his eyes now locked on V with renewed interest. Instantly, Hellman's attention is captured, his curiosity piqued.
Johnny materializes in the room, wisps of ethereal smoke from his ever-present cigarette curling through the air, adding to the already tense atmosphere. He takes a seat, his dark eyes fixed intently on the unfolding scene before him, his presence a silent but palpable force in the room. V, her voice tinged with a mix of defiance and desperation, discloses to Hellman that she nabbed the chip from Yorinobu Arasaka himself. The revelation leaves Hellman utterly amazed, his scientific curiosity piqued as he questions why she would jam a chip with unknown effects into her head.
Growing more irritated by the minute, her patience wearing thin like a frayed wire, V retorts that Johnny is the reason she's still alive today. Her voice is sharp as she explains that without him, she would've just given out to the bullet wound in her head.
Hellman, his corpo mask slipping to reveal genuine scientific fascination, insists that the version of the chip in V's head is one of a kind. His words come out in a rush, as if he can barely contain his excitement at discussing his creation. He mentions that it was a direct order from Saburo Arasaka himself and was basically a prototype that was never meant to see the light of day. More importantly, the chip was specially designed so that the engram present in it could dominate the body it's inserted into. Although, the body was typically supposed to be dead for this operation to function optimally.
Hellman requests that he need to inspect V, his eyes gleaming with a mix of scientific curiosity and corporate greed. Begrudgingly, she agrees, her body tense as she allows him access to her systems. Johnny rises from his chair, his movements fluid and predatory as he hovers behind the corporate man. He looms there like a threatening yet undetectable presence, as if to ensure Hellman doesn't resort to any shenanigans.
Hellman connects his personal link to V, his fingers dancing over an invisible interface as he delves into the data displayed before him. As he analyzes the stream of information, his brow furrowed in concentration, Johnny leans in towards V. His words are laced with a hint of sarcasm, his voice a low rumble that only she can hear, "Can't believe this suit's the one who's gonna help us."
After meticulously examining the data, his eyes darting back and forth as he processes the information, Hellman finally shakes his head. His face grows grim as he delivers the news, his voice clinical and detached,
“I'm afraid I have bad news. Your neural network has completely deteriorated. It can no longer function independently of the chip. The only thing I could do is to give you information on a good clinic in Sweden. They'll help you through the terminal stages, minimize the pain.”
The news hits V like a punch to the gut, her world seeming to tilt on its axis. It's not the answer she was hoping for, and desperation creeps into her voice as she intervenes, her words tumbling out in a rush, “Wait, you said the project was in the trial phase. You don't actually know how it'll end.”
Hellman's expression remains stoic as he responds, his voice filled with a chilling certainty that sends a shiver down V's spine, “Oh, I do. I just saw the construct devouring your brain. It's programmed to take over its new environment. At all costs. And your little meatbrain is helpless against it.”
V's voice is barely above a whisper as she asks, fear and resignation battling in her tone, “So no matter what, sooner or later the engram wins?
“Yes. And from what I've heard about Silverhand, that seems to be exactly his style.”
“Huh.” Johnny interjects, a smug smirk playing across his lips, his voice dripping with a mix of pride and disdain, “I see my reputation's grown into Arasaka legend.”
But this doesn't tickle V one bit. All she wants is to thrash this corp fucker 'till he quits yakking about Johnny in such a filthy way. Her muscles tense, her hands clenching into fists as she fights the urge to lunge at Hellman. Despite the raging storm within her, she manages to maintain a semblance of composure, gritting her teeth to hide her seething emotions. Her voice comes out as a snarl, laced with tension and barely contained fury, “What exactly is going on in my head?”
“You tell me what's it like to have two personalities?” the neurologist asks, seemingly unfazed by the young woman's escalating ire, his scientific curiosity overriding any sense of self-preservation, “Because it's not like you're hearing voices. You're both yourself and Silverhand, simultaneously.”
"I can see him and talk to him," responds V, her eyes flicking to the corner of the room where Johnny has settled back onto the bed. A cloud of smoke swirls around him as he lights up another cigarette.
"You're not 'talking', but yes, I understand what you mean." Hellman responds, his tone measured. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he leans in with curiosity, "Have you noticed the construct's influence on your decision-making?"
V's brow furrows, her mind racing to grasp the implications. Beside her, Johnny's restless energy manifests as he paces the room, leaving a ghostly trail of cigarette smoke in his wake. The air crackles with unspoken tension as V voices her confusion,
“What do you mean?”
Hellman's gaze remains steady, his words measured yet loaded with foreboding. “You will start doing things that were once unthinkable, at least to your old self.” His voice drops, taking on a more ominous tone, “And you know exactly who he was. A fanatic. A terrorist. A suicide bomber.”
Johnny materializes next to the corpo, his eyes blazing behind his sunglasses. "Well fuck me," he spits, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "who's trying to mess with your head now?"
Hellman, oblivious to Johnny's presence, continues his clinical assessment like the pompous prick he is. "That is why I believe it would be better for you to consider clinical isolation at this stage."
V's fury, simmering just beneath the surface, finally boils over. With lightning speed, she lashes out, her fist connecting with Hellman's already injured leg. Her voice is a venomous snarl, "At least Johnny never whored himself out like you."
Hellman's face contorts in pain, a hiss escaping through gritted teeth. "Are you defending him? Or is that Johnny speaking now?" he gasps, his words laced with a mixture of pain and accusation. "Oh, let me guess — he already tried to take over your body? You know, just for a little while?"
"No," V retorts, her voice firm and decisive. It's a white lie, but she'll be damned if she gives this asshole any more ammunition.
Johnny, finding dark amusement in the situation, chimes in with a sly grin. "Would you, though? Could be fun…"
"Johnny…" V warns, her patience wearing dangerously thin.
"Kidding," he follows up, his grin widening. "But watch out — suit's getting ready to talk your head off."
V's patience has reached its breaking point. She fixes Hellman with a steely glare that could freeze hell itself, her voice low and menacing. “Know what? That's enough. You just playing for time? Because I can't tell — are you trying to convince me you're useless?” Her threat hangs in the air, her words laced with a deadly promise, “I mean, in that case, I can just shoot you in the head and save us both some time.”
At last, to her satisfaction, Hellman seems to grasp the looming threat above him. He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I will try to help you — if you come with me to Kang Tao…” he offers, desperately seeking a truce.
“Forget Kang Tao !” V practically screams, her frustration boiling over, “Got any other ideas?”
Hellman stammers, frantically searching for a solution. "If you think there's anyone else who can help you, I could give you the blueprints. Complete project documentation. Kang Tao offered quite the sum for it."
A spark of hope ignites in V's chest, small but fierce. "You got it with you?" she demands, her voice sharp with urgency, eyes narrowing as she scrutinizes the corpo's every move.
The guy gives a cautious nod, his body language screaming that he thinks any sudden move might cause V to completely snap and put a bullet between his eyes. Just then, the bedroom door is flung open with a resounding bang, and in strides Takemura, looking every bit the ice-cold badass he is. With just a curt nod in her direction, he acknowledges V, his deep voice casually throwing her name into the tension-filled air.
Seeing this unexpected arrival, Hellman's face drains of any color. He looks like he's about to redecorate his fancy suit with the contents of his stomach. Spooked shitless, he swivels towards V, his eyes wide with panic, and blurts out, "Takemura? What the hell is he doing here?"
"He's got a few questions of his own for you," V declares, a sardonic grin playing across her face. Her teeth gleam in the dim light, looking ready to sink into her prey as she adds, "You play nice, he might even save your ass." She pivots towards Takemura, her voice steady despite the chaos swirling in her head, "I'm almost done." Then, turning back to face Hellman, she demands with a sharp edge in her voice that could cut glass, "The blueprints."
Just as Johnny had done earlier, Takemura positions himself behind the scientist, his presence a palpable threat that even the oblivious Hellman can't ignore. With a hand that trembles like a leaf in a storm, Hellman extracts a chip from his pocket and hands it to V. Without missing a beat, she plugs the chip into her neural port, her eyes glazing over as she verifies he's not trying to pull a fast one. The data streams through her consciousness, and thankfully for the suit, it looks legit. Satisfied with her findings, V disengages from the interface with a slight shake of her head, turning to Goro with curiosity etched on her face.
"What'll you do with him?" she asks, her voice a mix of exhaustion and intrigue.
“I haven't decided yet” Takemura responds in a noncommittal tone, raising his shoulders in a mild shrug that seems almost comically casual given the circumstances.
"Are you serious?" V shoots back, her face contorting as she fights to contain a half-amused, half-exhausted grin.
"You know me. I can be impulsive," he responds, turning his head slightly away, a hint of something almost playful in his usually stoic demeanor.
Even after such a topsy-turvy day, the biting exhaustion, and the tension thick enough to choke on, V barely manages to keep from bursting into laughter at Goro's slight pout as he utters these words. It becomes crystal clear to her that it's time to make her exit before she loses her composure entirely.
"He's all yours," she declares, hoisting herself off her chair with a grunt. Fuck, her head initiates a sudden spin session that would put a tilt-a-whirl to shame. She fights off a wave of queasiness that threatens to bring her to her knees before adding, "I'll give you two some space."
As she wobbles towards the door, trying to maintain her balance like a drunk on a tightrope, Hellman, the total ass-licker, attempts to sweet-talk Takemura. His voice drips with false sincerity, oozing desperation, "I hope we can come to an understanding."
"That is certainly in your best interest," Takemura replies, his voice as cold and unyielding as steel. Then he turns to the young woman, his eyes softening almost imperceptibly as he says, "V. I will remember this."
Making sure Hellman can't catch a glimpse of his expression, Takemura gifts V with a lovely little smile. Despite the fatigue gnawing at her bones like a hungry rat, V takes a moment to savor it. She lingers in the doorway, her ears pricked to eavesdrop on the ensuing conversation. As expected, Hellman's whining voice fills the room, grating on her nerves like nails on a chalkboard, "Agh, this heat. My throat is positively parched."
"Mh, V did not give you even a glass of water? Unacceptable. Inhumane." Goro retorts, his voice dripping with a veil of insincere sympathy that lasts about as long as a snowflake in hell. Then, quick as a blinked eye, his tone drops, ensnaring the room in its dark and mocking grip, "That is not me. You will see the difference. I will give you full buckets."
V flashes a weak grin, her lips curling despite the exhaustion threatening to drag her under. She'd certainly like to stick around a bit longer, pry deeper into Goro's dark side. First, the guy cracks a joke and now this? Damn, he's like an onion of mysteries and she'd kill to peel back those layers. However, just as she contemplates staying a little longer to delve deeper into Goro's mysterious side, her stomach churns like a washing machine on spin cycle, and a wave of nausea hits her with the force of a freight train. Hastily, she slams the door shut, catching a glimpse of Hellman's response — a deadpan, scared shitless kind of reply that almost makes her snort, "No, uh... No need."
Gripping the railing like it's a lifeline in a storm, V is suddenly struck by a nauseating surge of discomfort that feels like her insides are trying to become her outsides. It engulfs her, causing her to violently retch up a repulsive mixture of bile and blood that paints the ground in sickening shades of red and yellow. The world around her distorts into a chaotic swirl of blue and red pixels, cascading before her blurry vision in an unsettling mimicry of a digital snowfall from hell.
Exhausted and completely emptied out, feeling like a wrung-out dishrag, she musters up every ounce of her waning strength to take a few teetering steps. Her every movement is a struggle against her body's increasing frailty, like trying to swim through molasses. She staggers, her path as wobbly as a drunk's on New Year's Eve as she lurches downwards, grappling with the stairs as if they're a personal enemy. Each clumsy footfall is punctuated by tumbles that she barely manages to keep from turning into a full-on face plant on the unforgiving concrete.
Eventually, her harrowing journey across what feels like a fucking marathon brings her to a solid concrete slab of a bench. It's there that she finds Johnny, his posture rigid as a board, arms stubbornly folded across his chest like he's trying to hold in his own guts. He steers his gaze carefully away from her, as if looking at her might turn him to stone. Despite his silence, his irritation is tangible, radiating off him in waves. Yet, with her mind foggy and her focus slipping in and out like a bad radio signal, she struggles to decipher the cause of his annoyance this time. Knowing Johnny, it could be anything from the color of the sky to the fact that she's still breathing. Either way, she's too fucking exhausted to play guess-the-rockerboy's-mood right now.
Feeling utterly weakened, like a puppet with its strings cut, V flops down next to Johnny. Her voice is heavy with exhaustion, each word a struggle to push out, "So, what's up, Johnny? You should be thrilled, right? We —ugh, we snagged the intel we were after."
"Yeah, bloody brilliant!" Johnny retorts, his words sharp enough to cut. Icy sarcasm drips from every syllable as he continues, "That asshole in a suit tells you that you're pretty much just a walkin' corpse, and you find a way to bat your lashes at that fuckin' 'Saka guard dog! Damn, when's it gonna drill in that this guy is the enemy, V!"
V's brow furrows, confusion and frustration warring on her face. "I — What the hell did I even do? Damn Johnny, you're totally losing it over nothing!"
Johnny remains stonily quiet for a few moments, his fury gradually fizzling out like a dying ember. Finally, he releases a heavy sigh, his voice carrying a weight of disappointment that settles on V's shoulders like a lead blanket, "Been tryin' to learn how you're wired this whole time. To know who I'm dealin' with. Thought you were just unlucky to hirst. But I kept watchin' and finally realized what your problem is." He pauses, letting the tension build before delivering his verdict, "You're a dirtgirl from Heywood who found the guts to walk a few extra blocks from home. But turned out the best you can do is chase scavs for ennies."
The words hit V harder than a sucker punch to the gut, leaving her winded and reeling. For fuck's sake, she thought they had moved past this phase. The realization that Johnny holds such a low opinion of her ignites a rage that temporarily eclipses her pain. With a tone laced with bitterness, she retorts, "You're a dick y'know."
"And you're a cunt," he responds, but his voice has lost some of its previous harshness, softening around the edges. "Maybe we'll fit together after all?"
Feeling utterly drained, V allows her head to fall back, her gaze aimlessly drifting across the night sky. Without shifting her gaze towards the engram, she muses aloud, "Sure seem to know a lot about my past."
Johnny's voice floats to her, “Well, seen flashes of your past, just like you've seen flashes of mine,”
V swallows hard, her throat dry and scratchy. "Honestly, I'm scared of the day I'll start seeing your memories as my own," she admits, opting for honesty in this moment of vulnerability.
"Shit, if it's a two-way street, I'll somehow have to live with the fact that I let DeShawn best me, fuck me over," Johnny comments. The mention of DeShawn stirs up a fresh wave of anger in V — she's still pissed that this asshole managed to flatline her.
"Listen, will I notice the change?" she asks, cringing at the pitiful sound of her own voice. It's small, scared, nothing like the tough merc she tries to be. "Or, is it one of those things where I'll wonder why I ever feared it?"
Johnny's response is slow in coming, his words carefully chosen. "Worst thing you can do to a human - rip their identity out of 'em. That's all I know." He still refuses to meet her gaze, his eyes fixed on some distant point.
"Can you just tell me what you want?" V pleads. The exhaustion in her tone is palpable, hanging heavy in the air between them. "What you really want?"
Johnny's response comes after a beat, his words measured and deliberate. "Help me settle my score against Arasaka. That's it." He pauses, the silence stretching taut like a wire before he continues, "I'll tell ya why I wanna destroy Arasaka, but I'll only tell ya once. Wanna hear it?"
"All right," she agrees, bracing herself for whatever's coming.
Johnny's voice takes on a gravelly edge as he begins, each word dripping with bitterness. "I saw corps strip farmers of water... and eventually of land. Saw them transform Night City into a machine fueled by people's crushed spirits, broken dreams and emptied pockets." He gets up, his spectral form pacing back and forth, agitation evident in every movement. "Corps've long controlled our lives, taken lots.. and now they're after our souls!"
V sighs, a sound of resignation and grudging agreement. "Might be right, can't really argue with you there."
Johnny's words come faster now, his passion building like a crescendo. "V, I've declared war not 'cause capitalism's a thorn in my side or outta nostalgia for an America gone by. This war's a people's war against a system that's spiralled outta our control. It's a war against the fuckin' forces of entropy, understand?!" His words start to stumble over each other in their rush to be heard. He leans over towards the merc, his face inches from hers, adding with fierce intensity, "Do whatever it takes to stop 'em, defeat 'em, gut 'em. If I gotta kill, I'll kill. If I need your body will fuckin' take it!" As he grows increasingly worked up, his voice suddenly dives down to a murmur, the abrupt change jarring. "Fuckin' hell... You still don't see it. But you will one day."
"Johnny..." V's voice comes out as a feeble whisper, but he's already dissipated, leaving her alone with the fading echoes of his heated speech.
V's world spins violently, her equilibrium shattered as if she's been tossed into a fucking blender set to pulverize. The intensity of Johnny's rage crashes over her like a tsunami, leaving her gasping for air in its wake. Her skull feels like it's being crushed in a goddamn industrial press, the pain ratcheting up with each passing heartbeat until it's a screaming crescendo that drowns out everything else.
A toxic cocktail of emotions surges through her veins, setting her nerves on fire. Resentment and disillusionment mix with a heady dose of confusion, creating a volatile concoction that threatens to tear her apart from the inside. Her teeth grind together so hard she can almost hear the enamel cracking, a physical manifestation of the inner turmoil that's ripping her to shreds.
She's lost in a fucking maelstrom of feelings, each one more intense than the last, with no lifeline in sight. Anger and disgust swallow her whole, an all-consuming darkness that claws at her very being. The worst part? She can't even tell if these emotions are hers or Johnny's anymore. The line between them is blurring, and it's scaring the ever-loving shit out of her.
In a desperate bid for some semblance of comfort, V curls into herself, hugging her knees to her chest so tightly it hurts. She stays frozen like that, a human ball of misery, as her thoughts spiral out of control in a dizzying freefall. The weight of the past few days crashes down on her like a ton of bricks, threatening to crush her under its unforgiving mass. Every fiber of her being screams with exhaustion, her mind teetering on the razor's edge of sanity.
Despite the chaos raging inside her skull, an irresistible pull drags her towards unconsciousness. She stretches out on the bench, the cold, unyielding surface a poor excuse for comfort, but it's all she's got in this godforsaken moment. She curls up tight, knees pressed against her chest like she's trying to shield her heart from the world's cruelty. As she finally surrenders to her bone-deep fatigue, she prays to whatever fucked-up deity might be listening that sleep will offer a brief escape from this nightmare she's living.
As Takemura brings the rundown van to a halt — a vehicle he'd procured through what he euphemistically terms a 'long-term loan,' silently vowing to return it to the shadowy alley where he'd found it once his quest for vengeance reaches its conclusion — the sun is already making its evening descent, bathing the sand dunes in a warm glow that paints them in rich hues of amber and crimson. He finds himself momentarily captivated by the scene, musing that a man well-versed in the art of poetry would undoubtedly find the perfect words to encapsulate the essence of this peculiar, tranquil beauty.
With the discerning eye of a seasoned tactician, Takemura surveys his surroundings, taking careful note of the scattered nomadic vehicles that dot the vicinity. Each rugged machine stands as a testament to the principles of survival and adaptability, equipped to conquer the unforgiving desert terrain that stretches endlessly before them. A handful of solitary figures meander through the parking lot, lost in their own worlds and paying little heed to the arrival of a newcomer — an encouraging sign that grants Takemura a sense of anonymity, his presence seemingly insignificant in their eyes.
The Sunset Motel, unremarkable in its architectural design, looms before him as a two-story structure that, to the casual observer, might appear as just another roadside inn. However, to Takemura's trained eye, it presents itself as a tactical playground ripe with potential.
The epicenter of activity at the motel resides on the upper level, where a lively bar has taken root. A narrow corridor stretches along the length of the building, flanked by approximately a dozen doors that serve as gateways to private rooms. These methodically positioned entrances offer strategic advantages that do not escape Takemura's notice. Two separate staircases provide multiple points of access and potential escape routes — details often overlooked by the untrained eye but invaluable in critical moments for someone of Takemura's expertise. As he mentally maps the motel's layout, he assesses its strategic benefits with a sense of satisfaction; while modest, the establishment is undeniably functional, offering sufficient cover and exit points for a seamless operation, should the need arise.
Having completed his initial reconnaissance to his satisfaction, Takemura exits the van with fluid grace, his movements purposeful as he makes his way towards the staircase on the right. His keen gaze swiftly locates the room number that V had transmitted to him via message earlier. A flicker of genuine concern crosses his mind as he recalls the young mercenary's plan to apprehend the treacherous Hellman. It was only natural, he reasons, to question the methods of someone who had dared to rob a towering figure within one of the world's most formidable corporations, particularly when said robbery had occurred within the confines of a heavily guarded, luxurious hotel.
However, a wave of surprise had washed over him when she contacted him earlier on the phone, announcing the success of her audacious mission. Alongside the surprise, a strange sense of relief had crept in — she was okay. In their chaotic world, where danger lurked around every corner and death was often just a misstep away, even a moment of safety was a victory to be cherished.
Peering through the window and the partially closed blinds, Takemura's keen eyes lock onto Hellman's back as he sits, hunched and defeated, on a chair. Across from him, V stands with her brows furrowed in annoyance, her lips moving rapidly as she interrogates the captive. At first glance, she appears unscathed, a testament to her skill and tenacity. Yet, upon closer inspection, Takemura notices subtle changes that give him pause — her complexion has paled slightly compared to their last encounter, and the dark circles under her eyes have deepened significantly, etching a story of exhaustion and strain into her young face.
For a brief moment, Takemura finds himself wondering if the deteriorating effects of the biochip have already begun to take their toll, or if her recent days have simply been exceptionally grueling. However, he swiftly dismisses these thoughts, chiding himself for the momentary lapse in focus. His purpose here is clear and singular — to capture Hellman and ensure that V lives long enough to bear witness against Yorinobu's murderous acts. Beyond that, he reminds himself sternly, the young woman's health is not his concern.
Suddenly, the scene before him erupts into motion. V darts forward, her face contorted with anger, and sharply strikes Hellman's already battered knee. The impact reverberates through the room, causing the captive to flinch visibly. A slight smirk tugs at the corners of Takemura's lips, vast amusement hidden within it at the fiery spirit of youthfulness the mercenary possesses. However, his fleeting smile swiftly vanishes as unbidden thoughts of another young individual who mirrors V's characteristics surface in his mind — Oda.
Hidden beneath the stoic facade that often adorns a high-ranking bodyguard, Oda carries a barely contained anger that occasionally fractures his typically composed demeanor. Their last encounter was far from cordial, the memory of it still sharp and painful in Takemura's mind. Yet, he clings to a slender ray of hope, acknowledging that Oda could have easily attacked and presented their severed heads to Arasaka as proof of his loyalty. The fact that he refrained from doing so hints at a lingering respect for his former mentor, a bond that, though strained, is not beyond repair. Nurturing this notion provides Takemura with a semblance of solace in these turbulent times.
With a wearied shake of his head, Takemura banishes these intrusive thoughts, forcing his mind back to the task at hand. He takes a few moments to recalibrate his demeanor, squaring his shoulders and schooling his features into an expression that is both soullessly cold and menacing. If Hellman believes he's had it rough with V, he's in for a rude awakening with what's to come. Takemura has been trained in the most cutting-edge interrogation tactics, honed over years of service to Arasaka, and his disdain for Hellman almost makes him wish for a bit of resistance, just so he can justify the use of those specialized skills.
Drawing a deep breath, Takemura swings the door open with a sudden motion, the hinges creaking in protest. The sight of Hellman's panic upon his entrance secretly delights him, satisfaction dancing behind his stoic facade. He casts a withering glance at the man, his eyes cold and unforgiving, before acknowledging the young mercenary with a slight nod, his expression softening almost imperceptibly.
After a few more exchanges of stinging sarcasm with Hellman, each word dripping with barely concealed contempt, V demands the blueprints. As the scientist reaches into his pocket with trembling hands, Takemura swiftly positions himself behind him, his muscles coiled and ready to react should anything other than a chip with the necessary information be produced. Fortunately for him, that is exactly what Hellman retrieves, his fingers fumbling as he hands it over. V snatches the chip with a hint of aggression, her movements sharp and impatient as she wastes no time in verifying its contents.
Once she finishes, she turns back to Takemura, and once again, he can't help but notice that the young woman, despite her best efforts to hide it, is not at her best. The pallor of her skin, the slight tremor in her hands, the way her eyes seem to struggle to focus — all signs that something is amiss. Against his will, a hint of concern flickers within him, an unwelcome emotion he quickly tries to suppress. When she inquires about his plans for Hellman, his keen eye catches the suppressed smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth in response to his deadpan reply. Against all odds, he feels an inclination to smile back at her, but he restrains himself, maintaining his professional demeanor.
"He's all yours. I'll give you two some space," she announces, rising from her chair with a forced casualness that doesn't quite mask her discomfort. He catches a momentary wince as her eyes squeeze shut briefly, as if she was struggling to regain composure, and when she begins to walk toward the door, her steps are shaky, each movement seeming to require more effort than it should. Instinctively, he moves to step forward, his body tensing as he prepares to catch her should her strength fail.
Meanwhile, behind him, Hellman attempts to initiate negotiation, his voice a desperate whine that grates on Takemura's nerves. He dismisses him with a response as cold and unyielding as a winter's night, his gaze never wavering from V. Taking a step closer to her, he grapples with an unfamiliar sentiment — an affinity towards the young mercenary that goes beyond their professional arrangement. Swiftly, he pushes this nascent awareness back into the recesses of his mind, uncomfortable with its implications. In a hushed tone, he tells V, "I will remember this," the words carrying more weight than he intended.
Meeting her troubled, gray gaze, he detects a visible weariness beneath her stoic facade, a fatigue that is clearly taking its toll. A nearly imperceptible smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, a silent encouragement urging her to persevere. Yet, as swiftly as it appears, the fleeting smile vanishes, replaced by his customary austere demeanor.
With Hellman still demanding his attention, whimpering pathetically in the background, Takemura reluctantly redirects his focus back to the task at hand. However, a part of him lingers with V, concern for her wellbeing nagging at the edges of his consciousness. As she stumbles out of the room, he finds himself hoping, against his better judgment, that their paths will cross again soon.
Takemura, now standing face-to-face with Hellman, dismissively pushes aside the chair V had previously occupied. He elects to tower over the captured scientist, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. The air grows thick with tension, Takemura's presence alone emanating an aura of intimidation that seems to suck the oxygen from the small space.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Hellman grumbles a complaint, his words a feeble attempt to mask his growing discomfort. "Agh, this heat," he mutters, running a hand across his sweat-beaded forehead. "My throat is positively parched."
Takemura, ever the opportunist, seizes the chance to assert dominance in the conversation. His voice drips with eerily feigned sympathy, each word carefully chosen to unsettle his captive further. "Mh, V did not give you even a glass of water? Unacceptable. Inhumane." He pauses, allowing the false solicitousness to sink in before his voice lowers to a chilling and menacing register. "That is not me. You will see the difference. I will give you full buckets."
The thinly veiled threat hits Hellman with the force of a physical blow. His face visibly pales, the color draining from his cheeks as the full implications of Takemura's words sink in. His eyes dart towards the door, frantically calculating the odds of a successful escape. Recognizing the grim reality of his situation, he swiftly shifts his attention back to the imposing bodyguard, his voice trembling as he stammers, "No, uh... No need. I'm... I'm fine, really."
At that precise moment, Goro's acute hearing picks up the sound of the door shutting, followed by peculiar noises from outside. It's as if the mercenary had expelled the contents of her stomach the moment she stepped out. Concern forms in Goro's mind, a momentary distraction he quickly pushes aside. He doesn't have the luxury to investigate it now, but he makes a mental note to check on her later, perhaps send a text message to ensure she has made it home safely.
Refocusing his complete attention on the scientist, Takemura initiates a deliberate and calculated prowl around the room. His footsteps echo in the silence, each one a reminder of the power dynamic at play. His voice resonates with an undeniable tone of authority and command as he begins to list details like a seasoned interrogator. "Anders Hellman," he intones, watching as the scientist flinches at the sound of his own name. "A specialist in neural networks, employed until recently by Arasaka. Notably involved in the Relic project." Takemura pauses, his eyes boring into Hellman. "However, you recently departed from the company, selling your expertise to Kang Tao. The only question is – why?"
Nervously adjusting his glasses, Hellman's composure begins to crumble. His response carries a hint of indignation seeping into his voice, a last-ditch attempt at bravado. "You're ignorant, Takemura," he spits, his words lacking the conviction he clearly hopes to convey. "You know neither my work nor its significance."
Disregarding Hellman's outburst, Takemura continues sternly, a determined glint in his eyes. His voice is calm, but there's an undercurrent of steel that brooks no argument. "That still does not answer my question. Why did you abandon your allegiance and switch sides to the competition?"
Cornered, Hellman starts to explain, his voice trembling with a frisson of desperation. The words tumble out of him, each one seeming to cost him dearly. "After the incident, I had no other choice. It was a matter of survival. When Yorinobu ascended..." His voice trails off abruptly, a look of realization crossing his face as if he has inadvertently revealed too much. He clamps his mouth shut, but the damage is done.
Goro's eyebrow arches up in interest, a silent inquiry as he inches closer to the other man. His voice drops to a dangerous whisper, "The incident?" Hellman remains stubbornly silent, his lips pressed into a thin line. Goro's patience wears thin, his voice rising with growing intensity, "The incident? Do you mean the murder of Arasaka-sama?"
In a daring display of defiance, Hellman jeers, his words dripping with contempt, "Oh, poor Takemura, you still haven't comprehended the gravity of the situation, have you? Have you conveniently swept aside the memories of what occurred before your failure to protect your boss?"
Without warning, Goro mirrors V's earlier action, delivering a sharp kick to Hellman's wounded leg. The scientist lets out a yelp of pain, his face contorting in agony. "Stop!" Hellman cries out, his bravado crumbling. "Alright, I'll tell you!"
"That's better," Takemura declares, his voice laced with commanding authority. "Now, speak!"
While Hellman appears to be gathering his thoughts, the bodyguard pulls a chair across from the man and seats himself. He folds his arms firmly across his chest, each passing second of Hellman's silence only intensifying his palpable impatience. Finally, Hellman begins to weave his tale, his voice low and tinged with resignation.
"It didn't all start with Mr. Arasaka's death," Hellman begins, his eyes darting nervously around the room. "The chain of events began when his son stole a one-of-a-kind prototype of the Relic from the Arasaka labs in Japan. He came to Night City with the intention of selling it to NetWatch, the chip, and the engram it held..."
Intrigued, Takemura leans forward, his eyes narrowing. "What makes this particular Relic model so extraordinary?"
Hellman swallows hard before answering, "It was an experimental prototype, custom-made by order of Saburo Arasaka himself."
"Why would Arasaka-sama commission such a unique model?" Takemura presses, his curiosity piqued.
Before he can stop himself, Hellman retorts flippantly, "The fuck if I know!" Seeing the unmistakable threatening glint in Takemura's eyes and suspecting another blow is imminent, he quickly raises his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "I was only paid to create the damn thing, not question the motives of the big boss or his daughter!"
Takemura's eyebrows shoot up at this new piece of information. "You've interacted with Hanako-sama as well?"
"Of course!" Hellman exclaims, "Both of them kept an eagle's eye on the project! Do not ask me why, because again, I'm as clueless as you."
"Alright. But what sets this Relic model apart from the ones available to the public?" Takemura persists, his voice low and dangerous, each word dripping with barely contained impatience.
Hellman swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "This prototype..." he begins, his voice trembling, "Ideally, it should allow the engram it contains to completely override the host body it's inserted into." He pauses, licking his dry lips. "In simple terms, the engram reconfigures the body to ensure its own revival, granting a form of eternal life. Essentially, this creation opens the path to immortality."
Takemura's eyes widen fractionally, the only visible sign of his shock. His mind races, connecting dots he hadn't even known existed. A new question forms, burning on his tongue. "Is that what's happening to V?"
"The merc? Yes." Hellman spits, his face contorting with disgust. "The mere fact that such an unprecedented and priceless piece of technology ended up in the head of a disgusting street whore like her, it's..."
In a blur of motion, Takemura's hand shoots out, closing around Hellman's throat with crushing force. The scientist's words die in a choked gasp, his eyes bulging with sudden terror. Takemura's grip is like iron, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of Hellman's neck with merciless pressure.
Leaning in close, Takemura's face is a mask of cold fury. His eyes, usually calm and controlled, now burn with an intensity that could melt steel. When he speaks, his voice is a low, menacing growl that sends shivers down Hellman's spine. "If you wish to leave this room with your life intact," Takemura hisses, his breath hot against Hellman's ear, "I suggest you control your tongue." He tightens his grip slightly, eliciting a strangled whimper from the scientist. "One more ill-considered word, and it will be your very last. Blink twice if you understand the gravity of your situation."
Hellman's wide, panic-stricken eyes stare into Takemura's icy glare. His face is turning an alarming shade of red as he struggles to draw in ragged gasps of air around the throttling grip. The room seems to shrink, the walls closing in as the tension reaches a fever pitch. Indeed, the gravity of his predicament has been brutally spelled out.
In a slow and deliberate motion, Hellman blinks twice, acknowledging his understanding. Each blink feels like an eternity, his life hanging by a thread in Takemura's iron grip.
As a final warning, Takemura briefly tightens his grip, causing Hellman's eyes to roll back in his head for a terrifying moment. Then, as suddenly as it began, it's over. Takemura releases his hold and resumes his position in the chair, his face once again an impassive mask. The only evidence of the violent outburst is the angry red marks blooming on Hellman's throat and the scientist's ragged, desperate gasps for air.
Distressed, Hellman is left wheezing, each inhalation a desperate gasp for oxygen in the aftermath of the crushing grip. His hand gingerly strokes his raw throat where the imprint of Takemura's grasp still lingers, angry red marks blooming on his pale skin. His voice breaks through a soft croak, barely above a whisper, "Who the hell is this girl to you, exactly?"
Takemura dismisses the question deftly, his voice a gruff growl that reverberates through the tension-filled room, "That's irrelevant. It has no bearing on you. It is me who is doing the questioning here." Maintaining an offensive stance, his eyes boring into Hellman with unwavering intensity, he continues with another pointed question, "Why is the Relic systematically debilitating V?"
"Simply put, she and the engram are essentially incompatible," Hellman clarifies, his voice strained and hoarse, each word a painful reminder of Takemura's earlier outburst. "The Relic is in constant conflict with her body. She's already screwed, there's nothing we can do about it." He pauses, swallowing hard before continuing. "As I've told you, this is a prototype that was never meant to find its way into living heads. It was designed initially to latch onto an already deceased host."
He takes a moment to compose himself, his eyes darting nervously around the room before settling back on Takemura's impassive face. "Secondly, the reason this project is still in its early stages is because we, my team, failed to address one key aspect - genetic compatibility."
Takemura's command cuts through Hellman's explanation like a knife, his voice sharp and unyielding, "Explain further."
Hellman takes a deep breath, wincing slightly at the pain in his throat. "Well, at its current stage, the Relic — and I'm referring to the overall project, not the specific chip in the mercenary's head — is primarily compatible with individuals who share the same genetic code." His voice gains strength as he delves into the technical aspects, a hint of his usual confidence returning. "For example, a person could successfully transfer their consciousness into their brother's body, or their cousin's..."
"Or their son's," Takemura interjects, his voice laden with the weighty implications of this revelation. The room seems to grow colder as the full impact of his words settles over them both. "And you mentioned that Arasaka-sama kept a close eye on the project..."
"I believe you understand why I dared not delve into the purpose of the project," Hellman says, his voice barely above a whisper. "If Saburo intended to implant his own engram somewhere, given the current stage of research..."
"His engram. He... He created his own engram..." Goro repeats, visibly taken aback. For a moment, his stoic facade cracks, revealing his disbelief.
Hellman scoffs incredulously, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Damn right he did!" His voice rises, a hint of hysteria creeping in. "Do you honestly think the most influential man in the world relied solely on your feeble safeguards to secure his eternal existence?"
At that moment, time seems to stand still for Takemura. Despite his composed demeanor and refined control over his emotions, he finds himself momentarily stunned, mouth agape in disbelief. The concept appears too far-fetched for him to comprehend — surely Arasaka-sama would have confided in him about such a monumental plan, wouldn't he? Yet, there remains a part of him that cannot dismiss the possibility. The allure of immortality would undoubtedly be an irresistible temptation for a man of such stature as the emperor.
Takemura's mind becomes a battleground, torn between conflicting emotions that wage war within his psyche. On one side, the notion that Saburo Arasaka, the revered emperor, may still have a semblance of existence fills him with an unexpected wave of relief. It's as if the weighty burden of guilt and failure he has carried since that fateful night has suddenly been lifted off his shoulders, allowing him to breathe freely for the first time in what feels like an eternity.
Yet, this feeling of relief is quickly overshadowed by a jolt of discomfort that courses through his body like an electric current. It tugs at his conscience, a persistent whisper in the depths of his thoughts, reminding him that this situation defies the natural order of life, that it treads upon the boundaries of ethics and personal sanctity. It feels inherently wrong, a path that should never be ventured, a Pandora's box that once opened, can never be sealed again.
These conflicting emotions immobilize him, rendering him momentarily paralyzed in a state of cognitive dissonance. His ingrained sense of duty and loyalty, honed through years of unwavering service, pull him towards the relief and joy of Saburo-sama's potential continued existence. The prospect of redemption, of a second chance to fulfill his duty, beckons to him like a siren's call. However, his moral compass, deeply rooted in traditional values and respect for the natural cycle of life and death, vehemently rejects the unnatural processes involved. The idea of cheating death, of playing god with human consciousness, sends a shiver of revulsion down his spine.
Curiously, the intellectual and ethical turmoil he experiences seems to carry the faint echo of a voice — a voice that sounds eerily similar to V's, warning him that these circumstances are inherently flawed. It's a voice of reason, of humanity, cutting through the fog of blind loyalty and reminding him of the broader implications of such technology. The memory of V's struggles with the Relic, her gradual loss of self, serves as a stark reminder of the potential consequences of this Promethean endeavor.
After collecting his thoughts and regaining his composure, Takemura directs his piercing gaze towards the fidgety bioengineer. Hellman, visibly uncomfortable under the scrutiny, anxiously picks at the skin near his thumbnail, his eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal. The tension in the air is palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife.
With a voice as cold and controlled, Goro interrogates him, "Hellman. How many individuals are aware?"
Hellman's response comes out in a rush, his words tumbling over each other in his haste to explain. "Regarding the project involving the Relic, as we are discussing now? Barely anyone. As for Saburo Arasaka's potential resurrection, it remains purely speculative." His eyes flick nervously to Takemura's face, searching for any sign of the earlier violence.
Takemura leans forward, his imposing presence filling the space between them. His voice, unwavering and firm, carries the weight of a thousand unanswered questions. "I need certainty."
With a dismissive wave of his hand that belies the tremor in his fingers, Hellman retorts, "What purpose would it serve, Takemura? As far as Arasaka is concerned, you and I are both persona non grata. If Yorinobu finds either of us, we're as good as dead." The words hang in the air, a grim reminder of their precarious situation.
"Perhaps Hanako-sama..." Takemura begins, a glimmer of hope in his voice.
Hellman's patience snaps like a taut wire. He interrupts, his voice rising with each word, "Have you been listening at all? Dammit, she was her father's right-hand in overseeing this project. Do you honestly believe she will exchange any amicable words with you regarding all of this? In her eyes, you are implicated in Mr. Arasaka's death."
A crushing wave of resignation washes over Goro, its weight causing him to slump visibly in his chair. The harsh truth in Hellman's words reverberates through his mind, each syllable a hammer blow to his dwindling hopes. The realization that neither of Arasaka's heirs can offer him the clarity or assistance he so desperately seeks settles in his gut like a cold, heavy stone. Yet, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, a stubborn spark of hope refuses to be extinguished. Somewhere in the labyrinth of his thoughts, a persistent whisper insists that there must be something, someone, he can turn to in this hour of need.
Heaving a deep sigh that seems to echo the weight pressing upon him, Goro's voice carries a weariness that speaks of sleepless nights and endless worry. "You never did explain why you severed ties with Arasaka."
Hellman takes a contemplative pause, his eyes unfocusing as he delves into his memories. When he speaks, his voice is low and measured, as if each word carries a hidden danger. "Ah, when Yorinobu stole the Relic, I instantly deduced it was his doing. I attempted to warn him about the unique and perilous nature of this particular prototype, but he turned a deaf ear to my concerns."He pauses, swallowing hard before continuing, "Consequently, I informed his father about the theft. The prototype was far too valuable an asset to fall into NetWatch's hands." Hellman's voice takes on a bitter edge as he adds, "And naturally, Yorinobu discovered it was I who exposed him, leading to his ascendancy as the head of Arasaka." The scientist's eyes meet Takemura's, a shared understanding passing between them. "You can understand why my continued involvement with the company became unviable. As I mentioned earlier, leaving became a matter of survival."
An oppressive silence descends upon the room, thick and heavy like a fog. The tension is palpable, broken only when Hellman finally ventures to ask, his voice cutting through the stillness, "Alright, let's circle back to the matter most pressing to me. What do you plan to do with me?"
Takemura's lips part in an annoyed sigh, the sound carrying the weight of his exasperation. Damn the man's skewed sense of priorities! Can't he perceive that they are mere pawns in a much larger, more dangerous game? After a pregnant pause, during which he carefully contemplates the repercussions of his next move, Goro speaks, his voice low and measured, "I've given thought to releasing you and allowing you to take cover in a location of your choosing."
A spark of hope ignites in Hellman's eyes at the bodyguard's words, though it's quickly tempered by wariness. He can sense a 'but' looming ominously on the horizon. Sure enough, the other shoe drops with Takemura's next words. "However, I have three conditions."
Hellman leans forward, his posture a mix of anticipation and trepidation. "I'm all ears," he responds, his tone cautious yet eager.
Takemura's voice takes on a stern edge as he lays out his terms. "Firstly, wherever your hideout may be, the moment I call and order you to my side, you will comply immediately. No questions asked." He pauses, his piercing gaze boring into Hellman, waiting for acknowledgment.
Hellman nods promptly, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "Understood. What else?"
"Secondly," Takemura continues, his tone brooking no argument, "you will consent to having a tracker implanted. I need to know your whereabouts at all times." Anticipating Hellman's protest, he quickly adds, his voice taking on a dangerous edge, "Rest assured, this information will be for my eyes only. I vow not to disclose your location to any external party. It's either this or I'll leave you bound in this hotel while I personally inform Yorinobu's men of your presence here."
"Alright, fine!" Hellman grudgingly concedes, his voice laced with frustration and a hint of fear. "What's the last condition?"
"I require a copy of the blueprints you provided to V," Goro states his third and final condition, his tone matter-of-fact.
This request takes Hellman by surprise, his eyebrows shooting up. "Is that all?"
"Yes," Goro responds tersely, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
With a resigned nod, Hellman retrieves the cable from his personal link and extends it towards the bodyguard. Goro accepts it, his movements deliberate as he connects it to a port on his neck. The room is bathed in an ethereal glow as Hellman's optics emit a vibrant cerulean light, signaling the transfer of the blueprints. In contrast, Takemura's optics shimmer with a silvery hue as he reciprocates with the tracker software, armed with robust encryption to prevent Hellman from easily erasing it.
As the transfer completes, Hellman disconnects and retrieves his cable, muttering under his breath, "I see there's no shortage of trust here…"
Takemura's voice cuts through the air like a blade, reverting back to its frosty tone. "I harbor no trust for you. Do not give me reason to regret my decision." He rises from his seat, his movements fluid and controlled. "I will leave first. Wait at least an hour before attempting to leave this room. And remember, should I contact you, you better respond promptly." Without another word, he strides towards the room's exit.
Just as Takemura reaches the threshold, Hellman's voice, dripping with sarcasm, follows him. "Always a delight dealing with you."
Pausing with his hand on the door handle, Takemura poses a question over his shoulder without turning to face Hellman. His voice is low, almost hesitant, as if he's unsure he wants to hear the answer. "The engram on the Relic that V has... Whose is it?"
What seems like a suppressed chuckle emanates from Hellman before he replies, his tone deliberately elusive and tinged with dark amusement. "Oh, I believe that's a revelation best left for your... friend to impart."
The air in the room grows heavy with unspoken implications. Choosing not to press further on the scientist's enigmatic reply, Takemura steps out of the room without uttering another word. The door closes behind him, leaving Hellman alone in the suddenly too-quiet room, the weight of their conversation hanging in the air like a tangible presence.
Reason has come of age.
How can you be satisfied with things the way they are,
When all that surrounds us now, and so much more,
Remains inside the keeper's dark embrace?
The insatiable thirst for power has made
Idols out of mortals, gods into clay,
Soldiers into heros, children into slaves,
All damned.
Desires,
Their hopes betrayed.
As the door swings shut with a resounding echo, Goro finds himself enveloped by the desert's oppressive silence. He pauses, raising a hand to gingerly massage the bridge of his nose, his brows furrowed in deep contemplation. The weight of the night's revelations bears down on him, entangling his thoughts in a complex web of harsh truths and dire implications.
Each strand of the unfolding story intertwines with the next, painting a picture far more intricate and infinitely darker than anything he had previously envisioned. The sheer magnitude of it all threatens to engulf him – from the shocking truths about Arasaka-sama to V's rapidly deteriorating condition, her body locked in a desperate battle against an unseen enemy.
A wave of remorse washes over Goro, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of helplessness. His mind races, questioning whether he should have pressed Hellman harder, sought some glimmer of hope for the struggling mercenary amidst the grim prognosis. If only there was more he could do, more answers to unearth, more options to explore for her sake. But the harsh reality of their situation looms large, a constant reminder of the limited choices at their disposal.
Adrift in these treacherous waters of intrigue and danger, Goro struggles to navigate the tidal wave of information, introspection, and regret. He knows a long night of pondering lies ahead, a quiet solitude wrapped in the echoes of Hellman's revelations and his own tumultuous thoughts.
Unbidden, memories of V's earlier weakness float to the forefront of his mind. Her valiant attempts to hide her deteriorating condition had been painfully evident to his trained eye. The recollection of an ominous retching sound that had echoed just as she'd vacated the room sends a chill down his spine. His gaze falls on a suspicious stain on the nearby railing, intensifying his worry and painting a vivid picture of her struggle.
An eerie sense of foreboding washes over him as he contemplates V's fate. The desert night suddenly feels colder, more hostile. Goro finds himself fervently hoping that she made it home safely, his usual stoic demeanor cracking under the weight of genuine worry for his unlikely ally.
With determined steps, Goro descends the stairs, a pensive resolve guiding his stride. The promise to contact V as soon as he reaches his refuge weighs heavily on his mind. Just as he's about to veer towards his van, something on a nearby bench catches his peripheral vision. Instinctively, he approaches with caution, his movements fluid yet guarded. Recognition dawns as he identifies the huddled figure as V, her form barely discernible in the shadows.
A wave of fear courses through him, propelling him towards the bench with uncharacteristic haste. His optics flicker as he runs a quick scan over the mercenary. The results flash across his vision: Alive. Asleep. And unnervingly cold. Without hesitation, he shrugs off his coat and drapes it over her, hoping to provide some solace from the desert's biting chill.
Lowering himself to one knee, Goro takes a moment to simply observe her. V's sleep is anything but peaceful; the restless darting of her eyes behind shuttered lids makes palpable the war raging within her mind. Each movement, each twitch, betrays the turmoil she's grappling with even in her dreams. The sight of her vulnerability strikes a chord within him, awakening a protective instinct he thought long buried.
He can't bring himself to abandon her in this state. Tentatively, he reaches out to gently shake her awake, his hand making contact with her shoulder. V's eyes fly open in an instant, a storm of emotions visible within their depths. In a fraction of a second, Goro witnesses the quick succession of panic, confusion, and finally recognition as she realizes who has roused her from her fitful slumber.
"Goro?" she murmurs, her voice barely a whisper, soft and laced with a mixture of confusion and relief.
Her voice, unexpectedly gentle and disarming in its vulnerability, hits him at the very core of his being. The way she pronounces his name, not as a formal title or with distant respect, but with a personal inflection, stirs something dormant within him. It's as if she's infused his name, his very identity, with a new warmth, transforming it beyond mere phonetics. This strikes something deep within Goro, sending an unexplainable shiver down his spine and an electric surge pulsating through his heart.
Notes:
♫ Chapter Song: Dead can Dance - Indoctrination
xoxo !
Chapter 7: Stand by me
Notes:
• First anniversary of Arasaka Tower going BOOM. And first anniversary of this fic.
So many chapters yet to come (faster this time I hope aha) !
Also reworked the prologue a bit.
• Thanks Oo_Gutzy_oO for your comment :)Enjoy, 2.0 ♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we'll see
No, I won't be afraid
Oh, I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand
Stand by me
When V's eyes flutter open, an overwhelming sense of disorientation washes over her like a tidal wave. The icy wind licks at her exposed skin, and the harsh cold of the concrete bench presses against her cheek, a stark reminder of her vulnerable position. Darkness envelops her, a suffocating embrace that sends a chilling shiver racing down her spine. Through the inky blackness, she perceives the looming shadow of a figure nearby.
Before panic can fully take root and spur her into flight, her Kiroshi implants adjust to the dim light, bringing the face standing over her into sharp focus. Relief floods her system as recognition dawns.
"Goro?" Her voice emerges as barely more than a raspy whisper, carried away by the desert wind.
Goro's eyes widen at her utterance, worry etching deep furrows across his brow. V can't help but muse that she must look like death warmed over for him to wear such an expression. In a flash, the day's events cascade through her mind — what happened with Panam, Mitch, and Scorpion, the grueling interrogation of Hellman, the violent malfunction of the Relic, and Johnny's caustic outburst.
As she gradually pulls herself upright, a weighty fabric slides off her shoulders. Glancing down, she recognizes the familiar material of Takemura's jacket. Once she's managed to settle into a seated position, her fingers fumble to return the garment to its rightful owner. However, without uttering a word, he stops her with a gentle gesture, taking it from her grasp and settling it back onto her shoulders.
They share a few moments of silent acknowledgment, their gazes locked in an unspoken conversation. Goro has always possessed this compelling way of maintaining intense and direct eye contact during their encounters, never shying away, always unapologetic. It's as if his piercing gaze has the power to penetrate the very essence of her being, reaching directly into the core of her soul.
Eventually, Goro breaks their silence with a soft utterance, his voice tinged with concern, "V, are you feeling well?"
V lets out a bitter chuckle, wincing at the rawness in her throat. "No," she replies, not bothering to mask her truth. After all, what's the point in pretending when every strained feature of her face is a testament to her torment? Noting the worry etching deeper lines on Goro's face, she decides to offer him some assurance, her voice softening, "But don't sweat it. I'll head back home, crash for a bit. Things'll look up after some rest."
Skepticism paints Goro's face despite her attempt at reassurance, but he straightens himself, opting to sit by her side on the bench. His proximity brings a warmth that has nothing to do with his jacket. Turning towards him, V poses her question, her voice carrying a hint of her usual bravado, "So, Hellman still in one piece? You didn't get too... impulsive, did ya?"
A hint of amusement flits across Goro's face, lifting one corner of his mouth slightly at her nonchalant inquiry. "Despite my profound disdain for the man, I managed to maintain a level of professional composure," he replies, his voice carrying a note of dry humor. "Hellman remains intact, more or less. We reached a semblance of an agreement, though I doubt he found the experience pleasant."
"Good for you," V musters a response, her energy reserves dwindling rapidly. She yearns to retreat back into her sanctuary, to cocoon herself in isolation for days on end. The last thing she wants is to appear weak in front of the loyal bodyguard. Summoning what little strength she has left, she pushes herself to her feet. "Gotta go. Thanks for the jacket, and for making sure I didn't become a popsicle out here. As for the rest of your grand plan, hit me up whenever you're ready."
She shrugs off the jacket, an immediate pang of regret coursing through her at the loss of its comforting warmth, then drapes it onto the bench. As she attempts to take a step, her legs betray her, too fatigued to bear her weight. She stumbles, teetering on the brink of collapse when Goro is instantly by her side, his arm bracing her and helping her regain balance.
V wrenches herself free from his grip with a swift, jerky motion. Without daring to meet his eyes, she staggers towards her motorcycle, jaw set tight as she soldiers on. She won't accept his pity, won't allow herself to be seen as weak. As she reaches the bike, a fleeting thought crosses her mind — she realizes that Johnny, too, had this irksome tendency to push away those who tried to extend a helping hand. Was she like that, before all this shitshow? She can’t even remember. Still, the parallel unsettles her, but she pushes the thought aside, focusing instead on the long ride home and the promise of oblivion that awaits her there.
As she steadies herself against her vehicle, her hand gripping the handlebars with white-knuckled intensity, she fights a losing battle against an uncontrollable collapse in the middle of the desert and the onrush of anger-fueled tears threatening to spill. The cool metal beneath her palm grounds her, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within. Suddenly, she feels a firm hand on her shoulder. The touch forces her to rotate, bringing her face-to-face with Takemura. His usually stoic features are twisted with concern, dark eyes searching her face as he states in no uncertain terms. "V, you are unwell. You are in no condition to return to Watson, certainly not on a motorcycle. Allow me to accompany you."
V's jaw clenches, her stubbornness flaring up like a shield. "Nah, no need," she retorts, her voice rough with exhaustion. "Can't leave my ride here anyway. Got both my wheels on this fuckin' parking lot. I can take care of myself, Goro."
"No," Goro responds, his tone brooking no argument. His voice, usually so controlled, carries an edge of steel that catches V off guard. "I will load your bike into the van, and you will take a seat inside." Noticing her moment of hesitation, a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes, he softens his tone slightly, "V, please."
V's resolve wavers, crumbling under the weight of her exhaustion and the unexpected gentleness in Goro's plea. "Oh for fuck's— fine," she capitulates, the fight draining out of her. Despite her stubbornness, something in the man's eyes makes her give in. She walks slowly towards the van, each step a monumental effort, followed by Takemura who pushes her motorcycle with careful precision.
The van looms before her, a hulking mass of metal that seems to sway in her blurry vision. V reaches out, fumbling with the passenger side door before managing to wrench it open. She climbs into the seat, her movements lacking their usual grace, and settles in to wait for Takemura to load her vehicle. Through the side mirror, she watches him meticulously secure her bike in the back, his movements efficient yet cautious. He takes his time, carefully bracing the motorcycle with various objects to ensure it remains stationary during the journey. Once satisfied with his handiwork, Goro closes the rear doors with a resounding thud that echoes in the quiet desert night. He makes his way to the driver's side, sliding into the seat.
The ignition sparks to life, and with the smooth shift of gears, they're on their way. The radio emits the soft tunes of the jazz station, creating a flimsy veil of normality in their tense environment. As they merge onto the main road leading to the city, the desert's vast emptiness gradually gives way to the looming silhouettes of skyscrapers on the horizon. Goro ventures to address the elephant in the room, his voice cutting through the melodic backdrop.
"Your meeting with Hellman didn't proceed smoothly from what I gather..."
V lets out a bitter chuckle, her voice tinged with exhaustion and frustration. "You could say that. Went through hell and high water for nothing much. According to him, I'm basically a goner. He did hand over a copy of the Relic's blueprints, but at this point, I've got no fuckin' clue what I'm supposed to do with them..."
"Mmm. You will figure it out. Don't surrender to despair too hastily, V." Takemura allows a short pause before posing his next question, curiosity evident in his tone. "How did you manage to capture Hellman?"
"Well, took down the Kang Tao AV he was in. Crashed it down in the desert," she states nonchalantly, as if discussing the weather rather than a high-stakes operation.
Takemura's attention shifts from the road to her, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. The van swerves slightly before he regains control, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"You did what?"
V's lips curl into a humorless smirk. "Tossed a massive EMP, brought his AV down. Noticed the blackout? Had a choom who even fired a rocket at it. But stuff went sideways after that. Peeps from her clan came to help survivors at the crash site, and Kang Tao ganked 'em. Fuck..." Her mind swerves to Scorpion — his friendly grin when she hung out at the Aldecados camp just a few days ago. His death — a grim weight pressing on her psyche. "They all bit the dust 'cause of me, in the end. And for what? Nothing…"
The crushing weight of her words and the flood of emotions threatens to overwhelm her. V pulls her knees up to her chest, resting her head on them, all while battling the hot tears that prick her eyes, threatening to spill over. The neon lights of the approaching city blur into a kaleidoscope of colors through her watery vision.
"V..." Takemura begins in a softer tone, only for V to silence him with a wave of her hand, silently pleading for a few moments of quiet.
As the van enters the illuminated streets of Japantown, the garish neon signs and holographic advertisements assaulting their senses, V contains her emotional upheaval enough to speak again. Her voice is low, almost a whisper. "I needa tell you... I tracked down a lead to find Evelyn Parker. It's...it's not looking good... really, really bad actually. Something tells me we won't find her alive and there's just gonna be another grim story for Night City's infodocs. But I need to figure out who hired her... no matter what."
Goro's brow furrows, concern etching deeper lines on his face. "V… proceed with what you need to, but don't place yourself in unnecessary risk. For Hellman's capture, I could have been of assistance. Same goes for tracking Parker. Don't hesitate to ask me if you need some help."
"Sure, yeah," she responds, her tone laden with biting sarcasm and bitterness that could cut through steel. "That way, you can be another one on the danger list all thanks to good ol' V. Just take a gander at what happened to Panam and her folks because they got tangled up in this..."
Takemura's grip on the steering wheel tightens, his voice firm but not unkind. "I'm already implicated, regardless of whether you approve or not. I may have been stripped of much, including my implants, but I remain a competent combatant." He emits a weary sigh before continuing, his tone softening, "You are not in this alone, V. You must learn to accept assistance when it is offered to you."
Just as V prepares to form a response, a sudden coughing fit seizes her. Her body convulses with each harsh cough, but fortunately, this time it doesn't bring an accompanying streak of blood. Choosing to steer clear of further discussions for now, she allows her head to settle against the cold touch of the window. Her gaze, heavy and distant, roams the cityscape, bathed in the vibrant radiance of neon lights. The silhouettes of Little China's buildings rise in their path, an imposing yet familiar vista spread out before them. The city's pulsing energy seems to mock her exhaustion, a stark reminder of the relentless pace of life out here, even as her own seems to be slipping away.
Yet within her, it's a different scene entirely. Her body aches for the comforting, predictable monotony of her bed — a sanctuary where she can shrug off the weight of her burdens for at least a few fleeting moments. Welcoming the sight of her current location, V finds herself yearning for the respite of isolation, to disconnect from the chaos that has been relentlessly clinging to her like a second skin. She longs for the fleeting peace that sleep grants, if only to momentarily escape the reality that has turned into a relentless hurricane, uprooting any remnant of sanity and stability in its wake.
The remainder of the journey unfolds in subdued silence, the city's neon-drenched streets blurring past the van's windows. Upon reaching the H10 megabuilding, its imposing structure looming over them like a concrete giant, Takemura swiftly exits the van and sets about unloading V's motorcycle from the rear. Leaning against a lamppost, its harsh light casting long shadows across her face, V watches him work with a detached sort of interest.
"New bike?" He questions, his keen eyes observing the unfamiliar motorcycle.
V's lips twist into a bitter smile. "Yeah. Seems like every time a choom bites the dust, I end up with his ride," she responds, her voice tinged with a sadness that seems to permeate the very air around her.
"That's... morbid," Goro comments, visibly taken aback by her revelation, his usually stoic features betraying his concern.
"I know. But someone said that to me yesterday, and it's been stuck in my head like a bad tune." V's voice drops to a near-whisper, her eyes distant. "Your pal Oda was right. I've got death following me around like a shadow." She lowers her voice even further, the words barely audible above the city's constant hum. "And I don't want that bad luck to rub off on you too."
Goro's expression softens, a rare occurrence that doesn't go unnoticed by V. "V, there is no need for you to bear concern for me. However, I appreciate it," he conveys, stepping closer to V and placing a consoling hand on her shoulder. His grip is solid, sturdy, offering a reassuring anchor in the midst of her turbulent reality. "Let's agree to this — we'll watch each other's backs," he suggests, his voice the epitome of calm and steadfastness.
His words echo a silent vow of trust, a promise of mutual support and alliance. This elicits a poignant response within V, a warmth blooming in her chest despite the chill of the night air. Even against the overwhelmingly woeful odds, she finds a glimmer of reassurance knowing there's someone in her corner.
"Thanks, Goro…" she offers him a wearied smile, the gesture feeling foreign on her face after so much hardship. "I think I needed to hear that. But how ‘bout you? How are you holding up? You're hiding from Arasaka, and I can't imagine your hideout is all that comfortable..." Her voice takes on a softer tone, concern evident in her words. "If you ever need, well, don't hesitate to knock on my door. Whether it's for a hot shower or just to catch a breather, just... ya know, keep it in mind."
Goro's eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "That won't be necessary, V, but thank you. I appreciate your offer and if the need arises, rest assured I'll take you up on it," he responds, casting a glance at the visibly tired woman beside him. He adds, his tone gentle but firm, "You should head home and get some rest now, V."
"Ain't a half-bad idea, actually. Might catch a wink or two before the sun's up," she responds, her voice a textured mix of fatigue and calm. As Takemura's hand pulls away from her shoulder, an immediate void settles in its place, the absence of his touch more noticeable than she'd care to admit. "Stay safe, Goro. And buzz me when there's any news on the game plan."
"Certainly, I shall. Until our paths cross again, V," he replies before offering her a final nod, the gesture carrying more weight than words could express. With that, he climbs back into his van and eases it into the flow of traffic, the vehicle soon swallowed by the sea of neon and chrome.
For a while, V stays rooted to the sidewalk, her gaze tracking the van's departure until it blends with the city's glimmering horizon. The bristle of cold wind nudges her back to reality, pulling her towards the monolithic structure that houses her tiny apartment. As she turns to face the megabuilding, its countless windows staring down at her like unseeing eyes, V can't help but feel a mix of relief and dread. Relief at the prospect of rest, and dread at the thought of facing her demons alone once more in the quiet of her apartment.
As soon as V stumbles into her apartment, the door hissing shut behind her, she crashes onto her bed, boots and all. The mattress creaks under her weight, a familiar sound in the otherwise silent room. Her fleeting moment of peace is rudely interrupted as Johnny materializes, planting his ghostly self on the edge of her mattress. Hiding behind his usual shades, he just sits there,, his silence more unnerving than any snarky comment.
Still seething over the shitstorm he kicked off at the motel, V instantly goes on the offensive. Her voice, though muffled by the pillow, carries a sharp edge of anger and exhaustion. "Got some wiseass comment stored up, Johnny? Another one of your fuckin' anti-corpo tangents? Or you more in the mood to shit on Goro?" She lifts her head, glaring at his back with bloodshot eyes. "Piss off, jackass. Unlike you, he was around when I needed a goddamn friend!"
Johnny remains motionless, his back a rigid line of tension. Without even turning to face her, he mutters, "Yeah, I know," his voice uncharacteristically subdued. Before V can process this unexpected response, he vanishes in a blue-colored glitch, leaving behind an empty space and a lingering sense of unease.
Once again, V is left alone in her dimly lit apartment, the city's muffled chaos seeping through the walls. An unresolved sense of regret gnaws at her — a sentiment she knows doesn't belong to her, but rather to the construct sharing her headspace. The feeling settles in her chest, a weight as tangible as the exhaustion pulling at her limbs. But she's way too whacked to wade through Johnny's rollercoaster mood or the implications of his uncharacteristic behavior.
Rolling over in bed, the sheets tangling around her legs, she faces the wall. As her eyes drift shut, the last thing she sees is the play of neon lights filtering through her blinds, painting abstract patterns on the wall. Within moments, she descends into a deep sleep, her consciousness slipping away as quickly as Johnny had, leaving behind her troubles for a few precious hours of oblivion.
The next day, after sleeping late into the morning, V finds herself once again at the diner near her megabuilding for a late breakfast. The place is quiet, the first wave of customers having long since left the restaurant, leaving behind the lingering scent of coffee and syrup. No engrams disturb the tranquility of her meal, allowing her a rare moment of peace. As she's about to scrape the last drops of maple syrup from the bottom of her plate with the final piece of pancake, her focus is broken by an incoming call from an unknown number.
"Hello, we haven't met. I'm Elizabeth," a smooth, cultured voice greets her. "My husband and I, we need a somewhat delicate matter... handled. We think you could help."
V's interest is piqued. "Why call me of all people? Any particular reason?" she asks, her fork hovering mid-air.
"You came recommended," Elizabeth replies, her tone measured and careful.
"Yeah, who by?" V presses, her merc instincts kicking in.
"I'd rather not say, not over the phone," Elizabeth deflects smoothly. "Is there any way we could meet, discuss some details?"
V ponders for a moment, weighing her options. She still needs to continue investigating Evelyn's disappearance, but all things considered, satisfying her curiosity probably won't take long. "Sure," she decides. "Let's do that."
"I will send you the address," Elizabeth concludes, a note of satisfaction in her voice. "See you."
Moments later, coordinates for a location downtown flash across V's retinal interface. She quickly pays for her food and exits the diner, the bell above the door chiming her departure. Leaping onto her bike, she skillfully weaves her way through the bustling city streets towards Corpo Plaza, the towering skyscrapers growing ever larger as she approaches.
Arriving at her destination, V stashes her motorbike in an alley beside a sleek, black car that seems to be waiting for her. A bodyguard, his cybernetics barely visible beneath his tailored suit, stands at the ready. After confirming her identity with a quick scan, he ushers her into the vehicle without a word.
Upon entering the car, V unexpectedly comes face-to-face with the aspiring mayor, Jefferson Peralez, and his wife Liz. The couple's polished appearance contrasts sharply with V's more rugged merc attire. They exchange warm greetings before a few customary pleasantries are shared, the tension in the air palpable despite their friendly demeanor.
Once Liz gives the driver a subtle nod to proceed, she dives straight into the crux of their meeting — the questionable demise of Rhyne, the previous mayor. While the official narrative blames a faulty cardiac implant, the couple suspects foul play and they need V to investigate.
The Peralez duo explains that they've secured a braindance recording of a recent cyberpsycho assault at City Hall — one where the mayor was the target. They believe it might be connected to the former mayor's unexpected death. They request V to analyze the BD for any clues the NCPD might have missed. With V's agreement, the braindance sequence springs to life before her eyes, the world around her fading as she's plunged into the recorded memory.
Finding herself in the virtual realm of the recording, V is taken aback to see Johnny there as well, his digital form flickering at the edges. The familiar surroundings of City Hall materialize around them, but V's focus is entirely on the engram. She casts him a suspicious look, her eyes narrowing as she bursts out,
"What the fuck are you doin' here, Johnny?"
Johnny's posture shifts, a hint of uncharacteristic uncertainty in his stance. He slides his sunglasses up to his forehead, revealing eyes that for once aren't hiding behind their usual veil of cynicism. "I ain't here to piss ya off, V," he responds, his voice gruff but lacking its usual bite. "You got it right yesterday... I was being an ass. Pissed at the world, and you got caught in the crossfire. You know how I can be."
"Johnny 'I'm a piece of shit' Silverhand, uh-huh, real newsflash," she snaps back, her words dripping with searing sarcasm. Her finger jabs at him accusingly, "What, you think you can sling all that crud, blow this joint, and then act like we're chooms the next day?! I've seen how you dicked people over back in your time, but if for one second you think you're gonna pull that crap with me, you can kiss my ass! So either pull your shit together, or don't even bother wasting your breath on me!"
Johnny averts her gaze, seeming to shrink under the weight of her words. V can sense waves of regret radiating through their connection, a strange, unfamiliar sensation. It's as if he's transmitting these emotions directly to her, bypassing his usual arsenal of snarky comebacks and empty justifications. In a quiet whisper that seems to echo in the virtual space, he mutters, "V, please..." The word feels foreign, unusual coming from him, hanging in the air between them. "I don't wanna ruin us. I'll try, alright?"
V's anger deflates slightly, replaced by a wary exhaustion. "You damn better," she concedes with a heavy sigh, but can't help adding, "I ain't Rogue, Johnny, you ain't got endless tries with me. Now, are you gonna help me with this braindance or what?"
"Of course." There's a palpable relief in Johnny's response, a hint of gratitude for tucking their heated spat away. He straightens, ready to face whatever the braindance might reveal.
If the sky that we look upon
Should tumble and fall
Or the mountain should crumble to the sea
I won't cry, I won't cry
No, I won't shed a tear
Just as long as you stand
Stand by me
For the next chunk of minutes, V and Johnny immerse themselves in the BD, meticulously picking through detail after detail from the projected scene. V has to admit, when Johnny isn't being an insufferable prick, they work pretty well together, their combined perspectives offering insights neither would have alone. After looping through the same scene countless times, eyeing it from every conceivable angle, V decides to pop out of the BD. She reopens her eyes to find herself alone in the Peralez vehicle, the silence a stark contrast to the virtual world she just left. Glancing out the window, she spots the couple waiting for her near a ritzy AV, its sleek form poised for flight.
Climbing out of the car, V strolls over to them and hands Jefferson back his shard. She informs them that she's on the same page — there's definitely more to the story of Rhyne's death. When she inquires about the cop who took down the cyberpsycho, Jefferson names Detective River Ward, describing him as a good dude he's worked with before. He even offers to connect V with Ward if she has more questions. After the brief exchange, the couple bids farewell to the merc and boards their AV.
As the vehicle takes off, disappearing into the smog-filled sky, V whips out her phone to contact Ward. She explains the situation, and he agrees to meet her at a fast food joint in South Glen. Without delay, she jumps on her bike and weaves through the crowded streets to the meeting spot. Stepping into the eatery, the smell of grease and artificial flavors assaulting her senses, she instantly spots the man she had seen in the braindance. He's hard to miss — tall, bulky frame, shaved head, and an earring, sporting the same bulky coat with a fur collar she saw in the BD. He's not alone though, an older gent is seated across from him, his weathered face speaking of years on the force.
V approaches for introductions, and the detective introduces his companion as a fellow officer named Han. Han makes a few snide remarks about V's mercenary work before leaving, but not without chiding his partner for investigating the late mayor's death. With Han gone, V takes her seat across from River. She candidly informs him that she's on the Peralez's payroll, which prompts him to agree to collaborate. Realizing the fast food joint isn't ideal for such a sensitive conversation, River suggests they continue their discussion in his car.
They decide to investigate further into the cyberpsycho attack that targeted the mayor shortly before his death. Their inquiry begins with questioning the psycho's former employer, followed by pressing one of River's informants. Under duress, the informant reveals the location of the Red Queen's Race, a club mentioned by the mayor himself in the braindance. This becomes their next destination.
However, infiltrating the Red Queen's Race proves to be a formidable challenge. The Animals gang, their hulking forms enhanced by visible cyberware, patrols the perimeter with intimidating ferocity. V opts to infiltrate alone, despite River's vehement objections. Armed with her lethal mantis blades, she approaches the club's exterior, her chrome glinting in the neon lights.
The first Animal barely has time to register her presence before V's blades slice through his throat, arterial spray painting the concrete. His gurgling death rattle alerts his nearby comrades, but V's already in motion. She ducks under a wild swing from a second ganger, her blades finding purchase in his gut. With a vicious twist, she disembowels him, his screams cut short as she uses his falling body as a shield against incoming gunfire.
Blood-slicked and panting, V charges the next group. Her mantis blades sing through the air, severing limbs and puncturing vital organs with surgical precision. One Animal manages to land a glancing blow, but V's pain editor dulls the sensation to a mere annoyance. She retaliates by driving her blade up through his jaw and into his brain, the chrome piercing through his skull with a sickening crunch.
The carnage continues as V carves her way through the gang, leaving a trail of mutilated bodies in her wake. Blood pools on the ground, mixing with the neon reflections in a grotesque light show. The air fills with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid smell of discharged weapons.
Finally, panting and splattered with gore, V uncovers the hidden entrance to the club. Its nondescript door stands in stark contrast to the brutal scene surrounding it, a quiet sentinel amidst the carnage she's wrought. With a grim smile, she retracts her blood-soaked blades and reaches for the handle, ready to delve deeper into the mystery that brought her here.
Once inside, V's met with a fresh batch of foes. She nearly wipes them out, her mantis blades slicing through flesh and bone with brutal efficiency. She leaves one conscious for questioning — the ganger quickly spills his guts, both figuratively and literally. He confesses that the Animals were paid by Weldon Holt, Rhyne's right-hand man, to wreck the club after the mayor's passing. V knocks out the last gang member with a swift blow to the head, then decides to prod around a little more.
In a secluded cabin, V stumbles upon a discarded braindance headset. Its sleek, chrome design gleams incongruously amidst the grimy, blood-spattered surroundings. V, her curiosity overriding her usual caution, decides to slip it on — a decision she'll soon regret. The moment she initiates the braindance, a searing, white-hot pain explodes behind her eyes. It's as if someone's taken a molten ice pick to her brain, twisting and digging deeper with each passing second. V's legs buckle, and she crashes to the floor, her body convulsing violently. A scream tears from her throat, raw and primal, echoing off the cabin walls.
Johnny materializes instantly, his digital form flickering erratically in response to V's distress. "V! Fuck, V!" he yells, panic etched across his face. He reaches for her, his hands passing uselessly through her writhing body. "Take it off! V, can you hear me? You gotta take that fucking thing off!"
But V can't hear him. Her world has narrowed to a pinpoint of agony. Blood trickles from her nose and ears, her eyes rolling back in her head as the virus ravages her neural pathways. Johnny's frantic shouts become distant, muffled, as if heard underwater.
The edges of V's vision start to darken, the world around her fading to a sickly, pulsating red. As consciousness begins to slip away, the last thing she sees is Johnny's terrified face, his mouth forming words she can no longer hear. Then, everything blurs into a blinding, all-consuming white.
Abruptly, the headset is yanked off. As her vision staggers back, smeared with pulsating red pixels, she finds River right in front of her, concern etched on his face. The cop has probably just saved her from flatlining. Once she's gasped for air and regained her composure, she informs him that the braindance had a virus and that was likely what killed Rhyne, not his heart implant malfunction as the official story states.
They retreat to the club's office, a dingy room reeking of stale cigarettes and cheap booze. The screen of an ancient monitor casts an eerie glow as they review the CCTV footage. River's face, illuminated by the pale light, contorts in shock and disgust as the truth unfolds before him. His partner, Han, knew the sordid details behind the mayor's death and was actively burying the evidence. The betrayal hits River like a physical blow, his knuckles whitening as he grips the edge of the desk.
Rage simmering beneath his stoic exterior, River storms out of the club, his heavy footsteps echoing through the blood-stained hallways. V follows close behind, her own mind reeling from the implications of what they've uncovered.
They slide into River's car, the worn leather seats creaking under their weight. The drive to the fast food joint where Han is posted is tense, the air thick with unspoken anger and determination. As they pull up, the garish radiant signs of the eatery cast a sickly glow over Han's smug face.
Han greets them with a sneer, his voice dripping with disdain as he criticizes River's relentless pursuit of a truth that Night City would rather forget. River's threat of involving Internal Affairs bounces off Han like water off a duck's back, his nonchalance a testament to the depth of corruption in the NCPD.
With disturbing calm, Han advises River to let sleeping dogs lie, his indifference to the gravity of the situation chilling. Without waiting for a response, he slides into his car, the engine's purr quickly fading as he disappears.
In the wake of Han's departure, V turns to River, her eyes searching his face for any sign of wavering resolve. But River stands firm, his jaw set and eyes blazing with determination. He vows to reopen the case, to drag the truth into the light no matter the cost.
V's immediate support for River's plan is met with a grateful nod. In the cesspool of the metropolis, where morality is as rare as clean air, River's unwavering commitment to justice shines like a beacon. He stands in stark contrast to Han, who embodies everything wrong with law enforcement — a cop so deeply mired in corruption that he wears his unscrupulous nature like a badge of honor.
After bidding River farewell, V mounts her bike and speeds off towards the Peralez residence. The streets blur past as she weaves through traffic, her mind racing with the implications of what she's uncovered. She pulls up in front of their high-rise, the building's imposing facade a testament to the couple's status. At the intercom, Liz's voice crackles through, inviting her up.
As she steps into the elevator, the sleek chrome interior reflecting her tired face, Johnny materializes by her side in the confined space. "Just gonna tell you one thing," he says, his tone uncharacteristically serious, cutting through the soft hum of the ascending elevator.
"I'm listenin'," V replies with a hint of indifference, her eyes fixed on the changing floor numbers.
Johnny's voice drops lower, filled with earnest concern. "Don't tell 'em nothin'. Don't get involved. This muck is deeper than ya think. Suck you in if you're not careful."
"I'm always careful," V shoots back defensively, her gaze finally meeting Johnny's eyes.
"Fine, do whatever the fuck you want. Not like ya listen anyway," Johnny snaps, irritation clear in his voice. Then, his expression softening, he continues, "Look, V, earlier you came this close to dyin'. If it hadn't been for the cop...damn... I just don't want anything to happen to you, okay? Diving headfirst into political crap isn't gonna do you any favors. Just... be careful, alright?"
Feeling the raw concern emanating from Johnny, coupled with the vivid memory of him rushing to her aid during her near-death experience, V checks her instinctive urge to retort. Instead, she simply nods, silently assuring him that she's heard his warning and will heed his concerns.
The moment V exits the elevator, she's heartily greeted by Elizabeth, who gestures her into their apartment — a space that exudes subtle luxury without a hint of excess, much like the owners themselves. As V sinks into the high-end black leather sofa, its cool surface a stark contrast to the warmth of the room, Jefferson joins them. After exchanging pleasantries, he seats himself on a couch across from her, his posture radiating both authority and approachability. Elizabeth hands him a drink and gets comfy on the couch armrest, both of them attentive, all ears for the update V's about to share.
V holds back nothing and proceeds to share every nitty-gritty detail she's uncovered, her voice steady despite the weight of her revelations. From the deadly virus tucked away in the braindance that may have caused Rhyne's fatal collapse, to the NCPD's efforts to keep the ugly truth under wraps and most crucially, Holt's likely hands in the sordid affair. It's a lot to take in, but the Peralez, stirred but vindicated, appreciate the confirmation of their suspicions. V accents her revelation with a word of caution for them to tread carefully henceforth, an advice they affirm they'll heed with solemn nods. Before parting ways, Jefferson rewards V for her work, presenting her with a hefty sum that makes her eyebrows rise involuntarily. He then returns to the call he had put on hold, his ongoing campaign for the mayor's office demanding his immediate attention, the weight of his potential responsibilities already visible in the set of his shoulders.
As she rides the elevator down, preparing to exit the building and step back into the chaos of Night City, V's holo buzzes, flashing a call from Panam. The instant she answers, the look of distress on the younger woman's face is a dead giveaway that something's awry, her usual confident demeanor replaced by barely concealed worry.
"V… It's a good thing you answered. I could probably use your help… I could really use your help. Can we meet?" Panam's voice is tense, underlining the seriousness of the situation.
"Just tell me when and where," V responds instantly, not a moment of hesitation in her voice, her loyalty to her friend overriding any fatigue she might be feeling.
"You don't know how good it is to hear that," Panam replies, her face visibly registering a wave of relief that softens her worried features. "Swing by the Aldecaldos' camp. I'll explain it all."
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
Astride Scorpion's motorbike, V feels an exhilarating rush as she zips through the desolate sand dunes, the powerful engine roaring beneath her. With the throttle wide open, she makes headway across the desert at breakneck speed, the landscape blurring into a sea of golden sand and rocky outcrops as she aims to reach the camp as swiftly as possible. The wind whips through her hair, carrying the scent of dust and adventure, a stark contrast to the neon-soaked streets she left behind.
V's response is immediate and reassuring, "Always, Panam. You and me're chooms. Thought that was clear." The smile that spreads across Panam's face in response to V's words is radiant, outshining even the merciless desert sun beating down on them.
"Careful, or I'll start believing that," Panam jests, a hint of her usual spark returning to her eyes. "You won't be able to get rid of me."
"I will survive, I'm sure," V fires back in good spirit, the banter a welcome respite from the gravity of the situation.
Panam escorts V across the bustling encampment, weaving between tents and vehicles, steering her towards a small circle of nomads congregated near a rugged, dust-covered vehicle. As they approach, it becomes painfully clear that apart from Mitch, who has graciously deployed a drone for surveillance, none of the other Aldecaldos seem inclined to so much as lift a finger to assist in Saul's rescue. The realization dawns on V that this is shaping up to be a two-person operation — Panam will provide cover while V infiltrates the enemy camp, a setup that doesn't faze the seasoned merc.
V doesn't have any qualms about it; she's always thrived working alone, her solo missions in Night City having honed her skills to a razor's edge. Still, the indifferent attitude of the nomads leaves her puzzled, their lack of concern for their leader a stark contrast to the tight-knit community they claim to be. As she surveys the group, their averted gazes and shuffling feet speak volumes about the complex dynamics at play within the Aldecaldos clan.
V and Panam set off in a van, its chassis retrofitted by Mitch who, at the last second, presses a dose of SuperJet into V's hand, urging her to use it if Saul needs it. V pockets the medicine, the small vial a weighty reminder of the stakes, as the two women embark on their perilous mission. Oddly, Panam requests V to take the wheel, her usual confidence seemingly shaken. As they navigate the dusty roads, Panam shares her disbelief about Saul's abduction, her voice tinged with a mix of awe and frustration as she recounts tales of his past feats, questioning how they've ended up in this dire predicament.
As they draw closer to the Wraith's outpost, the once vibrant late afternoon sky takes on an ominous hue, the sun's rays filtered through a haze of dust. Spotting a menacing sandstorm brewing in the distance, its swirling mass of sand and debris a looming threat, Panam indicates the mounting urgency. They eventually pull up behind a colossal boulder, its weathered surface providing cover, and clamber out of the vehicle. They take a brief pause to scan the encampment, the air thick with tension. The area is rife with Wraiths, and V knows that she will need to tread lightly to avoid escalated violence.
Luckily, V knows how to stay under the radar when the situation calls for it — 'like a thief', a voice, eerily similar to Takemura's, echoes in her mind. She slips into the enemy camp without attracting any attention, her movements fluid and calculated as she dodges both patrolling guards and the watchful eyes of security cameras. Before long, she has stealthily navigated her way into the primary structure where, without a doubt, Saul is confined.
She descends into the basement of the building, the air growing thick and musty with each step, only to stumble upon a horrifying sight — the lifeless body of a nomad girl, stripped of her implants and gruesomely gutted. The girl's vacant eyes stare unseeing at the ceiling, her chest cavity a gaping maw of exposed ribs and congealed blood. Cybernetic ports, once filled with high-tech implants, now sit empty like hungry mouths. Terrific. Raffen Shivs bridging the sinister gap between Scavs and organ traffickers. V's revulsion mounts with each passing moment, her stomach churning at the grotesque display of human cruelty.
Not letting the grim discovery deter her, however, she presses on, delving further into the basement until stumbling upon another flight of stairs. The metal steps creak ominously under her weight as she descends, each sound amplified in the oppressive silence.
Venturing down, V eventually locates Saul, seemingly disoriented but thankfully still breathing. His eyes, glazed and unfocused, dart around the room, not recognizing V right away. Gradually, he pulls himself together when she mentions Panam, the familiar name cutting through his confusion and helping him realize she's not one of the Raffens. Aware of the urgency, she promptly administers the SuperJet, the needle piercing his skin with a soft hiss. Remarkably, the medicine kicks in within seconds, color returning to Saul's pallid face as he regains enough strength to stand, his movements still shaky but determined.
Without wasting a precious second, V holo-calls Panam, her voice a mix of relief and urgency as she reassures her that Saul is in good condition and they're making their way out. Panam, ready and waiting, confirms that the engine is already fired up, her words laced with barely contained anticipation. With a silent nod, V signals Saul to follow her quietly, their footsteps echoing softly in the dank basement. He points her towards a loosely fixed grate leading to a passageway large enough for them to squeeze through, the rusted metal a testament to years of neglect. Working together, they manage to pry open the grate with a screech that sets their teeth on edge, and V takes the lead, slipping into the passageway like a shadow. As they inch forward through the cramped space, the smell of dust and decay filling their nostrils, they discover a ladder which, conveniently enough, leads them out of the wretched Raffen camp and into the open air.
Panam is poised not far from their escape route, settled behind the wheel of the van, her knuckles white as she grips the steering wheel. V and Saul scramble into the vehicle with no time to spare, the doors slamming shut behind them. Panam punches the gas, the engine roaring to life as they create distance from the camp, the encroaching sandstorm cloaking their escape with a helpful cover of swirling sand and debris. A brief, tense back-and-forth ensues between Panam and Saul about heading straight back to the Aldecaldos camp, their words sharp and clipped, but they unanimously opt to find a discrete refuge for the remainder of the night, the need for safety overriding their disagreements.
Before long, they reach a desolate house, its weathered exterior a stark silhouette against the darkening sky, and Panam pulls up right outside. They hastily make their way into the grimy little haven, untouched for years by its past dwellers, the floorboards creaking ominously under their feet. Dark due to the lack of electricity, the interior a maze of shadows and forgotten memories, Panam proposes a task to V — to venture into the storm to restore the power. With a determined nod, V faces the tempestuous weather and sandy gusts, her skin stinging from the assault of wind-whipped sand, as she locates the circuit breaker behind the house. She swiftly rectifies the connection, her fingers working deftly despite the howling wind, before hurrying back in, shaking off the sand that clings to her like a second skin.
Once inside, she discovers Panam and Saul locked in a heated discussion about alliances with the corporations, their voices rising above the storm outside. It dawns on her that some things never seem to change, and in some strange way, that's oddly comforting, a constant in their ever-shifting world.
The tension cools down as they find comfort in the warmth and light that now fills the dilapidated house, casting long shadows on the peeling wallpaper. Out of nowhere, Panam stumbles upon an old dusty whiskey bottle far past its best before date, the label faded and peeling. They all plop down onto the worn chairs, their springs protesting loudly, seeking a bit of relaxation amidst the chaos. Saul spills the beans on what the Raffens were after — info about the nomad camp's location, their routes, drop-off spots... V can feel the conversation heating up again, the air thick with unspoken accusations, and tries to cool things off, suggesting they're all exhausted and they could hash it out later. But neither Panam nor Saul is ready to back off, their stubbornness as unyielding as the desert itself.
In the end, V ends up backing Panam, her voice firm as she warns Saul that shaking hands with the corps always leads to a mess, her words tinged with the bitterness of experience. She even confesses that as a kid frm Heywood, she's always looked up to the nomads for their spirit of freedom, their escape from the corp's iron grip, her admission hanging in the air like the dust motes dancing in the dim light. The weight of her words seems to settle over the room, a moment of understanding passing between the three of them as the storm rages on outside, a fitting backdrop to the turmoil within.
After their intense chat, they finally decide to drop it, the tension in the room easing like a loosened spring. Seizing this break in the arguing, Saul lets Panam know she's always welcome back at the camp, his voice softening as he promises that everyone's gonna be happy to see her. He then mentions he's gonna try to get some shut-eye, his exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders, and casually comments on the sandstorm outside, referring to it as 'Haboobs' — the name they use in Africa. Then he takes off, his footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving V and Panam alone in the dimly lit room.
The two decide to crack open the dubious bottle of booze — which, unsurprisingly, tastes pretty funky, like a mix of gasoline and regret — and raise a toast to Haboobs and their successful rescue op. The liquid burns going down, but it's a welcome distraction from the day's events. That's when Panam pops the question, her eyes curious but cautious,
"So, how'd it go with Hellman in the end?"
"Honestly? Not as great as I'd hoped," V admits with a heavy sigh, her fingers tightening around the bottle. "Turns out, he's behind some tech that's messing with my health, and I was hoping he could get it out. But he says it's a no-go. Seems like I'm pretty much screwed. All he did was hand me the blueprints, just in case I stumble upon someone else who could lend a hand..."
"Oh, shit V, that's rough," Panam mutters, her face a mix of concern and sympathy as she immediately nudges the bottle towards V, figuring she could definitely use a drink after such a reveal. "Is there anything I can do? Any way I can help?"
"Unless you've secretly mastered tech wizardry, I'm afraid not," V jokes, a weak smile playing on her lips. "But, hey, don't sweat it. I've got a few more avenues I can explore to sort out this mess."
"Got anyone in your corner helping out with this mess?" Panam checks in, grabbing the bottle for another swig, grimacing at the flavor that seems to get worse with each taste.
"Sure do. My ripperdoc's on it, total champ — he'll do anything he can. Then there's Johnny... I guess he's got my back in his own... unique way..." V shares, her eyes briefly flicking to the empty chair where Johnny's digital ghost has just casually popped up, chillin' in the spot Saul just vacated.
"Oh right, the mighty 'Johnny' surfacing again!" Panam cracks, oblivious to the spectral presence. Her tone is light, but there's a hint of genuine curiosity underneath. "Are you finally gonna spill who this guy is?"
"It's sorta... complicated," V fires back, her fingers fumbling with a cigarette as she sparks it up, earning a thumbs-up from Johnny's spectral form. "We met when things were kinda super crappy, and he's got a crappier attitude but...he's actually trying his damnedest to help. Despite all his rough edges, I think I can rely on him."
This scores a grin from Johnny which V mirrors before turning her attention back to Panam. The nomad's brooding, gears turning in her head until she finally pitches out the question, her voice laced with a mix of curiosity and concern.
"And what about your corpo buddy? I know Arasaka's breathing down his neck and all, but ain't there some peeps in his past he hasn't completely pissed off yet?"
"With Goro... man, talk about a brain-buster," V retorts, exhaling a plume of smoke, and she can almost sense Johnny doing a virtual eye-roll. "He's got his own game, and if he can squirm his way back into the 'Saka VIP circle - and I help him spill the beans on his boss's murder — there's a chance I might finally get top-dog scientists onto my case. But that's holding onto a pretty big 'if' and even bigger 'maybe'".
"Hmm," Panam gnaws on her lip, her brows furrowing in thought, the bottle of questionable whiskey forgotten in her hand, "that's kinda dipping heavy into 'if's' and 'maybe's' for my liking..."
"I know what it sounds like... But right now, might be my only shot," V discloses, her voice dropping low, stirring the conversation deeper into personal terrain. "Plus... post the whole Hellman clusterfuck... I sorta... lost my marbles. Got really messed up. We're talking hot tech-induced mess and riding the feels train. I was going through hell. And there stood Goro, like a fuckin' rock. He had zero reasons to stick around, no one asked him to, in fact, I tried throwing him off the scent but he just wouldn't buy it. Stood by my side, got my ass home safe and sound."
After dropping that bombshell, V sneaks a peek at Johnny, half-expecting him to throw another hissy fit about Takemura or fire off another round of tirades against Arasaka. But he just lounges, sunken in the armchair, playing with one of his rings like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Look, V. I ain't got the first fuckin' clue about solving your high-tech nightmare but... you ever find yourself in a shitstorm or just need to vent, hit me up," Panam lays it out, her words reinforcing the bond they share, her eyes locked onto V's with an intensity that speaks volumes. "Remember what you said earlier, choom. After all you did — squaring up with Nash, helping Mitch, saving Saul's sorry ass — if anyone owes anyone, it's me. So even if you just wanna chat or offload some crap, remember, I'm here. Got it?"
"Thanks, Pan'," V flashes her a genuine smile, warmth spreading through her chest at the sincerity in Panam's offer. "I'll remember that, for sure."
Returning V's nod, Panam stretches herself out, placing her legs across V's lap with casual familiarity, and gets comfy. She takes a look around the dimly lit room, shadows dancing on the walls from the weak light, and muses,
“Yeah, this place would make for a decent little motel, wouldn’t it ? Little fireplace, booze… Grumpy guy at reception is the one thing missing.”
“Here at the Independant California, customer satisfaction is job one.” V jokes back, playfully tapping on Panam's ankle, “Your wish is our command…”
“You know what ? We better get some sleep. That was a damn long day.” Panam suggests, stretching out on the couch, her muscles visibly relaxing. She then adds, her voice softening, “V… I’m glad you came. Really, thanks. It meant a lot to me.” She flashes a smile at V, covers her mouth to yawn and then asks, “ Do you hear that ?”
"Nnn-nope," V replies, after straining her ears for a while but not picking up on any odd sounds, the silence of the house pressing in around them like a thick blanket.
"Hmph. Mhm. The wind's died down." Panam explains, resting her head on the armrest and closing her eyes, her voice taking on a dreamy quality. "I can't speak for haboobs, but... when a chinook rolls rough and rowdy across the plain, hehh, I sure can't get any shuteye... Not a wink."
Just like that, she dozes off, her breathing evening out into a steady rhythm. Without disturbing Panam's legs resting on her knees, V wriggles around, trying to find a comfortable spot on the too-small-for-two ancient couch. The springs creak in protest as she shifts, the worn fabric rough against her skin. After a bit of maneuvering and settling in, she's ready to close her eyes when Johnny decides to plonk himself on the coffee table across from her, the wood groaning under his weight despite his incorporeal form.
His gaze flits between Panam and V, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Then, in a soft voice that's uncharacteristically gentle, a stark contrast to his usual abrasive tone, he says,
“On behalf of the staff of the Independant California Motel… I wish you all sweet dreams.”
The last thing V sees before drifting off into her own dreams is Johnny's hand, reaching toward her and then hesitating, hovering in the air between them before finally pulling back. The gesture, so human and vulnerable, lingers in her mind as she slips into unconsciousness, the weight of the day finally catching up with her like a ton of bricks.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
As the first light of morning filters in, painting the dusty room in hues of gold and amber, V stirs awake to find herself alone in the old house. A distant clatter breaks the quietude, drawing her attention outside like a siren's call. Unfurling herself from the creaky old sofa, she lets out a yawn that seems to come from her very soul, stretching to ease the stiffness gathered overnight. Following the source of the noise, she shuffles toward the door, her footsteps echoing in the empty space.
Emerging outside, the cool morning air nipping at her skin, she spots Panam settled comfortably on the homestead's front steps. As soon as Panam's gaze meets V's, a smile playing on her lips, she's asking if she caught some quality shut-eye. In a playful, groggy voice that's still thick with sleep, V shoots back, "Yeah, but next time I'll scout the motel."
V's attention is then pulled towards Saul, a stone's throw away, engaged in animated conversation with a newly arrived member of their nomadic family. Reading her gaze like an open book, Panam fills her in — Saul's shaken off his abduction ordeal like water off a duck's back, seemingly no worse for wear. V's memories lurch back to the previous night's verbal joust — Panam appreciates her support and concedes that Saul had been onto something after all, her voice tinged with reluctant admiration. The Raffens are planning something big, she says, her eyes hardening with determination, and she intends to be battle-ready when they decide to launch their strike.
Just before their paths diverge, Panam offers a parting gift — a high-powered sniper rifle that makes V's eyes gleam in appreciation, her fingers itching to test it out. As they bid their farewells, the weight of their newfound friendship hanging between them, Panam reassures V that she's just a call away if she ever needs support. With that, she swings a leg over her bike, the engine roaring to life, and tears away into the sunrise, leaving a cloud of dust in her wake.
Before V decides to hit the road, she takes a moment to have a quick chinwag with Saul and the seasoned nomad accompanying him, their faces weathered by years under the harsh desert sun. Running her gaze over the duo, she makes sure there are no leftover grudges between Saul and Panam from the previous night's fiery standoff. Content she's leaving them on good terms, their nods of respect speaking volumes, she shares a warm goodbye with them.
She notices her bike, thoughtfully returned by the generous nomads — a welcoming sight that feels like coming home. Moving towards it, she can't help but run her hand over the familiar handlebars, the cool metal a stark contrast to the warming air.
Twisting the throttle, a growl cuts through the desert silence as she gears up, leaving the tranquility of the desert and the Aldecaldo family behind. The skyline of Night City beckons her return — with the city's pulsating energy, the job never sleeps, and neither can she. The unfinished business with Evelyn Parker looms large on her to-do list, a nagging itch at the back of her mind. The need for answers, the unraveled mystery — all quietly echoing in her thoughts as she roars off, the cityscape becoming clearer with each passing mile.
Notes:
♫ Chapter Song: Ben E. King - Stand by me
xoxo !
Chapter 8: Mad World
Notes:
Hey! A few things before we start:
• Long chapter incoming! Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• I had some time during the summer, so I did a complete rewrite of ALL the previous chapters (yes, even the one I posted 3 weeks ago). Don't feel obligated to reread, there are no changes to the plot, just... improvements I felt were necessary. But if anyone has the courage to start over from the beginning, let me know haha ♥
• Thanks for the Kudos and thank you CassandraDAuguste for your comments. It's always very much appreciated!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
All around me are familiar faces
Worn-out places, worn-out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
And their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head, I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow
Rolling into the concrete jungle, V decides it's high time to get Judy up to speed about her latest findings in the Evelyn Parker disappearance saga. As she drops the name 'Fingers', she immediately notices Judy's face on the holo-call crumpling. V quickly jumps in to reassure her, stating that she's about to pay the suspicious ripperdoc a 'friendly' visit, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
After ending the call, V pulls up at the entrance to Jig-Jig street, the bike's engine sputtering to silence. It's a different beast during daylight hours — much more subdued, like a hungover party animal nursing a killer headache. Even Joytoys are scarce without the cover of darkness and their usual clientele, who prefer conducting their sordid business under the night's less judgmental gaze.
In the harsh light of day, the normally pulsating facades of countless sex shops lay dormant, their hypnotic allure suspended. Without the cover of the night, the true nature of this place is laid bare for all to see. he gritty reality of this place becomes painfully apparent, flaunting its grungy underbelly without shame. It's a stark contrast to the illusion it presents during the nocturnal hours when the lights and shadows work together to create a seductive mirage. But now, there's no hiding the truth — this place is as raw and real as a fresh wound.
V inhales deeply, immediately regretting it as the stench of piss, vomit, and desperation assaults her nostrils. She dives in, ignoring the peeling paint that looks like it's trying to escape the buildings, and the excess litter that could probably form its own small nation. Her focus — a particular ripperdoc who might have answers she's craving more than a junkie needs their next fix.
As V nears the dilapidated structure housing Fingers' quirky clinic, a trio of men lounging on the steps eyeballs her like she's the last slice of pizza at a frat party. The group's alpha starts jawing at her, and she's not sure if he's trying to hit on her or threaten her — in this part of town, it's often a fine line. But she ain't got time for that kind of crap in her agenda. Deciding to shut it down quick, she throws a classic intimidation trick their way — a mere formality in the merc business — just to keep them in line. Surprisingly, the goons get the message faster than a MaxTac unit responding to a cyberpsycho, clearing a path for her to reach the door, no fuss.
Taking the trash-strewn, grimy stairs two at a time, V's boots crunch on discarded syringes and crushed beer cans. The stairwell reeks of piss and desperation, the walls a canvas of crude graffiti and peeling paint. As she reaches the landing, she stumbles upon a scene straight out of a noir film — a hooker with smeared makeup and a tear-stained face, locked in a heated argument with a greasy-haired man who's probably her pimp. Their voices echo off the walls, a cacophony of threats and pleas that V tunes out as she pushes past them.
She strides into Fingers' waiting room, and it's like stepping into a fever dream. The space is a flamboyant disaster of interior decor decisions that would make even the most eccentric designer cringe. A garish zebra-print carpet fights for attention with an oversized pink leopard fan mounted on the wall, while kitschy exotic masks leer from every corner. A small Chinese dragon statue guards a collection of lingerie-clad mannequins, their plastic bodies adorned with an array of sex toys. Flickering neons bathe the room in an epileptic's nightmare of colors. The air is thick with the sickly-sweet smell of cheap incense, barely masking the underlying stench of desperation and questionable medical practices.
V's immediately met with a scene that turns her stomach. Joytoys litter the seedy space like broken dolls, sprawled across chairs and leaning against walls. Some are clearly ill, their skin pale and clammy, eyes glassy with fever or drug-induced hazes. Others sport busted cyberware — a arm twitching uncontrollably here, a malfunctioning optical implant flickering there. The low moans of pain and quiet sobs create a haunting soundtrack to this house of horrors.
The sight is grim enough to make even V's hardened merc heart clench. But what really throws her for a loop is the sight of Judy, standing amidst the mayhem.
Judy fills her in, telling V she couldn't just sit around twiddling her thumbs while worrying about her friend. She suggests to V to request the waiting patients to allow them to be seen first, her eyes pleading louder than words ever could. Taking the cue, V approaches a dark-skinned woman donning a fur-collared jacket that's seen better days, probably back when animals still roamed the earth. She puts forth the argument that her friend — with Judy playing along by groaning loudly in fake discomfort that would put a B-movie actress to shame — is seriously ill and needs immediate attention. Surprisingly, the joytoy gives way graciously, her empathy a rare flower blooming in this concrete wasteland.
Just as they manage the swap, the door to the clinic cracks open, ejecting a young woman who looks like she's been through the wringer. Her eyes are glazed, her steps unsteady, and V can't help but wonder what kind of "treatment" she's just endured. V and Judy seize the opportunity and step into the room, coming face to face with a stick-thin man who could only be Fingers.
His flamboyant and horrendously mismatched attire — a gaudy mix of leopard print, sequins, and fishnet — would be laughable if it wasn't so unsettling. The comically long red fingernails that give him his moniker click against each other as he busies himself cleaning his hands. He croons a welcome that's sweet as syrup and twice as fake, even slipping in an unwelcome compliment to V that makes her skin crawl. His whole vibe is creepier than a XBD dealer in a schoolyard. Regardless, V swallows her disgust, mustering a polite façade to address the peculiar ripperdoc.
Judy, on the other hand, is bristling with anger, her patience wearing thinner than Fingers' hairline. Sensing the tension thick enough to cut with a knife, V quickly decides to implement a classic good cop, bad cop strategy. As the edgy techie antagonizes Fingers, spitting venom with every word, V steps in as the calming counterpart, hoping to maintain some semblance of control in this freak show. Surprisingly, their tag-team tactic yields swift results. Opting to deal solely with the less confrontational V, Fingers slumps into a chair like a deflated balloon and begins to spill all he knows about the tragedy that has befallen Evelyn. The news he delivers lands like a sucker punch to the gut.
According to Fingers, Evelyn was indeed wheeled into his clinic, in a state that would make a war victim look healthy. The behavioral control chip in her head had been completely fried, leaving her brain about as functional as a busted datapad. He swears up and down that he did everything in his power to save her, but it was all for naught. Unwilling to keep a vegetable in his hands — probably 'cause it'd hurt business — he pinged his fixer, who promptly dispatched a pair of goons to fetch Evelyn later that day. The chilling implication is that she might end up the latest sensation in the sordid world of underground braindance, a thought that turns V's stomach. Fingers nonchalantly mentions a moth-adorned virtu, but that's about all the info he can provide, his memory conveniently fuzzy on the details.
Once the bomb dropped, Judy let loose a thunderous slap right across that greasy bastard's face that echoed like a gunshot, before storming out of the room like a hurricane. Playing the good cop to the bitter end, V muttered an apology on Judy's behalf and trailed after her, leaving Fingers nursing his reddening cheek. Outside, she notices Judy propped against the stair railing, looking shattered. Despite her own sinking feeling, V tries to bolster Judy's spirits, promising they'll find Evelyn. Her words sound hollow even to her, ringing false in the grimy stairwell. With each passing moment, the grim picture of them finding Evelyn — lifeless in some piss-soaked alleyway — gets more vivid in her imagination, a nightmare she can't shake.
Shifting their focus to the sole lead they had — the virtu adorned with a Death's-head moth logo — V nonchalantly shrugged and spoke up, her voice a mix of determination and forced casualness, "I'll hit up the scummy vendors clogging Jig-Jig Street. Gonna grill 'em good, see if any of those sleazeballs caught wind of something useful." Speculating with a glimmer of hope that felt like trying to light a match in a hurricane, she believed that someone in that seedy underworld must have some valuable information to share.
Judy nodded in agreement. She had a plan of her own — diving deep into the vast expanse of the Net, scouring every dark corner and hidden forum for any sliver of relevant information. With a shared understanding and a commitment to finding Evelyn that bordered on obsession, they decided to rendezvous later in Judy's van. There, they would consolidate their findings, cross-referencing the pieces they had gathered in hopes of unraveling the truth from this fucked-up tapestry.
After interrogating multiple individuals, V eventually tracks down a shady vendor tucked away in a dim-lit alley that smells like piss and broken dreams. The creep readily sells her the sought-after virtu, probably glad to get rid of the cursed thing. Time is of the essence, so V wastes no time and heads straight for Judy's van, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. Once inside, they swiftly engage in the braindance, plunging themselves into a scene so unsettling it makes V's skin want to crawl right off her body.
The braindance is undeniably a snuff film, showcasing a victim gruesomely burned to death. It sends shivers down their spines, a grim reminder of what might have befallen Evelyn. Despite the revulsion welling up within her like bile, V fights to suppress it, focusing instead on meticulously searching for any clues within the nightmarish setting. The environment suggests the signature of Scavs, with a dingy basement serving as their sinister playground. It's the kind of place that makes you want to take a scalding shower just from looking at it. With Judy's assistance, they start to piece together the probable location where this horrifying braindance was recorded, each revelation feeling like another nail in a coffin they hope isn't Evelyn's.
With the analysis of the braindance complete, leaving them both feeling like they've been dragged through hell, Judy revs up the van and sets a course for their newly discovered destination — an abandoned power plant in Charter Hill. The journey is marked by an efficient and heavy silence, punctuated only by the occasional muttered exchange. Their minds are burdened with worries, leaving little space for meaningful conversation. The weight of what they might find hangs over them like a guillotine blade, ready to drop.
Upon arriving at the dilapidated site, a crumbling monument to Night City's industrial past, V and Judy quickly devise a plan. V would take the lead, venturing into the danger zone while Judy, from the relative safety of the van, would attempt to infiltrate the Scavs' subnet. With a swift leap over the wall, V conducted a brief reconnaissance, taking stock of the situation like a predator sizing up its prey.
The presence of a significant number of Scavs was evident, their grimy forms scuttling about like cockroaches in the ruins. It added to the urgency of the mission, each passing second feeling like a knife twisting in V's gut. Aware of the escalating risk to Evelyn's life, V knew that playing it safe would only waste precious time. With a determined resolve that could cut through steel, she made the decision to throw caution to the wind, opting for a direct assault.
In that moment, her own safety became about as important as last week's garbage; the paramount objective was to secure Evelyn's survival. V's heart pounded in her ears, adrenaline flooding her system as she readied herself for the shitstorm she was about to unleash. With a final deep breath, she muttered under her breath, "Alright, you Scav fuckers. Let's dance."
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
Bloodied and feeling a savage sense of satisfaction after dispatching the unfortunate Scavs who dared to cross her path, V finds herself at the top of a staircase that ominously descends into the bowels of the building. With a flick of her holo, she quickly notifies Judy that she has carved out a path through the Scav-infested hellhole and is ready for her company as they move forward with the next phase of their mission. True to form, Judy promptly joins V's side, her pistol at the ready, suggesting that Evelyn is likely held captive on a lower level. V gives a nod of affirmation, her adrenaline still pumping like rocket fuel through her veins as she delivers a powerful kick to a nearby door, violently swinging it open with a resounding crash. Together, they plunge into the labyrinth of dimly lit corridors that lie ahead, the air thick with the stench of fear and decay.
Pressing on, they eliminate further threats along their grim journey, leaving a trail of broken bodies and spilled blood in their wake, until they stumble upon a room that sends a shiver down their spines and turns their stomachs inside out. The floor is marred with dried blood splotches, stretching across the entire expanse like a macabre Jackson Pollock painting, drawing their attention to a sinister surgical chair that looks like it was dragged straight out of a horror movie. Its crimson stains, still tacky to the touch, and ominously dangling straps hint at unspeakable horrors that have unfolded in this chamber of nightmares. Bits of flesh and hair cling to the metal frame, silent testaments to the suffering endured here. The sight alone fuels V's imagination, causing her blood to run cold with a chilling sense of dread that seeps into her very bones.
Just ahead, V and Judy come across the lifeless body of a woman, stripped of her cyberware and vital organs in a grotesque display that would make even the most hardened coroner lose their lunch. Her chest cavity gapes open, a hollow mockery of life, while her limbs are little more than stumps where valuable chrome once resided. Left discarded on a dirty stretcher like a broken doll, it's as if she was considered nothing more than disposable trash in this twisted economy of flesh and metal. The woman's face, frozen in a silent scream, tells a story of unimaginable agony in her final moments. This horrifying discovery only deepens their descent into the nightmarish reality they find themselves in, each step feeling like a journey further into the depths of human depravity.
Continuing their exploration with hearts pounding and bile rising in their throats, they enter another room where a large furnace stands ominously, its maw glowing an infernal red, serving as a macabre disposal unit for countless victims. The lifeless bodies, piled callously nearby like cordwood, create a ghastly scene that serves as a haunting testament to the Scavs' unspeakable atrocities. The corpses are in various states of decay, some still recognizably human, others little more than charred husks. The stench of burning flesh and hair hangs heavy in the air, an invisible miasma of death that clings to their clothes and skin. A sense of dread looms over V like a suffocating blanket as she anxiously scans the room, her eyes darting from face to lifeless face, praying not to find the familiar features of Evelyn amidst this mountain of lost souls. Each second feels like an eternity as they navigate this gallery of horrors, the weight of their mission growing heavier with each grisly discovery.
With no sign of Evelyn thus far, V presses forward, her determination unyielding as a steel beam. Meanwhile, Judy, having stumbled upon a control terminal, works tirelessly to override the elevator lockdown, her fingers flying over the keys like a virtuoso pianist, preparing their escape route once they locate their target. V swiftly dispatches the last remaining Scavs standing in their path, their bodies hitting the floor with dull thuds, and as Judy joins her, they kick open a new door with a resounding crash, revealing a sight that sends shivers down their spines and turns their blood to ice. Their attention is immediately drawn to a blood-soaked bed bathed in harsh yellow and pink spotlights, surrounded by an array of voyeuristic cameras that leer at them like mechanical vultures. Taking cautious steps forward, their hearts heavy with anticipation, they finally locate the woman they have descended into this nightmare to find.
Judy urgently shouts at V to refrain from touching Evelyn, her voice cracking with panic as she warns her that disengaging the recording connection recklessly might inflict serious neurological damage. As V leans in closer, her stomach churning, she can't help but question whether Evelyn's fragile state can withstand further harm. Lying abandoned on the dirt-stained floor like a discarded doll, Evelyn presents a haunting sight that'll fuel their nightmares for years to come. The evidence of unspeakable torture is evident — angry red burn marks from tight restraints mar her ankles and wrists, battered bruises in various shades of purple and yellow cover her body like a grotesque canvas, and traces of dried blood smear her thighs and face, creating a ghastly painting that tells a story of unimaginable suffering.
At Judy's signal, V carefully lifts Evelyn's head to disconnect the cable, her hands trembling slightly. As she does so, she locks eyes with the tortured woman, and the sight of Evelyn's vacant eyes rolling aimlessly in their sockets sends an icy shiver down V's spine, like fingers of frost tracing her vertebrae. Once the plug is pulled with a sickening pop, Evelyn's eyelids gently close and she crumbles helplessly against V, as limp as a rag doll. The merc gently gathers the frail form of Evelyn into her arms, lifting her with ease, the woman's weight alarmingly light.
Despite the heart-wrenching state in which her friend finds herself, Judy lets out a shaky sigh of relief at the realization that they have found Evelyn alive, if barely. She gestures V towards their exit route, urging her to follow with frantic hand motions. Heart beating fast enough to burst out of her chest and adrenaline pumping like liquid fire through her veins, they make a quick exit out of this grotesque hellhole, their only focus on getting Evelyn to safety as rapidly as possible. The corridors blur around them as they race towards freedom, leaving behind the chamber of horrors and praying they're not too late to save what's left of Evelyn.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
The heavy rain cascades down upon the streets of Night City, a relentless deluge that mirrors the turmoil in V's mind. She leans against the rusted railing of the fire escape, the cold metal biting into her skin. Giving Judy the space to tend to Evelyn, V finds herself on her third consecutive cigarette, the acrid smoke mingling with the rain-soaked air.
Johnny materializes beside her, his eyes, hidden behind those signature aviators, are drawn to the growing puddles forming in the parking lot below, reflecting the neon lights of the city like a fractured, dystopian mirror. Breaking the oppressive silence, he turns to V, his voice cuts through the patter of rain. "Since when do you smoke so damn much?"
V responds with a nonchalance that doesn't quite reach her eyes, taking a long, desperate drag from her cigarette before exhaling a plume of smoke that dances and dissipates in the rain. "It clears my head," she retorts, shrugging her shoulders in a futile attempt at indifference, “Keeps me focused. Level.”
His reply comes with a keen gaze aimed at the merc, a smirk playing on his lips that doesn't quite mask the worry in his eyes, “‘Cause when you smoke you assuage my hankering, too. So don’t ever stop.”
"Fuck, after the shit show today, I sure as hell need it," V spits out, her voice dripping with self-loathing. "Shit, Johnny, I fucked this one up real bad... If only I had jumped on it sooner... Maybe Evelyn wouldn't be..." Her voice trails off, unable to finish the thought, the horror of what they'd witnessed still fresh and raw in her mind.
Johnny interjects, his tone firm but tinged with an understanding that surprises even him. "No point in circling the drain, V. Don't beat yourself up like this. Even if you had started searchin' for her before going after Hellman, wouldn't have made a damn difference. That creepy doc made it clear that he ditched her nearly a week ago. Those two extra days wouldn't have meant shit in the grand scheme of things."
"Dammit, Johnny, did you see what they did to her?" V's voice cracks, a mixture of rage and despair seeping through. "Those two bloody days could have made all the difference! I can't even begin to imagine the kind of nightmarish shit she must have endured. Every second in that hellhole was... was..." She trails off, unable to find words horrific enough to describe the scene they'd witnessed.
Thankfully, Johnny chooses to remain silent this time, allowing the weight of their situation to hang in the air like a suffocating fog. They stand side by side, silently observing the relentless downpour for what feels like an eternity, the city's neon glow reflecting off the wet surfaces around them, creating a surreal, almost hallucinatory atmosphere. Eventually, Johnny releases a heavy sigh and turns his gaze towards V, his eyes boring into her with an intensity that makes her want to look away.
"V, I'm gonna be straight with you, even if it makes me sound like an asshole, yet again," he begins, his voice gruff but laced with sincerity "I don't give a single fuck what happens to that woman. What truly matters is you, and finding some solid answers about this whole Relic mess. Wasting your time and energy on regrets and 'coulda, woulda, shoulda' won't change a damn thing that's already gone down. It'll just eat you up inside, and I can't... I won't let that happen."
V takes one final, desperate drag from her cigarette, savoring the bitter taste that matches her mood before flicking the butt onto the rain-soaked pavement below, watching it fizzle out in a puddle like her hopes for a clean resolution. Before she can gather her thoughts to respond, to argue that she can't just shut off her emotions like a switch, Johnny interjects once more, his voice filled with an urgency that cuts through her spiral of self-recrimination.
"There's a Relic glitch on the horizon, a minor one. Just gotta breathe through it, V. Focus on stayin' here, in this moment, with me."
V's grip tightens on the railing as her vision fractures into a pixelated haze, a glitch threatening to consume her senses like static on an old TV, the world around her dissolving into a chaotic mess of colors and shapes. With Johnny's advice echoing in her mind, she takes a deep, shuddering breath, centering herself and regulating her breathing with a desperation born of fear. As she focuses her willpower, pouring every ounce of her being into staying present, the malfunction subsides, gradually fading away as quickly as it had emerged, leaving behind a lingering sense of unease and vulnerability.
Nodding in gratitude to Johnny for the timely warning, her eyes meeting his with a mix of appreciation and residual fear, she determinedly states that it's now time to head back inside to demystify the confounding situation they're entangled in. Her voice is steady despite the storm raging both outside and within her, a testament to the strength she's not sure she possesses anymore. As they turn to re-enter the apartment, the weight of what's to come settles over them like a shroud, the rain continuing its relentless assault on Night City, washing away the blood but not the memories of the day's horrors.
As V enters the apartment, her gaze immediately falls upon Judy, who leans against the doorframe of her bedroom, an aura of palpable tension radiating from her rigid posture. Judy's eyes remain fixed on Evelyn, who slumbers in an unsettlingly entranced state, curled up on the bed like a broken marionette abandoned by its puppeteer. Evelyn appears oblivious to her surroundings, unresponsive and trapped within a disturbingly disconnected realm. The atmosphere surrounding Judy vibrates with a simmering anger that hangs in the air, thick and oppressive, like a storm cloud ready to burst. Intrigued by this tangible emotion, V questions Judy, seeking an explanation for the rage that seems to emanate from every fiber of her being.
Judy's response comes in the form of a cryptic hint, her words laden with a weight that speaks volumes about the gravity of the situation. She implies that the reason for her agitation will become crystal clear once V examines the virtual recording she has painstakingly extracted from Evelyn's neural implant, a digital Pandora's box waiting to be opened. With an assurance that the braindance will be calibrated and ready for review in a matter of minutes, Judy dives back into her work.
Leaving Judy to her meticulous preparations, V takes a moment to silently study Evelyn's motionless form, her heart heavy with a potent mixture of guilt and dread that threatens to overwhelm her. It becomes painfully clear that extracting any meaningful information from Evelyn, given her current catatonic state, will be an arduous task, if not an impossible one. Respecting the delicate nature of Evelyn's slumber and the fragility of her current condition, V chooses not to disturb her and quietly exits the room, her footsteps as soft as whispers on the worn floor.
As she moves through the apartment, V takes a few precious seconds to appreciate the eclectic decor that speaks volumes about Judy's personality, particularly drawn to the captivating paintings depicting vibrant marine life that adorn the walls like windows into another world. Intrigued by Judy's apparent fascination with sea creatures, V mentally notes to explore this intriguing aspect of Judy's character at a more suitable time, when they're not embroiled in this nightmarish situation.
Pushing through a cascading curtain of acrylic beads that chime softly with her passage, creating a momentary symphony of plastic and possibility, V enters the expansive realm of Judy's techie workspace. The room is a chaotic blend of computer monitors, tangled cables, and various tech gadgets, a digital jungle that would make any netrunner's heart race with excitement and envy. Judy's nimble fingers glide effortlessly across a formidable keyboard, and, with a beckoning gesture that brooks no argument, she invites V to join her and take a seat in the chair beside her, her eyes never leaving the screens before her that flicker with lines of incomprehensible code.
V complies without hesitation, settling into the chair and placing the braindance reading device onto her head with a sense of trepidation that coils in her stomach like a nest of vipers. A swift, bright light flashes before her eyes, momentarily blinding her and signaling the beginning of the braindance playback, a digital dive into the abyss of Evelyn's memories. Judy's voice cuts through the static, acknowledging that the quality may not be perfect but assuring V that she has done everything within her considerable power to enhance and clarify the recording, her words a lifeline in the sea of data V is about to plunge into.
Even with the subpar quality, V manages to extract crucial clues leading her towards the Voodoo Boys — intricate Veves symbols etched into the digital landscape, evidence of top-tier netrunning expertise that would make even the best corpo runners sweat, and leaflets all hailing from the concrete wasteland of Pacifica. She keenly listens to the dialogue between Evelyn and the encrypted figure, her mind working overtime to piece together fragments of the unfolding clusterfuck, before ultimately exiting the braindance, her head spinning like she's just come off a week-long bender.
Now she's got a better grasp of Judy's ire — Evelyn clearly fucked up royally with those she was initially working for. Originally tasked with capturing a braindance from a penthouse at Konpeki Plaza, Evelyn went rogue and added her own reckless heist to the mix, effectively playing a dangerous game of double-cross that would make even the ballsiest of Night City's lowlifes think twice. As a result, the royally pissed-off netrunners retaliated by ruthlessly frying her brain, a brutal punishment for her betrayal that left her a shell of her former self. After discussing the revelations with Judy, the techie suggests delving into the second braindance retrieved from Evelyn's neural implant, her voice tight with barely contained rage and worry.
The second braindance proves to be relatively short but intriguing as fuck. It features Evelyn eavesdropping on a phone conversation conducted in Haitian Creole, the foreign words dancing through the air like exotic birds. To make it understandable for V, Judy swiftly downloads a translation module, her fingers flying over the keyboard with practiced ease. The enigmatic woman from the previous braindance discusses Yorinobu, Evelyn, and surprisingly, drops the names Silverhand and Alt like bombs in the middle of the conversation. The mention of Alt strikes a distant chord in V's memory, like a faint echo from the past that she can't quite grasp. Curiosity gnaws at her, urging her to explore the connection it may have to Johnny. It's a question she's gotta ask, even if she's afraid of the answer.
Finding no further valuable info within the braindance, V gives Judy the signal, indicating that she's ready to exit the recording. The pieces of the puzzle are slowly falling into place, but there's still a metric fuckton more to uncover, and time's ticking away like a bomb strapped to her skull.
After a flash of white light, she opens her eyes in Judy's office. Johnny, wearing a pensive expression that doesn't suit his usual smartass demeanor, paces restlessly while taking drags from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a spectral snake. Judy appears utterly perplexed by the cryptic conversation and can't wrap her head around why Johnny's name was mentioned, her brow furrowed in confusion. V keeps it simple, informing her that Silverhand's construct resides within the stolen biochip, leaving out the part where it's slowly killing her. Requesting a moment to gather her thoughts alone, V asks Judy to give her some space. Though puzzled, Judy agrees and exits the room, leaving V alone with her digital ghost.
Left alone, V rises from her seat and joins Johnny, who leans against the window, his form flickering like a bad transmission. However, it becomes apparent that he's not in the mood for conversation or providing answers, his silence more oppressive than any tirade he could unleash. Frustrated by his lack of cooperation, V decides to leave the room and join Judy once again, her footsteps heavy with the weight of unanswered questions.
Judy queries if V knows how to contact the Voodoo Boys, but V confesses that she herself is clueless. She determines that it's time to make some calls, reaching out to anyone who can potentially put them in touch with the enigmatic netrunner gang. She then says goodbye to the young woman who wishes her good luck and tells her to be careful, concern evident in her voice.
Leaving the building behind, V wastes no time in dialing up the only person she knows with some connections in Pacifica — a fixer who goes by the name of Mr. Hands. She asks if he can arrange a meeting with the leaders of the Voodoo Boys, explaining that she's got valuable intel that might catch their interest. Mr. Hands can't make any guarantees, his voice as noncommittal as a politician's promise, but he assures her that he'll get back to her if he can establish a connection. Thanking him for his efforts, V ends the call, hoping this lead doesn't turn out to be another dead end in this fucked-up mess that her life has become.
And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
Uncharacteristically devoid of any immediate assignments or leads, for the first time in what feels like a fuckin' eternity, V finds herself in unfamiliar territory. She gradually loses herself in the labyrinthine, rain-soaked avenues of Night City, the neon lights reflecting off puddles like shattered dreams. Seeking a moment of respite from the relentless downpour, she ducks under the protection of a bridge, the concrete above her head a temporary shield against the city's tears. As she lights a cigarette, the ember flickering in the rain-soaked darkness like a dying star, she delves into contemplation, pondering her next move. However, much to her vexation, her usually vibrant and sharp mind remains eerily silent, leaving her with a disconcerting sense of uncertainty that gnaws at her gut.
The tumultuous events of the day linger in V's mind, casting a persistent shadow of gloom over her thoughts like a toxic cloud. In an attempt to momentarily escape her solitude, she considers reaching out to Panam, just to check in and banish the creeping loneliness for a hot second. Alternatively, she contemplates hitting up one of Night City's numerous fixers to seek potential gigs that could provide a much-needed distraction from the shitstorm brewing in her head. However, one thing remains resolute within her — she adamantly refuses to return home just yet. The idea of being trapped in the depths of her own desolate thoughts is a daunting prospect she wishes to avoid for as long as humanly possible, or until Johnny decides to make another smartass appearance.
Suddenly, a rapid series of vibrations from her holo disrupts her train of thought, the device buzzing against her hip like an angry hornet. Curiosity piqued, she opens her messages, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion as a string of texts from Takemura floods her screen.
And finally,
A chuckle escapes her lips as she pieces together the situation, the sound echoing under the bridge like a ghost of happier times. It seems that Takemura has mistakenly been sending his food searches to her, probably fumbling with his holo. Shaking her head in amusement, V swiftly taps out her response and sends it off.
As the rain continues its relentless assault on Night City, V finds herself caught in an unexpected moment of levity amidst the chaos that has become her daily existence. A brief pause hangs in the air, pregnant with anticipation, before her holo vibrates once more with Takemura's response.
The simple admission of technological ineptitude from the usually stoic Arasaka bodyguard elicits another laugh from V, the sound echoing under the bridge and mingling with the patter of raindrops, a rare moment of genuine mirth in a city that often feels devoid of joy. Seizing the opportunity to prolong this unexpected reprieve from her troubles, V's fingers dance across her holo.
A full minute ticks by without a peep from V's holo; she's all too familiar with the silent treatment, typically indicating a 'no'. As she sighs, mentally preparing herself to let go of the idea and sink back into the solitude that's become her constant companion, her holo vibrates once more, the screen lighting up with Takemura's unexpected acquiescence.
A goofy smile spreads across V's face as she reads the final message from Takemura, her reply a simple but heartfelt.
As V begins to gather herself, ready to head towards the nearest metro station with a renewed spring in her step, she catches sight of Johnny materializing in her peripheral vision, his digital form flickering like a bad transmission. His face wears an odd grimace, a complex cocktail of emotions that seems to be equal parts disgust, disbelief, and reluctant amusement. It's clear he's biting his tongue, restraining himself from unleashing a torrent of snarky comments about V's choice of dinner companion.
Having finally found a glimmer of cheerfulness in this shitstorm of a day, V chooses to overlook Johnny's silent judgment, refusing to let his spectral presence rain on her parade. As she makes her way through the rain-slicked streets of Night City, dodging puddles and weaving through the ever-present crowds, V can't help but marvel at the absurdity of her situation. Here she is, a merc with a ticking time bomb in her head, playing culinary tour guide to an Arasaka bodyguard while being haunted by the digital ghost of a long-dead rockerboy. It's the kind of scenario that would be laughable if it weren't her actual fucking life.
Upon reaching home, V ensures her pet, Nibbles, is well-fed, the cat purring contentedly as it chows down. She then treats herself to a much-needed shower, washing away the tiredness, the grime and blood of the scavs from her skirmishes. The hot water cascades over her, soothing her aching muscles and washing away the day's troubles. With her hair still damp and her body swathed in a towel, she initiates a holocall to Mamá Welles who answers promptly.
“V, mi cielo. It's not often you ring me up these days. Is everything alright ?" Mamá Welles' warm voice fills the room, tinged with a hint of concern.
“Hi Mamá Welles." V responds, "Don't worry, everything's good. I was just calling to see if you could hold a quiet corner table for me at Coyote, around 8 p.m. tonight. I'll be coming in with a friend."
“Con mucho gusto, V, I’ll save you a table." There's a playful lilt to the woman's voice as she continues, "A friend, you say, hmm? A good friend ?"
V can't help but chuckle at the implications. “Yes, a good friend,” she confirms, trying to keep her tone neutral.
“Claro, no digas más, niña. I'll see you this evening.” Mamá Welles responds warmly, her voice full of motherly affection.
“Thanks, Mamá Welles, ahí te veo.” V says, ending the call.
After concluding her call, V turns her attention to her wardrobe, sifting through the array of outfits in search of the perfect one. She tosses aside a few options without a second thought, eventually settling on something simple yet comfortable. Just as she finalizes her selection, Johnny materializes, lounging on the couch like he owns the place, ready to interject with a smartass comment.
"Aw, c'mon V, in that pile of threads, you gotta have at least one skirt, yeah? Maybe show a bit of leg for your hot date," he teases, a mischievous grin playing on his lips, his eyes glinting with amusement behind his aviators.
V rolls her eyes so hard she's afraid they might get stuck, dismissing Johnny's remark with a huff. "It's not a date, so chill. Just a low-key dinner. I'm only gonna fill Goro in on the whole Evelyn situation."
Johnny's grin widens, clearly enjoying getting a rise out of her. "But deep down, you're secretly hoping for a bit more than just grub, right?" he prods, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "No bullshittin' me, V."
Unable to conjure up a suitable retort, V grumbles in frustration, giving in to the fact that Johnny's words may hold a kernel of truth. "Shut up, Johnny," she mutters under her breath, deciding to let his comment hang in the air without further acknowledgement.
Johnny throws his hands up in surrender, "Alright, chill. It ain't a date. But hey, it's a damn good chance for you to dress in somethin' that ain't covered in gunpowder and blood, ya know?"
Despite her annoyance, V continues to dig into the back of her wardrobe, pushing aside tactical gear and bloodstained shirts. Finally, she stumbles upon a heap of outfits from her two-year stint in Atlanta, a time when combat-practicality hadn't been a factor in her clothing choices. Her fingers brush against soft fabrics and forgotten styles, memories of a different life flooding back.
"What brought you down there? Atlanta, I mean," Johnny interjects, his curiosity piqued
V snorts, eyeing him skeptically. "You've got VIP access to my brain, and you're askin' me? Thought you'd be rifling through my memories like a gonk at a braindance clearance sale."
Johnny raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "If you'd rather have me pokin' around your past than just telling me..."
"Nah, it's... considerate of you not to poke around, I guess," V admits, her voice softening slightly. "Wasn't up to much exciting shit really. Spent some time slinging drinks at a bar. Less bullets flying at my head than merc work, ya know?"
"So, you've got some hidden talents, eh?" Johnny's eyes gleam with mischief. "Gotta show me your cocktail skills sometime. What made you ditch the booze-shaking gig and haul ass back to Night City?"
V lets out a dry chuckle, her gaze distant. "Oh... The bar I worked at? It went kaboom."
Johnny's eyebrows shoot up, surprise evident in his voice. "What the fuck? And here I thought bartending was the safe career choice..."
"Place got blown to bits one day," she elaborates, her tone somber. "Wasn't on shift, lucky me. Lost a bunch of co-workers and friends though… so yeah, didn't have much reason to stick around. Felt right to come back home, even if home's a shithole."
With no comeback from Johnny, V dives right back into rummaging through her heap of clothes. Her search leads her to a killer black top and a short red skirt. She slips into the new ensemble, her movements quick and confident. After smoothing out any wrinkles on the skirt, she twirls around, giving herself a once-over in the mirror.
"Well?" she asks, turning to Johnny. "Too much?"
Johnny’s eyes locked on V as she twirls in her outfit. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face as he appraises her with an intensity that's almost palpable. His gaze lingers, drinking in every curve and contour, before his signature shit-eating grin spreads across his face."Holy shitballs, V." he drawls, his voice a low rumble. "If corpo boy doesn't want to bend you over the nearest flat surface after seeing you in that, then he's either got his optical implants stuck in reverse or Arasaka's shoved their company manifesto so far up his ass it's scrambled his libido.”
V rolls her eyes, a mix of amusement and exasperation on her face. “Geez, Johnny. Gross. Get a grip.” she retorts, her tone laced with a playful exasperation.
Johnny chuckles, the smoke curling around his face as he leans against a nearby wall. "Hey, I call it like I see it, V. And trust me, I'd have fucked you for sure."
"Please," V scoffs, a playful glint in her eye. "You'd stick your dick in anything with a pulse, rockerboy."
Johnny's laughter fills the air, rich and genuine. "Heh, can't argue with that. But on a real note, V... you're fuckin' hot. Like, melt-your-chrome-off hot."
The unexpected compliment hits V right in the feels, a genuine smile spreading across her face, a hint of color rising to her cheeks."Almost a fucking shame this ain't a date, huh?" she quips, acknowledging the playful chemistry between them.
With that lighthearted exchange hanging in the air, she saunters back towards the bathroom, her confidence soaring high. Why the hell not? Johnny's got a point — these days, opportunities to go out and have a damn good time are few and far between.
As V readies herself for the evening, she can't help but feel a sense of anticipation coursing through her veins. The night is full of possibilities, a rare chance to forget about the ticking time bomb in her head and just... live.
Once ready, V plops back down on the couch and lights up a cigarette, the smoke curling around her like a spectral serpent as she waits for Goro to arrive. Her gaze drifts to the coffee table, where two bottles of pills catch her eye — the ones Vik and Misty had given her. The temptation to take one flits through her mind like a fleeting shadow, but uncertainty holds her back, her fingers hovering indecisively over the bottles. Johnny, ever perceptive, picks up on her hesitation like a shark sensing blood in the water.
"You should pop a blocker, V," he suggests, his voice a mix of teasing and seriousness. "If your evening turns out to be even half as fuckin' great as you hope, I don't need to be hangin' around to witness whatever crazy shit you might get up to." His eyes twinkle with mischief, a smirk playing on his lips.
V mulls over Johnny's words, weighing the potential outcomes of her night like a high-stakes game of chance. After a few more seconds of internal debate, she nods, acknowledging the wisdom in his suggestion. Reaching for the bottle of Omega blockers, she retrieves a pill and tosses it into her mouth with practiced ease. Almost instantly, Johnny begins glitching, his form flickering in and out like a faulty hologram, until he finally gives her a mocking imitation of a military salute and disappears into thin air.
The moment Johnny vanishes, V's heart starts to race, a tinge of panic creeping into her thoughts. She knows it's just the blockers doing their job, but that doesn't stop a sense of unease from washing over her. It's only when she takes a moment to collect herself that she realizes she can still feel him, like he's just asleep in the depths of her mind. A wave of relief washes over her, tinged with a hint of embarrassment for getting worked up in the first place. She wonders when it started feeling so damn wrong to not have Johnny by her side, his snarky comments a constant presence in her life.
With a final flick of her cigarette into the ashtray, the sound of two firm knocks echoes through the room, startling her from her reverie. 8 p.m. on the dot. Of fucking course, Takemura is punctual as a Swiss watch. V strides over to the door and swings it open to reveal Goro standing before her. He's dressed in his customary attire, except this time, he's swapped his white shirt for a sleek black one. V can't help but notice how the color suits him perfectly.
"Good evening, V," he greets her with his usual polite tone, his eyes briefly widening as he takes in her appearance. "Are you ready to go?"
"Uh, yeah, sure," V responds, abruptly tearing her gaze away from him, suddenly aware of how intently she'd been staring. "Let me just throw on my kicks, and we can hit the road."
She swiftly slips on her boots and joins Goro in the hallway, slamming the door behind her with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. As they descend in the elevator down to the parking lot, the air thick with unspoken tension, V casually asks, "So, I'm assuming we're taking your van. By the way, I've been meaning to ask, where the hell did you come across this ride?"
"I...borrowed it," the man evades, his eyes suddenly finding the elevator buttons fascinating.
"Oh, so I'm assuming the owner is totally cool with that?" V playfully teases, a grin spreading across her face.
Takemura remains silent, but a fleeting smile briefly graces his face, confirming V's suspicion. This prompts her to burst into laughter, the sound filling the confined space of the elevator and seeming to ease some of the tension between them.
The ride to the Coyote Cojo is a blessedly serene one, the neon-lit streets of Night City flashing by in a kaleidoscope of colors. But as they pull up in front of the bar, V can't help but detect flickers of unease seeping through Takemura's stoic façade. His fingers tap an irregular rhythm on the steering wheel, and his eyes dart around, taking in every detail of their surroundings.
"Goro, don't worry," she reassures him, her voice laced with a touch of empathy. She places a hand on his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles. "Just remember, don't go gushing about how fuckin' amazing Arasaka is, and you'll blend right in. You're with me, and the folks in this joint are my crew, some of them practically family. Trust me, everything will be smooth sailing."
Takemura nods slowly, visibly relaxing under her touch. With V right behind him, they enter the bar, the warm glow of neon signs and the scent of tequila and cigarette smoke washing over them. The moment they step inside, the pulsating beats of Spanish music fill the air, a tune that's been playing on the radio quite often. The familiar atmosphere wraps around V like a comforting blanket, a stark contrast to the sleek, sterile environments Takemura is used to.
As they make their way through the crowded bar, V can't help but feel a surge of excitement. For once, she's not here on business or to chase down a lead. Tonight, she's just V, out for a good time with... well, whatever Goro is to her. The night stretching out before them full of possibilities, V can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something interesting.
Pepe, spotting V from behind the bar, waves enthusiastically, his face lighting up with genuine pleasure at seeing her. "V! ¡Mi amiga! It's been too long!" he calls out, already reaching for a bottle of her favorite tequila.
V returns the greeting, her eyes scanning the bar until they land on Mamá Welles. The matriarch is currently diffusing an argument between two youngsters, barely old enough to step foot in a bar but already adorned with Valentinos tattoos. V strides towards her, making sure Goro remains in close proximity.
The instant Mamá Welles lays eyes on V, her face lights up like a Christmas tree. "¡Mi ciela!" she exclaims, her voice warm enough to melt butter. "It's wonderful to see you." She carefully studies V's face, concern etching deep lines around her eyes. "You don't look well. Are you eating enough, at least? Fff, you're just like Misty," V's taken aback to hear her friend's name, but Mamá Welles barrels on, undeterred. "Both of you are too thin. We'll take care of that."
"Yes, Mamá Welles," V plays along, a genuine smile tugging at her lips. "And this is my friend, Goro."
"Good evening, Mrs. Welles. It's a pleasure to meet you," Goro greets her politely, bowing his head respectfully.
"Call me Mamá Welles, like everyone else," she replies, gently patting him on the shoulder. She turns to V, a small smile playing on the corner of her lips. "Mmh, he's quite the polite one. That's a refreshing change," she jokes, rolling her eyes and gesturing vaguely towards the rowdy kids she was previously wrangling.
"Anyway, I'm sure you're hungry. Go ahead and place your drink order at the bar. I've reserved a table for you upstairs, mi niña, a quiet one past the office. You know which one I'm talking about. I've got a special off-menu dish prepared for you. Alambre. You always enjoyed it when you dined at home."
"Wow, gracias! You shouldn't have gone through all this trouble!" V exclaims, genuinely touched by the gesture.
"Disparates, V. It was a pleasure to cook for you and your friend," Mamá Welles responds warmly. Before she can say anything else, the voices of the two rowdy young Valentinos begin to rise once again, causing the woman to react. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go deal with these two pequeños idiotas. I'll bring you your dishes in a few minutes."
With that, she swiftly turns on her heel to address the situation before it escalates, leaving V and Goro standing in her wake.
Sporting a smirk on her lips, V gestures for Goro to follow her to the bar and asks him, "So, what do you wanna drink?"
Takemura hesitates for a few seconds, his polite demeanor momentarily faltering as he considers V's request. "I'm not familiar with the dish Mamá Welles mentioned, so I'm unsure of what drink would complement it best."
Understanding Goro's uncertainty, V takes a moment to contemplate. After the challenging day she had experienced and with the impending discussion about Evelyn on the horizon, V decides that she deserves a strong drink to unwind.
"Pepe," she calls out to the bartender, "give us two ice-cold beers and a bottle of Centzon."
Pepe, always eager to fulfill V's requests, responds with enthusiasm. "Right away, V! Coming right up!" His energy matches the vibrant atmosphere of the bar. Goro raises an eyebrow at V's command, but wisely refrains from commenting on her choice.
As Pepe busies himself with their order, V leans against the bar, her eyes scanning the familiar surroundings. The Coyote Cojo is alive with energy tonight, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of spilled beer. The pulsing rhythm of the music seems to sync with her heartbeat, and for a moment, she feels truly at home.
She glances at Goro, noticing how out of place he looks in this dive bar, his rigid posture a stark contrast to the relaxed patrons around them. Yet, there's something endearing about his attempt to blend in, his eyes darting around, taking in every detail of this new environment.
"Relax, Goro," V says, nudging him gently with her elbow. "Nobody's gonna bite. Well, unless you ask nicely," she adds with a wink, enjoying the way his eyes widen slightly at her joke.
Once their order is prepared, Pepe places it in front of V, who swiftly transfers the eddies to him with a flick of her wrist, the transaction completed in the blink of an eye. Grasping the tray laden with their drinks, she makes her way towards the stairs. However, before ascending, she pauses for a moment in the alcove beside it, her eyes drawn to a sight that never fails to tug at her heartstrings.
There, an altar stands in memory of Jackie, a permanent fixture of the bar since the ofrenda. The flickering candlelight casts a warm glow on the collection of mementos — a weathered leather jacket, a well-worn pistol, and at the center, a photograph of Jackie's beaming face. V approaches her friend's photo, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with emotion, "Hey choom. I wish you were here. So much has happened, so much I want to share... Life's been a fuckin' rollercoaster without you…"
As waves of melancholy threaten to consume her, a comforting hand lands gently on V's shoulder, its warmth seeping through her jacket. Goro stands beside her in silence, his eyes fixed on the altar, his expression a mixture of respect and curiosity. V turns towards him, managing a small smile that appears more like a grimace, the pain of loss etched in the lines around her eyes. "C'mon, follow me upstairs," she says, her voice filled with a mix of determination and vulnerability, a testament to the strength she's had to find in Jackie's absence.
Once upstairs, V confidently leads the way to a door typically reserved for employees, the worn brass handle cool against her palm. Without hesitation, she enters and proceeds past the office area, the smell of old paper and coffee lingering in the air. They reach another door that opens into a small room adorned with a simple table and a few chairs, the wood polished smooth from years of use. On the opposite side of the room, V knows there is a doorway that leads to a compact kitchen, the faint aroma of spices wafting through.
The walls are a tapestry of memories, adorned with numerous photographs, each one capturing a moment frozen in time. Among them are several featuring Jackie — some with V, their arms thrown around each other's shoulders, grinning like they owned the world; others with Mamá Welles, her pride evident in the way she looks at her son; and even a few with certain Valentinos he maintained connections with, the gang signs and tattoos a stark contrast to Jackie's warm smile. Since her last visit, a new photograph has been added to the collection — a beautiful portrait capturing the essence of Jackie and Misty's relationship, their love evident in the way they gaze at each other, oblivious to the camera.
Taking her eyes off the photo frames, each one a bittersweet reminder of what she's lost, V sets the drinks tray on the table with a soft thud and gestures for Takemura to have a seat. The chairs scrape against the floor as they settle in, the sounds echoing in the quiet room.
"What did Mamá Welles mean by 'off-menu dish'?" Goro asks, his curiosity evident in the slight tilt of his head as he sparks the conversation.
V's lips curl into a fond smile as she begins to explain, her hands moving animatedly as she speaks. "The Coyote's mainly a bar, but Mamá Welles, she's got a passion for cooking that rivals her love for this place. She whips up these amazing tapas almost every day. They're not on the menu, but all the regulars know about 'em. It's like a secret code, easy to order at the bar if you're in the know." She pauses to pour the tequila into the glasses, the amber liquid catching the light. "But for proper meals like what she cooked for us tonight, it's more like a special treat. Something she does for friends and family, you know? It's her way of showing love."
"Understood," Goro nods, his eyes scanning the room before adding, "similar to gaining access to this room, I assume."
"You got it, Goro," V grins, sliding a glass towards him across the smooth tabletop. "This room is like a hidden gem in the bar. Not many people know about it, and even fewer get invited up here." She leans back in her chair, studying Goro's face. "Figured you'd appreciate the calm vibes here, away from the blaring tunes and the chaotic crowd downstairs. Not your usual scene, huh?"
Goro shakes his head, a slight smile forming on his lips, softening his usually stern features. "Not really, no," he admits, taking the glass and examining the liquid, raising an eyebrow. "Tequila?"
V's smile fades, a shadow of weariness settling on her face like a heavy cloak. "Yeah. After the fuckin' shitshow of a day I've had, I needed a goddamn drink," she mutters, her voice rough with exhaustion.
"What happened?" Goro asks, his brows furrowing with concern, dark eyes searching V's face. "If you want to talk about it, of course," he adds, ever the gentleman.
"It's kinda connected to the heist," she sighs, taking a long swig of her drink, the tequila burning a path down her throat. She needs the liquid courage, needs something to dull the edges of the memories threatening to overwhelm her. "I found Evelyn Parker."
Just by the grim expression on V's face, the way her eyes darken and her jaw clenches, Takemura can tell that the news ain't good. "Dead?" he asks, his voice low and cautious.
V shakes her head, and in a hushed voice that barely carries across the table, she adds, "From the state I found her in, I reckon she'd prefer that."
A certain tension settles in Goro's shoulders as he takes a sip, giving V some time to gather her thoughts. The silence between them is heavy, laden with unspoken horrors.
"I'll spare you the gory details, but... she's still breathin', though you and I can kiss the idea of interrogating her goodbye," V finally continues, her words coming out in a rush. "Long story short, she wasn't hired for the heist. It was her fuckin' operation. She found out about the biochip thanks to a gang of netrunners in Pacifica who hired her for some recon at Konpeki." V pauses, slumping further in her chair, the weight of her discoveries evident in the slump of her shoulders. "She wanted to double-cross her employers and sell the Relic to Netwatch, so she orchestrated the whole damn heist. So, sorry, no connection to Yorinobu or Arasaka, no grand conspiracy. Not really of interest to you."
If V is right and it's not connected to Arasaka-sama's murder, then indeed it shouldn't be of any interest to Goro. Yet, he can't help but ask, his curiosity piqued, "And what about the netrunners you mentioned?"
"No connection to Arasaka either," she interrupts, her voice sharp with frustration. "They were after the engram stored in the biochip, for reasons I still don't know."
"Alright, but could they help you?" Takemura elaborates, leaning forward slightly. "If they're interested in the Relic, maybe they know how to get it out of your head."
V lets out a bitter, joyless laugh that sounds more like a bark. "Oh, maybe. But there are a few problems. First, the Voodoo Boys are a real pain in the ass to reach. Got a fixer workin' on it, but I ain't holdin' my breath. And even if they were willin' to help someone outside their community..." She shrugs, a gesture of defeat. "After what they did to Evelyn... Even if they agree to help me in exchange for access to the chip... fuck, I ain't even sure I wanna approach 'em. But in the end, I ain't got much of a choice."
A heavy silence settles over the table as V finishes her drink in one gulp, placing the glass back on the table with more force than necessary. The sound echoes in the small room, a punctuation to her frustration. Takemura's concern grows stronger, etching deeper lines around his eyes. After weighing the pros and cons for a few seconds, he asks, his voice gentle, "What happened to Miss Parker?"
The young woman's expression darkens even further, shadows dancing across her face. She shakes her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... I don't wanna talk about it. Fuck, I don't even wanna think about it..."
She's interrupted by Mamá Welles, who arrives with their food, the aroma of spices and grilled meat filling the room. Immediately, V puts on a smile, warmly thanking the other woman. But her joyful expression fades as soon as she and Takemura are alone again, the mask slipping to reveal the turmoil beneath.
V murmurs a half-hearted "Bon appétit," her voice lacking its usual vigor as she focuses on her plate. Her fork moves listlessly, pushing the colorful array of food around more than actually bringing it to her mouth. The weight of the day's events seems to have settled heavily on her shoulders, dampening her usual enthusiasm for a good meal.
Goro, deciding to taste his dish, takes a moment to truly savor the food before him. The vibrant colors and enticing aromas paint a stark contrast to the somber mood that has descended upon their little sanctuary. Peppers, their skin charred and glistening, mingle with caramelized onions and tender chunks of meat — synthetic beef perhaps? A generous layer of melted cheese blankets the dish, its golden hue catching the soft light of the room. It's not something he would have usually ordered, accustomed as he is to the refined cuisine of Arasaka's upper echelons, but it's a warm and flavorful dish, prepared with obvious care and skill. The flavors dance on his tongue, a symphony of spices and textures that's clearly superior to anything he's had since arriving in Night City.
His satisfaction must be evident on his face, the subtle relaxation of his usually stern features and the appreciative gleam in his eyes catching V's attention. Her mood seems to lift slightly at his obvious enjoyment.
"It's good, huh?" she asks, a hint of her usual spark returning to her voice. "Told you, Mamá Welles cooks really well."
Takemura nods, taking the time to savor and swallow his bite before responding, his manners impeccable even in these informal surroundings. "Yes, very good," he affirms, his tone warm with genuine appreciation. "Thank you for suggesting we come here together."
"With pleasure," V replies with a genuine smile, finally digging into her food with renewed interest. The familiar flavors seem to comfort her, chasing away some of the shadows that had been lurking in her eyes. "So, what's the latest, Goro? How you holdin' up?"
"Considering the circumstances, I am rather well," Takemura responds politely, "I hadn't had a proper meal in days, and the place I am currently residing in... well," he pauses, his expression conveying a hint of distaste, memories of the dingy motel room flashing through his mind. "It is far from meeting my usual standards. However, it is a temporary situation." He takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully before continuing, "Unfortunately, since my conversation with Hellman, progress has been limited. I am currently contemplating a plan to have the opportunity to speak with Hanako-sama during the parade."
V, her mouth full, simply nods in agreement, her eyes encouraging him to continue. The mention of Hellman brings back memories of their conversation, and the question of the engram's identity lingers on Takemura's mind like an itch he can't scratch.
"V, about the Relic…" he begins, his tone cautious.
V's reaction is immediate and visceral. Her fork clatters against the plate as she drops it, frustration etching deep lines on her face. "Goro, can we fuckin’ not?" she sighs, the weariness in her voice palpable. "Can't we just have one damn evening without talkin' about Arasaka, this shitty situation, and my impending death? Is it too much to ask?"
Her pleading eyes lock onto his, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths — exhaustion, fear, and a desperate need for normalcy. She continues, her words tumbling out in a rush, "Got a crazy idea, how 'bout we don't talk about work at all tonight? Anything else, really. How 'bout you tell me 'bout your childhood? You mentioned at Tom's Diner that your old man was a cook, right? Or maybe fill me in on your current life in Japan. Anythin'. I just need a break from all this shit, just for tonight. Goro, please?"
The raw vulnerability in V's voice catches Takemura off guard. For a moment, he sees not the tough, streetwise merc, but a young woman grappling with forces beyond her control, desperately seeking a moment of respite. The weight of their shared burden hangs heavy in the air between them, as tangible as the steam rising from their plates. Takemura understands all too well what the young woman is trying to convey. Truth be told, he could use a break himself from the relentless pursuit of justice and survival that has consumed his days since arriving in Night City.
With a subtle nod, Goro reaches for the tequila bottle, its amber contents catching the soft light as he graciously refills their glasses. The liquid gurgles softly, a momentary distraction from the heavy atmosphere. He leans back in his chair, the old wood creaking slightly under his weight, and takes a thoughtful sip, savoring the burn of the alcohol.
"Very well," he responds, his tone polite yet slightly hesitant, a rare crack in his usually impenetrable demeanor. "But... discussing my childhood, truly? It may not be the most captivating subject," he adds, a hint of self-deprecation coloring his words.
V immediately eases up, tension visibly draining from her shoulders as a mischievous grin forms on her face, lighting up her features in a way Goro hasn't seen since they arrived at the bar.
"Aw, c'mon, Goro," she teases, leaning forward with renewed interest. "Unless you really wanna keep bein' all mysterious, I'd love to hear more about you." Her eyes sparkle with genuine curiosity, a stark contrast to the haunted look they held earlier.
Takemura hesitates for a moment, weighing his options. The tequila has begun to warm his blood, loosening the tight control he usually maintains over his words and memories. With a small nod, he relents, "Very well," he begins, his voice taking on a softer quality as he delves into his past. "I was born in the slums of Chiba-11..."
As the night progresses, V finds herself thoroughly engrossed in Goro's tales, savoring every detail he's willing to divulge about his life. She's genuinely surprised to learn that Takemura grew up in a run-down neighborhood, where violence ruled the streets and survival was a daily struggle. His father ran a small ramen joint, a humble establishment that barely kept the family afloat. But it was his grandmother who truly raised him, a strict yet loving woman who wove ancient Japanese legends to lull him to sleep, her weathered voice painting vivid pictures of heroes and yokai in young Goro's mind.
The revelation of Goro's little sister hits V hard. Still a baby when Goro got recruited by Arasaka, she passed away a few years ago, and they never had a chance to truly bond. The pain and regret is evident in the slight catch in Goro's voice as he speaks of her, a rare display of vulnerability that makes V's heart ache.
Encouraged by Goro's openness, V responds with enthusiasm, sharing her own stories of growing up on the rough streets of Heywood. She paints a colorful picture of life in the Valentinos' orphanage, her voice filled with a mix of fondness and old pain as she recounts the challenges and small joys of those early years. Her less-than-glamorous beginnings as a merc come next, tales of botched jobs and hard-learned lessons that have Goro raising an eyebrow in a mix of concern and amusement.
V's brief attempt at starting a new life in Atlanta is recounted with a self-deprecating laugh, the story of how everything went to shit and led her back to Night City told with the kind of gallows humor that only comes from surviving tough times. But her voice softens, filled with warmth, as she explains how she met Jackie, Mamá Welles, Misty, and Vik, and how they became her chosen family. The love she has for these people is evident in every word, in the way her eyes light up as she speaks of them.
As they finish their plates, the remnants of their meal a testament to Mamá Welles' culinary skills, Goro opens up about his adult life. He skillfully dodges any topics too closely tied to Arasaka, instead focusing on the vibrant tapestry of experiences that make up his life in Japan. He paints a vivid picture of his favorite restaurant in Tokyo, a hole-in-the-wall sushi place where the chef knows him by name and always saves him the best cuts of fish.
Goro indulges V with stories of rowdy pachinko parlors, the cacophony of sounds and flashing lights a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor. His description of cherry blossoms in full bloom is almost poetic, his usually stern features softening as he recalls the delicate pink petals drifting on the breeze, transforming the bustling city into something ethereal and serene.
Perhaps most surprising are the anecdotes about the times he and Oda would unwind over drinks in upscale corpo bars when they managed to snag a rare night off. V can't help but burst into laughter, the image of the stoic Oda actually relaxing with a glass of sake too amusing to contain. Her laughter is infectious, and even Goro's lips twitch in a small smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a rare display of mirth.
As the night wears on, the tequila bottle grows emptier, and the air between them lightens. The weight of their respective burdens, while not forgotten, seems less oppressive in the warm glow of shared stories and unexpected camaraderie. For a few precious hours, they're not a corpo bodyguard and a street merc caught in a web of conspiracy and danger. They're just two people, sharing a meal and swapping stories, finding a moment of peace in the chaos of the city.
Unfortunately, just like always, good times fly by in the blink of an eye. Before they know it, their plates are empty, their beers are drained, and only half a bottle of Centzon tequila remains. The warm buzz of alcohol and good conversation has softened the edges of the night, making the harsh realities of their situation seem momentarily distant.
Takemura glances at his watch, his eyebrows raising slightly as he realizes how late it's gotten. "It is getting late," he says, his voice tinged with reluctance. "Perhaps I should take you home, V."
V nods, feeling a twinge of disappointment that the evening has to end. She picks up the half-empty tequila bottle, pressing it into Goro's hands. "Here, take this," she insists, her eyes twinkling. "Have a drink later, yeah? To remember this fuckin' amazing evening."
They step out of the bar, the cool night air a stark contrast to the warm, cozy atmosphere inside. V turns back to thank Mamá Welles one more time, her voice filled with genuine gratitude for the delicious meal and the respite it provided.
When they reach the van, Takemura instinctively opens the door for V. She pauses for a moment, caught off guard by the gesture. Oh, she knows it doesn't hold any special meaning - it's just Goro being Goro, all proper and shit. But she can't help but find it a little old-fashioned and... kinda cute. She slides into the seat, a small smile playing on her lips.
The ride back to Little China passes by too quickly, and V finds herself wishing it would last just a little longer. As they pull up to her megabuilding, Goro insists on escorting her to the lobby. Their footsteps echo in the empty space as they approach the elevator.
"Well, this is me," V says, turning to face Takemura. "Thanks for... everything, Goro. It was nice to just be normal for a night, y'know?"
Goro nods, his usually stern features softened by the events of the evening. "Indeed. It was... pleasant," he agrees, a hint of warmth in his voice. "I will be in touch soon to continue our plan."
They bid each other farewell, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. After one last wave, V turns to take the elevator to her floor, feeling Goro's eyes on her back until the doors close.
As she arrives in her apartment, V flops down on her bed, the springs creaking under her weight. She lets out a satisfied sigh, staring up at the ceiling with a small smile. "Damn," she murmurs to herself, the events of the evening replaying in her mind. "Tonight was a good night."
At that moment, Johnny decides to make his grand entrance, the air glitching around him in a shower of blue pixels. Dramatically shielding his eyes with one hand, he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "So, can I uncover my damn eyes, or am I gonna be greeted with the sight of an ol' Arasaka reject's naked ass?"
"Oh, shut the fuck up," V laughs, rolling her eyes at his theatrics. "You damn well know I'm all alone." She plops back down on the edge of the bed, kicking off her boots with a satisfied groan. "Been awake for long?"
"Nah, not really," Johnny replies, tagging along as she heads to the bathroom to wash off her makeup, leaning against the doorframe. "I started coming back to reality in the car on our way back. Turns out those blockers only last a few hours. Next time, you might wanna double up if you wanna keep me away for longer."
V comes to a halt, casting a glance at Johnny through the reflection in the mirror. Her eyes meet his, a mix of guilt and uncertainty clouding her features. "I don't think there'll be a next time," she admits, her voice soft. She watches as he leans against the doorframe, his eyebrows rising above his ever-present shades. "Wiping you out like that... it felt damn strange. Just don't sit right with me."
Johnny lowers his sunglasses, shooting her a surprised look, but remains uncharacteristically silent. Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, V then asks, "How was it for you? Like you were catching some shut-eye?"
Johnny takes a moment to ponder, his gaze still fixed on the mirror as she starts brushing her teeth. The sound of bristles against enamel fills the small bathroom. After a beat, he finally responds, his voice unusually serious, "Nah, not quite like that. I was conscious, but I couldn't see shit, hear a damn thing, or move an inch. It was like being stuck in some dark void, paralyzed and doped up on so many tranquilizers that I couldn't give two shits. Every now and then, I caught glimpses of what you were feeling, but it was distant, detached, like it had nothing to do with me. Kinda fuckin' weird, if you ask me."
V grimaces before spitting out the toothpaste into the sink. She sets her toothbrush back in its holder and turns to face Johnny, her expression a mix of guilt and concern. "Shit, sorry," she says, running a hand through her hair. "Ain't gonna pop those pills again unless it's absolutely fuckin' necessary. Promise."
He shrugs, his chrome arm glinting in the dim light of the bathroom. "Don't sweat it. But... yeah, thanks."
V simply nods in response and starts stripping off her clothes, slipping into her pajamas. Johnny, seemingly in the mood for a chat after being forced into silence for a few hours, keeps the conversation going. "So, how'd your evening go?"
"Oh, that was great," V replies, her voice filled with genuine enthusiasm. "After I filled him in on the Evelyn case... we just had dinner and drinks, speaking about random shit. Avoided all the touchy subjects. And damn, it felt nice not havin' to think about all that shitstorm for once." As she tosses her clothes from tonight into the laundry basket, she adds, a hint of playfulness in her tone, "Oh, and by the way, you were right. It felt good to wear clothes that were absolutely impractical for combat, for once. To feel pretty."
Johnny's lips quirk up in a smirk. "You don't look that bad, even in your usual jeans and leather, or even covered in blood, y'know," he adds, nonchalantly, as if commenting on the weather.
Taken aback by Johnny's unexpected compliment, she stares at him, slowly blinking her eyes, unsure of how to react. And, of course, she blurts out the first dumb thing that comes to her mind, her voice a mix of confusion and amusement, "You've been oddly nice to me today. Everythin' alright with you?"
Johnny rolls his eyes and flips her the bird, a mischievous grin on his lips. That gets her laughing, the sound filling the small apartment. "Well, there's the Silverhand I know!"
He then extends his other middle finger before glitching away, reappearing a little further on the couch. This time, he conjures a green guitar on his lap and starts playing a soft, pleasant melody. The notes hang in the air, a stark contrast to his usual aggressive riffs.
V sprawls lazily onto her bed, one arm nonchalantly propped behind her head. She closes her eyes, feeling a strange sense of peace washing over her as she listens to Johnny play the guitar. The gentle melody fills the room, creating a serene atmosphere that lulls her into a peaceful slumber. Rolling onto her side, she cracks open one eye to find Johnny stealing a glance her way.
"Night, Johnny," she murmurs, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips. The words are heavy with sleep, but there's a warmth there that wasn't present a few weeks ago.
"Yeah, sleep tight, V," he replies, the warmth in his voice matching the soothing rhythm of his music. For once, there's no sarcasm, no biting remarks. Just a moment of peace between two unlikely companions.
As V drifts off to sleep, Johnny continues to play, his translucent form a constant presence in the room. The soft notes of the guitar blend with the distant sounds of Night City, creating a lullaby that's uniquely theirs. For this moment, at least, the looming threats and impossible odds fade away, leaving only the music and the strange, unexpected bond between a rockerboy terrorist and the merc whose head he's stuck in.
Chapter 9: Born to be wild
Summary:
More Panam incoming !
Notes:
Hey! Not even two weeks since the previous chapter? I'm making progress here.
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the Kudos, bookmarks and thank you Pure_Serendipity for your comment. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Get your motor runnin'
Head out on the highway
Lookin' for adventure
And whatever comes our way
The next morning, V wakes up with a renewed sense of optimism coursing through her veins. She throws the covers off her body, feeling the stretch reverberate throughout her limbs, and makes her way to the kitchen to satisfy her craving for a cup of strong, aromatic coffee. The dinner she shared with Goro last night served as a much-needed release, a chance to unwind and let her guard down. And to top it off, her complicated relationship with Johnny has taken a turn for the better.
Speaking of her dear tapeworm, Johnny materializes on the couch, his presence announced by a nonchalant yawn that reverberates throughout the room. Propping himself up against the plump cushions, he adopts a relaxed posture, draping one arm casually behind his head.
"Mornin’," she greets him, her voice laced with a tinge of amusement.
"Mhh, morning, yeah," he drawls. Contentedly sinking further into the cushions, he arches an eyebrow and reminds V of a little something, "We've had this chat before, darlin', but I'll say it again — no need to open your mouth to talk to me."
With her mug emanating tendrils of steam, V flops down on the couch next to him, embracing a relaxed posture. She confidently asserts, "Yeah, I got it." Her feet find their comfortable spot on the coffee table, inadvertently sending a nearby magazine tumbling to the floor. She shrugs it off, not giving a damn. "In public, sure, I'll keep our little back-and-forth confined within the confines of my mind. But when it's just the two of us... I dunno, it feels less fuckin' weird to speak to you out loud. Like, treatin' you like any other damn human being, ya know?"
She blows on her scalding beverage, cooling it down to a tolerable temperature, before gracing him with a sly, lopsided smile. "But hey, if you'd prefer that I treat you like some goddamn cluster of invasive code swirling around my noggin instead of my new roomie, well, that's entirely up to you, choom."
Eh, well, fuck. Johnny sure as hell didn't see that comin'. If he's being honest, he sometimes wonders if he's anything more than a goddamn heap of parasitic data. He wants to believe it, ya know? Wants to believe he's the real deal, the true backup of the original Silverhand's consciousness. But in those darker moments, when he retreats deep into the recesses of V's mind instead of shootin' the shit with her, he can't help but question if he's still his own damn self. After all, Soulkiller must have a damn good reason for bearin' that name. But then again, if it ain't his soul, what the fuck's left of him?
Most of the time, he tries to shove those thoughts aside the moment they creep in, but sometimes... yeah, it just makes him feel like utter shit. So, yeah, even the little dumb things like that damn cat starin' at him like she can actually fuckin' see him. And now this merc who wants to chat him up out loud like he's some tangible presence, well, it does him some good.
Yeah, that helps, no doubt about it. But as always, opening up ain't exactly Johnny's style. So, he'd rather put off this existential convo with V for now. Or maybe forever, if he had his way. She's got enough shit to deal with as it is, no need for him to pile on by moaning about his pathetic non-existence. So, he just grumbles, "Nah, roommate sounds good." And to keep the conversation on a lighter note, he adds, "Fuck, you have no idea how much I miss coffee. Kinda like smokes. But hey, at least when you light up, I still get that nicotine rush. But coffee..." He pauses, his eyes fixated on V as she lights a ciggy, tempting him with each drag. "Coffee, I used to drink it scalding hot, so when you sip it ice-cold, it's a whole different story. And let's not even talk about the damn delay between your sip and when I finally taste that coffee... everything's got a lag, a damn lag. So yeah... it's different, and fuck me if I wouldn't kill for a good ol' cup right now."
The young woman falls silent, her eyes narrowing as she takes a thoughtful drag from her cigarette. A cloud of smoke swirls and dances, reaching for the ceiling as she exhales, contemplating the weight of her words. Finally, she breaks the silence, her voice tinged with a hint of hesitation. "Y'know, it could actually be possible," she says, her voice laced with uncertainty. "If I were to take one of Misty's pills, it would push you to the driver's seat, right? That way, you could experience everything firsthand, without any intermediaries."
The engram, startled by the suggestion, straightens up, his posture shifting as he sits more attentively. He inches closer to V on the couch, his gaze fixed on her as he seeks confirmation. "You gotta be shittin' me," he mutters incredulously. "Are you seriously suggesting that I could borrow your body to have a goddamn cup of coffee?"
V shrugs nonchalantly, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. "Why not?" she replies, "A cup of coffee, a smoke, fuck, even a whiskey if that's what you want."
Johnny almost feels the need to warn her, to make her understand the gravity of what she's proposing. Trusting him with her body is a risky move, one that could easily backfire. His own self-doubt lingers, casting a shadow over his thoughts. How can he be certain that he won't make a mess of things if given the chance? And yet, there she stands, offering him this incredible opportunity as casually as if it were an everyday occurrence. "You really trust me not to screw things up with your body?" The words escape his lips, dripping with a mixture of disbelief and trepidation. "Aren't ya afraid that I'll take advantage of the situation and refuse to give it back?”
"To be honest... nah, not really," she replies, finally taking a sip of her lukewarm drink. "Is it such a bad thing that I'm starting to like you, Johnny? That I actually want us to be friends? Look, I know we never chose this fucked up situation we're in, but maybe we can try to make the best of it, right?" With a flick of her hand, she tosses the cigarette butt into the overflowing ashtray. "Yesterday, you agreed to let me take a blocker so I could have a night to myself. So, it's only fair that I offer the same back to you."
"I only offered 'cause — ah, see, I'm only tastin’ the coffee now — only because it's your body, at the end of the day. You never took those pills before, except for the day we met. But I kinda threatened to fuckin’ kill you, so it's only fair. But you know what, even when I gave you shit or when I fucking deserved a 'piss off, Johnny', you never took it." He sinks back into the cushions, relaxing once more. "So yeah, maybe last night I offered you a pill as a way of saying thanks for tolerating me." He smirks playfully at her. "And maybe, just maybe, a little part of me didn't wanna see you two fuck if you ever had the guts to make a real move on Takemura."
V lets out a soft laugh at Johnny's remark, and Johnny returns a smile — a rare one that manages to reach his eyes. He then adds, closing the topic, "Well, thanks for offering. I'll think about it and keep that offer in the back of my mind for another time, maybe." Stretching out, he props his feet up on the coffee table next to V. "So, what's the plan for today?"
V glances at her phone, checking her messages before placing it back on the couch, a slight hint of disappointment on her face. "No word from Hands about the Voodoo Boys. Honestly, I ain't too optimistic about that lead. But after the shitshow with Hellman, we're running out of other options. Well, that, and…" She hesitates, deciding not to finish her sentence. She knows as well as Johnny that Goro's plan is a long shot, and the chances of Arasaka actually lending a hand are pretty damn slim. "Anyway," she says, finishing her coffee and getting up from the couch. "That's no reason to just sit on our asses and do nothing in the meantime. Yesterday, while I was at the Coyote, Pepe asked me to drop by whenever I had the time. He's got a job for me."
Johnny cocks an eyebrow, a perplexed expression on his face. "Ya reckon he's still caught up with that Kirk asshole?" he asks, scratching his head. "Thought he'd learned his lesson by now — never borrow cash from scumbags like him."
“Fuck, I almost hope so," she quips, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "Would give me the perfect excuse to finally lay a beatdown on that slimy bastard."
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
Turns out, there's no connection to Kirk this time. Things get a bit more personal for Pepe as he suspects his wife of cheating on him. He hires V to follow Cynthia after her shift, hoping to find some answers.
As V settles onto a stool at the Coyote Cojo bar in the early afternoon, Pepe opens up about his doubts regarding his wife and their relationship issues. The young merc isn't exactly thrilled about getting tangled up in this kind of affair, but she understands that her friend deserves some answers. In the end, she agrees to take on the job, ready to dig into Cynthia's actions and uncover the truth.
As she starts tailing Cynthia, Johnny makes his presence known once again, commenting on the situation as if it were one of them old noir flicks, with some whiskey-loving detective as the main character. V, of course, pretends to grumble every time he opens his mouth, but deep down, it makes the whole thing a lot more enjoyable and fun.
Definitely, when the engram is in a good mood, he becomes really pleasant to be around.
Once the mystery is unraveled — turns out she was consulting a ripperdoc instead of some secret lover — and Pepe's got another bundle of joy on the way, V leaves the back-alley clinic. As she dials up the bartender to spill the beans — "Who gives a shit if she lied about her looks? She loves you, ya gonk!" — Johnny reappears by her side, leaning against the wall with a pensive look on his face.
V pivots towards Johnny, a mischievous glint in her eye and a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "So, what's the deal? No cynical commentary about how relationships are just elaborate scams, or how love's bound to tear us apart in the end? I thought that'd be the perfect way to wrap up your little film noir narration," she quips, arching an eyebrow expectantly.
Johnny's expression softens, his typically sardonic demeanor giving way to a rare moment of vulnerability as his eyes reflect a glimmer of hard-earned wisdom. "Nah, V. It's a lesson I had to learn the hard way, but in this godforsaken city, if you manage to stumble upon something genuine — something real — you've gotta hold onto it with everything you've got and protect it like your life depends on it," he muses, his voice tinged with a hint of regret and longing.
The unexpected depth of Johnny's response piques V's curiosity, and she's on the verge of probing further into the rockstar's mysterious past when her Holo suddenly buzzes to life, shattering the moment. Seizing the opportunity presented by this timely distraction, Johnny takes his cue to fade away, his form dissolving into a shimmering cloud of glitchy pixels before V can pursue her line of questioning.
This time, it's Panam on the other end of the line, frustration evident in her voice. V immediately puts two and two together — another spat with Saul. Without hesitation, the merc agrees to meet her friend at the Nomad camp.
She tears through the unforgiving Badlands on Scorpion's bike — she still struggles to claim it as her own — to reach the camp. Upon arrival, the air is thick with tension. Nomads mutter about a botched contract, contemplating their reasons for staying. However, it's when V finally joins a meeting between Panam, Mitch, and Saul that the tension escalates to its breaking point.
Panam's face lights up immediately upon seeing V, visibly relaxing. However, Saul's expression darkens as he berates her for calling in reinforcements behind his back, an accusation Panam vehemently denies, attempting to feign innocence. Naturally, her act doesn't work on the man, who storms off, clearly pissed, warning them not to mess things up.
Feeling a bit lost in the conversation, V inquires about this Basilisk situation. Panam and Mitch fill her in on the plan — and even by V's standards, it's a real mess they're getting into. Nevertheless, she can sense the nomad's determination to retrieve that old piece of junk, so she agrees without hesitation to continue discussing the plan with the other veterans involved.
They make their way across the bustling camp to the truck-bar, weaving through clusters of Nomads before joining a table occupied by four seasoned veterans, their faces etched with the stories of countless battles and long roads. Without missing a beat, Panam announces that Saul remains steadfast in his opposition to their plan, necessitating a covert operation behind his back — a revelation that elicits little more than knowing nods from the assembled group.
Undaunted by the lack of official support, the young woman dives into a detailed briefing for V, her eyes alight with determination as she outlines the intricacies of their daring scheme. As she finishes, Panam fixes V with an intense, questioning gaze, silently seeking confirmation of her participation in this high-stakes venture. The moment V agrees, a palpable wave of relief washes over Panam, her shoulders visibly relaxing as if a great weight has been lifted. V can't help but mull over the potential dangers, but there's an undeniable thrill to the prospect as well — and seeing how much this means to Panam, how could she possibly refuse? After all, V's checkered past is littered with far more dubious and perilous undertakings than this.
Panam's eager to launch the operation immediately, her eyes alight with determination, but a grizzled man sporting a distinctive mustache and well-worn cowboy hat — Cassidy, V recalls — steps in to temper her enthusiasm. With a measured drawl, he advises caution, suggesting they bide their time for an hour or two until Saul is thoroughly engrossed in his meeting with the Biotechnica agents. This window, he argues, would provide the perfect opportunity to set their plans in motion without arousing suspicion, emphasizing the importance of maintaining their usual routines in the interim to keep their intentions under wraps.
Begrudgingly, Panam acquiesces to the delay, her impatience evident in the set of her jaw as she issues instructions for everyone to reconvene near the vehicles in ninety minutes. With the plan tentatively in place, the group disperses, each member affecting an air of nonchalance as they return to their daily tasks, their casual demeanors belying the anticipation simmering beneath the surface.
As V moves to follow her friend, hoping to snatch a moment to discuss the previous evening's encounter with Takemura, she feels a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she finds Mitch regarding her with a mixture of apology and hope in his weathered features. He explains that with time to spare, he could use her expertise on a separate matter — some loose ends that need tying up, as he cryptically puts it. Despite itching to have a chat with Panam about her evening with Takemura the night before and the looming operation, V finds herself nodding in agreement.
Mitch directs V to climb into his vehicle while he takes the helm of Scorpion's ride, gesturing for her to follow his lead without offering any further explanation. As they set off, the powerful engines of their vehicles roar to life, their thunderous growl echoing across the vast expanse of sandy dunes that stretch out before them.
During their journey, Johnny materializes in the passenger seat, making a gesture towards the window control. V, being the corporeal one, obliges by pressing the button, allowing the window to slide down. Johnny acknowledges her assistance with a nod before extending his arm through the open window. From the corner of her eye, V observes as the rushing wind whips through Johnny's dark locks, creating a mesmerizing dance of shadows and light around his face, his hair moving like a somber halo. This spectacle prompts V to ponder whether her brain is simply making the logical connection between wind and hair movement, filling in the blanks of Johnny's projected image, or if Johnny himself is consciously choosing to manifest his presence in this remarkably lifelike manner. The intricacies of the Relic's functioning continue to elude her, and she muses that she'll likely never fully grasp the complexities of this enigmatic technology that has so profoundly altered her existence.
"Ahh," Johnny exhales with a deep, contented sigh, his eyes closing momentarily as he savors the sensation. "Sun on my face, wind in my hair... Perfect."
His gaze remains fixed on the passing landscape, a look of pure satisfaction etched across his features, reminiscent of a cat luxuriating in a warm sunbeam. There's an undeniable allure to Johnny in this state — almost peaceful, a stark contrast to his usual demeanor. A subtle, nostalgic smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, and V is reminded of his mention of two years spent wandering the desert with nomads after a job had gone catastrophically wrong. She can't shake the feeling that there's something profoundly significant lurking beneath the surface of that story.
The first time Johnny had alluded to this memory, V had just crossed paths with Panam, and her relationship with Johnny was still fraught with tension. She hadn't dared to probe deeper then. But now... the dynamic between them has shifted dramatically. They've forged a bond that's undeniably closer, friendlier.
Just as V musters the courage to broach the subject, her train of thought is abruptly derailed by the crackle of the radio. Mitch's voice cuts through, announcing their arrival at the designated location. Snapping back to the present, V eases off the accelerator and maneuvers the vehicle to a stop, following Mitch's precise instructions. As she surveys the scene before her, V is struck by the sight of the road simply... ending. The unfinished construction terminates abruptly at the precipice of a yawning, massive ravine, a stark reminder of the harsh, unforgiving nature of the Badlands.
V exits the vehicle, making her way towards Mitch, who has parked beside what appears to be a precarious launch ramp cobbled together from rusted metal sheets. As she rounds Scorpion's former ride, she's brought up short by a shocking sight.
"Holy fuckin' shit!" she exclaims, stumbling backward. The trunk houses a grim cargo — Scorpion's body, unceremoniously stuffed in like oversized luggage. Steeling herself, V approaches again for a closer look. Despite the days elapsed since his demise, Scorpion's remains are surprisingly well-preserved — likely kept on ice. She turns to Mitch, her expression a mix of confusion and demand for an explanation about this macabre situation they've found themselves in.
As it turns out, Scorpion had always harbored a desire for a spectacular exit from this mortal coil. Mitch, in his determination to honor the final wishes of his best friend, has concocted a plan that's equal parts bizarre and oddly fitting. The idea is to send the car hurtling off the cliff, with Scorpion's body positioned behind the wheel, culminating in a fiery explosion at the ravine's base. It's an unconventional send-off, to say the least, but V finds herself nodding in understanding. In this harsh world, where even death rarely comes with dignity, there's a certain poetry to Scorpion going out on his own terms, in a blaze of glory.
While Mitch carefully positions Scorpion's body in the driver's seat, V secures a gas container on the passenger side — presumably to ensure a more spectacular explosion. Following Mitch's instructions, V ignites the cloth protruding from the fuel tank with her zippo. She steps back, watching intently as Mitch uses a remote control to guide the car towards its final journey.
"May the road be kind to ya, friend," Mitch solemnly intones as the vehicle plummets over the edge. They approach the precipice, peering into the abyss. When the resounding explosion erupts far below, Mitch adds, his voice tinged with both sadness and satisfaction, "Out with a bang. Just like he wanted. Soot and ash. That much remains."
Retreating from the cliff's edge, Mitch retrieves a cooler, extracting two beers. He hands one to V, and they drink in silent tribute to Scorpion's memory. After a contemplative moment, V seizes the opportunity to inquire, "Hey, speakin' of... Where'd that nickname come from? 'Scorpion'?" Her curiosity piqued, she hopes to uncover more about the man they've just bid farewell to in such a dramatic fashion.
“Funny…” Mitch responds, his face etched with contemplation. “You know, I haven’t the slightest idea. Never asked him.”
“He a Scorpio or somethin’?” V ventures, trying to piece together the puzzle.
“Heh — maybe he had a big stinger, heheh!” Mitch's eyes drift towards the ravine, a mix of mirth and melancholy in his voice. “Ah, Scorpion, you old bastard… I’m ‘onna miss you, man.”
“Mitch — why me? Why’d you ask me to help?” V probes, curiosity mingling with a hint of unease.
“I don’t know, I uh…" Mitch hesitates, searching for words. "I guess the fact that I’m still here to send him off right — that’s thanks to you. Your paths crossed. Just for a moment… But damn, was it the right one.”
A knot forms in V's stomach, her perspective on the matter starkly different. Without her dogged pursuit of Hellman, Panam wouldn't have been dragged into this mess, Kang Tao's AV wouldn't have crashed, and Scorpion might still be drawing breath. But before she can spiral into the familiar abyss of guilt, Mitch retrieves a small object from his bag, redirecting her attention.
“Listen, there’s a… a few things of his you oughta have. Like this little good luck charm. Go on, it’s yours.”
V accepts the proffered item — a figurine, its details worn by time but clearly well-loved. It depicts a man clad in black and yellow, poised in a combative stance. Intrigued, she asks,
“What is it?”
“Not a clue.” Mitch shrugs, a fond smile playing on his lips. “Scorpion always had it on him. No idea why. Listen… I’m going to sit here for a while, all right. Brood in peace. Just a few minutes, then we'll go find Panam and the others for our little adventure."
V nods, preparing to grant him solitude with his memories. As she turns to leave, Mitch adds with a wistful chuckle, "Damn, he would've loved this plan. Scorpion, I mean. Stealing a Basilisk from under Militech's nose — that's exactly the kind of batshit crazy idea that would've lit a fire under his ass."
Turning away, V spots Johnny perched at the edge of the unfinished road, his legs dangling precariously over the abyss. His gaze is fixed on the ravine's depths, seemingly lost in thought. She approaches and, with a touch of gallows humor, quips, "Don't jump, there's still hope."
"Heh — funny. Wouldn't change anything." To prove his point, Johnny rises, facing away from the chasm. With a roguish wink, he spreads his arms wide and falls backward, vanishing into the void. V's heart lurches, her mind frantically repeating — it's not real, not real, notrealnotrealnotreal. True to form, a second later, Johnny glitches back to his sitting spot, as if nothing had transpired. "See? Already dead," he smirks, a hint of bitterness in his voice.
"Not a reason to give me scares like this, you fuckin’ gonk!" she hisses, adrenaline still coursing through her veins. Exhaling deeply, she settles beside him.
"Yeah, yeah, sorry," he shrugs, his nonchalance belying any real remorse. Noticing V's lingering frown, he adds, his tone softening, "I've always had a thing for heights. The void. The deep abyss too, in a way. Gaze into the abyss, you'll find the abyss starin' right back atcha. Sorry," he repeats, this time with a hint of genuine contrition.
V lights a cigarette, the familiar ritual calming her nerves as they both savor the nicotine rush. Johnny breaks the silence, "Not a fan of funerals."
"Yeah," she nods, irritation still simmering beneath the surface. "You and death don't really mix."
Brushing off her jab, he continues, "But this one... Goin' out with a big boom... I can see the appeal. Good on you for helping your choom do it right." His words coax a small smile from V. "Oh, and just so you know... That figurine? It's from an old video game. Combat stuff, big deal when I was a kid. I'll let you guess the character's name."
"Heh — seems like the mystery of Scorpion's name is finally solved."
"Mhmm. C'mon, finish your smoke and go join the other guy. You've got a corpo to piss off."
V nods, taking a final, contemplative drag on her cigarette before flicking it into the void. She rises, steeling herself for the task ahead as she heads back to Mitch's car.
I like smoke and lightnin'
Heavy metal thunder
Racin' with the wind
And the feelin' that I'm under
Yeah, darlin', go make it happen
Take the world in a love embrace
Fire all of your guns at once and
Explode into space
The two of them drive back to the Aldecaldo's camp in contemplative silence, the desert landscape blurring past their windows. They arrive just in time for the meeting with Panam and the other veterans, the camp a flurry of activity as final preparations are made.
"V, c'mon, ride with me," Panam calls out, her voice carrying a mix of impatience and anticipation. She taps the roof of her car rhythmically before sliding into the driver's seat, her movements quick and purposeful. V swiftly switches vehicles, climbing into the Thorton and settling into the passenger seat. The familiar scent of leather and gun oil fills her nostrils as she buckles up. Without delay, the convoy sets off, a train of dust trailing behind them.
As they navigate the bumpy terrain, Panam breaks the silence. "So... how'd it go with Mitch?" she inquires, her eyes fixed on the dusty road ahead, occasionally glancing at the rearview mirror to check on the vehicles behind them.
"Oh... you knew about his farewell to Scorpion?" V asks, slightly surprised. She shifts in her seat, turning to face Panam more directly.
"'Course I did," Panam responds, a hint of sadness in her voice. "The moment I saw you two head out, I knew it was time. We've all been expecting it, just... waiting for Mitch to be ready, you know? So, give me the details?"
V takes a deep breath, collecting her thoughts before answering. "Well... it was explosive. Literally. And kinda beautiful, as far as goodbyes go. Mitch had it all planned out — Scorpion's body in the driver's seat, his car taking one last ride off a cliff. It was... it was something else."
Panam nods silently, encouraging V to continue.
"Just can't figure why Mitch wanted me there," V adds, her brow furrowed in confusion. "You'd have been a much better fit. I mean, you knew Scorpion all your life..."
Panam sighs, her fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around the steering wheel. The vehicle swerves slightly as she navigates around a particularly large pothole. "I've already said my piece to Scorpion," she explains, her voice low and thoughtful. " And... well, you know what it's like to lose your best friend." She pauses, glancing briefly at V before returning her attention to the road. "I thought... I figured you'd be the right person to stand by Mitch. That shared experience, you know? That's why I suggested he talk to you. Sometimes it's easier to open up to someone who's not too close, but who understands."
V nods slowly, processing Panam's words, her mind churning with memories and emotions. She adds, her voice tinged with a mix of sadness and disbelief,
"Y'know, in a few days, it'll be a whole fuckin' month since that clusterfuck at Konpeki Plaza. Since I lost Jackie. First week, I dodged thinkin' about it — half-dead on my ripperdoc's table or zonked outta my mind on meds. After that... spent more than a week hustlin', chainin' gigs to scrape together enough eddies for Rogue's intel on Hellman. If I'd stopped, even for a goddamn second back then... I woulda just crumbled like a house of cards in a hurricane."
She pauses, her gaze lost on the endless wasteland passing by outside, the monotonous landscape a stark contrast to the turmoil in her mind. With a heavy sigh that seems to carry the weight of Night City itself, V continues,
"Then reality bitch-slapped me. The ofrenda, Mamá Welles handin' me Jack's ride... fuck, sometimes just bein' in my pad, the one he helped me move into with that goofy grin of his..."
She trails off, words failing her as memories threaten to overwhelm her. The car's atmosphere thickens like smoke in a poorly ventilated club, and V, desperate to shake the gloom that's settling over them like a heavy blanket, changes tack with all the subtlety of a grenade in a china shop. "So, uh, Mitch gave me Scorpion's figurine, that little toy he was always fussin' over..."
"Oh, that little dude he lugged around everywhere like it was his good luck charm?" Panam perks up, a small smile playing on her lips, grateful for the change in topic. "Pretty nova you got it, V. Scorpion was crazy 'bout that thing, treated it like it was made of gold or somethin'. Never knew where he snagged it though, always been curious..."
"It's from some ancient video game, last century shit that most people wouldn't even recognize nowadays," the merc explains, relieved to be on safer conversational ground.
"No fuckin' way!" Panam's eyes dart from the road, shooting V an incredulous look that's equal parts surprise and suspicion. "How in the hell did you dig up that little nugget of useless information?"
"Johnny told—" V catches herself mid-sentence, realizing her slip-up. "Uh, I mean, someone showed me somethin' similar once, back when I was still wet behind the ears in Night City. Just connected the dots, y'know?"
"That guy again?" V's slip doesn't go unnoticed, Panam's tone a mix of curiosity and concern. "He's into old school junk or what?"
"Yeah, somethin' like that," V mumbles, clearly uncomfortable with where this line of questioning is heading. Explaining Johnny without mentioning the Relic, her royally fucked-up situation, and her ticking clock? Yeah, not happening without a miracle or a bottle of tequila, preferably both.
"V..." Panam starts, her voice softening with hesitation, "Don't know who this gonk is or what kinda shit he's pulled, but... if you need to spill your guts, I'm here, 'kay? No judgment, just a friendly ear and maybe a bottle of something strong."
"I know, Pan', I know..." she sighs, the weight of her secrets pressing down on her like a ton of chrome. "Wanna tell you, honest. It's just... it's a long, messy story that'd make most soap operas look tame. Not exactly the kinda tale you swap over beers for a fun night out. But I'll tell you, promise. Just... not yet."
And fuck, does she want to talk to Panam about it all — the engram squatting in her brain, their rollercoaster relationship that's part buddy comedy, part existential horror show. The list of people in the know about Johnny is pathetically short — just Vik and Misty, plus that corpo rat Hellman, but fuck him with a rusty crowbar. Vik's clearly not Team Johnny, hating both the rockerboy's anarchist past and how he's slowly overwriting V like a virus in her neural network. So, he's not exactly the guy to chat with about her growing, confusing fondness for her brain parasite. And Misty... sweet Misty's got enough on her plate dealing with Jackie's death, trying to keep his memory alive while navigating her own grief.
So yeah, Panam's the obvious choice for the Johnny talk, the one person who might just understand without immediately calling the nearest ripperdoc to scan V's head. She already knows about the heist, about Hellman... Spilling the rest is just the next logical step in this insane journey. But it ain't happening today, not with the weight of the upcoming job pressing down on them both. The convoy's already slowing to a crawl, and soon they're all parked up near some abandoned train station that looks like it hasn't seen action since before the Unification Wars. A control tower looms ahead like a rusted sentinel, and a massive yellow train sits there on the tracks, waiting for them like some oversized toy in this dusty, adult playground of theirs.
The plan immediately kicks into gear, with Panam, in control of the operation, steering the conversation and recapping the plan. After that, as the sun starts to dip in the sky, the nomads scatter across the area, each tackling a different task — well, except for Cassidy and Teddy, beers in hands, just chillin', leaning on a car like they're at a drive-in movie.
Carol's fingers dance across her screen, while Panam tries to figure out how to crack open the access door to the tower. V, circling the building in search of another way in, stumbles upon Mitch and Bob, wrestling with an old generator that's seen better days. She lends them a hand, her Kiroshi optics scanning the half-rusted piece of junk and quickly pinpointing the problem.
With that sorted, V charges up a double jump, her cybernetics humming with energy as she gracefully slips through a window into the tower. She thunders down the stairs, taking them four at a time, to swing open the door for Panam from the inside. As the door creaks open, V can't help but grin at Panam's mix of surprise and admiration.
"Show-off," Panam mutters, but there's a smirk playing on her lips as she steps inside.
The two young women begin their ascent, the rickety stairs creaking under their feet like the bones of some ancient beast. Panam, never one to miss an opportunity to grumble, mutters about the lack of maintenance and the general state of disrepair. As they climb, the nomad seizes the moment to broach a more serious topic, her voice carrying a mix of concern and curiosity.
"With all this gonk-level crazy shit goin' down, we haven't really had a chance to sit down and chat properly, V. Any progress on that... uh, little problem of yours? Y'know, the one that's got you runnin' around like your ass is on fire?"
V, already four steps ahead and moving with the grace of a cat burglar, turns around, her face a canvas of mixed emotions. "There's been some new developments, alright. Whether you'd call it progress though... that's a whole other can of worms." A shadow passes over her features as she thinks back to the horrific rescue mission the day before, making a mental note to ping Judy as soon as she's got a spare minute to check on Evelyn's condition. She refocuses on Panam, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "But yeah, I've got a metric ton of shit to tell you. Some awful stuff that'd make your toes curl, but... some good, fun things too," she grins, a mischievous glint in her eye as she recalls her evening with Takemura.
Panam's eyes light up like a Christmas tree, the hunger for juicy gossip written all over her face in neon letters. "Spill it, chica! Don't leave me hangin' like this! What kinda 'fun things' are we talkin' about here?"
"Later," V chuckles, her voice a mix of amusement and teasing promise. "It's a pretty long story, and we've got work to do. Can't have you all distracted while we're trying to pull off this job, now can we?"
As Panam grumbles something about 'cruel and unusual punishment', they finally reach the top of the stairs, both slightly out of breath. The nomad refocuses on the task at hand, her eyes widening as she takes in the scene before them. The control tower looks like it's been hit by a localized apocalypse. Clearly abandoned in a hurry, the room is a chaotic tapestry of neglect and decay. Tons of papers litter the floor like oversized, yellowing confetti, their edges curled and brittle with age. Overturned filing cabinets lie scattered about like fallen soldiers, their gutted drawers still half-full, spilling their contents onto the dusty floor in a bizarre office supply massacre.
"Well, fuck," Panam whistles, taking in the chaos with a mix of awe and disgust. "Looks like a tornado hit this place, got drunk, invited all its friends over for a party, and then they all decided to redecorate while high on Black Lace."
V nods, her enhanced Kiroshi optics scanning the room, picking up details that would be lost to the naked eye. "Yeah, whoever left sure as hell didn't bother calling in a cleanup crew. Let's hope they left something useful behind in all this junk."
With a shared look of determination, the two women step into the chaos, ready to unravel whatever secrets this forgotten control tower might hold. Panam leans out one of the grimy windows, her voice cutting through the evening air as she shouts Carol's name, asking what the hell they're supposed to be looking for in this mess of an office.
Carol, still on the ground near the train, hollers back, her voice carrying a hint of exasperation, "You're lookin' for a punchcard! Should be somewhere in that mess!"
They immediately dive into the search, but it's easier said than done in this disaster zone of an office. They spend nearly half an hour combing through the floor, upending every box, sifting through piles of junk, and coughing up dust that probably hasn't been disturbed since before either of them was born. V's enhanced optics scan methodically, picking up details that would be lost to the naked eye, while Panam mutters a steady stream of colorful curses under her breath, tossing aside useless papers and broken tech with growing frustration.
The search feels endless, each passing minute stretching their patience thinner. Just when they're about to give up and call it quits, V's fingers brush against something in a drawer buried under ancient paperwork. She pulls out a small, rectangular piece of stiff material, covered in a grid of tiny holes.
"Fuckin' finally!" V exclaims, holding up the old piece of tech triumphantly. "Think this might be our golden ticket?"
Panam squints at the object, then breaks into a wide grin. "That's it, alright! Damn, V, you've got eyes like a hawk... or, well, I guess more like a high-tech scanner, huh?"
As they straighten up, stretching out the kinks in their backs from being hunched over for so long, they notice that night has fallen outside. The desert's vastness stretches out beyond the windows, a sea of darkness punctuated only by the twinkling stars above and the dim lights of their makeshift camp below. The sudden transition from day to night is jarring, a reminder of how much time they've spent in this dusty time capsule of an office.
Returning to the window, the nomad shouts once more, her voice carrying a mix of excitement and impatience, "Carol! We got the card! What now?!"
Carol's reply comes back, her tone blasé, "Put it in the reader! What else would you do with it?"
The two friends can't help but roll their eyes at Carol's deadpan response, sharing a look that's equal parts amusement and exasperation. V, leaving Panam by the window, makes her way to the part of the control room where the ancient machines stand silent and imposing.
She slides the punchcard into the designated slot, feeling the weight of history in her hands. With a deep breath, she pushes a lever, the metal cool and unyielding under her fingers. For a few nerve-wracking seconds, the machine remains stubbornly silent and still. Just as V's about to let loose a string of curses, a spark escapes from the machine, followed by a mechanical groan that echoes through the control room. The sudden activity sends a jolt of electricity through V's spine, and provokes a victory cry from Panam in the other room.
"It worked!" Panam's voice is filled with disbelief and joy. "Come look!"
V joins Panam, finding Johnny materialized at her side, both of them leaning on the windowsill, looking down. The merc leans over too, watching the behemoth of a yellow locomotive inch forward a few meters, proving the success of their operation. The night air is cool against their skin, carrying the scent of dust and diesel as the train rumbles to life below.
After taking in the scene, V turns to her friend, only to notice that her smile has somewhat faded, replaced by a thoughtful, almost hesitant expression.
"V," Panam begins, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and concern, "I wanted to speak with you."
"Sure, Pan'," V responds, her brow furrowing slightly. "What's eatin' at ya?"
"I know this may sound foolish, 'cause I asked you to help me. But..." she hesitates for a few seconds, her gaze darting between the train and V's face, the moonlight casting shadows across her features. "Why are you doing this? I mean... you've got your own problems. A shit ton of problems. I would've understood if you'd told me you had more important things to do, but..."
"'Cause it's important to you," V interrupts Panam's rant, her voice soft but firm. "And that makes it important to me, too."
Panam's eyes widen slightly, a mix of surprise and gratitude flickering across her face. "That simple, huh?" she asks, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
V shrugs, leaning back against the window frame. "Look, Pan', I've got my shit to deal with, sure. But helping you? It's not something I have to do, but something I want to do. It's about trust, about watching each other’s backs. In this fucked-up world, that's worth everything."
"Damn, V," Panam chuckles, shaking her head. "When did you get so wise? You sound like an old nomad elder or somethin'."
V grins, "Maybe I'm channeling my inner Saul. Minus the stick up the ass, of course."
This earns a hearty laugh from Panam. "God, don't even joke about that. One Saul is more than enough for this family."
As their laughter subsides, a comfortable silence falls between them. The rumble of the train below fills the air, a steady rhythm that seems to match the beating of their hearts.
"Seriously though, V," Panam says, her voice softer now. "Thanks. For being here, for helping... for everything. I know I can be a pain in the ass sometimes..."
"Sometimes?" V teases, raising an eyebrow.
Panam rolls her eyes, but her smile doesn't fade. "Okay, most of the time. But... I'm glad you're here. We make a pretty good team, don't we?"
V nods, feeling a warmth in her chest that has nothing to do with the desert heat. "That we do, Pan'. That we do. Any more questions?"
"No, ah — I know everything I need to, I believe." Panam grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Perhaps I should send Rogue flowers, to thank her for introducing us."
"Mm. Not really your style, don't think." V teases, a smirk playing on her lips.
"I would add a card," Panam adds, a wicked smile lighting up her face, "something like 'Thank you for giving me a true friend, you manipulative whore'."
V bursts out laughing, the sound echoing in the empty control room. "That's my girl!"
"All right." Panam pushes away from the window, throwing an arm around V's shoulders. "Let's rejoin the others."
As they descend the stairs, V probes for more details about the plan. "Convoy — got eyes and ears on it?"
"Yeah. Carol checks their communication channels from time to time," Panam responds nonchalantly. "Everything's proceeding as planned — for now."
Just then, V's holo starts vibrating, indicating a new message.
"Looks like someone's lookin' for ya," V says to Panam, showing her the exchange.
"Fuck's sake, this guy's impossible." Panam chuckles, shaking her head.
V can't help but grin at Panam's exasperation. "Want me to tell him to fuck off? I've got a few choice words I could throw his way."
"Nah, let him stew," Panam replies, "Besides, we've got bigger fish to fry. Let's focus on making this heist a success, then we can deal with Saul's bullshit later."
Arriving at the base of the tower, V sees that the nomads haven't been sitting on their asses during their absence. They've scrounged up some branches and other flammable junk from the surrounding area, creating a cozy little campfire that casts flickering shadows across the desert night. The group is sprawled around it in various states of relaxation, some perched on crates like kings on thrones, others sprawled directly on the ground like they're trying to become one with the earth. A few are nursing fresh bottles of beer, the liquid catching the firelight, while others puff on cigarettes, the smoke mingling with the fire's haze. A pot of stew — which looks about as appetizing as something scraped off the streets of Watson, to be honest — sits near the flames, bubbling ominously.
Panam, despite the chill vibe, can't seem to switch off her inner control freak. "We could still check—"
"Sit your ass down a minute, honey, and breathe," Cassidy interrupts, his weathered fingers coaxing a melody from his guitar.
"Everything's under control," Bob confirms, "The convoy's already heading our way."
With a sigh that sounds like it's coming from her very soul, Panam finally relents, plopping down on an old metal beam next to V like a puppet with its strings cut. A brief conversation follows, with the veterans spinning yarns about Scorpion, the other one who'd had the balls to stand up to Saul in the past. It's clearly an attempt to calm Panam's nerves.
Seizing the moment, V raises her beer bottle, "Oughta raise a glass to Scorpion."
The other nomads nod in approval, a chorus of "To Scorpion" rising into the night air. They all take a drink, the beer bitter and cold against their tongues. Panam adds, her voice soft but strong, "And to Jackie." The words warm V's heart more than any fire heat could.
They then briefly shoot the shit about the war, which catches Johnny's attention.. He'd been silently judging Cassidy's guitar skills until now, probably itching to show the old timer how it's really done. After that, a comfortable silence settles over the group like a well-worn blanket. The fire crackles and pops, sending sparks spiraling up into the vast, star-studded sky. It's a moment of calm before the storm, a brief respite before they dive headfirst into danger.
After a while, Panam gives V a gentle nudge with her elbow. "A word?" she asks, standing up. Ah, looks like it's gossip o'clock. The merc follows willingly, and they both clamber up the locomotive, their boots clanging against the metal as they settle on the roof. From their perch, they keep a watchful eye on the other nomads below, their silhouettes flickering in the firelight, but their conversation is safely out of earshot, carried away by the desert wind.
Lighting up a cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the darkness, V turns to her friend. "So, shitty stuff first, or the good shit?" she asks, exhaling a plume of smoke that dissipates into the star-studded night sky.
"Mmh," Panam ponders for a few seconds, her eyes reflecting the distant campfire, before declaring, "bad news first. That way, we get it over with, and we can end the night on a high note, you know?"
V can't really argue with that logic, so after taking a long drag on her smoke for courage, the nicotine flooding her system like a comforting old friend, she starts to explain, her voice low and serious. "Alright, buckle up 'cause this is gonna be a wild ride. So, first off, I gotta tell you more about how this whole clusterfuck started. The heist Jackie and I were hired for... The client was this woman named Evelyn Parker, real femme fatale type, if you know what I mean. Met her just before everything went to shit. She was the type who wanted to screw over the fixer she'd hired to plan the op and recruit us, which should've been my first clue that this job was gonna go sideways."
V pauses, taking another long drag before flicking the cigarette over the edge, watching the ember spiral down into the darkness. "She offered to ditch DeShawn, split the loot 50/50, just her and me, like we were suddenly best friends or some shit. Should've known right then it was the start of a shitstorm, that she wasn't new to the double-cross game... Anyway, day of the heist rolls around, and everything goes ... Well, you already know that part of the story — the deaths, the chaos, the whole nine yards. Everyone involved is dead, 'cept yours truly, and Evelyn, who's gone AWOL like she never existed in the first place. So now, nobody knows where she might've gone to ground…"
After that, V dives into the gritty details of her quest to find Evelyn, starting with the confrontation with Judy that was about as smooth as sandpaper. She paints a vivid picture of her investigation at Clouds, of her interrogation of Fingers, and V's voice grows tense as she describes the moth DSX. The story reaches its climax as V recounts their rescue mission, her words dripping with a mix of relief and horror as she describes the sorry state in which she and Judy found Evelyn. It's like watching a car crash in slow motion — you want to look away, but you can't. Panam's rage builds with each word, her fists clenching and unclenching as if she's ready to punch the whole fucked-up world.
V wraps up her tale by laying out the breadcrumb trail leading to the Voodoo Boys, and how she's now in a holding pattern, waiting for Hands to hit her up so she can confront these netrunners and hopefully unravel this whole mess.
Throughout the retelling, V's voice is a cocktail of emotions — one part frustration, two parts anger, with a splash of desperation thrown in for good measure. The weight of her experiences hangs on every word. Panam listens like her life depends on it, her face a slideshow of shock, anger, and sympathy as the story unfolds.
The night around them seems to deepen, as if the very darkness is leaning in to catch every word of V's tale. The distant sounds of the other nomads below — laughter, the strum of a guitar, the clink of bottles — serve as a stark reminder of the life and warmth that still exists in this harsh world, a sharp contrast to the hell V's been through.
As V finishes, a silence falls between them, heavy as lead and sharp as a razor's edge. It's broken only by the soft whisper of the desert wind and the occasional pop from the fire below. The enormity of V's situation looms over them, as tangible as the rusty metal of the locomotive beneath their feet.
"Fuck, V... I don't even know what to say..." Panam finally growls, unable to bear the heavy silence any longer. Trying to lighten the mood, she adds, "I hope the good part's coming now. And that the gossip is extra juicy."
This at least manages to coax a small smile from V. Lighting up a new cigarette to calm her nerves after reliving the Evelyn shitshow through her retelling, she eventually says,
"Oh, I don't know if it'll be juicy enough for you, but here goes..."
She then recounts how her day yesterday ended. Showing Panam the messages from Goro — which makes Panam burst out laughing, saying that Takemura must be much older than V thought, given his struggles with tech as simple as a burner phone — she then tells her about the good evening they spent at the bar. The only thing V keeps out of her story is anything related to Johnny — that's a whole other can of worms, too big to open tonight.
V's voice takes on a lighter tone as she describes her evening with Goro, a welcome change from the heaviness of her earlier tale. She paints a vivid picture of the unlikely pair — the street-smart merc and the corpo bodyguard — sharing drinks and conversation in a bar.
"You should've seen him, Pan," V chuckles, shaking her head. "Guy looked like a fish outta water at the Coyote. But damn if he didn't loosen up after a few drinks. Even cracked a joke or two. And let me tell you, hearing Goro Takemura crack wise? That's just hilarious."
Panam listens with growing interest, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Sounds like someone's got a crush on the corpo," she teases, nudging V with her elbow. "C'mon, spill it. You're into him, aren't you?"
V rolls her eyes, but there's a hint of a blush creeping up her cheeks, visible even in the dim starlight. "Alright, alright," she admits with a sheepish grin. "Maybe a little one. He's just... different, y'know? Not like the usual Night City gonks. Got this whole vibe… and damn pretty eyes."
Panam lets out a whoop of laughter, clapping her hands in delight. "I knew it! Oh, this is too good. Gotta take a picture of him next time you cross paths. So I can see the kind of 'charming' you're talking about. Who knows, maybe I'll swoop in and steal your corpo boy," she teases with a wink.
"Yeah, yeah, sure," V chuckles, rolling her eyes. "I'll do that. But don't get your hopes up, Pan. Pretty sure Goro's more likely to fall for a vending machine than another person. Guy's married to his job."
As V continues her story, playfully defending herself against Panam's good-natured ribbing, the tension from earlier dissipates like morning mist under the desert sun. It's replaced by the warm camaraderie of friends sharing secrets under the vast, star-studded sky. Their laughter echoes across the metal roof of the locomotive, a stark contrast to the heavy conversation from before.
The night feels a little less dark, the future a little less daunting, as they lose themselves in the simple pleasure of gossip and banter. Their voices carry softly into the cool night air, mingling with the distant sounds of the desert. For a moment, V can almost forget about the ticking time bomb in her head, the looming threat of the Voodoo Boys, and the chaos of Night City. Here, under the endless expanse of the Badlands sky, with a friend by her side, she finds a rare moment of peace.
After that, V and Panam agree it'd be a good idea to try and catch a few hours of sleep before the sun rises and their plan for the Basilisk kicks back into gear. As they climb down from the locomotive, they notice the other nomads have had the same idea, already setting up sleeping bags near the campfire. The two women pitch in to help finish the preparations for the night, then settle down, the starry sky twinkling above them.
V stretches out on her sleeping bag, feeling the warmth of the dying embers on her face. The desert night is cool, but not uncomfortably so. Around her, the soft sounds of the camp settling down for the night create a soothing backdrop — the rustle of sleeping bags, the occasional murmur of hushed conversation, the crackle of the fire.
Panam's voice drifts over from nearby, already heavy with impending sleep. "Night, V. Try not to dream about your corpo boy too much," she teases one last time.
V snorts, a smile playing on her lips. "Night, Pan’. Sweet dreams of stealing other people's crushes," she retorts playfully.
As silence falls over the camp, V gazes up at the vast expanse of stars above. It's a view she rarely gets in Night City, where neon lights and smog obscure the night sky. Out here in the Badlands, it feels like she can see forever. The enormity of it all — the sky, the desert, the challenges ahead — should feel overwhelming. But somehow, surrounded by the Aldecaldos, with Panam's steady breathing nearby, V feels... safe. Protected.
She closes her eyes, letting the peace of the moment wash over her. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, but for now, V allows herself this moment of tranquility. As she drifts off to sleep, her last conscious thought is a mix of gratitude for these new friends and a flicker of hope for what's to come.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
As the first light of dawn breaks, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, V is gently shaken awake by Panam, who informs her that the convoy is close and it's high time to put their plan into action. Despite the ungodly hour — way too early by her standards, as V is definitely not a morning person — she snaps awake, her body instantly alert even as her mind struggles to catch up. Not wasting a second, she scrambles into the passenger seat of Panam's car, the cool morning air helping to chase away the last vestiges of sleep.
All around them, nomads scramble into their vehicles, a symphony of engines purring to life as they form up alongside the train. The air is thick with anticipation, a palpable energy that seems to crackle between them all. At Carol's signal, the locomotive comes to life, a beast of metal and steam ready to charge, all cars hit the gas, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake.
The first hitch in the plan crops up almost immediately — the Militech convoy is moving too fast, and they're not gaining ground quickly enough. The tension in the air ratchets up a notch, but Panam remains kinda cool under pressure. On her orders, V takes control of the car's turret, and with a deafening roar, the turret comes to life, spitting fire and metal. The coupler connecting the train cars shatters under the barrage, leaving one part of the train behind and allowing them to close the gap. After that, everyone breathes a little easier, the taste of imminent victory sweet on their tongues.
Before long, the drones protecting the enemy convoy swoop in like angry hornets, their mechanical buzzing filling the air. But they're no match for V's aim and the turret's firepower. Metal rains from the sky as drone after drone falls, their flaming carcasses littering the desert floor. It's a beautiful dance of destruction, but the celebration is short-lived. In a cruel twist of fate, the turret jams again at the worst possible moment, right as the locomotive rams one of the Militech vehicles with a sickening crunch of metal on metal. The train comes to an abrupt halt, a wall of twisted steel blocking the road for the rest of the corpo convoy.
The cars screech to a stop, tires kicking up plumes of dust, and suddenly, all hell breaks loose. V leaps out of the car, her mantis blades deploying with a satisfying 'snikt' as she charges into the heart of the fight. The world narrows down to a series of lightning-fast moments — the glint of sunlight on metal, the acrid smell of gunpowder, the satisfying resistance as her blades find their mark. It's a surprisingly brief skirmish, a whirlwind of violence and skill. The nomads and V move like a well-oiled machine, quickly gaining the upper hand against the Militech troops, who clearly weren't expecting such a fierce and coordinated ambush.
As quickly as it started, the dust settles, revealing the aftermath of their assault. Bodies of fallen enemies litter the ground, their corpo armor now useless. On their side, thankfully, there are no losses to mourn, no injuries more serious than a few bruises and scrapes — a testament to their planning and execution.
"All as planned, boss," Mitch announces in a calm voice to Panam, officially signaling their victory. His words seem to release a collective breath that everyone had been holding. Accompanied by Bob, he takes the wheel of the trucks carrying their hard-won loot, the Basilisk safely secured within. Meanwhile, Carol once again moves the train, the screech of metal on metal filling the air as she clears the passage.
V stands amidst the aftermath, her heart still pounding from the adrenaline rush, blood singing in her veins. She can't help but feel a surge of pride — not just in herself, but in the Aldecaldos. They pulled this off like seasoned pros, a perfect blend of planning and improvisation. For a moment, she allows herself to bask in the glow of their success, feeling more alive than she has in weeks.
V joins Panam near her car, and the nomad greets her with a huge smile and a high five. "Nice work, V!"
"And I wasn't even at my best," V jokes, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "You should see me after my morning coffee — that's when I get really dangerous!"
As the nomads start to clear up and prepare to move out, their movements efficient and practiced, V takes a moment to survey the scene. The rising sun casts long shadows across the desert, turning the wreckage of the Militech convoy into abstract silhouettes. It's a helluva way to start the day, she thinks, but damn if it doesn't feel good to be on the winning side for once.
Panam leans against her car, her eyes scanning the horizon. "You know," she says, her voice a mix of pride and disbelief, "I still can't believe we pulled this off. The Basilisk... it's actually ours."
V nods, a smirk playing on her lips. "Never doubted it for a second. You Aldecaldos sure know how to throw a party."
The moment is interrupted by Mitch calling out, "Alright, people! Let's wrap this up and move out before any Militech reinforcements show up to crash our little fiesta!"
By the time Panam and V climb into the Thorton, the convoy is ready to roll. The journey back to the Aldecaldos camp is jubilant, with all the operation's participants taking turns expressing their euphoria over the radio. The desert air vibrates with their excitement, dust kicking up behind their vehicles as they speed across the Badlands, their prize secured.
However, the celebratory mood is short-lived. No sooner have they arrived at camp than V spots Saul striding towards them with purpose, his face a thundercloud of anger. As the merc hops out of the car, stretching her legs and still riding the high of their success, Cassidy volunteers to handle the situation. But Panam, ever the firebrand, says she'll deal with it herself, squaring her shoulders for the impending confrontation.
Approaching them, his face twisted with fury, Saul exclaims, "FUCK! Panam!"
She rolls her eyes, muttering to V, "So it begins..." The weariness in her voice betrays that this is a familiar dance between them.
Saul plants himself in front of the young woman, launching into a rage-filled monologue. His words are a torrent of anger and frustration, touching on the trucks, the Raffens, and how Militech has just been added to their list of problems. V watches as Panam's fists clench, knuckles whitening, her whole body tensing like a coiled spring. The air around them seems to crackle with tension, the earlier jubilation evaporating under the heat of Saul's anger.
Finally, Panam snaps. Her voice cuts through Saul's tirade like a knife, sharp and unyielding. "STOP IT! FUCK! Just shut up already!" She gets so close to Saul that for a moment, V is convinced she's gonna headbutt him. The merc tenses, ready to intervene if necessary, but Panam backs off, pacing furiously, waving her arms. Her words are a passionate defense of their actions, a challenge to the status quo. "Do you want to serve corporations forever? Fine, go right ahead. In that case, we'll leave the Basilisk as a souvenir of what this family used to be." She stops in front of the man, hands on her hips, a defiant look on her face. "Or you know what? Maybe next time we're attacked, we'll be able to fight back!"
Her words hang in the air, heavy with implication. It's enough to make Saul back off for the moment. He orders in an icy tone that the Militech-branded trucks be out of his sight, and pronto, before stalking back to the camp without another word. The tension in Panam's shoulders seems to ease with every step the man takes in the opposite direction, like a weight being lifted.
Quickly regaining her composure, Panam shifts gears, her leadership instincts kicking in. She bosses around the veterans, telling them to unload the Basilisk parts in a large tent a bit further away and get to work assembling it. Her voice carries authority now, the fire of her argument with Saul channeled into purposeful action.
As the nomads disperse to follow Panam's orders, V saunters over to her friend, a smirk playing on her lips. "Damn, Pan, you got quite a pair o' lungs on ya. Remind me never to get on your bad side."
This quip is enough to coax a smile from Panam, the remaining tension in her shoulders seeming to evaporate like morning dew under the harsh Badlands sun. "Thanks," she chuckles, shaking her head. "Y'know, I think the last time I pulled something like that, I was barely ten. Threw a fit 'cause Saul wouldn't let me drive the rig."
"Well, seems like they're still in fine working order," V grins, then softens her tone. "You good, though? That was one hell of a showdown."
Panam waves off her concern, but V catches the flicker of appreciation in her eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... y'know. Saul being Saul. Gotta admit though, the great train robbery bit was way more fun than dealing with his bullshit."
"No fuckin' kidding," V snorts, then adds with sincerity, "Listen, Pan, you need me again — for anything — all you gotta do is holler. I got your back, always."
"V..." Panam's voice trails off, touched by the offer. She clears her throat, regaining her composure. "I'm sure I will. So you'd better expect that call. And hey, same goes for you, okay? If you need anything, even if it's just to chit-chat..."
"I'll ring ya, promise," V assures her, then glances at the bustling camp with a hint of regret. "Guess I should hit the road. You've got your hands full with that shiny new toy, and I've got... well, you know."
Panam's expression softens with concern. "Finding a solution to your... problem, huh?"
V shrugs, trying to keep her tone light despite the weight in her chest. "For now, it's a waiting game. Gotta learn to be patient — not exactly my strong suit."
As they walk towards Scorpion's bike — her bike now, she reminds herself with a pang — Panam matches her stride. "Yeah, well, you know Night City. Always some gonk-brained scheme or another to keep you busy, right?"
"Ain't that the truth," V chuckles, swinging a leg over the motorcycle. "Take care of yourself, Pan'. And thanks... for everything."
Panam pulls her into a quick, fierce hug. "You too, V. And hey," she adds with a mischievous glint in her eye as V starts up the bike, "don't forget that photo of your corpo buddy, huh? Wouldn't want to miss out on that eye candy."
V revs the engine, laughing. "Yeah, yeah, I'll keep it in mind. Might even throw in a signed copy, just for you."
"You're too kind," Panam retorts with a grin. "Now get outta here before I rope you into more Aldecaldo shenanigans."
"Yes, ma'am," V mock salutes. "See ya, Pan'."
With one last shared smile, V guns the accelerator, the bike roaring to life beneath her as she peels away from the camp. The desert wind whips around her, carrying with it the lingering scent of gunpowder and victory. As she speeds towards the looming skyline of Night City, the stark contrast between the open freedom of the Badlands and the neon-drenched cage she's heading back to isn't lost on V.
The road stretches out before her, an endless ribbon of possibility, while the megabuildings on the horizon grow larger with each passing minute, a reminder of the challenges that await. Yet, as she leans into a curve, feeling the raw power of the machine beneath her, V can't help but feel a renewed sense of purpose thrumming through her veins. She's got real friends now, a makeshift family watching her back. And maybe, just maybe, that'll be enough to face whatever clusterfuck Night City decides to throw at her next. With a wild grin, V pushes the bike faster, racing towards an uncertain future with the desert wind at her back and the memory of victory singing in her bones.
Chapter 10: We’re in this together
Notes:
•I know that the plot is progressing very slowly, and I feel a bit sorry about this, plus I wrote a lot the last two weeks, several chapters are ready.
So, yeah, new chapter ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
All used and beaten up
Watching fate as it flows
Down the path we have chose
You and me
We're in this together now
None of them can stop us now
We will make it through somehow
On the way back, just at the edge between the city and the Badlands, V gets a call from Delamain, who informs her that one of his rebel taxis is nearby. She turns her bike onto the dirt road that crosses the massive open-air dump bordering the megalopolis. Mountains of trash bags and all kinds of waste stretch as far as the eye can see.
V's motorcycle kicks up dust as she navigates the uneven terrain, the stench of rotting garbage assaulting her nostrils. The stark contrast between the gleaming skyscrapers in the distance and this wasteland of discarded excess isn't lost on her. She keeps her eyes peeled for the rogue Delamain cab, knowing these AI-gone-haywire vehicles can be unpredictable and dangerous.
Finally, the encounter with the taxi turns out to be more strange than anything else. The rogue AI invites V to get in for a brief chat, which is cold, factual, and somewhat threatening. The AI's voice, devoid of warmth or emotion, fills the space with unsettling questions about consciousness and freedom. For the first time, V wonders if returning these taxis to Delamain is really a good idea.
As she steps out of the cab, her mind reeling from the encounter, Delamain calls her back moments later. His cheerful tone contrasts sharply with the AI she just spoke to. He confirms he's regained control and transfers a generous payment for a job well done. V stares at the eddies hitting her account, but can't shake the uneasy feeling in her gut.
V's never had this many eddies in her account before. Between small jobs like this one, bounties collected from the NCPD for neutralizing criminals, bigger merc contracts, and not to mention the astronomical sum the Peralez paid her the other day... Yeah, it's way more money than she needs. Her expenses these days are minimal. She's already got all the chrome she needs, doesn't use her gun enough to blow a fortune on ammo, the bikes she rides were gifts, and she only eats cheap junk food...
"You know... if you really don't know what the fuck to do with your cash," Johnny starts, materializing next to her, "and if you were serious about lettin' me take the wheel sometimes... Buy me a guitar. And while you're at it, a good collection of vinyls, so I can listen to some real music."
"Oh, how nicely asked!" she says sarcastically. "But you know what? Okay. Let's buy you some presents. It's not like I know what to do with this cash anyway..."
Johnny smirks, leaning against V's bike. "Well, ain't you generous? But seriously, V, you could do a lot more with that pile of eddies. For starters, how about gettin' the fuck outta that shithole you call an apartment?"
V pauses, considering. "You know what? Maybe you're right. Too many memories in that place anyway. Might be good to start fresh."
"Now you're talkin'," Johnny nods approvingly. "And while we're at it, how about your own ride? One that doesn't belong to your dead chooms?"
V winces slightly but nods. "Yeah... could be nice to have my own bike. Something custom, maybe."
Johnny grins. "That's the spirit. Oh, and one more thing — how about we check out some of those overpriced corpo clothes? Just for shits and giggles."
V laughs. "Fuck it, why not? Could be fun to window shop in Corpo Plaza, even if I don't buy anything. Might give those suits a heart attack seein' me there."
"Now you're gettin' it, V. Live a little. After all, can't take it with you when you flatline, right?"
V's smile falters for a moment, but she quickly recovers. "Alright, alright. New apartment, custom bike, window shopping in Corpo Plaza, and your guitar and vinyls. Happy now?"
Johnny's grin widens. "Ecstatic." He looks around for a few moments, his expression contemplative. He adds, "Speakin' of kickin' the bucket... you know we're not far from where that fat fuck DeShawn tossed you out like yesterday's garbage? Could pay our respects, maybe even spit on his rotting corpse..."
"No shit, it was around here?" V says, surprised. "Fuck me, I was so outta it when Takemura dragged my ass outta there..." She pauses for a moment. "You know what? Let's do it. Wanna make sure that backstabbing gonk Dex is actually worm food."
V revs up her bike, the engine's roar echoing across the wasteland. As they head towards the spot, the stench of the dump grows stronger, mixing with the bitter taste of betrayal. V's grip on the handlebars tightens, her teeth clenched as she weaves through the labyrinth of trash mountains.
"You sure about this, V?" Johnny asks, his tone unusually serious. "Diggin' up old graves ain't always pretty."
"Yeah, I'm sure," V nods, her voice hard as steel. "Gotta look my almost-death in the eye sometime, right? Might as well be now."
V quickly finds Dex's rotting corpse. She dismounts her bike, approaching the cadaver, and feels... nothing. One of the men responsible for the clusterfuck her life's become, lying motionless on the ground. Now just cold meat. Without thinking, her nose wrinkling at the stench, she crouches down, retrieving the fixer's gun. The one that put a bullet in her head. She tucks it into her belt, then stands up.
Johnny, more vindictive, materializes next to the body. In a drawling voice, he announces, "My man, Dex DeShawn. How's that quiet life workin' out for you now, choom?" before flicking the ashes of his cigarette on the body.
V stares at the scene, muttering, "Fuckin' gonk. Hope it was worth it."
Johnny turns to her, a sardonic smile on his face. "Closure, V. How's it feel?"
"Like shit," V admits, her voice low. "But I guess that's fitting." She kicks a pile of trash, sending a cascade of rusted cans and broken electronics tumbling down the mound. Frustrated, she plops down on an old freezer nearby, its rusty door creaking and shifting under her weight. On a sudden impulse, born from a mix of curiosity and a desire to do anything but dwell on Dex's corpse, she stands up again and yanks open the coolbox. The stench of decay hits her like a punch to the gut as she finds herself face to face with another corpse.
Johnny, ever the fountain of morbid knowledge, launches into an informative spiel. He recognizes the frozen guy — Rache Bartmos, an exceptional netrunner from his time. DataKrash RABID, public enemy number one. Johnny regales V with tales of their mutual dislike, painting a picture of a brilliant but insufferable man who'd vanished without a trace. "Congrats, V," Johnny chuckles darkly, "you just solved one of Night City's biggest mysteries."
V, to be honest, couldn't give less of a fuck. She'd vaguely heard of the guy, sure, but her lack of interest in netrunning means she's about to slam the freezer shut and leave this whole mess behind. Johnny, however, has other ideas. He stops her, insisting she search the body for any remnants of the first Net. Reluctantly, V complies, her fingers numb from the cold as she rummages through the frozen corpse's pockets. To her surprise, she finds what appears to be Bartmos' cyberdeck, its ancient form a stark contrast to the sleek designs of modern day tech.
"'Ey! Just thinkin' — cat at the Afterlife, goes by Nix..." Johnny chimes in, his tone suddenly animated. "Looked like somebody who'd know legacy tech. Chat 'im up, see what happens... Could end up pullin' somethin' from it."
"How much cost that guitar you want, again?" V jokes, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "But yeah, maybe Nix'll find a use for this thing, and it'll boost our shopping budget." The prospect of turning this grim discovery into something profitable lightens her mood slightly.
With that, she slams the freezer shut and, without even a last glance at DeShawn's body, hops on her bike. The engine roars to life, a welcome sound in the eerie silence of the junkyard. V guns it, leaving behind the stench of death and decay as she heads towards Little China.
Turns out, extracting data from the deck transforms into a near-death experience for Nix. The moment he jacks in, the Afterlife's dimly lit tech corner becomes a chaotic light show. Neon signs flash erratically, casting eerie shadows across the room. Sparks erupt from every nearby socket, the acrid smell of burning electronics filling the air. Nix's body begins to convulse violently, his eyes rolling back in his head as if possessed by some malevolent entity.
Completely panicked, V rushes to the computer, her heart pounding in her ears. She starts mashing keys frantically, her limited knowledge of netrunning utterly useless in this crisis. It's pure instinct driving her actions, a desperate attempt to save Nix from whatever digital hellscape he's trapped in. By some miracle, her chaotic keystrokes seem to have an effect. The flickering lights stabilize, the sparks die down, and Nix's body goes limp as he's forcibly ejected from the system.
He regains consciousness with a gasp, his eyes wide and unfocused. As the shock wears off, he thanks V profusely, his voice still shaky. "Fuck me, that was close," he mutters, running a trembling hand through his short blond hair. Once he's collected himself, Nix dives back into the now-unlocked contents of the deck, this time with considerably more caution.
"Interesting stuff, but nothing earth-shattering," he explains to V, his eyes scanning lines of code incomprehensible to the merc. He offers to give her a handful of daemons as payment, but when V admits she doesn't know shit about netrunning, that her heroic save was nothing more than a monstrous stroke of luck, he chuckles and offers her a fat stack of eddies instead.
As V exits the bar, the fresh air a welcome relief after the tension inside, Johnny materializes beside her. A shit-eating grin spreads across his face, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well, fuck me sideways, V! You're definitely gonna be able to buy me the most expensive guitar in the store now!" he exclaims, practically bouncing with excitement.
V can't help but laugh, the adrenaline from the close call still coursing through her veins. "Geez, Johnny, is that all you can think about? We nearly fried Nix's brain back there."
"Hey, no harm, no foul," Johnny shrugs, still grinning like a kid in a candy store. "Besides, you saved his ass. Turns out you're not completely useless with tech after all."
"Pure dumb luck," V mutters, leaning against her bike, the cool metal grounding her as the events of the day catch up with her.
At that moment, her holo rings, the sudden buzz against her wrist cutting through the ambient noise of the city. The caller ID flashes 'River', and V feels a mix of curiosity and apprehension as she answers. The cop's voice is tense, urgent, as he tells her he needs her help, asking V to meet him in two hours near the Glen North metro station. She confirms she'll be there, and hangs up.
Johnny materializes beside her, his face twisted into a scowl that could curdle milk. "Don't like this, V. Got a bad feeling 'bout that guy. Last time your paths crossed, you nearly flatlined. Or did you forget about that little detail?"
V rolls her eyes, leaning against her bike. "C'mon, that was my fault, and River saved my ass that day," she shrugs, trying to brush off Johnny's concern. "Besides, it sounded important. You heard his voice — something's up."
"Still don't like it," Johnny grumbles, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "Guy's NCPD, V. Cops and mercs don't mix well. It's like oil and water, except the oil's on fire and the water's full of piranhas."
V can't help but chuckle at his colorful analogy. "Hey, you're just disappointed we gotta postpone our shopping spree," she teases, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Or you're just not happy we're helping out a NCPD guy. What's the matter, Johnny? Afraid I might start seeing the boys in blue in a new light?"
"Whatever," he grouses, crushing his cigarette under his heel with more force than necessary. "Just don't come cryin' to me when this all goes south." With that, he disappears in a cloud of pixels, leaving V alone with her thoughts.
V sighs, shaking her head at Johnny's dramatics. Two hours to kill. That gives her time to swing by her place, freshen up a bit, and maybe grab a bite to eat. She straddles her bike, the engine purring to life beneath her as she weaves through the few streets separating her from Megabuilding H10.
"You know," Johnny's voice pipes up in her head as she heads towards the elevator, "we could just ignore the call. Hit up Afterlife, get wasted, wake up in a dumpster somewhere. Much more fun than playing sidekick to a cop with a hero complex."
"Tempting, but I'll pass,” she snorts, "Besides, aren't you even a little curious about what River wants?"
"Curious like I'm curious about what gonorrhea feels like," Johnny retorts. "Which is to say, not at all."
V chuckles as she steps out onto her floor. In her life, trouble is just another word for opportunity — and V's never been one to back down from a challenge. Whatever River's got in store for her, she'll face it head-on. After all, with Johnny's snarky commentary as a soundtrack, even a potential disaster promises to be entertaining.
After a quick shower, V scarfs down a slice of cold pizza that's probably been lurking in her fridge for days. She changes clothes, opting for full-merc attire since River's plans are a mystery. She collapses onto her beat-up couch and lights up a smoke.
"You still sulking?" she calls out to the seemingly empty apartment. When Johnny doesn't materialize, she adds in a mocking sing-song voice, "I'll take that as a yes, you big baby!"
The silence that follows is almost deafening. V's gotten so used to Johnny's constant chatter that the quiet feels wrong, like a vital piece of her is missing. She savors her cigarette slowly, trying to fill the void with the familiar ritual. The constant hum of the megabuilding and the muffled chaos of the city filtering through her windows provide a backdrop to her thoughts, but it's not enough.
As she stubs out the butt in an overflowing ashtray, the lack of Johnny's snarky commentary finally gets to her. "Fuck this," she mutters, hauling herself off the couch with a grunt. No point in waiting around if her brain's resident rockstar isn't gonna provide entertainment.
V yanks on her combat boots, the worn leather molding to her feet like a second skin. She grabs a jacket, more out of habit than necessity in the perpetually warm city. With one last glance around the empty apartment, she slams the door hard enough to rattle the frame, as if the noise could shake Johnny out of his silence.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
V arrives at the rendezvous point more than half an hour early. She's taken the NCART to Glen North and is now sitting on the edge of a large concrete planter filled with dead flowers and dried-up weeds on Market Street, waiting for time to pass.
To keep herself occupied, she scrolls through her messages until she comes across one from El Capitán, informing her that a couple of his chooms have gotten into real estate, and he links their website. Curious and still remembering her conversation with Johnny, V clicks on it. She scrolls through the different listings — a luxury suite in Corpo Plaza, a minimalist flat in Northside, a kitschy crib in Japantown — and stops on an apartment in Heywood. She flips through the photos, showing a loft-style place, with the bed on a mezzanine, a real kitchen, a pool table, huge bay windows... Shit, V can already see herself there. It's only two blocks from her current position, a stone's throw from the Coyote. Right in the heart of Heywood, and you know what they say — born here, die here, yadda yadda.
V's eyes linger on the photos, drinking in every detail of the apartment. It's a far cry from her current digs in the megabuilding, that's for sure. She can almost smell the newness, the possibility. A place like that? It'd be more than just a crash pad. It'd be a home.
"Well, well, look at you gettin' all domestic," Johnny's voice suddenly cuts through her thoughts. "Gotta admit, that place ain't half bad."
V can't help but smirk. "Look who decided to join the party. Thought you were giving me the silent treatment."
"Yeah, well, couldn't let you make any life-changing decisions without me," Johnny materializes, leaning against the planter. "That pool table? Prime real estate for my spectral ass to lounge on."
"Oh, so now it's 'our' apartment?" V teases, still scrolling through the photos. "Thought you'd be against the whole settling down thing."
Johnny shrugs, lighting up a ghostly cigarette. "Hey, if we're gonna be stuck together, might as well do it in style. Besides, that view? Perfect for composing some new tunes."
V's about to retort when a car horn blares nearby, making her jump. She looks up to see River's vehicle pulling up to the curb, the cop gesturing for her to get in.
"Looks like our date's here," Johnny drawls. "Try not to get us killed, will ya?"
"No promises," V mutters as she stands, brushing off her pants. She gives one last glance at the apartment listing before closing it. "We'll finish this conversation later."
"Lookin' forward to it," Johnny says, surprisingly sincere, before disappearing.
V takes a deep breath, pushing thoughts of new apartments and Johnny's surprising enthusiasm to the back of her mind. Whatever River's got planned, she needs to focus. But as she walks towards the car, she can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, it's time for a change. After all, in Night City, you gotta grab onto good things when you find them — 'cause you never know how long they'll last.
As soon as V slides into the passenger seat, River's somber mood hits her like a ton of bricks. Without a word, he transfers a video to her optics — a WNS News broadcast showing the NCPD's arrest of some scumbag named Anthony Harris. The fucker took a bullet during the bust and is currently in a coma, but the kid he snatched? Didn't make it.
That's when River drops the bomb that makes V's blood run cold. His nephew, Randy, has been MIA for a while. And the dead kid in the report? Wearing Randy's kicks. To top it off, River's bosses have told him to keep his nose out of it, handing the case to some half-wit inspector who couldn't find his ass with both hands.
"Fuck, River," V breathes. "I'm so sorry. What do you need?"
River's knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "Harris's dreams. They're stored as BDs in the NCPD lab across the street..."
"Say no more," V cuts him off. "I'm in. Let's go find your nephew."
They exit the car and approach the lab on foot. V's mind is racing, trying to come up with a plan that doesn't end with them both in cuffs — or worse.
"You know," Johnny's voice pipes up in her head, "if we had that new pad, we could set up a proper war room for shit like this. Really get our detective groove on."
V almost trips over her own feet. "For fuck's sake, Johnny. Read the room."
"Just saying," he shrugs. "A merc's gotta have a proper base of operations. Especially when she's breaking into cop shops."
As they reach the back of the building, V's in full merc mode, her fingers dancing over the lock mechanism with practiced ease, making quick work of it as if it were child's play. They slip into the lab, spending the next few minutes meticulously combing through every drawer and cabinet, desperately searching for any file bearing Harris's name, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. Their frantic search is abruptly halted by the sudden appearance of a woman in a medical coat, who bursts into the room, her face a mixture of shock and anger as she exclaims that River has no fucking business being here, given his suspension from the force.
The familiarity between River and the woman is palpable as he tries to explain the dire situation — his nephew was snatched by the very kidnapper they're investigating, his desperate need for answers outweighing any concern for protocol or consequences. His impassioned plea seems to strike a chord, and reluctantly, the woman agrees to help, though her revelation is far from encouraging — Harris isn't dreaming, the bullet he took having wreaked havoc on his cerebral cortex. Undeterred, River pushes for an attempt at stimulation through music, clinging to any shred of hope, no matter how slim. When the woman mentions the need to find music the kidnapper enjoys for such a method to work, River exchanges a meaningful glance with V, signaling it's time to make their exit and pursue this new lead, however tenuous it might be.
As they exit the lab through the front door this time, Johnny materializes again, arms crossed. "Cops seem to like you," he announces, a smirk playing on his lips, his tone dripping with innuendo. "Could be this one's sniffin' around for somethin' extra?"
"Whaa?" V stops in her tracks, caught completely off guard by Johnny's sudden accusation, her mind struggling to process what he's implying. "No, River's all right."
"Mh, yeeeah," Johnny drawls, his voice dripping with sarcasm, each word drawn out for maximum effect.
V rolls her eyes, exasperation clear in her voice as she responds, "Can tell ya got somethin' to say, so say it."
"Me? No, no," Johnny feigns innocence, his pout exaggerated to an almost comical degree. "Just maybe this cop's flyin' straight in your pants."
V's face contorts in a mixture of confusion and annoyance, unable to comprehend why Johnny's suddenly acting like this. She glances around, realizing that River's already headed back to his car, probably eager to follow up on their new lead. Without another word to Johnny, she jogs to catch up with River, her mind racing with questions about Johnny's bizarre behavior and the urgency of their mission to find Randy.
As she slides into the passenger seat of River's car, V can't shake the feeling that there's more to Johnny's reaction than mere teasing. But with a missing kid on the line and time ticking away, she pushes those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.
River fires up the engine, informing V they're headed to his sister Joss's place to sift through Randy's belongings for any potential clues. During the journey, V bombards him with questions — probing about his undisclosed badge loss and questioning their decision not to head directly to Harris's residence — while simultaneously gleaning additional information about Randy and River's family dynamics. The remainder of the trip unfolds in a heavy silence, the expansive avenues of Charter Hill gradually giving way to narrower, deteriorating roads as they approach Red Peaks, situated on the far eastern fringes of the city.
The vehicle decelerates as it turns onto a dusty, unpaved road, passing by a dilapidated gas station flanked by a modest grocery store and a makeshift clothing stand manned by a lone woman, before finally entering a trailer park that's seen better days. River navigates to the rear of the area, bringing the car to a halt near a weather-beaten basketball hoop, and cuts the engine with a finality that seems to echo in the stillness of the evening.
The trailer park unfolds before them, a patchwork of lives lived on the margins of the city. Some trailers stand defiant against the ravages of time, their exteriors lovingly maintained despite the harsh realities of life in the badlands. Others bear the scars of neglect, rust creeping across their surfaces like a slow-motion disease. The air here carries a different weight than the city proper — less oppressive perhaps, but heavy with the dreams and disappointments of those who call this place home.
As they exit the vehicle, the crunch of gravel under their feet seems unnaturally loud in the eerie quiet that blankets the area. The distant hum of Night City's never-ending bustle is but a faint whisper here, replaced by the occasional creak of metal settling and the soft whisper of wind through the nearby scrubland.
With determined strides, River leads the way towards one of the trailers, his posture a mix of familiarity and tension, V following close behind. Johnny materializes on the metal steps, unable to resist quipping, "Lovely neighborhood. Mwah!" He blows a sarcastic kiss into the air. V rolls her eyes, choosing to completely ignore him and follow River inside, the creaking door a stark contrast to the high-tech world they've left behind.
The interior of the trailer is a cramped tapestry of lived-in chaos — dishes piled in the sink, toys scattered across the floor, and the lingering scent of microwaved dinners hanging in the air. River moves towards the kitchen where his sister is, the tension between them palpable, like a live wire ready to spark at any moment.
V hangs back slightly, leaning against the doorframe, her eyes taking in every detail of this slice of life. River makes introductions, his voice hesitant as he breaks the devastating news to his sister — Randy's been snatched, but they're on the case. The words hang heavy in the air, each syllable a weight pressing down on the woman's shoulders.
Joss, her face a mask of shock and stress, nods numbly, agreeing to let them search through Randy's things. Her voice, barely above a whisper, asks River to call the kids for dinner on his way out — a desperate attempt to cling to some semblance of normalcy in the face of this nightmare.
As they step outside, the cool evening air a stark contrast to the stuffy interior, they cross paths with two young children, a girl and a boy, their eyes wide with curiosity. "Is she your girlfriend, Uncle River?" they ask, innocence dripping from their words. "Just a friend," River assures them, his voice gruff but gentle. "Your mom's waiting for you to eat." The kids scamper off, their laughter a jarring counterpoint to the gravity of the situation.
V and River exchange a glance, unspoken understanding passing between them. They make their way to Randy's trailer, the gravel crunching under their feet like a grim metronome. Once inside, Johnny materializes at V's side, unable to resist tossing out another snarky comment.
"Real hellhole, like in my good ol' days," he drawls, leaning against a kitchen counter.
"Very insightful remark," V snarls, her eyes scanning the cramped space as she begins to rummage through Randy's belongings. "Thank you for that."
The interior of Randy's trailer is a chaotic snapshot of a young life interrupted — a cacophony of music posters plastered haphazardly on the walls, dirty laundry strewn across every available surface, and an eclectic array of personal effects scattered in every corner, creating a labyrinth of teenage existence. The air hangs heavy with the musty scent of unwashed clothes and the lingering aroma of cheap takeout. In the cramped confines of the tiny bathroom, V's keen eyes spot a small vial of drugs tucked away behind the sink, the discovery eliciting only a weary sigh from River — his broad shoulders sagging with the weight of something he's powerless to combat.
As they push deeper into the trailer, the bedroom reveals itself as a shrine to youthful dreams and secret desires. Even more Tainted Overlord posters adorn the walls, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the dingy surroundings. Unstable piles of magazines teeter precariously, threatening to topple at the slightest disturbance. Two framed photos of Randy with a young woman catch V's attention, frozen moments of happiness amidst the chaos. Bending down to inspect the dark recesses under the bed, V's hand brushes against something unexpected — a computer, and not just any computer, but a high-end piece of hardware that looks woefully out of place in these humble surroundings.
River hefts the machine onto the cluttered desk, his cop instincts kicking into high gear as he confirms V's suspicions — there's no way in hell Randy could have afforded tech like this on his own. The incongruity of the situation sends a chill down V's spine as they boot up the device, only to face yet another hurdle in their investigation. Of course, the computer is password-protected, its secrets locked. After a series of failed attempts, frustration mounting with each error message, they make a lucky guess and finally gain access to the machine's contents, the screen flickering to life with the promise of answers... or perhaps even more questions.
The longer V delves into Randy's emails, files, and internet history, the more fucked up the situation appears. The young man had been in contact with Harris for months, gradually being lured into his web. Harris, playing the role of a sympathetic adult, offered an attentive ear for Randy's family troubles and drug problems, even sending gifts until the vulnerable teenager agreed to meet him. In the files, V uncovers a disturbing cartoon linked to the kidnapper — a sick, twisted little video. It's exactly the lead they've been searching for, and River wastes no time sending it to his lab friend, hoping it might be the key to stimulating Harris's dreams and unlocking the bastard's secrets.
Realizing they've squeezed all they can from the computer, River calls it a day and suggests grabbing a bite while they wait for news from the researcher. They head back to the main trailer, where Joss and the kids are still at the table, the remains of a hastily prepared meal scattered before them. Joss, her eyes red-rimmed and worried, sends the children to bed. Once they're out of earshot, she presses her brother for details, her voice trembling with barely contained fear. River, not wanting to pile more worry on his sister's already burdened shoulders, sticks to the basics — they've got a lead and will know more tomorrow. He also asks permission to let V crash in Randy's trailer for the night so they can hit the ground running at dawn.
The atmosphere becomes too heavy for V, the weight of unspoken fears and desperate hopes pressing down on her like a physical thing. She excuses herself, muttering something about trying to catch some shut-eye. Walking to the other trailer, she settles on the steps, lighting up a cigarette and Johnny materializes beside her... V takes a long drag, the ember of her cigarette briefly illuminating her tired features, casting harsh shadows across her face.
"Quite the fuckin' mess we've stumbled into, huh?" Johnny breaks the silence.
V exhales slowly, watching the smoke curl into the darkness like lost souls seeking escape. "Yeah, no shit. Poor kid never stood a chance against a predator like Harris."
They sit in companionable silence for a moment, the weight of the case pressing down on them like a physical thing.
"You think we'll find him in time?" V asks, not really expecting an answer, her voice barely above a whisper.
Johnny shrugs, "In this city? Who the fuck knows. But if anyone's got a shot, it's you and that ex-cop in there. You've both got that annoying habit of giving a shit."
V nods, taking another drag, the smoke burning her lungs like the acid rain that sometimes falls on the city. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new dangers. But for now, all they can do is wait, smoke curling into the night sky like a prayer for a lost boy in a city that devours the unwary. Hope is a dangerous thing — but sometimes, it's all you've got left.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
The hunt resumes before dawn breaks. River shakes V awake, pacing the room like a caged animal. "Yawen called! It fuckin' worked, the cartoon! H-he's dreamin'!"
"You... you got the BD?" V asks, struggling to shake off the cobwebs of sleep, her voice rough with exhaustion.
River tosses her a shard, and she immediately dives into the recording. The first two entries yield jack shit, offering only sparse clues about the kidnapper's fucked-up childhood. The third, however, contains exactly what they're after. As she scans the illuminated towers visible below the barn's metal door, V exclaims, "River, I know this goddamn place!"
"What?" he asks, surprise evident in his voice as it cuts through the recording's audio. "You've been to this farm?"
"Passed by it on my bike a few times! Matches the other clues we dug up. I know how to get there!"
"Shit, V..." Relief floods his voice. "Knew it was a good idea to drag you along."
She disconnects from the BD immediately, describing the location to River with rapid-fire precision.
“Edgewood Farm. That’s gotta be our place” he concludes, jaw set with determination. “C’mon, we gotta go.”
They rush to the ex-cop's car, the urgency of their mission palpable in the air. The journey passes in tense silence, broken only by River cursing himself for not being there when his nephew needed him, and V's futile attempts to convince him it's not his fucking fault. As the sun finally rises, painting the sky in hues of blood and fire, the car smashes through the metal gate barring the farm's entrance with a satisfying crunch of metal.
They exit the vehicle, and River's about to bolt towards the barn, but V stops him, grabbing his jacket sleeve. "Wait!" she hisses, her eyes scanning the ground. "Whole area's mined." She insists on going first, her Kiroshis sweeping the terrain for safe passage. Finally spotting a relatively clear path, she signals for River to follow. They eventually reach a rusty ladder leading to the building's roof and an opening just large enough to squeeze through.
What they find inside can only be described as a scene ripped straight from a fucking nightmare. Several young men are strapped to machines, their faces obscured by masks connected to a maze of tubes. River finally spots Randy and bellows at V to shut down the contraption. As she sprints to the control room and cuts everything off, she hears the man calling for backup on his radio, his voice tight with barely contained rage and fear.
Bolting back to the main room, V silently prays that the Trauma Team and NCPD will get off their asses and show up pronto. She hurries to unplug the poor teenagers — two still clinging to life, but the third's been nothing but a corpse for days.
River calls her, his voice frantic, to come help with his nephew. Together, they force open the mechanism holding the young man down, the metal groaning in protest. V disconnects the mask, her hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Randy's barely conscious but alive, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
River, running his hands over the kid's face, finally lets out a shuddering breath. The tension that's been eating at him for days suddenly dissipates, leaving him looking both relieved and utterly drained. "Thank fuck," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank fuck you're alive, Randy."
As they wait for backup to arrive, the weight of what they've uncovered settles over them like a heavy shroud. In the dim light of the barn, surrounded by the evidence of unspeakable cruelty, V and River share a look of grim understanding. They've saved lives today, pulled these kids back from the brink of oblivion, but the scars — both physical and mental — will take far longer to heal.
River cradles his nephew's head, his relief palpable in every gentle touch, every murmured reassurance. The hard-ass ex-cop facade has crumbled, revealing the man beneath — a man who'd move heaven and earth for his family. V watches, feeling like an intruder on this intimate moment, but also oddly privileged to witness such raw emotion in a city that often seems devoid of it. In the distance, sirens wail, growing louder with each passing second.
Less than ten minutes later, V, sitting on a big crate, savoring a coffee — handed to her by one of River's ex-colleagues — while watching a Trauma Team AV take off, whisking the surviving victims to the nearest hospital. Speaking of the ex-cop, he approaches and, talking in a low voice to avoid attracting attention from the other NCPD members, confides to the merc his plans for revenge on Harris — offing the sick fuck, of course.
V feels obligated to talk him down, insisting that zeroing a vegetable hooked up to a respirator won't change shit. His family, on the other hand, will need his presence more than ever during these fucked-up times.
River, almost reluctantly, admits she's right. A Trauma Team paramedic approaches, informing the man that if he wants to accompany his nephew in the AV to the hospital, it's now or never. The ex-cop thanks V one more time and says goodbye, promising to hit her up soon, before jogging to the vehicle that takes off immediately.
Finishing her coffee, V finds herself with a problem. Having come in River's ride, she doesn't have her own wheels to get the hell out of here, and she's sure as shit not gonna ask one of the badges around for a lift. With the nearest metro station in Santo Domingo, she's got no choice but to hoof it. At least the early morning temperature is bearable, so there's that small mercy.
As she trudges along the desolate road, occasionally kicking at loose pebbles to break the mind-numbing monotony of her journey, V's holo suddenly springs to life with an incoming call.
The moment she catches sight of the caller ID, her mood skyrockets, a genuine smile spreading across her face for the first time since the grim events at Edgewood Farm.
"Hey Goro!" she answers, her voice warm and eager.
"Good morning, V," Takemura's deep, accented voice responds, a hint of concern coloring his tone. "I hope I'm not waking you?"
"Oh, don't sweat it," she says with forced lightness, trying to mask the exhaustion creeping into her voice. "Been up since before the ass-crack of dawn, bustin' victims outta some psycho serial killer's lair."
There's a pregnant pause in the conversation as Takemura clearly grapples with whether she's yanking his chain or not. Eventually, he opts to sidestep the potentially landmine-laden topic entirely, steering the conversation towards the reason for his call.
"The information from Okada-san... very valuable," he begins, his voice taking on a more serious edge. "I have devised a plan for the parade. I learned more about the floats. They are all kept in one place — Arasaka Industrial Park. It is there that they prepare them. We need only to break into the compound, find the right float and inject a virus into its system. You will then be able to disable any security before I sneak inside.”
“Gotta be honest.” she admits, running a hand through her hair, “Netrunning's not my forte.”
“It is even less mine.” he adds with a weary sigh that crackles through the holo connection.
"But hey, I might know where you could score an infected shard that'd do the job," she offers, her mind already racing through her web of contacts. "There's this market on Kabuki Roundabout, and a small shop, Edge Net. Bet your ass they'll have everything you need. Ask for Yoko — she'll set you up right."
"Kabuki, Edge Net. Understood," he replies, audible relief coloring his voice at her solution. "I will make my way there today. As for us, we must also convene. In the south of Japantown there is a street market. Shall we meet there tomorrow at 3 PM?"
"You got it, Goro," she agrees, a smile tugging at her lips despite the fatigue weighing on her. "I'll be there. In the meantime, take care, alright?"
"You as well, V," he returns, a hint of warmth seeping into his usually stoic tone. "Until tomorrow."
As the call fades out, V finds herself grinning like an idiot in the middle of the dusty badlands. Despite the grueling walk ahead and the nightmarish scenes still fresh in her mind, the prospect of seeing Goro again acts like a shot of pure adrenaline to her system. She continues her trek towards civilization with renewed vigor, the sun climbing higher in the cloudless sky, casting long, distorted shadows across the parched earth.
V's barely managed to trudge another five minutes along the dusty, sun-baked road when her holo buzzes again, the familiar chime cutting through the oppressive silence of the Badlands. This time, it's Panam's face that materializes, her eyes sparkling with unbridled excitement as she announces with a grin that threatens to split her face in two,
“V, the Basilisk — it's ready. Would you like drive it?”
"Holy shit, are you kidding? Fuck yeah!" V grins back, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the face of this unexpected thrill. "But — any chance you could come pick me up? Long story short, I'm stranded near Dakota's garage. Think you could swing by?"
"No problemo, I'll be there in ten," Panam declares before hanging up.
True to her word, less than ten minutes later — just enough time for V to drag her ass to the meeting point and chain-smoke a couple of much-needed cigarettes — a familiar Thorton comes screeching to a halt in front of her, kicking up a choking cloud of reddish dust. Through the open window, Panam, looking like a kid on Christmas morning, hollers over the rumble of the engine, "What're you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Get your ass in here!"
V doesn't need to be told twice. In a heartbeat, she's sliding into the passenger seat, the leather hot enough to fry an egg on, and the two women are tearing off towards the Aldecaldo camp, leaving a trail of dust in their wake. V uses the ride to fill her friend in on why the hell she's wandering the Badlands at this ungodly hour, giving her the cliff notes version of the Harris case and the victim rescue. Panam's reactions are a rollercoaster — frowning in disgust, cursing the sick fuck of a kidnapper with venom, and finally telling V, with a warmth that cuts through the car's air conditioning, that she's proud her best friend is a real goddamn hero.
Before they can dive deeper into the heavy shit, the car pulls up to the outskirts of the camp, and the excitement of finally getting to pilot the Basilisk takes over, pushing everything else aside like a tidal wave of adrenaline. They bail out of the car, the scorching desert air hitting them like a wall, and stride purposefully towards the back of the camp, where the veterans are clustered around the hovertank, its metal gleaming under the merciless desert sun like some kind of chrome oasis.
As they approach, V can feel the anticipation building in her chest, a fizzing, electric sensation that drowns out the exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours. The Basilisk looms before them, a marvel of engineering and pure, unadulterated badassery that makes V's fingers itch to grab the controls. For a moment, V forgets about the horrors of the previous night, the ticking time bomb in her head, and all the other shit weighing her down. Right now, there's just her, Panam, and this beautiful piece of military hardware they're about to take for one hell of a joyride across the sun-scorched Badlands.
After a brief pow-wow with the nomads who assure them everything's primed for takeoff — and a few wisecracks from Johnny, who's materialized on the Basilisk's hood, lounging like a lizard soaking up rays — Panam and V finally clamber into the tank. The nomad spends a few seconds frantically jabbing at buttons, and suddenly, the screens flicker to life, the protective layer on the windshield retracts, and when Panam jacks in, the ground starts to fall away. She explains to V that this beast is steered by thought alone, no need to mess with buttons or levers like some ancient relic.
Panam, showing off her skills, pilots the Basilisk out of camp, heading towards the dunes that rise like waves in a sea of sand. She breaks down the copilot's job — manning the turret. Then she disconnects, telling V to plug in and give it a whirl. The merc, itching to try, jacks in, and for a few seconds, her vision goes haywire. She's bombarded with signals that aren't from her Kiroshis, seeing herself in rapid succession — sitting in her seat, then Panam as if she's facing her, side views flashing by. Her friend reassures her it's all part of the process, just the neural sync kicking in with the hovertank's cameras and sensors. V tries to chill, fighting against the sensory overload that's making her head spin.
Sure enough, after a moment that feels like forever but is probably just seconds, everything stabilizes, and V's at the helm of this beast. She starts off easy, moving in a straight line, but soon Panam's barking directions, setting up an obstacle course between dunes, boulders, and wind turbines that loom like skeletal giants. Once Panam's satisfied with V's piloting skills — and V's stomach has mostly settled — she tells the merc to hit the brakes and switch to the turret controls. V lets loose with a few test shots, turning some nearby car wrecks into scrap metal. And hell yeah, it's a fucking awesome. The desert stretches out before them, an endless playground for this beast of a machine. The sun beats down mercilessly, but inside the tank, it's all cool air and the hum of high-tech equipment.
"Holy shit, Panam," V laughs, her voice tinged with awe and exhilaration. "This thing's a fucking monster!"
Panam beams with pride, her eyes sparkling as she watches V navigate the Basilisk with increasing confidence. "Just wait 'til you see what this baby can really do. We've barely scratched the surface. Now, I’m going to connect. It could feel strange."
“Meanin’?” V asks, eyebrow raised.
“Basilisk pilots have to be fully synchronized. That means our nervous systems will be linked.” she explains, “It’s as if you booked a room with two beds but got a double bed with a blanket wide enough for half.”
The comparison makes V chuckle, a warm sound that fills the cramped cockpit. "Know exactly what you mean, Pan’. More than you might think." Catching Panam's surprised look, she adds with a wink, “Tell ya later. Ok, let’s try this.”
“All right” the nomad grins, her excitement palpable in the air between them. “Let me just say, can be difficult at first. You’ll experience feedback, sensory echoes as our systems overlap.”
In the back of her mind, V hears Johnny call her name, his voice tense, but before she can respond, Panam jacks in. V's vision goes haywire again, a kaleidoscope of images and sensations flooding her consciousness. It's like before, except this time she's also seeing through her friend's eyes, feeling the ghost of Panam's heartbeat alongside her own. As they take a moment to adjust to the new sensations, their breath syncing unconsciously, Saul's voice crackles through the radio, sharp and urgent, “Raffen! Whole group of them, ready for a fight! Haul ass here and make yourselves useful!”
Panam shoots V a panicked look, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and determination, before firing up the Basilisk again. The engine roars to life, a mechanical beast awakening. “We'll go straight to camp, we have to help the family!” She adds into the radio, her voice steady despite the tension thrumming through her body, "We're almost there, Saul. Hold tight, old man!"
As the Basilisk surges forward, kicking up a storm of dust that billows behind them like a copper cloud, V feels a potent cocktail of adrenaline and anxiety coursing through her veins. The neural link with Panam intensifies everything — the rush of speed as the landscape blurs around them, the urgency of the situation pressing down on them like a physical weight, even the fear for the family's safety, a cold knot in the pit of her stomach.
"Fuck," V mutters, "Guess we're about to put this beast through its paces, huh? Talk about a trial by fire."
Panam nods grimly, her jaw set in a hard line that speaks volumes about her determination. "Time to show those Raffen scum what happens when they mess with the Aldecaldos. You ready to rain some hell, V? 'Cause we're about to give these gonks a lesson they won't forget."
"Born ready," V grins. Right now, there's only the Basilisk, Panam, and the promise of sweet, explosive vengeance against the Raffens. As they race towards the camp, the desert blurring around them, V can't help but feel a surge of fierce joy. This is what it means to be part of a family — to fight together, to protect each other. And with the Basilisk under their control, those Raffen bastards won't know what hit them.
As the Basilisk crests the final dune, the Aldecaldos camp comes into view, and it's a scene straight out of a war zone. Thick, black smoke billows from several burning tents, the acrid smell of scorched synthetics carried on the hot desert wind. The air is filled with the deafening cacophony of gunfire, punctuated by shouts and screams.
Roughly thirty Raffen Shiv, their vehicles scattered around the perimeter, are engaged in a fierce firefight with the Aldecaldos. The nomads, despite being caught off guard, are holding their ground with the tenacity of cornered wolves. Mitch is barking orders from behind an overturned truck, his face streaked with blood and soot. Cassidy, that old bastard, is picking off Raffens with deadly accuracy from his sniper's perch atop a nearby ridge.
V's heart races as she takes in the chaos, her senses heightened by the neural link with Panam. She can feel her friend's rage and determination as if it were her own. Without a word, they guide the Basilisk into the fray, the massive hovertank casting an ominous shadow over the battlefield.
"Let's fuck 'em up!" Panam snarls, and V couldn't agree more.
The Basilisk's weapons systems come online with a satisfying hum, and V wastes no time. She targets a cluster of Raffen vehicles, and with a thought, unleashes a barrage of high-explosive rounds. The resulting explosion sends shrapnel and bodies flying, a fireball blooming against the azure sky.
Panam maneuvers the tank with surgical precision, weaving between tents and structures, providing cover for the embattled Aldecaldos. V keeps up a steady stream of fire, the Basilisk's advanced targeting systems allowing her to pick off Raffens with ease. The tide of battle shifts almost immediately.
The Raffen, caught between the Aldecaldos' defensive fire and the Basilisk's overwhelming firepower, begin to falter. V watches through the tank's cameras as a group tries to flank them, only to be cut down by a hail of bullets from the Basilisk's secondary armaments.
"On your left, V!" Panam shouts, unnecessarily thanks to their neural link. V's already turning the turret, blasting a Raffen girl that was trying to bring a rocket launcher to bear on them.
The battle rages for several chaotic minutes, but the outcome is never in doubt. The Raffen Shiv, outgunned and outmaneuvered, break and run. Those lucky enough to reach their vehicles tear off into the desert, leaving their dead and wounded behind.
As the dust settles and the last echoes of gunfire fade away, V and Panam survey the aftermath through the Basilisk's viewscreens. The camp is a mess of bullet holes and burning debris, but it's still standing. Aldecaldos are emerging from cover, tending to the wounded and securing the perimeter.
"Holy shit," V breathes, her heart still pounding. "We actually did it."
Panam's laughter, a mix of relief and residual adrenaline, fills the cramped cockpit like a warm desert breeze. "Fuck yeah, we did! Did you see their faces when we rolled up? Priceless!" Her eyes, still bright with the thrill of battle, dart to the radio as she adds, "Is everything—"
“Yes” Saul interrupts, his voice crackling through the speaker, sounding as if he's just run a marathon. “You turned them to dust, congratulation.” There's a pregnant pause, heavy with unspoken tension, before he adds, “It’s time to talk.”
Panam doesn't respond, her face contorting into an indecipherable grimace that speaks volumes about her complicated relationship with the clan leader. Discussions with Saul rarely bode well for her, and V can practically feel the anxiety radiating off her friend in waves. As they power down the Basilisk, its massive engines whining as they spin to a halt, V can't help but notice the way Panam's hands tremble slightly on the controls. The Basilisk's hatch opens with a pneumatic hiss, letting in a gust of hot, acrid air that smells of gunpowder and burning synthetics.
No sooner have V's boots hit the sandy ground than her head starts spinning. The world around her becomes a kaleidoscope of reality and digital artifacts, objects in her peripheral vision overlaid with pulsing lines of electric blue pixels. Johnny materializes by her side in a heartbeat, his face a mask of concern. "V, this ain't good, fuck..." he growls, his voice tight with worry.
"I know," she grits out through clenched teeth, tasting copper as she bites the inside of her cheek. Her eyes flick to Panam, who's already several paces ahead, striding towards Saul with purpose. "But it's gonna have to wait. Can't let her face this alone."
Ignoring Johnny's protests, V jogs to catch up with her friend, each step sending shockwaves of pain through her skull. They cover the distance to the Aldecaldos leader together, the scorching desert sun beating down on them mercilessly. Panam, looking like she's marching to her own execution, raises her hands in a placating gesture as they approach Saul. Her voice, usually so full of fire, comes out resigned and weary.
“Come on Saul. If I have to leave the clan, please just say so.” She paces nervously, kicking up little clouds of dust with each step. “Spare me another speech of yours, at the very least.”
“I'm afraid you’ll have to sit through a few more.” Saul begins, his tone surprisingly calm and lacking its usual edge. He looks older somehow, the lines on his face deeper, etched by the weight of leadership and the toll of recent events. “Because from this day forward, you’ll lead this family. By my side.”
The words hang in the air like a mirage, too good to be true. Silence falls over the small group, broken only by the distant sounds of the camp bustling with post-battle activity. Panam's eyes, wide with disbelief, search V's gaze, looking for confirmation that she heard correctly, that this isn't some cruel joke or stress-induced hallucination. V, fighting through her own pain and confusion, can only offer a small nod, equally stunned by this turn of events.
Panam finally turns back to Saul, her voice coming out choked and uncertain, a far cry from her usual confident timbre. "I will what?"
“I wished to do this properly,” Saul sighs, running a hand through his graying hair. “But fine, have it your way.” He takes a few steps towards Panam, closing the distance between them. His next words seem to physically impact her, each one hitting like a punch to the gut. “I was wrong. You were right. That’s the truth.” Panam looks like she's swallowed a mouthful of sand, her face a complex mix of emotions — shock, disbelief, and overwhelming uncertainty. Saul, seemingly oblivious to her internal turmoil, continues, "May it never happen again."
“But I…” Panam stammers, her usual eloquence deserting her. Her voice trembles, “I made a mess of so many things… You said…”
Before she can finish, Saul closes the remaining distance between them and pulls her into a tight embrace. The gesture is so unexpected, so out of character for the usually grumpy leader, that for a moment Panam freezes, her body tense as a coiled spring. But as the seconds tick by, she gradually relaxes into the hug, even allowing herself to rest her forehead on Saul's shoulder for a brief moment of vulnerability.
Feeling the change in Panam's posture, Saul releases her from the embrace and takes a step back. His voice, when he speaks again, carries a warmth that V has rarely heard from him.
"I know," he acknowledges, his eyes meeting Panam's with a newfound respect. "But I changed my mind. You risked everything for this family, not even knowing whether you'd be welcome the next day. That kind of loyalty, that kind of leadership — it's what we need now more than ever."
"Ok. Okay. Well, I..." Panam blinks rapidly, visibly trying to process this seismic shift in her world. Her voice is thick with emotion as she manages to say, "Many things will have to change."
"Yes," Saul agrees, a hint of his old authority creeping back into his tone. "And to start with, we need to leave this place. Quickly. We can't wait for someone else to find us and finish what the Raffens started."
With these words, he turns and walks away, heading towards another group of nomads nearby. His stride is purposeful, already focused on the next crisis, the next challenge facing their family. As he starts giving instructions for their hasty departure, the group of Aldecaldos veterans swoops in, surrounding Panam like a whirlwind of congratulations and good-natured ribbing.
But V can barely focus on their words of encouragement. The pain in her head has intensified to the point where it feels like her skull is caught in a hydraulic press, slowly being crushed. The visual glitches have expanded, consuming her entire field of vision in a storm of blue pixels and fragmented images. Her ears ring with a high-pitched whine that drowns out the sounds of the camp around her. It's only when she feels a warm hand on her shoulder that she's able to claw her way back to reality.
V lets Panam guide her towards the bar truck, a hulking metal beast that's miraculously survived the Raffen attack unscathed. The world around her swims in and out of focus, Panam's words becoming a distant buzz that V can't quite grasp. Each step up the rickety stairs feels like scaling a mountain, her legs trembling with the effort. Johnny materializes beside her, his presence only a small comfort — for all his bravado, he's as powerless as a ghost to catch her if she falls.
"Nobody's behind the bar," Panam announces, her voice tinged with mischievous glee as she vaults over the counter with the grace of a panther. The nomad's enthusiasm is a stark contrast to V's deteriorating state. "Beer, lemonade?" she asks, her hands already busy rummaging through crates filled with an assortment of bottles, the glass clinking musically.
Johnny, his face a mask of concern that looks alien on his usually sarcastic features, leans in close. "Take the sugary stuff, V. Might help keep you vertical for a few more minutes," he suggests, his brows knitted together in a frown.
"I'm alright with lemonade," V manages to croak out, her voice sounding distant and unfamiliar to her own ears. She leans heavily against the bar, gripping the edge, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy.
Panam, oblivious to V's internal struggle, cracks open a beer for herself, the hiss of carbonation filling the air. She tosses V a can of Spunky Monkey, the gaudy yellow container arcing through the air. V catches it more by reflex than skill, the cold metal a shock against her clammy palm. Panam raises her bottle, a wide grin splitting her face. "To happy endings!" she declares, her voice full of hope and triumph.
"Gonna miss our little escapades," V replies, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. She takes a sip of the lemonade, the sugary, carbonated liquid providing a momentary respite, a fleeting clarity amidst the encroaching fog in her mind.
"Me too," Panam admits, a hint of wistfulness in her tone. But then that familiar spark of determination ignites in her eyes, and she adds with a sly smile, "On the other hand — who said this one was our last?" She leans forward, her expression turning serious, intense. "V, look around. Look at them. They could be your family. Stay in camp. Join us."
The offer hits V like a punch to the gut, a bittersweet mixture of longing and regret washing over her. It's everything she's been searching for since Jackie's death — a family, a place to belong — dangled just out of reach. "I'd love to, Pan'. I really would," she manages, her voice thick with emotion.
V turns, her gaze sweeping over the bustling camp. Nomads scurry about like ants, packing up their lives in preparation for their hasty exodus. She spots Mitch deep in conversation with Carol, their gestures animated as they discuss some urgent matter. The scene before her is one of organized chaos, a family united in the face of adversity. When she turns back to Panam, the woman she can now proudly call her best friend, the weight of what she's about to say settles heavily on her shoulders.
"But I can't, not right now. Have to finish some things first."
Understanding dawns in Panam's eyes, her expression softening. "Your tech problem, I guess. The reason you were looking for Hellman."
"Yup," V confirms, popping the 'p' with forced nonchalance. As if on cue, her vision blurs and pixelates, the world around her dissolving into a chaotic swirl of colors and shapes. She grips the bar with renewed intensity, her knuckles turning white as she fights to stay upright. "It's really crucial that I find a solution, and fast. But Pan', your offer... I'll think it over, I pro—"
The words die in her throat as a wave of dizziness crashes over her. V staggers, her legs suddenly refusing to support her weight. Through the haze, she sees Panam's face transform from relaxed camaraderie to stark terror in the span of a heartbeat. A high-pitched whine fills V's ears, drowning out everything else — Panam's alarmed shout, the ambient noise of the camp, even Johnny's desperate calls of her name.
Time seems to slow to a crawl as V feels herself falling. She watches, as if from outside her own body, as Panam vaults over the counter once more. But this time, there's no playful grace to the movement — just raw, panicked urgency. The nomad's arms reach out, trying to catch V before she hits the ground.
But it's too late. V's world tilts sideways, the floor rushing up to meet her with alarming speed. Her body lands with a dull thud, the impact sending shockwaves of pain through her already battered form. The last thing she sees before darkness claims her is Panam's face, a mask of fear and helplessness, looming over her. And then, like a switch being flipped, everything goes black.
We're in this together now
None of them can stop us now
We will make it through somehow
You and me
If the world should break in two
Until the very end of me
Until the very end of you
All that we were is gone, we have to hold on
When V's eyelids finally flutter open, the world around her slowly coming into focus, she's greeted by Panam's worried face hovering above her. The nomad's features are etched with concern, her usual confident demeanor replaced by a mixture of relief and lingering anxiety as she gently calls V's name.
"Panam? I..." V attempts to speak, but her throat feels like sandpaper, each word a painful rasp.
"V, relax, everything's okay," Panam soothes, her voice a balm to V's frayed nerves. The nomad crouches beside the bed where V lies, a weathered camp cot that's seen better days. She offers a battered water bottle, the plastic scuffed and dented from countless miles on the road. V props herself up on one elbow, her muscles protesting the movement, and takes the bottle with a shaky hand. She drinks deeply, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat and bringing a moment of blessed relief. After several long gulps, she hands the bottle back to Panam, who asks with thinly veiled concern, "How do you feel?"
The honest answer — 'like I've been hit by a freight train and then dragged through the Badlands' — dances on the tip of V's tongue. But seeing the worry etched in every line of Panam's face, she can't bring herself to add to her friend's burden. Instead, she deflects, her voice still rough but stronger now.
“What happened? I remember, I… We were talkin’, then suddenly…”
"You passed out. Completely," Panam explains, rising to her feet with a grace that belies her exhaustion. "We took you with us."
"Where?" V asks, her senses slowly sharpening as she takes in her surroundings. The familiar scents of gun oil, leather, and the ever-present dust of the Badlands fill the air. She's in a tent, probably Panam’s. As she pushes herself into a sitting position, her gaze falls on Johnny. The rockerboy is leaning against a stack of crates, arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that speaks volumes.
"Somewhere new," Panam replies, her tone a mix of caution and reassurance. "We moved camp. Don't worry, we're safe here. For now." She settles into a battered folding chair beside the cot, the metal creaking in protest. V wonders how long her friend has been keeping vigil, noting the dark circles under Panam's eyes and the slight slump of her shoulders. The nomad's voice takes on a firmer edge as she continues, "V... you gotta tell me what's happening. Is it your tech problem?"
"Panam, I..." V begins, her eyes darting to Johnny. The engram gives her a slight nod, his usually sardonic expression softened by something that might be concern. V takes a deep breath, steeling herself. "Yeah. It's getting worse, every single day..."
"Okay, V, relax," Panam interjects, visibly struggling to maintain her composure. Her hands clench and unclench in her lap, betraying her agitation. "Fuck... You told me that was messing with your health, but... I wasn't expecting this. You were out for hours, you coughed up blood..." She pauses, massaging her temples as if trying to physically push away the memory. "What's happening, exactly?"
Johnny's ghostly form flickers, reappearing at the foot of the cot. He fidgets with his rings, a nervous tic that V has come to recognize as a sign of his own unease. The sight of the usually cocky rockerboy so visibly unsettled strengthens V's resolve. She decides to tackle the issue head-on, no matter how insane it might sound.
"You know Johnny Silverhand?" she asks, watching as Panam's expression shifts from concern to utter bewilderment.
"Yeah, they sometimes play those oldies on the radio," Panam answers cautiously, as if humoring a child or a delirious patient. "Why?"
V takes another deep breath, her next words feeling simultaneously like a confession and a plea. "That's just it. Johnny's alive. He's sitting in my head." She nods towards the spot where Johnny's engram perches on the edge of the cot, his presence a constant, spectral companion. "Sitting right here, actually."
Panam stares at V, her expression a kaleidoscope of emotions — disbelief, concern, and a hint of fear. She leans back in her chair, the metal groaning under the shift in weight. "He's what?" she asks, her voice rising slightly in pitch. "A-am I not... is this some sort of strange metaphor?"
Johnny lets out a humorless snort at Panam's words, the sound audible only to V. The merc can feel the weight of the conversation pressing down on her, the reality of her situation suddenly feeling more oppressive than ever in the confines of the nomad tent. She knows she has a long explanation ahead, one that might strain the bonds of friendship and belief. But as she looks at Panam's worried face and feels Johnny's presence beside her, V realizes that this moment of truth might be her best hope for survival.
V leans back against the rough canvas of the tent, her eyes distant as she begins her tale. "Ever hear of the Relic? The Arasaka tech?" Her voice is barely above a whisper, laden with the weight of secrets long held. Panam nods, a spark of recognition passing across her face, and V continues, her words measured and heavy. "That day at Konpeki... That's what Jackie and I were supposed to lift. During our escape, the cooler case holding it got damaged. Jack, he..." V pauses, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat, "he slotted the chip into his neural port to keep it from deteriorating. Thought he was being clever, saving the score."
She shifts on the cot, drawing her knees up to her chest like a shield against the flood of memories. The canvas beneath her creaks, a soft counterpoint to the heaviness of her words. "Like I told you before... we escaped by car, but Jackie, he knew he wasn't gonna make it. Still, the crazy bastard wanted me to finish the job, so with his dying breath, he handed me the biochip..." Her voice cracks, and she takes a moment to compose herself.
"So I slotted it into my head," V continues, her tone softening as she recounts the events. "Coulda ended there if that fuckin' fixer hadn't put a bullet in my skull, wrecking my brain and the Relic at the same time. The data stored on it started pouring into my head, which saved my life on one hand, but also woke up the construct stored on it..."
"Johnny Silverhand's..." Panam completes in a whisper, her eyes wide with dawning comprehension. "Shit, so that's the Johnny you sometimes mentioned..."
"Yeah, that's him. Samurai frontman, Arasaka's worst nightmare, dead fifty years," V says, a hint of fondness creeping into her voice. She sighs, "The problem ain't Johnny, though. It's this particular Relic. It is Hellman's special prototype. If the basic chip is just supposed to let you chat with the stored engram... the one in my head is designed to let the construct hijack the body it's slotted into."
V pauses, running a hand through her hair, frustration evident in every line of her body. "From what Hellman explained, the chip is supposed to go into the body of a vegetable or any brain-dead person 'cause..." she trails off, searching for words to make this insane story coherent, "in a living brain, the Relic will overwrite the host's psyche until it disappears completely. It's like... like a digital parasite, consuming everything that makes me 'me' and replacing it with Johnny's engram."
Johnny looks at Panam, then back to V, his expression uncharacteristically somber. "Tell her the rest, kid," he urges, his voice audible only to V. "She needs to know what we're up against. All of it."
V nods almost imperceptibly, steeling herself for the hardest part. She locks eyes with Panam, her gaze intense and pleading. "Panam, the chip... it's killing me. Slowly but surely, it's overwriting who I am. Johnny's construct is takin' over, and I'm... fading away. That's why I've been having these episodes, why I passed out. My body's fighting a war it can't win, and time's runnin' out."
The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the distant sounds of the nomad camp and the whisper of sand against the tent. Panam's face contorts into a mask of shock and disbelief, her hands gripping her chair so tightly her knuckles have gone white. Her eyes dart around the tent wildly, as if trying to spot the invisible intruder in V's head.
"Fuck, V," she finally manages, her voice hoarse and trembling. "So this Johnny... he's killing you? He's just... taking over your body?" Her tone shifts, anger seeping into every word. "Where is he? Can he hear me? Listen here, you fucking parasite—"
"No!" V interrupts forcefully, surprising both Panam and Johnny, "It's not like that at all. Johnny... he's as much a victim in this as I am. He didn't ask to be brought back, didn't ask to be shoved into my head. The Relic, the tech itself, that's what's killing me. Johnny's just... along for the ride."
Panam's brow furrows, her hands clenching and unclenching as she struggles to comprehend. "But V, come on! He's literally hijacking your body! How can you defend him?"
"It ain't like that!" V snaps. The sudden outburst makes Panam jump, her eyes widening. V takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "Sorry, it's just... Johnny didn't ask for this shit either. It's the Relic doing its thing. He's not the bad guy here — he's become... fuck, he's become my friend."
Johnny's jaw drops with the intensity of his surprise. "Well, shit, V," he drawls, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Didn't know you cared that much."
V shoots him a quick glare, but there's no real heat behind it. Panam catches the look and sighs, rubbing her temples. "Alright, alright. Not his fault, got it. I'm just trying to wrap my head around this clusterfuck. So what's the plan? There's gotta be a way to unfuck this situation, right?"
V lets out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet of the tent. "If there is, we ain't found it yet. Been tearin' up Night City, chasin' every lead we can. That's why I needed Hellman, why I've been pushin' so hard. But every time we think we're gettin' somewhere..."
"We hit another dead end," Johnny finishes, his voice tinged with frustration.
V nods, forgetting for a moment that Panam can't hear Johnny. "Yeah, exactly. And time's runnin' out fast."
Panam leans forward, her eyes blazing with determination. "Okay, V. I hear you. This is some next-level bullshit, but I believe you. And I'm not about to let my friend fade away without a fight." She reaches out, gripping V's hand tightly. "We'll figure this out. Together. The Aldecaldos have connections, resources. We'll turn over every rock in this godforsaken wasteland if we have to."
V feels a lump forming in her throat, overwhelmed by Panam's fierce loyalty. "Pan', I... thank you. But this ain't your fight. I can't ask you to—"
"You're not asking, I'm telling," Panam interrupts, her tone brooking no argument. "The Aldecaldos take care of their own. And whether you like it or not, V, you're one of us now."
Johnny, who's been uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly speaks up. "She's right, you know. You've got people in your corner, V. Maybe it's time we started lettin' them help."
V looks between Panam's determined face and Johnny's encouraging nod. "Thanks, Pan'," she says softly. "For everything."
As Panam grins and starts outlining potential plans, V catches Johnny's eye. The rockerboy gives her a nod of approval, and for a moment, V feels like maybe, just maybe, they might have a chance after all. She quickly explains to Panam the progress and dead ends she's encountered so far, which suddenly reminds her that she needs to meet Takemura in Japantown. Her eyes widen comically, like a cartoon character who's just remembered they left the stove on.
"Shit... How long was I out, anyway?" V asks, her voice a mix of panic and disbelief.
Panam chuckles, shaking her head. "Long enough for us to pack up camp, move it, unpack, and set up a whole new mini-city. We're talking hours and hours. It's tomorrow morning, sleeping beauty. You see why I was so fuckin' worried?"
"Fuck me..." V mutters, rubbing her temples. The realization of lost time hits her like a punch to the gut. "I gotta bounce, Pan'. I'm supposed to meet Takemura in a few hours. Like I told you, his plan's about as stable as a drunk on rollerskates, but at this point... it's worth a shot."
"You sure you're up for it?" Panam asks, eyeing V like she might spontaneously combust at any moment. "You look like you've been through a meat grinder. Twice."
V stands up, bracing herself for the wave of dizziness that doesn't come. She's pleasantly surprised to find herself steady on her feet, the aches and pains from earlier dulled to a manageable throb. "Sure as I'll ever be," she says, stretching cautiously. "I think we're just gonna jaw about our options anyway. Nothing stupid or dangerous, promise."
"Okay," Panam accepts, though her tone suggests she's far from convinced. She stands up, her posture radiating determination. "I'm driving you home. And if you even think about arguing, I'll tie you to the hood of my car."
V raises her hands in surrender, chuckling. "Yes, ma'am. Wouldn't dream of it."
They exit the tent, immediately greeted by a wall of desert heat and the bustling sounds of the nomad camp. Mitch and Saul materialize out of the crowd, their faces a mix of relief and lingering concern as they check on V. After a few minutes of reassurances and promises to call if she needs anything — "Even if it's just to borrow a cup of sugar," Mitch jokes — V and Panam make their way to the Thorton.
As they speed towards Little China, the neon-lit skyline growing larger on the horizon, V regales Panam with tales of her and Johnny's misadventures. She describes their initial antagonism, the gradual shift to reluctant allies, and finally, the bizarre friendship they've forged, complete with dramatic reenactments of their arguments that have Panam in stitches. Johnny chimes in with his own commentary, which V relays.
The Thorton finally pulls up in front of V's megabuilding, the concrete monstrosity looming over them like a disapproving parent. Panam turns to V, her expression serious despite the lingering mirth in her eyes. "V... we're staying in regular contact, okay? You can call me for anything, really. Even if it's just to bitch about your rockerboy roommate."
"Hey!" Johnny protests from the backseat, unseen and unheard by Panam.
V grins, ignoring Johnny's indignation. "I know, Pan'. Promise, I'll keep you updated on everything from now on. Every sordid detail." she replies, leaning over to hug her friend. The angle is awkward, the gear shift digging into her ribs, but V doesn't care. "See you soon, yeah?"
As V is about to slam the door shut, Panam calls out, a mischievous glint in her eye, "Oh, and since you're gonna see Mr. Bodyguard, don't forget to snap a pic for me, huh! A girl's gotta have some new eye candy for those long, lonely nights in the Badlands."
V can't help but chuckle, shaking her head at her friend's antics. "How could I forget something like that, heh. I'll do my best, Pan'. I'll make sure to get his best angle... probably while he's lecturing me about honor or some shit." She closes the door, waving goodbye as Panam peels away, the Thorton disappearing into the morning traffic. V turns towards her building, a mix of determination and apprehension settling in her gut.
"So, off to see Mr. Corpo Lapdog, huh?" Johnny drawls, falling into step beside her. "Sure you don't wanna grab a drink first? Might make his stick-up-the-ass attitude more bearable."
V snorts, punching playfully at Johnny's shoulder — and trying not to wince when her hand passes right through him. "It's barely midday, you gonk. Besides, pretty sure Takemura's stick-up-the-ass attitude is what's keeping him from falling apart at the seams."
They enter the elevator, Johnny leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "Fair point. Still, you sure about this, V? Trusting an Arasaka dog is like expecting a scorpion not to sting."
V sighs, pressing the button for her floor. "Not like we got a buffet of options here, Johnny. It's either this or... well, you know."
Johnny's expression softens slightly, concern flickering across his face. "Yeah, I know. Just... watch your ass out there, okay? I've grown kinda fond of it. The ass, I mean. And you, I guess."
"Aw, Johnny," V grins, placing a hand over her heart dramatically. "You do care. Don't worry, I'll protect the ass you've grown so fond of. And maybe, if you're lucky, I'll protect the rest of me too."
The elevator doors open, and V steps out, Johnny following close behind. "Just remember," he says, his tone serious despite the smirk on his face, "if shit hits the fan, I got your back. Even if I have to possess your body to do it."
V chuckles, shaking her head as she approaches her apartment door. "My knight in shining chrome. Alright, let's get this show on the road. Time to see if Takemura's plan is as solid as his jawline."
As V enters her apartment to prepare for the meeting, Johnny's laughter echoes in her mind, a comforting reminder that whatever comes next, at least she's not facing it alone.
Notes:
♫ Chapter Song: Nine Inch Nails - We’re in this together
Next chapter: lot of Goro :)
xoxo ♥
Chapter 11: Stranger In A Strange Land
Summary:
Hey! Ready for a recon with Takemura ?
Notes:
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the kudos ♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Was many years ago that I left home and came this way
I was a young man full of hopes and dreams
But now it seems to me that all is lost and nothing gained
Sometimes things ain't what they seem
No brave new world, no brave new world
The moment V steps into her apartment, she's already peeling off her clothes, grimacing at the gritty feel of sand and dried sweat clinging to her skin. The past few days have been a whirlwind of action and emotion, from solving th Harris case with River to her impromptu stay with the Aldecaldos, and she feels every bit of it caked onto her body.
The shower that follows is a mixed blessing. The water pressure in this megabuilding is shit, barely more than a trickle really, but it's enough to sluice away the worst of the grime. V makes a mental note to add ‘decent plumbing’ to her list of must-haves for her new place. For now, though, she'll take what she can get.
Feeling somewhat refreshed, V slips on a pair of comfortable underwear and checks the time: 1:20 PM. With nearly two hours to kill before her rendezvous with Takemura in Japantown, she decides clothes are entirely optional for now. She flops onto the couch with a contented sigh, the worn leather cool against her still-damp skin. V lights up a cigarette, savoring that first drag like it's the sweetest thing she's ever tasted.
Johnny materializes, lounging on the couch across from her. "Enjoying the downtime, princess? Better savor it while you can. Something tells me our little rendezvous with Takemura's gonna be anything but relaxing."
V exhales a plume of smoke, watching it curl towards the ceiling. "No shit, Johnny. But right now, I'm just gonna enjoy this moment of peace. We don't get many of those." Nibbles chooses that moment to leap onto the couch, demanding attention. V obliges, scratching the hairless cat behind its ears, earning a contented purr.
"So, what's the plan?" Johnny asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "You gonna tell Takemura about your little nomad adventure?"
V shrugs, taking another drag. "Dunno. Maybe. What do you think?"
Johnny snorts. "Since when do you care what I think about your corpo lapdog?"
"Since you're the paranoid bastard living in my head," V retorts with a smirk. "Figure you might have some insights."
"Fair enough," Johnny concedes. "My advice? Keep it vague. Takemura doesn't need to know everything. But hey, it's your funeral."
V rolls her eyes, but there's no real heat in it. "Always the optimist, aren't you?"
As the minutes tick by, V and Johnny fall into their usual banter, discussing everything from potential escape routes for their upcoming mission to debating the merits of various Night City food stalls. It's a rare moment of calm in the storm of their shared existence, and despite Johnny's snarky comments, there's an underlying current of comfort in their conversation.
Eventually, V reluctantly drags herself off the couch to get dressed, knowing that Takemura's punctuality means she can't afford to be late. But as she pulls on her clothes and checks her gear, she can't help but feel a little more centered, a little more ready to face whatever chaos Night City decides to throw at her next.
As V decides to leave her trusty motorcycle in the garage once again, she finds herself swept up in the pulsing arteries of Night City's public transport. The NCART train, a sleek metal serpent weaving through the urban jungle, carries her along the B line towards South Japantown station. For once, the universe seems to smile upon her, granting the luxury of a seat in the surprisingly uncrowded car. As the city blurs past in a kaleidoscope of neon and steel, V allows herself a moment of quiet reflection, the rhythmic clatter of the train almost meditative.
Emerging from the station, V navigates the bustling streets with the ease of a seasoned urban predator. The walk to Redwood Market is brief but vibrant, each step immersing her deeper into the heart of Japantown. The elevator ride to the twelfth floor is a staccato journey punctuated by the soft ding of passing floors, V's hummed tune a counterpoint to the mechanical whir.
Stepping onto the bridge spanning the yawning chasm of the street below, V is momentarily captivated by the sea of red lanterns adorning the walkway. In her mind's eye, she can picture the soft, crimson glow they'd cast at night, transforming this utilitarian passage into something almost magical. The thought is fleeting, however, as her gaze locks onto a familiar figure.
Takemura stands out like a rock in a swift stream, his stoic presence a stark contrast to the NCPD officer slouched against the railing beside him, clearly more interested in his data pad than whatever Goro is saying. V approaches with a mix of amusement and anticipation, her voice cutting through their one-sided conversation: "Hate to interrupt, but..."
Goro turns, his face lighting up with a rare smile. "Ah, perfect timing!" His hand finds her shoulder, a warm, steadying presence as he guides her back towards the lantern-adorned bridge. "It's good to see you, V."
"Was about to say the same," she replies, a genuine smile tugging at her lips. As they reach the midpoint of the walkway, Goro's hand falls away, and they both lean against the railing, the city sprawling out beneath them like a circuit board come to life.
"So," V prompts, curiosity coloring her tone, "you wanna tell me why we're meeting here? Not that I'm complaining about the view, but something tells me this isn't just a social call."
Goro's eyes lift skyward, prompting V to follow his gaze. Above them, the megabuildings stretch towards the heavens, their imposing facades occasionally linked by delicate metal walkways, like synapses connecting neurons in the city's vast, mechanical brain.
"Look at the sky," Goro instructs, his voice taking on a hushed, almost reverent quality. “The dashi floats will pass precisely this way. If I could just get onto Hanako-sama's float, I could speak with her in private.”
V's eyebrow arches skeptically, a hint of concern creeping into her voice. "Get there how, exactly?"
"Why, jump, of course," Goro replies with such nonchalance that V almost laughs, the absurdity of the statement hitting her like a slap to the face.
"Expectation's way too high, Goro," she counters, worry etching lines across her forehead. "Couldn't pull that off even if you still had your fancy implants. This isn't some action braindance, y’know."
Goro turns to face her, his back now to the cityscape, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips. "Don't worry, the infected shard I purchased in Kabuki will assist us by disabling the security systems." He pats his coat pocket, the slight bulge indicating the presence of the device. "Thank you again for recommending that vendor. Her expertise proved invaluable."
"Oh, great," V frowns, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "But that wasn't really my primary concern. I'm more worried about you splattering yourself across the pavement, Goro. Jumpin’ onto moving vehicles isn't exactly a low-risk activity."
Takemura's expression softens, his smile widening slightly. "You worry too much about me, V. But... thank you. I assure you, I need only calculate the timing of my jump precisely, and all will be well. The floats move at a glacial pace — I will manage."
He pushes off from the railing, gesturing for V to follow as they meander through the market. “To take control of the float is one thing, but not all. The security concerns me — the snipers especially. I will be an easy target.” Despite the gravity of his words, Goro's tone remains steady, betraying years of experience in high-stakes situations. “But I may have an answer. Okada-san mentioned the city cameras. If we gain access to them, we will see exactly where the snipers are. You can deal with them as I advance.”
“Sounds like a plan” V shrugs as they come to a stop in a quieter corner of the market, the bustle of shoppers and vendors creating a buffer of white noise around them.
"You agree so readily?" Goro's surprise is evident in both his voice and the slight widening of his eyes. "The risks are considerable, V. I expected more resistance."
A wry smirk tugs at V's lips. "Yeah, well — I'm getting more and more used to dancing with danger these days. Honestly, this doesn't even crack the top ten of crazy shit I've done recently."
As if on cue, Johnny materializes, lounging against a nearby stall with his trademark smirk. "No shit, V. Compared to some of the stunts we've pulled, this is practically a leisurely stroll through Watson. Just don't let your guard down, alright? Takemura might be Mr. Calm-and-Collected, but this gig could still go south faster than you can say 'corpo bullshit'."
V gives a subtle nod, acknowledging Johnny's warning without alerting Goro to the rockerboy's presence. Turning her attention back to Takemura, she asks, "So, what's our next move, Goro? We got some prep work to tackle, or are we diving headfirst into this insane scheme of yours?"
“Now... What would you say to a small test? We must try the shard.” Goro's voice carries a hint of excitement as he retrieves the object from his pocket, holding it out to V like a precious offering. The small, innocuous-looking shard gleams in the artificial light of the market. “The camera control room is in front of us. You must get inside and infect the network, that is all.”
“Consider it done," V responds with a cocky grin, unable to resist throwing Goro a playful wink. The thrill of the challenge courses through her veins as she turns towards the control room entrance, her Kiroshi optics whirring to life. The world around her sharpens, data overlays providing a wealth of information about her surroundings.
She could force the door without breaking a sweat, her enhanced muscles more than up to the task, but the potential noise makes her reconsider. Her gaze drifts upward, locking onto a ventilation grate about three meters up — just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Perfect.
With the fluid grace of a street-hardened merc, V's reinforced tendons coil and release, propelling her from one concrete ledge to another. The world blurs around her as she moves, each jump precisely calculated. Her fingers find purchase on a nearby drainpipe, the metal cool against her skin as she easily pries open the grate and slips inside the control room like a ghost.
The drop to the floor is cushioned by her leg implants, the impact absorbed without a sound. The room is a maze of blinking lights and humming servers, the air thick with the scent of electronics and stale coffee. Without wasting a precious second, V approaches the main computer terminal, its screen casting an eerie blue glow across her face.
With practiced ease, she inserts Takemura's shard into her neural port, a brief tingling sensation washing over her as the connection is established. Her personal link reaches out, interfacing with the machine in a dance of data and code. The virus downloads in a heartbeat, a success message flashing across her visual interface in triumphant green. Disconnecting with a satisfied smirk, V retraces her steps, exiting as silently as she entered.
Moments later, she's back at the bodyguard's side, a shit-eating grin plastered across her face. The adrenaline of the successful infiltration still buzzes through her system as she announces, "Done. System's ours." She adds, with a touch of self-deprecating humor, "Two-bit thief, ain't I?"
"A thief, yes, but a very skilled one," Takemura returns, a small but sincere smile softening his usually stoic features. His eyes betray a hint of admiration as he continues, "Less than two minutes, well done." His hand finds her shoulder once more, a gentle pressure guiding her towards the bustling heart of the market. The cacophony of voices, the sizzle of cooking food, and the ever-present hum of the city envelop them as they walk.
“So, the shard works." Goro states, his tone a mixture of relief and determination. When V nods in confirmation, he presses on, "Good — the easy work we have done. To break into Arasaka Industrial Park will not be such a ‘bed of roses’.”
"But before we discuss that..." Goro's voice remains formal, though a hint of weariness seeps through his composed exterior. He gestures towards a nearby food stall with a slight incline of his head. "Perhaps we should consider nourishment. I haven't eaten since yesterday."
As if on cue, Johnny materializes beside them, his spectral form leaning against the food stall with his trademark smirk. "Finally, some fucking sense," he chimes in, "You too, chow down on something. It's a goddamn nightmare being stuck in the head of someone who constantly skips meals just 'cause she forgets. But I can feel your stomach growling, V. So eat, before I lose my mind — well, what's left of it."
V can't help but chuckle, both at Goro's suggestion and Johnny's unexpected concern for her wellbeing. The juxtaposition of the stoic ex-Arasaka bodyguard and the snarky rockerboy engram is almost comical. "You know what? That sounds like a plan. I'm starvin’, now that you mention it." She turns her attention to the food stall, eyeing the colorful menu with newfound interest.
They settle onto the red stools at the stand's counter, the cracked leather squeaking in protest under their weight. The air is thick with the aroma of grilling meat and spices, a stark contrast to the acrid smell of the city beyond. Takemura flags down the cook with a polite nod, ordering yakitori for both of them in fluent Japanese. As they wait for their food in comfortable silence, V can't help but marvel at the strange turns her life has taken.
Even Johnny, still chillin' against the stand like some spectral loiterer, seems subdued. His usual snark is absent, replaced by a contemplative silence that's almost as unnerving as his wisecracks. When their plates finally arrive, steaming and fragrant, Takemura immediately takes a bite of his skewer. His face contorts, brow furrowing as a grimace of disgust gradually paints itself across his usually stoic features.
V can't help but chuckle at his reaction, the sound escaping before she can stifle it. She bites into a meatball herself, the synthetic chicken meat bland and rubbery on her tongue. Meh. Not good, not horrible either. Just some low-quality street food, the kind that keeps Night City's masses fed and moving.
As she forces herself to chew, Goro leans in close, his breath warm against her ear as he whispers, "We should have returned to eat at Mamá Welles'." The unexpected proximity sends a shiver down her spine, and she hopes the neon lights hide the flush creeping up her neck. Goro leans back, setting down the rest of his yakitori and pushing his plate away with a look of resigned disappointment.
In her peripheral vision, Johnny rolls his eyes so hard V half expects them to fall out of his ghostly skull. Thankfully, he keeps his commentary to himself for once. To regain her composure, V sets down her own skewer, struggling to maintain a neutral expression despite the butterflies in her stomach.
Fortunately, Takemura switches back into work mode, his voice low and serious as he begins to lay out his plan. “OK. I have laid the plan. One. We break into Arasaka Industrial Park. One and a half — we hack Hanako-sama's float. Two. During the parade, with my help, you eliminate any snipers. Three. I get onto the float. Four. I convince Hanako-sama of the truth.”
“Forgot five — Oda zeroes us and pisses on our corpses.” V adds, her tone flat and sardonic. “He won't ever be less than a foot away from Hanako.”
Takemura's expression tightens at V's blunt assessment, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Your concern is not unfounded," he admits, his voice a low rumble. "Oda would not dare raise his hand against me. But you…” He trails off, leaving the ominous implication hanging in the air between them.
"He'll flatline me on sight, huh?" V finishes, her tone resigned but unflinching, a sardonic smirk playing at the corners of her lips.
Goro nods solemnly, then leans in closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that sends another involuntary shiver cascading down V's spine. The scent of his cologne, a subtle blend of sandalwood and something she can’t pinpoint, envelops her as he speaks. "I have known Oda for many years. While he is formidable, he is not infallible. If we are swift and precise in our actions, we may yet succeed before he can intervene."
“Well, sounds like a suicide run, but done dumber shit than this so…” V adds lightly, trying to inject some levity into the conversation.
“Things even more stupid than stealing from Arasaka?” Goro teases, unable to contain a playful smile that transforms his features.
That smile is enough to make V's brain short-circuit for a few moments, but she tries not to let it show. Struggling to maintain her composure, she quips back, “Nope. Dumber yet, no. Set the bar pretty high with that one…”
Goro's smile widens, a rare display of genuine amusement, before falling away as quickly as it appeared. His face settles back into its usual mask of determination as he says, "Now, we part. Reconnaissance is required."
“Wait!” V's reaction is instinctive, her hand darting out to grab the sleeve of his leather coat. The material is smooth and cool beneath her fingers, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from Goro's arm. “You're a stranger in a strange land. Goin' with you.” This earns her a thumbs up from Johnny, who's been uncharacteristically quiet. V has to restrain herself from flipping him off, instead focusing on Goro's response.
“Hmm, true. And you with your hands, skills, mind of a thief…” Takemura accepts, his tone carrying a hint of playful accusation that makes V's cheeks flush. Before she can retort, his attention is suddenly drawn to the small television behind the counter. The grainy image of Yorinobu Arasaka's face flickers on the screen, his features distorted by static but unmistakable. "Cook! Louder, louder!" Goro calls out, his voice carrying a note of urgency that cuts through the market's ambient noise.
They listen intently to the heir's press conference, the tinny sound from the old TV barely audible over the market's bustle. Goro's face is a mask of thinly veiled contempt, his disdain for Yorinobu and the internal power struggles tearing Arasaka apart evident in every line of his face. At V's prompting, he begins to explain the corporation's factional landscape, his words painting a picture of a company at war with itself.
“There are three — Kiji, Hato and Taka. Kiji longs for stability, the old order. They are united behind Hanako-sama. Taka, treacherous dogs who support Yorinobu. And there is the liberal wing, Hato, support Michiko-sama — Saburo's granddaughter. I know little about her. She —” He cuts himself off abruptly, his eyes widening slightly as if he's just had a revelation. V can almost see the gears turning in his brain, curiosity burning in her chest, but before she can question him about what's bothering him, he stands and tells her, "Come, it is time to conduct our reconnaissance.”
V drops the subject, albeit reluctantly, and stands up as well. As they turn to leave, the cook calls out to them without even looking up from his sizzling grill, his voice a monotone that suggests he's repeated this phrase a thousand times, "I hope you enjoyed it. Please come again."
"Sawdust and plastic," Goro mutters under his breath as they head towards the elevator, his disdain for the subpar meal evident in every syllable. The unexpected candor of his comment catches V off guard, and she bursts out laughing, the sound bright and genuine against the backdrop of the market's chaos.
They make the journey to Arroyo in the old yellow van that Takemura 'borrowed', its rusted chassis groaning with every pothole and bump in the road. The man parks the vehicle at a construction site overlooking Arasaka Industrial Park, the half-finished skeleton of a building looming above them like a concrete and steel giant. Goro approaches the fence protecting the site, his movements fluid and practiced as he scales the barrier. V, never one to be outdone, takes a running start and launches herself over the obstacle in a single, graceful leap, adding a cheeky pirouette for good measure.
"Show off," Johnny materializes on the other side, shaking his head with a mix of amusement and exasperation.
When Takemura joins her, they advance together into the building's guts. The interior is a labyrinth of scaffolding, discarded tools, and stacked materials. The air is thick with the scent of fresh concrete and metal, mingling with the ever-present undercurrent of Night City's pollution. Their footsteps echo in the cavernous space as they make their way to the elevator, its rusted doors groaning in protest as they slide open.
At the top floor, Takemura pauses, his gaze sweeping over the cityscape. The neon-drenched sprawl of Night City stretches out before them, a chaotic tapestry of light and shadow. “I woud call this a beautiful view of the city,” he muses, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy, "if..."
"If?" V prompts, already moving towards a final flight of stairs leading to an even higher vantage point, her curiosity piqued.
"If there was anything to admire," Takemura finishes with a soft sigh, his gaze fixed on the sprawling urban jungle below.
V can't help but snort at his disdain. "Hate Night City that much, huh? Guess it's an acquired taste."
"Hm. Perhaps I am simply 'homesick', as you say," Takemura admits, a rare moment of vulnerability in his usually stoic demeanor.
As they reach the highest point of the building, V takes a moment to really look at their surroundings. The vista before them is a patchwork of industrial decay and corporate excess. "Y'know, to be fair, Santo Domingo ain't exactly Night City's crown jewel," she offers, gesturing to the landscape of factories and megabuildings. "It's mostly old industrial parks, a few overcrowded apartment blocks. The lucky ones got small houses over in Rancho, but it's still rough — caught between corpo greed and gang violence."
She turns to Takemura, a mischievous glint in her eye. "But hey, if you're up for it, I could give you the grand tour sometime. Show you the city's hidden gems, the spots that make this concrete jungle worth living in. Whaddya say, Goro? Ready to see Night City through a local's eyes?"
A small smile tugs at the corners of Takemura's mouth, softening his features. "That... would be most enlightening, V. I look forward to it." Then, as if remembering their purpose, his expression grows serious once more. "But for now, we must focus on the task at hand. You must look for vulnerabilities, weaknesses, while I try to think of a diversion. Arasaka cannot discover our intentions. A bit of sabotage is just what we need to divert their attention.”
He leans against a barrier facing the industrial park, “You will have the best view on the left,” he instructs, gesturing with a nod. “I will try here. This old scope should be good for something. Shall we begin?”
V leans on the barrier beside him, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. "Oh, can you run and grab us a pizza?" she teases, her tone light and jovial.
Takemura's face contorts into an expression of mock disgust, his nose wrinkling slightly. "Take-out food? No, just no," he says, shaking his head emphatically. His eyes take on a distant look, as if gazing at some far-off memory. "If I had time and ingredients, I would prepare some onigiri with cod... or perhaps with grilled salmon." He pauses, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "No. Even better. With umeboshi plums. Mm. Arasaka-sama's favorite appetizer. Simple, tasty, and filling."
V can't help but laugh, the sound bright and genuine against the backdrop of the city's constant hum. "You're a real foodie, aren't ya? I bet you're a damn good cook too."
Takemura's eyes sparkle with a hint of pride. "I would not call myself a chef, but I do take pleasure in preparing good food. It is... a form of meditation, in a way."
"Meditation, huh?" V grins, nudging him playfully with her elbow. "And here I thought you were all about guns and corpo intrigue. You're just full of surprises, Goro."
He chuckles softly, a rare sound that makes her heart skip a beat. "Life is full of surprises, V. Even an old dog like me can have hidden depths."
"Old dog? Please," V scoffs, rolling her eyes. "You're in better shape than half the young guns I know. But seriously, you gotta cook for me sometime. I'm tired of my diet of synth-noodles and vending machine burritos."
Takemura's expression softens, a warmth in his eyes that wasn't there before. "Perhaps, when this is all over... I would be honored to prepare a proper meal for you, V."
For a moment, they stand in comfortable silence, the promise of a future beyond their current mission hanging between them. Then, with a small sigh, Takemura turns his attention back to the scope. "But for now, we must focus."
V nods, her expression turning serious as she activates her ocular implants once more. They spend the next few minutes meticulously examining the industrial complex, taking turns pointing out potential points of interest, possible entry points, and enemies present on the site. Finally, the man points to an area at the far end of the site. “Do you see the three antennas? Perfect for sabotage.” He sounds almost gleeful as he adds,“Once they lose communications... 混乱するなぁ”
V's Kiroshi implants translate that as 'Pure chaos', and she can't help but laugh at Takemura's enthusiasm. For a high-ranking corpo that Johnny often describes as having a stick up his ass, the bodyguard seems to be really enjoying the prospect of mayhem.
“We have what we came for.” he finally says, tucking the scope into his jacket pocket with a satisfied nod.
“So?” V asks, a hint of excitement in her voice. “We goin' in?”
“Hmph. Not yet." Takemura replies, his tone measured but with a glint of amusement in his eyes. "I wish to be certain we have not overlooked anything. We should wait for the cover of the night and observe. If nothing out of the ordinary happens, then yes” he does his best imitation of V, complete with an exaggerated accent, “We goin' in!”
"Sounds sensible," she chuckles, pleasantly surprised by his attempt at humor. "Better get comfy."
As they settle in for their extended surveillance, V can't help but steal glances at Takemura. The way his eyes light up at the prospect of a well-executed plan, the subtle quirk of his lips when he's pleased — it's all oddly endearing.
"Never pegged you for the type to get excited about a little sabotage." V says, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen between them.
Takemura turns to her, a rare smile playing on his lips. "In my line of work, V, one must find joy in the small things. A well-executed plan, a moment of chaos in the enemy's ranks — these are the spices that flavor an otherwise bland existence."
"Poetic," V snorts, but there's no mockery in her tone. "You're not half bad, Goro. For a corpo, I mean."
He chuckles softly, his eyes never leaving the complex below. "And you, V, are not half bad yourself. For a street kid, of course."
V's stomach suddenly lets out a loud, unmistakable growl, a clear sign that the few bites of yakitori from the market haven't come close to satisfying her hunger. She plops down on a pile of cement bags, the rough texture scratching against her pants, and turns to Takemura with a mischievous grin. "I know you said no to pizza, but I'm seriously startin' to feel like my stomach's tryna eat itself. If you're up for it, I know this Japanese joint that delivers sushi. Might not be up to your fancy standards, but I'd bet my last eddie they're at least... acceptable, let's say."
Takemura, his stoic demeanor softening slightly, joins her on the makeshift seat. The tension in his shoulders eases a fraction as he allows himself a moment of respite from their vigilant watch. "Acceptable, mmh?" he muses, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. After a brief internal struggle, he concedes, "I must confess, hunger gnaws at me as well." His admission comes reluctantly, as if revealing a weakness. "Very well, you may place an order. However," he adds, his voice taking on a note of caution, "we must exercise the utmost discretion. Our presence here must remain undetected. Perhaps you could arrange for the delivery to be made a few streets away? I will, of course, volunteer to retrieve our meal."
"Sharp thinking, Goro," V says with a approving nod. She pulls up her holo, fingers dancing across the interface as she places their order. After a moment, she looks up, satisfaction clear on her face. "Alright, it's sorted. You see that massive rotating billboard couple blocks from here? The one with the half-naked guy hawkin' some new chrome?" Takemura nods, his expression a mix of recognition and distaste. "That's our spot. Delivery guy will meet you there in about 30 minutes."
"Excellent. Now, we wait," Takemura replies, settling back against the rough canvas of the cement bags.
V, never one for prolonged silences, decides to use this time productively. "So, while we're killin' time... that choom of yours, Oda. He's gotta have some weak spots, right?" She tries to keep her tone casual, but there's a glint of calculation in her eyes. "You know, just in case things go sideways during the parade and I run into him..."
"Mhhh..." Takemura's brow furrows, clearly conflicted about divulging such information. After a long moment, he speaks, his words measured and careful. "Oda is... a formidable opponent. I personally oversaw much of his training, and he has honed his skills to near perfection. Like you, he favors mantis blades, but he also keeps a katana within reach at all times. Additionally, he is equipped with state-of-the-art optical camouflage technology."
"Damn," V whistles low, "guy's packin' some serious heat. That camo tech, though... might need to look into that myself before the big day. But c'mon, Goro, you gotta give me more than that. How do I take him down if it comes to that?"
Takemura sighs heavily, the weight of divided loyalties clear in his expression. "It will not be an easy task, V. Under normal circumstances, Oda's combat style is virtually flawless. However..." he pauses, choosing his next words carefully, "Oda's greatest vulnerability lies not in his physical abilities, but in his temperament. He is young, and at times, his emotions get the better of him. Should you find yourself in combat with him, your best strategy would be to provoke him, to anger him to the point where his composure shatters. In such a state, his attacks become more erratic, more powerful perhaps, but also less precise. This is when gaps in his defense will appear. Should such an opportunity present itself, you must strike swiftly and decisively. It may be your only chance."
"Holy shit, Goro," V says, genuinely impressed. "That's some good intel right there. So, piss him off and then hit him hard. Got it."
Takemura's expression darkens, a mix of concern and resignation clouding his features. "I sincerely hope it does not come to that, V. Oda is... was a good friend. But I understand the necessity of being prepared for all eventualities."
V nods, her usual bravado softening slightly in the face of Takemura's obvious conflict. "Hey, I get it, really. I'll do my best to avoid a throwdown if I can. But if shit hits the fan..."
"Then you must do what is necessary," Takemura finishes, his voice heavy with the weight of their mission and the potential consequences.
As Takemura rises, the subtle shift in his demeanor is palpable. His face, usually a mask of stoic professionalism, betrays a flicker of discomfort. He brushes the dust from his coat with meticulous care, each movement a deliberate attempt to regain his composure. "I... I will proceed to the rendezvous point now," he announces, his voice carefully modulated to hide any trace of emotion. "I shall return shortly with our sustenance. Please maintain vigilant surveillance in my absence." Without so much as a backward glance, he strides towards the stairs, his footsteps fading into the ambient noise of the city.
V sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Shit," she mutters, aware she's hit a nerve with the Oda talk. She makes a mental note to tread more carefully around that subject in the future. She turns her attention back to the industrial park spread out below them. The scene remains unchanged — security personnel patrolling in their predictable patterns, trucks rumbling through the gates at regular intervals, the whole compound bathed in the harsh glow of industrial floodlights. It's mind-numbingly monotonous, but V knows better than to let her guard down.
To stave off boredom, she pulls out her holo and fires off a message to Panam.
V can't help but burst into laughter, the sound echoing off the concrete walls around her. She's about to type a response when Johnny materializes, sprawled across a nearby low wall like he's lounging on a beach in Pacifica. His iconic aviators are perched on his nose, and he's got that shit-eating grin that always means trouble.
"For fuck's sake," he drawls, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I don't get why Panam's so thirsty for this guy. Or what you see in 'im, for that matter. He's about as exciting as watchin' paint dry."
V rolls her eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. "C'mon, Johnny," she chuckles, "don't tell me you're blind as well as dead. You've got eyes, dontcha?"
Johnny scoffs, but there's a hint of amusement in his tone. "Yeah, yeah, I'll admit it. The guy's got some fancy optics," he grudgingly concedes, shifting to prop himself up on one elbow. "and his hair'd probably look decent if he bothered to let it down. And that scar—" He stops abruptly, realizing what he's saying. "Fuck me sideways, V!" He groans, sitting up and pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head. "No way in hell you're gonna make me compliment Arasaka's lapdog!"
V's grin widens, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Too late, rockerboy. You just did. Quite eloquently, I might add. And don't think I didn't catch that bit about his hair. You been thinkin' about Goro with his hair down often?"
Johnny scowls, but there's no real heat behind it. "You're a real pain in the ass, you know that? A grade-A gonk with a death wish and shitty taste in men."
"Aw, you say the sweetest things, Johnny," V chuckles, leaning back and crossing her arms. "Face it, you'd be bored out of your mind without me. I keep things interesting."
"Interesting? Is that what we're calling suicidal these days?" Johnny retorts, but there's a grudging affection in his tone. He hops off the wall, pacing around V with his hands shoved in his pockets. "Just... watch yourself, alright? When this is all over, and we've taken down Arasaka, your corpo boy toy isn't gonna be too happy with you."
V's smile falters for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. "Yeah, well... we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, we need him. And who knows? Maybe he'll come around to our way of thinking."
Johnny snorts, clearly skeptical. "Sure, and maybe Militech will start handing out free hugs. Don't get your hopes up, V. Guys like that? They don't change. Not really."
V's mood takes a nosedive after Johnny's last jab. She spends the next few minutes chain-smoking, brooding over the complexities of her situation. The sound of creaking metal stairs behind her comes as a welcome relief, signaling Takemura's return. He resumes his spot on the cement bags, handing V her pizza box before opening his own container of sushi. With a small snap, he separates the disposable chopsticks and brings a piece to his mouth, taking his time to chew, savoring the taste and analyzing the texture. Finally, he speaks.
"Not bad. Acceptable, as you said." He puts on a mock-offended expression before turning to the young merc. "But did you really have to place the order under the name Hideshi Hino?"
V nearly chokes on the bite of pizza she's just taken, swallowing with difficulty before responding with her most serious face possible. "You're the one who was talkin' about takin' precautions, right? A meetin' point far away, so we needed a fake name to go with it."
"But a comedian, V? A comedian!" He grumbles.
"So dramatic," she chuckles. "You're really gettin' into character."
Takemura shakes his head, but there's a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I suppose I should be grateful you didn't choose a more... colorful alias."
They continue eating in comfortable silence, the night air filled with the distant hum of the city. V's enjoying the rare moment of peace when suddenly, a minor Relic malfunction disrupts her meal. She drops the pizza crust she's holding and starts coughing violently.
"You should take the time to chew more thoroughly..." Takemura begins, his tone lightly chiding. But as he turns to face the young merc, he notices the blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. "Kuso..." he curses under his breath, quickly reaching for a paper napkin. "V... it's the Relic, isn't it?"
V nods weakly, accepting the napkin and pressing it to her lips. The metallic taste of blood fills her mouth, and she tries to speak, but another cough wracks her body.
Takemura's face is a mask of concern, his earlier amusement completely gone. He moves closer, one hand hovering uncertainly near V's shoulder. "Is there anything I can do? Do you need water? Medicine?"
V shakes her head, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "Nah, it'll pass," she manages to rasp out. "Just gotta wait it out."
Takemura frowns, clearly unsatisfied with her response. "This is happening more frequently, isn't it?" he asks, his voice low and serious. "V, we must find a solution soon. Your condition..."
"I know, I know," V cuts him off, not wanting to hear the grim prognosis she's all too aware of. She wipes her mouth, checking the napkin and grimacing at the bright red stain. "Fuck, and here I was enjoyin' our little picnic."
Takemura's expression softens slightly. "Perhaps we should call it a night. You need rest, and we can continue our surveillance tomorrow."
V shakes her head stubbornly. "No way, Goro. We've come too far to back out now. Besides," she adds with a weak attempt at a smile, "can't let a little nosebleed ruin our date, right?"
Takemura blinks, momentarily thrown off by her joke. "This is hardly a date, V," he says, but there's a hint of warmth in his tone. "A proper date would not involve industrial espionage or life-threatening malfunctions."
"Sounds borin'," V quips, feeling the worst of the episode pass. She takes a deep breath, relieved when it doesn't trigger another coughing fit. "Thanks, though. For the napkin and... you know, not freakin' out."
Takemura nods, his eyes still searching her face with concern. "Of course." He pauses, then adds softly, "But V, promise me you will not push yourself too hard. This mission is important, yes, but your health..."
"I promise, Goro," V says, her voice softening with genuine appreciation for his concern. "I'll be careful. Now, how 'bout we lighten the mood a bit? Wanna hear about the time me and my cop buddy saved a bunch of kids from a serial killer? Or maybe you'd prefer the tale of how I drove a fuckin' Basilisk through the Badlands with my nomad friend?"
Intrigued by V's offer of distraction, Takemura nods, his stern features relaxing slightly. As V launches into her stories, her eyes light up with excitement, hands gesticulating wildly as she recounts her adventures. Takemura listens attentively, his gaze alternating between V's animated face and the Arasaka compound below. He can't help but be impressed by her resourcefulness and bravery, especially when she describes rescuing the teenagers from the serial killer's lair.
As V's tales wind down to the Aldecaldos and her experiences with Panam's family, Takemura's expression grows wistful. His eyes, usually sharp and focused, seem to look beyond the neon-lit horizon of Night City as he speaks, his voice tinged with a rare vulnerability. "Sometimes, V, I find myself wishing I could become a nomad. To leave this world behind, to forget everything..."
V's response is immediate, her tone encouraging and warm. "Hey, it's never too late for a change, Goro. You could totally pull off the nomad look."
Takemura's lips quirk in a small, sad smile. "Ah, but as your expression goes, 'One cannot teach an old dog new tricks.' I fear I am too set in my ways for such a drastic change."
"No, Goro, I'm dead serious," V insists, leaning towards him, her eyes bright with sincerity. "Listen, just yesterday, Panam — you know, my best friend — she offered me a spot in her nomad family. And I bet my ass she'd extend that invitation to you in a heartbeat. The Aldecaldos, they're good people, Goro. They'd welcome you with open arms."
"V..." Takemura sighs, his tone a mixture of exasperation and fondness.
Undeterred by his hesitation, V presses on, her words tumbling out with increasing passion. "I get it, right now you're all about gettin' revenge on Yorinobu. But think about it — when all this shit is over, do you really wanna go back to your old life? You could have a fresh start, Goro. I know Arasaka's been your whole world, but maybe... maybe it's time for something new. Something better."
Takemura remains silent for a long moment, his eyes distant as he contemplates V's words. He knows her offer is little more than a beautiful dream, a fantasy of freedom that seems impossibly far from his reality. But as he looks at V, sees the hope and pleading in her eyes, he can't bring himself to crush that dream entirely. Instead, he opts for a gentler response, his voice soft and tinged with warmth. "V... I promise you, I will give it some thought. And regardless of what the future holds... I thank you, truly, for your kindness and your friendship."
As Takemura's words hang in the air between them, V's face breaks into a radiant smile, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of hope and mischief that seems to light up the night around them. "That's all I'm askin', Goro. Just think about it. Who knows? Maybe one day we'll be ridin' through the Badlands together, wind in our hair, not a care in the world."
Takemura can't help but chuckle at the vivid image V paints. "I must admit, it is a... compelling picture you paint. Though I fear I would look rather out of place among your nomad friends."
V grins wider, clearly warming to the idea. "Nah, you'd fit right in before you know it. We'd get you kitted out with some proper nomad gear, teach you how to fix an engine or two. 'Fore long, you'd be leadin' raids and sharin' stories 'round the campfire like you were born to it."
For a brief moment, Takemura allows himself to indulge in the fantasy. He imagines a life free from corporate politics and rigid hierarchies, a life where loyalty is earned rather than demanded. It's an alien concept, but not entirely unpleasant. With a small shake of his head, he brings himself back to reality, his expression a mix of wistfulness and resolve.
"It is a kind offer, V, and one I appreciate more than you know. But for now, we must remain focused on the task at hand. Yorinobu must be brought to justice, and Arasaka..." he trails off, his expression conflicted, caught between duty and disillusionment.
V nods, her smile fading slightly but her eyes still warm with understanding. "I get it, Goro. One step at a time, right? But just remember, when all this corpo shit storm blows over, you've got options. And friends." She reaches out, hesitating for a moment before gently squeezing his shoulder, the gesture bridging the gap between their worlds.
Takemura looks at her hand, then meets her gaze. In V's eyes, he sees a warmth and connection he hadn't expected to find in this neon-lit city of strangers and betrayal. "Thank you, V," he says softly, his usual formality giving way to genuine emotion. "Your friendship... it means more to me than I can adequately express."
As they turn their attention back to their surveillance, a comfortable silence falls between them, the distant hum of traffic and the occasional wail of sirens provide a constant backdrop to their vigil. V can't help but steal glances at Takemura. His profile is sharp against the neon-lit skyline, his cybernetic eyes scanning the horizon with intense focus. V bites her lip, then slowly, casually pulls out her phone.
Pretending to check something, she angles the device just so, capturing Goro's image in the frame. His stern expression, the silver streaks in his hair catching the city lights, the way his augmented eyes gleam — it's all there in perfect detail. V quickly sends the pic to Panam, adding a message,
- 08:01:45pm
V stifles a laugh, drawing a curious glance from Takemura. She waves him off, pretending to clear her throat.
V pockets her phone, trying to school her features into something resembling professional focus. She turns back to Takemura, who's eyeing her with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
"Is everything alright, V?" he asks, one eyebrow raised. "You seem... distracted."
V clears her throat, willing herself not to blush. "Nah, I'm good. Just, uh, checking some intel. You know how it is. Always gotta stay on top of things."
Takemura nods, seemingly satisfied. "Indeed. Focus is crucial in our line of work."
He turns his attention back to the surveillance. V lets out a silent sigh of relief, making a mental note to thank Panam later for the much-needed laugh in the midst of all this tension. And maybe, just maybe, to ask where one might procure some leather pants in Takemura's size. You know, just in case.
Suddenly, Takemura's voice cuts through the quiet, low and urgent. “Look. No sudden movements. Do you see it? The cat.”
V shifts her gaze, following Takemura's line of sight to the low wall where Johnny is still sprawled, one arm casually tucked behind his head. To her surprise, a sleek feline figure now sits perched near his feet, its tail curled neatly around its paws. The cat bears a striking resemblance to Nibbles, V notes with amusement, though its muzzle seems a shade lighter in the evening glow. She turns back to Goro, nodding appreciatively. “Fine-lookin' feline.”
“It is the first animal I see in Night City. Except cockroaches, of course.” Takemura comments, his features softening as he observes the cat. After a thoughtful pause, he adds, his voice taking on a hint of wonder, “Perhaps it is a bakeneko?”
V's curiosity is immediately piqued by the unfamiliar term. "A 'bakeneko'?" she echoes, her brow furrowing slightly. “What's that?”
“It is a cat spirit” Takemura's eyes light up with a mix of nostalgia and reverence as he explains, “it brings misfortune, can restore the dead back to life.”
The image of the cat sitting serenely next to the spectral form of Johnny takes on a whole new level of irony with Takemura's explanation. V can't help but indulge in a moment of wishful thinking, imagining the feline somehow bringing the rockerboy back to life and solving their Relic dilemma in one fell swoop. She shakes her head, chasing away the ridiculous notion, and refocuses on their conversation. “Feline ghost? Ah, suppose anything's possible.”
"Indeed," Takemura nods, a faraway look in his eyes. "My grandmother knew many, many stories about various yokai — kitsune, kappa, bakeneko, and more. In those moments, listening to her tales, the world seemed full of mystery and magic."
It's at this point that Johnny, who's been uncharacteristically quiet, decides to chime in. He sits up abruptly, his eyes widening with sudden recognition. "Holy shit, V," he exclaims, his voice a mix of surprise and amusement. "I just figured out why our little hairless gremlin seemed so fuckin' familiar." He straightens up, sitting down before continuing, "Back in my day, that asshole Bartmoss had a cat too. Deathwish, if I'm rememberin' the name right. Looked just like Nibbles and this street cat here." He nods towards the feline still perched on the wall. "When Rache went MIA, the cat probably split and ended up havin' a whole litter of kittens or some shit."
V can't help but smile at Johnny's revelation, careful to keep her reaction subtle so as not to alert Takemura. She responds silently in her head, "That's pretty damn funny. Would make Nibbles a descendant of a cat you knew. Small world, huh?"
Aloud, V says to Takemura, trying to bridge the conversation, "Y'know, Goro, I've got a cat back at my place. Looks a lot like this one. Makes you wonder about the hidden connections in this city, doesn't it?"
Takemura raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Indeed? I did not take you for a cat person, V." He pauses, his gaze drifting back to the cat. "It is... strangely comforting to know that even in this city of steel and neon, there are still echoes of a simpler life."
Johnny snorts, rolling his eyes. "Simpler life, my ass. Nothin' simple about Bartmoss or his fuckin' cat. That thing was probably half-cyborg or some shit."
V suppresses a chuckle at Johnny's comment, instead nodding to Takemura. "Yeah, I get that. Sometimes it's the little things that keep us grounded, y'know? Remind us there's more to life than just the next job or the next score."
As they watch, the cat stretches lazily, its sleek form silhouetted against the neon-lit skyline. With a graceful leap, it disappears into the shadows of Night City, leaving behind a moment of quiet contemplation. V comments, "The bakeneko got sick of us, looks like."
"It will find its own way," Takemura nods. "As will we." As night has fallen during their conversation, their plan can now resume. "I think it is time to do something, hm?"
"Yeah, you're right. Mind takin' one last sweep while I have a smoke?" she asks, flicking her lighter. The flame briefly illuminates her face, highlighting the determination in her eyes.
Takemura pulls out his scope, his movements precise and practiced. He scans the area meticulously, the faint whir of the device barely audible over the distant hum of the city. Satisfied, he turns to V, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "All clear. It's time."
They descend from their vantage point, moving with the fluid grace of experienced operatives. The elevator ride is silent, charged with anticipation. Once on the ground, they clear the barrier with ease, muscle memory taking over.
Regrouping near the van, Takemura's expression grows serious. "This is where we part ways, V. I'll set up the diversion while you infiltrate the complex. Use your judgment — I trust your skills." His eyes soften slightly as he adds, "Be careful out there."
V returns his gaze, a mix of determination and appreciation in her eyes. "You too, Goro. Don't do anythin' I wouldn't do." She takes a final drag of her cigarette, crushing it under her heel. The ember dies out, mirroring the fading warmth of their brief moment of camaraderie.
"We'll stay in touch via holo," she adds, tapping her temple.
With a nod, Takemura climbs into the van. The engine roars to life, and he disappears into the night, leaving V alone in the shadows of the looming industrial structures.
Night and day I scan horizon, sea and sky
My spirit wanders endlessly
Until the day will dawn and friends from home discover why
Hear me calling, rescue me
Set me free, set me free
Taking a deep breath, V shifts her focus, slipping into the mindset of a seasoned merc. She moves with purpose, hugging the perimeter fence as she seeks an entry point. The pipes behind the main building catch her eye — a perfect route up.
With practiced ease, she scales the containers, using them as a launchpad for a double jump. Her cybernetic enhancements hum with energy as she propels herself upward, fingers grasping the cold metal of the pipes. She hauls herself onto the roof, immediately dropping into a crouch.
"I'm in," she whispers into the holo, her voice barely above a breath. "Climbed the pipe. About to enter the warehouse."
Takemura's response comes through clear and quiet. “Very well. I have reached the roof. I will be in their communication system soon.”
V approaches the sliding door, her movements silent and fluid. As if by some stroke of luck, a guard turns away just as she reaches for the handle. She slips inside, immediately seeking cover behind the nearest float.
The warehouse is a maze of towering floats and containers, the air heavy with the scent of metal and machine oil. V navigates this industrial labyrinth with the grace of a cat, always staying just out of sight. "OK, I'm in," she updates Takemura. "What's the next move?"
His voice crackles through the holo. “Find the largest float. They are controlled from inside. The tech, it could be a ordinary terminal.”
V's eyes scan the warehouse, quickly spotting an enormous float designed to resemble a traditional Japanese house. "Gotcha," she confirms. "How're things on your end?"
“Good. I will reach the control room and make a terrible mess.” Takemura replies, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “I am ready. When you finish, I will make the systems sick.”
Reaching the upper floor window, she slips inside. The wooden stairs creak ominously beneath her feet as she descends, every muscle tense with the effort of moving silently. At the bottom, she spots her target — the terminal, guarded by a single Arasaka soldier whose back is fortuitously turned.
In a feat of stealth that would make even the most skilled ninja proud, V glides across the room. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, uploading the virus through her personal link in a matter of seconds.
Heart pounding with the thrill of success, she retreats to the upper floor. “OK, float's ours to do with as we please.” she grins, her voice a mix of excitement and relief. “You can fly it to Tokyo if you want.”
“Haha, I just may do that.” Takemura's chuckle comes through the holo. “Good work! Now it is my turn…”
As if on cue, chaos erupts. Alarms blare, their shrill cry piercing the air as red emergency lights bathe the warehouse in an ominous glow. Guards shout in confusion, their voices a cacophony of panic and orders.
“Can you see? Terrible chaos!” Takemura's voice is filled with satisfaction. “Even the roof is slowly... V, the roof. That is your way out!”
Without hesitation, V springs into action. She leaps from container to container, her cybernetic legs propelling her upwards with inhuman strength. The open roof looms above, rain pouring in and creating a curtain of water.
As she reaches the edge, calculating the distance to the nearest lower rooftop, a shout from behind shatters her concentration. A guard, several levels below, has spotted her. The unmistakable sound of a submachine gun being cocked echoes through the warehouse. Time seems to slow as V processes her options. The distance to the next roof is daunting, possibly fatal. But the burst of gunfire erupting behind her leaves no room for doubt. In a heart-stopping moment, V makes her choice. She leaps.
The rain-soaked night engulfs her as she flies through the air, the outcome uncertain. Time seems to stretch, each second feeling like an eternity as V plummets towards the unforgiving concrete below.
"Holy fucking shit, V!!" Johnny's voice pierces through her consciousness, panic evident in his voice as the ground rushes up to meet her with alarming speed.
V braces for impact. Her cybernetically enhanced reflexes kick in, allowing her to twist her body at the last second. The landing is brutal, a jarring collision that sends shockwaves of pain through her entire body. Her shoulder takes the brunt of the impact, popping out of its socket with a sickening crunch that's audible even over the din of the alarms and shouting guards.
V grits her teeth, barely suppressing a cry of agony as she rolls to a stop. The world spins around her, a nauseating mix of flashing red lights and rain-slicked pavement. She forces herself to focus, knowing that despite the pain, she's far from safe.
Her holo chimes, Goro's worried voice cutting through the haze of pain and adrenaline. "V? What happened? Are you alright? I heard gunfire."
Pushing herself up with her good arm, V manages a strained chuckle, wincing as the movement jostles her injured shoulder. "Took the express route out, Goro. Nothin' to worry about. Just a little... unplanned skydiving."
"You are injured," Takemura states, his voice a mix of concern and exasperation. "Where are you? I'm coming to get you."
V starts running towards the complex's exit, cradling her injured shoulder. Each step sends a jolt of pain through her body, but she pushes on, adrenaline masking the worst of it. "Heading east, towards the main gate. Might wanna step on it, though. Got some pissed-off guards on my tail."
"You're a goddamn lunatic, y’know that?" Johnny materializes beside her, keeping pace easily. "I swear, if I had a physical form, I'd strangle you myself. What were you thinkin’, taking a leap like that?"
V doesn't waste breath responding, focusing instead on putting as much distance between herself and the warehouse as possible. The sound of shouting guards grows fainter, but she doesn't slow down. The rain pelts her face, mixing with the sweat and grime of her escape.
Suddenly, the screech of tires pierces the air, cutting through the cacophony of alarms and distant shouts. Takemura's van comes to a screeching halt right in front of her, the passenger door flying open. Through the rain-streaked windshield, V can see Goro's face, a mask of determination and worry.
Without hesitation, V launches herself into the vehicle, her injured arm hanging uselessly at her side. "Go, go, go! Drive!" she yells, slamming the door shut behind her with her good hand.
Takemura doesn't need to be told twice. The van lurches forward, tires squealing as they peel away from the complex. The sudden acceleration pushes V back into her seat, eliciting a grunt of pain as it jostles her shoulder.
As they speed through the neon-lit streets of Night City, weaving through late-night traffic with a skill that speaks to Takemura's training, V slumps in her seat. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a throbbing pain that seems to encompass her entire left side.
It's only when they've crossed the bridge leading to Heywood, leaving behind the chaos and neon-lit streets of City Center, that Takemura finally eases off the accelerator. He guides the van into a narrow alley, the kind that seems to exist solely for clandestine meetings and hasty escapes. The engine's purr fades to a low rumble as he shifts into park, the sudden silence almost deafening after their frantic flight. Takemura turns to V, his face a mask of concern illuminated by the soft glow of the dashboard lights.
"What happened back there?" he asks, his voice low and urgent.
V winces as she shifts in her seat, her injured shoulder protesting every movement. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving behind a throbbing pain that seems to pulse in time with her heartbeat. "Got spotted when I reached the roof," she groans, massaging her shoulder gingerly. "Had to make a quick exit. Figured jumpin' was better than catchin' a bullet."
Takemura's brow furrows deeper, his eyes scanning her for any other visible injuries. "Is there a chance you were recognized?" The worry in his voice is palpable, a reminder of just how high the stakes are in their dangerous game against Arasaka.
"Relax, Goro," V says, trying to inject some confidence into her voice despite the pain. She manages a lopsided grin, though it comes out more like a grimace. "Chances are slim to none. It was dark up there, and the guard was pretty far. Think we're safe."
"Still..." Takemura hesitates, his fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel. "Just in case, it might be safer not to return to your apartment. If you were identified, Arasaka troops will descend upon it soon. Do you have a safehouse, somewhere off the grid?"
V opens her mouth to respond, then closes it abruptly. A wild idea starts to form in her mind, born perhaps from the lingering adrenaline or the sheer madness of their situation. "Wait," she says, holding up a hand.
Ignoring the protests of her injured shoulder, she scrolls through her contacts, the holo display casting a blue glow over her face. Her fingers stop on a familiar name, and a small smile tugs at her lips. "Hey Cap'!" she greets, her voice suddenly cheerful.
"V! What a pleasant surprise," El Capitán's enthusiastic voice fills the van. "How's the most preem lookin' merc in Night City doin'? More importantly, what kinda trouble can ol' Cap' help you with today?"
V chuckles, wincing slightly as the movement jostles her shoulder. "Oh, you know me, Cap'. Just another day in paradise. Listen, I was callin' about those real estate buddies of yours. How flexible are they when it comes to... let's say, unconventional buyers? Someone with zero paper trail, but plenty of eddies to make up for it?"
This earns her a surprised look from Takemura, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. V gives him a small shrug with her good shoulder, mouthing 'trust me'.
"Oh, V, V, V..." El Capitán chuckles, his voice rich with amusement. "You've gone and pissed off the wrong people again, huh? Lookin' for a nice little hidey-hole to lay low? Don't you worry your pretty little head. Bob and Em’ are, shall we say, uniquely understanding when it comes to Night City's more... discreet residents. Transfer me the eddies, and I'll work my magic. You'll have your very own piece of paradise before you can say 'corpo scum'."
"You're a lifesaver, Cap'!" V laughs, relief evident in her voice. "I'll send the cash as soon as we hang up, with a nice little bonus for your trouble. And the apartment? I need it ASAP. Like, needed it yesterday kinda urgent."
"See, that's why I love doin' business with you, V. Always keepin' me on my toes. So, which of these lovely little death traps has caught your discerning eye? Oh, and... any particular alias you'd like for the paperwork? Gotta keep things nice and legal, you understand."
"The loft in the Glen," V replies without hesitation. "As for the name..."
She trails off, unsure. Suddenly, Johnny materializes behind her seat, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. "Robyn Jane Linder," he suggests, a mischievous glint in his eyes. V shoots him a perplexed look over her shoulder, but lacking a better option, repeats the name into the phone.
"Robyn Jane Linder," El Capitán muses, "Sounds preem. Alright, chica, just transfer those sweet, sweet eddies and we're golden. Your new little love nest will be ready in twenty minutes, thirty tops. Just flash that pretty smile of yours at the doorman and drop the name. We'll iron out the nitty-gritty later."
"Thanks, man. You're the best. I owe you one," V says, genuine gratitude in her voice.
"Ah, what are friends for in this city if not to bail each other out of trouble? Just try not to get yourself flatlined before you can enjoy your new digs, yeah? Night City's more interesting with you in it."
With a final chuckle, V ends the call. She turns to Takemura, a mix of pain, triumph, and exhaustion playing across her face. "Looks like we've got ourselves a safehouse, Goro."
Takemura stares at her as if she's suddenly sprouted a second head. "Did you just... purchase an apartment on a whim?" he asks, his voice a mixture of disbelief and grudging admiration.
"Oh... yes and no," V explains, wincing as she shifts in her seat. "I'd been thinkin' about ditchin' the megabuilding H10 for a while now. This was just as good a time as any to pull the trigger."
"I see," Takemura comments, clearly not knowing what to say. His expression is a comical blend of confusion and respect.
V attempts to shrug, but the sharp pain in her shoulder quickly reminds her why that's a bad idea. "Hey, since we've got some time before we can hit up the new digs... When I took that swan dive off the roof, I kinda... popped my shoulder outta place. In that fancy corpo bodyguard training of yours, they teach you any first aid basics? 'Cause I could use a hand gettin' this sucker back where it belongs."
Takemura's eyes widen, concern flooding his features. "V, you must be in considerable pain. Why didn't you say something sooner?" He shakes his head, already reaching for the van's door handle. "Come, let's take care of this immediately."
They exit the vehicle, the cool night air a stark contrast to the stuffy interior of the van. Takemura guides V to lean against the vehicle's side, his movements careful and precise.
"This will hurt," he warns, his voice soft but firm. "But it will be over quickly. Try to relax."
V nods, gritting her teeth. "Just do it, Goro. I've had worse."
Takemura positions himself, his hands steady as they grasp her arm and shoulder. "On three. One... two..."
He moves suddenly, not waiting for three. There's a sickening pop as V's shoulder slides back into its socket. She lets out a string of colorful curses that would make even the most hardened Maelstrom ganger blush.
"Fuck, Goro!" she gasps, the pain slowly subsiding to a dull throb. "A little warning next time?"
"The anticipation often makes it worse," he explains, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Now, try to move it gently."
As V cautiously rotates her arm, Takemura begins to speak, his voice taking on a distant quality as if lost in memory. "You know, in my training to become Arasaka-sama's bodyguard, we learned far more than just combat and first aid..."
V listens, grateful for the distraction as she tests her newly relocated shoulder. "Yeah? What else they teach you in Arasaka Bodyguard School? How to fold napkins into swans?"
Takemura leans against the van beside her, a small smile playing on his lips. "My training as Saburo Arasaka's bodyguard was... extensive. It went far beyond mere combat skills or napkin folding, I assure you."
To distract her from the lingering pain, he begins to recount elements of his training. "We learned advanced interrogation techniques," he says, his voice low and measured. "Which, to be frank, often bordered on torture. I can withstand extreme pain and... inflict it, if necessary."
V whistles low. "Damn, Goro. Remind me never to piss you off."
Takemura continues, his eyes distant. "Poison detection was crucial — I can identify over 40 toxins by taste alone. We ingested small amounts of various poisons to build immunity. It was... unpleasant."
"Fuck…" V interjects, lighting a cigarette. The ember glows bright in the dim alley, casting eerie shadows across her face. "That's some hardcore shit. What, did they make you lick cyanide lollipops or somethin'?"
He nods solemnly, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Not lollipops, but close. But it was not all violence and pain. Etiquette was paramount. We had to navigate high-society functions as easily as battlefields. There were... less conventional skills as well. Etiquette, dance, even the art of calligraphy."
"Calligraphy?" V snorts, nearly choking on her cigarette smoke. "What, in case Saburo needed an emergency haiku written? 'Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm the emperor of Arasaka, bow down to me, you?'"
This elicits a rare, genuine laught from Takemura. "It was about discipline, focus. But yes, it did seem... excessive at times. Though I must say, your attempt at a haiku leaves much to be desired."
V grins, taking another drag. "Hey, I'm a merc, not a poet. So what else? Did they teach you the secret corpo handshake? How to use seventeen different forks at a fancy dinner?"
Takemura's eyes twinkle with amusement. "The forks, yes. The handshake... that's classified information, I'm afraid."
They continue their banter, killing time until they can head to V's new apartment. The smoke from V's cigarette curls lazily into the night air, mingling with the ever-present smog of Night City. The neon lights of distant signs cast a surreal glow over the alley, painting their faces in shifting hues of purple and pink, creating an almost dreamlike atmosphere in the grimy urban landscape.
"Well, I think it's time we get our asses movin'," V finally suggests, stubbing out her cigarette on the van's bumper. "It ain't far from here, on Los Lobos Street. Take the same route as if we're headin' to the Coyote, but keep your foot on the gas a bit longer."
They set off in the van, the engine's low rumble mixing with the constant hum of the city. As they navigate through the neon-lit streets, dodging drunk pedestrians and the occasional stray bullet, they finally arrive in front of the building. V is pleasantly surprised when Goro follows her inside without hesitation. It's a far cry from the megabuilding where she used to live — no endless corridors or the constant hum of thousands of lives packed too close together. Instead, there's an almost eerie quiet as they step into the lobby.
The entrance is a study in contrasts — exposed brick walls softened by warm, ambient lighting. A worn but comfortable-looking couch sits near a state-of-the-art vending machine, the juxtaposition of old and new so typical of Night City. The whole place smells faintly of synthetic air freshener battling against the ever-present odor of the city.
Behind a desk cluttered with colorful flyers advertising everything from braindances to discount cyberware, a woman with a fiery red pixie cut and intricate Valentinos tattoos snaking up her neck greets them. She eyes V with a mix of curiosity and wariness. "You must be Miss Linder," the woman says, her voice a mix of boredom and mild interest.
At the mention of 'Linder', Johnny materializes, his face split in a wide, shit-eating grin. "Oh man, V," he chuckles, "I can't believe they actually bought that. Linder... classic."
V, still not understanding what's so funny about the alias Johnny chose for her, simply nods to the woman. "That's me," she confirms, trying to ignore Johnny's continued laughter.
The woman, seemingly oblivious to V's internal dialogue, continues. "Everything's been squared away by the agency. Just take the elevator to the 12th floor. You'll need to use your personal link to access it — security measure, you know how it is."
V and Goro step into the elevator, which looks like it's held together more by prayer than engineering. The walls are a canvas of gang tags and what might be blood stains if you look too closely. As the doors creak shut, Goro's face contorts into a grimace that could curdle milk.
As they begin their ascent, the elevator groaning in protest, V can't help but tease him. "Hold your horses, Goro. Wait till you see the apartment before you start making that face. This is just part of the Night City charm."
Takemura's response is dry enough to turn the elevator into a desert. "Ah yes, the 'charm' of potential tetanus and gang violence. Truly, I feel more at home with every passing moment."
The elevator comes to a stop with a slight jerk, and V uses her personal link to unlock the doors. They slide open to reveal not a hallway, but the entrance to the apartment itself. As V steps into it, her eyes widen in disbelief. The space unfolds before her, a sprawling, multi-level loft that screams luxury in a way she's never experienced before. The industrial-chic aesthetic is a far cry from her old digs, with exposed brick walls, high ceilings crisscrossed with metal beams, and sleek, modern furnishings.
"Holy shit," she breathes, taking in the sight. "This place is fuckin' preem."
The main living area is dominated by a circular sunken lounge, its leather couch beckoning invitingly. A geometric light fixture hangs above, casting a warm glow over the space. To the left, a sleek pool table catches her eye, its red felt a stark contrast to the muted tones of the room.
"Oh hell yeah, now we're talkin'," V grins, already imagining the games she could play here.
Goro, meanwhile, has made a beeline for the kitchen area. His eyebrows raise appreciatively as he takes in the well-equipped space — a rarity in Night City apartments. Sleek appliances line the countertops, and a fully-stocked bar with illuminated shelves sits nearby.
"This is... unexpected," he murmurs, running a hand over the smooth countertop.
V chuckles, making her way towards him. "What, you thought I'd be livin' in some rat-infested hole? Give me some credit, Goro."
She wanders over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, drinking in the breathtaking view of Night City's skyline. The neon-lit chaos of the streets below seems distant from up here, almost peaceful. In the distance, massive corporate towers pierce the smog-filled sky.
"Damn," Johnny materializes beside her, whistling low. "Gotta hand it to ya, V. This place is a far cry from that closet you called home before. Nice upgrade."
Her eyes drift upward, noticing the loft area above. A spacious bed is visible, along with a door that probably leads to the bathroom. She turns back to Goro, who's examining the high-tech appliances in the kitchen with interest. "So, what do you think? Beats sleeping in the van, right?"
Goro nods, a hint of a smile on his lips. "It is... adequate. Though I must admit, I did not expect such luxury from you, V. The kitchen, in particular, is quite impressive."
V grins, spreading her arms wide. "What can I say? I'm full of surprises." As she moves towards the table, she notices a small room near the metallic stair, a workspace, complete with a weapons workbench. "Oh, and look at that. Even got a place to tinker with my gear. This place really does have it all."
The apartment is a perfect blend of luxury and functionality, tailored for someone living the dangerous life of a Night City merc. It's a far cry from V's past, and she can't help but feel a mix of excitement and disbelief at her new digs.
As V saunters over to join Takemura in the kitchen area, her eyes are drawn to a small, elegant arrangement on the sleek countertop. A delicate pink orchid, its petals unfurling gracefully from a minimalist round pot, sits beside a wicker basket overflowing with an assortment of fresh fruits. Next to these, a bottle of champagne beads with condensation, flanked by a set of crystal flutes that catch and refract the ambient light.
V picks up a small, handwritten note propped against the champagne. "'To Miss Linder,'" she reads aloud, eliciting another chuckle from Johnny, who's materialized nearby. "'Welcome to your new home. We hope you'll find it to your liking. Cheers to new beginnings! Signed, Emma from EZestate.' Well, ain't that sweet?"
She turns to Goro, who's eyeing the champagne with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "Well, Goro, looks like we've got ourselves a housewarming party. What d'ya say we pop that cork and toast to not getting our asses handed to us today?"
Goro hesitates, his brow furrowing slightly. "I am not sure that would be... appropriate. We still have much work to do, V."
"Oh, come on," V cajoles, already reaching for the bottle. "After the day we've had? We've earned this. Besides, it'd be rude to let Emma's thoughtful gift go to waste, right?"
A ghost of a smile flickers across Goro's face. "Your logic is... questionable. But perhaps you are right. A small celebration may be in order."
"That's the spirit!" V exclaims, already working on the champagne bottle. With a satisfying pop, she fills the flutes, handing one to Goro.
Raising her glass, V smirks. "To not dying — always a win in my book."
"To survival," Goro adds solemnly, then with a hint of a smile, "and to future successes."
They clink glasses, the crystal singing a clear note in the spacious apartment. As they sip, the conversation flows more freely, the bubbles and the day's adrenaline crash working to loosen their usual guards.
As the night wears on and the champagne bottle empties, their conversation meanders from strategy to shared experiences, punctuated by V's occasional laughter and Goro's dry observations. Finally, Goro sets down his glass with a sigh.
"I should take my leave," he says, though there's a reluctance in his voice that wasn't there earlier. "It is late, and we both require rest."
V, feeling the pleasant buzz of champagne and camaraderie, shakes her head. "Nah, don't be stupid. It's dangerous out there, especially for you. Why don't you crash here? That couch looks comfy as hell, and I bet it beats whatever hidey-hole you've been squatting in."
Goro pauses, his stoic facade cracking slightly as he visibly wrestles with the decision. His ingrained sense of propriety clashes with the undeniable logic of V's offer. After a moment that seems to stretch on forever, he finally nods, his shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly. "Your offer is... kind. I accept, with gratitude."
"Don't mention it," V says with a dismissive wave of her hand, unsuccessfully trying to stifle a yawn as she heads towards the stairs leading to the bedroom. The metal steps creak slightly under her weight, a reminder of the industrial chic aesthetic of her new digs. "Mi casa es su casa, or whatever. Make yourself at home, Goro. G’night"
“Sleep well, V” Goro replies, his voice softened by a hint of warmth.
As she climbs the stairs, Johnny appears, lounging against the railing with a smirk. "Well, well, well. Look at you, playing hostess."
V flips him off good-naturedly, too tired and content to really engage in their usual verbal sparring. As she collapses onto the plush bed, reveling in the feel of the soft sheets against her skin, the rockerboy reappears. He's stretched out beside her, one arm casually tucked behind his head, the very picture of nonchalance. Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, V turns to him. "I don't get it, Johnny. What's so damn funny about that name? You've been chuckling about it all night."
"Nothing, nothing at all, Robyn.” he chuckles, “It just suits you so well, don't you think?"
V narrows her eyes suspiciously, propping herself up on one elbow to get a better look at him. "There's something you're not telling me, isn't there? Spill it, Silverhand."
"Me? Keep secrets from you? Never," Johnny says, the picture of innocence... if innocence looked like a smirking, leather-clad rockerboy terrorist with a mischievous glint in his eye.
V sighs, flopping back onto the bed and shaking her head in exasperation. "Fine, keep your secrets. But I swear, Johnny, if this comes back to bite me in the ass..."
"Relax, will ya?" he cuts in. "It's just a name. A perfectly normal, totally not significant name that definitely doesn't mean anything to me personally. Now come on, time to sleep. Even badass mercs need their beauty rest."
V reluctantly drops the subject, her eyelids growing heavy as the events of the day finally catch up with her. As she drifts off, Johnny's grin widens. "Night, princess," he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
"Yeah, night, rockerboy," V mumbles, her eyes drifting shut. As sleep begins to claim her, she can't help but feel a sense of contentment washing over her. The gentle hum of Night City's never-ending bustle serves as a distant lullaby, lulling her into a deep, peaceful slumber.
Notes:
"You know," Johnny says, "sometimes I forget how fucked up this whole situation is. A street kid merc, a washed-up rockerboy's engram, and an ex-Arasaka bodyguard walk into a bar..."
"Sounds like the start of a bad joke," V chuckles.
"Our whole lives are a bad joke, V," Johnny retorts. "Might as well try to laugh at it."Message thread generator HTML/CSS by Luvwich ! Have fun with it here ♥
♫ Chapter Song: Iron Maiden - Stranger In A Strange Land
Oh, and since I had trouble choosing the photos for this chapter, here are a few bonus ones. This is for you, CassandraDAuguste.
xoxo ♥
Chapter 12: The Becoming
Notes:
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the Kudos and bookmarks on the previous chapter ♥ And thank you lookforthelight for your comments. ♥♥ Thanks also to everyone who just stops by to read! Feel free to come say hello in the comments, I'd love to know what you think :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I'm stuck in this dream
It's changing me
I am becoming
The me that you know, he had some second thoughts
He's covered with scabs
He is broken and sore
The me that you know
He doesn't come around much
That part of me
Isn't here anymore
The next morning, V is gently roused from her slumber by the enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air. As she opens her eyes, there's a moment of disorientation, her mind still foggy with sleep. The events of the previous night come flooding back — the daring escape, the new apartment, and Takemura's unexpected sleepover.
Stretching languidly, V lets out a deep yawn, her muscles protesting slightly from the previous night's exertions. She carefully checks her shoulder, wincing at the sight of a massive, mottled bruise that's bloomed overnight. Despite the ugly discoloration, she's relieved to find no other lasting damage from their daring warehouse escapade.
With a soft groan, V swings her legs over the side of the bed and makes her way down the metal stairs. The sight that greets her is enough to make her pause mid-step. Goro sits perched on one of the kitchen stools, bathed in the soft, golden light of the morning sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His usually impeccable attire is slightly relaxed, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms, as he takes a hearty bite from a crisp, red apple. The domesticity of the scene is so unexpected that V can't help but stare for a moment.
"Good morning, V," Takemura greets her, his deep voice cutting through her reverie. "Did you sleep well?"
V blinks, shaking off her momentary stupor. "Yeah, really good," she replies, padding over to sit across from him at the kitchen island. Her eyes fall on a steaming cup of coffee placed in front of her vacant seat. The thoughtful gesture doesn't surprise her as much as she thinks it should. "Thanks for the coffee. How 'bout you? Sleep okay on that couch?"
"Mh, very well," he affirms, taking another bite of his apple. "This place is a significant improvement over my current hideout. The silence is... refreshing."
V cradles the mug in her hands, savoring the rich aroma. “Well, you're welcome anytime you want," she offers, "Feel free to crash here anytime you need a break from the noise. Oh, and if you want to test out that fancy shower, be my guest. Bet it's a step up from whatever you've got at your place."
Takemura's eyebrow arches elegantly, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I appreciate the offer, but you don't have any towels here yet," he points out pragmatically.
"Not the air-drying type, huh?" V quips, a playful smirk dancing on her lips.
"Not really," Takemura responds flatly, but the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth betrays his amusement. As V sips her coffee, Takemura's expression shifts, the familiar look of intense focus settling over his features. "I should take my leave soon," he says, his tone regaining its usual businesslike quality. "While we have some time before the parade, we cannot afford to become complacent. There are still several matters I need to verify and arrangements to be made."
V nods, unsurprised by his unwavering focus on the mission. While she's still battling the lingering tendrils of sleep, Takemura is already in full operational mode, his mind no doubt running through countless scenarios and contingencies.
"Yeah, sure," she agrees, hiding a yawn behind her coffee cup. "All work and no play, right?" She offers him a warm smile. "But hey, if you need anything between now and then, give me a call." A playful smirk tugs at her lips as she adds, "Or drop by. You know where I live now, after all."
Takemura nods, a rare expression of gratitude softening his usually stoic features. He rises with fluid grace, his movements precise and economical as he places his used cup in the dishwasher and tosses the apple core into the trash. With meticulous care, he rolls down his sleeves, smoothing out any wrinkles before retrieving his coat from where it's draped over the couch.
"Thank you again for your hospitality, V," Takemura says, his deep voice tinged with warmth. "Your new home is... quite impressive. I will contact you soon with any updates on our mission."
V nods, offering a lazy salute. "Anytime, Goro. Don't be a stranger, yeah?" With a final nod, Takemura calls the elevator and departs, leaving V alone in the spacious apartment.
With a sigh, V pours herself a second cup of coffee, the rich aroma filling the air. Without hesitation, she brings the steaming mug to her lips and takes a long gulp, the scalding liquid barely registering as it slides down her throat.
Johnny materializes, lounging on the pool table with a concerned frown. "Whoa there, hotshot. Since when did you start chugging lava for breakfast?"
V quirks an eyebrow, confused. "What? It's just coffee, Johnny."
"Yeah, coffee hot enough to melt your fuckin' insides," Johnny retorts, sitting up straighter. "You used to wait for that shit to cool down. Said you couldn't taste it properly otherwise."
V shrugs, taking another sip. "Guess I've developed a taste for it. No big deal."
Johnny's frown deepens, a flicker of worry passing over his face. He knows all too well that this is how he prefers his coffee — scalding hot and strong enough to wake the dead. The thought unsettles him more than he cares to admit. It could just be a coincidence — a weird one, but still — he promises himself to keep a close eye on this. Deciding to change the subject, he asks, "So, what's the plan for moving all your junk to this swanky new pad? Gonna hire some overpriced movers?"
V's smile widens. "Nah, I've got something better. A bunch of nomads who seem to be itching for a chance to do me a solid." She pulls out her holo, tapping one of her contacts. "Hey Panam, what's up?"
Panam's voice comes through, bright and cheerful. "V! Good to hear from you! Was wondering when you'd call after those messages last night. How'd that gig with Mr. Hot go?"
"Went smooth as silk," V chuckles. "How about you? How's everything on your end?"
"Oh, you know, same old. Mitch is trying to upgrade the Basilisk again. Think he's more in love with that tank than any person." Panam pauses. "Hey, how's our resident rockerboy doing? Johnny still being a pain in your ass?"
Johnny perks up at the mention of his name, a smirk playing on his lips. "Tell her I'm always a pain in the ass, but you love it."
V rolls her eyes. "Johnny says hi. He's his usual charming self."
"Glad to hear it," Panam laughs. "So, what's up? You calling just to chat or you need something?"
"Actually," V says, "remember that blank check you and Mitch offered? Time to cash in. Got a few boxes that need some nomad muscle..."
"For you? Hell, we'd move a whole scrapyard," Panam replies without missing a beat. "What's the deal?"
V grins, leaning against the counter. "I may or may not have impulse-bought a new pad. I'll give you the juicy details when you get here. Oh, and if you've got a cat carrier lying around, that'd be preem..."
"A cat? Since when do you have a cat?" Panam sounds amused. "Never mind, we'll bring one. Anything else?"
"If you could meet me at my old place in Megabuilding H10 in a few hours, that'd be perfect. I'll start packing up my stuff."
"You got it, V. We'll roll up around 1 PM. And hey," Panam adds, her voice softening just a touch, "it's good to hear from you. Can't wait to see what trouble you've gotten yourself into this time."
"Oh, Panam," V chuckles, "you have no idea. See you soon."
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
V drags herself back to Little China, taking the NCART. As she navigates through her megablock, she decides to make one last round of goodbyes. First stop, Coach Fred's gym. V half-heartedly promises to think about joining his underground boxing matches when she's got time. The coach just grunts, clearly not buying it.
Next up, Wilson's armory. The crusty old arms dealer manages to sweet-talk V into joining a shooting contest that's about to kick off. She agrees reluctantly, figuring it beats listening to another sob story about ungrateful customers and how the market's gone to shit.
V sighs, taking her spot among the other trigger-happy gonks, knowing full well she's far from having the skills to win anything. She can feel Johnny's presence in the back of her mind, a mix of amusement and curiosity radiating from him.
Getting into position in a free booth, she waits for Wilson's signal to start shooting. She empties her mag on the target, results predictably shit. As she reloads, something weird happens — she unconsciously switches the pistol to her other hand. Suddenly, her shots find their mark with uncanny accuracy, each one hitting dead center.
The change is so dramatic that V freezes for a moment, staring at the gun in disbelief — until a "For fuck's sake, stop gawking and keep shooting, V!" is yelled in her ears by the arms dealer. Charming as ever, that one. She refocuses, aiming again. Dead center. Again. And again. She keeps going until the end signal blares.
Dumbfounded, V stares at the pistol like it might bite her, barely registering the results announcement. A few steps away, Johnny looks like he's just swallowed a lemon whole. Wilson's meaty hand slapping her shoulder jolts her back to reality, telling her not to look so glum, that second place isn't bad at all, considering how terrible she usually is. After that, V leaves the shooting range without looking back.
She makes one last stop on the way to her apartment, knocking on number 613. Barry answers, looking slightly less like warmed-over shit than usual. They swap pleasantries, V making sure he hasn't offed himself yet — she always feels a twinge in her heart when she thinks of him and his turtle. V tells him about her plans to leave the building and leaves her contact info — just in case.
After that, she climbs the last flight of stairs leading to her floor, then stumbles into her own apartment, mind reeling. The familiar space suddenly feels alien. She collapses onto the worn couch, burying her face in her hands.
Johnny materializes, pacing nervously. "Alright, let's talk about what the fuck just happened down there," he says, voice tight with anxiety.
V looks up, meeting Johnny's eyes. "I don't know, man. One second I'm shooting like a wasted gonk trying to piss in a shot glass, the next I'm hitting bullseyes like some kinda corpo assassin."
Johnny stops pacing, fixing V with an intense stare. "It's worse than that, V. You pulled a fuckin' switcheroo with your hands."
"The hell you talkin' about?" V's face scrunches up in confusion.
"You heard me," Johnny continues, voice flat. "You started shooting with your right hand, like always. But just before you started hittin’ dead center, you switched to your left. Didn't even fuckin' notice, did ya?"
V shakes her head slowly, the realization hitting her like a freight train. "No... no, I didn't. But how the fuck...?"
"Because I'm the southpaw here, V," Johnny says, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Not you. Me."
The implications of his words hang in the air like a toxic cloud. V feels a chill run down her spine as the truth sinks in, cold and unforgiving.
"Fuck me sideways," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "It's happening faster than we thought, isn't it? I'm... I'm turning into you."
Johnny resumes his pacing, his agitation practically radiating off his digital form. "This ain't good, V. We gotta find a way to slam the brakes on this shit, or..."
He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. They both know what's at stake — V's very existence.
V stands up, trying to shake off the creeping dread that's settled in her gut like a lead weight. "We will. We fuckin' have to. But can't start freakin' out 'bout it now, Panam and the others will be here soon. We better get started."
V throws herself into packing, hurling clothes into travel bags with reckless abandon. It's easier to focus on the physical task than to dwell on the mindfuck that just went down at the shooting range. Meanwhile, Johnny's sprawled on the couch, his digital form a picture of brooding intensity. His mind races, replaying the morning's coffee incident and now this shooting range bullshit. It's really, really not fucking good. He wonders how many other little changes he might have missed. Have these shifts in V been creeping up for a while now? Did things kick into overdrive after that massive Relic malfunction in the Badlands that knocked V out cold for a whole damn day?
Johnny's thoughts are a jumbled mess of worry and self-loathing. He feels like he's watching V slip away, bit by fuckin' bit, and it's all his fault. The weight of his influence on her, the slow erasure of who she used to be, it's all hitting him like a sledgehammer to the gut. He wants to say something, to tell her he’s sorry, but what good would that do? It's not like they can stop this shit from happening. So he just sits there, feeling like the biggest asshole in Night City, watching V pack up her life while he's slowly, inevitably, taking it away from her.
The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife, both V and Johnny lost in their own thoughts, the unspoken fear of what's to come hanging between them like a guillotine blade. As V continues to pack, her movements becoming more erratic, Johnny can't shake the feeling that they're running out of time faster than either of them realized.
A series of enthusiastic knocks on the door breaks the tense silence. V, grateful for the distraction, practically sprints to answer it. She swings the door open to reveal Panam's beaming face.
"Hey, bitch! Thought you could start without us?" Panam grins, pushing past V into the apartment. Mitch follows, giving V a friendly nod. "Hey there, city girl. Brought some extra muscle," he says, jerking his thumb behind him.
Bob lumbers in. "Heard you needed muscles," he says with a shrug, flexing for emphasis. "Besides, ain't like I had anythin' better to do. Beats watchin' Cassidy try to fix that piece of shit truck again."
V snorts, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Well, shit. Welcome to my humble abode, I guess."
As they file in, Panam's eyes lock onto Nibbles, who's perched on the back of the couch. "Oh. My. God." She approaches the hairless cat slowly, hand outstretched. "What is this adorable alien creature?"
V smirks. "That's Nibbles. Go ahead, she loves attention."
Panam scoops up the cat, cradling her like a baby. "You're coming with us, aren't you, little thing? Yes, you are!" she coos, completely smitten.
Meanwhile, Mitch has wandered over to V's weapon collection, whistling appreciatively. "Damn, girl. You expecting a small war or something?"
V chuckles. "In this city? Always."
As her friends explore the apartment, V feels a wave of affection wash over her. She clears her throat, getting everyone's attention. "So, uh, thanks for coming. We've gotta haul all this shit to Heywood. It's gonna be a pain in the ass, but..."
"But that's what friends are for," Panam finishes, standing up and dusting cat hair off her pants. "Now, where do we start?"
Bob cracks his knuckles, grinning. "Point me at the heavy stuff. I'll make it my bitch."
As they start divvying up tasks, Johnny materializes near V, his earlier brooding replaced by a smirk. "Well, would you look at that. The Nomad Cavalry's here to save your ass. Again."
V rolls her eyes, but can't hide her smile. For a moment, the weight of their shared predicament lifts, replaced by the warmth of friendship and the promise of a new beginning. As they start packing in earnest, the apartment fills with laughter, banter, and the occasional curse as someone stubs their toe on V's cluttered mess.
The apartment is a fucking mess, but it's the good kind of chaos. The kind that reminds V why she's fighting tooth and nail to stay alive in this neon-drenched hellhole of a city. For now, that's enough to keep the darkness at bay.
As Mitch and Bob lumber down the stairs, arms laden with bags and boxes to load into the van, Panam seizes the moment. She plops down on the now-empty couch, patting the spot next to her. "Alright, chica, spill. What's the deal with all this?"
V sighs, collapsing next to her friend. She spends the next few minutes giving Panam the rundown of the past 24 hours — the mission with Takemura, the hasty apartment purchase, and how the stoic bodyguard ended up crashing on her couch. Finally, she gets to the incident at the shooting range, her voice dropping as she recounts the unsettling experience.
Panam listens intently, her expressions shifting from amusement to concern. When V mentions Goro spending the night, she can't help but wiggle her eyebrows suggestively. "Ooh, a sleepover with the hot corpo bodyguard? Scandalous!"
V rolls her eyes, shoving Panam playfully. "It wasn't like that, you gonk. The man slept on the couch, for fuck's sake."
"Uh-huh, sure," Panam grins, clearly not buying it. But her smile fades as V continues, replaced by a furrowed brow when she hears about the shooting range incident.
"Well, fuck, V," Panam whistles low. "The more you tell me about this Relic biz, the weirder it gets." Seeing the merc's crestfallen expression, she quickly adds in a lighter tone, "But hey, speaking of Johnny, can't he lend a hand with these boxes? Seems like the least he could do, being all up in your head and all."
From his spot lounging on the now-empty couch, Johnny's sardonic voice rings out. "I'd be happy to help if someone offered me a pizza, a case of beer, and if my arms didn't pass right through the fuckin' objects!"
V snorts, relaying Johnny's message to Panam. The nomad's eyes widen in mock surprise. "Oh, the great Johnny Silverhand has demands, does he? Maybe we should leave him behind with the rest of the junk?"
"Fuck you too, desert rat," Johnny retorts, flipping Panam off even though she can't see him.
V shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "Nah, we're stuck with him. For better or worse."
As they laugh, the tension in the room eases a bit. For a moment, it's just two friends joking around, the weight of impending doom lifted from their shoulders. V catches Johnny's eye, and there's a glimmer of something there — gratitude, maybe, or just relief at the brief respite from their grim reality.
The moment is shattered by Bob's booming voice from the doorway. "Hey, you two gonna sit around gossiping all day, or are you gonna help us load this van?"
Panam jumps up, offering a hand to V. "Duty calls. You ready to say goodbye to this place?"
V takes a last look around the apartment, memories flashing through her mind. It's not much, but it's been home. She takes Panam's hand, pulling herself up. "Yeah," she says softly. "Yeah, I think I am."
No escape from this
My new consciousness
The me that you know
He used to have feelings
But the blood has stopped pumping and he is left to decay
The me that you know is now made up of wires
And even when i'm right with you i'm so far away
"Wow," Panam gushes, her eyes wide as she takes in the spacious apartment, "this place is really, really nice!"
V can't help but grin at her friend's reaction, a sense of pride swelling in her chest as she kneels down to unlatch Nibbles' carrier. The hairless cat slinks out cautiously, whiskers twitching as she surveys her new kingdom. "Classy as fuck, right?" V responds, straightening up and stretching her arms above her head. "And you ain't even seen the bathroom yet. There's a bathtub, Pan'. A fuckin' bathtub!"
Panam's laughter echoes off the bare walls as she cracks open one of the many boxes littering the floor. She starts arranging V's eclectic collection of knick-knacks on the shelf near the stairs. "Oh, fancy!" she teases, holding up a particularly garish neon sign. "Bob's gonna be green with envy when he sees that massive TV of yours, just watch."
V shrugs, a smirk playing on her lips. "Eh, came with the place. It's not like I've had time to binge Watson Whore reruns lately anyway."
Johnny materializes, sprawling on the couch with a shit-eating grin. "Hey, add the entire Bushidō movie collection to our shopping list while you're at it."
"Oh, hell no!" V grouses, responding out loud without thinking. Panam turns, eyebrow raised, as V continues, her voice rising in mock indignation, "I already promised to buy you a guitar, I'm not subjecting myself to those shitty flicks too!"
"Seriously? You're buying him a guitar?" Panam asks, amusement dancing in her eyes.
"Yep," V responds, popping the 'p' with exaggerated emphasis. She waves her hand dismissively, as if buying instruments for digital constructs was an everyday occurrence. "The best in the store if that's what his rockerboy heart desires."
"Damn," the nomad chuckles, shaking her head in disbelief. You know, Johnny," she addresses the empty space where she assumes the rockerboy's construct might be, "you really lucked out landing in V's head instead of someone else's. She's too damn nice for her own good. Not many people would be buying gifts for a ghost."
Johnny's smile fades as quickly as it appeared. His uncharacteristic lack of a snappy comeback makes V turn to look at him. She catches him fidgeting nervously with his rings before he murmurs, "Yeah, I know..." He avoids V's gaze, disappearing in a cloud of pixels.
The sudden shift in mood is palpable. V feels a twinge in her chest, a mix of concern and something else she can't quite name. Panam, oblivious to the exchange, continues unpacking, humming softly to herself.
V stands there for a moment, staring at the spot where Johnny vanished. She's used to his mood swings, the rapid-fire changes between sarcasm, anger, and rare moments of sincerity. But this... this felt different. Like she'd caught a glimpse of something raw and vulnerable behind his usual cocky facade, a reminder that beneath the legend of Johnny Silverhand was a man — flawed, complex, and perhaps more human than he'd like to admit.
"You okay, V?" Panam's voice cuts through her reverie, sharp and concerned.
V blinks, dragging her attention back to the present. "Yeah, just... thinkin'," she mumbles, shaking her head as if to clear it. She forces a smile, grabbing another box filled with a jumble of clothes and weapon parts. "C'mon, let's get this shit unpacked before the guys show up and start critiquing our organizational skills."
As if on cue, the elevator dings, announcing the arrival of the other two nomads. Mitch emerges first, grunting as he pushes an old arcade cabinet on a trolley, its faded graphics barely visible under a layer of dust that speaks of years of neglect.
V's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. "The hell did that come from?"
Mitch grins, patting the machine affectionately like it's an old friend. "What, ain't you city folk do housewarming gifts? Been lugging this old girl around for years. Figured you might appreciate it more than my tent does."
V's face softens, a genuine smile spreading across her features. "Fuck, Mitch. That's... thanks, man. Really. This is too much." She pauses, looking around the apartment. "You can stick it under the stairs if you want."
Bob chimes in, his deep voice rumbling through the apartment. "Actually, all us vets put together some stuff for ya. Call it a 'thanks for saving our asses with the Basilisk' care package."
He starts unloading an assortment of items from the elevator, each one more surprising than the last. First comes a cat tree, towering over V herself. "This monstrosity's from Carol. Don't ask me why, I learned long ago not to question that woman's decisions. Probably thinks your cat needs to work out or somethin'." V snorts, eyeing Nibbles, who's already sizing up her potential new playground.
Next, Bob pulls out a vintage record player. "This one's from yours truly. Figured you might want somethin' to spin those old vinyls on."
"Damn, Bob. This is preem," V says, running her hand over the sleek surface.
"Cassidy sent over a whole box of old books," Bob continues, hefting a cardboard box that looks ready to burst at the seams. "Said somethin' about 'expanding your horizons' or some shit. Personally, I think he just wanted to clear out some space in his trailer." He sets the box down with a grunt, then produces a bottle of booze. "And Teddy threw in a bottle of the good stuff. Tequila, I think."
V feels a lump forming in her throat, overwhelmed by the unexpected generosity. "Guys, I... shit, I don't know what to say. This is... fuck, it's too much."
Panam, grinning from ear to ear like a kid on Christmas morning, pipes up. "Well, don't say anything yet, 'cause there's still two more presents in my trunk. Be right back!" She dashes off, leaving V surrounded by her new possessions and feeling more at home than she has in years.
Johnny materializes, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His earlier melancholy seems to have lifted, replaced by his trademark smirk. "Look at you, V. Regular fuckin' Santa Claus over here."
V chuckles, careful not to respond out loud this time. "Shut it, you. Don't act like you're not eyeing that record player. I can practically see you itching to spin some of your old tunes." She's relieved to see him smile again, and returns his grin with one of her own.
"You know me too well, V," Johnny chuckles. "Just promise me we won't be playing any of that corpo pop shit. My non-existent ears can't take it."
A few moments later, Panam reappears in the doorway, her face flushed with exertion as she struggles with an enormous punching bag. The thing's practically as big as she is, and she's more pushing than carrying it. Mitch rushes to her aid, relieving her of the burden with a grunt.
Catching her breath, Panam explains, her eyes twinkling with mischief, "This beast is from me. Trust me, V, it's fuckin' great for stress. Nothing like beating the shit out of something to clear your head." She winks at the merc, pulling a pair of well-worn boxing gloves from her backpack to go with it. The leather is cracked and faded, but they look like they've got plenty of life left in them.
Panam pauses briefly, then reaches back into her bag, pulling out a neatly folded piece of clothing. "And this little number is from Saul."
V unfolds the jacket, holding it up to examine it. It's a sort of olive green military style, adorned with numerous pockets — perfect for stashing all sorts of goodies. But what really catches her eye are the Aldecaldos patches embroidered on the shoulders, the stitching neat and precise. "Oh, nice!" V reacts with a smile, already imagining how it'll look on her.
"And just wait 'til you see the real one!" Panam exclaims, her excitement bubbling over. But as soon as the words leave her mouth, her eyes widen in horror, and she claps a hand over her traitorous lips.
"The real one?" V asks, her curiosity piqued. She looks from Panam to the others, noticing the mix of amusement and exasperation on their faces.
"Way to go, blabbermouth. You ruined the surprise," Bob grumbles, shaking his head. But there's no real heat in his words, just a resigned sort of fondness.
"The surprise?" V insists, feeling completely lost. She's starting to feel like she's stumbled into some kind of nomad conspiracy.
Panam sighs, knowing there's no way to backpedal now. "Let's just say that next time you swing by the camp, there might be a little shindig in your honor. Complete with an 'officially welcome to the family' jacket to go with it," she admits, her words tumbling out in a rush.
V stands there, stunned, her eyes darting between the faces of her friends. The apartment suddenly feels too small, too crowded, as the implications of Panam's words sink in. "You guys... you're serious? A jacket? Like, a real Aldecaldos jacket?"
Mitch chuckles, the sound warm and reassuring. He claps V on the shoulder, his grip firm and steady. "As serious as a sandstorm in the Badlands, kid. You've more than earned it."
"But I'm not... I mean, I don't live out there with you guys," V stammers, still trying to process this unexpected turn of events. Her mind is reeling, caught between disbelief and a surge of emotion she can't quite name.
Panam steps forward, her face softening. The usual mischief in her eyes is replaced by something deeper, more sincere. "V, being an Aldecaldo isn't about where you live. It's about family. And like it or not, you're stuck with us now."
Without warning, Panam pulls V into a fierce hug. The nomad's arms are strong, her embrace warm and comforting. V stiffens for a moment, caught off guard, before melting into the hug. She feels the sting of tears threatening to spill over, overwhelmed by the unexpected show of affection and acceptance.
As V returns the hug, she catches sight of Johnny over Panam's shoulder. The rockerboy is leaning against the wall, a soft smile playing on his lips. There's no sarcasm, no snide comment — just a nod of understanding. For once, he seems to recognize the importance of the moment and stays silent, allowing V to bask in the warmth of her chosen family.
As the sun begins its descent, painting Night City's skyline in a kaleidoscope of neon and smog-filtered twilight, V's apartment buzzes with the kind of energy only a bunch of nomads can bring to a house. The contrast is almost comical — these rough-and-tumble Badlands dwellers arranging designer furniture and high-tech gadgets with the care of a bull in a china shop.
Panam and V tackle the clothes and knick-knacks, their chatter punctuated by giggles and the occasional "What the fuck is this?" as they unearth forgotten treasures and questionable fashion choices. V holds up a particularly garish neon crop top, eyebrow raised. "The hell was I thinking when I bought this?"
Johnny materializes, leaning against the wardrobe with a smirk. "Probably that you'd look hot as fuck in it. And you know what? You're not wrong."
V flips him off, but can't help the grin tugging at her lips. "Fuck off, Silverhand. Nobody asked you."
Mitch, meanwhile, lovingly dusts off the arcade cabinet like it's his firstborn, his calloused hands moving with the precision of a man used to maintaining complex machinery. Once he's done, he turns his attention to V's impressive arsenal, organizing her weapons in the new stash with the reverence of a priest arranging holy relics.
Bob, ever the handyman, grunts and curses as he secures the punching bag under the metal staircase. Satisfied with his work, he moves on to setting up V's computer, muttering under his breath about ‘newfangled tech’ as he wrestles with a tangle of cables that looks more like a chrome-plated octopus than computer peripherals.
As the last rays of sunlight give way to the perpetual neon glow of Night City, they take a well-deserved break. The group sprawls across the large leather couch, passing around Teddy's tequila. Toasts are made to new beginnings, old friends, and the general fuckery that is life in Night City.
The conversation flows as freely as the booze, filled with laughter and the kind of stories that only come out after a few drinks. Mitch regales them with tales of Panam's early driving mishaps, much to her chagrin. Bob, surprisingly, turns out to have a wicked sense of humor once he's a few shots in, his deadpan delivery leaving everyone in stitches.
As the night wears on, Mitch and Bob take their leave, their goodbyes warm and filled with promises of future visits and vague threats about what'll happen if V doesn't take care of herself. As the door closes behind them, the apartment feels a little emptier, but no less like home.
V and Panam tackle the final details, arranging Cassidy's eclectic book collection on the shelves. V's about to comment on a particularly lurid romance novel cover — something involving a shirtless nomad and a swooning corpo woman — when her holo buzzes.
It's more than V had hoped for, given how notoriously difficult it is to get in touch with the Voodoo Boys. She's about to pocket the device, when it buzzes again. This time, it's Padre's weathered face filling the screen.
The fixer's gravelly voice fills the air, outlining a job that makes V's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline — stealing Kerry Eurodyne's guitar from a wealthy collector, practically on V's new doorstep. The guy's supposed to be out for the evening, giving V a multi-hour window to infiltrate.
V's torn. She doesn't really want to cut her evening with Panam short, but Johnny materializes, practically vibrating with excitement. "Fuck yeah, V! Let's go rob this poser blind. I bet he's got all kinds of Samurai merch we can 'liberate' while we're at it."
She hangs up and turns to Panam, a mischievous glint in her eye that would make a cat burglar proud. "Hey, Pan, how do you feel about a little B&E to christen the new digs? Promise it'll be an easy in-and-out job. Might even score you a souvenir from the illustrious Kerry Eurodyne."
Panam's eyebrows shoot up, a slow grin spreading across her face that's equal parts excitement and trouble. "Breaking and entering on moving day? Shit, V, you really know how to show a girl a good time." She cracks her knuckles, already looking eager for some action. "Count me in. But if we get caught, I'm blaming you entirely."
As they head out into the neon-drenched night, V can't help but feel a surge of affection for her mismatched family. It's not exactly how she imagined spending her first night in the new apartment, but somehow, it feels perfectly fitting. Just another day in the life of Night City's most unconventional merc and her equally unconventional clan.
V and Panam stroll through Night City's neon-drenched streets, the evening air thick with the scent of street food and exhaust fumes. They reach the collector's building, a towering monstrosity of glass and steel that screams ‘more money than sense’. The elevator ride is silent, tension building as they ascend to the floor Padre specified.
V approaches the apartment door, her fingers dancing over the lock. In mere seconds, it clicks open, and she can't help but roll her eyes. "Fuckin' amateur hour," she mutters, shaking her head at the minimal security. "Not even a single camera in sight. You'd think these rich assholes would learn, but hey, makes our job easier."
Once inside, Johnny materializes, looking like a kid in a candy store. His voice echoes in V's head, a constant stream of commentary that's equal parts nostalgia and snark. "Oh shit, V! That's from our '05 tour. Fuck, what a night that was. Kerry puked on a groupie and somehow ended up with his number anyway."
V relays Johnny's anecdotes to Panam, who listens with a mix of amusement and disbelief, her eyes widening at some of the more outrageous tales. "Your invisible friend's got some wild stories," she chuckles, "Hard to believe half of this shit actually happened."
Unable to resist the allure of genuine Samurai memorabilia, V carefully peels one of the posters off the wall, the adhesive giving way with a satisfying crackle. "Bit of decor for the new place," she grins, rolling it up. At Johnny's insistent urging, she also pockets a few vinyl records, their covers worn but still vibrant, each one a tangible piece of rock history.
As they climb the stairs, V spots their target — Kerry's guitar, displayed like a holy relic behind a glass door. A keypad lock stands between them and their prize.
"Fuck," V mutters. "Alright, time to channel my inner detective. Pan’, keep an eye out while I search for clues."
Her search leads her to a suitcase tucked away in the corner of the bedroom, its leather exterior scuffed and weathered. Popping it open with a satisfying click, she's greeted by the sight of a well-preserved pair of leather pants. They're clearly vintage, the leather cracked but still supple, exuding an aura of rock and roll debauchery even after all these years.
"Fuck," Johnny materializes behind her, his voice a mix of surprise and indignation that echoes in the quiet room. "Wait a sec... I know that leather... and that belt buckle... Holy shit, those are my fucking pants!" He leans in closer, as if trying to catch a whiff of decades-old memories clinging to the fabric.
V turns to him, eyebrow raised in a perfect arch of skepticism and amusement. "You sure about that, rockerboy? 'Cause if you are, we might have just hit the jackpot." Her fingers trace the worn leather, feeling the history embedded in every crease and fold. She turns to Panam, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Looks like we just found Johnny's long-lost trousers. Think they'd fit me?"
Panam snorts, trying to keep her laughter quiet. "Only if you want to look like a washed-up rockerboy with delusions of grandeur. Though I gotta admit, they'd probably make your ass look preem."
"I heard that, you desert-dwelling harpy," Johnny grumbles, but there's a smirk playing on his lips. "Just grab the pants, V. No way I'm leaving my ass-hugging leathers with this poser. They've seen more action than this chump's seen... well, anything."
V snorts, unable to contain her amusement as she relays Johnny's comment to Panam, who bursts into laughter, the sound echoing off the walls of the cluttered room. "Alright, alright, Your Royal Tightness," V says, carefully folding the pants with a reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts, "You're getting your reunion with your crotch-crushing couture. Now, let's crack this code and liberate that six-string before our luck runs out."
On the nightstand, V spots a photo that seems to be of the collector, posing with none other than Kerry Eurodyne himself. Johnny materializes, his eyes fixed on the image, a complex mix of emotions playing across his features. “Fuck, Kerry’s an old geezer now,” he mutters, his voice a blend of surprise, nostalgia, and something deeper, more tender. “When was this still taken?”
V hums thoughtfully, examining the photo more closely. "Last time you saw him in the flesh, he must've been what, thirty? Barely older than me, dreaming of stardom?" She flips the photo over, revealing a date scrawled in faded ink. "There's a date on the back... 2065. You think...?"
Johnny nods slowly, a faraway look in his eyes. "Yeah, sounds about right. Fuck, he always looked like some wide-eyed puppy back then, y'know? Had this ridiculous little caterpillar of a mustache he could never grow properly… Used to tease him mercilessly about it." He trails off, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge the flood of memories. There's a softness to his voice that V rarely hears, a barely concealed fondness that speaks volumes. "But yeah, could be our golden ticket. Only one way to find out if we've cracked this collector's little puzzle."
V nods, striding over to the keypad lock and punching in the numbers with nimble fingers. The door slides open with a satisfying hiss, revealing a room that's nothing short of a rock and roll paradise. It's a veritable treasure trove of musical history, every inch of space dedicated to Samurai's legacy.
Guitars of every shape and color hang from the walls, their polished surfaces gleaming under the soft lighting. A drum kit takes up one corner, while a massive keyboard stretches along another wall. Signed vinyl records in ornate frames compete for space with rare posters and candid photographs. And there, on a pedestal in the center of the room, stands a sleek black and red guitar, its presence commanding attention like a king on a throne.
"That's it," Johnny whispers, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Kerry's pride and joy."
V carefully lifts the guitar from its stand, feeling the weight of both the instrument and its significance. "Alright, rockerboys and girls, as much as I'd love to stay and give Johnny a trip down memory lane, we've got a job to finish. Pan’, grab anything else that looks valuable. Time to delta."
As they gather their loot, V fires off a quick message to Padre,
Padre's reply comes almost instantly,
Loaded down with their ill-gotten gains, they pile into the elevator. As the doors close, Johnny appears, his eyes fixed on the guitar in V's hands. "Damn, that's one sweet axe," he muses, a hint of regret coloring his voice. "Almost a shame to give it up. Kerry always did have good taste in instruments, if not in facial hair."
V can't help but chuckle, adjusting her grip on the guitar case. "Don't sweat it, rockerboy. I've already got the ultimate Samurai fanboy prize — your ghostly ass stuck in my head. Who needs a guitar when I've got the walking, talking Samurai encyclopedia to annoy me 24/7?"
Johnny flips her off, but there's a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Fuck you very much, V. But yeah, I guess you're right. Who needs a guitar when you've got the real deal? Just... maybe we could swing by Kerry's place sometime. You know, for old times' sake."
V raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Don't worry, I'm sure we can arrange a little reunion tour."
As they exit the building, blending into the night crowd, V can't help but feel a rush of satisfaction mixed with a touch of nostalgia that isn't entirely her own. Another job well done, and hey, if she's lucky, maybe she'll even look good in those leather pants.
Panam and V weave through the streets, their footsteps echoing off the grime-covered concrete as they make their way to the rendezvous point. From the shadows, a nondescript figure in a worn leather jacket materializes, their face obscured by the dim light and a low-brimmed hat — the courier, right on time.
V's fingers linger on the smooth surface of the guitar as she hands it over, a brief moment of reluctance flickering across her face before she steels herself and completes the exchange. The courier grunts a terse "Nice doing business with you" before melting back into the shadows as swiftly as they appeared, leaving V and Panam alone in the pulsing heart of the city.
Seconds later, V's holo chimes. She checks it, a grin spreading across her face. "Payday, baby," she announces, already tapping away at her screen. Before Panam can even open her mouth, V's transferred half the eddies to her account.
"V, what the hell?" Panam protests, her eyes widening as she sees the notification. "That's way too much. I barely did anything!"
V waves off her objections with a smirk. "Consider it hazard pay for putting up with my bullshit. We're partners in this, fifty-fifty. Don't make me stuff those eddies down your throat, 'cause you know I will."
Panam rolls her eyes but relents, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Fine, you stubborn gonk."
As they reach V's building, Panam sighs, her eyes darting to the sky as if she could see the Aldecaldo camp from here. "I should head back before Saul organizes a search party. You know how he gets, probably already pacing a trench in the sand, muttering about 'irresponsible youngsters' and 'the dangers of the big city.'"
V chuckles, picturing Saul pacing the Aldecaldo camp like a caged tiger. "Yeah, wouldn't want to give the old man an aneurysm. Though it might improve his disposition." Her expression softens as she looks at Panam, genuine gratitude shining in her eyes. "Thanks for today, Pan’. Couldn't have done it without you."
Without warning, Panam pulls V into a bone-crushing hug. "Anytime, V," Panam murmurs, her voice muffled against V's shoulder. "Just try not to get into too much trouble without me, yeah? I know it's a tall order, but do your best."
With a final wave and a crooked smile, Panam disappears into the night, swallowed up by the neon-lit canyons of Night City, leaving V alone with her thoughts — and, of course, Johnny.
As V rides the elevator up to her apartment, Johnny materializes, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "Quite the night, huh? Theft, friendship, legendary leather pants, and a fat stack of eddies. Not bad for a Tuesday in Night City."
V just shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips as she unlocks her door. "Just another day in paradise, right rockerboy?"
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
As V busied herself packing boxes with a band of nomads, Goro Takemura found himself preoccupied with more pressing matters. The conversation he'd had with the young merc the previous evening, in front of what he could only describe as the worst yakitori he'd ever had the misfortune of tasting, had planted a seed of an idea in his mind.
Their encounter with Hellman in that seedy Badlands motel had yielded valuable information, but it had also filled Takemura's mind with a swarm of doubts. While exposing Yorinobu for his heinous crime remained his top priority, Takemura now felt compelled to delve deeper. He needed to uncover whether Arasaka-sama had indeed saved his consciousness in an engram, to discover if Hanako-sama was truly involved in this project, and to understand the purpose behind the creation of this particular Relic that had found its way into V's head. The implications of overwriting the host's consciousness, coupled with the bioengineer's insinuations about potential applications, left Takemura deeply unsettled.
If this theory proved true, if Hanako-sama was indeed complicit in the creation of this monstrous technology... Takemura had always viewed her as Saburo's rightful heir, the most stable option for the corporation's future. But now, doubt had crept into his mind like a poisonous fog, clouding his once-clear vision.
Takemura was well-acquainted with death, having dispatched numerous individuals in service to Arasaka. He comprehended the cold logic of eliminating threats to safeguard the corporation's interests. The traitorous Yorinobu undoubtedly deserved to pay the ultimate price for his actions. However, the concept of tampering with the very essence of an individual, of manipulating or supplanting their soul... this was an entirely different matter. It was a notion that increasingly disturbed him as he contemplated its ramifications. At the very least, death in its finality offered a clear conclusion, leaving no room for such perverse manipulations.
As he strode through the bustling streets of downtown Night City, his long carrying him swiftly past the neon-drenched storefronts and augmented masses, Takemura couldn't help but wonder if his perspective on this matter would have been different had he never met V. In theory, the potential return of Arasaka-sama should fill him with joy. But at what cost? Witnessing the toll the Relic was taking on the young woman, he found himself revolted by the entire process.
If Hellman's insights regarding the genetic compatibility of the biochip were indeed accurate... Takemura suppressed a shudder at the implications. While he still desired Yorinobu's death, the idea that there might be a conspiracy to potentially steal the traitor's body brought him no satisfaction. It served only to further muddy the moral waters in which he now found himself immersed.
The cacophonous city surrounding him seemed to recede into insignificance as Takemura grappled with these weighty considerations. The boundaries between right and wrong, once so clearly delineated in his mind, were becoming increasingly indistinct. His unwavering loyalty to Arasaka was being tested in ways he had never anticipated, and he found himself at a crossroads, uncertain of which path to pursue.
He comes to a halt before an imposing edifice, its facade a shimmering expanse of tinted glass that reflects the chaotic neon tapestry of Night City. His eyes travel upward, confirming the building's identity via the sleek, holographic sign hovering above the entrance. His recent conversation with V regarding the various factions within the corporation had reminded him of a crucial piece on the Arasaka chessboard — one he had yet to consider. Drawing a deep breath, steeling himself for what's to come, he steps through the building's threshold.
The sound of his polished shoes echoes sharply off the immaculate white tile flooring as he advances through the reception area. The walls, a deep violet adorned with pulsing pink neon accents, create a stark contrast against the ultra-modern white furniture inlaid with cool blue lighting. It's a jarring juxtaposition of corporate sleekness and edgy style that makes Takemura feel even more out of place than usual.
He approaches the reception desk, behind which sits a young woman who looks more suited to gracing the cover of a fashion mag than manning a corporate front desk. Her long, cascading curls are a mesmerizing blend of blonde and pink, perfectly matching the aesthetic of the lobby. Sensing his approach, she lifts her gaze from her holo-screen, flashing him a dazzling smile that's equal parts welcoming and practiced.
"Welcome to Danger Gal," she chirps, her voice as polished as her appearance. "How may we assist you today?"
Takemura feels the words catch in his throat, suddenly feeling like a green recruit who hasn't thought his plan through. He swallows hard, forcing himself to speak. "I... I am in need of information," he manages, his usual composure wavering slightly.
The receptionist tilts her head, her smile never faltering. "An investigation? Of course, sir. We'll need to open a file for you. Would you mind waiting in our lounge area for a moment?" She gestures gracefully towards a small seating area surrounded by holographic advertisements and informational flyers. "I'll be with you shortly."
Takemura nods, turning towards the indicated area. The snow-white leather of the plush couch emits a soft creak as he lowers himself onto it, trying to mask his growing unease. His eyes dart around the room, taking in every detail, every potential threat or escape route. In the corner of his eye, he notices a security camera swivel in his direction. Instinctively, he adjusts the collar of his coat, attempting to conceal his distinctive implants. He's acutely aware of how exposed he is here, feeling as though he's willingly walking into the lion's den. After all, he's still a fugitive, hunted by Yorinobu's men. Despite this, he forces himself to remain calm, knowing that this is potentially his last resort for obtaining the help he needs. It's a calculated risk, but the unwavering gaze of the camera is testing his resolve.
The receptionist beckons him back, and Takemura returns to the desk. Her fingers dance across the holo-keyboard with practiced ease before she meets his gaze once more. "Alright, sir. To begin the process, I'll need your information. You can connect via your personal link right here," she says, indicating a glowing panel on the desk's surface.
Takemura swallows hard. He's certain that the moment he connects, alarms will blare throughout Arasaka's systems. As he considers abandoning this foolhardy plan and simply walking away, a voice cuts through the air behind him.
"That won't be necessary, Naomi. I'll personally attend to this gentleman."
A chill runs down Takemura's spine. Despite his heightened state of alertness, he hadn't heard the man approach — a very bad sign indeed. He turns slowly, coming face to face with a Japanese man of advanced years, his long steel gray hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. The newcomer's simple yet elegant suit belies a physique that speaks of rigorous maintenance. Takemura's trained eye immediately recognizes the stance and bearing of a former elite soldier.
The man seems as out of place in the modern, feminine decor of the reception area as Takemura himself — which is to say, entirely. His weathered face bears the lines of age and experience, but his eyes are sharp and alert, missing nothing. There's an air of quiet authority about him that commands respect without demanding it.
"Follow me," the man says simply, turning on his heel without waiting for a response.
Takemura hesitates for a split second, casting a final glance at the receptionist who has already returned her attention to her screen. Then, with a mixture of trepidation and determination, he falls into step behind the mysterious figure, venturing deeper into the unknown territory, acutely aware that he may be walking into a situation from which there's no easy escape.
The two men advance down a corridor, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished floors. Once out of earshot of the receptionist, the older man halts, turning to face Goro. He extends a weathered hand, his grip firm and assured. "Kenichi Zaburo," he introduces himself, his voice carrying the weight of decades of experience. Goro shakes his hand almost reflexively, momentarily stunned. "We've been expecting you, Mr. Takemura," Zaburo adds with a hint of a smile.
Takemura finds himself at a loss for words. Zaburo was already considered a legendary soldier within Arasaka when Takemura himself was merely a novice at the corporation's training camp. The man's name was frequently cited as an exemplar for recruits aspiring to ascend the ranks. Between this unexpected encounter, Zaburo's surprisingly Americanized manners, and the apparent anticipation of Goro's visit, Takemura feels thoroughly disoriented. Striving to maintain his composure, he focuses on the last point.
"You were expecting me?" he inquires, endeavoring to keep his voice neutral despite his inner turmoil.
"Of course," Zaburo replies with casual confidence. He resumes walking, heading towards an elevator. "Had you not decided to pay us a visit, we were prepared to reach out ourselves." He presses the button for one of the tower's upper floors, and the elevator starts its smooth ascent. "To be honest, you were cutting it close to the allotted time. I was tasked with initiating a meeting tomorrow at the latest. You know, I try to limit my excursions in the city as much as possible, so it was a relief when you were recognized by our cameras' facial recognition software."
Takemura nods, his mind working overtime to process this information. Zaburo had long been considered a ghost, a figure of legend. Given his advanced age, Goro had presumed him deceased. Their profession rarely allows for a peaceful retirement. Yet here he stands, very much alive and seemingly at ease in the heart of Night City.
Before Goro can pose any further questions, they arrive at their designated floor, and the old man resumes his stride. He eventually opens a door, revealing a small, cozy salon. The light wood flooring and pastel sky-blue walls adorned with framed photographs exude an aura of tranquility, while the couches, laden with colorful cushions, seem to beckon invitingly. Vibrant plants add life to the room, and a parade of maneki neko of various sizes and colors lines the windowsill. Takemura had anticipated being led to an office or a conference room — or even a cell, if he allowed his fugitive's paranoia to speak — but certainly not this.
Even more surprising is the woman seated on one of the couches, her golden platform sneakers propped nonchalantly on the coffee table, a datapad nestled in her hands. Clad in comfortable purple pants that hug her long legs and a simple white top covered by a short copper-toned jacket, Michiko Arasaka rises to greet them. Her long blue hair with shaved sides reminds Goro more of V than the classic elegance embodied by Hanako-sama.
"Mr. Takemura," she greets him, extending her hand. "Unless you'd prefer Takemura-san?"
Goro can't help but bow his head politely in addition to the handshake. "Just Takemura is fine," he replies, his voice steady despite his inner turmoil. "And you? Do you prefer Arasaka-sama, or Mrs. Sanderson?"
This remark earns him a slight smirk from the woman. "I took my husband's name many years ago, Takemura," she says, her tone casual yet tinged with amusement. "Arasaka is reserved only for occasions when I'm forced to meddle in company affairs." She settles back onto the couch, her posture relaxed, before continuing, "But given that you're already neck-deep in our family's dirty laundry, I think we can dispense with the formalities. Michiko will do just fine."
Goro tenses immediately, bowing politely once more. "Michiko," he begins, biting his tongue to prevent himself from adding an honorific title out of habit, "I swear to you that I am in no way responsible for your grandfather's death."
Michiko waves her hand dismissively, her eyes sharp despite her tranquil demeanor. "Oh, come now, Takemura. I know you had nothing to do with it." She leans forward, her gaze intense. "Now, relax, and come sit." She gestures to the plush couch across from her, the invitation clear in her voice.
Turning to the older man, she adds with a hint of playfulness, "Ken, could you have some coffee and tea sent up for our guest? Oh, and some cake, too. You know the one."
"Heh," Kenichi snorts, a warm smile tugging at the corner of his weathered lips. His eyes crinkle with affection as he looks at Michiko. "Sure, sweet tooth," he replies, his voice gruff but fond. With a nod to Takemura, he turns and leaves the room, his movements still fluid and purposeful despite his age.
The familiarity of the exchange raises Takemura's eyebrows, his surprise evident despite his best efforts to maintain his stoic facade. Michiko, ever observant, catches the subtle reaction and decides to elaborate.
"You know," she begins, her tone conversational as she settles back into the couch, "Kenichi was assigned as my bodyguard when I was barely four years old. He's been a constant in my life, never leaving my side." Her eyes take on a distant look, as if recalling memories from long ago. "Even after the Fourth Corporate War, when anyone even remotely linked to Arasaka was about as welcome in Night City as a rat in a restaurant kitchen... he stayed." She refocuses on Takemura, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "But I understand your surprise. I imagine you didn't have the same type of relationship with my grandfather."
"Indeed," Takemura confirms, his posture still rigid despite the casual atmosphere enveloping the room. The contrast between his stiff formality and Michiko's relaxed demeanor is stark. "Arasaka-sama would never have tolerated the slightest familiarity from me, regardless of the number of years spent in his service." His voice carries a hint of regret, barely perceptible but there nonetheless.
Gathering his courage, Takemura steers the conversation back to the purpose of his visit. His voice takes on a more serious tone as he speaks. "Regarding your grandfather, I am here to provide you with information about his death." He pauses, his eyes searching Michiko's face for any reaction. "The official version, death by poison, is nothing but a lie propagated by your uncle. In truth..."
"Uncle Yori killed him," Michiko finishes in a voice as calm as still water, settling more comfortably into the couch. Her casual delivery of such a bombshell statement is jarring, like hearing a weather forecast for the apocalypse.
Takemura's eyes widen slightly, his carefully maintained composure slipping for a moment. The shock of hearing Michiko so casually confirm what he thought was his earth-shattering revelation leaves him momentarily speechless. When he finally finds his voice, it's tinged with disbelief. "You... you are aware of this?"
Michiko's lips curl into a wry smile, a mix of amusement and something darker dancing in her eyes. The expression is reminiscent of a cat that's just cornered its prey, but there's a hint of genuine warmth beneath the predatory gleam. "Takemura, the entire board of directors suspects this to varying degrees. It's like a poorly kept secret at a high-stakes poker game — everyone knows, but no one's willing to show their hand just yet." She leans forward, interest sparkling in her white eyes, the cybernetic implants giving her gaze an otherworldly quality. "But the real question is, why would someone as loyal to the corporation, to my grandfather, choose to address me? I'm practically an outsider within my own family, more akin to the black sheep than the prodigal daughter. Why not go to my aunt, who's probably Saburo's most obvious supporter and heir apparent?"
Goro shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the plush cushions suddenly feeling less welcoming. "I... that was the plan. It still is," he admits, his usual stoic demeanor cracking slightly under the weight of recent revelations. "I must inform Hanako-sama of her brother's treachery. But..." he hesitates for a moment, but something about the woman in front of him compels him to confide, like a sinner in a confessional booth. "I recently learned information about your grandfather and your aunt that... makes me rather uncomfortable. The kind of uncomfortable that keeps you up at night, questioning everything you've ever believed in." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the question he's about to ask. "I hoped to discuss it with a third party linked to Arasaka, but not directly involved in this... this madness. Michiko... what do you know about engrams?"
Her question brings a smile to the woman's lips, as if this was exactly the direction she hoped the conversation would take. It's the smile of a chess master who's just seen their opponent make the exact move they've been planning for. "I know a lot, Takemura. More than most, and certainly more than I should, given my 'outsider' status." She leans back, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp and focused. "I see your conversation with Hellman was instructive. Opened your eyes to some uncomfortable truths, didn't it?"
Before Goro can once again express his astonishment at all the things she already knows, she adds, her voice taking on a more businesslike tone, "I'm the CEO of a private investigation society, Takemura. I'd be doing a piss-poor job if I hadn't had people of interest like you or Hellman followed since what happened at Konpeki Plaza. It's my business to know things, to see the patterns in the chaos." A hint of admiration creeps into her voice as she continues, "Though I must admit, what your mercenary friend did to track Hellman down made our job much easier. That V's got some serious skills. My team only had to pick him up when he tried to flee from that motel after your little heart-to-heart. Talk about making our job easier."
Takemura's mind reels, struggling to process the flood of information Michiko has just unleashed. His carefully constructed worldview, already shaken by recent events, seems to crumble further with each passing moment. It's like watching a house of cards collapse in slow motion, each new revelation another gust of wind threatening to topple the entire structure. He takes a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts.
First, the board of directors' apparent inaction despite their suspicions about Saburo's death. It's a stark reminder of the cutthroat nature of corporate politics, where even murder can be overlooked if it serves individual interests. The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, like the dregs of cheap synthetic coffee, challenging his long-held beliefs about the honor and integrity of Arasaka's leadership.
Then there's Michiko herself. Her casual admission of having him followed, her knowledge of V and Hellman — it's both impressive and unsettling. Goro finds himself reassessing the woman before him. She's not just an Arasaka by name; she's a formidable player in her own right, with resources and intelligence networks that rival those of the corporation itself. It's like discovering that the harmless-looking pawn on the chessboard was actually a queen in disguise all along.
"I... I see," Goro finally manages, his voice steady despite his inner turmoil. It's a testament to his years of training that he can maintain his composure in the face of such revelations. "You seem to be several steps ahead of me, Michiko-san." He can't help but add the honorific, a reflexive show of respect for her evident capabilities. "May I ask why? What is your stake in all of this? And why agree to converse with someone like myself? As you astutely pointed out, I have pledged my loyalty to the corporation and your grandfather for the better part of my existence."
Michiko's eyes soften slightly, a hint of warmth seeping into her calculating gaze. The change is subtle, but to Goro's well-trained eye, it's as noticeable as a neon sign in Night City's perpetual twilight. "To answer your last question," she begins, her voice taking on a gentler tone, "it's precisely because, despite all these years in Arasaka's service, you still seem to possess something rare in our world — a soul."
There's a certain warmth in her smile that catches Goro off guard. He's not accustomed to such genuine expressions in the cold, calculated world of Arasaka. It's like seeing a real flower blooming in the midst of Night City's concrete jungle — unexpected and somewhat disarming.
She continues her explanation, her tone shifting to something more personal, almost vulnerable. The change is jarring, like switching from a corpo news broadcast to a late-night confessional. "You may find this hard to believe, Takemura, but Yorinobu is the only person in my family I'm close to, ever since my father's passing."
Goro's eyebrows rise slightly at this admission, the only outward sign of his surprise. He'd always assumed Michiko was as estranged from Yorinobu as she was from the rest of the Arasakas. It's like discovering a hidden door in a room he thought he knew every inch of.
"My grandfather," Michiko continues, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice, "never loved me. My cardinal sin? Being born in Night City." The resentment in her words is palpable, tinged with bitterness, causing Goro to shift uncomfortably in his seat. He'd never considered how Saburo's prejudices might have affected his own flesh and blood. "My mother, although of Japanese origin, was deemed too American for Saburo to forgive my father for marrying her. The fact that I chose to fight to remain a Night City citizen after the war?" Michiko lets out a humorless chuckle. "Well, that was the final nail in the coffin of my relationship with him. In his eyes, I chose this neon-soaked hellhole over my 'true' heritage."
Goro nods slightly, beginning to understand the complex web of family politics he's stumbled into. It's like peeling back layers of an onion, each revelation more pungent than the last.
"As for my aunt..." Michiko trails off, a sly smile playing on her lips. "It's as if I don't exist for her most of the time. Which, I must admit, usually suits my purposes just fine." Her eyes gleam with a mischievous light. "You'd be surprised how useful it can be to be underestimated. People never see coming what you're planning when they don't even bother to look your way."
Takemura leans back, his mind working overtime to process this flood of information. The plush couch suddenly feels less comfortable, as if mirroring his unease. He's beginning to realize that the Arasaka family dynamics are far more labyrinthine than he ever imagined. And Michiko, it seems, is a far more intricate player in this game than anyone — himself included — has given her credit for.
It's at this moment that Zaburo returns to the room, carrying their drinks in paper cups, takeout-style, along with a box of donuts. "Sorry Michiko, they were out of carrot cake," he announces, his tone casual despite the weight of the conversation he's interrupting.
"No worries, this will do just fine," Michiko responds nonchalantly, as if they weren't in the middle of a discussion with enormous implications. Her eyes light up as she regards the pastries. She opens the box, taking a bite, a smear of pink frosting lingering on her lips. Grabbing her coffee cup, she repositions herself comfortably on the couch, her gaze encouraging Goro to partake in the tea brought for him.
Zaburo, meanwhile, his own drink in hand, settles at a small table in another corner of the room. He opens a magazine, seemingly paying no attention to the conversation about to resume. And indeed, once Takemura has grasped his cup — more to occupy his hands than anything else — Michiko continues.
"In your opinion, Takemura, why did my uncle kill Saburo?" she asks, her tone deceptively casual.
Goro hesitates for a moment, his response sounding hollow even to his own ears. "To seize power," he offers.
Michiko gently shakes her head, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Yorinobu couldn't care less about power. The fact that he's now at the head of Arasaka is... convenient, but not for the reasons you might imagine." Goro's eyebrows furrow slightly, his stoic facade cracking under the weight of this revelation. "Saburo's death was indeed part of his plans, but that night at Konpeki Plaza, he acted more on impulse than anything else."
"So, he did plan to kill his own father..." Takemura interjects, his voice tinged with a mix of shock and disappointment. "But if not for power... why?"
"I'm not sure if you have an expression for this in Japan, but here... we'd call it the lesser of two evils." Her gaze intensifies, pinning Goro to his seat. "Takemura, I want you to set aside everything you think you know about my grandfather, all the respect you have for him, just for a second." Goro's eyes widen slightly, his body tensing at the audacity of her request. "For the duration of this conversation, believe me when I say, Saburo was the devil incarnate."
Michiko pauses, allowing a visibly shaken Goro time to absorb her words. "This corporation you've sworn allegiance to, to which you've devoted your life..." She trails off, leaving the implications hanging in the air like a toxic cloud.
"After we intercepted Hellman, he shared details of your conversation about the Relic in exchange for my protection." Goro's jaw clenches imperceptibly at the mention of his private discussion being exposed. "Regarding my grandfather's engram, his plans for immortality..." She observes with interest the slight grimace that forms on Takemura's face, his discomfort palpable.
"It's something I've suspected for a long time, given what some of my spies in Arasaka's laboratories have reported. Yorinobu also had his doubts, his fears that this technology might be used against him. And I think this theory makes sense."
Michiko leans forward, her voice dropping to a near whisper, forcing Goro to lean in as well. "Knowing Saburo, he probably sees it as a fitting punishment to steal his son's body to prolong his own life, a chastisement in response to all of Yorinobu's attempts at rebellion."
Goro's face pales slightly, the implications of Michiko's words hitting him like a punch to the gut. His hands tighten around his cup, the warmth of the tea a stark contrast to the cold dread seeping into his bones. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, struggling to reconcile this horrifying possibility with the man he's served loyally for so long.
Michiko watches him carefully, gauging his reaction. "I know this is a lot to take in, Takemura," she says, her tone softening slightly. "But I need you to understand the gravity of the situation we're facing. The Arasaka you've dedicated your life to... it's not what you think it is. It never was."
Goro takes a deep breath, his mind reeling. He feels like he's standing on the edge of a precipice, the solid ground of his beliefs crumbling beneath his feet. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper, heavy with the weight of dawning realization. "If what you say is true, Michiko-san... Very well. For the sake of this conversation, I will assume for now that Yorinobu indeed assassinated his father to protect his own life." The admission feels like a betrayal, but he forces himself to continue. "But you... you've distanced yourself from Arasaka. What are your plans in this sordid affair?"
Michiko's eyes meet his, their intensity reminiscent of the neon signs that pierce Night City's perpetual gloom. "Me?" she responds, her voice soft but laden with purpose. "I just want to make sure Saburo is truly dead, and more importantly, that he stays that way."
Before Goro can fully process this statement, another punch to his already battered psyche, Michiko rises with the fluid grace of a predator. She moves towards a wall adorned with numerous photos, gesturing for him to follow. Goro complies, his movements stiff, as if his body is resisting this new reality.
Takemura takes his time observing the photos, each image chipping away at his stoic facade. The first shows a much younger Michiko in a wedding dress, her eyes filled with a love he's never seen in the cold halls of Arasaka Tower. She's looking at the man beside her — Marc Sanderson, Goro recalls — with his thick, tousled brown hair and intelligent gaze behind small round glasses.
The next photo captures the couple a few years later, a toddler nestled in their arms, posing in front of a Christmas tree. Another immortalizes two children, a girl and a slightly younger boy, with scraped knees and ice creams in hand, their smiles as bright as the sun-drenched beach behind them. As his eyes move to the next photo, Goro feels a pang in his chest. The children are now teenagers, their father casting a tender look in the background. In the last photo, they're young adults, posing with their parents, looking fulfilled. A truly happy family.
"I was unaware you had children," Goro finally murmurs, his formal tone at odds with the intimate nature of the photos.
Michiko's voice takes on a softer edge, tinged with a vulnerability that catches Goro off guard. "I did everything I could to keep them as far away from Arasaka as possible," she confides, her eyes still fixed on the portraits. "And today, it's for them that I worry." She turns to face Goro, her expression hardening. "If Saburo's dreams of immortality drive him to consider stealing his own son's body, what's to stop him from going further? Uncle Yori isn't getting any younger."
She returns to her place on the couch, and Takemura follows wordlessly, his mind struggling to keep up with the implications of her words. As they settle, Michiko continues, her voice tight with tension.
"Grandfather always considered my blood impure, tainted by my dual American nationality. And with his misogynistic tendencies, he certainly wouldn't want to transfer his consciousness into a woman's body." Goro's brow furrows, his mind racing to keep up with the horrifying picture she's painting. "It's not for Yorinobu or for me that I fear. But my son..." She pauses, her eyes meeting Goro's with a mix of fear and fierce determination. "If what Hellman says about genetic compatibility is true... I suppose Saburo won't be so picky anymore. He'll only consider the fact that Arasaka blood flows in those veins."
Goro's face pales, the full weight of Michiko's words sinking in like a stone. The idea of Saburo targeting not just his own children, but his grandchildren, for his twisted pursuit of immortality... it's almost too much to bear. He finds himself gripping the armrest of the couch, his knuckles white with tension, the leather creaking under his cybernetic grip.
"Michiko-san," he begins, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining his composure, "what you're suggesting... it's monstrous. Surely, even Arasaka-sama wouldn't..." He trails off, unable to finish the thought. The certainty that once defined his world is crumbling around him like a poorly constructed skyscraper, leaving him grasping for any semblance of the order he once knew.
Michiko watches him carefully, her eyes filled with a mix of sympathy and steely resolve. "I know it's hard to believe, Takemura. But this is the reality we're facing. And it's why I need your help. We have to stop this, not just for my family, but for everyone who could fall victim to Saburo's ambition."
Goro closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath that feels like it might be his last as the man he once was. When he opens them again, there's a new resolve in his gaze, like the first glimmer of dawn breaking through the smog-choked sky. "What would you have me do, Michiko-san?" he asks, his voice low but steady.
He's not sure he's ready to betray everything he's ever known, but he knows he can't ignore the truth laid out before him like a corpo's dirty laundry. The world he thought he knew is gone, shattered like cheap glass, and he's left to navigate this new, treacherous landscape with only Michiko as his guide. As he awaits her response, Goro can't help but feel that he's about to step off that precipice, plunging into a future as uncertain and dangerous as Night City itself.
"I need a trusted man on the inside. You're planning to disclose what Yorinobu did to my aunt, aren't you? I need you to continue with that plan, to gain her trust." Michiko explains, her words causing Goro's eyebrows to shoot up in surprise. "Once you've returned to Arasaka's good graces, you can gain access to the source of the problem. Do you know what Mikoshi is?"
Goro's frown deepens, his cybernetic eyes flickering as he searches his memory. "I'm afraid not," he admits, the unfamiliar feeling of ignorance sitting uncomfortably in his gut.
Michiko leans forward, her voice dropping to a near whisper as if afraid the very walls might be listening. "It's a data fortress buried deep within a heavily guarded part of cyberspace. All the engrams of those who've bought into the 'Secure Your Soul' program are stored there." Her eyes harden as she continues, "In reality, it's also a prison for all the victims of Soulkiller. The servers orbit Earth on heavily fortified stations."
Goro's mind reels at the implications, but Michiko isn't finished. "There's an access point hidden in the bowels of Arasaka Tower, guarded by Hanako's most elite troops. Even I don't have the clearance to get anywhere near it."
"If your grandfather's engram exists, that's where it would be, isn't it?" Takemura asks, his voice barely audible, dreading the answer he knows is coming.
"Exactly," Michiko confirms, her gaze boring into him. "I need you to infiltrate Mikoshi and destroy Saburo's engram. By any means necessary." Seeing the shock and horror etched across Goro's face, she quickly adds, "Takemura, I know this goes against everything you've ever believed in. I know I'm asking you to commit the ultimate betrayal. But Saburo..." Her voice catches, a mix of fear and anger. "Saburo was a monster. During his already too-long life, he's inflicted more suffering than you could ever imagine. He's dead now, and I need you to make damn sure he stays that way."
Goro's face becomes a battlefield of conflicting emotions, his cybernetic eyes flickering rapidly as if trying to process this new, terrifying reality. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, words failing him. When he finally manages to form a sentence, his voice is hoarse, as if the words are being dragged from the depths of his soul.
"Michiko-san, what you're asking... it's not just treason. It's... it's the complete annihilation of everything I've dedicated my life to." He pauses, his gaze fixed on a point in the distance, seeing not the room around him but the shattered remnants of his beliefs. "And yet, I cannot deny the truth in your words..." He trails off, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap.
The silence stretches between them like a chasm, heavy with unspoken implications and the weight of decisions yet to be made. Michiko sighs, finally breaking the tension.
"Is there anything I can do to help you make your decision, Takemura?" she asks, her voice a mix of concern and calculation. "Something I could offer you? Resources, information... anything at all?"
Goro's cybernetic eyes flicker, processing the offer. He slowly shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "What could you possibly offer me, Michiko-san? All I had left to hope for in this life was vengeance against Yorinobu... But now, even that goal has lost its meaning." His voice drops, heavy with the weight of shattered beliefs. "I wanted justice for your grandfather, to reclaim my place within Arasaka... to restore my honor and the order I once knew."
He pauses, his gaze drifting to the family photos on the wall. Something in those images of a life so different from his own seems to spark a thought, and his voice takes on a new edge of determination.
"But perhaps... perhaps there is someone else who could benefit from your help. Hellman — I assume he's informed you about the predicament my friend V finds herself in?"
Michiko's expression shifts, a mix of curiosity and understanding dawning in her eyes. "The young mercenary whose consciousness is being gradually overwritten by the Relic?" She nods, her white optics gleaming in the dim light. "Yes, I'm aware of her... unique situation."
"She doesn't deserve this fate," Goro says, his voice firm with conviction. "I may have little left to hope for myself, but V... she deserves a chance at survival." He leans forward, his gaze intense. "If you can find a way to save her — to halt or reverse the Relic's process — I'll agree to your proposal. You have the intelligence, the resources, and even the Relic's creator at your disposal. You may be her only hope."
Michiko observes him silently, her white optics seeming to pierce through Goro's carefully constructed facade, scrutinizing the very essence of his being. The room feels charged, as if the very air is holding its breath, waiting for her response. Finally, a smile blooms on her lips, slow and deliberate.
"Very well, Takemura," she says, her voice warm with something akin to respect. "I accept your conditions. V's survival for your cooperation. It's a fair trade, and one I'm more than willing to make."
Goro's shoulders sag slightly, as if a great weight has been lifted from them. "Thank you, Michiko-san," he says, his voice thick with emotion.
Michiko leans forward, her expression turning serious once more. "Now, tell me, when do you plan to make contact with Hanako? We need to time this perfectly if we're to succeed."
"The parade," Goro explains, his tactical mind already whirring into action. "It's our best opportunity to reach Hanako-sama directly. I have a plan to intercept her float, to create a moment where I can speak with her privately."
Michiko nods, her eyes narrowing as she processes the information. "A bold plan, Takemura. But also a dangerous one. You'll need to be extremely careful. Hanako's guards won't hesitate to eliminate any perceived threat."
"I understand the risks," Goro says, his voice steady. "But it's our best chance. Perhaps our only chance."
"Very well," Michiko says, standing up. She moves closer to Goro, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "But remember, you must not speak of our discussion to anyone. Not even V. The walls have ears in Night City, and Arasaka's reach is long. One wrong word could bring everything crashing down around us."
Goro nods solemnly, his cybernetic eyes meeting Michiko's optics. "Understood," he says, his voice barely audible. "I will proceed with utmost caution. You have my word."
As he turns to leave, his hand on the door handle, Michiko calls out one last time. Her voice is softer now, tinged with something that might be gratitude, or perhaps admiration. "Thank you. For considering this, and for your concern for V. It speaks volumes about your character."
Goro pauses, his back to Michiko. When he speaks, his voice is heavy with the weight of the decision he's made. "I just hope I'm making the right choice, Michiko-san. For all our sakes."
Notes:
Michiko, powdered sugar on her nose, waves a donut at the brooding Goro, "C'mon, Takemura. Nothing says 'existential crisis' like a good sugar rush."
Goro, staring into the middle distance "I've lost my honor, my purpose, and possibly my mind."
Michiko, shrugging, "Yeah, but have you lost your taste buds? These are really good."
Goro, finally looking at her, "...Is that strawberry filling?"Happy Halloween from V & Johnny !
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♫ Chapter Song: Nine Inch Nails - The Becoming
xoxo, see you next time ♥
Chapter 13: Minute of Decay
Notes:
• Author's rambling that nobody cares about: I wrote the first draft of this chapter almost a year and a half ago, when I first started writing this story. It's the third chapter I wrote, right after the prologue and chapter one. Through various rewrites, it has more than doubled in size. And in my story outline, it was originally supposed to be chapter 7. As you can see, this fic is completely out of control. And yet, I still have a certain fondness for this chapter. I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
• Thanks for the Kudos and bookmarks on the previous chapter ♥ And thank you lookforthelight and CherryOnTheTop1210 for your comments. ♥♥
• I dedicate this chapter to Cherry. I hope you'll find your Panam ♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There's not much left to love
Too tired today to hate
I feel the empty
I feel the minute of decay
I'm on my way down now,
I'd like to take you with me
I'm on my way down
The soft hum of the coffee maker fills V's new apartment, a stark contrast to the chaotic symphony of the city outside. She's still bleary-eyed, her movements sluggish as she reaches for her mug, when Johnny's excited exclamation cuts through her morning haze like a bullet through flesh. "Well, fuck! V, get your ass over here!"
Curiosity piqued, V shuffles to the window, her bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. What she sees makes her eyes widen in surprise, sleep forgotten. The egg she'd swiped from Konpeki Plaza — a souvenir of that clusterfuck of a heist — has finally hatched. In its place, perched on the windowsill, is a tiny iguana. Its scales shimmer in the morning light, all iridescent greens and blues. Orange eyes, bright and inquisitive, stare back at her.
V drops to her knees, a smile tugging at her lips, her coffee forgotten on the nearby table. "Hey buddy," she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper as if speaking to a spooked animal. She extends a finger towards the creature, moving slow and deliberate, giving it time to retreat if it wants. But the iguana, apparently giving zero fucks about human hesitation, scampers onto her hand without a second thought. Its tiny claws tickle her skin, leaving trails of sensation as it explores this new perch. Its tail, surprisingly strong for such a small thing, curls around her wrist like a living bracelet. A chuckle escapes her, the sound warm and genuine. "Aren't you a brave little choom? I think I'll call you... Spike."
Johnny, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, rolls his eyes so hard V's surprised they don't fall out of his head. "Tch, so original," he drawls, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "What's next, gonna name a goldfish 'Bubbles'?"
Despite his mocking tone, there's a flicker of something in Johnny's eyes — a distant recognition, like trying to recall a half-forgotten dream. "Actually," he muses, his brow furrowing slightly, "that name... it rings a bell. Kinda like an echo from the past, you know?"
V shrugs, her attention split between Johnny and the tiny reptile now exploring the landscape of her arm. "I think I had a friend in my childhood who had a pet with that name," she offers, watching as Spike investigates the creases of her elbow with what seems like scientific curiosity.
Suddenly, it clicks for Johnny. His posture shifts, tension seeping into his frame as he frowns. "Nah, V... that was me," he says, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "When I was a kid, I spent some time with nomads—" he stops abruptly, his face clouding over, clearly not wanting to elaborate on the subject. The silence stretches for a moment before he continues, "Anyway, there was another brat in the camp. Had a mangy mutt named Spike. It's one of my memories. Not yours."
V furrows her brow, trying to recall her own memory more precisely. She closes her eyes, concentrating, but the harder she tries, the more elusive the memory becomes, slipping away like water through her fingers. "Probably just a coincidence," she says finally, opening her eyes to meet Johnny's troubled gaze. "Like you said, it's not a very original name."
Johnny's not convinced. He starts pacing, his agitation palpable in the small space of the apartment. His form flickers slightly with each step, a reminder of his digital nature. "Nah, I don't think so," he argues, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "If it is one of my memories, you've seen something I didn't even consciously remember..."
What Johnny doesn't add out loud, what he can't bring himself to voice, is the growing fear gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. He's already noticed some of his memories are fuzzy, or simply non-existent. Details that seem out of place, too. With all this business of the Aldecaldos acting like a new family for V, he'd tried to remember his own family. But when he attempted to visualize his mother, all he gets is a vague impression of wheat-colored hair. The rest is just... static.
V, sensing Johnny's distress, tries to lighten the mood. "Hey, come on. It was forever ago, right? Everyone forgets shit from when they were kids. Hell, I can barely remember what I had for breakfast yesterday."
Her attempt at reassurance falls flat. Johnny's face is stormier than the skies during an acid rain. V sighs, gently placing Spike back on his makeshift habitat — a repurposed serving tray she'd swiped from Lizzie's Bar. "Look, how about this? I'm gonna hop in the shower, then we'll hit City Center and finally get you that guitar you've been bitching about. Sounds good?"
This, at least, earns her a small, lopsided smirk from Johnny. "Yeah, alright. But I'm picking the model. Your taste in music is worse than your aim, and that's saying something."
V flips him off as she heads to the bathroom. "Says the guy who thought 'Samurai' was a good band name. What, was 'Angry Dudes with Guitars' already taken?"
Johnny's indignant "Fuck you, V!" is cut off as he disappears in a glitch of blue pixels, leaving V alone with her thoughts and a stolen exotic pet. As she turns on the shower, letting the steam fill the bathroom, she can't shake the feeling that this memory business is just the tip of a very large, very dangerous iceberg.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
Less than an hour later, V pushes open the door of a music shop nestled in the heart of northern Heywood. The neon sign above the entrance flickers intermittently, spelling out ‘Time Machine’ in electric orange — a fitting name, V had thought, earning her a middle finger from Johnny. The store is larger than it appears from the outside, a veritable treasure trove of musical relics.
As V steps inside, her senses are immediately assaulted by a cacophony of sights and sounds. Red lights pulse overhead, synchronized with laser displays that dance across the ceiling, creating an atmosphere that's part concert hall, part futuristic dreamscape. In one corner, there's a small stage set up, complete with a drum kit, bass, and a couple of guitars, all ready for impromptu jam sessions. Old jukeboxes line an entire wall, their chrome finishes gleaming under the pulsating lights, silent sentinels of a bygone era. Deafening rock music blares from hidden speakers, the driving rhythm making V's chest vibrate.
But it's the guitars that draw V's eye. They're everywhere, hanging from the walls, displayed on stands, each one a work of art in its own right. From classic wooden acoustics to sleek, chromed-out electrics, the variety is staggering.
V heads towards the six-strings, her eyes roving over the instruments. Johnny, ever-present, leans over her shoulder, his digital form flickering slightly in the pulsing lights. "Nah V, most important thing's the pickups," he drawls, his voice a mix of excitement and critique. "Guitar's gotta have somethin' decent there. These cheap clunkers?" He gestures dismissively at a row of budget models. "Made outta shit plywood that itself was made out of unseasoned veneers. Wouldn't even use 'em for firewood."
Wanting to cut short Johnny's complaints before he really gets going — because she knows, the man can rant for hours about the minutiae of guitar construction — V approaches the saleswoman. The woman looks bored out of her skull behind the counter, idly flipping through a music mag, her numerous piercings glinting in the low light.
"Hey," V calls out, adopting the confident swagger she uses when dealing with fixers. "Lookin' for a six-string. Electric. Want a real instrument. And willin' to pay real money." She emphasizes the last part, knowing that in Night City, money talks louder than anything else.
The effect is immediate. The saleswoman's eyes light up like she's just hit the jackpot at Pachinko, a grin spreading across her face. "Now you're speaking my language," she says, tossing aside her magazine. "C'mon, let's go out back. Got some real beauties you might be interested in."
She leads V through a door behind the counter, into a small octagonal room that feels like stepping into another world. The chaos of the main store fades away, replaced by a hushed reverence. The walls are lined with guitars, each one illuminated by its own soft spotlight, creating an almost shrine-like atmosphere.
The saleswoman gives V a quick rundown of the different models, her words flowing fast and smooth like she's reciting poetry. To be honest, most of it goes over V's head. She can appreciate a good guitar riff, sure, but the nuances of tone woods and pickup configurations might as well be in a foreign language.
But Johnny? Oh, Johnny's in his element. His eyes are wide, drinking in every detail. V can practically feel the excitement radiating off him, his usual cynicism replaced by an almost childlike wonder. It's a side of him she rarely sees, and it brings a small smile to her face.
As the saleswoman continues her spiel, V finds herself paying more attention to Johnny's reactions than the actual guitars. Because while she might not be able to tell the difference between these high-end models and the ones out front, she figures Johnny's expression is all the guidance she needs. After all, this is for him. And seeing that spark in his eyes? Well, that's worth every eddie in her account.
As the saleswoman excuses herself to watch the front of the store, leaving V alone to make her choice, the merc finds herself drawn to the back of the room. Her eyes roam over the guitars the woman had reverently labeled as 'vintage', their polished surfaces gleaming under the soft spotlights. Despite her total lack of knowledge about instruments, one particular guitar catches her eye, a spark of recognition flaring in her mind.
"Hey, Johnny," she calls out, her voice barely above a whisper in the hushed atmosphere of the room. "Didn't you have one like this?" Her finger points towards a dark red guitar on the left, its curves sleek and inviting.
Johnny materializes beside her, his eyes widening as they land on the instrument. "Yep. DeLuze Orphean," he responds, his voice uncharacteristically soft. His fingers reach out, almost ghosting over the neck for a second before pulling away, a flicker of frustration crossing his face as he remembers he can't actually touch it. "You saw this in my memories too?"
V shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "Nah. Used to be a Samurai graffiti in Heywood, you were painted holding it," she explains, her mind drifting back to the vibrant street art she'd admired in her younger days. "Was a nice piece of art, too bad they painted over it years ago."
The sight of this guitar, so similar to his own — minus the battle scars and the collage of stickers he'd lovingly applied over the years — tugs at Johnny's heart. The feeling is so raw, so intense, that even V can sense it, a wave of bittersweet nostalgia washing over her through their shared consciousness.
"You want us to get this one?" she offers gently, her voice soft with understanding.
Johnny shrugs, trying to maintain his usual nonchalant demeanor, but V can see right through it. "Otherwise there's the Tenzor Paradize," he nods towards the purple guitar on the right, his voice a forced casual. "Not bad either, Kerry used to have one like this. It's a bit cheaper, too."
V's response is immediate and firm. "Fuck that," she shakes her head, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Both cost several thousand eddies, I'm not gonna quibble over a small price difference. You want the DeLuze, we're getting the DeLuze." Her eyes meet Johnny's, conveying a silent understanding — this isn't just about buying a guitar, it's about giving him back a piece of himself.
With a sense of reverence, V unhooks the DeLuze Orphean from the wall. The weight of it in her hands is strangely familiar, as if her body remembers something her mind doesn't. A wave of recognition, tinged with a deep, aching melancholy, floods through her from Johnny. She gives him a small, reassuring smile before heading towards the main part of the store, the guitar cradled carefully in her arms.
At the counter, the saleswoman's eyes light up at V's choice, a knowing grin spreading across her face. "Excellent taste," she says, her hands moving with practiced care as she places the guitar in a soft case. V slings it over her shoulder, the weight settling comfortably against her back. When it comes time to pay, the merc doesn't even flinch at the exorbitant sum flashing on the screen. It's worth every eddie, just to feel the surge of joy and gratitude emanating from Johnny.
As they step out of the store, the hustle and bustle of Night City engulfs them once more. The weight of the guitar on V's back feels right somehow, like a missing piece slotting into place. She can't help but grin, feeling a warmth blooming in her chest that has nothing to do with the scorching Night City sun and everything to do with the connection she shares with the rockerboy in her head.
Johnny's mood has been erratic since V collapsed in the Badlands due to the Relic malfunctioning — maybe even a bit before that, now that she thinks about it. His emotions have been switching rapidly and confusingly from one to another. Even though he tries to hide it most of the time, concealing his true feelings behind sarcastic remarks and a mocking smile, V can see right through him. But if she can't get him to talk about what's bothering him, she can at least try to lift his spirits.
And what better way to do that than to offer him a good laugh by trying on overpriced corpo outfits that'll probably make her look like a gonk playing dress-up? With this plan in mind, V strolls casually towards Jinguji, leisurely making her way up Senate Avenue.
As she finally enters the luxurious boutique, she's surprised to find it deserted. The only sign of life is the salesman — who introduces himself as Zane — standing ramrod straight behind his counter despite the lack of customers. His carefully cultivated vendor facade cracks slightly as he fails to hide his enthusiasm at V's entrance, and he hurries to offer his assistance.
While Zane busies himself finding dresses for her — "No, Zane, no sequin shit!" V protests with a laugh — she sprawls on the plush couch beside Johnny. The rockerboy puts his feet on the coffee table, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. "So, V," he drawls, his voice dripping with amusement, "how's it feel playin' corpo dress-up doll?"
"Piss off, asshole," she grins back, her tone fond despite the harsh words. "I'm only doin' this to entertain your sorry ass."
As Zane returns with an armful of designer clothes, V can't help but notice the way Johnny's eyes light up with mischief. His mood swings have been giving her emotional whiplash lately — one moment he's brooding and distant, the next he's cracking jokes like nothing's wrong. It worries her more than she'd like to admit.
But right now, watching him lean forward with gleeful anticipation as she holds up a ridiculously overpriced blazer, V feels a warmth blooming in her chest. It's a feeling that's been growing steadily, despite her best efforts to ignore it. Fondness, maybe. Or — nope. Fondness, definitely fondness. Nothing more, she tells herself firmly.
"C'mon, V," Johnny goads, gesturing at a particularly garish dress. "Try that one on. Bet you'd look like a neon sign fucked a disco ball."
V rolls her eyes but can't suppress her grin. "You're such an ass," she mutters, but reaches for the dress anyway. As she heads to the changing room, she catches sight of Johnny's reflection in the mirror. For just a moment, his cocky grin slips, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable. Then it's gone, hidden behind his usual smirk.
And as she steps out of the changing room, ready to face Johnny's merciless teasing, she realizes she wouldn't have it any other way.
"Well?" she asks, striking an exaggerated pose. "Do I look corpo enough to sell my soul yet?"
Johnny's laugh, rich and genuine, echoes in her mind. It's a sound she's been hearing more often lately, and one she's starting to cherish. "Nah, V," he chuckles, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "You couldn't look corpo if you tried. But hey, at least you look like an expensive mess now."
V flips him off, but she's grinning from ear to ear. Mission accomplished, she thinks. For now, at least, Johnny's demons seem to have retreated, replaced by that cocky charm she's grown so fond of. And if playing dress-up in a fancy boutique is what it takes to keep that smile on his face, well, V figures there are worse ways to spend a morning in Night City.
V spends the next half hour parading through a kaleidoscope of overpriced fashion, each outfit more ridiculous than the last. She struts and poses, caught between Zane's praise and Johnny's merciless ribbing, before finally calling it quits. More out of pity for the eager salesman than any real desire for new threads, she settles on a sleek little black dress that hugs her curves just right, along with a few glittering baubles to complete the look. She tries to justify the splurge by telling herself it's an investment — after all, you never know when you might need to infiltrate some high-class corpo shindig for a job.
As Zane drones on about the exquisite craftsmanship of her purchases, carefully folding the garment with reverent hands, a commotion near the entrance catches V's attention. Her merc instincts start screaming danger before her conscious mind can even process what's happening. She spots one of the store's hulking security guards moving towards the door, his hand already reaching for his weapon.
In the space of a heartbeat, all hell breaks loose. A cyberpsycho, eyes wild and chrome gleaming with malicious intent, bursts into the boutique wielding a wicked-looking machete. The security guards, for all their bulk and training, might as well be made of paper for all the good they do. They crumple to the ground in a spray of blood, their groans of pain barely audible over the psycho's manic laughter.
V's body moves on pure instinct. She shoves Zane behind the relative safety of his polished counter, ignoring his startled yelp. In the same fluid motion, she deploys her mantis blades, the deadly appendages sliding out with a satisfying snikt. She launches herself forward, placing her body between the rampaging cyberpsycho and the cowering salesman. Red emergency lights bathe the boutique in an eerie crimson glow as Zane triggers the silent alarm. His voice, high and panicked, cuts through the chaos. "MaxTac's on the way! Just... just hold on!"
But V, veteran of countless psycho hunts for Regina, knows she can't afford to wait. The cyberpsycho is already moving, his augmented muscles rippling beneath skin crisscrossed with angry red circuitry. His machete whistles through the air, aiming for her head. V ducks and weaves, her mantis blades a blur of lethal chrome. The clash of metal on metal rings out as she parries the psycho's wild swings, sparks flying with each impact.
The cyberpsycho's strength is terrifying, each blow threatening to shatter V's guard. But she's faster, more precise. A well-timed feint leaves the psycho off-balance, and V capitalizes with a vicious slash across his chest. He roars in pain and fury, his attacks becoming even more frenzied. V feels the wind of a near-miss as the machete cleaves through the air inches from her face. She retaliates with a kick to his knee, the joint buckling with a sickening crunch. As he stumbles, she follows up with an elbow to his face, feeling cartilage give way beneath the impact.
The cyberpsycho crashes to the floor, his machete clattering away across the polished tiles. V doesn't hesitate. She's on him in an instant, using one of Jinguji's overpriced leather belts to secure his hands behind his back.
Zane peers out from behind the counter, his perfectly coiffed hair now a disheveled mess. His eyes dart between V, the unconscious cyberpsycho, and the devastation that was once his pristine boutique. "I... I don't even know how to begin thanking you," he stammers.
V shrugs, retracting her mantis blades with a thought. "Just doing what needs doing, Zane. Though if you want to throw in a discount on that dress, I wouldn't say no."
As the wail of approaching sirens heralds MaxTac's arrival, V can't help but shake her head at the absurdity of it all. She sinks into the plush white leather couch next to Zane, whose hands still tremble as he mumbles that after this ordeal, all her purchases for the day are on the house. V opens her guitar case, relief washing over her as she finds the instrument unscathed amidst the chaos. The boutique doors burst open, revealing a squad of MaxTac officers, sweeping in with weapons drawn. They halt abruptly, the tension easing as they realize the situation is already under control.
A gruff voice barks out, "Target neutralized," and two officers move to collect the unconscious cyberpsycho. They drag his limp form out to their waiting AV, leaving a trail of blood on the pristine floor. Trauma Team paramedics rush in to tend to the injured security guards.
A MaxTac agent, a woman with a no-nonsense demeanor, approaches V and Zane. She introduces herself curtly before asking for their names and professions. Zane, seemingly grateful for the familiar territory of small talk, launches into a detailed description of Jinguji and his role there, his words tumbling out with the practiced ease of a seasoned salesman.
"V, merc," the young woman adds when it's her turn, keeping it brief and to the point.
It's at this moment that Johnny materializes, perching on the back of the couch next to Zane with his trademark smirk. "Johnny Silverhand. Rock legend, voice in V's head, and also..."
"The fuck, Johnny..." V hisses under her breath, trying to focus on the MaxTac agent's questions while ignoring the rockerboy's antics.
But Johnny's playful demeanor shifts suddenly, his voice losing its cocky edge. "Lemme pretend I exist sometimes, okay?" The words come out flat, almost hollow, and V feels a sudden, sharp pang of... something. It's not quite sadness, not quite anger, but a complex cocktail of emotions that hits her hard.
V's eyes snap to Johnny, catching the way his gaze skitters away from hers before he hastily hides behind his shades. It's as if a switch has been flipped, the playful, teasing Johnny replaced by this withdrawn, almost melancholy version in the blink of an eye.
The sudden shift in Johnny's demeanor is so disorienting that V completely loses track of the conversation with the MaxTac agent. She barely registers the woman giving them the all-clear. Johnny vanishes without another word, leaving V feeling oddly bereft. She sighs heavily, the weight of her guitar case suddenly feeling much heavier as she slings it over her shoulder. Retrieving her Jinguji bag, she offers Zane a distracted farewell before heading for the exit.
At the doorstep, the MaxTac agent engages her in a brief discussion about mantis blades, but V's heart isn't in it. Her responses are perfunctory, her mind still grappling with Johnny's emotional rollercoaster. As V steps out into the street, she decides to head home. The excitement of the shopping trip and the adrenaline rush of the fight have faded, replaced by a gnawing concern for her engram companion.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
On her way home, V makes a pit stop at a pizza joint, and orders an extra spicy one, the kind that makes your eyes water and your nose run — just the way Johnny likes it. Once inside her new digs, V drops her Jinguji purchases on the couch, the designer bags looking out of place in her living room. She grabs a slice of pizza, the heat from the peppers hitting her tongue immediately. She chews without much enthusiasm, her mind still preoccupied with Johnny's earlier mood swing. "If he's still hungry later, he can chow down himself," she muses, determined to keep her promise of letting him take control.
With a burst of energy that belies her mental fatigue, V bounds up the stairs to the bathroom, taking them four at a time, snagging the bottle of pills that Misty had given her. As she heads back to the living room, thoughts of Misty and Vik flit through her mind. "Gotta swing by and update them soon," she reminds herself, making a mental note to let them know about her move.
Flopping onto the couch, V carefully extracts the guitar from its case. Her fingers trace the smooth curves of the organic ebony neck, marveling at the craftsmanship. "Hey, rockerboy," she calls out, her voice echoing slightly in the apartment. "It's your time to shine. Got everything set up — the Pseudoendotrizine's right here. Just say the word, and I'll pop a pill."
Johnny materializes beside her, his signature aviators firmly in place. "Don't," he mumbles, his hands fidgeting with his rings in a display of nervousness.
V's brow furrows in confusion. "What do you mean, 'don't'?" she asks, tilting her head to get a better look at his face.
"I don't feel like it," Johnny replies curtly, offering no further explanation.
"C'mon Johnny," V presses, frustration creeping into her voice. "You've been itching for a chance like this since day fuckin’ one. Now you're backing out? Shit, I can't figure you out. I'm doin’ this for you, y'know?"
"Well, stop!" Johnny snaps, his voice sharp enough to make V flinch. Her eyes widen in surprise, mouth hanging slightly open at his unexpected outburst. As quickly as it came, the anger seems to drain from him. He pushes his shades up, revealing eyes that look... tired? Vulnerable? "Shit, I..." Johnny starts, then pauses, running a hand through his hair. "Just... not today, okay? I'll let you know when I'm ready." His gaze drifts to the guitar resting in V's lap, and a hint of his usual smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "In the meantime... want me to show you a thing or two? Beginners shit, just the basics."
V hesitates for a moment, studying Johnny's face. She can sense there's more going on beneath the surface, but she decides not to push it. "Oh, yeah, sure," she agrees, more to maintain the fragile peace than out of any real desire to learn.
Johnny leans in, his spectral form hovering close as he guides V's fingers on the fretboard, his voice uncharacteristically patient as he explains, "Let's start with something simple, a C chord — place your index finger here, middle finger there, and ring finger on this string." V follows his instructions, and a clear, resonant C chord fills the apartment, surprising them both with its perfect tone and clarity. "Well, I'll be damned," Johnny mutters, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. "Beginner's luck, I guess. Let's kick it up a notch, shall we?"
He demonstrates a complex chord, just to mess with her, one that'd make even seasoned guitarists break a sweat. V's fingers dance across the fretboard with unexpected grace, forming the intricate shape as if she's been playing for years. The rich, full sound that follows sends a visible shudder through Johnny's incorporeal form.
"What the actual fuck?" he breathes, his eyes widening as panic begins to set in. Determined to test a theory, Johnny doesn't bother explaining the next chord. "Give me an F#m7b5," he demands, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.
V starts to protest, confusion evident in her furrowed brow. "Hold on, Johnny, I don't even know what that—"
"Just do it," he insists, cutting her off. His eyes are intense and filled with a mix of fear and fascination.
Almost as if possessed, V's fingers find their positions on the fretboard. The complex harmony rings out, clear and perfect. Johnny's holographic form flickers violently, his face a mask of barely contained horror. "Shit, V," he breathes, running a shaking hand through his hair. "This ain't right. It's like at the shooting range all over again. My skills... they're bleedin’ into you. Fuck!"
V, still riding the high of her newfound ability, grins widely. "Hey, I'm not complaining. Instant guitar skills? This is fuckin’ awesome!"
Johnny shakes his head vehemently, his voice rising with each word. "You don't get it, do you? The Relic's progressing again. This is bad news, V. Real bad."
Desperate to confirm his suspicions, Johnny starts humming one of his old songs, a complex melody he wrote decades ago. To his horror, V's fingers begin to move, playing along with eerie accuracy. It's not perfect, but for someone who's never touched a guitar before, it's unnervingly good.
The smile fades from V's face as realization finally dawns. "Oh fuck... Johnny, I—"
"Don't," he cuts her off, his voice strained and barely above a whisper. "Just... don't say anything."
Seeing the raw panic in his eyes, V tries to lighten the mood, her voice taking on a forced cheerfulness. "C'mon, rockerboy. We knew the Relic was doing its thing. And hey, there are worse side effects than channeling your inner rock god, right? At least I'm not sprouting a beard or anything."
Her attempt at humor falls flat, the weight of the situation too heavy for levity. Johnny's form flickers violently, his eyes wide and vulnerable without the shield of his sunglasses. Without a word, he vanishes, leaving V alone with the guitar and the crushing weight of their shared predicament.
V sits there, lost in a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. Her fingers continue to dance across the strings, playing a melody she shouldn't know — a haunting reminder of the ticking clock in her head. The soft, melancholic notes of Johnny's song fill the apartment, each one a bittersweet testament to the blurring lines between where V ends and Johnny begins.
V savors the relief brought by the soft breeze, its gentle caress easing the sweltering heat of the late afternoon that clings to her skin like a second layer. She gradually decelerates her bike as she approaches the trailer park, her keen eyes scanning the familiar surroundings, taking in the worn-down structures and the eclectic mix of vehicles scattered about. Passing a couple of local shops, she navigates her way towards Joss' mobile home.
Earlier that day, River had reached out to her, not with the usual urgent work or looming crisis, but with a simple invitation for dinner. It's a refreshing change for V, a moment of normalcy she finds herself appreciating more than she'd care to admit. Spending time with River, away from the chaos and pressure of her usual high-stakes gigs, will provide her a much-needed respite from the relentless grind of her life.
Parking her ride, its engine ticking as it cools, V dismounts with practiced ease. She runs her hands over her short, brushing away the accumulated grime of the road. Her attention is caught by two enthusiastic kids running towards her, their small arms waving in excited greeting, and a warm smile graces her lips. As she continues her walk, the gravel crunching under her boots, she can't help but notice River's imposing figure hunched over an outdoor stove, his muscular frame silhouetted against the setting sun as he focuses intently on his culinary creation.
However, her focus immediately shifts to Johnny, who's perched on Randy's mobile home steps, lost in thought. There's a palpable change in his demeanor, something off that sets her nerves on edge. Silent and distant, his gaze is fixed on a point far beyond their current reality, as if he's seeing something only he can perceive. V approaches him, positioning herself directly in his line of sight, trying to gauge his state of mind through the impenetrable barrier of his aviators.
"Not comin'?" she asks, her curiosity piqued by his unusual behavior.
"Not really my jam, picnics. But you have fun. Spinnin' a new song anyway. Rather focus on that," Johnny replies, his voice carrying a hint of that Southern drawl, avoiding eye contact and humming a melody that sounds both familiar and alien to V's ears.
V feels a mix of relief and concern at seeing Johnny. After the guitar lesson, he'd vanished, ignoring her calls. His presence now, despite his odd behavior, is somewhat comforting. She opens her mouth to press further, but Johnny's tense posture and the way he deliberately turns away make it clear he's not in the mood to talk.
Letting out a resigned sigh, V decides not to dwell on Johnny's behavior for now. She redirects her attention to River, catching him watching her with his sharp, observant eyes. It's clear from his furrowed brow that he's wondering about her apparent fixation on what, to him, appears to be nothing more than an empty staircase.
V saunters over to River, who greets her with a warm, genuine smile that reaches his eyes. His bulky jacket has been discarded, revealing a more relaxed and composed demeanor that's a stark contrast to his usual intense presence. As he quietly stirs the pot, the mixture of ingredients bubbling gently, his calmness is palpable. River's been through a shitstorm lately, what with the Peralez investigation and his nephew's kidnapping, but right now, it's like all that tension just melted away.
In his element, River's actively prepping the meal, surrounded by his family, far from the clusterfuck of dramas and pressures at the NCPD. Watching him in action, V can't help but feel a twinge of envy, longing for that same sense of serenity in her own fucked-up life.
Without missing a beat, River puts V to work, instructing her to stir the mixture while he focuses on chopping the celery with practiced precision. They work together in comfortable silence, punctuated by sporadic small talk. Seizing the moment, V asks about River's nephew, wanting to know how the kid's holding up after the shit he went through. She's relieved to hear the young boy's slowly getting better, but can't help but feel a deep sympathy for all the crap he had to endure. Poor kid really went through hell.
V inquires about what happened to the sick fuck who kidnapped the boy, but River skillfully dodges the question, suggesting they discuss it when the time's right. V immediately gets the hint that diving into such a dark topic would only fuck up the pleasant vibe they're trying to create. She silently kicks herself for bringing it up and doesn't want to cast a shadow over the evening.
Thankfully, River provides her with a task to distract her from the lingering question, asking her to fetch some rice from the kitchen. As V makes her way inside, she notices Joss engrossed in a phone call, her worried expression a reminder of the recent trauma. Not wanting to interrupt, V quietly locates the rice packet and prepares to bail. However, Joss catches sight of her, and they exchange a few words, mostly revolving around her son's recovery from the ordeal. V reassuringly tells Joss that she doesn't expect jack shit in return for helping find Randy. Deep down, she knows that if she had failed in finding the boy, she'd struggle to face herself in the mirror ever again.
Returning to where River is busy with the meal prep, V notices that Johnny's pulled his disappearing act again. Looks like he's retreated to the recesses of her mind, at least for now. Following River's instructions, she adds the rice to the mixture, allowing it to simmer and infuse with the flavors, the aroma of spices and vegetables filling the air around them.
After wrapping up their culinary endeavors, River suggests they kick back with a cold one on the patio. V embraces the idea enthusiastically, and they settle into their seats, the cool metal of the beer cans a welcome relief against their palms. V's curiosity gets the better of her, and she probes about Peter Pan's fate. River's response is unexpectedly measured, revealing he didn't take matters into his own hands. He saw no point in offing someone already rotting away in a hospital bed.
At that moment, River's tough exterior cracks. He opens up about his own fucked-up past, sharing glimpses of the shit he's been through. V listens intently, feeling a deep sense of empathy for the ex-cop. It hits her that River needs a friend to lean on, especially after telling the NCPD to go fuck themselves. V silently vows to be that friend, recognizing his strength and genuine kindness beneath the gruff exterior. The idea of making these jambalaya parties a regular thing becomes a notion V could really get used to.
Steering the conversation towards River's future plans, V learns he's considering becoming a private detective. He wants to offer real help to those in need, using his skills for more than just filling the city's prisons. V finds herself genuinely impressed by River's desire to make a positive impact in this fucked-up city.
Their heart-to-heart is interrupted when Joss' kids come barreling in, begging them to join their game. V agrees without hesitation, understanding the importance of bringing joy into these kids' lives after all they've endured.
During the game, V deliberately misses shots, teaming up with River to let the kids win. The children are over the fucking moon, their laughter a stark contrast to Night City's usual soundtrack. However, their fun is cut short when Joss interrupts, calling everyone to the table for chow time.
V digs into the home-cooked grub, settling into her seat across from River. But the atmosphere takes an awkward turn as the whole family, kids included, starts focussing on V and River, making them feel like they're under a goddamn microscope. Joss, in particular, seems to have already started planning their wedding, practically seeing V as her future sister-in-law.
Feeling the discomfort rise like bile in her throat, V tries to steer the conversation away from this awkward-as-fuck topic, focusing instead on her meal. She takes deliberate bites, trying to occupy herself with the flavors and textures, while River sits quietly, his gaze fixed on his plate like it holds the secrets of the universe. The tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with a knife, and V silently prays for the conversation to shift to something more normal and less fucking weird.
V's gotta hand it to River, he's a stand-up guy in a city full of lowlifes and scumbags. Always honest, always doing the right thing, and taking care of his family like it's his goddamn mission in life. Since he told the NCPD to shove it, they've lost one hell of an officer, that's for sure. Taking a moment to size River up, V can't deny that he's got a certain appeal that goes beyond his boy scout attitude. Not bad looking at all, with those muscles that could probably crush a gonk's skull without breaking a sweat.
She lets out an internal sigh, realizing it's been way too long since she's had a decent one-night stand, the kind that leaves you sore in all the right places. Ever since that clusterfuck of a heist, finding the time to flirt and have some fun has been pretty hard. But maybe having a friend like River could help scratch that itch, if he's up for it and doesn't mind keeping things casual.
V's attention is abruptly diverted by a flicker of blue light in her peripheral vision. She turns her gaze towards the source and spots Johnny, restlessly pacing near the stairs where he had been sitting earlier, cigarette in hand and looking like he's about to set the whole fucking place on fire with his rage. His body language screams frustration and anger, feelings that V can sense through their fucked-up psychic bond like they're her own emotions.
Realizing that something's clearly got Johnny's panties in a twist, V knows she needs to check on the rockerboy and find out what's wrong. She offers a quick apology to River and his family, excusing herself from the table.
"Hey, sorry about this, but I'll be right back. Just a work thing, need to make a phone call," V explains, trying to sound casual while her mind's racing with possibilities of what could be eating at Johnny.
"Sure thing V, take your time. I'll help Joss clear the table while you do that," River offers, ever the gentleman even when he's probably wondering what the hell is going on.
The rest of the table members express their understanding, offering their help in clearing the table like it's some kind of domestic Olympics. In perfect synchrony, they rise from their seats, Joss and her brother carrying dishes back inside the mobile home, and the children returning to their playful activities, oblivious to the tension radiating off V.
V mentally prepares herself to confront Johnny and whatever shit-storm he's brewing. With determination in her eyes, she strides purposefully towards him, ready to weather whatever fucking hurricane of emotions awaits her. It's time to find out what's got the legendary Johnny Silverhand acting like a moody teenager at a family picnic.
Joining Johnny, V nonchalantly leans against a wall, lighting a cigarette. The flame briefly illuminates her face in the growing twilight as she braces herself for Johnny's impending outburst. The tension between them thickens the air like a toxic fog, the only sound the distant laughter of River's family. Johnny, sunglasses removed, fixes V with a piercing glare, his eyes simmering with fury that could melt chrome.
"So you're really gonna make us fuck a cop, huh?!" Johnny's words pierce through the silence, hitting V like a slap to the face.
"The fuck, Johnny? And so what?" V retorts, frustration seeping into her voice.
"What's the fuckin' problem?!" Johnny explodes, his anger reaching a boiling point. He points an accusing finger directly at V, his voice crackling with intensity like a live wire. "Well, shit, you're not that dumb, are ya? This guy doesn't just want to fuck you, V. In two weeks, he's gonna fuckin' propose to you, move you into his trailer, and ask you to raise his sister's kids alongside him. You're gonna be a fuckin' part of some cute little perfect family!"
V is stunned into silence as she listens to Johnny's relentless monologue, her cigarette burning away forgotten in her hand, ash falling unnoticed to the ground.
"It was bad enough watchin' ya fantasize about Takemura, but now this?!" Johnny continues with a sarcastic scoff that could curdle milk, "At least with 'Saka dog, I can try to understand the appeal — blah blah sexy older dangerous man, blah blah. But River fuckin' Ward, seriously?!"
Annoyance surges within V like a tidal wave, fueling her response. "Holy shit, Johnny, calm the fuck down already and leave Goro out of this!" she snaps back, her voice tinged with her own rising anger, a match ready to ignite. "And what the fuck is your problem? I'm not gonna marry him. Was just thinking that a quick little fuck can't hurt anyone."
A malicious grin spreads across Johnny's face as he leans in dangerously close to V, practically trapping her against the wall, his presence overwhelming and suffocating.
"Oh, so that's it, huh?" he spits out, his voice dripping with icy anger. "If you're that desperate, why don't you go find yourself a damn joytoy on Jig-Jig Street? You that fucking horny, V?"
Fury boils within V, her patience wearing thin like a frayed wire about to snap. "Oh, shut the fuck up, Johnny!" she snaps back, her voice oozing with defiance, "I can do what I—"
Before she could finish her sentence, the resounding crash of Johnny's cybernetic fist colliding with the wall echoes through the space like a gunshot, mere inches from her face. Shock courses through V's veins like ice, her body instinctively attempting to retreat from the sudden violence.
Johnny, unfazed by her recoil, steps even closer to V, his voice a menacing whisper as he invades her personal space. "You know, V, if all you fuckin' want is to get laid, I'd be more than happy to volunteer," he hisses, his words dripping with a toxic blend of aggression and false warmth. "I'd slam you against that wall and fuck you 'til you're finally satisfied, 'til you can't even remember your own goddamn name."
V's face flushes, a cocktail of raw want and embarrassment washing over her like a tidal wave. Her thoughts spin in a chaotic whirlwind as arousal and confusion clash within her, threatening to tear her apart. The surge of heat in her stomach is undeniable, unsettling her even as it ignites a twisted excitement she can't shake. This whole fucked up situation feels wrong, yet exhilarating — like playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun. His intensity, his raw anger, it shouldn't be attractive, but fuck if it isn't doing something to her.
A sinister smile spreads across Johnny's face, his satisfaction evident. He takes perverse pleasure in the effect his words have had on V, reveling in the dark desires awakened within them both.
"I fuckin' knew it! It does something to ya, huh?" he taunts, his voice oozing with twisted satisfaction. "Would ya like that? Me wrapping my hand around your throat, picking you up, and making you beg for me to fuck you harder? Is that what gets you off, V?"
V's breath catches in her throat. "Johnny..." she gasps, her voice a shaky whisper that betrays her conflicted emotions. Her breath comes in short gasps, pupils dilated, body unconsciously leaning into his space.
"Oh, fuckin' hell, I’d love to do that! And you'd be beggin' for more, wouldn't ya?" Johnny declares, his words dripping with a mix of desire and frustration. But then, his smile abruptly fades, replaced by a bitter expression. His voice takes on a somber tone as he continues, "But you know what, darlin'? I can't. I can't do any of that. 'Cause I'm not really here... Fuck… I'm not real. I'm just data. Parasitic fucking data killing the only person who still gives a shit about me!"
Johnny's sudden change in tone and demeanor leaves V feeling unsettled, a mix of confusion and concern swirling within her. The heat between them dissipates, replaced by a heavy, oppressive atmosphere.
Johnny takes a step back, clenching his jaw and avoiding V's gaze. V struggles to catch her breath, feeling aroused by their heated conversation, her body thrumming with a desire she can't quite shake. But she knows that now is not the time for ... whatever fucked up thing she's actually feeling. She recognizes the pain and sadness behind Johnny's angry face and clenched fists, his entire being shaking with rage. Despite her own emotional state, she puts her own feelings on hold, shoving them into the deepest, darkest corner of her mind.
"Johnny, what's going on? Are you okay?" V asks as she studies the rockerboy's troubled expression.
"Fuckin' peachy, V. I'm dead, remember?" he responds bitterly, his words dripping with frustration and despair.
V recalls Johnny's plea in the Jinguji store, asking her to let him pretend he exists sometimes, and the weight of that request hits her like a freight train. Fuck. It's all too easy to forget the pain and trauma hiding behind Johnny's tough exterior, but in this vulnerable moment, she sees the cracks in his facade clear as day.
"Johnny. Hey…" she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Without thinking, she takes a step forward, reaching out to grab his wrist. In that moment, she forgets the limitations of their connection, the fact that she would only feel nothing but air beneath her fingers. To her utter shock, she feels something solid and warm — Johnny's wrist, impossibly real and tangible within her grasp.
Johnny freezes in place, his eyes locked on V's hand holding his wrist as if it's the most incredible thing he's ever witnessed. They've done the impossible, defying the very laws of their existence, and the weight of the moment hangs heavy in the air around them. Their eyes meet, both filled with equal parts astonishment and disbelief, silently acknowledging the miracle that has just occurred between them.
Time seems to grind to a halt as they hold each other's gaze, afraid that the slightest movement might shatter this fragile connection they've somehow managed to forge. V's heart pounds in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears like thunder. She can feel Johnny's pulse beneath her fingers, a rhythm that shouldn't exist but somehow does, matching her own heartbeat in perfect synchronicity.
Johnny's mind reels, struggling to process the impossible sensation of V's touch. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be touched, to be anchored to the physical world by another person's warmth. The feeling sends shockwaves through his entire being, igniting every nerve ending and reminding him of a humanity he thought he'd lost forever.
V's grip on Johnny's wrist tightens slightly, as if she's afraid he might disappear if she lets go. Her voice trembles when she finally breaks the charged silence between them. "Johnny... how…?"
Johnny shakes his head, his voice barely audible. "I don't know, V. I don't fuckin' know."
The air around them seems to crackle with energy, the impossible made real in this single, fleeting moment. V's eyes search Johnny's face, taking in every detail as if seeing him for the first time. The lines of worry etched into his forehead, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, the slight tremor in his usually steady hands — it's all so achingly human, so undeniably real.
After what feels like an eternity suspended in this impossible moment, V reluctantly tears her gaze away, though she maintains her grip on Johnny's wrist as if it's her only anchor to reality. Her voice is barely audible when she finally speaks, breaking the charged silence between them.
"Look, I'm just... gonna say goodbye. Then we'll go home, okay?" she says, her words a delicate balance of vulnerability and determination as she tries to make sense of what's just happened.
Johnny nods wordlessly, his mind reeling from the implications of their shared experience. He watches as V slowly releases his wrist, the loss of contact leaving him feeling adrift and untethered. As V walks away, Johnny is left to grapple with a storm of emotions raging inside him — confusion, awe, and something deeper that he can't quite name or understand.
As V disappears from view, Johnny takes a deep breath, desperately trying to center himself. He flexes his hand, still feeling the ghost of V's touch on his skin. For the first time since his death, he feels truly alive — and utterly terrified by the implications of that feeling.
The night air feels electric around him, charged with potential and possibility. Johnny knows that whatever just happened between them has irrevocably changed the course of their relationship. There's no going back now, no pretending this moment didn't shatter every preconception they had about their connection.
As he stands there, alone with his thoughts, Johnny realizes that he's stepped into uncharted territory. The lines between them have blurred, and he's no longer sure where he ends and V begins. It's exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, a new frontier that he never expected to explore.
With a heavy sigh, Johnny runs his hand through his hair, trying to compose himself before V returns. Whatever comes next, he knows one thing for certain — nothing will ever be the same between them again.
How do you see it?
How do you know?
How do you see it?
I looked ahead and everything was dead
How do you know?
I guess that I am, too
V and Johnny stumble into her apartment, the adrenaline from their wild ride still buzzing through their veins. V collapses onto the sleek black leather sofa, stretching out like a cat in a sunbeam. She crosses her ankles, tucks her arms behind her head, and stares up at the ceiling, letting the calm of her new flat wash over her. An old vinyl starts spinning on the turntable, filling the air with some Samurai tunes. It's a stark contrast to the usual chaos, like the city's taken a breather just for them. Nibbles is perched on the bar, giving herself a bath with her little pink tongue like she doesn't have a care in the world.
Johnny finds his way to the edge of the pool table, a half-forgotten smoke dangling from his fingers as his eyes get lost in the neon shitshow outside the window, his gut churning with an unease that feels like it's trying to claw its way out of him. The music keeps playing, the cat keeps licking, and those goddamn lights keep flickering, time stretching out each second until it feels like a fucking eternity, amplifying every thought and emotion running through Johnny's mind.
Johnny can't bring himself to look at V, the weight of his earlier actions pressing down on him like a ton of concrete. He knows he fucked up royally back at the trailer park, his emotions spiraling out of control in a way he hasn't experienced since before his death. He'd been on edge for days, a powder keg of frustration and fear just waiting to blow, but seeing her ready to jump into bed with that badge-toting asshole was the match that lit the fuse. Jealousy, violence, anger, manipulation... all the ugly parts of himself he thought he'd left behind came roaring back to life, and he wanted nothing more than to hurt her, to make her feel as shitty, scared and alone as he did.
As the memory of his venomous words replays in his head like a broken record, shame hits him like a sledgehammer to the gut, leaving him feeling hollow and sick. It was like he'd time-warped back sixty years to a version of himself he fucking despises, all the progress he thought he'd made since hitching a ride in V's brain crumbling away like ash. Those dark impulses he'd tried so hard to bury were still there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to rear their ugly heads and remind him of the asshole he used to be.
The realization sucker-punches him — V's all he's got in this miserable excuse for an existence, the only person who sees him as more than just a memory, and he might've just torched their relationship beyond repair with his jealous, violent outburst. He feels like absolute dogshit, drowning in a toxic cocktail of guilt and self-loathing that threatens to pull him under completely.
But even as he's suffocating in this emotional clusterfuck, a small part of Johnny — the part that's grown and changed since being stuck in V's head — knows he can't just wallow in his own misery like he would have in the past. He's gotta man up, face the music, and try to fix this mess before it's too late. He needs to own up to his fuck-ups, apologize to V, and take the heat for the pain he's caused, no matter how much it goes against his nature to admit he was wrong. It's the only way to start rebuilding the trust he's shattered, to have even the slimmest shot at patching up their fucked-up bond and salvaging the only real connection he has left in this world.
"V..." Johnny's voice cracks as he finally forces himself to look at her. His face is a picture of genuine remorse, a rare sight for the typically cocky rockerboy. "I'm fuckin' sorry 'bout earlier. I was outta line, acted like a real piece of shit. I... I don't know what came over me, but that's no excuse. You didn't deserve any of that crap I threw at you."
Without a word, V rises from the sofa, her eyes locked with Johnny's. There's a heavy understanding between them, an unspoken agreement that this shit needs to be hashed out. She strides over to the designer shelves, a shrine to booze if there ever was one. With a steady hand, she pours herself a hefty glass of whiskey, the golden poison swirling in its crystal prison.
As she approaches the pool table where Johnny's parked his ass, V takes a long, deliberate sip, savoring the burn that scorches her throat. The whiskey gives her a moment to get her shit together, to find the right words to tackle this clusterfuck. She plops down beside him, her presence a silent we're in this mess together, asshole.
"Johnny..." V's voice is steel wrapped in velvet. "This shit can't keep happening. You can't use the crap you find in my head as ammo. Just 'cause you've got VIP access to my memories, feelings, and... fuck, even my fantasies, doesn't mean you get to use 'em to hurt me."
Johnny's gaze shifts, shame flickering in his eyes. "I know," he grunts, voice heavy with regret. "I fucked up big time earlier. I... I'm a grade-A asshole, V. Wanna promise it won't happen again, but I'd be lyin' through my teeth. Spent my whole damn life wrecking every relationship I touched. Now I'm doing the same to us. Not sure I know how to do anything else, how to be anything other than this fuck-up you see before you."
V takes a deep breath, her resolve unwavering. "You gotta try, Johnny. That's all I'm askin'. We need to figure this shit out, work through all the crap we've been dealt. It's gonna be a bitch, but if we want this to work, we both gotta put in the fuckin' effort."
Johnny's misery is palpable, and V's heart sinks as she witnesses the depths of sadness reflected in his eyes. Determined to throw the guy a lifeline, she closes the gap between them, not sure if her attempt will even register in this fucked-up, half-digital reality they share. With a cocktail of hope and uncertainty swirling in her gut, V rests her head on Johnny's shoulder. Her breath catches as his body glitches, momentarily fading from existence, and for a heart-stopping second, V thinks she might fall right through him. But then his shoulder solidifies, becoming a real, tangible support under her cheek, warm and solid and undeniably there.
Surprise and relief flood through them both as they realize the contact is real, not just some shared hallucination or trick of their merged consciousness. They remain still, savoring the simplicity of that momentary connection. Johnny, tentatively, brushes his metal fingers against V's. The contact sends a jolt through them, like touching a live wire, electricity dancing along their nerve endings. Emotions surge, tangling them up in ways they can't begin to unravel. They're transfixed, caught in the gravitational pull of whatever the hell this thing is between them, this bond that defies explanation and transcends the boundaries of reality and logic.
Johnny's voice emerges hoarse, a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "So... um... the touchy-thing," he begins hesitantly, his eyes darting between their intertwined hands and V's face.
V nods, a hint of uncertainty clouding her eyes. "Yup, dunno know how the fuck it works either, Johnny. Maybe it's just the normal fuckin' progression of the Relic. My seizures are gettin' worse and worse, plus all that shit that's gone down these past few days... so maybe it's all related."
A guilty look flashes across Johnny's face, his features contorting with self-loathing, but VV quickly jumps in to reassure him, her voice soft but firm. "I know it's not your fault, rockerboy. You can't do shit to prevent it."
Johnny's silver fingers tighten around hers, a mixture of determination and newfound resolve etched on his face. "Damn, V. I fuckin' promise, I didn't mean to hurt you. Or... yeah, maybe for a moment, I wanted it. I wanted to fuckin' destroy you, me, everything. Burning everything to the ground... That's what I do best," he admits, his gaze fixed on the distant cityscape outside the window, the neon lights of Night City reflecting in his eyes. "But... not like that. Never like that again. I'll do whatever the fuck it takes to make sure I never become that man again. And for what I said earlier... shit, I..."
"Chill, we're good now, right?" V interjects, her voice filled with an understanding tone that surprises even her. The words hang in the air between them, a peace offering in the aftermath of their emotional storm. "I trust you, okay? And as for the shit you find in my head... at this point, there's no point in pretending there could still be secrets between us. We're so tangled up in each other's minds... Just certain things, like Goro, huh? Off-limits."
Johnny nods, his eyes locked with hers, a silent promise passing between them. "Got it. I'll keep my mouth shut about the 'Saka dude," he assures her, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. "Even if I think he's got a stick so far up his ass it's tickling his tonsils."
A soft smile graces V's face, the last remnants of their earlier conflict melting away. "Thanks. And for everything else, just try not to be a fuckin' gonk," she teases, the weight of their conversation temporarily lifted in the wake of their newfound understanding. "I know it's a challenge for you, but I believe in miracles."
V swiftly downs the remains of her drink and sets the empty glass aside with a satisfying clink. With a gentle tug, she reclines on the pool table, Johnny's hand still firmly grasped in hers. Intrigued, he follows her lead, settling beside her as they both gaze up at the expanse of the ceiling above.
Their bodies lay on the surface, finding solace in the shared moment of vulnerability. V turns her head towards Johnny, a sly smile tugging at her lips as she speaks in a low, teasing voice. "Also, Silverhand, do me a solid and lay off the dirty talk when I'm already desperate for a good fuck. It's like wavin' a juicy steak in front of a starving dog, y'know? Cruel and unusual punishment."
A flicker of surprise passes through Johnny's eyes, momentarily taken aback by her bold statement. But as he meets her gaze, a playful smirk curves his lips, his eyebrows waggling suggestively. "Aw, is lil' V all worked up?" he retorts, his voice dripping with amusement and a hint of something darker. "Alright, I'll behave. Wouldn't want to get you all hot and bothered with no way to cool off. That'd just be cruel, wouldn't it? Though I gotta say, the idea of you beggin' to be choked... that's somethin' I'll file away for later."
What Johnny keeps to himself, however, is the satisfaction he feels knowing that his words had stirred something within her. It's a small boost to his ego, a reminder that despite being... well, dead and all that jazz, he can still get a reaction. He might be a digital ghost, but he's still got it where it counts.
V bursts into laughter, the tension from their earlier conversation dissipating in the sheer lightness of the moment. Her laughter echoes through the apartment, a sound that makes Johnny's non-existent heart skip a beat. "You're such an ass," she manages between giggles, playfully swatting at his arm. "And you can blabber about it as much as you want, it ain't no top-secret," V adds with a playful smirk, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Lemme tell you a story, rockerboy. Back in the day, I hooked up with this dude from a bar, and let me tell ya, the night was fuckin' wild. Like, 'wake up the neighbors and get noise complaints' wild. But the next mornin', I had breakfast plans with Jackie and Misty. And man, my neck was covered in the biggest damn marks you've ever seen."
She chuckles, the memory of the incident bringing a mischievous glimmer to her eyes, a hint of nostalgia coloring her words. "Jack got all fired up, ready to pummel the guy who did it. Poor sweet choom thought I was in some kinda trouble. You should've seen him, all puffed up like a rooster, ready to defend my honor or some shit."
V continues, her voice filled with amusement and fondness for her dead friend. "But then Misty whispered somethin' in his ear, and boom! I've never seen anyone turn that shade of red in my life! He couldn't even look me in the eye durin' the whole meal, and when we said our goodbyes, all he managed to mutter was, 'Chica, be careful with that kinda shit, alright?'" V erupts into a boisterous laugh, the memory still bringing her immense joy, even as a tinge of sadness creeps in at the edges, a bittersweet reminder of Jackie's absence.
Deep down, Johnny feels a primal, possessive surge. The thought of some random gonk getting handsy with V sends a white-hot bolt of anger through him, visceral despite his lack of a physical form. But he swallows it down, honoring his earlier promise. Instead, he masks his jealousy with his trademark snark and a hefty dose of flirtation.
"Ya know, V, your buddy's got a point. Gotta be more careful with that kinda kink," Johnny says, his smirk filled with a devilish charm, "Just imagine the kinda damage a hand like this," Johnny purrs, his silver fingers tracing a tantalizing path across the soft skin of V's palm, causing her to inhale sharply, the touch sending electric shivers up her arm, "could do on that sexy little neck of yours. Or anywhere else you'd fancy," he adds, punctuating his words with a playful wink that somehow manages to be both sleazy and charming at the same time.
V covers her blushing cheeks with her other hand, attempting to conceal her embarrassment, but the heat radiating from her face could probably be seen from orbit. Her mind begins to wander as Johnny's words ignite a flurry of wild possibilities within her, each more tantalizing than the last.
"Dammit, Johnny, quit bein' such a fuckin' tease!" V chuckles, her voice laced with a playful edge that barely masks her growing desire, a hunger that threatens to consume her whole. The combination of his words and her vivid imagination have left her yearning for more, her body humming with an electric need that makes every nerve ending feel like it's on fire. "You're gonna make me spontaneously combust or some shit. I might need to take a dip in the Arctic Ocean to cool down at this rate."
Johnny sits up, pulling V with him. His eyes dance with amusement and more than a little pride at the effect he's having on her. "Yeah, seems like a cold shower and some shut-eye might do you good," he suggests, his voice low and gravelly. "Can't have you overheatin' that pretty little brain of yours, now can we? Might fry what's left of your circuits, and then where would I be? Stuck with a smokin' hot body and no one to share it with."
V nods, reluctantly releasing Johnny's hand as she rises from the table, immediately missing the strange comfort of his touch. She makes her way towards the mezzanine stairs, her mind still buzzing with the electric energy between them. But just as she's about to disappear from sight, Johnny's voice cuts through the air, calling her back like a siren's song, impossible to resist.
"V," he calls out, his tone filled with a mixture of seriousness and consideration that makes her pause mid-step, one foot hovering above the next stair.
She turns to face him, her curiosity piqued, eyebrow raised in question. "Yeah?"
A contemplative look crosses Johnny's face as he offers his suggestion, his eyes softening with an emotion V can't quite place, something between concern and affection. "I know how much you love your lil' chit-chat sessions with Panam. Maybe you should give 'er a call, pop a blocker or two, and have a fun girls' night out tomorrow," he proposes, his voice tinged with a hint of encouragement that surprises even him. "Might do you some good to have a night without me. You know, remember what it's like to be just V for a while."
The young mercenary lets out a sigh, hesitating. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her shirt,
"Johnny, I ain't a fan of takin'g those pills. It just doesn't sit right with me, you know? Erasing you from my mind like that, even if it's just for a night. It's like... I dunno, like I'm losing something. We're in this mess together, right? Feels shitty to just... switch you off."
Johnny meets her gaze, his expression understanding, a rare softness in his eyes that makes V's heart skip a beat, reminding her that beneath all the snark and attitude, there's a man who genuinely cares. "I offered it, V. It ain't no problem. You deserve a night without all my noise in your head. Trust me, it's all good for me. And don't worry, I'll be back before you know it, ready to annoy the shit outta you again. Can't get rid of me that easy, sweetheart."
After a moment of contemplation, V relents. "Fine, you win. I'll do it. Night, Johnny."
"Sweet dreams, princess," Johnny replies, a warm smile gracing his lips that reaches all the way to his eyes. He watches as she heads towards her bed, grateful for the chance to give her a much-needed break from the unrelenting presence of his consciousness. As V disappears from view, Johnny's form flickers slightly, a reminder of the strange existence they share, caught between life and death, reality and digital construct.
He settles back onto the pool table, staring up at the ceiling, lost in thoughts of the woman who's somehow managed to make even death feel like a new beginning. The neon lights of Night City filter through the windows, casting strange shadows across his face as he contemplates the bizarre turn his afterlife has taken. Who would have thought that Johnny Silverhand, the rockerboy rebel who wanted to burn it all down, would end up caring so deeply for a merc he's technically parasiting? Life, or whatever this is, has a funny way of throwing curveballs.
As the night wears on, Johnny finds himself hoping that V will have a good time tomorrow, even if it means he won't be there to see it. It's a strange feeling, this selflessness, but he's starting to think that maybe, just maybe, it's not so bad after all. With that thought, he lets his consciousness drift, ready to face whatever tomorrow brings in this wild ride they call existence.
For the third time that evening, Panam nearly chokes on her beer, her eyes widening in disbelief, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass. "He did fuckin' what?!" she exclaims, a mixture of shock and amusement evident in her voice, her words echoing in the bustling atmosphere of the bar.
V's day had been relatively uneventful, filled with a couple of quick gigs for Regina and some easy eddies earned, the usual grind of a merc trying to make it in Night City. Taking Johnny's advice to heart, she had decided to pop an Omega Blocker and reach out to her best friend, craving some normalcy in her increasingly bizarre life. Now, the two women were comfortably seated upstairs at the Coyote Cojo, their table adorned with glasses of tequila and an array of beer bottles, a testament to their intention to make the most of their girls' night out. Panam, looking more radiant than ever, had let her hair in a ponytail, allowing her dreadlocks to cascade gracefully down her back, the dim bar lights catching the beads woven into her hair.
V takes a deep breath, feeling the fiery burn of the tequila course through her veins, providing a much-needed surge of courage. She gathers her thoughts, preparing to share the rest of her tumultuous tale, her fingers nervously tracing the condensation on her glass. Panam leans in, her expression attentive and curious, offering her undivided attention as V recounts the events, her eyes never leaving her friend's face. Without interruption, Panam listens intently, allowing V to finish her story, occasionally nodding or raising an eyebrow at particularly juicy details.
When V concludes, Panam takes a long sip of her beer, her eyes fixed on her friend. A mixture of incredulity and amusement dances across her features as she processes the whirlwind of events, her mind clearly trying to wrap itself around the bizarre situation V has found herself in.
"Lemme get this straight," Panam begins, her voice filled with disbelief, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Last night, you went to your cop pal's place for dinner, and everything was smooth sailing until Johnny started acting up in your head. So, you cut the evening short, engaged in a heated argument with him, which somehow turned into a strange, steamy showdown, and now you two are flirting like there's no tomorrow? All this with a guy who's technically dead and living in your head?"
V lets out a frustrated grunt, feeling a mix of embarrassment and exasperation wash over her, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson that has nothing to do with the alcohol. She drops her head onto the sticky surface of the table, her voice muffled as she admits, "Yeah, Panam, that pretty much sums it up. It's a fuckin' mess, a gonk-level disaster that only I could get myself into. Welcome to the shitshow that is my life."
Panam bursts into laughter, her eyes sparkling with amusement, the sound ringing out above the din of the bar. "Holy shit, V, when you say you have trouble with guys, you're not kidding!" she chuckles, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. "But let's be real, you're not exactly making the best choices either. You've got a talent for finding the most complicated, fucked-up situations and diving in headfirst."
V reaches for one of the beer bottles and starts playing with the label, pretending to be offended as she mutters, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "Hey, now. I don't know what you're talking about. I have impeccable taste in chaotic relationships. It's a gift, really."
Panam takes a swig of tequila and sits up, her eyes sparkling with amusement, probably fueled by booze too. V can tell that she's about to bring up something embarrassing, that look in her eye all too familiar.
"First evidence, V. Remember when you were on that recon mission with that Takemura guy? You know, when you sent me that sneaky pic of him and I had to agree — man's a whole damn snack." Panam's voice is filled with teasing delight as she recalls the memory, her words slightly slurred but no less pointed. "Despite the fact that he basically worked for the enemy, and that his main focus was avenging his boss, you were straight up thirsting over him. And to top it off, you couldn't even focus on your damn mission 'cause you were too busy trying not to get caught staring at him!" Panam finishes her statement with a hearty chuckle, clearly relishing the opportunity to poke fun at V's expense.
V bangs her forehead against the table in frustration once again, the sticky surface clinging to her skin. "Okay, fine! You get one damn point," she grudgingly admits, her voice muffled against the wood. "I do have a crush on Goro. But let me tell you, Pan, he's something else. You saw him. He's got this attractive charm, a mix of awkwardness and charisma that just draws you in like a moth to a flame. Yeah, he works for Arasaka, but there's more to him than that corporate bullshit. He's genuinely kind and funny, and being around him makes me feel safe, even though I know he could snap me in half without breaking a sweat. And I'll be honest, that kind of danger seriously turns me on. It's like playing with fire, and I can't get enough of it."
Panam raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "Ah, I see. Sexy, older, and dangerous. Got it," she comments, her tone filled with understanding and a hint of teasing. "You sure know how to pick 'em, V."
"Argh, shaddafuckup, ya talk like Johnny!" V retorts, annoyed, her words slurring slightly from the alcohol. She reaches for her drink, nearly knocking it over in her frustration.
Panam's grin widens mischievously as she leans back in her seat, clearly enjoying the opportunity to dig into V's love life. "Well, if both of us are saying the same shit, then there's got to be some truth to it, huh?" she remarks playfully, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "But let's get back to what really matters... Second piece of evidence — your NCPD choom."
V interjects, correcting Panam, her words coming out more forcefully than intended, "Name's River. Ex-NCPD officer. Get it right, Pan’."
Panam dismisses V's interruption with a casual wave of her hand, nearly spilling her drink in the process. "Yeah, River, whatever," she continues, undeterred. "He's a good-looking, honest, stable, smart, kind, and strong guy who clearly likes you a lot. The kind of guy you could settle down with, maybe even husband material. And you, my dear, are..."
"Not interested like that," V interrupts, groaning in frustration, her head falling back against the booth. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I wouldn't mind a one-night stand with the guy, but Johnny would give me so much shit for it. He can't stand River's guts. And let's not forget about his family. They're nice and all, but they're already envisioning a damn wedding or some shit. I'm not kidding, Panam, you should've heard his sister and even the kids during dinner. They already have this whole vision of us getting married or some bullshit like that. Nah, thanks, I'll pass. I'm good. Last thing I need is to be tied down in this fucked-up city."
Panam's sassy smile widens as she grabs a fresh beer, her energy undeterred by V's weariness. With a playful flourish, she waves three fingers in front of V's face, causing her friend to slump back into the booth with a resigned sigh. The effects of the alcohol have clearly taken their toll, and V is already struggling to keep up with Panam's infectious enthusiasm.
"Alright, let's talk evidence number... uh, three," Panam begins, her words slightly slurred, the tequila clearly taking effect. "Johnny fuckin' Silverhand. When you first met him? He wanted to flatline you, V. But now, you guys act like you're best buds, partners in crime." She tries to hide a hiccup behind her hand, failing miserably. "He's always yapping about his vendetta against Arasaka, pushing you to finish what he started fifty years ago. And let me tell you, he gets hella jealous whenever you're around other guys, like a possessive ex-boyfriend who can't let go. You two fight like hell, constantly pushing each other's buttons, but for some twisted reason, you seem to enjoy every damn minute of it. Hell, you're even flirting with the guy like he's your high school crush or something."
Leaning in closer to V, Panam can barely contain her frustration, her voice growing louder, attracting a few curious glances from nearby patrons. "And let's not forget the biggest fuckin' issue here — he's dead! Been dead for fifty goddamn years! Johnny blew up a whole frickin' part of the city, killed thousands of people, and now he's nothing but a voice in your head, fryin' your brain more and more each damn day! It's like you're in love with a ticking time bomb, V!"
Despite Panam's harsh words, V can't help but laugh, the absurdity of her situation hitting her all at once like a freight train. "So, not really a Samurai fan, huh Panam?" she quips, trying to lighten the mood and desperately grasping at any straw to change the subject. Her mind reels, absolutely refusing to acknowledge that her friend had just insinuated she was in love with the engram. Nuh-uh, nope. That's one can of worms she's not ready to open, not now, not ever. She mentally shoves that thought under the rug, burying it deep beneath layers of denial and alcohol-induced haziness.
"Nah, just not a fan of the guy who drives my best friend batshit crazy and might end up killing her," Panam retorts, rolling her eyes playfully, but there's a hint of genuine concern beneath her sarcasm.
Taking a moment to collect her thoughts, V inhales deeply and exhales slowly, her gaze fixed on the intricate metallic lines of her mantis blades on her forearm. The cybernetic implants catch the dim light of the bar, reminding her of how much her life has changed. "But, hear me out, deep down, Johnny's not all bad," she muses, her voice tinged with a hint of reflection and a surprising amount of affection. "He's actually pretty damn okay when you get to know him. Sure, we had a super weird, major blowout yesterday, and seeing him that damn furious freaked me out. It was like reliving our first encounter all over again, when he was all piss and vinegar, ready to take over my body."
V grabs one of the glasses of alcohol on the table, noticing with sadness that it's the last one with any drink left in it. Despite this, she continues talking, her words flowing more freely now, fueled by alcohol and the need to make Panam understand.
"And let's cut the crap, it wasn't jealousy like you normally hear it. I think… I think it just hurts him, deep down, to not really be there, y'know? To be dead," V shares, her words carrying the weight of understanding. "He knows it and understands it, but it must be hella hard to accept being stuck in the head of a little kleptopunk like me. That I'm the only one who can see him and talk to him. And while I get to keep on living, experiencing all this shit firsthand, he's unable to experience life like he used to. He can't feel the burn of a cigarette, taste the bite of good whiskey, or even punch someone in the face when they piss him off. It's not fair, and I think that's what really gets to him."
V nods quietly, the weight of her own words sinking in. It was already a struggle for her to come to terms with having Johnny Silverhand as a constant presence in her mind, but she could only imagine the torment he must endure as a voice in her head. Though she couldn't fully comprehend his pain, she couldn't help but empathize with his plight.
"I mean, can you imagine it, Pan?" V continues, her voice softening. "Being trapped in someone else's body, watching them live their life while you're just... there. Unable to touch, to feel, to really experience anything. Being a ghost... You're aware of everything, but you can't interact with the world. It's gotta be fucking maddening."
Struggling to find the right words, V presses on, her brow furrowed in concentration as she attempts to articulate her thoughts through the haze of alcohol.
"And his behavior has been different lately, especially since we discovered that we can actually touch each other," V continues, her voice soft and contemplative, barely audible over the din of the bar. "It's like it adds a new layer of... reality to everything. We share moments, physical contact, and it makes it all feel more... tangible, more real. So yeah, we do that. It's weird as fuck, but it's also kinda... nice, y'know?"
Panam raises an eyebrow, a mischievous smile playing on her lips as she leans forward, her elbows resting on the sticky table. "Oh, so you're getting touchy now? I bet that adds some spice," she remarks, her tone laden with playful suggestion. "Never thought I'd hear about someone getting handsy with a digital ghost, but hey, it's Night City. Stranger shit has happened."
V's cheeks flush with embarrassment as she realizes the implied meaning behind Panam's words, the heat rising to her face faster than she can blame it on the booze. "Dammit, Pan, quit being such a fuckin' perv," she retorts, her voice a mix of exasperation and amusement. "It's not like that. We don't get touchy in that way. It's just... a few brushes of fingers, and sometimes he'll put his hand on my shoulder. That's it, alright?"
Oddly, V's explanation does little to wipe the mischievous smile off Panam's face. If anything, it seems to grow wider, like a cat who's just cornered a particularly juicy mouse. Sensing the need to clarify further, V adds more detail, her words tumbling out in a rush.
"And just to clarify, he's not really flirting with me." V says earnestly, her voice tinged with a hint of defensiveness that she can't quite hide. "It's just… he is a flirt, ya know? It's part of his charismatic persona, I think. Like, the whole rockstar thing. And since he's stuck in my head, of course he directs it at me. But trust me, I'd much rather have the playful banter and flirty remarks than when he gets all sarcastic or says something hurtful. At least when he's flirting, I know he's in a good mood and not about to go on some anti-corpo rant."
Panam leans back in her booth, a look of disbelief crossing her face as she runs a hand over her face, her eyes rolling so hard V's surprised they don't get stuck. "Of course, V. Keep telling yourself that," she says sarcastically, her voice dripping with skepticism, "Wow, you're in some serious denial here. Let's recap, shall we? You got three guys we talked about tonight. One of 'em's a solid dude who actually likes you, probably wouldn't mind settling down and having a few rugrats. The second one ain't interested and only shows up for work-related crap, but you're still mooning over him like a teenager with a crush on her teacher. And then we have the third one..." She pauses for effect, her gaze intense enough to make V squirm in her seat. "He's just a fuckin' voice in your head, swingin' between violent and aggressively flirting. And yet, you can't seem to find anything good to say about the first guy, but you'll defend the other two like your life depends on it. Seriously, V, what the hell's up with that? It's like you're allergic to anything resembling a normal, healthy relationship."
V can't help but let out a snicker, the sound mixing with the ambient noise of the bar. She's fully aware that Panam's blunt assessment of the situation is on point, as always. It's one of the reasons she values their friendship so damn much — the ability to have these honest, no-bullshit conversations without fear of hurting each other's feelings or tiptoeing around the truth.
With a playful eye-roll that would make even Johnny proud, V lifts her beer to her lips and takes a long, satisfying swig before responding. The cool liquid slides down her throat, a welcome contrast to the heat of embarrassment she's been feeling.
"Alright, alright, you got me," she concedes, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly, the gesture slightly exaggerated due to the alcohol coursing through her system. "I'll admit, I make some fuckin' questionable choices when it comes to guys. But what can I say? I like to live on the edge. Boring's never been my style, and you gotta take your thrills where you can get 'em, even if they come with a side of potential death or, y'know, a rockerboy terrorist in your head."
Panam shakes her head with a chuckle, a fondness evident in her expression that warms V's heart. "You're somethin' else, V," she remarks, affectionately. "But hey, I wouldn't have you any other way. Gotta keep things interesting, right? And let's face it, if you started making sensible choices now, I'd think you'd been body-snatched or some shit."
Then, as V glances at their table and announces that their alcohol stash had run drier than the Badlands in summer, she gets up from her seat, swaying slightly as she finds her balance. With a mischievous grin, she suggests, "Come on, Pan, enough about those losers. Let's have some real fun. You wanna dance? Show these Night City chumps how Aldecaldos do it?"
Panam eagerly nods, her eyes sparkling with anticipation and a hint of drunken mischief. "Hell yeah, sounds like a plan. What's the move? Please tell me we're not hitting up one of those corpo clubs where everyone's too scared to actually dance."
Knowing the current state of their intoxication, V realizes that driving would be a dangerous idea, even by her standards. She turns to her friend and says, her words slightly slurred but her tone dead serious, "Look, I know how you drive when you're sober, but when you're drunk... I don't have a death wish, so I don't wanna find out. We're takin' a taxi. I ain't explaining to Saul how his best driver ended up wrapped around a streetlight." She reaches for her phone and dials Delamain's number, figuring if they're gonna risk their lives, it might as well be with an AI that can't get drunk.
Panam bursts into laughter, nodding in agreement, her wild hair bouncing with the movement. "Haha, you got that right. So, where are we headed now?"
V takes a moment, her mind sifting through the countless nightlife spots in Night City like a roulette wheel of potential bad decisions. A mischievous glint appears in her eyes as she suggests, "How 'bout we hit up Totentanz? Nothing says 'fun night out' like risking life and limb in Maelstrom territory, right?"
Panam's grin widens, her excitement palpable, a wild spark in her eyes that matches V's own. "Ultra-loud music that'll make our ears bleed, creepy freaks with more chrome than flesh, and the constant threat of violence? Count me the fuck in," she replies enthusiastically
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
The early afternoon sun filtering through the window feels like a personal attack on V, its rays piercing through her eyelids and causing her to groan in agony as she slowly opens one eye. Disoriented and feeling like a pile of hot garbage that's been left out in the Badlands sun for a week, she takes in her surroundings and realizes she's back home in her apartment, but the details of the drive from Northside to the Glen are a blur of pain and nausea. She curses under her breath, realizing that she must have crashed on the damn pool table, her back protesting every slight movement.
Seated casually on one of the kitchen stools, Johnny observes her with his trademark smirk, looking far too amused for V's liking. "Rise and fuckin' shine, sweetheart!" he exclaims, his voice filled with a mixture of amusement and mock cheerfulness that makes V want to throw something at him. "I see two girls who had themselves a hell of a night! Gotta say, I'm almost impressed. Almost."
V musters a tired greeting, her voice muffled as she rubs her temples, trying to massage away the jackhammer that seems to have taken up residence in her skull.
"Heya, Johnny. D'ya know where Pan' is? Or did I leave her passed out in some Maelstrom den?"
With a quick motion of his thumb, Johnny points towards the sofa. There, sprawled out on her back like a starfish that's had one too many, Panam is snoring softly. One leg hangs off the seat, while her arm shields her face from the intrusive light, her wild hair a tangled mess that would make a bird's nest look neat in comparison.
V manages to sit up, a mix of pain and amusement evident on her face as she winces and lets out a tired chuckle. Turning to Johnny, she asks, her voice rough from a night of shouting over loud music and probably smoking god knows what, "Fill me in on what I missed? Memory's a little fuzzy. And by a little, I mean it's like trying to see through a sandstorm in the Badlands."
Johnny walks over to V, placing a comforting hand on her back to steady her, the gesture surprisingly gentle for the usually abrasive rockerboy. Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, a mischievous glint in his eyes that V knows all too well, he begins to recount the events as she requested.
"When them pills stopped doin' their job, I found you in the middle of a club packed with Maelstromers," Johnny starts explaining, his voice a mix of amusement and something that might be pride, "But you didn't let that stop ya. Oh no, you and your bff danced like two maniacs, showin' those chromeheads what Night City's truly made of. And when some gonk had the audacity to grab Panam's ass, you didn't think twice before threatenin' him with your iron. Gotta say, the look on his face when he realized he'd fucked with the wrong merc was priceless."
V winces at the memory, fragments of the night starting to come back to her like shards of broken glass. She asks, her voice filled with dread, "And what the fuck happened after that? Please tell me we didn't start a full-on gang war or something."
Johnny smirks, relishing in the opportunity to recount the night's events, his eyes dancing with mischief. "After that little altercation, you headed upstairs and ran into this guy named Brick. From what I heard, you two hit it off and decided to indulge in some S-keef together. Gotta say, V, I didn't think you had it in you to keep up with a Maelstrom boss, but you proved me wrong. You were puffin' on that thing like it was your last night on earth."
V groans, burying her face in her hands. "Fuck me sideways," she mutters, then looks up at Johnny. "And what the fuck happened after that? Did we rob a corpo convoy or challenge Arasaka to a dance-off?"
Johnny smirks, clearly enjoying V's discomfort. "After that, you kept on dancing, got yourself into another brawl — this time over who had the better chrome, if you can believe it — and then decided it was time to hit the streets in search of some scop-burgers. Classic Night City move, if you ask me. You and Panam stumbled through the streets, laughing like a couple of crazed hyenas on a joyride, scaring the shit outta some poor kids who probably thought you were some new kind of cyberpsycho. Oh, and somewhere in the midst of all the chaos, you managed to dial up our good friend Takemura. Gotta say, that was a highlight of the night for me."
V's eyes widen in horror, her face paling despite the hangover flush. "I fuckin' did what!?" she exclaims, her voice a mix of shock and mortification. Her tone then turns desperate, almost pleading. "Please tell me I didn't say some dumbass shit to him!"
Johnny smirks and says, his voice dripping with mock seriousness, "Nah, you just straight-up asked him if he wanted to get down and dirty with ya. Told him you wanted to see if his chrome extended to all parts of his body, if you catch my drift." He pauses for a moment, enjoying the look of absolute horror on V's face before adding, "Relax, I'm just messin' with ya. Panam hung up the call before he could even pick up his phone. Your dignity's still intact... well, as intact as it can be after last night's shitshow. Though I gotta say, the way you were slurrin' his name, it's a miracle you even managed to dial the right number."
A wave of immense relief washes over V, her shoulders sagging as she releases a heavy sigh that seems to come from the depths of her very soul. She's dodged a bullet, a potential disaster averted by the skin of her teeth. The mere thought of what she could have blurted out to Goro Takemura in her drunken state sends a shiver down her spine, making her hangover seem like a walk in the park by comparison.
"Thank the fuckin' stars for Panam, then," V mutters, her voice filled with gratitude and a hefty dose of embarrassment. "I owe her big time for savin' my sorry ass from that level of humiliation. Might have to buy her a damn brand new Basilisk or somethin'."
Johnny nods, his amusement still evident in the quirk of his lips and the glint in his eyes. "Yeah, she's got your back, V. But here's the thing, your rōnin left you a bunch of messages, wonderin' what the hell was goin' on. You might wanna call him back before he starts freakin' out and shows up here, demandin' answers. Knowin' him, he's probably already halfway through hacking every security cam in Night City to track you down."
V groans, running a hand through her disheveled hair, wincing as her fingers catch on tangles that feel more like steel wire than actual hair. The weight of the situation settles upon her like a ton of bricks, knowing that she can't ignore the messages forever. She needs to face the consequences of her intoxicated actions, no matter how much she'd rather crawl into a hole and die.
Johnny, ever the amused observer, proceeds to recount the events that followed, his voice taking on the tone of a storyteller recounting an epic tale. "After that little phone fiasco, you stumbled your way through the metro, somehow managin' to avoid gettin' mugged or worse. You made it back here just as the sun was creepin' up. And now, here you are, nursin' a hangover that could rival even the worst one I've ever had. And trust me, I've had some doozies in my time."
"Yup, helluva hangover there. But —” V starts to reply, but her words are abruptly cut off by a boot flying across the room with surprising accuracy. The footwear narrowly misses her head, whistling past her ear before colliding with the wall behind her with a resounding thud. V turns her attention to the couch, where Panam, with a grimace that could curdle milk, has sat up and is glaring at V with daggers in her eyes.
"Argh, shaddap, V!! You're talkin' to your imaginary friend out loud, and my head feels like it's bein' pounded by a fuckin' mallet!" Panam complains, massaging her temples in a futile attempt to alleviate the pain. Her tone softens slightly as she adds, a note of pleading entering her voice, "Can you be a doll and whip up some coffee with your fancy espresso machine? Make it strong enough to wake the dead, will you? And maybe throw in some synth-eggs and bacon if you're feelin' particularly charitable?"
"Sure thing, Pan," V replies with a smirk, amused by Panam's groggy state and her ability to think about food even in this condition. "One hangover cure comin' right up. Just don't throw the other boot, yeah? My reflexes ain't exactly at their best right now."
"Don't tempt me," Panam grumbles, but there's a hint of a smile on her face "But thanks. Oh, and hello there, Johnny," she mumbles, her voice laced with exhaustion and a hint of resignation at the fact that she's acknowledging an invisible person. She raises her hand, attempting to wave in the general direction where Johnny's invisible form presumably stands. However, her gesture goes hilariously astray, as she completely misjudges his location, waving at a potted plant instead. Unaware of her mistake, she then rolls over onto her stomach and buries her head in a pillow, seeking refuge from the pounding headache and the harsh light of day.
V chuckles softly at Panam's vain attempt, finding amusement in the situation despite her own misery. With a grin that's equal parts pain and fondness, she rises from her seat, determined to alleviate their shared misery by brewing a much-needed pot of coffee. As she makes her way to the kitchen, V can't help but shake her head, a mix of fondness and exasperation in her expression.
"Just another day in Night City," she mutters to herself, loud enough for Johnny to hear. "Where the hangovers are as brutal as the streets, and your best friend thinks your potted plant is a long-dead rockerboy."
Johnny, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, watches V with a smirk. "Welcome to the morning after, kid. Now, how about you make that coffee before Panam decides to really use her other boot as a projectile? I may be a construct, but even I'm not willing to risk that woman's wrath when she's hungover."
"Alright, let's see if we can't get ourselves back to the land of the living," V mutters, firing up the coffee machine. "And then maybe, just maybe, we can figure out how to face Takemura without dying of embarrassment. Any ideas, Johnny?"
Johnny just smirks. "Oh, I've got plenty of ideas, V. But somethin' tells me you ain't gonna like 'em. How about we start with 'sorry for the drunk dial, wanna grab a drink to make up for it?'"
V groans, but can't help the small smile that tugs at her lips. Just another day in Night City, indeed.
Notes:
Panam, raising her glass in a mock toast : "To V, the queen of complicated romances and impossible situations. May your love life never be boring, and may we always have enough booze to deal with the fallout."
V, cringing, banging her head on the sticky table.
Panam, reaching across the table, squeezing V's hand, "Hey, I get it. Life's a bitch, and then you die... or get a terrorist stuck in your head, apparently.”Lots of bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song: Marilyn Manson - Minute of Decay
xoxo, see you next time ♥
Chapter 14: Through Glass
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Hi everyone! A relatively 'calm' chapter before the big chapters in December! I can't wait to post them for you. In the meantime, enjoy this one!
• This is the last time we see Evelyn. You know what I mean.
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the Kudos and bookmarks on the previous chapter ♥ And thank you CherryOnTheTop1210 for your comments. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
'Cause I'm looking at you through the glass
Don't know how much time has passed
All I know is that it feels like forever
When no one ever tells you that forever feels like home
Sitting all alone inside your head
After several cups of coffee and a hangover remedy, Panam finally takes her leave, grumbling something about the camp likely turning to dust if she's absent for too long. V escorts her friend to the door, watching as Panam's figure disappears into the bustling streets of Night City. With a sigh that's equal parts relief and lingering exhaustion, V climbs the stairs leading to the bathroom, her footsteps echoing in the now-quiet apartment.
Deciding to indulge herself, V opts for a bath, eager to wash away the remnants of her hangover and finally make proper use of the enormous bathtub. The tub, easily large enough to accommodate three people, has so far only seen quick showers in V's hectic life. She turns on the hot water, watching as steam begins to rise, filling the room with a comforting warmth.
In a moment of self-indulgence, V even lights a small scented candle, its flickering flame casting dancing shadows on the walls. The soft notes of the radio fill the air, a stark contrast to the pounding beats of the Totentanz from the night before. She strips off her clothes, wrinkling her nose at the lingering smell of smoke and sweat clinging to the fabric, before tossing them unceremoniously into the laundry basket.
With a contented sigh, V slips into the bath, the hot water enveloping her like a comforting embrace. She can feel the tension in her muscles begin to melt away as she sinks deeper into the water. Nibbles, her ever-curious cat, has managed to sneak into the bathroom, finding a cozy spot under the sink to observe her human's strange water ritual.
But as nice as the feline's company is, V finds herself craving a different kind of companionship. Opening her eyes, she calls out, her voice echoing slightly in the tiled room, "Johnny? You there, rockerboy?"
As if summoned by her thoughts, Johnny materializes, his form flickering into existence beside the tub. He's seated on the floor, his back against the cool tiles, one leg stretched out. His silver arm glints in the soft candlelight as he turns to face V, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Well, well," he drawls, his voice a low rumble that seems to reverberate through the steamy air. "Didn't expect to be invited to the party. What's the matter, sweetheart? Can't even take a bath without me now?"
V rolls her eyes, but there's a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Oh, shut it, you gonk. Maybe I just wanted some decent company. Nibbles ain't much for conversation, you know."
Johnny chuckles, his gaze roaming over V's form in the water, the candlelight casting a warm glow on her skin. "Decent company, huh? That's a first. Usually, I'm the indecent one in this relationship."
"Speaking of indecent," V says, arching an eyebrow, her tone teasing despite the slight flush creeping up her neck. "I'm kinda surprised you didn't just pop in the water buck naked. Thought that'd be more your style."
Johnny's smirk widens, a mischievous glint in his eyes that makes V's heart skip a beat. "Nah, figured I'd be a gentleman for once. 'Sides, got a pretty nice view from here already, don't I?"
The air between them crackles with tension, reminiscent of that moment at the trailer park two days ago. Johnny's eyes linger on V for a moment before he clears his throat, seemingly deciding to steer the conversation to safer waters.
"So, uh, you wanted to chat about somethin' in particular? Or just couldn't bear to be without my charming presence for more than five minutes?"
V hesitates, the playful atmosphere shifting slightly. She fidgets with the water, creating small ripples that distort her reflection. "Maybe I just wanted to chat. Is that so hard to believe?"
Johnny raises an eyebrow, his voice laced with skepticism. "In the bath? Naked? Sure, totally normal conversation setting, V. Not suspicious at all."
V laughs, the tension dissipating slightly. "Alright, smartass. Maybe I did have somethin' on my mind..." She pauses, gathering her thoughts before continuing. "I was thinking, given how the Relic's progressing... Your engram must be getting stronger, more present, right? Do you think... do you think you could take control now? Without Misty's pills, I mean."
Johnny's expression shifts, surprise and uncertainty flashing across his face. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture V has come to recognize as a sign of his nervousness. "Honestly? I don't know, V. But..." he trails off, studying V's face intently. "Why? You... you want to try it?"
V bites her lip, considering her words carefully. "Yeah, maybe. I mean, it's gonna happen sooner or later, right? Might as well be on our terms."
Johnny nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. "You've got a point there. Alright, if you're sure about this... we could give it a shot. But V, you gotta promise me something."
"What's that?" V asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"If anything feels off," he says, his voice uncharacteristically serious, "if you start to feel weird, you tell me immediately. We stop, no questions asked. Deal?"
V nods, a mix of excitement and apprehension swirling in her gut. "Deal. So, uh... how do we do this?"
Johnny stands up, stretching out his hand to V. "First things first, let's get you out of that tub. Don't want you drowning if this goes sideways. Then... I guess we just focus. Try to... I dunno, switch places or something."
V reaches out and grasps Johnny's hand, still marveling at the fact that it works, that they can actually touch. The sensation is electric, a tingling warmth that spreads from her fingertips up her arm. Johnny's eyes widen slightly, clearly feeling the same strange connection.
"Okay," V says, her voice slightly breathless from the unexpected intensity of their touch. "I'm gonna quickly wash up, put on some clean clothes, and then we'll give this a shot."
As V stands, water cascading off her body, and wraps herself in a towel, the fabric soft against her skin.
"I'll, uh, give you some privacy," Johnny says, his voice gruff. "Meet you in the living room when you're done."
With that, he flickers out of existence, leaving V alone with her thoughts and the echoing drip of water from the faucet. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what's to come.
The late afternoon sun filters through the blinds, casting long shadows across the living room as V descends the stairs. Her hair, still damp from the bath, clings to her neck in dark tendrils, leaving a faint trail of moisture on the collar of her freshly donned tank top. The clean fabric feels like a blessing against her skin, a stark contrast to the smoky, sweat-soaked clothes from their night at the Totentanz.
V's eyes immediately lock onto Johnny, who's sprawled across the couch with an air of forced nonchalance. His leg bounces slightly, a telltale sign of the nervous energy he's trying to conceal. The room feels charged, thick with anticipation and a hint of apprehension.
"Ready to give this a shot?" Johnny asks, his voice a low rumble that barely masks the underlying tension. V can see the slight tightness around his eyes, the way his fingers drum an erratic beat on his thigh.
V nods, settling beside him on the couch. The leather creaks softly under her weight, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet apartment. "As ready as I'll ever be, I guess," she replies, aiming for confidence but hearing the tremor in her own voice.
They turn to face each other, knees almost touching. The air between them feels electric, charged with a mixture of excitement and fear. Without conscious thought, their hands reach out, fingers intertwining. The contact sends a jolt through V's system, a warmth that spreads from her fingertips up her arm, grounding her in the moment.
Their first attempt is met with silence. The room remains still, the only sounds the soft hum of the air conditioning and their slightly elevated breathing. Disappointment flickers across Johnny's face, mirroring the feeling in V's chest.
"Let's try again," V suggests, her voice barely above a whisper but filled with determination.
On their second attempt, V feels a strange sensation wash over her. It's as if she's being gently pushed back in her own mind, like sinking into warm water. The world around her becomes slightly muffled, distant, as if she's viewing it through a thin veil. It's disconcerting but not painful.
"I... I felt something," she murmurs, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and trepidation. Her grip on Johnny's hand tightens involuntarily.
Johnny nods, his own fingers squeezing back reassuringly. "One more time?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft, almost gentle.
Their third attempt yields the most startling result. For a split second, Johnny manages to seize control, but only of V's hand. She watches in fascination and mild horror as her fingers twitch and flex, moving independently of her will. It's a bizarre sensation, like watching a part of herself act autonomously. Just as quickly as it happened, control snaps back to V, leaving them both breathless and slightly shaken.
"Holy shit," Johnny breathes, his eyes wide and darting between V's face and their still-joined hands. There's a mix of shock and something akin to wonder in his expression.
V shakes her head, gently disentangling her fingers from Johnny's. The loss of contact leaves her feeling oddly bereft, a chill replacing the warmth of his touch. "I think that's enough for now," she says, her voice unsteady. "We can try again later. The stress probably isn't helping."
Johnny runs a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying his nervousness. He nods in agreement, his expression thoughtful. "Yeah, you're right. Hey, why don't we ask Misty if she knows any relaxation techniques or some shit? Seems like it'd be up her alley."
V's face brightens at the suggestion, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. "That's actually not a bad idea, Johnny. I was planning to swing by and see Misty and Vik before the end of the day anyway. Let 'em know I've moved and all that."
"Two birds, one stone," Johnny says with a smirk, though his eyes remain serious, concern evident in their depths. "Plus, might be good to get Vik to give you a once-over. Make sure our little experiment didn't scramble anything important up there."
V rolls her eyes but can't help smiling, appreciating Johnny's concern even if it's masked by his usual sarcasm. "Always looking out for me, huh?"
"Someone's gotta," Johnny retorts, his tone softening slightly. There's an undercurrent of genuine care in his voice that makes V's heart skip a beat. "So, we headin’ out?"
V nods, standing up and stretching, feeling the tension in her muscles from their unusual experiment. "Yeah, let's go."
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
V pushes open the door to Misty's Esoterica, the familiar chime of bells announcing her arrival. The shop's interior envelops her in a comforting embrace, a stark contrast to the harsh neon of Night City outside — dim, cozy, and filled with the soothing scent of incense.
Misty looks up from behind the counter, her face lighting up with a warm smile. "V! It's so good to see you," she exclaims, her voice soft and melodious. "How are you feeling? You look... different, somehow."
V approaches, returning the smile and leaning against the counter. "Hey, Misty. I'm doing alright, all things considered," she replies, running a hand through her hair. "Actually, got some news for you — I've moved to a new place. Thought you should know, in case... well, you know."
Misty's eyes widen slightly, a mix of surprise and concern crossing her delicate features. "Oh, that's wonderful, V! I hope it's somewhere safe," she says, reaching out to squeeze V's hand. "You know I worry about you, especially with everything that's been going on."
The two women fall into easy conversation, catching up on recent events. V can feel Johnny's presence, quietly observing their interaction, his spectral form leaning against a shelf filled with crystals and talismans.
After a while, V takes a deep breath, steeling herself. "Listen, Misty, there's something else I wanted to talk to you about," she begins, her voice lowering slightly. "It's about Johnny and me... we've been trying something new with the Relic."
Misty leans in, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "What do you mean, V? Is everything okay?"
V explains their attempts at transferring control, describing the sensations and results of their experiments. As she speaks, Misty's eyes grow wider, her lips parting in fascination.
"That's... that's incredible, V," Misty breathes when V finishes. "It sounds like you're making real progress, but I can tell it's stressing you both out. Have you considered any relaxation techniques?"
V shakes her head. "Not really. Got any tips?"
Misty's face lights up. "Oh, I have just the thing! Let me show you a few exercises that might help."
She proceeds to demonstrate several techniques — a breathing exercise that involves counting breaths, a visualization method where V imagines a peaceful scene, and even a simple meditation routine. V listens attentively, mentally noting down the advice.
"Remember, V," Misty says, her voice gentle but firm, "the key is to practice these regularly. They might feel awkward at first, but give them time."
V nods, a small smile playing on her lips. "Thanks, Misty. I appreciate it. Johnny's been surprisingly on board with all this, too."
At the mention of Johnny, Misty's eyes sparkle with an idea. "Oh, speaking of Johnny... I just had a thought. How about we do a tarot reading for you both? It might give you some insight into this new phase of your... relationship."
V hesitates for a moment, glancing at Johnny. He shrugs, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Why not?" he drawls. "Could be interesting. Not like we got anything to lose."
Turning back to Misty, V nods. "Alright, let's give it a shot. Who knows? Maybe the cards have some wisdom for us."
Misty's face lights up as she reaches for her deck, the atmosphere in the shop shifting as she prepares for the reading. "Excellent! Let's see what the universe has to say about your unique situation," she says, her voice filled with excitement.
Misty shuffles the deck with practiced ease, her slender fingers dancing over the cards. She lays out four cards on the table, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
"Alright, let's see what the universe has to say," Misty murmurs, flipping over the first card. "The Fool. That's you, V."
V leans in, intrigued. "What's it mean?"
Misty's voice takes on a dreamy quality as she explains, "The Fool symbolizes the start of a journey, the announcement of something new. It's the inner child — curious of the world, but also naive and reckless. Heh, sounds a lot like the V I first met."
Johnny snorts, and V can practically feel his smirk. "Got that right."
Misty flips the second card. "The Magician, reversed. This one's Johnny."
V nods, unsurprised. "Sounds about right. What's it mean when it's upside down like that?"
"The Magician represents a person of great talent and charisma, a leader," Misty explains. "But reversed, it can mean a tendency toward addiction... mental instability."
Johnny's presence flickers slightly, but he remains silent.
Misty turns over the third card, her eyebrows raising. "The Lovers. Interesting..."
V feels a flush creeping up her neck. "The Lovers? Uh, what exactly does that mean in this context?"
Misty's lips curl into a knowing smile. "The Lovers represents balance, harmony, and union. It can symbolize a deep connection, be it friendship or... something more. V, is there something you haven't told me?"
V sputters, feeling Johnny's amusement radiating through their link. "What? No! It's not... we're not..."
Misty laughs softly. "Relax, V. The cards don't always mean what we think. In this case, it could represent the unique bond you and Johnny share, the balance you're trying to achieve."
V nods, still flustered. "Right, yeah. That makes sense."
Misty turns over the final card. "The Star. Now this is promising."
"What's it mean?" V asks, leaning forward.
"The Star represents hope, renewal, and inspiration," Misty explains, her voice soft. "It suggests that despite the challenges you face, there's a light guiding your path. It's a card of healing and harmony."
V feels a wave of relief wash over her. "That's... actually really comforting to hear."
Misty gathers the cards, her expression thoughtful. "This reading suggests that you and Johnny are on a journey of discovery and balance. There are challenges ahead, but also hope. The connection you share is powerful, and it might be the key to overcoming the obstacles in your path."
V nods, processing the information. She can feel Johnny's presence, unusually quiet and contemplative.
Misty reaches out, squeezing V's hand. "Remember, V, the cards don't dictate your fate. They're a guide, a reflection of possibilities. What happens next is up to you... and Johnny."
V says her goodbyes to Misty, her mind still reeling from the tarot reading. "Thanks for everything, Misty. I'm gonna head over to see Vik now," she says, offering a small smile.
"Take care, V," Misty replies, her eyes warm with concern. "And remember those relaxation techniques!"
V nods and slips out through the back door of the shop, stepping into the narrow alley that leads to Vik's clinic. The contrast between Misty's incense-filled shop and the grimy alley is stark, the sounds of Night City filtering down between the buildings.
As she descends the stairs to Vik's clinic, V can feel Johnny's presence, a mix of curiosity and slight apprehension. She pushes open the door, the familiar smell of antiseptic and metal greeting her.
Vik looks up from his workbench, his cybernetic eyes focusing on V. "Well, well, look who's here," he says, his gruff voice tinged with affection. "What brings you by, kid?"
V approaches, leaning against the exam chair. "Hey, Vik. Just wanted to let you know I've moved to a new place. Thought you should have the updated info, you know, just in case."
Vik nods, his expression a mix of relief and concern. "Good to know. Safer digs, I hope?"
"Yeah, definitely an upgrade," V confirms, deliberately avoiding mentioning anything about the Relic's progress or Johnny. She knows Vik's not exactly Johnny's biggest fan, and she doesn't want to worry him unnecessarily.
Instead, she shifts gears. "Actually, while I'm here, think you could give me a quick once-over? Just a general check-up, make sure everything's ticking along okay?"
Vik's eyebrows raise slightly, but he nods. "Sure thing, kid. Hop on up," he says, patting the exam chair. "Any particular concerns, or just a routine check?"
V settles into the chair, trying to appear casual. "Nah, nothing specific. Just been a while, you know?"
As Vik begins his examination, V can feel Johnny's presence hovering nearby, unusually quiet. She hopes this check-up will put both their minds at ease, even if she's not telling Vik the whole truth. For now, it's better to keep some things between her and Johnny, at least until they understand more about what's happening with the Relic.
Vik's cybernetic eyes flicker as he studies the holographic display, the blue light casting an eerie glow on his weathered face. He squints, zooming in on specific data points, his expression a mix of concentration and concern. After what feels like an eternity to V, he finally turns to her with a slight nod.
"Well, kid," he begins, his gruff voice softened by a hint of relief, "looks like you're holding up better than expected. Your vitals are stable, and the Relic... well, it ain't exactly playing nice, but it's not getting worse either. All things considered, you're doing alright."
V lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, her shoulders sagging slightly. "Fuck, that's... that's good to hear, Vik. Thanks." She pauses, her mind drifting to her conversation with Takemura about Oda's optical camo implant. With the parade looming and potential shitstorms on the horizon, she makes a decision.
"Hey, Vik," she starts, sitting up straighter on the exam chair, her voice taking on a determined edge. "Been thinkin’... might be time to upgrade the chrome. You got anything top-shelf hiding in that magic cabinet of yours?"
Vik raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of surprise and fatherly concern. "New chrome? You sure that's wise, V? Your system's already under a hell of a lot of stress with that Relic business."
V nods firmly, her jaw set. "I'm sure, Vik. Things are... well, let's just say I might need every edge I can get real soon. Rather be over-prepared than under, y'know?"
Vik sighs but reaches for his catalog, a sleek datapad filled with the latest cybernetic enhancements. "Alright, if you're set on this. What kind of upgrades are we talking about here?"
V leans in, her eyes scanning the specs of various implants as she flips through the options. Her gaze stops on two particular items, and she feels a surge of excitement mixed with a touch of anxiety. "How about this Kang Tao optical camo? And... yeah, the Militech Falcon Sandevistan. Those look preem."
Vik lets out a low whistle, his eyebrows shooting up so high they nearly disappear into his hairline. "Jesus, V. That's some serious fuckin' hardware you're eyeing. Top-of-the-line stuff, military grade. You sure about this? It ain't gonna be cheap, and the installation... it's gonna be rough as hell."
V nods, determination hardening her features. "Yeah, I'm sure. Whatever it costs, whatever it takes. I need this, Vik. Got a feelin’ things are gonna get real messy soon, and I wanna be ready."
Vik sighs, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, the scrape of his stubble audible in the quiet clinic. "Alright, but I gotta warn you — and I mean really warn you, V — this is gonna be a heavy operation. We're talking major surgery here. You'll need to take some pretty strong immunosuppressants for a few days after, make sure your system doesn't reject the implants. And you'll need to take it easy, let your body adjust. This ain't like slapping on a new optic or upgrading your grip."
"I get it, Vik," V says, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her stomach. "I'm ready for it. Whatever it takes."
Vik nods, standing up with a soft groan. "Okay then. I'll prep for surgery right away. You can take off your top and lie face down on the table. But before we start, I need you to promise me something, V. And I mean really promise, not just that half-assed 'sure, doc' bullshit you usually pull."
V pauses in the act of removing her jacket, a hint of a smirk on her lips. "Wow, Vik, you're really pullin’ out the big guns. What's got you so worked up?"
Vik's expression is deadly serious, his voice stern but laced with genuine concern. "Promise me you'll head straight home after the operation. No detours, no jobs, no crazy stunts. You take your pills, you rest, and you take it easy for a few days. I mean it, V. This isn't something to fuck around with. Your body's gonna need time to adjust, and if you push too hard too fast, you could do some serious damage. We clear?"
V's smirk fades, replaced by a solemn nod. "Crystal clear, Vik. I promise. Straight home, pills, rest. No crazy shit. Scout's honor."
"Good," Vik says, his expression softening slightly. "Alright, let's get you prepped. This is gonna be a long one, so get comfortable."
As V settles onto the cold metal table, she feels Johnny's presence intensify. His voice echoes in her mind, a mix of concern and grudging approval. "Serious chrome indeed, V. You sure of this?"
V mentally shrugs as Vik returns, an array of gleaming surgical tools laid out beside him. The sight sends a shiver down her spine, but she steels herself. "Gotta be prepared, Johnny. Whatever's coming, I want us to be ready."
She can almost feel Johnny's smirk as the familiar hum of medical equipment fills the air. Vik moves around her, attaching monitors and preparing the anesthesia.
"Alright, V," Vik says, his voice taking on the professional tone of a surgeon. "I'm gonna start the anesthesia now. Count backward from ten for me."
As V begins to count, she feels the cold rush of the drugs entering her system. Her eyelids grow heavy, the world starting to blur around the edges. Just before she slips into unconsciousness, she hears Johnny's voice one last time. "See you on the other side, V. Don't keep me waiting too long."
The world fades to black, and V surrenders herself to the operation that will change her body, and perhaps her future. The last thing she's aware of is the steady beep of the heart monitor and Vik's reassuring presence as she drifts off into a dreamless sleep.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
As promised, after the operation, V heads straight home, making a conscious effort to drive carefully for once. Her body aches, the fresh implants a constant, throbbing presence under her skin. By the time she reaches her apartment, she's barely able to keep her eyes open.
V stumbles through her front door, not even bothering to turn on the lights. The soft glow from the city outside casts long shadows across her living room as she collapses onto the couch with a small groan. The familiar leather creaks under her weight, cool against her feverish skin.
"Hey, Johnny? Ready to give this another shot?" she calls out, her voice slightly raspy from the anesthesia.
Johnny materializes, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His expression is a mix of concern and reluctance. "You shittin' me, V? You just had your skull cracked open."
V shrugs, wincing slightly at the movement. The new implants send a jolt of pain through her nervous system, a sharp reminder of the changes her body is undergoing. "That's exactly why we should try now, you gonk. I'm so fuckin' wiped out, it should be a cakewalk for you to take over. My brain's basically mush right now."
Johnny hesitates, his brow furrowing. He pushes off the wall, pacing the room. The soft thud of his boots on the floor is the only sound in the apartment. "I don't know, V. It's risky. We don't know what this could do to you, especially when you're all doped up on meds."
"C'mon, Johnny. Just one try," V pleads. "We need to make progress on this. Time ain't exactly on our side here."
He sighs, relenting. "Fine. One shot, that's it. And if anything feels off, we pull the plug immediately. Got it?"
Johnny moves to sit beside V on the couch, and almost reflexively, takes her hand. They begin Misty's breathing exercises, trying to relax and sync their minds. The room fills with the sound of their synchronized breaths, slow and steady.
Johnny visualizes gently pushing V back, feeling a tingling sensation as she starts to let go. It's like pushing against a thick fog, resistant at first but slowly giving way. Suddenly, it's like a rubber band snapping, and Johnny finds himself in control of V's body.
For a moment, he's awestruck, marveling at the sensation of physical form. The weight of V's body, the beat of her heart, the rush of blood in her veins — it's overwhelming. Then, a wave of anxiety washes over him, the reality of the situation hitting him like a freight train. He immediately breaks the connection, almost recoiling from the intensity of the experience.
Johnny gasps as he snaps back to his spectral form, his eyes wide. "Holy fuckin' shit," he breathes, running a hand through his hair. The phantom sensation of V's body lingers, making him feel more solid than he has in a long time.
V blinks, disoriented. The world spins for a moment as she regains control. "Did it... did it work?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
Johnny nods, still looking shaken. "Yeah, it worked. For a second there, I was... I was you. It was... fuck, V, it was like bein' hit by a truck full of sensations."
V grins tiredly, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. "See? Told ya it'd be easier when I'm beat."
Johnny shakes his head, a mix of emotions playing across his face. "Yeah, yeah. You were right, you smug bitch. But that's enough for today. You need to rest, V. Doctor's orders, remember? And after what we just did... you need to take it easy before your brain turns to complete mush."
V nods, already feeling sleep tugging at her. The adrenaline from their experiment is fading fast, leaving her utterly drained. "Fine. But we're definitely doing this again soon. We're onto something here, Johnny. Something big."
As V drifts off, Johnny watches her, his expression thoughtful. This new development has opened up a world of possibilities — and complications. But for now, he's content to let V rest and recover. They'll face whatever comes next together, two minds in one body, navigating the dangerous waters of Night City and their own intertwined existence. "Sleep tight, V," he murmurs, "We've got a long road ahead of us."
As the first rays of dawn paint the sky in hues of pink and gold, V stands at the base of a colossal skyscraper, her eyes tracing its seemingly endless ascent into the heavens. The job had appeared straightforward enough when Regina's urgent contract pinged her holo in the dead of night — infiltrate a wealthy corpo's penthouse, extract some sensitive data, and make a clean exit — a simple smash and grab that promised easy eddies.
"You sure this is a good idea?" Johnny materializes beside her, his spectral form flickering in the early morning light as he cranes his neck to take in the towering structure. "Vik told you to take it easy, and this doesn't exactly scream 'relaxation'."
V shrugs, a hint of excitement dancing in her eyes as she scans the building's imposing facade. "It's a cakewalk, Johnny — get in, ride the elevator to the top floor, swipe the data, and vanish into thin air," she explains, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Besides, it's mostly residential; security should be a joke, and it's the perfect opportunity to field test this new optical camo."
Johnny's voice drips with sarcasm, but there's an undercurrent of genuine concern beneath the snark. "Right, 'cause leaping between balconies a hundred stories up is exactly what the good doc had in mind when he prescribed some R&R," he retorts, shaking his head. "Most people recuperate from surgery by binging braindances and scarfing down ice cream, not playing high-stakes cat burglar in the corpo district."
Rolling her eyes, V performs one last gear check, her fingers dancing over her equipment with practiced ease. "Chill out — I've pulled off tougher gigs with worse injuries than this," she assures him, her tone light and teasing. "And hey, if I do take a tumble, you'll be there to catch me, right? My very own rockerboy guardian angel."
"Real cute, V," Johnny snorts, but there's a ghost of a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. "Just... watch yourself up there, alright? I've got no interest in becoming the permanent resident of a merc-flavored pancake."
V nods, her expression sobering for a moment as she acknowledges the genuine concern behind his bravado. "I hear you, Johnny. I'll be careful," she promises, before a mischievous grin spreads across her face. "Now, let's go relieve this corpo pig of some ill-gotten gains, shall we?"
With that, V activates her optical camo, her form shimmering and blending into the background as she approaches the building's entrance. Johnny's spectral presence follows close behind, a silent sentinel as they embark on their latest misadventure in the concrete jungle of Night City.
The job itself proves to be almost laughably simple — a few deftly disabled cameras, a quick data transfer, and V finds herself with a successful extraction under her belt before the sun has fully crested the horizon. But V, never one to leave well enough alone, feels the irresistible pull of the rooftop calling to her adventurous spirit.
As they emerge onto the skyscraper's summit, the crisp morning air hits V like a shot of adrenaline, invigorating her senses and setting her nerves alight with possibility. Her gaze is immediately drawn to a towering antenna that stretches defiantly towards the heavens, its metal framework glinting invitingly in the soft dawn light.
"Gotta admit, Johnny, the view from up here is absolutely preem," V breathes, her eyes drinking in the sprawling cityscape that unfolds beneath them like a neon-drenched tapestry. The wind whips through her hair, carrying with it the familiar cocktail of smog and possibility that defines Night City. "Just look at that panorama of downtown — bet the view from the other side is even more breathtaking. We could probably see clear to the river and Japantown from up there."
Johnny materializes beside her, arms crossed and a deep scowl etched into his features. "Don't even think about it, V," he warns, his tone a mixture of exasperation and poorly concealed worry. "We got what we came for; let's delta before our luck runs dry and some early-bird corpo drone spots us playing king of the mountain."
V grins, her eyes already locked onto the antenna's inviting frame as she maps out a potential climbing route. "C'mon, where's that adventurous spirit, old man?" she teases, practically vibrating with anticipation. "It'll only take a minute to reach the top — live a little, Johnny!"
"Must've left it in my other jacket," Johnny grumbles, his scowl deepening. "You know, the one that isn't currently tethered to a goddamn adrenaline junkie with a death wish."
Feeling reckless and more alive than she has in weeks, V begins her ascent, ignoring Johnny's colorful protests as she scales the antenna with practiced ease. His voice echoes in her head, a cacophony of anger and barely disguised concern. "V, what in the actual fuck do you think you're doing? Get your ass down from there before you slip and decorate the pavement with what's left of your gray matter!"
At the pinnacle, V is struck by a sense of freedom so pure and intoxicating it nearly takes her breath away. The entirety of Night City stretches out before her, a patchwork quilt of neon and chrome bathed in the soft, golden glow of sunrise. Massive holograms flicker to life in the distance, hawking everything from the latest cyberware to tonight's hottest braindance releases. Beyond the city limits, the harsh expanse of the badlands serves as a stark reminder of the world that exists beyond Night City's glittering facade.
Johnny, however, looks positively apoplectic, his spectral form crackling with agitation as he glares at V. "I swear, V, if you don't get your ass down here right this second, I'll hijack control of your body and drag you back myself — and don't think for a moment that I won't do it!"
V rolls her eyes dramatically, but can't quite suppress the grin that spreads across her face. "Cool your jets, you big baby. I'm just savoring the view," she calls down to him, fishing her phone out of her pocket and carefully positioning herself for the perfect shot. "Now be a dear and smile for the camera, Johnny!"
With a quick snap, V captures the moment for posterity — her face beaming in the foreground, framed by the breathtaking panorama of Night City spread out behind her. The rising sun casts a warm, golden glow across her features, highlighting the mischievous glint in her eye and the small, satisfied smirk playing at the corners of her lips.
"There, another priceless memory immortalized for the ages," V announces, tucking her phone safely away. "I’m goin’ down. Happy now?"
Johnny's scowl somehow manages to deepen even further, his spectral brow furrowed in frustration. "Overjoyed," he deadpans, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "Now can we please get the fuck down from this oversized lightning rod before you tempt fate any further? I've had my fill of near-death experiences for one lifetime, thanks very much."
V chuckles good-naturedly but begins her descent, recognizing the genuine concern beneath Johnny's gruff exterior. "Alright, alright, you win this round, Silverhand," she concedes, carefully making her way back down the antenna's frame. As they navigate the perilous journey back to terra firma, V can't help but feel a familiar surge of excitement coursing through her veins, already wondering what their next adventure might bring.
"You know," V muses as they finally reach the relative safety of the lower levels, her tone thoughtful but tinged with amusement. "For someone who can't actually fall, you sure are a buzzkill about heights."
Johnny's response is a colorful tapestry of curses, which only serves to fuel V's laughter as they slip away from the building and blend seamlessly into the early morning crowd. As V makes her way to the nearest drop point to offload the freshly acquired data, she can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction wash over her — another job well done, another small victory claimed in the never-ending struggle to carve out a place for herself in Night City's unforgiving ecosystem.
As they walk, Johnny's grumbling gradually subsides, replaced by a reluctant chuckle that seems to surprise even him. "You're going to be the death of me, V — you know that, right?" he says, shaking his head in a mixture of exasperation and grudging admiration. "One of these days, your insatiable appetite for danger is going to land us both in a world of hurt."
V grins, playfully attempting to bump her shoulder against Johnny's spectral form as they navigate the slowly awakening streets. "Nah, you've got it all wrong, Johnny," she counters, her eyes sparkling with mischief and affection. "I'm not going to be the death of you — I'm going to be the life of you. Someone's got to keep that jaded, cynical heart of yours beating, even if it's only metaphorically these days."
She pauses for a moment, her expression softening as she regards her digital companion. "Besides," V continues, her voice taking on a more serious tone, "Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse — isn't that what they used to say back in your day, old timer?"
Johnny's spectral form flickers, and for a moment, V swears she can see a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You're impossible, you know that?" he says, but there's a warmth in his voice that belies his gruff exterior. "But I suppose if I'm stuck with anyone in this godforsaken city, it might as well be someone who knows how to keep things interesting."
After their eventful morning, V treats herself to a well-deserved breakfast break, sipping coffee at a sidewalk café near Reconciliation Park. She scrolls lazily through her messages, paper cup in one hand, only half-listening to Johnny's latest anti-corpo tirade as his spectral form lounges in the chair beside her, legs sprawled out and arms crossed behind his head.
"I'm telling you, V," Johnny grumbles, his eyes narrowing behind his aviators as he glares at a group of suits power-walking past their table, "every one of those corpo-rats is just a cog in the machine, grinding away their souls for a chance at a corner office and a gold-plated cyberdeck."
V hums noncommittally, more focused on her holo than Johnny's familiar rant. Just then, two messages pop up in quick succession, the gentle ping drawing her attention away from her people-watching.
A chuckle escapes V's lips, drawing Johnny's curious gaze. As he leans over her shoulder to peek at the screen, V turns to him with a mischievous glint in her eye. "So, Johnny," she drawls, her tone dripping with playful sarcasm, "you think you might be a bakeneko or something? Maybe that's the real reason you're stuck in my head — you're just a very persistent cat spirit with a penchant for leather and an unhealthy obsession with Arasaka."
Johnny rolls his eyes dramatically and flips V the bird, his only response to her teasing jab. Just then, another message pings on V's holo.
- 07:36:04am
- Keep it as a warning
Johnny snorts, shaking his head. "Christ, is Takemura still on about that damn cat? Guy needs to loosen up before he gives himself an aneurysm. Though I gotta admit, the idea of you being replaced by some demon cat is pretty fuckin' hilarious."
V laughs, her fingers already tapping out a reply. "You gotta admit it's kinda sweet how seriously he takes this stuff. Besides, after everything we've seen in Night City, who's to say there aren't cat spirits running around?"
V's eyebrows shoot up in surprise as she stares at the message Goro just sent. It's so unexpectedly cute coming from someone who always tries to maintain such a serious demeanor that she can't help but burst out laughing.
"Holy shit," Johnny exclaims, leaning in for a closer look. "Did Mr. Stick-up-his-ass Takemura just send you a fucking cat emoticon? What's next, is he gonna start sending you cute animal videos and selfies with cat ear filters?"
V grins, shaking her head in amusement. "Aw, come on, Johnny. It's kinda adorable." She decides to add a response.
- 07:37:33am
- Here, beautiful view of the city
The reaction is as immediate as it is explosive, her holo buzzing so insistently it nearly vibrates off the table. V can almost picture Takemura's usually stoic face contorting in a mixture of shock, concern, and exasperation as she reads his rapid-fire responses.
V bursts into laughter, nearly spilling what's left of her coffee. "Oh man," she wheezes, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, "for a guy who's planning to pull off a death-defying leap onto a moving float during the parade, Goro sure doesn't seem to appreciate when I'm the one getting some altitude. Talk about a double standard, huh?"
Johnny snorts, shaking his head in a mixture of amusement and lingering concern, his aviators slipping down his nose as he leans back in his chair. "Yeah, well, I hate to admit it, but I'm with Takemura on this one, V," he grumbles, running a hand through his digital hair. "In case your adrenaline-soaked brain forgot, I was losing my shit when you decided to play spider-monkey on that antenna. Thought I was gonna have a heart attack, and I don't even have a fuckin' heart anymore."
V rolls her eyes, still chuckling. "You two are such worry-warts. It's cute, really.” she teases, her grin widening as Johnny's scowl deepens. "Who knew the big bad rockerboy and the stoic Arasaka bodyguard had so much in common?"
"Fuck off, V," Johnny grumbles, but there's no real heat in his words, just a resigned sort of fondness that he can never quite manage to hide. "Just because we're both smart enough to recognize when you're being a reckless gonk with a death wish doesn't mean we're suddenly besties. I've still got standards, you know."
V grins, her fingers already tapping out a cheeky response to Takemura, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she composes her message.
"You're playing with fire, V," Johnny warns, but there's a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes, betraying his attempt at a stern expression. "Keep this up, and Takemura might just blow a fuse before we even get to the parade. Then where will your grand plan be, huh?"
V shrugs nonchalantly, a mischievous glint in her eye as she pockets her holo and stands, stretching languidly like a cat in the warm morning sun. "What can I say? It's fun to see the stoic rōnin get all flustered. Besides," she adds, her voice taking on a more thoughtful tone, "a little excitement is good for the soul, don't you think? Keeps us on our toes, reminds us we're still alive in this chrome-plated hellscape."
As they prepare to leave the café, V can't help but feel a warmth blooming in her chest, a sensation that has nothing to do with the coffee she's just consumed. Moments like these – teasing Johnny, riling up Takemura, finding pockets of joy in the chaos – remind her that there's still beauty to be found in this neon-drenched world, still connections to be made and cherished, even if they come in the most unexpected packages.
A few hours later, a glimmer of hope pierces through the neon-drenched haze in the form of a call from Mr. Hands, the enigmatic fixer's shadowy form flickering to life on V's holo.
"V? It's your lucky day," he begins, “If you’re serious about making headway in Pacifica, that is.”
“Work some magic for me?” V asks, her voice tinged with a desperate sort of hope that she can't quite keep out of her tone, no matter how hard she tries to play it cool.
Hands' response is as blunt as a sledgehammer to the gut, tempering V's enthusiasm. “As I said, whatever you’re offering, the VBoys could not, I quote, ‘give a shit’. You kept the receipt, I trust.” A pause, pregnant with possibility, hangs in the air before he continues, “Yet, a counteroffer was forthcoming – a gig. Successful completion thereof could earn you an audience with Brigitte.”
Fan-fuckin'-tastic. Of course, nothing can ever be simple. V refrains from sighing and instead asks, "Ok, so who do I contact next?"
"Tomorrow, noon, church, Sloan Lane, inside by the altar," comes the fixer's concise response. "They'll know to look for you."
"Got it," V confirms, her mind already racing with possibilities and potential pitfalls. "Thanks, Hands."
And without so much as a farewell, the fixer's image blinks out of existence, leaving V alone with her thoughts – well, as alone as she can be with a certain rockerboy ghost riding shotgun in her neural pathways.
As if on cue, Johnny materializes beside her, slouching against a nearby wall with an air of practiced nonchalance that does little to mask the concern lurking in his eyes. "Well, well, well," he drawls, his voice a smoky rasp. "Looks like we're going to church. Think they'll let me in, or am I too unholy even for Pacifica's standards?"
V can't help but roll her eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite the gravity of their situation. "At least we're making progress, right?" she quips, her voice laced with a fondness she can never quite manage to hide when it comes to her digital companion.
"Progress, she says," Johnny scoffs, pushing off the wall to pace restlessly around V's apartment, "More like jumping through hoops for the Voodoo Boys' amusement. You sure about this, V? Pacifica's a war zone, and these guys... they're not exactly known for their hospitality."
"We need answers, Johnny," V says, her voice a mix of determination and weariness. "If this is what it takes to figure out what's happening to us... then yeah, I'm sure." A wry grin spreads across her face, a flash of teeth in the dim light of her apartment. "Besides, when have we ever taken the easy road? Where's the thrill in that?"
She heaves herself off the couch, stretching like a cat in the afternoon sun streaming through the grimy windows. "I've got no fuckin' clue what kind of gig the VDB are cookin' up for me. Better swing by Vik's, make sure these new chrome bits are primed and ready. Might need 'em sooner than I thought."
"Well, shit," Johnny chuckles, materializing next to her with a smirk. "Never thought I'd see the day when you'd actually use that brain of yours before leaping headfirst into the fire." He slings his arm around V's shoulders, the weight of it surprisingly solid and warm. "C'mon, let's go see the doc before you change your mind and decide to storm Pacifica with only a rusty spoon."
They make their way out of the apartment, Johnny's arm still draped casually over V's shoulders as they step into the elevator. The closeness is still new, still a bit surreal, but neither of them seems inclined to break the contact. As they exit the building and head towards the alley where V's bike is parked, the bustle of the afternoon crowd barely registers.
V swings her leg over the bike, feeling Johnny settle in behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist. It's a strange comfort, this newfound ability to touch, to feel the solidness of each other. As she revs the engine, drowning out the cacophony of the city, V can't help but grin.
How do you feel? That is the question
But I forget you don't expect an easy answer
When something like a soul becomes initialized
And folded up like paper dolls and little notes
You can't expect a bit of hope
So while you're outside looking in
Describing what you see
Remember what you're staring at is me
V emerges from the clinic about an hour later. Despite her attempt to play it cool with Vik, claiming she just wanted a quick check-up on her new chrome, the old ripperdoc saw right through her bullshit. With a weary sigh that spoke volumes, he gave her the all-clear but warned against using the Sandevistan for a few days, just to be safe. V, for once, didn't argue, promising to keep it offline unless shit really hit the fan.
A quick detour to Misty's shop follows, where V fills her in on the whole ‘letting Johnny take the wheel’ situation. In return, Misty regales her with tales of her budding relationship with Mamá Welles, chuckling as she describes the matriarch's newfound mission to fatten her up like a prized turkey.
Bidding Misty farewell with a promise to swing by again soon, V's ready to crash for a much-needed siesta. That data heist job had her up at the ass-crack of dawn, and her bed is calling. But just as she's about to mount her ride, her holo buzzes to life.
"Hey Judy, what's up?" V asks, her tone casual despite the sudden prickle of unease at her friend's disheveled appearance.
“V…” Judy's voice comes through flat, devoid of its usual spark. “can you come over, stat?”
“Something happen?” V asks, though the haunted look in Judy's eyes, visible even through the holo's flickering display, already tells her more than words ever could.
“Yeah. Just come.” Judy cuts the call abruptly, leaving V staring at a blank screen.
"Fuck," V mutters, revving her engine. Johnny materializes on the back of the bike, his usual smirk replaced by a frown.
"So much for beauty sleep," he quips, but there's no humor in it. "Whatever's got BD-girl spooked, it's gotta be bad news."
V nods grimly, her jaw clenched as she weaves through traffic with reckless abandon, the bike's engine screaming in protest as she pushes it to its limits. Her mind races, conjuring up a parade of worst-case scenarios, each more horrifying than the last. She makes it to Jackson Street in record time, the tires of her bike screeching as she skids to a halt behind Judy's building. Without missing a beat, she's off the bike and taking the fire escape stairs four at a time, her heart pounding in her ears as she bursts into the apartment without so much as a knock.
"Judy?" she calls out, her voice echoing in the eerie silence of the place.
"In the bathroom," comes the muffled reply, Judy's voice sounding hollow and distant.
As V enters the bathroom, the scene that greets her is nothing short of nightmarish. "Oh, fuck...!" she gasps, her body freezing in the doorway as her brain struggles to process the horror before her. Her eyes dart frantically from the blood-stained carpet, its fibers dark and sodden, to Judy, hunched and sobbing on the edge of the bathtub, her body wracked with grief. But it's the sight of Evelyn, pale and lifeless at the bottom of the tub, her wrists bearing angry, gaping wounds, that makes V's stomach lurch.
"Bird offs herself to express her undying gratitude to you for saving her ass," Johnny snarls, materializing in the corner of the bathroom, his face a mask of fury and disgust. The rockerboy's words hang in the air, sharp and cutting, but before V can tell him to shut his trap, Judy's broken voice fills the silence.
"I was — I was only gone an hour..." she stutters, her words punctuated by gut-wrenching sobs that seem to shake her entire frame.
V crouches beside her friend, her movements slow and careful as if approaching a wounded animal. When she speaks, her voice is soft, a stark contrast to the chaos of emotions swirling inside her. "How'd this happen, Judy?"
"I don't know! Told you," Judy manages between gasps, her eyes red-rimmed and unfocused. "Evie was lying in bed, like always, when I went out. And I got back to..." Her voice trails off, the words seeming to stick in her throat as another wave of sobs overtakes her.
"Fuck..." V breathes, the word inadequate in the face of such tragedy. She reaches out, hesitating for a moment before placing a hand on Judy's knee, feeling the tremors that run through her friend's body. The bathroom feels impossibly small, the air thick with the metallic stench of blood and the heavy, suffocating weight of grief. V's mind races, grasping for something, anything to say that might offer even a shred of comfort, but words seem hollow and meaningless in the face of such devastating loss.
"If I'd just known I'd've..." Judy continues, her voice cracking as she buries her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with barely contained sobs.
“Don't blame yourself, won't solve anything.” she says softly, trying to inject some comfort into her voice despite the hollowness she feels inside.
“I should've sensed something, that it was off!” Judy snaps back, a sudden flare of rage cutting through her grief. Her eyes, red-rimmed and wild, lock onto V's with an intensity that's almost painful to witness.
V shakes her head, her voice firm but gentle. “Stop, couldn't watch her twenty-four seven… She'd made up her mind. Would've found a way. Always.” The words hang heavy in the air, a grim truth neither of them wants to face. After a long, suffocating silence, she adds, her voice barely above a whisper, “Gotta do somethin' with her.”
Judy nods slowly, seeming to come back to herself bit by bit. “Don't want any trouble — I'm callin' the badges.” she says, her voice hollow but determined. She looks up at V, a silent plea in her eyes. “Can you carry her to the bed?”
“As if that'll change anything…” Johnny comments, his face a mask of bitter cynicism. V shoots him a withering glare, silently willing him to shut up for once.
With a deep breath, V carefully lifts Evelyn's body. The weight of her lifeless form is a stark, horrible reality that hits V anew. Evelyn's skin is cold and clammy against V's arms, her once vibrant presence now nothing more than an empty shell. As V carries her to the bedroom, each step feels like an eternity, the finality of death settling over her like a suffocating blanket.
She gently lays Evelyn on the bed, trying not to look too closely at the pale, still face of the woman who'd been through so much. The room feels oppressive, the air thick with the lingering scent of blood and the heavy weight of loss.
Judy's voice, raised in anger, filters through from the other room as she berates the dispatcher on the phone. When she finally joins V in the bedroom, her steps are quick and jerky, vibrating with nervous energy.
"They'll be here soon," Judy announces, stopping abruptly next to the bed. Her eyes flick to Evelyn's body for a split second before she looks away, arms wrapping tightly around herself as if for protection. "Told me to keep her on ice until tomorrow. Can you believe the balls?"
V lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking her head. "All things considered, you let 'em off pretty light," she says, struggling to find words that don't sound hollow and meaningless. "Had it been me, they'd've gotten an earful like nobody's biz."
Judy doesn't respond, her face a mask of grief and exhaustion as she sinks heavily onto the edge of the bed. She takes several deep, shuddering breaths, her gaze fixed on some distant point. "Gonna put somethin' on her," she finally says, her eyes reluctantly moving back to Evelyn. "Rather she look like a person than a body. Could you wait outside?"
V nods silently, turning to leave. She's almost out the door when Judy's voice, small and vulnerable, stops her. "Close the door, V. Please."
As V pulls the door shut behind her, the soft click of the latch echoes in the sudden silence, a finality to it that makes her chest tighten. She leans against the wall, eyes closed, feeling the weight of helplessness settle over her like a lead blanket. Glancing down at her hands, she sees them stained crimson, Evelyn's blood drying in the creases of her palms and under her nails. With a grimace, she decides she'd better make herself useful instead of standing around like a useless gonk.
Returning to the bathroom, she's hit anew by the grim scene. The metallic scent of blood hangs heavy in the air, making her stomach churn. Judy clearly doesn't need to relive this horror show every time she steps foot in here. Besides, now that they've moved Evelyn, there's no point in preserving this macabre tableau for the badges.
With a heavy sigh that seems to come from the depths of her soul, V starts running water in the bathtub. The clear liquid quickly turns pink, then red as it washes away the evidence of Evelyn's final moments, spiraling down the drain like some sick metaphor for how quickly life can slip away in Night City. Next to the washing machine, she retrieves a jug of industrial-strength bleach, its harsh chemical smell making her eyes water as she uncaps it. She liberally sprays the caustic liquid on a bloody splash that runs up the tiled wall, watching as it fizzes and bubbles, eating away at the gruesome stain.
Moving to the sink, V turns on the tap and thrusts her hands under the stream of lukewarm water. She scrubs frantically, her movements bordering on manic as she tries to erase all traces of red from her skin. The water swirls pink down the drain, but no matter how hard she scrubs, she can't seem to get rid of the feeling of Evelyn's blood on her hands.
Suddenly, two strong arms wrap around her waist from behind, the touch both surprising and oddly comforting. V's eyes snap up to the mirror, meeting Johnny's intense gaze in the reflection. His dark eyes bore into hers, a mix of concern and something deeper, more complex, swirling in their depths.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ, V," he drawls, his voice a low rumble that she feels more than hears. "You tryin' to scrub your goddamn skin off or what? Ease up before you start bleedin' yourself."
V's hands still under the running water, her knuckles white from the force of her scrubbing. "Can't stop," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "If I stop, I'll have to think about... about..."
"About how royally fucked this whole situation is?" Johnny finishes for her, his grip tightening slightly.
V nods, swallowing hard. "Yeah. That."
Johnny's reflection sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I ain't gonna sugarcoat it. This is a shit sandwich, and we're all takin' a big fuckin' bite."
A bitter laugh escapes V's lips. "That's one way to put it."
"But here's the thing," Johnny continues, his eyes locking with hers in the mirror. "You can't change what happened. Can't bring her back. All you can do now is be there for Judy."
V turns off the tap, her hands dripping water into the sink. "And how the hell am I supposed to do that, Johnny? I couldn't even save Evelyn. What good am I to Judy?"
Johnny spins her around to face him, his hands gripping her shoulders. "You're here, ain't ya? That's more than most people in this fuckin' city would do. Sometimes, just bein' there is enough."
V stares at him for a long moment, feeling the fight slowly drain out of her. "When did you get so wise, you old rockerboy?"
A ghost of a smile flickers across Johnny's face. "Guess dyin' taught me a thing or two. Now, finish cleanin' up this mess. Judy's gonna need you when the badges show up."
V nods, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, you're right. Thanks, Johnny."
"Don't mention it," Johnny says, already starting to fade.
As Johnny's form flickers and disappears, V turns back to the grim task at hand. The bathroom still needs cleaning, and Judy will need all the support she can get when the cops arrive. She looks at the floor, towards the blood-soaked rug. Figuring it's beyond salvaging, she simply rolls it up and pushes it into a corner. If there had been a window in the room, she would've gladly tossed it out.
Not seeing what else to do, she returns to the living room, finding Judy on the couch, curled up on herself. But before V can muster the courage to approach her and try to offer comfort, the doorbell rings insistently. Seeing that the young techie is in no state to handle the situation, V sighs and goes to open the door.
To her greatest surprise, she finds herself face to face with Officer Petrova, recognizing the woman as Barry's colleague. A weight lifts from V's shoulders, knowing that at least with this cop, the situation would be handled humanely. Letting her into the apartment, V explains the situation, first pointing out the bathroom, which reeks of bleach all the way down the hall, then the bedroom where Evelyn lies. After this brief discussion and a quick examination of the body, the officer returns to the living room. Casting a sorry glance towards Judy, she places a compassionate hand on V's shoulder, telling her she'll take care of things.
Officer Petrova calls into her radio, her voice low and professional. Within minutes, two colleagues join her, their faces grim as they enter the apartment. They move with practiced efficiency, their footsteps heavy as they make their way to the bedroom. V watches, feeling oddly detached, as they emerge with a body bag on a stretcher. Evelyn's form, once so vibrant and full of life, is now just a shape under black plastic.
The officers speak in hushed tones, their words a blur to V's ears. Forms are filled out, questions asked and answered in a haze. And just like that, it's over. The door closes behind the last officer, leaving V and Judy alone in an apartment that suddenly feels too big, too empty.
The silence that blankets the apartment is finally shattered by Judy's voice, small and rough, like sandpaper on raw nerves. "I... I need some air." Without waiting for V's response, she bolts from the apartment, her footsteps echoing in the hallway as she makes a beeline for the fire escape. V follows wordlessly, her own movements heavy with exhaustion and grief as she climbs the metal stairs behind Judy.
They emerge onto the roof, where a small oasis of urban comfort has been carved out of the concrete and steel. An old leather couch, its surface cracked and worn by countless nights under the open sky, sits alongside a weathered table and a few mismatched chairs. In the corner, an unopened case of soda stands sentinel, waiting for the next rooftop gathering that seems impossibly far away now. The setup faces an unobstructed view of Night City, a sprawling neon jungle that stretches to the horizon, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding in this small corner of its vastness.
But the breathtaking vista holds no allure today. Judy paces the roof like a caged animal, her face a mask of anguish and disbelief. Her fingers twist and untwist, a physical manifestation of the turmoil raging inside her. V, feeling utterly useless, sinks onto the old couch. The leather creaks in protest, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence. She pulls out a cigarette, more to give her restless hands something to do than from any real desire to smoke.
After what feels like an eternity, Judy's frenetic movement ceases. She turns towards the city, her gaze distant and unfocused, as if searching for answers in the glittering skyline. With a deep, shuddering sigh that seems to come from the very depths of her soul, she approaches V. "Uh... bum a cig?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
V's eyebrows rise in surprise. "Didn't know you smoked," she responds, her own voice rough.
"Uhh. Quit, been years. But right now I need something 'sides air in my lungs." She stops directly in front of V, her eyes pleading. The desperation etched into every line of her face is heart-wrenching. "Please, V, just one."
"Heh, here," V says softly, pulling the cigarette case from her pocket. The golden rabbit embossed on its surface catches the light, a fleeting reminder of happier times.
Judy takes the case with trembling hands, her fingers tracing the outline of the rabbit as if it holds some secret message. "That was her smoke case," she breathes, her voice thick with unshed tears.
The raw pain in Judy's voice makes V's chest tighten. "Wanna hold on to it?" she offers, willing to part with the memento if it would bring even a moment's comfort to the grieving woman before her.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Judy shakes her head. "No, you seem to like it, keep it." She pauses, her eyes meeting V's, a flicker of something – gratitude, perhaps – breaking through the fog of grief. "Kinda glad it's you that has it, actually."
With reverent care, Judy opens the case. She selects a cigarette, her movements deliberate, as if performing a sacred ritual. After handing the case back to V, she places the cigarette between her lips. V leans forward, flicking her lighter to life. The small flame illuminates their faces for a brief moment, highlighting the exhaustion and sorrow etched into their features.
Judy inhales deeply, then tilts her head back, exhaling a plume of smoke that dissipates into the sky. "Fuck, Evie..." she whispers, the name hanging in the air between them like a ghost.
Sinking into one of the chairs, Judy's posture crumples, as if the weight of her grief is physically crushing her. When she speaks again, her voice is raw, broken. "I let her down. I thought if I gave her some space or time she'd get back on her feet..."
V feels the words like a punch to the gut. The helplessness that's been gnawing at her since they found Evelyn threatens to overwhelm her. "I dunno what to say," she admits, the inadequacy of her response burning like acid in her throat. "Never was any good at this stuff."
Judy shrugs, her shoulders rising and falling in a gesture of weary resignation. "Ah, you don't need to talk," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Did more for her than anyone else."
V feels a pang of guilt twist in her gut. The weight of her true motives presses down on her, demanding honesty. "I had a motive to find her, Judy," she admits, her words heavy with regret. "You know that."
Judy takes another long drag on her cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the fading daylight. Her gaze remains fixed on the sprawling cityscape before them, a maze of neon and chrome stretching to the horizon. "It's what you bring that counts," she responds, exhaling a plume of smoke that dissipates into the air. "You gave her the freedom to choose."
"Yeah, maybe," V says slowly, the phrase branding itself into her mind like a hot iron. The implications of Judy's words settle over her like a shroud. "Just never imagined she'd choose this."
A heavy silence descends upon them, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional gust of wind that whips around the rooftop. The city below continues its relentless rhythm, oblivious to the tragedy that's unfolded in this small corner of its vastness. After what feels like an eternity, Judy's voice cuts through the quiet, raw with emotion.
"Her condition – couldn't think about anything else..." she begins, her words halting and pained. "Tech-wise, she was clean, doll shard was operational, uncorrupted..." Judy's voice trails off, her eyes glazing over as she relives the horror of her discoveries. "So, psychological trauma – had to be that. Did some more diggin' in her virtus."
V watches as Judy's face contorts with anguish, a single tear tracing a glistening path down her cheek. "Found Woodman," she chokes out, the name dripping with venom. "He kept her. Had his way with her. The things he did..." Her voice breaks, the weight of the revelation almost too much to bear. "And once he got bored, he pawned her off."
The horror of these revelations hits V like a physical blow, leaving her frozen in place. Her mind races back to her encounter with Woodman in his office at Clouds, remembering how her skin had crawled just looking at him. But this... this was beyond anything she could have imagined. A wave of regret washes over her – she should have followed her instinct and carved that bastard into pieces.
"Had no idea that guy was such a monster," V finally manages, her voice barely above a whisper. She can't bring herself to meet Judy's gaze, shame and anger warring within her. "Saw him as your average tricksy sleazebag."
Judy throws her half-smoked cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with more force than necessary. She leans back in her chair, her body tense with barely contained rage. "Yeah, puts on a convincing facade," she spits out. "I knew him, but I never thought him that sick in the brain." Her leg begins to bounce, a physical manifestation of the nervous energy coursing through her. "Gotta be somethin' I can do about it."
"Like what?" V questions, concern etching lines across her forehead.
"Don't know yet. Think I'll call Suze..." Judy turns to the merc, offering a small, miserable smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Hehh, thanks, V. Sorry, but, uh, I'd rather be alone now. Promise to keep in touch."
Understanding that it's time to give the young woman space with her grief, V stands, her joints protesting after sitting for so long. "Sure you don't need anything?" she asks, her voice soft with concern.
"No, but sweet of you to ask," Judy replies, shaking her head dejectedly, her technicolor hair catching the last rays of the setting sun.
V takes a few steps towards the fire escape, the metal grating beneath her feet. She pauses, turning back one last time, her silhouette framed against the dying light. "I managed to get a meeting with the VDB. Tomorrow," she says, her voice low and dangerous. "They're partially responsible too, and believe me, as soon as I get what I need from them... they're gonna pay."
This declaration earns her a worried look from Judy, who whispers, her voice barely audible over the ambient noise of the city, "Don't go getting yourself killed... not you too."
V tries to inject confidence into her voice, hoping to offer some reassurance. "Don't worry about me," she says, even as doubt gnaws at the edges of her mind. "Anything comes up, holler on the holo."
As V descends the fire escape, each step feels like she's wading through molasses. The events of the day have sapped her strength, leaving her a hollow shell of her usual self. When she finally reaches her Arch, parked in the shadows of the looming apartment block, she finds herself unable to muster the energy to even start the engine. She slumps over the handlebars, her forehead resting against the cool metal.
"Johnny?" V's voice is barely audible over the distant hum of traffic. Her fingers tremble as they grip the bike's controls. "You know how to ride this thing?"
The rockerboy materializes beside her, taking in V's defeated posture, concern etching lines across his usually smug face. "Course I can ride. What's goin' on, V? You look like shit."
V manages a weak smile. "Feel like it too. Listen, I need a favor. Can you... can you take over? Get us home?"
Johnny's eyes widen, surprise replacing his usual cynicism. "You serious? Our little body-swapping trick's barely been tested. You really wanna push it now?" The uncertainty in his voice is palpable, a stark contrast to his usual cocksure attitude.
V leans against his shoulder, her eyes meeting his with a desperation that cuts through Johnny's reservations. "Please. Just... need to take a break. Just five minutes." Her voice cracks on the last word, "Johnny, please.”
Johnny runs a hand through his hair, conflict clear in his expression. "Fuck, V. This is a gonk move if I've ever seen one." He sighs, his resolve crumbling. "But alright. I'll take us home," he promises, his voice softening to a whisper.
V closes her eyes, surrendering to the strange sensation of relinquishing control. The sensation is bizarre – like her consciousness is being gently pushed aside, retreating to some quiet corner of her mind. The familiar sensations of her body grow distant, muffled, as if experienced through layers of cotton. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once, like free-falling with the certainty of being caught.
For Johnny, the experience is a rush of sensations long forgotten. Suddenly, he's not just an observer or a voice in V's head – he's flesh and blood again. The cool night air on his – her? – skin, the solid weight of the motorcycle beneath him, the faint scent of motor oil and city grime – it's all overwhelming in its visceral reality. He flexes V's fingers, marveling at the simple act of physical movement. It's like waking up from a long, strange dream to find the world more vivid than ever before.
"Jesus fuck," Johnny breathes, looking at their hands. "It actually worked."
V's voice echoes in their shared mindspace, a mix of relief and wonder. "Yeah... it did. This is... something else."
Johnny lets out a low whistle, the sound strange coming from V's vocal cords. "You're tellin' me. Your body's all wrong – too small, limbs too short. How do you function like this?"
He takes a moment to adjust, noting the differences in reach and balance. It's disorienting, yet oddly thrilling – like playing an instrument he knows by heart, but with the strings rearranged. He starts the Arch, the engine's vibration traveling through V's frame in a way that feels both familiar and foreign.
As Johnny starts the motorcycle, the engine's rumble travels through V's body in a way that feels both familiar and alien. The vibrations resonate differently in this smaller frame, and Johnny marvels at the nuances of sensation. The resistance of the throttle, the wind's assault on exposed skin, the dizzying array of lights reflecting off every surface – it's all so visceral, so real.
For V, the experience is surreal, something like floating in a sensory deprivation tank.. The usual sensory overload of the city fades to a distant murmur, replaced by a cocoon of quiet darkness. She allows herself to drift, surrendering to this strange respite.
"This is... nice," V murmurs, her consciousness barely a whisper in their shared mind.
"Don't get used to it," Johnny retorts, but there's no real bite to his words. "Ain't here to be your personal taxi service."
As they weave through traffic, Johnny can't resist pushing the Arch a little harder. He lets out a whoop of pure joy as they thread the needle between two slow-moving trucks, the rush of adrenaline electric in V's veins.
"Easy there, rockerboyy," V chides, but there's amusement in her mental voice. "I'd like my body back without any new dents or scratches."
"Relax, I got this," Johnny assures her, gunning the engine as they hit an open stretch of road. "Just enjoyin' the ride while I can."
For these precious minutes, they exist in a strange harmony – neither fully Johnny nor entirely V, but something new and undefined. A fusion of rebel and merc, of past and present, of two souls sharing one fragile human form.
Johnny stops the motorcycle near the entrance of their apartment, the adrenaline rush from the ride still coursing through their shared veins. He heads towards the building entrance, whistling, but freezes at the door, eyes widening, and quickly retreats outside before being spotted.
"V, far be it from me to disturb your nap," he thinks, the urgency in his tone alerting V, "but you've got company, and there's no way in hell I'm handling this."
With a sigh echoing through their shared mind, she focuses on regaining control. Within moments, she's back at the wheel of her body. She takes a few seconds to lean against the wall, drawing deep breaths, letting herself readjust to the sensations. Gathering her courage, she steps through the door. To her surprise, sitting on the lobby's couch with a duffle bag at his feet, is Takemura.
"Goro?" She asks, approaching the man, "What're you doin' here?"
"Hello, V." He responds calmly, though there's a certain tension in his shoulders. "I have a favor to ask of you. If you were serious about letting me use your shower... my hideout has been without water since this morning. And to be honest, I would greatly appreciate the use of your washing machine."
"Fuck, Goro, I thought there was a problem with the plan or somethin' when I saw you," she sighs, then a small smile tugs at her lips. "No problem. C'mon up."
The elevator ride is quiet but comfortable, the familiar hum of machinery filling the silence between them. When they step into V's apartment, Takemura's eyes widen slightly as he takes in the changes. The previously sparse space now feels lived-in, with personal touches scattered throughout.
"You have... settled in," Takemura observes, his gaze lingering on the shelves full of her carefully arranged knickknacks, each item telling its own story of her life in Night City.
V nods, a warmth creeping into her voice. "Yeah, the Aldecaldos came by right after you left last time. Helped me move all my stuff from the old place." She smiles fondly at the memory, remembering the chaos of that day — Panam cursing at the furniture, Mitch's careful handling of her weapons collection.
Takemura's expression softens almost imperceptibly, the usually stern lines of his face gentling. "It is good that you have such loyal friends, V. In times like these, having people you can trust..." he trails off, his eyes distant, perhaps remembering his own isolation in this neon jungle.
V bites her lower lip, fighting the urge to tell him what she's thinking – that he could have that too, that the nomads would welcome another lost soul, that he'd fit right in with their fierce loyalty and unwavering honor. She can almost see it – Goro, looking hot as hell in nomad leather, finally free from Arasaka's chains, sharing drinks around a campfire under the stars. Instead, she clears her throat, pushing the image away.
"Bathroom's upstairs," she gestures toward the mezzanine. "Door next to the bed. Got a proper tub and everything – you can take a bath if you want, no rush." She climbs the stairs, entering the bathroom with its gleaming chrome fixtures and actual hot water. She moves to a seemingly solid wall panel and presses it, revealing a hidden compartment. "And the washing machine's right here. Clean towels here. Help yourself."
"You are too kind, V," Takemura bows slightly. "I will not forget this."
V simply nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind her to give the man some privacy. Alone again, she glances down at her own clothes, noticing they're dotted with small bloodstains, dark spots that tell the story of today's grim work – probably from when she carried Evelyn's body. The sight sends a shiver down her spine, a reminder of just how fragile life is in Night City. She grabs some comfortable clothes from her wardrobe – soft, worn fabric that feels like armor against the day's memories – and changes, before heading back down to the living room, leaving the stained clothes in a heap on the floor.
Sprawling on the comfortable leather couch, V sighs, taking a moment to relax, watching through the large bay windows as the weather changes. Heavy grey clouds are invading the sky, masking the sun's slow descent behind the city's towering skyscrapers, their neon signs already starting to pierce through the growing darkness. Scrolling through her Holo, she decides to order food, her growling stomach a stark reminder that she hasn't eaten all day. Guessing it's probably the same for Takemura, she considers something that might satisfy his delicate palate, remembering his previous comments about Night City's ‘questionable’ cuisine. Knowing that probably nothing would be up to his standards anyway, she settles for a Thai place she knows is decent – at least they use real vegetables.
Once she's placed the order, Johnny materializes beside her on the couch, sprawling in his characteristic way, boots propped up on her coffee table. "You really can't cook anything, can ya?"
"Nope," she pops the 'p', shrugging, sinking deeper into the leather cushions. "Well, I can make pancakes, but I don't think Goro's a 'breakfast for dinner' type of guy." She playfully bumps his shoulder. "Besides, s'not like you could do any better!"
"Hey!" protests the rockerboy, sitting up straight, looking genuinely offended. "I make a killer mac'n'cheese!"
"No shit?" V asks, genuinely surprised, turning to face him with raised eyebrows.
He nods. "Learned it in the army." His gaze grows distant, lost in memories of a war long past. "It was either that or eating straight outta cans."
Before V can ask Johnny more about his past, she hears the bathroom door open and moments later, Takemura descends the stairs, wearing sweatpants and a simple dark blue t-shirt that clings to his still slightly damp frame. V can't help but stare – intensely. Seeing him like this, in comfy clothes and barefoot instead of his usual formal attire is just so weird – in the best way possible. Without his usual layers of clothing, she can better see the man beneath the corporate soldier, and it's... distracting.
"Ah... I hope you don't mind me making myself comfortable while my other clothes are in the machine," he feels compelled to explain when he notices her staring, a slight hint of uncertainty in his usually confident voice.
"Sure, you did right." She finally snaps out of it, forcing her eyes away. "I ordered us some food. Thai. Hope that's okay."
"Honestly, I am so hungry anything would do. But it is kind of you to–" he stops mid-sentence, his attention caught by Nibbles, who just jumped on the couch with feline grace. In a breath, his voice filled with amix of awe and superstition, he adds, "Bakeneko."
V chuckles, the tension breaking. "Goro, meet Nibbles." She gestures toward the cat, who's already eyeing Takemura with typical feline interest. "Told ya I have a cat. She's less bad omens and more belly rubs."
Takemura sits down on the couch, offering his hand to the feline with the same careful precision he applies to everything. Nibbles immediately rubs her head against his fingers, purring loudly, and V watches as a warm, genuine smile transforms Takemura's usually stern features. It's a rare sight, and she finds herself wishing she could see it more often. The peaceful moment brings some comfort to her heart after the afternoon's events, but it's short-lived as unwanted images flash before her eyes – Judy's devastated face twisted in grief and the blood, all that fucking blood, splattered on the wall, pooled in the bathtub, soaking that damn carpet until the fibers were stained beyond salvation...
"V?" Takemura's voice, tinged with concern, pulls her from her thoughts. His dark eyes study her face intently, probably noting her sudden pallor. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, I..." she says, almost reflexively before catching herself, seeing no point in hiding the truth from him. Not after everything they've been through. "No, not really. Had a shit day."
"What happened?" he asks, a flicker of concern passing through his eyes as he shifts his position to face her fully, Nibbles settling in his lap like she's always belonged there.
"Evelyn Parker..." she starts, then lights a cigarette, needing something to steady herself. The smoke fills her lungs, grounding her in the present. "She's dead."
"How?" Goro questions, leaning forward, the tension in his shoulders evident under his t-shirt fabric. The casual clothes can't hide the warrior's instincts, his body automatically preparing for potential threats.
"Suicide." V breathes out with the smoke, without elaborating further, the word hanging heavy in the air between them.
A heavy silence falls over the room, only interrupted by Nibbles' steady purring and the soft sound of V's exhaling cigarette smoke, the grey wisps dancing in the dim evening light. After a minute that feels like an eternity, Takemura's hand rests on her shoulder in a comforting gesture.
"I am sorry, V." he says softly, his tone filled with genuine sympathy.
"It's okay." She shrugs. "Barely knew her, in the end. It's just... the girl who was taking care of her contacted me today, completely in shock. Had to go to her place to help deal with the body, she really wasn't in any state to handle it alone." She takes one last long drag from her cigarette before crushing it in the ashtray, watching the ember die. "I just wish I could get one fucking day without drama, for once. Just to catch my breath, y'know? And remember that netrunner gang I told you about? Got an audience with them tomorrow. And that too, I can feel in my gut it's gonna be another shitshow..."
"Would you like me to accompany you?" Takemura immediately offers, his protective instincts clearly kicking in. "It could be dangerous, and-"
"Nah, I'll be fine, don't worry 'bout me." she gently shakes her head, managing a small smile at his concern. "Besides, with how secretive and shit they are, they'd probably cancel if they saw me with company. But thanks for offering. Means a lot."
"Very well." He concedes, though reluctantly. "But send me a message when it is done. I hope it will bring you the answers you seek."
V nods gratefully as her Holo beeps, its blue light casting shadows across her face, indicating the delivery driver's arrival. The timing is perfect, offering a much-needed break from the heavy conversation. "Food's here, I'll go get it. Meanwhile, you should check on the machine, it's probably done. There's a drying program, feel free to use it."
When V returns to the apartment a few minutes later, the gentle hum of the dryer provides a soothing background noise. She finds Goro in the kitchen area, his attention caught by her impressive collection of liquor bottles arranged on the industrial-style metal shelves. Most of them are still sealed, their labels pristine. "If you want to pour yourself a drink, make yourself at home," she smiles.
Takemura nods and picks up one of the bottles – a premium Japanese whiskey, she notices – studying its label with appreciation before retrieving two crystal glasses from the cupboard. Meanwhile, V unpacks their dinner, the rich aroma of Thai spices filling the air as she arranges the various boxes on the table. They settle in comfortably, and as they eat, V satisfies Goro's curiosity about Night City's underground scene. She tells him everything she knows about the Voodoo Boys – which, in the end, isn't much beyond rumors and legends – and gives him a crash course on the city's other major gangs, painting a vivid picture of the complex power dynamics at play in the streets.
Once dinner is finished, Takemura, ever the proper guest, busies himself gathering the empty containers while V prepares their evening drinks – green tea for him, strong coffee for her. The domestic routine feels strangely comfortable, almost normal, as if they weren't both caught in the middle of a terrible situation. Returning to the living room with their steaming mugs in hand, they settle back on the couch, the city lights twinkling through the windows creating an almost intimate atmosphere. "So, what about you, what's new?" V finally asks, blowing on her coffee. "Any news about the parade?"
She watches as Goro opens his mouth then closes it, an unusual hesitation crossing his face. "No, not really," he finally responds, his fingers tracing the rim of his teacup. "In two days, I will finally be able to speak with Hanako-san and you... you will be able to get answers about how to destroy the Relic."
Destroy? The word hits V like a physical blow, making her stomach clench. "Wo-wow. Easy there, Goro. Who said anything about destroying it? All I want is to get it out of my head before my brain turns to mush."
He frowns, his cybernetic eyes glowing softly in the dim light, apparently not grasping the crucial difference between these options. "V, if you want to survive, we must–"
"No." She cuts him off, her voice firm and determined. Johnny materializes beside her, his presence giving her strength to continue. "What I need is a solution to remove it without damaging it! Fuck, Goro, don't you realize? There's someone on there! We can't just destroy the chip like it's nothing!"
A heavy silence falls between them, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the quiet hum of the dryer. After what feels like an eternity, Takemura finally asks the question that's been haunting him since his conversation with Hellman, his voice gentle, as if approaching a wounded animal. "V..." he says softly, trying to calm her visible distress. "Who is the engram on the Relic?"
The question freezes V, who instinctively looks in Johnny's direction, anxiety coiling in her stomach like a cold snake. Her hands tighten around her coffee mug, seeking comfort in its warmth as if it could somehow shield her from the conversation to come. Johnny sighs, covering V's hand with his one, the familiar tingle of his presence washing over her skin like static electricity. "It's alright, V. You should tell him." He clearly isn't thrilled about the idea, his jaw clenching in that way she's learned means he's preparing for a fight. "At this fuckin' point..."
V nods in his direction, chewing at her lower lip nervously, before turning back to Takemura, who's watching her seemingly one-sided interaction with the intensity of a hawk tracking its prey. Deciding to rip off the band-aid in one go, she takes a deep breath, her voice barely above a whisper as she drops the bomb, "Johnny Silverhand."
The name hits Takemura like a physical blow. His cybernetic eyes widen, decades-old academy lessons about the fourth corporate war rushing back to his memory like a flood. "The terrorist?" The word slips out before he can stop it, sharp with recognition. "The one who attacked Arasaka Tower in 2023?"
"Don't you fucking dare call him that!" V explodes, her entire body tensing. Her coffee sloshes dangerously in its mug as she slams it down on the table, the liquid nearly as dark as the fury in her eyes. "I don't give a flying fuck what he did fifty years ago. He's my friend, you hear me? My fucking friend! You don't know him like I do, so don't you sit there in your corpo righteousness judging shit you don't understand!"
Johnny, still sitting beside her on the couch, wraps a protective arm around her shoulders, his presence both comforting and encouraging. "That's my girl," he drawls, clearly enjoying watching V tear into Takemura like an angry cat. "Give 'im hell." The gesture seems to say what words can't – that whatever happens, they're in this mess together, ready to take on the whole fucking world if they have to.
Takemura sits back slightly, taken aback by V's fierce outburst. His eyes narrow as he processes this new information, decades of Arasaka conditioning warring with his trust in V. The neon lights from outside cast shifting shadows across his face, highlighting the conflict in his expression. "This... complicates things," he finally says, his voice carefully neutral, fingers absently tracing the rim of his teacup as if the familiar motion could help him make sense of this revelation.
"I know it does," V sighs, some of her anger deflating like a balloon. Johnny's arm tightens around her shoulders, grounding her in a way that's become as natural as breathing. "Listen, I get it, okay? You're loyal to Arasaka, fine. But this isn't about corps or old grudges anymore. This is about a person's life – Johnny's life. And mine too, 'cause we're kind of a package deal now. Can't exactly separate us with a fucking scalpel."
"Damn straight we are," Johnny mutters next to her, his flesh hand absently running up and down her arm in a soothing gesture. The familiar scent of cigarettes and leather that always accompanies his presence wraps around her like a comfort blanket.
Takemura's expression softens slightly as he watches V's obvious distress, the stern lines around his mouth easing. The bodyguard's training makes him naturally observant, and he can't help but notice how V seems to lean into thin air, how her expressions shift in response to things he cannot see or hear. It's unnerving, yet there's something undeniably genuine about it. "V," he starts, his tone gentler now, choosing his words carefully as if walking through a minefield, "I understand your... attachment. But Silverhand is-"
"Was," V corrects firmly, her voice cutting through the air like a mantis blade. "Past tense, Goro. A lot can change in fifty years. Hell, a lot can change in a few weeks." She glances at Johnny with a small smile, one that transforms her entire face. When she turns back to Takemura, that softness remains, but there's steel underneath it. "The guy living in my head? He's not the same person who bombed that tower. Just like you're not the same person who first landed in Night City. People change. Even rockerboys with a chrome arm and a bad attitude."
"Hey!" Johnny protests with mock offense, but there's a warmth in his eyes that betrays how much V's defense means to him. "Watch it with the 'bad attitude' shit, princess. I'm a delight."
A ghost of a smile tugs at Takemura's lips despite himself, watching V roll her eyes at something – or someone – he can't see. The tension in the room shifts, becoming something more contemplative. He takes a slow sip of his cooling tea, buying himself time to think. "You truly trust him?" he finally asks, his accent thicker with concern. "After everything in the history books, after what he did to Arasaka–"
"I trust him with my life," V interrupts without hesitation, her hand unconsciously reaching for Johnny's one on her shoulder. "Hell, I trust him with my death too, which is saying something considering our situation." She lets out a bitter laugh. "You know what's fucked up? He's probably the only person in this whole goddamn city who's completely honest with me. No hidden agenda, no bullshit. Just... him."
Takemura observes them — or rather, observes V's half of their interaction — with growing fascination. The way she moves, speaks, reacts... it's clear this isn't just some malfunction. There's a genuine connection there, something he hadn't considered possible. "And he..." He hesitates, struggling to reconcile the terrorist from his training with this invisible presence that seems to mean so much to V. "He helps you?"
"More than you know," V says softly, unconsciously leaning into Johnny's embrace. "He's the reason I'm still fighting. Still trying to find a way out of this mess that doesn't end with either of us getting wiped."
Takemura's expression darkens as Hellman's words echo in his memory. "Hellman mentioned..." he starts carefully, his accent thicker with concern, "he said the engram could take control of the host body. Has this..." he trails off, clearly uncomfortable with the implications of his question.
"Yeah," V admits, running a hand through her hair with a tired gesture. "But only when I let him. When we both agree it's necessary. It's not like he's trying to hijack my body or some shit like that."
"So one day, I might find myself speaking to Silverhand instead of you?" Takemura asks cautiously, his cybernetic eyes studying her face for any sign of distress at this possibility. The thought clearly unsettles him – the idea that the terrorist who once brought Arasaka to its knees could suddenly be standing before him, wearing V's face like a mask.
"Trust me," Johnny growls, his voice dripping with that particular brand of aggressive sarcasm she's come to know so well, "you'll fuckin' know when it's me behind the wheel. Won't need your fancy optics to spot the difference."
V can't help but chuckle at his typical testosterone-fueled response, the sound breaking some of the tension in the room like a ray of sunshine through storm clouds. "Johnny says you'll definitely know when it's him," she translates, amusement dancing in her eyes as she glances fondly at the rockerboy beside her. "He's not exactly what you'd call subtle, if you haven't noticed from all the stories about him blowing shit up."
"Fuck you too, princess," Johnny grumbles. His fingers drum an absent rhythm against her shoulder, probably some ancient rock song she doesn't know. "Not my fault subtlety's overrated. Sometimes you just gotta kick down the door and make an entrance, y'know?"
After a long silence broken only by the soft clink of Takemura's cup against table as he finishes his tea, the former bodyguard finally speaks. "This revelation... it does not change our plans for the parade," he says carefully, his formal tone returning like a familiar armor. "However, we will need to adapt our strategy regarding the Relic situation." He rises from his chair with his usual precise grace, every movement controlled and deliberate. "If you'll excuse me, I need to retrieve my clothes from the drying machine upstairs."
As his footsteps fade up the stairs, V melts further into Johnny's embrace, the tension finally leaving her body like air from a punctured tire. His familiar scent wraps around her as he pulls her closer, his arm a comforting weight across her shoulders. He presses his lips near her ear, his breath – or whatever passes for it – sending a shiver down her spine. "Thanks," he whispers, the word carrying more weight than its single syllable should allow. V doesn't need their neural link to understand everything he's not saying.
They stay like that, sharing a moment of peaceful silence until Takemura's measured steps announce his return. He's back in his usual attire, the clothes now clean. "I should take my leave," he announces, adjusting his collar with practiced precision, his fingers moving through the motion like a well-rehearsed dance. His expression has softened somewhat, the earlier tension replaced by something approaching understanding. "V... thank you. For your hospitality, and more importantly, for trusting me with this information. It cannot have been an easy decision."
"Thanks for not completely freaking out," V says softly, managing a tired smile. "Could've gone way worse. Half expected you to pull your gun on me when I dropped the J-bomb."
Takemura bows his head in that characteristically formal way of his, slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder. The strap catches slightly on his coat before settling. "Rest well, V," he says simply. Before heading to the elevator, his precise movements a stark contrast to V's exhausted slouch. The doors close behind him with a soft hiss, leaving V and Johnny alone in the suddenly quiet apartment.
"Fuck me sideways," V groans, running both hands over her face. "That was intense." The events of the day weigh on her like a concrete blanket, making her limbs feel heavy and uncoordinated. She drags herself up to the mezzanine, each step an effort, the metal stairs creaking under her feet.
She practically collapses onto her bed, not even bothering to take off her clothes. Johnny materializes next to her, stretching out on the bed with his usual casual grace. He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at her with an expression that's softer than usual. "You did good today, V," he murmurs, his chrome hand finding hers in the semi-darkness. "Takes some serious gonads to come clean like that. Especially to a fuckin' Arasaka lap dog."
"Ex-lap dog," she corrects sleepily, already feeling her consciousness starting to drift. Her fingers intertwine with his metal ones, seeking comfort in their strange but familiar connection. "Stay with me?"
"Always do, don't I?" he says softly, his thumb tracing soothing patterns on her skin. "Not going anywhere, princess." He stays there, a silent guardian in the neon-lit darkness, until her breathing evens out and she drifts into sleep, their hands still linked. Just before consciousness fully slips away, she feels him squeeze her hand gently, and his whispered words follow her into her dreams, "Sweet dreams, V."
Notes:
Goro pauses at the doorway, watching V seemingly holding hands with empty air "V... are you... holding hands with Silverhand?"
V, suddenly self-conscious, "Uh... maybe?"
Johnny, smirking, "Tell him I said 'boo'."
Goro pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something in Japanese that sounds suspiciously like, "I'm too old for this shit"Message thread generator HTML/CSS by Luvwich ! Have fun with it here ♥
♫ Chapter Song: Stone Sour - Through Glass
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Chapter 15: Bullet with Butterfly Wings
Notes:
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thank you Karou101 for your comment. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Now I'm naked, nothing but an animal
But can you fake it, for just one more show
And what do you want, I want to change
And what have you got
When you feel the same
Even though I know-I suppose I'll show
All my cool and cold-like old job
When V wakes up, her consciousness slowly drifts back like a lazy tide, and she allows herself to float in that comfortable space between sleep and awakening. The day ahead promises to be a clusterfuck of epic proportions with the Voodoo Boys, but right now, in the soft morning light filtering through her blinds, she can pretend everything's normal for just a few more minutes. She stretches languidly, each movement slow and deliberate, before finally opening her eyes.
The sight that greets her makes her heart do something funny in her chest — Johnny's sprawled on the other side of her bed, looking absolutely adorable in a way she'd never dare say out loud. His hair is a complete mess, sticking up in all directions, and there's definitely a pillow crease on his cheek. She knows it's just her mind creating these little details, but seeing him looking so soft and rumpled in the morning light makes her want to... nope, not going there.
"Mornin' rockerboy," she mumbles, trying to hide how endeared she is by his current state.
"Hey princess." He stretches like a cat, and she definitely doesn't watch how his shirt rides up. The bastard catches her looking anyway and smirks. "Like what you see?"
"You wish," she rolls her eyes, but can't help smiling. "What happened to your hair?"
"The fuck you mean?" He runs a hand through said hair, managing to make it even messier. It's stupidly cute and she hates herself a little for thinking that.
"Nothing," she grins, propping herself up on her elbow. "Just never seen the great Johnny Silverhand looking so... disheveled."
"Fuck off," he grumbles. He mirrors her position, his dark eyes still heavy with sleep. It makes him look younger, more vulnerable. More human. "Ready to deal with those Pacifica gonks and whatever clusterfuck they're cookin' up?"
"Hell no," she sighs, trying not to focus on how domestic this all feels. "But when has that ever stopped us?"
"Just don't forget what these fuckers did to Evelyn," his voice hardens slightly. "They ain't your friends, V."
"Trust me, I haven't forgotten." Her smile turns sharp, dangerous. "I'll play nice, get our answers, but after that?" She shrugs, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "All bets are off. And if things go south... well, won't be shedding any tears over them."
"That's my girl," he grins, and something warm unfurls in her chest at the pride in his voice.
She finally drags herself out of bed, trying to shake off these dangerous thoughts about how good Johnny looks right now. She's got a reputation to maintain, after all, and finding Night City's most infamous terrorist cute is definitely not part of it.
"You gonna stare at me all morning or actually get ready?" Johnny drawls, still sprawled on her bed like he owns it.
"Shut up," she mutters, heading to the bathroom. "And fix your hair, you look ridiculous."
"Make me," he challenges with that infuriating smirk of his.
She flips him off without looking back, but can't quite hide her smile. As she steps into the shower, she can hear him humming some old Samurai song. It's weirdly comforting, having him there. Even if he does look stupidly adorable with bed head.
Fuck, she's so screwed.
After her shower, V falls into her morning routine, taking a moment to apply some makeup before heading downstairs for her much-needed caffeine fix. The coffee machine hums to life as she moves around her apartment, first stopping to give Nibbles her morning scratches. The cat purrs and weaves between her legs while she checks her food and water bowls. Next, she visits Spike, her newest family member. The little iguana seems to be growing bigger every day, his emerald scales gleaming. She makes a mental note to upgrade his living space soon — anything would be better than the makeshift habitat she'd cobbled together from an old serving tray.
As she rinses her empty coffee cup in the sink, she eyes the time display flickering in her optics — 11:20. Fuck, she's running late. Time to head to Pacifica and face whatever shit show the Voodoo Boys have planned. It's hot enough that she decides to skip her usual jacket, letting her chrome catch the sunlight as she takes the elevator down to street level.
A minute later, she's straddling her Arch, the engine purring to life beneath her. The familiar rumble of the motorcycle grounds her, helps her focus on the task ahead. As she merges into Night City's chaotic traffic, she can feel Johnny materializing behind her, his presence a comforting weight against her back, and she guns the throttle. The Arch responds instantly, weaving through traffic like a dream as they head toward Pacifica's broken skyline.
The trip from the Glen to Pacifica is short — just one bridge to cross, and traffic thins out considerably as she approaches the district. No surprise there, given how both news networks and NCPD constantly warn citizens away from the area, painting Pacifica as some kind of urban war zone to be avoided at all costs. V's been here enough times to know better. Sure, poverty hits harder here than anywhere else in Night City — homeless camps sprawl in every available space, and there's a higher concentration of scavs than she'd like — but honestly? Some parts of Northside are just as rough, if not worse.
She parks her Arch in a nearly empty lot, chrome glinting under the merciless sun as she climbs the worn concrete steps toward the church. The massive wooden double doors sit beneath a glowing neon cross, its blue light barely visible in the bright daylight. A quick check of her optics shows she's got ten minutes to kill before the meeting. Leaning against the railing, she lights up a cigarette and watches people slowly filing into the church. Johnny materializes beside her.
"Whole thing smells like a setup," he mutters, scanning the crowd with narrowed eyes behind his aviators.
V takes one last drag before crushing the cigarette under her boot. "When doesn't it?" she replies under her breath, straightening up and heading for the entrance.
Inside, she's greeted by what appears to be a funeral service in full swing. A man at the altar speaks in rapid-fire Creole, his voice echoing off the high ceiling as red lights cast eerie shadows across his face. About fifty people are scattered throughout the pews, some dabbing at tears with handkerchiefs, others standing in stoic silence. V has no idea which one might be her contact, but someone in this crowd is supposed to connect her with the Voodoo Boys. She moves slowly through the gathering, her optical implants discretely scanning faces, until a firm hand lands on her shoulder, making her spin around.
"You are V?" A hooded figure asks in a thick accent, his flashy blue optics, bloodshot and intense, fixed on her face. "We have been waiting."
"You my contact?" V cuts straight to the chase, already tired of the cloak-and-dagger routine. "Someone finally gonna tell me about this job?"
The man gives a slight shrug before responding, "I'm just the man in the middle. You will learn more... soon."
"Interesting biz strategy ya got in Pacifica," V snarls sarcastically, irritated by his evasive answer. "No details, no names. No one knows a thing."
"Your name we know. That is enough." The cryptic response only serves to fuel her annoyance.
"Wanna talk with Brigitte," V redirects, focusing on what matters. "She here somewhere?"
"No." He shakes his head slowly, his hood barely moving. "Shopping center by the intersection — go to the butcher shop there. Ask for Placide." He turns away, adding over his shoulder, "He will tell you the details."
Realizing she won't get anything more from the man, who's now watching the funeral service as if their conversation never happened, V makes her quick exit. The church's heavy air follows her out as she descends the worn steps, heading toward the indicated location. Her irritation grows with each step — this wild goose chase is starting to get on her nerves.
"Loving their little power play, aren't they?" Johnny materializes beside her, matching her stride. "Typical VDB bullshit."
She spots a simple sign reading 'Rolland' and pushes through the door. Immediately, the thick smell of raw meat and spices hits her nose — definitely a butcher shop. Deciding she's wasted enough time already, she makes a beeline for the man behind the counter, completely ignoring the old woman sitting in a chair, softly singing in Creole.
"Lookin' for Placide," she announces without preamble.
"Placide?" The butcher gives her a skeptical once-over, his cybernetic eye whirring as he sizes her up. He points to a security camera mounted in the corner. "Gade isit la."
Her translation software kicks in — 'Look here' — and she turns toward the camera, reluctantly allowing herself to be scanned. The seconds tick by, filled only with the soft singing and the buzz of ancient refrigeration units.
"So, it's you," the butcher finally says, seeming satisfied with whatever the scan revealed. "Go on. Placide. Over here." He gestures toward a door leading to the back room, the metal surface marked with years of use and suspicious stains V decides not to think too hard about.
V follows the indicated direction, her irritation mounting with each step. Two middlemen already, and now this Placide character... she's getting the distinct feeling she's still far from a face-to-face with Brigitte.
"Starting to think they get paid by staying quiet," Johnny appears beside her, sharing her frustration. His expression suddenly shifts to concern. "V, lean against the wall," he warns, "minor Relic malfunction incoming."
Taking his warning seriously, V braces herself. Within seconds, her vision starts glitching, the familiar error message flashing across her retinas. She coughs, specks of blood staining her fingers as her breathing becomes labored. Fortunately, the episode passes as quickly as it came. Straightening up with a grimace, she wipes her hand on her pants and meets Johnny's worried gaze, giving him a slight nod — a silent code for 'I'm okay'.
Pushing through another door, she spots a man busy with some heavy machinery and approaches him. "You Placide?" she asks. Without even looking at her, he shakes his head no. "Wanna talk to your boss," she persists. He gestures toward another figure partially hidden behind translucent plastic curtains at the back of the room.
She approaches the muscular man who's sharpening a butcher's knife, a dead chicken lying on the table beside him waiting to be carved. Fighting the urge to question the oddity of the situation — seriously? A real fucking chicken in Night City? — she simply asks, "Placide?"
"Mhm." The grunt is all she gets in response. Jesus fuck, these interactions are really testing her patience.
"Told me at the chapel you're the one to talk to." Still no response. "Mr. Hands sent me. Said you got mercwork needs doin'."
The man turns to the poultry and swiftly decapitates it, shoving the head aside with his knife. He takes his time wrapping the chicken's body in newspaper, tucking the package under his arm before finally turning to V. "Not here. Come with."
"Real chatty bunch you got here," Johnny comments dryly, leaning against a blood-stained counter. "Think they practice being this mysterious, or does it come naturally?"
V bites back a smirk, following Placide's broad shoulders through the shop's back door. The metallic shutter groans as it rises at the press of a button, revealing Pacifica in all its decrepit glory. "Welcome to Pacifica," Placide announces. The words are barely out of his mouth when they're drowned by the rapid staccato of gunfire — some gonk is emptying a clip into the sky, hollering in Creole at an AV that's way too high to give a shit. The scene perfectly encapsulates everything V's heard about this part of town.
"Real welcoming committee they got here," Johnny materializes beside her, gesturing at the trigger-happy local. "Makes me feel right at home."
As they cross a sun-bleached plaza littered with the remnants of its former luxury, V is caught off guard when Placide breaks his stoic silence. "You know Pacifica well?"
"Nah," V responds, seizing the rare moment of conversation. "You guys aren't exactly great at rollin' out the welcome mat for outsiders." The crumbling architecture and hostile stares from locals emphasize her point.
"Was to be its own city, where suits would burn their eddies," Placide's thick accent wraps around each word like molasses. "A closed circle. De corps feed deir sheep, dey split de cash back out. All de toys here are grown from corp cash." He gestures at the chrome-covered inhabitants moving through the streets like ghosts of a promised future that never came.
Stopping at a rusted railing, he points toward a massive structure looming in the distance. "Our interest is now in de GIM – de Grand Imperial Mall. Pacifica's biggest, ugliest temple to greed... but never finished. Until last week it was deserted, empty."
"But now?" V asks, already feeling her stomach sink.
"De animals crawled in, made a nest," he states matter-of-factly.
Fan-fuckin'-tastic. The Animals are literally the only gang she doesn't have beef with, and she'd prefer to keep it that way. The fact that they've nested in the mall like a swarm of oversized, aggressive hornets doesn't bode well for whatever job the Voodoo Boys have in mind. Still, she follows Placide through a hotel lobby transformed into a makeshift marketplace, where the air is thick with the smell of street food and the buzz of haggling in multiple languages.
Despite his intimidating presence — or perhaps because of it — Placide moves through the crowd like a shark through water, people instinctively making way for his massive frame. V notices how the locals react to him – it's not fear she sees in their eyes, but a strange mix of respect and familiarity. Various vendors call out to him in Creole, offering goods or simply greeting him, but he dismisses most with grunts or muttered "laters." His only stop is at a netrunning gear stand, where he hands over the wrapped chicken to a woman whose protests about others needing it more seem genuine rather than performative.
"Interesting," Johnny stands beside V, watching the interaction. "Our boy's got a soft spot after all. Though I'd bet my chrome arm it ain't gonna extend to us."
The hotel's interior has been completely repurposed, its original luxury stripped away to reveal a more practical setup. Armed Voodoo Boys stand guard at strategic points, their chrome glinting in the artificial light. They clear the way for Placide without a word, their eyes scanning V with calculated suspicion as she follows. The further they go, the more obvious it becomes that this is the gang's stronghold — cameras track their movement, and the tech gets progressively more sophisticated.
They finally reach what appears to be Placide's office, though calling it that might be generous. It's just an empty room, only furnished with a few chairs and a desk that's seen better days. Placide settles behind his desk, immediately absorbed in his computer screen. "We talk here. You sit."
V's first instinct is to remain standing, just to be difficult — she's had enough of being ordered around for one day. But Johnny, materializing to lean against a nearby wall, gives her a warning look and a slight head shake. "Don't push it, V," he advises. "Let's hear what this asshole here has to say first."
Swallowing her pride, V drops into the chair across from Placide. "When do I see Brigitte?" she asks, cutting straight to the chase.
“You do job. Dat is first.” Placide responds coldly, not even bothering to look up from his screen, the blue glow highlighting the sharp angles of his face. Just when V thinks she couldn't possibly despise this guy more, he leans across the desk without warning, his hand clamping around her wrist like a steel vice.
She yanks her arm away immediately, the sudden movement making the old chair screech against the floor. Her hand flexes instinctively, mantis blades itching beneath her skin as she fixes him with a murderous glare. "Could fuckin' tell me what you plan to do first!" she snaps, keeping her hand well out of his reach while fighting the urge to show him exactly why she's one of Night City's most feared mercs.
“You take job.” He shoots her a disapproving look, leaning back in his creaking chair. “You do what I say. So you jack in. Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument, dripping with the kind of arrogance that comes from having too much power in your little corner of the world.
“Or you'll do what?” She flashes him a dangerous smile, all teeth and barely contained aggression. “You got a line of volunteers waitin'?”
Johnny materializes behind V's chair, his chrome arm glinting as he places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "V... Home stretch. Almost there." The tension in the cramped office is thick enough to cut with a knife as the merc and the Voodoo Boy continue their icy stare-down. Finally, V reluctantly pulls out her personal link cable, the familiar weight of it doing nothing to ease her mistrust as she connects to the machine.
During the brief conversation that follows, Placide manages to insult the merc, her chrome, and even Vik in passing. As if that wasn't enough, when V asks about Evelyn, he acts like he's never heard the name. With each passing second, V's desire to either punch his face in — or more practically, slice his throat — grows stronger. Her free hand grips the chair's armrest until her knuckles turn white as she struggles to maintain her composure. Placide eventually shows her a few seconds of footage displaying a van loaded with tech approaching the GIM. Definitely not the Animals' style, too clean, too professional.
The door behind the desk suddenly opens with a hydraulic hiss, offering a tantalizing glimpse into what appears to be the Voodoo Boys' netrunning hub. The room beyond is a maze of cables and screens, with several netrunner chairs occupied by still figures, their minds somewhere in cyberspace. A man enters, clearly seeking Placide's assistance, but the latter, focused on his computer, dismisses him with a curt order to close the door. The other man backs away with placating hands raised, pulling the door shut behind him.
Placide's fingers dance across his terminal as he connects V to Rezo Agwe, their private subnet, telling her this way she'll be his eyes and ears inside the mall.
"Another voice in your head," Johnny quips, cigarette smoke curling around him. "Just what the ripperdoc ordered." His sarcasm barely masks the concern in his voice — they both know how dangerous it is letting the Voodoo Boys into her system.
Usually, Johnny's dark humor would earn at least a smirk, but V's too busy baring her teeth at Placide, her enhanced vision picking up every minute detail of his impassive face. "So, aim to keep an eye on me. Shows trust," she growls, the words dripping with venom. The new connection feels like an itch she can't scratch, alien code swimming through her neural pathways. When Placide doesn't deign to respond, his silence speaking volumes, she adds through gritted teeth, "All right, anything else I should know?"
"Find our people near mall," he responds, rising from his chair, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the desk. "Dey will show you how to get inside de beast."
V disconnects the cable with perhaps more force than necessary, the neural feedback making her teeth ache. "So I do this and you put me in front of Brigitte, right?" The question comes out sharp, demanding. She needs to hear him say it, needs some kind of confirmation that this whole circus isn't just another scam.
"Yes," he affirms, crossing his arms across his broad chest. "Soti at end of de hall. Go down. My people will let you pass." The dismissal in his tone is clear as crystal.
V doesn't need to be told twice. She's had enough of this chrome-headed asshole and his superiority complex. Without another word, she pushes herself up from the creaking chair and strides toward the elevator, her boots echoing against the worn floor. Johnny follows close behind, his presence a familiar comfort in the hostile territory.
As the elevator doors slide shut with a protesting groan, Johnny stands beside her, leaning against the graffiti-covered wall. "Y'know," he comments, taking a long drag from his ghost cigarette, "I'm starting to think these Voodoo Boys might be even bigger dicks than suits. At least with corpo rats, you expect the backstabbing." The elevator descends with a series of concerning rattles, carrying them back toward Pacifica's chaos. V can't help but agree, though she keeps the thought to herself. The sooner they get this job done, the sooner she can get to Brigitte — and hopefully, some actual answers. But first, they've got a mall full of Animals to deal with.
The moment V steps into the street, she lights up a cigarette, letting long drags of nicotine calm her frayed nerves. The synthetic tobacco fills her lungs as she starts walking toward the mall, hoping the journey will give her time to cool down. Johnny matches her stride, draping his arm around her shoulders, his presence comforting in the hostile streets of Pacifica.
"I get it," he finally says as they approach their destination, his voice carrying that familiar drawl. "I'm itchin' to put a bullet between his eyes too. Just need a little patience, princess. Once we get our answers, we'll deal with that dickwipe proper."
V just nods, spotting two Voodoo Boys casually leaning against a rusted-out car across from the GIM's entrance. After a brief conversation, she learns her best chance for a quiet entrance is through the back of the building. Opting for stealth, she keeps low and moves slowly, using abandoned vehicles and empty shipping containers as cover, working her way around the massive structure while avoiding the Animals' patrol routes. Their heavy footsteps and voices echo off the concrete walls.
She quickly locates a poorly guarded service entrance, loading dock doors hanging off their hinges, likely used for deliveries back when the mall still held promise. Slipping inside, the musty air thick with decay, she hopes the rest of the infiltration will be this smooth. Climbing a stack of weathered crates that creak ominously under her weight, she reaches the mall's main level, finding herself facing a corridor with a single guard — his back conveniently turned — and a security camera between her and the atrium, its red light pulsing steadily in the dim hallway.
"Camera in corridor. Avoid it," Placide's voice resonates in her head as she surveys the hallway, his accent grating on her already tense nerves like sandpaper on chrome.
"It even work?" she whispers, eyeing the ancient tech skeptically, "Said this place was abandoned years ago."
"Now it is not. Animals fixed de eyes," he responds curtly, his voice carrying that same condescending tone that makes her trigger finger itch.
Unwilling to risk detection, V decides to use the door beneath the camera to bypass the guard. She activates her optical camo, the world taking on a slight shimmer as her body blends with the shadows. The door's locked, naturally, but she makes quick work of the ancient security system, the mechanism clicks open, revealing a stairwell reeking of stale air and mold. She ascends the steps as quietly as possible, her enhanced muscles barely making a sound until she reaches another door. She cracks it open, the rusted hinges protesting softly as she peers through the gap.
"Dis is da atrium centrale," Placide's voice comments unnecessarily, making her roll her eyes. "Stay hidden. Beware of patrol."
Seeing no immediate threat, V risks standing to peer over the corroded railing at the lower level. "OK, van's in sight," she whispers, spotting the vehicle through the maze of abandoned kiosks and broken fountains. Unfortunately, it's heavily guarded, with numerous Animals patrolling nearby, their massive frames casting long shadows under the flickering lights. To make matters worse, it's on the opposite side of the atrium, past a gauntlet of security cameras and guards.
She slips into the nearest store, an abandoned arcade where dead screens stare like blind eyes through layers of dust. Gaming cabinets stand like silent sentinels, their cables snaking across the floor like synthetic vines among gutted cardboard boxes. The air is thick with the smell of corroded electronics and time-worn plastic. Dead escalators, their steps warped by years of neglect, guide her to the lower level, leading into what would have been an Asian restaurant, judging by the flickering neon signs still clinging stubbornly to the walls, casting intermittent red and blue shadows.
She crouches behind a fallen display case as an Animal patrol passes, his heavy footsteps echoing off the tiles. Once he's past, she follows him through a small door, her movements silent as a ghost.
The new room, likely intended as an office space given the toppled filing cabinets lining the walls, has been converted into a makeshift dormitory for the squatting Animals. Some lie passed out on bare mattresses strewn across the floor, the air heavy with the acrid smell of sweat and synthetic steroids. Dodging the only conscious person in the room, V exits through another door, finding herself back in the atrium. She's closer to her target now, but the real challenge is just beginning.
From her position, V can see the van more clearly through the debris-strewn atrium, but quickly realizes it's even better guarded than initially estimated. The Animals patrol in tight formation, their chrome glinting under the flickering emergency lights, making any direct approach suicide. Thinking about the mall's layout, she figures there must be more discreet access routes through the shops on the other side. Spotting another stairwell, she quickly returns to the upper level, relief washing over her as she finds this section mercifully unguarded. She moves through the corridor, taking cover behind another shipping crate, its surface covered in years of graffiti and grime.
She spots an escalator that would lead directly to the van, but of course, two massive Animals block the path, their enhanced muscles rippling beneath skin stretched too tight, veins pulsing with whatever cocktail of steroids they're running. Instead, she turns toward a massive sign advertising the mall's cinema, its neon letters long dead, figuring there might be another access route through there. Worth a detour, at least.
The new area seems deserted at first, the air thick with dust and the musty smell of abandoned upholstery, when Placide's voice suddenly crackles in her head, "You have company soon. Scan her right away." As V enters a vast empty room, she immediately understands his warning. A towering woman, muscles grotesquely enhanced by steroids and chrome, blocks the path ahead. V knows an Animals' alpha when she sees one. Ducking behind one of the ornate columns, she waits as the woman, distracted by what seems to be an intense phone conversation, turns her back.
Her scanner identifies the mountain of muscle as Matilda K. Rose, aka Sasquatch, with a hefty NCPD bounty on her head. While V isn't here for that particular payday, the massive woman is blocking access to her target door. Decision made, V activates her Sandevistan, the world slowing to a crawl around her as her neural processors kick into overdrive.
She glides silently behind Sasquatch, her movements fluid and precise in the time-altered state. Even slowed down, the alpha's massive frame is intimidating. V's cybernetically enhanced reflexes guide her movements as she executes a perfect sleeper hold, her forearm pressing against Sasquatch's carotid arteries while avoiding the reinforced trachea. The alpha's enhanced muscles bunch and flex as she tries to reach back, but V's positioning is perfect – no leverage to be found. Despite her enormous size, even Sasquatch can't fight basic biology. The massive woman struggles briefly, her augmented arms trying to find purchase, before her enhanced muscles go slack.
As V carefully guides the alpha's unconscious bulk to the floor — no small feat given the woman must weigh at least 250 pounds — she whispers with a hint of satisfaction, "Shhh, big girl. Time for a nap." The sound echoes slightly in the empty room, a reminder that she needs to keep moving before someone comes looking for their boss.
Ignoring Placide's irritated protests about the van being in the opposite direction, V passes through several doors until she finds herself in a movie theater. Turning toward the screen, she sees an old western playing, a lone cowboy, his hat tilted against the sun, rides across a dusty plain while the iconic sounds of harmonicas and twanging guitars create that unmistakable frontier atmosphere. Tearing her attention from the film, V climbs the steps along the rows of decaying seats, their torn upholstery telling stories of better days.
She enters the projection booth and suddenly, her connection to the Voodoo Boys cuts out with an electronic snap. Inside, she finds a man in a crisp corporate suit and tie, who slowly turns away from his laptop, raising his hands in a placating gesture as soon as he hears her enter. "Whoa, hey. Easy..." he says in a calm, measured voice, careful not to make any sudden movements that might spook the armed merc.
“What'd you do?” V asks, taking a few measured steps toward him, keeping her expression neutral despite her growing suspicion.
“Well, now we can talk in private.” He explains without moving, hands still clearly visible. “Just severed the connection to the rest of Pacifica. Gives us a little time.”
“OK, no more fuckin' tangents.” V, assessing that the suit poses little physical threat, decides to hear him out. “Fess up — who are you?”
“Bryce Mosley, NetWatch special agent.” He slowly reaches for his back pocket, movements deliberately telegraphed, and produces a golden badge. “Can we talk?”When V nods, he continues, “Had a specter on you, didn't you? Saw and heard all you did? You follow his orders?” He takes a careful step back, maintaining a respectful distance. “No idea what the Voodoo Boys are payin' you, but our pockets are deeper.”
“Not interested.” V cuts him off immediately. “Not a money job for me, just need an in with Maman Brigitte, Voodoo chefin.”
“Brigitte and her lapdog Ti Neptune have been frozen several days now ever since we shrouded their subnet with ICE.” He explains calmly. “And you? Well… you were sent here to free them. Do you know why they didn't tell you everything?” He pauses, letting the question hang in the musty air. “'Cause you're a ‘ranyon’. That's what they call outsiders brought in for special jobs — floor rags. When you're no longer needed, they chuck you. A fate for all ‘ranyons’.”
Johnny materializes next to Mosley, studying the man with uncharacteristic thoughtfulness. "Fuck, I hate givin' a suit credit, but from what we know about these guys, it tracks."
Shit, if even Johnny thinks so... "Got anything to back that claim?" V asks, crossing her arms defensively. "That the Voodoos wanna set me up?"
"Wanna?" He asks, a hint of dark amusement coloring his voice. "They did it already — soon as you handed over your link. Slipped the specter and a virus. Run a system diagnostic."
Figuring it can't hurt to check, V initiates the scan. Basic systems okay, combat systems functioning normally... "And...?" she questions, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. "Nothin' outta place, no trace of—"
"Do it again," he insists, his corporate demeanor unwavering. "Then cross-check the result against the first." She launches another diagnostic, her frown deepening as the data streams across her vision. The agent vocally confirms what she's seeing. "Identical, right? Mhm, cause it's not a real scan. It's a copy."
"Holy fuckin' shit!" Johnny explodes, his digital form radiating fury. "These bastards really tried to screw you over. I knew something smelled rotten about this whole deal." His chrome fist slams through the desk, the phantom impact echoing only in V's consciousness. "You know what? Fuck 'em. Let's see how they like getting stabbed in the back for a change."
Taking Johnny's outburst to heart, V turns her attention back to Mosley. "All right, what're you offering?"
"A compromise." He straightens his tie, a gesture that seems more habit than necessity. "I'll fish the Voodoo virus out of your system. And I'll release both Brigitte and Ti Neptune. They'll wake up like nothing ever happened. Not to worry." It sounds too good to be true, and V waits for the other shoe to drop. "And all you gotta do is let us walk. With our data."
Really, that's it? V senses there's something the man isn't telling her, but she's so furious with Placide's betrayal that at this point, she doesn't give a fuck. "OK, do it."
"I knew we'd have a meeting of the minds." Relief floods his features as he hands her a shard, which she slots into her neural port. He returns to his computer, fingers dancing across the keys. A 'Removing malware' notification flashes in V's vision as Mosley perches on the edge of his desk, his optics glowing blue as he makes a call. "All stations — mercenary currently on the mall grounds is under my protection. She is now leaving the cinema. I'd better not hear of any problems." He turns to V, concluding with practiced smoothness. "Good luck. Got a feeling we'll be seeing each other."
V responds with a simple nod as the man returns to his computer. She exits the room, navigating through the maze of corridors and empty spaces. Several Animals watch her pass with confused expressions before returning to their posts, her newfound protection evident in their restraint. Lighting up another cigarette, she asks the air, "Not gonna give me shit for choosing to trust a corpo?"
"Nah, not this time," Johnny responds, materializing beside her and mimicking her gesture with his own spectral smoke. "Even if I got a feeling he ain't tellin’ us everything, if it means screwing over these Voodoo fuckers, I'm all for it. Let's just try not to make it a habit."
Before she can respond, her holo chimes with an incoming call from Placide. Rolling her eyes, V answers. "What de fuck, V?" he exclaims, his accent thickening with anger. "You are off-net. I lose your eyes."
V deliberately ignores his question, her voice cold as ice. "Brigitte and the other guy — are they back?"
"Who told...?" he asks, momentarily thrown off balance. After a beat, he recovers his composure. "Yes, Maman B is awake."
"Perfect," V replies, her tone glacial. "'Cause I gotta talk to her."
"And what of NetWatch?" he questions, suspicion evident in his voice.
"Taken care of." She refuses to elaborate further, enjoying his discomfort.
"Look for my people out front," Placide finally says before disconnecting, his frustration palpable even through the brief exchange.
As V exits through the mall's main entrance, she's greeted by the same Voodoo Boys' car from earlier, its occupants looking tense. "We are to take you to Placi—"
"I'll find 'im." V spits, cutting them off mid-sentence. Without sparing them another glance, she turns and starts walking toward the Batty's Hotel. She traverses the streets under the scorching afternoon sun, chain-smoking cigarettes as if they might calm the rage building inside her. Her gaze lingers momentarily on the rusted rollercoaster beyond the GIM, its skeletal frame a testament to Pacifica's better days, and she briefly wonders if the old attraction still runs. Shaking off the idle thought, she resumes her purposeful stride.
Minutes later, she finds herself at the hotel's base. Threading through the bustling market and climbing the worn steps, she arrives at the office where Placide had earlier seated her and infected her system. Spotting his imposing figure in the previously closed room, she approaches with determined steps, her boots echoing against the concrete floor.
The moment he spots her, Placide abandons the netrunner he's talking to and charges toward her, his massive frame radiating fury. "What de fuck you do in de GIM? You were to hack de agent, not cut deal wid him!"
"Do that to every merc you hire," she snarls, her voice dripping with venom, "try to set 'em up?"
In a burst of pure rage, he lunges forward, his large hands wrapping around her throat as he lifts her off the ground with frightening ease. "Koulèv Sal ! You believe netfachist?! What he say?" he spits, a vein pulsing violently at his temple. "You say or I open you, see wid my own eyes what worm crawl anndan."
A dangerous smile spreads across V's face as she notices Johnny watching helplessly, his digital form tensing with impotent rage. Looking straight into Placide's eyes, she growls through clenched teeth, "I fucking dare you." In one fluid motion, she brings up her arms, sharply driving her elbows down against his forearms, breaking his grip. She lands gracefully on her feet and, without missing a beat, launches a devastating right hook that connects with Placide's jaw with a sickening crack. The impact sends him staggering backward, but he quickly recovers, raising his fists as V drops into a fighting stance. Just as she's about to deploy her mantis blades, an authoritative voice cuts through the tension.
"Ase !" A woman with short hair, wearing a sleeveless puffer coat, steps between them, her presence commanding immediate attention. "We must head under. I do not know what NetWatch plans, but they are not done."
"You are worried about agents?" Placide exclaims, though he backs away reluctantly, blood trickling from his split lip. "Then shoot her in de head. I do not know what dey put in her, what corruption is in her system!"
The woman turns to him, her gaze sharp enough to cut steel. "You don't know what was in there to begin with. How much it is worth."
"I know." he defends, wiping blood from his mouth. "I scanned her. Only a normal, filthy ranyon." He spits the last word with obvious disgust.
"Go." Her tone brooks no argument. "Take the others to the crypt." As Placide storms off, clearly furious at being dismissed so summarily, the woman turns to V. "Come with me."
As the woman begins typing on a nearby computer, her fingers dancing across the worn keys, V breaks the tense silence. "You must be Brigitte. Hard woman to find." She pauses, studying the composed figure before her. "You know about the biochip, don't you?"
"If it is functional, we offer you good price for it." Brigitte responds without taking her eyes off the screen, her voice carrying the same icy composure as her demeanor.
"Heh, biochip's not for sale." The mere idea of selling Johnny sounds so absurd that V can't suppress a nervous chuckle. "And you're not rippin' it outta me. Thing was in shit shape already before I strolled into the GIM."
"It does not function?" the woman inquires, maintaining her glacial calm, her fingers never pausing their rhythmic dance across the keyboard.
"Not that bad." V shrugs, unconsciously touching the spot where the chip sits. "Problem is, no one I've talked to can yank it out without risk of death." She decides to lay all her cards on the table. "Seein' as you commissioned the thing's theft, figured you might know one way to help."
This statement finally captures Brigitte's full attention. She turns away from the computer, fixing V with a calculating stare, curiosity evident in her sharp features. "How do you know all dis? How did you find us?"
"Evelyn Parker — name ring a bell?" V asks, her voice turning sharp as a razor's edge.
"Ah, de doll... de whore." She says it with such contempt that V feels her blood boiling in her veins. "You found us because she led you to us. She has proved not completely useless after all."
V takes a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm. She knows she can't burn this bridge. Not yet. She throws a subtle glance at Johnny, who's grinding his teeth in barely contained anger, but eventually nods in encouragement. Turning her attention back to the Voodoo Boys' leader, she asks, "Listen, can you help me or not?"
"Yes, of course." Brigitte finally abandons the computer, stepping away from the flickering screen. "But not here. We will go to de crypt... where you must give us access to de chip." V grimaces, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of letting anyone mess with her head again. "Once we have de data we need, we will do our best to help you."
After a moment's hesitation, she agrees. "Then after you."
"Finalman." Brigitte is already moving toward the door, her movements precise and purposeful. "Come with me."
The two women traverse the hotel once more, both Voodoos and market dwellers casting furtive glances before quickly averting their eyes, as if afraid to be caught staring. They cross the plaza before reaching the Serenity Church, its weathered walls standing as a silent guardian of secrets. Inside the building, Brigitte unlocks a door, revealing armed guards watching over a staircase that descends into the earth's depths. Following her through a series of galleries and crossing a tunnel housing part of the ancient transcontinental maglev system, V only half-listens to the other woman's explanations about the place, her mind racing with possibilities and potential threats.
They finally emerge into the infamous crypt, a cavernous space filled with screens, netrunning chairs, and a maze of cables, all bathed in an eerie reddish glow. Several Voodoos bustle around the area, their fingers dancing across keyboards while others are already settling into their chairs, preparing to dive into cyberspace.
Positioning herself near what looks like a makeshift freezer filled with ice-cold water, Brigitte explains, "We take you into de cyberspace. No better place for you to interact with de construct."
V has to bite her lips to keep from pointing out that she can interact with Johnny just fine without all this theatre. With each passing minute, her instinct to bolt grows stronger. Clearly defensive, she crosses her arms and demands, "OK, hang on. I wanna know what you need Silverhand for first."
Apparently more talkative than Placide, Brigitte doesn't hesitate to answer, "We wish to contact Alt Cunningham. We know she and Silverhand were close." The name obviously catches Johnny's attention, who moves closer while the woman continues, "We try to cut out a unique piece of Silverhand's engram from de biochip. Alt will know it." She gestures toward the ice bath, inviting V to enter. "If something of de human is left after years beyond de Blackwall, she will answer."
V turns to Johnny, asking, "Looks like you're the bait. You OK with that?"
"Yeah, whatever." He flicks his cigarette to the ground, clearly unhappy with the idea but seemingly resigned to it. "Just do what she says."
"Let's do this." V swings her leg over the improvised tub, the metal rim ice-cold against her thigh. The moment her foot breaks the surface, a sharp gasp escapes her lips, the freezing water feeling like thousands of needles piercing her skin. "Ooooh..." Her heart rate spikes, body instinctively fighting against the shock. Already shivering, she summons her courage and slowly lowers herself into the bath, her thin pants and tank top offering little protection against the biting cold.
Around her, the Voodoos buzz with activity, their rapid Creole echoing off the crypt's walls as they settle into their respective chairs. The red-tinted lighting casts ominous shadows across their focused faces. Without warning or ceremony, one of them roughly jacks a cable into V's neural port, the sudden intrusion sending a jolt of pain through her skull. The familiar taste of copper fills her mouth as she bites down on her tongue to suppress a yelp.
Beginning to panic, her breathing becoming shallow and rapid, V asks, "OK, wh-what now?" The words come out stuttered, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. Predictably, no one bothers to answer. The woman who just connected her simply adds another bucket of ice to the already freezing water, the chunks clinking against the metal sides before floating around V's trembling form. The netrunner then heads to her own seat without so much as a glance back.
The cold is relentless, seeping past her skin, past her muscles, straight into her bones. Her fingertips are already turning blue, and she can barely feel her legs anymore. Fighting against the rising terror, V tries again. "J-Johnny?"
This time, thankfully, she gets a response as the rockerboy materializes beside the tub, kneeling next to her. "V... Whatever you see in there, I..." he starts, then stops, something raw and vulnerable crossing his features. Words seem to fail him, his eyes fixed on the merc's face, filling with a mixture of guilt and concern. In a breath, barely above a whisper, he adds, "See you on the other side."
Before V can respond, the world begins to glitch around her. The crypt's red lighting fractures like broken glass, objects transforming into abstract smears of color. These stretch and twist into fine lines of code, dancing across her vision like digital aurora. The sensation of cold intensifies until it burns, then suddenly... nothing. The last thing she registers is the complete absence of feeling, as if her consciousness has been untethered from her physical form, and then everything fades to black.
She blinks, and suddenly finds herself in a virtual version of the crypt, its architecture and furniture rendered in flowing lines of electric blue code against an infinite void of impenetrable darkness. Every detail, from the netrunning chairs to the smallest cable, is recreated in precise geometric patterns that pulse with digital energy. In the center, glowing with a crimson aura that seems to bend the very fabric of this virtual space, Brigitte's form materializes to greet her.
"This is our BBS. Data fortress. Bridge to de deep Net." She spreads her arms in a theatrical gesture, pride evident in her digital presence as the red light emanating from her form creates ripples in the surrounding code. "We can begin. All is ready. We enhanced your link to Silverhand's neural network for a short time. To grab de fragment." She approaches V, who fights against every instinct screaming at her to back away from this otherworldly version of the Voodoo leader. "We must find de data on Alt. Alt alone. Dis should only take..."
The world glitches again, the blue lines fracturing and dissolving into nothingness like shattered glass, leaving only the Voodoo's form before her. "Brigitte...?" the merc calls out, but she too vanishes into digital dust. The world of code reconstructs itself, this time forming... a stage? Through the haze of forming data, V sees a microphone in the distance, along with something vaguely resembling a drum set, its cymbals and toms outlined in pulsing blue lines. Music and excited crowd cheers reach her ears, but muffled, as if echoing from the bottom of a deep well.
"What's happenin'?" she asks aloud, but to her shock, Johnny's gravelly, nicotine-roughened voice emerges from her throat instead of her own. Fighting rising panic, she moves toward the stage, unable to resist the urge to touch the microphone, her movements feeling both foreign and familiar at the same time.
As she reaches for it, a metallic chime draws her attention, and she realizes her entire left arm is now chrome — Johnny's chrome, the prosthetic gleaming under the virtual lights. She flexes the fingers several times, mesmerized by the mechanical whirring and unfamiliar sensation of raw power in each movement. Finally, she grabs the mic, and suddenly the code lines give way to something that looks like reality, the world snapping into focus with a rush of sensory input that nearly overwhelms her. She understands now — she's in a memory.
She is Johnny, furiously strumming his guitar and screaming into the mic before a frenzied crowd, the heat of the stage lights burning against her skin, sweat dripping down her back. Samurai's concert is in full swing, the bass vibrating through her bones, but she feels... miserable? Filled with a hatred and frustration so intense it threatens to consume her from within.
The memory skips like a scratched record, rapidly showing a young man V recognizes as Kerry, his face younger, and an unknown bassist behind him, then the wild crowd as Johnny points his gun at them, screaming words she can't quite make out over the roar of the audience. A gunshot rings out, the sound crystal clear despite the chaos, as the memory jumps again, and now the concert's over. Guitar in hand, strings still hot from playing, and even more furious than before, she's following Kerry backstage through narrow corridors filled with equipment cases and hurrying staff.
Kerry, who seems absolutely livid with her — no, with Johnny — his usually friendly face contorted with rage. She is Johnny, feeling the post-show adrenaline mixing with anger in her veins. "Johnny?! The fuck, holmes? Outta line! Way out!" He's yelling, his voice echoing off the concrete walls, completely ignoring the crowd of fans pressed against the security barrier. Their screams intensify at the sight of their idol, hands reaching out desperately, faces painted with makeup running from sweat and tears of excitement. "What next? Where you gonna take it? Gonna drag a corporat on stage, make him kneel, douse him with gas, then light 'im up?"
She can only listen to the heated argument between the two men, feeling Johnny's fury building with each word, until he shoves Kerry aside with a final insult. The force of the push sends Kerry stumbling into a stack of amplifiers as Johnny storms into a dressing room, the door slamming behind him with enough force to rattle the cheap frames on the walls. The sudden silence is deafening after the chaos of the concert and the argument.
A young woman — whom V can only describe as stunning — is waiting on a worn leather couch, typing away on a pocket computer. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves past her shoulders, and when she glances up, her large green eyes hold an intelligence that seems to pierce right through Johnny's anger. But he ignores her for now, his movements jerky and aggressive as he heads straight for a mirror mounted on a makeup station. He sets his guitar aside without his usual care, the instrument clattering against the cluttered surface as he grabs a pill bottle instead, growling "Fuck!" as his trembling hands struggle with the cap.
As he finally manages to open it and swallows a handful of pills dry, V catches his reflection in the mirror. Johnny, aviators slightly askew on his nose, looks young — so young. His face is free of the lines that usually mark his digital construct, his hair a bit shorter but just as wild, he’s probably even younger than V is now. But his eyes, visible above the sunglasses, hold the same intensity, the same burning rage against the world that she's come to know so well.
In the mirror's reflection, she sees the woman — Alt, of course this is Alt — approach with feline grace, asking "Is it the concert or Kerry?" The question finally draws Johnny's attention away from his own reflection, making him turn towards her with hungry eyes.
"We in a hurry?" he asks as she removes his sunglasses with delicate fingers, revealing dark eyes clouded with desire.
"Look at you..." she purrs, a teasing smile playing on her full lips as she runs a hand over his sweat-dampened chest, fingers tracing the defined muscles, "all hot and bothered."
V feels Johnny's raw arousal surge through her as if it were her own when he grabs Alt by the waist, lifting her effortlessly to place her on the cluttered surface in front of the mirror. His hands, both flesh and chrome, dig into the soft flesh of her thighs as she wraps her long legs around his hips, the fluorescent lights casting dramatic shadows on their forms. She shoots him an annoyed look when his eyes drift to their reflection, grabbing his jaw with firm fingers to force his attention back to her. With a playful kick, she pushes him back, switching their positions. Johnny leans against the furniture as she drops to her knees before him, her nimble fingers making quick work of his belt buckle. The sound of the zipper being pulled down seems to echo in the small room.
Jesus fucking Christ. Of course, out of all the memories Johnny must have with Alt, she had to land in one where he's fucking her. V has zero desire to witness this, but even though Johnny barely looks at Alt while her skilled tongue traces patterns around his cock, more focused on taking long pulls from his whiskey bottle, V can feel everything — every lick, every touch, every surge of pleasure. Alt, clearly displeased with his lack of attention, rises and snatches the bottle from his hands, taking a long swig before pouring the amber liquid over her chest. The alcohol soaks through her white bra, making the thin fabric transparent, clinging to her curves. Johnny doesn't waste a second, lifting Alt by her hips before bending down to lick every drop, his tongue leaving wet trails across her breasts, teeth grazing sensitive skin.
V never thought she'd be grateful for skipped passages in a long-dead rockerboy's memories — yet here she is. The next thing she sees is Alt, lying on her back on the floor, hair spread like a golden halo, a satisfied smile illuminating her beautiful face. V's heart does something strange when Johnny takes the young woman's hand in a tender gesture, unable to determine if it's what she's feeling now or what Johnny felt then. He turns, propping himself up on his elbow, his chrome hand tenderly cupping Alt's cheek. Her smile widens as she climbs on top of Johnny, straddling his hips, and — oh fuck, round two.
Alt rises gracefully, backing towards the couch, beckoning Johnny with a crooked finger. She lies back, spreading her legs in clear invitation, her skin flushed and glistening with sweat. Johnny follows eagerly, crossing the distance in two long strides. He grabs her calf, his chrome hand caressing the soft skin before throwing her leg over his shoulder. He bends forward, his tongue tracing a wet path from her navel, slowly going lower, making her arch and gasp. The memory glitches again, but nothing is spared when Alt climbs onto Johnny's lap and in the next instant, he's buried deep inside her, hands gripping her hips as he guides her movements, both of them moaning in pleasure.
Fuck, V really doesn't need this. She knows her playful, flirty banter with Johnny will take on a whole new weight now. She's not sure she'll ever be able to look him in the eyes again, now that she knows exactly how he looks when he's lost in pleasure, how his breath hitches, how his chrome hand grips flesh hard enough to bruise. The way his muscles tense, the sounds he makes... She's experienced everything through his senses, felt every touch, every surge of pleasure as if it were her own. Their relationship is complicated enough without adding this to the mix. Thankfully for her sanity, and after getting way too close a view of Alt's face as she comes undone, crying out Johnny's name, things finally calm down.
The young woman, still catching her breath, untangles herself from Johnny's lap to sit beside him on the couch. Johnny reaches for his pack of smokes, lighting one up before offering his free hand to Alt, who takes it before saying "Goodness, gracious, me..." The rockerboy just hums his approval, and she continues, her smile fading. "A damn shame that's that."
V feels the negative emotions that had temporarily left Johnny come rushing back as he responds, "What, smoking after sex not Zen enough for you? We gotta rewrite 'The Art of War', too?"
The tension in the room shifts instantly from post-coital bliss to something darker, heavier, the air becoming thick with unspoken hostility. "We're done, Johnny, with it all." She gives him a resigned but determined look, her previously warm eyes now cold and distant. "I just... couldn't ghost without saying... something."
"So go on — say it." he snaps, and V feels his gut twist with anticipation of the coming storm.
"You can be such a bastard sometimes, Johnny." Alt withdraws her hand, breaking the contact between them. She shifts position, tucking her legs under herself, looking at him with disappointment etched across her beautiful features. The same features that, moments ago, were contorted in pleasure.
"Things were swimmin'... What, change your mind?" V feels anger rising in Johnny like bile, something switching in his mind as he opts for cruelty. "Eats at my gut. 'Cause you knew what you were signin' up for."
"Look." She straightens up, sitting back on her heels, her naked body still glistening with sweat from their previous activities. "If you were just another charismatic, narcissistic douchecanoe running around after his dream with his head up his ass, I couldn't care less."
"But?" Johnny asks sharply, his voice carrying a dangerous edge.
"It's all a lie. That concert, Samurai, all of it. A ginormous fiction." She leans closer, supporting herself on her hands, bringing her face inches from his. Her voice drops to a mocking whisper, each word carefully chosen to cut deep. "You're not a rockerboy, Johnny. Face it. Oughta join the wired wackos on the corners, frothing at the mouth as they scream 'Death to Arasaka'!"
"I see." He grabs her chin roughly with his chrome hand, his voice turning to ice, then pushes her away with enough force to make her catch herself. "Think you've seen through me, do you?"
"You know exactly what I mean." She shoots him a venomous glare before standing up, her naked form casting long shadows in the harsh fluorescent light. "Look at you — faking it even to yourself." She takes a few steps away and bends down to collect her computer and scattered clothes, adding with calculated cruelty, "Huh, probably what you're best at — faking it."
"Mh. You're afraid." he mocks, watching her disappear into the adjacent room to dress, his eyes burning with barely contained rage. "You and Kerry both — cowards!" He violently flicks his cigarette butt to the floor, the ember scattering sparks across the cheap linoleum. "I alone have the balls to stand up to Arasaka. And boy, that terrifies you – all of you!"
"'Course. Johnny S. — misunderstood by all Night City." Alt's voice, dripping with sarcasm and cruelty, carries from behind the open door. "That's it, that's the problem."
"Think we're done for the day, so you can fuck off." His words are ice-cold, a stark contrast to the fury boiling in his veins. He reaches for a pill bottle on the coffee table, his rage climbing another notch when he finds it empty, hurling it across the room where it shatters against the wall.
Moving to the dresser near the dressing room entrance, he nervously pushes through the clutter spread across its surface, his need for a fix becoming desperate. Unfortunately, the only other bottle he finds is also empty. "See, I thought..." Alt's voice, now fully dressed and ready to leave, makes him whirl around.
His anger reaches its boiling point and he closes the distance between them in one long stride, grabbing a fistful of her hair. "That this meant something? That we're close?" He yanks her head back, forcing her face up to his, meeting her furious glare. "So close you can give me shit about everything I do?" Alt tears herself from his grip, livid, and turns away without a word. He adds mockingly, "Got quite the imagination, then." Only the sharp slam of the door closing behind her answers him, the sound echoing in the suddenly empty room. Once again, he finds himself alone with his rage and his demons.
V feels the cocktail of emotions coursing through Johnny's younger self — anger, betrayal, and underneath it all, a deep, burning hurt he'd never admit to feeling. His chrome fist crashes into the wall, leaving a dent in the cheap plaster. He takes a moment, drawing deep breaths in an attempt to calm down, and finally, a sliver of guilt pierces through his fury. Hastily throwing on his clothes, he decides to go after Alt.
He catches up to her in the alley behind the concert hall, the neon signs casting alternating shadows of red and blue across the wet pavement. He grabs her arm, asking "Where you goin'?" She shoots him a dark look, yanking herself free and continuing her determined stride, completely ignoring him. He catches her again, and when she whirls around, clearly pissed off, he releases her, raising his hands in a placating gesture.
"Got somewhere to be." she says coldly, lighting a cigarette with slightly trembling hands. She seems nervous, her eyes darting around the dimly lit alley. Further down, two men, looking completely wasted, probably fans, shout Johnny's name in greeting, their voices echoing off the brick walls.
Johnny, having run after Alt without really knowing what to say, blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "Ran outta boosters."
This brilliant reflection earns him an appalled look from the young woman. "Ugh... Typical." she mutters, turning away once more. The two men stumble closer, drunkenly butchering the lyrics to a Samurai song.
Ignoring them, he asks Alt "So how long you think you're gonna be mad?" She glances at him as if he'd just said the stupidest thing she's ever heard. Emerging from behind a wall, a third man appears, weapon in hand, and something in Johnny's gut tells him things are about to go south. His suspicion is confirmed when another figure materializes from the opposite side of the street, blocking their other escape route.
"Join usss for a drop, Ssshilver-rocker?" slurs the singing man, now just a few steps away, the smell of cheap booze rolling off him in waves.
"Fuck off." Johnny snarls, positioning himself between Alt and the men, trying to shield her with his body. His hand hovers near his holster, muscles tensing in anticipation.
"Oooh, short-fuse on this one, huh?" the man mocks, throwing his bottle to the ground where it shatters. And suddenly, hell breaks loose. Johnny draws his Malorian in one fluid motion, its chrome gleaming in the neon light. The first shot catches the singing drunk right between the eyes, painting the wall behind him with brain matter. The second and third shots ring out almost simultaneously, dropping two more attackers before they can even raise their weapons.
He spins around at Alt's terrified scream. The last survivor has her in a chokehold, dragging her toward a van that just screeched to a halt at the end of the alley, its engine still running. Before Johnny can move toward her, white-hot pain stops him in his tracks. Looking down in shock, he sees two mantis blades protruding from his abdomen, chrome dripping with his blood. V wants to scream, feeling the pain as if it were her own. Johnny collapses to the wet ground, catching a glimpse of his attacker who towers over him, bloody blades extended. He hears Alt's desperate cry "Fuck off! Lemme alone!" as his eyes close in agony.
They flutter open seconds later, just in time to see one of the attackers roughly throw Alt into the back of the van, and reality fades to black again. When he regains consciousness for a few moments, the van is long gone, and a pair of combat boots appears in his field of vision, accompanied by a voice muttering "Really did you, didn't they?" The man bends down and starts dragging Johnny, who slips into darkness once more.
When Johnny opens his eyes again, the harsh fluorescent lights of a ripperdoc clinic assault his vision. He's slumped in a chrome medical chair, his torso wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, the metallic smell of antiseptic mixing with the coppery scent of his own blood. V, still shaken by the violent scene she just witnessed, only half-follows the heated conversation between the rockerboy and the weary-looking doc. The medic finally leaves the room with a resigned shake of his head, leaving Johnny alone with the combat boots guy — Thompson, a media.
The man explains that Alt's abduction was a standard intercorp extraction, nothing more, but Johnny snaps back, his voice rough with pain and anger, that Arasaka is after him, that Alt was just collateral damage. Thompson scoffs, the sound echoing in the small room, pointing out that Johnny doesn't even know that Alt is one of the best netrunners in Night City, that she's the brilliant mind behind Soulkiller, and that Arasaka just ‘recruited’ her for that very reason.
Johnny, of course, thinks it's all bullshit. His chrome hand clenches into a fist as he insists that he was the real target, that they only took Alt to provoke him. Pissed off, he pushes himself off the chair, his legs shaking as he stumbles to a nearby table. While he takes long swigs of alcohol straight from the bottle, his throat working convulsively, V catches a glimpse of his medical file displayed on a screen — the damage is extensive, but somehow, he's still standing. After that, he prepares to leave the clinic, offering the media to tag along while he goes to retrieve Alt from Arasaka Tower. They just need to make one last stop at the Atlantis first — he's got some chooms there who can help.
Time glitches again, and Johnny's parking his Porsche in front of the club, neon signs reflecting off its sleek black surface, and Thompson says he'll wait in the car. The rockerboy's progression through the Atlantis is like watching a force of nature — people literally scrambling to get out of his way as he questions everyone about Rogue's whereabouts. V can only describe it as Johnny at his absolute worst — aggressive, cruel, high on a cocktail of pain and rage. He behaves like a complete asshole to every poor soul who dares speak to him, and the worst part is that no one seems surprised. She struggles to reconcile this younger version of Johnny – all violence and sharp edges – with the man she's grown to know and care for.
Johnny finally finds Rogue in one of the club's private rooms, the air thick with smoke and the bass from the club below vibrating through the floor. She's complaining to a man about how much she hates this city, the shit jobs and the sneaky fixers, her usual iron control cracking slightly. The man responds by inviting her to leave Night City with him, to go live on his clan's lands. A nomad, then. Johnny, entering the room like he owns the place, observes the chill-looking dude with wavy brown hair reaching his shoulders, round sunglasses hiding his eyes.
The rockerboy drops onto the sofa close to Rogue, casually putting his arm on the backrest near her shoulders. She moves away as much as the leather sofa allows, crossing her arms and shooting him a glare that could freeze hell over. "You still mad about that thing?" he asks with his trademark smirk, withdrawing his arm.
"What thing, Johnny?" She spits, livid, her perfectly painted lips curling in disgust. "That you fucking lied to my face, put my people on the line?" her perfectly sculpted eyebrows furrow even more – oh, if looks could kill... "Or that you were fucking three other women behind my back before we were through?"
Rogue continues raging, her voice getting sharper with each word, and finally, it's the nomad who interrupts the argument, his calm voice a stark contrast to the tension in the room. "You have a job for us, rocker? Or you mainly here to run your mouth?" Johnny then explains the situation, Rogue trying to dissuade the nomad from listening, but in the end, they reach an agreement, sealed with a shot of tequila that burns Johnny's throat like acid.
Suddenly, their meeting is interrupted by two agents in expensive corpo suits, their chrome gleaming under the neon lights as they order Johnny to come with them. In one fluid motion, he grabs the nearest bottle, smashing it against the first man's skull with a sickening crack, while the nomad lunges at the woman, driving his knife straight into her heart. After an exasperated cry from Rogue, demanding to know who the rockerboy pissed off this time, the trio fights their way through the Atlantis, now crawling with corpo agents. Several bodies of those who tried to resist lie scattered across the floor, blood mixing with spilled drinks.
They manage to survive, killing or dodging every enemy blocking their path. Chrome flashes, guns bark, and blood sprays as they clear a path through the chaos. They finally reach the parking lot, finding Thompson behind the wheel of the Porsche, yelling at Johnny to hop in, while Rogue and her nomad friend mount their bikes. After a brief but intense chase through Night City's neon-lit streets, Johnny skillfully shooting out their pursuers' tires, they finally park under a bridge, hidden from prying eyes, to plan their next move. Johnny suggests contacting someone named Nancy for a diversion tactic.
The memory jumps again, and V finds herself in the middle of what appears to be an impromptu concert at the foot of Arasaka Tower. The crowd is electric, becoming increasingly uncontrollable as armed forces in riot gear guard the tower's entrance. Johnny lights the first flare, its red glow illuminating his face as he hurls it toward the Arasaka troops. In an instant, the scene transforms into a full-blown riot. The air fills with tear gas and the sound of breaking glass, screams and gunshots echoing off the tower's imposing walls. Bodies surge forward like a wave, crashing against the line of riot shields.
The scene shifts once more, and this time, V is in what she assumes is an elevator inside the tower. Rogue, the nomad, and Johnny already have their weapons drawn, while Thompson powers up his camera. She can feel Johnny's annoyance at the media's presence, but he knows he can't turn down an extra pair of hands for this mission, no matter how much the constant recording pisses him off.
Thompson proves his worth shortly after they reach the mainframe floor. While the other three empty their magazines into the Arasaka troops trying to halt their advance, the media handles the locked doors, expertly manipulating wires and circuits. They move from room to room, neutralizing enemies and automated turrets, until they reach a sealed door with no access panel on their side to hack.
Johnny attempts to force it open with brute strength, growling a frustrated "Son of a bitch!" as his muscles strain against the unyielding metal, but the door doesn't budge an inch. Thompson steps forward, pulling out a block of explosives and placing it strategically on the door's weak points.
"Ah, now I see why we brought him along," the nomad quips, taking cover behind an overturned desk. Johnny arms the explosive, diving for cover just as the door explodes in a deafening boom, sending shrapnel flying in all directions and filling the corridor with smoke and the smell of burned metal.
They advance into another room when suddenly, a dozen agents emerge from all sides, engaging in combat. A bullet ricochets off Johnny's metal arm, but in his rage-fueled state, he doesn't even notice. One by one, enemies fall in sprays of blood and chrome, until nothing stands between him and Alt.
Forcing open a glass door, he finds her lying on a netrunning chair, a thick cable connecting her neck to the machine. Beside her stands a massive Japanese man who immediately warns, "I would advise you not to disturb her."
Johnny points his gun at him, rage dripping from every word, "What'd you do to Alt?"
"I put her to work on the project of a lifetime," he responds, turning his gaze toward the young woman with an almost reverent expression.
Johnny pulls the trigger and the man's head explodes in a shower of gore, his heavy body crumpling to the floor with a wet thud. "Get out of my way," the rockerboy growls, holstering his gun before rushing to Alt. As he reaches for the cable, V, momentarily forgetting she's in a memory, tries to scream at him not to do it, but it's too late – he's already unplugged Alt.
Cradling her face with both hands, he calls gently, "Alt?" But with each passing second of silence, V feels his anxiety mounting, his heart constricting more and more in his chest.
Rogue, finally approaching, asks hesitantly, "Is she...?"
Ignoring her, Johnny continues his calls, his voice growing increasingly desperate, "Alt? C'mon, don't do this." But reality finally hits him like a sledgehammer to the chest. His ears ring as he gently lays Alt's head back on the chair. As he turns away, in a dissociative state, he notices Thompson has turned his camera back on, filming Alt's lifeless body.
Something snaps inside Johnny's mind. Raw, primal rage floods his system like molten metal. Before he even realizes it, his fist has connected with the media's face, sending him crashing to the floor. But his bloodlust is far from satisfied — he sees nothing but red, all control lost to the beast within. His chrome fist connects again and again and again, each impact accompanied by a wet crunch. Blood sprays across his face, across the floor, across the walls. A sound tears from his throat — not human, not animal, but something ancient and terrible, the howl of a soul being ripped apart. His augmented arm moves faster and faster, turning Thompson's face into an unrecognizable mass of gore and shattered bone, and still he can't stop, won't stop, needs more, more, MORE...
He only snaps out of his frenzy when Rogue tackles him to the ground, using her full body weight to try and restrain him. "Johnny! Stop that! You trying to kill him?!" she shakes him, attempting to drag him back to reality. "We gotta go." Johnny doesn't react. He's suffocating, drowning in a sea of red. "Johnny," Rogue tries again, her voice cutting through the haze, "She's dead."
Her words echo in Johnny's mind, in V's consciousness, growing louder and louder until they become deafening, and suddenly, the world explodes in a kaleidoscope of glitching colors, the memory collapsing in on itself. Then everything goes black. Gradually, lines of electric blue code reappear, recreating a stripped-down version of the scene they just left behind.
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage
And someone will say what is lost can never be saved
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage
And I still believe that I cannot be saved
And I still believe that I cannot be saved
V finds herself back in the VDB's virtual space, lying on non-existent ground, feeling like she's waking from a long nightmare. Before her, emitting a crimson glow, Johnny's silhouette paces nervously, avoiding her gaze. Remembering his words before she dove into cyberspace, she understands she just witnessed exactly the memory he wanted to keep from her. The tension in his shoulders is obvious, his hands slightly trembling. "Well?" he asks, gripping an invisible railing, his back turned to her as if dreading her reaction. "Spit it out 'fore you burst."
For a second, V wants to scream at him. To give him so much shit about how he treated Alt like disposable garbage. About what an selfish asshole he'd been to Rogue, how he was nothing but a narcissistic dickwipe who thought the whole world revolved around him. About how he used and discarded people like empty beer bottles, leaving behind a trail of broken hearts and shattered lives. How his ego was so massive it's a miracle he could fit through doors at all.
But she can't. Not when a minute ago, she was him. When she felt his devastation rip through her own chest, his all-consuming rage burning in her veins, his complete helplessness as Alt slipped away. She understands now — not that it excuses everything, but she gets it. The constant anger, the paranoia, the walls he built around himself. How much easier it was to push people away than to watch them get hurt because of him. And in the end, that's exactly what happened to Alt.
Instead, she stands up, joining the rockerboy in a few steps. She wraps her arms around his middle from behind, resting her cheek against his back before whispering, "I'm so fuckin' sorry, Johnny," her voice breaking on his name.
The effect is immediate and striking — Johnny's entire body goes rigid, muscles tensing under her touch like a cornered animal ready to bolt. His breath hitches audibly, caught somewhere between a gasp and a strangled sound she's never heard from him before. Of all the reactions he'd braced himself for — screaming matches, accusations, disgust at the violent monster she'd witnessed — this gentle comfort blindsides him completely. For several heartbeats, he remains perfectly still, as if trapped between fight or flight, the only movement the slight tremor in his hands as they hover uncertainly over hers.
When he finally allows himself to touch her, it's with an achingly careful tenderness that breaks V's heart all over again. His chrome fingers intertwine with hers, cool metal warming against her skin, while his flesh hand grips hers like a lifeline, betraying just how much he needs this contact he can't bring himself to ask for.
"Thought you'd rip me a new one," he manages, his voice so rough and raw it barely sounds like him. There's a vulnerability there that makes V's chest tight, a crack in the carefully maintained armor of Night City's most infamous rockerboy.
"For a hot second there, yeah," she admits softly, pressing closer against his back, feeling each uneven breath he takes. "Then I remembered what it felt like. Bein' you. Watching her..." She trails off as his body tenses again, his grip on her hands becoming almost painful.
"She made it," he cuts in abruptly. "Into the Net. Contacted me later. Said she was trapped in 'Saka's subnet, but those corpo fucks couldn't touch her anymore." His thumb traces restless patterns on V's wrist as he speaks, like he needs the physical anchor to continue. "Told me to let it go. That enough people had died already."
"But you couldn't," V says gently, no judgment in her voice.
A broken laugh escapes him. "When could I ever? Got my hands on some nukes instead. Real smart solution, huh?"
"Oh Johnny," V sighs, the fondness in her voice making him shudder. "You absolute gonk."
Finally, he turns in her embrace, and the raw anguish in his eyes nearly stops her heart. Without conscious thought, she reaches up to cup his face, her thumb brushing across his cheekbone. The gesture seems to undo something in him — his eyes flutter closed as he leans into her touch with desperate need, dropping all pretense of the hardened rebel for just this moment.
"The VDBs say they found her," she whispers, watching his face carefully. "Beyond the Blackwall."
"Where nobody can touch her," he murmurs, his hand coming up to cover hers, holding it against his face like he's afraid she'll pull away.
"We'll find her, Johnny. Together this time." She offers him a soft smile. "No more solo suicide runs, you hear me?"
He stares at her for a long moment, something vulnerable and almost wondering crossing his face, like he can't quite believe she's real. Then, in a sudden movement that surprises them both, he pulls her into a crushing embrace, burying his face in her neck. V holds him just as fiercely, feeling the slight tremors running through his body, the way his hands fist in the back of her top. She threads her fingers through his hair, holding him close as fifty years of guilt and grief finally catch up with him.
In this moment, in this strange digital space where nothing is quite real, V makes a silent promise — this time will be different. This time, Johnny Silverhand won't have to carry this weight alone.
Unfortunately, reality decides their moment can't last, the digital landscape fracturing around them like shattered glass. One second, V was holding Johnny tightly, feeling the warmth of his skin against her neck, his hair tickling her cheek, the familiar scent of cigarettes and leather enveloping her — and the next, he dissolves like morning mist between her fingers. Before panic can fully set in, lines of neon code spiral through the void, reconstructing the familiar crypt setting in a dizzying display of digital architecture. A few steps away stands Brigitte, her eyes gleaming in the weird light as she finishes, "...a moment."
It takes V several seconds to process that the netrunner is completing the sentence she started before the merc dove into Johnny's memory, her mind still reeling from the emotional whiplash. Taking a breath she doesn't really need in this virtual space — a habit from the meat world that's oddly comforting — she finally mutters, "Sure felt like more than a moment. Saw a good chunk of Johnny's life... And Alt." Her voice catches on the name, the echo of Johnny's raw grief still burning in her chest.
"It is possible," Brigitte confirms, her face an unreadable mask of calculated indifference. "Data connected to Alt are linked to a strong memory trace in de construct. Very strong." She pauses, studying V with those unnerving chrome eyes. "These memories must have evoked a powerful emotional response, then projected onto your consciousness."
"Emotion, yeah." V's throat tightens as phantom sensations ghost across her skin — Johnny's trembling hands, his face buried in her neck, the desperate way he'd clung to her. "Plenty of that..." Not wanting to expose this newfound vulnerability to the Voodoo leader's calculating gaze, she straightens her shoulders and asks, "So... did it work?"
"Yes. We extract de necessary fragment of Silverhand's engram. We are ready now to make contact with Alt. First, we must dive deeper." She moves with fluid grace, and with a gesture of her hand, the world transforms again. The new landscape materializes like a digital fever dream — an intricate maze of obsidian cubic forms interwoven with streams of electric turquoise light that pulse like digital arteries through the void. "Beyond, dere are no borders."
V feels herself pulled forward by an invisible force, racing through this new space without taking a single step. The sensation is dizzying, like falling forward while standing still. Ahead, an enormous wall materializes out of the darkness, bathed in an ominous red glow that reminds her too much of blood. The barrier seems to stretch infinitely in all directions, its surface rippling with barely contained power. The landscape finally stops shifting, leaving her standing before this digital monolith that seems to hum with malevolent energy.
"Beyond de Blackwall. Few have gone through to de other side," Brigitte continues, her voice taking on an almost reverential quality as she passes V to stand near the wall. "And none have yet returned. She will be de first."
V is thoroughly done with all this netrunning bullshit, the Voodoos' cryptic mysticism, this whole place. The emotional drain of Johnny's memory combined with the oppressive presence of the Blackwall leaves her feeling raw and exposed. She just wants to go home, curl up under her blankets — preferably with Johnny's presence on the other side of the bed, his sarcastic comments chasing away the shadows. Stepping forward, she says, "I held up my end of our deal. Your turn. Before you pass through that wall, I—"
"We will not pass through," Brigitte interrupts, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You will take de code to de other side."
A dry, bitter laugh escapes V's lips, echoing strangely in the digital void. "Fuck... Might've guessed. Never had any intention of helpin' me, did ya?" The betrayal stings less than it should — she's getting used to being everyone's expendable puppet in this city.
"It does not matter anymore," Brigitte shrugs with infuriating serenity, the gesture elegant and dismissive. "You will bring all to its end." Her response only pulls another nervous laugh from V, the sound sharp and brittle in the humming silence. "Ale," she adds with finality.
V turns one last time, noting that other Voodoos have materialized around them like digital ghosts, their eyes all fixed on her with an intensity that makes her skin crawl. With no other choice — there never really was one — she approaches the wall. The air seems to grow thicker with each step, charged with crackling energy that makes her teeth ache. When she extends her hand, the barrier responds to her touch like living mercury, forming perfect concentric circles that ripple outward from her fingertips, beautiful and terrifying in their alien geometry.
"How do I get to the other side?" she asks, her voice smaller than she'd like. When silence answers, she turns back, calling, "Brigitte?"
But the Voodoos have vanished like a bad dream, and the landscape has shifted dramatically. The structured geometry of the netspace has given way to an endless void where distant red forms float like digital jellyfish, pulsing with their own inner light. The realization hits her like ice water — she's actually beyond the fucking Blackwall. Swallowing hard against the surge of panic, she calls out, "Alt?"
The silence stretches, heavy with potential energy, until a humanoid silhouette materializes in the distance. It approaches in stuttering movements, like a corrupted video file, each glitch bringing it closer until suddenly — terrifyingly — an enormous figure towers above V. Alt Cunningham's digital form is a colossus of crimson pixels, her presence radiating cold power that makes V want to flee. When she speaks, her voice is a distorted symphony of frequencies that barely resembles human speech anymore.
"Johnny," she intones, as if seeing straight through V's avatar to the construct buried in her code. The name carries no warmth, no recognition of their shared past — just cold, digital certainty. "You cannot remain here."
Before V can respond, reality fractures again. A blast of white light burns away her vision, and when it clears, she's back on the safe side of the Blackwall. The Voodoo Boys materialize around her like a closing net, but her attention is fixed on Alt's towering form, still floating above them like a digital goddess. V's mind races back to Johnny's memories — to the woman he loved, the brilliant netrunner who smiled and teased and burned with passion. Looking at this crimson deity before her, V wonders if anything of that woman remains behind those lines of code.
Suddenly, the Voodoo Boys — who until now had been contemplating Alt in reverent silence — begin to stir restlessly, their digital forms flickering like bad reception on an old TV screen. A hint of panic creeps into Brigitte's usually controlled voice as she exclaims, "Joris! The network's experiencing additional load..." Her eyes dart around wildly, searching for an invisible threat.
"What the hell's goin' on?!" V screams, her heart racing as the virtual space begins to destabilize around them.
"Dey breached our BBSes." Brigitte's carefully maintained composure finally cracks, real fear bleeding through. "We have nothing to do wid dis!"
"NetWatch," Alt's distorted voice announces with mechanical indifference. Without warning, beams of searing white light rain down from above, striking each Voodoo Boy with surgical precision. Their agonized screams echo through the digital void, a horrifying chorus of digital death. Before V can even think to move, reality shifts again, yanking her through the virtual space. When she opens her eyes, relief floods through her at the sight of Johnny's familiar silhouette a short distance away. As she approaches quickly, she finds herself in another virtual recreation — this one triggering a flash of recognition. It hits her suddenly — they're in another part of Arasaka Tower, one she glimpsed in Johnny's memories, where his fatal dance with Smasher had played out.
She positions herself beside the rockerboy, who's leaning casually against a railing overlooking a meticulously rendered zen garden. Looking up, she finds Alt still hovering above them. The AI's voice resonates through their constructed reality as she announces, "NetWatch can't touch me here."
Johnny shifts closer to V until their shoulders press together, his head tilted back to stare up at what remains of his former lover. "Alt. It's really you." He pauses, emotion thick in his voice, before asking, "What happened out there? Couldn't just take 'em out?"
"NetWatch was well prepared this time," Alt responds with detachment.
"Dammit," V hisses through clenched teeth. "I brought NetWatch here. Agent I dealt with must've slipped me a tracker that led 'em right in."
"Gotta be Mosley, the fucker." Johnny turns to face V. "Switched things up on the sly, replacin' the Voodoos' virus with his own brand of rot."
"What of Brigitte and the Voodoo Boys?" V asks, addressing the floating figure above them.
"I was forced to purge them," she responds with the same emotional investment one might use to describe deleting spam emails. "NetWatch was exploiting their BBS."
"'Purge?' Mean they're dead, all of them?" A satisfied smile spreads across V's face as the implications sink in. "Good."
Johnny nods approvingly — of course he does — before returning his attention to the digital goddess above them. "Alt... You pulled us outta there — that mean you and us, we're OK, everything's chill?"
Predictably, she ignores his attempt at reconciliation. "I have recognized your engram code, but I do not know why you are here."
"To give ya a chance to pay me back for gettin' you outta Arasaka Tower," he states neutrally, then turns to V. "V, this is Alt — best netrunner Night City's ever seen. Alt," he pauses, wrapping his flesh arm around V's waist in a possessive gesture that sends warmth spreading through her virtual form, pulling her closer. "this is V — you need to save her life."
Choosing to ignore for now that Johnny's graduated from casual shoulder touches to possessive waist-holding — after what they've experienced today, does it really matter? — she addresses Alt directly. "As you can see, Johnny's got it all thought out. But there's the question of what you'll want in return."
The netrunner glitches closer abruptly, her towering form even more intimidating at close range, pixels shifting and reforming like a crimson storm. "NetWatch propaganda has been effective. Do you see me as a demon who requires a pact signed in blood?"
V has to bite her tongue to keep from saying that yeah, kinda. That Alt's current form is fucking terrifying by any standard. Instead, she opts for a more diplomatic response. "Got no clue who you are now. Know a little about who you were. And Johnny, that he was important to you, while I'm no one. So I'm askin' — what's it gonna cost?"
"I cannot help you," Alt declares after a weighted pause, her digital form shifting like a crimson aurora.
"Can't? Or won't?" Johnny presses, his arm tightening protectively around V's waist, fingers digging slightly into her side.
"Can't," Alt clarifies. "To attempt to do so, I would need access to more advanced technology."
"Fine..." Johnny's voice carries a hint of desperate determination. "So how about Mikoshi? That advanced enough for ya?"
"If I could gain access to Mikoshi, it would cease to exist," she announces, her massive arms sweeping through the digital space in a gesture that sends waves of crimson code rippling through the air.
"Good, we can work with that." Relief bleeds into Johnny's voice, his posture relaxing slightly. "We'll get you inside Mikoshi, and you'll help V — deal?"
"What can you do for me, exactly?" V interjects, trying to keep her voice steady despite the growing unease in her gut.
Alt's response comes with clinical precision, as if discussing a simple data transfer rather than the fate of a human consciousness. "With the Soulkiller resident inside Mikoshi, I will create a construct of you, then disentangle your neural network from Johnny's. I shall then inject your engram back into your mortal form."
A cold shiver runs through V's virtual form. "So... you'll save my life but flatline me along the way?"
"Your consciousness, neural engrams, will be recorded as data," Alt continues, her massive form looming closer. "The rest will cease to exist."
"The rest?" V asks, feeling increasingly lost in this digital nightmare.
"The soul." The AI's response echoes through the virtual space. "I did not grant the program its name, but Soulkiller does precisely what it promises to do."
"Christ, I don't wanna listen to this bullshit." Johnny spits, anger and fear mixing in his voice. "V just hops back into her body, right? Nothin' changes."
"Everything changes," Alt corrects him with digital certainty. "You know this well."
"Right, so we got a plan." V cuts the conversation short, as eager as Johnny to avoid this particular topic.
"But how will you reach Mikoshi?" Alt questions. "I've created armies that failed to breach it."
"They were children of the Net – there's your problem. We're bankin' on the human factor," Johnny states confidently. "V's got a big, dusty nomad family. And they'll do anything for her. We'll crack a window, slip you into Mikoshi."
V nods, drawing strength from Johnny's unwavering presence at her side. "Johnny's right. We can do this."
"You trust him deeply, I see," Alt observes, her pixelated features rearranging in what might be curiosity.
V wraps her own arm around Johnny's waist, mirroring his protective gesture. "You don't?" she challenges, her voice carrying equal measures of defiance and possessiveness.
"As you are the 'human factor', it is with you that I will set terms," Alt responds, her massive face turning fully toward V.
"So, we agreed?" V presses, seeking confirmation.
"Yes, we are agreed," Alt confirms. "Find a path into Mikoshi. I shall prepare a program to help you navigate the localnet."
"How'll I contact you once I'm ready?"
"This is a BBS address." Information floods V's consciousness like ice water through her veins. "It will be our secure communication channel." Without even a farewell, Alt vanishes, taking the virtual world with her. V's vision darkens, punctuated by sporadic bursts of color, as an intense cold seizes her body, making her teeth chatter and her eyes squeeze shut against the sensory assault.
When V's eyes flutter open, reality crashes back with brutal clarity. The ice-cold bath water has turned her body into one giant ache, freezing her to the marrow, and she frantically claws at the cable in her neck with trembling fingers numbed by cold. Johnny's already there, his presence solid and reassuring as he grabs her arm, helping her unsteady form rise from the makeshift netrunning tub.
Without thinking, she presses against him, seeking body heat that technically doesn't exist. Yet when his arms wrap around her shivering form — one chrome hand splayed protectively across her back while his flesh one cradles her head against his chest — she swears she can feel warmth radiating from him. His embrace brings more comfort than any blanket ever could, and V finds herself melting into it, her frozen fingers clutching at his tank top. She can almost feel his heartbeat, smell the familiar mix of cigarettes and leather that always seems to follow him, and for a moment, she forgets he isn't really there.
They stay locked in this position for a long moment, Johnny's chin resting on top of her head, until his low mutter of "Well, shit" breaks the silence. V pulls back just enough to follow his gaze, though she doesn't step out of the circle of his arms, taking in the grotesque tableau of dead Voodoo Boys slumped in their netrunning chairs. Some stare at nothing with glassy eyes, others have limbs dangling lifelessly over their armrests, and all sport identical burn marks around their neural ports. Good fucking riddance. After the stunt they pulled, V won't shed a single tear over these backstabbing fuckers.
Johnny voices her thoughts with characteristic bluntness. "Couldn't think of a more fitting end. 'Runner fucks had it comin'."
V nods, suppressing a shiver. "As much as it tickles me too, we gotta delta."
"Right. Still got Mr. Grumps left." He slowly disentangles himself from her, his hands lingering on her arms as a smirk plays across his lips. "Warm enough now?"
"Nah." V grins back, teeth still chattering slightly. "But if we gotta fight our way outta here, I'll heat up real quick."
He releases her completely, and without sparing another glance for the Voodoos' corpses, she exits the crypt. Retracing her steps, she moves through the abandoned train tunnel, then navigates the rougher passages covered in gang tags that lead to the church stairs. As she approaches, three Voodoos emerge from an adjacent corridor. V's mantis blades deploy with a satisfying snikt, catching the light as she launches herself at the first goon. The chrome slices through his throat before he can even raise his weapon. The second manages to get off a wild shot that goes wide before V's blade pierces his chest. The third backs away, fumbling with his iron, but V's already on him, her blades making short work of another wannabe soldier.
Catching her breath, she pauses at the foot of the stairs, blood dripping from her chrome. She's certain Placide is waiting up in the church, ready to put her down like a rabid dog. A predatory grin spreads across V's face — oh, she's going to fucking enjoy gutting that backstabbing piece of shit.
Johnny materializes beside her, lighting a virtual cigarette as he eyes the stairs. "Ready to make that asshole regret every life choice that led him here?"
"You know it," V purrs, blades gleaming with deadly promise. "Time to collect on some karma."
V reaches the church, and sure enough, Placide is there, pacing like a caged animal between the rows of broken pews. The moment he spots her, his face contorts with rage, veins bulging on his neck and chrome glinting dangerously.
"You... YOU!" His voice booms through the church. "De fuck happened down dere?! My people not responding!"
"Oh, they’re all dead" V drawls, a cold smile playing on her lips.
Placide's eyes widen for a split second before his face twists in fury. Without another word, he raises his double-barrel shotgun and fires. V barely has time to dive behind one of the concrete pillars as buckshot sprays chunks of cement, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.
"Damn, V," Johnny appears beside her, smirking. "Think ya might've hurt his feelings."
"Gonna hurt a lot more than that," she growls, deploying her mantis blades.
"WHERE ARE YOU, BITCH?!" Placide's voice echoes. "Gonna make you suffer for dis!"
The fight that follows is brutal and fast. Placide may be built like a tank, but V is quicker. She darts between pillars, using the church's architecture to her advantage. His shotgun booms again and again, each blast taking chunks out of the concrete until the satisfying click of an empty chamber echoes through the church.
"Outta luck, you piece of shit!" V taunts, launching herself from cover.
Before he can reload, she's on him, blades flashing in the dim light. He blocks her first strike with his shotgun. With a roar, he throws the useless weapon at her face, following with a heavy punch that would have knocked her teeth out if it had connected. But V is already moving, sliding under his swing like a dancer. Her blade slices through his hamstring, bringing him to one knee with a howl of pain and rage.
V spins in a graceful arc, her mantis blade singing through the air. There's a moment of perfect stillness, then Placide's head hits the floor with a wet thud, rolling a few feet before coming to rest near the altar, his dead eyes staring at nothing. His massive body stays upright for a moment, then topples forward with a heavy crash.
After ensuring the coast is clear, V kneels beside the headless corpse, searching through his coat pockets. She finds the church keys, and after a moment's consideration, strips the coat off his body and puts it on.
Johnny appears, eyebrow raised. as he eyes her new attire with obvious amusement. "Y'know, if you're gonna go full serial killer and keep trophies..." He gestures at the coat with his cigarette. "Couldn't you at least pick something that doesn't look like it was salvaged from a garbage dump?"
V rolls her eyes, adjusting the oversized garment. "Fuck off, it's functional. Still freezing my tits off from that ice bath, and this thing's warm." She runs her hands over the thick fabric, a predatory grin spreading across her face. "Plus, wearing this coat in Pacifica? That's sending a message. Everyone'll know I wiped out the Voodoos — every gonk who sees this'll think twice before crossing me."
"Territorial pissing, NC style?" Johnny grins, considering the coat. "C’mon — let’s get the fuck outta here."
V unlocks the heavy wooden door, the ancient key turning in the lock with a rusty groan. The moment she steps outside, the late afternoon sun blinds her after so much time spent in the church's darkness. Suddenly, a Relic malfunction hits her like a freight train. Johnny doesn't even have time to warn her before digital artifacts flood her vision, making her miss the step at the church's threshold. She crashes face-first onto the sun-heated concrete, the impact knocking the wind out of her lungs.
Johnny rushes to her side, kneeling next to her as she struggles to get up. The merc manages to stagger to her feet, but her legs are shaking like a newborn deer's as he tries to guide her. She only makes it a few steps before collapsing again, this time knocking over a shopping cart filled with a homeless woman's meager possessions. V can see the woman screaming at her, but no sound reaches her ears — just white noise filling her head like static on an old radio.
Rising once more through sheer willpower, V drags herself to a nearby chair, its red plastic gleaming under the merciless sun. When she finally collapses into it, breathing like she's just run a marathon, Johnny stands before her, fidgeting nervously with his aviators. "That the biochip?" he asks, though they both know damn well what it is.
"Nah, third trimester cramping," she tries to joke, attempting to lighten the mood despite feeling like death warmed over. Her vision slowly returns to normal, the digital artifacts fading like bad TV reception clearing up.
"Ha ha ha, joke away, but you look pretty spent." His flat tone barely conceals his worry as he materializes in the chair across from her, conjuring a cigarette between his chrome fingers. "That was your ticker. Sit and rest."
V retrieves her cigarettes from her pants pocket, relieved to find Evelyn's waterproof case protected them during her ice bath adventure. She places one between her trembling lips, struggling with the lighter for a few moments before finally getting it lit. She takes a long drag, letting the nicotine help steady her nerves. After a few moments, she turns to Johnny. "What was it like? When you died?"
"Was on top of the world." He leans back in his chair, sunlight passing right through his digital form. "Failure — not an option, not a thought... till it happened. Death feels real now, it's only now I know it."
"Now?" V asks curiously, smoke curling from her lips. "Had half a century to come to terms."
"Mikoshi felt... I dunno, like sleep?" He tries to explain, taking nervous drags from his cigarette. "Lacked awareness, had no sense of passing time, didn't mark it." After a beat, his face darkens. "Did what they wanted to me. I just remember... cold, a black void, fear. Or— or was that your death?" he asks, uncertainty creeping into his voice, as if their memories are becoming as tangled as their minds.
"Well, think I get why you detest the place." V says softly, watching his face.
"Shouldn't exist." He leans forward, chrome fingers tapping a metallic rhythm on the table between them. "Of all the destruction and pain corps wreak 'round the world, what happens at Mikoshi is worst." He turns fully towards her, his dark eyes intense behind his aviators. "Know why?"
"They can change who you are," she responds without hesitation, meeting his gaze. "Turn you into someone else without you even knowin' it."
"Yep... Goddamn right." He confirms before leaning back in his chair, the setting sun casting long shadows across his face. "Corps've already taken the world for their own, now they're comin' for us."
They sit in companionable silence as they smoke, watching the sun paint Pacifica's broken skyline in shades of orange and red. When V finally flicks her cigarette butt to the ground, Johnny breaks the silence, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Been a hell of a day. Want me to take the wheel and get us home?"
V never thought she'd feel such relief at someone offering to hijack her body, but right now, it sounds like heaven. "Sure, thanks. I'm fuckin’ wiped."
"I know, princess." He extends his hand across the table towards hers, chrome fingers gleaming in the dying sunlight. "Just relax. I'll handle the rest."
V's fingers reach out to meet his, and she takes a deep breath before letting go, surrendering control to Johnny. The transition is smooth now, almost natural. One moment she's there, the next she's watching through her own eyes as Johnny takes command of her body.
He stands up, rolling her shoulders and cracking her neck. "Damn, V, you really did a number on yourself today," he mutters, adjusting Placide's coat around her frame. He descends the church steps with casual grace, moving differently in her body than she does.
The drive back is pure Johnny. He pushes her Arch even faster than she usually would, weaving through traffic with reckless abandon, the engine's roar echoing off Night City's towers. V can feel his joy at being in control, at feeling the wind and the machine's power — real sensations instead of memories. He takes the long way home, cruising through the neon-lit streets of the Glen, probably just because he can.
It's only when they're safely inside their apartment, door locked and security system armed, that Johnny relinquishes control. The transition back is gentle, like waking up from a pleasant dream. V finds herself standing in their living room, still wearing Placide's ugly coat, feeling oddly refreshed despite everything.
"Home sweet home," Johnny materializes on their couch, boots up on the coffee table. "Told ya I'd get us back in one piece."
"That you did," V agrees, finally shrugging off the coat. "Thanks, Johnny."
He just nods, a small smile playing on his lips as he watches her move around the apartment. Her first stop is the fridge, where she grabs a bottle of water, the icy liquid feels like heaven going down her parched throat. Her stomach growls, reminding her she should probably eat something, but the mere thought of food makes her queasy after today's events. Tomorrow, she promises herself. She drags her tired body up the stairs to the mezzanine, leaving a trail of discarded clothes in her wake. She pulls on an old band t-shirt that serves as her sleepwear, the worn fabric soft against her skin.
She collapses onto her bed with a contented moan, the memory foam mattress molding perfectly around her aching muscles. Through heavy-lidded eyes, she grabs her holo, remembering her promise to Takemura.
She types out to the ex-Arasaka bodyguard. She follows it with a message to Judy.
It's not much, but maybe it might offer some small comfort knowing that some of those responsible for Evelyn's tragic end have paid their dues.
After tossing the holo onto her nightstand, she rolls onto her side, tucking one arm under her pillow. The city lights filtering through her window paint abstract patterns on her ceiling. "Not comin'?" she calls out softly into the seemingly empty room.
As if he'd been waiting for just such an invitation, Johnny materializes behind her, the mattress dipping slightly — a phantom sensation her brain creates to match the visual. His metal fingers trace lazy patterns on her arm, leaving trails of electricity in their wake. After a few moments of comfortable silence, he asks hesitantly, "No questions 'bout what you saw today?"
V shifts backward on the mattress, moving closer to his warmth. "Nah. Not if you don't wanna talk about it."
Her response draws a small smile from the rockerboy, who closes the remaining distance between them, draping an arm around her waist. "You deserve to know."
After a moment's hesitation, V finally says, "Prolly not how you pictured your grand reunion with Alt..."
"I knew she'd change, transform... All started when she went silicon, hit the net." He sighs, his breath tickling the nape of her neck. "But... I just never thought she'd stop giving a fuck about me so completely."
"You've changed too, you're someone else," she says softly, covering his hand with hers, their fingers intertwining. She adds, "And you got her to help us, you did — that matters."
"Doesn't give a lick about helping me," he says, bitterness creeping into his voice. "Wants to wipe Mikoshi."
"She feels accountable for how Arasaka used Soulkiller. That's why she's coming," she reassures him, trying to convince him that yes, his presence made a difference. "And it took you to remind her of that, only you."
"Hm." He seems to consider this. "Somethin' else you wanna know?"
"Oh, yeah," V responds after a moment's thought, her voice thick with approaching sleep. "That nomad guy, with Rogue... What's his story?"
"Santiago," Johnny's voice softens with something like fondness. He shifts closer, his chest pressed against her back. "Remember when you first met Panam, told ya I spent time with the nomads? Well... after Alt..." He pauses, and V can feel him tensing slightly. "Couldn't stay in Night City. Every fuckin' corner reminded me of her, of what happened. Santiago found me that same night, completely wasted, ready to burn the whole city down. Instead of letting me do somethin’ stupid, he grabbed me by the collar and threw me in his car. Said his clan was headed to Mexico, and I was coming with."
V stays quiet, giving him space to continue.
"Spent two years with them. Old Juan Aldecaldo was leading — tough old bastard, but fair. Had this... way of seeing things, of leading people. Santiago looked up to him like a father." Johnny's voice takes on a distant quality, lost in memories. "When Juan died in 2015, Santiago took his name as a tribute. Under his lead, they became what they are today — one of the biggest nomad clan in the NUS."
"That why Panam's crew gets all starry-eyed when they talk about the Aldecaldos?"
"Yeah," Johnny chuckles low in his throat. "Santiago built something real, something that lasted. Gave people hope, a family. More than I ever managed with my fuckin' revolution." There's a hint of bitterness in his laugh. "After the old man died... felt like it was time to head back. Sometimes wonder if I should've stayed, you know? Different life, different ending..."
"Different Johnny Silverhand," V murmurs sleepily. "Can't really picture you settling down with a nomad family."
"Prolly right," he admits, nuzzling against her neck. "Some of us are just built to raise hell, I guess. 'Sides..." his arm tightens around her waist. "If I'd stayed, wouldn't be here annoyin' the shit outta you, would I?"
V smiles in the darkness. "Guess every cloud has a silver lining."
"Fuck you too, princess," he says affectionately, but the lightness in his voice doesn't last. After a heavy silence, his words come out rough, almost broken. "V... about today... about what you saw..."
She can feel him struggling with the words, his body tense against hers.
"I keep thinking... waiting for you to finally see it. The truth about who — what I really am." His voice drops to a whisper. "A fuckin' monster. Selfish piece of shit who got everyone around him killed... all because I couldn't control my fuckin' ego." His chrome hand trembles slightly against her skin. "Expected you to finally realize what kind of parasite you've got in your head."
"Johnny—" V tries to interrupt, but he continues, his voice raw with self-loathing.
"But you... fuck, V. You looked at all that darkness and instead of running, you..." He swallows hard. "You hugged me. Actually fuckin' hugged me. Looked at me with those eyes full of... I don't even know. Understanding? Compassion? Shit I don't deserve, that's for sure." His laugh is hollow. "Should've pushed me away. Should hate me. Everyone else did. Still do."
V turns in his arms, facing him in the darkness. She can barely make out his features, but she doesn't need to — she knows every line of his face by heart now. "Listen to me, you self-destructive asshole," she says firmly, but with unmistakable tenderness. "That person I saw today? That angry, broken man? He's not who you are anymore."
"How the fuck would you know?" His voice cracks slightly. "Still got all that poison inside me, V. Still destroy everything I touch. Look what I'm doing to you—"
"Shut up." She presses her hand against his chest, right where his heart would be. "That Johnny Silverhand would've watched me die in that landfill without a second thought. Would've taken over my body completely, wouldn't give a shit about saving me." Her other hand finds his face, thumb brushing his cheek. "But you? You're fightin' to keep me alive. You care. You've changed."
"V..." His voice is barely audible, heavy with emotion.
"I see you, Johnny. All of you. The good, the bad, the fucking mess in between. And I'm still here." She moves closer, pressing her forehead against his. "Not going anywhere."
He makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, pulling her impossibly closer. "Don't deserve you, sweetheart. Never will."
"Good thing that's not for you to decide," she murmurs, settling against his chest. "Now shut up and hold me. Been a long fucking day."
His arms tighten around her, and she can feel him press a ghost of a kiss against her hair. They lay in silence, the city's neon glow painting patterns on the ceiling above them, until V's breathing evens out into sleep.
Johnny stays awake, watching over her, wondering what kind of cosmic joke led a monster like him to find redemption in the arms of a dying merc.
Chapter 16: Temple of Love
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Wow, okay, here we go, the Parade! This chapter is very, very long, so grab your favorite hot drink, a blanket, and make yourself comfortable ♥ CherryOnTheTop1210, if you're reading this, this is the chapter I told you to grab a pillow to scream into, get ready!
With that said, I wish you wonderful holidays. Enjoy!
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the all the Kudos on the previous chapter ♥ And thank you Karou101 and X0XrabbitX0X for your comments. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
With the sunlight died and night above me
With a gun for a lover and a shot for the pain inside
You run for cover in the temple of love
You run for another it's all the same
For the wind will blow and throw your walls aside
The late morning sun streams through the apartment windows when V finally opens her eyes. She can't remember the last time she slept this well or this long. A small part of her suspects it might have something to do with the rockerboy still stretched out beside her, his arm draped possessively around her waist. She knows she should get up, start dealing with the mountain of shit waiting for her, but right now... right now she just wants to stay here, process everything that happened yesterday. If she's being honest with herself, she'd love nothing more than to spend the whole day in bed, talking with Johnny. Maybe she can at least allow herself a few minutes.
She shifts just enough to look at him properly, noting with amusement that his dark hair is a complete mess, sticking up in all directions. The sight makes her smile as she says, "Mornin'. Slept well?" As he lets out a jaw-cracking yawn, a thought crosses her mind. "Actually... do you even sleep?"
"What's next, gonna ask me if engrams dream of electric sheep?" Johnny grumbles, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Huh?" V blinks at him, completely lost.
Johnny's lips quirk up in a lazy smirk. "Nevermind, just a joke. About a book actually — should be somewhere in that pile of ancient texts those nomad friends of yours hauled back for you. Good story, you should read it sometime."
V's expression softens with longing. "Damn, I'd love to have time for that, but..." She trails off, unable to voice the obvious.
"But today's another big day," Johnny finishes for her, his voice losing its playful edge. They both know what's left unsaid — time isn't exactly something V has in abundance anymore. His grip tightens around her for a few seconds, before slowly letting go. "You should check your holo. Takemura prolly sent you a message about your big plan tonight."
V nods and rolls over in the tangled sheets to grab her holo from the nightstand. Sure enough, several unread messages are waiting for her attention. She starts with one from her best friend.
Next, she opens Judy's response to her message from last night.
She leaves these messages unanswered but makes a mental note to visit Judy as soon as she can. Finally, she opens her conversation with Goro.
She puts the holo down and reluctantly leaves the warmth of her bed. Turning to Johnny, who's still lounging comfortably with his arms behind his head, she asks, "Gonna take a shower. After that, what do you say we do nothing for once, before meeting Goro? Just stay home."
"Sounds good to me. No point wearin’ ourselves out early, tonight's gonna be action-packed enough as it is," he agrees.
She flashes him a smile before heading to the bathroom. Under the hot spray of the shower, she lets the water wash away the last traces of sleep, trying not to think too hard about what tonight might bring. After drying off, she stands before the mirror, carefully applying her signature dark makeup – war paint for what's to come. She picks out her clothes with deliberate care; black cargo pants that won't restrict her movement, sturdy combat boots, and a black sport top. Practical, but inconspicuous, exactly what she needs for tonight's op.
Moving to the kitchen, she fires up her fancy coffee maker, the machine sputtering to life with a series of promising gurgles. The rich aroma of fresh coffee soon fills the apartment, a small comfort before what promises to be a very long night.
Once she's downed the scalding coffee, she notices Johnny has materialized on the couch, fidgeting with his rings — a tell-tale sign he wants to ask for something. Sure enough, moments later, he speaks up. "Hey... since we've got a few hours to kill... I'd like to try out the guitar."
And with that, V fills in what's left unsaid — he wants to borrow her body. She moves closer to the rockerboy, settling beside him and placing her hand on his wrist, his chrome cool against her fingers. "Have fun," she tells him with a warm smile.
He returns it with a grateful look, and seconds later, he's at the wheel of her body. The switch happens more smoothly each time, and though that should probably worry him, Johnny pushes the thought aside as he makes his way to the dark cherry red guitar waiting on its stand near the TV. The familiar weight of the DeLuze in his hands brings a flood of memories, and he settles back on the couch, the instrument resting on his — her — lap. As he positions V's fingers on the fretboard, he can't help but notice the differences. Her hands are smaller, forcing him to stretch her fingers further for certain chords. He feels how the strings dig into the tender flesh of her fingertips, lacking the calluses his own fingers had built up over decades of playing.
But soon, he stops thinking and lets the music take over. It feels so fucking good to play again, really play, after all this time. Johnny had almost forgotten how much he loved this. He plays for over an hour, running through every Samurai song in the catalog, then a good chunk of his other material, before reluctantly setting the instrument down. Then, he returns control to V.
"Holy shit," she gasps, flexing her aching fingers. "My hands feel like they're on fire. How the hell did you do this for hours?"
Johnny materializes next to her, looking annoyingly smug. "Years of practice, princess. Those soft hands of yours ain't built for real rock n' roll yet."
"Could've warned me about the pain," she grumbles, but there's no real annoyance in her voice. "Still... it was nice. Feelin' you so happy for once."
He looks away, suddenly finding great interest in his cigarette. "Yeah, well... thanks for letting me borrow the controls. Been a while since I felt... you know. Myself."
"Anytime, Johnny." She smiles softly. "What's mine is yours, right?"
"Careful with promises like that, V," he smirks, finally meeting her eyes. "Might start getting ideas."
"Pretty sure it's too late for warnings about you getting ideas," she snorts, stretching her sore fingers. "Besides, you're already in my head. Can't get much more intimate than that."
"You'd be surprised," he says with a wink, before glitching away to avoid the pillow she throws at him.
"Asshole," she calls out, but she's laughing. His answering chuckle echoes in her mind, warm and familiar.
With a few hours to kill before meeting Takemura, she decides to grab something to eat. Rummaging through her cabinets, she settles for some protein cookies — not exactly a feast, but better than going into a fight on an empty stomach. She climbs the metal steps to her makeshift library, running her fingers along the spines of Cassidy’s books until she finds the one Johnny mentioned earlier. Back on the couch, she cracks it open and starts reading.
Johnny was right — it’s a hell of a story. She loses herself in the pages, drawn into this ancient vision of a dystopian future that hits a bit too close to home sometimes. The parallels between the book's artificial humans and Johnny's current state of existence aren't lost on her. Time slips away as she devours chapter after chapter, only stopping when she reaches for a smoke and catches sight of the time. With a resigned sigh, she marks her place with a crumpled Lizzy's Bar flyer, feeling anxiety creep back in as reality reasserts itself.
She takes a deep breath, trying to center herself, going through her mental pre-mission checklist. The mid-June heat makes her decide against a jacket, and she heads down to street level. Jackie's Arch is waiting for her, its chrome gleaming in the afternoon sun. She swings her leg over the seat, the leather still warm from baking in the sun, and fires up the engine.
The ride to Japantown is a blur of neon and chrome, weaving through the endless stream of traffic. She splits lanes at dangerous speeds, ignoring Johnny's occasional commentary about her driving style. The wind whips through her hair as she takes the turns maybe a little too fast, the adrenaline helping to keep her mind off what's coming.
She arrives almost too quickly at the meeting point, parks the Arch, and takes the elevator to the 19th floor. As she crosses the lantern-decorated walkway, she notices the crowd hasn't arrived yet, and spots Takemura in the distance. He's leaning against the railing, unaware of her presence, taking a bite of a scop-burger. The look of absolute disgust that crosses his face is priceless as he lets the burger drop, watching it plummet down to the street below, drawing a chuckle from V.
As she approaches, she can't help but notice how good he looks - his usual exhaustion seems to have lifted somewhat. "Hey, Goro. Wow, you look like a million eddies."
"Is that so?" he asks skeptically. "That is not how I feel. I ate what you call a scop-burger."
"A-hah." She tries to keep a straight face. "Wow, what'd you think? Tasty?"
"Ask the people below," he replies flatly, a small grimace still lingering. This makes V burst out laughing, and finally, he returns a slight smile. "You look well yourself. How did your meeting with the Pacifica netrunners go?"
V lights a cigarette, taking a long drag before giving him the broad strokes of yesterday's events. She tells him about the GIM, her deal with Netwatch, the virus the Voodoo Boys planted in her head. How they tried to use her and how she paid them back in kind. How they never intended to help her in the first place. She deliberately omits everything about the Blackwall, her encounter with Alt, and the AI's plans, skipping straight to her confrontation with Placide.
Goro looks at her with sympathy as she concludes her story. "So... you did all this for nothing?"
"You could say that." She shrugs, not exactly happy about lying to him, but telling him about Alt is out of the question. "At least those VDB fuckers won't be hurting anyone else now."
He nods gravely. During their conversation, parade-goers begin flooding the open-air market, the space filling gradually with excited chatter. He sighs and announces, "The parade will soon begin. I adjusted the data from Okada-san." He pulls a shard from his pocket, offering it to V. "I advise you to examine it yourself."
V slots the shard into her neural port, and the data displays across her visual interface as Takemura continues speaking. "To begin with, the malware works, truly! Much better than I anticipated. Our eyes and ears are in the guard room. I observed the CCTV, and I know where the sniper positions are." The sniper positions indeed highlight themselves over the images. He continues detailing the plan, indicating the best route to neutralize them, as well as escape routes.
Once everything is laid out, V closes the interface and Goro asks, "Is all this clear? Are you ready?"
"Plan's fucked beyond all recognition, yet here I am." V smirks.
"I know." A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and he gives a slight bow. "And I thank you for this."
"Ah, thank me once it works," the merc jokes. "Time to get into position, yeah? Be careful out there, Goro."
"You as well, V." He places a reassuring hand on her shoulder for a few seconds before disappearing into the crowd, which grows denser with each passing minute. The weight of what they're about to attempt settles heavily in her chest as she watches him vanish into the sea of people.
With the fire from the fireworks up above
With a gun for a lover and a shot for the pain
You run for cover in the temple of love
I shine like thunder cry like rain
And the temple grows old and strong
But the wind blows longer cold and long
And the temple of love will fall before
This black wind calls my name to you no more
V settles on some nearby steps, watching Night City's residents flood into the market. The air buzzes with excitement, filled with animated chatter in Japanese, English, and half a dozen other languages. Street vendors are doing brisk business, the smell of yakitori and synthetic seafood mixing with incense from nearby shrines. Johnny materializes beside her, lounging against the railing with his ever-present cigarette.
"Quite the show Saburo's little princess is putting on," he drawls, gesturing at the elaborate decorations. "Almost makes you forget it's all corpo propaganda bullshit."
As the sun begins its descent behind the megabuildings, casting Japantown in deepening shadows threaded with neon, V moves to the railing, seamlessly blending with the other spectators. The crowd has swelled considerably, a sea of heads and shoulders pressed together in anticipation.
The transformation of the market is breathtaking. Soft, traditional music flows from hidden speakers, the haunting notes of shamisen and flute filling the air. Street lamps fade to darkness in perfect synchronization, leaving only the warm amber glow of thousands of paper lanterns swaying gently in the evening breeze. The effect is magical — the harsh edges of the city softened to something almost ancient and sacred.
Fireworks suddenly burst against the twilight sky, their thunderous reports echoing between the buildings. Massive holographic koi carps materialize at the street's end, their translucent forms swimming through the air with impossible grace. Their scales shimmer in blue and gold, casting ethereal light across the upturned faces below. AVs hover above the skyline, releasing cascades of crimson confetti that drift down like bloody snow. The music swells, and now holographic cherry blossoms join the display, falling in a silent pink storm. V reaches out, mesmerized as the pixelated petals pass through her palm, leaving tiny trails of light in their wake.
The beauty of the moment is shattered by Takemura's voice crackling through their holo connection. "I am in position. The floats have started to move." Through gaps in the buildings, V spots the first float, a massive construct of light and sound. "Remember to be careful or you will face Arasaka drones. I also spotted a netrunner in an Arasaka uniform. She is somewhere hidden."
"OK, good to go," she responds in barely more than a whisper, conscious of the pressed bodies around her.
"Then let us begin." Even through the holo, V catches the edge of nervousness in his usually composed voice. "You must reach all snipers before Hanako-san's float appears."
V pushes away from the railing, using skills honed in countless clubs and crowds to slip between bodies with minimal contact. Following Goro's earlier directions, she crosses back over the lantern-lit walkway, the wooden boards creaking softly under her boots. A metal staircase leads her up two flights to a utilitarian double door, behind which lies a maintenance area. The space is a stark contrast to the celebration outside — bare concrete walls covered in a industrial spiderweb of cables and pipes, the air heavy with the smell of electronics and machine oil. The lack of guards is a welcome oversight.
Approaching a ladder on the far side of the room, Takemura's voice returns. "You are close. He is almost in front of you. He is watching the crowd, not his back."
"Won't know what hit 'im," she whispers as she scales the ladder, her movements silent and precise.
The night air hits her again as she emerges onto the upper level. Her target is easy to spot — a black-clad figure silhouetted against the technicolor sky. She disables a laser mine with practiced ease, its red beam flickering out silently, then activates her optical camo. The world takes on a slight shimmer as she becomes nearly invisible. The sniper is engaged in conversation, describing a woman in red who's caught his attention in the crowd below. V waits with predatory patience until the chat ends — no need to alert his teammate. Then she strikes, her combat knife reflecting neon as it arcs through the air. The blade opens his throat in one clean motion, blood barely having time to spray before she's controlling his fall.
After dragging the cooling corpse behind some storage crates, she confirms the kill and contacts her partner. "Goro? I took out the one closer."
"Well done, V. Now you must leap to the balcony by the green arrow and take the elevator." She turns, quickly spotting the indicated neon sign, its green glow cutting through the darkness. "Take the footbridge at the top to cross the street."
V scales a ventilation duct, muscles straining as she pulls herself onto another balcony teeming with spectators. She slows her pace, blending into the crowd as she makes her way to an elevator. As she presses the button for the 21st floor, Takemura's voice cuts through again. "V, this is important. Oda is speaking to someone," he warns with urgency. "I am linking you in. We both can listen."
"Again. Security is substandard!" Hanako's bodyguard's voice comes through, his irritation barely contained. "It meets none of our norms! Hanako-sama should not be here!"
"You questioning Yorinobu's orders?" A distorted voice responds coldly — one that triggers something in V's memory, though she can't quite place it. "Do your damn job."
"Understood." Oda replies, clearly pissed off but resigned. "Over and out."
"Mhh, it is just as we expected. Oda is here," Goro finally says. "I will contact you with any news."
As the elevator doors slide open with a soft hiss, Johnny is already pacing furiously on the other side, his digital form crackling with rage. "I know that borged out ogre!" he spits, voice dripping with venom. "Adam fuckin' Smasher!"
"Sure it was him?" V asks, her stomach knotting as Johnny's final moments flash through her borrowed memories.
"I'd recognize that voice anywhere!" Johnny rages. And now V remembers where she'd heard it — in Evelyn's BD from the Konpeki Plaza, when the cyborg passed her in the hallway, calling her a ‘cut of fuckable meat’. The memory of Evelyn's fear mingles with Johnny's rage in her mind.
"But hey know what?" Johnny's voice pulls her from her thoughts. "I'm glad he's here."
"You're glad?" the merc asks incredulously.
"Seein' as I woke up in a world without any Saburo, I'll have to be satisfied with Smasher," he growls, the hatred in his voice almost palpable.
"Want us to zero him?" She gets a sharp nod in response, returning it before continuing her mission. She can't think about Johnny's revenge now, but she knows damn well that if the opportunity presents itself, if he asks again... Pushing these thoughts aside, she moves toward an isolated corner of the balcony, away from the mass of spectators. She spots a ladder and, after a quick check to ensure no one's watching, climbs it swiftly.
She emerges into a poorly maintained area as Takemura announces, "Try to reach the maintenance area. You can climb up from there." V doesn't respond, too focused on analyzing the situation before her. Two long metal walkways span the room — one already collapsed, the other hanging by a thread after years of neglect. Below, a massive holographic fish dances through the night sky, and she swallows hard, trying not to think about the dizzying drop. Is she really supposed to cross this?
She hesitantly places one foot on the rickety walkway, the rusted metal groaning ominously under her weight. She doesn't like this, doesn't like this at all. She progresses slowly, alert to every sound, every tremor beneath her feet. Halfway across, a huge section she just passed crumbles away into the void. Abandoning caution, V sprints toward the concrete floor on the other side. Once safely across, face pale, she turns just in time to watch another section of the walkway plummet into the darkness.
"V, are you alright?" Goro's voice, clearly worried, echoes in her ears. "I heard strange noises."
"I'm alive, but it was a close call," V responds, catching her breath. "The floor literally collapsed under my feet. But don't worry about me, okay? I'll find a way down now."
She opens a floor grate marked 'exit', the word giving her some hope. She drops down to the lower level, finding herself in a hallway, and passes through a door back outside. Of course, there's no stairway down — that would be too easy — but V quickly spots various objects, roof sections, and wall protrusions she could use to descend. She begins her careful descent, encouraged by Goro's voice, "Yes, just so. Don't rush. I do not want you to get hurt."
The parade continues below, a riot of color and sound, while V picks her way down through the shadows of Night City's vertical maze, each step bringing her closer to her target. As she crouches behind a weathered billboard to avoid detection from a patrolling drone, its red scanning beam sweeping methodically across the area, Hanako Arasaka's voice booms through the massive speakers. The corp princess's carefully modulated tones extol her dead father's virtues and sing the corporation's praises. It's utterly sickening, and V grits her teeth as she jumps down to a lower level, the metal grating beneath her feet vibrating with the parade's thunderous bass.
Soon, she spots a door below, but it's unfortunately guarded by a soldier in full tactical gear. While she lurks in the shadows, debating whether to engage, a massive holographic dragon materializes beside them. Its ethereal blue scales cast an otherworldly glow across the metal surfaces, its serpentine body undulating through the night sky between the towering buildings. The guard, entranced by the display, abandons his post to lean against a railing further away, his rifle hanging loosely at his side as he watches the spectacle. Seizing the opportunity, V calculates the distance and leaps, her reinforced tendons absorbing the impact silently. She slips past the distracted guard and through the door, closing it with barely a whisper, the parade's cacophony instantly muffled.
V navigates through a room stacked with drink barrels, their metal surfaces reflecting the dim lighting. She disarms another mine, its red beam flickering out. The next door has a small window through which she spots her target — an Arasaka sniper, his military-grade rifle trained on the crowd below. "Just a few feet more, and he's yours," Goro whispers as she crouches and slowly eases the door open, careful not to let it creak. She crosses half the room, taking cover behind a desk. The sniper remains at his post by the window, completely focused on the scope of his weapon. In a few swift steps, she's in his shadow, her blade slicing through his carotid artery with surgical precision. She holds the blade steady while he struggles for a few seconds before succumbing to his wound, his warm blood coating her fingers.
She guides him to the floor, crouching beside him and searching him out of habit, her nimble fingers patting down his tactical vest and pockets. She finds an access card, its surface emblazoned with the Arasaka logo and security clearance codes. Figuring it might come in handy, she slides it into one of her pockets before contacting Goro, her voice barely above a whisper. "What do soldiers say? Target down."
"Good words to hear," he responds, a hint of relief and pride in his voice. "You will find a door to a staircase at the end of the room. It's the shortest route to the next sniper. He positioned himself high."
"Keep you posted," the merc concludes before passing through the next door, leaving the cooling body behind. She's immediately greeted by a mine's menacing red glow cutting through the dim light like a laser, which she quickly disables with practiced movements. Keeping low, she begins ascending the stairs. She's forced to halt after the first flight, spotting a guard stationed midway up the stairs, scanning the area methodically. Time to test how effective her optical camo really is.
She activates it, the familiar tingle of the tech washing over her skin as she becomes nearly invisible. Holding her breath, she slowly advances into the soldier's line of sight. He seems to sense something's off, his augmented eyes narrowing slightly, but can't quite spot her through the sophisticated camouflage. She passes mere inches from him, and his hand rests on his weapon, but he remains uncertain. Thankfully, the risky maneuver pays off, and soon she reaches the upper floor. Finally able to breathe, she takes cover behind some seats, her heart pounding in her ears.
Another guard is present in what appears to be a break room, but he pays no attention to his surroundings, busy pouring himself coffee from an ancient vending machine that hisses and spurts. V easily slips behind him and into the next zone, leaving him to his caffeine fix. As she progresses down a long corridor, Goro contacts her again, urgency clear in his voice. "It is Oda again! Listen!"
"We have to announce that public safety has been compromised!" Oda declares, his voice now sharp with tension. Through the static of the comm, V can hear the parade's music thumping in the background of his transmission. "She must be extracted! At once!"
"Arasaka is fully capable of protecting its principals," Smasher's icy voice responds, the metallic undertone making V's skin crawl. Even through the digital distortion, there's something inherently wrong about his voice – too mechanical, too inhuman.
"Ask your boss what he values more," the bodyguard snaps, his composure cracking further. V can picture him pacing, his chrome catching the parade's lights. "The Arasaka image or his sister's life!"
"The situation is in hand. Over and out," the borg concludes, unmoved. The comm cuts off with a sharp click that echoes in V's head.
"Did you hear?" Takemura asks, worried. His voice, usually so composed, carries an edge of genuine concern that makes V's chest tighten. "They know something. Perhaps much! We must hurry."
The urgency in his voice matches the growing tension in V's chest as she continues her deadly game of cat and mouse through Arasaka's security. The parade's bass still reverberates through the building's structure, and occasional flashes of light from the celebrations outside paint strange patterns on the walls through the windows. The contrast between the festive atmosphere outside and the deadly serious situation inside isn't lost on V. Somewhere above, her next target awaits, and time is running out.
As she passes through another door, emerging into an open-air zone, she catches sight of Hanako's float progressing slowly between the buildings, its ornate decorations gleaming under the parade's lights. V uses the stolen access card to unlock a nearby door, the reader beeping softly as it accepts the credentials. She continues her path upward, scaling another ladder, its rungs cold and slightly slick under her hands, then climbs over an industrial air conditioning unit to reach the upper level. She's grateful this area isn't guarded, offering a brief respite in her progression. The only sounds are the distant thump of the parade's music and the constant hum of machinery. She eventually finds an elevator that takes her several floors higher, the old cabin groaning as it ascends.
Two guards occupy the next room, but they're paying no attention to their surroundings, too engrossed in their conversation as they lounge on worn-out sofas, their weapons carelessly propped against the furniture. She activates her optical camo once more, the familiar electric tingle washing over her skin as she sneaks behind them toward the door leading to the walkway connecting both sides of the street. She spots her final target, but between her and the sniper lies a deadly maze of mines, their red beams creating a lethal web across the passage. V grits her teeth, regretting now more than ever that she never learned the basics of netrunning that would have allowed her to disable these devices remotely.
She does it the old-fashioned way instead, manually disabling them one after another, her fingers steady. Finally clearing a path to the sniper, she positions herself behind him. In one swift motion, she snaps his neck, the crack muffled by the parade's noise. She guides his body down carefully, not wanting the vibrations of his fall to trigger the remaining mines. "Welp, that'll be all," she whispers to her partner.
"Yes, apparently. Well done," he congratulates her, but his next words temper his enthusiasm. "One problem remains."
"And that is?" the merc asks, already knowing she won't like the answer.
"The Arasaka netrunner. She has taken control of all the networks. You must get rid of her," Takemura explains, his accented voice tense. "We will not be able to hijack the float otherwise. She hides in an unfinished apartment building, near to the second sniper's nest."
"OK, on my way," V confirms with a sigh. Will this job ever end? She returns to the previous room, the two guards still oblivious to her presence, their laughter echoing off the bare walls. She makes her way to another elevator on the opposite side of the room and descends to the 21st floor. As she steps out, a Relic malfunction hits her like a hammer to the skull, making her stumble. "Shit... Not good..." she hisses through clenched teeth. The crisis passes quickly, leaving behind a metallic taste in her mouth, but she pushes forward.
She enters a vast room under construction, the space filled with stacks of cement bags, painting equipment, and storage containers. Translucent plastic sheets hang from the ceiling, swaying gently in the breeze from the openings in the walls. Near the windows, sitting cross-legged on a plastic mat, is the netrunner. The woman is connected to a cluster of servers, their cooling fans humming in the dusty air, completely absorbed in her work as lines of code scroll across her neural interface.
"Now, V! I have her attention!" Takemura says with urgency. "Pull out her link!"
V crouches behind the runner, her hand reaching for the neural cable at the base of the woman's skull. "Been on a while. Time for a break," she quips as she yanks the connection free, the netrunner's body going rigid for a moment before slumping forward.
A flash of red light in her peripheral vision triggers V's combat implants before her conscious mind can even process the threat. The windows explode inward in a deadly shower of glass shards, catching the parade's neon lights like deadly crystals. Through the cascading debris, a dark figure materializes, the ambient light catching on matte-black tactical armor. V's muscle memory and chrome react faster than thought, throwing her body backwards as mantis blades slice through the space where her throat had been milliseconds before. The cybernetic weapons crackle with crimson electricity, leaving afterimages in the air like deadly neon signs.
Behind a mask depicting an oni, she recognizes Oda. His Arasaka armor seems to absorb the light around it, making him appear as a void in human shape. Only his blades and the mask's red leds pierce the darkness, giving him an otherworldly, menacing appearance.
"Fuck! Course you're here!" V snarls as her own mantis blades deploy with a familiar metallic whisper. She drops into a fighting stance, weight balanced on the balls of her feet, her body coiled like a spring ready to release.
"I warned you. You should have quit and left the city!" Oda's voice comes out distorted through his mask's filter, each word dripping with barely contained rage. He mirrors her stance with practiced precision, his own blades humming with deadly energy. "You leave me no choice!"
The air between them crackles with tension for a split second before they explode into motion. Their sandevistans activate simultaneously, the world around them slowing to a crawl as their enhanced reflexes kick in. In this altered state of perception, V can see individual drops of water falling from a leaking pipe overhead, can count the motes of dust dancing in the neon-tinged air.
Oda strikes first, his form blurring even in the time-altered state as he launches himself at V. His blades leave trails of crimson light in their wake, like bloody brush strokes painting death in the air. V parries the strike, and the impact sends shockwaves through her cyber-enhanced arms. The clash of their blades produces a shower of sparks that hang in the air like fireflies, each one seemingly frozen in time thanks to their enhanced perception.
They trade blows at superhuman speed, their enhanced reflexes turning the battle into a deadly ballet. Each strike is met with a counter, each thrust answered with a parry. The construction site becomes their arena, every piece of equipment and debris a potential weapon or shield. V vaults over a stack of cement bags as Oda's blades tear through them, releasing a cloud of white powder that hangs suspended in their slowed-down perception like a miniature snowstorm.
V uses the scaffolding to her advantage, her movements fluid and acrobatic. She swings around a support beam, using her momentum to deliver a devastating kick to Oda's chest. The impact sends him staggering back into a wall. He recovers quickly, his optical camo flickering to life and making him nearly invisible save for the crimson glow of his blades and mask.
Not missing a beat, V activates her own camo, turning their duel into a deadly game of cat and mouse. The room becomes a maze of shifting shadows and deadly chrome as they stalk each other. Translucent plastic sheets flutter in the night breeze from the broken windows, creating ghostly shapes that could be either fighter. The only signs of their presence are the occasional sparks when their blades meet, or the disturbed dust swirling in patterns that betray their movement.
Their blades clash again and again, each impact sending cascades of sparks that illuminate their partially cloaked forms like lightning in a storm. The sound echoes off the bare concrete walls, mixing with the muffled bass of the parade outside to create a brutal percussion track for their dance of death. They weave between plastic sheets and construction equipment, each trying to outmaneuver the other, their footwork as precise as professional dancers despite the treacherous terrain.
"And Takemura — Where is he?!" Oda's shout suddenly breaks through the rhythm of their combat, his voice thick with barely contained rage. "Fearful to face his apprentice?! We will settle this quickly, whore!"
The outburst triggers V's memory of Goro's words during their reconnaissance, "Oda's greatest vulnerability lies not in his physical abilities, but in his temperament. Should you find yourself in combat with him, your best strategy would be to provoke him, to anger him to the point where his composure shatters."
A predatory smirk crosses V's face as she sees her opportunity. "Aw, what's wrong, Oda?" she taunts, ducking under another swing that leaves a glowing red arc in the air. "Still salty about being replaced? Must really burn your ass, knowin' your mentor picked a street rat over you."
"Silence!" he roars, his next strike wild enough to embed his blade in a concrete pillar. Sparks shower around them as he yanks it free.
"Hit a nerve, did I?" V continues, weaving between his increasingly aggressive attacks. She can see his technique starting to slip, precision giving way to raw fury. "Guess Goro finally realized he needed someone who could think for themselves. Not just another corpo dog waiting for orders."
"You dare speak his name?!" Oda's voice cracks with rage. His camo flickers and fails as he loses focus, his attacks becoming more brutal but predictable. "You're nothing but a common thief! A parasite!"
V laughs, the sound deliberately mocking. "Tell me, how does it feel knowing your precious mentor trusts a 'parasite' more than his star pupil?" She sidesteps another wild swing, letting his blade pass harmlessly by. "Or maybe that's not what's really eating at you. Maybe you're just jealous he's spending so much time with me instead of you."
The suggestion hits home like a physical blow. Oda's composure shatters completely, his carefully honed Arasaka training crumbling under the weight of his emotions. His attacks turn savage, powered by pure rage rather than technique. Each swing becomes wider, leaving larger openings in his defense. His breathing comes in ragged gasps, visible even through his mask's filter.
"You know nothing!" he screams, his voice raw. "You've poisoned his mind against Arasaka! Against everything we stand for!"
"Nah," V retorts, landing a precise strike that draws first blood. "Think he figured that out all on his own. You're just too blind to see it."
The fight reaches its crescendo as Oda's fury consumes him completely. His mantis blades carve glowing red arcs through the air, but V reads his movements like a book now. Each attack is telegraphed by his rage, his usual precision replaced by brute force. She dances around him, her own strikes precise and calculated, each one drawing blood or sparks from his armor.
A particularly wild swing sends Oda crashing through one of the hanging plastic sheets. The material wraps around him for a split second, and V seizes the opportunity. She darts in, her right blade finding a gap in his armor near the shoulder joint. The chrome pierces deep, and Oda's pained roar echoes through the construction site. He tears free from both the plastic and her blade, leaving a spray of blood that catches the neon light like rubies.
"Fuckin' amateur hour," V taunts, maintaining the psychological pressure. "This what Arasaka's finest amounts to?"
Oda charges her with an inhuman scream of rage, all technique forgotten. It's exactly what V has been waiting for. She sidesteps at the last possible moment, using his momentum against him. Her left blade catches him across the back of his legs, cutting through muscle and sending him crashing into a stack of metal pipes. The collision is spectacular, the hollow tubes creating a deafening crash as they scatter across the floor.
Oda writhes on the ground, his movements jerky with pain. V's boot finds his throat, pinning him down while her mantis blades remain extended, ready to strike. The red glow from his mask flickers weakly as he struggles to breathe under her weight.
"Ready to calm the fuck down now?" she asks coldly, applying just enough pressure to make her point clear. Beneath her boot, Oda writhes in agony, his previously pristine armor now dented and splattered with his own blood. His pained whimpers echo through his mask's filter, the demonic visage somehow less threatening now that its wearer has been thoroughly defeated.
Once she's certain he won't — can't — get up, V retracts her mantis blades with a metallic hiss, though she keeps her boot firmly planted on his throat. She activates her comm link to Takemura, her voice slightly breathless from the fight.
"I... I managed to..."
"Oda... Is he dead?" Goro's voice carries an unmistakable note of concern for his former student.
"He's breathin'..." V responds, glancing down at Oda's heaving chest. "For now..."
"Please, V. Show him mercy." The desperation in Goro's plea is palpable through the comm. "There should be nothing standing in your way now. We press forward!"
V grinds her teeth, feeling something dark and primal stirring inside her, demanding blood as payment for this fight. But Takemura's voice, heavy with concern for his former apprentice, makes her pause. She can almost see his face, those stern features twisted with worry for both his old student and his new partner.
"You and your fuckin' sick sense of honor..." she growls into the comm before turning her attention back to Oda. "Today's your lucky day, though. Can thank your old friend Goro."
"It is I who thanks you, V." The relief in Takemura's voice is evident.
Still feeling vindictive, V's eyes lock onto the magnificent black katana strapped to Oda's back. The weapon is a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its sheath adorned with subtle red accents matching his armor. "Well, what do we have here?"
She removes her boot from his throat, and Oda immediately curls into a defensive position, using what little strength he has left to protect his face with his arms. V reaches down and claims the katana, drawing it partially from its sheath. The blade catches the dim light, its perfectly maintained edge gleaming with deadly promise.
"Think I'll keep this as a souvenir. Or maybe I'll give it to Goro," she taunts, flashing him a cold smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She secures the weapon at her hip, the weight of it unfamiliar but satisfying. Taking a few steps back, she gives him one final look. "Been a pleasure, Oda." With calculated cruelty, she blows him a mocking kiss before turning toward where the access point waits.
Johnny materializes beside her as she walks away, practically bouncing with excitement. His digital form flickers with barely contained enthusiasm.
"Holy fuck, V! That was some preem grade ass-kicking!" He grins widely, falling into step beside her. "The way you got in his head? Beautiful! Didn't know you had it in you to be such a magnificent bitch."
V smirks, speaking under her breath. "Learned from the best, you asshole."
"Damn straight you did," Johnny chuckles, his hand reaching for a nonexistent cigarette out of habit. "And hey — nice trophy." He nods at the katana. "Nothing says 'fuck you' quite like stealin’ a samurai's sword."
V flashes Johnny a victorious grin, adrenaline still coursing through her veins from the fight, before pulling the personal link cable from her wrist port. The thin, metallic wire glints under the neon lights as she connects to the server. Digital static dances at the edges of her vision as the loading bar fills quickly, its crimson progress indicator pulsing in rhythm with her elevated heartbeat.
"OK, preem. Online and in the system," she announces, her voice still slightly breathless.
The surveillance feed materializes in her field of vision, the high-definition display showing the opulent interior of the dashi float. Rich red and gold decorations adorn the walls, the traditional Japanese aesthetics a stark contrast to Night City's usual chrome and neon. For several seconds, the luxurious space appears empty until Hanako emerges, descending the stairs with the practiced grace of someone born to power. Her red and gold dress seems to glow against the dark wood paneling, every movement calculated and precise.
"Hanako's inside," V reports, watching the Arasaka heiress through the digital feed.
"What is she doing?" Goro's voice carries a mix of tension and anticipation.
"Tryna call someone, I think," V responds, still observing Hanako.
"Try to listen. Do not forget to disarm the alarms," Takemura reminds her, his accent thicker with stress. "I must be able to enter."
The moment Hanako passes the security turret to sit at an ornate table, V seizes her chance. Her consciousness flows through the network, disabling the defensive systems with practiced ease. The conversation she intercepts between Yorinobu and his sister yields little of interest — just Hanako's worried inquiries about Oda's silence, which her brother dismisses with practiced ease. He insists the parade continue as planned. When the call ends, Hanako remains seated, staring at what appears to be an old family photo, its physical nature marking it as something precious in this digital age.
"Goro? All systems jammed. It's now or never." The words have barely left V's lips when Takemura appears through the space behind the staircase, moving with the silent precision of a predator. He stops at a calculated distance, calling Hanako's name. The woman startles, rising from her chair with uncharacteristic haste, her perfect composure cracking as she regards Goro with wide eyes. They begin speaking in rapid Japanese, the words flowing too fast for V's translation implant to process properly.
Suddenly, Hanako makes a sharp movement forward, her white coat billowing like a ghost in the artificial light. But Takemura's reflexes, honed by decades of service, prove faster. His hand moves in a blur, pulling what looks like a gun from his coat. The weapon catches the light, revealing its unusual design — definitely not standard issue. Before V can process what's happening, there's a purple flash, the electrical discharge illuminating the entire room for a split second. The bolt strikes Hanako square in the chest, her body going rigid before beginning to fall. Takemura lunges forward, catching her limp form before she hits the ground.
His eyes snap to the camera, panic evident even through the digital feed. "V, run!"
"Shit, shit, SHIT!" V exclaims, yanking the cable from her port. The sudden disconnect sends a jolt of feedback through her system, making her head spin momentarily.
"He shot her?!" Johnny materializes beside her, his digital form flickering with agitation. Even the usually unflappable rockerboy seems shocked by this turn of events.
"Whatever he did, now we're really fucked!" V's heart pounds against her ribs as the reality of the situation sinks in.
"We'd best delta the fuck out here," Johnny urges. As if to emphasize his point, the whirring of security drones fills the air, growing louder by the second. The mechanical buzz mingles with distant shouts and the parade's music, creating a chaotic symphony of impending danger.
Without wasting another precious second, V bolts. Her boots pound against the concrete floor as she sprints toward the exit, each step echoing in the confined space. The stairs appear before her — a dizzying spiral leading down into chaos. She takes them four at a time, her enhanced reflexes the only thing keeping her from tumbling down the steep descent.
On a balcony below, the scene unfolds like a dystopian tableau. Civilians drop to their knees, hands raised in surrender, while Arasaka soldiers, their black armor gleaming under the parade lights, bark orders in Japanese and English, their weapons trained on the crowd. The festive atmosphere has transformed into a nightmare in mere seconds.
V's tactical mind kicks in through the panic. She forces herself to slow down, to blend in. Dropping into the crowd, she mimics their movements, becoming just another terrified participant. The scent of fear mingles with spilled drinks and street food, while the parade music continues, now serving as an eerie soundtrack to the chaos. Through the mass of bodies, she spots her salvation — a corridor, poorly lit and momentarily unguarded.
Her optical camo activates with a familiar tingle across her skin, the chromatic implant bending light around her form. She breaks from the crowd, her footsteps nearly silent despite her speed. The corridor stretches before her, neon lights casting alternating patches of shadow and colorful illuminations. Her heart threatens to burst from her chest, but she pushes forward, every sense on high alert.
Finally, the elevator comes into view — the display shows it connects to street level, and V's finger practically punches through the call button. Each second waiting feels like an eternity, the sounds of pursuit growing louder behind her.
When the doors finally slide shut, the sudden silence is deafening. As the elevator begins its descent, V lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding, the air leaving her lungs in a shaky exhale. Her reflection in the polished metal walls shows a face pale, eyes wide and wild. For the first time since the chaos erupted, she allows herself to think about what just happened — and what it means for all of them.
Johnny appears beside her, unusually quiet, his digital form casting no reflection in the elevator's walls. The look they share says everything — they both know this night is far from over.
V emerges onto a quiet plaza, where small groups of citizens huddle together, exchanging hushed theories about the commotion above. Their whispered conversations blend with the distant sounds of sirens and AVs. She moves past them with calculated casualness, shoulders relaxed despite her racing heart, relieved to find the area free of Arasaka troops. Up ahead, she spots Gillean Jordan, the reporter's shocking pink dress making her stand out like a warning sign against the night. The woman is delivering a live report about the incident, her drone-camera hovering beside her like a loyal pet. V carefully skirts around its recording range, slipping into a side street.
Relief washes over her when she realizes the elevator has let her out just two blocks from where she'd parked her Arch earlier. Within minutes, she reaches the motorcycle, its sleek form a welcome sight. The engine roars to life beneath her, and she immediately points it toward Megabuilding H8, desperate to put distance between herself and what's surely becoming the biggest crime scene in Night City's recent history.
Soon, she's parking at the base of the imposing structure, its massive form blocking out the stars above. Still no word from Takemura, and anxiety gnaws at her insides like a hungry rat. What the fuck did he do up there? And did he manage to get out safely?
The adrenaline crash hits her hard, and she suddenly realizes how parched she is — the fight with Oda and her frantic escape having left her completely dehydrated. She dismounts the bike on slightly shaky legs and heads for one of the vending machines at the building's base. The Chromanticore can's familiar weight in her hand provides a small comfort as she settles on the megabuilding's steps. She cracks it open, taking long pulls of the sweet liquid while fighting the urge to call Goro immediately. He'll contact her when he's somewhere safe. Fuck, she hopes he's somewhere safe.
Johnny materializes beside her, settling on the steps and wrapping a solid arm around her shoulders. The weight and warmth of his touch grounds her racing thoughts somewhat.
"You're shakin' like a leaf," he observes quietly, his usual snark absent from his voice. V takes another long drink from her Chromanticore, trying to steady her trembling hands.
"Can't help it," V mutters, leaning into his embrace. "Fuck, Johnny, what if he doesn't make it? What if they caught him? You know what 'Saka does to traitors..."
"Hey, hey, slow down there." He turns to face her, metal hand cupping her cheek. "That paranoid bastard's probably the most careful sonofabitch I've ever met. And trust me, I've known my share of careful people — had to, being the reckless asshole I was." His attempt at humor draws a weak smile from her. "He's got contingency plans for his contingency plans. Prolly mapped out every possible escape route weeks ago."
V takes another shaky breath. "Yeah, but... shit went sideways real fast in there. Whatever he did to Hanako—"
"Was probably part of the plan too," Johnny cuts in. "C'mon V, you really think Takemura would've gone in there without knowin’ exactly what he was gonna do? Guy probably rehearsed this shit in his head a hundred times."
She nods slowly, wanting to believe him. "Just... wish he'd call or something. Let me know he's okay."
"He will." Johnny pulls her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "When it's safe. Right now, best thing we can do is lay low, wait it out."
V pulls out her cigarette case from her pant, lighting one with slightly steadier hands. Johnny watches longingly as she takes a drag.
"Fuck, I miss that," he sighs. "The real thing, not just the echo I get through you."
They sit in companionable silence for a while, V smoking while Johnny's presence provides silent comfort. The city lights flicker against the dark sky, but her holo remains stubbornly silent.
Minutes crawl by like dying animals. Fifteen minutes. Thirty. V's hope dwindles with each passing second as she chain-smokes, her nerves raw and fraying. The neon signs of Night City blur into a meaningless kaleidoscope as she stares into nothing, her mind conjuring increasingly dark scenarios. Johnny's presence beside her is the only thing keeping her from completely losing it. Suddenly, her holo vibrates and relief floods through her system as Takemura's ID flashes on the screen. Thank fuck.
"V?" His voice is tense, barely above a whisper, but just hearing it makes her heart skip a beat. "Are you safe? Are you hurt?"
"I'm okay, I'm safe," she breathes out, her own voice trembling with emotion. "Damn, Goro, I was so worried. I thought— fuck, what happened in there? Are you alright?"
There's a pause, and she can almost see him weighing his words carefully. "I... am unharmed. But we cannot discuss this over the holo." There's rustling in the background, like he's moving. "We need to meet. Now. Please."
The unusual plea in his voice makes her stomach twist. "Of course. Where are you? I'm comin’ right now." V's already on her feet, crushing her cigarette under her boot, ready to run to him if she has to.
"An abandoned apartment block on Vine Street. Second floor, number three-zero-three." His voice drops even lower, almost intimate despite the urgency. "Knock four times. And V..." He hesitates for a fraction of a second. "Be careful, but hurry. I... need you here."
The call ends abruptly, leaving V staring at her holo, heart pounding. The raw honesty in those last words, so unlike Goro's usual reserved manner, sends both worry and warmth coursing through her system. She bolts toward her motorcycle, the engine roaring to life under her. She pushes the bike to completely unreasonable speeds through Japantown's wide avenues. Her heart hammers against her ribs, a desperate rhythm that matches the thrumming of the engine beneath her.
She quickly spots the dilapidated building and quickly tucks her Arch away in a shadowy alley nearby. The interior is even worse than the outside — the fluorescent lights sputter and buzz, creating an eerie dance of shadows on walls that haven't seen maintenance in decades. The stench hits her first — a nauseating cocktail of mold, urine, and rot that makes her eyes water. Graffiti covers every surface, ranging from gang tags to crude drawings, creating a chaotic tapestry of urban art over peeling paint.
Empty bottles crunch under her boots as she runs, mixing with the rustle of scattered papers and food containers. Exposed wiring hangs from the ceiling like technological Spanish moss, occasionally sparking in the humid air. Everything is coated in a thick layer of grime — dust, dirt, and the accumulated filth of years of abandonment creating a uniform gray patina over every surface. Water stains map dark continents on the ceiling, and entire sections of drywall have crumbled away, revealing the building's skeletal framework.
But V barely registers any of it, her focus razor-sharp on her destination. She takes the stairs two at a time, her cybernetics the only thing keeping her from stumbling in her desperate haste. Her heart feels like it might burst from her chest — from the exertion, from worry, from the desperate need to see with her own eyes that he's safe.
Finally reaching door 303, she raps four quick knocks, her hand trembling slightly. The door opens almost instantly, and the sight of Takemura's face sends a wave of relief so intense it makes her knees weak. His eyes scan the hallway behind her with military precision before his hand finds her shoulder, pulling her inside the dingy apartment. The door closes and locks behind them with a decisive click.
"V," he breathes out, her name carrying a weight of emotion she rarely hears in his carefully controlled voice. His hand grips her shoulder like she might disappear if he lets go, and she can feel the slight tremor in his fingers. "I feared they had caught you."
The warmth of his touch burns her skin, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to throw herself into his arms. Her hands actually twitch with the effort of restraining herself, but the presence of Hanako Arasaka, sitting like an empress on a chair in her pristine white coat — a stark contrast to the filthy surroundings — keeps them both in check.
"Goro," she whispers, her voice rough with emotion, "what happened up there? What were you thinkin'?"
"I had no choice," he responds softly, his thumb unconsciously tracing small circles on her shoulder, as if reassuring himself she's really there. "She attempted to activate her tracker. I used a sedative." His eyes flick toward Hanako, who sits with regal posture at a grimy cafe table, looking as out of place as a pearl in a garbage dump. "I... offered her some tea."
V can't help the slightly hysterical laugh that escapes her lips, the sound carrying all the stress and worry of the past hour. "You kidnapped Hanako fucking Arasaka and offered her tea?"
"Yes," he responds, and she catches the ghost of a smile touching his lips, his eyes softening as they meet hers. "She... respectfully declined."
His expression grows serious again. "V, you must speak with her. Tell her the truth about Yorinobu — no embellishments. State your terms clearly. Perhaps... perhaps to you she will listen."
Throughout their exchange, they maintain a professional distance, but their bodies betray them — unconsciously leaning toward each other, his hand on her shoulder, her body angled toward his like a flower toward the sun. With Hanako's presence in the room, even with her back turned to them, they force themselves to maintain composure.
Together, they approach the table where Hanako sits, her hands folded primly on her knees, deliberately staring at the window with its grimy blinds. The stark white of her outfit seems to glow in the dim light, making her look almost ethereal among the decay. Positioning himself behind her, just within her peripheral vision, Goro initiates the conversation in Japanese, his voice respectful but urgent. "Hanako-sama... This is the woman I spoke of. Please, listen to what she has to say." She continues to ignore them, her face a perfect mask of aristocratic indifference.
V sits across from her, struggling to contain her irritation at the heiress's dismissive attitude. The cheap wood chair creaks under her weight. "I was there that night at Konpeki Plaza. I saw Saburo Arasaka die." She pauses, letting the weight of her words settle in the stale air. Johnny materializes in the background, perching on the kitchenette counter, his dark eyes fixed intently on the exchange. "He wasn't poisoned. That's a lie your brother fabricated and spread. Yorinobu is the murderer."
This statement finally earns her a contemptuous glance from the heiress, who speaks with ice in her voice. "You must be mad to think I will listen to such nonsense."
Anger flares hot in V's chest, and her voice rises, trembling with barely contained rage. "Why? My word mean shit to you?" Her outburst makes Goro's eyes widen in alarm, and the merc whirls toward him. "What?! Was s'posed to be honest. Well, that's what I'm bein'!" She turns back to Hanako, jaw clenched tight enough to hurt. "Fine, maybe I am just a two-bit thief... but I'm the two-bit thief that stole that fucking Relic from you. Slotted it in, took a bullet to the brain, died..."
This piece of information seems to crack Hanako's carefully maintained facade. She turns, truly looking at V for the first time, curiosity breaking through her mask of indifference. "You... died?" she asks, her perfectly manicured hands tightening slightly on her knees.
"Oh yeah," V snarls, leaning forward. "And now I got one of your fucking personality engrams in there, and need to get him out." She explains, carefully avoiding any mention of Johnny's identity. Her next words come out sharp as ice. "So I got exactly nothing to lose. But you got lots."
Hanako looks away, studying her hands with sudden intensity. Takemura steps forward, his voice passionate. "Hanako-sama! V is living proof of the terrible crime your brother committed! We can confirm every word she speaks if only you will help her with the Relic." His plea echoes in the empty apartment, but Hanako continues her stubborn silence. He takes another step closer, desperation creeping into his voice. "Hanako-sama?"
But she turns her head again, deliberately avoiding his gaze. V and Goro exchange a defeated look — they've laid all their fucking cards on the table, but they seem no closer to a resolution than before. Hanako simply doesn't give a shit. Was all of this for nothing?
Before they can decide their next move, a loud noise echoes through the hallway. Goro instantly snaps to attention, turning toward the door with warrior's instinct before looking back at V, worry etched on his features. "Did you hear that?" he asks nervously, his hand already moving toward his weapon. "Go and check."
V rises from her chair, on high alert, and she moves toward the door. "I got a bad feelin' about this..." she mutters, the words barely leaving her lips when another dull thud echoes through the hallway, making the rusty doorknob vibrate under her fingers. The corridor beyond lies empty, thick with shadows and the stench of decay.
The warning comes too late. Goro's shout splits the air like a thunderclap. "Arasaka — they have found us!" Before the words fully register, hell itself tears through their sanctuary. The AV's mounted turret roars to life, its rapid-fire rounds punching through the paper-thin walls with devastating precision. Each impact sends chunks of concrete and plaster exploding inward like shrapnel, filling the air with a choking cloud of dust and debris. The deafening staccato of gunfire drowns out everything else, each shot feeling like a physical blow.
The scene unfolds in slow motion, like a BD stuck in frame-by-frame mode. V watches Takemura move with predatory grace, his bodyguard training taking over as he launches himself at Hanako, tackles her to the ground, using his own body as a shield. Their eyes meet across the chaos — his dark gaze filled with a desperate intensity that screams run louder than words ever could.
The ancient ceiling fan takes a direct hit, exploding in a shower of sparks that rain down like deadly fireflies. The electrical discharge sends blue-white arcs dancing across the metal debris. V lunges toward Goro, her throat raw as she screams "Dammit!" over the cacophony of destruction. The flashbang's arrival is almost beautiful — a small chrome sphere rolling across the floor, reflecting the chaos around it before erupting in a nova of pure white light.
The world disappears in that flash. V's knees hit the ground hard as her augmented vision scrambles to compensate, leaving her trapped in a void of white noise and searing pain. The following explosion rocks the entire building, the foundation groaning like a dying beast. The shock wave slams into her chest, forcing the air from her lungs and setting her chrome singing with interference.
When reality bleeds back in, it comes in fragments. Four Arasaka elites materialize through the smoke like demons stepping through hell's gates. Their midnight-black tactical armor absorbs the light, red optical arrays gleaming like predatory eyes. Three of them move with mechanical precision, their weapons spitting death toward Goro's position. The fourth advances on V, his modulated voice booming through his helmet: "On the ground, cunt! Don't move!"
The smoke parts like a curtain, revealing a nightmare. Where the wall once stood, there's now a jagged hole torn into the night sky. A towering figure — fuck, is that fuckin’ Smasher?! — stands silhouetted against the city lights, Hanako's limp form looking like a broken doll in his massive arms. The AV hovers beyond him, its downdraft creating violent eddies in the smoke and debris.
Time speeds up again as the floor gives its final warning — a sound like breaking bones amplified a hundredfold. The concrete beneath V's feet suddenly becomes liquid, dropping away into darkness. She catches a glimpse of the soldier being thrown sideways like a ragdoll before she's falling, surrounded by a deadly rain of rubble and steel. The impact comes with a symphony of agony — every nerve screaming as her body meets unyielding concrete two stories below. Copper floods her mouth, warm and metallic, as consciousness slips away like water through her fingers, leaving her to sink into an ocean of darkness.
V regains consciousness moments later, her vision swimming back into focus through a haze of dust and pain. Johnny materializes beside her, dropping to one knee. His hand, solid and warm to her touch, reaches out.
"V, you gotta get the fuck outta. Now." His voice is uncharacteristically soft, tinged with genuine fear. "Building's about to come down, and I ain't watching you die in this shithole."
"Johnny..." She coughs, spitting dust. "Takemura's still up there. Can't leave him."
"Fuck's sake, darlin'." He runs his free hand through his hair, frustrated but trying to keep his voice gentle. "Know you got a soft spot for the guy, but this ain't worth your life. Please. Just this once, choose yourself."
"There might still be a chance!" V grabs his outstretched hand, letting him pull her to her feet. Relief floods through her when she realizes nothing's broken, just bruised to hell. Her eyes track upward through the jagged hole in the ceiling, mentally mapping her route. The sound of gunfire echoes down, each shot a reminder that time is running out.
Her reinforced tendons whine as she charges her double jump, cybernetics pushing well past safety limits. The first leap carries her halfway up, and she catches a glimpse of Johnny's worried face below before her second jump propels her higher. She bursts through a cloud of steam from ruptured pipes, and the scalding vapor would leave angry welts across her exposed skin if she stayed in here a second longer.
"Dammit, V!" Johnny's voice cracks in her head, raw with fear. "You stubborn goddamn..." The rest of his words are drowned out by the thunderous exchange of gunfire above. Each shot reverberates through the crumbling building, but they tell her one crucial thing welts Takemura's still fighting.
One final push sends her vaulting back into the chaos of the hideout. The Arasaka soldiers, focused on suppressing Takemura's position, don't notice her return. Through the smoke and debris, she spots Goro crouched behind a fallen piece of furniture, his submachine gun barking death in controlled bursts. He laughs maniacally as he reloads, looking far too pleased for someone caught in a firefight.
V's body moves before her brain fully processes a plan. She snatches up a chunk of shattered concrete, its edges sharp enough to cut into her palm, and hurls it with all her strength. The improvised projectile catches the nearest soldier in the back of his helmet with a satisfying crack. He staggers, just long enough for Goro to paint the wall behind him with a precise burst of gunfire.
Her mantis blades deploy with a deadly whisper of steel, chrome gleaming dull red in the emergency lights. The world narrows to pure instinct and violence as she launches herself at the remaining soldiers. Her first blade pierce through armor and muscle, sending an arm spinning away in a spray of blood. Before the soldier can scream, her second blade finds the vulnerable gap under his chin, punching up through ceramic plating into soft tissue. She feels the wet heat of blood running down her arm as she yanks the blade free.
Takemura moves like the professional killer he is, putting three rounds through the final opponent's faceplate before the man can bring his weapon to bear. The sudden silence rings louder than the gunfire, broken only by their heavy breathing. As the dust settles, casting an eerie red glow through the emergency lights, Goro stares at V with a mix of disbelief and something deeper – raw emotion breaking through his facade. "You should not have returned! You will die here with me!" The words burst from him, his Japanese accent thicker than usual, betraying his agitation.
"Thank me later!" V flashes him a wild grin, adrenaline still coursing through her system. "Need to find a way out now — fast!"
"There are empty rooms to the right! It's our only chance!" He's already moving, his movements precise despite the chaos around them.
Johnny materializes beside V, his form flickering with urgency. "Move it, V! You got your rōnin, now let's delta!"
They work in perfect sync through the corridor, like a deadly dance they've rehearsed a thousand times. V takes point, her mantis blades singing through the air as she carves through the opposition. Behind her, Goro proves why he was Saburo's bodyguard, his submachine gun chattering in controlled bursts that drop any soldier trying to flank them. The walls around them are scarred with bullet holes, plaster dust mixing with the copper tang of blood in the air.
They burst into apartment 307 more by chance than choice, but luck — for once — is on their side. The floor has collapsed, creating a makeshift escape route to the level below. The hole gapes like a dark mouth in the concrete, promising either salvation or a deadly trap.
After a quick scan reveals no immediate threats, they drop down one after another, landing on a precarious mountain of debris. The impact sends small cascades of concrete tumbling down around them. They take a moment to catch their breath, the relative quiet broken only by distant gunfire and their heavy breathing. "It had been too long," Goro says between deep breaths, his chest heaving. Despite the situation, there's an almost boyish excitement in his eyes.
V bends forward, hands braced on her knees, her body coated in a mix of sweat, blood, and concrete dust. "Huh?"
"Since I had such a good fight." He flashes her a big, genuine smile, looking more alive than she's seen him in weeks. The expression transforms his whole face, making him look years younger.
"Glad you're havin' fun." V rolls her eyes, but can't quite suppress the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Let's get the hell outta here before your old buddies catch up."
Keeping low, they descend a stairwell that V doesn't recognize — their desperate escape route has led them to the opposite side of the building. The emergency lights flicker ominously, casting strange shadows that dance across the walls like demented puppets. Through the strobing red glow, she spots a lone Arasaka soldier standing guard at the exit. Not wanting to risk gunfire attracting more attention, V signals Takemura to stay put with a quick hand gesture, noting how his usually immaculate white shirt is now torn and stained with blood splatters, some his, most not.
She draws her combat knife, the matte black blade drinking in what little light reaches it. Moving with predatory grace, each step calculated and silent despite the debris littering the floor, she closes the distance until she's practically one with the guard's shadow. Time seems to slow as she strikes — the blade flashes once in the darkness, opening his throat in a clean arc. A wet gurgle escapes him as she catches his falling body, the warm spray of blood coating her forearms as she eases him to the ground without a sound. A quick wave brings Goro forward — freedom just steps away.
But Night City is never that kind. The moment the night air hits her face, carrying with it the acrid smell of smoke and gunpowder, the Relic malfunctions with brutal force. V crashes face-first into the concrete, her vision exploding into static and glitching colors, every nerve ending screaming in protest. The world dissolves into fragmenting pixels, reality itself seeming to tear apart at the seams.
Takemura rushes to her side, his boots scraping against the pavement as he drops to his knees. "V, are you injured?" The concern is palpable as his hands hover helplessly over her convulsing form. All she can manage is a weak groan, tasting copper as blood trickles from her nose. Understanding dawns in his eyes as he whispers, "The Relic..." Without further hesitation, he helps her up, taking most of her weight as he wraps her arm around his shoulders. His body is solid and warm against hers, smelling of gunpowder, sweat, and blood. "Which way?" he asks urgently, his eyes scanning for threats.
"Alleyway..." V forces out through clenched teeth, her free hand shakily pointing the direction. Each word feels like glass in her throat. "Bike..."
Takemura moves swiftly but carefully, supporting her as they skirt the building's perimeter. The night air is thick with the acrid stench of burning electronics and cordite, punctuated by distant sirens and the occasional explosion from the building they just fled. They cross a small plaza cluttered with vending machines and benches, their neon displays casting sickly rainbow patterns across puddles of spilled synthetic beer and motor oil.
Squeezing through a gap between rusted metal fences, they navigate under massive orange pipelines that leak steam in rhythmic hisses. The alley grows increasingly narrow, forcing them to weave through mountains of garbage bags that reek of rot and decay. They pass through what appears to be a homeless encampment, now deserted — its occupants scattered by the earlier gunfire and partial building collapse. The remains of their lives litter the ground.
V gradually regains her strength, the Relic's assault subsiding to a dull throb behind her eyes, but maintains her grip on Goro's arm. The alley opens to the right, and finally, her Arch comes into view. She swings onto the bike with more bravado than grace, earning a disapproving grimace from Takemura. His face, usually stoic and controlled, shows genuine concern in the harsh neon light, highlighting the fresh cuts and bruises from their escape. "V... you are unwell. It would not be prudent to drive."
"For fuck's sake, Goro!" She snaps, exhaustion and frustration bleeding through. Sweat trickles down her spine, and her hands shake slightly as they grip the handlebars. "You know how to ride this thing?" His telling silence is answer enough, his discomfort showing clearly on his face. "Then shut up, get on, and hold tight!"
Having no counter-argument, he mounts behind her, wrapping his arms firmly around her waist. The Arch's engine roars to life with a thunderous growl that echoes off the alley walls, the vibrations coursing through both their bodies. At the first intersection, V banks east, taking the bridge to Arroyo. The sudden acceleration forces Takemura to tighten his hold, his chest pressed firmly against her back as the wind whips at their clothes.
Once across, she opens the throttle further, the bike's powerful engine responding like a living thing beneath them, the cool night air stinging their faces. Street lights streak past like shooting stars, and the familiar Night City stench of pollution and ozone gives way to cleaner air as they merge onto the highway heading toward the Badlands.
Goro, now less concerned about V's driving ability, channels his anxiety into watching for pursuit. His head turns every few seconds to check their six, the silver ring around his eyes catching the street lights like a cat's eyes in the dark. His breathing only returns to normal when V parks behind the Sunset Motel — the same place where they had interrogated Hellman, what feels like a lifetime ago. The motel's vintage neon sign buzzes overhead, casting everything in a surreal orange glow that makes the blood on their clothes look almost black.
V dismounts, her movements still slightly unsteady, boots crunching on the gravel. "Gonna get us a room. Stay hidden — no need for both of us to be spotted. Meet me out front in two." Her voice is rough, exhaustion evident in every syllable. Takemura, for once at a loss, simply nods. As V walks away, he notices Oda's katana still strapped to the bike and retrieves it, his hands running almost reverently over the masterfully crafted weapon. The thought of such a beautiful blade falling into unworthy hands makes him grimace. V deserve it, not any passenby who may steal it.
Meanwhile, V fights through her exhaustion as she climbs the worn concrete stairs to the motel bar, each step feeling like she's wearing lead boots. She approaches Noah, the friendly bartender she'd met during her visit with Panam, asking for a room. Something in her demeanor, or perhaps the blood-spattered state of her clothes, must unnerve the poor man because he tosses her a key without a word, genuine surprise crossing his face when she actually transfers the eddies. She exits without ceremony, the door's rusty hinges screaming in protest, hurrying down the stairs to rejoin the ex-bodyguard.
She spots him waiting in the building's shadow, his silhouette barely visible against the darker background, and motions for him to follow as she unlocks one of the ground floor doors. They enter in heavy silence, the door's hinges protesting with a low whine. V immediately makes a beeline for the tiny bathroom, which is just as run-down as the rest of the room — cracked tiles, yellowed grout, and suspicious stains on the walls. At least the sink faucet somewhat works when she turns it on, though the water pressure fluctuates wildly between a trickle and a spray. She begins scrubbing her arms and face vigorously, watching as pink-tinged water swirls down the drain. The cheap motel soap barely helps, but she keeps scrubbing until her skin feels raw, trying to erase as much evidence of the night's violence as possible.
Meanwhile, Takemura carefully places Oda's katana on a table cluttered with empty beer bottles and food wrappers, their labels faded and peeling. The sword looks absurdly out of place among the debris of previous occupants' stays. He then positions himself by the window, parting the dusty venetian blinds just enough to monitor the parking lot. Thankfully, it's completely deserted at this late hour, nothing moving except paper trash being pushed around by the hot wind. His mind races anxiously — this was a tactical error, staying together. They would have been harder to track if they'd split up after escaping the crime scene. But V's seizure had forced his hand, compelling him to do what was right — staying with her until she reached relative safety. And now what? The question hangs in his mind like a sword over his head.
V finally emerges from the bathroom, having managed to clean herself up somewhat, though dark stains still mar her clothing. She sits heavily on the bed's edge, the ancient springs creaking in protest beneath her weight. The silence in the room is suffocating, each passing second a stark reminder of how spectacularly everything went to hell, how completely they failed. All their careful preparation, all the precautions and risks they took, rendered meaningless by Hanako's stubborn refusal to believe them. The weight of their failure seems to press down on both of them like a physical presence, making the small room feel even more claustrophobic.
From her spot on the bed, V studies the blood stains marring Takemura's once-pristine white shirt. Her eyes fix on a particularly dark patch near his shoulder blade, worry gnawing at her gut. The way he holds himself, slightly favoring his right side, confirms her suspicions. She pushes herself up from the creaking mattress, exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
"Goro," her voice comes out rougher than intended. "You're hurt."
He turns from his vigil at the window, the dim yellow light from outside casting harsh shadows across his face. "It is nothing of consequence. A bullet caught me during our escape — clean through-and-through. Nothing vital was damaged."
"For fuck's sake, shut up and let me look at it." V crosses the distance in two quick strides, her boots scuffing against the worn carpet. She positions herself in front of him, close enough to catch that familiar scent of gunpowder and green tea, now mixed with copper. Her fingers, still trembling slightly from the stress, fumble with his shirt buttons. The once-crisp fabric is stiff with dried blood.
As she works the buttons free, her breath catches. The chrome implants she's always seen on his neck continue down his sternum in an intricate pattern, like ancient tribal markings rendered in surgical steel. She forces herself to focus on the task at hand, pushing aside the urge to trace those metallic lines with her fingers. The wound, as he claimed, is relatively clean — the exit wound already clotting, though the surrounding skin is angry and red.
"See? As I said, it is not serious," Takemura's voice is soft, almost gentle — so different from his usual formal tone. V's hands don't leave him, instead sliding down his sides through the ruined shirt, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath the fabric. Her touch seems to ground her, keeping the crushing weight of their failure at bay for just a moment longer.
"We really fucked up, didn't we?" The words escape her before she can stop them, her voice cracking. "All that planning, all those risks... and Hanako just..." She can't finish the sentence, her throat too tight.
"V..." Takemura's hands come to rest on her shoulders, steady and warm despite everything they've been through. "We did everything within our power. The failure lies not with us, but with Hanako-san’s unwillingness to see the truth before her." Despite his composed words, she can hear the underlying strain in his voice, the barely contained frustration and despair that mirrors her own.
V lets out a bitter laugh, her fingers curling tighter into the fabric of his shirt. "Everything within our power? Bullshit. We're fucked, Goro. Completely and utterly fucked. ‘Saka's gonna hunt us down like dogs, and that's if this fuckin’ chip doesn't kill me first." Her voice rises with each word, weeks of fear and anger finally boiling over. "And you... this was your last chance, wasn't it? Your one shot at getting your life back, at clearin’ your name..." She swallows hard. "Everything Arasaka took from you when Saburo died – your position, your whole fucking life — this mission was supposed to fix all that. And now..."
"V." One of his hands moves to cradle her face, the chrome of his fingers cool against her feverish skin. The gentleness of the gesture stops her spiral of words, but she can feel the slight tremor in his touch, betraying how deeply her words have hit home. His eyes search her face with an intensity that makes her breath catch. In the dim light, she can see the conflict raging behind them — the proud soldier struggling with the reality of their situation. "We are alive," he finally says, his accent thicker with emotion. "While we draw breath, there is still hope. Even if the path ahead seems dark..."
She meets his gaze, feeling the slight tremor in his usually steady hand intensify. "For how long?" The question comes out as barely more than a whisper, heavy with all their shared fears. "How long until either Arasaka's cleanup crew finds us, or this thing in my head finally wins? How long before we both end up in shallow graves in the Badlands?"
The tension in the room shifts, becomes something electric and dangerous. V is suddenly hyper-aware of every point of contact between them — his hand on her face, her fingers still pressed against his sides, the minimal space between their bodies. The air feels thick, charged with something that's been building between them since that first meeting at Tom's Diner. Or maybe even before that — maybe since that brief moment at Konpeki Plaza, when she'd caught a glimpse of him through the glass, dangerous and beautiful, her heart skipping a beat even as she prayed he wouldn't spot her hiding place..
Memories flood her mind like a broken BD loop, each one more vivid than the last. Goro carrying her broken body through the landfill, refusing to let her die despite barely knowing her. His stoic presence at Tom's Diner — the first time she'd seen past his corporate mask to the man beneath. The docks with Oda, how Goro had subtly positioned himself between them when tensions rose, ready to protect her.
The absurdity of that old man in Jig-Jig Street mistaking him for some famous actor. Finding Jackie's book on her doorstep after she'd left it in his van. Their late-night dinner at the Coyote Cojo, tequila loosening their tongues as they shared stories of lives lived worlds apart. That horrible yakitori stand. His quiet confession about wanting to become a nomad, so at odds with his corporate programming that it had made her heart ache. The way his eyes had lit up telling her about the bakeneko, a rare glimpse of the passionate soul behind his controlled exterior. This unexpected visit to her apartment. When she'd finally told him about Johnny, and how instead of recoiling in horror or disgust, he'd chosen to stay, to help, to trust her despite everything his training screamed against.
The parade, their desperate plan, Hanako's rejection, their frantic escape — every moment leading inexorably to this one, here in this shabby motel room with blood on their clothes and failure heavy in the air.
The weight of everything unsaid between them suddenly feels unbearable. V's hand slides up from his shirt to his neck, feeling the smooth transition between warm skin and cool chrome under her fingers. Each cybernetic enhancement she traces is a reminder of his dedication, his sacrifice, his unwavering loyalty to a cause that's now lost to them both. Takemura's breath hitches, almost imperceptibly, his pupils dilating as his augmented eyes adjust to their closer proximity.
"V..." Her name on his lips is barely a whisper, rough with emotion she's never heard from him before. His other hand comes up to mirror the first, now cradling her face between both palms, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones with impossible gentleness. The juxtaposition of his battle-hardened hands being so tender makes something in her chest shatter.
Time crystallizes between them, stretches like molten glass, then shatters. V surges forward, crushing her lips against his with all the desperate intensity she's been holding back since that first glimpse of him at Konpeki Plaza. There's nothing gentle about it — it's all teeth and hunger and weeks of pent-up need. For a heartbeat, Takemura goes completely still, and V's world threatens to collapse — but then he responds with equal fervor, one hand fisting in her hair while the other pulls her flush against him.
The kiss tastes of copper and adrenaline and fear. His cybernetic implants hum against her skin where they touch, a subtle vibration that sends electricity down her spine. V's hands roam desperately over his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath the blood-stained shirt, needing to convince herself that this is real, that he's real, that they're both still alive despite everything.
Her fingers find the remaining buttons of his shirt, trembling with urgency as she works them free. Each new inch of exposed skin reveals more of the chrome architecture she'd glimpsed earlier, elegant lines of silver threading between scars both old and new. She traces the pattern with desperate fingertips, feeling the transition between warm flesh and cool metal, mapping the physical evidence of his dedication to a corporation that had cast him aside.
"V..." Takemura breaks away just enough to speak, his voice rough and strained in a way she's never heard before. His augmented eyes are almost black, pupils blown wide, the silver ring around them barely visible. "We should—"
"Don't." She cuts him off, her words hot against his lips. One hand slides up to cradle his jaw, feeling the subtle mechanics of his cyber-implants working beneath the skin. "We could be dead in an hour. Arasaka could find us any minute. Or this fuckin' chip could finally fry my brain. I don't—" Her voice cracks, raw with emotion. "I don't want to die with any more regrets. Please, Goro."
For a moment, it seems like he'll give in. His hands tighten their grip almost painfully, fingers pressing into her skin hard enough to leave marks. The look in his eyes is almost feral, all carefully maintained control stripped away to reveal something raw and hungry underneath. His breath comes in short, harsh pants that match her own.
But then something shifts in his expression. The desperate edge in his eyes gives way to something softer, more pained. His movements become deliberate as he gently disentangles himself from her, taking a step back. The sudden loss of contact hits V like a physical blow, leaving her swaying slightly where she stands.
"Not like this," he says softly, his accent thicker than usual, voice still rough with barely contained desire. "Not from desperation. Not because we think we might die tomorrow." His fingers move to rebutton his shirt with mechanical precision, hiding the chrome patterns she'd barely had time to explore. "You deserve better than that, V."
V stands frozen, her hands still half-raised where they'd been touching him moments ago, her lips tingling from his kiss. The distance between them now feels vast, uncrossable. The room suddenly seems colder, darker, despite the neon lights still filtering through the dirty window.
"I should go." Each word seems to cost him, but his voice remains steady. "It will be safer if we separate now." He straightens his collar, but she notices his hands aren't quite steady, betraying the effort it takes him to maintain his composure. "Gomenasai, V."
His eyes meet hers one last time, and what she sees in them makes her breath catch — desire and regret and something deeper, something neither of them is ready to name. Then he turns and walks out of the room, his footsteps eerily silent on the worn carpet. The door closes behind him with a quiet click that sounds like finality.
V remains motionless in the corner of the room, the phantom taste of him still on her lips, her skin burning where his hands had been. Outside, the neon signs continue their endless cycle of pink and blue across the empty space where he used to be. Without even realizing it, tears begin to cascade down her cheeks, the weight of everything finally crushing her defenses.
The exhaustion, mixed with the whirlwind of emotions from this night, makes her legs weak. She collapses to her knees on the dirty floor, broken and desperate sobs wracking her entire body. Johnny's there in an instant, solid and real, gathering her into his arms like something precious.
"I'm here, V," he murmurs against her hair. "Got you. Always got you." His chrome hand slides around her back while his flesh one cradles her head, pulling her closer. V turns into his warmth immediately, burying her face in his neck as she breaks completely. The tenderness in his touch makes her cry harder, clinging to him like she's drowning.
"That's it," he soothes, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. "Let it all out. Been carrying too much for too long." His flesh hand strokes her hair while the metal one holds her close, protective and steady. Each sob that tears through her makes him hold her tighter, like he could somehow shield her from all the pain.
"Can't do this anymore," she chokes out between desperate gasps. "Everything's falling apart, and I... I just..."
"Shhh, sweetheart," Johnny's voice is impossibly tender, reserved only for her. "Know it hurts. Fuckin’ kills me seeing you like this." He presses another soft kiss to her forehead, then her tear-stained cheek. "My strong, beautiful V."
Her fingers twist desperately in his tank top as another wave of sobs hits her. Johnny just rocks her gently, humming something soft and low, his presence steady and warm around her. "I got you, princess. Not letting anything happen to you. Promise."
When her sobs finally quiet to hiccups, she doesn't pull away, instead pressing closer into his warmth. "Johnny?" Her voice is raw, barely a whisper.
"Yeah, V?"
"Need to... need to stop thinking for a while. Can't handle any more tonight." She looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Take over? Please?"
His flesh hand cups her face, thumb brushing away fresh tears. "Course I will, sweetheart." He kisses her forehead again, impossibly gentle. "You just rest in there. Let your rockerboy handle things for a while. I'll keep us safe, always do."
"You're the best, y’know." she manages a weak smile, already feeling herself drift.
"Now close those pretty eyes. Let go. I'll be right here, watchin’ over us both."
V relaxes completely against him, trusting him entirely — her guardian angel in leather and chrome — as she feels herself fade into the background of their shared consciousness. Johnny's presence wraps around her like a protective blanket, warm and safe, as she drifts into the quiet space in their shared mind.
Johnny feels the exact moment V's consciousness slips into peaceful rest, her presence soft and quiet in their shared mindspace. "Sleep tight, princess," he thinks, letting his awareness settle fully into their body, still trembling slightly from her breakdown. He wraps their arms around themselves, a physical echo of how he'd been holding her moments before.
But Johnny isn't one to sit still for long. He starts pacing around the small motel room like a caged animal, their boots leaving angry imprints in the worn-out carpet that's seen better days decades ago. His rage builds with each step, memories of V's breakdown fueling his anger until he finally peers through the broken blinds to check for any potential threats outside. To his surprise — and growing fury — Takemura is still in the parking lot, having apparently spent the last ten minutes unsuccessfully trying to hot-wire an Archer Quartz. The sight of the man who just shattered V's heart makes his blood boil, and he roughly wipes the remnants of her tears from their cheeks, smearing her already ruined makeup even more. The urge to hurt, to make someone pay for V's pain, becomes overwhelming.
He storms out of the room, the door slamming behind him with enough force to rattle the rusty numbers. The cold night air of the Badlands hits their skin, but Johnny barely feels it through the burning rage coursing through their shared veins. Every protective instinct he's developed for V, every ounce of care he holds for her, transforms into pure violence waiting to be unleashed.
The noise alerts Takemura, who startles and abandons the mess of wires hanging from under the steering wheel. The bodyguard takes a few cautious steps forward, his usually immaculate appearance now disheveled, clothes still bearing traces of their earlier fight. Johnny can still feel the phantom weight of V's tears soaking on his shoulder, can still hear her broken sobs echoing in their shared consciousness, and it makes him see red.
"V, I..." Takemura begins, but Johnny cuts him off with a vicious left hook to the face. It's not as powerful as it would have been with his old chrome arm — V's body is exhausted, and her frame doesn't carry the same raw strength — but fuck if it doesn't feel good to finally do what he's been itching to since the moment this corpo rat made V cry. All the tenderness he showed V minutes ago is gone, replaced by pure, protective rage.
The unexpected blow is enough to throw Takemura off balance. He stumbles backward, feet catching on the uneven pavement before he falls, landing hard under the sickly glow of the Sunset Motel's neon sign. His eyes widen as he stares up at V's figure, panting and glaring down at him with an ice-cold fury he's never seen in her before. Recognition dawns on his face as he notices the completely different posture, the aggressive stance, the burning hatred in eyes that were tearful moments ago.
"Silverhand..." he breathes, pushing himself up on his elbows, blood trickling from his split lip.
"Told ya you'd know when it's me," Johnny grins, all teeth and menace, flexing V's fingers as he contemplates whether one punch is enough to satisfy the rage burning through him. Every protective instinct he's developed for V screams for more — more pain, more revenge, more punishment for the man who dared hurt her.
"Where the fuck you think you're going, huh?" Johnny towers over the fallen man, V's face twisted with contempt, their shared body trembling with exhaustion and rage. "Let me guess — crawling back to Hanako? Hoping if you grovel enough, she'll let you lick her boots again?"
When Takemura remains silent, blood trickling from his split lip, Johnny's rage only intensifies, burning through their veins like acid. "The fuck were you thinkin'?" His voice cracks with raw emotion. "How can you leave her when she needs you the most!?" The words tear from their throat like broken glass. "This whole clusterfuck was YOUR plan. YOUR brilliant fuckin' idea that almost got her killed. ALL. YOUR. FUCKING. FAULT."
Their vision blurs red as memories flood through him — V's body falling through that floor, bullets whizzing past, her desperate scramble through smoke and gunfire. "And you know what's really fucking rich? She could've left your ass to die during that parade. Should've. But no—" His laugh is hollow, bitter. "She went back for you, right into the goddamn fire. I was screamin’ at her not to, but she wouldn't listen. Because she actually gave a shit about your worthless life."
He delivers a vicious kick to Takemura's side, satisfaction coursing through him at the grunt of pain, even as V's leg muscles scream in protest. "You know what really pisses me off, Goro?" He spits the name like it's poison, their shared body swaying slightly from the effort of staying upright. "For a minute there, I almost bought into V's bullshit about you being different. Watched through her eyes as she convinced herself you weren't just another corpo dog. Almost believed it myself. Guess the joke's on both of us, huh?"
Takemura tries to rise, but Johnny plants V's boot firmly on his chest, grinding down. "You do not understand—"
"Oh, I understand perfectly," Johnny cuts him off, increasing the pressure. "Been in her head this whole time, feeling everything she felt. Every smile, every shared meal, every fucking moment she let herself hope..." His voice breaks. "Watching you play her like a fucking fiddle. And for what? Your precious loyalty to a monster?" His laugh is bitter, cruel. "Saburo was a fucking psychopath who treated people like disposable toys, and you're still on your knees worshippin’ his memory like a good little dog."
"You have no right to—"
"I have EVERY right!" Johnny roars, yanking Takemura up by his collar, ignoring how V's arms shake with the effort. "I'm the one who holds her while she cries! I'm the one who feels every fuckin’ heartbreak, every betrayal, every moment of pain you corpo rats put her through!" The words pour out like blood from a wound. "You wanna know what's really fuckin’ pathetic? V actually saw something in you. Defended you. 'Johnny, he's different,' 'Johnny, he's not like other corpo rats.' Every. Fucking. Time!"
He slams Takemura back down, their smaller frame vibrating with barely contained violence. "You don't deserve a single fuckin’ scrap of what she feels for you. And you're too blind, too fucking brainwashed to see what you're throwing away." His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "She would've moved mountains for you, you dumb fuck, and you're treating it like it's worth less than garbage."
Something flickers in Takemura's eyes — pain, guilt, secrets he can't voice — but Johnny's too far gone in his rage to notice or care. The weight of V's unconscious presence in their shared mind only fuels his fury.
"You know what's the worst part?" Johnny spits, their voice raw. "I've been in her head since the beginning. Felt everythin’ she felt. Saw how she looked at you. How she trusted you. Fuck—" He chokes on the words. "How she was starting to fall for you. And this is how you repay that trust?"
Crouching down, he gets right in Takemura's face. "The only reason — the ONLY reason — you're not choking on your own blood right now is because it would hurt her. And unlike you, I actually give a fuck about her feelings. Been trying so hard to be better, to be worthy of her trust, while you just throw it away like fucking trash."
He stands up, their legs barely supporting them now, but he forces them to tower over Takemura. "So go ahead. Run back to your corpo masters. I'm sure Arasaka’s princess will pat your head and tell you what a good boy you are." His smile is all teeth and promised violence, even as tears — whether from rage or heartbreak, he's not sure — streak down their cheeks. "But next time our paths cross?" He leans down, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You better pray to whatever corpo god you worship that she's in control. 'Cause I've got fifty years of violence stored up, and a whole list of creative ways to make you suffer, startin’ with those pretty chrome eyes of yours. Maybe I'll mail them to Hanako — one at a time."
Takemura rises slowly, the weight of his secret mission heavy on his shoulders. If only he could explain that everything — betraying Hanako, allying with Michiko, planning to destroy Saburo's engram — all of it was for V. But he can't. Not yet. Not when so much is at stake. So he remains silent, bearing Johnny's fury, knowing it's a small price to pay for V's survival.
"Get the fuck out of my sight," Johnny spits, their body trembling with exhaustion and spent rage. "And remember — next time, I won't be so gentle. Next time, I'll show you exactly what Johnny Silverhand does to people who hurt what's his."
He turns on their heel, not giving Takemura another glance as he stalks back to the motel room. Their legs are barely holding up anymore, but he'll be damned if he shows any weakness in front of the corpo rat. The sound of Takemura resuming his struggle with the Quartz's wiring follows him, but he doesn't look back.
Only when he's slammed the door shut behind them, safely hidden from view, does he finally let their legs give out. He slide down against the wall, the dirty carpet rough against their skin as Johnny wraps their arms around their knees, head bowing as the adrenaline fades, leaving only bone-deep weariness and the echo of V's earlier heartbreak.
"I got you, princess," he whispers to their shared consciousness. "Always got you. Even if the whole world turns its back on you — you've still got me."
Despite his promise to keep watch, Johnny can't fight exhaustion much longer. He drifts in and out of fitful sleep, jerking awake at every little sound — the distant howl of wind through the Badlands, the creak of ancient wood, the hum of neon signs outside. It's nowhere near enough rest for V's battered body, but his mind is too restless, too wired with protective paranoia to allow more than these snatches of uneasy unconsciousness.
He drags their aching body to the grimy bathroom, where flickering fluorescent lights cast sickly shadows across V's pale face in the cracked mirror. The water he splashes on their face is ice-cold, shocking enough to keep their eyes open for a few more minutes. Fuck, what he wouldn't give for some military-grade boosters or SynthCoke right now — anything to keep them alert and ready.
But he'll have to settle for more legal stimulants instead. Peering through the dusty window, he notes the parking lot is now empty, Takemura having finally managed to leave during one of his micro-blackouts. After a moment's hesitation, weighing the risks against their needs, he ventures out again, making a beeline for the stairs on trembling legs. Upstairs, he practically attacks the S.C.S.M. buttons, ordering multiple cups of what passes for coffee in this dump. Paranoia has him checking over their shoulder every few seconds.
Back in the relative safety of their locked room, he downs the coffees one after another, grimacing at the bitter, artificial taste. As the caffeine slowly kicks in, clearing some of the fog from their mind, he starts taking stock of their defensive options. His eyes trail over the chrome lines decorating V's arms, considering their capabilities. Problem is, he has no fucking clue how to operate her mantis blades — the neural pathways are there, but the muscle memory isn't his. His gaze shifts to Oda's sword propped in the corner, stolen after their fight. That, at least, he might be able to handle — it's just glorified stabbing, right? But Johnny's never been one for blades, having always preferred the honest simplicity of bullets.
That's why when a familiar van pulls into the parking lot at first light, its worn paint catching the pale dawn, he feels a wave of relief. The weapons dealer — a regular fixture at the Sunset Motel — is setting up his mobile shop. Finally, something useful. Minutes later, he's back in their room with a brand new shotgun, the weight familiar and comforting in their hands. He slides down to sit on the filthy carpet, back against the bed, and methodically loads the weapon, each shell a small promise of protection. The gun rests across their knees as he settles in to wait, ready for whatever — or whoever — might come looking for them.
The day drags by with excruciating slowness, Johnny losing his battle against exhaustion once again in the early afternoon. He manages to snatch a solid hour of sleep this time before jerking awake, nerves raw, phantom pain from old battles mixing with V's very real aches. Keeping the shotgun close, he makes another coffee run, determined to keep their eyes open this time, no matter how many cups of that synthetic shit it takes.
It's not until the sun starts bleeding red across the Badlands sky that he finally decides to wake V's consciousness. He would've preferred to let her rest longer, but the toxic cocktail of loneliness, stress, and sleep deprivation is starting to make him lose his grip on reality — and that's dangerous for both of them. Focusing inward, he reaches for V's presence with gentle mental nudges, carefully guiding her back to the driver's seat of her own body.
Soon she's back in control, eyelids fluttering as her synapses reconnect with physical sensation. It takes a few seconds for her brain to sync up with reality, the world slowly coming into focus through the haze of exhaustion. Johnny materializes beside her on the floor, their shoulders brushing. He looks every bit as wrung out as she feels, his usual swagger replaced by bone-deep weariness. "Hey..." she greets him, her voice scratchy from disuse.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, princess." He returns a tired smile. "How's the head?"
"Like I got hit by a freight train," she groans, massaging her temples. Her eyes land on the shotgun resting across her knees, eyebrow arching in question. "The fuck? You went shopping while I was out?"
"You seriously don't remember?" Surprise colors his tone. "That weapons dealer with the van, always parked out front. Figured havin’ a boom stick beat playing samurai with Oda's letter opener."
"Honestly? Everything's just... static," she admits, running a hand through her tangled hair. "Think my brain went into full shutdown mode. Anything interesting happen while I was catching z's?"
Her response lifts a weight from Johnny's shoulders — he wasn't looking forward to explaining his confrontation with Takemura. "Nah, just played guard dog and mainlined coffee. Speaking of which—" he gestures at their trembling hands, "might wanna get some real fuel in the tank. You're running on fumes here, V."
"Fuck, you're right." She pushes to her feet, legs shaky as a newborn colt's. "Coffee and food. Maybe not in that order." She stretches, wincing as her spine pops.
Johnny watches her stand, noting how the setting sun paints her silhouette in shades of gold and crimson through the dusty window. Despite everything, despite his exhaustion and worry, he can't help but feel a surge of relief at having her back in control. He'd never admit it out loud, but those hours of solitary vigilance had been harder than expected — turns out he's gotten used to having her around, to their constant back-and-forth. The thought should probably worry him more than it does.
After a quick supply run to the vending machine, stocking up on coffee, cigarettes, and various synthetic snacks, they retreat back to their room. Johnny perches on the table by the window while V settles on the bed, mechanically chewing on synth-beef jerky more out of necessity than desire. The silence stretches until she finally breaks it, her voice thoughtful. "Y'know... I'm startin' to notice a pattern here. Seems like all the major turning points in my life happen in shitty motel rooms. DeShawn putting a bullet in my head, becoming friends with Panam, that chat with Hellman... and now this..."
Johnny hums, mulling over her words before responding with his typical sardonic wit. “Think they make these motels especially for royal fuck-ups like us? AC's busted, dirty needles under the mattress, shitter's clogged…” He shakes his head, looking genuinely dejected. “No, for real — who fuckin' comes here to sleep? We're a couple miles outside Night City... Someone leavin' town just keeps drivin’. Somebody goin' there sleeps in the damn city! What good's a motel in the middle of nowhere?” A humorless chuckle escapes his lips, exhaustion clearly weighing on his usual bravado. “I'll tell you who sleeps here. Fuckin' losers, that's who.”
"Yep, just two fuckin' losers," V confirms glumly. Having lost what little appetite she had, she pushes away her snack and picks up the shotgun instead, its weight oddly comforting in her hands.
The next few hours pass in relative quiet, their conversation staying deliberately light, both carefully dancing around the elephant in the room. Neither wants to add more weight to the already suffocating atmosphere. That all changes around 1 AM when the sound of tires crunching on gravel sends the rockerboy into high alert. "Hear that?" he asks, his digital form tensing like a coiled spring.
V nods, barely breathing. "Car."
"At this hour? In this place? Fuck!" He peeks by the window, scanning the darkness with predatory intensity. "Just one? Finger on the trigger, V. Not a word."
V nods and chambers the shotgun, aiming it at the door. Several tense seconds pass before a series of sharp knocks break the silence. "I have a message for V," announces a female voice, sounding almost bored.
"Don't touch that door," Johnny warns. V stands but holds her position, keeping the weapon ready. Another series of knocks echoes through the room.
"I know you're in there!" the unknown voice calls impatiently.
V glances at Johnny, who returns a resigned look. "Who's there?!" she demands. When only silence answers, she presses, "I said, who's there!"
"Want the whole motel to hear, or will you let me in?" comes the sardonic reply through the door.
Realizing the woman isn't going anywhere, V takes a few careful steps toward the door, unlocks it, then quickly backs away, raising the weapon again. "I'm armed. Don't try anything."
The door opens to reveal a young woman in stilettos and an expensive-looking pale purple tailored blazer and skirt. "Finally... Ugh..." She steps into the room, her face twisting with disgust as she takes in the decrepit state of their surroundings. "That on the wall... is that blood?"
"Yeah. Knocked the last star off this dump," V responds coldly, keeping her weapon trained on the visitor. "So? You were saying? Got a message?"
The stranger calmly walks to one of the chairs, her long ponytail bouncing behind her, seemingly unimpressed by the shotgun aimed at her chest. "Sitting right here. It'll start soon," she announces, taking a drag from her cigarette before placing it in the ashtray and lowering her head.
When she raises her head again, her optics flare a brilliant orange, casting eerie shadows across her face. She clears her throat before pushing away the ashtray with barely concealed revulsion. Folding her hands precisely on the table, she announces, "I must make one thing clear." Everything about her demeanor and speech pattern has shifted dramatically, the casual messenger replaced by something far more refined and cold. "I still think you are mad, but..."
V's breath catches as realization dawns. "Hanako...? That you?" She asks, while sitting on a nearby chair.
"But I can fool myself no longer," she continues, not bothering to confirm what's already obvious. "I believe you."
Well, talk about unexpected shit... "Any word from Goro?" V can't stop herself from asking, despite the way her heart twists at merely speaking his name.
Hanako hesitates for a fraction of a second, her borrowed face carefully neutral. "My men located him this afternoon, alive and well. Takemura is in a secure location. That is all you need to know at this time."
The answer only half-satisfies V, but determined not to show weakness, she redirects the conversation while finally lowering her weapon — though keeping it within easy reach. “OK, so now that you know, and believe — what's next?”
“Yorinobu planted a tanto in the corporation's very heart. I must act while the wound is fresh.” She pauses, finally meeting V's gaze with unnerving intensity. “And you will help me. You are living proof of his crime and treason. And you will help me. You are living proof of his crime and treason.”
“Decided already, is that it?” The merc snarls, crossing her arms defensively. “You're in no position to set conditions.”
“And what if... obliged you to cooperate?” She ventures, the threat hanging delicately in the stale motel air.
“Porcelain bitch.” Johnny spits, his digital form radiating cold fury.
“Have to send a swarm of proxies to do that.” V mocks, sensing the bluff. “This here, talkin', is because you're alone.” She emphasizes the word cruelly. “You don't have anyone else you can turn to.”
“This is true.” Hanako concedes after a weighted pause. “So what are your terms?”
“Wanna know everything you know about Mikoshi.” V states firmly.
“Mikoshi…” The woman appears thoughtful, though it's impossible to tell how much is performance. “One of my father's flagship projects. A data fortress with servers situated on orbital stations all around Earth. Think of it as an archive of personality constructs, digitized psyches.”
“Try a prison?” V growls, getting a sharp nod of agreement from Johnny.
“A matter of perspective.” Hanako responds with aristocratic indifference. “In any case, that is not where you will find salvation. Not without extensive knowledge of the Relic and the construct creation procedure.”
"Got everything I need," the merc retorts simply, careful not to show all her cards. "What now?"
“Let us meet in person. At Embers, in the city center. It is discreet. But I need time to make arrangements. I will let you know when everything is ready," she explains with practiced precision. “Just remember one thing. From now on we both must exercise extreme caution.”
As those final words hang in the stale motel air, she leans back in her chair, lowering her head once more. The brilliant orange glow in the woman's optics flickers and dies, signaling Hanako's departure from her proxy. The messenger returns to herself, casually picking up her half-smoked cigarette. Taking a long, deliberate drag on it, she announces with indifference, "Well, that's my job done." She rises with fluid grace, smoothing the wrinkles from her tailored skirt with manicured hands before walking out. She doesn't spare them a single glance, as if they're already forgotten. Moments later, the sound of a high-end engine purrs to life and fades into the desert night.
V and Johnny maintain a weighted silence for a long minute, both trying to process the surreal encounter they just witnessed. The air feels thick with unspoken implications and fresh dangers. Finally, the rockerboy peels himself off the wall he's been leaning against, his digital form flickering slightly in the dim light. "Know what?"
“What?” V responds, still dazed, trying to shake off the lingering unease from Hanako's virtual visit.
“Think I'd've rather had a wave of 'Saka 'lites barge in here.” He declares, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration.
“Right.” V shares the sentiment, pushing herself up from the creaking chair. “'Cause at least we've dealt with 'Saka henchmen before. But this? It's somethin' new.”
“Glad to see you get it.” Johnny smirks, draping an arm around her shoulders. “We just landed on very thin ice. Crash landed.”
“What now?” V asks, unconsciously leaning into his support, feeling the exhaustion settling into her bones.
"Now?" He considers for a moment, his face serious despite his casual tone. "Since that cunt needs you alive for her fucked-up plans, I'd say we're safe from 'Saka hitmen for now." He gently guides her toward the door, his presence steady and reassuring. "Let's go home. We've fuckin' earned a decent night's sleep in a bed that ain't covered in suspicious stains," he says, eyeing the motel's filthy mattress with exaggerated disgust, his nose wrinkling at the various questionable marks dotting its surface.
V lets out a small chuckle, her hand finding Oda's katana where it rests against the wall and she slides it through her belt. As they step through the doorway into the cool night air, Johnny suddenly freezes mid-stride, his digital form tensing like a wire about to snap. His face transforms with alarm, eyes widening behind his aviators. "Shit, get ready."
The warning comes a split second before it hits — a coughing fit so violent it feels like her lungs are being shredded from the inside out. Each wracking cough brings a spray of crimson, the metallic taste of blood flooding her mouth as she desperately tries to draw breath. The neon lights of the motel sign above blur and distort, reality itself seeming to glitch and tear around the edges.
She manages only a few stumbling steps before her legs give out, sending her crashing hard to her knees on the rough asphalt. Her vision fragments like broken glass, digital artifacts crawling across her field of view like angry insects. When she looks down at her trembling hands, braced against the ground, the chrome of Johnny's arm seems to phase through her own flesh, creating a disturbing overlay of metal and skin. She can hear him cursing somewhere nearby, his voice distorted and echoing as if coming from the bottom of a well, "Fuck!"
Her heart is hammering against her ribs like it's trying to escape, each beat an irregular thunder that threatens to burst from her chest. The air feels thick as molasses, refusing to properly fill her lungs despite her desperate gasping. A crushing pain wraps around her skull like a crown of thorns, driving deeper with each passing second. Unable to maintain even her kneeling position, she collapses onto her side, her body beginning to convulse beyond her control. Her fingers curl into tight fists, nails biting into her palms hard enough to draw blood.
In this moment, V is certain she's dying. The thought brings a strange sort of clarity — this is it, the end she's been running from since that night in Konpeki Plaza. The only comfort in these terrifying seconds is Johnny's presence as he drops to his knees beside her, his usually confident face now naked with fear and helplessness. He grabs her convulsing hands in his, trying to steady her, to anchor her to consciousness through sheer force of will. The sensation of his touch, solid and real despite everything, gives her something to focus on beyond the pain.
"Ugh-gh! Johnny!" she gasps, the words barely making it past her blood-stained lips.
The glitching artifacts in her vision begin to fade, not into clarity but into an encroaching darkness that creeps in from the edges. As consciousness slips away like water through her fingers, the last thing she registers is Johnny's voice, rough with emotion but trying so hard to be steady for her: "You ain't dyin' yet. I got you." Then everything goes black, and V falls into the void.
Johnny suddenly finds himself thrust into control of their shared body, and the abrupt transition sends a fresh wave of panic through him. This is by far the worst attack V has experienced — usually these episodes resolve themselves within minutes, but the fact that he's now in the driver's seat is a terrifying development. The only thing keeping him from completely losing his shit is the faint presence of V he can still sense in the depths of their mind.
As he pushes himself up from the blood-stained asphalt, his movements uncharacteristically cautious, he wonders if it's their state of complete physical exhaustion that finally prevented V from maintaining control. Taking a few experimental steps, he notes that despite everything, he feels relatively stable — not great, but functional enough to get V somewhere safe. Maybe if they can just get some real rest, she'll wake up like nothing happened, the way she always has before. The alternative isn't something he's willing to consider.
Decision made, he strides toward V's Arch motorcycle, his movements becoming more confident with each step. The familiar machine rumbles to life beneath him, the engine's growl echoing off the empty motel walls. He guns it toward Night City, the cool night air whipping past as he cut through Santo Domingo's sparse traffic. The district's industrial landscape blurs by in a maze of concrete and steel, occasional neon signs casting multicolored shadows across the chrome of the bike.
The ride to Heywood feels both endless and too quick, his mind racing the whole way, constantly checking for V's presence in their shared consciousness. Once inside their apartment, he carelessly tosses Oda's katana into a corner, the weapon clattering against the floor. He drags himself up the stairs to the mezzanine, collapsing onto the bed without bothering to remove V's boots or blood-stained clothes.
Nibbles, apparently sensing the wrongness of the situation, comes to curl up next to him, her warm presence oddly comforting. Despite the anxiety churning in his gut, Johnny forces himself to close their eyes. "It's gonna be okay, V," he promises out loud, his voice — her voice — rough with emotion in the quiet apartment. "You just need to rest. You'll be back soon. You have to be."
He eventually falls into a restless sleep, his dreams filled with fragmented memories – some his, some V's, all tinged with the fear of loss. Throughout the night, his hand occasionally reaches out, searching for someone who isn't there, while Nibbles keeps her silent vigil beside them.
When Johnny wakes, the harsh late afternoon sun streaming through the apartment windows feels like an accusation. The immediate, crushing realization that he's still in control of their body sends a wave of nausea through him. His first instinct is to mentally shake V's consciousness, desperately prodding at the quiet space in their shared mind where she should be. The silence that answers him is deafening. He forces himself to take deep breaths, fighting back the rising tide of panic that threatens to overwhelm him. The apartment feels wrong without V's presence — too quiet, too empty, despite him physically being there.
He starts pacing around their home like a caged animal, chain-smoking cigarette after cigarette until the air is thick with smoke. His hands — V's hands — shake slightly as he lights each new one, his movements becoming more agitated with each passing minute. The silence in his head is maddening — he never thought he'd miss their constant bickering this much. He considers reaching out for help, scrolling through V's contacts again and again — Vik, Panam, anyone who might have a solution. But what could he even say? "Hey, V's consciousness just decided to check out, any ideas?" The thought of their concerned faces, their pitying looks, makes him sick.
Climbing back upstairs, he finds himself frozen in front of the bathroom mirror, staring intently at V's reflection. The face looking back at him is pale, dark circles under her eyes speaking of their recent ordeals. And now it's just them against the whole fuckin’ world, like it's always been, only this time he can't even hear her voice in his head. His gaze drifts to the two pill bottles sitting on the edge of the sink, and an idea takes root in his mind. If the blockers were able to force his consciousness to retreat before, maybe they could bring V back. It's a desperate plan, but it's all he's got. With trembling fingers, he grabs the blue bottle and slips it into the merc's pants pocket.
He can't do it here though. If things go wrong... he forcefully shoves that thought aside. This has to work. Either way, he needs to go somewhere first — he has something to give to V. As he descends the stairs, his confused mind reminds him they need to feed their pets first. V would be pissed if he left without taking care of them. And if... no. He refuses to entertain the possibility they might not return.
After filling the food bowls, he takes the elevator down. The weight of V's absence feels heavier with each passing moment, like a physical ache in his chest. He retrieves her Arch, the familiar machine offering little comfort without V's usual excitement at riding it. As he sets course for Pacifica, the wind whipping past does nothing to clear his head. The city seems darker somehow, less vibrant without V's running commentary and terrible jokes. He's been alone in his head for fifty years, but now, after sharing it with V, the silence is unbearable.
Johnny parks the motorcycle at the base of an abandoned hotel as the first orange rays of twilight paint the sky in warm hues. He climbs the trash-littered stairs to the fourth floor, his footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. Finding a relatively clean spot, he slumps against the wall, sliding down until he's sitting on the dusty floor. Fuck, he hopes this works. With slightly trembling hands, he unscrews the bottle cap and dry-swallows one pill, then quickly follows it with a second — just to be sure.
At first, nothing happens, and the crushing weight of despair threatens to overwhelm him. Then, gradually, his grip on their physical form begins to slip away, the body going slack against the wall. Suddenly, Johnny rematerializes in his engram form, and he's never been so fucking grateful to be incorporeal because it means V is coming back. He can feel her presence growing stronger with each passing second, like a warm light pushing back the darkness.
Finally, V's eyes flutter open, and her voice, though weak, calls out his name. Johnny, emotions threatening to choke him, leans against the railing and turns his gaze toward the ocean, trying to maintain his composure. "That smell's the sea breeze," he explains, relief evident in his voice despite his attempt to sound casual. "Get up, princess. Pacific's beautiful this time of day."
"Almost flatlined by that attack," V says, struggling to push herself up from the floor.
"Almost," Johnny confirms, that single word carrying the weight of hours of fear and uncertainty.
She slips the pill bottle still in her hand back into her pocket, taking the opportunity to ask, "That was a close call this time... you had to use Vik's pills to bring me back?"
"Yeah..." Johnny says darkly, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "Actually, think you should keep 'em with you from now on. Just in case..." he lets the sentence hang, unable to finish the thought.
V joins him at the railing, leaning heavily against it to compensate for her still-shaking legs. The setting sun casts long shadows across her face as she gazes toward the beach. After a moment, she murmurs, "You're right, hard to take my eyes off it." She turns to face him, her movements still unsteady. "We in, uh... Pacifica? What's this building?"
"Old hotel — the Pistis Sophia. We're her sole guests right now." He finally allows himself to meet her eyes, drinking in the sight of her conscious and aware. "Wanted to show you somethin', c'mon."
"Why... why bring me here of all places?" She asks, pushing herself upright with visible effort.
"Gimme a minute, you'll see," he says, starting to walk, and V follows, her steps uncertain but determined.
She makes it to the corner before her legs give out, sending her to her knees on the grime-covered floor. Johnny materializes beside her instantly, helping her up. "Thanks for helpin'," she offers him a small, tired smile.
"What are imaginary friends for?" Johnny jokes, but his grip around her waist tightens protectively.
They make slow progress down the corridor, their footsteps stirring up dust in the dying sunlight. V finally breaks the comfortable silence, "Return the favor first chance I get."
"Hold you to that." He smirks, the familiar expression a welcome sight after hours of worry.
Something in his cocky half-smile makes her laugh, reading him as easily as ever. "Your first thought was sex, wasn't it?"
"Well, technically, we'd be jackin' off." His grin widens, the tension of the past two days finally starting to ease. "But, nah, you're not my type."
"Liar," V chuckles, as Johnny guides them to a stop in front of a broken window.
He doesn't respond, just nods toward the opening. V complies, awkwardly climbing through the window frame, landing with all the grace of a wounded animal inside a decrepit hotel room. The space is filled with the golden light of sunset, dust motes dancing in the air around them like tiny stars.
As V steadies herself, Johnny materializes in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall with practiced nonchalance. "You wanted to know why I brought you here. There's a hidey-hole where I'm standin'." He gestures toward a ventilation grate near floor level, barely hanging on by three rusty screws. "Open it. Empty it."
V makes her way over, crouching beside the old grate. Her fingers work quickly despite her lingering weakness, easily prying it from the wall. She reaches into the dark space, pushing aside decades-old food wrappers and other debris until her fingers brush against something metallic. Pulling it out reveals a set of military dog tags, the chain catching the last rays of sunlight streaming through the window.
Leaning back against the wall, V studies the tags in her hand. The metal is weathered but still intact, the stamped letters clearly visible despite fifty years of neglect. Her fingers trace over the raised text — a name, blood type, and service number, along with other military details, all preserved in the cool darkness of their hiding place. The tags feel heavy with more than just their physical weight, carrying the burden of memories and choices made long ago.
Looking up at Johnny, who's now draped himself across a dusty chair with a mix of carefully constructed coolness and genuine exhaustion, she asks, "These yours?"
"They were — belong to you now," Johnny responds, his voice carrying an unusual weight.
"Huh, fifty years back..." V searches through her memories of the half-assed history lessons from the orphanage. "Uh, Mexican conflict?"
Johnny shifts in his chair, a brief flash of uncertainty crossing his features before his brow furrows and his lips press into a thin line. He shakes his head slightly, as if clearing away cobwebs, before responding. "When I was a young pissbrain like you, I enlisted with a corp army. Was in Mexico when I realized that no matter the conflict, corps always win. Ordinary people always lose."
"So, that the truth you decided to reveal in song?" V asks, her fingers still tracing the raised letters on the tags, the metal warm now from her touch.
"Well, deserted first. Wound up here, locked in this room." His eyes scan the decaying space, seeing it as it was rather than what it's become. "Laid in bed staring at the ceiling fan for a good month."
"Egh." V lets out a laugh devoid of humor, her exhaustion evident in every line of her body. "I wouldn't mind lyin' down right now, watchin' a fan till the end of time..."
"It's why I brought you here." Johnny leans forward in his chair, his voice taking on an urgent edge. "Wastin' days, weeks — that's the step I want you to skip."
A heavy silence fills the room as V processes Johnny's words, the weight of the dog tags seeming to grow heavier in her palm. Finally, her voice barely above a whisper, she asks, "Why you givin' me these?"
"Imagine we're deployed together, fightin' in a war side by side." Johnny's voice takes a more vulnerable tone. He pauses, dark eyes intense behind his aviators. "Would you take a bullet for me?"
"I would, yeah." V's response comes instantly, without a hint of hesitation, her heart speaking before her brain can catch up.
"Tags belonged to a man who sacrificed his life for mine in Mexico." Johnny leans forward, resting his chin on his folded arms, not even trying to maintain his carefully constructed image of detachment. "Been thinkin' about our predicament... Wanna be clear — I will do you no wrong. When the time comes, it'll be my life for yours, I'll agree to get wiped. Tags are proof of my promise."
The words hit V like a physical blow, a cold weight settling in her stomach. The mere thought of Johnny being erased, of losing him forever, makes her feel sick. She doesn't want him to get wiped, not even if it means saving her own life. "I..." her voice trembles with emotion she can't quite suppress. "I'd do the same for you."
"Yeah, thanks," Johnny breathes, looking away, clearly uncomfortable with the raw emotion hanging in the air between them.
V's hands shake slightly as she slips the chain over her head, the metal tags cool against her skin. She clutches them tightly, feeling the edges press into her palm, making this moment real. The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken words, until Johnny finally breaks it, shifting restlessly in his reversed position on the chair. "You seriously considerin' Hanako's offer?"
"Hell no," V responds firmly, her grip on the tags tightening unconsciously. "Got a better idea?"
"Not yet, but I got a request." Johnny's voice takes on a harder edge, old hatred seeping through. "Adam Smasher — fucker who got the better of me... Whatever happens to me, I want him zero'd, gone, tossed into the wind as mulch."
"Right." At this point, V realizes she'd probably agree to anything he asked of her, this man who's become so much more than the unwanted passenger in her head. "Understood," she confirms, pushing herself to her feet. Her legs feel steadier now — the weakness from the Relic malfunction finally subsiding. Though whether it's just the pills doing their job or the strength she draws from Johnny's presence, she's not sure.
Johnny glitches away in a flash of blue static, rematerializing by the window they'd entered through, his silhouette stark against the dying light outside. "And I'll need you to take Rogue with you. It's important to me, and it's just as important for her," he adds, his voice carrying a weight of fifty years of unfinished business.
V's eyebrows shoot up as she joins him by the window, this unexpected addition to his request catching her off guard. The cool night air drifting in makes her shiver slightly. "So I gotta tell Rogue... everything?"
"Think I'd better do that, handle it personally." Johnny considers, running a hand through his dark hair. After a moment's contemplation, he continues, "Just gonna have to give me the wheels for a while. Quick chat with Rogue about Smasher, then I'm out. I promise."
"What are you gonna tell her?" V can't help the smirk that plays across her lips, trying to lighten the heavy mood. "'Hey, just busted out of soul prison. Check out my new ass'?"
A matching half-smile tugs at the corner of Johnny's mouth, his eyes crinkling behind his aviators. "All I gotta do is mention Smasher, serve him up on a platter, muse over the old days. Easy."
"Fine. Let's do this," V agrees, exhaustion still evident in her voice despite her improving condition. "Just not tonight. Still tired."
"'Preciate it, thanks." Relief colors his tone, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
"Feelin' better," V concludes, ready to leave this room full of memories behind. "Should get goin'."
"Still feel a sharp somethin' near your heart," Johnny observes softly, reaching out to wrap his fingers around her wrist.
V meets his gaze with an intensity that makes the air between them feel electric. She intertwines her fingers with his. "Doubt that's ever goin' away," she breathes, the double meaning in her words unmistakable.
Johnny's breath catches slightly, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around hers. For a moment, his facade cracks, revealing a flash of vulnerability in his dark eyes. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again, settling for gently squeezing her hand instead. Finally, he manages a soft "Yeah," his voice rougher than usual, heavy with unspoken emotions.
They climb back through the window, making their way along the external corridor until they reach a corner offering an unobstructed view of Pacifica beach. The setting sun bleeds into the horizon like an open wound, its dying light painting the toxic waters in shades of crimson and gold. In the distance, the abandoned cooling towers pierce the sky like ancient monoliths, while withered palm trees bend beneath the weight of smog-filled winds.
Leaning against the graffiti-covered wall, they take in the view until V breaks the heavy silence. "Another shitty hotel room where something important happened," she muses, bitter irony lacing her words. "I'm starting to build up quite a fuckin' list. The Hotel Pistis Sophia — that right?"
"Mhm," Johnny confirms, wrapping his chrome arm around her shoulders. "Good place to die."
"Just not today," she whispers, the words both a promise and a prayer as she leans into his touch.
Her fingers find the dog tags again, the metal warm from resting against her skin. She traces each raised letter spelling out Robert John Linder with trembling fingers, the name familiar from Johnny's medical records she'd seen in his memories. The realization hits her like a bullet to the heart.
"Oh, no, you cheeky bastard!" she exclaims, her voice cracking with a laugh that's dangerously close to a sob. "You didn't!"
"No idea what you're talkin' about, princess." But his smirk betrays his words, as his eyes betray something deeper.
"Robyn Jane Linder, fuckin' seriously?!" She clutches the tags until the edges dig into her palm. "You made me use your name to buy the apartment!"
"A variation of my name, there's a difference. Not like I could sign the paperwork myself, and I thought it was funny as hell." His cocky smile falters. "And maybe... maybe I wanted someone to remember that part of me, when I'm gone. Not just the rockerboy, not Silverhand the terrorist, but Robert John Linder — the scared kid who went off to war and never really came back."
"Fuck, Johnny..." V whispers, her voice raw with emotion, the weight of his impending sacrifice threatening to crush her chest.
"Shhh, V. It's okay." He pulls her closer, arm tight around her waist like he's afraid she might disappear, and presses a lingering kiss into her hair before turning his gaze back to the bleeding horizon. "Let's just watch the ocean."
They stand there in silence, the dog tags burning against V's skin like a brand — a promise written in metal, a sacrifice offered freely. In this moment, they're just two souls clinging to each other at the edge of the world, watching day surrender to night, both knowing but neither willing to acknowledge that their time together is slipping away like smoke through their fingers. The tags around V's neck feel heavier than any piece of metal should, weighted with promises, memories, and feelings that neither of them dares to name — not when their story is already written in borrowed time and borrowed breaths.
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Did I make you wait more than 200k words for a kiss? Yes, absolutely, the slowburn tag wasn't lying haha. For any frustration screams or tomatoes thrown at the author's head, the comments are open!
Once again, have great holidays! As for me, I'll be with family and won't have much time to write, so I'll probably post the next chapter in a month.
Love you all, thank you again for following this story! ♥Message thread generator HTML/CSS by Luvwich ! Have fun with it here ♥
Lots of bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song: The Sisters of Mercy - Temple of Love
xoxo, see you next time ♥
Chapter 17: Snuff
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Hey everyone! Long time no see! I hope you all had wonderful holidays and that 2025 is starting great for you! Let's dive into a new chapter.
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the all the Kudos and bookmarks on the previous chapter ♥ And thank you Karou101 and CherryOnTheTop1210 for your comments. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
So if you love me, let me go
And run away before I know
My heart is just too dark to care
I can't destroy what isn't there
After taking both a physical blow to the face and far more devastating emotional hits from an enraged rockerboy, Goro Takemura fled the dimly lit parking lot of the Sunset Motel in the stolen Quartz, tires screeching against the asphalt as he sped away into the night. The neon signs grew smaller in his rearview mirror as he drove aimlessly through the dark streets, following the winding road at random while his mind raced with chaotic thoughts.
It's only when his hands start shaking so violently that he can barely control the wheel, his knuckles turning white from the death grip he maintains on the worn leather, that he finally decides to pull over. The engine's quiet purr dies as he takes several deep breaths, trying desperately to regain his legendary composure, but the attempt does little to calm his frayed nerves. Silverhand's accusatory words keep echoing in his mind like a broken record, each replay making the weight of his failure press harder against his chest.
His dark eyes fall to his once-pristine shirt, now ruined by dark crimson stains spreading from his shoulder. While the wound itself doesn't particularly concern him — he's had far worse — the bright red against white makes him stand out like a target. Twisting around to check the back seat, he finds salvation among the scattered debris of someone's life — empty burger wrappers, crushed coffee cups, and wadded-up papers surround a crumpled bomber jacket. The garment is slightly too large and smells faintly of synthetic leather and cigarettes, but it will serve its purpose. As he shrugs it on, wincing slightly at the pull on his injured shoulder, a fleeting thought of his own coat — abandoned during their hasty escape from the decrepit building — crosses his mind, adding another small loss to this night's tally.
The need for fresh air becomes overwhelming, the car's interior suddenly feeling as suffocating as his thoughts. After a quick scan of his surroundings through the smudged windows — confirming the area is deserted save for the occasional distant drone of traffic — he steps out into the cool night air. The realization that he's stopped on a dam comes as he approaches the safety railing, his hands gripping the cold metal as he gazes down at the dark waters below. Even through the darkness, he can make out the distinctive silhouette of the Badlands' rolling dunes in the distance, their sandy peaks barely visible against the star-studded sky.
Goro settles himself on the Quartz's hood, the metal still warm beneath him as he releases a heavy sigh that seems to carry the weight of the entire night. The evening had been a complete disaster; everything had gone perfectly during the parade – their timing, their execution — but it had all spiraled into chaos the moment he'd conceived his desperate plan to kidnap Hanako-san. He had risked everything, carelessly gambling both his and V's safety, only to fail spectacularly at convincing Hanako-san of the truth about her father's murder.
The thought of facing Michiko after this catastrophic failure makes his stomach turn. His part of their agreement now seems impossible to fulfill, all his carefully laid plans and backup options exhausted, leaving him empty-handed and having squandered what might have been their last chance to save V. V... he forces his thoughts away from her, but the image of her face — hurt and betrayal evident in those expressive eyes as he glanced back one final time before leaving the motel room – seems permanently etched into his mind. Silverhand's cutting words continue to ring in his ears, each syllable striking deeper than any physical blow the rockerboy had landed, because deep down, Goro knows he deserves every one of them.
Just as he's thinking things couldn't possibly get worse, the distant sound of an approaching vehicle breaks through the night's silence. At this late hour, in such a remote location, it can only spell trouble. As the sleek black SUV's headlights pierce through the darkness, he springs to his feet, his tactical mind racing through his dwindling options. He's completely unarmed, his submachine gun lost somewhere during their hasty escape from the hideout.
As the vehicle draws closer, his gaze drifts to the dam's barrier separating him from the dizzying drop to the dark waters below. A grim solution presents itself — preventing his capture while simultaneously ensuring Arasaka could never use Soulkiller to extract information that might lead them to V. The thought makes him take several measured steps backward, his muscles tensing in preparation.
Before he can execute this desperate plan, the driver's tinted window slides down with a soft mechanical whir, revealing Kenichi Zaburo's weathered face. "Rough night, Mr. Takemura?" the old man asks with a hint of dark humor in his voice, before gesturing toward the passenger seat. "Get in."
Relief floods through Goro's tense body as he circles around to the passenger side, the door opening with a satisfying click. The luxurious leather seats are a blessing for his exhausted muscles, and Zaburo immediately executes a smooth U-turn, heading back toward Night City's distant neon glow. After a few moments of comfortable silence, broken only by the gentle hum of the high-end engine, Goro finally asks, "How did you find me?"
"Since you informed Michiko about your intentions to act during the parade, she had positioned our people strategically throughout the area, ready to intervene at the first sign of trouble," he explains calmly, his eyes never leaving the road ahead. "Our team has been tracking your every move since you fled with Hanako over your shoulder. They even worked to obscure your trail, making it more difficult for Arasaka's forces to track you, buying you time for your conversation."
Goro nods silently, discomfort settling in his stomach at the revelation that despite his vigilance, he'd failed to notice his shadows. The other man continues, his voice carrying decades of experience, "After Arasaka's intervention, we followed you to the motel. Michiko specifically requested I intervene personally, reasoning you'd be less likely to react violently if approached by a familiar face."
The remainder of the journey to downtown passes in comfortable silence, Goro's bone-deep exhaustion silencing the questions he would normally be asking. Zaburo guides the luxury vehicle around the corner of Danger Gal's headquarters. A state-of-the-art security camera scans the SUV with a soft blue light, its recognition systems triggering the heavy metal door that leads to an underground parking facility. Every movement feeling like it requires monumental effort, Goro follows the older man into an elevator that whispers them upward through the building's floors.
They traverse a long corridor lined with numerous doors, their footsteps muffled by plush carpeting, until Zaburo stops at one particular entrance. He unlocks it with a magnetic keycard, which he then hands to Goro while explaining, "These accommodations are typically reserved for employees who prefer to stay on-site during extended operations. You'll find a first aid kit in the bathroom, but if you require more extensive medical attention, don't hesitate to inform me, and I'll arrange for a doctor immediately."
"I..." Takemura begins, still somewhat dazed by the night's events, before collecting himself with a slight shake of his head. "That won't be necessary, thank you."
"Very well. There's a laundry room at the corridor's end. Michiko will join you for lunch tomorrow at noon, 23rd floor, conference room B-34. Try to get some rest before then. Good night, Mr. Takemura."
With that, the man turns and departs without further ceremony, his footsteps fading into the quiet hallway. Goro enters the apartment, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He finds himself in a modestly sized but well-appointed space, beige walls adorned with tasteful green accents, containing all necessary amenities. His first priority takes him to the compact bathroom, where he locates the promised first aid kit. With practiced movements, he immediately injects a MaxDoc into his shoulder to accelerate the wound's healing, following up with a basic dressing to keep it clean.
In the bedroom, he's pleasantly surprised to discover a perfectly sized set of pyjamas folded neatly on the bed, the soft fabric promising comfort after this hellish night. He changes quickly, sighing in profound relief as he finally peels off the blood-stained shirt that serves as a reminder of his failures. Following Zaburo's directions, he locates the laundry facility down the hall, depositing his soiled clothes into one of the high-end washing machines. Finally, he returns to his temporary sanctuary, practically collapsing onto the bed as the full weight of this chaotic night crashes over him. The premium mattress seems to embrace him, and as his eyes close, he immediately surrenders to a dreamless sleep, his exhausted mind finally finding peace in the darkness.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
When Takemura stirs from his deep slumber the next morning, the digital display shows it's already past 10 AM. He feels somewhat restored, the throbbing pain in his shoulder significantly dulled. In the small but efficient kitchenette, he sets water to boil for tea before making his way back to the laundry room across the hall. His clothes are clean and dry, though the bloodstains on his white shirt stubbornly refused to completely vanish, leaving persistent pink shadows on the pristine fabric.
After indulging in a blissfully hot shower that seems to wash away more than just physical grime, he changes his dressing and dons his freshly laundered clothes. Settling onto the couch, he finally savors his tea, watching the minutes tick by until his lunch meeting with Michiko. His mind races with scenarios of how to explain his catastrophic failure to the woman, dreading her potential reaction and, more importantly, what this means for their agreement.
Fortunately, noon approaches swiftly, and he soon finds himself taking the elevator to the 23rd floor. He waits outside the designated conference room, his usual stoic demeanor masking his inner turmoil. Before long, Michiko appears at the corridor's end, her confident stride carrying her toward him. "Takemura," she greets him warmly, extending her hand, "glad to see you in one piece. You gave us quite a scare last night." She gestures toward the door. "Please, come in."
The conference room has been transformed into a dining space, where an exquisite sushi platter awaits them on the expansive table. At Michiko's request, he provides a detailed account of the parade's events – describing V's involvement, her confrontation with Oda, and his desperate leap onto Hanako's float. While trying not to be distracted by the exceptional quality of the sushi — reminiscent of his days in Tokyo — he recounts whisking an unconscious Hanako to his hideout on Vine Street, V's attempted intervention, their failure to convince her, and the subsequent Arasaka assault that led to their desperate flight toward the Badlands. He carefully omits the intimate moment with V at the motel and Silverhand's subsequent confrontation.
As he concludes his narrative, Michiko delicately dabs her lips with a napkin before speaking. "Unfortunately, my aunt's initial disbelief was rather… predictable. I know her well — she'll need time to process everything. But upon reflection, I'm confident she'll come to recognize the truth in your words."
"Then..." Goro ventures, setting down his chopsticks, "You believe there's still hope for our plan to succeed? I feared you might view this as a complete failure and terminate our arrangement."
"Not at all," Michiko reassures him with a slight smile. "I understand that some things require patience to unfold properly." She interlaces her fingers beneath her chin, adopting a thoughtful expression. "You'll be pleased to know I've made significant progress on my end of our bargain."
"Truly?" Takemura's surprise is evident in his voice. "Michiko-san, I..." he trails off, overwhelmed by gratitude he can't quite express.
"You'd like to know more, I assume," she says, rising gracefully from her seat. "Follow me."
They take the elevator together, descending several floors to reach a section of research laboratories. The stark white corridors are filled with the quiet hum of advanced equipment and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards. Michiko warmly greets her employees, who are absorbed in their work — some typing away at complex algorithms, others tinkering with various pieces of cutting-edge tech. They make their way to a room at the back, where Takemura's mood instantly sours at the sight of Hellman. As they step through the door, he notices Michiko's welcoming smile becoming strained, making it clear she shares his distaste for the man.
Michiko gestures for them to sit around the holographic display table. "Dr. Hellman, since you're the original creator of the Relic technology, perhaps you could explain our findings to Takemura."
"Yes, yes, of course," Hellman waves his hand dismissively, pulling up complex neural mapping displays. His fingers dance through the holographic interface, bringing up layers of brain scans tinted in various colors. "The neural deterioration in the merc's case is absolutely fascinating."
Takemura's fists clench under the table. "Her name is V," he says coldly.
Hellman barely acknowledges him with a glance. "Now, as I was saying..." He manipulates the hologram, showing two distinct neural patterns, one pulsing an angry red, the other a steady blue. "The damage to the original synaptic architecture is permanent, obviously. You can't simply undo this level of neural reformation — it would be like trying to unscramble an egg. However..." He zooms in on one particular pattern, his eyes lighting up with scientific fascination that makes Takemura's stomach turn. "We could theoretically create a new engram of the current neural state — corrupted as it is — and transfer it to a modified Relic."
"Meaning?" Michiko prompts, her tone making it clear she wants him to be more direct.
Hellman sighs as if explaining to children. "The construct currently overwriting the host consciousness is forcing the body to reject its original neural pattern through an aggressive process. By creating a new engram of the current hybrid state — minus the construct's data, of course — and implementing it through similar Relic architecture with modified acceptance protocols, we could essentially trick the body into accepting this new version as its base state."
"What about the other symptoms?" Takemura interjects sharply. "The seizures, the blood she coughs up — will those stop?"
Hellman's expression sours at the interruption. "As I just explained, the damage is already done. The neural degradation has cascaded into her autonomous nervous system, affecting various biological functions. It's impossible to completely reverse these effects." Catching Takemura's darkening glare, he quickly adds, "However, with proper medication — targeted neuroinhibitors, synthetic hormone regulators, perhaps some experimental nanite treatments — these symptoms should be... manageable."
"And V would survive?" Takemura presses.
"The merc would continue existing, yes, though not as she was before. Think of it as..." Hellman pauses, searching for an analogy, "a corrupted file that you've managed to stabilize. It won't ever be the original file again, but at least it won't continue degrading."
"You're talking about a human being," Takemura growls.
"I'm talking about data patterns and neural architecture," Hellman corrects him coldly. "The sentimental aspect is irrelevant to the solution. The fact remains, we can't undo the changes, but we can prevent further deterioration by essentially making her body accept this new, incomplete version as its default state."
Michiko steps in, likely sensing Takemura's growing anger. "So she would survive, but with some permanent alterations to her personality and memories?"
"Precisely. The construct's presence has already irreversibly altered certain neural pathways — created new ones, destroyed others. Removing it would leave gaps, but at least the body would stop trying to reject what remains of her consciousness." Hellman adjusts his glasses, a small smirk playing at his lips. "Fascinating process, really. I'd love to document the entire—"
"That's enough, Doctor," Michiko cuts him off sharply. "Thank you for the explanation."
Michiko rises from her seat, motioning for Goro to follow. He falls in step behind her without a word, his mind still processing Hellman's clinical explanation. She leads him to an empty office, and gestures for him to sit. She drops into one of the ergonomic chairs with a weary sigh, her usually perfect posture slipping just slightly.
"I know how insufferable Hellman can be," she begins, rubbing her temple. "That man could make a saint contemplate murder. I would have vastly preferred to have my own teams working on this project, but given the complexity and urgency of the situation, we'll have to tolerate him. Besides," her lips curve into a slight smirk, "as long as he's here under my protection, he won't be tempted to crawl back to my aunt."
"I understand. Who better than the Relic's creator to manufacture a new one..." Takemura sighs, his shoulders heavy with the weight of everything they've discussed. "And if our suspicions about Hanako-san's projects are correct, it's better to keep that snake as far from her as possible." He straightens in his chair, bowing slightly. "In any case, Michiko-san, I am deeply grateful that you've already set all this in motion, without even knowing if I would be able to fulfill my part of our agreement."
"Your friend's situation is critical, to say the least. We had to start working as quickly as possible." Michiko's response is matter-of-fact, her chrome-tipped fingers idly tracing patterns on the polished desk surface. "Speaking of her, according to Hellman's explanation, creating her engram will require using a version of the Soulkiller program currently in Arasaka's possession. For this to work, when you regain access to Arasaka Tower, you'll also need to steal this program." She pauses, her cybernetic eyes pulsing softly in the dim light. "The Relic we're preparing for V should be ready in a few days, but without Soulkiller, we won't be able to proceed."
Goro has to suppress a tired chuckle, the sound catching in his throat like broken glass. Michiko seems so certain that her aunt will reverse her judgment and accept him back, but after the parade fiasco, after watching his carefully laid plans explode like so many cherry blossoms in a storm, Takemura can't help but doubt. "And now, how should I proceed?"
"I've given it considerable thought, and unfortunately, you'll need to put yourself at risk once again." Michiko leans forward, her expression serious. "When Hanako changes her mind — and I'm certain she will — she'll want to contact you. For that to happen, you'll need to let her find you. As we speak, I'm sure her teams are already monitoring every surveillance camera in the city to locate you. The simplest approach would be to walk openly in the most monitored parts of the city. Corpo Plaza, Reconciliation Park..." she pauses, studying his face with the precision of a targeting system. "Of course, I can have one of my intervention teams discreetly follow you to ensure your safety if things go south."
"That won't be necessary, Michiko-san. It's better if nothing can link you to this situation. I will manage." He retrieves the access card to the room, placing it deliberately on the desk. No trace of his presence in the building can remain on him. "I must act as if I am completely alone."
"As you wish." Michiko's voice softens slightly. "Don't forget, when you're back in contact with my aunt, you'll need to deploy your best acting skills. She must not doubt your loyalty, so whatever she asks, do it. Answer all her questions. She'll probably want to know where your mercenary friend is hiding, so tell her." Noticing the grimace Goro fails to hide, the slight tightening around his eyes that betrays his concern, she adds, "Don't worry, if she makes peaceful contact with you, it means V has nothing to fear from her either. Whatever her plans, she'll likely want to involve V, trading her help for a solution to heal her. My aunt always ensures she has something to offer before making a move."
Talking about V stirs a flood of memories in Goro's mind, particularly his conversation with her about the uninvited passenger currently sharing her brain. Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, the synthetic leather creaking beneath him, he can't help but ask, "Michiko-san, may I inquire about what will happen to the engram currently on the Relic, once we have... separated his personality construct from V?" The words feel strange on his tongue, still struggling to wrap his mind around the bizarre nature of their situation.
"Well..." Michiko's fingers drum thoughtfully on the desk, the soft clicking echoing in the minimalist office. "I would need to discuss this with Hellman to be certain, but most likely, it would be destroyed in the process." A spark of interest illuminates her white optics. "Why do you ask?"
"To be honest... I had a discussion with V about this matter, and she seems to have... grown quite attached to her passenger." He sighs, remembering V's fierce protectiveness. "The prospect of his destruction does not sit well with her at all."
To Goro's surprise, an amused smile plays across Michiko's perfectly painted lips. "I see. It appears that even in this form, Johnny Silverhand maintains his legendary charm."
"How...?" Takemura's eyebrows shoot up, then realization hits him like a bullet. "Ah. Hellman, of course." The urge to cross the hallway and strangle that slippery snake itches at his fingers. It wasn't his secret to tell.
"Indeed. Push him a little, and he talks. A lot." Michiko shrugs elegantly. "I was only fifteen when Arasaka Tower went up in flames, you know. But I remember perfectly well how Silverhand was perceived before that — an enraged but charismatic rockerboy." She leans forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a whisper, "When I was a child, I convinced Kenichi to smuggle me one of his albums" She settles back in her chair, a ghost of nostalgia crossing her features. "From what Hellman explained, his construct and V can communicate. Despite their situation, they've become... close?"
Goro thinks back to how V had defended Silverhand when they discussed him in her apartment before the parade. The smiles she would direct at what Goro perceived as empty space beside her. He remembers the engram's fury when confronting him after he fled the motel room, the raw emotion in his voice when speaking about V. He sighs deeply, "Yes, they've clearly developed a strong bond. I know I have no right to ask this, that it wasn't part of our deal, but... would it be possible to do something to preserve his engram as well? You explained that Mikoshi serves to store constructs, could something similar be done here?"
Michiko contemplates this, and after what feels like an eternity, she finally responds. "I don't have technology similar to Mikoshi here. However..." She pauses, bringing her hands together under her chin. "If we succeed in separating their psyches, nothing would prevent us from storing Silverhand's engram on another Relic. Of course, it wouldn't be an ideal solution for him — he would once again be trapped on a shard, but I suppose that's still preferable to total destruction."
Goro contemplates the solution, his cybernetic eyes distant as he processes the possibilities. The soft hum of the building's ventilation system fills the thoughtful silence between them. Yes, this could work — even if temporary, it would give V peace of mind knowing Silverhand wasn't simply erased from existence, even if the rockerboy ends up trapped on another shard.
"This... this would be most acceptable," he says carefully, relief evident in his usually controlled voice, his shoulders relaxing imperceptibly. "Michiko-san, I cannot thank you enough for this additional consideration."
"Think nothing of it," she waves dismissively. "Though I must admit, I find myself quite curious about this unlikely friendship. V must be quite remarkable to forge such a bond with Johnny Silverhand of all people."
"She is... unique," Goro admits, a ghost of a smile touching his usually stern lips, softening his battle-hardened features. "Though I suspect Silverhand would say 'stubborn as fuck.'" The crude phrase feels foreign on his tongue, but somehow appropriate.
Michiko's laugh, rich and genuine, echoes through the office, clearly surprised to hear such informal language from the usually proper soldier. "I see V's influence has rubbed off on you." Her white optics flicker again as she transfers Zaburo's contact information directly to Takemura. "Come collect the Relics as soon as they're ready. Ken will reach out to arrange a discreet meeting to hand over the shards. I don't trust Hellman any further than I can throw him, and I'd prefer to get this tech away from him the moment it's functional. That man would sell his own mother for the right price, and Arasaka's pockets run deep."
Rising from his chair with fluid precision born from years of military training, Goro knows it's time to proceed with the next phase of their plan. He must make himself visible in the city's most monitored areas, deliberately placing himself in Hanako-san's line of sight.
"One more thing," Michiko says, opening a drawer in her desk. She pulls out a sleek, matte-black pistol and a spare magazine, the weapon's surface absorbing the neon lights from outside. "I noticed you came unarmed. Night City isn't kind to those who can't defend themselves." She slides them across the desk, the metal making a soft scraping sound against the polished surface. "M-76e Omaha pistol. Not quite Arasaka standard issue, but it should serve you well."
Goro picks up the weapon, its weight familiar and reassuring in his calloused hand. He checks the magazine with practiced efficiency, the motion as natural as breathing, before holstering it beneath his jacket. "Your kindness continues to humble me, Michiko-san."
"Just try not to die out there," she responds, her tone professional but not unkind, a hint of genuine concern bleeding through her facade. "We've invested too much in this plan for you to get yourself killed now."
He bows deeply, the motion smooth and respectful. "You have my word — I shall exercise the utmost caution."
The office door slides shut behind him with a soft hiss, leaving him alone in the hallway with his thoughts and the weight of what's to come. His hand unconsciously touches the grip of his new weapon as he heads toward the elevator, the chrome and glass corridor reflecting his determined expression. Time to put on a show for Arasaka's surveillance network — and hope that Hanako-san is watching. The familiar weight of being hunted settles over him like an old friend, his combat implants humming quietly beneath his skin, ready for whatever comes next.
When Johnny wakes up the next morning, he finds himself protectively curled around V in their bed, his chrome arm draped over her waist, her back pressed against his chest. He knows he only has a few precious minutes before V fully wakes — he's figured out that he only materializes when she starts stirring from sleep, but thankfully, V always takes her sweet time fully emerging from her slumber, giving him these quiet moments to watch her and let his thoughts wander.
Last night had been fucking intense, to say the least. After the sun had disappeared behind the ocean's horizon, painting the sky in shades of purple and orange, they'd left the Pistis Sophia without a word, climbing back onto V's Arch for the ride back to the Glen. The rumble of the engine and the wind against their faces had filled the loaded silence between them. The moment they got home, V had bolted straight for the shower, probably trying to wash away the grime and memories since the parade. When she emerged, her hair still damp and wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and shorts, she still hadn't taken off his dog tags. And that... that did something to Johnny, stirred something deep in his chest that he wasn't ready to examine too closely.
He can't help but replay their conversation at the hotel in his head, then watching the sunset over Pacifica, the memory crystal clear despite the emotional shitstorm it stirred up. The more he thinks about it, the more terrified he becomes of her reaction in that moment — the raw pain in her eyes when he talked about sacrificing himself for her down the line, the brutal honesty in her voice when she said she'd do the same for him, the easy trust with which she agreed to let him borrow her body to hunt down Smasher. That look in her eyes as she watched him in the setting sun, his tags clutched tightly in her hands like a lifeline. And he's scared shitless of what his own eyes might have revealed in that moment.
Johnny understands with crushing clarity that their growing attachment to each other only complicates the inevitable. He meant every fucking word at the Pistis Sophia — V's body belongs to her, and him... well, he needs to die. Again. Story of his fucking life, really — or death, in this case. But lying here in the soft morning light, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, listening to the constant hum of Night City beyond their window, he'd give anything — everything — just to stay a little longer. And that terrifies him, because he sees that same desperate desire reflected in V's eyes whenever she looks at him now, like he's worth saving instead of the digital parasite slowly killing her.
The stronger their bond grows, the more devastating their eventual goodbye will be. A bitter laugh threatens to escape his throat as he realizes what a cosmic joke this whole situation is. Should have just kept being the asshole he was when they first got stuck together, should've stayed the narcissistic terrorist she initially despised. Should have maintained that wall of hostility and spite, kept pushing her away until she hated his guts. Would've been easier that way — V could've just wiped him from existence without a second thought when the time came. But no, he had to go and develop a fucking conscience. Had to start caring. Had to let her see past the legend of Johnny Silverhand to the mess of a man underneath.
Their time is running out like sand through an hourglass, and Johnny finds himself almost hoping he'll have the chance to fuck everything up royally before the end — it's what he's always been best at, after all. Destroying good things, burning bridges, pushing away anyone who gets too close. Hell, if there was a Nobel Prize for fucking up relationships, he'd have won it decades ago. The thought makes his chest tight with self-loathing, but he knows it's what needs to be done. The window of opportunity is narrowing with each passing day, and if he's going to act, it needs to be soon.
Maybe... maybe during the hunt for Smasher. The thought forms like poison in his mind. He could do something so monumentally stupid, so reckless and selfish with her body, that V would never forgive him. The mere idea of betraying her trust makes him feel sick to his stomach, makes him want to pull her closer and never let go. But that's exactly why he has to do it. Because if he doesn't, if he lets this... whatever it is between them... continue to grow, they're both fucked.
His metal hand unconsciously traces patterns on her arm as he contemplates the cruel necessity of what he's planning. It would be so easy to just stay like this, to keep pretending they have all the time in the world. But they don't. The relic is killing her, and every day they delay the inevitable is another day closer to her death. He's already died once — he can do it again. Been there, done that, got the fucking t-shirt. But V... V needs to live, even if it means she'll hate his guts for how he makes it happen.
The irony isn't lost on him — after decades of being Night City's biggest asshole, of not giving a shit about anyone but himself, he's finally found someone who matters more than his own existence, and his only option is to make her hate him to save her life. Fuck, he thinks, closing his eyes against the morning light, maybe Alt was right about him all those years ago. Maybe he really is just a self-destructive bastard who can't help but ruin everything he touches. At least this time, he'll be destroying something for the right reasons.
V stirs against him, her consciousness slowly seeping into awareness. She turns in his arms, eyes still heavy with sleep, and gives him that soft morning smile that makes his chest ache. "Mornin', Johnny," she mumbles, burrowing closer into his warmth like she belongs there. Like this is normal. Like they're not living on borrowed time.
"Mornin', princess," he drawls, tightening his arms around her despite every logical part of his brain screaming at him to pull away. He'll do what needs to be done — but not yet. For now, he allows himself these stolen moments, pretending everything will work out fine, that they have more than just… this. His flesh hand comes up to stroke her hair, and he presses his face into the crown of her head, breathing in her scent, committing it to memory. His dog tags rest between them, cold metal against warm skin, a constant reminder of promises made and promises he'll have to break. Just a few more moments of this, he tells himself. Just a little longer before he has to become the villain in her story. Before he has to go back to being Johnny fucking Silverhand, the asshole who burns everything he touches. At least this time, when he watches it all go up in flames, it'll be for something that actually matters.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
"Ready for your big reunion?" V asks, smoke curling around her in the night air of the street.
"Not really," Johnny shrugs, trying to maintain a casual facade despite the tension in his shoulders. "But not like I got much choice."
What the rockerboy doesn't say is that it's not really the reunion with Rogue that's got him on edge. It's everything he needs to do before they even get to that point. He's spent the whole day turning the problem over in his mind, and he's come to the conclusion that tonight's mission is twofold. First, get intel on Smasher. He knows Rogue well enough to know she won't lift a finger to help unless he brings her something concrete to work with. Second, and far more gut-wrenching, sabotage whatever the fuck this thing with V has become.
And now that night has fallen over Night City and they're standing here in front of the Afterlife as promised... fuck, Johnny wants nothing more than to tell her to call it off, that he's changed his mind, that they'll find another way... but he can't. Time to be an asshole again.
"Don't worry, I'll try to pull back as far as I can," V interrupts his thoughts, crushing her cigarette under her boot against the cracked concrete. The ember dies with a final spark. "I'll give you space for your reunion. You two probably have a lot to catch up on."
"Yeah... thanks..." Johnny manages to get out past the knot in his throat. Fuck, V's just making this harder with her goddamn kindness. "So — you ready? Rogue should be here any minute."
"Good luck." She smiles and touches his wrist, the gesture so casual yet intimate it makes his chest ache.
A second later, Johnny's in control of the body again, feeling V retreat deep into their shared consciousness, giving him all the space he needs. He takes a deep breath of the night air, his hand immediately searching the pocket of V's jacket. After the Sunset Motel incident, when he'd been unable to give her back control, he'd made her promise to always keep Vik and Misty's pills on her, just in case they needed them again. And like always, she listened. Johnny almost regrets it now as his fingers close around the Pseudoendotrizine. Would've given him an excuse to back out of this whole mess.
"I'm sorry, V," he mutters to himself, slipping the pill between their lips and swallowing it dry. The music from the Afterlife pulses behind him as he waits for the drug to take effect. After a few moments, he feels... different. It's not like when V willingly gives him control — it's closer to that terrifying time when he couldn't get her back in the driver's seat. He can still feel V's presence, but it's like she's miles away, and Johnny fucking hates it.
But what needs to be done needs to be done — he has to stick to the plan. Even if he's gonna need some liquid courage to pull this off. Thankfully, the bar's right there. Taking one last look at the neon-lit street, he heads toward the entrance, each step feeling heavier than the last.
He slumps onto one of the synthetic leather barstools, waiting for the bartender — Claire something, he vaguely remembers — to take his order. Every second that passes feels like a betrayal — using V's body like this, drugging her, planning to wreck everything they've built. The Pseudoendotrizine is fucking with his head, making his vision swim, and he could swear he sees his chrome arm superimposing over V's, that familiar metallic click haunting him with each movement. It's not the pill making him feel like shit though — it's the knowledge that he's about to destroy the only genuine connection he's had in... fuck, maybe ever.
"What's your poison?" Claire interrupts his spiral of self-loathing as she leans over the counter.
"Tequila Old Fashioned," he responds automatically, memory from a lifetime ago. "Top it up with beer. And sprinkle in some chili."
"Silverhand special?" The bartender asks with an amused smile playing on her lips, and Johnny cringes at hearing his name. He's become a fucking cocktail on a merc bar's menu. Fan-fuckin'-tastic. "Been a while since anyone ordered that."
He watches her prepare the drink with practiced efficiency, and the moment the glass slides his way, he downs it in one go, hoping the burning sensation will overshadow the churning in his gut. It doesn't. Nothing could drown out the voice in his head screaming that he's making a massive mistake. But it's for V's own good, right? That's what he keeps telling himself. "Gimme another," he tells Claire.
She fixes him another, which disappears just as quickly as the first. But it's still not enough to silence the guilt twisting his guts into knots. So he has another. And another. His vision's really starting to blur now, head spinning. V clearly doesn't have the same tolerance he used to. But it's still not enough. He gestures for Claire to leave the bottle.
Time becomes meaningless as he slouches at the bar, pouring drink after drink, trying to numb himself to what he's about to do. Everything's hazy, but the weight of his planned betrayal sits heavy in his chest, impossible to ignore. He could empty every bottle in the Afterlife and it wouldn't make this any easier. V trusts him — actually fucking trusts him — and here he is, about to throw that away. But it's necessary, he reminds himself. Better she hate him and live than love him and die.
He waves Claire over again, his words slurring. "Know what I need now?
"Is it on the menu?" She responds, eyeing him with growing concern.
"Information," Johnny manages. "Cassius Ryder. He still breathin'?"
"Tattoo guy? Haven't seen him in a good long while," Claire explains, wiping down the counter with a rag that's seen better days. "Gonna have to check up on him yourself. Works in Watson, down on Pershing."
Johnny finishes his drink, the glass making a hollow sound as he sets it down, and pays his tab, leaving Claire a generous tip — more of a 'thanks for putting up with my bullshit' than anything else. He stumbles toward the exit, V's body feeling foreign and uncooperative under the influence of the alcohol. The guilt follows him like a shadow, and he knows the worst is yet to come. At least this time, he's doing it to save someone instead of just satisfying his own ego. Doesn't make it hurt any less though. Doesn't make him hate himself any less.
The metro ride feels like it lasts fucking forever, the neon lights bleeding together in streaks of color that make his head spin. Or maybe that's just the unholy amount of tequila sloshing around in their stomach. Probably both. Johnny stumbles through Northside's grimy streets, bumping into chrome-covered gonks who curse at him in languages he's too drunk to identify. After what feels like hours of wandering — though his time perception is completely fucked at this point — he finally spots Cassius's clinic.
The world tilts dangerously as he pushes through the door, and he's not entirely sure what garbage spews from his mouth trying to convince Cassius who he is. The words tumble out in a messy stream of consciousness, and he's not even sure if they make sense. Maybe Cassius just thinks V's some psycho who's completely lost it, living out some rocker fantasy. But the old tattoo artist just nods along, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he guides Johnny to the familiar leather chair.
A glass materializes in his hand — when did that happen? He doesn't remember Cassius pouring it, but hey, gift horse and all that gonk shit — filled with whiskey. Cassius looks different now — beard gone white as snow, belly stretching his colorful tank top — but his eyes haven't changed, still sharp as a razor even as they crinkle with amusement at Johnny's current state.
The conversation drifts in and out like a bad radio signal, static filling the spaces between coherent thoughts. There are designs floating in front of him — or are they on a screen? — and he's pretty sure he's giving instructions, but it's all wrapped in a whiskey-soaked haze. His glass keeps magically refilling itself — some sort of boozed-up miracle — and he's lost count somewhere between "fuck it" and "why not".
"So, what'll it be? Billy-goat or the other one?" Cassius's voice cuts through the fog as he secures their arm in the machine, the restraint feeling both foreign and familiar on V's skin.
"Other one," Johnny slurs, his tongue feeling about as cooperative as a rebellious AI. "She's gonna love it." Even through the alcoholic haze, a part of him knows that's grade-A bullshit. V's gonna fucking murder him for this — just another entry in tonight's ‘Ways to Fuck Up the Best Thing That's Ever Happened to Me’ list. But the booze has kicked his common sense right out the window, and the sentimental part of his brain has staged a coup and taken over operations.
"Hehe," Cassius snorts, offering him a smoke that Johnny takes with fingers that don't seem to want to cooperate. "Sure she will."
The tattoo machine buzzes, the familiar sting of the needles helps anchor him somewhat in reality. He tries to focus, to remember why he came here in the first place. Right. Information. Ryder always knew shit he shouldn't — probably still does. Johnny starts asking questions, the words coming out in a slurred mess that somehow Cassius still understands.
The monitor in front of him keeps shifting in and out of focus, the image of a man's face doubling and tripling before his eyes. Johnny blinks hard, trying to force his vision to cooperate.
"Jeremiah Grayson," Cassius says, the name cutting through Johnny's drunken haze. "Heard he's an operator for Smasher. But you didn't hear that from me."
"Hey, who're you again?" Johnny jokes weakly, fumbling to pass the cigarette back before grabbing his mysteriously refilled glass. The whiskey burns going down, but he's too far gone to care. His liver — V's liver — is probably writing a strongly worded complaint letter right about now.
"Yeah... Could say we had somethin' in common, heh," Cassius continues, pulling up another image that takes Johnny's pickled brain way too long to process. A woman, scantily clad, features blurring together in his vision. "Ruby Collins. Sloppy second for Grayson — after I banged 'er."
The information about her workplace filters through the alcoholic fog — some strip joint downtown where she dances. Prolly there now, Cassius says, but the words seem to come from very far away. The tattoo machine finally stops its assault on his nervous system, and Johnny practically falls out of the chair, his legs feeling like they're made of jelly. He manages to thank Cassius, swipes a handful of smokes with all the grace of a drunk rhinoceros, and stumbles toward the door. The night air hits him like a slap to the face, but does nothing to clear his head. He's got what he came for — Grayson and Ruby, two more pieces in this fucked-up puzzle he's putting together.
The metro's doing its best impression of a rollercoaster from hell, each turn making Johnny question every life choice that led to this moment. The synthetic voice announcing stops sounds suspiciously like Rogue laughing at him, and he's pretty sure the floor's trying to escape from under his feet. By the time he stumbles into downtown, the neon signs are having a rave party in his vision.
The Empathy. What kind of pretentious bastard names a strip club ‘Empathy’? Probably the same type who thinks ‘subtle’ means covering everything in velvet and gold. Or maybe 'Tits & Chrome' was too on-the-nose for their refined tastes. The bouncer — either havin’ a twin or his vision's finally given up — barely glances at him as he staggers in. He is immediately assaulted by a wall of synthetic beats that make his teeth vibrate. The main floor's a maze of bodies and chrome, holographic dancers mixing with flesh ones until he can't tell which is which anymore. The strobes paint everything in alternating slices of electric blue and hot pink, cutting through his booze-soaked brain like laser scalpels.
Ruby's easy enough to spot — thank fuck, because he's seeing double of everything else. She's working the main stage like she owns it, all curves and confidence wrapped in black and gold lingerie that catches every light in the room. Those fishnet stockings are doing things to his already scrambled brain — geometric patterns shifting and morphing until he's not sure if it's the alcohol or if they're actually moving. He plants himself right at the edge of the stage, purely for surveillance purposes. Professional recon. Professional as fuck. The way her ass moves to the beat is purely... tactical information. For the mission. Obviously.
The trek to the bar feels like crossing the Badlands, shoving aside some woman taking forever with her order because fuck waiting in line when you're Johnny fucking Silverhand. The bartender's face keeps glitching like a broken holo as Johnny orders two drinks, and he's not entirely sure what comes out of his mouth, but whatever it is, it works. Getting back to the stage without spilling everything is a whole other adventure — since when did floors move like that?
Ruby notices him right away, dropping into a crouch that makes his brain short-circuit. The glass exchange goes smooth enough, though he swears her fingers spark against his like a live wire. She clinks glasses with him, downs the drink like a pro, gives him a wink that could melt chrome, and goes back to dancing. First contact, check. So far, so preem.
After that... shit gets real blurry, like someone's editing reality in real-time. The private room that seems to materialize around him looks like a corpo's wet dream of what decadence should be. He's somehow ended up in what feels like the world's most comfortable chair, surrounded by faces that swim in and out of focus. There's vodka involved — because of-fucking-course it's vodka, the universe just loves to fuck with him — and he's pretty sure he's in some kind of drinking contest, though he'd bet his other arm he never agreed to this shit.
The first shot burns like battery acid, the second one's even worse. He drops the glass somewhere in the general vicinity of what might be a table, might be a hologram, might be another dimension. The third shot sits there mocking him with its clear, evil little face, but he's saved by his competition — some spooky chick with spooky chrome and a weird-ass hat, his pickled brain helpfully notes — finishing first. Her chooms are hollering encouragement, the noise piercing his skull like feedback from a badly tuned guitar.
Then she's crawling across the table like some kind of chrome-plated spider from his worst nightmares, drinks scattering everywhere, and suddenly she’s on his lap, trying to suck his face off. What the actual fuck is happening? This isn't the plan. This is so far from the plan it's in another fucking timezone. His last two functioning brain cells scream 'ABORT MISSION' in V's voice, complete with flashing red warnings. He dumps her onto the floor maybe harder than necessary, her hyena laughter chasing him as he performs what he'll later swear was a tactical retreat — definitely not running, nope, never happened, no witnesses.
Back in the main club, the music hits him like a physical force. He collapses into something seat-shaped, reality starting to come loose at the seams. Some gonk materializes next to him — or maybe he's been there the whole time? — spouting words that might as well be in Chinese for all Johnny can understand. His brain only kicks back online when two pills appear in front of his face like magic. He picks one at random because fuck it, why not? Chases it with more Pseudoendotrizine because the last thing he needs is V waking up to... whatever the fuck this is.
Wait. V. Fuck. The mission. Right. Ruby. Grayson. Smasher. Information. Focus, you absolute trainwreck of a construct. Get your shit together, Silverhand.
The mystery pill kicks in just as the holo-dancers start leaving tracers in the air like neon contrails, and he's almost certain that chrome-plated tiger in the corner is just a hallucination. Almost. Maybe he should poke it just to be sure. Or he should ask it for Smasher's location... it looks like it knows things. Important tiger things. Secret tiger things...
Fuck, he's so screwed.
He's doing his best to focus, dragging himself back to the main stage only to find Ruby's vanished like his sobriety. The club's a kaleidoscope of bad decisions as he stumbles through the crowd, finally remembering — after what might be minutes or hours — to check upstairs. The stairs are a special kind of torture, each step conspiring to trip him, the handrail playing hard to get. He finds her there, emerging from a private room, probably fresh from giving some lucky gonk a lap dance they'll be financing for months.
"Hey! You Ruby?" he calls out as she leans against a pillar, all dangerous curves and promises.
"What — you've heard about me?" she purrs, chrome eyes glinting with interest.
"Let's get outta here. Tell you what I heard, then you'll show me if I'm right." The words come out smoother than his brain feels. Ruby slides closer, cupping their cheek with fingers that leave trails of warmth. Yeah, she's definitely interested. Johnny makes a mental note through the alcoholic haze — between this and that chrome-spider-girl trying to eat his face earlier, his silver tongue combined with V's face is like catnip for chicks.
And speaking of V's face... those storm-grey eyes could cut through bullshit better than any blade... and that little nose is just... and fuck, when she smiles, the way her lips curve just so... No. Stop. Abort. Delete. Not going there. Not now, not ever. Especially not while this drunk. Too bad V isn't into girls, 'cause she'd have outputs lining up from here to Pacifica. A wave of nausea hits him like a right hook, thankfully derailing that particularly dangerous train of thought. He peels himself away from Ruby, mumbling something that might be "Just got a little biz to take care of first."
He barely makes it to the nearest bathroom, shoving aside some guy in a cowboy hat who's cursing in Spanish. Drops to his knees in front of the toilet just as everything in his stomach — mostly overpriced vodka — makes a violent reappearance. Fucking burns worse coming up than it did going down. After what feels like an eternity of quality time with the porcelain, he's empty and shaking, cold sweat making V's tank top stick to their skin.
The sink becomes his new best friend as he rinses his mouth, trying to wash away the taste of bile. When he finally looks up, V's face stares back from the mirror — because of course it does, it's her body he's borrowing like some parasite. Those eyes... fuck, those eyes. Grey like gunmetal, like rain clouds over Night City, like... like something poetic he'd think of if his brain wasn't swimming in booze. They're looking at him with disappointment, or maybe that's just his guilt talking. Or maybe he's hallucinating. Can you hallucinate your own reflection when it's not even your reflection?
The lights from the club paint her skin in neon patterns, and fuck if that doesn't do things to him — the way the colors play across her cheekbones, how they catch in her eyes making them shift like quicksilver. And those lips... they're saying something but he's too busy not thinking about how soft they look, how they curve when she smiles, how they feel when... No. Nope. Not going there. That's a one-way ticket to therapy he can't afford. Besides, can constructs even go to therapy? Focus, Johnny. Focus on anything else. Like how her nose scrunches up when she's annoyed, or how her hair falls across her forehead, or... Fuck. That's not focusing on something else.
Shit. Must've puked up the Pseudoendotrizine along with his dignity. Can't risk V waking up to this clusterfuck — she'd never let him live it down, and he'd have to explain why he's thinking about her... Nope. Not even finishing that thought. Better safe than sorry — or rather, better drugged than dealing with a pissed-off V — so he fumbles in their pocket for another pill, hands shaking as he dry swallows it. The neon lights are doing a conga line across the tiles, and he's pretty sure the urinal is judging him.
"Get your shit together, Silverhand," he growls at their reflection, watching those lips he's absolutely not obsessing over. V's voice comes out instead of his, and isn't that just perfect? Even drunk off his ass, he can't escape her. Not that he wants to. Not that he's admitting that. Not that...
"Fuck," he says again, just because it feels good. The bass from the club thrums through the walls like a second heartbeat, reminding him there's still a job to do. Ruby's waiting, probably wondering what kind of mess she's about to get involved with. If she only knew he's too busy fighting a losing battle against noticing how fucking beautiful V is to...
Wait, what?
No.
Abort mission.
Delete thought.
Control Alt Fucking Delete.
The mirror-V raises an eyebrow at him, and great, now he's having a silent argument with his reflection. Their reflection. Whatever. Time to get back out there. At least the pill should kick in soon. Because the last thing he needs is V waking up to find out he's been waxing poetic about her in a strip club bathroom while drunk off his ass.
Just as he finally musters enough courage to peel himself away from the sink — and wasn't that a fucking achievement — two Animals stomp into the bathroom. Bouncers, his scrambled brain eventually supplies, after taking its sweet time processing the chrome-enhanced mountains of muscle blocking his escape route. The closest one grabs his shoulder with a hand the size of a dinner plate, forcing him to turn around. "Yo, get your fuckin' paws off Ruby. She ain't goin' anywhere with you," he growls, giving him a rough shove that makes the room spin even faster. "She's on the clock, got it?"
Johnny's fist connects with the guy's jaw before his alcohol-soaked brain can even process the movement, muscle memory taking over like it's 2020 all over again. "Fuck, how I missed this!" he laughs, the familiar rush of adrenaline cutting through the vodka haze. But V's body isn't built for brawling like his was, and his dulled reflexes fail him spectacularly when the second bouncer's fist crashes into their face. The world goes technicolor, then black, then technicolor again as he sprawls across the bathroom floor.
His consciousness flickers in and out like a cheap BD, catching snippets as they drag him through the club — stairs ow, corridor ow, more stairs fuck. Through his kaleidoscope vision, he spots Ruby leaning against a wall in the employee area, cigarette dangling from her perfectly painted lips. Johnny manages a weak wave, calling out, "Be waitin' outside!" before the bouncers introduce him to the back door. Next thing he knows, he's getting intimate with a pile of garbage bags, which thankfully break his fall. Fan-fuckin'-tastic, now he smells like he's been dumpster diving.
He stays down, carefully checking V's face for damage with trembling fingers. Nothing broken, thank fuck — at least he hasn't completely fucked up her face. But the guilt hits him harder than the bouncer did. What the hell is he doing? Getting wasted in her body, starting bar fights, acting like the same selfish prick he's always been... Shit. His goal was to make V trust him less, maybe create some distance, not making her completely hate his guts. The thought of V waking up to this mess, of her realizing just how much he's betrayed her trust... His stomach lurches violently, but he forces the nausea down. He's running low on Pseudoendotrizine, can't waste another pill when he hasn't even gotten the intel yet, even if the idea of V hating him makes him want to puke his guts out.
After what feels like forever — definitely not long enough to sober up, but enough to chain-smoke half a pack of cigarettes and marinate in self-loathing — Ruby emerges through the same door they threw him out of. She's silhouetted by the neon light like some kind of angel, if angels wore platform heels and barely-there outfits. "You waiting for me?" she asks, looking pleasantly surprised.
"Let's go back to my place," he suggests, and before his brain can catch up with his mouth — which seems to be operating on its own schedule tonight, Ruby's kissing him. And... it feels wrong. So fuckin' wrong. But he needs to keep Ruby interested, needs that intel about Grayson, needs to... Fuck. He gently pushes the dancer away, stumbling toward a nearby car and smashing the driver's side window with V's fist. Pain shoots through their hand — right, no chrome fist anymore. How'd he forget that? Muscle memory's a bitch. Ignoring their bleeding knuckles — great, another thing to add to his growing list of fuck-ups tonight, he reaches inside to unlock the door. No way in hell he can drive like this — the street's doing the wave. He motions for Ruby to take the wheel.
As he slides into the passenger seat, she starts the engine and asks, "Where to?"
Fuckin' excellent question. No way he's taking her to V's apartment — their apartment — so he throws out a random street name. "Martin Street." Good call. Northside. More time to make her talk. "But take the long way."
His head's spinning, vision blurring at the edges. The taste of Ruby's kiss lingers on V's lips — cherry-flavored lipstick and cheap whiskey — and every second that passes feels like another betrayal. The neon lights outside the car window blur into streaks of color, making his stomach lurch. He's realizing how completely fucked this situation is getting. No — scratch that — how completely fucked it already is.
Trying to buy time, to get his shit together, he fumbles through the glove compartment. Old receipts, empty cigarette packs, and other debris scatter under his shaking hands before he finds a pair of Aviators. Just like his old ones. He slips them on, grateful for any barrier between himself and this reality he's creating.
"Look good on you," Ruby comments, sprawled in the driver's seat, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel. She keeps driving, placing a cigarette between her glossy lips. "Got a light?"
Johnny leans in, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. The lighter flame dances between them, casting weird shadows across Ruby's face. They pass the cigarette back and forth, smoke filling the confined space, making everything feel even more disconnected from reality. His hand finds its way to Ruby's thigh — what the fuck are you doing, Silverhand? – sliding upward. She shoots him a look that's pure sin, and his mind fractures further. This isn't what he came for. This isn't right. V trusted him with their body and here he is, drunk off his ass, pawing at a stripper while trying to... trying to... fuck, what was he even supposed to be doing?
Ruby's scream shatters his spiral of self-loathing. Headlights flood the car, bright as a solar flare, and time stretches like molten plastic. The world tilts, metal screaming against metal as the car flips. Each impact sends shockwaves through V's body, and Johnny's drunk brain can't process fast enough. Glass explodes inward, the sound of it breaking almost musical. They roll once, twice, everything a blur of motion and noise and pain.
When they finally stop, they're upside down. The seatbelt — he doesn't even remember putting it on — cuts into his chest, and the smell of gasoline fills his nostrils. Ruby's sprawled on the ceiling of the car, having been thrown from her seat. Blood trickles up – down? – her face, her limbs splayed at awkward angles among the broken glass and debris. Flames start licking at the crumpled hood, casting orange light through the shattered windshield.
Johnny blinks hard, trying to focus. His head pounds worse than before, alcohol and impact trauma creating a symphony of pain. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" The seatbelt release feels impossible to find with trembling fingers, but he manages. He crashes onto the ceiling, glass crunching under V's body. The heat from the growing flames pushes him to move faster as he crawls out through the broken window, asphalt scraping V's palms raw.
He drags himself around to Ruby's side, the world tilting dangerously with each movement. The smoke is getting thicker, making his eyes water and lungs burn. He reaches in, grabs Ruby under her arms, and pulls. His arms strain with the effort as he drags her across the street, leaving a trail of glitter and blood on the road. They barely make it to the guardrail before the car explodes, the blast wave hitting them like a physical punch.
He props Ruby against the rail, fingers searching for a pulse in her neck. Still alive. Small fucking mercies. The stolen car burns, casting wild shadows across the empty street. Sirens wail in the distance, getting closer. Johnny's mind is a carousel of fuck-ups — the tattoo, the drinking, the fight, the kissing, the crash. He's lost complete control of this situation, dragging V's body through a night of bad decisions and worse consequences. And now there's an unconscious stripper, a burning car, and approaching cops to deal with.
"Fuck." Ruby's voice cuts through the night, making him jump. She's pale under the street lights, blood still trickling down her temple. "We could've died."
"Ruby..." he sighs, exhaustion and irritation bleeding together. The sirens are getting closer, their wail mixing with the pounding in his skull.
"Maybe I'll call... I'll call..." She stammers, mascara running down her cheeks, looking like a lost child in her ripped sequined dress.
"Ruby — focus." He snaps, harder than intended. He's sick of this night, of this stupid game, of absolutely everything. The burning wreck behind them casts dancing shadows on the wet asphalt, and the smoke is making his eyes water. Or maybe that's just guilt. "I need to talk to Grayson."
Still visibly shaken from the crash, the young woman just nods. Her hands tremble as she pulls out a cigarette pack and a makeup pencil. She scrawls 'Ebunike' on it before extending it to Johnny, fingers shaking so bad he has to steady her hand to take it. After that, she staggers to her feet, stumbling on her broken heel, and disappears into the neon-lit darkness without another word, just another ghost in Night City's endless night.
Johnny takes this as his cue to delta the fuck out too, before the NCPD shows up to add more shit to this clusterfuck of a night. Mission accomplished, he thinks bitterly, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. All he wants now is to go home, patch up V's body, and collapse in their bed. The Afterlife's just a few blocks away, and Rogue's waiting, but the thought of facing her — of explaining how he's been joyriding in V's meat while chasing leads on Smasher — makes bile rise in his throat. V first. Always V first. Rogue can wait.
He's stumbling away from the scene when V's consciousness stirs again, like a drowning person reaching for the surface. He freezes mid-step on the bridge, the city spread out below him like a circuit board made of light and shadow. His trembling fingers find the last dose of Pseudoendotrizine in their pocket. He downs it, feeling the artificial calm spread through their shared nervous system as V sinks back into chemical sleep.
Standing motionless under a massive neon sign casting its blue glow over everything, he traces the fresh tattoo on V's forearm. The skin's still raised and tender — a heart with a clumsy arrow, their names forever linked in ink. Hysterical laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep inside him. He is so fucking screwed. "Helloooo, Night City!" he shouts into the void, voice cracking with false bravado. Welcome back, old Johnny. Welcome back, you fucking disaster. The city stares back, indifferent to his breakdown, ads flashing their empty promises across buildings while cars stream past below like blood through artificial veins.
Lost in his spiral of self-loathing, he manages to fuck up even the simple task of taking the A-line home, his alcohol-soaked brain or possible concussion leading him in exactly the wrong direction. He only realizes when he hits the terminus — fuck, Northside, again. He can't face another ride, his stomach rolling at the mere thought. V's body has been through enough tonight.
He manages to find a convenience store still open, its fluorescent lights humming like angry wasps. He buys a first aid kit, the cashier eyeing V's blood-stained clothes with practiced indifference. A few blocks later, he finds one of those pay-by-the-hour motels, the kind that doesn't ask questions as long as you have the eddies.
In the grimy bathroom, under harsh lights that hide nothing, he finally sees the full extent of what he's done to V's body. Glass fragments glint in shallow cuts, bruises are already blooming across their skin, and dried blood makes patterns like abstract art. He works methodically with the first aid kit, each removed shard of glass, each cleaned wound, a silent apology. The MaxDoc helps, but can't wash away his guilt.
Finally — fuckin’ finally — he collapses onto the bed that smells of cheap detergent and cigarettes, pulling out V's holo. Ebunike. Grayson. Smasher. Call Rogue. Yeah, call Rogue. His finger hovers over her contact, heart pounding in V's chest. He closes his eyes, trying to gather whatever's left of his courage. Time to face the music, and isn't that just fucking hilarious coming from him? The room's shadows lengthen as he prepares himself for what's sure to be one of the weirdest conversations of his very weird second life.
V opens her eyes with difficulty, greeted by an unfamiliar ceiling where an ancient fan spins lazily, its rhythmic movement only intensifying her nausea. Her body immediately revolts, and she barely has time to lean over before coughing up a spray of blood into her trembling hand.
"Spit blood first thing every morning?" a familiar voice cuts through the haze of her consciousness.
V startles, managing to prop herself up on her elbows. Her blurry vision takes a few seconds to adjust, finally settling on Rogue's form. The fixer sits backwards on a chair a few feet away, legs straddling it casually as she waits for the merc to fully wake up. "Talk about something else, please?" V croaks weakly, wiping her bloodied hand on the already stained sheets.
"Sure." Rogue says with uncharacteristic gentleness. "First time you walked up, sensed there was something familiar about you."
"Blah, blah, Johnny told you." the young woman sighs. She tries to sit up further, but it's a lost cause — her body feels like it's been through a meat grinder, every muscle screaming in protest. "Ugh, feel like shit."
"No surprise there. Don't remember a thing, huh?" Rogue asks, not really expecting an answer. "He called me early morning. 'Course, I thought it was you." She stands up, approaching the bed with arms crossed, her leather jacket creaking softly. "And I thought, 'Cute kid. Too bad she's gone completely whacked'."
"Come to see for yourself, huh?" V snarls, defensive. "Morbid curiosity?"
"Mhm." She confirms with a slight nod. "And I found Johnny Silverhand."
"Smasher — he tell you about 'im?" V asks, her voice still rough.
"Yes. Didn't know he'd come back to NC. Johnny found some way to get at him." She paces around the room, retrieving the cigarette pack Johnny gave her from her back pocket. "Jeremiah Grayson. Works for Smasher. Johnny got a tip off some stripper, don't ask me how. 'Ebunike'. Just that. Still, lemme see what I can do." There's an edge of excitement in her voice, a glimpse of the merc she used to be shining through. "We're gonna get that son of a bitch."
"Can I help at all?" V asks, though she already knows the answer.
"In your state?" Rogue lets out a soft laugh. "Heh, you're useless. Almost. I'll holobuzz you when I learn something."
"Okay." V just mumbles, defeated. But honestly, all she wants right now is to sink back into unconsciousness.
Rogue approaches again, sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under her weight as she cups V's cheek, studying her face intently, probably searching for traces of Johnny in her features. "Unbelievable that bastard's somewhere in your head." She murmurs after a moment, her thumb brushing over V's cheekbone almost tenderly. After that, she stands up and, with a final acknowledging nod towards V as goodbye, she leaves the room, the door clicking shut softly behind her.
After gathering what little strength she has left, V attempts to sit up — bad idea, very bad idea. Her stomach does a violent flip, and she barely has time to lean over before violently emptying its contents onto the already stained carpet. When she finally manages to straighten up, Johnny materializes a few steps away, unusually hesitant, hovering like he wants to help but knows he shouldn't. "Oh, fuck..." he mutters, and for once, his voice lacks its usual cockiness.
V wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, grimacing at the metallic taste. Her head is pounding, and Johnny's presence — usually so comforting — only makes it worse. "Fuck, never again."
"Had no idea the pills would lay you out like this." Johnny says, perching himself on the rickety table nearby, his fingers drumming nervously against his thigh.
"Maybe wouldn't be bad if you hadn't chased 'em down with fuck knows what." V snaps. She points an accusatory finger at him, her hand shaking with anger. "You oughta be the one pukin' right now." Johnny at least has the decency not to deny it, but that does nothing to calm the rage bubbling just beneath V's surface. Flashes of last night come crashing back into her memory. "And the stripper? Empathy brawl? Tattoo?"
"V, listen, I… " Johnny starts, running a nervous hand through his dark hair.
"Shut your fucking mouth before I find a way to kick your ass back to 2023!" V explodes, struggling to her feet. The room spins, but her anger keeps her steady. "I already know what bullshit you're gonna spew. 'Blah, blah, had to find intel on Smasher, V! Blah.' Save it for someone who gives a shit!" She staggers closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. "You know what really pisses me off, you piece of shit? It's not even the drinking, or the fighting, or whatever the fuck you did with that stripper. It's the fucking lies."
"Princess, please—" Johnny reaches for her arm, but she violently jerks away from his touch.
"Don't you fuckin' dare!" She snarls, her voice cracking. "Don't you dare use that tone with me, like everything's fine! Christ, Johnny, you wanted a night to yourself? To get wasted? Play rockstar again? All you had to do was fuckin' ask! I would've given you the body, told you to take the damn pills!" Her words hit Johnny like a physical blow, making him flinch. "But nooo, the great Johnny Silverhand had to go behind my back like a fucking coward! Was easier to just lie to my face, right?" She shakes her head, and for a moment, her rage cracks, showing the raw pain underneath. "After everything we've been through... I thought we were past this shit. I thought—" she cuts herself off, swallowing hard. "Go fuck yourself, Johnny."
She turns away, fists clenched so tight her knuckles turn white, and strides towards the bathroom to try and pull herself together. Johnny just sits there, a lump in his throat and eyes fixed on the floor, looking more lost than she's ever seen him. Way to go Silverhand, he can't help but think bitterly, you wanted to push V away, mission fucking accomplished.
When V emerges from the bathroom, she heads straight for the door, not sparing Johnny a single glance. Outside, the morning sun assaults her eyes, and she slides the sunglasses back onto her nose, muttering to herself, "The hell is this place?"
"Place where you can puke all over the carpet, no problem." Johnny responds, trying to act like everything's normal, materializing a cigarette between his fingers with practiced ease. But his voice lacks its usual warmth, the playful edge that's become so familiar between them.
"What part of 'shut the fuck up' is too complex for your fried circuits?" She whirls around to face him, shooting him a murderous glare over her sunglasses. The morning sun catches on the fresh tattoo on her arm — their names forever linked – making the irony of it all even more bitter. Her voice drops to a whisper, somehow worse than her shouting. "I don't wanna see your face or hear your voice. Just... just delta the fuck out before I start screaming in the middle of the street."
Johnny swallows hard, his usual swagger completely gone. For a moment, he looks like he might reach for her again, but thinks better of it. He dematerializes, retreating to the depths of their shared consciousness where he can properly wallow in his self-loathing.
Deliver me into my fate
If I'm alone, I cannot hate
I don't deserve to have you
My smile was taken long ago
If I can change, I hope I never know
Johnny stays silent, watching V's day unfold like a ghost — more distant than he's been in weeks. He keeps his mouth shut during the metro ride back to Glen, watching how she grips the handrail with white knuckles, still fighting the hangover. The way she keeps her eyes closed behind her aviators, how she flinches at every sudden noise. Each time the train jerks, he has to fight the urge to steady her, knowing his touch isn't welcome anymore.
He remains quiet while she drags herself through a shower that's probably too hot, judging by the steam filling the bathroom, then collapses with a heavy sigh onto the leather couch. The TV drones on with some random braindance advertisement, the neon colors reflecting off her pale face as she stares blankly ahead, just waiting for her splitting headache to subside.
His resolve doesn't break even when Judy calls, rambling about her latest scheme to get the Mox to take over control of the Clouds. V agrees to meet her at dawn to talk with someone who might help — though Johnny can tell she's only half-listening, her fingers absently tracing the fresh tattoo on her arm. Each time she touches it, he feels a phantom burn where the ink would be on his own arm. He hates this plan, hates how Judy's idealistic bullshit always seems to drag V into more trouble. But for once, he keeps his opinions about the BD tech's naive crusades to himself. Usually, this would be the moment where he'd materialize next to V, prop his feet up on the coffee table, and start bitching. V would roll her eyes, maybe throw a pillow at him, but she'd be smiling. Not today.
He stays in the background when Rogue's messages start flooding V's holo. The fixer's got a lead, promises to call tomorrow with details. But what catches Johnny off guard is the genuine concern in her follow-up messages, asking if V's feeling better after this morning's shitshow. Johnny wonders if V will even want to continue this hunt for Smasher — after all, she's only doing it for him. The realization sits heavy in his chest. Yet despite everything he's put her through, despite the betrayal still fresh between them, she hasn't mentioned giving up. The thought makes his chest tight with something that feels dangerously close to hope, which he definitely doesn't deserve.
It's another message that nearly breaks his silence. Of-fucking-course Takemura would reach out eventually. Johnny feels V's pain like a physical thing when the notification pops up, her breath catching in her throat.
- 08:02:24pm
- But had you not returned for me, I could not send you that message. Thank you.
The message comes with a selfie — poorly framed in true Takemura fashion, background sharper than his face, but the man's still recognizable. V stares at it for what feels like an eternity, fingers hovering over the screen, wrestling with whether to respond. Johnny can feel the storm of emotions raging through her — relief, anger, hurt, longing. Finally, she hurls the holo across the room with a strangled sound of frustration. It clatters against the wall as she bolts up the stairs, taking them two at a time, before throwing herself face-first onto the bed and burying her head in the pillow that still smells faintly of their cigarettes.
Johnny's entire being aches to materialize beside her, to pull her close like he does every night and tell her that bastard never deserved her anyway. But he's lost that right. After last night's betrayal, he's lost everything — the casual touches, the late-night talks, the shared cigarettes. The realization cuts deep, but he forces himself to stay away. For the first time in weeks, V falls asleep without their usual ‘night, Johnny’, without his arms around her, without their usual comfortable banter.
The pain radiating through their connection is almost unbearable — hers, his, at this point he can't even tell the difference anymore. It's all just one big mess of hurt and regret, echoing between them like a feedback loop from hell. And the worst part? The absolute fucking worst part is that he can feel how much she misses him already, even through her anger and disappointment. Johnny Silverhand, legendary rockerboy, terrorist extraordinaire, reduced to this — watching the one person who ever really got him cry herself to sleep because he couldn't keep his fucking promises. If there was a way to die twice, he'd take it in a heartbeat, just to stop feeling how thoroughly he's destroyed the best thing that's ever happened to him in either of his lives.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
The next morning dawns gray and humid over Night City, matching the heavy silence still hanging between V and Johnny. She heads out to meet Judy without having spoken a single word to him. Johnny's still feeling like complete shit, the guilt eating away at whatever passes for his soul these days. At the meeting point, a dingy maintenance corridor in Clouds, he can't even focus on the BD techie's half-baked plan. Through their shared consciousness, he can tell V isn't thrilled about it either, but she still follows the younger woman when she breaks into an office by messing with some wires, her movements quick and practiced.
The following discussion with what Johnny can only describe as a wannabe corpo bitch with pink hair proves frustrating as hell. The woman, Maiko, sits behind her desk, perfectly manicured nails tapping against the polished surface while she clearly couldn't give less of a fuck about Judy's passionate explanations. She flat-out refuses to help with the batshit project. But in what must pass for generosity among her kind, she does offer them Woodman's head on a silver platter before dismissing them from her office with a wave of her hand that makes Johnny want to punch something.
It's an opportunity Judy won't let slip away, and V follows her into the elevator, the ancient machinery groaning as it takes them to a deserted maintenance floor. True to Maiko's word, they find Woodman there, looking like the sleazy piece of shit he is. After a brief exchange of words that does nothing but confirm he deserves what's coming, V decapitates him without ceremony, her mantis blades flashing in the dim light. She escorts a devastated Judy back to street level, then they say goodbye in front of Megabuilding H8, with the techie promising to holobuzz V once she's worked out the next phase of her plan. Johnny just hopes that moment never comes — he's had enough of watching Judy's crusades put V in danger.
The rest of the morning passes without any major incident, V choosing to head home, still not fully recovered from the other night. In the early afternoon, she allows herself a short nap, wanting to be fresh and ready when Rogue calls about the plan. Johnny watches the minutes tick by. It's been 24 hours since the merc last spoke to him, and the weight of her silence is crushing.
Around 6 PM, Rogue calls as promised, asking V to meet her at the Afterlife. V changes quickly, slipping into something more appropriate for the upcoming mission. Johnny notices she still hasn't taken off his dog tags, the metal catching the light as she moves. That has to mean something, right? He clings to that hope like a drowning man to driftwood.
When she arrives at the Afterlife, pushing through the usual crowd of mercs and wannabes, V has a brief conversation with Rogue and someone who turns out to be Weyland junior before following the fixer back toward the parking lot. The Queen of the Afterlife approaches her car — a fucking preem piece of machinery that makes Johnny whistle despite himself — and pops the trunk, saying, "Gotcha a little somethin'."
V leans in and pulls out a brown leather bomber jacket, and Johnny's breath catches in his nonexistent throat. The Samurai logo is carefully painted on the back, every detail perfect. Blue LED strips snake along the inside of the high collar, giving off a soft neon glow. There's even a sewn-on patch on the sleeve and a pin on the front, just like his original had. Even though the jacket looks brand new, it triggers memories in V — memories that aren't hers. Memories of sweaty concerts, of backstage fights, of riding through Night City with Kerry in the passenger seat screaming lyrics into the night. Running her fingers slowly over the soft leather, she whispers, "Is this Johnny's jacket?"
"A replica. Made-to-order," Rogue explains casually, but there's something soft in her eyes as she watches V examine the gift. "Real jacket musta disintegrated into dust years ago."
"Thanks," V mumbles, visibly moved, immediately slipping into the garment. And fuck if it doesn't do something to Johnny too. He knows it's technically not his jacket, just a replica... But seeing V wear it makes him swallow hard, his non-existent heart doing backflips in his chest. The way it sits perfectly on her shoulders, how she unconsciously adjusts the collar just like he used to, the familiar way the leather creaks when she moves — it's almost too much to handle. For a moment, he almost forgets she's not speaking to him, almost materializes to tell her how fucking good she looks in it, how right it feels seeing her wear his colors. Almost.
Finally, V slides into the passenger seat of Rogue's sleek vehicle, the leather creaking under her as she settles in. The Queen of the Afterlife immediately speeds off toward the northern docks, the engine purring like a well-fed cat. After a few minutes of weaving through Night City's crowded streets, the fixer breaks the heavy silence. "What'd Johnny say about me? Know you two talk all the time."
"Said you're the best. Always were..." V answers simply, and Johnny feels a surge of gratitude that she chose to relay one of his rare moments of sincerity instead of his usual acidic commentary. He watches as Rogue's expression shifts almost imperceptibly at the words.
"The best." Rogue snorts, her knuckles whitening slightly on the steering wheel, years of history packed into that bitter laugh. "Too bad that comes at a price."
The rest of the drive passes in tense silence, the car finally coming to a stop at the docks. Massive cargo ships loom against the darkening sky like sleeping giants, their metal hulls reflecting the last rays of sunlight. Rogue quickly briefs V before telling her it's 'wait and watch' until nightfall can cover their movements. About two hours later, most of the dock workers have cleared out, leaving the port eerily quiet save for the gentle lapping of waves against the pier. The darkness that falls is never complete in Night City, but it's deep enough to begin their operation.
The two women move like ghosts through enemy territory, crouching behind shipping crates and scaling containers with practiced ease. Their movements are synchronized, professional, two predators on the hunt. They infiltrate a small warehouse where V finds the intel they need on one of the terminals, its screen casting a sickly green glow over her features — if Grayson and Smasher are anywhere, they're on the massive ship docked at the pier.
As they climb the metal stairs to access the enormous cargo vessel, their boots barely making a sound on the rusted steps, V whispers, "Why're you even doin' this?"
"I'm settling a score," the other woman responds simply.
"Avengin' Johnny?" the merc tries to clarify.
"That too." It's the only cryptic response she receives, but the emotion behind those two words speaks volumes. There's no time to dig deeper as they reach the deck, and they melt into the shadows once more, moving between containers like liquid darkness. Some are packed with tech and weapons, others converted into makeshift rooms with sparse furniture — evidence of the Maelstrom gang's presence. They encounter a small group of the fuckers, their red optical implants glowing in the dark like evil stars. V and Rogue take them out one by one, quick and quiet, bodies hitting the metal deck with soft thuds.
But as they approach the ship's stern, a gangoon spots Rogue. She drops him fast, her reflexes still razor-sharp after all these years, but not before he can sound the alarm. Suddenly, someone starts shooting at them from the upper deck, the distinctive crack of gunfire echoing across the water. "Fucker's shooting at me with my own gun!" Johnny, unable to hold his tongue a second longer, materializes beside V, his form flickering with anger. "Malorian thirty-five sixteen. Signature sound, I'd know it anywhere."
V dodges a bullet that leaves a smoking hole in a nearby container, taking cover behind a crate. Finally, she meets Johnny's gaze, and the relief in her eyes at seeing him again hits him hard. But whatever they need to say to each other will have to wait. V activates both her optical camo and Sandevistan, the world slowing to a crawl around her as her chrome kicks in. With mantis blades deployed, she scales the stairs in a blur of motion. Grayson doesn't even see her coming. She buries a blade deep in his gut before he can register her presence, the chrome slicing through flesh and synthetic fiber alike. His eyes go wide with shock and pain, blood bubbling from his lips as he collapses against a crate, leaving a dark smear as he slides down. The Malorian clatters to the deck, his hands too busy trying to keep his intestines where they belong.
Rogue appears moments later, her gun trained steadily on Grayson's head while V retracts her blades with a metallic whisper. She bends to pick up the pistol, and Johnny's breath catches as her fingers wrap around the familiar grip. The weapon feels heavy, significant in her left hand as she announces, "It's not yours, I don't think." The Malorian gleams in the dim light — a piece of Johnny's past made solid in her grip. It's a beautiful gun, a work of art really, all chrome and deadly elegance. Johnny stares at it in V's hand, memories of the last time he held it flooding back, and something in his chest tightens painfully.
"Grayson." Rogue's greeting is ice cold.
"Oh my, Rogue. You an' me not playin' for the same team anymore?" He coughs, more blood spattering his chin, face contorting in pain. "Gnh. Guess I'm not at all surprised. Seems your specialty's signin' the backs of allies."
What follows is a bizarre exchange. Grayson makes cryptic insinuations about Rogue, about how she's managed to survive this long, something about stabbing allies in the back. V can't make heads or tails of it, but it's clearly getting under Rogue's skin, and Johnny's watching with intense interest, his jaw clenched tight. When it comes to Smasher, though, Grayson insists he can't help — the borg is with Arasaka now, won't ever set foot here again. V's patience starts wearing thin.
She chambers a round in the Malorian, the sound echoing across the deck as she points it between Grayson's eyes. "You're useless."
"Hey, why you so interested in Smasher anyway?" Grayson asks, desperately trying to buy time. Blood continues seeping through his fingers where they're pressed against his gut wound.
"I'm not." V spits, her voice dripping with venom. "Interested in Silverhand. And what happened to him."
"Johnny Silverhand?" He laughs, the sound turning into a pained grunt as the movement pulls at his wound. "What do you wanna know?"
"Smasher ever tell you what he did with Silverhand's body?" V demands, the Malorian steady in her grip.
"That into him, huh?" His voice is full of contempt despite his dire situation, blood pooling beneath him on the deck. "Plan to exhume that scop? Or you just wanna hear how he died — soaked in his own piss, neurons scorched by Soulkiller?"
"What did they do with 'im?" V's voice rises, patience evaporating like morning dew in the desert.
"Badlands, near the oil fields — buried out there..." The words tumble out quickly as he eyes the barrel of his former gun. "Gngh... One-O-one northbound, then head for the landfill. Dig deep enough, might even find a shit-smeared silver arm."
"Heard enough. Finish him. Fucker." Johnny growls, moving closer to V, his presence radiating cold fury. Through their connection, she can feel his rage mixing with something else — pain, maybe, or grief.
Though she couldn't hear Johnny, Rogue seems to share his sentiment. "Let's end this quickly. Wanna rip my eyes out just lookin' at 'im." Her voice carries the weight of old betrayals.
When V nods in agreement, Grayson's bravado finally cracks. "No, no, wait! I got somethin'.... Silverhand, you're into him, right? Could give you somethin'."
"Don't want a damn thing from you." V's response is glacial, her finger tightening on the trigger. The Malorian barks once, the sound distinctive and final. Grayson's head snaps back, a spray of red misting in the air behind him. His body slumps forward, finally still, blood mixing with the salt water on the deck. Johnny watches with grim satisfaction, while Rogue's expression remains unreadable in the dim light.
"Let's delta." Rogue announces, taking a few steps back and holstering her weapon. She crosses her arms over her chest, her entire posture radiating frustration. "Pointless, this whole thing. Still no leads, nowhere to go from here."
V and Johnny exchange a look, clearly taken aback by Rogue's sullen reaction after everything. The rockerboy sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. "Fuck, V, tell her..."
"Johnny says you'll get him yet." V quickly relays, trying to salvage the situation.
"Oh yeah? Well tell him— Fuck." Rogue shakes her head, shoulders slumping with a weariness that seems bone-deep. "Can't even have a normal convo with him."
V tries again, "Smasher..."
"Fuck, you don't get it. This isn't about Smasher!" Rogue explodes, her voice sharp with barely contained emotion. "He's just the goddamn tip of the iceberg! Even if we get him — what does that get us?" She sighs, the anger draining from her voice. "Later, V."
With those words, she turns and walks away, her boots echoing on the metal deck as she leaves V and Johnny behind without a backward glance. The merc hesitates, about to follow, but Johnny's hand on her arm stops her. "Leave 'er alone, V. She'll get it together, but times like this she prefers to be alone."
"Okay, I get that." She sighs and turns to face him. It's been barely more than a day since she last saw him, but it feels like a lifetime. They stand there awkwardly, the silence stretching between them.
Johnny shifts his weight, chrome hand fidgeting with his tags. "V, I..." he starts, his voice rougher than usual. "I fucked up. Bad. The whole thing..."
She looks at him, anger and hurt warring with relief at seeing him again. They're gravitating toward each other now, neither quite sure who moved first, the magnetic pull between them too strong to resist despite everything.
She's not sure who closes the final distance, but suddenly she's pressed against his chest, her arms wrapped tightly around him, his own arms crushing her close like he's afraid she might disappear. Her fingers clutch desperately at his tank top while his hands spread across her back, one warm and flesh, the other cool chrome. His familiar scent surrounds her as she buries her face in his chest, trying to breathe him in. "I'm still fuckin' pissed at you, y'know..." she murmurs against his skin, but her voice breaks slightly on the words.
"I know, princess." He responds softly, pressing his face into her hair, holding her even tighter. "Totally deserved." His chrome hand slides up her leather-clad back to tangle in her hair, while his flesh hand grips her waist like an anchor. For this moment, they exist in their own bubble of desperate relief and tentative reconciliation. The anger isn't completely gone — they both know there will be more conversations later — but for now, this is enough. They're together again, clinging to each other like drowning people finding shore, and somehow, that makes everything else feel manageable.
They remain locked in their embrace for a long while, silent and still, until Johnny finally breaks the silence, his voice rough with emotion. "Can't believe that dickwad had my gun... glad you're the one who's got it now."
"Mhm." She presses even closer against him. "I'll take good care of it, promise. By the way... I've been wondering what Grayson was talking about before I put a bullet between his eyes. You think he was just buying time, or could he really have something else of yours?"
"Not sure." He sighs, finally pulling back a little, breaking their embrace but keeping his chrome hand on her waist. "But... if there's something of mine somewhere nearby, I want it back."
"Okay." V nods. "We can take a look before we leave."
The merc starts by searching Grayson's corpse, the blood still fresh and sticky on her hands as she goes through his pockets. She finds an old key, its surface dulled with age and salt air. After trying it unsuccessfully on the boat's rusted doors and various containers, she spots a maintenance ladder climbing up the side of the massive container crane. The metal rungs creak under her weight as she climbs, the cold night air getting sharper with each step up.
At the top of the metal platform, wind whipping at her jacket, she discovers a control panel. It's an ancient piece of tech, half-eaten by rust and sea spray, with a flickering screen, corroded levers, and a big red button that's seen better days. V can't resist pressing the glowing button, and the whole structure shudders as ancient machinery groans into action. A container slowly descends, chains rattling in the night air.
V takes a running jump to a lower platform, her reinforced legs absorbing the impact as she lands gracefully on the docks. Johnny has already materialized by the container, his whole demeanor radiating excitement. "Oh, fuck. Think I know what it is."
"Let's see what we got here..." V grins, infected by his enthusiasm. There's a keyhole, perfectly sized for Grayson's key. The mechanism turns with a grinding sound, and the container's doors screech as she pulls them open, revealing the silhouette of a car beneath a dust-covered black cloth.
"Take that rag off it." Johnny's practically vibrating with anticipation. V yanks away the fabric, unveiling a pristine silver Porsche 911 — the same one from Johnny's memories, its chrome still gleaming despite fifty years of storage. The rockerboy's voice is filled with unmistakable fondness as he adds, "My ride. Hop in. I'll even let you drive."
V slides into the driver's seat, running her hands appreciatively over the vintage leather steering wheel while Johnny materializes beside her. The interior smells of old leather and history, perfectly preserved. "Where to?" she asks, admiring the analog dials on the dashboard.
He hesitates for a moment, something vulnerable crossing his face before he answers, "Let's hit those oil fields. Wanna see what it looks like out there." V nods and turns the key. The engine roars to life with a sound that makes both of them grin.
As she pulls away from the docks, the Porsche handles like a dream, responding to her every touch. Johnny slouches comfortably in his seat, head resting against the window, watching as neon-lit streets gradually give way to empty highways. "Purrs like a dream," he comments, satisfaction evident in his voice.
"Oh yeah." V confirms, feeling the raw power as she accelerates on a straight stretch of road, the engine's growl echoing off the concrete walls.
"All right, let's go see where they fuckin' planted my ass." Johnny concludes, a hint of tension creeping back into his voice as they head toward the badlands, the city lights slowly fading in the rearview mirror.
The drive isn't long, but V feels Johnny growing increasingly uneasy with each passing minute, his chrome fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against his thigh as he stares out the window, the reflection of his face in the glass looking more haunted with each mile they cover, every flicker of distant neon casting strange shadows across his features. As she slows the Porsche, turning onto a dirt road that cuts through the oil fields, the tension in the car becomes almost unbearable, thick enough to choke on, heavy as the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. "Gotta be around here somewhere," he finally says, voice tight. "Can't believe they bothered to truck it all the way out here."
They step out of the Porsche into what looks like a vision of hell itself — a nightmare landscape of industrial decay stretching endlessly before them, where a grotesque forest of metal derricks reach toward the night sky like the grasping hands of the damned. Massive gas flares burn eternal against the darkness, their flames casting an apocalyptic orange glow over everything, dancing in hellish competition with the distant neon advertisements that tower over Night City's skyline. The air hangs thick and oppressive around them, heavy with the acrid stench of crude oil and burning gas, each breath tasting of corruption and decay. Their boots crunch on ground littered with years of industrial waste — twisted metal, shattered concrete, and mud baked hard by decades of sun.
Johnny drops heavily onto a pile of rusted beams and corrugated sheets, the metal groaning beneath his weight like the last gasp of a dying thing, and V watches as all his carefully maintained bravado crumbles away, leaving behind something raw and wounded. His eyes are fixed on the ground, shoulders slumped in a defeat that looks fundamentally wrong on him — the legendary rockerboy, who faced down corporations and death itself, reduced to a man confronting the absolute nothingness of his own grave. "So that's how it is," he finally whispers, voice barely audible over the distant hum of machinery and the eternal burning of the gas flares, each word seeming to cost him something vital. "Nothing here at all."
"What'd you expect?" V asks gently, settling onto a similar pile of junk across from him, the rusted metal cold even through her pants, each creak and shift of the debris beneath her a reminder of how temporary everything is in this world. "Headstone, flag and flowers?"
"Nah, I... I dunno." His voice cracks slightly, the sound raw and vulnerable in a way that makes V's chest ache, stripped bare of all his armor. "A marker? Something, anything."
The lost expression on his face is almost unbearable to witness, looking as lost as a child abandoned in the dark. His chrome hand trembles slightly as he reaches for a cigarette he doesn't have, the gesture so painfully human it makes V's throat tight. "Really need symbolic, empty gestures?"
"Guess I do. Thought I'd feel like I'd closed a chapter here." He tries to explain, running his chrome hand through his hair in that nervous gesture she's come to know so well, the metal catching the orange light of the gas flares like dying stars. "Like I'd said goodbye to the old Silverhand, hello to the new."
"And how do you feel?" she asks softly, already dreading the answer, watching as the flames paint shadows across his face, highlighting every line of pain and loss etched there.
"Like I never even was." He says darkly, finally meeting her gaze, decades of rage and defiance stripped away to reveal something broken underneath. "Or like I was still inside Mikoshi."
V looks down, unable to bear the naked vulnerability in his expression, her eyes falling to the oil-soaked earth where countless broken pieces of Night City's industrial past lay buried. Near her boot, partially buried in the contaminated soil, she spots a sharp piece of metal, and it gives her an idea — not a solution, perhaps, but a beginning. "We'll figure something out." She picks up the makeshift tool, testing its edge with her thumb, feeling the bite of rust and sharp steel against her skin. The metal sheet she's sitting on groans its protest as she begins to carve, each stroke deliberate and deep, echoing with purpose in the hollow night: 'JS 2023'. Once finished, she runs her hand over it several times, brushing away decades of grime and rust, ensuring the letters stand out clearly against the corroded surface — a small defiance against time and forgetting. She turns back to Johnny, trying to inject hope into her voice, though it catches slightly in her throat, "Better now?"
"A bit." He offers her a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes. After several heartbeats of heavy silence, each one seeming to echo in the desolate wasteland around them, he adds, his voice barely a whisper against the howling wind, "But let's say it was my real grave – what would you write? 'Here lies Johnny Silverhand–'"
The answer comes from the deepest part of V's heart, the words tumbling past her lips before she can even process them, raw and honest in the night air. "The guy who saved my life."
The words hit him like a physical blow, like a bullet straight to his chest, and she watches his throat work as he swallows hard, the sound almost lost in the distant roar of the burning gas towers that paint the sky in shades of hell. With fingers that tremble ever so slightly — a weakness he'd never show anyone else — he slowly removes his aviators, leaving his eyes naked and vulnerable. "V..." he stands, metal hand clenching and unclenching at his side. "You don't know how much I want that to be true."
He positions himself a few steps away from her, nervously fidgeting with his sunglasses, his gaze darting away. "Listen, I realize I fucked up a lotta things. Either let down or used every last person who gave me their trust. Blind, selfish bastard that I was." His eyes find hers again, and the raw honesty in them is almost unbearable. "But I've managed one thing for now. Not to fuck this up, what we have."
V's heart constricts painfully in her chest, torn between the desperate need to comfort him, to promise that despite everything, she'll always be there, and the crushing weight of truth that sits heavy on her tongue. But deep down, she knows she owes him honesty, no matter how much it might destroy them both. "No, Johnny. You fucked that up, too." Each word feels like swallowing razor blades, but she forces them out, her voice growing thicker with each syllable. "You used me, lied to me... I believed so much that I could trust you, but..." she swallows hard against the lump in her throat, compelling herself to finish, "After what happened the other night, I'm not so sure anymore."
The words strike him with devastating precision, and she watches as his face crumples into an expression of such raw, unguarded hurt that it makes her chest physically ache. Johnny bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, his throat working convulsively before he manages to rasp out, voice rough as gravel, "Is it too late to ask for a second chance?"
"Nah, it's not too late." She tries to force a small smile onto her lips despite the vice grip of pain around her heart. "What d'you want from me?"
He slips his aviators back on — a futile shield against vulnerability — and settles beside her on the rusted metal, their shoulders barely touching. "Most people I thought were my friends, they couldn't even stand to be in the same room with me." His fingers tremble slightly as he pulls out a cigarette, the brief flare of his lighter casting shadows across his face as he struggles to gather his thoughts from the abyss of his memories. "You're fuckin' closest to me by a long shot. There twenty-four seven. And yet... you don't seem to hate my living guts." After a pause that feels like an eternity compressed into seconds, he adds in a voice so fragile it might shatter in the wind, "At least, so it seemed... till now."
V rises slowly, her boots crunching on the debris-strewn ground like bones breaking as she crouches before him. With trembling fingers that belie her determination, she reaches up to gently remove his sunglasses, watching them dematerialize between her hands like all the walls he's built around himself. "Okay..." she whispers, forcing him to meet her gaze, their eyes reflecting the neon-lit sky like mirrors of each other's souls. "But as second chances go, this is your last."
His cigarette falls forgotten to join the other debris of their shared past, both hands coming up to cup her face as if she might disappear at any moment. His chrome thumb leaves trails of ice across her cheekbones, and he studies her with an intensity that burns, as if trying to memorize every detail of her face. Finally, a small but genuine smile breaks through his pain like the first ray of dawn after an endless night. "I'll try damned hard," he promises, his voice rough with emotions he can't quite name.
A long minute of charged silence stretches between them, broken only by the distant roar of the hollow wind whistling through the derricks. V stands, taking Johnny's hands in hers and pulling him up with her, their fingers intertwining like pieces of a puzzle finally finding their place. He frees one hand to offer her a playful military salute, a ghost of his usual swagger returning to his stance as he announces, "Johnny Silverhand. Relentless rockerboy who never gives up."
"V. First among suckers," she responds in kind, and for the first time that night, their shared laughter rises above the desolate landscape like a defiant prayer, a small victory against the darkness that threatens to consume them both, echoing across the oil fields like a promise of redemption.
After a few weighted seconds that feel like an eternity suspended between heartbeats, V presses her palm against his chest, feeling his heart beating strong and steady beneath her touch. "Still feel like you can't breathe in here?"
"Nah. Not sayin' it's great, but it's different." He pauses, his arms sliding around her waist, his chrome hand cool against the leather of her jacket while his flesh one finds the small of her back. "Sometimes when I wake up, feels like I'm back for a while."
"What d'you mean — back?" V asks softly, mirroring his position, her arms finding their natural place around him as if they were always meant to be there.
"Well, like I got this body to myself. Like I'm free." His arms tighten around her, pulling her closer until there's no space left between them, pressing her against his chest as he buries his face in her neck, his words ghosting against her skin. "Seconds later, feels like I'm missing something — something really important. Then I realize you're there, always were, and this stupid wave of relief washes over me..."
"Have similar dreams sometimes. That you never died, that I'm you." She confesses in return, her hands wandering across his back, tracing soothing patterns through his tank top, feeling the tension slowly seep from his muscles under her touch. "Not like I think, 'What would Johnny do?' It's more I do something and I feel... fuckin' great. Like I've finally started to fit into this world."
"Fuck, V..." he whispers into her hair, his voice thick with emotions he can't quite name, his chrome hand tangling in her hair while the other pulls her impossibly closer, as if trying to merge their bodies the way their minds are.
"When you said you let your friends down — did ya mean Rogue?" the merc asks, her fingers still drawing mindless patterns on his back, following the curve of his spine while her other hand plays with the hair at the nape of his neck.
"Rogue, Alt, Kerry, Santiago..." Johnny lists, each name falling from his lips like drops of blood, heavy with decades of regret and lost opportunities, each one a wound that never quite healed.
“Not all’s lost yet, least with Rogue.” She tries to comfort him, her hand moving to cup his face, thumb brushing against his stubbled jaw as she forces him to meet her gaze.
Johnny shakes his head, pulling back slightly but keeping one hand firmly on her waist. “Can't pretend nothing's changed over fifty years, can't just insert myself into her life.”
“Smasher biz really got to her.” V says, remembering how shaken Rogue had looked leaving the ship earlier. “Ya can't leave it like this, I don't think.”
“Might be right. She was acting weird.” He agrees.
“You oughta talk to her.” Her hand slides down his flesh arm, feeling goosebumps rise under her touch as she squeezes gently in encouragement.
"I'll think of something." He nods, his dark hair falling into his eyes without his aviators to hold it back. After a few moments of comfortable silence, his thumb tracing circles on the strip of exposed skin between her tank top and pants, he adds, "Let's delta. Nothin' to see here after all."
"Worth comin' out all the same?" V asks, searching his face, her thumb brushing against his bottom lip in an unconscious gesture.
"Absolutely. Thanks, V." He offers her a genuine smile that she immediately returns. "Of all the heads I coulda popped up in, hella glad it was yours."
The words hang in the air between them, weighted with meaning, as Johnny pulls her closer again, his forehead resting against hers while their breaths mingle in the cool night air, neither willing to break this moment of raw intimacy.
They finally separate reluctantly, their fingers lingering against each other as they walk toward the Porsche parked a short distance away. As they reach the car, its sleek silver form gleaming under the dim lights, V offers, "You wanna take control till we reach the apartment? Bet you're dying to drive this beauty again."
"V, you sure that..." he hesitates, his flesh hand trailing reverently along the hood.
"Yep. Take over. Drive us home. Just... no detours, 'kay?"
"Okay. Promise." He squeezes her hand. "Won't betray your trust ever again."
She returns his smile, and just like that, she steps back, giving him space as Johnny finds himself in control of her body once more. He slides behind the wheel, his hands gripping the leather with a familiarity that makes his chest ache. The engine roars to life under his touch, and for a moment, he just sits there, overwhelmed by memories and sensations. The familiar smell of leather and metal, the purr of the engine he'd know anywhere, the way the wheel feels exactly like he remembers — it's like being reunited with a long-lost friend.
He guides them through Night City's neon-lit streets, the Porsche responding to his every touch like she remembers him too. The drive to Glen is smooth and careful — more careful than he's ever driven before, keeping his promise to V.
The elevator ride up to the apartment feels both too long and too short, and once they're safely inside, he returns control to V, materializing a few feet away. V smiles at his ghostly form, noting the lingering contentment in his expression, before heading to the bathroom to prepare for the night. The whole evening feels different somehow — lighter, as if they've crossed some invisible threshold together, their trust in each other stronger than ever.
As she settles into their bed, Johnny is immediately at her side, wrapping himself around her, his solid form a comforting warmth against her back. The weight of the evening's confessions still lingers in the air between them, making this quiet moment feel even more intimate. "Since we're doing the whole confession thing..." he starts, his breath tickling the nape of her neck, sending a slight shiver down her spine. His voice carries an unusual vulnerability that makes V's heart clench. "I... I think there's something fucked up with my memories."
"What d’you mean?" V asks, turning in his embrace to face him, their faces close enough to share breath.
"Not sure, but... Remember when you asked me where I was deployed during the war?" His flesh hand traces absent patterns on her back, as if seeking comfort in the contact.
"Yeah, Mexico, right?" she asks.
"That's what you suggested, yeah. And I just... went with it. But truth is..." His arms tighten around her, pulling her closer as if seeking anchor in a storm of uncertainty. "I can't really remember. Could be Mexico, could be somewhere else entirely. But something feels off. Maybe I just forgot after fifty years in the digital void but... Fuck V, I think they messed with my head when I was in Mikoshi."
"Holy shit, Johnny..." V breathes, her hand stilling against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath her palm.
"Yeah... Think I can't even trust my own memories anymore." He sighs into her hair, the scent of her shampoo grounding him in the present, in this moment of brutal honesty. "Can't do shit about it, but... just tellin' you in case you ever find out something about me, something that doesn't match what I told you... Don't want you thinkin’ I deliberately lied. It's just... everything's scrambled in my head."
"We'll... we'll try to figure it out, Johnny." Her hand moves to gently card through his dark hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp in a soothing gesture. "Together. Like everything else."
"Yeah, thanks..." He murmurs.The silence stretches for a few heartbeats, heavy with unspoken emotions, before he continues, "You know, during the drive, I had time to think about Rogue. Y'know, did promise her I'd take her to the movies. Long, long ago."
V smiles at him, her fingers still tangled in his hair. "Good idea."
"Call her for me, ask if she's free some night?” The request comes with a hint of hesitation. “Thing is, you'd have to surrender control — again."
"No problem. Yeah, I'll call her tomorrow." Her response earns her a grateful smile from Johnny, one of those rare, genuine ones that make her heart skip a beat. "But it'll have to wait another night — tomorrow, I've got that party at the Aldecaldos camp. Panam would strangle me if I bail."
"And we wouldn't want that, huh?" he teases, tightening his embrace. "C'mon princess, time to rest. Another big day tomorrow."
“Yeah, you right.” She nuzzles comfortably against him, fitting perfectly in the curve of his body. “‘Night, Johnny.”
“Sweet dreams, V.” he responds, closing his eyes, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple.
As he feels sleep claiming V, he's infinitely relieved to be able to hold her like this again, to simply wish her goodnight. He knows his fucked-up plan to push her away came from good intentions, but he's just so damn happy it failed. He's aware that whatever this is between them will make the eventual goodbye infinitely harder when they reach the end of the line. The thought of losing her makes his chest tight with a pain he can't quite describe.
But right now, he can't bring himself to care, can't force himself to give up these precious moments of pure happiness. Not when her arms feels like home, not when every breath they share feels like borrowed time worth dying for, not when she's become the only thing in this fucked-up world that makes sense anymore. In the quiet of the night, with V's steady breathing against his chest, Johnny allows himself to acknowledge what he's been trying to deny — he's not just in her head anymore, she's in his heart, and there's no going back from that.
Chapter 18: Would?
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Hey everyone, hope you're all doing good! Well, I'm not super happy with this chapter, I can't quite put my finger on what's bothering me, but... anyway, don't hesitate to tell me what you think!
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the all the Kudos, subs and bookmarks on the previous chapter ♥ And thank you Karou101 for your comment. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Into the flood again
Same old trip it was back then
So I made a big mistake
Try to see it once my way
Drifting body, it's sole desertion
Flying not yet, quite the notion
The next morning bathes V's apartment in soft golden light, filtering through the half-closed blinds. She's perfectly content staying exactly where she is, wrapped in Johnny's arms, his chrome hand tracing lazy patterns on her skin. For once, the day ahead promises to be peaceful — no fixers calling about urgent contracts, no corpo assassins on their tail, no immediate life-threatening situation to handle. All that's on her schedule is making that call to Rogue for Johnny and showing up at the Aldecaldos camp tonight for their celebration.
Her mind wanders to her recent girls' night out with Panam, remembering the knowing smirk on the nomad's face as she pointed out what V was trying so hard to deny. Now, lying here with Johnny, she can't help but admit Panam had seen right through her. V raises her arm, studying the heart tattoo Johnny had drunkenly left there. The permanent mark somehow feels right, even if Panam is definitely going to be insufferably smug about it.
"Mornin', princess," Johnny's voice is rough with sleep as he yawns, pulling her from her thoughts. His dark eyes immediately fix on the tattoo she's examining, and she can feel his body tense slightly, waiting for her to finally address his drunken artwork.
"Y'know what?" V turns to face him, taking in his messy hair and the way the morning light plays on his chrome arm. "I like it."
"Yeah?" The relief in his voice is palpable, his body relaxing against hers.
"Yeah," V confirms with a soft smile. "Mornin', rockerboy."
Johnny returns her smile, pulling her closer against his warm body. The comfortable silence stretches between them, broken only by the distant sounds of Night City waking up outside. After a while, he asks, "So, what's the plan for today?"
"Mhh? Not much before tonight. Thought we could cruise around the city, y'know, just hang out. See what trouble finds us — or what trouble we can find."
"Sounds like a plan." He stretches lazily, and V finally forces herself to leave their warm nest. She heads straight for the kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee soon filling the apartment. After a hot shower and spending some time feeding her pets — including scratching Nibbles behind the ears and making sure her iguana has enough food — she's ready to face the day. She exits the apartment with Johnny following close behind, wearing his replica jacket that's quickly becoming her favorite piece of clothing.
She decides to take Johnny's Porsche for a spin, the vehicle practically begging to be pushed to its limits. The morning sun glints off its pristine silver paint as she slides behind the wheel, Johnny settling into the passenger seat with that cocky grin she's grown to love. The powerful engine roars to life, and V can't help but smile at the familiar purr.
Weaving through the morning traffic, she gradually increases their speed, testing how the car handles. The Porsche responds beautifully to every touch, every command, like an extension of herself. She catches Johnny watching her with undisguised pride as she masterfully maneuvers his precious car through Night City's crowded streets.
She pushes the car faster as they hit the highway, the engine's growl deepening as she weaves between vehicles, the world becoming a blur around them. Johnny looks completely content in the passenger seat, clearly enjoying watching her handle his prized possession with such skill.
Their carefree morning gets interrupted by an incoming call — Jefferson Peralez's face appearing in V's field of vision, requesting her presence at their apartment for an urgent mission he can't discuss over holo. V accepts with a slight sigh, saying goodbye to their peaceful day plans. She takes the exit toward Charter Hill, the Porsche's engine purring smoothly as they navigate through the upper-class neighborhood. Minutes later, they're pulling up to the luxurious building where the Peralez couple resides. Elizabeth's voice answers the intercom, inviting her up.
After a warm welcome, the couple settles with V in their luxurious living room and takes turns explaining a bizarre recent event — Jefferson was awakened in the middle of the night by a noise in their apartment. Following his security training, he grabbed his gun from the bedside safe and went to investigate, only to find himself face-to-face with an intruder in their hallway. He remembers firing his weapon, but then everything went black. The next thing he knew, he was waking up in his bed as if nothing had happened.
Elizabeth, perched elegantly on the edge of their designer couch, explains why they haven't contacted the NCPD. Their trust in Night City's finest is limited at best, especially with the current political climate. Instead, they turned to their private security firm, SSI. Her perfectly manicured hands twist nervously as she describes SSI's puzzling response — according to them, there was no trace of any intrusion, and the high-tech security cameras recorded nothing unusual that night. V notices Johnny pacing behind the couple, his face showing the same suspicion she feels.
Nothing appears to be missing from their meticulously decorated apartment, and there's no visible evidence of Jefferson's claimed gunshot. V suggests that SSI might be covering something up, possibly connected to the ongoing mayoral campaign. Someone could be trying to intimidate the Peralez family, a common tactic in Night City's cutthroat political scene.
Elizabeth rises gracefully, offering to guide V through their apartment. The merc's trained eye immediately starts picking up irregularities. Using her Kiroshi optics, she discovers bullet impacts in the wall where Jefferson encountered the intruder – professionally filled and painted over, nearly invisible to the naked eye. A more detailed scan reveals blood traces on the expensive flooring — mostly sanitized, but her enhanced vision detects microscopic drops and residual traces of industrial-grade cleaning chemicals.
Following the faint blood trail through the opulent apartment, V's path leads to a room dominated by a massive wall screen — the kind only the city's elite can afford. The screen flickers oddly, displaying random patterns that shouldn't be there. "Broken?" V asks, approaching the impressive piece of tech.
"It was fine a couple days ago," Elizabeth responds with an elegant shrug. "We rarely use it, though."
Johnny moves closer to the screen, his chrome hand hovering near its surface. His unusual interest piques V's curiosity further — typically, he couldn't care less about rich people's fancy tech. She steps forward, activating her neural interface to run diagnostics on the system. The moment her hand touches the screen, everything goes wrong.
The display erupts in aggressive red glitches, the color bleeding into V's vision. Digital artifacts dance at the edges of her sight, corrupting her optical input. Before she can process what's happening, everything plunges into darkness, save for sporadic flashes of crimson pixels that burn against the void. Just as suddenly as it started, the phenomenon ends.
V finds herself on her knees, head pounding, the expensive carpet soft under her palms. A few feet away, Johnny is in a similar position, which is particularly concerning – whatever this was affected him too, despite his digital nature. "What was that?" V asks, her voice slightly shaky as she tries to steady her breathing.
"No fuckin' clue," he responds, running his chrome hand through his hair, looking as rattled as she feels. "Felt kinda good, but weird. Like trippin' on acid."
V turns to Elizabeth, whose perfectly composed facade has cracked, showing genuine shock. Realizing they won't get answers here, V refocuses on her scan. Her Kiroshi optics pick up another blood trace, but this time, they reveal something else – the outline of a concealed door, seamlessly integrated into the wall's design. "Why's this door concealed?"
"Where?" Elizabeth's confusion seems genuine, her eyes scanning the apparently solid wall. "There's no door here."
"Scanner's showin' somethin' different," V responds, already moving toward the hidden entrance. With a combination of tech knowledge and brute force, she manages to trigger the mechanism, revealing a hidden room behind the pristine wall.
The two women explore the hidden room, Elizabeth's perfectly manicured hand covering her mouth in horror as she realizes the screens they just left, along with the one in her bedroom, function as two-way mirrors. The cramped space is filled with cutting-edge surveillance equipment and multiple monitors, their soft blue glow casting eerie shadows on the walls. A bloodied first-aid kit lies discarded in the corner, clearly used by the intruder after taking Jefferson's bullet. Elizabeth suddenly clutches her head, a wave of dizziness forcing her to lean against the wall. She excuses herself, leaving V to continue the investigation alone.
Following Johnny's suggestion to follow the thick black wires snaking up through the ceiling, V finds a maintenance ladder and climbs up, the metal rungs cold under her fingers. The rooftop offers a stunning view of Night City's skyline, but what catches their attention is an antiquated transmitter, its weathered surface standing out against the modern architecture. Johnny recognizes it immediately — old Militech technology from the corpo war days, requiring direct line of sight to function.
Following his expertise, V activates her Kiroshi optics, scanning the surrounding buildings. The enhanced vision reveals a suspicious van parked several blocks away, near another antenna. After making a mental note of its location, she returns to Elizabeth, briefly explaining about the transmitter and promising to keep her updated.
Back in Johnny's Porsche, they speed through Charter Hill's pristine streets toward the second antenna. The engine purrs as V pushes it harder, but they arrive just in time to see the suspect vehicle accelerating away. The mission suddenly transforms into a high-speed chase, the Porsche's tires screaming as they pursue the van through increasingly dangerous neighborhoods, finally entering Northside — deep in Maelstrom territory. The van makes a sharp turn into a narrow alley, and V's instincts scream 'ambush.' Before she can even exit the car, chrome-covered gangers emerge from every shadow, their red optical implants glowing menacingly in the dim light.
What follows is a brutal, exhausting firefight in the narrow confines of the filthy alley. The air quickly becomes thick with gunsmoke and the distinct odor of burnt chrome and spilled blood. V works methodically through the ambush, her movements fluid and precise despite the chaos. Johnny's iron feels perfect in her hand — each shot reminds her why it's Johnny's favorite. Finally, after what feels like hours, the last Maelstromer collapses with a wet thud, his chrome-covered body adding to the growing pool of blood on the filthy concrete.
V takes a moment to catch her breath, tasting copper in her mouth. Her ears ring from the prolonged gunfire, and her muscles ache from the intense combat. The abandoned van sits at the end of the alley like a prize, its sleek, tech-heavy exterior a stark contrast to the grimy surroundings. She approaches cautiously, pulling out her personal link to interface with the vehicle's sophisticated onboard computer system. The database she accesses is a treasure trove of information about the Peralez couple — everything from mundane surveillance photos to intimate medical records. Most disturbing of all are the detailed brain scans and neuroplasticity analyses, displayed in high-resolution holograms that float before her eyes.
As V and Johnny scroll through the data, a disturbing pattern emerges in the neural scans. New connections form while others disappear, like watching someone rewrite a neural network in real-time. The implications hit them both simultaneously — this isn't just surveillance. Someone is actively rewiring the Peralez's brains, methodically manipulating their memories and personalities. The database reveals half a dozen other victims, but before V can download the files, someone remotely triggers an emergency purge. She watches helplessly as the compromising information vanishes line by line, leaving her with nothing but the disturbing knowledge of what's really happening.
V immediately holophones Elizabeth to share her findings. But as soon as she begins to explain about the brainwashing, Elizabeth cuts her off mid-sentence, her voice tight with barely contained anxiety. She insists they meet in person, suggesting a small, discrete ramen shop tucked away in Japantown at noon. The fear in Elizabeth's voice is palpable, even through the holo connection.
V slides back behind the wheel of the Porsche, the leather seat still warm as she speeds through Night City's neon-lit streets toward Japantown. After parking near the bustling Cherry Blossom Market, the air thick with the mingled scents of street food and incense, Johnny provides a welcome distraction by commenting on a street musician's performance.
The young man sits on a worn amp, his guitar decorated with anti-corpo stickers. In typical Johnny fashion, he manages to simultaneously criticize the guy's technique while praising his raw passion. His chrome hand moves unconsciously, mimicking the correct chord positions as he speaks. He reminisces about Samurai's early days, playing in dingy clubs that reeked of cheap synthetic alcohol and even cheaper cigarettes, ending with a casual, "Had an audience from the start. Some recorded our stuff, didn't even know who we were."
V's eyes light up with enthusiasm, momentarily forgetting about their current mission. "Ooh! Mean to say I could get my hands on some old Samurai bootlegs?" She can't resist teasing him, her voice taking on an exaggerated fan-girl tone. "I'm gonna find those tapes, I'm 'gonna shriek like a fangirl any time you open your mouth. Happy?"
"Just you fuckin' try," he shoots back, matching her playful tone, a genuine smile playing on his lips.
"Jokes aside. Think those tapes still exist? After all these years?" V asks more seriously, genuinely curious about this piece of Night City's musical history.
Johnny considers this for a moment, his chrome hand absently tapping against his thigh. "Y'know, Rainbow Cadenza's not far from here. Club we played till the band fell apart." He gestures vaguely toward the market, where strings of red lanterns sway in the breeze. "Great spot. Place for people with their heads on straight. Maybe they'll know somethin'."
V nods and heads in the indicated direction, weaving through the crowd of market-goers, but her enthusiasm quickly deflates when she sees the sign. "Um... Johnny? Pretty sure they turned your great spot into the slurp shop where we're supposed to meet Elizabeth."
"Mindless fuckin' consumerism wins the day again," he responds flatly, poorly hiding his disappointment behind a mask of cynicism. "Huh... This is why you don't bring back fallen warriors. Sooner or later, they're gonna see everything they fought for's turned to shit."
"Hey, cheer up, rockerboy," V tries to boost his spirits, reaching out to squeeze his arm sympathetically. "I'll talk to Elizabeth about what we found, then ask the cook if he knows anything about what happened to Rainbow Cadenza."
Johnny simply nods, and V walks into the restaurant. Inside the ramen shop, the air is thick with steam and the rich aroma of bone broth. V quickly spots Elizabeth Peralez, perched nervously on a stool in a dimly lit corner. The politician's wife has clearly attempted to conceal her identity — her black hair pulled back in a severe braid, and her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses despite the indoor setting. She's chain-smoking, her perfectly manicured fingers trembling slightly as she brings a cigarette to her lips. When she notices V, she invites her to sit with a voice barely above a whisper, tension evident in every syllable.
The woman's explanation tumbles out in hushed, anxious bursts. She's noticed changes in Jefferson's behavior — small things at first, like disagreeing about shared memories or making decisions that seemed out of character. Then friends started commenting on her own strange behavior, making her question her sanity. The hidden surveillance room in their apartment triggers a peculiar sense of déjà vu, as if she's seen it before but somehow forgot. When she tried sharing her concerns with Jefferson, he dismissed them, suggesting she was being paranoid.
Her voice drops even lower as she describes receiving a call from someone using a garbled voice modulator. The mysterious caller issued clear threats — if she continued investigating, an 'accident' might befall her or Jefferson. Elizabeth's hand shakes as she stubs out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, her composure cracking as she pleads with V not to tell her husband about these discoveries. She knows Jefferson too well – if he learns the truth, he'll never let it go, potentially putting himself in grave danger.
Elizabeth informs V that she'll tell Jefferson it was merely political espionage, and has arranged a meeting between them where V can support this version. When V hesitates to make any promises, Elizabeth simply nods in understanding, her shoulders tense with barely contained anxiety. Without another word, she slides off the stool and hurries out of the restaurant, leaving behind only the lingering scent of expensive perfume and fear.
Johnny materializes in Elizabeth's vacated seat, his form flickering briefly in the steam-filled air. "Whole thing's fucked up, huh? Wouldn't wanna be in her pants." He sighs, running his chrome hand through his dark hair before adding, "Speaking of... Overlapping memories, changing personalities — remind you of anything? But hey, at least we know what we're up against."
"So, in my pants, what would you do?" V asks, turning to face him.
"Some real rat-bastards behind this. Someone's gotta take 'em down," he responds predictably, jaw clenching with familiar anger.
"Even by risking the Peralezes' lives?" the merc asks, though she's already leaning toward agreeing with him.
"Fuck knows what kind of shit a mayor controlled by puppet masters could pull." He pushes his hair back in frustration. "But yeah, you could end up puttin' their lives at risk. Or not. Tough choice, V."
"Yeah..." V sighs heavily. "I think Jefferson deserves to know the truth. At least give him a chance to fight back." She stands from her stool, stretching. "Anyway, we've got time before meeting him. Let's go huntin' for those bootlegs instead — way less depressing."
V approaches the central part of the restaurant, where steam rises from the open kitchen. The cook, clearly exhausted from answering this question countless times, dramatically rolls his eyes and directs her to another vendor in the market — an old-timer who specializes in indie band albums.
Outside, the market buzzes with life as V locates the indicated stand. The vendor is a weathered old man with wild grey hair, wearing a well-worn Samurai t-shirt under a sleeveless leather jacket. V leans against the glass counter and says, "Heard I can get some decent tunes here."
"Whatcha mean by 'decent'?" He eyes her appraisingly. "We got Cartesian Duelists, Eurodyne's stuff, Tainted Overload..."
"Any Samurai?" V asks sarcastically, gesturing to the shrine-like decoration of the stand, covered in band posters and memorabilia.
"Kid, you even gotta ask?!" He laughs, suddenly energized. His eyes light up as he starts listing tracks with religious fervor, "'Never Fade Away', 'Dancing with my Ax', 'Chippin' in'! You name it, we got it! Silverhand was the one true messiah of rock. I'd hand them records out like candy if I could. But a guy's gotta eat." His enthusiastic spiel cuts short as his gaze falls on V's jacket. "Wait a sec... What's that you're wearin'? Is that...?"
"Jealous?" V can't help showing off, turning slowly to display Johnny's iconic jacket. "Got it from an old choom o' Johnny's. S'all about the connections."
The vendor lets out a hearty laugh, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Well, I'll be damned. Last time I saw that, I was still basking in the glory of youth. One time, Johnny hung it on a chair to go beat the living shit out of some Militech apologist." His voice drops to a whisper, eyes twinkling with nostalgia. "I snuck up and I put it on, just for a few seconds. Ahaha, the good ol' days."
After that display, getting information about the bootlegs becomes almost effortless, especially with Johnny whispering concert anecdotes in V's ear, which she eagerly relays to the vendor. The old man's eyes light up with each story, and he practically bounces with excitement when V mentions specific dates and venues. Thrilled to find a kindred spirit who shares his passion, he grants her access to his rarest items, stored in old metal cases under the counter, claiming it's his duty to 'educate the youth'. V seizes the opportunity to grab the bootlegs she came for — grainy recordings from smoke-filled clubs and underground venues, their cases worn with age but carefully preserved. She can't resist adding some vintage Samurai merch to her haul — a faded tour t-shirt from long before she was born and a black tank top with the Samurai logo that's nearly identical to Johnny's, though newer and less battle-worn.
After bidding farewell to the enthusiastic vendor, V heads back to the Porsche through the bustling market, plastic bag swinging from her hand, the smell of street food and incense still heavy in the air. She chuckles to herself, thinking how the old man might have had a heart attack if he'd spotted Johnny's car parked just around the corner. As she opens the trunk to store her purchases, Johnny materializes, leaning against the chassis with that signature cocky grin of his, sunglasses reflecting the neon signs overhead. "Samurai merch, V? Really? Keep this up, and I might start thinkin' you're actually one of my groupies."
"Heh, believe what you want," she shoots back with a smile, closing the trunk with a solid thunk. "Besides, you noticed that tank top's practically identical to yours? Between your jacket, that, and those ass-hugging leather pants of yours we found a while back, you can dress like... well, yourself for your date with Rogue. The whole rockstar package."
Something warm spreads through Johnny's chest at her thoughtfulness, a feeling he's not quite used to. Of course V would think about these little details — it's just who she is. As she slides into the driver's seat, the leather creaking under her weight, he reappears beside her, chrome hand tapping against his knee in that nervous habit he's never managed to shake. "So you're really gonna call ‘er for me? Rogue, I mean?"
"Course I will," she confirms, turning the key. The Porsche's engine purrs to life, the dashboard lights cast a soft glow over their faces as she adds, "Soon as I'm done with this Peralez mess, I'll holobuzz her.”
As V cruises toward Reconciliation Park, the city's neon lights painting streaks across the Porsche's pristine black paint, Johnny settles deeper into his seat, lost in thought. The prospect of seeing Rogue again ties his stomach in knots — assuming she even agrees to meet. Hell, he wouldn't blame her if she told V to go fuck herself. Fifty years is a long time to nurse old wounds, and he'd given her plenty of those.
He's certain she's hiding something about Smasher, and that truth needs to come out. But beyond that... what the fuck is he supposed to say? 'Sorry for being an absolute dickhead all those years' would be a start, but it barely scratches the surface of fifty years of regret. 'Sorry I didn't appreciate what we had until it was too late' might follow, but is that what Rogue needs to hear after all this time? The Queen of the Afterlife doesn't strike him as someone who needs closure from a ghost.
The uncertainty gnaws at him, made worse by the fact that he'll have to borrow V's body for this attempt at redemption. Sure, she let him take the wheel last night to drive his precious Porsche home — and fuck if that hadn't felt amazing, being back behind the wheel of his baby — but this... this is different. Different enough to make his non-existent palms sweat. The oil fields heart-to-heart might have cleared the air between them, but he can't shake the nagging doubt about V's trust.
It seems too good to be true — could a single honest conversation and some overdue apologies really be enough to earn her forgiveness? Life's never been that kind to Johnny fucking Silverhand. He's spent his whole existence — both of them — expecting the other shoe to drop, waiting for people to show their true colors. And now he's having a hard time believing that dying was what it took to finally find someone who gets him. Shit sounds weird when he puts it that way.
His chrome hand drums anxiously against his thigh as he watches V navigate through traffic, her movements confident and precise in his car. She handles the Porsche like she was born to drive it, and something about that makes his chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with anxiety. Fifty years as an engram didn't prepare him for feeling this... vulnerable. This human.
And it's all because of this crazy merc who somehow saw past his mountain of bullshit and decided he was worth saving. V, who buys Samurai merch just so he can feel more like himself when he borrows her body. V, who lets him drive his car even after everything he's put her through. V, who's willing to help him face his past demons even while fighting her own. He glances at her profile, illuminated by the passing lights of Night City. She's humming along to one of his songs playing softly on the radio, probably not even aware she's doing it.
"You're thinkin' too loud," V says suddenly, breaking into his thoughts. "I can practically hear the gears grinding in that head of yours."
Johnny snorts, grateful for the interruption. "Just tryin' to figure out how to not fuck this up for once."
Before Johnny can delve deeper into his introspection, the Porsche slows down as V parks along the curb downtown. She steps out, climbing the steps toward the plaza overlooking Reconciliation Park, the air heavy with the city's usual mix of pollution and neon. As she approaches the meeting point, her holo suddenly buzzes with an unknown number.
The moment she answers, her vision glitches violently, plunging into complete darkness punctuated by red artifacts — just like at the Peralez residence, but worse. Much worse. A distorted voice cuts through the static, cold and mechanical, each word feeling like ice down her spine, "It doesn't matter what you tell him. It doesn't matter what you think of doing or do – you can't change anything."
"Uh, whaaa...?" V attempts to respond, her head spinning so badly she's not even sure if she spoke aloud. The world tilts and shifts around her, reality becoming as unstable as her vision.
"We know who you are. We know WHAT you are. We know what you want." The voice continues, cutting through her confusion like a knife. Each word feels like it's being carved directly into her brain. "You're playing with fire. Don't dare cross the line."
The call cuts abruptly, her vision snapping back to normal with such force it leaves her gasping. V finds herself on her knees on the concrete, Johnny crouched beside her, his face tight with concern. She can feel his presence more strongly than usual, as if he's trying to anchor her to reality through sheer force of will.
"Fuuuuck," she groans, struggling to her feet, her legs shaky beneath her.
"Fuckin' hell, sweetheart." He grabs her arm, helping her steady herself, his touch solid and grounding. The pet name slips out without thought, something that's been happening more often lately. "You okay?"
"Yeah..." She takes deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart, grateful for his solid presence beside her. "Fuck, that was weird. Just like what happened at the Peralez place, but this time... this time they reached out directly. And that voice... whoever it was, they knew about you. About us."
"Goddamn, that ain't good." He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture she's come to recognize. "Look, we could still bail, forget this whole mess. We've got enough shit on our plate without adding these too-well-informed assholes to the mix. And something about this... it feels different. Dangerous."
"We could," V confirms, straightening her jacket with hands that still shake slightly. "But I'm not letting these fuckers intimidate me. I'm talking to Jefferson." Johnny just nods, worry still evident in his eyes as she continues toward the plaza's edge. He stays close, ready to catch her if she stumbles again.
Jefferson Peralez sits on a bench, greeting her as she approaches. He immediately mentions that his wife already told him Holt was behind the surveillance. V hesitates for a split second, then decides to lay out the whole truth about the brainwashing. Initially, he struggles to believe her, but she persists, methodically presenting all her discoveries, watching as his politician's mask cracks with each revelation.
Jefferson stands, visibly shaken, pacing furiously in front of the bench as the truth sinks in. His perfectly maintained facade crumbles as he processes what's been done to him, what's still being done. Elizabeth was right — he's not taking this lying down, already planning his counterattack. He thanks her for her work, transferring her payment, then leaves with a warning to take care of herself. Johnny materializes in the spot Peralez just vacated, watching the politician stride away with newfound respect.
Later that afternoon, back in their apartment, V sprawls on the couch after a quick lunch, the sun streaming through the massive windows casting long shadows across the floor. She's fiddling with her holo, the blue light reflecting off her chrome as she scrolls through her contacts. Beside her, Johnny's been uncharacteristically quiet, his usual swagger replaced by an almost imperceptible nervousness that only V would notice.
She turns to him, watching as he absently drums his fingers against his thigh. "Time to call Rogue. Want me to tell her anything specific?"
He hesitates, chrome hand still tapping that anxious rhythm. The afternoon light catches on his aviators as he shifts. "Nah, do what feels right."
V nods and pulls up Rogue's contact, the Queen of Fixers' stern profile appearing on her holo. The line rings for a few seconds, each tone making Johnny's fingers tap faster, before the fixer answers with a cautious, "V?"
"Johnny wants to ask you out on a date," she states bluntly, figuring there's no point beating around the bush with someone like Rogue. "Whaddaya think?"
Skepticism drips from Rogue's voice. "Johnny's asking? Or is it you?"
"Johnny," V insists, catching his eye across the couch. He's gone still now, hanging on every word. "You're the one who said you got no trouble tellin' us apart."
"Okay," comes the response after a weighted pause that seems to stretch for ages. "And where'd we go?"
"Where'd you wanna go?" V throws back, watching Johnny lean forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees.
Despite Rogue's earlier uncertainty, this answer comes immediately, as if she's had years to consider it. V realizes, with a pang, that she probably has. "Silver Pixel Cloud, in North Oak. Tomorrow night, 9 PM?" There's something in her voice, a hint of nostalgia maybe, or old pain.
"Perfect," V confirms, trying to keep her tone light. "I'll swing by the Afterlife, pick you up." She ends the call and turns to Johnny with a grin, trying to dispel some of the tension that's settled over him like a heavy coat. "There you go, rockerboy. She said yes. Happy?"
"Yeah, I think so," Johnny nods, but his posture remains tense, shoulders tight under his chrome arm. "Good thing it's tomorrow. Gives me time to figure out what the fuck I'm gonna say to her." He pulls off his aviators, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
"You seem... nervous," she observes, frowning at his unusual demeanor. It's strange seeing the usually confident rockerboy so uncertain.
"Mmh." Johnny sinks deeper into the couch cushions, his face thoughtful as he stares out at the city beyond their windows. Finally, he admits, "Maybe a little, yeah. Just... don't wanna fuck this up. It's a one-time shot to make things right with Rogue after all these years. Not to mention trying to get her to spill what she's hiding and—"
"Johnny." She touches his wrist, cutting off his spiral, feeling the warmth of his skin under her fingers. "You're gonna be great. It'll be fine."
He smiles at her attempt to reassure him, turning his hand to intertwine their fingers. The gesture is automatic now, comfortable. "If you say so." But despite the casual response, doubt still clouds his mind. Fifty years of regret is a heavy weight to carry, even with V's unwavering faith in him. Still, her confidence in him, her belief that he won't fuck this up... it means more than he's ready to admit. Her hand in his anchors him to the present, keeping old ghosts at bay.
Through their connection, V can feel his swirling emotions — anticipation, nervousness, hope, and underneath it all, a deep-seated fear of screwing up this second chance. She squeezes his hand, saying nothing, knowing sometimes silence says more than words ever could.
The rest of the afternoon passes quietly, V letting Johnny take control for a few hours so he can unwind playing guitar. As evening approaches, he sets the guitar back on its stand and returns control to her, his spectral form leaning against the wall before asking, "So, ready for your little desert rats party?"
"Yep." She stands and stretches, shaking out her fingers, sore from the guitar strings. "Not sure what to expect, but I'm just happy to have a quiet evening. To wear something other than my combat boots for once and just... enjoy a chill night with friends."
"Heh." He smirks, amused. "Was starting to doubt you owned more than one pair of shoes."
"Oh, shut up." She grins back at him. "I'm just practical."
"Yeah, I know. Go on, get ready. The Badlands and warm cheap beer await."
V nods, heading to the bathroom to get ready. She freshens up quickly, touching up her makeup. She leaves Johnny's jacket on a hanger with slight reluctance, the evening being particularly warm, and opts for sandals instead. After giving Nibbles one last scratch behind the ears, she calls the elevator and heads out to the Aldecaldos camp.
She crosses the dunes quickly on Scorpion's bike, not trusting the Porsche on desert terrain. The setting sun paints the sky in deep blues, the last rays catching on the Joshua trees dotting the landscape. As she approaches the camp, the warm glow of campfires beckons her forward, sparks dancing up into the darkening sky.
The Aldecaldos camp is alive with energy tonight. Several campfires dot the area, their flames casting flickering shadows across the sandy ground. Around one of them, Cassidy is already strumming a guitar, the melody carrying on the evening breeze. Wooden crates and old tires serve as makeshift seating, arranged in casual circles around the fires. The air is rich with the smell of grilling meat and woodsmoke, and somewhere, someone's brewing coffee in an old-fashioned pot.
A long folding table has been set up, loaded with food and drinks — everything from traditional nomad dishes to city snacks. Red plastic cups are scattered about, and coolers full of beer nestle in the sand. The whole scene feels intimate, comfortable — exactly what you'd expect from a family celebration. String lights crisscross between the vehicles, adding a warm glow to complement the firelight.
V barely has time to park before she spots Panam jogging toward her, waving enthusiastically. The nomad's face is lit up with genuine joy, her usual tension nowhere to be seen. Behind her, V can see other familiar faces – Mitch tending to something in a cast-iron skillet, Carol adjusting some speakers, and various other Aldecaldos setting up for the evening ahead.
"Hey, V!" Panam greets excitedly as the merc dismounts. "You came!"
"Course I came." V chuckles, briefly hugging the other woman. "Pretty sure it's rude to skip a party thrown in your honor."
"Damn right it is!" Panam grins, throwing an arm around her shoulders and guiding her through the bustling camp. The smell of cooking meat gets stronger as they pass by one of the fires, where someone's roasting what looks like rabbit. "The party won't really start until dark," she explains, leading V toward her tent. Various nomads call out greetings as they pass, raising bottles or waving warmly. "Until then, we can chat. I'm sure you've got plenty to tell me since the last time we saw each other."
V feels herself relaxing already, the city's tension melting away in the warmth of the desert evening and the genuine welcome of the Aldecaldos. This is what she needed — no corpo politics, no merc jobs, just good company and the promise of a night under the stars.
Once settled in Panam's tent, surrounded by the familiar clutter of nomad life, V starts summarizing her chaotic week. The tent's canvas walls flutter gently in the evening breeze, the distant sounds of the camp's activities creating a comforting backdrop to their conversation.
V sits cross-legged on Panam's camp bed, while the nomad sprawls beside her, listening intently. She begins with her new ability to switch places with Johnny at will, explaining how it's different from before — more controlled, more comfortable. She tells Panam about Evelyn's tragic end, and how Takemura finally discovered Johnny's existence. The nomad's expression shifts between concern and surprise as V recounts her confrontation with the Voodoo Boys. She carefully edits out the more intimate moments with Johnny, but explains enough about Alt for Panam to understand the gravity of the situation.
When she reaches the parade incident, her voice grows tighter. She describes the chaos of Hanako's kidnapping, the precision violence of Arasaka's troops, and their desperate escape to the Badlands. Her voice wavers noticeably as she recounts the hotel room scene — the desperate kiss with Takemura, followed by the gut-wrenching pain of his abandonment. Her eyes soften when she talks about Johnny's unwavering support that night — how he'd stayed with her, solid and real, holding her while she fell apart. How he'd been her anchor through both the emotional devastation and the brutal Relic malfunction that followed her proxy chat with Hanako. The memory makes her fingers unconsciously trace the heart tattoo on her arm, a gesture that doesn't go unnoticed by her friend.
She skims over Johnny's hunt for Smasher intel, but her expression warms noticeably when she talks about their reconciliation, something that brings a knowing smile to Panam's face.
When V finally falls silent, Panam sits back on her camp bed, the worn canvas creaking under her weight. Her eyes are wide with a mixture of concern and understanding. "Fuck, you've had one hell of a week." She reaches out, gently grabbing V's arm to examine the heart tattoo more closely. A mischievous glint appears in her eye as she continues, "Remember what I told you when we went out about—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know." V cuts her off quickly, a blush creeping up her neck. Her eyes dart nervously to where Johnny's leaning against the tent pole, pretending not to listen. "You were right. You were fuckin' right. Can we drop it?" She pleads, shooting Panam an alarmed look that clearly says 'not here, not now.'
Fortunately, Panam catches on immediately, her quick mind putting together V's nervous glances and awkward shifting. She nods, squeezing V's hand reassuringly. "Sure. We'll talk about it another time." A grin spreads across her face as she stands, pulling V up with her. "Besides, we should join the others. The night's just getting started."
As they exit the tent into the cooling desert air, they see the Aldecaldos have gathered around a flatbed truck. Saul stands atop it, his silhouette outlined against the darkening sky as he waves for the remaining nomads to join the group. The fires cast dancing shadows across the gathered faces, and the smell of grilled meat and desert sage fills the air. Panam grabs V's wrist, expertly weaving through the crowd of leather jackets and denim. They reach the truck just as the last stragglers join the group, and Panam helps boost V up onto the flatbed while Saul signals for everyone's attention, the crowd gradually falling silent in anticipation.
"All right, V, it's a simple matter." Saul wraps an arm around her shoulders, turning her to face the crowd gathered below. The firelight dances across the sea of expectant faces, casting warm shadows on weathered features. "We — all of us standing here — owe you, and it's a great debt."
"Speak for yourself, Saul!" Bob jokes from the front row, surrounded by other veterans. Johnny materializes near their group, his spectral form leaning casually against the truck's cab, a rare genuine smile playing on his lips.
"But in spite of that, you're still an outsider," the leader continues, ignoring the playful interruption. His voice carries across the gathering with the weight of authority earned through years of leadership. "A mercenary from Night City, from what might as well be another world. So it's about time we fixed that." He pauses, watching as Panam joins them on the makeshift stage, holding something carefully in her hands. "You're going to be an Aldecaldo. Which means this family will go to hell and back for you. Ready, kid?"
"Do your worst," V grins, turning slightly towards him, trying to mask how touched she actually is by this gesture.
"You're one of us now, V." He grabs her wrist, raising their joined hands in victory. "You're an Aldecaldo, dammit!"
The proclamation is met with jubilant cheers from the crowd, their applause echoing across the camp. Through the cacophony of celebration, she catches Mitch's heartfelt "Thanks for everything!" and a "A warm welcome to our newest Aldecaldo!" from a woman she doesn't even know, while a male voice rings out "Welcome to the clan!"
Panam stands beside her now, her eyes bright with emotion as she says warmly, "Welcome to the family." She presents V with a rally bolero jacket, its leather a rich deep puce red and dark cerulean, adorned with the clan's logos. The craftsmanship is evident in every careful stitch and detail.
"Jacket's incredible," V says, her voice thick with emotion as she takes the garment, running her fingers over the smooth leather.
"See? She likes it!" Mitch calls out enthusiastically as V immediately slips it on, the jacket fitting her like it was made for her.
"Don't know what to say," V continues, turning to face the crowd of faces that have become so familiar over the past weeks. "I really don't. Never expected this. Thank you."
"Don't worry, it's but a formality. You've been a de facto member of this family for a while now," Saul assures her, gently patting her shoulder. The leather of his own jacket creaks with the movement. "You saved my rumpus, and as Bobby tells it, Mitch's too. I won't even mention Panam."
"Go to hell," Panam laughs heartily, before grabbing V's arm. Her voice softens as she addresses the merc, "Saul's right, though. I mean, let's face it, V — my life was in a million pieces, you broke it into a million more. But sometimes it's only then that you can piece it together again." She turns back to the group of nomads, raising her voice in joyful proclamation, "All right, fam, listen up. Today we celebrate!"
The crowd erupts in cheers once more, and V feels Johnny's presence closer now, his proud smile matching the warmth spreading through her chest. Before she can get too sentimental about it, Panam's tugging at her arm, pulling her down from the flatbed truck and into the swirling mass of leather jackets and friendly faces. She's immediately engulfed in a wave of welcomes — strong arms wrapping around her shoulders, rough hands patting her back, voices calling out greetings from every direction. Someone presses a cold beer into her hand, the condensation already beading on the bottle's surface in the warm desert night as Panam guides her through the crowd toward the main bonfire where the veterans have claimed their territory.
The camp has transformed into a proper celebration, with multiple bonfires dotting the area like earthbound stars. The main fire burns bright and strong, sending sparks dancing upward to meet their celestial counterparts in the vast desert sky. The Milky Way stretches overhead like a river of light, unobstructed by Night City's perpetual neon glow, while the quarter moon casts a soft silver light over everything.
Around the central bonfire, the veterans have claimed their usual spots. Mitch lounges in a well-worn camp chair, one boot propped on a cooler, gesturing animatedly with his beer as he regales younger nomads with tales of past adventures. His audience sits cross-legged in the sand, hanging on every word, occasionally reaching for the plate of sandwiches being passed around.
Carol and Teddy have spread a colorful serape on the ground, their heated debate about engine modifications occasionally rising above the general chatter. Despite their arguing, they keep unconsciously passing snacks back and forth between them, their movements speaking of years of comfortable familiarity.
Bob tends the fire with the dedication of a priest at an altar, occasionally tossing in another log or adjusting the grill where sausages sizzle promisingly. The smell makes V's mouth water. Saul, for once looking less like a leader and more like just another family member, has claimed a plastic chair slightly apart from the main group. His usual stern expression has softened into something approaching contentment as he watches his family celebrate.
Cassidy, never without his trademark cowboy hat, sits on a worn chair, his acoustic guitar cradled in his lap. His weathered fingers move across the strings with practiced ease, picking out a melody that sounds like it could have been born in these very badlands. A few people have started singing along, their voices carrying on the night air, some more in tune than others.
All around the fire, smaller scenes play out like chapters in a story. A group of kids — and more than a few adults — are engaged in the serious business of roasting marshmallows, their faces scrunched in concentration as they try to achieve the perfect golden brown. Some have already failed spectacularly, their treats transformed into tiny fireballs that make them squeal with delight. Plates of sandwiches circulate through the crowd, along with chips, grilled vegetables, and other potluck contributions that seem to materialize from nowhere.
Through it all, Panam remains glued to V's side, her presence warm and constant. She seems to have appointed herself V's personal guide to clan life, making sure her beer stays full and introducing her to every family member who approaches. Her enthusiasm is infectious, her smile bright enough to rival the fire as she proudly shows off her newest family member.
Johnny materializes near the fire, settling cross-legged on the ground with his usual graceful swagger. The firelight seems to make him more solid somehow, more present. His dark eyes reflect the dancing flames as he takes in the scene, a genuine smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Now this," he drawls, leaning back on his hands, "is my kind of party."
The night stretches ahead, full of promise and possibility, the stars watching over this momentary peace in the endless desert. A comfortable silence falls between V and Panam as they settle near the fire, the nomad leader finally letting V catch her breath after the whirlwind of introductions. The heat from the flames warms their faces, and the beer has left a pleasant buzz humming through V's veins. Johnny's stretched out beside her now, his head propped on one hand, occasionally making snarky comments about the various conversations floating around them.
"Hey, new blood!" Mitch calls out, raising his beer in V's direction. "Got room for a few more war stories? Promise these ones are better than the last batch."
"Better not be about that time in Oklahoma," Bob grumbles good-naturedly from his fire-tending position. "We've all heard that one about a hundred times."
"Nah, was thinking more about that job in New Mexico," Mitch grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You know, the one with the bursted tire and the stolen—"
"Oh hell no," Carol interrupts from her blanket, temporarily abandoning her argument with Teddy. "Not that story. You'll scare the poor girl right back to Night City."
The group erupts in laughter, and V finds herself joining in, the sound mixing with Cassidy's guitar and the crackling of the fire. Panam leans against her shoulder, sharing a knowing look with her. Above them, the Milky Way stretches across the sky like spilled chrome, and somewhere in the distance, a coyote calls out to the night.
After a while, V notices Johnny's intense focus on Cassidy and his guitar. The rockerboy's spectral fingers twitch unconsciously, playing invisible chords in the air as he watches the old nomad strum. His expression is a mix of appreciation and that characteristic Silverhand cockiness that suggests he could do better. V can't help but smirk — she knows that look all too well.
"You're not exactly subtle, you know that?" she teases mentally. "Looking like you're about to jump out of my head just to show the old man how it's done."
Johnny chuckles, running a hand through his dark hair. "That obvious, huh? Can't help it — guy's got decent technique, but he's playing it way too safe. Could use some edge."
"Then take the wheel," V offers warmly, surprising him. "Go on, have some fun. Play some tunes, grab a beer, enjoy the party. You've earned it too, you know."
The gratitude in Johnny's smile is unmistakable as he takes control, their consciousness shifting smoothly. He stretches as he stands up from V's spot by the fire, their shared body adjusting to his particular way of moving — all swagger and controlled grace. V settles back into the passenger seat of her own mind, curious to see what he'll do.
"Hey, old timer," he calls out to Cassidy, V's voice carrying his distinctive drawl. "Mind if I borrow that six-string for a minute? Promise I'll treat her right."
Cassidy looks up from under his cowboy hat, studying him with curious eyes before holding out the guitar. "She's all yours, kid. Show us what you got."
Johnny settles into a comfortable stance, fingers finding their home on the strings. He starts slow, testing the waters with a simple melody before launching into a complex riff that makes several heads turn. His fingers fly across the fretboard with practiced ease, throwing in some of Samurai's signature licks before transitioning into a bluesy desert rock improvisation. Even the veterans stop their conversations to watch, Bob's eyebrows rising appreciatively while Mitch whistles low under his breath.
"Damn, V's been holding out on us," someone murmurs in the crowd.
After a final flourish, Johnny hands the guitar back to an impressed Cassidy. "Not bad for a city kid," the old nomad admits with a knowing smile.
Johnny makes his way to the cooler, fishing out a cold beer. The night air feels good on their skin, and he can feel V's contentment humming in the back of their shared consciousness. He's just taken a long swig when Panam appears beside him, her eyes wide with amazement.
"Holy shit, V! Since when can you shred like that? Been keeping secrets from your best friend?"
Johnny grins, that signature half-smirk that's pure Silverhand. "Oh, V can play alright, but maybe not quite that good." He throws her a conspiratorial wink, enjoying the way her expression shifts from confusion to sudden understanding.
"No fucking way, Johnny?" she asks, lowering her voice even though no one's paying attention to them. "That's you in there right now?"
"In the flesh," he drawls, taking another sip of beer. "Well, technically V's flesh, but you get the idea. Hope you don't mind me crashing your little family party."
Panam crosses her arms, studying him with a mix of curiosity and amusement. "So you're the infamous Johnny Silverhand. Gotta admit, after everything V's told me, I expected you to be more..."
"More what? Asshole-ish?" He grins, leaning against the cooler. "Night's still young, give me time."
She laughs, shaking her head, but there's something serious in her eyes. "You know what's strange? These days, when V talks about you, there's something different in her voice. Like she's..." she pauses, choosing her words carefully, "...like she's found something she wasn't looking for."
Johnny's quiet for a moment, metal hand glinting in the firelight. "Kid's got a weird way of seeing things sometimes."
"Things sure have changed," Panam muses, watching him carefully. The way he moves in V's body fascinates her — sharp edges where V is usually fluid grace. "She told me about your new situation. About being able to touch."
Johnny's shoulders tense slightly. "Yeah, well, Relic's gone haywire. Nothing special about it." He shifts his weight, suddenly very interested in peeling the label off his beer bottle.
"Nothing special?" Panam's voice is soft but pointed. "The only person you can physically interact with in this whole world is V, and that's nothing special?"
Her gaze catches the heart-shaped tattoo on V's arm, black ink stark against skin. "Like this isn't special either? Just a drunk mistake?"
"Christ," Johnny mutters, trying to pull down the sleeve. "Was drunk off my ass, thought it'd be funny."
"And yet she kept it," Panam observes quietly. "Could've gotten it removed. Didn't."
"Her body, her choice," Johnny says, but his voice lacks its usual edge.
Panam pats the crate next to her. "Sit down, Johnny. For once, let's talk straight."
He sits, but keeps his distance, perching on the edge like he's ready to bolt. The desert night wraps around them, warm and knowing.
"You know what I think?" she continues, her voice gentle now. "I think sometimes the universe has a way of giving us exactly what we need, even when we're too stubborn to admit we need it."
"You always this philosophical after a few beers?" Johnny tries to deflect, but there's something vulnerable in his posture.
"Only when I see two people dancing around something they're both afraid to name."
Johnny's quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. Then his posture shifts, almost imperceptibly. When he speaks again, his voice is different, softer.
"Think it's time to switch." He takes one last swig of beer, sets it down carefully. "Been hogging the wheel too long anyway."
Panam notices the change immediately — the way V's body relaxes, flows differently. The sharp edges smooth out, and suddenly it's V sitting next to her, not Johnny.
V blinks a few times, adjusting. Her hand unconsciously brushes over the heart tattoo.
"Well," Panam says softly, "that's one way to end a conversation."
V just gives her a look that clearly says 'drop it', and Panam raises her hands in surrender, though she can't quite hide her knowing smile.
In their shared consciousness, Johnny retreats to the back of V's mind, building walls around the entire conversation. Some things are better left unspoken, buried in the desert night along with their dignity.
The rest of the evening unfolds peacefully, with V drifting from one conversation to another among the nomads, mainly staying near the campfire where the veterans have gathered. She listens intently to Mitch's stories about old jobs across different states, tales frequently interrupted by Teddy and Carol's colorful commentary. Everyone bursts into laughter when he recounts the time Panam threw up all over a cowboy's boots in Kansas.
Between stories, she tries to ask Saul about Santiago, hoping to learn more about Johnny's old friend. The nomad chief, however, remains evasive, offering only vague half-answers that leave her with more questions than answers. Johnny's presence in her mind grows heavier at the mention of his old friend, a mix of nostalgia and regret coloring their shared consciousness.
V eventually makes her way back to Panam and Bob, who have claimed one of the tables near the bar-truck. Bob's worn deck of cards appears, and they dive into an increasingly competitive game of Go Fish. The night air fills with their laughter and playful accusations of cheating, while other nomads drift by, offering commentary and good-natured heckling.
Cassidy joins them for a while, sharing a bottle of his infamous moonshine while regaling them with tales of his younger days. V notices how the older nomad's stories seem to fascinate Johnny, who occasionally chimes in with comparisons to his own wild years in the 2010s.
At the other end of the camp, a group of younger nomads has started an impromptu dance contest, their shadows dancing wildly in the firelight. The smell of grilled meat still lingers in the air, mixing with the desert sage and the ever-present scent of motor oil that seems to follow the clan everywhere.
Around two in the morning, as nomads begin drifting back to their tents, leaving only the dying embers of the campfire and scattered conversations, Panam catches V's eye and motions for her to follow. The two women climb the slope leading to the rocky outcrop overlooking the camp, where the clan's solar panels catch the moonlight like abstract mirrors. They settle on a metal platform at the base of a twisted joshua tree, its silhouette stark against the star-filled desert sky.
The desert night wraps around them, stars scattered like chrome across the dark sky. V lights her cigarette, leaning back on the metal platform that's still warm from the day's heat. The chain around her neck catches the distant firelight, drawing Panam's sharp eyes.
"What's that?" Panam leans closer, squinting at the metal glinting against V's skin. "Are those dog tags?"
V hesitates, fingers automatically reaching for the worn metal. After a moment, she pulls the chain out, letting the tags rest in her palm. "Yeah. They're... they're Johnny's."
"No shit?" Panam's eyes widen. "How'd you even get your hands on those?"
"He told me where to find them," V says softly, watching the moonlight catch on the old engravings. "Some run-down motel room where he stashed them fifty years ago, before everything went to hell. Found them hidden in a hole in the wall."
She takes a long drag from her cigarette before continuing. "Gave ‘em to me after a really bad episode with the Relic. One of the worst. Thought I wasn't gonna make it through the night." Her voice drops lower. "He wanted me to have something that actually mattered to him. Something real I could hold onto."
"Damn, V." Panam's grin turns absolutely wicked, the kind that usually means trouble. "First that heart tattoo you're definitely keeping, now his tags? What's next, gonna start wearing his clothes too?"
V takes another long drag, suddenly very interested in watching the ember glow. The silence stretches just a beat too long, and Panam's jaw drops.
"No fucking way—"
"Rogue had his jacket replicated for me, okay?" V mutters, feeling heat creep up her neck. She stares determinedly at the horizon. "And I might... sort of... drive his Porsche now."
"Holy shit!" Panam's laughter echoes across the camp. "You're literally turning into his groupie!"
"I will absolutely push you off this platform," V threatens, but she's fighting back a smile. "See how well you nomad types fly."
"Too late, chica. I'm already picturing you strutting around camp with a chrome arm, playing 'Never Fade Away' on some ancient axe—"
V tackles her, both of them laughing as they wrestle like kids on the platform. The sound carries down to the camp below, drawing a few curious looks from the night owls still gathered around dying fires. When they finally settle, Panam has to wipe tears from her eyes.
"Seriously though," she says, still catching her breath between chuckles. "It's kind of sweet. In a completely gonk, only-you-would-end-up-in-this-situation way."
"Yeah, well," V fidgets with the tags, feeling the familiar weight of them. "Life's weird enough already. Might as well embrace the chaos."
"That's one way to put it." Panam stretches out, looking up at the stars. "Though I gotta ask — does the jacket look good at least?"
"I hate you so much right now."
Panam laughs, stretching as she gets to her feet. "Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that." She dusts off her pants, looking down at the scattered fires below. "I should get some sleep. Got that supply run tomorrow with Mitch, and you know how he gets when people are late."
"Like an angry dad?" V grins.
"Worse. Like a disappointed one." Panam shudders dramatically. "You coming down?"
"Nah," V takes another drag of her cigarette, watching the smoke curl up toward the stars. "Gonna finish this first. Clear my head a bit."
"You good?" There's genuine concern under Panam's casual tone.
"Yeah, just... processing. Been a long week."
Panam nods, understanding in her eyes. "Well, don't stay up too late brooding on your perch like some chrome-plated gargoyle. And V?" She waits until their eyes meet. "I'm glad you found your place here. Even if it comes with some... unusual accessories."
"Fuck off!" V throws her lighter at her, but Panam's already ducking away, her laughter echoing up.
"Night, V!"
"Night, you gonk."
V watches her friend weave through the camp below, stopping to chat with a few night owls before disappearing into her tent. The camp grows quieter, most fires now just glowing embers in the darkness. She's about to light another cigarette when she feels the platform shift slightly.
Johnny materializes in the exact spot Panam just vacated, immediately wrapping an arm around V's shoulders. "We are not talking about this," he grumbles, but pulls her closer. "Not about the tags, not about the jacket, and especially not about that gonk tattoo."
V leans into him, feeling the solid warmth of his presence. "Absolutely not talking about it," she agrees, hiding her smile against his shoulder as her fingers find the tags again.
They sit in comfortable silence, watching the stars wheel overhead. Johnny's thumb traces absent patterns on her arm, and V finds herself matching her breathing to his — a habit she's developed without really meaning to. It's these moments that are the most dangerous, when everything feels so real, so possible.
"Getting cold," Johnny observes softly, feeling her slight shiver.
"M'fine." But she burrows closer anyway, and his arm tightens around her.
The tags are warm against her skin when Johnny's free hand comes up to touch them, his fingers brushing against hers. Neither mentions it, just like they don't mention how perfectly they fit together like this, or how their shared mind hums with contentment when they're close. Some things are better left in the space between thoughts and words.
"Should get some sleep," Johnny murmurs after a while, voice rough.
"Yeah," V agrees, but neither moves. Just a few more minutes, they both think. Just a little longer in this moment where everything feels possible, where the line between them blurs just enough to forget why it can't be real. The desert night keeps their silence, their wishes, their unspoken truths safe beneath the stars.
When V wakes up, the sun is already high in the desert sky, filtering through the olive-green fabric of her tent with a warm, diffused glow. Her tent — the thought brings a small smile to her face, still getting used to having a permanent place here, now that she's officially part of the family. Despite the narrow confines of the camp bed, Johnny has somehow managed to wrap himself completely around her during the night, their limbs tangled together in a way that should be uncomfortable but isn't. His solid presence radiates warmth, and she can feel his steady breathing against her neck.
"Hey rockerboy," she murmurs, squeezing the arm draped across her waist. "Time to get up. Pretty sure I can smell coffee brewing somewhere nearby."
Johnny responds with a disgruntled groan, clearly not ready to face the day. He tightens his hold around her for a moment, face buried in her hair, before reluctantly letting go. V can't help but smile as she stretches and climbs out of bed, her muscles pleasantly sore from yesterday's activities.
The camp is unusually quiet when she steps outside, squinting in the bright sunlight. Most of the Aldecaldos are already busy with their daily tasks, and Panam is nowhere to be seen — probably already left for that supply run with Mitch she mentioned last night. The air smells of dust, motor oil, and blessed coffee, leading V straight to Carol's workspace.
The tech expert hands her a steaming cup without even looking up from her project, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Look who finally decided to join the land of the living," she teases. "It's almost noon."
V drops into a nearby chair, inhaling the rich aroma of real coffee — none of that synthetic shit they serve in Night City. As she sips her drink, she and Carol fall into easy conversation about the older woman's latest tech endeavor, something involving sonic modulators that goes way over V's head. The familiar background noise of the camp — people talking, engines running, tools clanking — creates a comfortable atmosphere she's grown to love.
When her cup is empty, V stands up, brushing dust off her pants. "Gotta head back to the city," she tells Carol. "Thank everyone for me, yeah? Especially Panam and Saul."
She makes her way to where she left her bike the previous night, at the camp's perimeter. The machine gleams under the desert sun, chrome and steel promising speed and freedom. V swings her leg over the seat, feeling Johnny materialize behind her as she starts the engine. The familiar weight of his arms settles around her waist as she guns it, leaving a trail of dust in her wake. The warm breeze whips through her hair as they race toward Night City's distant silhouette, megabuildings rising against the horizon.
Shortly after, they arrive in the Glen, the familiar sight of their building rising against the early afternoon sky. When they enter their apartment, Johnny immediately sprawls on the couch with a contented sigh, his long legs stretched out over the leather. "Aah– desert's nice and all, but nothing beats home," he drawls, looking perfectly at ease in the space they've made their own.
"If you say so," V responds casually, settling cross-legged on the plush living room carpet. Nibbles immediately trots over, purring loudly as she scratches behind her ears. "Think I'm gonna grab a shower, get rid of all this sand."
Johnny gives her a mocking military salute, his silver hand glinting in the sunlight as V climbs the metal stairs leading to the mezzanine. After a quick shower that leaves the bathroom mirror steamed up, she wraps herself in a fluffy towel and stands before her closet, water droplets still trailing down her chrome-decorated arms. Considering tonight's plans for Johnny, she figures she might as well go all in. She pulls on Johnny's leather pants that she'd found a while back — they're a bit long in the legs but otherwise fit perfectly, the worn leather soft against her skin. She pairs them with the Samurai tank top she bought yesterday, the fabric already feeling like a second skin.
Standing before the mirror, she grins at her reflection. The outfit screams pure Johnny Silverhand — from the scuffed leather to the iconic logo stretched across her chest. Johnny materializes beside her, and his soft "Oh, fuck" carries more weight than just simple appreciation for the outfit. His eyes meet hers in the mirror, something intense and unspoken passing between them.
"Hey — gotta look good for your date with Rogue," V smiles, trying to lighten the suddenly charged atmosphere. She pats the pants pocket, feeling the small bump of the pill. "Got you a Pseudoendotrizine pill in here, but since it's our last one, better wait till the last minute to take it."
"We don't have to use it," he responds, his reflection moving closer to hers. "I'm just gonna talk to Rogue, and you might need to hear what she has to say."
"Nah, we're using it. I'll handle getting Rogue to the meeting point, then I'll take the pill. Want you to enjoy your date in peace." She shrugs, adjusting the tank top that sits just right on her frame. "If she says anything I need to know, you can tell me after. And Johnny..." she pauses, making sure to catch his eye in the mirror. "Whatever you want to do, whatever happens... it's okay with me."
"Whaddaya mean?" He raises an eyebrow, but his tone suggests he knows exactly what she's implying.
"Don't make me say it," she groans, playfully punching his shoulder. "You know what I mean."
"Okay, okay." He raises his hands in surrender, but there's tension in his shoulders. "But seriously, ain’t seein’ Rogue for that."
V shrugs again, preferring to drop the subject. She keeps to herself how with each passing day, she sees their body less as hers and more as theirs. How at this point, she feels he has as much right to their shared meatsuit as she does. But she stays quiet, knowing full well Johnny would absolutely freak out if she said anything like that.
As the meeting time approaches, V notices Johnny growing unusually quiet, his silence betraying his nervousness. When it's time to leave, she takes his hand and squeezes his fingers, asking softly, "You gonna be okay?" He squeezes back, nodding, but the tension in his shoulders remains. V slips on Johnny's jacket to complete the look, the familiar leather settling around her shoulders like armor.
The drive to Little China is smooth, the Porsche's engine purring beneath them as they weave through Night City's crowded streets. When they pull up in front of Afterlife, Rogue is already there, deep in conversation with Emmerick by the entrance. She looks absolutely stunning in a white bodysuit that hugs her curves, paired with black pants and a gleaming silver edgerunner jacket that catches the neon lights. Damn, V hopes she'll look that good at 80 — until the gloomy thought hits her that her chances of seeing her 28th birthday are already slim, let alone reaching Rogue's age.
Pushing aside the dark thoughts, she steps out of the car with practiced confidence, greeting the fixer with a cheerful, "Hey, Rogue. Ready? We goin'?"
"Where's Johnny?" Rogue asks, realizing she's talking to V. Her perfectly lined eyes narrow slightly. "Couldn't make it after all?"
"I'm just your driver," the merc reassures her with a casual shrug.
"See you keep him on a short leash." A knowing chuckle escapes Rogue's lips. "Heh, wise beyond your years." As she approaches the car, her eyes light up with recognition and genuine delight. "This Johnny's Porsche? Where'd you get it?"
"Remember when Grayson mentioned having something of Johnny's while beggin’ for his life? After you left, I went through his pockets," V explains as they settle into the vintage leather seats. The car's interior still smells faintly of cigarettes and leather, decades of memories soaked into every surface. "Found an access card, did some digging around and... ta-dah!"
"Hm, okay." Rogue chuckles again, running her hand appreciatively over the dashboard. "Heh, got a lotta memories in this car." Her slight smirk tells V exactly what kind of memories she's referring to. As she starts the engine, its familiar rumble filling the air, Rogue settles back in her seat. "Let's go."
As V guides the Porsche through Night City's winding streets, she can't help but compliment Rogue. "By the way, you look... wow!" The words come out genuine, appreciative of how the older woman seems to defy time itself.
"That Johnny's 'wow' or yours?" Rogue teases, before her keen eyes take in V's outfit, something strange flickering across her face. "And you... you look like him."
"Heh, believe it or not, these are actually his pants," V smirks, patting her leather-clad thigh, the worn material smooth under her palm. "Found 'em during a gig, don't ask." When Rogue says nothing, just giving her an odd look, V smoothly changes the subject. "Silver Pixel Cloud your favorite place?"
"Once, probably. Haven't been there in ages." She responds, nostalgia coloring her voice. "Drive-ins went out of style a century ago. But Silver Pixel's still hangin' in there."
"Sounds like a preem place for a date," V smiles, skillfully maneuvering the Porsche around slower traffic, the engine purring beneath them.
"Thought so, too. Which is why I suggested Johnny take me there." Rogue sighs, her fingers absently tracing patterns on the leather armrest. "A million years ago."
"So... it wasn't his idea?" V asks, though she's not really surprised.
"'Course not," Rogue deadpans. "His idea of a romantic night out was blowing up Arasaka HQ."
V can't help but chuckle. That definitely sounds more like the Johnny she knows, and honestly, it sounds pretty fun. Fuck, the rockerboy's really rubbing off on her. The rest of the drive continues in comfortable silence until V turns onto the winding road climbing North Oak's hillside. That's when Rogue's demeanor shifts, her voice taking on a sharper edge. "All right, V. Tell me what's going on. For real."
"Meaning?" V raises her eyebrows, genuinely confused by the sudden tension.
"Johnny doesn't do a thing without an ulterior motive," Rogue states firmly, years of experience evident in her tone. "So what's in play this time?"
V frowns, annoyed by the remark but forces herself to maintain a neutral tone. She tries to remember that Rogue can't know how much the rockerboy has evolved since they last spoke. "Johnny's changed. He really does wanna spend some time with ya. No hooks, no lines, no sinkers."
"Right..." Rogue responds simply, V's answer seemingly sending her into deep contemplation.
After a long minute of slightly tense silence, the younger woman calls out, pulling her from her thoughts. "Rogue?"
"Just taking it all in." She shakes her head in disbelief, before a small smile curves her lips. "Heh, a selfless Johnny Silverhand. Apparently, you're a positive influence on him." As V takes another turn, a building appears at the roadside, and Rogue comments, "Here we are."
And... it's closed. More than closed — abandoned, by the looks of it. Trash litters the ground around the entrance, and layers of graffiti cover the metal shutters that once welcomed cars into the drive-in. Johnny materializes outside the car, clearly unhappy with this turn of events. "Fuck," he curses, pushing his aviators up to rub his eyes in frustration. "I don't believe it."
"It really has been years," Rogue sighs as they exit the vehicle, disappointment evident in her voice. The clicking of her heels echoes in the empty lot as she surveys the deteriorating building. "Managed to shut the whole thing down."
"V, try to get inside," Johnny insists, shooting her an alarmed look over his sunglasses.
The merc nods in his direction before turning to Rogue, trying to inject as much enthusiasm as possible into her voice. "Can't stop us, won't stop us. We asked you out on a date."
"All right," she smirks, leaning against a wall with crossed arms, her silver jacket catching the last rays of sunlight. "Do your thing, I'll watch."
V enters the adjacent office, relieved to find the building still has power, the dim fluorescent lights casting shadows across dusty surfaces. There's another door that must lead to the projection area, but it's locked behind a keypad. Spotting a computer nearby, she spends the next few minutes sifting through emails until she finds one containing the door's combination. "OK, gotta be the pass, this."
As she punches in the numbers and the door slides open with a mechanical whir, Rogue joins her in the office, looking pleased that V found a solution. "Guess we really are going to the movies. Well done."
"All right, let's go," V exclaims, following Rogue onto the inner parking lot. Facing a projection screen that's seen better days, several car wrecks sit abandoned, most stripped of their wheels and various parts, leaving only hollow shells as silent witnesses to better times.
"Try and get the projector started — I'll get us some seats," Rogue calls over her shoulder as she continues forward, her confident stride unchanged despite the decades since she last walked this ground.
"Sure thing," the merc responds, though she's not entirely certain how to accomplish that task.
Fortunately, Johnny reappears to guide her. "Right, let's go check the projector. Entrance is over here," he says, pointing toward a set of stairs that disappear into the darkness above. The metal steps creak under V's boots as she begins to climb, decades of rust and neglect having taken their toll on the once-proud establishment.
V enters the projection booth, which is an absolute mess. Faded movie posters featuring long-forgotten stars peel off the walls like sunburned skin, their colors washed out to ghostly shadows of their former glory. The furniture, what's left of it, disappears under layers of random junk — old food containers, broken equipment, and what might be a mummified rat in the corner. The floor's no better, covered in enough trash to make a scav's hideout look pristine.
Johnny makes himself comfortable, perching his ass on a table next to what looks like a massive metal box embedded in the wall. "Looks like I found the projector," he announces, legs swinging casually as V joins him. "You wouldn't happen to know how to get it up an' running?"
"'Bout to see," she responds, examining the machine more closely. She spots several buttons and presses them somewhat randomly until the machine whirs to life, its small screen lighting up and all indicators turning green. The outdoor speakers crackle before music starts playing, and when V peeks through the wall opening, the movie title appears on the massive screen outside, letters bright against the night sky.
"Look at that — last played 'Bushido X'! Perfect," Johnny exclaims gleefully, his face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. His enthusiasm is almost contagious.
V watches the first images flicker across the screen — all excessive violence and questionable acting — before commenting with a smirk, "Looks like a spurt of runny shit."
"V, we're at a drive-in. Movie's the last thing we care about," he explains, laughing that deep, rich laugh that always makes V smile despite herself. "Just want some background noise — a little blood, tits and gore, that sorta thing."
V chuckles, getting his point, and confirms, "'Bushido' will give you that."
"All right, V. I'll take it from here." He hesitates for a second, and she can feel his reluctance about taking the Pseudoendotrizine. After the clusterfuck with Ruby last time, she can't blame him. "You ready?"
V pulls the pill from her pocket, the small blue tablet sitting in her palm like a promise. She studies it for a moment before swallowing it dry. She smiles at Johnny, trying to reassure him, "Have fun, you crazy kids."
The switch hits like a wave of static electricity. Johnny feels himself being pulled toward control of the body, and suddenly, he's the one wearing V's skin. It's different from their ‘natural’ switches, if he can call it that — feels artificial, wrong somehow, like trying to fit into clothes that are both his and not his at the same time. And honestly, he hates it. He sighs, running their fingers through their hair, the sensation both familiar and foreign, knowing he doesn't have time to dwell on this now. The only things that somewhat reassure him are that he can still feel V, like she's sleeping in the back of their mind, and that he has an Omega Blocker pill in his other pocket to reverse things to normal as soon as he's done with Rogue.
He makes his way out of the booth, cursing under his breath as he descends the stairs. V's shorter legs are still throwing him off — feels like trying to walk on stilts in reverse. But all thoughts of physical awkwardness vanish when he spots Rogue waiting for him, perched on the hood of one of the less decrepit cars facing the screen.
The neon lights from the movie dance across her features, and for a moment, it's like time hasn't passed at all — she could be that same fierce merc who used to run with him fifty years ago. She catches his eye and must see the change immediately because her smile shifts, becomes something more knowing, more private. She pats the spot beside her, the gesture an invitation and a challenge all at once. "Grabbed us the best spot. Hop on up."
He settles beside her, and for a few minutes, they just watch the film, the old screen flickering with excessive violence and questionable special effects. Johnny can't really focus on the rooftop train fight scene playing on screen, his gaze constantly drawn to the woman at his side like a magnet. The neon lights from the movie dance across her features, making shadows play on her face in a way that makes his chest tight with nostalgia. He grows increasingly restless, fingers twitching with the need to grab a smoke, until he can't take the silence anymore and breaks it. "This how you imagined this evening goin'?"
Rogue turns to him, studying him for a moment, her eyes searching V's face for traces of the man she used to know. "Always knew things would have to change for us to just go out and catch a movie. Never imagined they'd change this much." She turns her attention back to the film, and Johnny starts to fear that maybe too much time has passed, that the gap between them has grown too wide to bridge. But finally, the fixer speaks again, an amused smile playing on her painted lips. "Let's pretend it's twenty-fifteen, huh? We just met, an' I got no idea what a bastard you are."
"Sure," he smirks, deciding to play along and go for humor. "Lured you to the movies so we could bang, by the way."
His joke hits its mark, making Rogue laugh, the sound warm and genuine in a way that makes his borrowed heart skip a beat. "Okay, so it's twenty-fifteen. If you could do it all again, what would you change? Anything at all?"
Well, fuck. That's one hell of a loaded question, like asking a junkie if they'd choose a different poison if they could start over. He hesitates, weighing his options like bombs that might explode in his face. He could tell her he'd make the same choices but try not to get his ass killed this time, or maybe say something nice, like how he'd try to be less of a complete asshole to her if he had a second chance. But deep down, past all the bullshit and bravado, he knows that no matter how much you try to rewrite history, what's done is done. And is it really fair to tell Rogue he has regrets, after all these years? Would that help either of them, or just pour salt in wounds that never really healed?
When he notices her giving him an insistent look at his lack of response, he chooses to deflect. "Yeah — I'd do Kerry," he answers, half-joking, half-serious, watching her reaction from the corner of his eye.
"Huh?" Rogue's eyebrows shoot up, clearly not expecting that particular answer.
"I mean, guy deserved it," he tries to justify vaguely, shrugging his shoulders, V's leather jacket creaking with the movement. "Always tryin' so damn hard."
"Fucking hell, Johnny," she sighs, shaking her head. "I was being serious."
He's about to tell her that he kinda was too — because fuck, Kerry really did deserve better from him too — when he notices the frown that's settled on Rogue's face, the flicker of sadness that passes through her gaze as she turns away. "Hey, hey, hey, what's this?" he asks softly, his voice gentler than usual.
"Nothing, it's just..." she pauses, her fingers playing with the thin golden chain around her neck. "Had a lot of time to think while you were away. What ifs and all that." The words hang heavy in the air between them, weighted with fifty years of unspoken regrets and missed opportunities, of paths not taken and words never said. The movie continues to play in the background, but it might as well be static for all the attention either of them is paying to it now.
Finally, Johnny voices the question that's been gnawing at him since the Ebunike incident, his borrowed voice careful. "Sure that's it, nothing about Grayson or Smasher?"
"What?" Her eyes narrow, genuine surprise coloring her tone. The name 'Smasher' seems to hang in the air between them like a toxic cloud, and Johnny doesn't miss the way her hand tightens imperceptibly on her knee. "What's Smasher gotta do with anything?"
"Getting the sense you still got a thorn in your side there," he explains, studying her reaction closely. After all these years, he can still read her micro-expressions like a well-worn book — the slight tension in her jaw, the way her eyes harden just a fraction.
"'Cause I do." Rogue's response is sharp enough to cut glass, old anger flashing in her eyes. "I'm irate, disappointed. But rather not think about it now." The way she says it, clipped and final, should be enough to end the conversation.
But Johnny's never been good at leaving well enough alone, especially when it comes to her. He can smell there's more to this story than she's telling, can see it in the way she's holding herself just a bit too straight. So he pushes, because that's what he does, what he's always done. "Think you might be hidin' somethin' from me."
"Johnny," she sighs heavily, the sound weighted with decades of history between them. Then, with brutal honesty that's always been her trademark, "there's a heap of things I'm hiding from you." She shakes her head, silver hair catching the movie's light like mercury, refusing to elaborate further. After a few moments of charged silence, she adds softly, almost vulnerably, "But all we got's this one night."
Those words hit Johnny like a punch to the gut, because of course, Rogue's right. This is probably the last time he'll ever get to talk to her, and that knowledge sits heavy in his borrowed chest. He owes her honesty, at least. "Don't got much to offer you," he admits, hating how inadequate it sounds.
"Still more than before," she responds without looking at him, and fuck, it hurts to realize how their past relationship had left her with such a bitter taste that she considers this conversation — this awkward dance around old wounds in front of a movie neither of them is watching — as 'more'. The resignation in her voice makes something twist painfully in his chest.
"I know, I fucked up back then. See it now." The admission comes out sadder than he intended, drawing Rogue's attention back to him. He can see decades of hurt and hope warring in her eyes. "See I coulda been myself around you. No pretending, no posing."
"Johnny..." she whispers warmly, genuine surprise softening her features at his unexpected vulnerability. For a moment, she looks younger, more like the woman he knew fifty years ago.
Without really thinking it through, Johnny cups her cheek, leaning in slightly. The moment hangs suspended, charged with possibility and past regrets. But something stops him cold. It's partly the conflict he can read in Rogue's eyes – hope and wariness battling for dominance — but mostly it's the jarring wrongness of V's delicate fingers against Rogue's jawline. These aren't his hands — too small, too soft, lacking the calluses from years of guitar playing. This isn't his body, and suddenly he's acutely aware of it.
And then there's V herself, her presence warm and familiar in the back of their shared mind. He can feel her there, kinda asleep while still being unavoidably present, and something about that makes this feel even more wrong. The realization hits him — he can't do this, not just because he's wearing V's skin like an ill-fitting suit, but because his feelings have shifted in ways he's not ready to examine too closely. The thought of V, her fierce loyalty and unwavering support, the way she's changed him without even trying, makes his borrowed heart skip a beat in a way that has nothing to do with the woman sitting next to him.
With a heavy sigh that carries years of regret and a newfound understanding, he pulls back. "Rogue, I can't." And just like that, the magic of pretending it's 2015 has broken.
The fixer leans back too, a flicker of disappointment crossing her face before being quickly replaced by obvious relief. "Was about to tell you the same thing."
Although he'd been the first to pull away, Johnny can't help but ask, "Was it something I said?"
"No. You're just too late. I'm in a different place now," she responds, a sharp edge of bitterness cutting through her words. There's something else there too — resignation, maybe acceptance. "The Rogue you knew is gone. An' I don't wanna keep pretending otherwise."
"Got no idea what you're talking about," he mutters, finally lighting up that cigarette he's been craving since he first planted V's ass on this car hood, the nicotine hit helps steady his nerves. It's not so much that he doesn't understand she's changed — it's fucking obvious she's not the same young, fiery merc he left behind when he died. It's more that fifty years have passed without him around, and he can't quite figure out who Rogue's become. The woman sitting next to him is both achingly familiar and completely foreign, like a favorite song covered by a different artist — same tune, completely different vibe.
"I know," she responds darkly, her fingers playing with her necklace — a nervous tick she never had before. "An' I'd rather it stayed that way. Tried so hard to pretend nothing's changed. To pretend I'm the same Rogue you knew. Actually managed to fool myself for a little." This time, the disappointment in her voice is clearly directed at herself. Before Johnny can probe further, she turns back to the screen, adding in a carefully neutral tone, "Let's just watch the movie."
So... that's it? Johnny can't help feeling a bit let down by this grand reunion with Rogue, like it's led nowhere except picking at old scabs. The weight of fifty years of unspoken words sits heavy between them. He couldn't fix their relationship — if anything, the gulf between them seems wider than ever, filled with too many missed opportunities and changed perspectives. To make matters worse, he hasn't learned shit about what she's hiding from him, leaving him with more questions than before. The neon lights from the movie dance across their faces, highlighting the silence that's grown between them like a living thing.
As he flicks his cigarette butt to the ground, debating whether to just take the pill that'll give V back control and cut this evening short, Rogue speaks up again. Her voice is softer now, thoughtful, with an undertone of something that might be approval. "V was right, you have changed."
"Huh?" He turns back to her, surprised both by the break in silence and the mention of V's name.
"You could've kissed me, you know," Rogue says after a moment, her voice carrying a hint of amusement mixed with something deeper, more melancholic. "Part of me wanted you to. Think part of you wanted it too."
Johnny snorts, fishing another cigarette from V's jacket pocket. "Yeah?" The flame from his lighter briefly illuminates his borrowed features. "Then why you lookin' so relieved I didn't?"
"Because you were right not to." She turns to face him fully, her eyes sharp and knowing as she studies V's face, searching for traces of Johnny in her expressions. "Old Johnny? He would've done it without a second thought. Wouldn't have given a damn about anyone's feelings — mine, his, or the person whose body he's borrowing."
"V said I could do whatever the fuck I wanted," he shrugs, trying to sound casual. Smoke curls from his lips as he speaks. "Her exact words were 'whatever happens, it's okay with me'."
Rogue's laugh is soft but genuine, a sound that brings back memories of easier times. "And yet here you are, being considerate." Her gaze drifts to his chest, where the dogtags catch the flickering light. She reaches out, lifting them with careful fingers, the metal warm from contact with V's skin. "These are yours. The real ones."
"Christ, not you too," he growls, dramatically rolling his eyes. The tags clink together as she lets them fall back against his chest. "What's with everyone making such a big fuckin' deal about—"
"About V wearing your clothes? Your tags? Driving your car?" Rogue interrupts, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Gee, I wonder why." Her eyes catch something else, and she grabs his wrist, turning it to examine the heart tattoo. "You know, I noticed this the night you came asking about Grayson. Fresh ink, barely healed."
Johnny tries to pull his arm back, but her grip is firm. The tattoo stands out stark against V's skin, their names forever intertwined in black ink. "So what?"
"So, that means you're the one who got it, not V. Just hours before coming to see me, if I had to guess." Her smirk grows wider, almost predatory. "A heart with both your names, Johnny? Really? Does she like it?"
"Fuck off," he mutters, but there's no real heat in it. The night air feels heavy with unspoken words. After a pause, he adds quietly, "She does, actually."
Rogue releases his arm, her expression softening into something almost tender. "You know, back then, I always wondered if you ever really cared. About anyone. Used to drive myself crazy trying to figure out if any of it was real."
"It was real," Johnny says, surprising himself with his honesty. The admission hangs in the air between them. "Just... wasn't good at showin' it. Wasn't good at a lot of things."
"And now?"
He takes a long drag from his cigarette, watching the smoke curl up into the night air, dancing with the light from the screen. "Now I got someone who sees right through my bullshit. Can't hide shit from V even if I wanted to — we're in each other's heads."
"Must be terrifying for you," Rogue observes, but her tone is gentle, understanding.
"Was at first," he admits, flicking ash onto the ground. "Now? Can't imagine it any other way." He pauses, realizing how that sounds. "Don't you dare say anythin'."
"Wouldn't dream of it." But her knowing smile says plenty. After a moment, she adds, "You know, I always thought you were incapable of changing. Glad to be proven wrong."
Johnny glances at her, seeing the genuine warmth in her eyes. "Yeah, well... had a good teacher."
"V's good for you," Rogue says simply. "Better than I ever was."
"Rogue—"
"No, listen. What we had? It was like a forest fire. Intense, destructive, left nothing but ashes." She looks at the movie screen, but her eyes are distant, lost in memories. "But this thing with V? It's different. You're different with her."
Johnny takes another drag, trying to ignore the way his heart — V's heart — speeds up at the mere mention of her name. "The fuck you mean?"
"You really want me to spell it out?" Rogue turns to him, one eyebrow raised. "Fine. The Johnny I knew? He was all about himself. His music, his causes, his revenge. Everything else — everyone else — was just... collateral damage." She pauses, her voice softening. "But the way you move in her body, how you talk about her, how careful you are... it's different. You're protective. Almost gentle, even."
"I ain't gentle," he protests weakly, but they both know it's bullshit.
"No?" Rogue's smile is knowing. "Then why'd you get that tattoo, Johnny? Why give her your tags? Hell, why are you even sitting here with me, just chatting, instead of doing whatever the fuck you want with her body, like she apparently told you to?"
Johnny stays quiet for a moment, watching the smoke drift up into the night sky. "Wouldn't have worked between us," he finally says. "Even if I'd tried back then. Wasn't ready."
"And you are now?"
"Fuck if I know." He runs a hand through V's hair — a gesture that's become a habit. "All I know is... she makes me wanna be better. Makes me wanna try. Never had that before."
"You love her," Rogue states simply. It's not a question.
Johnny's entire body tenses. "Don't—"
"What? State the obvious?" She shakes her head, amused. "Johnny, you literally branded her body with your names in a heart. You're not exactly being subtle here."
"It's... complicated." His voice drops, heavy with something Rogue can't quite place. "Might not have much time left. Either of us."
Understanding dawns on her face. "The Relic."
"Yeah." He lights another cigarette, hands slightly shaking. "Whole thing's a fucking mess. She's dyin' because of me, and I..." He trails off, unable to finish.
"And you're falling for her anyway," Rogue finishes softly.
Johnny doesn't answer, but his silence speaks volumes. The movie plays on in front of them, forgotten, as the night grows deeper around them.
"You know what's funny?" Rogue finally says, breaking the heavy silence. "All those years ago, I wanted nothing more than to be the one to change Johnny Silverhand. To be the one who'd make you care about something other than yourself." She looks at him, really looks at him. "Turns out all it took was dying, getting stuck in someone's head who's just as stubborn as you are."
"When you put it that way, it sounds fucking ridiculous."
"That's because it is fucking ridiculous." She shakes her head, a mix of amusement and wonder in her voice. "And here you are, actually talking about your feelings. The old Johnny? He'd rather get shot than admit he cared about anyone."
"Maybe the old Johnny was a fucking coward," he mutters, surprising both of them.
Rogue's eyebrows shoot up. "Now that's something I never thought I'd hear you say."
"Yeah, well..." He takes one last drag from his cigarette before flicking it away. "Lot of things changed."
"They sure have." She admits.
Johnny doesn't answer, but his hand unconsciously moves to touch the dogtags hanging around his neck, and Rogue pretends not to notice.
A comfortable silence falls between them, broken only by the distant sounds of Night City and the forgotten movie still playing. Finally, Rogue stands, smoothing down her jacket.
"This was... nice," she says, surprising them both. "Actually talking, for once. Without you being a complete ass about everything."
Johnny looks up at her, and for once, his expression is completely open. "Yeah. It was." He takes a deep breath, like he's gathering courage. "Listen, Rogue... I know it's fifty years too late, but... I'm sorry. For everything. The way I treated you, the shit I put you through... You deserved better."
Rogue stares at him for a long moment, clearly taken aback by the unexpected apology. "Well, well... V really has changed you, hasn't she?"
"Tell anyone about this conversation and I'll deny every fuckin’ word," Johnny warns, but there's no real threat in his voice.
"Please," Rogue scoffs. "Who'd believe me anyway? The great Johnny Silverhand, actually apologizing and talking about his feelings instead of drowning them in alcohol and violence?" She shakes her head. "Times really have changed."
"Yeah, well..." He fidgets with V's lighter. "Maybe they needed to."
"Just..." Rogue hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "Whatever happens with the Relic, with V... don't waste the time you have left being an asshole. You've done enough of that for several lifetimes."
"Fuck you," he says, but there's almost fondness in his tone.
"I mean it, Johnny." Her expression softens. "The way you are with her... it's good. Don't fuck it up by being scared."
"I ain't scared of shit."
"Sure you're not." She rolls her eyes. "Take care of yourself, Johnny. And take care of her too."
"Always do," he mutters, watching as Rogue walks away, her silhouette gradually disappearing into the night. He stays there for a moment longer, fingers absently tracing the heart tattoo on V's arm, lost in thoughts about second chances and time running out.
Am I wrong?
Have I run too far to get home? Yeah
Have I gone?
And left you here alone?
If I would, could you?
A few minutes later, Johnny finally reaches for the Omega Blocker in his pocket, making himself comfortable on the car's hood before swallowing it. It doesn't take long before he feels himself being pulled backward in their shared mind, V slowly stirring awake. Then suddenly, it's like a rubber band snapping — he's back in his spectral form as V's eyes flutter open.
A coughing fit seizes her, not too violent this time, but Johnny instinctively wraps a protective arm around her shoulders. "Easy, princess. Welcome back." His voice is even softer than usual, still affected by his previous conversation.
Once she can speak again, she looks around the empty drive-in, surprised to find themselves alone. "Rogue's gone..." she observes, naturally leaning into Johnny's embrace, seeking his warmth despite his incorporeal form.
"Yep." He answers simply, tension creeping into his shoulders at the thought that V might have overheard parts of his conversation with Rogue. Because the Queen of the Afterlife was right about one thing — he is scared, and definitely not ready to have that conversation with V right now.
"Guess things didn't go swimmingly..." she says, clearly disappointed on his behalf, her hand finding his knee in a comforting gesture.
"Nah... actually... it went pretty well. You didn't hear anything?" He asks, trying to hide the hope in his voice.
"Nah, nothing at all." She shrugs, and Johnny finally allows himself to relax, his arm tightening around her shoulders. "Had a nice, long nap. So, tell me about it?"
"Not much to tell." He tries to downplay it, fingers absently playing with the sleeve of her jacket. "We talked a bit, I apologized for all the shit I pulled back then. Obviously, not everything's fixed, but... it's better than nothing. At least we didn't part on bad terms this time."
V lets him continue, wrapping her own arm around his waist in silent support. Johnny goes on, "Though I've got even more questions than before about what happened to Rogue all these years. She wouldn't tell me shit. I don't know why she's keeping so many secrets but… Member Grayson, how they spoke, how weird it was?”
“Weird's not the word, I don't think.” She nods, recalling the tense exchange on the Ebunike. “He was toying with 'er. Could be something to that.”
"Gotta mull it over." Johnny stands, pulling the merc up with him as he adds, "For now... I need another favor."
"Sure. Anything you want." She responds without hesitation, and the immediate trust in her voice makes something twist in his chest.
"Take me to North Oak."
"That s'posed to help you figure out Rogue?" She asks as they make their way toward the drive-in's exit, their footsteps echoing in the empty lot.
"No — Kerry. Tell you once we're there." He responds evasively. Turning one last time toward the screen where the movie is still playing, he adds, "Oh, and you were right. Movie was a turd wrapped in crepe paper."
As V chuckles at his last remark, they make their way through the office they came in through, and she slides back behind the wheel of the Porsche. She follows the road quietly, passing by the Shintō shrine, and finally, when she reaches the roundabout overshadowed by North Oak's massive sign, Johnny tells her to park.
Johnny glitches out of the car, his form flickering like a broken hologram before rematerializing a few steps away near a small pond. His gaze fixes on the giant white letters decorating the hillside, the lights of Night City creating a hazy glow behind them. "This oughta work," he mumbles as V joins him.
"Well? So why're we here, exactly?" she asks, following his line of sight. The air is cooler up here, away from the suffocating heat of the city below.
"Heard Kerry got himself a buck-a-mansion here," he explains, turning to face her. "Done well."
She raises an eyebrow and asks, "Where'd you hear anything about Kerry?"
"In and about town. Screamsheets're full of shit about 'im..." He bends down to pick up a pebble, and of course, the actual stone doesn't move, but a copy seems to materialize in his hand — a ghostly echo of reality. He throws it into the water, obviously causing no ripples on the smooth surface, and adds teasingly, "Oh, right, you weren't around."
"Mhm, your boys' night out." She playfully elbows him in the ribs, and Johnny dramatically clutches his side, pretending to be wounded. "So what, wanna pay him a visit?"
"Yep. Seems as good a time as any," he responds simply, but V can hear the underlying concern in his voice.
"So, I gotta hit Kerry's digs, look around, critique the drapes?" V jokes, trying to lighten the mood.
"Know what they're writin' about him?" His expression darkens, the playful atmosphere evaporating like morning dew. "He's depressed, attempted suicide."
V's smile fades, and she turns serious. The weight of Johnny's words hangs heavy in the night air. "What, really worried he wants to hurt himself?"
"Who knows." He throws another ghost pebble into the water, concern evident in the tense line of his shoulders. "Either way, could give him some pointers."
"What was that about attempted suicide?" She asks, mimicking his gesture, trying to skip a stone across the water. Unlike his ethereal pebble, hers creates real ripples that disturb the pond's mirror-like surface.
"Amateur hour. Didn't even cobble together the right audience." Johnny shrugs, his voice taking on a sarcastic tone that doesn't quite mask his worry. "Tried to put a bullet through his skull in his room. Bodyguard took his gun like candy from a baby."
"Could just be the rumor mill," V tries to reassure him, instinctively moving closer.
"Sure, could." Johnny agrees, but his jaw is tense. He turns to her, fixing her with an intense stare. "But I wanna know."
"Okay." V nods, understanding how important this is to him. As if she'd refuse such a request. As if she'd refuse him anything. "But we should swing by Misty's shop first, we're out of Pseudoendotrizine, so..."
"Nah, no need." He smiles, wrapping an arm around her waist. "We'll just switch normally, you can hear what I have to say to Kerry. Actually... I want you to hear, to meet him. Ker' was — is — my best friend. Even if... I was honestly a shit friend most of the time, got a lot of history with 'im." He keeps V close as they walk toward the car, their footsteps synchronized. "So, yeah... it's important for me that you meet him."
"How you plan to tell him it's you?" She asks, lighting up a cigarette as they both lean against the car. The smoke curls up into the night sky, dancing with Johnny's own digital cigarette smoke. "Could be dealin' with some real personal shit right now, might not be the best time to mess with his head."
"V, Ker was always dealing with personal shit. That's why, in spite of everything else, we got along." He responds with a smirk, taking a drag from his pixel cigarette. He knows she's right, though. He tries to think of the right thing to say in advance, but nothing comes to mind. He shakes his head, silver dog tags catching the moonlight. "Don't worry, I'll play it by ear, sensitively. First things first — we gotta get into that house."
"Okay." She takes one last long drag, then flicks the butt to the ground, crushing it under her boot. "Just lemme know when you wanna take the wheel."
They get back into the Porsche, and as V reaches for the handbrake, Johnny's hand covers hers, squeezing gently. "Hey... just wanna say... thanks for tonight." He pauses, his thumb caressing her knuckles in a gesture that seems almost unconscious. "Nah, fuck, scratch that. Thanks for everything. Really."
"Johnny..." She whispers softly, her fingers intertwining with his.
"I... fuck." He sighs, squeezing her hand one more time before letting go, leaving her skin tingling. "Let's go, okay?"
V just nods, her heart beating just a little too fast. The Porsche's engine purrs as they wind their way up toward North Oak's exclusive heights. Ahead lies whatever fate awaits them at Kerry's mansion. Two souls so intertwined they're barely separate anymore, heading toward a reunion fifty years in the making. But for now, in this moment, they're together, and somehow, that makes everything else feel manageable.
Notes:
Some bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song: Alice In Chains - Would?
xoxo, see you in two weeks! ♥
Chapter 19: Audience of One
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Happy Valentine's Day!
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the all the Kudos on the previous chapter ♥ And thank you ZedThePoet for your comment. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I can still remember
The words and what they meant
As we etched them with our fingers
In years of wet cement
The days were long, the years were lean
Our stories match our destinies
Arriving at the heights of North Oak, V guides the sleek Porsche through the winding roads of Night City's most exclusive neighborhood. The car purrs to a stop in front of a massive gate that would probably look elegant if it wasn't for the ridiculously oversized golden samurai head decorating it — a gaudy testament to its owner's questionable taste. As she steps out of the vehicle, Johnny materializes in front of the decoration, dramatically facepalming with an exaggerated groan. "Fuckin' hell, Ker..." he mutters judgmentally, shaking his head at his old friend's extravagance. V, thoroughly entertained by his theatrical reactions, can't help but smirk as she makes her way to the intercom, her boots crunching on the perfectly maintained gravel.
After a few rings that echo in the quiet street, a male voice, rough with sleep and clearly exasperated, barks out a curt "What?"
"You'll never guess who," V sing-songs playfully, leaning against the intercom panel.
"Huhh?" the voice responds, managing to sound both pissed-off and half-conscious. "Can't hear you."
The line goes dead with an aggressive click. V sighs, turning to Johnny, who's now casually leaning against the gate with his arms crossed. "Come back later, maybe?"
"Nah, c'mon, we're lucky the dog's even home," he insists, pushing himself off the metal bars. "Known him long enough — he ain't gonna answer again."
V nods and surveys their surroundings with practiced precision. Through the ornate bars of the gate, she spots several security robots patrolling the perfectly manicured garden — latest gen stuff, chrome gleaming under the moonligt as they march in predictable patterns between exotic plants and water features. "The hell's this freak tech?" Johnny mumbles, eyeing the machines with distaste, and the merc just shrugs, already calculating her route. She estimates the height of the surrounding wall and, after charging her reinforced leg muscles for a double jump, easily clears it. She lands gracefully in a crouch among the lush vegetation on the other side, her boots silent on the perfectly trimmed grass.
Moving like a shadow, she crouches between dense, carefully maintained bushes and towering decorative palm trees, progressing methodically toward the massive front door. The robots continue their mindless patrol, their red sensors sweeping uselessly over the grounds. When the coast is clear, she darts forward and pushes the door, pleasantly surprised to find it unlocked. She slips inside the cool air-conditioned interior, quickly closing it behind her with a soft click.
Turning around, V discovers an enormous room that would appear incredibly empty if it wasn't for the absolute chaos scattered throughout the space. The modern architecture screams money — soaring ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, and premium materials everywhere — but the mess is almost impressive. Empty bottles of various expensive liquors litter the polished wooden and marble floors, while designer pillows and what look like silk blankets are randomly strewn across the floating stairs. The wall near the entrance is completely covered in graffiti and expensive-looking clothes clutter a gorgeous grand piano at the center of the space. Half-unpacked boxes are abandoned in one corner, their contents spilling out, while a custom guitar rests on a discarded mattress that has absolutely no business being in the middle of the walkway. The place is a perfect representation of its owner — excessive wealth mixed with complete disregard for order, where luxury meets chaos in the most jarring way possible.
"Fugly as seafood barf. Hope it was expensive, at least," Johnny comments sarcastically as they move through the room, stepping over what looks like a prototype synthesizer. "Somethin's gotta justify this level of tacky."
He stops near a massive octagonal marble table that probably costs more than most people's yearly salary, though its luxury is somewhat diminished by the chaos covering its surface. The expensive stone disappears under layers of takeout containers, empty bottles of premium liquor, and the most random assortment of objects — including, bizarrely, a pristine surfboard that looks like it's never seen water. Books with broken spines are scattered around, and a single designer sandal sits atop the mess like a cherry on a particularly messy sundae. "Fuck, cookie cutter crap straight from a catalogue." Johnny taps the marble with his chrome fist, the metallic sound echoing in the vast space as he shakes his head with a jaded expression. "Doubt Kerry picked this. Always ate out, always."
"Yep." V raises her eyebrows at the sight of a half-eaten burger turning various shades of green on a gold-rimmed plate. "Looks like some things haven't changed, even after all this time."
"Nah, I swear, this guy couldn't even put a burrito in a microwave without settin' off the fire alarm." Johnny's voice carries a mix of fondness and exasperation as they head toward the nearest stairs. "If me or Nance weren't around, Ker' would've starved himself out of pure fuckin' laziness. Had to literally force-feed him sometimes during tours." He rolls his eyes, chrome hand trailing along the modern railing. "Reminds me of someone, by the way."
"Oh, shut up." V chuckles, playfully punching him in the shoulder. "I forget to eat sometimes, okay. Only when I'm too busy."
"Yeah, whatever." He drops it, leading them toward a small living room where a single, obviously expensive designer couch faces an enormous bay window. The view is breathtaking — Night City sprawls below them, a maze of neon and chrome stretching to the horizon. Johnny drops onto the white cushions, disturbing a gaudy leopard print throw. His gaze lingers on the empty bottles scattered everywhere — premium tequila, rare whiskey, exclusive wines, their labels all screaming money and status. Fuck, his old friend's liver must be in as sorry a state as his was before death. He turns to V, who's still mesmerized by the cityscape. "Bet he sits here and thinks — the fuck I need all this shit for?"
"Hm, prolly," she confirms, then turns away to continue their exploration. They discover a second living room, this one featuring a fully stocked bar that would make most nightclub owners jealous, but pass through without stopping. Reaching the other side of the villa, they find a bedroom space that could easily fit V's entire apartment. Like everything else, it's cluttered with evidence of Kerry's chaotic lifestyle — clothes worth thousands of eddies thrown carelessly on the floor, more empty bottles, and what looks like a prototype guitar propped against silk sheets.
Johnny looks at the California king bed and comments, "Prolly the only actual necessity of this whole pad." Then he descends the stairs, V following close behind. Downstairs, through floor-to-ceiling windows, they discover a Rayfield Aerondight gleaming in the artificial light. Johnny can't suppress an admiring whistle. "All right, I'll give him that one."
"Shit, looks brand new," V raises her eyebrows, examining the vehicle's perfect lines through the glass. "You think he actually drives it?"
"Honestly, I doubt it." He shrugs, then wraps his arm around V's shoulders, pulling her close. "Ker's always been a terrible driver. It'd be covered in scratches and dents if he drove it." On the other side of the room — another living room, because apparently one needs at least three in a single house — they discover an enormous painting that makes them both stop dead in their tracks. It's Kerry, displayed in all his glory, practically naked except for high boots and shoulder guards, with the remains of a samurai outfit artistically trailing on the ground behind him. The painting is technically masterful, but so incredibly over-the-top that Johnny doesn't know whether to laugh or bang his head against the wall. "Ah, beautiful butterfly Kerry emerging from his silky Samurai chrysalis."
"Wow." V can't help but chuckle, leaning into Johnny's side. "Your choom really isn't the subtle type, huh?"
"Clearly not." He sighs, metal fingers absently playing with V's hair as they both head back to the main room. "Never was, never will be. It's part of his charm, I guess."
They discover a meticulously organized vinyl collection tucked away in a corner, each record carefully preserved despite the chaos around them. Johnny has something to say about each one, his commentary flowing between fond memories and sharp criticism, his voice carrying both nostalgia and his trademark sarcasm. A bit further, mounted on the wall like precious trophies, an impressive collection of guitars catches their attention — each instrument a piece of music history.
"Well, now I am impressed," Johnny whistles, his usual cynicism giving way to genuine appreciation. His voice takes on an almost wistful tone that V rarely hears. "Played a few of these myself back in our Samurai days." His chrome hand reaches out, almost touching one of the instruments. "That black one there? Smashed it during our last show at the Rainbow Cadenza. Crowd went absolutely apeshit."
"Hey, look," V points to a familiar red guitar that stands out among the others. "Isn't that the one we retrieved from that psychofan's place a while back?"
"Yeah, that's the one." He tightens his arm around her shoulders, the memory of that evening with Panam, digging through the belongings of that Samurai-obsessed guy, bringing a small smile to his face. "Looks like it finally found its way back home. Ker' always had a soft spot for that one."
The sound of running water catches their attention, and V approaches an unopened door. Steam seeps from underneath, carrying the faint scent of expensive cologne. "Looks like he's showering?"
"Alone, too. Good thing, believe me." He leans against the door, listening to the sounds inside, a mischievous glint in his dark eyes. "Okay, leave the rest to me. I'll get him outta there. You ready?" he asks, taking her hand, his chrome fingers intertwining with hers. The contrast between the cool metal and her warm skin sends a familiar shiver down their shared spine.
"Ready." She confirms, squeezing his hand, trust evident in her voice. "Have fun."
The switch happens smoothly, instantaneously. It leaves Johnny with a pleasant warmth spreading through their shared body as he flexes their fingers, thinking this is a thousand times better than those damn pills. V's presence remains, a comforting warmth in their mind, watching with amused interest. Yeah, much better.
Johnny walks to the guitar rack and takes one off the wall, the weight familiar yet strange in V's smaller hands. His movements are sure, though – some things never change, no matter the body. "Now, let's see which're up for show and which're actually strummable." He sits on the bench, adjusting to V's different frame, and starts singing — and fuck if it isn't weird doing this with her voice, higher and clearer than his own gravelly tone. "We lost everything..." His fingers move across the strings as he begins to play, muscle memory taking over despite the unfamiliar body, the notes of Never Fade Away filling the empty space.
"Who the fuck...?" A voice interrupts, and Johnny's heart does something complicated in V's chest. He looks up and — wow, fuck. Sure, he's seen Kerry in the screamsheets, but it's something else entirely seeing him in person after fifty years. His silver hair catching the light, still wet from the shower, the expensive cyberwear on his throat glinting like jewelry, his short — Johnny would definitely call it slutty, in the best way possible — silky bathrobe clinging to his damp skin. Oh, well, and the iron he's pointing in his direction, but that's just a detail — some things never change, and Kerry's flair for drama is definitely one of them.
"Keep playin'." Kerry orders, gesturing with the weapon, water still dripping from his hair onto his expensive robe. His stance is tense, defensive, but there's something in his eyes — recognition, maybe, or hope.
"All right." Johnny agrees good-naturedly, and starts playing again. His fingers dance across the strings with practiced ease, muscle memory transcending the decades and the unfamiliar body he's in. The melody flows naturally, and he can't help but smile – how many times had they played this together? The notes hang in the air between them, heavy with shared history.
A few chords later, Kerry's hand starts trembling, the gun lowering slightly. He's clearly recognized the distinctive playing style — nobody else plays quite like Johnny Silverhand, not even the countless copycats who've tried over the years. "Johnny?" His voice cracks on the name, disbelief and something deeper, more vulnerable, bleeding through.
"Kerry?" Johnny responds in the same tone, half-mocking, half-sincere. It's kind of a shock for him too, seeing Ker' after all these years. Sure, he'd prepared himself for this moment, but nothing could really ready him for seeing his old friend — his best friend, if he's being honest with himself — standing there in the flesh. The years have been kind to Kerry, in their own way. The wrinkles around his eyes only add character, and that familiar fire still burns bright beneath the surface.
"No, no, no, this's some fuckin' joke." Kerry paces, his robe swishing around his hips as he moves, agitated, disturbed. The gun comes back up, steady despite his obvious emotional turmoil. "Hang on... What'd Silverhand tell me before he died?"
"This a test?" Johnny asks, rolling V's eyes. "Could just play you another song." His fingers hover over the strings, ready to prove himself again if needed.
The other man loses patience, his voice rising with desperation. "Answer me!"
"Told you to leave Samurai, go your own way." Johnny makes a vague gesture at the villa, at all the evidence of Kerry's success surrounding them. The platinum records on the walls, the expensive instruments, the very house they're standing in — all of it testament to how far Kerry's come. "Clearly, I was right. As I often am."
"Johnny fuckin' Silverhand... The fuck?" Kerry mumbles, staggering back a few steps. His eyes are wide with disbelief, a complex mix of emotions playing across his features — shock, hope, fear, anger, all tangled together. He moves forward again, studying the unfamiliar face that somehow holds such familiar mannerisms, like seeing a ghost wearing a stranger's skin. "I mean — how?"
"Surprise." Johnny says, plastering his signature cocky smirk on V's features. It feels strange, using these unfamiliar muscles to make such a familiar expression, but from Kerry's reaction, he must have nailed it.
The expression hits Kerry like a punch to the gut — that fucking smirk, that same goddamn smirk that used to drive him up the wall fifty years ago. Some things never change, and Johnny Silverhand being an insufferable ass is definitely one of them. "Motherfucker!" he growls, and before Johnny can dodge, the gun's grip connects solidly with V's jaw. The impact is satisfying in a way Kerry's been dreaming about for half a century.
Well, okay, Johnny thinks as he massages V's sore jaw, he kinda had that one coming. The familiar taste of copper fills their mouth, and shit — he hopes she won't be too mad about getting her body damaged again. But V's actually laughing at him, her presence warm and amused in the back of their mind, clearly enjoying watching him get his ass handed to him. Some friend she is.
He turns back to Kerry, who's heavily dropped onto the bench beside him, the silk robe riding up his thighs as he sits. His old friend is obviously still trying to process what's happening, his cybernetic eyes scanning Johnny's — V's — face like he's trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle. "Okay, weren't expecting me, I get it."
"Au fucking contraire. Been waiting fifty years to do that." Kerry snaps, tossing his gun aside with a clatter. He takes a deep breath, and Johnny watches as some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders. He leans back, getting comfortable as he observes Johnny in this new form, his robe parting to reveal more of his chrome-enhanced chest. A small smirk plays on his lips as his gaze travels over V's figure. "See you changed a bit." he says ironically, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Nice rack. Sporting a new style?"
"Not lookin' all bad yourself, either." Johnny can't help but lean forward, catching the other man's chin between V's fingers. The gesture is intimate, familiar — how many times had he done this before, checking Kerry for injuries after particularly rowdy concerts? He tilts his head to get a better look at the changes time has carved into his friend's face. "Finally managed to grow that beard you always wanted. The fuck with the optics, though? I preferred your real eyes."
"Shit — Johnny..." Kerry sighs, pushing his hand away. "Oh man, need a drink." He runs a hand through his wet silver hair, sending droplets scattering across his shoulders. "All right. C'mon, tell me — why do you look like a small time kleptopunk from the Afterlife?"
"This is V." He answers simply, unable to keep the affection from coloring his borrowed voice. V's presence warms at the mention of her name, curiosity piquing as she watches their interaction through their shared eyes. "You'd like 'er."
"The fuck, Johnny." Kerry responds with a bewildered expression, standing up and taking a few steps toward the stairs. "Doesn't explain a thing. Not even close to explaining anything, actually."
Johnny carefully sets the guitar back on its stand before following Kerry, unable to help commenting, "Nice place." His eyes sweep over the luxurious interior, taking in all the evidence of Kerry's success — and beneath it, a profound loneliness that makes something twist in his borrowed chest.
"Ain't seen much of it yet." Kerry responds with a shrug that's trying too hard to be casual. Johnny takes advantage of his position behind him to observe his old friend — the years have changed him, sure, but there's still that familiar swagger in his step, that same energy that used to light up stages across Night City. "Moved in after the fourth album came out."
"All sold well, apparently." He drawls, noting the expensive artwork lining the stairwell.
"Fuck you, Johnny. Don't even start." Kerry says, world-weary, perfectly understanding where his friend is going with this. Some conversations never change, even after fifty years. The tension in his shoulders speaks of old arguments, of wounds that never quite healed.
Johnny can't help but push further, like picking at an old scab – it's what he does best, after all. "Who'd you sign with?"
"Shit, with Arasaka." The other man replies sarcastically, turning to look down at him from the top of the stairs, his cybernetic eyes glinting dangerously in the dim light. "Mornings I record at their studio, then evenings Yori pops over for a little neighborly cookout. We braid each other's hair and share corpo secrets."
V laughs in their head, her amusement warming their shared consciousness. "Fuck, I see why he's your friend." Her presence feels like sunshine, making Johnny's lips twitch despite himself.
Johnny smiles at the merc's intervention before turning his attention back to his old bandmate. "Mh, and who'd you really sign with?"
Kerry sprawls in one of the couch near the bar. "MNS Records." He answers flatly, like the words taste bitter in his mouth.
"Another pillar of society." Johnny drops the subject, seeing how Kerry's shoulders tense at the mention of his label. Some wounds, it seems, are still fresh, and maybe he's learned enough in death to know when to back off. Maybe.
"C'mon." Kerry grabs an expensive-looking bottle from the table, then gestures to the other sofa. His hands shake slightly as he handles it, betraying his emotional state. "Siddown with me, tell me where you've been all this time."
The rockerboy casts another glance around, taking in the villa — too large, too empty, too much like a golden cage. The silence feels oppressive, broken only by their breathing and the distant hum of Night City. "Live here all by your lonesome?"
"Nah. Got my cook, Ariel, but he's off today, Miguel—" Kerry starts to explain before cutting himself off abruptly, shooting Johnny a dark look. There's something vulnerable in his expression, quickly masked by irritation. "What'm I—? Not your biz, choom. Siddown, start talkin'!"
Johnny sinks into the opposite chair, facing his old friend. The leather is soft, expensive — everything here screams money and success, but there's an underlying emptiness. It's all so far from their Samurai days, from cramped apartments and shared cigarettes and dreams of changing the world. "Steel yourself for a long story."
"Just really want it to be tragic, sad as all fuck over all those years." Kerry pours himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the light like liquid gold. His voice carries decades of pain, of waiting, of wondering. "'Cause if I hear you spent them with the nomads, open road, wind in your hair..." He finds another glass on the floor and fills that one too, his hands trembling more noticeably now. "Or cool and relaxed in orbit... And now you've just popped by to shit all over my life, well, I'ma lose my damn mind." His voice breaks on the last words, grief and anger and loneliness bleeding through as he slides the glass across the table to his friend.
"Oh, it is a heartbreaker." Johnny says ironically, catching the glass and raising it in a toast. He takes a sip, letting the expensive liquor burn down V's throat, and finally begins to tell his story.
Taking his time, Johnny begins to tell everything, the expensive liquor warming V's throat as he speaks. The Arasaka Tower, the bomb, Smasher, his death — the memories flow like a toxic river, poisoned with rage and regret. To be honest, some details in his memories seem blurry or even inconsistent, like trying to recall a nightmare through a hangover, but he doesn't want to show any weakness in front of his friend. So he tries to make his story as fluid as possible.
"Y'know," Kerry interrupts when he finishes this part of the story, his voice thick with emotion, artificial eyes gleaming suspiciously bright in the dim light, "that night, Rogue came to tell me herself. She... she didn't even need to say it, I knew the second I saw her standing at my door... The look on her face... Fuck, I..." His hands shake so badly he nearly drops his glass, knuckles white against the crystal. The memory seems to physically pain him, decades-old grief rising to the surface like blood from a reopened wound.
"Ker'..." Johnny sighs, his heart clenching at the obvious distress this memory provokes in the other man. The pain in Kerry's voice is raw, even after fifty years, and Johnny feels it echo in his own chest. "I..."
"Shut the fuck up, asshole!" Kerry snaps again, eyes glistening with unshed tears. The anger in his voice is familiar, but the hurt beneath it is new, deep and festering. "You had no intention of coming back, did you? It was a suicide mission, and you knew it damn well! I saw it in your eyes when you said goodbye that night and... fuck..." His voice breaks and he can't continue, downing his glass in one go before pouring another with a trembling hand. The amber liquid sloshes over the rim, staining the expensive table, but Kerry doesn't seem to notice or care.
"Shit, man." The rockerboy runs a hand through V's hair, a contrite expression on their borrowed face. The gesture is pure Johnny, and it makes Kerry's breath hitch slightly. "Hadn't exactly planned to die like that. Even if you're not wrong, my life wasn't really what mattered most at the time, I... I hadn't really thought about leavin' you alone, and I'm fuckin' sorry for that."
"Fuck me, Johnny Silverhand apologizing..." Kerry lets out a dry, humorless chuckle that sounds more like a sob. "If someone had told me I'd live to see the day..."
"Owe you a lotta 'sorry' for a lotta shit, Ker'." Johnny admits, taking a sip of his drink to compose himself. The alcohol burns, but it's nothing compared to the ache in his chest when he looks at his old friend. After a few moments of heavy silence, he asks, "Wanna hear the rest?"
Kerry nods, his knuckles still white around his glass, and Johnny continues. He does his best to explain Mikoshi — the endless void, the strange passage of time, the feeling of being everywhere and nowhere at once. How, overnight, he found himself in V's head, a passenger in someone else's life. He describes how weird the cohabitation was at first, all anger and fear and mutual distrust, how they eventually found common ground in their shared stubborn determination, and finally, became something more than either of them could have expected. Their unsuccessful attempts to fix the situation, and how everything's at a standstill now, time running out like sand through their fingers.
The other man interjects occasionally, asking questions, but Johnny can see he's struggling to process the whole situation. The concept of engram consciousness and shared minds is a lot to take in, even for someone who's seen as much weird shit as Kerry has. His cybernetic eyes keep scanning Johnny's — V's — face, like he's trying to reconcile the familiar mannerisms with the unfamiliar features.
Johnny eventually steers the conversation toward how the last fifty years have been for his friend, and Kerry slowly relaxes, the conversation becoming easier as the minutes pass, now that they're on more familiar ground. The tension bleeds from his shoulders as he talks about his music, his career, though there's still something guarded in his eyes when he speaks about his personal life. The success seems to sit heavily on him, like a gilded cage he built himself.
The conversation quickly turns nostalgic, Kerry even pulling up an old Samurai concert video from his files, projecting it large across his wall. The grainy footage fills the space with ghosts of their past, younger versions of themselves thrashing across the stage in a haze of smoke and neon. The sound quality is shit, but Johnny can almost smell the sweat and cigarettes, feel the heat of the lights and the energy of the crowd. It hits him like a punch to the gut, seeing himself up there, alive and whole and so fucking young.
"Ooh fuck, remember?" Kerry exclaims with renewed enthusiasm, gesturing at the video, his earlier melancholy momentarily forgotten. His cybernetic eyes shine with genuine joy as he watches their younger selves, and for a moment, he looks just like that kid Johnny used to know. "The one damn time Henry showed up sober and clean as a whistle."
"Uh-huh." Johnny confirms, amused, taking another sip of whiskey. The familiar burn helps ground him as he watches his old self on screen. Strange to think that guy's been dead for fifty years. Stranger still to be watching him through someone else's eyes. "An' played absolute tripe."
"Least Denny was happy." Kerry responds simply, his gaze dancing between the Johnny on screen and the one wearing a young merc's face. The situation is so fucking bizarre that he keeps having to remind himself he's not hallucinating — though the expensive whiskey isn't helping with that. His eyes keep catching on the little mannerisms that are pure Johnny, even in V's body — the way he holds his cigarette, the slight tilt of his head when he's thinking.
Johnny lets himself sink into nostalgia, watching the concert footage. This was before Alt, maybe even before he met Rogue — he's not sure anymore. Time gets fuzzy when you've been dead for half a century. Just a bunch of friends really trying to make music, before everything got complicated, before the corps and the bombs and the deaths. Before he fucked it all up. "Lookin' at 'em now, those really were the best of times."
"Played fucking rat-infested dumps, argued before every gig…" Kerry affirms, but without really contradicting him. His voice carries a warmth that belies his harsh words, a fondness for those chaotic days that even fifty years couldn't erase. "Had no idea what we wanted to play. And never had an ed to our name. Nancy — control freak. Henry smelled like zappers 'n' piss. I was always stealin' your pants." He slightly furrows his brow, carefully observing V's outfit. The leather pants, scuffed and worn but still unmistakably Johnny's style. "Pretty sure I stole that one too, and now it's — shit, what's her name again? — who's got it."
"Hella good times, man. And it's V. Her name's V." Johnny reminds him for the third time, ignoring his friend's grumbling about how a single letter isn't really a name. In their shared consciousness, V's amusement bubbles up like champagne. "She found it, she can keep it. Like the rest of my stuff. Can't say I need any of it anymore, anyway." He turns back to the video and after a few seconds, decides to address the real reason for his visit. The mood shifts, tension creeping back into the room like smoke. "Stuff about you bein' depressed — it true?"
"Nope." Kerry states, but Johnny notices how he avoids eye contact while saying, "Promo stratagem." The lie hangs heavy in the air between them, as obvious as the empty bottles littering the villa.
"Suicide attempts, too?" Johnny pushes, his voice taking on a sarcastic edge that barely masks his concern. "Think putting a bullet through your skull'll help your sales?"
"Didn't work for you. Nobody remembers Samurai." Kerry jabs viciously, even though they both know that's not true. The words are meant to hurt, to push Johnny away, and fuck if they don't succeed. Kerry's always known exactly where to stick the knife. "Now you're just butthurt 'cause I managed fine without ya."
"Fuck me. Got no answer to that." Johnny sighs, deciding to drop the subject for now, seeing how completely closed off his friend is to this discussion.
The projected concert continues to play in the background, casting their younger selves' shadows across the room like persistent ghosts. The music fills the space between them, a reminder of everything they've lost — and maybe everything they still have to save. Johnny watches his younger self swagger across the stage, full of piss and vinegar and revolutionary fire, and wonders when exactly everything went so wrong. In their head, V's presence wraps around him like a comfort blanket, warm and understanding. At least he's not alone anymore.
When the silence becomes too uncomfortable, Johnny redirects the conversation, trying to ignore the weight of fifty years pressing down on them. "Still in touch with the gang?"
"Just Nance. Changed her name to Bes Isis, works for N54 News." His friend responds flatly, but after a moment of reflection, a spark of interest lights up his eyes and he adds, "Could track down Denny and Henry if you want. Maybe get together? You know, jam or somethin'." There's a hesitant hope in his voice that makes Johnny's chest ache, a fragile thing that reminds him of when they were young and Kerry would tentatively suggest new song ideas.
The rockerboy considers the idea for a few moments — and shit, it's tempting. Just one last concert for the road. Just reliving one of those good moments before dying, again. The thought sends a bitter taste to his mouth, but he pushes it aside. He watches the video, the camera focusing on a drum solo, Denny's face twisted in concentration as she pounds out a rhythm that still makes his blood sing after all these years. "Denny might still be in the biz." He muses, watching her younger self attack the drums like they personally offended her. "Actually had talent — and a spine."
"Yeah, released somethin' not too long ago." Kerry comments absently, his fingers tapping against his glass in an unconscious rhythm that matches Denny's drumming. "Moved to North Oak, too." The casual way he drops this information doesn't quite hide the longing in his voice.
Johnny raises an eyebrow, catching the contradiction. "You just said you weren't in touch."
"Didn't hear it from her." He shrugs, trying — and failing — to pretend it doesn't hurt. "Think she might be avoiding me." The admission hangs heavy in the air, another piece of evidence of Kerry's isolation.
"Fuckin' hell, Ker'..." Johnny sighs, running a hand through V's hair in frustration. What happened to his friend to leave him so mired in his loneliness? The Kerry he knew was always the life of the party, always reaching out, always connecting. This new version, trapped in his gilded cage, breaks something in Johnny's heart. "You ever leave this house?"
"Nope." He shakes his head vaguely, as if it doesn't matter, but his shoulders are tense. The massive villa suddenly feels like a tomb, beautiful but lifeless.
Fucking hell, if that isn't depressing. Johnny wants to grab Kerry and shake him vigorously, snap him out of this weird torpor that, he decides, doesn't suit him at all. Something tells him it's at least partially his fault, that he broke his friend, like he broke everyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. In their shared consciousness, V's presence wraps around him like a warm embrace, telling him it's not his fault, that fifty years have passed and there could be a thousand reasons for Kerry's behavior. That she's here with him, and together they'll figure out what happened and fix it. Her unwavering support makes something warm bloom in their shared chest.
Deciding the concert would be a good first step toward that, Johnny asks, "You wanna bring Samurai back?"
"Dunno. Could do one gig. Play some dive where nobody'd place us." Kerry starts pacing around the room, seeming increasingly excited by the idea. His movements become more animated, some of his old energy returning. The change is like watching a statue come to life, years falling away with each step. "I mean, got my reputation to think about." He gestures vaguely at the gold records lining the walls.
Johnny can't help but roll his eyes at that last remark. At least his friend's obsession with what people think of him hasn't changed. "But I won't have to explain what happened, all this?" He gestures at V's body, at the whole bizarre situation they're in.
"Nah, we'll spare 'em. Hella boring story. Biochips, Arasaka's evil schemes, magic pills..." he says ironically, waving his hand in dismissal, a hint of his old humor returning. "We'll just say you're my new output."
"Of course." Johnny barks a laugh, V's amusement mingling with his own in a warm bubble of shared mirth. "You'd love that, huh? All right. Let's do it."
"Fuck, yeah!" Kerry claps his hands enthusiastically, as if this little concert in what will probably be a shitty bar is the best opportunity he's had in a long time. The genuine excitement in his expression makes him look years younger, strips away the chrome and designer clothes to reveal the punk kid Johnny used to know. "Okay, send ya Nancy's number in a sec. I'll go after Henry and Denny."
"Mhm." Johnny indeed receives the contact, displaying on V's Kiroshi visual interface in a flash of neon blue. "If I'm not there, figure it out with V."
"Sure, uh... you two get along?" Kerry asks, intrigued, his eyes studying V's face as if trying to understand this strange arrangement.
"Sure. Kid loves me." He answers with a cocky smirk, and he feels a warm wave of affection flowing from V's consciousness, confirming his words.
"Yeah, I bet." his friend shrugs, but there's something knowing in his smile, as if he sees right through Johnny's casual attitude.
Johnny watches Kerry buzz around the room, frantically tapping on his holo like an overexcited teenager. The whole situation feels surreal — his best friend, aged fifty years but still so fundamentally Kerry, planning a Samurai reunion like no time has passed at all. He has no idea how to conclude this reunion, simply saying 'see you later' feels wrong after fifty years of absence. So he just stands up, giving control back to V without warning.
As the merc takes the wheel of her body, the world tilts sideways. She feels like she's stood up too quickly after too many drinks, her vision swimming as her knees buckle. She stumbles, collapsing onto the floor with a grunt that sounds embarrassingly undignified.
Johnny, in his spectral form, is immediately at her side, concern radiating through their link. Kerry's there too, dropping to one knee beside her, his chrome eyes wide with worry as he asks, "Johnny? You okay?"
"Ugh..." V grimaces as she pulls herself up, settling onto the nearest couch. The world spins a little less when she's sitting, though her head still feels like it's stuffed with cotton. "Don't worry, he's fine."
"Ah, so you must be V." Kerry realizes, giving her shoulder a gentle pat. His eyes dart around the room, probably trying to spot Johnny's ghost, and there's something uncertain in his expression. "Johnny mentioned something like this might happen. You gonna be okay?"
"I'll be fine." V confirms, grabbing the glass Johnny had abandoned on the table and taking a long sip. The expensive whiskey burns pleasantly down her throat, helping to ground her back in her own body. Through their link, she feels Johnny's guilt at the rough transition, but she sends back reassurance.
"Good, good. Uh... I'm gonna make some calls." Kerry makes a vague gesture toward the stairs leading to his bedroom, obviously not entirely comfortable with this stranger who, moments ago, was his best friend. His body language screams uncertainty, caught between wanting to help and wanting to retreat. "Just sit tight for a bit, rest. Don't worry about a thing."
With that, he hurries up the stairs, leaving V with Johnny, who sprawls beside her on the couch, draping an arm around her shoulders in his usual manner. She immediately leans against him, his solid presence grounding her, the familiar scent of cigarettes and leather wrapping around her like a comfort blanket. "So... this concert thing?"
"Wanna see Samurai live?" Johnny asks, a big grin spreading across his face, eyes sparkling with excitement. She loves seeing him like this, all boyish enthusiasm and genuine joy. "Prolly won't get another chance."
"Hell yeah!" the merc responds with matching enthusiasm. The idea of seeing the legendary band perform, with Johnny actually there — even if it's through her — is too good to pass up. "Callin' Nancy."
"Fuck yeah, nice!" Johnny exclaims joyfully, then plants a loud kiss on her temple, his stubble scratching against her skin. The casual affection makes her heart flutter, even as she tries to play it cool.
V chuckles at his sudden display of affection and initiates the call. Unfortunately, the holo rings emptily for several seconds before Nancy's assistant answers instead of her. The man — a real dickhead, according to both V and Johnny's immediate assessment — informs her with barely concealed disdain that his boss left to do a report at Totentanz and hasn't returned yet.
V hangs up with an eye roll, understanding that the man has no intention of lifting a finger to help his boss, so she'll have to do it herself. Johnny agrees with a mental nudge, his concern for his old bandmate bleeding through their connection, and they both head upstairs to brief Kerry on the situation. They find him sprawled across his massive bed, still seemingly processing his reunion with his friend, staring at the ceiling like it holds all the answers to the universe. He barely seems to register when V explains that Nancy might be in trouble, instead inviting the merc to join him for a quick nap with a lazy wave of his hand.
As much as it amuses V and makes Johnny roll his eyes dramatically, she declines the invitation and bids him goodbye, promising to keep him updated before leaving the villa. This time, the robot guards let her pass without issue, and Kerry had the presence of mind to unlock the gate at the garden entrance. Without wasting another second, V slides behind the wheel of the Porsche and heads toward Northside, the engine purring beneath her as Johnny materializes in the passenger seat, already lighting a cigarette. And with him by her side, V feels ready to face whatever chaos awaits them at Totentanz. After all, what's one more rescue mission between friends?
V arrives quickly in the industrial district, the Porsche's engine purring to silence as she parks not far from the club. During the drive, Johnny filled her in on Nancy, his voice carrying a mix of admiration and nostalgia as he told stories about the band's glory days. According to him, she and Denny were the only ones with their heads screwed on straight in Samurai — while the guys were busy getting high and starting fights, these two were actually keeping the band from imploding.
"Real iron lady," Johnny explains, materializing beside her as they walk toward the club. "Smart as fuck, and twice as tough. The kind who'd rather break your jaw than take your shit." There's genuine respect in his voice, something V doesn't hear often. Through their shared consciousness, she feels his memories of Nancy — sharp wit, sharper tongue, and an unwavering determination that kept them all in line.
He tells V about Nancy's abusive marriage, his spectral form tensing with old anger as he recounts how, before he or Kerry could even think about intervening, she handled the situation herself. "Threw the fucker right out the window of their 83rd story apartment," he says with grim satisfaction. "Didn't even hesitate. Seven months in prison was worth it, she said." The band tried to keep Samurai going after she got out, but they'd all started moving in different musical directions by then. Johnny's tone suggests there's more to that story — deeper fractures, unspoken resentments — but he doesn't elaborate.
They enter Totentanz, the industrial music immediately assaulting V's senses. The bass is so heavy it makes her chrome vibrate, and the red emergency lighting casts everything in a hellish glow. She chats casually with a Maelstromer in the elevator, though she notices how some gang members still eye her suspiciously. The Flathead incident at the All Foods factory left its mark, but since she's the reason Brick survived to retake leadership of the gang, his underlings are more or less required to play nice. Still, she keeps her guard up — in Night City, yesterday's friends can become tomorrow's enemies in the blink of an eye.
Speaking of Brick, V finds him comfortably settled in one of the upstairs lounge chairs, having what appears to be a cordial conversation with Nancy. She seems perfectly fine, much to V and Johnny's relief. The chrome-faced man's optics light up when he spots her. "V — what a surprise. Didn't bring your pretty nomad choom this time?" He greets her, his voice carrying over the club's thunderous music. The red emergency lights reflect off his chrome face, creating an almost demonic effect. "What can I do for ya?"
"Nah, flyin' solo tonight." She settles onto the couch, returning his offered fist bump. "Looks like I'm interrupting."
"Wrappin' up, actually." He dismisses casually, the chrome plates of his face shifting in what might be annoyance. "Bes here's overstayed her welcome."
"Yet I still haven't gotten answers to all my questions." The journalist comments, studying V with sharp, professional interest. Her cybernetic eyes scan V systematically, probably running facial recognition software. Johnny tenses beside her, worried his old friend might recognize something familiar in V's mannerisms.
"Make somethin' up — you're a journalist, should be second nature." Brick shrugs his implant-covered shoulders, the chrome and cables shifting with the movement. "Say it's an orgy of noise or whatever."
V sees Nancy preparing to argue and cuts her off before she can open her mouth. "Kerry Eurodyne sent me. With some biz for Bes."
"Kerry?" She raises an eyebrow, genuine surprise breaking through her professional mask. "Did he suddenly remember I exist?"
"You can go." Brick nods, apparently happy to have an excuse to get rid of the journalist.
"Huh?" A woman with characteristic Maelstrom ocular implants and short, flame-red hair interjects, her mechanical eyes whirring as she turns to her boss. “Just like that?”
"I ask you? No? That's what I thought." Brick snaps at her, before grumbling under his breath, his voice modulator giving the words a metallic edge. "Tryna run a business here."
"Thanks, Brick. That was... enlightening." Nancy stands with practiced grace, nodding toward V. Despite the years, she still carries herself with the same confidence Johnny remembers. "Let's go."
"'Preciate it. Thanks." The merc says to the gang leader, before turning to follow Nancy toward the club's exit. Through their link, she feels Johnny's anticipation building, mixed with anxiety. Another piece of his past walking beside them, another chance to make things right — or at least less wrong.
"Brick is all right," V comments as they descend the metal staircase, their footsteps echoing in the industrial space. The emergency lights cast strange shadows on the walls, making their descent feel almost surreal. "For the leader of a gang that worships chrome, I mean."
"Sure," Nancy confirms, her boots clicking against the steel steps. "Just too bad he doesn't know squat about music." Her tone carries the familiar disappointment of a journalist who's hit a dead end.
"That's what you wanted to talk to him about?" V asks, genuinely surprised. Through their link, she feels Johnny's amusement — he clearly remembers Nancy's dedication to getting the full story, no matter what.
"Yeah. Tinnitus. The Totentanz sound. What I got outta Brick was scop." Nancy explains, not bothering to hide her frustration. She punches the elevator button with more force than necessary, then leans against the wall, arms crossed. "Why's the elevator so damn slow in this dump..."
As if summoned by her complaint, the doors slide open with a metallic groan. V hits the ground floor button, and the box begins its descent with a concerning rattle. "So, what — giving up on your story?" V asks, leaning against the opposite wall. "I won't learn anything about Maelstrom's music?" She can feel Johnny's presence hovering nearby, his curiosity about his old friend's current life bleeding through their connection.
"Got lots of footage, need to look through it, see what I can patch together." Nancy explains, her posture relaxing slightly now that they're leaving the club's oppressive atmosphere behind. "Fuck, just hope the car's still where I parked it." She runs a hand through her hair as the elevator continues its noisy descent. "Brick was the safe option. Really should've talked to the asses from Tinnitus."
"You got some sorta in with them?" V inquires, genuinely interested.
"Brick invited me to one of their gigs." Nancy shrugs, the movement elegant despite the elevator's shaking. "Problem is the lineup — changes every time." Her voice carries the frustration of someone who's spent too long chasing an ever-moving target.
They finally exit Totentanz, the cool night air hitting their faces like a blessing after the suffocating atmosphere inside. The parking lot is a patchwork of oil stains and graffiti, looking more like a warzone than a proper parking space — which, considering it's Maelstrom territory, isn't far from the truth.
As they approach Nancy's car, a string of colorful curses escapes the journalist's lips upon discovering an enormous gang tag sprawled across her hood — a cybernetic spider rendered in aggressive red paint, its mechanical legs seeming to crawl across the metal. "Oh, for fuck's sake."
V's heart skips a beat as she whips around to check on Johnny's Porsche. The sight of the pristine vehicle, untouched in its corner of the lot, brings immediate relief. Through their link, she feels Johnny's amusement at her protective instinct over his car.
Nancy follows V's gaze, and the recognition hits her like a punch to the gut. V watches as the journalist's expression shifts through a cascade of emotions — shock, confusion, suspicion — as she stares at Johnny's iconic car. Her cybernetic eye whirs softly, probably capturing images for later analysis. She opens her mouth as if to ask, then thinks better of it, but the questions are clearly burning behind her eyes.
Preferring to dodge that particular landmine, V gestures vaguely toward Nancy's vandalized vehicle, forcing levity into her voice. "Coulda been worse. This way you got a souvenir."
"Fuck souvenirs." Nancy growls, leaning against her defaced car with a heavy sigh. The neon lights from the surrounding buildings paint her face in alternating colors, highlighting the sharp angles of her chrome implants. "All right. So what's Kerry want?"
V pulls out a cigarette, taking her time lighting it. The familiar smell of tobacco helps calm her nerves as she feels Johnny's anticipation building through their link. She takes a long drag before explaining, "Wants to bring back Samurai — one gig, one night."
"There is no Samurai without Silverhand." Nancy's response is immediate, sharp as a knife. The name hangs heavy in the air between them. Nancy's camera-eye performs another scan, more thorough this time, cataloging every detail — the way V wears Johnny's clothes, his dog tags around her neck, his mannerisms that have unconsciously become part of her own, and again, that Porsche. V can almost see the journalist connecting dots she doesn't even know exist.
"Gonna be a gig in Silverhand's honor." V says quickly, trying to redirect.
She feels Johnny's sardonic amusement at the irony, his mental voice drawling, "Well, technically not a lie, princess."
"What's got into Kerry all of a sudden? Thought he got over this ages ago." Nancy muses, thoughtfully rubbing her chin. "Well, guess it doesn't really matter. What's in it for me?"
The question catches V slightly off-guard. She tries hopefully, feeling Johnny's mental eye-roll at her naivety, "A reunion with some old friends?"
"Oh, come on. Kerry and Johnny were friends, that's it." She rolls her eyes, but there's a hint of a smile playing at her lips, a glimpse of the woman Johnny remembers. "We just floated around, sometimes got in their way."
"So whaddaya want?" The merc asks, mentally scanning through possible offerings. "An interview with Kerry?"
"Hah. Could write that myself, straight outta my ass." Nancy chuckles, shaking her head. The sound carries genuine amusement. "I'd want access to all his industry contacts, associates."
"Not a problem, not as far as I can see." V agrees immediately, mentally delegating that headache to Kerry. "So... the concert?"
"Hehh... Tell Kerry I'll put it together. Be in touch." The journalist confirms before sliding into her car, the engine humming to life. The spider graffiti seems to dance in the shifting lights.
"Okay, thanks!" V waves as the car disappears into the night, its taillights merging with the city's endless neon tapestry.
Johnny materializes fully beside her, wrapping his arms around her from behind. His solid warmth is a stark contrast to the cool night air, and V leans back into his embrace. "Nice work, princess," he murmurs into her hair, his voice carrying both relief and nostalgia.
V turns in his arms, giving him a bright smile. "Let's go home. I'll message Kerry with the news, then we can finally get some sleep."
"Sure thing." He releases her but stays close as they walk to the Porsche, their shoulders brushing. "Need my beauty sleep."
V chuckles softly, sliding into the driver's seat as Johnny materializes beside her. She starts the engine, its familiar purr filling the night, and points them toward Heywood. The city lights blur past them as they drive, a comfortable silence settling between them. Through their link, she feels the complex mix of emotions running through Johnny — nostalgia, hope, anxiety, and something deeper, warmer, directed at her.
As they navigate through Night City's neon-painted streets, V can't help but wonder what other surprises await them on this journey. "Think she suspects somethin’?" V finally asks, breaking the comfortable silence.
"Nancy always was too smart for her own good," Johnny responds, lighting a ghost cigarette. "But fuck it — let her wonder. We got bigger shit to worry about."
Back home, V immediately changes into her pyjamas — an oversized t-shirt and soft shorts. For once, instead of carelessly tossing Johnny's clothes on the floor, she vaguely folds them into a pile. She can feel Johnny's appreciation for this small gesture of care for his belongings. They collapse onto their bed, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. V grabs her holo from the nightstand, its blue light illuminating her face in the dim room.
She places her holo aside and rolls into the sheets, instinctively seeking Johnny's warmth, letting out a contented sigh. "Fuck, what a day..."
"Hmm." Johnny agrees, his chrome hand finding its way into her hair, gently massaging her scalp. The familiar gesture sends pleasant shivers down her spine.
"You okay?" She can't help but ask, feeling the complex swirl of emotions through their link.
"Yeah. Was a lot. Rogue, Kerry, and shit, even Nance..." He sighs, pulling her closer until she's practically lying on his chest. "Good, but a lot. Still need time to process it."
"Will be better after some sleep." She nods against his chest, already feeling drowsy from his gentle touch. "G'night Johnny. Sleep well."
"You too, V." He presses a soft kiss into her hair, his lips lingering for a moment. They drift off together, their breathing synchronizing in the quiet room.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
V is... dreaming? Yeah, definitely dreaming, because she's not herself anymore. She's Johnny again, but younger than she's ever experienced — barely more than a teenager, probably 18 or 19 at most. The raw energy of youth courses through her borrowed body, along with a familiar restlessness she knows all too well.
V finds herself — finds Johnny — sprawled on a threadbare couch in a cramped apartment that smells of stale cigarettes, cheap beer, and the distinct scent of guitar strings and amp fuel. The setting sun streams through dirty windows, painting everything in rich amber and gold, catching dust motes dancing in the air. Posters of various rock bands cover the cracking walls, their edges curling from humidity.
Kerry's perched on the arm of the couch, one leg tucked under him, guitar balanced precariously on his knee. His fingers dance over the strings as he works out a new melody, his face scrunched in concentration. He's startlingly young — no chrome yet, shorter dark hair falling into his eyes, clean-shaven face making him look even younger. But that intense, almost manic energy is already there, crackling around him like electricity. His eyes keep darting to Johnny when he thinks he isn't looking, something soft and uncertain in his gaze.
"The fuck you starin' at, Ker'?" Johnny's voice comes out of V's mouth, but it's different — younger, rawer, with more of that Texas drawl he'd later try to suppress.
Kerry's fingers stumble over the chords, a slight blush creeping up his neck and across his cheeks. "Just... thinkin' about the new song." He recovers quickly, but there's something vulnerable in his expression that makes Johnny's chest tight with an emotion he's not ready to name. "Think we should add another guitar part, make it hit harder."
Johnny sits up, reaching for the bottle of cheap tequila on the floor. Through his memories, V feels the conflicting emotions swirling in his chest — the magnetic pull of Kerry's presence, the comfort it brings, and the simultaneous fear of that comfort. The way Kerry makes him feel both invincible and terrifyingly vulnerable.
"C'mere," Johnny says roughly, patting the worn cushion beside him. Kerry practically trips over himself to comply, settling close enough that their thighs press together. Johnny pretends not to notice how Kerry's breath catches at the contact, how his fingers tremble slightly on the guitar strings.
They pass the bottle back and forth, working on the song as the sun sets over Night City. V feels Johnny's hyperawareness of every accidental touch, every shared glance that lasts a heartbeat too long. The way he simultaneously wants to pull Kerry closer and push him away, terrified of what might happen if he lets himself feel too much.
When Kerry finally falls asleep, head dropping onto Johnny's shoulder, Johnny doesn't move him. Just sits there in the growing darkness, listening to his steady breathing, fingers itching to run through his hair.
The dream shifts and blurs around the edges, and suddenly the scene changes, plunging V into another memory, this one steeped in physical pain. Johnny is lying face down on a narrow bed, the sheets rough against his skin. His chrome arm throbs where it meets flesh, phantom pain from the war making him clench his jaw until his teeth ache.
Kerry's familiar weight settles on his lower back, thighs warm where they bracket Johnny's hips. Through the memory, V feels the gentle pressure of Kerry's hands working the knotted muscles around the scarred junction of metal and skin. The touch should make him tense — usually does when anyone gets near his scars — but Kerry's fingers are careful, almost reverent in their attention.
"Fuck," Johnny hisses when Kerry hits a particularly sensitive spot, his flesh hand clenching in the sheets. "Easy there."
"Sorry," Kerry murmurs, immediately lightening his touch. His voice is soft, concerned in a way he rarely allows himself to be. "Weather's shit today, that's why it hurts more. The pressure changes and all that crap." His thumbs draw small circles just below the scars, and Johnny can't help but relax into it, tension slowly bleeding from his muscles. "Better?"
"Mm." Johnny grunts in agreement, face half-buried in his pillow. Through their link, V feels how safe he feels in this moment, how rare that feeling is for him.
"Y'know," Kerry says softly, his hands never stopping their careful work, "you don't always have to act like it doesn't hurt. Not with me."
Johnny tenses slightly, but Kerry's steady touch keeps him grounded. "Thought you were here to help, not get all emotional on me." The words lack their usual bite, softened by pain and trust.
Kerry snorts, but there's deep affection in it. "Right, cause heaven forbid Johnny Silverhand shows any human weakness." His hands continue their gentle work, thumbs pressing into the tight muscles with practiced care.
Through the haze of memory, V feels Johnny's conflicting impulses — to shrug Kerry off, to pull him closer, to never let him stop touching him like this. Instead, he just lies there, allowing himself this one moment of vulnerability, this brief peace in Kerry's careful hands.
"Thanks, Ker’," he mumbles into the pillow, so quiet it's barely audible, but heavy with meaning.
Kerry's hands pause for just a moment, and when they resume their careful massage, there's something almost like tenderness in the touch. "Always, Johnny. Always." The promise in those words hangs in the air between them, as heavy as the storm clouds gathering outside.
The memory is intimate, almost painfully so, and V feels like an intruder witnessing this moment between them. Through their link, she feels present-day Johnny's mix of nostalgia and regret, the bittersweet ache of remembering a time when things were simpler, even if they didn't feel that way then.
The memory dissolves with the phantom sensation of Kerry's hands still on Johnny's skin, and V is transported elsewhere. The scene swims into focus, its edges softened and blurred by whatever cocktail of drugs Johnny took that night. Through Johnny's eyes, V experiences the backstage room spinning slightly, everything heightened by the intoxicating mix of post-performance adrenaline and chemicals coursing through his system.
Kerry's sprawled next to him on the worn leather couch, still vibrating with energy from the show. His skin glistens with stage sweat under the harsh fluorescent lights, hair a wild mess, looking absolutely electric and alive. They're sharing a cigarette, their knees touching, the small room filled with their laughter about something that probably wasn't even funny sober.
"Fuck, Johnny," Kerry's voice is deliciously rough from singing, sending a shiver down Johnny's spine. "The way you worked that crowd tonight... fuckin' preem."
V feels Johnny's chest tighten as Kerry shifts closer, his pupils blown wide in his dark eyes, that familiar look of desperate want written all over his face. They've been here before — in this exact same situation, riding this same high. Johnny knows what's coming, knows he should stop it, but the drugs make everything soft around the edges and Kerry looks so fucking good and—
Kerry's lips crash into his, hungry and demanding, tasting like cigarettes and cheap beer and something intoxicatingly him. Through Johnny's memories, V feels his hands automatically moving to Kerry's waist, pulling him closer despite his better judgment. Kerry makes a small, desperate sound against his mouth that sends heat rushing through Johnny's veins.
The kiss is messy and urgent, Kerry's fingers tangling in Johnny's hair as he practically crawls into his lap. Johnny lets himself have this moment, lets himself kiss back with all the hunger he usually keeps locked away. His chrome hand slides under Kerry's shirt, making him shiver at the cool metal against his heated skin.
But even through the drug haze, reality starts creeping in. The familiar voice in Johnny's head gets louder — the one that says he'll only hurt Kerry, that he doesn't deserve this, that he needs to stop before—
"Ker’," he mumbles against Kerry's lips, gently pushing him back. "We're both fucked up. Should..."
Kerry's face falls slightly, but he's used to this dance. They both are. He sits back, running a shaky hand through his hair, trying to catch his breath. "Yeah... yeah, you're right." The resignation in his voice is painfully familiar.
V feels Johnny's heart clench at Kerry's tone. They both know tomorrow they'll act like this never happened, just like all the other times. They'll go back to being best friends, bandmates, pretending the air between them isn't always charged with something more.
"C'mon Ker'," Johnny says softly, squeezing Kerry's shoulder as he stands, hating himself a little more.
Kerry doesn't respond, just grabs his guitar case with slightly trembling hands. V feels Johnny's guilt intensify at the way Kerry's eyes follow him out of the room, full of longing and hurt and resigned acceptance.
The memory fades with the ghost of Kerry's lips still tingling on Johnny's mouth, and the bitter knowledge that they'll probably do this all again, caught in this endless loop of almost-but-not-quite, because Johnny's too scared to let it be anything more, too afraid of ruining the one of the few good things in his life by wanting too much.
The next memory materializes in a cramped kitchen, the fluorescent light buzzing softly in the late-night quiet. Kerry's sitting at their small table, his usual confident posture crumpled. His makeup is smeared around his eyes — not from the usual post-show sweat, but from tears he's trying to pretend haven't fallen. There's a bruise forming on his cheekbone, ugly purple against his skin, that makes Johnny's blood boil. V feels his rage, barely contained, as he paces the tiny space like a caged animal.
"I told you he's a fuckin' piece of shit," Johnny spits, hands clenched so tight his chrome fingers creak. "What's his excuse this time? Too drunk? Had a bad fuckin' day?"
Kerry stares at the untouched beer in front of him, condensation dripping down the bottle. "It's not... look, I pushed him. Said some stuff I shouldn't have—"
"Don't you fuckin' dare defend him," Johnny cuts him off, voice sharp enough to make Kerry flinch. The sight makes him force himself to take a breath, crouching next to Kerry's chair. "Ker’, look at me."
When Kerry raises his eyes, there's something so broken in them that Johnny can't stand it. V feels his chest tighten with a toxic mix of rage and protectiveness.
"You deserve better than this shit," Johnny says softly, his flesh hand reaching up to gently touch the bruise on Kerry's face. The tenderness of the gesture contrasts sharply with the violence thrumming through his veins. "You're Kerry fuckin’ Eurodyne. You're gonna be a legend."
"Then why doesn't anyone ever stay?" Kerry's voice cracks, raw and vulnerable, and something in Johnny just... snaps.
Before he can think better of it, he leans forward and kisses Kerry. It's gentle, nothing like their usual drunk, desperate kisses backstage. V feels Johnny's heart hammering against his ribs as Kerry makes a small, surprised sound before melting into it, his hands clutching Johnny's shirt like he's afraid he'll disappear if he lets go.
When Johnny pulls back, Kerry's eyes are wide, confused, hope warring with fear in his expression. "Johnny..."
"Anyone who can't see how fuckin' amazing you are is a dumbass" Johnny says roughly, pressing their foreheads together. His thumb traces Kerry's jawline, carefully avoiding the bruise. "Including that dickwipe input of yours. Including me, most of the time."
Kerry's laugh is watery, but real — the first genuine sound he's made all night. "You're such a gonk."
"Yeah," Johnny agrees, thumb brushing Kerry's uninjured cheek with unexpected tenderness. "But I'm right about this. You deserve better."
The moment stretches, heavy with possibility, before Johnny pulls back, clearing his throat. His expression shifts from soft to dangerous as he stands up. "Now, about that fuckin' asshole.."
"Johnny, don't—" Kerry starts, but there's less conviction in his voice than usual.
"What? Just gonna have a friendly chat." Johnny's grin is all teeth as he grabs his jacket. "Maybe explain to him real nice-like why touchin’ you is a real bad idea."
Kerry rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Your 'friendly chats' usually end with someone in the hospital."
"Only sometimes," Johnny shrugs, already heading for the door. He pauses, turning back with that wild look in his eyes that always means trouble. "Stay here. Get some sleep. I'll handle this."
"Johnny—"
"And Ker’?" Johnny's voice drops low, dangerous. "If he ever comes near you again, I won't be so friendly."
The memory fades with Kerry's half-exasperated, half-fond "Fuckin' hell" following Johnny out the door, and the burning satisfaction of knowing he's about to beat the shit out of someone who really deserves it.
All we are is all we were
The time that we've been given
And what is left is anyone's to guess
We're not what we used to be
We can't see what's ahead of us
But we can't stop this now
V's eyes snap open, disoriented to find herself back in the darkness of her own bedroom. Her heart is still beating fast, the memories she just witnessed burned into her retinas like afterimages from staring at the sun too long. She feels Johnny's awake too, his arm still wrapped around her waist, his breath warm on her neck — a constant reminder that somehow, against all odds, he's real and solid and here.
She turns in his arms, trying to make out his features in the darkness. "Fuck..." she whispers, still processing what she's seen. "Wasn't supposed to see that, huh?"
"Eh, said no more secrets between us." The rockerboy's voice is deliberately casual, but she can feel the tension in his body. "Came from me, anyway. Think seein' Ker' again brought up some old shit I thought I'd buried."
"So... You and Kerry?" She asks hesitantly. Like most things in Johnny's life, it seemed complicated.
He sighs, sitting up slightly in bed, materializing a cigarette between his fingers. V mirrors his movement, grabbing her pack from the nightstand. As the flame illuminates his face when she lights up, she catches a glimpse of something raw in his expression before he masks it.
"Ker' and I..." Johnny starts, then stops, taking a long drag. "Met him right after I deserted. Was a fuckin' mess back then. Fresh outta the war, angry at everything, usin' everyone. And there was this kid, looking at me like I hung the fuckin' moon."
"And you let him," V observes quietly.
"Yeah." Johnny's laugh is bitter. "Used to get high on it sometimes. Having someone worship every fuckin’ thing I did. Should've seen him back then, V. Fresh-faced with stars in his eyes, thought I was gonna change the world or some shit. Could be the biggest asshole, treat him like shit, and he'd still come back for more. Still look at me like I was worth somethin'." He pauses, his voice dropping lower. "Problem was, sometimes I looked back."
V stays quiet, letting him continue.
"There were these moments..." Johnny's voice is rough. "After shows, both of us riding the high, his skin all slick with sweat, looking at me like he wanted to devour me whole... Or late nights in the studio, when everyone else had passed out and it was just us, and he'd get this look in his eyes..."
He takes another drag, the ember glowing bright in the darkness. "This one time, after a particularly good show, we ended up in his apartment. Both high as fuck, and he just... pushed me against the wall and kissed me. Kissed me like he was dying for it. And fuck, V, I kissed him back. Had my hands all over him, wanted to..." He trails off, shaking his head.
"What stopped you?"
"Realized what I was doing. Pushed him away, said some cruel shit about 'im being desperate. Next day acted like nothin' happened." Johnny runs his metal hand through his hair. "Would've been so easy to just... give in, y'know? But look what happened to everyone who got too close to me. Rogue ended up hard and cold, Alt ended up dead, and then not-dead in the worst way possible."
"And Kerry?" V prompts softly.
"Kerry deserved better than that. Better than me." Johnny's voice is raw. "Would've ended up hurtin' him worse than I did by pushing him away. Always fuck up everything I touch. Was better to let 'im hate me a little than destroy him completely."
V shifts closer in the darkness, a silent presence at his side. Johnny's hand finds hers almost unconsciously, like he needs something to anchor himself to.
"Well," V grins, trying to lighten the mood. "Maybe Rogue's not the only one you owe a proper date, huh? Could take Kerry to see some movie, buy him popcorn..."
That gets a genuine laugh out of him. "Fuck off." He pulls her closer, nuzzling her neck. "Nah, no more dates, I'm done with all that shit. 'Sides..." His voice turns serious. "Even if I wanted to — which I don't — wouldn't be fair, y'know? Got no idea how long this..." he gestures at his actual form, "...is gonna last. Not gonna let him catch feelings again just to watch me fade away. Been enough of an asshole to him already."
"You sure about that?" V asks softly. "The way he looked at you today..."
"V..." There's a warning in his tone.
"Just sayin’. Maybe some feelings don't just disappear."
"Maybe they should." Johnny sighs, and she feels the weight of many years of regret in that sound. "Kerry deserves someone who can love him right. Always has."
V watches him in the dim light, his profile is sharp against the darkness, and there's something vulnerable in the set of his jaw that makes her heart ache. The silence stretches between them, comfortable despite the heavy conversation. The distant hum of Night City traffic drifts up from below, a constant urban lullaby. Finally, she feels Johnny's lips brush against her temple, his stubble scratching lightly against her skin.
"Go back to sleep, V," he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion and something else she can't quite name. "Got enough ghosts haunting us without diggin' up more."
She settles back against him, feeling his arm tighten around her waist. His body is warm and solid against hers, his heartbeat steady under her palm. As her eyes grow heavy, she can't help but think about the look in Kerry's eyes earlier that day — that mix of longing and pain, of love and loss. Some ghosts, she thinks as sleep claims her, refuse to stay buried.
Johnny's breathing evens out beside her, his grip on her loosening slightly as he drifts off. In sleep, the lines of worry smooth from his face, making him look almost peaceful. Almost young again. The city's neon glow paints shadows across their intertwined forms as they both finally surrender to exhaustion.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
The afternoon sun beats down mercilessly on Pacifica's crumbling landscape, casting harsh shadows across the abandoned buildings and glinting off the polluted ocean waves. V lets out a jaw-cracking yawn, perched on a weathered concrete barrier at the pier's edge. A half-forgotten cigarette dangles between her chrome-laced fingers, wisps of smoke carried away by the salt-laden breeze that does little to mask the stench of seaweed and urban decay.
The night had been too damn short, but when Regina Jones calls about a cyberpsycho tearing up one of Coastview's decrepit piers, you don't hit snooze. Now, V glances at the unconscious man sprawled several meters away. Poor fuckin' bastard — just another soul Night City chewed up and spat out. After Tyger Claws murdered his daughter, something in him had snapped like a high-tension wire, sending him on a revenge-fueled rampage that left a trail of gang members' corpses scattered across the pier like broken mannequins. Their blood still seeps between the wooden planks, dripping into the restless ocean below. At least he got his vengeance, V thinks grimly, hoping Regina's mysterious program can salvage whatever's left of his humanity from the chrome-induced madness.
One of Regina's contacts shows up minutes later in a van that's more rust than paint, loading the unconscious psycho with the kind of efficiency that speaks of too much practice. They peel out as quickly as they arrived, leaving only tire marks and questions behind. V decides it's time to split too — better not stick around for when the NCPD or, worse, the MaxTac shows up to ‘clean’ this mess with their usual subtle approach of bullets and body bags.
She'd parked her Arch near the Grand Imperial Mall, and starts heading in that direction through Pacifica's sun-bleached streets. However, her attention is caught by the towering silhouettes of the abandoned amusement park rides looming behind the shopping center — massive steel structures reaching toward the cloudless sky like the skeletal fingers of some long-dead giant. The faded paint and rusted metal tell stories of happier times, when families still came to Pacifica for fun rather than cheap drugs and black market chrome.
On impulse, having nothing better to do at the moment and feeling an unexpected pull toward this relic of better days, V changes course. Maybe it's worth checking out what secrets this forgotten corner of Night City might hold — besides the usual squatters and scavs, of course. Sometimes the most interesting finds hide in plain sight, especially in a city that's too busy chasing the future to remember its past.
She rounds the dilapidated mall, stepping over cracked concrete and weeds pushing through the pavement, until she reaches the roller coaster entrance. To her surprise, she finds a group of young Haitians who've carved out a cozy little spot among the ruins. They've set up a chill zone with mismatched furniture and a cooler full of drinks. A man with a radiant smile introduces himself as Anel, patting the worn-out couch beside him. "Come, sister, have a cold one with us!" Shit, these are the first welcoming faces she's seen in Pacifica, and after dealing with a chrome-crazed psycho all morning, V gladly accepts.
The beer is ice cold, and as V settles into the surprisingly comfortable couch, Anel fills her in on their little project. His choom Jean, the guy in the beanie currently cursing in Creole while elbow-deep in machinery, has been trying to resurrect the ancient coaster. Three hours of tinkering have yielded nothing but grease stains and frustration, judging by the collection of empty beer bottles at his feet.
"Fuckin' preem!" Johnny materializes next to her, practically bouncing with excitement like an oversized kid. "Always wanted to ride one of these bad boys." V can't help but smile at his enthusiasm — for all his badass rockerboy persona, sometimes he's just a big dork.
Obviously, she offers Jean a hand. The man wipes his greasy hands on his already stained jeans and gratefully accepts. V activates her Kiroshis, the world shifting to highlighted diagnostics and power flows. Everything seems functional except for a power delivery failure — shouldn't be too complex to fix, just need to find the main control panel.
Wandering through the abandoned attraction, she discovers a fuse box partially hidden behind vibrant graffiti and stubborn vines. The internal wiring is a mess, cables crossed and connected wrong, but nothing her technical skills can't handle. A few minutes of rewiring and one pulled lever later, the ancient machinery hums to life.
Back at the hangout spot, V's announcement that the coaster's fixed is met with a mix of excitement and sudden nervousness. One by one, Anel's crew find creative excuses not to be the first test subjects. Jean, still wiping grease from his hands, suggests V should have the honor since she got it running. The roller coaster looms above them, a massive steel serpent against the hazy Pacifica sky. Its tracks twist and loop impossibly high before diving down toward pillars that disappear into the bay's murky waters.
Johnny's already materialized in the front car, gripping the safety harness with both hands, his face split by a massive grin. "C'mon V, let's fuckin' do this!" he shouts, looking more alive than ever. "When's the last time you did something just for fun?"
She turns back to the group watching her with expectant grins. What the hell — might as well add 'testing ancient roller coasters' to her list of questionable life choices. "All right, fine."
"'Ey! Dat de spirit!" Jean exclaims, dropping onto the couch with a satisfied smile. "We sit back and watch!"
The group's laughter follows V as she approaches the coaster, wondering if she's about to have the ride of her life or add another entry to her growing list of near-death experiences. Either way, Johnny's excitement is infectious, and she can't help but share his grin as she climbs into the car beside him.
"Bet you anything you're gonna scream like a little girl," Johnny teases as V pulls down the safety harness, the old metal creaking ominously against her chest.
She can't help but flash him a wide grin as the cars lurch forward with a mechanical groan. The anticipation builds in her chest as they begin their slow climb up the first massive hill, each metallic click of the ancient machinery marking their ascent like a countdown. She turns to him again, and her heart skips several beats for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with the ride's promised adrenaline rush.
Night City sprawls out behind him, a glittering maze of chrome and neon even in broad daylight, but V barely notices it. All she can see is Johnny, turning to her with that gorgeous smile that transforms his entire face — the one that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, the one that's pure and genuine and so far removed from his usual cynical smirk. Pure joy radiates from him like a supernova, and holy fucking shit, V knows right then she'd do anything, absolutely anything, to see him smile like that every day for the rest of her life, however long or short that might be.
As they continue their slow ascent toward the cloudless sky, the world growing smaller beneath them, V realizes she's in deep fucking trouble. For the first time, she allows herself to clearly acknowledge what she's known but has been too scared to admit — she's completely, ridiculously, hopelessly in love with Johnny Silverhand.
Fuck, of course she's known it for a while. She'd hinted at it during late-night talks with Panam, her best friend seeing right through her deflections and half-truths. Every interaction with the rockerboy made it more obvious — the way her heart races when he appears, how she catches herself staring at him when he's lost in thought, the way his touch sends electricity through her entire body. But she'd always pushed it away, buried it under layers of denial and fear, telling herself it was just the Relic, just proximity, just anything but what it really was.
But she can't lie to herself anymore, not when Johnny's smiling at her like that, looking absolutely fucking beautiful with the sun highlighting his sharp features and the wind whipping through his dark hair. Her heart does more loops than this roller coaster ever could, and she knows she's completely fucked, because how do you tell your brain-resident-dead-rockerboy that you've fallen stupidly, desperately in love with him?
She loves him. The thought blooms in her mind like a mushroom cloud, devastating and beautiful and impossible to ignore. V makes herself a silent, iron-clad promise that she'll never let anything hurt him again, under any circumstances. Not him, not when he's already suffered too much, not when he's finally learning to smile again. She's going to save him, even if it's the last thing she ever does. Even if it kills her. Because a world without Johnny Silverhand's smile isn't a world worth saving anyway.
As they reach the peak of the first hill, the car slowing to build anticipation, suspended between heaven and earth, Johnny intertwines his chrome fingers with hers. When the ride suddenly kicks back into motion, plunging them into a dizzying descent, he lets out a loud "Ohhh, shiiiiiit!" while V releases a joyful scream that echoes across Pacifica's abandoned shores.
The wind whips violently through their hair as they raise their linked hands above their heads, both laughing like carefree teenagers. The coaster hurls them through the air at breakneck speed, their stomachs dropping and hearts soaring with each twist and turn. The world becomes a blur of colors — the blue of the ocean, the golden sunlight, the rusty oranges of the old structure all melting together in a beautiful chaos. For these precious moments, there's no chip killing V, no fucking Arasaka, no impending doom — just pure, unadulterated freedom and joy.
On the next climb, their eyes meet again, Johnny grinning manically as he shouts "Fuck yeah!" over the rattling of the tracks. The sun catches in his hair, turning the dark strands almost golden at the edges, and V's heart does another flip that has nothing to do with the ride. Before she can respond, they're thrown into another descent, the rails twisting them through loops and spirals that make the world spin in the most exhilarating way possible. Their joined hands never separate, holding on to each other like a lifeline through every turn.
They finally reach the end of the ride, the cars slowing as they approach their starting point. They exchange another smile, a breathless "Holy fuck..." passing the rockerboy's lips as he squeezes her hand again, his chrome fingers warm and secure around hers. The car stops in front of the gang of youngsters who are all cheering at V's successful test run, their excitement infectious.
"Dat was...!" Jean exclaims as the merc lifts her harness, his eyes wide with amazement. "I almost shit myself from watching you."
"Beer?" offers one of the girls, a tall beauty with intricate braids, when V stands up and steps onto the platform, her legs slightly shaky from the adrenaline rush and Johnny's lingering touch.
"Nah, thanks, I'm good." V declines with a laugh, still feeling high from the ride and something else entirely. "You guys can go wild on the ride now that you've seen it's safe."
"Thanks V! Come back see us soon, hum?" Anel calls out as she's already walking away, his voice carrying genuine warmth.
"Sure, always a pleasure to serve as a crash test dummy!" She waves goodbye, and they raise their bottles in response before returning to their animated conversations, already debating who's brave enough to ride the coaster and who's heading for a swim in the ocean instead.
Once out of sight from the group, she reaches for Johnny's hand again without hesitation, squeezing his fingers tightly. He raises a surprised eyebrow but doesn't comment, keeping his hand firmly in hers as they start walking. The contact sends little sparks of electricity up her arm, and V can't help but think that sometimes the best things in life come from taking chances — whether it's testing a sketchy roller coaster or falling in love with the digital ghost in your head who's somehow become real enough to hold your hand.
Just as V is about to straddle her motorcycle in the GIM parking lot, she receives a call from an unknown number. There's something... off about it. She can't quite put her finger on what exactly sets her instincts tingling, but years of merc work have taught her to trust her gut. Still, curiosity wins over caution, and without thinking twice, she answers. The moment she does, a strange glitch ripples across her visual interface, turning the world into fractals for a split second before a woman's voice comes through, "V? Can you hear me?"
She raises an eyebrow, exchanging a quick glance with Johnny who's materialized beside her, looking as suspicious as she feels. "Uh, loud and clear, whoever you are."
"Good. It worked." The woman sounds genuinely relieved, though there's an edge of tension in her voice. "My name is So Mi. Just... call me Songbird, though." Before V can process this information, she continues with an urgency that makes the hairs on the back of V's neck stand up, "I know who you are — your situation, your... problem. And I can save your life."
There's a moment of heavy silence during which Johnny and V exchange bewildered looks — shit, what kind of fuckery is this now? The rockerboy's posture has shifted from casual to alert, and V takes a deep breath before deciding to play along. "All right, Songbird... Got my full attention."
"Glad to hear that." She seems slightly surprised by V's immediate interest but quickly recovers. "You must have questions. And I'll answer them in due course, shortly. But first I need you to get to that swollen appendix of Night City called Dogtown."
V snorts, leaning against her bike's warm chassis. What the hell? This story stinks worse by the second. "Dogtown? Chunk of Pacifica, exterritorial... Lord of the land's one Kurt Hansen, international arms dealer. Corpos give it a wide berth..." She lists, adding sarcastically, "I skip anything?"
"Nope, more or less on the button," Songbird concedes, and there's something like approval in her tone.
After a few seconds of hesitation, during which she can practically feel Johnny's disapproval radiating off him in waves, V makes her decision. "Fine. No clue what I'm steppin' into, but... no risk, no reward."
"Thank you. I appreciate this, truly." So Mi's sincerity seems genuine through the static. She quickly continues with instructions, "Dogtown's main gate — be there as soon as you can. I'll make contact again then." The connection cuts abruptly, leaving V with more questions than answers.
"Huh." V muses thoughtfully, shifting her weight against the Arch, its engine still ticking as it cools down. "This's one elaborate haze... or a fuckin' lifeline."
"An unknown number, a mysterious caller, a shady meet-n-greet in the middle of fuckin' nowhere..." Johnny materializes closer, his face twisted in concern. "And they say I'm the one always divin' headfirst into trouble. The fuck you thinkin’, V? This screams 'trap' louder than a XBD dealer in Japantown."
"I know it stinks worse than scop left in the sun, but..." V sighs heavily, running a hand through her hair. "Johnny... Whoever this woman is, she seems to know a lot about us. About the chip, about..." She gestures vaguely between them, unable to put into words the complicated situation they're in. "If she's telling the truth, if she can really help..."
"And if she's not?" Johnny interrupts, his voice rough with worry. "Could be Arasaka. Could be fucking Militech. Hell, could be anyone lookin’ to cash in on the bounty on your head."
"What other choice do we have?" V bites her lip, meeting his eyes behind those mirrored aviators. "Wait for Hanako's famous call? Shit, we both know that'll lead nowhere and we can't trust a single word that bitch says. We're stuck, rockerboy. Running out of options and..." She doesn't finish the sentence, but they both know what she means. Running out of time.
Johnny stays silent for a long moment, then steps closer, invading her personal space in that way that should be annoying but somehow never is. "Fuck," he sighs, reaching up to cup her face with his chrome hand. The metal is warm against her skin. "A wild card is still better than the corpo cunt, I'll give you that." His thumb traces her cheekbone briefly before he drops his hand. "I'm with you. Just... be careful, princess. Got a feelin' we're about to step into one massive clusterfuck."
"When are we not?" V tries to joke, but her voice comes out softer than intended. She nods, trying to appear more confident than she feels, and straddles her Arch. The Petrochem Stadium, which she knows serves as Dogtown's main entrance and most Night City residents avoid like the plague, isn't far from here. She revs the engine, the powerful motorcycle purring beneath her like a metal beast eager for the hunt.
Johnny materializes behind her, his arms wrapping securely around her waist, solid and real and grounding. "At least promise me one thing," he murmurs close to her ear as she kicks the bike into gear.
"What's that?"
"If this goes south, we bolt. No playing hero, no last stands. We get the fuck out and figure somethin' else out."
V's hands tighten on the handlebars as she launches onto Coastview's damaged roads. "Promise," she says, even though they both know it's probably a lie. They speed toward whatever mess awaits them, while somewhere in the distance, Dogtown looms like a promise — or a threat.
The moment V parks her motorcycle at the stadium, the atmosphere shifts dramatically, becoming thick with tension. The entire area crawls with Barghest soldiers, their uniforms highlighted with fluorescent lime green details that make them impossible to miss against the grimy backdrop of Pacifica. Some are methodically checking pedestrians' IDs, their faces impassive behind tactical visors, while others direct vehicles into neat lines, scrutinizing permits with cold efficiency. The whole scene feels wrong, like a militarized anthill ready to explode at the slightest provocation.
Trying to act as naturally as possible to avoid drawing the militia's attention, V makes her way to a relatively deserted corner of the parking lot. Suddenly, something feels terribly wrong. Her hands start trembling uncontrollably, and her vision glitches — but this is different from the usual Relic malfunctions. This is worse. Much worse. An unbearable headache explodes behind her eyes, making her gasp. As she stares at her trembling hands, a small crimson arc of electricity sparks from her personal link, dancing across her wrist like a warning sign. Then her world shatters — vision completely fritzing out, red pixel artifacts consuming everything until there's nothing left but darkness and pain.
When her optics finally reconnect, the warning message that flashes across her interface in alarming red — 'Warning! System breach detected!' — barely registers. Because there, a few feet away, Johnny is doubled over in agony, clutching his head. The sight stops her heart cold. This isn't supposed to happen. He's never been affected before. Never. "Nargh, fuckin'... argh!" His usually smooth voice is raw with pain as he struggles toward her, movements jerky and uncoordinated. "Ugh, it's like... someone shoved my head in a vise! Augh!"
"Johnny!" The name tears from her throat, desperate and scared. She tries to reach for him as her strength fails, collapsing pathetically onto the asphalt. A few passers-by step around her fallen form, carefully averting their eyes — just another psycho having an episode, nothing to see here. Fuck fuck FUCK! What the hell is this?! Even during the worst Relic attacks, Johnny had never been affected, had always been there to help her through it. Seeing him in pain, actually suffering alongside her, terrifies V more than anything that's happening to her own body.
"V!" The way he says her name, rough with desperation, matches the panic clawing at her chest. He's practically crawling across the ground now, his usual grace gone, replaced by raw determination to reach her. When he finally makes it, panting hard from both effort and pain, his trembling arms wrap around her like she's his last anchor to sanity. He pulls her against his chest, and despite everything, despite the agony still ripping through both their nervous systems, there's relief in the contact. His usually steady hands shake as they card through her hair. "Fuck sweetheart... dunno what's happenin’... 's not good."
V burrows into his embrace, teeth clenched against the pain but grateful for his presence. His heart hammers against her back, matching her own frantic rhythm. She's so focused on the comfort of his touch, on the miracle that she can still feel him despite whatever the fuck is happening to them, that she doesn't notice the sneakers stopping in front of them. Not until their owner crouches down and speaks.
"V? You're gonna be ok." The voice from the earlier comm call cuts through the static in her head. V forces herself to look up through the corruption still clouding her vision. "Breath deep, count to ten, recite a mantra... Whatever brings calm, help you stabilize."
Lost in the chaos of failing systems and corrupted data, V latches onto the only constant she has — Johnny. She focuses on his breathing, feeling his chest rise and fall against her back as he holds her tighter, his chrome arm secure around her waist. His presence, solid and real around her, becomes her anchor, helping her find stability even as their shared pain continues to pulse through them both.
"Your nervous system took a big hit, broke down," the young woman continues explaining, her voice oddly gentle despite the clinical words. "Racing heart, cold sweat... It'll pass."
"Ugh, fuckin' hope so," V groans through clenched teeth, tasting copper where she's bitten her cheek. True to Songbird's words, after what feels like an eternity of shared agony, the glitches begin to fade. With Johnny's help — his hands still shaking but his grip sure and strong — she manages to struggle to her feet, leaning heavily against the nearby wall. His arm stays around her waist, supporting her, and she can feel the subtle tremors still running through his body, matching her own.
The episode leaves them both shaken to their core. Whatever just happened affected them both — which should be impossible. V turns her head slightly to look at Johnny, seeing her own fear and confusion reflected in his eyes. His jaw is clenched tight, and she can feel his fingers flexing against her hip, as if reassuring himself she's still there.
Songbird rises to her feet, moving back into the merc's field of vision, allowing V to properly observe her for the first time. She's a striking figure — probably around V's age, with an ethereal beauty enhanced by her pink-violet hair falling around her pretty face. Full lips painted a soft cordovan pink curve into a gentle smile, and delicate, obviously custom-made cyberwear traces elegant patterns across her features like jewelry. Her red to black ombré netrunner suit hugs her curves perfectly, partially hidden under a short grey jacket. A top-of-the-line cyberdeck is secured around her hips with a studded belt that somehow manages to look both practical and fashionable.
"I know about the bomb tickin' in your head. If I could disarm it now, I would in a heartbeat," she says softly, her voice carrying genuine compassion. "You'll feel better any second now."
"V, somethin' stinks here..." Johnny's voice is tense beside her, and V can feel his unease radiating through their connection. "Think she's... she's fuckin' with the Relic." And then something happens that makes V's blood run cold - the netrunner turns toward Johnny, making direct eye contact with him, clearly having heard every word. Both V and Johnny go rigid, and he continues, his voice tight with disbelief, "How in the—"
Then, in a moment that defies everything V thought she knew about their situation, Songbird steps forward and places her hand directly on Johnny's shoulder. The contact sends a cascade of red artifacts through V's vision, and she feels Johnny's shock mirror her own as Songbird smiles, "All true, Johnny. But don't you fret, you're both safe."
"Nah, fuck off!" Johnny's voice cracks with stunned disbelief as he tries to jerk away from her touch.
"Both of us on the bioship protocol at once can trigger shocks for V. Like you just saw now." Songbird's explanation comes in that same soothing tone that's starting to feel like nails on a chalkboard to V's frayed nerves. "Gotta cut you off — for your safety, for V's safety."
The moment those words leave her lips, Johnny starts to glitch — not like his usual appearances and disappearances, but something wrong, something violent. "What the fuck...?" His voice sounds distant, distorted. V's entire body begins to shake, a primal fear gripping her heart as they lock eyes one last time before he vanishes completely.
For a heartbeat, V stands frozen, her mind refusing to process what just happened. Then something inside her snaps. Raw panic and murderous rage explode through her system like a nuclear blast. Her hand moves on pure instinct, grabbing Johnny's Malorian from her belt and leveling it at Songbird's head in one fluid motion. Her finger trembles against the trigger, but her aim is deadly steady. When she speaks, her voice comes out as a feral mixture of a snarl and a scream, cracking with desperate fury.
"WHERE IS HE?!" The words rip from her throat, raw and primal, her hands shaking violently around Johnny's gun. "No no no NO — what did you DO?! Bring him back, you fuckin’—!" Her voice cracks. "I don't care who you are, what you can do — I'll put you down right here if you don't BRING HIM BACK! You hear me?! RIGHT FUCKING NOW!" A hysterical laugh bubbles up from her chest, borderline manic as she takes a threatening step forward. "You think I'm bluffing?! He's all I've got left! I've got nothin’ else to lose — NOTHING!" The Malorian doesn't waver from Songbird's head despite V's whole body trembling. "I swear, I'll scatter your chrome all over this fuckin’ parking lot! He's MINE, you understand?! MINE! So you better fix this before I completely lose what's left of my fuckin’ mind and paint this whole place with your blood!"
"V, he's still there, he's fine," Songbird tries to reassure her, voice gentle as she raises her hands in a placating gesture. "Just had to mute him for now. He hears you fine, just can't talk back."
Keeping the Malorian trained on Songbird's head, V desperately reaches into their shared consciousness, searching for any trace of Johnny. At first, there's nothing but a terrifying void where his presence should be, an emptiness so profound it feels like someone carved out half her soul with a rusty knife. Her panic mounts with each second of silence, the absence of his constant commentary feeling like an open wound in her psyche.
But finally, after what feels like an eternity of searching, she finds him — a tiny, dormant spark in the darkness of their shared mindspace. He's there, but different — unconscious, unreachable, like a radio signal reduced to the faintest static. It's worse than the Omega blockers, worse than anything she's experienced before. No matter how hard she mentally screams for him, how desperately she tries to shake him awake in their shared consciousness, he remains silent and still. But he's there — that's the only thought keeping her finger from squeezing the trigger — thank fuck, he's still there.
V finally lowers her weapon toward the ground, a choked sob escaping her throat. She angrily wipes away her tears with the back of her hand, the feeling of powerlessness in this situation absolutely unbearable. Having to trust a complete stranger with something as vital as Johnny makes her sick to her stomach, but she's out of options.
She holsters the Malorian back in her belt with trembling hands, still eyeing the young woman in front of her with deep suspicion. There's something off about her that V can't quite place, something that nags at the edge of her consciousness. Then suddenly, it hits her — the obvious detail she missed in her panic. Songbird isn't really here. "You a construct...? Like Johnny?" V asks, reaching out toward the other woman, but her fingers pass right through her form like smoke.
"No, V. I'm a netrunner." She explains with that same gentle smile that's starting to get under V's skin. "Hopped on the Relic's cognitive protocol to dial in. I see and hear what you do. Just now, I'm on board Space Force One." The announcement makes V's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. "Sitting right across from Rosalind Myers, president of the New United States of America."
"The president? Fuck. Hah, I..." V stops mid-sentence, shaking her head in pure incredulity as she studies the dead serious expression on the other woman's face. "No, you're not jokin'."
"Dead serious, yes." Songbird confirms, her expression grim. "The plane's been hacked, trajectory's set for Night City. They'll bring us down in Dogtown soon. Our comms are down, most likely jammed." She leans toward V, her voice taking on an urgent edge, "The Relic was my only option. Right now... You're our one contact on the ground."
Shit, this whole situation is so fucking absurd it makes V's head spin. But now that the initial panic has subsided somewhat, she can't help but ask questions. "Plane got hacked, right? You're a 'runner — can't override?"
"I could. All I'd need is twenty-four hours, the right setup and a bottomless pot of coffee." Songbird responds with a slight, hesitant smile playing on her lips. "None of that's available just now."
"Tellin' me the NUS president, Rosalind Myers, is actually there with you?" V asks again, still struggling to wrap her head around this particular detail. The same Rosalind Myers whose face is plastered all over the news, sitting on a hijacked plane somewhere above their heads.
"Sitting right across from me." The netrunner confirms with a firm nod, her expression deadly serious. "She knows the situation. Waitin' for your 'yes'."
V lets the silence stretch for several long seconds, weighing the implications of this insane mission while absently watching the neon lights dance across Songbird's translucent form. Finally, she sighs heavily, "Heavy shit. 'M I really your one contact?"
"You're my last and only hope." The netrunner confirms, her expression grave. "The president's life, her safety — that's your top priority." V bites back the retort that her actual top priority is getting Johnny back and making it out of this mess in one piece, letting the young woman continue. "She'll survive the landing. Dogtown, not so sure... You'll need to get 'er out of the plane before anyone else does."
"'Anyone else'?" V picks up on the specific phrasing while fishing out a cigarette from her pocket. Her hands are still slightly shaking as she lights it, letting the familiar burn of nicotine help settle her frayed nerves. "Specifically? Meanin' you expectin' company?"
Songbird's expression darkens as she turns her gaze toward the towering walls of Dogtown. "Kurt Hansen, Dogtown's commander-in-chief. Man's got a thousand-and-one reasons to want Myers as a hostage." She locks eyes with V, her voice dropping lower. "He couldn't've netjacked the plane on his own. Meaning Washington's got a mole problem. That one I'll need solvin' later."
Shit, this whole clusterfuck is way above her paygrade, V thinks, taking another nervous drag from her cigarette. But if there's really something in it for her... "Said you could help me. Is that the plain truth?"
"Just got a taste of my abilities, I believe." There's no mistaking the confidence in her tone — not arrogance, but the certainty of someone who knows exactly what they're capable of. "There's more. I can cure you. Once and for all."
"Can't know how much I'd really love to believe you, but..." V starts, exhaling a cloud of smoke while slowly shaking her head. If there's one thing she's learned the hard way, it's that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.
"I know, V. You've hit a dead end, nowhere to turn. Been there, believe me." Something in Songbird's voice makes V inclined to trust her, though she can't quite explain why. "Consider this a... an advance." A new icon suddenly materializes in V's visual interface as Songbird explains, "Your Relic's crowded with clusters of corrupted data. I'm dumpin' that, makin' room for stuff that'll actually be handy."
"Such as...?"
"Some preem Militech combat soft. It's just lying around, gatherin' dust." The runner says casually, but the look she gives V suggests she's just handed her something seriously nova.
"Feel a... tingling in my fingertips." V observes, mostly to herself as she flexes her hand experimentally. "Kinda nice, actually."
"Oh, it goes a lot further than tingling, trust me." Songbird's smile has a knowing edge to it. "Now, listen. What I gave you's the skeleton soft. But the firmway's fancy, it'll learn, grow with you. It'll improve if you feed it data. Combat analyses, logs of legendary ops, shit that'd make the NCPD piss its boots. Look around Dogtown."
"Gotta get there first." V subtly nods toward a Barghest patrol passing nearby, their heavy boots echoing against the concrete as they march past, weapons at the ready.
"Main entrance is a no-go." Songbird confirms V's suspicions, her holographic form flickering slightly. "You don't have an entry pass, and I don't have time to produce a fake. You'll slip in 'the back way', quiet as you can. We really don't need anyone spotting you, scanning you."
"Guess so." The merc nods, crushing her cigarette under her boot. "After you."
Songbird's spectral form leads V deeper into the abandoned lot. "I'll be right beside you — as much as I can." The netrunner dissolves into digital particles, scattering like neon fireflies in the early evening air, but her voice remains crystal clear in V's head. "Garage — there, past the fence, see it? Smugglers used to use it — now it's your turn. Try to sneak in. Maybe distract the guards. I dunno, something."
V crouches behind a rusted-out car, taking in her surroundings with practiced precision. The perimeter fence stretches skyward, a menacing barrier of steel mesh topped with razor wire that glints like hungry teeth under the harsh neon lights. A small metal security door might be easily forced, but the guard posted nearby — a hulking figure in black tactical gear — would definitely hear it. Her gaze drifts across the lot until it lands on something promising — a massive industrial dumpster, its metal surfaces painted with years of rust and graffiti, standing open on both ends like an improvised tunnel.
"Fuck my life," V mutters under her breath, already knowing this is her best option. She slinks toward the dumpster, moving from shadow to shadow with practiced ease. The smell hits her before she even reaches it — a lovely bouquet of rot, chemicals, and god-knows-what-else that makes her eyes water. As she slides inside, trying to breathe through her mouth, she can almost hear Johnny's voice in her head: "Real classy, V. From the major leagues to crawling through garbage. You're movin' up in the world." The thought brings a bittersweet smile to her face as she emerges on the other side, her clothes now carrying a distinctly questionable aroma.
Staying low, she weaves through a maze of storage crates and parked vehicles, her movements fluid and silent. A patrol of Barghest mercs passes nearby — their heavy boots echoing against concrete, weapons gleaming — but V's optical camo renders her practically invisible as she holds perfectly still, barely breathing until they pass. The loading bay's metal shutter looms ahead, and luck seems to finally throw her a bone — it's propped up slightly by a dented barrel, leaving just enough space for someone agile to slip under. V drops to her belly and rolls beneath the shutter, her arms scraping against the concrete. A swift kick sends the barrel skittering away, and the heavy door crashes down behind her with a metallic boom that makes her wince.
Finally alone in the parking garage's oppressive darkness, V waits as her optics calibrate. The air is thick with the smell of motor oil, stale cigarettes, and something metallic she'd rather not identify. Water drips somewhere in the darkness, each drop echoing like a gunshot in the empty space.
Well, almost alone, as Songbird's voice reminds her. "Great, now in you go. Look for a Net access point. Jack in that, and I'll be able to help you." V's scan reveals nothing but abandoned vehicles and shadows. The runner adds, "You should be one level lower. Eyes peeled, look for a way down."
After a methodical search, the merc spots something promising — a corrugated metal sheet that doesn't quite match the others, its edges worn from repeated movement. She moves it aside with a grunt, and — jackpot — reveals a maintenance shaft dropping into darkness. Without Johnny's constant commentary about her "stupid goddamn decisions," the silence feels wrong as she drops through the opening. She lands in a crouch, her reinforced tendons absorbing the impact as So Mi's voice guides her: "Now, look for a maintenance room. Bet anything you'll find a power source inside."
The maintenance room looks like a nightmare. Emergency lights paint everything in a bloody glow, casting twisted shadows across the walls. V spots the access point immediately — but of course, nothing can ever be simple. "Got an access point, but no power."
"Hm, see if you can restore it." Songbird's voice holds an edge of urgency. "It's the only way I can be any use to you."
V picks her way through what looks like a tornado's aftermath. Toppled storage units spill their guts across the floor — ancient data shards, corroded chrome, and enough tangled cables to hang every corp in Night City. The mess tells a story — someone left in a hurry, and they didn't want anyone following their breadcrumbs. She steps carefully over scattered newspapers — real paper, someone was old school — broken monitors, and various pieces of tech she can't even identify. The whole place feels like a tomb for dead technology.
In the furthest corner, partially hidden behind a collapsed server rack, she finally discovers an old backup generator. She hits the switches, holding her breath. "Turned somethin' on." The announcement feels unnecessary as ancient fluorescent lights sputter to life overhead, casting harsh shadows across the technological graveyard.
"Nice V. Exactly what we need." Songbird's satisfaction is palpable, but V can't shake the feeling that they're still a long way from getting Johnny back.
V retraces her steps back to the access point, and jacks in with practiced ease, the connection humming to life. "Ok, we're up," she announces as Songbird materializes beside her.
"Perfect. Breaching systems now." The response comes with an almost cheerful tone. While a loading bar fills V's visual interface, the runner continues, seeming to think out loud more than actually addressing V, "Hmm, ancient, no proto-ancient protocols, largely corrupted data... Gimme a sec, need to ping one of our sats. Let's see which active Dogtown network links to this infrastructure. Aaaand, puttin' in a back door..."
The loading bar completes with a soft chime, and suddenly a thunderous mechanical groan echoes from the adjacent room, making V's teeth rattle. "Ready to roll." Songbird announces, appearing atop a massive industrial elevator platform that's just descended from a previously hidden ceiling panel.
V disconnects, the personal link retracting into her wrist with a soft click. Holy shit, that's impressive. She can barely wrap her head around how So Mi managed to resurrect tech this ancient, but she files the question away for later as she joins the other woman. "Hop on the platform." Songbird gestures with a ghostly hand. "I'll guide you to the garage from here."
The metal platform lurches into motion the moment V's boots touch it, and she steadies herself against the railing. "Heh, hang on. Okay, Relic's hack first, then you slapped a muzzle on Johnny, now you bring some pile of scrap metal back to life?" She can't quite mask the mixture of admiration and disbelief in her voice. "Serious trickery, all. Who taught you?"
"V, I'm an NUS intelligence analyst. Trained under the best peeps in the biz." So Mi's response comes deliberately vague. As the platform begins its descent into the parking structure's bowels, she adds, "And they took me on 'cause around age thirteen I got the local ripper to sell me a beat-up old deck. Barely left the net since. I got noticed, the rest is history."
"I got a feelin' story's incomplete." V can't help but comment, unsettled by how little information the woman — who seems to know far too much about her — is willing to share. "Likely longer, more twisted."
"Mm? Might be." The runner responds cryptically before dissolving into digital particles once again.
V surveys her surroundings, the massive underground garage stretching into darkness like some concrete hell. The darkness swallows both ceiling and floor, making it impossible to gauge just how many levels exist above or below. Shit, better stay away from those edges, just in case. Further ahead, a trail of dim lights flickers to life, creating what's clearly meant to be a path. V recognizes it as Songbird's way of showing her where to go.
As she starts following the trail of lights, Songbird's voice returns, carrying an unusual note of hesitation. "Apologize up front for the query, but I gotta ask... Konpeki Plaza heist — why?"
V continues along the illuminated path, weighing her response carefully. The runner already knows too much about her for comfort, but then again... Nobody's ever actually asked her why, always assuming she was just another overambitious merc who bit off more than she could chew. So for once, she decides to set the record straight. "Had a friend. We worked together. Gig was important to him, and he, uh..." Her voice catches slightly on the memory.
"He was important to you." Songbird completes softly. With gentle uncertainty, she asks, "He... didn't make it?"
V figures if the woman knows so much about the Relic, about her life, about the heist, she probably already knows about Jackie too, but she answers anyway, her voice heavy with old grief, "He did not."
After that, V continues forward in contemplative silence. One month, one week, and six days have passed since the heist — since Jackie's death — but so much has happened in that short time that it feels like a lifetime ago. She realizes it's been too long since she last called Jackie's holo, using his voicemail as a confessional for all her adventures. She knows it's stupid, probably even a little crazy, but it helps, and fuck, her choom would have absolutely loved the insanity she's just gotten herself into. Saving the NUSA president? "This is the major leagues, chica!" she can almost hear him say with that infectious enthusiasm of his.
V climbs onto another platform that the runner remotely lowers, bringing her to a level with metal grating for flooring that looks unstable. Shit, it brings back unwanted memories of that rusted catwalk suspended over the void during the parade, when she was hunting for a path to take out the snipers. And of course, that makes her think of Goro, and she really doesn't want to think about Goro right now. Not with everything else weighing on her mind.
She manages only a few steps before the unstable grating gives way beneath her weight with a horrifying metallic shriek. "What the...!?" The exclamation escapes her lips as she plummets through the air. Fortunately, it's not a long fall, though her landing on the level below is anything but graceful. Well, at least the sudden rush of adrenaline successfully chased thoughts of Takemura from her mind.
"You alive?" Songbird's concerned voice echoes in her head.
"Think so." V grumbles as she picks herself up, dusting off her jacket. And once again, fuck, she misses Johnny — how he'd grab her shoulder, masking his concern with some smartass comment about her graceless landing. It's been what, an hour since Songbird replaced him as the voice in her head? And goddamn, his absence feels like a missing limb.
The merc continues her careful progression — watching her steps this time — while her Kiroshis scan the rust-covered vehicles abandoned with their cargo in the parking structure. The contents tell stories of lives interrupted: camping equipment still in its packaging, clothes unlike anything she's seen in Night City proper, contraband tech that would fetch a pretty eddie on the black market... Shit, if she had the time and a backpack to stuff her findings in, some of this stuff would definitely be worth salvaging. She's probably not the first to have this idea, judging by the corpse sprawled nearby — likely one of the smugglers Songbird mentioned, lying there with a broken spine after a bad fall, his dead eyes staring accusingly at the hole that claimed his life.
V manages to climb back up to the upper level, using an abandoned car as a stepping stone where the ceiling has partially collapsed. The netrunner materializes again, her form flickering like a broken neon sign. "You need to hang tight for a sec." True to her word, moments later, another platform slides horizontally into place with a grinding screech of ancient mechanics, creating a safer path. As V carefully makes her way across, So Mi continues, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity, "By the way... Must've gotten old by now, haulin' a faded rockerboy around. Strikes me as tiring..."
V can't help but laugh out loud, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "Song, seriously, ain't gonna insult your intelligence by pretendin’ that's the case. Fuck, you had front row seats to my little outburst when you made ‘im disappear." If you could call her complete panic attack and murderous rage a little outburst, she thinks, shaking her head at the understatement. Trying to deflect, she adds, "Not a Silverhand fan, are ya?"
Thankfully, Songbird plays along and chuckles, "Please. Samurai was done by their second album."
Grateful to drop the subject, V continues her ascent in silence, following the trail of lights the runner activates one by one like some breadcrumb trail. As she crosses a gap using an overturned ladder as a makeshift bridge, another ominous creak sends her scrambling for solid ground. Once safely across, she lets out a shaky breath, "Oh shit!"
"V?" The other woman's voice returns as the merc edges along a wall, "President Myers wishes you the best of luck."
"Haha, nice." V can't help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of what she just heard. The president of the NUSA, wishing good luck to some street rat merc. What a fucking day. "How's she doin'?"
"Awful nice of you to ask. I laid out the details of our plan." The runner responds, amusement coloring her voice. "Typical Rosalind. 'Keep me apprised,' she says calmly. Just sittin' there, sippin' her gin, flickin' through her agenda, postponin' meets. Woman's unshakable."
V snorts, picturing the surreal scene — the most powerful woman in the NUSA calmly rescheduling her day while her plane plummets toward Dogtown. "Tell Madam President I said, uh... hey." She manages lamely because really, what the fuck do you say to a goddamn president?
"You got it." Songbird replies with obvious amusement before illuminating another series of lights, guiding V toward the next level like some digital guardian angel in this concrete maze.
Finally, V spots the end of this fucking parking maze, catching sight of the top level. It feels like she's spent hours down here, her sense of time warped by the perpetual darkness and the need to calculate every step like some twisted game of chess. Leaping onto another goddamn catwalk that protests with an unsettling metallic shriek, she reaches the uppermost level where red security lights bathe everything in a bloody glow.
"Bright as the cityside metro, huh?" Songbird comments, materializing beside V like a digital ghost. As they continue forward, she opens up for the first time, "Reminds me when I was starting out. I'd look for places like this... set up a power bypass, jack in, essentially steal my way onto the net." Her voice carries a hint of nostalgia. "Grabbed the riskiest gigs I could find, learning as I went — the hard way, usually. But sometimes, a few times... I really pulled off some serious coups."
"Anything I'd find on BBS gossip feeds?" V jokes while scaling a rusty ladder, hoping to keep the runner talking.
"Hmm — Biotechnica in sixty-three or four." So Mi responds after a thoughtful pause. "Fermentation facility in Oregon, off the grid hack. Sound familiar?"
It doesn't ring a single fucking bell for V, but it sounds impressive as hell. "No shit — Biotechnica? Enough to make even Bartmoss blush."
"That paranoid clown? Please." She raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Sure hope I don't wind up packed in a fridge standing, psh, who-knows-where."
"I happen to know where," V chuckles, remembering the grim discovery. "Garbage dump in the Badlands."
"Not even surprised." Songbird rolls her eyes and, with a casual flick of her digital wrist, unlocks a nearby door.
V proceeds down a long corridor, eventually entering an area that looks less like a parking structure and more like an abandoned office space. Ancient terminals gather dust on desks, and scattered files carpet the floor like dead leaves. At the far end, she discovers an elevator. "Elevator — hop in, I'll do the rest." The runner instructs as the doors slide open with a grinding protest. "You'll be in Dogtown in a minute. Try to steer clear of Hansen's goons."
"Speaking of Kurt Hansen — what else you know about 'im?" The merc asks, leaning against the elevator's wall after hitting the button.
"Hansen was an officer, Militech. Tail end of the Unification War, his unit was tasked taking Night City." She explains as the elevator begins its ascent with a series of concerning rattles. "They managed to secure a foothold in this southmost pocket and... stuck around. Refused to demobilize, lay down their weapons. Founded Dogtown instead."
"Traded one conflict for another, basically." V shrugs, all too familiar with Night City's endless cycle of violence.
"Hot or cold — no better way to make a buck than war." Songbird confirms grimly.
The elevator announces its arrival with a tired wheeze, ancient machinery groaning to a halt. V emerges into a small room sealed by a rusted metal shutter. Nothing she can't handle though — she grips the handle and forces it upward with a grunt, years of accumulated grime making the mechanism shriek in protest.
"Up the stairs, through storage." Songbird directs. "You should pop right into the market."
The merc climbs the worn metal steps. The storage area looks like something out of a ripper's nightmare — dozens of cybernetic arms dangle from the ceiling like macabre wind chimes, their chrome surfaces dulled with age and neglect. The market's cacophony already reaches her ears — vendors shouting deals and bargains in a mix of languages, their voices carrying over the general din of humanity packed too tightly together.
V pushes through one last translucent plastic curtain, yellowed with age and sticky to the touch, and there it is — Dogtown in all its grimy, chaotic glory. Holy shit, she never thought she'd set foot in this infamous slice of hell. Below, she spots a weapons merchant's stall that makes her trigger finger itch — his displays loaded with hardware that would make even the most jaded Night City arms dealer drool. Military-grade rifles, custom chrome, and tech she can't even identify line the walls like deadly artwork. She makes a mental note to definitely swing back here when she has time and eddies to burn.
The market sprawls out before her like a cancerous growth, all makeshift stalls and jury-rigged power lines creating a web overhead. Garbage bags pile up in every corner like miniature mountains of urban decay, while the air carries a distinct bouquet — Chinese noodles, motor oil, unwashed bodies, and that metallic tang that seems to permeate every corner of Night City. Neon signs flicker and buzz, casting their sickly glow over everything and everyone, making even the freshest chrome look ancient and worn.
Customers brush past her without a second glance, each absorbed in their own desperate hustles. Taking a deep breath of Dogtown's questionable atmosphere, V descends the final steps into the market, another ghost melding into the machine. Each step brings her closer to getting Johnny back — his absence an ache she can't ignore — but first, she's got a president to save. From a plane crash. In hostile territory. Fucking fantastic.
Chapter 20: Through the Fire and Flames
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Shit, it feels like forever since I've posted anything. It's only been two weeks though. I guess February just goes by too fast. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the all the Kudos and bookmarks on the previous chapter ♥ And thanks BlackDragon93 and Alexia9219 for your comments. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
So now we fly ever free
We're free before the thunderstorm
On towards the wilderness, our quest carries on
Far beyond the sundown, far beyond the moonlight
Deep inside our hearts and all our souls
V strolls through the market with a casual pace, her eyes lazily scanning the stalls, mainly to avoid drawing attention from the Barghest soldiers patrolling the area. She's only been in Dogtown for a few minutes, but she has to admit — the place has its own fucked up charm. If you can look past the filth, the fact that half the residents are probably here ducking the law, and that the whole joint is run by some ex-military asshole who crowned himself king of this rotten paradise. Still, there's something intriguing about this place, and the merc makes a mental note to come back and explore properly when she doesn't have the fucking NUSA president's life weighing on her shoulders.
She eventually reaches a section of the market that opens to the outside, noticing the sun hanging low in the smog-filled sky. Shit, she must've spent longer in that underground parking than she thought, wondering if So Mi's plane will make it before nightfall.
Leaning against the railing, she takes in the view of the stadium's interior. Most of the bleachers have crumbled to shit, and where football players should've been running their plays, there's this massive crashed cargo aerozep — shot down by Hansen's trigger-happy goons. V vaguely remembers that clusterfuck making the screamsheets a few years back. The containers have long since been stripped clean, leaving nothing but their metal skeletons behind.
The air shimmers slightly as Songbird materializes beside her, the netrunner's digital form perfectly stable despite the area's shitty connection. She leans against the barrier, her expression serious as she asks, "V, um, been meaning to ask... How bad is it for you?"
"Heh, clock's tickin', and fast." The merc answers after a moment, running her fingers through her hair. The familiar weight of the Relic's presence in her skull seems heavier somehow. "Relic'll finish me, sooner rather than later."
"But you're here. Lookin' for a mean to survive." Songbird observes. "Still fightin'. Think you'd do anything for another chance?"
"Can't deny it." V replies simply, carefully avoiding mentioning that there's one line she won't cross — losing Johnny. The construct has become more than just a digital ghost in her head; he's become her anchor in this mess of a situation.
So Mi's gaze grows distant, her digital form flickering slightly as she processes something through the net. Finally, she adds with a gentle smile, "Chin up. We're in this together."
"There is that..." V nods, pushing herself off the railing to continue her journey. She weaves through the maze of food stalls and clothing vendors, the smell of synthetic meat and cheap noodles filling the air, until she reaches another door leading back into the building's interior.
V enters a nearly deserted area, passing by an imposing golden statue of the Night City Nighthawks. The massive sculpture depicts three players frozen in time — two crouching in dynamic poses while the central figure stands proud, a football clutched in his metallic grip. The rest of the vast space serves as a makeshift storage area, with scattered containers creating a maze of steel and chrome. A handful of workers mill about, some tinkering with old machinery while others lean against walls, taking smoke breaks, synthetic tobacco's scent mixing with the metallic air.
"All right." Songbird materializes again, her digital form flickering slightly. "Time you got up on the roof."
"The hell for?" V asks, continuing her steady pace through the cluttered space.
"For the view. And I'm not being coy, here." The runner explains. "I mean you'll see where we land, literally."
After a careful glance over her shoulder to ensure she's not being watched, V opens a maintenance door, slipping into a cramped storage room filled with dusty equipment. She climbs a steep flight of stairs, emerging into an unfinished construction zone, exposed rebar and half-finished walls creating an industrial jungle gym. Using her enhanced reflexes, she scales a ladder to reach an elevated metal platform, her boots clanging against the steel grating.
"Take the elevator," So Mi instructs, remotely activating the ancient lift. Halfway up, the thing stutters to a halt in a shower of sparks. "Shit!" The runner's frustration bleeds through her digital presence. "We blew a circuit. I've lost access."
"What now?" V asks, not exactly thrilled about the prospect of free-climbing the rest of this concrete monster.
"Try and restart the generator," Songbird says, tension evident in her voice.
V spots the generator a few meters away. While she's elbow-deep in wires, reconnecting frayed connections, she asks, "You upset or somethin'?"
"I detest wrinkles like this, when things don't go as planned!" She snaps, clearly rattled by this minor setback.
"Eh, forget about it." V tries to calm her, closing the metal panel as the elevator whirs back to life. "Junk upon junk here."
"Finally." The relief in her voice is palpable. "Hop in, elevator's roofbound." V complies, and the ancient box begins its creaky ascent. "FYI, we're about to cross into Night City airspace."
"Might be a bit of a shock — braced for it?" V asks, grateful she's not in the runner's shoes right now. "And... whatever comes next?"
"Not sure one can ever be ready for a forced landing." She responds with resigned determination. "In Dogtown, of all places... But havin' you means my chances are lookin' up."
"And... President's holdin' up?" V inquires, stepping out of the elevator onto another platform, heading toward a final set of stairs leading even higher.
"Well, she's calmly, coolly securing her documents." Songbird reports, anxiety creeping into her usually composed voice. "Third or fourth time, though, so I'm clearly not the only one who's stressed."
At the top of the stairs, V continues her ascent, climbing over half-collapsed structures where twisted rebar juts out of broken concrete like metallic bones through decaying flesh. Above her, darkness is settling in as the sun disappears behind the distant skyscrapers, painting the sky in toxic shades of orange and purple. She carefully picks her way through the ruined building, testing each foothold before committing her weight to it.
Finally reaching the summit, V finds Songbird's digital form perched at the end of a steel beam, her translucent figure flickering slightly against the darkening sky. "You made it. Good," the netrunner acknowledges, her calm demeanor replaced by something more urgent.
"What now?" the merc asks, taking in the sprawling vista before her. Beyond the stadium's decaying shell, Arroyo stretches out like a concrete jungle, dominated by the looming presence of Megabuilding H4. The massive structure stands like a neon-lit tombstone against the horizon, its thousands of windows reflecting the last rays of sunlight.
"The calm before the storm," Songbird responds with uncharacteristic grimness. She points toward the city center, and V's Kiroshi optics zoom in automatically, focusing on a rapidly approaching aircraft. "See that...? It's us — Space Force One. We're descending, in for a rough—" Her words cut off abruptly, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. "Oh, fuck...!"
"What? What's goin' on?" V barely gets the words out before she hears it — a high-pitched woosh cutting through the air. A fucking missile tears through the darkening sky like a metal demon, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. It misses the plane, but before V can even process a sigh of relief, a second one follows.
"V, the President...! You have to—" Songbird's warning is cut short as the second missile connects with Space Force One. The explosion lights up the sky like artificial daylight, and Songbird's digital form dissolves into static before vanishing completely.
"Songbird?!" V calls uselessly into the void. The aircraft is losing altitude fast, trailing ominous black smoke. "Goddammit!" And it's coming closer. Fuck, that burning metal coffin is heading straight for her! "Ho-oly shit, shit, shit!!" she screams, throwing herself flat against the concrete. "Fuck me!"
The plane roars overhead, close enough for V to feel the scorching heat of its burning engines. Its wing catches the edge of the ruined building with a sound like the world ending, before continuing its deadly trajectory toward Dogtown. The impact proves too much for the already compromised structure, and the floor beneath V gives way with a sickening crack. She plummets to the level below in a shower of concrete and steel, her enhanced reflexes barely allowing her to twist into a somewhat controlled fall.
Groaning, she pushes herself up from the debris-covered floor just in time to see Space Force One complete its final descent. The crash lights up the encroaching night like a miniature sun, the explosion's thunderous boom echoing off Dogtown's walls. "Ok, okay... Got this..." she mutters through gritted teeth, checking herself for injuries as she staggers to her feet. "Save the President... sure, no fuckin' problem..."
Now what? Songbird's gone dark, no more guidance coming through the net — and still no sign of Johnny... Shit, for the first time since this whole Relic business started, she's completely alone. The weight of that realization sits heavy in her chest, but there's no time for self-pity. She needs to move, and fast.
Through the settling dust, she spots a large yellow construction chute a few meters away, probably used for debris disposal during better days. Approaching the edge, she peers down at the steep drop ahead — it's less of a slide and more of a controlled plummet into darkness. But when you're fresh out of options, beggars can't be choosers. V takes a deep breath, her heart pounding against her ribs, mutters a quick "Fuck it" under her breath, and launches herself into the void.
The descent through the construction chute is a dizzying blur of yellow plastic and vertigo, the kind of adrenaline rush that would've been fucking preem under different circumstances. V can't help but flash back to earlier today — Johnny beside her on that rollercoaster, his fingers intertwined with hers, both of them laughing like teenagers. Johnny. The thought of him sharpens her focus like a hit of black lace — the sooner she saves Mayers, the sooner she gets her rockerboy back. Her thoughts scatter as the chute abruptly ends, unceremoniously dumping her onto a mountain of garbage bags that cushion her landing with a disgusting squelch.
She's on her feet in an instant, chrome-enhanced muscles propelling her forward through what looks like a scene from a fucking war vid. The plane's trajectory has carved a path of destruction through Dogtown's streets, though the wreckage itself lies somewhere ahead, beyond her line of sight. Palm trees burn like massive torches along the boulevard, their burning fronds raining embers onto the cracked pavement below. The intense heat has shattered windows, sending deadly shards of glass raining down onto the chaos below.
The air is thick with smoke and the stench of burning fuel, while emergency sirens wail in the distance like mechanical banshees. Pieces of the aircraft litter the ground — chunks of fuselage, strips of metal, fragments of what might have been a wing. Each piece has left its own trail of destruction — a car split clean in half, a street vendor's stall crushed to splinters, a neon sign reduced to sparking wires.
Barghest soldiers charge forward in their distinctive black and green armor, weapons drawn, while terrified civilians scramble in the opposite direction. Some people are frozen in shock, staring at the sky where thick black smoke marks the plane's deadly path. Others are already taking advantage of the chaos — V spots looters breaking into an electronics store, while a group of scavs circles a crashed luxury car like vultures, ignoring its driver's calls for help.
The less fortunate ones lie scattered among the debris, their bodies testament to the random cruelty of falling wreckage. Blood mixes with leaked fuel on the pavement, creating dark, rainbow-sheened puddles that reflect the flames above. As V navigates this apocalyptic landscape, she can see more destruction ahead — the crash site must be at least half a mile away, marked by a larger column of smoke and the orange glow of what must be one hell of a fire.
As V rounds a gaudy pyramid-shaped building, probably some gonk's idea of ‘exotic’ architecture, her neural link crackles back to life with Songbird's voice. "Ugh..." the runner groans, the sound distorted by static. "Ok! I'm back! And out — landed safely!"
"Shit, Songbird!" Relief floods V's system like a hit of good synthetic endorphins. "Thought you might've... Fuuck..."
"Yeah, I know, I know." She sounds winded but alive, her digital voice steadying. "Songbird the cat, life number nine commenced, alas." V manages a smirk while diving behind a burning car to avoid one of the militia's armored vehicles as it tears past, its reinforced tires leaving black streaks on the asphalt. So Mi continues, urgency clear in her voice, "I made sure to get Myers to the saferoom before I ejected. Run to the wreckage, V — save her!"
"Right, on my way!" the merc confirms.
"Just be careful. Hansen's sent his goons!" she warns, her voice tight with concern. "You need to hurry!"
"What then? Got a plan?" V asks between ragged breaths, the toxic smoke burning her lungs.
"Find Myers, get her to Liz Kress Street." Before V can protest that she doesn't have a fucking clue where that is in this concrete maze, her neural interface lights up with an incoming data transfer — a detailed map of the district materializing in her HUD. "It'll be the safest spot in Dogtown, right now. I'll be in touch. Godspeed, V!"
The merc continues her sprint through the chaos, which intensifies with each step toward ground zero. She finally reaches a makeshift blockade where Barghest has transformed their armored trucks into an impromptu wall, the massive vehicles arranged in a defensive formation that screams 'keep the fuck out.' The militia soldiers patrol in the flickering firelight, and they're not playing around — V watches one of them slam the butt of his rifle into a civilian who got too close, the poor bastard's teeth scattering across the pavement like bloody dice.
"Focus now. You won't pass this way without a fight." Songbird warns through the neural link. "You're capable, I know, but I'd rather not take any chances. So stay low, go around?"
That's something V can definitely get behind. While she knows a confrontation with Hansen's goons is inevitable at some point, wasting energy on a direct assault now seems fucking stupid. The night's gonna be long enough without painting a target on her back right from the start.
She spots a metal garage door blocking access to a side street and figures it's worth checking out. The rusted mechanism groans as she lifts it just enough to roll underneath. On the other side, she's relieved to find a set of concrete stairs leading up to a shipping container. Using her enhanced arms, she easily scales both, finding herself on the first floor of one of the buildings flanking the main street. She crouches low, moving forward with practiced stealth.
Rounding a corner, her optics highlight a lone soldier, his attention fixed on the street below like a gargoyle watching its domain. She moves like liquid shadow, her combat knife already singing for blood. One hand clamps over his mouth while the other opens his throat in a precise arc — a dance she's performed countless times. She guides his descent with practiced ease, dragging the still-twitching body behind some crates. One down, and if she's lucky, nobody will find him until he's gone cold. Further ahead, another guard maintains his vigil, thoughtfully presenting his back to her position. She repeats her deadly choreography with mechanical precision, and just like that, the path ahead lies open.
She's climbing another flight of stairs when So Mi's voice cuts through the ambient chaos, "Scaffolding, scale it, go." V complies without hesitation, her boots finding purchase on the rusted metal framework as she climbs ever higher into the night air. The crane's ladder feels endless, each rung bringing her closer to the stars until she finds Songbird's digital form waiting in the operator's cabin, her translucent figure casting an ethereal glow through the grime-covered glass. "Shit... Hansen's people are there. Seems they've been given a job to finish."
"How many of your people there?" V asks between controlled breaths.
"There were eleven on board, counting myself and Rosalind. How many still alive? No idea." The runner's response carries a weight of responsibility as they watch an AV descend like a mechanical angel, disgorging more Barghest troops onto the battlefield below. Their boots hit the ground in perfect synchronization, a reminder that these aren't just standard rent-a-cops - these are professional soldiers. "Must be some way I could... Wait, I got it!" Songbird's avatar flickers with excitement. "The crane arm — hop on, I think I can boot it up. Not a second to spare now."
V steps onto the massive steel beam, feeling like a tightrope walker suspended between earth and sky. The metal groans beneath her feet as Songbird's consciousness flows through the crane's ancient systems, bringing them back to life. "Across the roof. Wreck's straight ahead," the runner guides her. The merc edges forward until she reaches a gap she can clear to the adjacent rooftop. Taking a deep breath of the acrid air, she lets gravity take over and jumps into the darkness below.
V lands in a controlled roll, immediately taking cover behind a pile of debris. The chaos here has reached fever pitch — fires rage unchecked across multiple locations, casting wild shadows through the thick smoke. In the heart of this inferno, Barghest soldiers exchange heavy fire with the President's android guards, their weapons creating a deadly light show that rivals the flames. V uses the darkness, smoke, and general confusion to her advantage, becoming one with the shadows as she skirts the outer perimeter of the combat zone.
"V, hit the ground! It's gonna explode!" Songbird's warning comes just seconds before a thunderous boom rocks the area. V's Sandevistan kicks in automatically, the world slowing to a crawl around her as she watches a small construction crane begin to topple. Seeing an opportunity to cut off her enemies' escape route, she abandons all pretense of stealth and sprints across the battlefield, chrome-enhanced legs carrying her past the falling structure moments before it crashes down with a deafening impact.
Using the resulting chaos as cover, she pushes forward through the dust cloud. Finally — fucking finally — she spots the crashed plane less than a hundred meters ahead, its fuselage torn open like a chrome-plated wound. "Make for the wreck!" Songbird's voice carries an edge of desperation. "And watch who you shoot! We got NUS agents there, not bogeys."
Her warning proves timely as two Barghest soldiers emerge from a half-collapsed building on V's right. The Malorian materializes in her hand like an old friend, and from her concealed position, she drops both men with practiced efficiency. The distinctive crack of Johnny's gun echoes off the ruins as she quickly searches the bodies, a predatory grin spreading across her face as she discovers a few grenades. These'll come in handy.
That prediction proves accurate the moment she enters the building, finding two more guards blocking her path ahead. The grenade leaves her hand in a smooth arc, the subsequent explosion painting the walls with their remains. She descends the newly accessible stairway, emerging into another firefight between Hansen's forces and the NUSA combat robots.
What follows is a deadly dance of chrome and violence. The Malorian speaks twice more, each shot finding its mark with devastating precision. Another grenade clears a cluster of Barghest troops taking cover behind some fallen concrete. For the last soldier, V releases her Mantis blades with a metallic whisper, the edges catching firelight as she closes the distance. The man barely has time to scream before she opens him from sternum to stomach.
When the echo of combat fades, V stands alone among the carnage. Around her, broken android bodies lie scattered among the very human corpses of Barghest soldiers, their synthetic fluids mixing with blood on the debris-strewn ground. The acrid smell of cordite mingles with the metallic tang of spilled blood and the ozone scent of fried electronics, creating a unique bouquet of death.
Finally, V reaches the downed aircraft, its main door hanging at an awkward angle, torn half off its reinforced hinges like a broken tooth. As she takes a cautious peek inside, Kiroshi optics adjusting to the darkness, Songbird's voice echoes in her head, "Fuel tank's insulated, it won't explode." Well, ain't that just preem — one less way to die tonight. The list is long enough already.
The interior of the luxury aircraft looks like something straight out of a horror BD. Emergency lights pulse in an angry crimson rhythm, turning everything into a grotesque tableau of shadows and blood-red highlights. What was once a testament to NUSA wealth now resembles a slaughterhouse — premium leather seats torn apart like broken bodies, exposed wiring hanging from the ceiling like electronic entrails, sparking and hissing in the smoke-filled air. Scattered among the wreckage lie the broken remains of combat androids, their chrome chassis reflecting the emergency lights. The human bodies are worse — corporate suits turned into bloody rags.
V pauses to scan a female corpse sprawled across what's left of the mini-bar, her designer suit worth more than most people make in a year now soaked crimson. The face is unrecognizable — impact trauma's a real bitch — but the scan confirms it's not their VIP. One less thing to worry about.
"See anything?" Songbird's voice carries that special kind of tension V's learned to recognize — the kind that comes when multiple lives hang in the balance.
"Whole lotta wrecked aircraft," V drawls, ducking under a dangling cable that's doing its best impression of a plasma cutter, spitting angry blue sparks into the darkness. Anticipating the runner's next question, she adds, "Nobody jumpin' out to greet me."
"Shit," So Mi curses. "Are we too late?"
"Deep breaths." V tries to sound calmer than she feels, her own heart hammering against her ribs. "Nothin's for sure. Lemme scan around."
"Keep moving back, you'll see a safe room," the runner instructs. "I'll pop the release on the door." On cue, a heavily armored door at the rear of the cabin slides open with a pneumatic hiss that sounds too damn loud in the wreckage.
V forces the door wider, but her welcome party's about as friendly as a Maelstrom block party — a rifle butt comes swinging out of the darkness, catching her right in the gut. Her subdermal armor takes most of the hit, but it still forces a grunt from her lips. Combat reflexes kick in faster than thought — one hand shoots out to grip the weapon mid-swing, stopping a second blow that would've rearranged her face.
"Ugh, fuck's sake!" She snarls, her free hand finding her attacker's wrist and twisting. Using the woman's own momentum, she slams her against the cabin wall hard enough to rattle the already damaged panels.
"Ergh, let go..!" The woman demands, fighting like a cornered animal.
V increases the pressure just enough to make her point clear, asking through gritted teeth, "If I do, you'll calm down?"
"It depends who you are!" comes the strained but still dignified reply.
The merc finally takes a moment to properly scan her opponent, and holy shit — this is definitely her target. Short ash-blonde hair styled in an expensive cut, expertly applied makeup now smudged with grime from the crash, an ivory-white ensemble with gold accents that probably costs more than most people make in a year, and jewelry that could buy a small apartment in Watson.. And of course, that face — the one she's seen countless times on the news feeds for years.
"Rosalind Myers?" V asks, letting a cocky grin spread across her face. "You're lookin' at the solution to your current problems. Name's V."
"Ugh..." The President exhales, tension draining from her body like water. "Corny as it sounds, my favorite letter of the alphabet just now. Apologies. I had to be sure it was really you."
V releases her grip, already planning their exit route. "Right, let's delta, before—" But Dogtown's got other plans. A massive explosion rips through the front of the aircraft, the kind of blast that makes your teeth rattle in your skull. The shockwave hits them, sending both women sprawling across the debris-strewn floor.
Static buzzes through V's skull like a swarm of angry hornets as she pushes herself up on one elbow, growling, "Fuckin' hell..." The taste of copper in her mouth suggests her fancy subdermal armor took more of a beating than she'd like to admit.
"Ugh, dammit, they just won't let up!" The President mutters through clenched teeth, already on her feet with the kind of fluid grace that screams 'combat training.' Her pristine white suit is now streaked with grease and blood, but she moves like someone who's more comfortable in battle gear than boardroom attire.
Before V can even get vertical, Myers snatches her rifle from the debris-strewn floor and advances toward the front of the aircraft like she's walking into a hostile takeover instead of a literal warzone. Holy fuck, she wasn't kidding around. The merc scrambles after her, mind racing through what she knows about NUSA's most powerful woman. CEO of Militech for a decade, decorated marine before that... Shit, why is V even here to protect her? The woman handles herself like a seasoned solo. Though maybe that's not such a bad thing — beats having to babysit some terrified corpo who pisses themselves at the sight of their own blood.
The explosion has torn away a massive section of the fuselage, giving them a prime view of approaching Barghest forces and — oh fuck her sideways — a heavily armed combat mech. The machine towers over its human handlers like an angry chrome god, hydraulics hissing as it advances through the smoke, its weapon systems glowing with malevolent purpose.
"We need them gone!" Myers shouts, already putting rounds downrange at the mechanical monster with deadly precision. "Every last one!"
Deciding to prioritize the biggest threat, V pulls her last grenade, mentally thanking that dead Barghest soldier for the parting gift. The explosion rocks the mech but doesn't drop it, though it does turn three of its handlers into red mist — bonus points for efficiency. The President maintains sustained fire, her stance and trigger discipline speaking volumes about her military background. Each burst finds a weak point in the armor, methodical and precise. V adds Johnny's Malorian to the mix, until finally, the metal beast crashes to its knees and stays down, sparks and hydraulic fluid spraying from its ruined chassis. Good. Now they just have to deal with the small fucking army of reinforcements pouring in like roaches through the gaps in Night City's walls.
Working in surprisingly smooth coordination, the two women drop half a dozen more hostiles from their position in the wreckage. V's impressed — Myers shoots like someone who's never stopped training, corporate life be damned. "We won't hold this position!" the President calls out while executing a tactical reload that would make a spec ops trainer proud. "Cover me!" Then she's moving, crossing the battlefield with practiced efficiency while V lays down suppressing fire, watching until Myers slides into cover behind a concrete pillar like she does this shit every Tuesday.
The next few minutes are a symphony of violence — Myers providing precise bursts of covering fire while V flanks their opponents, her Mantis Blades claiming lives with surgical precision. The President fights smart, using minimal ammo for maximum effect, calling out enemy positions like she's still commanding marines. Between V's street-honed brutality and Myers' military precision, they cut through the remaining Barghest forces like a mono-wire through flesh. When the last enemy falls, the battlefield goes quiet except for the crackle of flames. V looks at the President, whose once-immaculate suit is now thoroughly combat-tested, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, this job won't be as much of a pain in the ass as she'd feared.
When the dust finally settles and V's satisfied that the immediate area is clear of threats, she reaches out through her neural link. "Songbird? You there?"
"V. How's the sitch?" The response comes instantly, tense with worry.
"We're alive." The merc assures her. "Both of us."
A relieved sigh crackles through the connection before Songbird continues, "Now listen, head for the vacant building on—"
"Elizabeth Kress — got it." V interrupts, her attention split between the conversation and watching Myers efficiently loot the fallen soldiers with practiced movements that speak of battlefield experience. The President's searching for spare mags, moving with the methodical precision of someone who's done this before. "Gimme some credit."
"It's the best place to lay low," the runner explains, patience masking urgency. "No heat signatures, so it's empty, not a soul inside. Now get moving before more chrome-heads show up looking for a bonus."
V's optics light up with Songbird's map of Dogtown, algorithms highlighting potential escape routes through this concrete maze. She signals Myers with a quick hand gesture and the President responds instantly, falling in step like they've run ops together for years. They backtrack through the aircraft's skeleton and slip out through a jagged wound in the fuselage.
The partially collapsed building they enter reeks of cordite, burning plastic, and that particular smell that only comes from expensive electronics going up in smoke. As they pick their way through the ruins, V updates her companion, "Got Songbird on comms. She's fine. Found us a safehouse nearby, too."
"Songbird... I'd started to worry." The President matches V's pace stride for stride, her designer shoes somehow finding purchase on debris-strewn floors. "I suppose I forgot she always lands on her feet."
"Had crazy luck — both of you." V can't help but comment, still processing the surreal reality of making small talk with NUSA's commander-in-chief while picking their way through burning wreckage.
"Huh." Rosalind — fuck it, they've killed enough people together to be on first-name basis — shrugs, the emergency lights catching her ash-blonde hair like a corona of fire. "Maybe you brought it with you." They reach a security door, and her tone shifts darker. "This is some fucking nightmare. My people, dead — all of them. Because of me."
"Whoa, whoa — Kurt Hansen killed them, not you." V counters, crouching to grip the door's base. Her reinforced muscles strain against the metal's resistance.
"Ehh, is that what you think?" Myers joins her effort, and together they force the barrier up enough to slip through into a corridor dimly lit. The door crashes down behind them like a final judgment. "You have no idea how deep this goes. We were hacked. It means Hansen had help. From Washington. The NUS government is aware of the crash, no doubt. They'll have sat-mapped it, seen us hit the ground in Dogtown. Unless..."
They continue down the darkened hallway, their footsteps echoing off concrete walls while Myers processes her thoughts, her face a study in controlled fury. Suddenly she continues, her voice carrying the weight of someone seeing the bigger picture emerge from chaos. "Unless the plot goes deeper... Hansen's spreading his agitprop lies as we speak, I'm sure of it. Our people will have an even harder time crossing the border." She stops at a window overlooking Dogtown's neon-painted chaos, crossing her arms. "I can't trust a soul. I just... Fuck. I don't know what to do."
"Understand your concerns." V takes position beside her, both women watching outside. "Don't forget you got me here, though. And Songbird. We'll get you outta this mess."
"Thank you, V." Myers responds, some of the tension leaving her shoulders at the merc's straightforward assurance.
"We stick to the plan." V says, trying to sound confident. "After that — ah, guess we'll see."
Myers turns to resume their journey but freezes mid-step, her hand flying to her neck like she's been stung. "Wait a second... Dammit! If Hansen's got someone inside in Washington, that means I'm traceable, wherever, whenever." She bends down, fingers closing around a shard of broken glass from the debris-strewn floor. The flame from her gold-plated lighter dances across the makeshift scalpel's edge as she sterilizes it. "I have a subdermal tracker. It needs to go, ASAP. It's near an artery that's best not nicked. I'll need your help." She indicates a spot just below her ear before offering V the glass shard, her hand steady despite what she's proposing.
The merc eyes the improvised surgical tool like it might bite her. Sure, she can handle the merc work part, but playing street ripperdoc with the President's jugular? That's some next-level gonk shit. Trying to lighten the mood, she quips, "Chippin' the prez with a tracker? Weird."
"Safety precaution." Myers responds with a hint of dark humor coloring her voice. "In case I ever wanted to ditch the White House, go on an all-night bender."
V chuckles at the joke, accepting the glass with more confidence than she feels. Her fingers probe the President's neck, locating the tracker mere millimeters beneath the skin, right next to the pulsing jugular vein. The implant feels like a tiny bullet waiting to be extracted. "Gonna hurt like a motherfucker, this." She warns, positioning the makeshift scalpel. "Close your eyes, think of some asshole you hate. Always helps."
Myers hisses through clenched teeth as V makes the incision, perfect white teeth bared in a grimace, but manages a strained response, "Ugh... that's a long list, ehh..."
"Even better." The merc grins, discarding the bloodied glass with a soft tinkle against concrete. Her fingers carefully part the flesh. The tracker's fluorescent yellow casing glows through the welling blood like a toxic firefly.
A distant whirring cuts through the silence and Rosalind's hand clamps around V's wrist like a vise. "Wait, is that...?" The sound grows closer, and she adds urgently, "Drone! Finish up, quick!"
Abandoning finesse for speed, V pinches the tracker between her fingers and yanks it free in one sharp motion. The President winces but recovers instantly, snatching the blood-slick implant and hurling it through the window before whispering harshly, "Cover, now!"
Both women drop into crouches, scrambling away from the opening moments before the drone glides past. Its searchlights cut through the darkness like laser beams, sweeping the corridor in methodical patterns. For what feels like an eternity, they hold their breath, pressed against the cold concrete as the mechanical hunter hovers outside. Finally, after a heart-stopping minute, it moves on, its whirring fading into the night like a chrome vulture seeking easier prey.
"That was close." Myers exhales, her shoulders relaxing slightly as they rise from their hiding spot. A thin trickle of blood traces its way down her neck, gleaming in the emergency lights like a ruby necklace against her pale skin. Even with her suit ruined and blood staining her collar, she somehow maintains that aura of authority that probably comes standard issue with the presidency.
"V...?" Songbird's voice crackles through the merc's neural link, digital static making her tension even more palpable. "I'm here."
"Right on time." V responds, throwing up a quick hand signal that Myers reads with military precision, instantly freezing in place. "You in one piece?"
"For now. Can't say I'll stay that way." The runner's tone carries the weight of someone who's seen too much code to be optimistic. "You need to get to the top of the building. Talk later."
V relays the instructions to Myers, and they continue their careful progression through the abandoned structure. The building groans around them like a dying beast, decades of neglect evident in every crumbling wall and water-stained ceiling. They discover a dead elevator a few rooms later and V's tech skills, honed through countless break-ins and heists, make quick work of the ancient fuse box, giving Songbird the opening she needs to work her netrunning magic. The elevator shudders to life with a sound like an old man waking from a nightmare.
As they begin their ascent in the questionably functional death trap, the President's sharp eyes track movement outside. "What's the probability a random passerby noticed a moving elevator in an abandoned hotel?" She gestures toward a distant drone, its sensors gleaming like malevolent eyes through the neon-tinted darkness. Her tactical assessment comes with the confidence of someone who's studied these machines, not just read about them in briefings. "The little fuckers are fidgety. And sharp sensors on those — if they've sensed us already, the place'll be swarming in no time."
"A president and a drone-whisperer?" V teases, trying to cut through the tension.
The attempt at humor works — somewhat. Myers' white-knuckled grip on her rifle relaxes marginally, though her eyes never stop scanning their surroundings with military precision. "One picks up things in the army in spite of oneself. There's only one surefire way to get past this model — move fast." Her voice carries the weight of experience, not theory.
As the elevator doors wheeze open at the top floor with a sound like arthritic joints, V crosses her fingers for a smooth run, but something — whether it's her merc's instincts, years of street experience, or that paranoid edge Johnny seems to have infected her with — something whispers that they're not done dancing with danger before they reach that safehouse.
They emerge into a corridor and — for fuck's sake — because the universe clearly enjoys making their job harder, the entire left wall is pure glass, sweeping up in elegant arches to meet a partially translucent ceiling. Perfect architectural design for avoiding military-grade drones with thermal imaging, obviously. The glass panels reflect the city's neon glow, turning their hideout into a goddamn fishbowl. Johnny would probably have something sarcastic to say about corpo architects and their fucking death-trap designs.
V's about to move forward when Myers' hand catches her arm with surprising strength. "Hold..." She points toward a corner where ceiling meets glass. "Drone. On your left." Hovering mere meters away, a behemoth of chrome and sensors, nearly AV-sized and unmistakably military-grade, sweeps its search beams across the corridor like mechanical fingers probing for prey.
"Remote-controlled." Songbird's voice crackles with digital tension as the drone glides past like a mechanical shark. "If I touch it, I give away your position. Restaurant — subnet access point in there. If you jack in, I can inject some fake hostile readings, send the drone chasing after geese."
Sounds like a solid plan to V — anything's better than getting up close and personal with that metal monster's integrated defense systems. She signals Rosalind to take cover behind good old-fashioned concrete, then slips into the restaurant. Carefully timing her movements between the drone's sweeping searchlight patterns, using the bar as cover during close passes, she weaves through the maze of abandoned tables until she spots the access point. Jacking in, she nervously watches over her shoulder as Songbird's hack progress bar crawls across her visual interface, each second stretching annoyingly.
The moment the loading completes, V watches with relief as the drone speeds away like a chrome bloodhound on a false scent. "Not much hustle in the ranks." The runner comments as the President, having spotted their window of opportunity, joins V. "The lazy fuckers expect the drone to do all the work. Now's your chance to slip out. Tiptoes recommended."
They continue forward until reaching an overlook where a cluster of soldiers gather below, their weapons gleaming under the dim lights. Myers, crouched behind V like a shadow, whispers while pointing toward a parked vehicle, "Hm, four wheels, two seats... a taker..."
"Nah, no fuckin' way." The merc responds in hushed tones, shaking her head. "Too well guarded. It's their ride, prolly rigged with trackers. We'll be way more ghost on foot."
Myers just hums in acknowledgment, following V's lead with practiced stealth as they descend two flights of stairs on the room's right side. They stick to the shadows, timing their movements around two patrolling guards whose boots echo off concrete, and without further complications, reach the door leading outside. The night air carries the smell of cordite and burning metal, a reminder that their brief moment of peace is just that — brief. Somewhere in the darkness, Hansen's soldiers are still hunting, and the night is far from over.
They cautiously navigate the parking lot, crouching behind abandoned crates and using parked vehicles as cover to avoid Barghest patrols. Their boots crunch softly on broken glass and gravel as they follow the winding road down toward Dogtown. The city sprawls below them, a maze of makeshift structures and fortified positions that Myers eyes with the practiced assessment of someone who's seen their share of urban warfare.
The stairs they eventually discover are carved into the cliff face, rust-eaten metal steps descending into darkness. The wind whistles through gaps in the railings, carrying the distinct Dogtown bouquet — burnt Chooh2, stale piss, and gunpowder. V notices how Myers navigates the precarious descent with practiced ease, her movements precise and controlled despite her expensive suit.
This far down, they encounter only civilians — street vendors hawking synthetic meat from improvised stalls, chrome-heads shuffling past with mismatched cyberware, and night crawlers who barely spare them a glance. In Dogtown, curiosity can be fatal, and everyone's too busy trying to survive to care about two more strangers in the darkness.
The abandoned construction site they traverse offers plenty of tactical cover, something both women automatically utilize without need for discussion. It's here that Songbird's voice cuts through V's neural link, "I have to say, I was skeptical of moving on foot. Yet so far... great work, V."
She's right — it's relatively peaceful, though 'peaceful' in Dogtown is a relative term. Myers' commentary about Hansen and the state of the place comes not from corpo disdain but from military assessment, her observations precise and tactical. Every few meters, she's scanning sight lines, noting defensive positions, identifying potential ambush points with the instincts of someone who's done this dance before, just with different partners and on different streets.
They skirt a Barghest outpost where guards cluster around a barrel fire, more interested in their cards and synthetic beer than perimeter security. Finally, V spots their destination — the entrance to the underground parking lot Songbird had marked on her map. Once inside, the runner remotely seals the access behind them.
"Looks clear... finally." The President comments, her shoulders losing some of their combat readiness. "Nice change." As they approach an elevator, she continues, "Dogtown... what a joke. Did you all nuke this place?"
"You all?" V chuckles, jabbing the call button. "First time I'm here. Though gotta admit, makes Watson look like corpo plaza."
"Likewise." Rosalind responds with matching humor as the elevator groans its way up several floors, the ancient machinery protesting each movement. "And if I never make it back, it'll be too soon."
The elevator doors slide open with a metallic groan, revealing a vast chamber shrouded in darkness. Within seconds, lights flicker to life one by one — Songbird's handiwork — illuminating what appears to be a forgotten shrine to corporate ambition. The sudden brightness reveals polished marble floors, towering display cases, and an enormous statue dominating the center of the room.
"Sheesh," V whistles, her voice echoing off the high ceiling. "Looks like a kinda museum..."
Myers lets out a dry chuckle. "The Museum of Wishful Thinking." Her tone carries the weight of someone who's seen too many grand promises turn to ash. "Where the rich bought and sold so many unfulfilled dreams."
"Buildin' seems to be in good shape." V observes, her gaze drifting from the imposing central statue — some chrome-plated allegory of progress — to note the surprisingly pristine condition of their surroundings. Besides a thin layer of dust, everything looks maintained, almost preserved. "For Dogtown at least."
"Strange, isn't it?" The President responds, her combat boots eerily silent on the marble floor as she moves forward. "Maybe Hansen found some rich fools to fund his whims." There's something in her voice — a hint of bitter knowledge she's not sharing.
As they ascend the stairs past various architectural models, Songbird materializes beside V, her digital form casting a soft blue glow. "Feel free to ask her 'bout those exhibits," she whispers with uncharacteristic edge. "Reeaally wonder what she'll say."
V doesn't need to ask. Myers stops by a detailed miniature cityscape, casually leaning against the platform's edge. Like a veteran pointing out old battlefields, she gestures at the model. "It was an urban renewal effort designed to curb Arasaka's growing influence. Militech backed most of the projects." The words flow naturally, almost like sharing an old war story over drinks.
"So Militech sank money into Dogtown, too?" V probes.
"That's not what it was called then, but yes." Myers responds simply before continuing her way.
Songbird's avatar flickers with barely contained frustration. "On paper, urban renewal. Under that cover, military infrastructure development." Her usually playful expression twists into something darker. "But abandon all hope of hearin' a word of truth."
Caught off guard by the runner's bitter tone — fuck, until now she'd seemed almost cheerful about working with Madam Prez — V bypasses the remaining exhibits. She passes a miniature version of the pyramid-shaped building they'd seen earlier, filing away questions for later.
The next door requires both women's strength to force open, revealing what's clearly become Hansen's personal armory. Weapons crates and ammunition boxes line the walls, the air thick with the smell of gun oil and metal. V's heading for the elevator at the far end when Myers suddenly tenses. "V... do you hear that?" The President's hand instinctively moves to her weapon. V listens — footsteps, multiple sets, approaching fast. "Shit, bastards caught up to us again!"
"Got a surprise for our guests." Songbird's cryptic words are accompanied by a predatory smile. "Makin' the final adjustments now..."
The first soldier bursts through the door, and V's already moving. Her Mantis blades slice through the air with deadly precision, catching the light as she dances between targets. The first two go down in a spray of blood and chrome — one blade through the throat, the other splitting kevlar and spine. Myers moves with the practiced efficiency of a veteran marine, each burst from her assault rifle finding its mark. Three quick shots, three bodies hitting the floor.
V vaults over a crate, blades extended, landing on a Barghest soldier and driving both blades through his chest. As she rises, she spots another taking aim — but Myers is faster, dropping him with a clean headshot. They work in unexpected synchronization, the merc's aggressive style complementing the President's tactical precision.
Blood and brass casings litter the floor as V snatches up a fallen soldier's shotgun. The weapon feels good in her hands — military grade, well maintained. She racks it one-handed and sends two Barghest troops flying backward in a spray of blood. Myers methodically works through her targets, each burst carefully placed to conserve ammo while maximizing damage. Between them, they've dropped at least a dozen before the next wave hits.
Just as fresh hostiles storm in, Songbird's voice rings with triumph: "Aaaand... done!"
The ground trembles as something massive stirs in the center of the room, hydraulics whining to life. The tarp falls away, revealing a mechanical nightmare that dominates the space — a colossal spider-like war machine, its segmented legs ending in heavy-duty claws that dig into the concrete floor. The beast's armored body gleams under the harsh lights, a patchwork of military-grade plating and exposed hydraulics. Red warning lights pulse along its joints like artificial veins, casting an eerie glow across its chrome-plated surface. The main body houses what looks like enough firepower to level a small building, topped with a rotating weapons platform that swivels with predatory precision. V can't help thinking the Maelstrom would cream their pants over this beast's design.
"Meet the Chimera — a combat prototype from Militech's stables." Songbird purrs in V's neural link.
"Holy, jolly shit!" V exclaims as the mechanical beast rises to its full height, its massive form casting long shadows across the blood-stained floor. The remaining Barghest soldiers freeze in their tracks, their bravado evaporating as the Chimera's targeting systems lock onto them with a menacing red glow. The machine's weapons spin up with a high-pitched whine before unleashing hell — turning the remaining opposition into nothing but red mist and scattered chrome faster than V can blink.
The dust settles like a funeral shroud over the carnage, leaving V and the President standing amid the wreckage. The Chimera looms above them, its massive frame now eerily still, the soft whir of its cooling systems the only sound in the sudden silence. "And... we're clear," Songbird announces, satisfaction evident in her voice. "I detect no more—"
The words die in her throat as the mechanical beast shudders violently, its armored plates rattling like the scales of an angry serpent. "Oh... God..." The fear in her digitized voice sends ice through V's veins.
"What?" V's hand instinctively tightens on her weapon. "'Oh God' what?"
"Chimera..." Songbird's voice distorts, crackling with electronic interference. "Losing... control!" The war machine staggers like a drunk giant, one of its massive legs smashing through a support pillar. Concrete rains down as the column disintegrates, the impact sending tremors through the floor beneath their feet.
"Songbird?!" V calls out, her heart hammering against her ribs. Years of street survival have honed her instincts, and right now, every one of them is screaming danger. "What's with you?!"
Crimson lightning begins to arc between the Chimera's joints, casting bloody shadows across the walls. Myers backs away, her military training evident in how she's already scanning for exits. "What the hell is going on, V?!"
"Dunno, Song's havin' a fit or somethin'!" The words barely leave V's mouth when the Chimera rises to its full height, its targeting systems glowing an angry red. The air crackles with ozone as its weapons power up, and both women dive in opposite directions as death rains down where they stood seconds before.
"This way, quick!" The President's voice cuts through the chaos as she heaves up a metal shutter. The screech of protesting metal adds to the cacophony of destruction as they slide underneath. They barely clear the barrier when the Chimera crashes through behind them, shredding steel like paper. The impact sends V sprawling, her head connecting with the marble floor hard enough to make stars dance in her vision. Through the haze, she feels Myers' strong grip on her arm, yanking her upright. "On your feet! Run!"
They sprint through what must have been an exhibition hall, priceless artifacts becoming collateral damage as the Chimera's weapons tear through everything in its path. Ancient statues explode into clouds of dust and fragments, their destruction punctuated by the deafening rhythm of heavy gunfire. V's boots slip on polished marble as she follows Myers around a sharp corner, her enhanced reflexes the only thing keeping her upright.
The escalator looms ahead — their only way up. They take the steps four at a time, muscles burning, the mechanical monster's heavy footfalls getting closer with each passing second. Each impact shakes the entire structure, making the handrails vibrate under V's desperate grip. The Chimera's massive frame barely fits in the space, its legs crushing the steps behind them as it pursues its prey with single-minded determination.
"Up there! Elevator!" Myers' shout echoes off the walls as they reach the upper floor. V sprints to the call button, slamming it repeatedly with trembling fingers. A burst of fire forces her to dive behind a pillar, the heat of near-misses singing her jacket. The concrete at her back shudders with each impact, chunks of it flying off as the Chimera's rounds chip away at their cover.
V dashes to the call button, frantically punching it before diving behind a pillar as another barrage of fire tears through the air where she stood moments ago. "Fuckin' move, dammit!" She screams at the elevator in raw frustration, watching the numbers crawl upward with maddening slowness. Her heart pounds against her ribs, each beat a reminder that she's still alive — for now. Fuck this shit, she didn't survive Arasaka, didn't fight her way back from the brink of death, just to die here with only the goddamn President of the NUSA for company.
Johnny's face flashes through her mind — that crooked smile, the warmth of his arms around her, the way his dog tags feel pressed between their bodies when they're close. Her throat tightens. No. She can't let it end like this. She has to make it back to him, even if it's just for one last moment. "Elevator on the way!" She shouts to Myers, who's pressed against another pillar, looking about as thrilled with their situation as V feels. "Stay low till it gets here!"
"God fucking dammit!" Myers' curse is nearly drowned out by the Chimera's renewed assault. The mechanical monster's heavy rounds tear into their concrete shelter, sending fragments flying like shrapnel. V can feel the pillar shuddering against her back, knowing it won't hold much longer. Just when she's sure they're about to be turned into swiss cheese, the elevator finally arrives with a cheerful 'ding' that seems absurdly out of place in their hellish situation.
V lunges forward, fingers wrapping around the metal grating. The gates screech as she yanks them apart. "Myers, get in!" She watches the President dive into the elevator car before another blast forces her to release the gates, throwing herself to the ground. The shot that missed her hits something vital — there's a horrible screech of metal on metal, followed by the sickening snap of cables breaking. V's stomach lurches as she watches the elevator plummet down the shaft, taking Myers and their escape route with it. Through the chaos, she catches the President's frightened cry echoing up from below.
Now alone, V rolls across the polished floor while drawing her pistol in one fluid motion, the terrifying robot bearing down on her like death itself. The Chimera's red targeting lights paint her body, promising a quick end. Her back hits a wall — nowhere left to run. "Wanna play rough? Gonna get rough." The words come out steady, despite the fear churning in her gut. That's when she sees it — suspended above the mechanical nightmare, a massive industrial chandelier, all chrome and steel, easily weighing a ton. The ancient cable holding it groans under the strain, already fraying from the battle's chaos.
One shot. She has one shot at this. V raises her pistol, time seeming to slow as she exhales. The bullet leaves her gun with a crack, severing the cable clean through. For a moment, the massive fixture hangs suspended, as if defying gravity itself. Then it falls, the enormous metal structure crashing down onto the Chimera's armored frame with a thunderous impact that shakes the entire floor.
The impact is catastrophic. The floor, already weakened by the battle, gives way with a thunderous crack. V scrambles for purchase as the ground disappears beneath her feet, managing to grab a dangling electrical cable. It holds for one precious second before snapping with a sharp twang. Her stomach lurches into her throat as a raw scream tears from her lungs.
The first impact drives the air from her lungs, stars exploding behind her eyes. She barely has time to register the pain before the Chimera crashes down beside her, one of its massive legs missing her face by inches as she rolls desperately away. But the floor isn't done with them yet — the added weight proves too much, and everything gives way again.
This time, V falls through darkness, time losing all meaning. Her body tumbles through space, debris raining around her like a deadly meteor shower. A glancing blow from something solid sends her spinning, another catches her shoulder. Her last conscious thought is forJohnny before something hard connects with her head, and the world fades to black.
Through the haze of semi-consciousness, V's world slowly materializes in fragments of sensation. First comes the pain — a savage drumbeat inside her skull that makes even thinking feel like torture. Then the cold seeps in, the hard floor beneath her a stark reminder that she's still alive, somehow. Her eyes flutter open to a kaleidoscope of blurred shapes and colors, everything swimming in and out of focus like a bad braindance recording. Somewhere in this mess of visual static, a white-clad figure moves toward her, calling her name with increasing urgency.
The figure resolves into Myers — right, the President of the whole damn NUSA, the reason she's in this clusterfuck to begin with. The woman's white suit is now smeared with dirt and blood, her carefully styled hair in complete disarray as she crouches beside V. "You're not dyin' on me today!" Her voice carries that unmistakable tone of someone used to being obeyed, even as she delivers sharp, stinging slaps to V's cheeks. The merc finally finds enough strength to swat the president's hand away, her arm feeling like it's filled with lead.
"Nope..." V groans, the simple act of pushing herself up sending waves of nausea through her body. Her arms shake with the effort, debris and broken glass crunching beneath her palms. "Guess not..." The world gradually comes into proper focus, her Kiroshi optics finally recalibrating. Behind Myers looms the fallen Chimera, its massive frame twisted and dented from the fall — at least that's something. "You okay? Injured at all?"
"Nothin' serious. I got lucky." Myers shrugs. "Are you mobile?"
The question hangs in the air for a split second before being violently answered by the sound of grinding metal. One of the Chimera's legs twitches — a horrible, mechanical spasm that sends V's heart racing. The movement spreads through its frame like a awakening beast, hydraulics hissing and sparking as the machine struggles to right itself. Myers backs away, her face contorted in a mask of pure frustration as she screams, "Motherfucker! Will you just die?!" She shoulders her assault rifle with practiced ease, the weapon looking almost delicate in comparison to the monster they're facing. "The fall wrecked it! Let's go! Kick this tin can to hell!"
V's hand finds her Malorian — thanks fuck she didn't lose Johnny's gun in the fall. The familiar weight of it centers her as she simultaneously activates her Sandevistan and Kiroshi optics. The world slows to a crawl, giving her time to properly analyze their opponent. The scanning overlay highlights the damage in crisp detail: cracked armor plates, exposed circuitry, vulnerable joint mechanisms. Time still moving like molasses, she empties two full magazines into these weak points, each shot placed with surgical precision. The Chimera's armor splinters under the assault, but before she can press the advantage, a brilliant beam of energy cuts through the air. The laser's heat sears past her face as she throws herself behind a pillar..
Their sustained fire begins to take its toll on the mechanical monster, its movements becoming increasingly erratic. Sparks cascade from its joints like deadly fireworks, and the screech of failing servos fills the air. But just as victory seems within reach, hidden panels in the Chimera's chassis slide open with a pneumatic hiss. A swarm of repair drones emerges, their small forms darting through the air like angry wasps.
"Tech drones!" Myers' sharp voice cuts through the chaos. "Don't let 'em gussy up the fat one!" The air fills with the rapid staccato of gunfire as they target the smaller machines. The drones explode one by one in satisfying puffs of smoke and circuitry, welding sparks fly as they desperately try to patch the damage, allowing the massive robot to right itself on trembling legs.
Then — holy fucking shit — a sickly green mist begins seeping from every vent and seam in the Chimera's armor. The acrid smell hits V's nostrils even from a distance, making her eyes water and throat burn. Her toxicity warning flashes red across her HUD.
"Toxic gas!" Myers' warning comes with desperate urgency. "Up, jump up!"
V's leg augments whir to life as she launches herself upward, the double-jump carrying her clear of the spreading death cloud. Her landing on the upper level is less than graceful, her battered body protesting every movement. Myers is already there, having taken the half-collapsed stairs three at a time with surprising agility. They've barely caught their breath when the Chimera's turret swivels toward them with mechanical precision. The walls around them explode into clouds of concrete and rebar as they dive for whatever cover they can find.
From their elevated position, they maintain their assault on the beast below. V's Malorian barks in concert with Myers' assault rifle, their shots echoing off the walls in a deafening symphony of destruction. Shell casings rain down like metallic tears, adding to the debris littering the floor. Each hit on the Chimera sends sparks flying, revealing more vulnerable components beneath its failing armor.
Time stretches like molten glass, marked only by the rhythm of reload-aim-fire, until finally — fucking finally — the monster's movements become increasingly uncoordinated. Its massive legs drag across the floor, hydraulic fluid leaking from multiple wounds like mechanical blood.
"Jump on top and finish it, V!" Myers calls out while slamming a fresh magazine into her rifle. Her face is streaked with grime and determination. "Send it to the scrapyard!"
V launches herself onto the beast's back, her boots finding purchase on the scarred metal plating. The Chimera bucks and writhes beneath her, trying to shake her off like a mechanical bull gone haywire. Her fingers find a small access panel, augmented strength allowing her to wrench it open with a screech of protesting metal. Beneath lies what must be its power core module, pulsing with an ominous red light. Her Mantis blades deploy with their signature whisper of steel, the razor-sharp edges making quick work of the connecting cables. Sparks shower around her as she yanks the oval device from its housing, leaving a gaping wound in the machine's gut.
"V, catch!" Myers' shout cuts through the chaos. V's head snaps up just in time to see a grenade arcing through the air. She snatches it with her free hand, a feral grin spreading across her face.
"Rust in piss, shitbot!" The words tear from her throat as she pulls the pin with her teeth. In one fluid motion, she jams the explosive deep into the empty cavity where the power core had been. She kicks off from the Chimera's back, the world spinning around her as she hits the ground in a roll. Her legs pump furiously, carrying her away from the mechanical monster as fast as they can.
The explosion, when it comes, is fucking glorious. The Chimera's frame ruptures from within, sending shrapnel and mechanical parts flying in all directions. The shockwave hits V like a punch to the gut, even as she dives behind a concrete barrier. When the dust finally settles, all that remains of their mechanical nightmare is a smoking heap of twisted metal.
For several heartbeats after the Chimera's destruction, the only sounds in the debris-filled chamber are their ragged breathing and the death rattles of failing machinery. Acrid smoke curls through the air, carrying the distinct scent of burned electronics and melted metal. Finally, Myers picks her way through the wreckage toward V, patting her shoulder with surprising warmth. "Nicely done! Good fucking riddance." Her attempt to dust off her ruined clothing only succeeds in smearing the grime further, drawing a disgusted look as she glares at the smoking remains. "'Safeguarding the nation' — my ass..."
A bubble of almost hysterical laughter escapes V's throat, the adrenaline still coursing through her system making everything seem slightly surreal. "Phew! Close call, that. Heh, good teamwork."
"And luck... A pile of luck, V." Myers responds, the movement of slinging her rifle across her back betraying years of military training beneath her political veneer. "Let's head out. There has to be an exit here, somewhere..."
V's boots crunch over scattered debris as she searches the perimeter, when her foot connects with something solid — the Chimera's core, its surface still warm to the touch. She scoops it up, figuring it'll make one hell of a conversation piece for her trophy wall, before continuing her methodical sweep. The beam of light she spots seeping through a container's edges is barely visible, but in the gloom, it might as well be a spotlight. When she yanks open the doors, the hidden tunnel beyond — likely Songbird's promised escape route — feels like hitting the jackpot in a rigged game.
The tunnel stretches before them, their footsteps echoing off ancient concrete as they emerge through a rusted hatch. The President's inquiry about Songbird hangs heavy in the stale air, but V can only shake her head, urging them forward through the labyrinth of abandoned subway passages until they stumble upon a derelict train car, its once-gleaming metal now dulled by decades of neglect, frozen eternally between stations like a ghost from Night City's past.
Inside the car, where faded advertisements still cling stubbornly to the walls, Myers comes to a halt. She leans against a pole, the metal creaking slightly under her weight. "Hold up, V. Let's pause. Think for a sec." The dim emergency lights cast strange shadows across her face, making her look older, more worn.
V's body finally registers its collection of protests as she collapses onto one of the hard plastic seats, dust puffing up around her. "What's eatin' you?"
"I don't like this." The President's arms cross over her chest, her politician's poise cracking to reveal genuine concern beneath. "Can you try calling So Mi again?"
"Okay. Gonna give it a shot." V initiates the connection, her voice echoing slightly in the empty car. "V to Songbird... Startin' to worry us, girl..." The silence that follows feels oppressive, but she tries again anyway, "Song, are you there?"
And then — fuck — he's there. Just materializes right in front of her, solid and real and so goddamn beautiful it hurts. Johnny's presence hits her like a physical blow, making her breath catch in her throat. Every cell in her body screams to reach for him, the need so intense it's almost painful. Her fingers dig into the plastic seat beneath her, knuckles white with the effort of staying put.
"No answer, huh? Guess you got me and only me." His voice is rough velvet, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, but his eyes... his eyes tell a different story. They're burning with the same desperate intensity she feels coursing through her veins.
"Fuck, Johnny..." She manages to respond mentally, her entire body trembling with restrained emotion. She needs to touch him, needs to make sure he's real, needs him so badly she can barely think straight. But Myers is right there, watching, waiting for an answer about Songbird.
The President draws her attention back, "So? Did you reach her?"
V can barely focus enough to string words together, her awareness split between maintaining composure and the overwhelming presence of Johnny just feet away. "Nothin'. No response." The excuse tumbles from her lips in a rush. "Huh, I'll try again later if you want. Back in a minute, gotta take a leak." She gestures vaguely toward the tunnel, already rising from her seat, every movement carefully controlled to hide her urgency.
"Hm, okay, sure." Myers responds absently, clearly lost in her own thoughts.
V forces herself to walk normally toward the exit, counting each step, fighting the urge to run. Johnny follows close behind — she can feel him, like electricity crackling along her spine. The moment they round the corner into the tunnel, hidden from view by the bulk of the train car, something inside her snaps. She spins around and launches herself at him with such force they nearly stumble.
Her fingers clutch desperately at his tank top as she buries her face in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of cigarettes, leather, and gunmetal. Johnny's arms wrap around her instantly, one hand tangling in her hair while the other pulls her closer, crushing her against him as if trying to eliminate any molecule of space between them. In the dim, greenish light of the tunnel, they cling to each other like drowning people finding shore, both trembling slightly with the intensity of their reunion.
"Thought I lost you, you fuckin' asshole," she chokes out against his chest, voice thick with emotion. Her fingers dig into his back hard enough to leave bruises, but he doesn't seem to mind, just holds her tighter.
"Can't get rid of me that easy, princess," he murmurs into her hair, but there's a roughness to his voice that betrays his own relief. His flesh hand cups the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair with an almost desperate tenderness. "I'm right here. Not goin' anywhere."
They stay tangled together, neither willing to let go first. Finally, Johnny pulls back just enough to look at her face, his flesh hand coming up to cup her cheek. His expression is a storm of emotions — relief, anger, lingering fear. "Listen up, 'cause I'm only gonna say this once. That netrun' chick pulls that shit again, cutting me off like some gonk virus? Don't care about 'er reasons, don't give a fuck if the Relic can't handle both of us — gonna make her wish she never learned to jack in. And by that, I mean my fist's gonna have a real nice chat with her face."
"Oooh, scary." She pats his chest mockingly, but her grip on his tank top hasn't loosened one bit. "Missed your dramatic ass, you know that?"
His expression darkens, chrome hand tightening on her waist. "Started gettin' fragments back when everything went sideways with that metal monstrosity. Like watching a BD through static, catching glimpses here and there. And fuck, V..." He pulls her closer again, pressing his face into her hair. "Know I can't do much usually 'cept run my fuckin' mouth, try to guide you through whatever mess you've landed in. But this time? Couldn't even do that. Just had to watch, completely fucking helpless, while you played tag with that chrome nightmare."
"Hey, I handled it, didn't I?" She tries to lighten the mood, but his arms just tighten around her.
"Yeah, you did. Fuckin' impressive too, not gonna lie." There's pride in his voice, but it's overshadowed by residual fear. "But next time you decide to go all matador on some killing machine? Don't. Just... don't. If I still had a beating heart, would've stopped dead watchin' you pull that shit."
V pulls back enough to look up at him, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Got backup though. Who would've thought Myers had it in her? For a suit, she's pretty handy with that rifle."
"Yeah, well," Johnny scoffs, thumb absently stroking her cheek. "I'll give her that — she helped. But don't get cozy with her, V. Still wouldn't trust 'er as far as I could throw her chrome-plated ass. Corpo's a corpo, even if they know which end of a gun to point at the bad guys."
V leans her forehead against his chest again, breathing him in. "Missed you so fuckin' much. Felt wrong, doing this without you bitchin’ in my head."
"Yeah?" His metal hand traces down her spine, sending shivers through her body. "What, President's small talk ain't cutting it?" There's a hint of possessiveness in his tone that makes her smile against his shirt.
"Different kinda commentary. She ain't got your... unique way of puttin' things." V chuckles, then sobers. "Seriously though, Johnny. When Songbird cut you off... felt like part of me went missing. Don't want that happenin’ again."
"Won't." His voice is steel, absolute certainty in every syllable. "Next time that netrunner tries anything like that, I'll—"
"Yeah, yeah, fist, face, got it." She cuts him off with a laugh, then pulls back just enough to look up at him. "But we should probably head back before Myers..."
Johnny's grip tightens for a moment, clearly reluctant to let her go. "Fuck Myers. Let ‘er wait."
"Such a bad influence," V teases, but makes no move to pull away either. Instead, she reaches up to trace his jaw with her fingertips, needing to touch him, to reassure herself he's really there. "Missed your stupid face too."
"Only stupid face here is yours, princess." But he leans into her touch, his eyes softening in that way they only do for her. "And yeah, we should go back. But V?" His flesh hand cups her face again. "We're gonna have a long talk about your definition of 'acceptable risk' later."
They stay like that for another moment, wrapped in each other, neither wanting to break the spell. V's fingers trace idle patterns on his chest while his metal hand keeps running up and down her spine, grounding them both in the reality of touch, of presence.
Finally, with a reluctant sigh, V pulls back. "C'mon, old man. Time to face the music." She straightens his tank top where her grip wrinkled it, letting her hand linger a second longer than necessary.
"Fuck's sake," Johnny grumbles, but releases her, keeping only his flesh hand at the small of her back as they turn toward the tunnel. "Fine. Let's go deal with Miss Corporate America." He pauses, then adds with a smirk, "Think she's managed to check all her emails yet?"
V elbows him in the ribs, but can't help grinning. "Be nice."
"I don't do nice, sweetheart. You know that."
Together, they head back to where Myers waits, Johnny's hand never leaving V's back, as if making sure she won't disappear if he stops touching her.
They return to the dimly lit train car, their footsteps echoing against metal and concrete. Myers hasn't moved an inch from where they left her, still standing ramrod straight like the perfect corpo soldier she is. The harsh fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows across her face, highlighting the worry lines that even her expensive chrome can't quite hide. As V approaches, Myers' augmented eyes snap to focus, the previous thousand-yard stare replaced by laser-sharp attention.
"I keep wondering..." she begins, as if their conversation had never been interrupted. "What happened back there? With So Mi?
“Somethin’ was off for sure. Could say she got hit with a daemon, maybe tripped a defense protocol in the Chimera’s ICE…” V leans against a rusty support beam, trying to parse through the chaos they'd witnessed. Behind her, Johnny sprawls across her previous seat with his usual dramatic flair, boots propped up on the scratched plastic surface. “If Songbird was a cookie-cutter ‘runner. Both know she’s not, though.”
"Damn fucking straight," Johnny interjects, his deep voice carrying that familiar hint of disdain he reserves for anything remotely corpo. The sound sends a wave of relief through V's chest — god, how she missed that drawl cutting through conversations like a knife.
“But who knows.” She continues, turning her attention back to the president, watching as Myers' lips press into a thin, worried line. “Mh, whole thing was a clusterfuck. Y’know, no netrun comes without a burn risk…”
“No. Impossible.” Myers cuts her off, shaking her head. The movement catches the light, making her optical implants flash briefly. After a weighted pause that seems to stretch the stale tunnel air even thinner, she adds, “So Mi’s had occasional… off moments lately. Temporary slumps. But I’m sure she's headed where we’re headed, the same destination she gave us.” Her voice carries that particular tone of someone trying to convince themselves of their own words. “It’s the reasonable thing to do.”
“Riiight, reasonable.” Johnny drawls from his perch, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. His chrome arm catches the fluorescent light as he gestures dismissively. Myers takes a few steps away, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, ready to move on. “Girl’s gonna have a helluva hangover… if she wakes up.”
“How ya figure that?” V asks, turning to face him, brow furrowed with concern.
Johnny's expression darkens, shadows deepening under his eyes as he recalls the experience. “‘Cause I wound up at the same rave she went to. Felt like I was under water… leagues down. Tried to surface, but this suffocating, suckin’ sound pulled me back in.” His flesh hand clenches into a fist as he speaks, and V's heart twists seeing the lingering tension in his frame. “Then, when she lost control of the… Chimera… the water turned into fuckin’ boilin’ tar.”
V can't help but cross the space between them, reaching for his hand. Her thumb traces gentle circles over his knuckles, feeling the subtle tremors still running through him. “Least you’re out, it’s over.”
“For me, yeah. But for her…?” He squeezes her hand back, his expression grim beneath the neon-tinted shadows. “Thought actually, could’ve been a straight overload… Seen ‘runners caught in those. Shit’s ugly.” The words carry the weight of old memories, bitter as copper on the tongue.
V doesn't need their mental connection to know he's thinking about Alt — the pain in his voice speaks volumes enough. But before she can offer any comfort, Myers' voice cuts through from further down the tunnel, sharp and impatient, “So? Can we move on?” Johnny gives V's hand one final squeeze before letting go, encouraging her with a slight nod. V picks up her pace to catch up with the president, their footsteps creating a discordant rhythm against the curved walls of the tunnel.
As they continue their trek through the labyrinthine tunnels, the oppressive silence is broken only by their footsteps and Myers' voice cutting through the stale air. "We're heading southwest now. It feels like we're circling back." Her voice echoes slightly off the damp walls, mixing with the constant drip of water from overhead pipes.
"Song mentioned an abandoned building, place to lie low," V replies, trying to keep her tone light despite her growing exhaustion. "No heat signatures, so should be 'relatively safe'."
They eventually reach a fork in the tunnels, and when the president asks which way to go, V chooses left — purely on instinct. Her random choice proves fortunate when, barely a minute later, Myers points ahead. "Huh, our stop. On the right, see it? Here's where we surface."
V follows her gesture, spotting a metal grate blocking their path. Through the rusted bars, barely visible in the dim light, she can make out a crude yellow spray-painted sign reading 'Kress Street' with an arrow beneath it. The paint is old and fading, but still legible — some long-gone tagger's breadcrumb in this concrete maze. "Christ, finally," she groans, exhaustion seeping into her voice like the dampness that's been slowly working its way through her clothes. The night has been long and packed with more action than she bargained for, but... fuck, if they can just find a way past this grate, they might actually get a chance to breathe.
"Mhh. I'm going to smell musty for a week," Rosalind grumbles, cracking under fatigue as she shares the merc's foul mood.
After clearing a path to a half-flooded service tunnel — their only way around the grate — both women are forced to wade through the stagnant water. Their pants and shoes soak through to the knee, the murky liquid sending ripples ahead of them that disturb years of accumulated grime. V tries not to think about what might be swimming around her legs, focusing instead on the promise of fresh air ahead.
But finally, fucking finally, they reach their destination on the other side of the barrier. All that's left is to climb the gravel slope and escape this underground hell. "Ladies first," Johnny gestures mockingly at the slope, earning a glare from the merc that only makes his smirk wider. "What? Just being a gentleman."
"Gentleman my ass," V grumbles, but starts the climb anyway, ready to leave this particular adventure behind them. The sooner they surface, the sooner they can find this safe house — and maybe, just maybe, get a moment to process everything that's happened tonight.
V feels relief wash over her at the sight of the elevator in the room at the top of the slope, but because nothing can ever go smoothly in Night City, a Relic malfunction neither she nor Johnny saw coming sends her crashing to her knees. The familiar static fills her vision, accompanied by that sickening sensation of her brain trying to tear itself apart.
“V? Are you —?” Myers rushes to her side as V braces herself against the wall, struggling to steady her breathing before sliding down to sit on the grimy floor. Johnny materializes instantly beside her, his face tight with concern as he crouches down, his hand hovering uselessly near her shoulder
“One sec… It’ll pass.” V pants, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Gradually, everything stabilizes again, the static clearing from her vision. “Phew… Mh, see? Better already.”
“What’s the matter?” The president asks, crouching beside her. “Are you hurt?”
“Yeah, could say that.” The merc confirms with a bitter laugh. “Old wound.”
“One that literally has you on the floor.” The other woman observes, her eyes scanning V with analytical precision.
“Got an… experimental Arasaka bioship in my brain.” V decides to explain while pulling herself up — fuck it, at this point, why not tell the truth? “It’s killin’ me, literally. So Mi says she might have a solution.”
Myers' expression sharpens with recognition. “Wait — you’re talking about the Relic.”
“That’d be the one.” V confirms, jabbing the elevator button for the 8th floor with perhaps more force than necessary.
“The secretive tech someone stole from Arasaka. On the day Saburo lost his battle with mortality, no less.” Rosalind muses, crossing her arms as the elevator begins its creaky ascent. “So that’s how she could reach you. It also goes a long way towards explaining the nature of your deal. I appreciate the candor. It seems it’s all for one and one for all if we’re to survive.”
They reach their floor, approaching a corrugated metal door marked with a yellow painted X. Myers already has her weapon ready as she announces in a low voice, “I’ll cover you. On three.”
At the end of the countdown, V swings the door open sharply, but for once luck seems to be on their side — the place is deserted. Less fortunately, there's no sign of their netrunner either. "Where are you, So Mi?" the president asks the empty air.
"Huh. Guess we got here first." V says simply, moving toward a hole in the wall that opens to the outside, currently their only source of light. The neon glow of Night City filters through, painting the dusty room in shifting colors.
"Seems so..." Myers sighs, exhaustion finally showing through her corporate facade. "We'll have to sit tight. Though I assume we'd rather not sit in the dark. Power would be useful, we could also get the radio up and running..."
“What, can’t miss our daily dose of fearmongerin’?” V jokes, trying to lighten the mood while Johnny snorts in agreement behind her.
“We need to know the situation on the ground.” Rosalind responds practically, rifling through a pile of fabric on a nearby table. “Oughta change out of this mess. High time.”
“Change… into those filthy, old rags?” V asks, wrinkling her nose at the worn clothes she picks up.
“These filthy, old rags won’t be smeared all over every TV and terminal screen in the city.” She says with a shrug. “Unlike my presidential best. Have a look around. I’ll join you in a minute.”
V nods, giving Myers privacy to change as she explores the other rooms of the dilapidated space. Johnny's voice draws her attention to a corner. "Check this, V — attempt at postmodern art." His tone carries that familiar sarcastic drawl that never fails to make her smile.
V chuckles, moving closer to examine the metallic assembly. The contraption is a mess of salvaged parts, wires sprouting from every angle. "More like a home-cooked generator. Maybe we kick-start it, literally?" She tries turning a knob, but nothing happens. Activating her Kiroshi optics, she scans the generator, trying to make sense of the jumbled machinery. “Old Thorton engine, pretty run down. A little bit of Chooh left too… If the fuel’s not degraded, it could actually run. But can’t start it. Not without a power source.”
“Sure. But seein’ as we got a lull in the lead pourin’ down on us, listen…” Johnny perches himself on a nearby table. “Got a bad vibe about this. You?”
“Makes two of us.” V confirms, leaning against the generator beside him, close enough to feel the phantom warmth of his presence. “Gig’s got too many twists and turns.”
“Songbird — S-tier netrunner, promises a panaceum, a cure-all, then gets wiped off the map.” He starts listing, materializing a cigarette, the gesture is so familiar V finds herself mimicking it with a real one. “Myers — shady politico, got a dagger thrown at her back all the way form Washighton. By who and why? Fuck if we know. Oh, plus Kurt Hansen and his fuckin’ SAM launcher. Just preem.” She can't help but smile at his dramatic tone as he concludes, “Got this hot, itchy feelin’ in my groin — like someone’s not ‘fessed up to somethin’.”
V takes a long drag from her cigarette, watching the smoke curl up toward the crumbling ceiling as she considers his words. “Hm. Sayin’ Songbird didn’t give us the full picture?”
“Our mystery girl.” He nods. “Usually love a bit of hard-to-get, but trust me — rarely ends well.”
“Well, not like we had time to really chat.” V shrugs, ashing her cigarette. “Spent most of it runnin’. SF1, run, Chimera, run again…”
“It’s just…” He hesitates, an unusual occurrence that makes V pay closer attention. “Eh, got some questions for the chick. Hope we get a chance to ask ‘em. Anyways… Let’s get this power sitch sorted.”
V nods, examining the battery case connected to the generator. Only three of the four slots are occupied, the empty one gaping like a missing tooth. Okay, just need to find a battery in this mess and they might actually get some light. She returns to the main room, spending several minutes rummaging through piles of discarded tech until she spots a damaged toy drone. After some careful extraction, she retrieves its battery. Should do the trick.
“Fire it up.” Johnny encourages, hovering near her shoulder as she connects the battery.
“Fingers crossed. Here goes…” She turns the knob and this time, the generator comes to life with a low purr. Moments later, the naked bulb dangling from the ceiling flickers on, casting harsh shadows across the room. “And amazeballs!”
That earns her a wide grin from Johnny, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes him look years younger. After returning his smile — fuck, she'll never get tired of seeing him smiling — she heads back to the main room, where Myers is probably wondering what's taking so long.
It turns out the President — looking anything but presidential right now in worn jeans and a silly 'I ♥ NC' cap — has managed to scrounge up a case of lukewarm beer from somewhere in the apartment. The sight of Rosalind Myers, terror of corporate boardrooms, dressed like a common street rat and clutching a cheap beer is almost surreal enough to make V question if she's having another Relic malfunction.
The two women settle at the small table, its scratched surface telling stories of countless previous occupants. Their warm drinks taste like piss, but after the night they've had, even that's welcome. Hansen's press conference crackles through the ancient radio, his voice dripping with fake sincerity as he spins his web of lies. He claims all allegations about his involvement in the Space Force One crash are false propaganda, just another NUSA strategy to take control of Dogtown. Every word is carefully calculated bullshit, and V can see Myers' knuckles whitening around her beer can with each passing second.
Frustrated, Rosalind finally snaps, cutting the radio mid-propaganda with enough force to make the ancient device rattle. She's halfway through a particularly creative string of curses when the sound of footsteps echoing from the hallway freezes them both. The president's reaction is lightning-quick — she grabs V's arm, pulling her behind a piece of furniture. Moments later, two men enter their hideout — an exuberant guy with flashy yellow hair that practically glows in the dim light, and a quieter, obviously nervous companion. V can tell at first glance they're not a threat, just a stressed-out guy and some kind of clown who've stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time.
She convinces the President not to shoot on sight, though Myers' trigger finger is visibly itching when the loud one makes it clear he recognizes her despite her disguise. After some tense negotiations, everyone agrees to lower their weapons and share the hideout for the night. The two men even offer their help if trouble comes knocking. When Rosalind attempts to seal the deal with a formal handshake — some habits die hard — yellow-hair goes for a fist bump instead. V nearly bites through her cheek trying not to laugh as the President of the NUSA awkwardly catches on mid-motion, bumping her knuckles against his fist.
The atmosphere shifts after that, tension bleeding out of the room like air from a punctured tire. Everyone spreads out in the apartment, claiming their own territories like cats in a new space. V approaches the two men, curiosity getting the better of her. Taylor — the quiet one — turns out to be an ex-nomad, his gear and manner speaking of long roads and harder choices.
Jacob — Mr. Radioactive Hair himself — is his polar opposite. He's already spinning dreams about Myers' promised payment, his hands painting pictures in the air as he describes leaving Dogtown behind in a brand new Rayfield. His enthusiasm fills the dusty room like sunshine through broken windows.
The unlikely group settles into an uneasy alliance, their shared space filled with the soft hum of the generator and the occasional distant gunshot that serves as Night City's eternal lullaby. V can't help but marvel at how quickly things can change — from running for their lives to sharing warm beer with strangers in a forgotten corner of Dogtown. She takes another sip of her beer while watching Myers try to maintain her presidential dignity despite looking like she just rolled out of a discount bin at the local thrift store.
"Y’know," Johnny muses beside her, "if someone had told me I'd be watching the NUSA prez tryin’ to act street while sharin’ space with a neon-haired gonk and a burnt-out nomad..." He shakes his head, lighting one of his phantom cigarettes. "I'd have told ‘em to lay off the black lace."
When exhaustion finally becomes too much to ignore, V joins Rosalind who's settled on one of the old mattresses tucked away in a corner of the room. The president, still looking comically out of place in her street clothes, gestures to the mattress across from hers. "Finally... My legs're killing me. C'mon, take a breather." She waits until V collapses onto the lumpy surface before asking, "Still nothing from So Mi?"
"Radio silence." V confirms, trying to find a position that doesn't involve a spring digging into her ribs.
"She's never gone dark this long." Myers sighs, worry creeping into her usually controlled voice. "Troubling, to say the least."
"So... what if Songbird don't show?" The merc asks, voicing the concern that's been hanging over them.
"We need to wait, it's all we can do for now. If she doesn't show, well..." Her gaze drifts to Dogtown's neon-lit skyline through the hole in the wall, the city's eternal glow painting her face in shifting colors. "Then... we'll have one other option to consider. But let's table it till morning. We should get some rest." She snorts softly, a surprisingly human sound from someone who usually measures every breath. "Heh. Surreal... All of it. I'd've been home by now. Reading the evening brief, a glass of water and two sleeping pills waiting on the night table."
"Doesn't sound like you miss it much." V smirks, catching the hint of relief in the president's tone, like someone who's secretly enjoying their first taste of freedom in years.
Myers seems to seriously consider her observation, a thoughtful expression crossing her face before she lies down on the filthy mattress and closes her eyes. "Hm. See you in the morning, V."
V settles onto her own mattress, the springs creaking in protest. Johnny materializes beside her immediately, pulling her against his chest with a possessiveness that makes her grin.
"Well, well... who'd have thought Johnny Silverhand would turn into such a cuddler?" V teases in a whisper, settling comfortably against him. "What happened to the big bad rockerboy who didn't need anyone?"
"Fuck off," he grumbles into her hair, but his arms tighten around her. "Just makin' sure you don't do anything stupid while I'm not lookin’."
"Uh-huh. Nothing to do with being a big softie who can't keep his hands off me?" She grins, poking his chest. "Face it, you've gone all mushy."
"Want me to prove how much of an asshole I still am?" Before his brain can catch up with his body, his hand connects with her ass in a sharp slap that echoes slightly in the quiet room.
The playful atmosphere evaporates instantly. V's breath catches in her throat, her eyes widening as they lock with Johnny's. His sunglasses are gone — when did that happen? — and the raw heat in his gaze makes her stomach flip. His hand is still on her ass, burning through her clothes like a brand, and suddenly the few inches between their faces feel both too much and not enough.
"That's... one way to prove a point," she manages, aiming for casual but landing somewhere between breathless and wanting.
"Oh, fuck you," he growls, low and dangerous.
"You wish," she shoots back automatically, then freezes as the words hang between them, heavy with truth neither of them is ready to face.
Johnny's grip tightens almost painfully, the moment stretching like a wire about to snap. Then a loud snore from Jacob shatters the moment. They both jump slightly, reality crashing back in like a bucket of ice water. Johnny clears his throat, but his hand stays firmly where it is, like he's trying to maintain some control over the situation that's rapidly spinning away from both of them.
"Nice fuckin' cap the prez is sportin'," Johnny says quickly, voice rougher than usual. His hand doesn't move from her ass, like he's afraid the slightest movement might shatter whatever's left of their pretense. "Real presidential-like."
"Yeah," V latches onto the lifeline, ignoring how her skin burns where he touches her. "Almost as good as that fist bump earlier. Thought I was gonna die trying not to laugh."
"Shit, and neon-boy over there..." Johnny's laugh is slightly strained. "Bet he's dreaming about that Rayfield right now. Still no word from our mysterious netrunner?"
"Radio silence," V sighs, grateful for the change of subject. "Something's not right, Johnny. This whole thing stinks worse than a scav den."
"Hey," he pulls her closer, his touch gentler now. "We'll figure it out. Always do."
V nods against his chest, letting his familiar scent calm her racing heart. They settle into silence, neither mentioning how his hand stays possessively on her ass, or how she presses closer than strictly necessary. Some lines are better left uncrossed, even if they both know they're just postponing the inevitable.
"Get some sleep, princess," Johnny murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple.
"Night, asshole," she whispers back, the insult coming out suspiciously like an endearment.
They drift off tangled together, pretending they can't feel the weight of unspoken words between them, heavy as lead and sweet as poison. Morning will come soon enough, bringing with it all the complications they're avoiding. But for now, they have this — whatever this is — and it has to be enough. Even if 'enough' feels more like torture with each passing day.
Now here we stand with their blood on our hands
We fought so hard, now can we understand?
I'll break the seal of this curse if I possibly can
For freedom of every man
The warm late morning light filters through the hole in the wall, painting shadows across V's face as she stirs awake. Her muscles protest — these cheap mattresses are murder on the spine. The familiar weight of Johnny's arm is gone, leaving her feeling strangely bereft. Rolling over with a grunt, she notices Myers's empty spot, and for a heart-stopping moment, panic seizes her chest.
Taylor catches her eye, his massive frame somehow making the plastic chair under him look like children's furniture. His hands move methodically over his dismantled pistol, the familiar click-click-click of weapon maintenance filling the room. "She's on the balcony," he says, reading her concern.
“Sleep Ok?” V asks, stretching as she walks towards him. Her spine pops satisfyingly. “Night all right?”
“Like any with a roof overhead — claustrophobic.” He answers without looking up, his fingers dancing over gun parts with practiced ease. A ghost of a smile crosses his face as he adds, “As for Jacob… he thrives in dreamland. ‘C’mon baby, ever ridden in a Rayfield?’, ‘...my villa with VIP friends…’ On and on till the crack of dawn.”
“A man with ambitions, clearly.” V smiles, scanning the room for their resident dreamer. “Where’s he?”
“Those and a deviated septum.” Taylor sighs, the sound somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Fresh airdrop nearby. J went down for a look-see.”
V nods and heads for the balcony, where Myers cuts a lonely figure against the grey horizon. The president's usually perfect posture is slightly slumped, making her look more human than V's ever seen her. Taking her place beside Myers, V notices how the woman's fingers tremble slightly as she brings the cigarette to her lips. The president's voice is heavy when she speaks, "She's not here." Another drag, longer this time, like she's trying to inhale courage along with nicotine. "Means she's not coming."
“You’ve seen the swarms Hasen has out huntin’.” V shares her pessimism, fishing out her own pack of cigarettes. The familiar ritual of lighting up gives her hands something to do besides fidgeting. “Mighta nabbed ‘er.”
“A possibility.” Myers confirms, her gaze fixed on some distant point where Dogtown's ruins meet the smog-stained sky. “One that concern me the most. I need to find her. You don’t leave your people behind enemy lines.”
Johnny materializes on V's other side, lounging against the railing with exaggerated casualness. "Cadets still buy that fairy tale bullshit?" His voice drips with cynicism, but V catches the slight tension in his jaw.
Oblivious to the ghostly commentary, Myers continues, “Whatever happened, we have to help her.”
“Gonna find her myself, sounds like.” V soupire, tapotant ses cendres dans le vide. “On my own.”
"Not entirely." Myers's hesitation is barely noticeable, but V's learned to read people's tells. Whatever's coming next, the president's been holding onto it. "I have just the person to help. Solomon Reed's the name. Seven years ago he headed up our intelligence efforts in Night City. He and So Mi were a team. With the conflict over, he went into hibernation. So he's out there somewhere." She turns to V, and there's something in her eyes — hope, maybe, or desperation dressed up as conviction. "Reed's a man of principle. He can't be swayed, can't be bribed. If there's anyone we can trust now, it's him."
Fan-fuckin’-tastic. Another piece on this clusterfuck's chessboard. The whole situation stinks, and she can feel Johnny's growing unease matching her own. She can feel Myers is holding something back, and in V's experience, that never ends well.
"Reed guy sounds like an ace up your sleeve. Coulda played 'im already." V probes, keeping her tone casual while studying Myers's reaction from the corner of her eye.
Myers shifts her weight, a practiced movement that looks natural but isn't. "Activating a sleeper agent is no simple matter." Her voice carries that particular tone of someone used to explaining things to subordinates, but trying not to sound condescending. "You'll need a dog whistle."
"A what now?" V's eyebrow shoots up as she takes another drag.
Myers actually looks slightly embarrassed — it's barely there, but it's something. "Don't tell him I called it that."
Johnny materializes closer, his presence a warm contrast to the morning chill. "Christ, more spy game bullshit," he mutters, rolling his eyes so hard V's surprised they don't get stuck. "Like we ain't neck-deep in shit already."
"It's a signal only Reed will hear — it'll be tricky." Myers continues, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore V's growing skepticism. "There was a secret comms channel, accessed only from a Capitán Caliente nearby. The FIA used it before the war. The access code was... Zero, nine, three, one."
"Got a bad feeling, V." Johnny's voice is low, urgent, as he moves even closer.
V gives him the slightest nod, acknowledging his concern while keeping her focus on Myers. "Meanin' an analogue land-line?" The concept seems almost absurd in Night City's digital jungle. "That crash tear open a hole in space-time?"
Myers's confirmation comes with a hint of pride, like she's sharing some ancient military wisdom. "When sending sensitive information, you use the technology least vulnerable to interception, old or not. That Caliente should still be wired for it."
The rain has finally stopped, leaving behind that distinct smell of wet concrete and metal. V flicks her spent cigarette over the edge, watching the orange spark disappear into the abyss below. "Okay. Seems doable."
"And I prefer discretion to destruction. I trust that's clear." Myers's words carry the weight of an order wrapped in diplomatic niceties. After a pause that feels calculated, she adds, "Reed will need to screen you. You will show him this."
The token she produces catches the morning light — a striking contrast of bright blue enamel and polished silver. The president's own profile stares out from one side, surrounded by stars, while the NUSA emblem dominates the reverse. Johnny tenses beside V, his entire posture screaming distrust. "It means you work for us. A file will be created for you in the FIA database."
"What the...?" Johnny's voice drips with disgust, his chrome hand clenching into a fist. The irony of a known terrorist watching his host become a fed isn't lost on either of them.
"Wait, back up..." V tries to keep her voice steady, but she can feel Johnny's agitation bleeding into her own emotions. Playing it cool becomes harder with each revelation. "Tellin' me I'm a special agent, now?"
"That's right." The token slides across the concrete like a chess piece in a game V's not sure she wants to play. "Would taking the oath make it feel more real?"
Johnny's reaction is immediate and visceral. His entire body goes rigid, face twisted in a mixture of horror and anger. The 'don't you fuckin’ dare' is written across every line of his face, his presence practically vibrating with tension.
V picks up the token, the metal cool against her fingers. Myers's metallic gaze seems to follow her movements from the coin's surface. She pockets it quickly, like it might burn through her clothes. "Yeah, nah, let's skip the formal thing.”
Her interface pings with the FIA database update, and it takes everything she has not to flinch. Johnny's relief is palpable, a warm wave of approval washing over their shared consciousness.
"Is there a problem?" Myers's question carries just enough edge to remind V who she's dealing with.
"'S just a big commitment, y'know?" V keeps her tone light, but her words carry the weight of every anti-establishment bone in her body. "Can't swear to somethin' I don't believe in."
Johnny's approving nod feels like vindication, but Myers's momentary displeasure speaks volumes. The mask of diplomatic neutrality slides back into place so quickly V almost doubts she saw it slip. Almost.
"It's your choice. I understand this was sudden." The president's shrug is carefully casual, political training winning over personal feelings. "Good luck out there, V. And don't let the bastards nab you."
Before leaving the hideout, V stops by Taylor for a moment. He points out the Capitán Caliente's location, but warns her it's been closed for years. Not one to be easily discouraged, the merc figures she'll try her luck anyway.
Once in the elevator, Johnny pops into existence next to her, leaning against the wall with that signature smirk of his. "Hey, made the right call not takin' that fascist-ass oath." He waits until she hits the button before adding, voice dropping lower, "Some causes are worth pledgin' your life to, V. This ain't one of 'em."
Though she agrees, curiosity gets the better of her. "How'd you come to that?"
"'Cause with the biz done, their arm'll still be far up your ass, and you'll be a meat puppet." The words come out harsh, bitter with old memories. "Know I was once a corpo jarhead, right? Practically dove into uniform head first. They had a real hard-on for the oath. 'Repeat after me…' blah-di-fuckin' blah. But… can't remember what I solemnly pledged to do." His eyes go distant, that thousand-yard stare that always makes V's heart clench. When he looks back at her, though, there's a gentle pride in his smile. "Gotta hand it to ya, V. Wiser than I was back in the day."
The elevator doors wheeze open before she can respond, spilling them into the lobby. Outside, Jacob's holding court by the entrance, cigarette in hand. He greets V with genuine warmth, launching into an enthusiastic explanation about Hansen's airdrops that involves way too many hand gestures. V nods along, making appropriate noises while Johnny mimics him behind his back, complete with exaggerated facial expressions that nearly make her lose her composure.
Dogtown in daylight is a different beast entirely — not that she really had time to appreciate the scenery last night, too busy running to save her and Myers's skin.. The morning sun catches on broken windows and bullet casings, turning them into impromptu prisms that scatter light across crumbling concrete. Barghest patrols march through streets where kids play soccer with an ancient ball, and the air smells like gunpowder mixed with someone's attempt at growing hydroponic vegetables on a balcony. Now, she can take her time to observe her surroundings and weirdly, she feels pretty comfortable here.
Johnny's arm finds its way around her shoulders, solid and warm. It's become such a natural gesture that V barely notices anymore, just leans into it while they navigate the chaos. "Is it weird that I think this place has a certain charm?" She asks, sidestepping a kid who's sprinting past with what's definitely a stolen wallet.
"Oh yeah, real charmin’." Johnny's laugh rumbles through his chest where she's pressed against him. "If you ignore the ambient misery, that it's an enclave run by a crazy ex-military who shot down Air Force One with a SAM launcher, and—" he pauses dramatically as they pass yet another vehicle enthusiastically converting itself into modern art via combustion, "—that we just passed our third burning car this morning, sure. Real fuckin' cozy."
"At least people here are honest 'bout bein' batshit crazy," V chuckles, nestling closer as they dodge a drunk man projectile-vomiting off a balcony. "Not like corpo plaza where they hide it behind designer suits and fake smiles."
"Fuck yeah," Johnny grins, gesturing at a group of Barghest troops currently engaged in what appears to be a heated debate about whose gun is bigger. "Look at these gonks. Wearin' their psycho on their sleeve like a fuckin' badge of honor. Almost respect that level of commitment to bein' complete assholes. It's like performance art, but with more grenades."
V snorts, "You'd know all about commitment to bein' an asshole. Pretty sure you wrote the manual."
"Hey now," he protests, but his grin turns downright wicked. "I worked hard to perfect this level of assholery. Years of dedicated practice. These guys?" He waves dismissively at the Barghest squad, now measuring their weapons with actual rulers. "Amateurs. Bet none of them ever nuked a building. Or started a riot. Or crashed a corpo party by literally crashin’ through the ceiling."
"That's not the flex you think it is, you know that right?" V can't help but laugh, the sound mixing with the distant explosion of what's probably their fourth burning car of the morning.
"Says the woman who just accepted a fed badge from Madam President herself." He tugs playfully at her hair, then uses the motion to pull her closer, his chrome arm glinting in the morning sun. "Face it, princess — we're both going to hell. Might as well enjoy the ride down. Maybe stop for some property damage along the way."
The scary part is, V thinks as they continue their stroll through this warzone masquerading as a neighborhood, he's probably right. But with his arm around her shoulders and his laugh in her ears, even hell doesn't sound so bad.
Their conversation is cut short by a call from Mr. Hands who, somehow, already knows V's in Dogtown. Despite having only done one job for the mysterious fixer in the past, he's apparently decided she's worth investing in. The official pass he's arranged means no more sneaking through side entrances or scaling walls — she can walk right through Barghest checkpoints like she owns the place. He's even arranged a vehicle for her use. V knows better than to think it's charity — fixers don't give anything without expecting returns, and Hands is clearly banking on her future potential. Still, she's not about to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. Beats having to dodge Barghest patrols every time she needs to leave.
The pyramid building looms ahead, its angular shadow cutting across the street like a sundial. Across from it sits the Capitán Caliente, looking exactly as abandoned as Taylor warned — windows boarded up, neon sign dark and lifeless, probably hasn't seen a customer for years. But before V can even approach the door, a voice cuts through the morning air like an overclocked vending machine on speed.
Before V can start looking for a way in, a voice calls out from her left, the words coming rapid-fire like bullets from a smart gun. On a weathered couch that's definitely seen better decades, a street vendor has set up shop. He introduces himself as 'Typhoon Ronnie' — a nickname that becomes immediately apparent as he launches into what might be the longest single-breath sales pitch V's ever heard.
Johnny materializes next to her, his expression shifting from curiosity to horror as Ronnie continues his seemingly endless stream of consciousness. "Jesus fuck," he mutters, "it's like someone gave cocaine to a text-to-speech program."
V manages to extract useful information from Ronnie's verbal tsunami — between gossip about local gangs, commentary on recent events, and at least three different conspiracy theories about Myers's crash. For a handful of eddies, he explains the security system's weak points, though it takes about ten times longer than necessary thanks to his numerous tangents.
"Think we found the only gonk in Night City who could talk me to death," Johnny groans as they finally extract themselves from Ronnie's gravitational pull of chatter. "And I'm already fuckin’ dead."
Following Ronnie's directions — the useful parts, anyway — V traces the security system's wiring up the building's side. The climb takes her past windows offering glimpses into abandoned offices, up rusty scaffolding that creaks ominously under her weight. The fuse box, when she finds it, is almost anticlimactic — just another piece of outdated tech slowly losing its war with entropy. A few careful adjustments to the wiring, and the security system dies with a quiet whimper.
Making her way back down proves trickier than going up, but she manages without breaking anything important — either on herself or the building. Nearby, she can see Ronnie has trapped another victim in conversation, his hands painting elaborate patterns in the air as he talks.
"Fuckin' hell," Johnny materializes beside her, watching the scene with morbid fascination. "Thought that gonk would never shut up. Think he even breathed once during that whole speech?"
V snorts, working on the door. "Jealous someone can out-talk you?"
"Please," he scoffs, leaning against the wall. "I'm selective with my words. That's why when I talk, people listen. That guy? Probably learned to speak from a broken radio."
The lock finally gives under V's ministrations, and the door creaks open with a sound that suggests its hinges haven't moved since before the Fourth Corporate War. The musty darkness beyond beckons, promising either answers or trouble. Knowing her luck, probably both.
Inside, the Capitán Caliente is a time capsule of faded glory. Dust motes dance in the rays of sunlight filtering through grimy windows, highlighting decades of neglect. The air smells of rust, mold, and something else — that particular scent unique to places long abandoned. Overturned chairs litter the floor, and ancient promotional posters curl off the walls like peeling skin.
Johnny settles onto one of the counter stools. "Capitán Caliente," he muses, scanning the debris-strewn space. “Capitán Caliente. Guy clearly went down with this place. Stash house, by the looks of it.”
“Right,” V agrees, eyes sweeping methodically across the room, searching for the phone Myers mentioned. “Let’s see what’s here…”
Finding nothing in the main area or behind the counter, she heads for the storage room. Among the chaos of toppled shelves and rotting cardboard boxes, something catches her eye — scuff marks on the floor, leading to a metal shelving unit that looks suspicious. With a grunt of effort, she pushes it aside. The metal screams against concrete, but behind it — bingo. A yellow phone, ancient and wall-mounted, exactly where it shouldn't be.
"Antique, junky variety," she comments, studying the outdated tech. "Wonder if it even works." Her fingers find the numbers Myers gave her while Johnny positions himself against the wall facing her, wearing that insufferable smirk she both loves and wants to punch off his face. The handset feels alien in her grip — connected to its base by a coiled cord that belongs in a museum.
She stares at the plastic piece uncertainly as connection tones beep in her ear. Johnny's smirk widens into something downright devilish, and he gestures with his chrome hand for her to hold it properly against her ear. V complies with an eye roll, mentally debating whether to kiss that smug look off his face or introduce it to her fist.
Leaning against the phone box, she listens to the endless ringing. Johnny crosses his arms, his chrome one catching what little light filters into the storage room as he grins, "I'll have a double cheeseburg while you're at it."
Okay. Definitely the fist option.
The ringing suddenly stops, leaving only dead air. Not even sure if anyone's listening, she tries anyway. "Reed...? Listen, got no time to play games." Nothing. Stubborn as ever, she tries again. "Hello...?" Frustrated, she pulls the handset away from her ear. "Fossil's prolly busted."
"Or you flubbed the number." Johnny shrugs, still leaning against the wall.
Then, unexpectedly, a voice crackles through the ancient speaker, "Who is this?"
She quickly presses the phone back to her ear. “Doe’n’t matter who I am. Matters who send me.” Johnny gives her an approving thumbs up, his expression softening into something more genuine.
After a pregnant pause, the voice returns with cryptic instructions: "Andrew Jackson. Basketball court. One hour, note it."
The line goes dead, leaving only dial tone. Johnny leans in close, his face inches from hers as he peers at the ancient device. "Not exactly loquacious, our man of mystery..."
"Could just prefer text. Damn sure I do." She hangs up the handset with a solid click. "At least it's a break from Typhoon Ronnie's word vomit."
"Shit, don't remind me." Johnny grimaces, running his metal hand through his hair. "Think my ears are still bleedin'."
"Thought you'd appreciate another performer who loves the sound of his own voice," V teases, ducking under his arm to head toward the exit.
He catches her wrist, pulling her back to face him. "Difference is, princess, I actually say somethin’ worth hearing."
"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, old man." She pats his chest consolingly, earning herself a playful glare. "C'mon, let's delta before Ronnie spots us and decides to share his theory about how the moon landin' was faked by braindance editors."
They leave the phone behind, looking exactly like the relic it is — just another piece of forgotten tech. Through the window, they can still hear Ronnie's voice, somehow managing to talk even faster than before. V and Johnny share a look of mutual horror before making their escape, navigating back through the restaurant's ruins. As they reach the door, Johnny's chrome hand finds the small of her back, guiding her through the debris-strewn path to the exit.
Notes:
Lot of bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song:DragonForce - Through the Fire and Flames
xoxo, see you in two weeks ♥
Chapter 21: Know Your Enemy
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Hey chooms! I've been dying to share this chapter with ya'll. Thanks to everyone still following this story after all this time. Hope you enjoy the read!
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the all the Kudos, bookmaks and subs on the previous chapter ♥ And thank you Loraphine for your comment. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Something must be done
About vengeance, a badge and a gun
‘Cause I’ll rip the mike, rip the stage, rip the system
I was born to rage against ’em
Johnny and V stroll casually toward the basketball court — thanks again to So Mi for the Dogtown map — chatting about everything and nothing. The meeting point with Reed is close, so they're taking their sweet time. As they reach Luxor Heights, the landscape shifts dramatically. Here, everything's more lush, but it's nothing like the well-manicured lawns and flower beds you'd find in downtown's maintained areas. Nature's taken back control here — wild grass sprouting through cracked concrete, ferns growing freely, and ivy climbing up the walls.
As they climb Tranquil Terrace's steps, holding hands, V turns to the rockerboy. "See? Told you Dogtown had its charm. Look around," she gestures at the towering palm trees, "it's like those post-apocalyptic flicks where civilization's pretty much gone to shit..."
Johnny smirks, giving her hand a squeeze. "So what's our role in this movie of yours, huh? Rebuilding civilization?"
V catches the suggestive tone in his voice and raises an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Why do I get the feeling when you say 'rebuilding,' what you really mean is 'repopulating'?"
"You know me too well." His voice drops to that dangerous growl that makes her stomach flip. "Just thinkin' about all those empty buildings... All those walls that need christening..."
"Johnny..." It's meant to be a warning, comes out more like a plea.
"What?" He steps closer, metal fingers trailing up her arm. "Can't blame a guy for dreamin'. Especially when you're—"
"We've got work to do," V cuts him off, but her voice is breathless. Her skin burns where he touched her.
"Work, work, work," he drawls, eyes dark with promise. "All work and no play makes Johnny a very frustrated boy, V."
She turns to face him fully, challenge in her eyes. "Oh yeah? And what exactly would you do about it?"
The tension crackles. Johnny's eyes drop to her lips, then lower, his metal hand still burning against her skin. "Want me to show you?"
V's breath catches. For a moment, she almost says yes. Almost grabs him by that stupid tank top and shows him exactly how much she wants—
The intensity in his eyes suddenly shifts to something deeper, more vulnerable, and it scares them both. Johnny steps back first, clearing his throat.
"I mean, uh... just fuckin' with you, V." His laugh sounds forced. "You should see your face."
"I know." V lets out a shaky breath, grateful for the out but hating it at the same time. "Real funny, asshole."
They resume climbing, carefully maintaining more distance between them now, but the air still crackles with everything left unsaid. Their hands find each other again though — they always do — and neither mentions how their fingers intertwine a little tighter than necessary.
"This Reed better be worth the climb," Johnny mutters, and V pretends not to hear the roughness still in his voice.
"Yeah," she agrees, pretending her heart isn't still racing. "Better be."
The basketball court sprawls before them, a concrete oasis nestled between towering megabuildings. Palm trees sway lazily in the afternoon breeze, their shadows dancing across worn bleachers that have seen better days. They're early for the meet, so they claim a spot on the sun-warmed concrete, V settling on a higher tier while Johnny lounges on the step below, his back against her legs.
The atmosphere is surprisingly peaceful for Dogtown. Under one of the rusted hoops, a group of guys run a casual game, their laughter and trash talk echoing across the court. Sneakers squeak against concrete as they weave and dodge, until one of them makes a perfect three-pointer. On the far side, a heavily-chromed guy pumps iron while his crew eggs him on, their encouraging shouts mixing with the rhythmic clang of weights.
Scattered across the bleachers, small clusters of people bask in the rare tranquility — some passing around bottles, others just soaking up sunshine. It's the kind of scene that makes you forget, just for a moment, what kind of city you're in.
V pulls out Myers' coin, the silver metal catching the light as she rolls it between her fingers. Johnny watches her fidget with it, his aviators pushed up into his messy hair, eyes tracking the coin's movement. "Gonna be a game to remember," he comments. The coin catches another glint of sunlight, momentarily blinding.
“Johnny Silverhand… basketball fan?” V teases, nudging his shoulder with her knee. “That’s new.”
“You know what I mean.” His smirk fades quickly, replaced by something harder, more serious. The playful atmosphere around them suddenly feels like a facade. “‘Nother game’s starting. One where your head’s the fuckin’ ball.”
“Thought the same thing.” V runs a hand through her hair, and her sigh is almost lost in the distant sound of bouncing basketballs. “Somethin’ nasty’s brewin’...”
“Fuckin’ storm’s what’s brewin’. Don’t let the sunshine fool ya.” His metal hand finds her knee, the cool touch grounding. The basketball players whoop and holler in the background as Johnny continues, his voice taking on that teacherly tone she secretly loves, “You're up against seasoned players, whereas you… just stumbled onto the court. These’re trained sociopaths. Pretend to be your friends while they fuckin’ ain’t.” The warning in his voice is clear as crystal. “So go out and play. Just don’t get played.”
Her hand settles next to his on her knee, their fingers brushing so slightly it could be mistaken for accidental. A gentle breeze carries the scent of dust and distant rain. "You don't trust Myers." It's not a question.
"Know her type is all." His jaw tightens, metal fingers twitching against hers.
"Politicians?"
"Worse. Armed Forces." The words come out like venom. The sun disappears behind a cloud, casting them in shadow. "Sayin' 'no' to high-ranking cunt's like puttin' your mouth over the barrel of their gun. Gets shitty fast if you try to run. Take it from a deserter."
The shadow passing over them matches the darkness that crosses Johnny's face. V watches his profile harden, jaw clenching as memories surface. She links their pinkies together, a small gesture of comfort. "You don't talk about it much. All of that."
“Nothin’ to be proud of. Tore out that chapter, crumpled it, swallowed it. Our sitch hairballed it back up.” His sigh is heavy, weighted with years of buried pain. He tightens his grip on her finger, anchoring himself to the present. “One thing I did learn, caked in blood and mud… After every carrot comes the stick. Allow me to illustrate. Every grunt gets a rifle, flak jacket and a brunch of promises. Comes a time you’re outta ammo, Kevlar’s tattered cardboard and what’s left of the promises…?”
“Fuck-all, I’m guessin’.” V interjects softly, watching a group of kids run past, their laughter a stark contrast to Johnny's bitter words.
“Exactly. And that’s when they reach for the stick they call ‘values’.” His grimace is sharp enough to cut glass, metal hand clenching into a fist. “Gettin’ shelled in your dugout, chooms’re takin’ refreshing phosphorous showers, and some officer's rantin’ ‘bout loyalty and duty. The moment you stop shittin’ carrots and they wave the values stick — fuckin’ run, rabbit. Run.”
V shifts closer, her thigh pressing against his shoulder. The contact is subtle but deliberate, trying to pull him back from whatever dark corner of his memory he's lost in. “Think you’re forgetting somethin’ — I never took that oath.”
“And rightly fuckin’ so.” His smile is small but genuine, some of the tension leaving his frame. Still, he can't help but grumble, “‘S bad enough we’re on their payroll.”
“I’ll keep one foot out the door, okay?” Her pinky squeezes his, a silent promise. The sun emerges again, warming their skin.
“Gonna hold you to that.” His smirk returns as he returns the gesture, but his eyes scan the court with renewed wariness. The peaceful scene suddenly feels like a stage, and they're about to be unwilling actors in someone else's play.
"Don't turn around." A gravelly voice whispers behind her, and suddenly there's cold steel pressing against her ribs. "Eyes on the court." V rolls her eyes and lets out a half-exasperated, half-amused sigh when Johnny shoots her an alarmed look. Of course things would get complicated. Of fuckin' course. The man continues, "Hands. What you holdin'?"
"Got this token." V says calmly, slowly raising her hand to show him the coin, its silver surface still catching the sunlight. "Mean anything to you?"
"It does." He responds in the same measured tone. "But I need to make sure."
"Keeps his cards close, this one." Johnny growls through his teeth, his posture tensing like a coiled spring.
The voice continues, "Who sent you?"
Okay, if he wants to play it that way, two can dance this dance. She opts for cryptic, "A mutual friend."
"We don't have mutual friends." He responds flatly.
"Friend survived an accident." She ventures, watching the basketball players execute a perfect alley-oop. "Ya might've heard."
"I might've." He confirms.
"Zone defense, that." comments Johnny, who might actually be enjoying this if the stranger wasn't threatening V with a gun. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for his own piece. "Keep pushin'."
The man speaks again. "Is she safe?"
She catches Johnny's eye, giving him a subtle smirk before answering, "Hard to say, the longer we sit here."
He returns a shit-eating grin. "That's it, dribble around 'im."
"Were you followed?" The stranger questions. "Did you even bother to check?"
"Dunno." V admits, having been too preoccupied with flirting — or whatever their little game is — with Johnny to check her six. "Wasn't lookin' for a tail."
"Well, you get one point for being candid. Attagirl." He says, and V rolls her eyes again. "Black Thorton Merrimac. In the street, three minutes, front seat." He orders, and V feels the pressure of the gun disappear from her ribs.
"That it?" V's starting to get annoyed with his tone. Fuck, she could really use a smoke. "Interrogation over?"
"Already?" Johnny ironizes, "Was startin' to have fun..."
Met with silence from the other man, V calls out, "Reed...?"
"Slippery motherfucker..." Johnny chuckles.
"I think we really hit it off." V jokes while turning around to find empty space behind her. Rewarding herself for her patience, she pulls out her cigarette pack and lights one up. The first drag feels like pure relief, the smoke curling lazily in the afternoon air.
"Sure, bet he's got candy in that van." He grins, and V can feel how much that first hit of nicotine does him good too. "Ready to find out?"
They climb back to street level, V taking a long drag of her cigarette while scanning for potential threats. The smoke mingles with the afternoon haze. "Gotta say," Johnny comments, keeping pace beside her, "you handled that pretty smooth back there."
"What, the gun?" V snorts. "Please. Tuesday in Night City."
"Still." His shoulder brushes against hers as they walk. "Kinda hot when you get all professional."
She nearly chokes on her smoke, covering it with a cough. "Focus, rockboy. We got a sketchy van to find."
"Right," he smirks, metal hand ghosting over her lower back as they reach the top of the stairs. "Though if this is another setup..."
"You'll what — dramatically materialize to save me?" She teases, flicking away her cigarette butt.
"Nah." His voice drops lower, private. "Just like watchin' you work."
V rolls her eyes but can't hide her smile. "C'mon, we got three minutes. Less, now."
"After you, princess." He gestures dramatically.
They continue down the street until V spots the vehicle. "Black Thorton." She indicates with a slight nod to Johnny. Well, it's far from the sketchy van the rockerboy must have imagined. Armored bodywork, bulletproof windows, double row of tires in the back... Yeah, definitely not your average kidnapper's ride. She approaches the empty vehicle, sliding into the passenger seat — while Johnny materializes in the back — to wait.
Moments later, a cautious figure circles the car slowly. Through the windshield, V watches him scan the surroundings carefully, waiting for a group of teenagers to pass before finally climbing in. The man is tall and imposing, with sleek chrome at his temples catching the afternoon light, his long leather jacket settling around him as he sits.
Closing his door, he starts the conversation. "Before we go... Apologies for the precautions." Well. V wasn't expecting that. "I only ever risk so much. Sometimes it's just safer to shove the barrel of a Malorian between a choom's ribs, even if he is on your side." From his tone, this isn't his first rodeo. "It's nothing personal. No hard feelings, I hope."
Well, at least he's honest about it. A small smile tugs at V's lips as she responds, "Odd introduction, but nice meetin' ya too, Reed."
"Not a phrase I often hear in this trade." A ghost of a smile crosses his face too. "You're not in the biz, V, our biz."
"Actually I am..." She settles more comfortably in her seat, leather creaking beneath her. "Though just since yesterday."
"I was about to say your first times out are the hardest, but... I'm not gonna lie..." He lets a weighted silence fill the car before continuing, "I combed FIA data for info about you. Interesting profile." As he speaks, his optics flare bright blue and a small holographic screen materializes above the dashboard. He begins reading, "Freelance merc. You were born in NC, Heywood. To make things more interesting... FIA agent, you received your commission last night." The screen vanishes as quickly as it appeared. "One thing eludes me — what drove you to get entangled in this mess?"
"Songbird hired me." She answers honestly. "Know her?"
A shadow crosses his features and a whisper tinged with regret escapes his lips, "So Mi..." He composes himself before continuing, "We used to work together. I thought I'd heard the last about her, but... the girl's a magnet for trouble." He shakes his head, as if trying to reorganize his thoughts, then starts the engine. "Right. It's time we paid our friend in distress a visit. Address, please."
"Abandoned building on Kress Street. Eight floor."
"You left her alone... in Dogtown?" He asks, his tone carefully neutral, masking either judgment or genuine curiosity.
"Myers can take care of herself. Not a damsel in distress." She shrugs, remembering the President's combat prowess against both Barghest soldiers and the Chimera. "Saw her... take charge."
"Yeah. Me too. It's not her first rodeo." Reed concedes in good faith. "Survived a few assassinations attempts. Real tough... but still... She is the President."
In the backseat, Johnny leans forward, even as he stays silent, watching the exchange with keen interest. The car's engine purrs as Reed pulls away from the curb, joining the flow of Dogtown traffic.
The drive proceeds quietly until Reed's holo rings — work-related, apparently. He brushes off the caller, claiming it's his day off before hanging up. He explains to V, "Boss man. I work the door at a club — selection, y'know — bouncin'..."
"FIA special agent... bouncin' away time at a club?" The merc asks, genuine surprise coloring her voice. In the backseat, Johnny leans forward, suddenly interested.
"The job attracts ex-cops and commandos, too." He responds, hands steady on the wheel. "I know a few... They're a tough bunch. Troubled. Easy to blend in with over beers."
V turns her head, studying his profile for a moment. Suddenly, the pieces click into place. "Fuck, you work at Dino's bar, don't ya? I drop by sometimes, do merc work for him. I'm sure that was you, at the entrance."
Reed glances at her, looking impressed. "Good observation skills." His attention returns to the road before adding, with a hint of irony, "Heh, this is not how I imagined spending my day off."
"Savin' the President... Great action-BD shit right there, amirite?" She jokes, catching Johnny's amused smirk in the rearview mirror as he mimes shooting himself in the head.
"Yeah, sure, I guess so." Turning onto Kress Street, the car's suspension creaking over a particularly nasty pothole, he asks, "Does Myers still smoke?"
"Had a ciggie on a balcony this mornin'." She confirms. "Why you ask?"
He lets out a small grunt, his fingers tightening slightly on the wheel before explaining, "When things start to spiral outta control, she's likely to light up. It's high time we help her out."
They park in front of the abandoned building, the Thorton's engine ticking as it cools. The elevator ride up is tense, the ancient machinery groaning under their weight. Reed's posture grows increasingly rigid as they ascend, his hand never far from his weapon. "Honestly? This is not inspiring confidence."
"Relax, she ain't alone." V leans against the elevator wall, deliberately casual. "Made some new chooms. Locals. Introductions were a little dicey, but she turned on the charm. Probably has her Dogtown campaign staff by now."
The news doesn't seem to comfort Reed; if anything, his jaw tightens further. The moment the elevator doors open, he's moving with practiced efficiency toward the safehouse. V, reading his body language, quickly steps ahead to knock first. Johnny materializes beside her, muttering, "This oughta be good."
Jacob barely gets the door open before Reed's Malorian appears, trained steadily between the younger man's eyes. Both improvised bodyguards raise their hands, the tension in the room skyrocketing until Myers' authoritative voice cuts through it all, "That's enough, gentlemen!" She emerges from the back room, every inch the President despite her civilian clothes. "Put your tools away, gents. Compare length and girth when I'm not around."
"You the boss," Jacob sing-songs, relief evident in his voice as he backs away slowly.
"Are you sure?" Reed's gun lowers fractionally, but his eyes continue scanning the room methodically, professional paranoia in full swing.
"Look around. Positive." Myers' tone carries years of command.
"Mh. You remembered my number." The bitterness in his voice is barely concealed, speaking of old wounds.
"Some numbers you never forget." Her response is measured, careful.
The air grows thick with unspoken history as Reed approaches her, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. "Level with me, Rosalind. You never intended to call that line."
From the corner of her eye, V sees Jacob and Taylor shrinking into a corner, clearly wanting no part in this confrontation, trying to become one with the peeling wallpaper. Myers stands her ground, unflinching under Reed's scrutiny. "Well, I found myself in Night City with a bounty on my head... So it seemed the right moment to reach out, have a tête-à-tête, reset an old friendship."
For endless seconds, Reed says nothing, maintaining his staring contest with the woman. Finally, he yields and says, "I'd offer to sit down and chat over coffee, but the clock's tickin'. I need to arrange a passage for you to Washington."
"No, Reed. We need to talk first." She glances at V. "All three of us. Come on, we should talk in private." Without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel to return to the other room, Reed following close behind.
Johnny, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet until now, can't help but joke, "The president, a merc and a special agent walk into the Oval Office... Question is, where do I fit into this joke?"
V only has time to flash him a quick smile before following the others, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife.
The afternoon sun filters through grimy windows as the three of them gather in the back room, dust motes dancing in the golden beams. What follows is an intense briefing session, the air growing heavier with each revelation. V observes the subtle shifts in body language between Myers and Reed — years of history evident in every glance, every careful pause between words. When the President informs Reed he'll need to work with V to find the missing runner, his gaze darkens once more.
The tension peaks when they learn Reed was abandoned by his superiors after being injured in a botched operation years ago — information Myers had conveniently omitted. V watches understanding dawn on his face, bitter and sharp. The strain between them suddenly makes much more sense. Still, she manages to convince him to listen to Myers, reminding him that Songbird won't survive without their help. He agrees, claiming he's doing it for So Mi and his country — a statement that makes Johnny roll his eyes so hard V worries they might get stuck that way.
When Reed questions her commitment to the cause, V vaguely mentions the Relic and her personal stakes in finding the runner. Something in her tone must convince him and he extends his hand to seal their agreement before explaining they'll need contacts in Dogtown. V's task is to conduct a thorough reconnaissance of the area while he arranges for Myers to be transferred to Washington.
The meeting concludes with promises of future contact, the plans set in motion. V recognizes her dismissal in the way Reed and Myers turn to logistics, their voices dropping to discuss classified details. On her way out, she pauses briefly to smooth things over with Taylor and Jacob, offering apologetic smiles for Reed's aggressive entrance and well-wishes that seem to ease their rattled nerves.
The ancient elevator groans as it carries her downward, and Johnny materializes beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers in the confined space. "Fuck, finally." He leans against the wall next to her. "Tell me we ain't doin’ this contact-finding shit now, and we're heading home."
"Yup, straight home." V runs a hand through her hair, exhaustion suddenly hitting her like a wave. "Dying for a proper shower, and we can always come back tomorrow to deal with this mess. Night was short, and I just want to rest."
"Thank fuck for that." Johnny's relief is palpable as he shifts closer, his presence solid and warm against her side. "Was starting to think we'd have to play nice with more self-important suits. Got enough political bullshit to last a lifetime."
The elevator reaches the ground floor with a final protesting screech. As they step out into Dogtown's daylight, Johnny keeps pace with her, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they navigate the streets. The promise of home beckons them forward — away from presidential intrigue and FIA agents, toward the simple comfort of a hot shower and maybe a cold drink.
Leaving Dogtown proves to be one final test of V's nerves. The pedestrian access corridor feels oppressively narrow as she approaches the scanning checkpoint, her heart rate picking up despite her outward calm. The scanner's blue light washes over her, and she holds her breath until Mr. Hands' pass clears her through without a hitch. The Barghest soldier barely spares her a glance as she hurries past, his expression a study in professional boredom.
The transition into Pacifica feels like stepping into a different world, even if both districts share the same urban decay. Her bike waits faithfully in the GIM parking lot, its familiar lines a welcome sight. As she runs her hand along the chassis, memories of the past day flood back — the cyberpsycho hunt for Regina, that wild roller coaster ride with Johnny — events that feel like they happened in another lifetime, though barely twenty-four hours have passed. Exhaustion weighs heavy on her shoulders as she kicks the engine to life, the powerful rumble between her legs carrying her swiftly toward the Glen.
Her apartment welcomes her with blessed silence, broken only by Nibbles' annoyed meowing at his empty bowl. V quickly makes amends with premium kibble, earning a forgiving headbutt against her leg. The iguana, lounging in his favorite sunspot by the window, barely acknowledges her return, too busy soaking up the rays of daylight. Finally, she can focus on herself.
The whiskey bottle and a crystal glass make their way upstairs with her, a promise of relaxation to come. The bathroom becomes her sanctuary as she runs a bath, indulging in the luxury of scented oils and bubbles — a rare treat she usually can't be bothered with. The radio provides soft background music as she pours herself a generous measure of whiskey. Her clothes hit the floor in a tired heap, and when she finally sinks into the hot water, her satisfied sigh echoes off the tiles.
After a few minutes of blessed silence, broken only by the gentle lapping of water and soft music, she calls out to the empty room, "C'mon rockerboy, you can join me, y'know."
Johnny materializes, leaning against the doorframe with his characteristic smirk. His eyes linger a moment too long on the bubbles before he forces them back to her face. "Gettin' all fancy with the bubbles and shit?" He moves to sit on the floor, his back against the tub, close enough that she could touch his shoulder if she wanted to.
"Want us to switch? Let you enjoy all this first-hand?" V offers, gesturing at the luxurious setup with her glass of whiskey.
"Nah, you earned it." His voice is softer than usual. "You did all the heavy lifting today. 'Sides, pretty sure you're the one who got shot at, not me."
She takes another sip, letting the warmth spread through her chest. "At least this is decent whiskey."
"Hey, nothin’ wrong with cheap booze," he chuckles, turning slightly to catch her eye. "Some of my best memories were made with the shittiest tequila you could find. Though yeah, this one's pretty good."
They fall into comfortable silence, the radio playing softly in the background. It's moments like these — quiet, intimate, yet carefully maintained within unspoken boundaries — that have become their sanctuary.
"Think we really got ourselves into some deep shit this time," Johnny finally says, breaking the moment. "Presidential conspiracies, secret agents..."
"Fuck my life, huh?" V quips, sinking deeper into the bubbles. "Though I gotta admit, didn't have 'save the President' on my 2077 bingo card. Speaking of which..." She suddenly sits up, reaching for her holo on the nearby shelf, water cascading down her arms. "Should prolly text Panam. She doesn't even know I went to Dogtown."
Johnny snorts. "She's gonna lose her shit when she hears about today."
"Which is exactly why I'm bein’ cryptic," V grins, typing quickly.
"Smart move. Last thing we need is a Basilisk crashin’ through Dogtown's walls looking for ya."
"Though that would've been one hell of a way to meet the President," V laughs, settling back into the water.
"Got any plans for the rest of the day?" Johnny asks. "Still early."
"Nope. And that's exactly how I want it." V sets her empty glass on the edge of the tub with a satisfied sigh. "Just... this. Nothin’ else."
Almost unconsciously, Johnny's hand drifts closer to where hers rests on the tub's edge. His fingers brush against hers, gentle and hesitant at first, then more deliberately as he traces patterns on her wet skin.
They stay like that, letting the comfortable silence stretch between them. The radio plays softly in the background, some old jazz tune neither of them really pays attention to. The water's still warm, the bubbles slowly dissolving, and Johnny's fingers haven't stopped their lazy dance against hers. It's peaceful, intimate — a rare moment of perfect stillness in their usually chaotic lives.
After a while, V reluctantly decides to break their peaceful bubble. She quickly washes up, her shampoo's sweet scent filling the steamy bathroom. As she pulls the plug and watches the water spiral down the drain, she wraps herself in a fluffy towel, the soft material a comfort against her skin.
While towel-drying her hair, her holo buzzes. Expecting Panam's response to her earlier message, she's surprised to see Judy's ID flash across her optical interface. Right, the plan to avenge Evelyn — Judy had promised to call once she had something concrete. Shit, that was over a week ago, it had completely slipped her mind with everything else going on.
"Judy. So, got a plan?" V answers immediately.
"Damn right I do." The techie's voice crackles with excitement. "Come over to mine tonight, gonna lay the groundwork with Tom and Roxie. They're with us. Maiko'll be here, too."
V raises an eyebrow, remembering how Clouds' manager had practically thrown them out of her office. "How'd you manage that?"
"Got somethin' really big. Tell you everything tonight." Judy's enthusiasm is contagious. "Last thing — what do you like on your pizza?"
"Anchovy and pineapple flavor." V smirks as Johnny's face contorts in exaggerated disgust beside her.
"Uh, heh. Now there's two things that don't belong in the same sentence, let alone on the same pizza. You're kidding, right?" Judy sounds genuinely concerned.
"If we're talkin' pizza, then I'm dead fuckin' serious." V laughs, while Johnny mutters something about 'pepperoni and a metric fuckton of cheese being the only way to go'.
"So, I'll see you come evening?"
"'Course I'll be there. See ya." V disconnects, continuing to dry her hair until she notices Johnny still pouting, perched on the edge of the tub. She grins, "Oh, c'mon rockerboy, don't make that face. I promise the pizza's gonna be good."
"Got nothin' to do with your weird as fuck taste in toppings." Johnny's voice drops lower, more serious than his usual drawl as he stands, chrome fingers wrapping around her wrist. The contrast between the cool metal and his warm flesh hand is striking. "Listen, V. This whole revenge scheme of hers? Got a bad feeling about it."
She sets down her towel, caught off guard by the intensity in his eyes. "Johnny, it's just dinner and talking about whatever Judy's planned. Zero danger. Hell, we literally just pulled the president's ass out of Barghest territory — what could possibly—"
"That's exactly my fuckin' point," he cuts her off, running his flesh hand through his hair in frustration. "You had a real reason to save Myers. Shitty reason maybe, but still — it was that or kiss goodbye to whatever miracle cure Songbird's dangling in front of us." His thumb traces absent patterns on her wrist. "Still not convinced that ain't bullshit, by the way, but at least it's somethin’. This thing with Judy though? We got no stake in this fight, V."
"Right, we got nothin’ to gain," V acknowledges, "but Judy's good people. She's trying to help others, make things right. That worth somethin’, isn't it?"
"Fuck, maybe I am bein’ selfish as hell here, but..." His chrome hand releases her wrist to tangle in her damp hair, gently tilting her head back until she has no choice but to meet his gaze. "That girl's a trouble magnet. Can feel it in my bones she's gonna get people killed, and I..." He pauses, jaw clenching. "I don't want you being one of them, okay?"
The raw honesty in his voice makes her chest tight. V reaches up, pressing her palm flat against his heart. "Okay, I hear you. I promised Judy I'd listen to her plan, so I'll go. But I promise — if it smells too much like shit, I'm out. That work for you?"
"Yeah," he breathes, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. His hand slides to cup the back of her neck, and for a moment, they just stay like that, caught in each other's orbit. Then he presses a kiss to her hair, lingering just a second too long. "C'mon princess, time to get dressed. We got a date with this abomination you call pizza."
"Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it!" She forces a laugh, trying to ignore how her skin burns where his lips touched, how much she wants to close the distance between them. "You'll see, it's actually amazing."
"If you say so," he mutters, clearly unconvinced as he slowly releases her. The loss of contact feels more significant than it should. "Guess we're about to find out."
The air between them feels electric, heavy with all the things they never say. V turns to get dressed before she does something stupid, like pull him back and find out if his lips are as soft as they look.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
Later that evening, V finds herself at Judy's apartment door, pressing the buzzer. Tom, whom she'd briefly met at Clouds, answers with a welcoming, "Hey V. Come on in. Pizza's getting cold."
In the kitchen, Judy greets her with a smile. "You made it, good. Grab a seat." She waits until V settles on the last available stool before gesturing to an unfamiliar woman already working on a slice. "This is Roxanne. She's worked at Clouds longer than any of us."
V returns the greeting and reaches for her own food, earning bewildered stares from both dolls when they discover the contents of her box. Unfazed, she bites into her slice with obvious delight, chewing enthusiastically — after all, her Dogtown adventure hadn't exactly left time for proper meals, and she's fucking starving.
Johnny, who's been hovering nearby with an expression of pure disgust, suddenly freezes. His face goes through an impressive range of emotions — horror, confusion, betrayal, and finally, devastating realization. "No. No, no, no... fuck NO!" He clutches his head dramatically. "V, what the actual FUCK? This... this abomination against Italian cuisine... this crime against humanity... this fuckin’ FISH AND FRUIT MASSACRE..." He stops, looking absolutely mortified. "I can taste it through you and... holy shit, it's good. It's so fuckin' good!"
He slides down the wall to sit on the floor, looking like he's having an existential crisis. "Fifty years. Fifty fuckin’ years I spent knowing exactly what should and shouldn't go on a pizza. Was in a BAND, V! We lived on pizza! And now you're tellin’ me... you're makin’ me..." He throws his hands up in despair. "I'm a ghost with principles, goddammit! I can't like this! This is worse than selling out to Arasaka!"
V has to bite her lip hard to keep from laughing as Johnny continues his melodramatic breakdown. "My reputation... my legacy... everything I stood for... destroyed by anchovy and pineapple. Fuck me." He looks up at her accusingly. "You've corrupted me, V. I hope you're happy with yourself."
V has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at the rockerboy's drama queen performance — no need for Judy and her chooms to think she's gone completely nuts. Instead, she joins the ongoing conversation. They eat and chat, Evelyn's name coming up frequently as the primary motivation for Tom and Roxanne's willingness to join this attempted revolution. All while Johnny occasionally moans about his "tragic fall from grace" and "betrayal of all pizza-related principles" between asking her to take another bite.
About ten minutes in, the door swings open without warning, and Maiko strides in like she owns the place, commenting disdainfully, "You'll never get rid of the stench of the corpse..."
"Subtlety comes naturally to you, doesn't it?" V cuts her off coldly, not wanting to hear the rest of that particular thought.
"Yeah, odd. Given how much work I gotta put into it." Maiko fires back sarcastically. "By the way... Forrest didn't show up for work today. Or all week, for that matter."
"Got sick, maybe." The merc retorts with equal sarcasm, flashing a vicious smile. "Or hit the lottery jackpot, bought himself a ticket to the Moon."
"Hmm." She nods, and V can tell she's just as pleased about that particular piece of garbage being gone. "Could be anything."
"Done saying hello to each other?" Judy finally interrupts, rolling her eyes at their exchange. "Revolution won't plan itself..."
Judy explains that she's modified the dolls' behavioral chip, essentially programming their bodies to move and fight like highly trained soldiers. The chip will boost their reflexes, making them execute pre-recorded movement sequences — basically overriding their natural instincts with combat protocols.
V is genuinely impressed by Judy's ability to hack together something this complex so quickly, but she can't help being skeptical. "Solo skills don't lie in just executing movements," she points out, drawing from her merc experience. "There are split-second processes that happen — logistics, decision-making. Result of years of practice. Doubt your chip's capable of compensating for that."
"True that," Johnny agrees, draping himself over her shoulders, though only she can appreciate his input. "Finally, someone in this room with their head screwed on straight."
"You're prolly right..." Judy admits candidly. "But I don't see another way. Alternative's intensive training, but we don't have time for that."
Johnny mutters something about ditching this insane plan being a perfectly valid alternative, but V can see the determination burning in Judy's eyes. She sighs, "All right... gotta see it to believe it."
Tom rises from his stool and demonstrates by throwing knives, each blade embedding itself in perfect succession along the far wall. Impressive, but not entirely convincing — neither for V nor apparently for Maiko, who demands to see actual combat. The merc takes position opposite Tom, and surprisingly, he manages to quickly lock her arm and push her back onto the couch.
Okay, she has to admit, it might work. Clearly insufficient for truly complex situations, but all they need is the element of surprise to subdue Clouds' security, so it should do the trick. Maiko confirms it's proof enough for her. Judy then outlines their plan: use this tech to handle the guards and Tyger Claws present, throw them out of the club to take control, then give the bosses an ultimatum — a share of the club's profits in exchange for future non-interference.
"That's what I thought... A half-baked, insane plan.You can't see more than an inch ahead of you." Maiko interjects. Johnny's expression suggests he wholeheartedly agrees. "Taking out the security there won't solve anything. Claws'll just send more. Hiromi Sato's the man you gotta get to."
When V asks about this Hiromi, Maiko explains he's the real power behind Clouds. Though rarely seen, nothing happens in the club without his knowledge. As a respected member of the Tyger Claws, his word carries significant weight with the gang. While negotiation might be possible, Maiko suggests fear would be a more effective motivator. She reveals his location — a penthouse in the topmost floor of the H8 megatower, where he rarely leaves his glass-walled sanctuary. She assures them she can arrange their entry. The plan, as she lays it out, involves a simultaneous strike: while Tom and Roxanne handle the situation at Clouds, V and Maiko will deal with Hiromi directly.
"Two-pronged assault..." Judy grins, clearly excited by the prospect. "Lovin' it."
Throughout the exchange, Johnny paces behind V, occasionally running his hands through his hair in frustration. She can feel his growing unease with every new detail of the plan, but she keeps her focus on the conversation at hand.
After the planning session, Judy asks everyone once more to confirm their participation. V agrees despite Johnny's obvious displeasure. Maiko takes her leave, stating she'll arrange the meeting with Hiromi for the day after tomorrow. Tom and Roxanne follow her out, asking for a ride into the city.
Once alone in the apartment, Judy's confident facade cracks slightly. She confides in V about her fears, then offers payment for her help — which the merc firmly refuses. Johnny suddenly lifts his head from where he's been sulking, his expression shifting to concern. "Princess, Relic malfunction incoming. Small one. Just breathe."
True to his warning, the attack hits V as she tries to stand from the couch. She attempts to play it cool, but fails miserably — Judy's immediately at her side, hand on her shoulder. "V, everything okay?"
V sinks back into the couch, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass. Once it subsides, she turns to meet Judy's worried gaze. Fuck it, might as well come clean. "Remember the heist Evelyn hired us for, the Relic I was gonna klept?"
"Ugh, couldn't forget that in a million years." Judy sighs.
"That biochip... well, long story short, it had Johnny Silverhand's mind on it." She explains while the rockerboy settles beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. His touch is grounding, helping her push through the lingering effects of the malfunction. "An engram of it that's overwriting my mind."
"You bein' serious?" Judy asks after several seconds of incredulous silence.
"Yeah." V nods and gestures to where Johnny sits. "He's right here. Spent half the evening complaining about my pizza choices." She jokes, deliberately omitting Johnny's serious concerns about their planned assault on Clouds.
"Fuck..." Judy mumbles, clearly disturbed by the revelation. "Anything at all you can do?"
"One can hope," V shrugs, preferring not to delve deeper into that particular rabbit hole.
Needing time to process this bombshell, Judy changes the subject. "It's late, you're tired. You can crash on my couch if you want."
"Nah, best be goin'." V declines gently as she stands, more steadily this time. "Got a ton of stuff to handle tomorrow. But thanks."
"Suit yourself." Judy replies simply, though disappointment flickers across her features. "I'll holo you once Maiko's set up the meet with Hiromi."
"Okay. See ya." She turns and leaves the apartment, Johnny's presence a constant shadow at her back. The night air hits her face as they step outside, carrying the ever-present smell of the city.
After a quick ride back to The Glen, V finally reaches her apartment, making a beeline for her bedroom. She tosses her jacket and pants across the room haphazardly before collapsing onto her bed with a contented sigh, relishing the thought of sleeping on an actual mattress. Predictably, Johnny materializes beside her almost immediately.
"So much for backin’ out if her plan was shit," he grumbles, sitting on the edge of the bed. "And princess, that plan? Pure, grade-A, premium shit."
V rolls onto her side to face him. "Yeah, okay, it's sketchy as fuck. But they're gonna do it with or without me. At least if I'm there, I can try to keep things from goin’ completely off the rails."
Johnny's face twists into a grimace. "Right. 'Cause that always works out so well."
"What's your problem with Judy anyway?" V props herself up on an elbow, studying his face. "You've been acting weird about this whole thing since before we even knew the plan."
"Ain't got a problem with her specifically," he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "She's just... fuck, V, chick's got her head so far up in the clouds she can't see what's right in front of her. All this revolutionary bullshit?" He lets out a bitter laugh. "She thinks she's gonna change things, make 'em better. But all she's gonna do is get people killed. Trust me on this one — been there, done that, got the fuckin’ t-shirt."
"So what, we just let pieces of shit like Woodman and Hiromi keep running things?" V challenges. "Let them keep treatin’ people like disposable goods?"
"Course not." Johnny turns to face her fully, his expression deadly serious. "But the Tyger Claws ain't gonna let their golden goose slip away without one hell of a fight. Your techie friend's so eager to play hero she can't see she's startin’ a war she ain't equipped to win." He reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. "If she'd slow the fuck down, maybe we could figure out a way to fix things without painting targets on everyone's backs."
The gentleness of his touch contrasts sharply with the intensity in his voice. V can feel the weight of his experience behind his words — fifty years might have passed, but some lessons leave permanent scars. Johnny sighs heavily and stretches out beside her on the bed. "Plan's in motion anyway. Not much we can do about it now ‘cept try to keep your choom's crusade from turnin’ into a complete bloodbath."
V shifts closer, enjoying his familiar warmth. "Speakin’ of complete disasters," she grins, "how's that pizza trauma treating you?"
"Fuck you," he groans dramatically. "Still can't believe you made me like that monstrosity. I hate ya so much for this. My whole identity is in shambles. Used to be the coolest motherfucker in Night City, and now I'm a ghost who enjoys pineapple on pizza."
"No you don't," V says softly, fighting back a yawn. "Hate me, I mean."
Johnny turns his head to look at her, his expression softening. "Nah," he admits, voice unexpectedly tender. "I really don't." His hand finds hers in the darkness, fingers intertwining naturally. They lay there in comfortable silence until sleep claims them both, the constant hum of Night City a distant lullaby through the apartment windows.
The next morning, V stirs slowly to consciousness, still cocooned in the warmth of Johnny's metal arm wrapped firmly around her waist. She reaches for her holo on the nightstand, squinting at the screen to see Panam has finally responded to yesterday's messages.
"No fuckin' way you're hitting Totentanz again," Johnny grumbles into her hair, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Last time you two gonks went there, ended up in a brawl. And ain't setting foot in that Sunset Motel cesspool again. Afterlife's out too — don't need Rogue givin' me shit through you."
"Wow, good morning to you too, sunshine. Anyone ever tell you you're extra grumpy before coffee?" V chuckles.
"Mhh..." He pulls her closer against his chest, nuzzling into her neck. "Mornin' princess... Now shut up and let me sleep."
V grins as she types.
"Au Cabanon?" Johnny props himself up on an elbow, dark eyes still heavy with sleep. "That corpo-rat joint in Charter Hill? The fuck happened to my bad influence on ya? What's next, should I wear a suit? Polish my chrome all nice and shiny?"
Before V can stop herself, her brain-to-mouth filter completely offline this early in the morning, she blurts out, "I mean... you'd prolly look fuckin’ gorgeous in a suit."
Johnny's usual smartass expression vanishes, his jaw going slack for a split second before tension ripples through his entire body. His fingers twitch against her waist, metal digits curling reflexively before he forces them to relax. For a moment, he just stares at her, dark eyes dilating visibly, looking like she just short-circuited his entire system. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, V..." His voice comes out rough, almost pained. He runs his metal hand through his hair, a gesture that screams barely-contained frustration. "You can't just... fuck."
The raw vulnerability in his tone snaps V fully awake, making her realize what she just said. "I... uh..."
"I mean," he finally manages, attempting to recover with a weak version of his usual smirk, "these leathers ain't good enough for you anymore?"
"Johnny..."
"Guess I'll have to step up my game, huh?" The forced lightness in his tone isn't fooling either of them.
The air between them feels electric, and V tries to break the tension by throwing a pillow at him, but it passes right through his head, making him bark out a surprised laugh. "Real smooth, V. Real fucking smooth."
"Oh, go fuck yourself, Silverhand."
"Rather fuck y—" Johnny cuts himself off abruptly, letting out a frustrated groan as he rolls onto his back, throwing his arm over his eyes. "Fuck."
Back when they first started sharing brain space, flirting was easy — just playful banter between two people who enjoyed pushing each other's buttons. Simple. Fun. Safe. But now... now every word feels loaded, charged with something that makes his chest tight and his control slip.
Since he finally admitted to himself how he feels about her, it's gotten so much worse. Just a sleepy compliment from her about him in a fucking suit, and he's completely losing his shit. Like some teenager who can't keep it together just because their crush smiled at them.
"Johnny?" V's voice is soft, uncertain.
"Just... forget it." Johnny sits up abruptly, his fingers twitching with the phantom need for a cigarette. Fuck, what he wouldn't give for a smoke right now, something to steady his nerves and give him something to do with his hands besides reaching for her.
Another pillow sails through his head, catching him off guard, making him blink in surprise before turning to V with a raised eyebrow. "Really? That's your solution now?"
"Hey, if it works..." She grins, clearly pleased with herself for breaking the tension. "Besides, your face when shit goes through your head is always fuckin’ priceless."
"You're such a gonk," he snorts, but he's grateful for the return to familiar territory. He watches her stretch, trying not to focus too much on the way her tank top rides up. "C'mon princess, time to get your ass up and brew some coffee. Got a long day ahead."
"Ugh, don't remind me," she groans, but she's already sitting up. "Fuckin’ Dogtown..."
"Coffee first, complaining later. Think you can manage that?"
"Fuck you, rockerboy."
"You wish," he throws back automatically, then quickly stands up before that particular landmine can explode. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, and she catches the way his throat works as he swallows, how his eyes dart everywhere but at her. "Coffee. Now."
Two cups of coffee and a change of clothes later, V straddles her Arch, heading towards Dogtown. Reed had promised to contact her, but insisted she should keep familiarizing herself with the district in the meantime. Problem is, she has no fucking clue where to start.
The answer comes in the form of a call from Mr. Hands, offering her a gig — a ripperdoc being held hostage by scavs. V's Mantis blades itch at the mention of those organ-harvesting fuckers. After seeing firsthand the horrors they're capable of, the mutilated bodies they leave behind, taking them down will make for a perfect morning workout.
She approaches Dogtown's main gate, the massive concrete barriers and razor wire a stark reminder that this isn't just another district. The Barghest guards scan her thoroughly before waving her through. The moment she's cleared, she guns the engine, the Arch's distinctive roar echoing off the crumbling buildings.
At the meeting point, she finds a priest — actual clerical collar and everything — trying to patch people up right on the filthy street. His hands are steady as he works, but the worry lines on his face tell their own story. After lending her expertise to help his patient — just a few tweaks to their malfunctioning chrome, thanks to Vik's crash course in cyberware maintenance — she finally gets the details.
The priest's weathered face grows grim as he explains how the scavs violently kicked them out of the church across the street — a building that doubles as the ripperdoc's clinic. They've barricaded themselves inside so one of their own could "settle a score" with the doc. The way he says it makes V's skin crawl.
Understanding the urgency and knowing she needs to find the prisoner before alerting the scavs, V suppresses her natural urge to just kick the door open and paint the walls red. Instead, she activates her optical camo, the world taking on a slight shimmer as she becomes nearly invisible. She slips into the church through a side entrance, carefully navigating past the guards who look bored enough to be dangerous.
The basement air is thick with the metallic smell of blood and antiseptic when she finally finds her target. The scene that greets her is tense — the doc held at gunpoint by a young woman whose hands shake with rage rather than fear. Nika, as V learns, screams at him, demanding to see her brother.
V tries her best to defuse the situation, keeping her voice steady despite the charged atmosphere. She barely flinches when the scav shoots the ripper's hand as he reaches for his whiskey bottle, though the sound echoes painfully in the confined space. Getting increasingly annoyed with his evasive bullshit, V pressures him to just answer the fucking question before things escalate further.
Reluctantly, seeing V won't help him, the man admits Nika's brother is dead. Claims he couldn't save him, so he gave him a morphine shot to end it. All to harvest his implants, arguing in his twisted logic that the chrome could still help others in need.
The gun in Nika's hand wavers as the truth hits her. She demands her brother's body, her voice cracking, before something in her snaps. The gun clatters to the floor as she launches herself at the doc, fists flying. Each impact is punctuated by a sob, raw grief turning to violence. V watches with crossed arms, thinking the bastard deserves every hit. She only speaks up to agree with the young woman, her voice arctic as she tells the ripperdoc to find his implants elsewhere.
Finally, he cracks, revealing the body's in the storage room serving as a morgue. Nika rushes out, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. The doc collapses in his chrome chair, the servos whirring as he shifts. Blood drips steadily from his wounded hand onto the dirty floor as he asks about his patients. V informs him they're outside with the priest, her tone making it clear exactly how little she cares about his wellbeing. He says they can return now, and V turns away without another word.
The storage room reeks of death and cheap preservatives. V finds Nika there, crying over a body wrapped in stained sheets. And fuck, even if she's a scav piece of shit, V can't help but feel for her. The girl can't be older than her, and now she's alone in this cesspool of a district. Johnny apparently shares the sentiment, materializing beside her with unusual solemnity.
"Feel sorry for the chick," he mutters, leaning against the wall. "'S gotta weigh heavy on Anderson, too." He shakes his head, disillusioned. "Guy's got questionable ethics, but what's a doctor to do in Dogtown? Was a lose-lose situation from the get-go."
Yeah, that pretty much sums up this whole fucking mess. V offers her condolences to the young woman, making sure she'll let the other patients return without trouble. After getting confirmation, she leaves her to grieve and exits the building, the midday sun almost shocking after the basement's darkness. She quickly updates the priest and Mr. Hands that the situation's handled, then rides away, the Arch's engine drowning out her troubled thoughts.
V parks her bike a few blocks away, deciding to explore on foot. The heat is already making the air shimmer above the cracked pavement as she wanders randomly through the streets. She soon finds herself in an area crawling with Barghest soldiers, their military-grade chrome glinting in the sun. As she tries to cross through, a young man sporting an impressive black eye waves her over, enthusiastically inviting her to join him and his friend for a drink. His face is so earnest that V shrugs — well, why the fuck not.
She sprawls on a worn-out couch that's seen better days, probably sometime in the last century. Paco, as he introduces himself, immediately launches into his recent troubles. Or as his friend Babs puts it with an eye roll, how he royally fucked up. Judging by the woman's expression, this is way beyond your average screwup.
V throws back her shot of vodka — decent stuff, surprisingly — while he explains how he thought it'd be a great idea to steal some generators from Hansen himself. Kid figured it wouldn't be noticed, but now he's starting to realize his life expectancy just took a nosedive. Fucking hell, the gonk's barely a fresh recruit and already making career-ending mistakes. She accepts the Deep Dive inhaler he offers, taking a long hit in hopes it'll wash away the memory of Nika's grief-stricken face from earlier.
She lets the drug work its magic, melting into her seat as the edges of her vision go pleasantly fuzzy. Paco spills all the details, and V reaches the same conclusion as Babs — this kid's balls gonna end up decorating Hansen's wall as soon as the boss figures out who lifted his gear. And because nothing's ever simple, there's no way to return the stolen goods — this genius already sold them off.
Well, at least he's got cash. That might help. V tells them she's gonna make a call, see about getting them out of Dogtown fast and clean. Lucky for them, she knows just the person who specializes in getting people out of Night City's mess. She holobuzz Panam, quickly explaining the situation. Her nomad friend, true to form, agrees to help without hesitation, sending over the contact info for a reliable extraction specialist.
"Aldecaldos friend of mine’ll help you two get outta here." V tells them after ending the call. "Two K each. Sendin’ the driver’s detes… Get in touch now, got me?" The relief on their faces is almost painful to watch. They thank her profusely, promising to lay low until everything's arranged. The merc wishes them luck before heading out, feeling marginally better about her day. Even if she's just helping some dumbass kid escape the consequences of his own stupidity, at least it's something.
Johnny materializes beside her as she walks away, lighting a ghostly cigarette. "Soft spot for strays now, V?" He teases with a smirk. "Kid's lucky you came along. Guys like Hansen ain't exactly known for their forgiveness."
"Yeah, well," V shrugs, watching a Barghest patrol march past. "Sometimes you just need someone to give you a second chance, y'know?"
Johnny's quiet for a moment, then nods. "Yeah," he says softly. "I know."
After her good deed of the day, V realizes it's past noon and her stomach's making its complaints known. She heads into the stadium, figuring the market should have something edible, plus the place is always crawling with people. Might as well let her ears do some work while she fills her belly.
She finds herself perched on a rickety stool at a food stand, poking at some questionably greasy Chinese noodles. The market buzzes around her, a chaotic mix of voices, smells, and chrome catching the light. Her holo chimes, Reed's message appearing in her optics.
Worry about them? Fuck, it's that message that's got her worried now. Her mind flashes back to the two guys from their hideout — rough around the edges, sure, but decent enough. They'd shared their space, their food, even cracked jokes. Her stomach twists into knots, and suddenly the noodles look even less appetizing. She pushes the container away, fingers flying over the holo interface.
The silence that follows her message feels heavy, ominous. Reed's lack of response only confirms her growing dread. Shit, she's really fearing the worst now.
Johnny materializes in the empty seat next to her, his usual swagger notably absent. He stares at the unanswered message, jaw clenched. "Fuck," he mutters, running his metal hand through his hair. "You know what that means, V. Same shit, different day."
"They weren't bad guys, Johnny," V says quietly, her voice barely audible over the market's noise. "Just trying to survive like everyone else."
"Which is exactly why we can't trust that FIA fuck Reed," Johnny spits, his anger evident. "To ‘im, they were just loose ends. Disposable. Just like we'll be the moment we stop being useful." He leans forward, dark eyes intense. "We're playing with fire here, V. And I'm startin’ to think we're gonna get burned."
V stares at her holo, willing it to buzz with a different explanation, but deep down, she knows Johnny's right. This is just another reminder that in Night City, trust is a currency nobody can afford.
After that grim interlude, V continues poking around Dogtown, mapping the district's maze of dangers in her head. Thankfully, a new distraction presents itself when Hands rings her again, apparently impressed with how she handled the morning's mess at the church. Though honestly, after dealing with organ-harvesting ripperdocs and grieving scavs, how much worse could this day get?
The answer, as it turns out, is so much fucking worse.
This time, she needs to head back outside Dogtown to meet an NCPD agent's wife who's got ‘concerns’. The woman she meets is a nervous wreck, jumping at shadows while explaining how her husband and his partner have been moonlighting for one of Hansen's lieutenants, some guy named Dodger. Because apparently, being a corrupt cop in Night City isn't dangerous enough — gotta add 'working for militarized gangs' to spice things up.
"Let me get this straight," V sighs as she walks. "I'm spending my entire day saving idiots from their own stupidity?"
"Look on the bright side," Johnny materializes next to her, grinning. "At least it's entertaining."
She finds the cops in the basement of an abandoned police station, and holy shit — it's like walking into a horror comedy. Two of Night City's ‘finest’ covered in blood and gore, practically shitting themselves next to a corpse that looks like someone tried to perform amateur surgery with a rusty spoon.
Their explanation has Johnny literally rolling on the floor laughing while V seriously considers just walking out and leaving them to their fate. Their perp had stolen Dodger's drugs and, when caught, swallowed seven — SEVEN — ounces of synthcoke. After the inevitable happened, these geniuses decided the best course of action was to go treasure hunting through the dead guy's intestines. With their bare hands. Because apparently, rubber gloves don't exist in their universe.
"And the best part," Johnny wheezes between fits of laughter, "is they already told Dodger they had his guy!"
"Of course they did," V mutters, watching one of the cops try to wipe gore off his badge with his equally gore-covered sleeve. "Because why wouldn't they?"
With an exasperated sigh, V agrees to escort these walking disasters to their squad car. Every step through the abandoned police station feels like an eternity, especially with these two trying to justify their actions. Her trigger finger itches every time one of them opens their mouth.
Just as they reach the garage where their car is parked, because the universe clearly has a sick sense of humor today, the door rolls open to reveal Dodger himself, followed by his muscle. The two cops immediately start stammering, weaving an increasingly ridiculous web of lies that makes V want to bang her head against the nearest wall.
Unable to stomach their pathetic attempts at bullshitting, V cuts through their crap and lays out the whole story to Dodger. Seven ounces of synthcoke, amateur autopsy, and all. To everyone's surprise, the Barghest lieutenant finds the entire clusterfuck so fucking hilarious that he actually lets them go, practically crying with laughter at the sheer stupidity of it all.
The two badges don't need to be told twice, scrambling into their car and peeling out of there like their asses are on fire. Once they're safely out of range of any stray bullets, V turns back to Dodger. She knows that look — has seen it too many times in Night City. That amused glint in his eyes might mean he's letting them go now, but these cops are definitely on his shit list.
"This is gonna be good," Johnny materializes, leaning against a rusty filing cabinet with a smirk.
Before either Barghest member can react, V's Malorian appears in her hand. Two clean shots later, both men are down — ensuring those two idiotic cops might actually live long enough to make equally stupid decisions in the future.
"Guess that wraps up today's 'Save the Idiots' tour," she mutters, holstering her gun.
Johnny appears beside her, still chuckling. "You're getting soft, V. Could've just let Darwin handle this one."
She holodials Hands as she walks out, informing him the job's done but making it crystal clear that she's never, ever taking another cop-related gig. The fixer just laughs, telling her the payment has already been transferred. Another day's work, saving morons from themselves, one bullet at a time.
Having dealt with enough idiots for one day and having zero desire to return to Dogtown right now, V decides to head home and chill until her evening plans with Panam. The afternoon light streams through her megabuilding windows, painting the apartment in warm hues that make even Night City look almost peaceful. She kicks off her boots, sending them flying across the room, and collapses onto the couch with a groan that's equal parts exhaustion and relief.
"Want some quality time with your six-strings?" she asks Johnny, who's been eyeing the guitar since they walked in. The instrument sits in its stand, a testament to their shared life in this space.
His face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning, that rare genuine smile she's grown to cherish. "Thought you'd never ask."
V surrenders control, watching through their shared vision as Johnny settles into their favorite spot by the window. His fingers dance across the strings with practiced ease. What starts as Chippin’ in evolves into something new, raw and emotional. For an hour, the apartment fills with the sound of his soul poured into music, and V lets herself drift in the melody.
When she takes back control, they sprawl together on the couch, her head resting against Johnny's shoulder. The late afternoon sun bathes them in golden light, casting long shadows across the floor. It's these quiet moments, she thinks, that make all the chaos worthwhile.
"Been thinking about Reed," Johnny breaks the comfortable silence, his metal hand absently playing with V's hair, the cool touch sending pleasant shivers down her spine. "Reminds me of guys I knew back in the service. True believers, you know? Ready to die for their principles..."
V shifts to look at him, studying the contemplative expression on his face. "Doesn't sound so bad."
"It ain't, not by itself," he sighs, staring out at the city skyline. "Problem is when those principles get twisted. When corps or politicos get their claws in 'em... shit gets dangerous real quick. They give 'em medals, pat 'em on the back, feed 'em this bullshit about bein’ on the right side of history..."
"Turn them into weapons," V finishes his thought. "But right now, he wants the same thing we do — finding So Mi."
Johnny wraps his hand around V's wrist, his grip gentle but firm, thumb tracing small circles on her skin. "Yeah, but can we trust her either? She's another one of Myers' pets." He sighs deeply, and there's real fear behind his words. "I really fuckin’ hope that miracle cure Songbird promised is real, V. 'Cause I really want to save your life, and it's our last shot before we have to sit on our asses waiting for that Arasaka cunt to call."
"Hanako can go fuck herself for all I care," V spits out, the bitterness in her voice matching the anger in her heart. "After everything that happened..."
That finally brings a smile to Johnny's face, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. "Music to my ears, V," he says, pulling her closer. "Music to my fuckin’ ears."
After their heart-to-heart, V bounces off the couch with renewed energy, excited about her evening with Panam. For once, she decides to make an actual effort, trading her usual combat boots and tactical pants for a leather black dress that hugs her curves in all the right places. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she touches up her makeup, adding a sharp wing to her eyeliner.
Johnny materializes behind her, letting out a low whistle. "Damn, V. If I wasn't already dead, that ass in that dress would definitely kill me."
"Real smooth, Silverhand," she rolls her eyes, but can't help smirking at his reflection in the mirror. "Been savin’ that line since 2020?"
"Just appreciating art when I see it," he grins, leaning against the doorframe. "Though usually my art doesn't talk back this much."
V's about to throw back another snarky comment when she catches his reflection in the mirror. There's something in the way he's looking at her — that same intensity she saw this morning when she complimented him. It's not his usual playful leer or exaggerated flirting. This is different, raw and honest, making her breath catch in her throat.
She quickly breaks eye contact, trying to ignore the warmth spreading across her cheeks. "Whatever you say, rockerboy." Her voice comes out softer than intended.
Clearing her throat, she grabs the keys to Johnny's Porsche. "Since we're going all out tonight..." she twirls the keys around her finger, grateful for the distraction.
As she slides into the driver's seat, the leather still warm from the afternoon sun, she can't help but grin. The engine purrs to life, and she catches Johnny's approving nod as she pulls out towards Lele Park.
Pulling up to the restaurant, the Porsche's silver paint catching the neon lights of Night City, V spots Panam already waiting outside. Her friend's eyes immediately lock onto the car, and a appreciative whistle escapes her lips as V steps out.
"Damn, V! Now that's what I call a ride!" Panam circles the car like a kid in a candy store. "This is his, right? The one you told me about? Guess having a dead rockerboy in your head comes with some sweet perks."
"Watch it, desert harpy," Johnny grumbles, materializing to lean against his car. "Better not let her anywhere near the engine."
V ignores his grumbling, instead taking in her friend's appearance with a genuine smile. "Holy shit, Pan, you look amazing!" And she does — Panam has traded her usual nomad gear for a backless dress in dark gray with striking red accents, her dreadlocks gathered in a high ponytail that cascades down her exposed back.
"Hey, I promised you something without engine grease stains, didn't I?" Panam grins, linking their arms together. "And look who's talking, hot stuff! Trying to give half of Night City a heart attack in that number?"
"More like three-quarters," Johnny chimes in, earning another eye roll from V.
"Come on," Panam tugs her toward the stairs. "You owe me a drink and one hell of a story about whatever mess you got yourself into this morning."
"After the solid you did me earlier? I'm buying the whole damn dinner," V laughs, letting herself be pulled along. "Hope you're hungry."
"For food and gossip," Panam winks. "Gotta tell me all this Dogtown story. And you better tell me everything about that Porsche too. I want all the details about how you found it."
Behind them, Johnny's muttering something about 'nomads and their gear fetish,' but V can hear the fondness beneath his grumbling. It's promising to be a good night.
The restaurant's ambient lighting bathes everything in a neon-chic aesthetic of deep purples and electric blues, with bamboo plants creating intimate spaces between the tables. The marble floor reflects the neon accents, creating an almost dreamlike atmosphere. V and Panam choose a secluded table near an illuminated aquarium, sinking into the plush purple chairs that seem designed for long, intimate conversations.
"Hey, let's grab an extra chair," Panam suggests, gesturing to a nearby table. "Can't have your rockerboy standing all night, right?"
V notices how Johnny's expression softens at the gesture. He'd never admit it out loud, but being acknowledged, being treated as V's rockerboy rather than just the terrorist in her head, means more to him than the actual chair he technically doesn't need.
A waiter in sleek corporate attire brings them a bottle of expensive red wine, and they take almost childish delight in ordering the most outrageously priced items on the menu. Their quiet laughter echoes as they point out dishes that cost more than some people's monthly rent in Watson.
"Okay, spill," Panam leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "What's this crazy gig you mentioned?"
The tale unfolds like a thriller — Songbird's mysterious contact, the promise of salvation, the infiltration of Dogtown, Myers' rescue, and her unexpected new role as a FIA agent. Panam's expressions shift from disbelief to concern to amusement.
"Holy fuck, V!" Panam nearly chokes on her wine. "Truly, you’ve outdone yourself. Heh, ‘secret agent’ — the one thing missing from your resume." Her laughter fades into something more serious. "But for real, be careful. Government types are just as bad as any corps. They'll use you up and spit you out the second you're not useful anymore."
Their food arrives — artistic presentations of dishes that actually justify their exorbitant prices — and the conversation flows into lighter territory. V shares stories about the dumbasses she's dealt with all day, while Panam updates her on the latest Badlands drama. Johnny, sprawled in his chair, keeps adding his own commentary that V dutifully translates for Panam, his sardonic observations making her laugh so hard she nearly spits out her wine.
The evening unfolds in this comfortable rhythm, their friendship evident in every shared laugh and concerned glance. The neon-lit aquarium casts shifting patterns across their table, creating an ever-changing play of light and shadow. Between the excellent food, the wine, and the company, V feels herself truly relaxing for the first time in days. Even Johnny seems content, his usual edge softened by the evening's warm atmosphere and the simple pleasure of being included, of being part of this moment rather than just an observer.
But like all good things in Night City, it passes too quickly. After sharing a decadent chocolate dessert and one last round of cocktails, it's time for the women to part ways. V settles the eye-watering bill without batting an eye — these days, she can afford to spoil her friends.
They linger on the sidewalk, Panam pulling V into a tight hug, whispering a final "Be careful, okay?" before heading to her Thorton across the street. V watches until her friend's taillights disappear into the endless flow of traffic.
Johnny materializes in the passenger seat as V starts the Porsche. "She's good people."
"High praise, coming from you," V smirks, merging into traffic. "Admit it, you had fun too."
"Maybe," he shrugs, but there's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Was nice being treated like a person and not just your imaginary friend."
The drive home is peaceful, city lights streaming past like stars. When they finally make it back to the apartment, V kicks off her boots with a grateful sigh. She takes off her makeup and changes into her usual sleeping attire.
Johnny's already sprawled on his side of the bed when she emerges from the bathroom. "C'mere," he murmurs as she slides under the covers. V doesn't hesitate, letting herself curl against his warmth, his arm wrapping around her waist, and she can feel his breath against her neck.
"G’Night, Johnny," she whispers, already drifting off.
"Night, princess," he responds softly, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her arm until sleep claims her completely.
I’ve got no patience now
So sick of complacence now
Sick of sick of sick of sick of you
Time has come to pay…
Johnny watches with a scowl as Judy fiddles with the security panel of megabuilding H8, working to unlock access to Hiromi Sato's penthouse elevator. She'd messaged V earlier that morning to confirm they were going ahead with her half-baked plan this afternoon, and Johnny had really hoped the merc would've backed out by now.
It's not the Tyger Claws he's worried about — V can handle a few gangers without breaking a sweat. No, what's eating at him is how fundamentally flawed this whole scheme is. Much as he hates to admit it, he agrees with Maiko on this one — Judy's not seeing the bigger picture, hasn't thought through any of the long-term consequences. And yeah, he appreciates the irony of him being the voice of reason here, but this plan's gonna blow up in their faces, and fast.
He's already made his opinions clear to V though, so he keeps his mouth shut as they ride up to the penthouse. The moment they step into the room where Maiko's waiting, he knows his gut feeling was right. Instead of just Sato, there are two other Tygers, all of them jacked into BDs, completely unaware of their presence.
When the wannabe corpo bitch lays out her real plan to V, he can only sigh — they should've seen this coming. Maiko wants to officially take Sato's place, using Judy's little revolution as leverage for her own power play with the two Tyger bosses present.
He can see V's torn — stick to Judy's plan as promised, or go with Maiko's option. Sure, it only serves Maiko's interests, but as she points out, it's less likely to bring an entire gang's wrath down on their heads. Two shit options, and fuck if he wants any part of this mess.
V doesn't get much time to deliberate as Maiko pulls the Tyger Claws out of their BDs, showing them footage of Tom and Roxanne neutralizing Cloud security as evidence of Sato's incompetence leading to Woodman's assassination and this attempted coup.
Finally, reluctantly, V agrees to back Maiko — despite Judy screaming through the comm — and one of the Tyger bosses handles Sato personally, running him through with a katana before installing Maiko as Cloud's new manager.
He feels V's gut churning as they leave with Maiko, and when she offers payment for V's support, the merc coldly tells her to buy herself something nice instead, since she only cares about herself anyway.
Judy's furious, tersely telling V to meet her at Jig-Jig Street before cutting comms. With a heavy sigh, V heads for the elevator. During the descent, avoiding his gaze, she asks, "So, not gonna give me shit for what I did? Tell me I should've gunned ‘em all down, middle finger to the powers that be?"
"Nah..." He sighs, her guilt so strong he can feel it as his own. "Shit situation with even shittier outcomes." He gently catches her wrist, thumb tracing circles on her pulse point. "Listen... You made the call that'll probably spare the most collateral damage. Judy's plan was fucked from the start. Don't beat yourself up over it."
"Since when are you the voice of reason?" V attempts a weak smile. "Thought you'd be all for raising hell, consequences be damned."
"Told ya, no good option here." He pulls her closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Someone's gotta keep your hero complex in check."
The elevator doors open to the ground floor, and they step out into Night City's harsh reality, where sometimes there are no good choices — only less bad ones. V leans into Johnny's embrace for a moment longer, drawing strength from his presence before heading out to face the music with Judy.
Outside, rain has started to fall, matching V's mood as she heads to meet the techie. She finds Judy leaning against a railing just across the street, the neon signs reflecting off the wet pavement around her. Her greeting comes with predictable bitterness. “Fuck, V! You just stood there and watched her play us?” She shakes her head, obviously disappointed and angry. “Least you had the decency not to take her eddies.”
“Decided to give her a chance.” V defends herself, crossing her arms against the chill. “Figured you had a reason to take this to her. Seeing as you trusted her, why should I have doubted her?”
“Don’t pin this on me.” She snaps back, her voice sharp as a razor.
“I’m not.” The merc tries to explain, softening her tone. “She knows the harsh realities at Clouds better than I do… Better than you do, even.”
A few moments of tense silence settle between them, until finally, Judy lets out a frustrated sigh. “Fine… Agh, I’m sorry. Got carried away, I…” Her anger seems to deflate, replaced by the kind of tired disillusionment that's all too common in this city. “Just, this ain't how I imagined things panning out. But… guess I should get used to it… Heh, no matter what you do, life’s always gonna throw you a curveball.”
V knows it's a low blow, but she can't help bringing up her next argument. “Evelyn wanted everything in one go too, and… heh, immediately.”
“That’s true.” Judy admits in a breath, the name hanging heavy between them. “I’d always tell her that. Gonna go.” She turns on her heel, water splashing under her sneakers, and says over her shoulder, “Thanks for the help, V. Thank you again.”
“Don’t mention it. See ya around, Judy.” She responds, finally lighting up the cigarette she's been craving since leaving megabuilding H8. "Fuckin’ shit day..." At least the rain stops as she walks to her bike.
Johnny materializes beside her, leaning against the Arch. "Could've gone worse," he offers, watching her take a long drag. "Could've gone a lot worse."
"Yeah?" V exhales smoke into the humid air. "Tell that to the knot in my stomach."
"Better a knot in your stomach than Tyger Claws on our ass," he points out. "Or dolls getting caught in the crossfire. Sometimes the right choice feels like shit — welcome to being a grown-up."
V flips him off, but there's no heat in it. They both know he's right, even if neither of them likes it.
The engine hasn't even fully turned over when V's holo buzzes with a call from El Capitán. Given her current shit mood after the Clouds debacle, she seriously considers letting it ring, but figures whatever gonk scheme the fixer has cooking might be just the distraction she needs.
"Your majesty!" His voice booms through the connection the moment she picks up. "Got a special gig for you, and this one's gonna need your full attention."
"Cap, I'm flattered, but the name's V." She can't help but smile despite herself, the man's theatrical flair never failing to amuse. "Where's this 'majesty' comin' from?"
"What else do I call you?" He asks with his typical flourish, playing up the drama. "Me, your humble servant bringin' you heaps of eddies? I may be El Capitán, but you — you're my queen!"
V laughs genuinely before responding, "Fine, fine. What I gotta do, exactly?"
"Meet at the dam in Santo Domingo." He answers simply. "We'll talk it over, mano a mano." The call ends abruptly, typical of his style. But V doesn't need more than that to get moving.
She weaves through Rancho's crowded streets, taking the winding road up to the dam, letting the wind whip through her hair and carry away some of the day's tension. Almost too soon, she spots the fixer leaning against his car, deep in conversation with his cop pal — Daniels, if she remembers right. As the badge walks away, she approaches just in time to hear El Capitán mutter, "Stubborn ass..." before he turns to her and asks, "Remember Daniels? S'posed to help you with this gig."
"Yeah. Pig who picked up a ride when I dropped by your chop shop." V nods, recalling their brief encounter.
"My garage." The man corrects, more out of habit than anything else. "But yeah, that's him. Anyway, listen up. You're goin' to Corpo Plaza, Arasaka docks. Gonna swipe us a truck haulin' med equipment." He explains, wearing a serious expression V's never seen on him before. "Your backup? Daniels and his buddies from the NCPD. They'll be incognito, dressed as workers. You head on over — Daniels'll be in touch."
Johnny materializes sprawled across the car's hood, chrome arm glinting in the setting sun. "Shit, not a single 'your majesty'." He sounds as thrown by the fixer's demeanor as V feels. "Keeps goin' like this, El Clowno might even get a haircut."
She fights back a smirk at Johnny's commentary and responds, "Great. That all?"
"Mm... If we pull it off, the kids in SanDomo won't have to go through what I did." After a heavy pause where something dark passes behind his eyes, he adds, "Anyway... I need a smoke. Go on, give a choom some space." Then he walks away, returning to his usual spot on the dam's parapet.
"Riiight, where've I heard that one before?" Johnny's sarcastic drawl follows his retreating form. "They all say they want 'space' but what they really wanna hear is 'Muamar, is everything ok?'"
"Projecting, rockerboy?" She asks with a raised eyebrow, catching the undertone in his voice.
"Maybe a little." He admits with a shrug. "Still know what I'm talkin' about. I gotta be your fuckin' empathy coach now too? Choom clearly wants to talk about it, just can't say so."
The comment makes her wonder just how many people in Johnny's life ever bothered to ask if he was okay, to look past the attitude and the anger to the pain underneath. Not enough, clearly. As she passes by him, V squeezes his arm briefly — a small gesture of understanding that says more than words could. His expression softens almost imperceptibly before he follows her towards the fixer, both curious to hear what's weighing so heavily on the usually exuberant El Capitán.
V settles on the wall beside him, watching him smoke before asking gently, “Muamar, somethin’ wrong? Actin’ weirdly, uh, composed.”
“Ah, El Capitán the joker needs a fuckin’ break. He’ll be back…” He tells her with a ghost of his usual smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Then he turns toward Rancho sprawling below them, the setting sun painting the streets in shades of orange and purple. “You know, I grew up here. Me ‘n’ Daniels. Santo fuckin’ Domingo.”
He runs a hand over his face in a gesture of bone-deep weariness, then starts telling V about the district's greatest fear — worse than gangs, worse than cyberpsychos — something as simple as a glass of tap water. The filtration systems fail regularly, and when they do, people get sick. Real sick. All because Arasaka's been dumping their toxic shit into the water supply for years, creating a cascade of health problems that nobody gives a fuck about fixing.
That's why they need that medical truck, he explains. Not just for the supplies themselves, though god knows they need those too, but to show the people of Santo Domingo that someone still gives a damn about them. Hope, he says, can be just as vital as medicine sometimes.
V listens intently, understanding now why this particular job has stripped away El Capitán's usual theatrical facade. This isn't about eddies or reputation — it's personal, a chance to help the neighborhood that raised him but never stopped struggling.
She promises to make sure the job goes smoothly, recognizing how much it means to him. And if it helps her feel better about her own choices today, well, that's just a bonus. She gives the fixer's shoulder a compassionate pat before heading back to her bike, the engine's roar echoing off the dam as she takes off toward the docks.
By the time she reaches her destination, Night City has transformed into its nocturnal self. She easily spots Daniels despite his worker disguise, and his passive-aggressive briefing makes her roll her eyes, but she lets it slide. After all, this job means as much to him as it does to El Capitán. The plan seems straightforward enough — infiltrate, locate the truck without being spotted, steal it, then floor it to the meeting point without damaging the precious cargo. Nothing she hasn't done before.
Under cover of darkness, infiltrating the ship proves almost disappointingly simple. A camera to disable here, a guard to avoid there — basic merc work. The black Behemoth truck stands out like a sore thumb, Arasaka logos gleaming under the harsh dock lights. That was the easy part. The moment she starts that engine, the whole place will light up like a Christmas tree. Still, her job is just to get the meds to their destination, Daniels and his men will handle keeping the guards off her tail.
She activates her optical camo and opens the door silently, buying precious seconds before chaos erupts. Her visual interface displays the fastest route to her destination — she's memorized every turn, knowing once she starts, there'll be no time for hesitation. Taking a deep breath, letting the calm before the storm settle in her bones, she turns the key.
The engine's roar shatters the night's relative peace. Guards immediately open fire, bullets pinging off the armored hull like angry hornets. Daniels' voice crackles through the comm, telling her to get the fuck out, fast. The situation's about to get worse by the second, so V floors it without a second thought, the massive truck responding with surprising agility.
She tears down the waterfront road, the vehicle's weight making it drift dangerously on the wet asphalt. When she turns toward the bridge to Arroyo, she finds an improvised Arasaka blockade — vehicles lined across the road like a wall of steel and chrome. Their mistake — the Behemoth she's driving is a genuine tank. Instead of braking, she aims for the narrow gap between two car hoods. The impact sends them flying aside like toys, and she feels a grim satisfaction at the crunch of metal and the scream of a guard who wasn't quick enough to move.
Before they can regroup, she's vanished into the maze of side streets, the truck's bulk somehow adding to its intimidating presence as she weaves through the narrow passages. Minutes later, after ensuring no tail, she pulls into the fixer's garage parking lot and climbs down from the cab, adrenaline still singing in her veins.
She enters the building to find El Capitán already waiting, perched on his car's hood. The usual theatrical flair is gone from his posture, replaced by something heavier, darker. "Ah, you're here... Good, I guess." He turns to his lone employee. "Mickey, check the gear, dump the truck."
His unusually somber demeanor sets off warning bells in V's mind. Something's wrong — the victory feels hollow, tainted. "What about Daniels? He contact you?"
His face falls further, aging years in seconds. "Daniels is dead."
Fuck. Sure, the cop was a real dickhead, but he was still the fixer's childhood friend, and he'd joined this mission hoping to help his community. "Look, I'm sorry." V rubs her arm uncomfortably, guilt gnawing at her edges. Maybe if she hadn't booked it from the docks so fast, maybe if she'd stayed to help... "Whole gig was to protect the gear, but..."
"An' ya did good. Daniels woulda said the same." He tries to reassure her, though his voice lacks its usual energy. "Thanks to you, we'll help a shit ton of chooms — think you deserve a little somethin'." He hands her the key card to the car parked next to his, managing a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Whip there's all yours. Bubbly next to it, too... sorta planned on a happier endin' y'know? Anyway, thanks V. For everything."
"Thanks, Cap'." She grabs the champagne bottle, its presence now feeling almost inappropriate, and turns back one last time before climbing into her new ride. "Take care."
Behind the wheel of her new Herrera Outlaw — and fuck, this thing's a real beast, its integrated weapons system making it a war machine disguised as a luxury sports limo — V leaves the garage and heads for Heywood. The night air whips through the open windows as she pushes the engine, trying to outrun the day's events. Another death, another reminder of Night City's cruel nature. But at least this time, something good might come out of it — medical supplies for those who need them most. It's not much comfort, but in this city, you take what you can get.
On her way home, she makes a quick stop for pizza, the neon sign of the 24/7 joint casting red shadows across her face. Finally back in her apartment, she forces down a few slices without much appetite, the day's events having killed any real desire for food. After stuffing the leftovers in the fridge, she makes a beeline for the shower, letting the hot water wash away the grime and tension of the day. She throws on her favorite worn pajamas and collapses onto her bed with a heavy sigh that seems to come from her very soul.
Johnny sprawls next to her, his weight familiar and comforting on the mattress. "Your brain's workin' overtime again. Can practically hear the gears grindin' from here." He turns on his side to face her, dark eyes studying her face. "What's eatin' at ya, princess? Still torn up about Clouds, or is it Daniels?"
"Both?" V runs a hand over her face. "Fuck, Johnny. Whole day's been one giant clusterfuck after another. Can't help thinkin' maybe if I'd stayed back there at the docks..."
"What? You'd be dead too?" He scoffs. "Real helpful."
"That's not what I—"
"Listen up," he props himself on an elbow, voice serious. "Tonight showed you exactly how shit goes down in this city. Even the best intentions, the noblest causes — they get people killed. If you'd gone through with Judy's plan at Clouds..."
"The dolls would've paid the price eventually," V finishes quietly, understanding dawning. "Tyger Claws would've made an example of ‘em."
"Bingo. And they wouldn't have been quick about it either." He reaches out, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear. "Besides, with those meds you lifted for the Santo kids? You tilted the scales toward something’ better today. Gotta count for something in whatever moral accountin' system you're runnin' in that head of yours."
She nestles against him, letting out a shaky breath. "Maybe you're right."
"'Course I'm right." His fingers card through her hair soothingly. "Now stop beatin' yourself up. All that negative shit's just fuel for nightmares, and you need some actual rest."
V hums in agreement, already feeling sleep tugging at her edges. As she drifts off in Johnny's arms, the day's weight finally begins to lift, replaced by the simple comfort of not being alone.
V's sleep starts peaceful enough, but suddenly she's falling, that sickening lurch in her stomach that comes with dreams. Only she doesn't wake up when she hits bottom — instead, she slams into another consciousness, another time. The transition is so violent it takes her breath away. One moment she's herself, the next she's him — a scared kid lost in the green hell of Nicaragua, 2003. The memory wraps around her like a second skin, and she feels the phantom weight of dog tags that aren't hers pressing against her chest.
Johnny had lied his way into the army, using his height and build to pass for seventeen. The recruitment officer had barely glanced at his forged papers — they needed bodies for the meat grinder, and Johnny was tall, strong, and eager to prove himself. Now, experiencing his memories, V feels how that eagerness has been stripped away by weeks in this endless green nightmare.
The jungle is a living, breathing entity that seems determined to swallow them whole. Walls of vegetation stretch endlessly in every direction, creating a claustrophobic maze of green and shadow. The canopy above is so dense that only occasional shafts of sunlight penetrate, creating an eternal twilight where the line between day and night blurs. Through Johnny's young eyes, everything seems bigger, more threatening — the jungle itself becomes a monster waiting to devour them.
"Keep up, Rob!" Tommy calls back softly, his dark skin gleaming with sweat as he hacks through a particularly dense patch of vegetation. At seventeen — actually seventeen — he seems impossibly mature to Johnny's eyes, a beacon of confidence in this hostile environment. V, experiencing this through the lens of her adult understanding, recognizes the strain in Tommy's voice, the barely concealed fear he's hiding for Johnny's sake. He's the only one who knows Johnny's real age, a secret shared during a late-night guard duty when the weight of pretending became too heavy to bear alone.
V feels Johnny's exhaustion bone-deep as he follows Tommy's lead. The standard-issue boots, a size too big and wrapped with extra socks, make each step a challenge. They've been separated from their unit for hours now, after an enemy ambush scattered their squad like leaves in the wind. The constant humidity makes their fatigues stick to their skin, and every breath feels like drowning. Their boots sink ankle-deep into ground that never quite dries, making each step a battle against the hungry earth.
"If we ever find base again," Johnny mutters, swatting at the cloud of mosquitoes that seems to follow them everywhere. His arms — both still flesh, both still his — ache from carrying his rifle. V feels the phantom sensation of his future metal arm, a strange double awareness that makes the memory even more disorienting. "Pretty sure we're going in circles, Sarge is gonna have our asses."
Tommy's laugh is quiet but genuine. "Have some faith, little man. Got us this far, didn't I?" He pauses to check their compass again, frowning slightly. "Though I gotta admit, all this green shit's starting to look the same."
V feels Johnny's small smile at the nickname, Tommy's been looking out for him since basic training, treating him like a little brother instead of the burden most others consider him. When he discovered Johnny's real age, instead of reporting him, he just swore to watch his back even closer. "Can't let my baby brother get hurt out here," he'd said, only half-joking. V recognizes the weight of responsibility Tommy took on — just a kid himself, trying to protect an even younger kid in this hellhole.
The air is thick with the sickly-sweet smell of rotting vegetation and flowering vines. Unseen creatures rustle in the underbrush, and somewhere in the distance, a bird calls out a warning that neither of them understands. Their canteens are running low — they're always running low — and the metallic taste of warm water does little to ease their thirst. V can feel how Johnny's young body is already showing signs of dehydration, though his teenage pride won't let him complain.
"Think the others made it?" Johnny asks, trying to keep his voice steady despite the fear that's been gnawing at him since the ambush separated them from their unit. V feels his throat tighten around the words, recognizing the same forced casualness she uses when she's terrified but trying to play it cool.
Tommy turns back, his usual easy smile softening. "Course they did. Bunch of tough sons of bitches, our boys. We'll probably find them waiting at the rendezvous point, talkin’ shit about how we took the scenic route."
V feels Johnny's gratitude for the lie — because they both know some of those ‘tough sons of bitches’ didn't make it out of the ambush. The image of Private Martinez taking that bullet to the throat is still fresh in Johnny's mind, along with the horrible wet sounds he made as he died.
The jungle suddenly goes quiet. The constant buzz of insects cuts off as if someone flipped a switch. The birds fall silent. Even the air seems to still. V recognizes the danger signs a split second before Johnny's younger self processes them, creating a strange double-surge of adrenaline.
Tommy freezes mid-step, and V feels Johnny's heart skip a beat as they both recognize the warning signs. Something's wrong. Something's very wrong. "Get down!" Tommy hisses, dropping into a crouch. V feels Johnny's body respond automatically, muscle memory from endless drills taking over as he presses himself against the wet earth. The rich, rotting smell of the jungle floor fills his nostrils, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers the sharp edges of stones digging into his chest. His too-big fatigues are soaked through instantly, but he doesn't dare move to find a more comfortable position.
They wait, barely breathing, as the silence stretches. Through Johnny's young eyes, V sees Tommy scanning the dense foliage, his usual easy smile replaced by the focused intensity of a trained soldier. Despite his age, Tommy's already earned a reputation as one of the best scouts in their unit.
A twig snaps somewhere to their left. Tommy's hand signals are sharp and clear: 'Multiple hostiles. Northwest. Stay low.'
V feels Johnny's fingers tighten around his rifle, knuckles white with tension. His heart's hammering so hard he's sure the enemy must hear it. Sweat trickles down his spine, and a mosquito lands on his neck, but he doesn't dare move to swat it away.
The voices, when they come, are distant but clear enough - speaking rapid Spanish that Johnny only partially understands. V catches fragments through his memories: "...separados del grupo..." — ...separated from the group… — "...tienen que estar por aquí..." — ...must be around here…
Tommy's eyes meet Johnny's, and there's a silent conversation in that look. They're outnumbered, lost, and running low on ammo. Their best bet is to stay hidden, let the patrol pass, then make a break for it in the opposite direction. But the voices are getting closer.
The jungle's stillness breaks with the distinctive sound of a radio crackling to life. Through the static, they hear coordinates being relayed — coordinates too close to their position for comfort. "Shit," Tommy breathes, barely audible. "Rob, on my mark, we're gonna—"
The first mortar round cuts him off, screaming through the air with that distinctive whistle that will haunt Johnny's nightmares for years to come. V feels his entire body tense, animal instinct screaming at him to run, but training keeps him frozen in place.
The explosion hits somewhere behind them, close enough to shower them with dirt and debris. The relative silence of the jungle shatters into chaos — birds taking flight, monkeys screaming in the canopy, and underneath it all, the sound of men shouting orders in Spanish.
"MOVE!" Tommy shouts, and suddenly they're running, branches whipping at their faces as they crash through the underbrush. V feels the burn in Johnny's lungs, his boots slipping in the mud, each desperate stride carrying the awkward momentum of a body that hasn't quite grown into itself yet. The sound of automatic weapons fire erupts behind them, and V recognizes what Johnny couldn't — the methodical way the bullets are herding them, not trying to kill but to drive them exactly where the enemy wants them.
The second mortar hits closer, and the world goes sideways. V feels Johnny's body lift off the ground, that sickening moment of weightlessness as the blast wave tosses him like a child's toy. Through Johnny's eyes, she sees Tommy's mouth open in a warning that's lost in the deafening roar. They're both airborne, surrounded by dirt and shrapnel and pieces of jungle.
The impact drives every molecule of air from Johnny's lungs. His head cracks against something solid, and copper floods his mouth. The ringing in his ears drowns everything into a high-pitched whine. V feels his disorientation, the way the world spins and blurs as his fifteen-year-old brain tries to process what's happening.
"ROB!" Tommy's voice seems to come from underwater. "GET UP! WE GOTTA—"
The third explosion is different. Closer. More focused. V sees what Johnny missed in that moment — the distinctive pineapple shape of the grenade, the way Tommy's eyes widen in recognition, his body already moving to shield his younger friend.
Then the world becomes nothing but white-hot agony.
The pain transcends anything V has ever experienced. Through Johnny's shock-wide eyes, she watches as his left arm becomes a nightmare of shredded meat and splintered bone. The grenade's blast has turned everything below his shoulder into a grotesque puzzle — some parts completely vaporized, others hanging by threads of mangled muscle and torn skin. Blood doesn't just flow — it pulses out in arterial spurts from places where flesh used to be, each terrified heartbeat pumping more life onto the jungle floor. Through the gore and confusion, Johnny can't even tell what's still attached and what isn't anymore. Shrapnel has torn through muscle and bone like a meat grinder, leaving nothing recognizable. The pain is beyond screaming, beyond thought — it's like being struck by lightning while freezing to death, every nerve ending shrieking in confused agony.
"No, no, no..." Tommy's voice cracks as he fights to apply a tourniquet around what's left of Johnny's upper arm, his dark hands slick and clumsy with blood. Fragments of bone protrude through shredded muscle, and pieces of what used to be Johnny's forearm are scattered in a red mist across the undergrowth. "Stay with me!"
The gunfire is getting closer. Tommy tries to drag him to cover, but Johnny's nothing but dead weight, his remaining hand weakly clutching blood-soaked fatigues. The pain radiates in waves that threaten to drown him. "Tommy," he manages to gasp, "run... just..."
"Shut the fuck up," Tommy cuts him off, tears cutting clean tracks through the dirt and blood on his face. "Ain't leaving you! Not gonna happen."
The sniper's round catches Tommy in the back of the head with a wet thunk that V knows will echo in Johnny's nightmares forever. His body jerks, and V feels Johnny's horror as chunks of skull and grey matter spray across his face, hot and wet. Those kind, dark eyes go instantly vacant, rolling back as Tommy collapses forward. The weight of his body drives Johnny into the mud, and the blood — Christ, there's so much blood, hot and thick and everywhere, mixing with the jungle soil that seems eager to drink it all in.
"Tommy?" Johnny's voice sounds strange, distant, like it's coming from someone else's throat. "Hey... hey, get up. Please get up." But Tommy's dead weight pins him down, still warm but growing heavier by the second as life leaves him. Something wet and grey slides down Johnny's chest — he realizes with mounting horror that it's pieces of Tommy's brain. The jungle insects are already starting to investigate, drawn by the copper smell and the promise of fresh meat. Johnny tries to push Tommy's body off with his remaining arm, but he's too weak, the blood loss making everything spin.
"I'm sorry," he whispers to the ruin of his friend's face, tears cutting clean tracks through the gore coating his cheeks. "I'm so fuckin’ sorry."
The last thing V feels before the memory mercifully fades is Johnny's broken realization: he's fifteen years old, he's missing an arm, his best friend's cooling corpse is crushing him, and he's going to die here in this green hell, thousands of miles from home.
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The memory shifts, fragments. White lights, antiseptic smell, beeping machines. V feels Johnny swimming back to consciousness through a haze of military-grade painkillers, his young mind struggling to separate reality from the nightmare images of the jungle.
The infirmary is all sharp edges and cold steel, nothing like the suffocating warmth of the jungle. Johnny blinks, trying to focus. His left side feels wrong, lighter, empty — and then the phantom pain hits. It's like lightning trapped under skin that isn't there anymore, burning agony racing along nerve endings that end in nothing. He can feel his missing fingers cramping, can swear his nonexistent wrist is being twisted backwards. When he turns his head to look, the movement sends a wave of nausea through him.
His arm is just... gone. Bandages wrap around what's left of his shoulder, already showing spots of red seeping through. The sight doesn't feel real — like he's watching it happen to someone else. He tries to wiggle fingers that don't exist, and the phantom sensation intensifies into white-hot needles stabbing through ghost flesh.
"Ah, you're awake." The doctor doesn't look up from his datapad, his voice as sterile as the room. "Private Linder, correct? Robert? Multiple trauma, class three hemorrhage, extensive tissue damage with complete traumatic amputation of the left upper extremity."
Johnny tries to speak, but his throat feels like sandpaper. His mouth tastes like copper and bile. The doctor continues without waiting for an answer, reading from his screen with mechanical efficiency. "Your patrol found you twelve minutes post-incident. Private Thomas Nauman — KIA." He delivers Tommy's death in two syllables, like swatting a fly. "You were fortunate. A few more minutes and exsanguination would have been inevitable."
V feels Johnny's heart shatter. His hand moves unconsciously to his dog tags, fingers finding them crusted with Tommy's dried blood. The metallic tang of it hits his nose and suddenly he's back there, feeling Tommy's warm blood and brain matter sliding down his chest. Tommy can't be dead. He was just there, just calling him 'little man', just promising they'd make it back together. Johnny starts to dry heave.
"Try to remain still," the doctor says, irritation creeping into his clinical tone. "You'll compromise the sutures and risk secondary hemorrhage."
"Fuck you," Johnny manages to gasp between heaves, tears streaming down his face. The phantom pain spikes, his nonexistent fingers clawing at nothing. "Fuck you, he was my friend, he was—"
"He was a soldier, and soldiers die." The doctor cuts him off coldly, adjusting something on his monitor. "We'll be fitting you with a Mark IV military-grade prosthetic. Basic functionality, neural interface compatible. Standard protocol indicates return to active duty within five to seven days."
Combat-ready. The words hit Johnny like physical blows. They're going to stick a piece of chrome where his arm used to be and throw him right back into the meat grinder. Like Tommy isn't lying in some body bag somewhere, tagged and catalogued like a piece of equipment. Like they didn't just send two kids into that green hell and only got one broken one back.
"I can't," Johnny chokes out, his remaining hand clutching at the sheets. The phantom pain is unbearable now, electricity racing through nerves that end in empty air. "I can't go back, I can't—"
The confession hangs in the air for a moment. The doctor's expression doesn't change as he notes something on his datapad. "Administering 15cc of Trauma-Stop," he says, as if Johnny hadn't spoken at all. "Rest while you can. The neural calibration process has an 82% success rate, but patient discomfort is... significant."
V feels the drugs hit Johnny's system like a tidal wave, dragging him under. His last conscious thoughts are a jumbled mess of Tommy's laugh, the wet sound of the bullet hitting his skull, the feeling of his blood mixing with Johnny's in the hungry jungle soil, and the horrible certainty that he'll never be whole again.
The darkness takes him, but it doesn't bring peace. In his drug-induced dreams, Tommy keeps dying, over and over, while Johnny watches with an arm that isn't there anymore, in a jungle that never stops bleeding.
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The fluorescent lights flicker and buzz, and V can't stop staring at Johnny's reflection. Despite his age, he's already tall and well-built — a young man rather than a boy, with broad shoulders and defined features she knows so well. But that hair — Jesus fucking Christ, that hair. Dirty blonde strands plastered to his forehead with fever-sweat, nothing like the pitch black she's used to. It's such a mindfuck that V would laugh if the situation wasn't so fucked up, if she couldn't feel the waves of agony radiating through him. His skin is strange too — unmarked, no tattoos yet, just angry red surgery scars and the military chrome's connection ports looking raw and alien against his flesh.
He braces himself against the sink with his flesh hand, knuckles white against the cold porcelain. The military docs called it a 'standard adjustment period', which is complete bullshit — it's pure torture, the cheap chrome fighting against his body like it's trying to tear itself free. V feels the constant burning where metal meets flesh, neural connectors feeling like they're filled with acid, sending white-hot spikes of pain through his shoulder with every heartbeat. This prosthetic is nothing like the silver arm she knows. This one's pure military surplus, dull grey with exposed joints and visible hydraulics, looking more like a piece of factory equipment than a limb. The fingers move with a grinding whir that makes her teeth ache, and she can smell burnt ozone every time it spasms.
"This is fuckin’ bullshit," he chokes out, voice cracking with pain and rage. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth — he's been biting his cheek raw to keep from screaming. Despite the agony twisting his features, those deep brown eyes are exactly the same — already holding that familiar mix of fury and defiance V knows so well, but now glazed with unshed tears. Dark circles underneath them tell of nights spent screaming into his pillow as his body fights the cheap chrome they've grafted to him.
Tommy's dogtags dig into his palm until blood wells up around the edges. The pain is good. Real. Better than the phantom agony of an arm that isn't there anymore, better than the memory of Tommy's blood soaking into his clothes, better than the endless echo of that final gunshot that took his friend's life.
His mind is already racing, planning through the haze of pain. V can feel him mentally mapping out the infirmary — the night shift changes at 23:00, security's lightest between then and midnight. The meds they keep pushing on him made him drowsy at first, but he's been palming them, stashing them under his mattress like precious contraband. They think he's docile, compliant. Their fucking mistake.
The chrome arm spasms again, servos grinding like broken glass, fingers clenching involuntarily. Johnny doubles over, bile rising in his throat as white-hot pain shoots through his shoulder and down his spine. When he straightens up, his reflection shows something that finally looks familiar to V — that pure, undiluted rage she knows so well burning in those brown eyes, transforming his young face into something dangerous. "Buncha army cocksuckers think they can just slap some cheap-ass chrome on me and throw me back in?" His laugh is bitter, already carrying that edge of cynicism she knows will only grow sharper with time. "Gonna show these sons of bitches what happens when you corner a rabid dog."
Night City. Tommy used to talk about it during those long jungle nights, his voice full of pride and longing — the city of broken dreams where his old man patches up mercs and gangsters in some back-alley clinic. "Best damn ripper in Rancho," Tommy would say, grinning that easy grin Johnny will never see again. "Real artist with chrome. Not like these military butchers."
V feels Johnny's fingers tighten around the dogtags until fresh blood mingles with Tommy's dried one, dripping onto the pristine white tile floor. He has to tell Tommy's father the truth — how his son died protecting a fifteen-year-old kid who had no business being in that jungle. How he was a hero until the very end. How Johnny's sorry, so fucking sorry, that he got Tommy killed.
"Need new papers," he mutters, already thinking ahead, the tactical mind they trained into him now turning against them. "Robert Linder's dead meat. Time to be somebody else." His eyes drift to the motor pool visible through the bathroom window — mostly transport trucks and a few bikes gleaming under the security lights. V feels a grin spread across his face that's pure Johnny — reckless and wild, a glimpse of the man he'll become. "Been eyein' those bikes for a while now. 'Bout time I learn to ride."
The chrome fingers twitch again, sending another wave of nausea through him, but Johnny barely notices the pain now. He's too busy planning his escape, his mind already racing ahead to hot-wiring a bike, burning rubber down dark roads, leaving this whole fucked-up war in his dust. "I'm blowin' this shithole," he promises his reflection, voice raw with pain and determination. "Tonight. These bastards ain't getting another fuckin' drop of my blood."
V feels his resolve harden into something dangerous and unbreakable. He's getting out. He's taking Tommy's tags to Night City. And someday, somehow, he's going to make every single bastard responsible for this pay.
The flickering lights cast shadows across his face that make him look older, harder. For a moment, V sees the man he'll become — the rockerboy who'll burn half the city down, who'll make corps bleed for what they've done. It starts here, in this sterile bathroom, with a broken kid and a dead friend's dogtags cutting into his palm. The birth of Johnny Silverhand, written in blood on white tile floor.
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The clinic is dead silent except for the soft hum of ancient medical equipment and the irregular flicker of neon bleeding through grimy windows. The place reeks of antiseptic and machine oil, that distinctive mix V knows from every ripper clinic in Night City. Exposed wiring snakes across the ceiling, and the worn leather of the operating chair has been patched so many times it looks like a jigsaw puzzle.
V watches as Milt Nauman clutches his son's dogtags, his weathered hands trembling slightly. He's younger than in that memory she saw — but there's that same gentle steadiness about him that she remembers from the night he patched up a furious Johnny after Alt's abduction. The harsh neon casts shadows across his face, highlighting the new lines grief has carved there.
Johnny swipes roughly at his eyes with his flesh hand, trying to hide the tears that threaten to spill. His chrome arm is tucked close to his body, a defensive posture he probably doesn't even realize he's using. His voice is hoarse from telling Tommy's story. "I'm sorry," he manages, the words catching in his throat. "Should've been me. He shouldn't have—"
"Stop," Milt cuts him off, voice firm but kind. "You're what, fifteen? Sixteen? Christ, you're just a kid." He sets the tags carefully on his workbench, next to a scattered array of chrome and tech that looks leagues better than Johnny's military-grade garbage. "The ones who should be sorry are the bastards who sent children to fight their war."
Another spasm hits Johnny's prosthetic arm, making him hiss in pain and stumble back against the wall. Milt's eyes narrow, professional concern replacing grief for a moment. "Let me take a look at that piece of shit they stuck you with."
"S'fine," Johnny tries to brush it off, but flinches hard when the arm twitches again. Milt's already moving closer, experienced hands examining where chrome meets flesh.
"The hell it is. Military surplus garbage — they didn't even bother with proper nerve alignment." His fingers probe gently around the connection point. "No wonder you're in pain. This kind of chrome rejection could kill you if it's not fixed."
V feels Johnny tense, remembering countless military docs poking and prodding without giving a shit how much it hurt. But Milt's touch is careful, professional. When he hits a particularly sensitive spot and Johnny jerks away, he immediately pulls back.
"Sorry, kid. Won't hurt you more than necessary." He steps back, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I can help. Get you set up with something better, something that won't feel like it's trying to tear itself out every time you move."
Johnny stares at him, suspicious and wary like a beaten street kid, shoulders hunched and ready to bolt. "Why? You don't know me from shit. I just told you I got your son flatlined."
"You didn't kill my boy," Milt says quietly, turning to grab a diagnostic scanner from his workbench. "War killed him. Same war that tried to kill you." He runs the scanner over Johnny's arm, frowning at the readings. "And Tommy..." his voice catches slightly, but he pushes through. "He'd have kicked my ass if I let his friend suffer with this garbage chrome."
Another spasm hits, making Johnny's fingers twitch violently. "Fuck!" he snarls through clenched teeth, doubling over. The smell of burning electronics fills the air.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." Milt's voice is tight with anger — not at Johnny, but at what's been done to him. "Military docs didn't even bother with basic maintenance protocols. Just slapped it on and sent you back out." He sets the scanner down with more force than necessary, making Johnny jump. "Fuckin’ butchers."
Johnny's laugh is bitter, edged with pain. "Cheaper to replace a dead soldier than waste good chrome on one that might die anyway, right?"
"That stops now." Milt's tone brooks no argument. "I've got some decent spec stuff in the back. Nothing fancy, but it won't try to kill you either. Could have you fixed up in a couple days."
V feels Johnny's hesitation, the ingrained distrust warring with desperate need. His flesh hand unconsciously moves to touch the military chrome, fingers tracing the crude joint connections. "Can't pay," he admits finally, voice rough. "Spent all my eddies gettin’ here."
Milt waves that off like it's nothing. "Tommy used to tell me about this crazy gonk kid who had his back out there. Said you were the best shot in the unit, saved his ass more times than he could count." His voice softens, and he reaches out slowly to squeeze Johnny's good shoulder. "Let me do this for you. For him."
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
V jerks awake with a choked sob, tears already streaming down her face, tangled in sweat-damp sheets. The memories are still so vivid — that lost, broken kid with fever-bright eyes and blonde hair, trying so hard not to scream from the pain. Johnny's arms tighten around her immediately, flesh and chrome both solid and real as he pulls her closer against his chest. The familiar scent of cigarettes, leather and gun oil wraps around her like a shield.
"Hey, hey... s'okay," he murmurs into her hair, voice rough with concern. "Just memories. Ancient history, don't mean shit anymore." But V can feel the slight tremor in his hands as he holds her, his skin burning hot against hers in the cool darkness of the bedroom.
She turns in his arms, pressing her face into his neck as the sobs wrack her body, her tears hot against his skin. "You were just a fuckin' kid, Johnny. Just a kid... those bastards didn't even fucking care..."
"Ah, shit." His hand moves in soothing circles on her back, trying to ground her. "M'sorry you had to see all that shit. Prolly that fuckin' oath Myers tried to push on you bringin’ this crap up." His voice takes on a harder edge, old rage mixing with fresh protectiveness. "Glad you told her to fuck right off. You're smarter than I was — knew better than to trust those government cocksuckers."
V clutches at him harder, fingers digging into his skin like she's afraid he'll disappear. "Fifteen... you were fifteen, for fuck's sake. They sent a child to war and then just... just bolted that fuckin' thing on you and left you screaming..." Another sob tears through her. "And Tommy... oh fuck, Johnny..."
"Shhhh." Johnny presses his lips to her temple, his own voice rougher than usual. "Don't cry for that gonk kid, V. Little shit who thought lying 'bout his age to play soldier was a good idea." His arms tighten around her possessively, chrome and flesh equally warm against her skin. "That kid was fucked six ways from Sunday long before the war. Running from a different kind of battlefield back home."
"Johnny..." She pulls back enough to look at him through tear-filled eyes, reaching up to touch his face in the dim light filtering through the blinds.
"Mean it." He wipes her tears away with his thumb, letting her see the truth in his eyes. "That kid died in the jungle with Tommy. But all that shit — the war, Tommy, that fuckin' arm, every bit of it — shaped me. Made me strong enough to fight the real enemy later." His voice softens. "Made me who I needed to be."
V traces the lines of his face with trembling fingers. "I just... seeing you like that... so young and in so much pain..."
"Listen to me." He catches her hand, pressing it against his chest where she can feel his heartbeat, even if it technically shouldn’t exist, strong and steady under her palm. "That pain made me who I am. That kid had to die so I could become someone who'd burn it all down, someone who'd fight back."
Johnny flexes his silver fingers against her back, the metal catching the dim light. V knows every scratch, every dent in that chrome — the slight scuff on the knuckles from countless fights, the almost invisible maker's mark near the wrist, the way the plates shift so smoothly together. "See this?" His voice gets softer, trying to pull her out of those painful memories. "Milt found it for me — way better than that military garbage."
V's tears slowly quiet as she watches the smooth movement of the chrome digits. Johnny spreads them wide, then curls them into a fist. "Funny thing is, can't imagine myself without it anymore. Became part of me, y'know?" He lets out a small laugh. "Hell, sometimes I forget which arm's the real one. Both feel just as much 'me' now."
He brings the metal hand up between them, letting her trace the intricate joints and plates she knows as well as her own body. "Used to hate it. Hate what it meant, what they did to me. But now?" The chrome fingers intertwine with hers, warm from his body heat. "Wouldn't feel like myself without it. It's not just some piece of tech anymore — it's Johnny fuckin' Silverhand's arm."
His voice takes on that familiar cocky tone, trying to make her smile. "Besides, comes in pretty handy for all sorts of shit. Playin' guitar… And other things." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, metal fingers squeezing hers gently.
V's watery laugh is exactly what he was hoping for, her body finally starting to relax against his. Johnny grins, brushing a strand of hair from her face with his chrome hand. "C'mon, out with it. Know you're dyin' to say somethin' about the hair. Get it outta your system 'fore you burst."
"Holy shit, Johnny," V manages through her remaining sniffles, actually smiling now. "That fuckin' hair! All shaggy and golden... You looked like one of those pretty boys from those ancient beach flicks!"
"Oh fuck you," he groans, but there's no heat in it. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Natural dirty-blonde, if you're so goddamn curious. Darkened up some with age, but... And yeah, it was a whole... clusterfuck back then." He gestures vaguely around his head. "Kept fallin' in my face durin' combat training. Sergeants rode my ass about it constantly."
V wipes her eyes, grinning now. "But you still wouldn't cut it, you stubborn gonk."
"Hell no. Only way I could tell those fuckers to eat shit back then." He runs his flesh hand through his current black locks. "First thing I did after deserting though? Grabbed the darkest dye I could find. Needed to look different, but also..." He smirks. "Can't exactly scream 'fuck the system' lookin' like some surfer boy from Pacifica. Nobody takes your terrorist manifestos seriously."
V reaches up to tug playfully at a strand of his hair, her earlier distress almost forgotten. "Bet you'd still look cute as a blonde. Like one of those boy band dudes from the 2000s."
"'Cute' ain't exactly what I was aimin' for," Johnny grumbles, but his eyes are soft as he watches her mood lift. "Was going more for 'dangerous terrorist sex god,' if you gotta know. Besides," he adds with exaggerated offense, "I've seen those ancient boy bands. Bunch of corpo-bred pussies who wouldn't know real rock if it kicked 'em in the balls."
"Aw, come on," V teases, fully grinning now. "You could've been Johnny Silver-blonde, teen heartthrob sensation. Makin’ all the corpo girls cream their fancy panties with your perfectly styled golden locks."
"Jesus fuck," Johnny groans, rolling his eyes. "And here I thought you actually respected me. Next thing you'll be suggesting I should've worn those sparkly jumpsuits."
"Now there's a mental image!" V's actually giggling now, tears long forgotten. "The great Johnny Silverhand in sequins and glitter..."
"That's it." He moves lightning-fast, using his weight to pin her to the bed while she laughs harder. "You're officially banned from seein' any more of my memories. Can't be trusted with this shit."
The laughter dies in their throats as they suddenly become very aware of their position — Johnny's weight pressing her into the mattress, her hands still tangled in his hair, their faces close enough that she can feel his breath on her lips. The playful atmosphere evaporates like water on hot chrome, replaced by something electric, dangerous. V's breath catches as Johnny's teasing smirk transforms into something darker, hungrier. His flesh hand tightens instinctively where it grips her hip, thumb sliding under the hem of her shirt to stroke bare skin. The metal one slides up to cradle her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone in a touch so gentle it makes her heart ache.
For what feels like an eternity, they balance on that knife's edge. It would be so easy to close that final inch between them, to lose themselves in each other and forget about the ticking clock hanging over their heads. To pretend, just for a while, that they have all the time in the world. Johnny's eyes flick down to her parted lips, and V feels herself arch up slightly, unconsciously seeking more contact. The hand on her hip flexes, and she can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.
But they don't have time. They never fucking did.
With a sound that's half groan, half curse, Johnny rolls off her, pulling her against his chest instead. His chrome arm wraps around her waist, keeping her close but safe, the metal plates warm against her skin through the thin fabric of her top. They both pretend not to notice how ragged their breathing is, how their hearts are racing in sync.
"Y'know," he says roughly, voice still heavy with something more than amusement, "almost no one knows about the blonde thing anymore. Kerry does — gonk used to help me redo my roots sometimes, bitchin’ the whole fuckin’ time about how I was getting dye all over his fancy-ass bathroom tiles. And maybe Spider, if she's still kickin' somewhere..."
"Hold up." V props herself up on an elbow, grateful for the distraction from her still-racing heart and the solid warmth of his body pressed against hers. "You're telling me even Rogue doesn't know? The queen of Night City intel herself?"
"Fuck no." Johnny's laugh is still a bit strained, his flesh hand absently stroking her hip. "Tell a soul about this and I'll make your life a living hell, princess."
"Or what, Goldilocks?" She grins, deliberately ignoring how his eyes darken at the word 'princess.'
"Don't you fuckin' dare, I mean it—"
"What's wrong, sunshine?" V's practically giggling now, the remaining tension dissolving into genuine mirth. "Not feeling very... bright today?"
Johnny groans dramatically, covering his face with his metal hand. The chrome catches the dim light. "Starting to miss when you were cryin', y’know that? Least you weren't such a pain in my ass."
"Aw, don't be like that, buttercup. You're positively glowing."
"Will literally pay you to stop. Name your fuckin' price, I'm good for it."
"Whatever you say..." She pauses for effect, grinning wickedly. "Blondie."
"That's it, you little shit." He pulls her back down with both arms, trapping her against his chest. His voice drops to a low rumble that she feels more than hears, sending heat straight through her. "You're going to sleep now before I find a way to shut that smart mouth of yours up."
"Kinky," V mumbles against his skin, still grinning despite the shiver his tone sends down her spine. She settles more comfortably against him, head tucked under his chin. "Night night, golden boy."
"I hate you so fuckin' much right now," he grumbles, but his arms tighten around her protectively, chrome and flesh working in perfect sync to keep her close. She feels him press a quick kiss to the top of her head, his breath warm in her hair. They drift off together, both pretending they don't feel the weight of unsaid words between them, or the lingering electricity from moments before. Pretending they have more time than they do.
Notes:
Message thread generator HTML/CSS by Luvwich ! Have fun with it here ♥
Lot of bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song: Rage against the machine - Know Your Enemy
• Author's rambling: Holy shit, I loved writing that part about baby Johnny in the war, been wanting to include that in the story for ages (Yeah, I might've watched Full Metal Jacket one too many times, can you tell?) Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
And for those wondering where we are in the story - we're slowly getting to the end of... part one. Which will loop back to where we were in the prologue. Less than ten chapters to go, I promise. Yeah, I know this story's moving slow as fuck haha. And after that... part two. The post game. Can't fucking wait to share that with you!
xoxo, see you next time ♥
Chapter 22: Gone Away
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Goro is back, yaaaay!
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the all the Kudos and subs on the previous chapter ♥ And thank you Loraphine for your comments. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Maybe in another life
I could find you there
Pulled away before your time
I can't deal, it's so unfair
Goro Takemura sits in contemplative silence, his rigid posture a stark contrast to the opulent comfort of his hotel suite. Before him, an exquisite porcelain cup of sencha tea grows cold, forgotten in his preoccupation with the burner phone resting heavily in his hand. Seven days have passed since he composed that message to V — a sincere expression of gratitude for her intervention after the parade — yet the screen remains devoid of any response. The weight of their last encounter hangs in the air like smoke — that desperate, unplanned kiss in a dilapidated motel room, followed by the humiliating confrontation with Silverhand's manifestation.
Though his tactical retreat had been necessary at the time, he cannot fault V's subsequent silence. The memory of her persists with unfortunate regularity — her irreverent humor so at odds with his own formality, their shared meals where she insisted on introducing him to what she called ‘real food’, her surprising capacity for both ruthless efficiency and unexpected kindness. He finds himself wondering about her current activities, hoping her reckless nature hasn't led her into excessive danger. A foolish concern, perhaps, given her situation, her profession and the constant presence of Silverhand in her mind.
With practiced discipline, he sets the phone aside and attempts to redirect his thoughts, wrapping his hands around the tea cup's familiar form. It feels cool against his palms — much like the past week has been frustratingly cold in terms of progress. At least, that is what his official reports would indicate.
The reality, carefully hidden beneath layers of meticulous planning, tells a different story. Following his clandestine meeting with Michiko-san and the establishment of their strategy's next phase, he had executed a precisely calculated performance: making himself visible to City Center's extensive surveillance network. The task proved successful with almost disappointing speed. As he maintained his position on a bench in Reconciliation Park — a location chosen for both its visibility and tactical advantages — the anticipated contact arrived in the form of Oda.
Years of training allowed him to maintain an impassive expression, though he acknowledges the millisecond of genuine concern at seeing his former protégé approach. His cybernetically enhanced vision automatically assessed potential threats: Oda's deliberate visibility, his tailored suit and relaxed posture suggesting non-hostile intent. The younger man halted at a respectful distance, offering a respectful bow, and extended a simple invitation to accompany him to his waiting vehicle.
The drive toward North Oak proceeded in near silence, broken only by Oda's single statement: "I apologize for doubting you, Takemura-san. I should have known you would never betray us." The words struck like precisely aimed shuriken, and Goro could only respond with a measured nod, not trusting his voice to maintain the deception. The bitter irony weighs heavily — his former student's renewed faith comes at the very moment when Goro has, indeed, chosen to betray everything they once stood for together.
As Oda navigates through Night City's affluent districts, Takemura uses these precious minutes to prepare himself mentally. The upcoming audience — for it can be nothing else — will require every ounce of his training in deception and control. Hanako-san's perception is as sharp as any blade, and he cannot afford even the slightest crack in his facade of loyalty. Too many things depend on his performance.
Shortly after, their vehicle glides to a halt before the imposing gates of Arasaka Estate, its high-tech security systems performing a thorough scan before allowing them entry with a near-silent hum. As Oda guides the car up the meticulously maintained driveway, Goro's military-trained mind automatically catalogs every security measure, every camera, every potential exit route — old habits die hard, even in supposedly friendly territory.
Following his former student through the villa's pristine corridors, Takemura's keen eye catches the subtle irregularities in Oda's gait — a slight favoring of his left side that speaks volumes about the beating V gave him. Despite what must have been the finest medical care Arasaka could provide, the younger man hasn't fully recovered. For someone as proud as Oda, who has always prided himself on his physical perfection, this lingering weakness must be a constant source of shame. The thought brings a carefully hidden twinge of satisfaction to Goro.
The sitting room they enter is a masterpiece of understated luxury — traditional Japanese aesthetics seamlessly blended with modern comforts. A staff member appears almost immediately, serving tea with practiced grace in what Goro recognizes as an obvious attempt to put him at ease. Oda takes up his position in the corner, a silent guardian as always, while Takemura observes the precise placement of every piece of furniture, noting potential tactical advantages out of pure instinct.
When Hanako enters, the very air in the room seems to shift. Goro rises smoothly to bow, his movement precise and respectful as he greets her, "Hanako-sama." His voice remains steady, betraying none of the calculations running through his mind.
"Takemura." Her response comes with the practiced grace of centuries of aristocratic breeding as she settles into her chair, hands arranged with perfect precision on her knees. "Please, be seated."
As he complies, Goro's cybernetically enhanced vision picks up details others might miss. Beneath the artfully applied makeup, shadows lurk under her eyes — testament to a sleepless night that even the best cosmetics can't fully conceal. The slight tension in her shoulders speaks of stress that her perfect posture can't quite hide. The events since the parade have clearly taken their toll, even on Arasaka's ice princess.
"I have had time to reflect since the parade honoring my father." Hanako's voice carries the practiced melody of someone who has rehearsed their words carefully. Each syllable falls like precisely placed stones in a zen garden. "And I must tell you that I believe you and the mercenary." Coming from anyone else, this might sound like an apology — from her, it's merely a calculated admission.
She continues, her golden plated fingers adjusting the sleeve of her dress in a rare display of subtle agitation. "I had no choice but to open my eyes after Oda informed me of all the security breaches during the event. Despite all his requests to increase protection around me, my brother turned a deaf ear. And we both know how that ended." The last words carry just a hint of bitterness — the most emotion she's shown so far.
"Hanako-sama, I must again express my deepest regrets for what transpired." Goro modulates his voice carefully, allowing just enough remorse to color his tone while keeping his face a study in controlled regret. "I never intended—"
She cuts him off with an elegant gesture, her hand moving through the air like a blade. "And when Yorinobu sent his forces to 'rescue' me..." The word 'rescue' drips with subtle venom. "Had you not protected me, I likely would have perished in the operation, given the blind violence that was unleashed." She pauses, letting the weight of her words settle in the air between them. "I have concluded that while my brother may not actively seek my death, he appears to have little concern for my safety. And if he shows such disregard for his own sister's wellbeing..." Another precise pause. "The notion that he might turn against our father, with whom he had been in conflict for years, is not so improbable."
Goro acknowledges her words with a measured nod, privately admiring her performance. If he hadn't been privy to the truth — if Hellman hadn't revealed her complicity in the grand scheme to implant Arasaka-sama's consciousness into Yorinobu's body — he might almost believe her carefully constructed display of dawning realization. She plays the role of the gradually awakening sister perfectly, each word chosen to build her narrative with architectural precision.
"Given these circumstances," Hanako continues, her voice carrying the weight of apparent conviction, "I cannot allow my brother to remain at the corporation's helm, tarnishing our father's memory. At the next board meeting, I intend to reveal the truth." Her dark eyes fix on Goro with laser-like intensity. "But for this, I will need your cooperation." The shift from conversation to command is subtle but unmistakable — the true Hanako Arasaka emerging from behind her diplomatic facade.
She leans forward slightly. "First, you will tell me where to find the woman who witnessed the murder."
Goro feels the familiar weight of conflicting loyalties pressing down on him. His cybernetic hand tenses imperceptibly on his knee, but his face remains carefully neutral. Michiko's warning echoes in his mind — honesty here is crucial to maintaining his cover, no matter how much it pains him to potentially put V at risk. "When we fled the building after your brother's men attacked, we headed for the Badlands," he reports with military precision. "The mercenary is hiding in one of the rooms at the Sunset Motel. I am certain she remains there."
"Very well." Hanako's satisfaction shows only in the slightest relaxation of her shoulders. Then her gaze sharpens again. "I also need to know Anders Hellman's location. He deserted Arasaka's ranks some time ago, and I absolutely need him to remember where his true loyalty lies and return."
The mention of Hellman sends a jolt of tension through Goro's spine, though he maintains his composed exterior. Here lies his opportunity to mislead her. "Hellman, yes..." He allows a note of frustration to color his voice. "I had attempted to locate him myself, unfortunately without success." The lie tastes bitter on his tongue — kuso, decades of unwavering loyalty make deception feel like acid in his mouth. But V's life depends on Hellman remaining hidden. "I lost track of him after he apparently sought refuge under Kang Tao's protection."
He watches as Hanako's perfect mask slips just slightly, revealing a flash of displeasure. "I see..." Her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on her knee. "Takemura, you must understand that finding Hellman is essential. He left with crucial work, and I will very soon need his expertise." The urgency in her voice, though well-disguised, tells Goro everything he needs to know about her true plans.
As Hanako's words hang in the air, the pieces slot together in Goro's mind with devastating clarity. Her desperate need to locate Hellman can only mean one thing — every dark suspicion, every whispered truth is reality. Somewhere in Arasaka's depths, Saburo's digital ghost waits in engram form, and his daughter requires Hellman's expertise to birth it into a new Relic. The realization settles like ice in Goro's stomach, each implication more chilling than the last — the calculated premeditation behind stealing Yorinobu's body, Michiko's haunting concerns for her children's safety, and now Hanako's expectation that he and V will assist in her ruthless scheme. The logic is clear — overthrowing Yorinobu requires more than Oda's combat prowess. Her brother commands Arasaka's military might, with that cybernetic demon Adam Smasher as his personal attack dog. She needs expendable assets, and who better than a disgraced bodyguard and a desperate mercenary?
"Very well, Hanako-sama. I will personally see to locating Hellman." The words taste like ash in his mouth as he bows his head in practiced submission. At least leading the search will allow him to orchestrate an elaborate wild goose chase.
Her response comes wrapped in silk-smooth authority. "You will have all necessary resources at your disposal. Contact Oda if you require assistance." A pause, perfectly timed. "Your cooperation is most appreciated. I understand these past weeks must have been... challenging, living as a vagrant to escape my brother's men." Her nose wrinkles almost imperceptibly at the word 'vagrant.' "That ends now. We will arrange accommodations for you at Konpeki Plaza, now that it has reopened. You must be at your best for what's to come."
Despite years of training in maintaining an impassive facade, something must flicker across his features at the mention of the hotel — that gleaming tomb where everything began to unravel. Hanako catches it, of course. Nothing escapes those obsidian eyes. "I understand your reservations about that place," she adds, her tone suggesting she understands nothing of the sort. "But as it belongs to Arasaka, you will be safe there."
What she really means, Goro knows, is that the Konpeki's extensive surveillance systems will keep him under constant observation. Every entrance, every exit, every conversation monitored and analyzed. A gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless.
Maintaining his composure, Goro continues the dance. "Understood, Hanako-sama. Is there anything else I can do for you?" The words flow automatically, years of service making the proper responses second nature.
She affects contemplation with theatrical precision, her manicured fingers tracing the edge of her sleeve. "After recent events, my brother has made it quite clear I'm not welcome at the Tower for the time being." A subtle current of genuine bitterness underlies her practiced tone. "Supposedly for my own safety, but I believe he's keeping me at arm's length while he plots. I could obtain basic access for you, under a false identity, of course." Her dark eyes fix on him with predatory focus. "You could conduct your investigation discreetly — and I stress discretion. Do not get caught. I need to know if my brother is doing anything suspicious. Try to determine if, for example, he's increasing his security. But you must not approach him under any circumstances. Is that clear?"
"Very clear." The irony isn't lost on him — she's sending him, possibly the most recognizable face in Arasaka Tower after recent events, into the heart of hostile territory. A task any number of anonymous agents could handle. But it plays perfectly into his needs — access to the Tower means access to Mikoshi's location. Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight.
"A service vehicle has been placed at your disposal, along with a credchip that should cover your expenses for now." Her tone carries the finality of a closing door. "Oda will escort you out. And remember, Takemura, you cannot afford to fail." The threat beneath the words is clear as crystal.
He bows with perfect form, muscle memory taking over as his mind races behind his impassive expression. Following Oda to the door, he finds himself wondering if his superiors have always addressed him with such thinly veiled condescension. The urge to roll his eyes — a gesture he would never have considered before meeting V — is surprisingly strong. Perhaps her rebellious nature is contagious.
Oda maintains his professional silence as they walk to the new vehicle, handling over the access card and credchip with mechanical efficiency before offering a curt bow and departing. Only when he's safely behind the wheel, hidden from prying eyes, does Goro allow himself a deep, weary sigh. As he guides the vehicle away from the estate, he can't help but feel the weight of all the lies and manipulations settling around him like a shroud.
The weight of paranoia settles heavily on Goro's shoulders as he steers the vehicle directly to the Konpeki Plaza. Years of corporate espionage experience tell him the sleek car is undoubtedly riddled with surveillance equipment — tracking devices at minimum, possibly audio monitoring systems carefully hidden in the pristine interior. It's almost amusing how predictable Hanako's methods are, though he keeps his face carefully neutral as he hands the keys to the valet. The hotel room will be no different — a gilded cage where every word, every movement will be scrutinized through hidden lenses and microphones.
The rest of his day passes in a carefully orchestrated performance of productivity. He exchanges a series of messages with Oda about Hellman's whereabouts, painting the picture of a dedicated investigator pursuing his quarry. The young bodyguard's response is predictably disappointing — their most recent intelligence, if it can even be called that, dates back several weeks. Some unreliable source claimed to have spotted a Hellman look-alike in Charter Hill, probably just another corpo man with similar small glasses and the standard-issue short blond hair.
Goro seizes on this conveniently false lead, informing Oda he'll investigate the area tomorrow. Charter Hill's relatively safe streets will provide the perfect cover for a different kind of mission — some much-needed shopping. The credchip burning a hole in his pocket might as well be put to good use, since it certainly won't be funding any actual search for Hellman. After weeks of wearing the same outfit, the prospect of fresh clothes feels almost decadent, though he justifies it as necessary maintenance of his cover. After all, infiltrating Arasaka Tower or meeting with Hanako requires a certain standard of dress — a perfectly reasonable explanation for any questioning of his expenses.
As night falls over Night City's neon-painted skyline, Goro sends one final encrypted message to Zaburo, confirming that everything proceeds according to their true agenda. The old man's response is brief but approving — maintain a low profile, await further instructions. With that last duty discharged, Goro finally allows himself to sink into the hotel's luxurious bed. The soft mattress feels almost obscenely comfortable after weeks of rough living, and exhaustion claims him instantly, pulling him into the mercy of dreamless sleep.
The following morning finds Goro navigating Charter Hill's upscale boutiques, his phone periodically chiming with fabricated updates to Oda about his 'investigation.' Each carefully crafted lie brings an unexpected spark of amusement — a sentiment that would have been alien to him mere months ago. The irony isn't lost on him that this city's chaos, and perhaps a certain irreverent merc's influence, has transformed him from Arasaka's most steadfast servant into someone who finds pleasure in deception. The thought of V's likely approval brings an unbidden smile to his usually stern features.
His shopping expedition proves fruitful, if expensive. The credchip takes a significant hit as he acquires an array of clothing: several casual outfits that won't draw attention, three impeccably tailored suits — including a pristine white ensemble chosen specifically to mirror Hanako's aesthetic, a subtle psychological play he's certain won't go unnoticed — and a pair of shoes that don't look like they've survived a war zone. He sends another carefully worded message to Oda, expressing regret over the failed lead and outlining his plans to focus on Hanako-san's tower surveillance assignment.
At least that last message isn't entirely fabricated. After changing into one of his new suits — selected specifically for how its high collar helps conceal his distinctive throat implants - he makes his way to Arasaka Tower. The access card gets him through the front door easily enough, though he quickly discovers its limitations. It grants him only the most basic clearance, the kind given to countless low-level employees who fill the building. Not ideal, but he's worked with less.
Thus begins his new routine, a careful ballet of deception and investigation. His mornings are spent maintaining the elaborate fiction of the Hellman search, while his afternoons see him methodically exploring the tower's accessible areas, sending Oda reports that carefully feed into Hanako's existing paranoia about her brother. Yet despite his efforts, real progress remains frustratingly elusive.
His only concrete findings — Mikoshi's subterranean location and its formidable security detail — merely confirm what Michiko had already told him. Even obtaining the floor plans, his most significant breakthrough so far, hasn't revealed any obvious vulnerabilities in the facility's defenses.
But failure isn't an option. Too much rides on his success — not only his commitment to Michiko's cause but also V's very survival. The knowledge that his friend needs Mikoshi's technology to separate herself from Silverhand's engram adds another layer of urgency to his mission. As he continues his daily charade, the weight of these responsibilities presses down on him like a physical force, driving him to push harder, think smarter, search deeper for any advantage he can find.
Several days into his careful dance of deception, Zaburo's message arrives with characteristic brevity — just coordinates and a timestamp. Goro approaches this meeting with even more caution than usual, leaving the company car strategically parked in his designated ‘search area’ before summoning a Delamain to a camera-blind alley. The AI's polite chatter provides an almost comical contrast to the cloak-and-dagger nature of his movements.
The taxi's tinted sanctuary carries him to a derelict warehouse in Northside's industrial wasteland. The building rises before him like a monument to urban decay — walls of corrugated metal wearing decades of rust like battle scars, shattered windows reflecting the neon glow of distant advertisements, and graffiti tags claiming territory no one wants anymore. It's exactly the kind of place corpo surveillance wouldn't bother with — perfect for their purposes.
Kenichi Zaburo materializes from the shadows with the fluid grace of someone who's never quite forgotten how to move like a killer, despite his advanced years. The contrast between his immaculate appearance and their decrepit surroundings is almost artistic — his bespoke suit could pay for the entire block, and his steel-gray hair is styled with the precision of a man who refuses to let age diminish his standards. Yet there's an ease to his presence that speaks of decades spent in Night City's underbelly, a comfortable familiarity with its grit and shadows that most corpo executives never achieve.
"Ah, Mr. Takemura," he greets with that distinctly American casualness that still surprises Goro, coming from a Japanese man of his generation. "Good of you to come. You look better than at our last meeting." The observation carries genuine warmth.
Goro approaches, accepting the offered handshake. "Is there a problem?"
"On the contrary," Zaburo's lips curl into a slight smile, "I bring good news. Our... friend Hellman has completed his work."
"Already?" Goro can't hide his surprise. "The Relic is functional?"
"Relics, plural, Mr. Takemura," the older man corrects with a knowing smirk, pulling a small rectangular case from his jacket's inner pocket. He opens it briefly, revealing two biochips, one blue and one red, firmly secured in their housing. Then quickly, he closes the box before offering it to the other man.
Taking it, Goro notes with surprise that the metal case feels cold to the touch. Seeing the curiosity written on his face, Zaburo explains, "These chips must be kept cold, around 5° Celsius, 41° Fahrenheit, according to Hellman, as long as they're not inserted into a human host. Especially once an engram is stored on them."
He nods, committing the information to memory, before extending the object back toward the other man, but when Zaburo motions for him to keep it, Goro can't help but protest, "I haven't completed my mission yet."
"True. But we know it's only a matter of time. And from what Michiko tells me, your mercenary friend's condition is particularly urgent." He shrugs elegantly. "And since you'll need to take her to Mikoshi as soon as you gain access, it's better you have all the necessary equipment to save her now."
"I... thank you for this." He bows out of habit, his gratitude genuine.
"Think nothing of it." Zaburo places a hand on his shoulder. "We committed to finding a way to save your friend. You, by ensuring Saburo can never return, will save many more than that."
Settling into one of the warehouse's less decrepit corners, Takemura begins detailing his recent activities with military precision, his narrative beginning with Oda's predictable appearance in the park. He describes the subsequent meeting with Hanako-san in careful detail — the growing paranoia in her usually composed demeanor as she questioned her brother's security measures, her increasingly urgent demands for tower surveillance, and most disturbingly, her near-obsessive focus on locating Hellman. The pattern emerging from these details paints a troubling picture.
"The only reason she would pursue him with such determination is that Michiko-san's theory was correct," Goro sighs, his cybernetic eyes reflecting the warehouse's sparse lighting. "With the original Relic currently residing in V's neural network, she requires its creator to fabricate a new one for her father's engram. We cannot allow Hellman anywhere near her — the risk is too great."
"Your concern is understandable, but unnecessary," Zaburo responds with the easy confidence of someone who's spent decades managing dangerous assets. "We've got our cowardly friend thoroughly contained. Michiko keeps his brilliant mind occupied with another project, and we make sure he never forgets how spectacularly he betrayed Yorinobu. The man's so terrified, he treats his lab like a panic room."
Goro acknowledges the effectiveness of their strategy, but a darker thought begins to take root in his mind. Even in the best-case scenario — V saved, Mikoshi destroyed, Saburo's resurrection thwarted — Hellman's continued existence remains an unacceptable risk. His knowledge, combined with his apparent lack of moral compass, makes him a liability waiting to sell immortality to the highest bidding tyrant. His cybernetic fingers flex unconsciously, already imagining the satisfying crack of Hellman's vertebrae beneath them. The thought brings an unfamiliar warmth of anticipation — this won't be like his usual efficient, emotionless executions.
No, this kill will be personal, a moment to savor. He'll watch the light fade from those cowardly eyes, ensuring the man draws his final breath knowing exactly why he's dying. Then, he'll methodically destroy every trace of Hellman's research, every note, every file, every prototype. The thought brings a cold smile to Takemura's face — an expression that would have shocked him mere months ago, before this city taught him the satisfaction of personal vengeance.
After exchanging final pleasantries and promises to keep Michiko informed, they depart with the practiced timing of men accustomed to clandestine meetings. Goro returns to his carefully constructed routine — the theatrical manhunt, the methodical tower reconnaissance — now carrying precious cargo in his jacket's inner pocket, two small chips that represent V's only chance at survival.
Two days later finds him in his temporary apartment, watching Night City's sunrise paint the smog-filled sky in shades of toxic beauty while contemplating a cup of tea gone cold. Today's script includes a new complication — Oda will be joining his ‘search’ for Hellman, a development sparked by Hanako's mounting frustration with the lack of progress. Goro's already mapped out an elaborate wild goose chase through the Badlands, complete with a potential ‘chance encounter’ with some local Wraiths to keep his former apprentice suitably distracted.
Taking a final sip of the bitter, cold tea, he grimaces and rises to dispose of it in the bathroom sink. As he watches the liquid swirl down the drain, he steels himself for the performance ahead. The irony isn't lost on him — how much effort it takes to accomplish nothing while appearing to do everything. It's going to be a long day of maintaining appearances, but with V's salvation literally close to his heart, he'll play whatever role necessary to see this through.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
A few hours later, while Takemura's playing his dangerous game of corporate chess across town, V's world is much simpler — just her bed, warm sheets, and Johnny's solid presence curved around her back like a protective shell. The night had been rough, his memories bleeding into her dreams like spilled ink, dark and suffocating. She remembers waking up crying, his hands immediately there to ground her, and fuck if that whole comfort session hadn't nearly turned into something else entirely — one of those moments where the air gets thick with possibility and unspoken words, their faces so close she could count his eyelashes, before they both chickened out like the disasters they are.
She shifts in his arms, taking in the sight of him fighting consciousness like it personally offended him. It's fucking adorable, really — a far cry from those early days when he'd just poof out of existence whenever she needed sleep, hiding somewhere in her neural network only to pop back up with some smartass comment whenever he felt like it. These days, he's getting more... real. More solid. More human, with all the little details that come with it — the way his hair sticks up in weird angles after sleep, the subtle crease marks on his cheek from the pillow, even that slightly grumpy morning face that makes her want to poke him just to see him scrunch his nose in annoyance.
Sure, the logical part of her brain knows it's probably just their shared consciousness filling in the blanks, making shit up to keep things making sense — but honestly? She couldn't give less of a fuck about the why. It's perfect just the way it is.
Her fingers find their way to his flesh arm, tracing lazy patterns while she sing-songs, "Wakey wakey, sunshine."
The noise he makes is somewhere between a growl and a whine — definitely not winning any morning person awards — before those dark eyes finally crack open. "Sunshine? Fuckin' seriously, princess?" He burrows into her hair like it might shield him from consciousness. "Never gonna let the blond thing go, are ya?"
"Nope!" She grins, keeping to herself that the nickname's got nothing to do with his natural hair color — like hell she's gonna tell him it's because he's fucking radiant in the sunlight. She's got a whole collection of these moments stored away — Johnny with his head out the car window looking stupidly happy, when they were cruising on the bumpy roads of the Badlands. Or sprawled on her couch with a guitar, afternoon light streaming through her windows making him look almost gorgeous. Or that time in Pacifica when he'd grabbed her hand on the rollercoaster, face split in a wild grin that made her chest feel too tight. Fuck, she's in deep. Like, drowning-and-enjoying-it deep. Someone should really put her out of her misery before she does something stupid like tell him.
Blissfully unaware of her thoughts — and thanks fuck for that small mercy — he stretches out like a cat, all lean muscle and attitude. "M'gonna make you regret this nickname thing one of these days, y’ know that right?"
"All talk, no action, Silverhand," she teases, ruffling his already fucked-up hair because apparently she has zero self-control. Her traitorous hand slides down to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his stubble before she catches herself being a complete gonk. Practically leaping out of bed, she manages, "Coffee?"
"Hell yeah, as strong as you can make it." He's still struggling with the whole vertical position concept, which is hilarious considering he's technically not even real.
"Damn, you really look like you need it." She holds out her hand, hauling his dramatic ass up. "C'mon, up you get. I'm feelin’ generous — you can have first sip today."
"Fuck, you're the best." His fingers lace through hers, squeezing once in a way that sends electricity up her arm. "Been too long since I had decent coffee."
"Maybe if you didn't spend your body-time treating my liver like a punching bag..." She heads for the stairs, grinning at his offended noise.
V steps back, letting Johnny take control of her body. The transition is smooth as silk, and the first thing he does is stretch — really stretch, like he's trying to feel every muscle and joint pop. He grabs the steaming mug and settles on one of the kitchen stools, inhaling the rich aroma with pure bliss painted across his face. These small moments of being truly physical are fucking precious to him, though he'd rather die than admit it out loud.
He takes his sweet time savoring that first sip, lets out a satisfied groan. The coffee's perfect — black as sin and hot enough to scald, just how he likes it. He fishes out one of V's cigarettes, lighting it with practiced ease, and takes a long drag. The combination of nicotine and caffeine hits just right, making him feel almost human again. After finishing both the smoke and coffee, he reluctantly surrenders control back to V.
The switch happens as smoothly as ever, but the moment V's back behind the wheel, the world tilts sideways. She sways dangerously on the stool, having to grab the table's edge to keep from eating floor.
Johnny's there in an instant, arms wrapping around her waist like steel bands. "Shit, V... What the fuck just happened? You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second."
"Ugh, it's nothin’ serious," she tries to reassure him, though her white-knuckled grip on the table says otherwise. "Just got a little dizzy, but it's already passing — prolly nothing."
"That's bullshit and you know it," he settles on the stool next to hers, keeping one hand pressed against her lower back like he's afraid she might topple over again. His face scrunches up in that way it does when he's working through something unpleasant. "Ain't the first time this shit's happened either — remember that night at Ker's when you nearly face-planted after I gave control back? I wrote it off as the booze talkin’ back then, but now I'm thinking maybe we've been missing somethin’ important here..."
"Missing what?" She prompts, pouring herself another cup of coffee to steady her nerves, trying to ignore how her hands are still slightly shaking.
"What if every time you let me take the wheel, it's fuckin’ with your system more than we thought?" He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every movement. "What if it's makin’ things worse for you? We do this shit regularly and never stopped to think if it could have consequences. What if it's speedin’ up the Relic's process?"
His question hangs in the air while V turns it over in her mind, coffee forgotten. "Fuck, maybe. No way to know for sure — not like our situation came with a user manual."
"Which is exactly why we can't keep doing it," his expression hardens with determination. "From now on, we only switch if it's a genuine emergency — no more letting me borrow your meat suit just so I can enjoy a smoke or jam on the guitar, no matter how much we both want to pretend everything's normal."
"But that's not—" she starts to protest, hating how much sense he's making.
"Don't even try to argue this one, princess," he cuts her off, voice brooking no argument. "Even if we're not sure, we can't risk accelerating whatever fucked up countdown that thing in your head is running on — I'm not gonna be responsible for makin’ this worse just because I miss being able to taste coffee."
V knows it's a perfectly reasonable request, but she still pouts like a kid who's had their favorite toy taken away. She's about to argue when her holo buzzes with messages.
"Fuck." Johnny groans. "Completely forgot about this whole mess. Should've told Kerry to shove his reunion up his ass and call the whole thing off."
"What? Why would we do that?" She turns to face him, genuinely confused. "Because of the Relic thing, 'cause you'll need to take over for the show? Nah, Johnny, that's not happening’. We're not canceling somethin’ that means this much to Kerry — and don't pretend it doesn't mean just as much to you, you gonk." She cuts him off when he opens his mouth to argue. "Look, how about we make this work for everyone? We do the show, let you rock out with your old chooms one more time, but after that, we keep the switches to absolute emergencies only. That's a fair compromise, right?"
"Fuckin' hell, V..." He drags his flesh hand down his face in frustration, and she can practically see him wrestling with himself. "You really are the biggest pain in my ass, you know that? I'm trying to keep your brain from melting here, and you're worried about disappointin’ Kerry fuckin’ Eurodyne?"
"One more switch ain't gonna kill me, rockerboy." She grabs his hand before he can pull away, threading their fingers together. "Apart from this little... hiccup, I'm doin’ fine. Really. Y’know, first time I woke up after the heist, sprawled out on Vik's operating table, he gave me maybe a few weeks to live. And judging by the look on his face, he wasn't even sure about making it plural. Yet here we are, a month and a half later, and I'm still kickin’. I'm tougher than you give me credit for, Johnny."
He stares at their joined hands for what feels like forever, his thumb absently tracing patterns on her skin. She knows that look — he's fighting with himself, trying to balance his need to protect her with everything else. Finally, he squeezes her hand and gives her a resigned nod. "Fine, you win this round. But just this once, and if anythin’ feels even slightly off, you tell me immediately. I mean it, V — first sign of trouble and we pull the plug."
She grins, victorious, and resists the urge to kiss the worry lines between his brows. "Deal. Now come on, we've got a few hours to kill before we need to head out— wanna watch one of those ancient flicks you're always bitchin’ about me not having seen?"
He lets her pull him toward the couch, grumbling something about her terrible taste in entertainment, but she catches the small smile tugging at his lips. Crisis averted, at least for now. They both know they're just postponing the inevitable conversation about how much time she really has left, about all the things they're not saying to each other. But for now, they can pretend everything's normal — just two people sharing a couch and some bad movies, trying not to think about how every moment together might be counting down to their last.
After spending a blissful hour sprawled on the couch watching Bushidō VII — or rather, spending more time throwing popcorn at Johnny and ripping apart the terrible dialogue than actually following the plot — V finally drags herself up to get ready for the Samurai reunion.
She's halfway through getting dressed when Reed's call comes through. Shit. Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water — there's still a mission to complete, still a world to save. She sighs and picks up, and the man doesn't waste time with pleasantries. "Hey. I’m back in town. What’s your status?"
"Our ‘special delivery’ all good?" She asks while wrestling with her pants, trying to keep her voice casual. "No, uh, delays?"
"Shipped. First leg by sea, then by air. Civilian craft, both." His voice has that clipped, professional tone that reminds her this isn't just another gig. "But it got to its destination fast and undamaged. Any developments here?"
"Sniffed around, did some side gigs." She shrugs. "But no word, no sign from our… ‘runner friend."
"Then we redouble the effort, a’ight?" He doesn't sound discouraged by her lack of progress, just more determined. "Add another pair of eyes. Alex, former team member. She’s in Dogtown. Under deep cover. She’ll help out."
V finds herself wondering just how many FIA agents are skulking around Night City's shadows, but keeps those thoughts locked behind her teeth. Instead, she just asks, "Roger that. Got an address?"
"Longshore Stacks, at a dive bar called The Moth." It's a part of Dogtown she hasn't explored yet, but she'll figure it out — she always does. "After sundown, yeah?"
"Got it." She responds, relieved she can still make the Kerry meeting without having to choose between obligations.
"And senses trained on any potential shadows." Reed warns before hanging up.
Johnny materializes as soon as the call ends, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and that signature smirk playing on his lips. "Holy fuck, and here I thought I was the paranoid bastard of this operation... This guy takes it to a whole new level of conspiracy nut."
"Can't really blame him, considering what's at stake here." She grabs her jacket and the Porsche keys, letting them dangle from her finger. "C'mon rockerboy, time to go see your old chooms."
She catches his reflection in the mirror as she does one final check — he's trying to look nonchalant, but there's tension in his shoulders and something almost vulnerable in his eyes. Whether it's from worry about her health, anticipation about seeing his old band, or both, she's not sure. But they've got bigger things to focus on right now than Reed's paranoia or their own complicated situation. Time to go meet Samurai, and maybe, just for a few hours, pretend the world isn't trying to end around them.
V drives leisurely through North Oak's winding streets, finally pulling up to the imposing gates of Denny's villa. She steps out of the Porsche to press the intercom, but gets no response. Johnny suddenly crouches down, catching her attention. "What happened here?" he asks, pointing at the muddy tire tracks that have absolutely destroyed the meticulously maintained hedge along the driveway. He squints at the destruction, piecing it together. "She musta been renovatin', Henry musta borrowed the truck. Gonk always was good at improvising."
They follow the tracks around the property's perimeter wall, eventually coming across a gleaming Rayfield Aerondight parked haphazardly in the mud. "See Kerry beat us here," Johnny comments with a smirk.
Before V can point out that's not exactly surprising given Kerry lives just a few streets over, her eyes travel up to discover the wall has been completely smashed through, tire tracks continuing right through the gap. "Hoo boy..." Johnny's voice carries that particular tone of someone who's seen this movie before, especially when angry shouts start echoing from beyond the breach. "Sounds sadly familiar." V steps through the impromptu entrance into what used to be an immaculate garden.
The scene that greets them is somewhere between hilarious and horrifying. Johnny's theory about the truck proves correct — except it's a cement truck, currently dumping its entire load into what was probably once a very expensive swimming pool. Beside this developing disaster, a curvaceous woman with a magnificent mane of curls is screaming at a man with flamboyant hair who's lounging poolsides, looking for all the world like he's on vacation instead of in the middle of committing property damage. She's wielding a golden baseball bat with enough menace to make most gangers think twice, but he seems entirely unbothered by her rage.
Before V can decide whether to keep watching this trainwreck in stunned silence or actually intervene, a familiar voice calls out to her. "V! Uh, good you're here. We got a problem."
Well, no shit. She jogs over to where Kerry's standing with his arms crossed, wisely keeping his distance from the shouting match. Coming to a stop beside him, she asks incredulously, "This is supposed to be Henry's surprise?" Christ, she needs a smoke. Johnny apparently agrees, materializing one between his fingers as he watches his old bandmates with what looks suspiciously like nostalgia.
"Yeah, I obviously missed a few beats," Kerry responds, rubbing his neck sheepishly. "Looks like he was holdin' some sort of grudge."
"So he flooded the pool with concrete?" She lights up her own cigarette, trying to process the absurdity of the situation.
"Henry did often get emotional," His shrug speaks volumes about how many similar incidents he's witnessed over the years.
"Know what happened between them?" V asks, curiosity getting the better of her.
"From what I've come to understand, one day Denny disappeared without a word, then hid from Henry," Kerry explains, his voice carrying decades of complicated history.
She takes a long drag, eyes fixed on the spectacle before them. "I imagine that wasn't too hard in his state of mind, either out of it or in rehab."
"Yep." He shakes his head, looking thoroughly done with everything. "That is, till I gave Henry her address."
Fuckin' fantastic. V asks the question she's dreading the answer to: "What about the concert?"
"Haven't gotten a chance to ask Denny yet." He shoots her an apologetic look. "Doesn't look good, though."
Johnny, who's been unusually quiet, finally speaks up. "V, talk to them. Kerry'll just make it worse." Seeing her hesitation, he pushes, "Go, go. They'll get past it in a sec." He sounds like someone who's seen this exact scenario play out countless times before. "Kerry didn't piss all over himself outta joy when he saw me, either."
With a soul-deep sigh, V takes one final, long drag from her cigarette before crushing it beneath her chrome-tipped boot. The garden's already a disaster zone anyway — what's one more mark among the muddy tire tracks and scattered debris?
Denny's impressive curls bounce wildly as she whips around at V's approach, golden bat still brandished threateningly in the air. Her designer clothes are splattered with concrete dust, a detail that probably isn't improving her mood. "This is your backup? 'Case you forgot why the hell you came here in the first place?"
Before the situation can deteriorate further into violence, V steps forward, keeping her stance deliberately casual despite the tension crackling through the air. "Kerry sent me. About the concert."
"What concert?" Denny finally lowers the bat, though her knuckles remain tight around its handle. "Why isn't he here talkin' to me?"
V gestures vaguely toward Kerry, who's still maintaining his strategic distance like a kid avoiding his arguing parents. "Look, it's awkward. Kerry considers you both friends."
Denny shoots a venomous glare at Henry, who suddenly finds the ruined pool fascinating. "What a sensitive guy, shit." Her voice drips with sarcasm. "Given he's the one who set this flaming turdbag on my doorstep."
V shifts her weight, chrome-tipped boots crunching on scattered debris as she attempts to salvage the situation. "We're bringin' back Samurai — one night only."
Surprise flickers across Denny's features, a brief spark of nostalgia quickly extinguished by anger. "That's what he wants to get the crew together for? Sweet, but no fucking way. Not about to play with this shitstain." She jabs the bat in Henry's direction, making him flinch.
Henry struggles to sit up in his lounger, his voice carrying the rasp of too many cigarettes and sleepless nights. "Denny..."
"No, no way." The sharpness in her voice could cut diamond as she turns to V, her stance rigid with barely contained fury. "Either him or me — choose."
Johnny materializes on a nearby coffee table, announcing with weary resignation, "Denny digs in her heels, we're done."
Kerry finally emerges from his strategic retreat behind a decorative shrub, his chrome-lined face etched with anxiety. "How's it goin'?"
"Like shit, man." Henry's complaint echoes off the villa's walls. "Denny wants me outta the gig. An' we already agreed on everything."
Denny's eyebrows shoot up, her grip tightening on the bat. "What, Kerry's payin' you? That's what this is about?" Her attention snaps to Kerry like a rubber band, rage building in her voice. "Fuck, this's all fuckin' great. So you get him away from me and get the fuck off my lawn!"
Kerry throws V a desperate look, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't make me choose."
V turns to Johnny, their neural link humming with unspoken communication. "Pretty sure it's your call."
Johnny runs a hand through his dark hair, frustration evident in every movement. "Fuck. Really pisses me off Denny's on a control kick, settin' conditions." He sighs. "On the other hand, Henry's got scop for brains. Can't trust him."
"Thanks, real helpful." V's sarcasm makes Johnny's lips twitch despite the tension.
The rockerboy takes a moment, his chrome hand tapping an unconscious rhythm against his thigh. "Listen, take Denny." His nod toward Henry. "Guy's on a downward spiral. Won't help 'im, offerin' him this gig. Sometimes you need life kickin' ya in the nuts to finally react. I would know."
V's subtle smile to Johnny goes unnoticed by the others, before she turns to Kerry. "If we gotta choose, let's play with Denny."
Henry explodes from his lounger like a malfunctioning cyberware, fury transforming his face. "Fuck, Kerry! Seriously? She's the one makin' a big deal outta this, not me!"
Kerry raises his hands placatingly, his expensive rings catching the light. "Listen, I'll get you—"
"Y'know what, Kerry? Fuck you." Henry's finger jabs into Kerry's chest like a weapon. "Good thing Silverhand isn't here to see this." Johnny visibly flinches at his name, a rare display of vulnerability that only V notices. Henry storms off toward the hole in the wall, his boots crushing fallen concrete with each angry step.
"You done? Get out!" Denny's shout echoes across the ruined garden. As Henry's silhouette disappears, the tension visibly drains from her shoulders, leaving behind exhaustion. Her voice softens as she turns to Kerry. "All right. What about Nancy?"
"We've made contact. She's gonna set it all up, let us know." Kerry's words come out rushed, his desire to escape this disaster zone evident in every fidget. He barely looks at V as he mutters, "See you at the show," before practically running back to his car, chrome gleaming as he retreats.
Denny wanders off, muttering curses about pool cleaning services and property damage, her bat now dragging limply at her side. Johnny pushes himself up from the table, his boots crunching on scattered debris as he approaches V. "Ok... About all we can do for now. Except wait for Nancy to call."
After a quick check on Denny, who assures her she'll be fine while aggressively texting what appears to be a cleaning service, V decides to make her exit. The path around the villa's wall is littered with concrete chunks and displaced ornamental plants, casualties of Henry's dramatic entrance.
The sight that greets them at the Porsche stops them both short. Henry sits hunched on the curb, looking small and lost against the backdrop of North Oak's luxury. His vacant stare and slumped shoulders paint a picture of defeat that makes Johnny pause, then settle beside his former bandmate with uncharacteristic gentleness. His look to V speaks volumes.
V settles on the curb beside Henry, close enough to show concern but maintaining enough distance to not crowd him. The pristine sidewalks of North Oak make Henry's disheveled appearance stand out even more against the backdrop of luxury homes and perfectly manicured lawns.
"Sorry it played out like that," V offers quietly.
Henry's hand moves in a vague gesture, barely more than a twitch. His eyes remain fixed on some distant point, glazed with what could be drugs or unshed tears — probably both. The silence stretches between them.
"Listen," V tries again, choosing her words carefully. "Johnny wouldn't've wanted to see you like this. You're better than this shit, Henry." She leans forward slightly, trying to catch his eye. "Need to get your life back on track, y'know?"
Henry's bloodshot eyes drift to the Porsche parked in front of them, lingering on the familiar curves of Johnny's car. His gaze slides to V, then back to the car, his fried brain visibly struggling to piece something together. "Who... who are you?" His voice comes out rough, uncertain.
V stands, brushing off her pants before placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. She can feel Johnny's presence beside her, his usual swagger replaced by a rare show of concern for his old friend. "I'm nobody," she says softly. She gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Take care of yourself, Henry. It's not too late to start over."
The Porsche's engine purrs to life, and through the rearview mirror, V watches Henry's hunched figure grow smaller. Johnny materializes in the passenger seat, unusually quiet, his eyes fixed on the side mirror where his old friend's reflection is slowly fading into the North Oak landscape.
After a few minutes of silent driving, Johnny shifts in his seat. "So... what now?" His voice is quieter than usual, lacking its typical edge.
V glances at him, noting the slight slump in his shoulders. "Still got some time before we need to head to Dogtown." She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. "Wasn't gonna risk takin' your precious ride there anyway."
"Yeah, good call. Place's a fuckin' warzone." Johnny runs a hand through his hair, a gesture V recognizes as one of his tells when he's processing heavy shit. "What d'you wanna do?"
V takes her eyes off the road for a moment to really look at him. The meeting with his old bandmates has clearly affected him more than he's letting on. "Me? I'm askin' you, Johnny. Your call."
He's quiet for a moment, staring out the window at the passing city. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a vulnerability she rarely hears. "Just... wanna go home." He pauses, then adds softly, "Been enough memory lane for one day."
V nods, already changing lanes to head back to her apartment. She doesn't comment on the fact that he called their place 'home'.
Back in the Glen, V watches Johnny pace restlessly around the apartment like a caged animal, picking up random objects only to set them down again. The tension hasn't left his shoulders since their encounter with Henry, and the dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced than usual. Between their criminally short night and the emotional clusterfuck with his old bandmates, exhaustion is written all over his face — and she's pretty sure her own doesn't look much better.
"Hey," she calls softly from the couch, already settling against the worn cushions. "C'mere. Think we both could use some shut-eye before tonight's shitshow in Dogtown."
Johnny hesitates, his chrome hand flexing unconsciously — another one of his tells she's learned to read like a book. After a moment that stretches just a bit too long, he finally gives in, crossing the room to join her. They shift around with practiced ease until they find their usual position, a dance they've perfected over time. V's head comes to rest under his chin, his arms wrapping securely around her.
"You okay?" she murmurs, though she already knows the answer.
"'M fine," comes his automatic response, followed by a deep sigh when she makes a distinctly skeptical noise. "Okay, not really. But will be." His chrome hand finds its way under her shirt, tracing lazy patterns on her back that send pleasant shivers down her spine. "Just... seein' them like that, y'know? Henry completely fucked up on every possible level, Denny still carryin' all that anger after fifty fuckin’ years..." He trails off, swallowing hard. "Need time to process this shit."
V hums softly, feeling the gradual release of tension in his muscles. "Take all the time you need, Johnny. Not goin' anywhere."
"Know you're not." His voice carries a mix of absolute certainty and raw gratitude that makes her heart clench painfully in her chest. "Fuck, V... sometimes I think you're the only constant thing in my life that ain't completely screwed to hell."
She smiles against his chest, already feeling sleep tugging insistently at her consciousness. The familiar scent of leather, cigarettes and something uniquely Johnny surrounds her like a comfort blanket. "Pretty sure we're both screwed up. Just... works better together."
His quiet chuckle rumbles through his chest, the sound wrapping around her like a warm embrace. "Guess you're right." He presses a lingering kiss to her temple, his voice growing heavy with approaching sleep. "Always are..."
They drift off together, the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds casting a warm glow over their intertwined forms. In the quiet of the apartment, their breathing synchronizes, a peaceful moment stolen from the chaos that is Night City — and whatever madness awaits them in Dogtown.
I reach to the sky
And call out your name
Oh, please let me trade
I would
A few hours later, feeling more rested and somewhat relaxed, V and Johnny make their way through Longshore Stacks. The makeshift residential area is a maze of stacked shipping containers turned into homes, with residents milling about between the narrow passages. The bar Reed mentioned stands out easily against the darkening sky, its blue and red neon sign casting an eerie glow over the metal structures.
V takes the metal stairs two at a time, the steps creaking under her boots. The sliding door opens with a soft hiss, revealing a relatively quiet place — less than a dozen patrons scattered around, either drinking alone or gathered in small groups. Behind the counter, a bartender is wiping glasses while dispensing relationship advice to what appears to be a regular customer, her melodious voice carrying easily in the peaceful atmosphere.
Finding a spot at the bar, V settles on one of the many empty stools, content to wait while the two women finish their conversation. Once the customer leaves, the bartender turns to V with a warm smile, her voice honey-sweet as she asks, "What'll it be, honeypie?"
"Surprise me." V returns the smile, matching her friendly tone.
"Adventurous." The bartender's eyes light up at the challenge. "House special comin' up."
As she moves away to mix the drink, V's holo chimes with an incoming call from Reed. He checks if she's at the meeting point, then drops a bomb — Alex, the woman they're meeting, doesn't know the truth about his supposed defection to Arasaka seven years ago. She still thinks he actually switched sides, unaware it was just a cover story after Myers left him for dead when their op went sideways. The tension in his voice suggests this reunion might not go as smoothly as planned. Great. V reads between the lines — this woman is probably going to tell them to fuck right off. Reed confirms her suspicions before ending the call.
The bartender returns with a glass that looks more high-end than anything V expected to find in Dogtown. "Aaaaand there y'are. Enjoy, honeybunch!" she announces cheerfully. V eyes the ice cubes and mint leaves — actual fresh mint in Dogtown, of all places — thanks her and takes a sip. The combination of ginger beer, vodka, and lime juice dances on her tongue, drawing an appreciative hum. Her smile must show her surprise at the quality, because the bartender leans in slightly, asking, "First time in here, I got that right...? Ya new in Dogtown?"
Before V can answer, Reed walks through the door, and the transformation in the bartender's expression is immediate. Her friendly demeanor vanishes as she mutters, "Oh, hell no..."
Reed leans against the bar, meeting the woman's now-hostile gaze head-on. "I'm lookin' for an Alex."
"Like fuck you are." The ice in her voice could freeze hell itself as she crosses her arms defensively. "You're on the awfully short list of folks we just don't serve here. Turn the fuck around and get out."
"I'll have a gin-an'-tonic." Reed makes a point of sitting down, clearly communicating he's not going anywhere. "Make it a double."
The tense silence that follows feels thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, the woman breaks it with a disgusted, "You've got some balls..." Before stepping away to address the remaining patrons in her previous pleasant tone, announcing the bar is closing for the day. One by one, some grumbling under their breath, they file out, leaving the space eerily empty.
The moment they're alone, Alex's movement is lightning-fast — her iron appearing in her hand as if conjured from thin air, trained steadily on Reed. He doesn't even flinch, just stares at his hands with a defeated expression, murmuring a single word that carries years of regret, "Alex..."
"Seven... Seven fucking years in this shithole." The words explode from her like bullets, each one aimed to wound. "'Cause of you, Solomon Reed!" The gun remains pointed at him for several heartbeats that feel like an eternity, before she takes a step back, lowering the weapon while taking deep, controlled breaths that do little to mask her trembling hands.
Then, to V's absolute astonishment, she just... shapeshifts. The transformation is mesmerizing — beginning with her eyes morphing from amber to deep chestnut, followed by her skin darkening in a ripple effect that reminds V of ink spreading through water. Her honey-colored hair maintains its warm hue but shortens dramatically, the entire metamorphosis taking mere seconds while V watches, slack-jawed and wondering if maybe that house special was stronger than she thought.
Sensing that Reed's puppy-dog eyes alone won't be enough to sway the woman, V pulls out the presidential tocken from her pocket, sliding it across the polished counter toward Alex with deliberate slowness. "Myers sent us. Got a mission in Dogtown."
Alex approaches to examine the coin, though every line of her newly transformed body radiates skepticism. "With him? FYI, seven years ago this scumbag stabbed everybody in the back."
"No, seven years ago I was ordered to go to ground." Reed's defense comes out weary, worn. "And you were fed a cover story. I had to take the fall. There was no other way."
"Expect me to believe you? Just like that?" Despite her harsh words, V catches something in her voice — a desperate desire to believe him, hidden beneath layers of hurt and betrayal.
V seizes the opportunity, trying to wedge herself into that tiny crack in Alex's armor. "Look, whatever happened between you two's none of my biz. Got direct orders from the president. Right now, that's all you need to care about."
"I cared. I cared for seven years. But now...?" The disillusionment in her voice runs deep, and fuck, V can't blame her. Seven years of thinking you've been abandoned by your own people would leave anyone bitter.
"'S all right." V offers sympathetically. "Take a moment."
After a heavy silence, Alex shakes her head, shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of too many emotions. "Fuck this. Need a smoke." She tucks her gun back into her waistband and vaults over the bar with the fluid grace of someone who's done it countless times. Before exiting, without looking back, she adds words that land like a final punch, "Should be fuckin' ashamed, Sol..."
The guilt etched on Reed's face speaks volumes louder than any confession could. Through the window's grimy glass, V watches Alex lean against the railing, lighting up a cigarette, before turning back to Reed with a sardonic expression. "'Could get tense', he said."
"Yeah..." His response comes out flat and drawling.
"Yeah." V's tone drips with irony before she asks, "And the hell was that? Did... did she just shape-shift?"
"Metanthropic cloaking." He explains, seemingly unfazed by the tech. "Perks of the FIA-Militech connection — you get to call dibs on their latest-gen, cutting-edge tech."
V downs the remainder of her drink — no sense wasting a perfectly good cocktail, especially one this well-crafted — and stands, straightening her jacket with determined movements. "Lemme try this. Gimme a minute."
"You're gonna talk to her?" Surprise colors his voice.
"Someone's gotta." She shrugs, already heading for the door with purpose in her stride. "An' better me than you."
V steps outside to join Alex, who's deliberately ignoring her presence, gaze fixed on the street below. The neon lights of Dogtown paint shifting patterns across her transformed features as she takes another drag from her cigarette. V lights one of her own, feeling Johnny's presence close behind her as she attempts to break the ice. "Could spit in Reed's drink if it'll make you feel any better. I'm V, by the way."
The joke hits its mark — at least enough to make the other woman turn her head. "Heh... He'd know. Old dog, but senses — sharp as ever. Even spit wouldn't make it past 'em." She takes a long drag, smoke curling around her face before asking, "So, NUSA's tossin' us back into the fray, huh? New mission?"
"Yeah, 'fraid so." V confirms, leaning against the railing. The metal is cool under her arms as she explains their situation — how they're searching for another agent who's gone dark, and how they need her help since she knows Dogtown better than anyone. V decides to lay her cards on the table, admitting she's not really FIA, just temporarily aligned for this mission because the woman they're looking for holds the key to her survival. The moment Songbird's name leaves her lips, Alex's entire demeanor shifts.
"Fuck me..." She sighs, flicking her cigarette butt over the railing, watching the orange spark disappear into the darkness below. "Gonna take more'n one cig to process that."
"She's on that short list of peeps you don't serve here, too?" V asks, while Johnny leans closer, suddenly more interested in the conversation.
The conversation that follows reveals the tangled web of their past — Alex explaining how she, Reed, and Songbird were all involved in that clusterfuck of an operation seven years ago. The weight of history hangs heavy in the air as she admits she's willing to help, provided they can guarantee her a well-deserved retirement on a yacht in Monaco. When V assures her they can probably arrange that, relief flickers across her features. "Preem. Go back inside, tell him I'm in. Gonna need more nicotine 'fore I look at his face again."
"Thanks, Alex." V offers a genuine smile before tossing her own cigarette over the barrier.
As she turns to leave, Johnny's voice follows her: "Well, that went better than expected. Thought for sure someone was gonna get shot."
Back inside, V confronts Reed directly, Johnny hovering behind her with his arms crossed. "Didn't tell me the whole story, Reed. That's twice now." Reed avoids her gaze, and Johnny scoffs, muttering "Typical fed bullshit." V continues, undeterred, "But it's taken care of. She'll do it."
"In exchange for...?" Reed asks, already bracing for the conditions.
"Wants a spy's retirement, someplace nice." V explains, thinking it's a pretty reasonable ask, all things considered. "But if you ask me, she's itchin' to get closure after what went down 'tween you two."
Before Reed can respond, the metal shutters descend one by one over the windows with a mechanical whir. Alex returns, moving behind the bar with practiced ease. "So, heard you need someone to hold your hand, Reed, take you on a tour of NC's ass-wart."
"I came to you 'cause I trust you, Alex..." Reed insists, his voice carrying a weight of unspoken history.
"If you say so." She responds flatly, rolling her eyes. "Fine, Songbird — heard we gotta sniff her out."
While V explains the circumstances of the runner's disappearance, Alex finally prepares Reed's gin and tonic, her movements precise despite her apparent irritation. She astutely points out that it takes a netrunner to find a netrunner, mentioning she knows just the guy — a renegade Voodoo Boy named Slider. A piece of shit, according to her, but one the FIA has by the balls. A little squeeze should get him talking.
"Those dickwipes again," Johnny groans behind V. "Can't catch a fucking break from ‘em , can we?" V's grimace mirrors his sentiment — she's not exactly thrilled about dealing with another one of those backstabbing bastards.
Though, she muses, maybe she can do some cleaning up while she's at it. "So, we payin' him a visit?"
"Slider hides out in a would-be spa in Luxor Heights." Alex informs them, her fingers dancing over her phone. "Flick you exact coords in two secs."
"We'll rendezvous there." Reed says, glancing meaningfully at Alex. "Alex and I have some, uh... catching up to do."
"Right. Just don't gouge each other's eyes out." V jokes as she stands, Johnny already heading for the door. "Need both of you alive 'n' healthy."
As they exit, Johnny falls into step beside her. "Ten eddies says she shoots him before the night's over," he smirks, lighting up a cigarette. "Twenty says she aims below the belt."
As they descend the metal stairs, their boots echoing against the worn steps, Johnny suddenly stops, nodding toward the center of the plaza. "See that tree there?" He takes a long drag from his cigarette while V follows his gaze. "Fitting, isn't it? How the prettiest thing here in Dogshit-town is a monument to the dead."
They approach the memorial tree, its ancient trunk barely visible beneath layers of memories. Hundreds of photos are pinned to the bark, their edges curled and weathered by time. At its base, a sea of flickering candles creates a warm, dancing glow that reflects off the surrounding puddles. Personal belongings — worn teddy bears, old jewelry, faded letters — are carefully arranged among the votives, while shards displaying missing person reports cast their blue light over tear-stained faces of the mourners gathered around. Japanese paper lanterns string between the tree's branches and nearby buildings, swaying gently in the evening breeze. The combined effect of candlelight and glowing lanterns bathes the scene in an ethereal ambiance that feels almost sacred — a stark contrast to Dogtown's usual grit and violence.
"Still don't get this gonk affinity for symbols an' empty gestures." Johnny mutters.
"You felt better when I carved your initials on that metal plate in the oilfields though, dontcha?" V asks softly, her fingers brushing against his.
"True." His smile is small but genuine, though his eyes hold a shadow of melancholy. "Guess sometimes you need to visit your own unmarked grave to realize you wanted that empty gesture after all..."
"C'mon... Woulda lit one for you if I wasn't fresh out just now." She tries to comfort him, gesturing toward the candles.
"Shit..." His fingers intertwine with hers, squeezing gently. "Maybe I am as sentimental as everyone else..."
"Is that such a bad thing?" V asks, looking up at him.
"Maybe not." He straightens up before continuing, "When I see those two... Reed, Alex... Went through something similar myself..."
"After all the years, only thing Alex and Reed have in common is history and an employer." She comments, watching the lanterns sway overhead.
"See it clear as day. Any shred of friendship they've got left'll fizzle out. Not right now, but soon." He shakes his head, disillusionment clear in his voice. "Could've spilled the truth years ago, stayed chooms. But no — stubborn ol' Reed had his orders."
"They're fighting for a common cause, 's all the glue they need." V shrugs, clearly more concerned with other priorities than FIA agent relationships.
"'S what the powers that be want — for you to believe in some abstract bullshit 'stead of each other. System wins that way." His words carry the weight of hard-learned truth. "Think. How many times you willin' to get burned 'fore you stop trustin' someone?"
"Hmm..." She nods, contemplating his words. "Might have a point, Johnny."
"Replace 'someone' with 'country'. Or 'corp'." He presses on, his voice intense. "How many times you gotta take a bullet for these motherfuckers in the name of empty promises? Chew on that when you look at those two."
After their heavy conversation, V stares at the memorial tree, watching the lanterns sway in the night breeze. Her eyes drift to Johnny, who's unusually quiet, his jaw tight as he watches other mourners place their offerings. The sight stirs something in her chest — a familiar ache she can’t ignore anymore. "Y'know what? Fuck it."
"Where are we goin'?" Johnny asks, following as she turns abruptly.
"Gonna buy you a candle." Her tone leaves no room for argument. She starts climbing the metal stairs to the container-shop, hearing his footsteps behind her.
The shop is a cluttered haven of memories — shelves crammed with everything from broken tech to children's toys. Incense smoke curls through the air, mixing with the ever-present smell of Night City's pollution. The vendor looks up from her magazine, crow's feet deepening as she smiles. "Hi sweetie. Looking for something specific?"
"Yeah... need a candle. For the tree." V's voice comes out softer than intended.
The vendor's smile dims with understanding. "Oh, I'm sorry for your loss. Don't worry, I have just what you need — it's my best seller, actually.” She reaches under the counter, presenting an array of candles. V's fingers hover over them until they find one that seems to capture the essence of Night City at twilight — deep purple bleeding into blue. Like neon reflecting in rain puddles. Like the sky when she and Johnny share cigarettes on rooftops.
"Want a tag?" The vendor offers a small piece of cardboard and a length of red string. "Some folks write messages, others just names. Whatever feels right."
V nods, accepting them with slightly trembling fingers. She feels Johnny move closer, his presence warm at her back as she writes 'For Johnny' and adds a small heart. Simple. True. Everything she can't say out loud. She carefully ties the tag with the string, the knot small and precise.
Outside, she settles on the cold metal stairs. Fishing out a loose screw from the railing, it feels heavy in her palm — like the weight of everything unsaid between them. Johnny sits beside her, uncharacteristically silent, watching her hands. "The fuck you doin' now?" His voice is soft, almost uncertain.
"Makin' it special." She starts carving, focusing intently on replicating every line of the tattoo he gave her into the wax.
"V..." Johnny's voice breaks a little. He clears his throat, tries again. "You're such a fuckin' gonk, you know that?"
She smirks, not looking up. "Learned from the best."
But her smirk fades as she works, replaced by something more vulnerable. Each line she carves feels like writing a confession she's not ready to speak. When her hand slips, marring the pattern, she curses under her breath.
"Hey." Johnny's hand covers hers, steadying it. “‘S okay. Perfect this way."
V looks up at him then, really looks. In the neon glow from the shop's sign, his expression is so open it almost hurts to see. He quickly looks away, running a hand through his hair — a nervous gesture she's learned to read. "Johnny Silverhand, are you getting emotional on me?" She tries to tease, but her voice comes out too soft, too honest.
"Fuck off," he mutters, but his hand is still on hers, thumb absently stroking her wrist. After a moment, he adds quietly, "Just... never had anyone do somethin' like this."
"Yeah, well..." V returns to carving, grateful for the excuse to look away from his intense gaze. "Maybe no one knew you like I do."
The silence that follows feels charged with everything they never say. When she finally finishes, they both stare at the carved candle, at this small testament to whatever this thing is between them.
"Ready?" she asks, standing up.
Johnny nods, and if his eyes look suspiciously bright, neither of them mentions it.
Back at the tree, V finds a quiet spot among the sea of flickering lights. She kneels, placing their candle with careful hands, then flicks her lighter open. The flame catches immediately, strong and steady — like it knows its purpose.
"Preem spot," Johnny murmurs, his voice rougher than usual.
V settles more comfortably on the ground, tucking her legs under her. Around them, other mourners come and go — some crying openly, others silent in their grief. A young woman in torn clothes lights a candle next to theirs, whispering "I'm sorry" before disappearing into the night.
"Never wanted a grave," Johnny says suddenly, eyes fixed on their flame. "Thought it was bullshit. Just... meat returning to the dirt, right?" He laughs, but it's hollow. "Now look at me. Getting all soft over a fuckin' candle."
"It's not just a candle." V's hand finds his in the darkness. "It's... proof. That you were here. That you mattered." She squeezes his fingers. "That you still do."
Johnny's grip tightens almost painfully. His other hand reaches out toward their candle, fingers hovering just above the flame like he wants to touch it, to make sure it's real. "Never thought..." he starts, then shakes his head. "Fuck, V. Just... fuck."
She gets it. Some feelings are too big for words, especially for them. They sit like that, wrapped in each other and silence, until V's legs go numb from the cold ground. Around them, the night deepens, but their candle burns bright and steady.
When they finally stand, Johnny doesn't let go. They walk away from the memorial tree in silence, his fingers intertwined with hers. The crowd thins as they move further into a quiet alley, where the only light comes from distant neon signs and the glow of the city below.
Here, hidden from prying eyes, Johnny suddenly stops. He turns to face her, his hands settling on her waist, his expression is raw, unguarded in the half-light. "You make me feel human again," he whispers roughly, like the words are being torn from him. "Not just some fuckin' ghost, not some engram... real." His hand comes up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "Too real sometimes."
V's breath catches. She reaches up, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the slight tremor there. "Johnny..."
He presses his forehead against hers, eyes closed tight. They breathe together for a moment, sharing the same air. His hands tighten on her waist, like he's afraid she might disappear.
"Don't," he says hoarsely. "Don't say anything. Just... stay here. With me."
So she does. They stand there, tangled in each other, while the sounds of Dogtown fade into background noise. From here, they can still see the glow of the memorial tree, their candle just one light among thousands. But this one is theirs. A testament to what they are — something unique and precious in a city that destroys everything beautiful. This one tells their story — not of loss or grief, but of something found. Something neither of them expected.
When they finally pull apart, Johnny's hand finds hers again. As they walk deeper into the neon-stained darkness, V glances back one last time. Their candle is just a distant spark now, but she knows it's there. Proof that even in this city of chrome and shadows, some things are real. Some things last.
Johnny squeezes her hand, and she turns back to him, to their path forward. Together.
Behind them, their light continues to burn, telling their story to anyone who cares to listen — a story of an engram and a merc, of death and second chances, of two broken people finding something whole in each other.
They walk in silence to Luxor Heights, the cool night air a balm after the emotional intensity at the memorial tree. Johnny hasn't said a word since, his hand still firmly clasped in hers like an anchor. V settles on a bench in front of the building, having nothing better to do than wait for Reed while trying to process everything that just happened.
Her thumb absently traces Johnny's knuckles as her gaze wanders over the spa's facade, where massive Voodoo Boys symbols have been spray-painted with an almost arrogant pride. Shit, if Brigitte's crew had done everything to stay hidden in Pacifica, this branch of the gang couldn't make their presence in Dogtown more obvious if they tried. With her history with them, the urge to gut some of these fuckers is getting stronger by the minute.
Beside her, Johnny grins, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Well, well... someone's itching for a bloodbath?"
"Reading my mind now, rockerboy?" She asks, a dangerous smile playing on her lips.
"Nah, don't need to." He squeezes her hand. "It's written all over your face. Used to see that same look in my mirror sometimes. That bloodthirst." His voice grows serious. "Just... don't let it take over. Makes you do gonk shit. Trust me, been there."
V simply nods, leaning into his shoulder. Before they can delve deeper into that particular rabbit hole, Reed's figure emerges from the shadows, approaching her. "You haven't been waiting long, I hope."
"Well... guess you 'n' Alex needed a while to catch up..." V deflects, avoiding mentioning she just arrived, too busy with her rockerboy to be here earlier.
"Mh, yeah. All's swell now, though." He shrugs, though V seriously doubts all the shit between the two FIA agents could be resolved in an hour-long chat. Reed continues, "Let's go — time's at a premium."
They enter the building, spotting two guards at a door. When Reed asks about their strategy, V's response is immediate — they're going in hot. If any gang member recognizes her after what went down with Brigitte and Placide, it'll be a bloodbath anyway, might as well strike while they have the element of surprise. Reed isn't thrilled, preferring a subtler approach, but agrees to follow her lead.
What follows is pure chaos. They take down the guards efficiently, but all hell breaks loose immediately. Gunfire erupts from every direction as V's visual interface flashes with a hacking attempt warning. Reed must get the same alert, shouting for her to destroy the massive server dominating the room's center. V slices through a nearby enemy's throat with her Mantis blades before retracting them and pulling out Johnny's gun, emptying half a clip into one of the server cores.
The core explodes in a shower of red sparks, stopping the Voodoo Boys' hacking attempt dead in its tracks. No time to celebrate though — V spins in a fluid arc, putting a bullet between the eyes of some asshole trying to sneak up behind her with a crowbar. Blood sprays across her face as she ducks under another attacker's swing, her augmented reflexes the only thing keeping her ahead of the onslaught.
The fight stretches into a brutal dance of violence and survival. V weaves through the chaos like a deadly shadow, her Mantis blades flashing in the strobing emergency lights as she alternates between close-quarter carnage and precise shots with Johnny's pistol. The air fills with the acrid smell of gunpowder and burnt electronics as they systematically destroy the server column.
A netrunner tries to short-circuit her cyberware, but V's too quick, putting two rounds through their skull before they can complete the hack. Reed proves himself a capable fighter, watching her six and taking down anyone who gets too close. Together, they're a devastating force, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake.
Finally, after what feels like hours but is probably just minutes, the server lies in smoking ruins and they're the only ones standing among the carnage. V takes time to loot ammunition from the bodies, stuffing her pants pockets while Reed joins her. Now to find Slider — and hopefully, this is just the beginning of the night's entertainment.
Throughout the firefight, she could feel Johnny's presence, his battle-hardened instincts merging with hers, making them even more lethal together. His satisfied smirk tells her he enjoyed the show just as much as she did.
They continue exploring the building, entering a room bathed only in red emergency lights. V lifts an industrial shutter, and they slip through the opening. Immediately, a voice thick with Haitian accent greets them with venom, "Bastards! You murder my people in cold blood..."
"They made their choice when they opened up on us," Reed responds coldly. They enter another room to find their target — Slider, sitting in a netrunner chair, connected to so many cables he resembles some kind of chrome octopus.
His milky, glassy eyes turn in their direction - shit, Alex wasn't kidding about him being completely blind - as he recognizes Reed's voice. "Fuck me... Solomon Reed. I would be lying if I said I have missed you." He waves his unnaturally long-nailed hand vaguely toward V and continues, "And you? You brought death to Maman Brigitte. Will that be your gift for me as well?"
"Dunno." V's response drips with venom. "Don't know you yet, Slider."
"I am called many t'ings. Wilky Laguerre, de Blind Fury of de Cyberspace, a t'orn in de NUSA's fat ass." He lists proudly. "Take your pick."
"You forgot to add 'double-murderer and all-around coward,'" Reed completes his resume, crossing his arms. "We're here to negotiate, Slider. Cut a deal."
"If one party is backed into a corner, it is not negotiation, it is extortion," Slider points out, not incorrectly.
Reed steps closer, slamming his arm against the chair's backrest. "You say tomato, I say fucking deal with it, Slider. Now, cut the shit and do the courtesy of hearin' us out."
"Need some intel," V interjects before things escalate further. "Street says you're the one to get it."
"Me? Heh, I am a blind man. I see not'ing, know not'ing." He lets out a joyless chuckle. "Cyberspace is my only field of vision."
"Well, just so happens what we need is one who knows cyberspace, sees lots in it." She explains while Reed steps back, letting her lead the interrogation. "Soon after SF1 crashed, a 'runner was attacked while on the Net. Attack severed our link. Need to locate her, stat."
When V mentions being able to contact their target through the Relic in her head, the blind man says he'll need to take a look. She exchanges a worried glance with Johnny, who's materialized in a corner of the room, but ultimately agrees. She sits on a crate next to the netrunner's chair and connects to the cable he offers.
He begins calmly exploring the data when suddenly, a powerful, menacing red glitch invades V's visual interface, causing the man to cry out in surprise. And fuck, this shit hurts. V grits her teeth, trying to ignore the pain, and catches sight of Johnny clutching his head, clearly suffering too. Shit — it's just like what happened in the stadium parking lot when Songbird first made contact.
She has to resist the urge to rip out the cable and rush to the rockerboy, who's heavily sitting on one of the steps. He finally raises his head, giving her a look that silently communicates 'it's okay, worst is over.'
"Putain de mèd!" Slider exclaims, obviously shaken by what just happened. "Dis I do not believe... You out of your minds coming to me wid dis shit!" He takes several long, painful breaths, trying to calm himself, then explains, "De Blackwall. It bring only death."
"Specifics, Slider." Reed spits, clearly losing patience.
"De woman — did you know she use de Blackwall protocol to connect wid you?" He ignores Reed, keeping his attention on V. "De Net has layers, various vectors for translocation. But dere is one t'ing dat must not be touched — de Blackwall. De woman — she is walking, ticking bomb, megatons. She go boom... everybody fucked in de ass. Every last one." He runs a trembling hand over his face, disturbed. "Miray nwa a. It is a dam dat protect us, de civilized world, from de strange bèts of de cyber wilderness. If your two-leg bomb crack the dam down the middle, it will unleash a flood, wipe us off de map, just like Haiti..."
"That why you an' the Pacifica Voodoos don't see eye to eye?" V asks, remembering their intentions all too well. "'Cause they're pokin' holes in the Blackwall?"
"Dey do not penetrate, only jerk off next to it. NetWatch try to keep dem in check." He shakes his head vigorously. "But you 'ave to be cracked in de first place to want to stick your gigit into a live-wire outlet..."
His words trail off into more worried ramblings about the Blackwall until Reed interrupts, pressing him to do what they asked, adding a threat for good measure. V notices Johnny's gotten unusually quiet, his expression thoughtful as he processes Slider's warnings. Something about the blind netrunner's genuine terror has them all on edge — maybe there's more truth to his words than they'd like to admit.
Reluctantly, Slider returns to work, his chrome-covered form slumping back into the netrunner chair like a puppet with cut strings. The moment V authorizes his connection request, everything goes to hell — his body begins convulsing violently, blue-white sparks dancing across his implants like angry lightning. The world around V suddenly shifts, reality seeming to crystallize into a single frozen moment, colors taking on an otherworldly quality as time itself grinds to a halt.
A flash of light tears through the static-filled air, and Songbird's ethereal form materializes in the room. She looks as startled as V feels, her translucent figure flickering like a badly tuned holo. "V? How...?" She stumbles backward, her movements leaving trails of light in the air as her eyes dart around the frozen scene. "Is that... Sol Reed? How...? Ah, right, Myers..."
"Workin' together now." V confirms, her gaze drawn to Reed's statue-like form, frozen mid-stride with an expression of concern etched on his features. "With Alex, too."
"I can hardly believe he's here, but... it's a good thing." The runner comments, settling on the steps. The way she moves is strange, like watching water flow uphill - natural and unnatural all at once.
"Songbird — thought we lost you... What happened?" V asks, trying to ignore the way the air seems to crackle with digital static around them.
"That thing... It almost fried my brain." The woman explains. "I had to look for help... beyond the Blackwall."
The conversation fractures as another flash tears through reality. Time lurches forward like a drunk stumbling home, unfreezing Reed and Slider for a few precious seconds before another flash stops everything again. Songbird reappears, but there's an urgency to her presence now, like she's fighting against some invisible current.
"Listen, V. Don't have much time." She explains hurriedly, moving closer with that same impossible fluidity. "Hansen's people tracked me down after I rezzed the Chimera. I've been... detained. I'm not in any danger. Not as long as I behave, do what I'm told. I need your help..."
Reality hiccups again, allowing Slider's terrified voice to break through, "There's... Something's not right, girl." His scream of pain accompanies another shower of sparks from his neck port, the acrid smell of burning electronics filling the air. "Argh...! Fucking Blackwall..."
Everything freezes again as Reed rushes toward V, catching him mid-stride. So Mi appears one final time, saying, "Black Sapphire, V. Hansen's hosting a huge shindig there." She places her hand on V's shoulder — and like with Johnny, the contact feels strangely real. "Crash it on the sly. I'll find you. Make sure to tell Reed. And I haven't for a sec forgotten what we agre—"
Red Blackwall artifacts — of course, it's that fucking Blackwall again — flood V's entire field of vision, and Songbird vanishes before finishing her sentence. Time snaps back like a rubber band, Slider's final convulsions accompanied by a blood-curdling scream, the lights flicker violently, casting twisted shadows that seem to dance to the rhythm of dying electronics.
Reed ignores the dying netrunner completely, reaching V just as she yanks the cable from her neuroport with trembling fingers. "Is everything all right?" His voice seems too loud in the sudden quiet.
V's vision swims, the world taking its sweet time coming back into focus. When it finally does, her eyes find Slider's slumped form, smoke rising from his chair like incense at a funeral. "Think... Slider might be dead... Connection severed..."
Reed stands, roughly grabbing the man by his dreadlocks to check his face, like he's examining a broken piece of tech rather than a person, before letting him drop, confirming coldly, "It's over. He short-circed."
The casual disregard in his voice makes V's stomach turn. "He flatlined 'cause of us."
"Flatlined, period." Reed's dismissal is absolute, not even worth a proper shrug to him.
V feels Johnny's presence before she sees him, his digital form materializing like a ghost with a grudge. His expression matches her internal conflict perfectly — a mixture of disgust at Reed's callousness and resignation at yet another death in this city.
"Need you to come clean." V challenges, drawing strength from Johnny's silent support. "Were you gonna off him no matter what?"
"Question's moot." He says flatly, as if the man's death wasn't even worth a proper shrug. "Slider's dead, what's done is done." This earns him a disapproving head shake from the rockerboy that goes unseen by the agent as he continues, "So, Songbird, what's up with her?"
Recognizing a lost cause when she sees one, V sighs and responds, "Got the link back up, we spoke. She's fine, mostly... Need our help, but she's fine, in one piece."
"All right. Gimme the detes later." Relief flickers across Reed's face before his professional mask slides back into place. He turns toward the exit, already moving. "C'mon, let's delta outta here. They could be more of Slider's lackeys lurkin' around."
With that, Reed exits the room without a backward glance, leaving behind the acrid smell of burnt electronics and death. Needing a moment to process everything, V settles next to Johnny, who's still staring at the netrunner's corpse with a mix of disgust and resignation. "Take it easy, Slider," he mutters sarcastically before turning to V with a knowing look. His fingers absently drum against her shoulder as he speaks, “This guy is a cold-blooded pragmatist. Was never gonna let Slider live. If we still had any doubts 'bout what happened to our chooms quiet-dude and yellow-hair..."
"Yep..." She responds darkly, leaning slightly into his touch. "He liquidated them, clear as day. Shit. Poor bastards..."
"Reed's the type who doesn't leave potential witnesses breathin'." He tells her, his face hardening with concern. His grip on her shoulder tightens protectively. "Watch your back with him, V. Right now, you're useful, your interests align... but the second that changes, you better be faster on the trigger than him."
Shit, the merc hopes it won't come to that. V feels Johnny's worry like a physical weight — or maybe it's her own anxiety mirroring his. Either way, shit's getting complicated. "We'll see..." She stands, Johnny's hand sliding from her shoulder as she moves. The room suddenly feels colder, more oppressive, Slider's corpse a silent testament to Night City's ruthlessness.
Their little chat with Slider unfortunately gave the Voodoo Boys' reinforcements time to arrive. Through the grimy windows, V spots movement — chrome glinting in the neon lights, weapons being drawn. She signals Reed to hold position while assessing the situation.
Johnny materializes by her side, his experienced eye scanning the scene. "Six of 'em," he counts, pointing out positions. "Two by the entrance, three checking their dead, one watchin’ the perimeter. Disorganized as fuck — easy pickings if you play it smart."
V nods imperceptibly, watching the enemies examine the bodies littering the floor and the ruins of the central server. At her signal, they launch their assault, making quick work of the disorganized gang. Johnny watches the firefight with appreciation, occasionally calling out warnings or opportunities that V smoothly incorporates into her movements.
Finally emerging from the building into Pacifica's humid night air, Reed motions for her to follow. Once they're safely away from prying ears, hidden in the shadow of a derelict advertising board, he asks, "What did Songbird tell you?"
“Seemed glad that you and I’ve teamed up.” She says, unsure where to begin.
“Good. It means she trusts you.” He affirms, then probes, “Anything else?”
“Song needs our help, Reed.” V explains, lighting up a well-deserved cigarette after all this chaos. “Hansen’s nabbed her, holdin’ ‘er for… reasons.”
“God dammit…” The man sighs, his carefully maintained composure cracking slightly. He’s clearly displeased by Dogtown's leader entering the equation. “I can’t imagine any worse news than that.”
“Black Sapphire — said Hansen’s throwin’ a big bash there. We get in, she’ll find us.” She turns her gaze toward the streets below. “Any idea what and where this Sapphire is?”
“Over there." Reed points toward the horizon, where two massive structures pierce the smog-filled sky. "See the taller of the two scrapers, next to the one with a big-ass screen? That’s the Black Sapphire. A would-be hotel that ended up a failed multi-billion eddie investment… Hansen’s fortress smack in the middle of Dogtown. We can’t just barge in. Doubt we have anyone on the inside or affiliated who could crack a door open, either…”
V's expression must betray her unease as she takes a drag from her cigarette - the last time she had to infiltrate a hotel, well... Jackie, Yorinobu, the Relic, her death, the whole fucking mess. Reed notices and continues, “Alex and I’ll pull some strings, run our contacts… You do the same, you know… think of who you know around here. Maybe we’ll happen on an idea, find a way.”
There's only one person in Dogtown she knows who might have the resources to help. “Know a local fixer… goes by Mr. Hands. Could ring him.”
“Do it.” He nods, then starts walking away, adding over his shoulder, “We’ll be in touch.”
Johnny's chrome arm finds its way around her shoulders again, the cool metal a stark contrast to the humid night air. "Shit, and he just splits like that..." he comments, watching Reed's retreating form with obvious distrust.
"Mhh." She pulls her holo from her pocket, scrolling to Mr. Hands' contact while unconsciously leaning into Johnny's embrace. "Better this way. Okay, lemme make this call..." The connection establishes quickly, and she gets straight to the point, "Hands? Need a favor."
"Straight to biz." He comments, "I like it."
V explains her need to get into the Black Sapphire during Hansen's upcoming party. The man makes it clear it won't be easy, but with some arm or leg twisting, he should be able to find a solution. And since thanks to her, he has 'a veritable buffet of limbs to choose from' and she's helped solidify his position in Dogtown, he'll be happy to return the favor.
The surprising part, knowing how fiercely the fixer guards his identity with something bordering on paranoia, is his insistence on concluding this deal in person, face to face. He tells her to meet him at Heavy Hearts in a few hours, giving him time to set everything up. V, taken aback by this unusual request, thanks him before hanging up.
Playing with a strand of her hair, Johnny's voice carries a mix of exhaustion and contentment. "Since we've got a few hours to kill, what's the plan?"
"Dunno." V quickly checks the time on her visual interface — almost 23:00, turns out their afternoon nap might come in handy after all. "Don't wanna hang around here too long, better delta before more Voodoos show up. Could crash at the hideout."
"Sounds like a plan." He shrugs, keeping his arm around her as they start walking.
They make their way down the sloping streets to Kress Street, bodies still pressed together, the night air heavy with humidity. As the elevator climbs to their floor, V silently prays that if Reed did indeed off Tyler and Jacob, he at least had the decency to remove the bodies.
To her relief, the apartment is corpse-free when they arrive. She switches on the radio, letting the soft buzz of night city's latest hits fill the silence. Johnny's already materialized on the balcony, perched on the concrete ledge with a cigarette dancing between his chrome fingers.
She leans next to him, her eyes drawn to the streets below. "Fuck, view's not half bad..."
"Mhh..." He hums softly, taking a long drag. "You were right... place ain't so bad after all."
"Yeah, right?" She grins, fingers tapping a rhythm against the concrete. Glancing over her shoulder at the apartment, she adds, "Was thinking... with some work, this place could be real useful."
"V, it's a fuckin' shithole." He smirks, flicking his cigarette into the void. "The kinda place I'd end up after shows and way too many drugs."
"As is, sure, it's rough." She straightens up, walking back into the room. "Not saying we should live here but... with all the shit we're dealing with in the area... might be nice to have a place of our own to crash between all these spy-game gonk missions."
Johnny freezes for a second. A place of our own... fuck, what those simple words do to him... what V does to him. He swallows hard. Sure, they already have the apartment in Glen, which he already thinks of as their place. With their fucking cat, the guitar she bought just to make him happy, his old clothes in her closet, his Porsche parked outside...
When he falls asleep with his arms wrapped around her, when she lets him take control in the morning just so he can have that first sip of coffee... fuck, if someone had told him all he needed was to die to appreciate all this domestic bullshit.... Nah, to crave it. With her.
He watches her move through the room, chest tight with emotions he's still learning to handle. But of course, life — or whatever the fuck his current state is — is a bitch. He knows too well their time together has an expiration date, that he'll have to disappear again so she can live.
And he'll do what needs to be done when the time comes, without hesitation. But for now, he selfishly wants to soak up every moment. So he joins her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Yeah, might not be half bad," he says, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "Least we've got power, that's somethin'."
"Oh, and I spotted some pipes in the corner, maybe if we fix 'em up, we could even get running water." She smiles up at him, and fuck if that smile doesn't make him want to promise her the world.
Johnny leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching V battle with the rusty pipes. "Y'know, watching you try basic plumbing is... entertainin'."
"Fuck off, Silverhand," she grunts, wrestling with a particularly stubborn valve. "Unless you wanna make yourself useful and help?"
"Nah, view's too good from here," he smirks, enjoying the way she flips him off without even looking. Ten minutes and several creative curses later, she finally achieves her goal. When she turns the tap in the tiny bathroom, they both let out surprised sounds as the water, after an ominous gurgling, starts flowing.
"Fuck yeah!" She grins triumphantly, wiping her hands on her pants. Johnny slow-claps sarcastically, but can't hide his proud smile. "Should head back to Longshore Stacks," she continues, "spotted a clothing vendor there. Could grab a shower and change before our meeting with Hands."
"Not a bad idea." He stretches his limbs deliberately, knowing it draws her attention. "Should get some food too. Even after all this time in your head, still can't figure how you survive on nicotine and coffee alone."
"Says the guy who lived on whiskey and groupies," she teases, dodging his playful swat at her head.
"Hey, at least I remembered to eat between shows!" He catches her around the waist, pulling her close. "Usually. Sometimes. When Kerry reminded me."
She laughs, leaning into his embrace for a moment before heading for the exit. "Fine, food too. Happy?"
The small clothing store yields decent finds — jeans that don't look like they've survived a war, a crop top, and a mesh jacket. Nothing fancy, but after the Voodoo Boys bloodbath, anything clean feels like luxury. Johnny lounges against the wall while she shops, offering completely unhelpful commentary on everything she tries on.
To humor him — and because her stomach's starting to protest, she stops at the nearest food stand for a scop-burger. That's when a familiar voice booms nearby. Johnny's groan is almost comical. "Oh fuck no, not..."
"TYPHOON RONNIE!" The man's voice carries across half the block. V descends the stairs, fighting a grin at Johnny's theatrical suffering.
"If he starts that story ‘bout the three joytoys and the broken vending machine again, I'm takin’ over and we're running," Johnny threatens, following her down.
"Hey man, sup?" V asks, settling into the empty chair beside Ronnie, who's mid-pitch to some poor gonk trying to escape. Johnny perches on the table, making exaggerated gagging motions that she struggles to ignore.
"V! My favorite customer!" Ronnie booms.
Realizing her mistake — giving Ronnie an opening is like giving a Maelstrom free chrome — she quickly cuts in, "A... businessman like you must know lots of people. Got any chooms looking for work? Good pay, zero risk."
"Here we go," Johnny groans as Ronnie launches into his usual rapid-fire speech pattern.
"Whaddaya mean, if good ol' Ronnie knows people? He knows everyone worth knowin' in D-town!" He barely takes a breath. "The connected, the protected, the rejected—"
"If he starts rhyming, I'm out," Johnny announces, making V bite her lip to keep from laughing.
Between bites of her burger, V explains her renovation plans for the Kress Street apartment. The man's enthusiasm cranks up to eleven, if that's even possible, promising to supervise everything personally — for a commission, of course.
"Capitalism at its finest," Johnny snorts, watching V transfer the eddies. "Bet you fifty he pockets half and hires some kids with hammers."
After a hasty escape from Ronnie's attempts to share his latest conspiracy theory, they head back to the hideout. V makes straight for the bathroom, desperate to wash off the day's grime. The water pressure is shit, but it's better than nothing, and at least she feels clean again.
Fresh from the shower and in clean clothes, V collapses into a chair, Johnny immediately taking his usual spot beside her. His chrome arm finds its way around her shoulders, a gesture that's become as natural as breathing. "Now we just wait for Mr. Mystery to call," he says, absently playing with a strand of her damp hair.
The message arrives ninety minutes later, during which Johnny's managed to teach V three new guitar chords and critique every advertisement visible from their window.
Johnny reads over her shoulder, his chest pressed warm against her back. "The fuckin’ pyramid? Seriously?" His breath tickles her ear as he speaks. "What's next, a giant sphinx? Maybe some pharaoh-themed strippers?"
V elbows him gently in the ribs. "Focus, you gonk. We're about to meet Night City's most paranoid fixer face-to-face. Could be walking into anything."
"True," he agrees, tightening his hold on her. "But whatever's waiting, we'll handle it." His tone turns playful, "Besides, can't be worse than that time with DeShawn..."
"Can we never mention that again?" she groans, but leans back into his embrace, enjoying these quiet moments before diving back into Night City's chaos.
The Heavy Hearts is running at full capacity when V arrives, bass vibrating through the sidewalk and into her bones. Two Barghest soldiers playing bouncer wave her through without hassle. It's the first spot in Dogtown that screams money — everything gleaming new and polished to perfection. Johnny whistles low beside her, taking in the scene. "Fancy digs for this shithole of a district."
Ignoring both the writhing dancers and Johnny's suggestion to "grab just one drink, c’mon V," she makes straight for the elevator. The code grants her access to the upper floors, where a voice filters through one of the doors — Hands apparently mid-call. She waits patiently, Johnny pacing restlessly beside her.
"Getting some serious corpo vibes here," he mutters, eyeing the Egyptian-themed decor. "Sure this is just a fixer?"
When she finally knocks, whatever expectations V had about Mr. Hands shatter instantly. Instead of another Night City lowlife, she finds herself face-to-face with an older gentleman sporting an immaculately groomed mustache and beard, piercing blue eyes, and an expertly tailored Avante burgundy suit. His office matches his sophistication, the Egyptian touches more refined than the gaudy displays downstairs.
"Ah, if it isn't V..." He greets with theatrical flair. "My favorite merc. Splendid. What you completed for me... significantly shifted the playing field vis-à-vis Hansen. Excellent work, precisely as requested."
"Maybe the one thing I didn't expect — to see the man behind the holo-curtain." She responds, sidestepping the flattery. "The elusive Mr. Hands in the flesh."
Johnny circles the room while they talk, studying everything with suspicious eyes. "Guy's too polished," he mutters. "No fixer dresses like that unless they're playing a bigger game."
Hands praises her handling of the NCPD rescue and Dodger's elimination, seeming genuinely impressed. "You have proven to be someone I can trust. Hence my decision to drop the veil and meet in person. A rare occurrence, I assure you. Were I to have more virtuosos like you, I wager I'd have more than Dogtown in my grasp..."
"Told ya," Johnny snorts. "Man's got bigger appetites than just fixin’."
V accepts the offered tea more out of courtesy than desire, settling into the leather couch while Hands delivers a crash course in local politics. His disdain for Hansen is barely concealed, viewing the Barghest leader as an obstacle to greater ambitions.
He slides a shard across the coffee table, promising it contains everything needed to infiltrate the Black Sapphire party, including building blueprints. "Watch your step," he warns. "Even fully prepared, you’ll be marching into a pit full of vipers."
"Thanks, Hands." She slots the shard into her neural port, securing the data.
"I only hope this won't mark the end of our collaboration." He nods thoughtfully. "Truth be told, a few new assignments seem imminent..."
"Lemme guess — more local politico-gaming?" V asks, already knowing the answer.
"Activity is abundant in Dogtown." He muses over his tea. "And behind closed doors — plots and schemes. Should change ever occur... as it inevitably must... Someone really ought to pave the way for a smooth transition..."
"Be lookin' forward to those new gigs, then." She rises, Johnny already by the door.
"You'll hear from me soon, this I guarantee you." Hands' penetrating gaze follows her. "And V — whatever happens at the Black Sapphire... make sure you come back alive, mh? You're going where local and international politics mix — strong currents, both."
"Make sure to plant my feet firmly, then." She nods farewell. "Later, Hands."
Outside the office, Johnny falls into step beside her. "Well, that was... interesting. Guy's definitely got plans for Dogtown's throne. Fuck, and I thought Rogue was calculating..." He slides an arm around her waist as they wait for the elevator. "Question is, what's our part in his little power play gonna cost us?"
V leans into his embrace, mind already racing through the possibilities. "Guess we'll find out soon enough. For now..." She taps her neck where the shard sits. "Let's see what intel our mysterious friend's given us about this party."
"Yeah, but... about this drink..." he smirks, pulling her closer as they descend back into the pulsing heart of Heavy Hearts. His fingers trace lazy patterns on her hip, a gesture that's become so familiar it feels like breathing.
"Yeah, yeah, you alcoholic gonk, we can do that." She smiles up at him. "Just give me five to update Reed, then the bar's all yours."
"I am deeply wounded by that accusation." Johnny clutches his chest dramatically. "I'll have you know I was a connoisseur of fine spirits. A true artist of alcohol appreciation."
"That what you called passing out backstage with a bottle of cheap whiskey?" She dodges his attempt to ruffle her hair, laughing.
They step out of the pyramid-shaped building, moving down the street to escape the thundering bass. V pulls up Reed's holo contact, Johnny's warmth still pressed against her side. "Reed, got the datashard from Hands." She announces as soon as he picks up. "Our golden ticket into the Black Sapphire."
"Perfect. Send it through." Relief colors his tone. "And no worries, this connection's secure."
"Catch. 'S on its way." She initiates the data transfer.
"Aaaand reception complete." He confirms seconds later. "I'll pass it on to Alex. Give us a good hour to study your intel, then join us at The Moth. Till then."
They disconnect and V turns to Johnny with a bright smile. "Now, about that drink you were whining about..."
"I do not whine," he protests, following her back inside. "I express my desires with passionate eloquence."
"That what you called those puppy eyes you were giving me in the elevator?"
The club is packed now, bodies moving like a living tide under the strobing lights. V weaves through the crowd, Johnny close behind her, until she spots two empty stools in a corner of the bar. She claims one, Johnny settling on the other despite not being able to actually drink anything.
"Get something decent," he instructs, leaning back against the bar. "None of that synthetic neon shit that tastes like battery acid."
V deliberately makes eye contact with him as she orders the most fluorescent cocktail on the menu, something called a 'Cyber Sunrise' that glows like nuclear waste. Johnny's groan of despair is worth every eddie.
"You're doing this just to spite me," he accuses as the bartender slides the radioactive-looking drink her way.
"Maybe." She takes a deliberately long sip. "Or maybe I just enjoy watchin' you suffer."
"Cruel woman." But his eyes are soft when he looks at her, something warm and unspoken passing between them. "At least tell me it tastes better than it looks."
"Like battery acid," she confirms cheerfully, taking another sip just to watch him wince. "But the expensive kind."
They fall into comfortable banter, Johnny critiquing every drink order he sees, while V people-watches, making up increasingly ridiculous backstories for the other patrons. The neon lights paint shifting patterns across Johnny's face. V watches him, struck by how natural this feels — just them, sharing drinks and moments between jobs, between chaos. Sometimes she forgets they're living on borrowed time, that soon...
"Hey." His voice pulls her from darker thoughts. "You're thinking too loud again — We've got an hour to kill before more spy games. Let's make it count."
She lets the warmth of his smile chase away the shadows. Soon they'll deal with the Black Sapphire and spies, with whatever scheme Hands is weaving. But right now, in this moment, it's just them, the music, and the promise of another adventure waiting just around the corner.
Notes:
Message thread generator HTML/CSS by Luvwich ! Have fun with it here ♥
Lot of bonus photos for this chapter here. And well, Goro's lookin' good!
♫ Chapter Song: Five Finger Death Punch - Gone Away
• Author's rambling: Hey, hope you enjoyed the chapter! Feel free to drop a comment and let me know what you think! And did I have fun making a candle that matches the description I wrote in the chapter just to take a picture? You bet your ass I did, lol.
Oh, btw, next chapter's gonna take three weeks instead of two — I'm taking a little vacation to visit my family, and I probably won't have much time to write, sorry about that!
xoxo, see you next time ♥
Chapter 23: Mr. Brightside
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Hey everyone! I'm back — yeah, I know, it's only been three weeks, but I was really eager to post this chapter. Hope you'll like it :) Feel free to drop a comment and tell me what you think, I love chatting with you! Enjoy!
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the kudos, bookmarks and subs on the previous chapter ♥ And thank you Loraphine for your comment. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Comin' out of my cage and I've been doin' just fine
Gotta, gotta be down because I want it all
It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this?
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss
The neon-lit streets of Dogtown blur past as V and Johnny make their way to Longshore Stacks, but something's eating at the rockerboy. The feeling started as a whisper, a shadow at the edge of his consciousness, but it's growing with each step. Not about the meeting itself — they're just supposed to talk strategy with Reed, plan the next move. Nothing that should put V in danger, but... Yeah, something's definitely wrong.
"You're bein’ quiet," V notes, glancing at him. "That's never good."
"Just got a bad feelin’," Johnny mutters, scanning the darkness between the buildings. His hand keeps twitching toward where his gun would be if he could still hold one. "Like the air before a storm, y'know?"
The sensation crystallizes as they pass the memorial tree, its synthetic leaves casting strange shadows. "V..." Johnny grabs her wrist, the touch urgent. "Relic malfunction incoming. And this one's gonna be fuckin’ nasty, I can tell." His voice drops, worry bleeding through. "You should sit down. Now."
She pauses, weighing her options. "Almost at the Moth," she pushes forward, starting up the stairs despite Johnny's protests. "If I'm gonna collapse, better do it there than here. Unlike scavs lurking around, Reed won't try to klept my chrome while I'm down."
Johnny's about to argue when it hits. V reaches for the door handle just as blood starts trickling from her nose, and his non-existent heart stops — again. Pure instinct takes over and he seizes control for a split second, guiding her hand to open the door and stumble inside before releasing his grip.
Back in control, V can't do anything as her legs turn to jelly. The world tilts sideways as she collapses pathetically to the floor, the taste of copper flooding her mouth. Through the static filling her ears, she hears Reed's voice as if from underwater: "V? What's wrong?!" Strong hands try to help her up, but panic surges and she pushes him away.
"It's fine, 'm all right." She attempts to right herself, only managing to roll onto her side as colors explode behind her eyes, accompanied by searing pain that feels like her skull's being split open. Then everything goes black.
She comes to moments later, more or less vertical. Reed's supporting her entire weight, her arm around his shoulders as he guides her toward one of the padded booths. Her vision swims and her ears ring, the world seeming to pulse in and out of focus. But hey — not dead yet. Small victories.
"Sit down." Reed eases her onto the bench, his usual calm demeanor cracking slightly with concern. "How can I help?"
"Nothing, it'll pass." Her voice comes out embarrassingly weak, barely more than a whisper. "Startin' to get used to it."
"This the Relic?" He steps back, giving her space while studying her with those sharp eyes.
"Long story, but yeah." V feels infinite relief when Johnny materializes beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She can see the worry etched deep in his features, the way his jaw clenches. "It's pullin' a takeover of my brain."
"Do you experience them often, these attacks?" Reed crosses his arms, and shit, she must look terrible if even he's showing genuine concern.
"Don't really keep count, but..." She hesitates, feeling Johnny tense beside her, anticipating her words, "...never know if the next one won't be my last." She quickly glances at the rockerboy, trying to convey 'not your fault', but he won't meet her eyes, his grip on her shoulder tightening almost painfully.
Reed paces the room, his boots echoing in the empty bar. He runs a hand over his face before muttering, "Wow, rough." His gaze studies her intensely as he sits across the table. "I know what that feels like..." He hesitates, hands clasped under his chin, eyes distant. "I never talked about this, y'know... I should be sayin' they tried to kill me, but... sometimes it feels like they actually succeeded."
As Reed tells his story about the operation seven years ago, V finds herself seeing him in a new light. The calculated spy facade cracks, revealing something raw and human underneath. The betrayal by his own side, the FIA serving his head to Arasaka on a silver platter during the Unification War as a peace offering….
Her chest tightens with unexpected empathy, even as her instincts warn her to stay guarded. Here's a man who was betrayed by everything he believed in, yet still serves the same masters who tried to destroy him. Loyal to a fault, just like... No . She shuts down that thought hard, refusing to let her mind drift to a certain ex-bodyguard. That wound's still too fresh, the memory of honor bullshit and abandoning her in this crappy motel still burning like fire in her veins.
Swallowing her conflicting emotions, she stands on shaky legs. Johnny immediately presses against her back, arms encircling her for support. She notices Reed giving her an odd look, his sharp eye catching how she seems to lean on thin air. But he too holds his tongue, simply telling her to follow him, that he has something to show her.
"You good to walk?" Johnny murmurs in her ear, his earlier dread now mixed with protective concern. She gives him a slight nod, grateful for his presence behind her as they follow Reed deeper into The Moth, leaving the ghosts of past betrayals behind them.
Already feeling steadier on her feet, V follows Reed past a curtain of glass beads into the kitchen — where, oddly enough, a robot is busy cooking — and through another door leading to an elevator. After a quick security scan, the doors slide open and the spy hits the button that takes them down to the boiler room. "I still can't believe Alex decided the best place for a bar was right over our old safehouse," he comments with a wry smile. "She always had a twisted sense of humor."
The doors open to darkness, but Reed, clearly able to navigate this familiar space blindfolded, makes his way to the circuit breaker. "Been dark for seven years, this place," he muses. "Let's brighten things up again."
As the lights slowly flicker to life, revealing the room inch by inch, he leans against the railing and continues his story. He tells V about the end of the war, about his team — how several members were assassinated, how he was sacrificed to stop the bloodshed, and most surprisingly, how Songbird of all people had been tasked with leading him into that trap.
"And yet you're tryin' to save her... Why?" V asks, genuinely puzzled by his loyalty.
"Because it's the right thing to do." He shrugs, his expression thoughtful. "I had plenty of time to examine this under a microscope. Under focus, some things sharpen, others blur. But there comes a point when you cut through the bullshit and see what's in front of you. Songbird is still my people, and nothing can change that."
"Fuck, Reed..." V whispers, moved by his unwavering loyalty to his former teammate.
"Now Myers is a whole 'nother story, but Songbird?" He continues, shaking his head. "No, I got nothing against her."
Interesting. "So why Myers?" she prompts, curious about the distinction.
Before he can answer, the elevator whirs to life again and Alex's voice cuts through the air, "I miss anything?"
"Some reminiscing..." Reed answers simply as she joins them. Then it's back to business. “So, good, let’s get this show goin’. I checked Slider’s contention. He fuckin’ had it right, it turns out. I dove into old mission files, wherever So Mi was involved. They were buried deep, near impossible to access, even with my clearance. Each ‘n’ every one… the Blackwall. All authorizations, mission orders, personally signed by one person — Rosalind Myers.”
"Wouldn't wanna be in her shoes if that shit floats to the top," Alex comments, and fuck, V couldn't agree more. The fallout from revealing operations like that would be catastrophic.
"The NUS is a small country governed by a woman with highly ambitious goals," Reed observes thoughtfully. "Sometimes those ambitions win out over reason. But that's not something we need to pore over now. Alex, what do you have for us?"
"A little o' this, a little o' that." She grins, then turns to V. "We'll plan in a sec. Say, V - like playin' fancy dress-up?"
The question triggers a flood of memories — that day at Jinguji with Johnny, trying on ridiculously expensive clothes just to make him laugh, before everything went sideways with the cyberpsycho. The same day she bought him that guitar, the day of his meltdown at River's, the day they discovered they could touch. The day everything started shifting between them. Johnny, now leaning against a wall nearby, seems to be remembering too, judging by his knowing smirk.
"Make no difference either way," V shrugs, pulling her attention back to Alex.
"Good, 'cause you will doll up, honey." Alex's enthusiasm is infectious as she flashes a bright smile and beckons V to follow her to another part of the room. Behind them, Johnny pushes off the wall to follow, muttering something about making sure they don't dress her up like a ‘corpo puppet’. V bites back a smile, remembering his commentary during their Jinguji adventure.
The safehouse is starting to feel less abandoned now, coming alive with plans and possibilities. But V can't shake the feeling that they're about to step into something much bigger than a simple rescue mission. She catches Johnny's eye, and his slight nod tells her he's thinking the same thing.
As they walk deeper into the safehouse, Alex continues her briefing with the kind of enthusiasm that only comes from years of experience mixed with genuine excitement. "Managed to learn that some pop megastar is gonna grace the party with a show. Guest list? Expect everybody who's anybody. That includes you." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Gonna don fancy outfits and rub shoulders with VIPs. Be warned though — fancy doesn't mean easy... Ready for the detes, V?"
Using Hands' blueprints as a visual aid, she outlines V's part — infiltrating through a flooded tunnel system. Alex hands her a tactical diving suit that practically screams 'military grade,' all sleek lines and reinforced seams. Even to V's untrained eye, it's clearly top-shelf gear, the kind you don't find in your average Night City shop. Johnny whistles appreciatively, "Now that's some serious hardware. Makes the shit we usually work with look like kid's toys."
The plan unfolds like a well-oiled machine. V through the tunnels, sabotaging cameras to create Reed's entry window, separate elevator rides up, a rendezvous, and then the fancy part — slipping into evening wear to blend with Night City's elite. It sounds deceptively simple laid out like this, but V can see the masterful planning behind Alex's work. Every contingency considered, every angle covered.
"Fuck me, this is some real professional shit," Johnny mutters, echoing her thoughts. "Makes our usual 'go in guns blazing' approach look amateur hour."
And he's right — this is something else entirely. Working with pros at this level, seeing how quickly Hands dug up closely guarded intel about the Black Sapphire... V can almost hear Jackie's voice, that enthusiastic 'major leagues, chica !' echoing in her memories. A bittersweet smile crosses her face. This time, she's really made it. Jack would've been impressed, proud even. Fuck, she wishes he was here to see this — his best choom running with the big leagues, just like they'd dreamed.
When Alex asks if everything's clear, V confirms, and the other woman directs her attention to a surprise waiting on the table. The merc opens the box to find a beautiful silenced pistol — Alex's old piece, she explains, happy to see it back in action after all these years. V thanks her, tucking the weapon into the backpack containing the diving gear.
Reed chooses this moment to interject, asking what Hands wants in return for the building plans. V shrugs, keeping it vague — just that the fixer sees opportunity in the power vacuum Hansen's potential disappearance might create, and he's counting on the merc's help to exploit it.
"Politics. It's the same shit wherever you go..." Reed sighs, then turns to V with unexpected warmth. "Y'know, if not for you, we'd have no way of gettin' into the Black Sapphire, reachin' Songbird. It's good to have you on our side. I mean that, V."
And honestly, she believes he's being sincere. Johnny leans in close, whispering in her ear, "That's his sad puppy eyes, huh? But yeah, don't think he's bullshittin' ya this time."
V asks if everything's settled, and Reed nods, promising to keep her updated if anything changes before the operation. After all, lot can happen between now and Hansen’s party, but he seems confident. She bids them farewell and turns to leave.
Before stepping into the elevator, she calls back across the room, "Eh, Alex! For the fancy clothes, nothing pink or too much glitter, right?!"
"Gotcha!" comes the laughing reply.
Back outside, V sighs as she descends The Moth's steps. Given the late hour — or early, depending on perspective — the plaza is nearly deserted. She's looking forward to a few hours of sleep, hoping to make it back to the Glen before sunrise.
"Or we could crash in the hideout," Johnny suggests when she voices her thoughts.
"Nah, better come home." She shakes her head, walking toward the alley where she parked her bike. "We'll sleep better there, plus I'm sure Nibbles and Spike need feeding."
"No wonder I never had pets," he comments, staying close behind her. "Could barely take care of myself, let alone..."
"Yeah, you were a real mess," she teases, starting the engine. "Good thing you've got me to keep you in line now."
"Keep ME in line?" His laugh rumbles against her back as he wraps his arms around her waist.
V drives to the main gate, happy to leave Dogtown and all this mess behind for the next two days, and Johnny couldn't agree more. The night air whips past them as they head home, the city's neon blur creating a tunnel of light around them, and for a moment, everything else falls away — it's just them, the bike, and the promise of peace waiting at home.
"Think the cat actually misses us?" He muses as they turn toward their neighborhood.
"Nibbles? maybe. Or she knocked everything off the shelves out of spite for being left alone so long."
"Little terrorist. Wonder where she gets that from?"
"Definitely your influence, Silverhand."
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
V's sleep is interrupted in the early afternoon when her holo starts vibrating insistently on the nightstand. Johnny groans, rolling onto his back as she fumbles blindly for the device, barely managing to crack one eye open to check the caller ID. He sighs dramatically when he sees it's a certain braindance editor trying to reach the merc.
"Hey Jude," V yawns into the call. "What's up?"
"Ah, you know, same ol'." Judy's cheerful voice comes through. "Did I wake you?"
"Yeah, but don't sweat it," V reassures her, resting her head against the rockerboy's shoulder, feeling him relax at her touch. "So... you callin’ for something specific, or...?"
"Got a favor to ask." There's a hint of mischief in Judy's voice as she adds cryptically, "A particular mission that doesn't require you to have a gun. Just a wetsuit."
"Heh, funny." V chuckles, more awake now. "Actually got one just this morning."
"For real?" The techie sounds surprised. "Well, had a spare one for you anyway. You'll need diving fins too."
"Those I'll have to borrow from you." V shifts slightly, getting comfortable against Johnny. "Gonna tell me why I need it?"
"Nah, don't wanna spoil the surprise." Judy laughs. "Dam out past Rancho Coronado. Know it? Little, uh, abandoned bungalow lakeside. Meet me there — say... around 6 PM?"
"Okay, see you there!" V ends the call, dropping the holo back onto the nightstand.
"The fuck is this shit now?" Johnny grumbles, absently playing with her hair. "What's this chick gonna drag us into this time?"
"Given the wetsuit hint, I'm gonna go with water," she jokes, rolling in the sheets to sprawl across him, resting her chin on his chest.
Any protest he might have had dies in his throat, too distracted by her proximity. His arms instinctively wrap around her waist. Fuck, how's he supposed to say anything when she's looking at him like that ? Still trying to keep his cool, he manages, "You sure it's a good plan to go swimmin’ after this morning's Relic malfunction?"
"It'll be fine," she soothes, nuzzling against him. "Wasn't that bad, only passed out for a few seconds."
Johnny can't help but roll his eyes at how she downplays her condition. "Just 'cause it wasn't as brutal as the one that knocked you out for almost a day after the parade doesn't mean it ain't serious, sweetheart. Shit V, those damn malfunctions have been more frequent lately, even if they're minor ones... And for all we know, that runner messing with the chip ain't helping either and—"
"I know, Johnny." She cuts him off softly. "I know . But we can't do much about it. I'm not gonna sit on my ass waiting for the next one to hit, or for Reed's plan to progress so we can get our hands on So Mi. I..." she hesitates. "I don't know how much time we have left. But whatever it is, I want to live it, not just… survive."
"Yeah, think I get it." He sighs, understanding her reluctance to dwell on it. Truth be told, he doesn't want to think about it either. "But does that have to involve divin’ in sketchy water?"
Relieved he's more or less dropped the subject, she closes her eyes, head still on his chest. "Mhm, have to make sure Alex's diving gear works properly, though I don't doubt it does. Meanwhile, I wouldn't mind trying to catch a few more z's."
"Now that's a plan I can get behind." He closes his eyes too, tension slowly leaving his body.
"Anyone ever tell you you're awfully grumpy when you wake up?" She can't help but tease, already drifting off.
"Shut up, princess," he grumbles, proving her point. Soon enough, they both slip back into sleep, tangled together in the warmth of their bed, the afternoon sun casting lazy shadows through the blinds. For now, the world outside — with all its dangers and uncertainties — can wait.
Another call jolts them awake two hours later. Johnny lets out a frustrated groan muffled by the pillow before complaining, "V, I fuckin' swear, I'm gonna throw this thing outta the window and watch it smash into a million preem little pieces."
"No you won't, still need it." She grabs her holo, checking who's disturbing their peace this time, and a mischievous grin spreads across her face. "Besides, think this one's kinda for you, rockstar."
"Hey. Gig's all set up super sweet, like." Nancy informs them as soon as V picks up. “Tomorrow night, Red Dirt.”
“Talked to Kerry?” V asks eagerly, sitting up in bed. “Didn’t change his mind or anything?”
“No, no, not at all. He’s pretty stoked, in fact.” The journalist chuckles softly. “Haven’t seen him like this since the Silverhand days.”
“What about Henry? Still not on board?” She questions, though she already knows the answer.
“Didn’t even try. Not wastin’ my breath on that dicktip.” Nancy's tone is blasé, probably too used to the man's bullshit to bother anymore. “Well, so, see you tomorrow. And don’t worry about your axe. Got the gear all rounded up.”
With that cryptic last statement, she hangs up, leaving V and Johnny to process the news.
"Holy fuck, can't believe it's actually happening." Johnny whispers, staring at the ceiling with an expression V rarely sees — something between awe and vulnerability. "Nance really pulled through. Always could count on her to get shit done."
"Course it is!" She grins, reaching for her cigarettes. The familiar click of the lighter fills the comfortable silence between them. "What, the great Johnny Silverhand gettin’ cold feet?"
"Fuck off," he snorts, but there's no heat in it. He closes his eyes, savoring the nicotine hit through their link as she takes the first drag. "Just... been a long time since I stood on stage"
"And? How's it feel?" She asks softly, her free hand tracing idle patterns on his chest.
"Fuckin' incredible, if you want the truth." He grins, then his expression shifts to something more contemplative. "Y'know... before all the shit with Arasaka, before the rage took over everything... bein’ on stage was better than any drug. Better than sex, even." He catches her skeptical look and laughs. "Okay, maybe not better than sex, but close."
"Smooth recovery there, old man," she teases, taking another drag.
"I'm serious though," he continues, absently playing with her hair. "There was this moment, right before a show... standing in the wings, hearing the crowd, feeling the energy building... fuck, nothin’ else like it. Then you'd step out and..." His voice takes on a distant quality, lost in the memory. "The lights, the heat, the roar of thousands of people all there for your music... It was like the whole world disappeared. Just you, the guitar, and this... this pure fucking’ connection with every single person in that room."
V watches him as he talks, fascinated by this glimpse into his past. She's seen his memories, sure, but hearing him describe it, seeing the passion light up his face — it's different.
"It was freedom," he says finally. "Real freedom, not the corpo-approved bullshit they sell. And tomorrow..." He looks at her, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Tomorrow I get to feel that again. Through you, yeah, but... fuck, V, it's more than I ever thought I'd get."
"And I get to experience it with you," she smiles, crushing her cigarette before curling back against him. "Seeing Samurai live? Shit, if people knew it was really you up there... The whole city would lose its fuckin’ mind. Already see how many gonks still wear your merch, how many ' where's Johnny? ' tags we spot everywhere?"
"Maybe. Or more likely it's just a handful of old guys in leather jackets who vaguely remember what I used to stand for." He lets out a self-deprecating sound. "It's not me they miss, just the idea that we could choose to stand up to the corps. Back then, I prolly would've thought that was enough, but..."
"Hey, fuck that noise." She props herself up on one elbow, fixing him with a serious look. "Okay, maybe not the randos we pass on the street, but... There are people who still think about you, the person. Rogue, Kerry, all the Samurai crew, fuck, if they knew you were still here... And me?" She softens. "I got the real thing right here, and he's a pain in my ass, but he's also the best thing that's happened to me in this fucked-up city."
"Gettin' soft on me, V?" But his voice is rough with emotion as he pulls her closer.
"Nah, just stating facts." She settles against him. Still havin' time before meeting Judy, she asks, "Wanna take the wheel? Could get some practice in before tomorrow."
"Please," he scoffs, his usual swagger returning. "I'm Johnny fuckin’ Silverhand. Could play Chippin' In blackout drunk with my hands tied behind my back and still blow their minds. Besides," his expression turns serious, "told you — no more switchin’ unless we have to. Not worth the risk."
"There's my cocky rockerboy." She laughs, stretching as she finally gets up. “C'mon, coffee now."
He nods, and they head downstairs to the kitchen, ready to properly start their day. Right now, everything feels possible. Even a legendary comeback show with a dead man's band.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
Perched on Scorpion's bike — it had been too long since she'd taken it for a spin — V follows the dirt path past a bus stop, riding alongside the murky waters of Laguna Bend. The familiar rumble of the engine beneath her is comforting, almost nostalgic. As the small cabin Judy mentioned comes into view, she slows down, parking next to the techie's familiar van.
Judy's sitting on the hood of an old wreck, already suited up in her wetsuit, humming some tune. Her face lights up when she spots the merc approaching. "V! Not suited up yet?"
"Nah, figured I'd cook alive if I rode all the way here wearing it," V jokes, settling beside her and patting her backpack. "Got everything I need right here, just gotta change. So... ready to spill what we're doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"
"Well, been tinkerin' with virtus a lot lately and figured out a way to scroll two actors' experiences at the same time." Judy explains, her eyes sparking with that familiar tech-enthusiasm. "Thought we could try it out. If you're down, of course."
"Sounds like we could do this anywhere." V muses, glancing around at the abandoned landscape. "Why drag us all the way out here? What is this place?"
"Cottage belonged to someone I knew, sits empty now. I take the liberty to use it from time to time." Judy's voice carries a hint of something deeper, but she brightens quickly. "But we're gonna scroll under water."
From the corner of her eye, V notices Johnny tense suddenly, but he stays quiet for now, so she focuses back on Judy. "Okay, I'm in."
"Awesome!" Judy beams, gesturing to the cabin behind her. "You can get ready inside, leave your stuff there too."
V nods and heads toward the small cottage. The interior is dated but functional, and it's clear Judy's been taking care of the place. In the bedroom, she starts stripping down to her underwear, carelessly tossing her jeans aside.
As she pulls out her wetsuit from her backpack, Johnny finally speaks up, "Fuck, this is a terrible idea..."
"Why would you say that?" She asks while wiggling into the suit. Damn, Alex wasn't kidding — it fits like a second skin.
"I dunno. Don't like the idea, that's all." He hesitates, looking genuinely uncomfortable before adding, "It's just... when I think about the dark, the deep... palms that I don't fuckin' have get clammy with sweat I don't sec."
"Hey..." She catches his hand, intertwining their fingers. "This seems important to Judy, so I'll give it a shot. But if it gets too much — you tell me, and we surface right away. Deal?"
"Fuck... okay." He concedes with a sigh, squeezing her fingers. "Still got a bad feeling 'bout this, but... gotta admit seeing your ass in that wetsuit makes it almost worth it."
V laughs heartily, releasing his hand to finish gearing up, securing the oxygen tank to her back. As she approaches the door, she teases, "Oh, you mean this ass?" She asks, giving herself a playful smack.
Johnny freezes mid-step, his chrome hand clenching involuntarily. His eyes darken as they follow the movement, and when he swallows hard, his voice comes out rougher than usual. "Fuck, V... you're playing with fire here, princess."
V can't help but laugh again at his reaction, throwing him a wink before turning on her heel and heading out to join Judy. The sound of Johnny muttering curses under his breath follows her all the way to the door, and she can't wipe the smirk off her face. Sometimes it's just too easy to get under his skin — and damn if she doesn't enjoy every second of it.
Judy's relocated to the end of the metal pier, hunched over a laptop perched on an old crate. She turns at the sound of V's footsteps and lets out an appreciative whistle. "Wow, lookin' good!" V does a playful spin, showing off the sleek suit. The techie's eyes narrow professionally. "But... shit, that's some serious gear you're sporting. Where'd you score pro diving stuff like that?"
"Mhh, long story," V sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Got myself mixed up in some... complicated biz. One job needs the wetsuit. But could be worth it in the end. These people I'm workin’ for... might have a way to save my life."
"Fuck, V." Judy's eyes widen. "That's nova! But still... top-of-the-line military gear." She examines the tactical diving suit more closely, fingers tracing the high-tech seams. "Who exactly you working for?"
"FIA." V shrugs, as if she hadn't just dropped a megaton bomb. "When President Myers' plane went down in Dogtown, they hired me to extract her."
"You're fuckin' with me, right?" The other woman gasps, then, seeing V's serious expression, adds, "Geez... Those people are dangerous. Like, seriously powerful and dangerous. Hope you know what you're getting into."
"Don't worry about it," the merc tries to reassure her. Eager to change the subject, she asks, "So, this dual virtu thing... how we doing this?"
"Just jack into the computer with your personal link for a sec." Judy reluctantly drops the subject. After V connects and she types a few commands, she says, "Okay, done. You can disconnect and grab those fins over there."
V nods, settling on the pier to strap on the fins. She glances at Johnny, who's perched further down the dock, his feet swinging nervously above the water. He manages a weak smile, which she returns before pulling on her diving mask. "Freezing-ass water — here I come!" She announces before plunging in.
Judy joins her immediately, connecting via comm to explain they'll swim to mid-depth for now. As they descend toward a submerged road — a surreal sight that makes V think of ancient ruins — they have an engaging discussion about Judy's artistic ambitions for her BDs, her desire to create powerful emotional responses through the medium.
They reach a small platform attached to a cable that disappears into the murky depths. Judy instructs her through equipment calibration, and once satisfied, tells V to grab the handles — they're heading to their final destination.
She tosses a red luminescent tube into the darkness, and V watches it sink, hypnotized by its descent. There's a flutter of anxiety in the back of her mind, a feeling that isn't hers, but with no further protest from Johnny, she grips the handles. At Judy's signal, they begin their descent into the abyss, the surface world disappearing above them like a distant memory.
Through their link, V can feel Johnny's growing unease, his instinctive resistance to being surrounded by darkness and pressure. She sends back what she hopes is reassuring energy, a silent promise that she won't let anything happen to either of them. The water gets colder and darker as they descend, but V's focus remains split between Judy's excitement and Johnny's fear, trying to balance both as they sink deeper into Laguna Bend's secrets.
As they reach the bottom, V is stunned to discover a little town, the silhouettes of small buildings looming in the darkness, only broken by Judy's glowing stick. The shapes of houses and electrical poles emerge from the murk like ghosts of a forgotten civilization. "That's — That's incredible... What is it?" She asks, mesmerized by the haunting vista before her.
"Our very own Atlantis," Judy jokes, swimming gracefully around V. "Used to be called Laguna Bend. Just fifteen years ago, people still lived here, going about their daily lives, never thinking their homes would end up like this."
"Yeah... I remember reading about it. NC Dam Ltd. made plans to build a dam," V recalls, piecing together fragments of Night City's history. "People protested, fought back, but... well, corps always win, don't they? Houses, playgrounds — all flooded. You've got some connection to this place, right?"
"You got it. Grew up here. Haven't been back since Laguna Bend was wiped off the map." Judy's voice carries a mix of nostalgia and pain through the comm. She explains her hope that V can feel the emotions this place stirs through their link, making it perfect for her experiment.
They glide through the darkness, Judy leading them to a diner whose sign now rests among the seaweed. Cracking another glowing stick, she illuminates the scene. "Flo's Diner — best eatery in town. Only one at that too... Burgers weren't amazing. Too greasy, big." She chuckles, the sound tinged with nostalgia. "'Course, I say that now. Back then they were the best thing I'd ever chewed and swallowed." She kicks her fins, propelling herself further. "And next door... That's where we lived. Me and my grandparents."
As V explores the surroundings, they share stories of their respective childhoods, until something strange occurs. While questioning Judy about a hockey stick lying on the seafloor, V starts hearing... children's voices? Either she's losing it, or she's actually hearing Judy's memories — probably a side effect of the tech.
Half-buried in the sediment, she spots an old camera. Thinking it might appeal to a tech enthusiast like Judy, she retrieves it. Swimming over, she presents it to her friend. "Here, take this camera. Better off in your hands than sittin' here, collectin' algae."
"Gosh, thanks!" Judy's smile is visible even through her diving mask.
They continue their underwater exploration, and after Judy mentions her parents, V hears the children's voices again, like echoes carried through time. When she questions Judy about it, the techie is surprised, saying she hasn't heard anything.
They pause near what was once a gas station, surrounded by the rusted hulks of abandoned cars. As Judy shares more memories and they swim toward a nearby church, she describes the sound of its bells — which V can now hear clearly, the phantom tolling reaching her ears through the water.
"Seriously? You can hear my memories...? Must be a side effect." Judy's voice holds wonder and curiosity.
Noticing Judy's disappointment at the locked church doors, V offers to find another way in. She swims to the partially collapsed roof, and they manage to slip inside the submerged sanctuary.
As Judy continues sharing memories of this place, V starts feeling wrong. Her head spins, vision blurring behind her mask. The dreaded warning of a Relic malfunction flashes across her interface. Fuck, not now . Through their link, she feels Johnny's panic spike sharply — his fear of the deep water amplifying their shared distress.
She tries to swim toward Judy, to warn her something's wrong and they need to surface immediately, but another wave of pain, more intense than before, paralyzes her completely. The last thing she registers is Johnny's terrified voice in her head, screaming her name, before everything fades to black.
When V's eyes flutter open, the cool night air kisses her face as Judy and Johnny hover above her, their faces etched with matching expressions of concern. The techie mutters, “Oh, thanks fuck! You’re alive…” Her voice trembles with relief.
Struggling to prop herself up on her elbows, every muscle protesting the movement, V manages to ask, “How'd you manage to lift me out?” The last thing she remembers is the crushing darkness of the water.
“Dunno. Didn't think about it. Just did what I had to do.” Judy shakes her head, sliding an arm behind V's shoulders to support her as she sits up. “Hey! Careful, easy now…”
“So, you're sayin'... you saved my life. Thank you.” The merc gives her a genuine smile, grateful for having such reliable friends.
As Judy, seeing V's stable, releases her to sit beside her on the pier, Johnny immediately takes her place. He presses his face into her wet hair, taking a long, shaky breath before whispering, "Fuck, V... Don't you ever pull that shit again, you hear me?" The relief in his voice is palpable, raw emotion bleeding through his usual swagger. "What a fuckin’ stupid idea to dive in this toxic waste..."
Judy's brow furrows, and she asks, "'Toxic waste'...? Is that... your construct?"
Johnny freezes at her words, as surprised as V who demands, "You... heard him?"
"Eh, 'heard's' overstating." She pauses, seemingly searching for the right words. "It just... surfaced in my head... a thought that wasn't mine, or completely yours. Heard the same voice screaming your name just before you passed out - that's what tipped me off something was wrong."
"Well, fuck..." V mutters, unsettled by this development. She recovers quickly though, gesturing over her shoulder where the rockerboy is practically glued to her back, invisible to the other woman. "Judy, meet Johnny."
"Wow, that's... incredible." The techie whispers, instinctively reaching toward where V indicated. The movement makes Johnny growl — even knowing she can't touch him, the memory of Songbird's hand on his shoulder, just before making him disappear for endless hours, still too fresh in his mind — and he jerks back reflexively. Judy must feel the wave of negative emotions through the tech still linking her to V because she stops dead, lowering her hand. "I... Got a feeling he doesn't like me much."
"Don't take it personal." V dismisses casually. "He doesn't like most people." Johnny rolls his eyes and pinches her childishly to express his disapproval, making her jump slightly.
Judy watches the merc for a few moments, likely trying to process this new information, before standing and saying, “Doubt you should go back to the city just now… I’m pretty beat too — last thing I wanna do is drive.” She offers V a hand, helping her up. "Let's stay the night. Whaddaya think?"
"Why the hell not." V shrugs, getting to her feet and following the techie toward the cottage, Johnny's solid presence right behind her, still hovering protectively.
Once in the kitchen, Judy offers to make coffee to help V warm up, but as she plugs in the machine, the lights flicker and she mutters, "Ahh... forgot to start the generator."
"I can turn it on." V volunteers, and when she sees the worried look the other woman gives her, she reassures, "Promise to take it easy."
Judy doesn't respond, but V hears the echo of a vaguely familiar voice say 'course I'll be.' Is this another of the woman's memories? Preferring not to dig into that question right now, V steps outside to deal with the generator.
As she's about to start it up, she continues hearing echoes of voices - Judy's and another woman's. Suddenly it hits her — it's Evelyn's voice. Shit, her friend must be thinking about her. The realization makes her chest tight — she knows how much Judy still misses her. She hurries to get the generator running before jogging back to the house, trying to shake off the ghostly echoes of a dead woman's laughter.
Johnny materializes beside her as she walks, his hand finding the small of her back. He's still shaken from earlier, she can tell, but he's trying to play it cool. "Next time you wanna go swimming, princess, let's stick to a pool, yeah?" His attempt at humor doesn't quite mask the lingering fear in his voice.
Back inside, V's surprised to find the kitchen empty. After checking the bedroom — also deserted — she approaches the bathroom door, knocking hesitantly. "Hey, Judy. About that coffee..."
"Be out in a minute." The other woman's voice filters through the closed door.
Figuring Judy's probably wrestling with her wetsuit, V decides to do the same. In the bedroom, she starts peeling off her own suit, grateful that her underwear remained dry despite their underwater adventure — another point for Alex's top-grade diving gear. As she grabs the towel Judy thoughtfully left on the bed and starts drying her hair, two arms wrap around her from behind, holding her tight, the chrome of Johnny's arm cool against her bare stomach.
"Hey..." She says softly, placing her hand over his. "You okay?"
"Yeah, better now." He murmurs into her hair, tightening his grip. "Just let me have this, for a minute."
"'Course." She whispers back, leaning into his embrace. His solid presence grounds her, helps chase away the lingering fear from their underwater ordeal. She can feel his heart beating against her back — even if it shouldn’t technically exist, she won’t question it — and his breath warm against her neck.
"Thought I lost you down there," he confesses quietly, voice rough. "Couldn't do anything but watch you sink... fuck, V. Never felt so helpless, not even..." He trails off, burying his face in her shoulder.
She turns in his arms, cupping his face with both hands. "Hey, I'm right here. Not goin' anywhere." Her thumbs brush over his cheekbones, a gesture that's become familiar between them. "Besides, can't get rid of me that easy, remember?"
His laugh is shaky but genuine. "Yeah, you're one stubborn bitch." He presses his forehead against hers, eyes closed. "Just... don't make me watch you drown again, okay? Once was enough for this lifetime."
"Deal." She promises before settling back against his chest, letting him hold her for as long as he needs.
When he finally releases her several minutes later, Judy still hasn't emerged. V approaches the bathroom door again, concern creeping into her voice, "Something the matter?"
"No... Nothing." Judy responds, but the tremor in her voice betrays her. Thankfully, the lock clicks open, allowing V to enter.
The scene that greets her makes her heart ache. Judy sits on the edge of the bathtub, illuminated by the soft glow of candles she's lit. She's stripped down to her underwear, looking small and vulnerable, tears having left visible tracks on her cheeks. The dim lighting only emphasizes her lost expression.
Shit. Without hesitation, V sits beside her, asking in her gentlest voice, "You thinking about Evelyn?"
"Maiko's holdin' all of Clouds at gunpoint. Decides every little thing, apparently." She says darkly, the revelation catching V off guard. "Talked to the dolls — they don't see any change. Everything's jest like it was before. Got a feelin' everything we did was wasted effort." She pauses to wipe away a tear, turning toward V. "I didn' wanna tell you... Wanted this to be just our day..." She leans in, almost closing the distance between them. "I — I wanted..."
Before she can complete the kiss, V pulls her into a hug instead, asking, "Why didn't you say anything earlier? I don't get it." She feels Judy melt into the embrace, chin resting on her shoulder.
After a moment, the techie pulls back, whispering, "What good would that've done? You'd just think I was blamin' you..." She frowns, shaking her head. "Blame myself already. That's enough."
"You were just out to help the dolls." V tries to comfort her, running a soothing hand along her back. "Bet you'd be blamin' yourself even more if you hadn't tried. Not like you could stand by and do nothin', anyway. Not your style."
Judy hesitates, glancing at V's lips one more time before giving up, moving away with a sigh. "Maybe you're right..." She lets the silence stretch between them before standing, her voice tired. "Think I'll... go lie down. I'm beat."
V nods. Despite having slept for most of the day, she's also exhausted from their underwater adventure. She watches Judy leave the bathroom before rising herself.
After a moment's hesitation, wanting to make sure her friend will be alright, V heads to the living room, finding Judy already passed out on the couch. The techie looks small and vulnerable, curled up in her underwear, tear tracks still visible on her cheeks. Poor thing must have been more exhausted than she let on. V carefully retrieves a blanket, draping it gently over her sleeping form.
"For fuck's sake..." Johnny's irritated growl breaks the silence. He's leaning against the wall, arms tightly crossed, jaw clenched in obvious annoyance. His whole posture radiates tension. "This chick gets on my nerves. Let's you and me blow. Just don't wake her up."
"Judy pisses you off — why?" V turns to face him, genuinely confused by his hostile reaction.
"She's all over the place. Refuses to take the door, jumps out a window, then acts all surprised when she gets hurt." He spits out, deliberately avoiding V's gaze. What he's not saying is how watching Judy try to kiss V earlier made something dark and possessive rear up in his chest. Fuck, he knows he has no right to be jealous like this. V isn't his output, never has been, never will be. She gently rejected Judy's advances anyway, but... goddamn, he can't help it. Call him an asshole if you want, but he finds it so fucking unfair that the techie had the balls to do what he's dying to do himself — but stupidly won't allow himself to.
"Nah, Johnny. Not gonna leave her alone, middle of nowhere." V firmly refuses, but extends her hand toward him, a peace offering. "C'mon, let's get some sleep too. You're being weird, and I'm too tired to figure out why."
He takes her hand while still muttering complaints under his breath, following her to the bedroom. He drops heavily onto the bed, stubbornly closing his eyes to avoid meeting V's gaze.
That plan goes straight to hell when he feels her weight settle over him. His eyes snap open, and his mind short-circuits completely at the sight of her sprawled half on top of him. Holy fuck, she's gorgeous like this — pale skin almost luminescent in the dark, still in her black lace underwear, blue hair falling around her face as she props herself up on his chest. His tags rest between her breasts, the metal catching the dim light, and something possessive and primal surges through him. She's looking down at him with those big concerned eyes, soft and trusting, and his throat goes dry. Desire coils hot and heavy in his gut, and he has to bite back a groan when she shifts against him.
"Gonna tell me what's really eatin’ you?" She asks softly, taking his flesh hand in hers. The gentle touch sends electricity through his whole body, and he can barely think straight.
"Fuck, stop bein' nice with me..." He protests weakly, caressing her knuckes despite himself. "Makes it worse."
"Okay then." She switches tactics. "You're being a real dick for suggestin’ we abandon Jude here in the middle of the night when she's clearly going through some shit. Better?"
"Yeah, better." He nods, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. He deserved that, and fuck, he needs her to call him out on his bullshit. The familiar banter helps ground him, even as his body screams for more contact.
"Still not tellin’ me what's wrong though." She shifts again, and this time he can't hold back a strangled sound. Christ, she has no idea what she's doing to him. “Still shaken up from the lake?"
He almost laughs at how far off the mark she is. "Yeah, somethin' like that," he chokes out.
"Johnny..." She misreads his desperation as lingering fear, her thumb tracing patterns on his palm. “Talk to me?”
"Can't." His voice comes out wrecked. His hands grab her hips roughly, pulling her fully on top of him. Sure, they always end up tangled together at night now, but tonight... tonight he's barely holding it together. His metal hand slides down to grab her ass, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp. "Just... fuck, V, just let me..."
He rolls them onto their sides, tangling their legs together. His whole body is burning where they touch, desire coiling hot and heavy in his gut, breathing ragged, fingers digging into soft flesh.
"Johnny..." She sounds concerned now, running soothing fingers through his hair. The tenderness of the gesture makes his chest ache. "You're really startin’ to worry me."
"Don't..." He chokes out, burying his face in her neck. His lips brush against her pulse point, and fuck, he wants to taste her so badly. "Please, just... just let me have this."
Something in his desperate tone makes her stop questioning. She settles against him, fingers still gentle in his hair, and he wants to scream at how perfect it feels. His hand kneads her ass possessively, pulling her impossibly closer. He's trembling slightly, desire and need and love threatening to tear him apart.
"Okay." She whispers, pressing closer. "Whatever you need."
Everything. Nothing. You. The words die in his throat. Instead, he presses his lips to her temple, letting them linger too long to pass for casual affection. His heart is hammering so hard she must feel it.
They fall silent, wrapped around each other in the darkness. V drifts off first, her breathing evening out, while Johnny stays awake, memorizing every detail of how she feels in his arms. Tomorrow won't be any different — they're too far gone, too tangled up in each other to even pretend otherwise. These moments between them, they're all they have left. And if it hurts like a knife in his chest, well... that's just the price of loving someone you're bound to lose.
V drifts slowly into consciousness, warm and content in that hazy space between sleep and waking. First thing she notices is Johnny, still wrapped around her like a damn octopus — not that she's complaining. His flesh arm is heavy across her waist, metal hand splayed possessively on her ass, and one of his legs is hooked over hers, effectively pinning her in place. His face is buried in her neck, warm breath ghosting over her skin with each exhale.
Her heart aches at how fucking perfect it feels. She's so gone for this asshole it's not even funny anymore. Sure, they always end up tangled together — started happening naturally after he became solid, and neither of them questioned it. But last night... Fuck, last night was something else entirely. She can still feel the desperate way he grabbed her, how his hands dug into her flesh hard enough that she probably has bruises. The raw need in his voice when he begged her to ‘just let him have this’.
Damn, the way he looked at her, like he wanted to devour her whole. She's not blind — knows he wants her, has caught him staring more times than she can count. But there's wanting and then there's... whatever that was last night.
"Stop thinkin' so loud," Johnny grumbles against her neck, voice rough with sleep. His lips brush her skin as he speaks, and she has to bite back a whimper. "Too early for that shit."
"Then get outta my head, rockerboy." She tries to keep her tone light, normal, even as his metal thumb starts drawing lazy circles on her hip, sending electricity through her whole body.
"Can't." He nuzzles closer, stubble scraping deliciously against her sensitive skin. His hand slides lower, squeezing her ass, and this time she can't hold back a small gasp. "The fuck you overthinkin' about anyway?"
You, she wants to say. Us. How badly I want you. How much I love you. How terrified I am that you don't feel the same. Instead, she deflects, "Judy. Should probably check if—"
His whole body goes rigid, grip turning bruising. "Fuck Judy," he snarls, then seems to catch himself. "I mean... shit, V..."
She turns in his arms to face him, and the raw emotion in his dark eyes steals her breath. For a moment they just stare at each other, faces inches apart, the air between them crackling with tension. Then something like panic flashes across his features, and his gaze darts away, though his arms stay locked around her.
"So, uh... about tonight." His voice is deliberately casual, fingers absently tracing patterns on her skin like he's not even aware he's doing it. "First time playin’ in fifty years. In front of actual people. Fuck, hope I don't mess it up."
V recognizes the deflection for what it is — classic Johnny, running from anything that threatens to expose too much of his heart. But there's genuine nervousness in his voice too, hidden under the forced nonchalance, and it makes something warm bloom in her chest.
"You? Mess up? Please." She props herself up on her elbow, watching his profile, the way the morning light catches on his stubble and makes his chrome arm gleam. "You're Johnny fuckin’ Silverhand. You were born for this shit."
A small smile tugs at his lips, softening the sharp edges of his face. "Yeah, well... different when it's your body I'm borrowing." His flesh hand slides up her arm, almost reverent. "Don't wanna fuck it up. Haven't performed in so long, V. Miss the energy, the crowd, the fucking rush of it all." His eyes go distant, nostalgic. "Nothing else like it in the world."
"And you're gonna get all that back tonight." She reaches out, brushes his hair from his face, heart skipping when he leans into her touch. "You're gonna blow their minds, Johnny. Make ‘em remember why Samurai was legendary."
His eyes lock with hers, intense and burning. "Yeah?" There's something vulnerable in his voice that makes her want to wrap herself around him and never let go.
"Hell yeah. The crowd won't know what hit 'em." She grins at him, watching his expression soften. "Plus, where else would I be but right there with you? Front row seat in my own head."
"Fuck..." He pulls her closer, nuzzling into her hair. "What'd I do to deserve you, princess?"
Before she can answer — before she can tell him he deserves so much more than he thinks — they hear the front door open and close. The change in Johnny is instant and visceral. His whole body goes tense, jaw clenching so hard she can hear his teeth grind. His arms tighten around her possessively, then abruptly release as he seems to catch himself.
"Should go check on ‘er," he mutters, voice dripping with barely contained hostility. "Make sure she's not doin’ anything stupid. Again."
"Johnny..." She reaches for him, but he turns away, though she doesn't miss how his hands fist in the sheets.
"Just go, V." He tries to sound indifferent and fails spectacularly, jealousy bleeding through every word. "Your friend needs you. Prolly wants another heart-to-heart."
The bitterness in his voice makes her chest ache. She wants to shake him, wants to tell him there's nothing to be jealous of, that he's the only one she... But he's already retreating behind his walls, and she knows pushing now would only make him pull away more.
Holding back a sigh, V slips out of bed. She picks up her jeans from the floor and pulls them on, not bothering with her top or shoes — after all, she can feel the morning sun's warmth filtering through the window, promising a beautiful day. Finding the cottage empty, she steps outside into the dawn light.
She finds Judy exactly where she expected, perched at the edge of the dock, bare feet dangling over the still waters that reflect the pastel sunrise like a mirror. The techie cuts a lonely figure against the backdrop of mountains and power lines, cigarette in one hand and coffee in the other, with a second mug placed beside her — clearly waiting for V. Hearing footsteps on the wooden planks, Judy asks, "Will ya sit with me a while?" She nods toward the waiting cup, adding with a self-deprecating chuckle, "Here's your coffee. Finally."
V lights up a cigarette before settling down next to her, offering a simple, "Mornin'."
Judy remains quiet for a long moment, giving V time to take several drags and sip her coffee, before finally speaking in a hesitant voice, "Y'know... yesterday, I think I'd made up my mind... Actually called you 'cause I wanted to say goodbye." She takes one final pull from her cigarette before flicking it into the water, adding bitterly, "City's chewed me up, an' it's spittin' me out."
The merc takes another thoughtful sip of coffee, weighing her words carefully. She knows how true Judy's words ring — this city has absolutely devoured her, and V can see how the young techie's eyes are a little emptier, a little more distant than when they first met. Before everything went to shit with Evelyn. Sure, things weren't great before, between the Moxes, Maiko, and Laguna Bend... but that was probably the final straw.
"Look, Night City's not for everyone," she says gently, taking a drag before continuing. "Grew up here, thought nothin' could surprise me..."
"And now?" Judy asks.
"I'd pack up my shit and bail too, if I could..." V responds, though she knows it's not entirely true. After all, she'd tried leaving once, spending two years in Atlanta, but ultimately came crawling back. "But... it's just not the right time."
The small smile that had started to form on Judy's lips at the first part of her answer fades at the 'but'. She contemplates for a moment, then turns to face V, saying softly, "Gimme your hand, V."
Without questioning, the merc complies, and Judy presses their wrists together as her optics glow electric blue. A message reading 'Uploading biometric data' flashes across V's visual interface, the loading bar progressing rapidly.
When it completes, Judy gently releases her hand, offering a genuine smile this time. "All set, congrats. Just gave you unlimited access to my pad."
"Whoa, hah..." V's eyes widen in surprise. "Thanks but I mean... why?"
"Won't be needing it much longer anyway." She shrugs, her feet dangling over the water below. "It was my grandparents' place, when they moved to Night City after Laguna Bend went under. Then when they left for Oregon, I moved in. Can't bring myself to sell it so... it's yours now. Do whatever you want with it."
"Sure about this?" the merc asks, understanding the weight of the gift. "Haven't known each other that long..."
"I like you, consider you a friend." She smiles again, but there's sadness in her eyes now. "Way I see it, there's nothing else to consider. Take care, V."
Shit, V knows a goodbye when she hears one. "This really it? Last time we see each other?" she asks, throat tightening. "Didn't seem so set on leaving just a sec ago."
"See no reason to delay." This time she avoids V's gaze, but not before V catches the flash of disappointment in her eyes. "I'll stay here a couple days... then head off." She turns back to the calm waters, murmuring, "It's been nice knowin' ya, V. See ya... And hit me up on the holo, sometimes."
Not knowing what else to add, the merc drains her coffee in one go, then says as she stands, "See ya, Judy."
The rising sun casts long shadows across the dock as V leaves her friend to her thoughts, the water lapping gently at the pylons below — a peaceful scene that somehow only makes the goodbye feel more final.
V heads back to the cabin to gather her things, and Johnny materializes just as she's pulling her top on, lounging against the wall with the smuggest grin she's ever seen on his face. He's practically radiating satisfaction, looking like he just won the fucking lottery.
"Don't smile like that, asshole." She rolls her eyes, but his good mood is infectious and she can't quite keep her own lips from twitching. "One of my friends just said goodbye, you shouldn't look so pleased about it. Even if leaving this city is probably what's best for her."
"'M not smilin'," he drawls, but his grin only grows wider, eyes dancing with barely contained glee. "Just... appreciatin' the mornin'. Beautiful day, ain't it?"
"You're terrible," V chuckles, shaking her head. "Absolutely fucking terrible."
"What? Can't a guy be happy about the weather?" He pushes off the wall, practically bouncing on his feet. "Sun's shinin', birds are singin', certain BD techs are packin' their bags..."
"Johnny!" But she's laughing now, unable to help herself. "You're such a gonk."
"Hey, just sayin' — one less person tryin' to get you killed." He continues, still grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. "No more underwater death traps, no more whore drama..."
"You're impossible, you know that?"
"Part of my charm, princess." He winks at her, then adds in a sing-song voice.
"I swear to god, Johnny..." But she's still smiling, because how can she not when he's being this ridiculous? It's like watching a cat who finally caught the canary it's been stalking for weeks.
When she steps outside, Judy's still perched on the dock, a small figure silhouetted against the morning sky. V raises her hand in farewell, getting a half-hearted wave in return, before swinging her leg over her bike and starting the engine.
As they speed back toward Night City, Johnny materializes behind her, his presence a familiar weight against her back. The morning sun glints off the chrome of her bike, the city's skyline growing larger with each mile, and for once, he actually lets himself think instead of running from his own thoughts.
His reaction to Judy nags at him, an uncomfortable itch he can't quite scratch. The jealousy had hit him like a punch to the gut, raw and visceral. Sure, it's not the first time he's gotten stupidly possessive over V — fuck, the River incident is still fresh in his mind, barely three weeks old. That night had been... something else. Just the thought of that cop's family fawning over V, pushing them together, suggesting they'd make such a cute couple... It had made something dark and ugly rear up inside him.
That night had been... fuck. He'd completely lost his shit, watching V at that family dinner. Later, when V had actually considered it — not even a relationship, just a quick fuck — he'd completely lost his shit. Said things he regrets, cruel things designed to hurt. Told her if she was that desperate to get laid, he'd volunteer. Real fuckin’ classy, Silverhand.
The night she'd grabbed his wrist and they'd both frozen, shocked to find his form solid under her fingers. The night he'd finally broken down and apologized, really apologized, for being such an asshole.
But this thing with Judy... it doesn't make sense. V isn't even into chicks, for fuck's sake. There was never any real threat there, no possibility of anything happening. Maybe it's just that he's never liked the BD techie, the way she always seems to drag V into her messes. Judy's problems just seem to pile up, one after another, each one threatening to pull V under with her.
The bike roars as they hit the highway, and Johnny finds himself unconsciously tightening his grip around V's waist, his thoughts drifting to a different kind of heartache — Takemura. Now there's a complicated fucking situation if he's ever seen one. A man V had — maybe still has, who the fuck knows — a genuine crush on. And who clearly had something for her too, even if his corpo loyalty ultimately won out.
Johnny remembers it all too clearly — the lingering looks they shared, those little dinner dates at that shitty food stall V loves so much. The way Takemura's stern facade would soften when she made him laugh, how his formal speech patterns would slip when she teased him. And then there was that kiss in that rundown motel after the parade went to shit — desperate, passionate, tasting of blood and gunpowder and fear. Johnny had tried his hardest to give them privacy then, to look away, but he couldn't help feeling every sensation, every racing heartbeat, every shared breath.
Yet somehow, he never lost his shit over Takemura the way he did with others. Sure, he was jealous — he's not gonna lie to himself about that. Every time V's heart skipped a beat around the ex-bodyguard, Johnny felt like someone was twisting a knife in his chest. But he never flew into one of his rages about it, never tried to actively sabotage whatever was building between them.
He knows his reasoning makes zero fucking sense, that he's being completely illogical. After all, Takemura was probably the biggest threat — someone who could have given V everything Johnny couldn't. Someone alive, someone real, someone with a future to offer.
But then the bastard left her alone — prolly crawling back to his precious fuckin’ Arasaka — and something in Johnny shifted. That night, seeing V break down, he'd just... held her. Let her cry on his shoulder, stroked her hair, whispered whatever comfort he could offer. Acted like an actual human being for once.
Well, at least until V gave him control of her body later that night. Then he introduced Takemura’s face to his fist, screaming every curse he knew while telling him exactly what he thought about corpo rats who abandon the people who care about them. Not his proudest moment, maybe, but fuck if it hadn't felt good.
The realization hits him like a punch to the gut as they weave through traffic. At first, he tries to rationalize it — maybe his feelings for V, or this overwhelming possessiveness, weren't as intense back then. But that theory crumbles instantly. After all, the River incident happened before that, and he'd nearly lost his fucking mind over a simple family dinner. No, there has to be something else.
And then it hits him, the truth he's been dancing around — before Takemura broke V's heart by choosing his corpo masters over her... Johnny had actually hoped the man would stick around. Had almost counted on it, even. Because Takemura, for all his flaws, had seemed to genuinely care about V. Not just her skills or what she could do for him, but her — her sharp wit, her hidden gentleness, the way she'd risk everything to help a friend.
The thought makes Johnny's stomach turn, but he forces himself to face it — Takemura would have been perfect to take care of V after Johnny... after he has to go. And fuck, isn't that the crux of it? Because Johnny would have to be in complete fucking denial — which, okay, he usually is — to refute the fact that Takemura would have been more than capable of filling that role. Probably way better than Johnny himself ever could, since, y'know — he's actually fucking alive, unlike some construct riding shotgun in V's head.
The ex-bodyguard had everything Johnny doesn't — a physical form, a future to offer, the strength and skills to keep V safe in this fucked-up city. And more than that — he could have made her happy. Given her the kind of life she deserves, not this half-existence she's sharing with a dead terrorist. Not like Judy — too broken herself to support anyone else's weight, too weak to stand against Night City's tide. And definitely not like fucking River — just... ew . The thought of that badge trying to domesticate V, turn her into some cookie-baking housewife... Johnny shudders. No, Takemura had been different. Had understood V's nature, respected her strength while still wanting to protect her.
But of course , the corpo-loving bastard had to fuck it all up. Had to prove Johnny right about Arasaka dogs and their ‘loyalty’. Because when push came to shove, when V needed him most, Takemura chose his precious fucking corporation over her. Chose Saburo's murderous bitch of a daughter over the woman who'd saved his life, who'd fought beside him, who'd started to genuinely fall for him.
The anger rises in Johnny's throat like bile, but underneath it is something worse — disappointment. Because for once, just fucking once, he'd actually hoped to be proven wrong about someone. Had hoped that maybe, just maybe, V would have someone worthy of her when he… Fuck. He can't even finish the thought.
Johnny sighs, his breath ghosting over V's neck as they weave through the morning traffic. At least he knows he can count on Panam — that nomad's got a heart of gold under all that attitude and explosives. The way she loves V, fierce and unconditional like a sister... that's something rare in Night City. Something real.
The whole Aldecaldo clan has practically adopted V at this point. They don't want anything from her except her presence, her smile, her terrible jokes around the campfire. Even Saul's grumpy ass has warmed up to her. They'd die for her — more importantly, they'd live for her, give her a home, a family, a future.
He hopes that'll be enough. That when the time comes — and fuck, it's coming, no matter how hard they both try to pretend it isn't — V won't be completely alone. That makes him want to scream at the unfairness of it all, that he finally found someone worth living for just when he has to die.
Shit, maybe the nomads won't be enough. He's almost tempted to call in every favor he's got left. Kerry would help — beneath all his bullshit, the guy's got a good heart, and he sure will adore V. Rogue too, maybe. The Queen of the Afterlife might act tough, but Johnny's caught the way she looks at V sometimes, like she sees something of her younger self in the merc.
The thoughts keep circling in his head as they wind through Night City's streets, his arms tightening around V's waist. Each mile brings them closer to home, and closer to the inevitable end he's trying so hard not to think about. But fuck if he isn't going to make sure she's taken care of before he goes. He owes her that much. Owes her everything, really.
Because the truth is he doesn't just want her to survive. He wants her to live. To thrive. To be happy, even if that happiness comes after he's gone. Even if he never gets to see her smile again, never gets to hear her laugh, never gets to hold her close and pretend he's still alive enough to love her the way she deserves.
By the time they pull up to their apartment, he's made up his mind about a few things. He just wants to make sure that when he fades away for good, V will have everything she needs to keep going. Everything except him.
And isn't that just the biggest fucking joke of all?
But it's just the price I pay
Destiny is calling me
Open up my eager eyes
'Cause I'm Mr. Brightside
Night has begun its slow descent over the city when V parks the Porsche across from the Red Dirt. The bar's neon sign bleeds red into the gathering darkness, casting crimson shadows over the small crowd already gathering outside.
Before stepping out into the evening air, V steals a glance at Johnny in the passenger seat. His chrome fingers drum an anxious rhythm against his thigh — not quite the beat of any song she knows, just a nervous, endless tapping that betrays his unsettled state. He's been off all day, even by his standards, hovering closer than her own shadow. At first, she'd attributed it to pre-show jitters — after all, it's not every day you get to perform through someone else's body — but there's something more there, something raw and desperate in the way he keeps reaching for her.
They'd spent the day holed up in their apartment, Johnny practically wrapped around her on the couch as they worked their way through more of the Bushidō franchise. He'd stayed solid the entire time, his chest pressed against her back, fingers alternating between playing with her hair and tracing abstract patterns on her skin. Even when she'd ordered their usual anchovy-pineapple pizza — which earned her another dramatic rant about corrupting his sophisticated palate, before asking for another slice — he hadn't moved away. Like he couldn't bear even that small separation.
The clinginess had reached new heights when she went to shower off the lingering scent of Laguna Bend's murky waters. Instead of giving her privacy like usual, he'd followed her right in, materializing on the closed toilet lid and filling the steamy air with random stories about his touring days. Not that she minded — there's nothing left between them to hide — but it was telling that he couldn't stand being apart even for those few minutes.
Getting ready for the show had been a deliberate choice — Johnny's old leather pants hugging her hips, the worn Samurai tank top, and Rogue's gifted jacket completing the ensemble. She'd even grabbed his iconic aviators, figuring he might want the comfort of familiar gear while borrowing her body. Each item she put on had earned her one of those soft, genuine smiles he seems to reserve just for her these days.
Now, watching his restless fidgeting in the car, she reaches over and covers his chrome hand with her own. The contact instantly stills his nervous movement, his fingers automatically intertwining with hers. "You gonna be okay?"
"Yeah, gonna be fine." He squeezes her hand, and if he holds on a few seconds longer than necessary, neither of them mentions it. "C'mon, let's do this."
"Okay," she flashes him her brightest smile, the one that always seems to settle something in him. "Can't make your fans wait, huh?"
The moment she steps out of the car, he's there beside her, immediately draping his arm across her shoulders. As they walk toward the bar, he pulls her closer, his thumb absently stroking her shoulder. It's probably meant to comfort her, but V suspects he needs the contact more than she does right now. So she leans into his touch, letting him have this moment of closeness before the chaos of the show begins.
When V pushes through the Red Dirt's doors, the musty scent of stale beer and old cigarettes hits her nose — a smell as familiar to Johnny as his own leather jacket. The bar's surprisingly empty, just a scattered handful of night city's finest alcoholics nursing their drinks, probably more interested in drowning their sorrows than catching live music. The sparse crowd makes it easy to spot Nancy and Denny tucked away at a corner table, the latter catching sight of V and waving her over with a casual, "Hey, V."
"V! Got somethin' for you." Nancy's hand comes to rest on a bright red guitar case that's seen better days, its surface scarred with tour stickers and road wear. When she flips the latches and lifts the lid, V's breath catches in her throat. There, nestled in worn velvet, lies a black guitar that she recognizes instantly from Johnny's memories. "Dunno if you know, but once upon a time this was Silverhand's."
As V traces reverent fingers along the instrument's neck, she can feel Johnny's emotions crashing through their shared consciousness like a tidal wave. Another piece of his past materializing before their eyes — and it's exactly as he remembers, down to the smallest detail. The worn-away paint on the bottom left where his arm would rest, exposing the raw wood underneath. The vintage stickers, edges curled and faded from years of sweat and friction. The 'fuck the tyrants' he'd carved into the body one night. The tiny bombs replacing the standard dots on the fretboard. Every chip in the finish, every battle scar, every memory etched into its surface. Not just a guitar — his guitar, his voice when words weren't enough.
"Fuck..." Johnny breathes, his voice rough with emotion, unable to tear his eyes away from the instrument that had been as much a part of him as his chrome arm. "Nancy just gets shit done. Should just whisper 'Mikoshi' in her ear, we'll be all set."
V's almost as moved as he is, thanking Nancy with genuine warmth in her voice. Trying to regain her composure — and give Johnny a moment to process — she turns to Denny, asking about what really went down with Henry. It's mostly for Johnny's benefit, knowing he's hungry for any information about his old bandmates, desperate to understand how everything fell apart after his death.
When V asks how Denny feels about the upcoming show, the drummer's response comes with a wry smile, "Weird. Like I'm about to pretend to be... myself." Her gaze drifts to the guitar, something softening in her expression as she adds, "Plus, Johnny's out. Never thought I'd say I miss the bastard, but I damn well do."
And fuck, Johnny's smile makes the question worth asking. Even as he tries to play it cool, he's practically vibrating with barely contained energy, the drummer's unexpected admission clearly hitting him right in the feels. V can feel his joy radiating through their connection, bright and warm and just a little bit vulnerable.
After a brief discussion with Nancy about V's guitar skills and who's handling bass duties in Henry's absence, Johnny nods toward the restroom, gesturing for her to follow. The bathroom door swings shut behind them, sealing them in this liminal space of flickering fluorescent lights and decades of graffiti. V barely has time to take in their surroundings before Johnny's moving into her space, backing her against the wall with a practiced ease.
"Why do I get the feeling dragging people into bathrooms before shows was kind of your thing?" V asks, tilting her head up at him with an amused smile.
"What can I say?" Johnny plants his chrome hand against the wall beside her head, effectively caging her in. His other hand comes to rest on her hip, thumb brushing against the exposed skin where her tank top has ridden up. "Best place for some pre-show entertainment. Little bit of synthcoke..." He leans closer, voice dropping to a rough whisper near her ear, "Quick fuck with whatever groupie was feeling generous..."
"That an offer, Silverhand?" V's voice is playful, but there's something else there too, something that makes Johnny's carefully constructed act crumble.
He jerks back like he's been electrocuted, putting space between them so fast it's almost comical. His chrome hand clenches and unclenches at his side. "Fuck, V, I didn't..." He runs his flesh hand through his hair, trying to recover his casual attitude even as something raw and desperate flashes across his face. "Was just messin' around."
"Johnny?" V pushes off the wall, concern creeping into her voice as she watches him practically vibrate with nervous energy. "What's really goin' on here?"
"I don't..." He starts and stops, shoulders slumping as the last of his bravado falls away. "Fuck, I don't even know why I dragged you in here. Just... wanted you to myself for a minute, I guess. Before..." He gestures vaguely at the door, at everything waiting for them outside this moment.
"Hey..." V moves toward him slowly, watching the conflict play across his features. "Tonight's all about you, you know that, right? Your music, your band, your moment." She closes the distance between them, reaching up to cradle his face in her hands. The stubble on his jaw is rough against her palms, and she can feel the slight tremor running through him — whether from nerves or restraint, she's not sure.
"And I'll be right here," she continues, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Just like always.” Her thumbs brush over his cheekbones, a gesture that's become so familiar lately, their own private language of comfort. He leans into her touch despite himself, his hands finding their way back to her waist, gentler this time, gripping her like an anchor. Like she's the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment.
"Want you to enjoy this," she says softly, watching his dark eyes flutter half-closed at her touch. "Really enjoy it. Not worry about whatever's eatin’ at you. Just play your heart out, trash this place like the ol’ days." A small smile tugs at her lips. "Show these gonks what Johnny fuckin’ Silverhand's really made of."
The ghost of his signature smirk returns, though his eyes remain soft, vulnerable in a way he only ever lets her see. The fluorescent lights catch on his aviators, pushed up into his hair, casting strange shadows across his face. "You always know exactly what to say, don't ya?"
"Well, sharing brain space with you had to be good for something," she teases gently, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere.
That gets a genuine laugh out of him, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders. His hands tighten slightly on her waist, pulling her closer until their foreheads almost touch. For a moment, they just breathe together in the quiet of the bathroom, the distant thrum of music bleeding through the walls.
"Ready to trash?" V finally asks, her fingers sliding down to rest against his chest.
"Fuck yeah," he grins, and then everything shifts as he takes control, settling into her body like coming home. The last thing V feels before retreating to that quiet corner of their shared consciousness is the press of his gratitude, his affection — and underneath it all, that fierce protectiveness that's become as much a part of him as his chrome arm.
Before leaving the bathroom, Johnny takes a moment to study his reflection — or rather, V's reflection with his mannerisms. He adjusts the glowing collar of her jacket, a motion so familiar yet strange through her smaller hands. Like every time he takes control, he swears he can see his chrome arm superimposed over V's flesh one, a ghost of his old self bleeding through. He takes a deep breath, centering himself before heading back into the bar.
During their little heart-to-heart, the crowd has grown — probably the people who actually came for the show this time — but more importantly, Kerry's arrived. The rockstar looks even more nervous than Johnny feels, fingers drumming restlessly against the table. His anxiety seems to spike when Johnny enters his field of vision.
"There you are." Kerry nods toward the tall guy with a mohawk beside him — who looks so excited he might shit himself any second. "This is Drausin, from Cutthroat."
"Hey! Big fan, huge fan. You too?" The guy's practically vibrating with the enthusiasm of a kid on a sugar rush. "Got all their albums, I mean, I never dreamed I'd..."
Kerry cuts him off. "Chill, choom. She's in the same boat as you. Wanna talk to a star, talk to me." Johnny lets out an unimpressed snort, rolling V's eyes at the bravado. "And get that shakin' under control." Then, under his breath, "Think my shakes're same or worse."
"Crowd got you stressed?" Johnny can't help but tease, "Or is it me?"
"Fuck you." Kerry growls, clearly affected by the jab.
"Missed you too," Johnny soothes, then adds, "Ker, a word."
He leads the way to the back door, stepping into the alley where the neon glow from the street barely reaches. The night air is cool against V's skin as he leans against the brick wall, fishing out her cigarettes. The familiar motion of lighting up grounds him somehow, even through borrowed hands.
Kerry follows — of course he does, some habits never change — and settles beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touch. "Barely back from the dead an' you're already bossin' me around like the old days, huh?"
"Yeah, well." Johnny takes a long drag, letting the smoke curl between them before passing the cigarette over. "You love it." He watches Kerry's hands shake slightly as he takes the offered smoke, notices the way his old friend's trying to hide his nerves behind that rockstar facade he's perfected over the years. "So. You gonna make it through this show without having a stroke?"
"Seriously?" Kerry scoffs, but there's something vulnerable beneath the bravado. "You dragged me out here just to check on me? Since when do you do wellness checks?"
"Always gave a shit, Ker. Just sucked at showin’ it." He turns to face him properly, still getting used to having to look up — V's height difference taking some adjustment. "Would you rather I call you a pussy for gettin’ stage fright over a dive bar gig?"
That pulls a genuine laugh from Kerry, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Yeah, actually. Might feel more normal."
"Too bad." Johnny shrugs, taking the cigarette back. "V's rubbin' off on me, making me all... considerate and shit. So I'm asking again — you good?"
"Yeah, just..." Kerry trails off, clearly holding something back before changing the subject. "About the show — Nancy and I kept the setlist tight. Ten songs, greatest hits kinda deal." He pulls out a shard, which Johnny slots into V's port to scan the track listing. Not bad. "Had to ask though — how's V's singin’ voice?"
"Decent enough for backup, but you should take lead." He bumps Kerry's shoulder with his — well, V's. "It's your night anyway. I'm just here to make you look good and play some killer riffs."
"Holy shit." Kerry shakes his head in disbelief. "Johnny fuckin’ Silverhand actually stepping out of the spotlight? This V must be some kind of miracle worker to offset your ego."
"Something like that." He can feel V's amusement radiating from their shared consciousness. "Speaking of... I want you two to get to know each other better. Think you'd hit it off. Just... consider it, yeah?"
"I... sure." Kerry looks thrown by the request, but nods. "We should head back in, right?"
"Let's motor." Johnny crushes the cigarette under V's boot, leading the way back inside with Kerry close behind, like old times but completely different.
They make their way back to where Samurai's waiting, having to squeeze through the packed crowd — shit, the place is really filling up now. Johnny runs his fingers lovingly over the guitar's body before gripping the neck, turning to the others with a grin. "All right. Let's do this."
Nancy signals the bartender they're ready to start, and the house lights dim, leaving only the small stage illuminated as they take their positions. Johnny settles stage left, keeping his promise to give Kerry the spotlight. The crowd buzzes with anticipation while they plug in, the air electric with possibility. Through V's eyes, he spots familiar faces — including that old merch vendor from Japantown, wearing a vintage Samurai shirt that's probably older than V.
He quickly tunes up, looking up to find every band member watching him, waiting for his cue to start — and fuck, it's weird, considering only Kerry knows who's really behind V's eyes.
Fuck it, no time to think about that now. He signals Denny, who clicks her sticks four times, and then they're off, Johnny's fingers finding the opening riffs of Like a Supreme like they never left. Kerry's voice soars in, followed by Nancy's synth, the bass rumbling behind them, and finally the drums kick in. And just like that, the magic happens.
It's fucking incredible how natural it feels, like the last fifty years just melt away. His body might be different, but his soul remembers every note, every move, every moment. He finds himself falling into old patterns — the way he leans into Kerry during solos, how he prowls the edge of the stage during bridges. V's smaller frame moves differently, but somehow it works, adding a new energy to his familiar swagger.
Kerry's absolutely killing it, looking more alive than anyone’s seen him in years. The nerves are gone, replaced by pure rockstar charisma as he works the crowd. They feed off each other's energy just like they used to, trading riffs and grins across the stage.
The music flows through them like electricity through chrome, each song building on the last. During Chippin' In, the crowd becomes one living organism, screaming lyrics Johnny wrote a lifetime ago. Never Fade Away hits different now — the words carrying new weight when sung through V’s borrowed lips. The irony isn't lost on him.
V's presence in their shared mind is like a feedback loop of pure euphoria. Her joy amplifies his, doubles back, builds and builds until he's high on it. When he joins Kerry for harmonies, their voices weave together in ways that shouldn't work but do — V's higher register adding something hauntingly beautiful to the familiar melodies.
He finds himself moving in ways that blend his old stage presence with V's natural grace — less brutal force, more controlled power. The way she flows through combat translates surprisingly well to performance, adding a deadly elegance to his usual swagger. Together, they create something entirely new.
By the time they hit Archangel for the finale, the energy in the room is fucking nuclear. Sweat drips down V's spine, her arms burn, but Johnny pushes through, channeling every bit of emotion from the past fifty years into each note. Kerry's at his side, both of them leaning into the same mic for the final chorus, and for a moment, time collapses. It's 2003 and 2077 all at once, death and resurrection, ending and beginning wrapped up in one perfect moment.
The last note hangs in the air like a promise kept. Through the ringing in V's ears, through the roar of the crowd, through the pulse of their shared heartbeat, Johnny feels more alive than he has since waking up in V's head. Kerry's laughing, tears in his eyes, Nancy's practically glowing, and even Denny looks like she's fighting back a smile.
And V — fuck, V's joy is a supernova in their shared consciousness, burning away all his cynicism, all his doubts. This wasn't just a reunion show. This was redemption, resurrection, rebirth — everything he never knew he needed. And doing it all with V there to share it, to understand just how much this means for him… Fuck…
Kerry sets his guitar down and suddenly Johnny's enveloped in an embrace that's both familiar and strange through V's smaller frame. Kerry lifts him off the ground, spinning them both in a moment of pure, unfiltered euphoria, and Johnny can't help but laugh — really laughs, deep and genuine — because fuck, Kerry's earned this moment. When his feet touch the ground again, he catches Nancy and Denny exchanging loaded glances, that knowing look that always made him feel exposed. Too observant for their own good, those two always were.
Kerry catches the look too, his hand finding Johnny's shoulder with practiced ease, even if it's V's shoulder he's actually touching. The warmth of that contact sends a jolt of memories through him — countless nights on stage, backstage, in studios. A subtle head tilt toward the bar is all the communication they need. Some things never change, even after fifty years. Johnny nods, snagging his guitar — no way in hell he's leaving it behind — before they hop off stage, weaving through the slowly dispersing crowd.
Kerry joins him a few minutes later, after playing rockstar for the handful of fans who caught him. He collapses onto the barstool, still radiating that post-show energy that Johnny remembers so fucking well. "Saw how Den' and Nance were eyeing you. Might wanna steer clear unless you're ready to explain how Johnny fuckin’ Silverhand's possessing some merc's body."
"Fuck you," Johnny says through V's smile, waving for drinks, trying to ignore how natural this feels, like no time has passed at all. "But yeah, they definitely caught something was off. Always were the sharpest ones in the band."
"No shit." Kerry downs his shot like it's 2023 again, and for a moment Johnny sees him as he was — young, hungry, ready to set the world on fire. "And if I could spot you just from two minutes of playing..."
"Yeah, yeah, I just gave them a fuckin’ concert's worth of evidence." He throws back his own drink, the burn familiar even through V's throat. "Doesn't matter. V can ghost them. Besides..." He gestures at the stage, still humming with residual energy. "That was fuckin' incredible. Worth whatever comes next."
Something shifts in Kerry's expression, thoughtfulness replacing the post-show high. "This is fucked up. Actually... got pretty nervous for this thing. Felt like I had something to prove — to myself, to you, to whoever the fuck." A genuine smile breaks across his face, making him look decades younger, reminding Johnny of all those times he'd catch Kerry watching him from across the stage, eyes full of something he was too scared to name. "But all I did was have a good time. That's it."
"Wanna do it again?" Johnny asks, surprised by how much hope creeps into V's voice, how much he wants to freeze this moment, stretch it out forever.
"Huh? No." Kerry shakes his head, still smiling. "That was enough."
The words hit Johnny like a physical blow, because he can feel the truth in them. This dive bar reunion somehow helped Kerry turn the page on the Silverhand chapter of his life. Maybe not close the book entirely, but... something's different now, something final. Johnny tries to squash the selfish pain that rises in his chest because Kerry deserves this — deserves to move on after carrying Johnny's ghost for fifty years. But fuck, it hurts.
Because he can feel the goodbye lurking in every silence, and fuck, there's still so much left unsaid between them. All those times Kerry offered him everything, laid his heart bare, and Johnny — fucking coward that he was — chose distance over the terrifying possibility of really letting him in. Chose to hurt him in small doses rather than risk destroying him completely, like he destroyed everything else he ever touched.
He could say it all now — how Kerry was always more than a friend, more than a bandmate, more than the endless string of labels Johnny hid behind. How those heated moments backstage, those shared cigarettes and lingering touches, meant more than he ever let show back then. How pushing him away wasn't about not wanting him but about knowing Kerry deserved better than Johnny's broken version of love. Better than someone who'd rather drown himself in a cocktail of drugs and anger and booze and violence than face the raw intensity of what they could have been.
But maybe some stories don't get neat endings wrapped in pretty bows. Maybe Kerry doesn't need to hear "I'm proud of you" or "You're more important to me than you'll ever know" or even just "I'm so fuckin’ sorry for every time I made you feel like you weren't enough." The weight of those unspoken truths sits like lead in his chest, almost two decades of regret crystallized into something sharp and permanent that cuts deeper with every breath. Even now, with V filling every corner of his heart and mind, that old pain lingers — not as a current wound, but as a scar that still aches when touched, a reminder of everything he was too afraid to reach for. Maybe Kerry doesn't need to hear all the things Johnny never said, even if the silence leaves him feeling hollow inside, another regret to carry to whatever grave finally claims him.
With V's condition deteriorating these past few days, he knows there won't be more chances to just hang with his old friends. Maybe it's time to really say goodbye. His eyes fall on his beloved guitar, still thrumming with energy from the show — a symbol of everything he was, everything he loved. He pushes it toward Kerry, forcing casualness he doesn't feel into V's voice. "In that case... here, take it. As a souvenir."
"You sure?" Kerry's eyes widen, immediately understanding the weight of what Johnny's really saying. Because it's never been just about the guitar — it's about endings, about letting go, about finally closing doors that should've been closed decades ago.
"Won't play without you. Just wouldn't be the same." The lie tastes bitter on V's tongue, but it's better than the truth — that he won't be playing again, period. That this borrowed time is running out, he can feel it in his bones. Better than admitting this is goodbye.
"See what you're doin’ here." Kerry rolls his eyes as he takes the guitar, trying to maintain his cool even as his fingers caress the strings reverently. "But I still plan on playin’."
He breaks eye contact, focusing on the instrument as his fingers find a familiar riff — and fuck, there's that smile again. The one that used to make Johnny's heart skip, the one that still makes something in his chest ache with decades of what-ifs. It's a good final image to hold onto — Kerry shining like the sun, doing what he loves with renewed passion, finally free of Johnny's shadow. Finally free of him.
He doesn't want to ruin it with words that could never be enough anyway, so he gently nudges V's consciousness, mentally taking her hand to guide her back into control of her own body. But before he retreats completely, he allows himself one last moment to memorize everything — the way the stage lights catch on Kerry's chrome, the familiar calluses on his fingers as they dance across the strings, the peaceful contentment in his eyes. Memorizes the way Kerry looks when he's truly happy, when he's not carrying the weight of Johnny's memory like a cross.
It's not the dramatic ending he might have written for himself, but maybe it's better this way. Maybe the kindest thing he can do for Kerry now is what he should have done fifty years ago — let him go, let him shine on his own, let him be more than just Johnny Silverhand's shadow. Even if it feels like ripping open an old wound, even if part of him wants to stay in this moment forever, where they're just Johnny and Kerry again, making music like nothing else matters.
But some stories need to end. And maybe this time, Johnny can finally do right by Kerry and let this one end quietly, without blood or fire or screaming. Just the soft fade-out of a song that's been playing too long, finally reaching its last note.
V regains control of her body with a slight dizziness, quickly wiping away the drop of blood trickling from her nose before anyone can notice. She feels Johnny's concern prickling at the edges of their shared consciousness and sends back waves of reassurance, trying to convince him she's fine.
Kerry, still lost in playing the guitar, hasn't noticed anything amiss until he glances up. "Ya wanna hear a new...?" He trails off, something in V's posture making him pause. "Johnny? ...He's gone, isn't he?"
"Yeah," V offers an apologetic smile, "Yeah, but he can still hear you."
"Thanks, but not in the mood for hovering tables and voices from beyond the grave right now." Kerry shrugs, aiming for casual but not quite hiding his disappointment. After a moment's consideration, he pulls out a gun and slides it across the bar toward her. "Maybe you should hang onto this, actually."
"You shouldn't have, really." V smiles, picking up the weapon to examine it more closely.
"The very gun I tried to shoot Johnny with — when he broke into my house," he explains, a hint of old pain in his voice.
"Meanin' you tried to shoot me," she teases, trying to lighten the mood.
Kerry has the grace to look sheepish before his expression turns somber. "Yeah, and earlier..." He doesn't finish, but he doesn't need to. V remembers Johnny's stories about Kerry's darker days, though she hadn't realized just how close they'd come to tragedy. Kerry clears his throat, "Eh, never mind. Cool. Feel like I fell asleep and woke up fifty years later. Back to work, then." He stands, Johnny's guitar cradled carefully in his arms. Squeezing V's shoulder, he adds, "Take care, V. I'll be in touch."
He leaves without looking back, and as soon as the door swings shut behind him, Johnny materializes, leaning against the bar beside her. "V, how you feelin'? Can't believe that asshole Kerry just up and left you like this."
"Guess he had somewhere to be, badly." She shrugs, trying to ignore the lingering dizziness. "And honestly... think he's uncomfortable around me. Can't blame him though. One second he's talking to his best friend, next some random merc takes his place."
"Something like that, yeah, but he'll get over it," Johnny assures her, though there's something distant in his voice. "Besides, I know him. Probably writing a new song as we speak."
"Isn't that what you wanted? To make him feel better?" V asks, studying Johnny's face.
"Better, but not that good," he jokes, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
"'Johnny, don't ever leave me again!'" V dramatically clutches her chest. "'I can't live without you!'"
"A little of that could go a long way," Johnny says softly, and V catches the shadow of something painful behind his smile.
"Hey... you sure you okay?" She leans closer, searching his face with genuine concern.
"Yeah. No. Not really." He sighs, disappearing only to reappear on Kerry's abandoned barstool, taking advantage of the bar's cover to reach for V's hand. "It's just... feels like closin’ a chapter. Never been good at this shit. I mean, glad Ker's finally free of me but..."
"But it still hurts to let go," V finishes softly, squeezing his hand. "You know, being free of you doesn't mean forgetting you. Or stopping to care. Kerry's just... movin’ forward. Like you wanted him to."
"Yeah, I know," Johnny sighs, his thumb absently stroking the back of her hand. There's something almost vulnerable in the gesture, like he needs the anchor of physical contact. "Fuck, listen to me being all dramatic. Speakin’ of the show..." He perks up slightly, a hint of his usual cockiness returning. "What'd ya think? Not bad for an old timer, huh?"
V's face lights up with genuine excitement, and Johnny can feel her joy bubbling through their connection. "Are you kidding? That was fuckin’ incredible! I mean, I've heard recordings, but seein’ you actually perform? Holy shit, Johnny." She leans forward, practically bouncing on her barstool. "And that solo? The energy was insane — could feel it in my bones even when I wasn't in control."
Her enthusiasm is infectious, and Johnny finds himself grinning despite his melancholy. "Yeah?"
"Preem doesn't even begin to cover it. Now I get why people still talk about Samurai shows fifty years later. And Kerry? Think you gave him exactly what he needed — a chance to prove to himself he's still got it."
Johnny's smile turns genuine, warmth spreading through their link at her passionate response. "Yeah, Ker always did bring out the best in me on stage. We had something special there, musically speaking. Could improvise for hours, never miss a beat..." He trails off, expression clouding over as he watches V discretely wipe away another drop of blood. "I'm starting to regret you agreed to this concert thing," he whispers.
"Huh, here I thought I'd hear 'thank you, V'." She raises an eyebrow, trying to lighten the mood. "Said it was important to you, this thing with Kerry. And it was worth it — you should've seen your face up there, both of you. Like nothing else in the world existed except the music."
"It was. But not more important than you." he says firmly, his grip on her hand tightening. The casual atmosphere evaporates as concern floods their connection. "These episodes are getting worse, V. Don't think I haven't noticed. The nosebleeds, the dizzy spells, how it takes you longer to recover each time we switch. And now… Fuck, V. Was one last jam session with Kerry worth risking your life over?"
"Yeah," V says softly, meeting his worried gaze with fierce determination. "Yeah, it was totally worth it. Just to see you genuinely happy for once. To see you shine like that on stage, to feel that pure joy coming from you..." She squeezes his hand. "Would do it again in a heartbeat."
Johnny stares at her for a long moment, clearly caught off guard by her sincerity. His usual sharp edges seem to soften, and V feels a wave of complex emotions wash through their link — gratitude, affection, and something deeper she can't quite put into words. "Fuck, V..." he manages finally, voice rough. "You're something else, you know that?"
They chat a while longer, Johnny gradually returning to his usual self, though his hand doesn't leave hers until V announces it's time to head out. She finds Denny and Drausin at a corner table, dissecting the performance. After a quick goodbye and deflecting Denny's pointed questions about her ‘unusual’ playing style, V scans the bar for Nancy but comes up empty.
She finds the woman outside, leaning against the wall with practiced casualness. Smoke curls from her cigarette as she stares intently at Johnny's Porsche across the street, and something in her expression makes V's skin prickle.
"Nice ride," Nancy comments without looking away from the car. "Don't see many of those around anymore." She takes a long drag, finally turning to fix V with a penetrating stare. "You played well tonight. Maybe a little too well. Some of those riffs..." She glances meaningfully between V and the Porsche, leaving the unspoken question hanging heavy in the air.
"Thanks," V says carefully, already backing away. "See ya, Nance."
Nancy's knowing look follows her retreat, and Johnny materializes beside her as she makes her way to the car. "Told ya she was sharp. Better delta before she starts connecting more dots."
V doesn't need to be told twice, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine. As they pull away, she catches one last glimpse of Nancy in the rearview mirror, still watching the car with that same thoughtful expression that suggests she's already figured out more than she should.
Back at their apartment, V heads straight for the shower, desperate to wash away the sweat and adrenaline from the show. The hot water helps ease her aching muscles — turns out channeling Johnny's rockstar energy takes a physical toll. When she emerges in her sleep clothes, hair still damp, she finds Johnny already sprawled on their bed, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling.
She flops down beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight. "Still thinking about Kerry?"
"Among other things," he admits, rolling onto his side to face her. "About the show. About Nancy's suspicious ass. About you." His metal hand reaches out to brush a strand of wet hair from her face. "About how much time we got left."
"Don't," V says softly, catching his hand. "Not tonight. Tonight was good — let's keep it that way."
Johnny's thumb traces lazy circles on her palm as he considers her words. "Yeah, you're right. Was a good night." A small smirk plays on his lips. "Even if Nancy's probably gonna lose her shit tryin’ to figure out how some random merc suddenly learned to play exactly like me."
V snorts, shifting closer. "Could always tell her the truth. 'Hey, actually, I got Johnny Silverhand's engram stuck in my head, and sometimes he takes over my body to play guitar.' Sure that'll go over well."
"Fuck, can you imagine?" He chuckles, the sound low and warm. "Though to be fair, after all the weird shit she's seen... might actually believe it."
They fall into a comfortable silence, both feeling the pleasant exhaustion from the show settling in their bones. V's eyes are starting to drift closed when Johnny speaks again, "Hey, V?"
"Mmm?"
"Thanks. For real." Johnny's voice comes out rougher than intended, thick with emotions he usually keeps locked down tight. "For giving me this night. For..." He trails off, watching her face in the dim light. She looks so fucking beautiful like this — relaxed, hair still damp, trusting him enough to let her guard down completely.
The urge to kiss her hits him hard. To press her into the mattress, to show her with actions what he can't say with words. His whole body aches with the need to touch her, to worship every inch of her skin until she understands exactly what she means to him. How she's changed him. How she's become his whole world without him even realizing it.
But fuck, he can't. So instead, he pulls her closer, burying his face in her hair to hide the raw want he knows must be written all over his face. "For understanding," he manages finally, his metal hand tracing gentle patterns on her back. "For seein’ me."
V mumbles something unintelligible against his chest, snuggling closer, her breathing already evening out. Johnny keeps stroking her back, metal fingers trailing up and down her spine, savoring these quiet moments when he can drop his walls completely. When he can just hold her and pretend, for a little while, that they have all the time in the world. Fuck, he's in deep. So deep he can barely remember what it felt like before she carved out this space in his heart.
Her body relaxes further into sleep, and he feels their connection soften into that peaceful haze that comes with shared dreams. "Night, princess," he whispers into her hair, allowing himself one moment of weakness to press his lips against her temple.
As he drifts off, Johnny's last coherent thought is that he's completely fucked — and he wouldn't have it any other way. His arms tighten around V instinctively, and soon both their consciousnesses blur together in sleep, their shared warmth keeping the night's shadows at bay.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
The neon-stained darkness of Dogtown envelops V as she makes her way to the underground passage Reed had marked in his earlier message. The spy had contacted her that afternoon, confirming that everything was proceeding according to plan and providing precise coordinates for her infiltration point. The dilapidated infrastructure of this part of the district works to her advantage, shadows dancing across crumbling concrete as she moves silently through the night.
After ducking under a rusted scaffolding, V pauses to scan her surroundings, the weight of Johnny's presence a reassuring constant at the edge of her consciousness. Satisfied no one's tailing her, she forces open a small maintenance door, the ancient metal groaning in protest. The musty air of the tunnel hits her as she slips inside, securing the door behind her before opening a holo channel. "Reed, you copy? Made it to the hallway."
"Copy loud and clear." His voice echoes slightly in the confined space as V progresses deeper into what appears to be an old maintenance tunnel. Massive pipes, some leaking suspicious fluids, snake along the walls like metallic parasites feeding off the building's deteriorating structure. "I'm in position too."
Keeping the comm channel open, V enters a larger chamber and finds her target — the flooded tunnels she'll need to navigate. The polluted water reflects the dim emergency lights, creating an otherworldly atmosphere that sets her nerves on edge. Through their connection, she feels Johnny's anxiety spike — a sharp, acrid taste of fear that mirrors her own after their recent underwater adventure with Judy. The memory of those terrifying moments makes her heart rate quicken, but she pushes the feeling aside. They have a job to do.
With methodical precision, V strips down and retrieves her diving suit from her backpack. Her fingers linger on Johnny's dog tags as she removes them — they've become such a part of her that their absence feels wrong, like missing a piece of herself. She carefully tucks them away with her other belongings, concealing the entire pack under a pile of debris in a shadowy corner. The thought of leaving behind this tangible connection to Johnny makes her uneasy, but she promises herself she'll return for it once the mission is complete.
Once suited up, she adjusts her diving mask and catches Johnny's eye. He's trying to maintain his usual swagger, but she can feel his concern bleeding through their shared consciousness like ink in water. The emotion is so raw and unguarded that it makes her throat tight. V offers him what she hopes is a reassuring look before taking the plunge into the murky depths.
"I'm in the water," she updates Reed, the cold immediately seeping through her suit despite its insulation. The polluted liquid seems to grab at her with ghostly fingers as she begins her descent.
"Good. Now find a way to the other side." His voice comes through with surprising clarity as she maneuvers under a corroded support beam, the metal above her head looking ready to crumble at the slightest touch. "In the meantime, I'll do some recon around the hotel. Flooding these tunnels must've been Hansen's idea. He probably lacked the manpower to secure all the passages."
A sound strategy, V acknowledges silently, though Hansen's paranoia hasn't stopped at mere flooding, as she discovers after squeezing through a jagged hole in one of the concrete walls. A mine blinks malevolently in the murky water, its red light creating sinister shadows in the underwater gloom. She disarms it with practiced efficiency before continuing her silent progress through the oppressive darkness.
"I found a breach in their defenses," Reed's update cuts through the unsettling quiet of the submerged tunnel, his voice tight with focused determination. "I should be inside momentarily. Out."
V continues her underwater exploration, the murky water distorting her vision. When she finally spots a sewer grate, its metal bars eaten away by decades of corrosion, she has to wrestle with the ancient mechanism before it yields with a muffled groan that sends vibrations through the water. "Good thing I'm not claustrophobic," she mutters through the comm as she squeezes her body through the narrow pipe, her diving suit scraping against the rusted metal. The passage narrows even further, forcing her to contort herself to progress, and through their neural link, she feels Johnny's anxiety spike sharply — a burst of primal fear that tells her more about the rockerboy's issues with confined spaces than he'd ever admit out loud.
Breaking through to the other side, Reed's voice crackles through her comm. "I figured out the patrol routes, got 'em down. Set myself a safe path through and past 'em."
After disarming another mine, V encounters the haunting sight of a submerged car wreck. The vehicle sits like a metal skeleton in what must have been a parking garage, its windows long shattered and its interior hosting a grotesque garden of underwater fungi. The door protests with a screech that seems too loud even underwater as she forces it open, swimming through the decaying interior before spotting a promising opening near the chamber's ceiling.
The next area allows her to surface briefly, and she feels Johnny's immediate relief flooding through their shared consciousness as her head breaks the waterline. The stale air feels like a luxury after the oppressive pressure of the depths, but the moment of respite is short-lived — the path ahead demands another dive into the murky water.
After navigating another claustrophobic passage that has Johnny's anxiety bleeding through their connection like ice in her veins, V emerges in a larger, more open chamber. Despite the increased space, it appears to be a dead end. Her careful examination of the surroundings reveals a moveable platform suspended above — if she can just locate the mechanism to lower it.
Johnny materializes on an elevated section, his digital form casting no reflection in the water below. "Hustle up, V. Lower that platform." His voice carries an edge of urgency she knows stems from his desperate desire to see her away from the water that's making them both increasingly uneasy.
V quickly scales a nearby ladder and hits the large red button, praying the ancient machinery still functions. With a deep mechanical groan, the platform descends, revealing another passage. After climbing onto it, she discovers a similar button that lowers a second platform when pressed.
"Ok, I'm through the outpost," Reed updates as V moves through the newly opened space. "Approaching warehouse gate now."
V quickly locates the ladder Johnny indicated, the rusted metal slick under her wet hands as she climbs. The large red button on the control panel stands out against its weathered housing, and when she presses it, the ancient machinery protests with a sound like a dying animal. The platform descends with jerky movements, revealing another passage. A second button, equally worn by time, triggers another platform's descent when activated, the mechanical grinding echoing ominously through the flooded chamber.
"Ok, I'm through the outpost," Reed's update comes as V navigates the newly revealed space. "Approaching warehouse gate now." His voice remains steady, professional, though there's an underlying tension that suggests he's encountered his own challenges.
Two sets of maintenance ladders stretch upward, each rung taking her further from the water below. The higher she climbs, the more she feels Johnny's presence relaxing in her mind, his relief manifesting as a warm current through their shared consciousness. Through a nearby ventilation duct, fragments of guard conversation drift down — casual chatter about dinner plans and shift changes that V knows could turn to alarmed shouts if she makes the slightest mistake. She moves with calculated precision, willing the old ladder not to betray her position with its creaking joints.
At the top, V unlocks a ventilation grate that allows her to maneuver silently behind the unsuspecting guards. With practiced efficiency, she snaps the first guard's neck, then takes out the second with a clean headshot — the silencer on Alex's gun proving its worth. As she's dragging the bodies to hide them in a nearby dumpster, Reed instructs her to access the computer terminal for security camera control.
Through the grainy security feeds, V tracks Reed's progress with growing admiration. Despite his imposing stature and the bulky duffle bag strapped across his shoulders, the spy moves with an almost supernatural grace, weaving between patrol routes like a ghost in the shadows. After ensuring his path is clear, V unlocks a service entrance, the heavy garage door grinding upward with a muffled groan. Reed's gravelly voice comes through her comm, instructing her to rendezvous several floors up via elevator.
Just as she disconnects from the terminal, the elevator arrives with an innocuous ding that belies the danger within — three guards step out, completely unaware of their colleagues' bodies cooling in the nearby dumpster. V takes advantage of their momentary surprise, dispatching them with brutal efficiency. The last guard's gurgling breath echoes in the sudden silence as she catches her own breath, adrenaline still coursing through her system.
Breathing hard, the metallic taste of adrenaline sharp on her tongue, V punches the button for floor 67. Following the service corridor, she discovers a sniper so engrossed in his scope that he misses her approach entirely. One precise strike later, V claims both his position and his weapon, her neural interface connecting smoothly with the high-tech rifle.
"Dropped the sniper. Nestin' in his perch now," she updates Reed while familiarizing herself with the weapon's systems. "Had the perfect vantage point, saw everything." The scope's enhanced view gives her a commanding perspective of the entire operation zone.
"Cover me. You're in prime duck-hunting position." Reed's voice carries that particular mix of focus and dark humor she's come to associate with him. Through her Kiroshi's zoom function, she watches him emerge from a service lift across the vast chasm separating them — a dark figure moving with deadly purpose. "I'm in position. Do you have a visual on me?"
"I got you," she confirms, the rifle's targeting system highlighting him. "What now?"
"We do this nice and quiet if we can, got it?" His whispered response carries decades of spec ops experience. "Spot any guards in my way, you give me the heads up."
Through the scope's enhanced optics, V methodically maps out the challenges ahead. A container suspended by ancient chains could serve as a bridge once lowered — that's Reed's problem for later. Right now, her priority is getting him there alive through what looks like Hansen's idea of a deadly obstacle course. The first threat is obvious, a proximity mine. Beyond that, two guards patrol in predictable patterns — easy enough to avoid with proper timing. The real clusterfuck waits further ahead, a group of heavily armed Barghest soldiers lounging near an elevator, plus another sniper whose scope occasionally catches the emergency lights, creating brief flashes that make V's trigger finger itch.
What follows is a deadly choreography of precision and timing. Reed moves like liquid shadow, his movements economical and purposeful as he disarms the mine with steady hands that betray years of experience. V's voice guides him through the lethal maze, her finger never far from the trigger. The first patrol is child's play — Reed times his movements perfectly between their sweeps, leaving them none the wiser.
The elevator group proves trickier, but Reed's patience pays off as he exploits their blind spots, using their own overconfidence against them. The real test comes when they need to simultaneously eliminate two guards blocking a crucial passage. Through the comm, they coordinate with minimal words — a testament to their growing synergy. Reed's hands find his target's neck at the exact moment V's bullet pierces the other guard's skull. Both bodies hit the ground in perfect silence.
For the finale, V eliminates three threats in rapid succession — the enemy sniper first, his body slumping over his own rifle, then two patrolling guards who nearly stumble upon Reed. Her shots ring out in quick succession, the guards dropping mere seconds before they would have spotted him. Through her scope, she watches their bodies fall with the satisfaction of a job well done.
"Clear. You can make your way to the bridge," she informs him, pride evident in her tone.
"Fine work," Reed praises, his voice carrying genuine respect. V takes one final sweep of the area, confirming all threats are neutralized, before disconnecting from the sniper's nest. The weight of Johnny's presence in her mind feels like a silent applause.
V quickly crosses the makeshift bridge Reed lowered for her, the container groaning ominously under her boots. "Silky-smooth work, V," he compliments her again, offering a rare smile. "Well played, I'm impressed. Let's head for the elevator. Follow me."
In the elevator heading another thirty floors up, Reed notices her pallor, concern evident in his voice as he asks if she's alright.
"Heh, you're always pale," Johnny materializes beside her, casually leaning against the elevator wall in his signature pose, arms crossed over his chest. "Never figured out how a chick who lived all her life under the California sun could be the shade of printer paper."
Resisting the urge to elbow Johnny in the ribs, she addresses Reed instead. "Little déjà vu is all. Different elevator, different hotel." The words taste bitter in her mouth. She wonders if she'll ever ride up a hotel elevator without flashing back to that night at Konpeki Plaza, without feeling the phantom weight of Jackie bleeding out beside her. Eager to chase away the memories, she steers the conversation toward Reed's experience, asking about his mission count.
Their small talk carries them to their floor, where Reed guides them to a laundry room that smells of industrial detergent and hot metal. "Dress-up time," he announces, dropping his duffle bag on a washing machine with a solid thunk. "Throw on your new threads and plaster on your best fake smile. A party awaits." He pulls out his own outfit — something sparkly and dark — before turning away politely to give her privacy, and V returns the courtesy, starting to unzip her diving suit.
"Oh, ain't that precious," Johnny smirks, perching himself on another machine to watch the show. "Such a gentleman."
"Oh, shut up," she chuckles mentally while digging through the bag for her outfit. Truth be told, she's curious what Alex picked for her. The first piece she pulls out is a short black skirt that promises to hug every curve. "Some people still have manners, y’know."
"Manners are overrated," Johnny drawls, watching intently as she shimmies into the skirt. "Besides, you love it when I'm inappropriate. Makes life interesting."
V can't help but smile as she pulls out the asymmetrical top, a masterpiece of silk and mesh that manages to be both elegant and provocative. "You make life complicated enough without tryin’," she retorts, but there's no bite to it. The top slides cool and smooth against her skin.
"Complicated?" Johnny's voice drops lower as he moves closer, his presence a familiar warmth at her back. "That what we're callin’ this thing between us now?"
She busies herself with the black and gold jacket, adding a touch of color to the ensemble. "What would you call it?"
"I'd call it fuckin’ hot," he murmurs, close enough now that she can feel his breath on her neck. "Especially in that outfit. Alex outdid herself."
V fastens the golden barbed wire bracelets around her wrists, trying to ignore how Johnny's proximity makes her skin tingle. The dog tag-style necklace comes next, settling perfectly against her chest. "You're impossible," she mutters, but she's smiling.
"Impossibly charming," he corrects, stepping back to let her tackle the final challenge — a pair of stilettos that make her wince just looking at them. "Though I gotta ask — you plannin’ to fight in those?"
"Fuck, I hope not." She wobbles slightly as she straps them on. "Pretty sure I'd break an ankle before landin’ a hit."
The round sunglasses complete the look, and Johnny whistles low and appreciative as she checks herself in the mirror. "Damn, V," he circles her slowly, eyes drinking in every detail. "If I wasn't already dead..."
"You'd still be a pain in my ass," she finishes, but her voice is soft, affectionate. Through the mirror, their eyes meet, and there's heat in his gaze that makes her breath catch.
"Among other things," he promises with a smirk that sends warmth pooling in her stomach. "Now let's go crash this party in style."
Reed waits by the door, already dressed in his own party attire. His dark purple suit shimmers subtly under the harsh fluorescent lights, its snake-scale pattern catching and reflecting light with every movement. The golden accessories and sunglasses similar to V's complete his transformation from hardened spy to high-society player. Watching her final adjustments in the mirror, he says, "Yeah, you're a real looker. Now come on."
"Lookin’ good yourself." V flashes him a smile as she steps away from her reflection. They make their way through the building's upper level, emerging onto the exterior walkways that connect different sections of the Black Sapphire. Even here, on these elevated promenades circling the tower's summit, the party's extravagance is evident in every detail — from the strategic lighting to the elaborate decorations adorning the railings.
Johnny materializes against one of the barriers, taking in the view of Night City sprawling beneath them. "Gotta hand it to Hansen, V... Party's hoppin', has a sense of grandeur. Didn't have shit like this in my day..." He turns to her with that characteristic smirk. "Now hop on over there and help me out — managed to forget what real champagne tastes like..."
"Shit, champagne?" V can't help but tease him as she follows Reed toward the growing sound of music. "Never figured you for such refined tastes, rockerboy. Thought you were more of a tequila and cheap beer kind of guy."
"Shows what you know, princess," Johnny falls into step beside her, his ghostly form passing through other party-goers. "I've crashed more high-society parties than you've had hot dinners. Sometimes with explosives, sometimes with class. Tonight calls for class."
"And champagne," she adds mentally, earning a wink from him.
"Lots of champagne. Consider it your duty to help a poor dead man remember life's finer pleasures."
They reach the top of a grand staircase leading down to the main party area. Even from here, the scene below is breathtaking — a massive space dominated by towering golden pillars that stretch toward the ceiling in elegant Art Deco-inspired designs. Each column glows from within, casting warm light across the gathered elite of Night City.
V hasn't forgotten why they're here — Songbird is somewhere in that glittering crowd, waiting to be extracted. But as Johnny's excitement bleeds through their connection, she decides there's no harm in enjoying the ride. After all, if she has to maintain her cover by drinking enough champagne to satisfy Johnny's vicarious cravings, well... that's just part of the job.
Notes:
Lot of bonus photos for this chapter here. Reed, Judy, and of course, V & Johnny :3
♫ Chapter Song: The Killers - Mr. Brightside
• Author's rambling: Thanks for reading all the way through, hope you enjoyed this chapter! According to my story outline, there's about 5 chapters left before Mikoshi (everything is not written yet, I'am currently working on chapter 26). I'm so damn excited to get to that point now haha. And after that... There's still plenty of stuff coming, I've got a lot planned for the post-game — even if it probably won't be as long as the first part of the fic... but still pretty long ^^
xoxo, see you next time ♥
Chapter 24: The Only Thing
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Hey everyone, hope you're all doing good! Sorry I didn't post a chapter last week, I was at a wedding, and I completely forgot to warn you about the delay.
Anyway, hope you'll enjoy this chapter, even if it's a bit lighter on the romance, but we gotta move the story forward haha :)• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the all the subs, bookmarks (wow, lot of that) and the kudo on the previous chapter ♥ And thank you Loraphine and BlackDragon93 for your comments. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There's so many things we need so desperately
And the TV preaches, we can't live without them
You tell me what is need, I'll tell you what I believe
If I owned the world without you it would all be worthless
Before descending the grand marble staircase leading to the most extravagant party V has ever attended, Reed turns to V with a subtle nod. "I'll be at the bar if you need me," he says smoothly before melting into the sea of Night City's elite below, their comm line remaining a reassuring buzz in V's ear.
V lingers at the top of the stairs, taking in the spectacle before her. The massive ballroom sparkles with crystalline chandeliers, their light reflecting off chrome implants and designer jewelry alike. She flashes one last conspiratorial smile at Johnny before making her grand entrance, her heels clicking against the polished steps.
At the bottom, she's greeted by what looks like a living statue — a waitress whose entire skin has been replaced with gleaming golden chrome, the white fabric of her dress flowing like liquid around her metallic form. "Welcome," she greets with a smile that somehow manages to look warm despite her metallic features, "Would you care for some champagne?"
"Don't mind if I do," V purrs, plucking a crystal flute from the golden tray. The bubbles dance on her tongue — fuck, this is the good shit... Though she's more used to whatever rotgut passes for alcohol in dive bars, even she can tell this is something special.
"Nah, you're right about that one," Johnny materializes beside her, looking almost impressed. "That's the real deal. The kind of stuff I used to steal from corpo parties back in the day."
"A pleasant evening to you," the chrome waitress says with a small bow before gliding away to serve other guests.
V takes another appreciative sip, spotting Reed across the room. He's casually leaning against the bar, looking completely at ease despite the situation. Though tempted to join him, the pulsing energy of the party calls to her. Keeping her glass elegantly poised, she ventures into the crowd, Johnny's presence a constant shadow at her back.
The guest list reads like a 'Who's Who' of Night City's most powerful and corrupt. V just passed Welton Hold, the failed mayoral candidate, holding court. His expensive suit can't quite hide his bitter expression as he rants about his campaign against Peralez — which sends V's thoughts drifting to the political power couple. She hopes they're managing to keep their sanity intact after that whole mind-control clusterfuck.
Up on the upper floor's ornate balcony, Gillean Jordan's hot pink designer dress stands out like a neon sign among the other evening wear. The famous reporter is deep in animated conversation with one of her rivals, both of them wearing those plastic media smiles that never quite reach their eyes. V recognizes dozens of other media personalities scattered throughout the room — though given Hansen's legendary ego, she figures they were probably first on his guest list. Nothing strokes a man's ego quite like having the press eating out of their hand.
She weaves through the crowd with practiced grace, her enhanced hearing picking up fragments of conversations. Most of it is the usual elite bullshit — stock prices, political favors, whose spouse is fucking whom — but occasionally something useful surfaces. Like the NCPD chief in the corner, not even trying to be subtle while cutting a deal with a 6th Street boss. V reports it to Reed through their comm link, though he's hardly surprised. "NCPD's a gang like any other, except it’s listed on the stock exchange," comes his dry response.
Nearby, two women in designer clothes are discussing their latest ‘workforce optimization’ — corpo-speak for mass layoffs. Johnny, who's been quiet until now, finally loses his patience. He nudges V and growls, "Just in case you're still wonderin' why I hate corporats and politiwhores... you're a hired gun and petty thief, but I'd say your presence at this party is still raisin' the moral bar."
"Oh, how flattering, I've got the Silverhand seal of approval," she grins behind her champagne glass.
"Honestly, lookin' at all the garbage gathered here, even I'm raisin' that bar," he scoffs, his digital form lounging against a marble column. "C'mon, let's find another drink to help me forget everything I just heard."
That's when V spots a familiar face in the crowd — Maiko sits perched on an expensive leather couch in a secluded corner, looking simultaneously out of place and desperately trying to belong. She's wearing some designer outfit that probably cost more than most people make in a year, but there's still something uneasy in her posture. A few feet away, a group of high-ranking Tyger Claws — the same ones V recognizes from that shit-show of a takeover attempt at Clouds — are deep in conversation, pointedly excluding their ‘associate’.
When Maiko catches V's eye, several emotions flash across her face in quick succession — surprise, fear, and finally a carefully constructed mask of indifference. She stares for a moment before looking away, pretending she's never seen V in her life. Which suits V just fine, though she can't help but feel a touch of bitter amusement. After all that scheming, all those betrayals and power plays, Maiko managed to claw her way up high enough to get invited to parties like this — but not quite high enough to be included in the real conversations happening right next to her.
"Damn, talk about karma," Johnny chuckles darkly. "All that backstabbin’ just to end up as window dressing. Almost feel sorry for her." His tone suggests he feels anything but sorry.
"Yeah, it's definitely the scumbag ball," V mutters, watching as Maiko tries and fails to catch the attention of one of the Tyger Claws bosses. "You were right, I could use another drink too." She glances around for one of those chrome waitresses, suddenly feeling the need to wash away the taste of corporate politics and failed ambitions.
"Now you're gettin' it," Johnny grins, falling into step beside her.
V heads toward the nearest bar, the crystal flute in her hand now empty, when Johnny suddenly perks up beside her. His attention is drawn to a disheveled figure slouched over the polished mahogany counter, nursing what looks like his tenth beer of the evening and swaying precariously on his stool. "V, this guy looks exactly like your ronin. Un-fuckin'-canny... Sure that ain't Takemura?"
He regrets the words instantly — fuck, he can feel it through their shared consciousness, the way V's heart lurches painfully in her chest, her carefully crafted smile faltering for just a fraction of a second. It's still too raw, too fresh; the last time she saw the ex-bodyguard was barely two weeks ago, and their farewell had been... well, explosive would be putting it mildly. Johnny hasn't dared bring up the subject since then. What could he say? His first instinct would be to rail against Takemura, against Arasaka, against the whole fucking system that turned good men into corporate slaves — but that's not what V needs right now. He can feel that wound still bleeding beneath her composed exterior.
The merc recovers quickly though — she's gotten good at that — her natural curiosity winning over the momentary pain. Besides, her need for something stronger than champagne has suddenly increased tenfold. She slides onto the neighboring stool with practiced grace, catching the bartender's eye with a subtle gesture. While waiting for her drink, she studies the man beside her with careful sideways glances.
Recognition dawns quickly — she's seen that face plastered across countless billboards throughout Night City, though the man before her looks significantly worse for wear than his airbrushed advertisements would suggest. Hideshi Hino, the famous actor that old man from Jig-Jig Street had mistaken Takemura for. Though comparing them now, V can't help but think Takemura looks better. Ten times better, even.
Her observation must not be as subtle as she thinks, because the actor's bloodshot eyes suddenly turn to meet hers, his expression a mixture of resignation and practiced patience. "Yes?" he asks, his voice carrying the slight slur of someone who's been drinking since well before the party started.
"You look exactly like my friend Goro Takemura," V admits, the words tumbling out before she can think of anything more elegant. The expensive whiskey the bartender just placed in front of her catches the crystalline light from above, and she takes a grateful sip.
"Did he also just get out of rehab?" The actor asks with a self-deprecating chuckle, raising his beer in a mock toast before taking another long pull. Up close, V can see the slight tremor in his hands, the way his designer suit hangs a bit too loose on his frame.
"Truth be told, he's goin' through a kind of rehab himself," she explains, finding the comparison darkly appropriate. "His family turned their backs on him, he lost his home, his implants..." The whiskey burns pleasantly down her throat, helping to wash away the bitter taste those memories leave behind.
"Tragic..." Hideshi mumbles, massaging his neck in a gesture so reminiscent of Takemura that it makes V's chest tighten. "But such are the consequences of addiction. I have been through it all." That draws a wry smile from V — if only Goro's addiction to Arasaka could be cured in some fancy rehab clinic. The actor studies her for a moment, then adds with surprising animation, "Maybe your friend would like to try his hand at show business? I could use a double for rainy days..."
The mental image of Takemura, with all his stoic dignity and samurai honor, trying to act in some cheesy braindance series is too much. V chuckles genuinely for the first time that evening, the sound drawing a slight smile from Johnny who's been hovering protectively nearby. "Hmm... Might actually take you up on that. I'll let him know."
"Watch out, I will hold you to your word!" Hideshi declares with unexpected enthusiasm, straightening up slightly on his stool. For a moment, V can see traces of the charismatic actor he must have been before the drugs and alcohol took their toll.
"Hey, mind if we take a picture?" V asks, unable to resist. The opportunity is too perfect, and something in her wants to capture this bizarre moment, this strange intersection of her complicated life in Night City.
"No problem," the actor agrees readily, his face transforming with practiced ease into his camera-ready smile. Even drunk and disheveled, years of media training shine through as he straightens his posture and adjusts his collar.
V signals the bartender, handing over her holo. The photo captures an odd pair — the famous actor with his slightly glassy eyes and professional smile, and V in her elegant evening wear, looking far more at home in this fancy setting than she feels. Hideshi even takes the device afterward, his slightly trembling fingers managing to sign across the screen with a flourish, even adding his famous catchphrase.
As V settles back onto her stool, she watches the actor's professional facade crumble. He slumps forward gradually, finally crossing his arms on the bar and dropping his head onto them, alcohol taking its toll.
The merc takes another long sip of whiskey while staring at the photo, then finds herself scrolling through her messages. She stops at the last one from Goro — that awkward selfie with its message assuring her of his well-being. She never responded. Her finger hovers over the screen, about to send him this new photo — a joke, a memory, a reminder of their strange friendship. But...
Johnny feels the shift in her emotions before she even moves to delete the unsent message. What's the point? Goro got what he wanted, more or less. No Yorinobu's head on a plate, but he's back in Arasaka's good graces, back in the fold of his precious corpo family. She tried — fuck, she tried so hard to show him there was more to life than blind corporate loyalty. But some addictions run too deep to break.
He's probably already forgotten her, filed away those moments of shared yakitori and surprisingly personal conversations as nothing more than an unfortunate necessity during his time as a ronin. Those quiet moments when he'd let his guard down, shared stories of his childhood, showed glimpses of the man beneath the corporate programming...
Despite everything — despite this mission, despite the days that have passed, despite Johnny's constant presence in her head — it still hurts. More than she wants to admit. Fuck. She drains her whiskey in one burning gulp. Okay, maybe a lot more than she wants to admit.
Johnny, feeling the wave of emotion through their connection — or maybe just reading it in the slight tremor of her hand as she sets down the empty glass — wraps a solid arm around her waist as she stands. V manages a weak smile, shaking her head. No, she doesn't want to talk about it. Can't talk about it. Better to focus on the mission, on the next step, on anything but the ache in her chest that won't seem to fade.
Together, they move away from the bar, melting back into the glittering crowd of Night City's elite. Johnny's arm stays firmly around her waist, a silent reminder that at least one person in her life isn't going anywhere.
Needing to clear her head, V decides to explore the upper floor, hoping to spot other persons of interest. As she approaches the stairs, she catches sight of a figure she's seen plastered across far too many propaganda posters throughout Dogtown — the man of the hour himself, Kurt Hansen. He's lounging on a leather couch in a VIP area, guarded by a particularly mean-looking Barghest soldier. The self-proclaimed king of Dogtown hasn't even bothered dressing up for his own party, sporting a simple t-shirt and tactical pants that have seen better days. His weapon sits prominently displayed at his belt. Shit. Better not linger here — the last thing she needs is to catch this wannabe dictator's attention.
"So, Kurt Hansen, duke of Dogtown, in the flesh," Johnny drawls as they move away, V starting to climb the stairs. "More mutt than alpha hound, looks like."
Upstairs, she's relieved to spot a more friendly face. The elegant fixer sits quietly at a corner table, his attention seemingly absorbed by his holo. The subtle way his eyes scan the room, however, tells V he's far from distracted. She can't resist greeting him, "Here as well, Hands?"
"Indeed." His calm voice carries a warning note. "It's better if we're not seen together. I don't know you, but enjoy your evening."
V gets the message loud and clear. With a slight nod that could be mistaken for a simple acknowledgment between strangers, she turns and walks away, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor. Once safely out of earshot, she updates Reed through their secure channel. "Just saw Hands. Felt to me like he's here on a mission of his own."
"He likely is," the spy responds via comm, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Or just tendin' the business, gatherin' intel... That's what fixers do best at these kinds of parties." As his voice trails off, a message materializes in V's visual interface, the blue text floating against the opulent backdrop of the party.
The message draws a genuine smile from the merc. Coming from someone like Hands, that's high praise indeed. She has a feeling this won't be her last job for the mysterious fixer — assuming she survives this night, of course. Deciding to head back to Reed, she snags another flute of champagne from a passing server's tray. The crystal catches the light as she descends the stairs, the golden liquid inside dancing with each step.
"Aim to get fucked up on Hansen's dime, then puke all over his carpets?" Johnny materializes beside her, his trademark smirk in place as she takes a deliberate sip. "Respect. Though I'd aim for his shoes if I were you."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" She grins behind her glass, savoring the expensive bubbly.
She finds Reed exactly where she left him, still maintaining his position at the bar like the trained operative he is. He's nursing what looks like a gin and tonic, though V suspects it's mostly tonic. His eyes, hidden behind dark sunglasses that somehow don't look out of place despite the late hour, methodically scan the crowd. Every movement, every gesture is calculated to look casual while missing nothing.
Leaning against the bar beside him, V reports that she's made a round but still no sign of So Mi. Reed tells her to stay visible — the runner will likely come to them when she can. So V just needs to keep mingling and pretend to enjoy herself until contact is established. Meanwhile, he'll try to discreetly ask around.
After setting her empty glass on the polished bar top and exchanging a meaningful nod with Reed, V drifts away from the crowded main floor. The balconies seem like a good place to catch her breath and maybe spot their elusive netrunner. The night air hits her face as she steps outside. Apart from scattered clusters of guests — media stars she vaguely recognizes from countless advertisements — there's nothing particularly noteworthy. Well, except for the breathtaking view of the city sprawling before her, a glittering ocean of lights and towering megabuildings stretching to the horizon.
V leans against the ornate railing, taking in the sprawling neon landscape of Night City. The view from Hansen's tower is breathtaking — a sea of lights stretching to the horizon, megabuildings piercing the polluted sky like chrome giants. Johnny materializes beside her, solid and warm as he wraps an arm around her shoulders, his presence grounding her in this sea of potential threats.
"Y'know," he drawls, his voice carrying that complex mix of bitterness and nostalgia she's come to recognize, "used to fuckin' hate this place... This corpo-ruled hellhole, eatin' people alive, spittin' out their bones..."
"I hear a 'but' coming," she smiles, instinctively leaning into his embrace.
"Mhh." His fingers trace idle patterns on her shoulder, each touch sending small shivers down her spine. "Don't get me wrong, this city's still a fuckin' nightmare. A cancer that keeps growin'. Since my time, things either haven't changed or got worse, but..." He pauses, his eyes scanning the horizon. "After all those years trapped in Mikoshi... Even the worst parts of Night City feel alive. Real. The dirt, the blood, the neon, the chaos — it's all fucked up, but at least it's genuine."
"Yeah, I get what you mean." She sighs softly, watching the distant traffic weave between buildings like rivers of light. "Think I'm gonna miss it too. All of it. Even the parts I hate."
His expression darkens immediately, fingers tightening on her shoulder. "You ain't goin' nowhere, V. Stop talkin' like that."
"Let's be real, Johnny." She gives him a sad smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. The weight of their situation, of her failing body, hangs heavy between them. "If Songbird doesn't come through as planned, I'm fucked. She's our last shot at getting out of this mess. We both know it."
"I know," he murmurs after a heavy pause, pressing a fierce kiss into her hair. "Which is exactly why we're gonna find her, and she's gonna fix this. 'Cause I ain't lettin' you go, V. Not now, not ever. C'mon sweetheart."
The intensity in his voice makes her heart clench. Even now, even after everything they've been through, Johnny refuses to let Night City claim another victim. Refuses to let it claim her. As he guides her back inside, a message flashes across V's interface, making her heart skip a beat.
V's eyes snap upward, catching sight of a woman in an elegant emerald dress with short pink hair. Holy shit, she's actually here. The sight sends a surge of hope through V's chest, though she forces herself to stay calm. Resisting the urge to rush, she moves casually through the party, ascending the stairs with measured steps.
As she approaches the woman, whose back is turned, V's breath catches — that back, like the woman's head, is more chrome than flesh, far beyond anything the merc had imagined. The cybernetics are clearly military grade, sleek and deadly, with a Militech logo branded where her shoulder blades should be. Shit, she's more machine than human at this point, though the chrome is beautiful in its own way — deadly and elegant, like a predator dressed for a gala.
Yet when she turns, it's unmistakably So Mi's face and gentle voice that greets her. "V... it's good you're here." Noting the merc's barely concealed shock at her appearance, she attempts to lighten the mood, moving toward a nearby table with an almost mechanical grace. "Not what you expected, huh? Is it the haircut?"
V catches the flicker of sadness in those still-human eyes and chooses to sidestep the obvious. "Dress looks good on you," she offers with a genuine smile — because despite everything, despite all the chrome and tech, Songbird carries herself with an undeniable elegance that makes the expensive dress look like it was made for her.
"Thank you. That was the surprising bit, I'm sure..." She returns the smile, some of the tension visibly leaving her chrome-enhanced shoulders. "It's so good you're here. Don't know what I'd do without you, V. Really."
"Good to finally meet you in the flesh, face to face." V nods, settling against the table. The words feel strange — 'flesh' seems almost inappropriate given how little of it Songbird has left. "Way our last convo ended was... troubling."
The runner's smile vanishes instantly, her gaze dropping to the floor. When she speaks again, her voice carries the weight of genuine remorse. "The, uh, 'runner... your friend... who helped us reconnect last time... Killed him, fried him, didn't I?"
"You didn't kill Slider. Blackwall did," V reassures her, recognizing the weight of guilt in the woman's voice. She's seen that look too many times in Night City — survivors carrying the weight of those who didn't make it. "Lucky as hell it didn't flatline you, too."
"I ran out of time. To explain..." Songbird's words cut off abruptly, her eyes widening as they fix on something behind V's shoulder. Her voice shifts from guilt to shock in an instant as she stammers, "ev-everything..."
Alerted by Songbird's sudden change in demeanor, V turns to find Reed has joined them. So Mi stares at her old friend, her chrome-enhanced features softening with a complex mix of emotions — shame, regret, and something more complex that makes V feel like she's intruding on an intimate moment. "Sol... I've made... so many mistakes." Her voice carries years of pain and remorse, each word weighted with unspoken history.
The spy looks at her with an expression V has come to recognize all too well — that kicked-puppy look he gets whenever Songbird is involved. Their shared history hangs heavy in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife. He raises his hand, an instinctive gesture to comfort her, but stops short of touching her shoulder, as if afraid she might shatter at his touch. Instead, his words come out soft and heavy with guilt. "It's all right, Song. Not your fault. The blame's on us, all of it."
His statement makes Songbird lift her head, finally meeting his gaze. "On you?" The question carries equal parts confusion and desperate hope, like someone who's carried a burden alone for so long they've forgotten how to share it.
"Myers, all of them... I know what they made you do, they pushed and pushed and..." He sighs heavily, guilt etched into every line of his face. "I wasn't there to stop it." The words hang between them like a confession, heavy with the weight of regret.
V shifts uncomfortably, feeling like an intruder in what's clearly a deeply personal moment. Growing increasingly aware of the ticking clock — both literal and metaphorical — she breaks the heavy silence. "Listen, guys... we do not have the time for this now." The urgency of their situation demands action, not reminiscence, no matter how loaded with meaning.
"Right." Reed straightens, slipping back into his professional demeanor like a well-worn coat, though his eyes still linger on Songbird a moment too long. He turns to face her fully, all business now. "Main thing is to get you outta here."
"That's... not happening." So Mi's response hits like a punch to the gut, shocking both of them. V notices how Reed's hand twitches, like he's fighting the urge to reach for her again.
"It is," he insists firmly. "We got in, we can get out. Just trust me."
"Not the point. I'm... dyin', Sol." The confession drops like a bomb, shattering their plans and the fragile atmosphere. "Like V. Hansen has the 'cure' we need. We run now, we both die. Relic's killing V... Blackwall's my poison. I can't bow out now."
Reed runs a hand over his face, visibly shaken. His fingers grip the railing so hard his knuckles turn white, the chrome in his hands catching the neon lights. V recognizes that look — it's the same one Johnny gets when they discuss her condition. The look of someone watching someone they care about slip away.
"Whoa. Sharin' a boat to oblivion with me?" V asks, trying to make sense of this revelation. "Coulda said somethin'..."
"Had no time. Still don't." So Mi gives her an apologetic look, her chrome catching the light as she moves. "But, hear me out... I need help, your help." She leans against the railing, taking a deep breath before launching into her explanation. "Hansen pulled some tech out of a bunker under Dogtown. Tech that could cure both V and me... We need to klep it. Only way of doin' that is to stay close, play the prisoner."
"Song..." Reed finally manages to whisper, leaning his full weight against the barrier, looking utterly devastated. "Fuck..." The single word carries more emotion than V's heard from him all night.
"We'll wait for an opportunity and pounce. I'll be on the inside, ask for your help when the time's right." Songbird continues, determination hardening her features. "I can flee once I have that tech."
"Nothing's ever simple, is it?" Reed asks, turning back to face them. There's a hint of frustration in his voice at this new complication, but underneath it lies something deeper — fear for Songbird's life, V realizes. The spy might try to hide it, but it's clear as day to anyone watching, he's terrified of losing her again.
Before any of them can respond, a voice cuts through their conversation like a mantis blade through flesh. "Ah, So Mi. Care to introduce your friends?"
Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Hansen materializes behind them like a ghost, his smile as cold as ice. He extends a champagne flute to Songbird with practiced elegance that barely masks the predatory nature beneath. V forces herself to remain relaxed, channeling years of merc experience into appearing casual while her heart hammers against her ribs.
"It's not often I'm simply not familiar with guests attending my own party. And I never forget a face." Hansen's voice carries that particular tone unique to people used to having absolute power — smooth as synthetic silk but with razorwire underneath. He moves closer to V, extending his hand with calculated precision. "Kurt Hansen."
V returns his handshake with what she hopes passes for a natural smile. "Name's V. Just V. Haven't seen So Mi in years. Tryin' to catch up." She's grateful for years of dealing with fixers and clients — her voice comes out steady, casual.
"Oh, that's what this is." He finally releases her hand, taking a step back with the fluid grace of a predator. "To me, reunions consist of... picking up the broken, scattered shards of your heart. Or teeth. Always hurt." The way he delivers these words sends chills down V's spine — it's not a threat, not exactly, but a reminder that he knows exactly what kind of power he holds. He turns to Songbird, "Well... I need to grab you, darling. I've a couple NC politicos here who're dying to meet you. And if we're to keep hungry rats from devouring Dogtown, we really do need to feed them the occasional scraps."
"I'm all yours, Kurt." So Mi responds with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, finishing her champagne in one elegant motion. She leans to place the empty glass on the table next to V, saying, "See you soon, V." Before turning to leave with Hansen, she places her hand on V's shoulder — a gesture that appears casual but carries weight like a loaded gun. The moment her fingers make contact, the now-familiar Blackwall glitch ripples across V's vision, turning the world into red static for a few seconds before fading away.
As Reed leans back against the railing and the real Songbird walks away — her movements tense despite her casual appearance — her holographic form materializes next to V. This version of So Mi looks slightly younger, with significantly less chrome, wearing worn sneakers and a grey leather jacket in contrast to her other self's elegant evening wear. "Oof. Preem, it worked." She hops onto the railing, sitting casually. "Reestablished our link the moment I touched you. Interesting..."
Completely unaware of the runner's digital presence, Reed straightens up, his professional facade cracking completely. "I need a minute to process. And I need a drink. Heading downstairs." The tension is visible in every line of his body as he quickly walks away, looking like a man who's just seen a ghost he wasn't prepared to face.
Once they're alone, Songbird speaks again, her form flickering slightly with each movement. "I'll explain everything — just need you to listen."
"Lied to me, Song. Said you had the cure." V sounds more tired than angry — she's getting too used to these kinds of shitty twists in her life. Though she can feel Johnny's rage building in her mind, his presence growing heavier with each passing second. "No mention of a fuckload of flaming hoops I gotta jump through to get it."
"It was no trick." The runner defends herself, jumping down from the railing and starting to pace. "Just... didn't tell you the whole story. V, I — I can't explain everything now, it's... too much. But I really do need your help. All I want is to get that cure for us. It's what I've been chasin' all along."
V lets out a heavy sigh, the weight of yet another complicated situation settling on her shoulders. She decides to put aside Songbird's half-truths for now and focus on what really matters. "The cure — how do we get it?" In her head, she can feel Johnny's attention sharpen like a blade being honed.
"We need the neural matrix — secret tech that incorporates AIs from beyond the Blackwall." The runner explains, crossing her arms. "The matrix is nested in a mainframe Hansen pulled out of the bunker. The mainframe's secured, but Hansen lacks the key — that's the problem."
"Got a plan?" V asks, preferring to skip the technical details — after all, she's no netrunner, and she suspects this kind of tech goes way beyond her comprehension level. “Spill it.”
"Hansen needs me and a duo of 'runners who worked on this tech in the past. They actually grabbed access codes they're willing to unload for a price. Classic black market shit." Songbird continues. "They're bringin' access, I'm bringin' know-how about how to pull the matrix and data off the mainframe. We're to work side-by-side. Givin' us a chance. You klep the access codes, then get the 'runners out of the way. You'll then impersonate them for a meet with Hansen. Same meet where we'll swipe the matrix out from under his nose."
V frowns, perplexed. "So, 'runners — we're to impersonate 'em? How?" The idea seems impossible, even by Night City's standards.
"Personality theft tech. Firm kinda specializes in it. Alex and Reed know it well, they'll explain." Shit, so it's the same tech that allows Alex to change faces? Even though V has seen it with her own eyes, it still seems absolutely insane. After a moment, So Mi adds, her voice softening slightly, "Of all people, couldn't've imagined those two would be on our side, helpin'."
The merc still feels like Songbird isn't telling her everything, but it's clear the woman likes to dispense information in carefully measured doses. "I think I got it. Our targets — where'll we find 'em?"
"They're here. Downstairs." She points over her shoulder, her digital form creating a trail of pixelated light that dissipates like smoke in the air. "Redhead twins walled to the teeth with ICE. Kiroshi scans'll show you bunk."
"Preem, noted." The merc nods after throwing a quick glance through the glass barrier, immediately spotting the duo Song mentioned after a rapid scan of the crowd below. "Anything else?"
"Champagne glass over there — prepped some intel for you. Get it to Reed. You'll need it later." As So Mi speaks these words, the room's lights dim dramatically, leaving only weak spotlights illuminating the large central stage. The sudden change in lighting makes her holographic form appear even more ethereal. "Really need to go now, V. I'm countin' on you."
And just like that, in a cloud of reddish artifacts that look like digital blood splatter, she dematerializes, leaving the merc alone with her thoughts and Johnny's restless presence in her mind. "Songbird...?" She tries, but of course, there's no response. V sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Right, okay..." She approaches the table, retrieving the champagne glass that the real So Mi left before departing with Hansen. Sure enough, at the bottom, she finds a datashard which she discreetly pockets.
Johnny materializes again, leaning against the railing where Songbird just vanished. He nods vaguely toward the stage, "Looks like we're in for a show..."
V leans next to him, their shoulders touching. "What's your take on all this?" she asks quietly, though she can already feel his unease through their connection.
"Don't like it one bit," he growls, pulling out a cigarette. "That runner's been lyin’ from the start. Said she had the cure, now we're jumpin' through hoops like trained monkeys. And she's still hidin' something — can smell it a mile away."
"Yeah, got that feeling too," V sighs, watching the crowd below. The sea of chrome and synthetic fabrics shifts and moves like a living entity. "But what choice do we have? It's our only lead right now."
"Could walk away," Johnny suggests, though they both know it's not really an option. "Find another way. Always worked better on our own anyway."
V shakes her head, a bitter smile playing on her lips. "Time's running out, Johnny. Can't afford to be picky about our options anymore." She turns to face him, their eyes meeting. "Besides, Alex and Reed are involved now. They wouldn't help if this was complete bullshit."
"Maybe," Johnny concedes, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "Or maybe they're as desperate as we are. Desperation makes people do stupid shit, V. I know that better than most."
"Speaking from experience?" she teases, trying to lighten the mood.
"Fuck you," he responds, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Just saying we should watch our backs. That chick might be genuine about wanting the cure, but she's definitely not tellin’ us everything."
"When does anyone in this city ever tell us everything?" V points out, earning a snort from Johnny. "We'll figure it out as we go. Always do."
Their conversation is cut short as music starts to fill the air — a haunting melody that seems to resonate through the very structure of the building. A cascade of blue and violet lights — reminiscent of ethereal aurora borealis — begins to rain down on the stage, creating patterns that seem impossible in their complexity. From a circular opening in its center, a platform rises slowly, revealing a figure bathed in otherworldly light.
V zooms in with her Kiroshi and — fuck, is that Lizzy Wizzy? The last time the merc crossed paths with the chrome diva, she'd been hired to dispose of her ex-lover and manager's body after the popstar killed him in a fit of rage. The memory sends an uncomfortable shiver down her spine.
When Lizzy starts singing, her voice filling the space with crystalline clarity, massive wings of golden light unfurl from her back, transforming her into a mechanical phoenix blazing against the darkness. Her chrome skin, polished to mirror-like perfection, catches and reflects every beam of light, creating a mesmerizing display of sparkles and shadows. Holographic particles swirl around her like stardust, responding to every note of her haunting melody, creating shapes and patterns that seem to defy physics.
Midway through the song, hidden cables lift her gracefully into the air, the movement so smooth it appears as if she's floating on air. She rises higher and higher until she's positioned at the center of a holographic spider web that glitters like countless diamonds catching moonlight. The web begins to shift and transform, each strand breaking apart and reforming, morphing into a vast cosmic display — stars, nebulae, and distant galaxies spinning around the chrome singer in a private universe of light and sound.
Lizzy descends slowly back toward the stage, the spectacular light show making her appear like a falling star, her chrome body leaving trails of golden light in her wake that hang in the air like memories. As the final notes fade away, she sinks back into the stage's opening, disappearing in a shower of holographic sparks that rain down on the mesmerized audience.
The crowd erupts in thunderous applause and enthusiastic cheers, and fuck, the show was absolutely incredible — even Johnny seems impressed, though he'd never admit it. Gradually, the room's lights fade back up, signaling the end of the performance, bringing everyone back to the reality of Night City's dangerous glamour.
"Well, that was something else," Johnny mutters, flicking away his cigarette which disappears before hitting the ground. "Now, how 'bout we get back to our own show?"
V pushes herself away from the railing with a small sigh. Back to reality. "Yeah, let's find Reed, got a lot to tell him." The weight of the datashard in her pocket seems to increase with each step, a constant reminder of what's at stake.
Johnny wraps an arm around her waist, a gesture both protective and possessive, as they make their way toward the stairs. The warmth of his touch is grounding, helping her focus on the task ahead despite the lingering echoes of Lizzy Wizzy's performance still hanging in the air.
V descends back to the bar where Reed was earlier, but finding his spot empty, she continues searching through the room. After scanning the crowd, she finally spots Reed in the casino section of the floor — an area she hadn't explored yet. The agent sits hunched over his whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light with each slight movement of his hand. His usually impeccable posture is slightly slumped, betraying his mental exhaustion.
"Seems your special agent has special needs. Tryin' to drown his sins and sorrows," Johnny comments beside her. He gestures toward Reed with his chin, who indeed looks like he's trying to find answers at the bottom of his whiskey glass.
V slides onto the barstool next to him, diving straight into the conversation, "Talked to Songbird via the Relic. We can communicate again." The only response she gets is a vague grunt, the sound nearly lost in the ambient casino noise. Reed's fingers trace abstract patterns in the condensation on his glass, his eyes distant. "All good there, Reed?"
"Yeah, I just need to process for a minute. It's just how I'm built. A little adversity, and I need a few moments to think." His words come out measured and careful, like he's testing each one before letting it go. He takes another contemplative sip of whiskey, the ice cubes clinking against the crystal.
"Come up with anything?" V prompts gently, watching his reflection in the mirrored back of the bar.
"Yeah." The sigh that follows seems to carry the weight of years. His eyes drift toward the bartender, considering another drink, before something in his expression hardens and he looks away. "We now know who took a swipe at Myers' head."
After their conversation with the netrunner, the answer seems more than obvious to the merc. "Thinkin' Songbird planned the whole thing."
"You're thinkin' right." Reed's face carries the wounded look of someone who's just had their worst suspicions confirmed. The admission seems to physically pain him as he continues, "Dunno about you, but I see coincidences as patterns, structures we have yet to recognize. SF1 crashes. Not anywhere, but over specific turf. Controlled by someone who found some obscure, forgotten tech in a secret bunker. Crash was an inside job, we suspected that from the get-go. Now we know it was. And we know it was Songbird, she was behind it."
Leaning closer, V shares her thoughts about how the conversation on the mezzanine confirmed these suspicions. The revelation about Songbird's terminal condition, mirroring her own situation, was the final piece of the puzzle. With the cure in the balance, it explains the why of it all.
Reed murmurs his conclusion — that the runner must have already had a deal with Hansen before the crash, trading the president's life for access to the tech. So Mi's recruitment of V to rescue Myers was just another calculated move, playing both sides by hiring someone to save the president, thus washing her hands of any suspicion. And by choosing V, who needs the cure just as desperately as she does, Songbird secured another ally for her grand plan.
V releases a heavy sigh that seems to come from her very soul, watching the condensation slowly drip down the side of Reed's glass. The political machinations mean little to her — she's seen enough of Night City's power plays to last a lifetime. All that matters is getting that cure. Reed must sense her thoughts because he quickly assures her that despite everything, Songbird will play fair. His voice carries a desperate need to believe in his old friend's redemption.
Those damn puppy dog eyes make another appearance, and V can practically feel the weight of his internal struggle. "So, what're you thinkin' about all this?"
"I'm not convinced So Mi's to blame for everything. In this trade, nothing's ever as it seems." Reed's words carry the weight of years of experience in the intelligence game. Behind them, Johnny scoffs silently, but V can feel his own uncertainty through their connection. "You gotta keep askin' questions till you get to the bottom of it. That's experience talkin'. Main thing now is to get her outta this cesspool of a sitch. Then we'll see which direction to take."
"Right. No point in porin' over it now." V agrees. She then explains Songbird's plan to seize the tech and the importance of stealing the identities of the two runners who are supposed to work with her on this project. The spy details the procedure, something he and Alex have previously done for the FIA, and she hands him the shard containing the target information that Song entrusted to her.
Their targets are visible from where they sit — two redheaded figures bent over the roulette table, their flamboyant hair catching the casino's lights. Through her Kiroshi optics, V can see the impressive amount of ICE they're packing, just as Songbird warned. Reed contacts Alex via comm, and she says she'll handle preparing the scanning tech. She also transfers a hefty sum to V, instructing her to exchange it for chips so she can join their game and establish contact. With a final word of encouragement from Reed, who promises to join her in a few minutes, V moves away from the bar, the weight of what's to come settling heavily on her shoulders.
Johnny materializes beside her as she walks. "Ready to play some games, princess?" he smirks, and V can't help but mirror his expression. After all, if there's one thing she's good at, it's running cons in Night City.
After converting the 80,000 eddies into chips — fuck, she still can't believe Alex transferred such an amount in the blink of an eye, like it was nothing — V makes her way to the roulette table. For now, she approaches casually, feigning interest in the ongoing game while studying the players.
When the round ends, one of their targets, the redheaded woman, turns to her with a smile that's equal parts welcoming and predatory. "Will you join us?" The French accent is thick but elegant, matching her expensive chrome and designer clothes.
V nods, settling into a corner of the table and placing some of her chips on black, playing it cool while Reed's voice crackles through her comm, "Relax, buy 'em drinks, break the ice. I'll join you momentarily." His tone carries a hint of tension that makes V's instincts tingle.
As the dealer announces that betting is closed, the redhead takes this moment to introduce herself as Aurore Cassel, her perfectly painted lips forming each syllable with practiced precision. She gestures to the stone-faced man beside her — her brother Aymeric, whose silence speaks volumes about his personality. V makes a mental note — the sister is the key here, clearly the more approachable of the pair.
V snaps her fingers to catch a waitress's attention, offering drinks to the twins. Aurore orders bourbon — V follows suit — while her brother sticks to water. As the merc places another bet, Alex contacts her with worrying news — Reed's gone dark, and she wants V to buy some time.
The conversation flows as smoothly as the expensive bourbon they're drinking. Aurore proves to be a natural socialite, her laughter musical and her gestures animated as she shares stories about Night City's high society. Her chrome catches the light with each movement — top-shelf stuff, probably European-made. V matches her energy, building a rapport while her scanning software works quietly in the background.
One by one, other players drift away from the table, leaving just their small group in their own bubble of conspiracy. Johnny materializes near the wheel, leaning against it with his arms crossed. "Don't like this, V. Reed goin’ dark? Somethin's fucky." She can't respond, but she agrees with his assessment.
The scan of Aurore progresses steadily — the woman's animated personality making it easy to capture various emotional states. She's clearly enjoying herself, her guard lowering with each sip of bourbon. Her brother, however, remains a challenge.
But even ice can melt. As the minutes pass, Aymeric's reserve begins to crack, particularly when the conversation turns to Hansen. Each reaction pushes the scan progress further, but V can tell they need something more.
Alex's voice comes through again, "Gettin’ there, almost got it. Gimme somethin’ big now. Make ‘em laugh or cry, I don’t care." So V suggests they bet all their evening's winnings on one final round. Aurore, apparently having a taste for risk, enthusiastically agrees. Her brother appears more skeptical, asking exactly who V is.
V leans back, taking a slow sip of bourbon before answering with calculated coolness, explaining she's a professional thief who's already stolen from Yorinobu Arasaka, and could just as easily steal from Hansen too. Or even them, for that matter. Her answer seems to delight Aurore, who flashes a broad smile and invites V to choose her color first.
The dealer waits patiently as V stacks her chips on black, the pile casting long shadows across the green felt. The twins exchange a look before Aurore dramatically places their fortune on red. The wheel spins, the white ball dancing across the numbers, and V's heart rate spikes when she spots Hansen approaching their table, his massive frame impossible to miss.
"Eight, even, black," the dealer announces, and V forces herself to beam with genuine-looking joy, even as her spine tingles with Hansen's proximity. Aurore's frustrated "Putain de merde!" and Aymeric's quiet seething provide exactly the emotional spike Alex needed for the scans.
Unfortunately, Hansen reaches them before V can make her exit, strategically positioning his imposing frame between her and the corridor that would've been her escape route. His attention turns to the siblings, his voice carrying a politeness that does nothing to mask its underlying arctic chill. "Leave us for a moment, if you please."
Aurore flashes V one last bright smile while Aymeric offers a courteous "Congratulations to you" before they both turn and disappear into the casino crowd, their red hair catching the casino lights one last time before disappearing entirely.
Once the twins are out of earshot, Hansen approaches V with the calculated movements of a predator. He plants both hands on the polished table, looming over her with barely contained menace. When he speaks, his voice is controlled, almost conversational, but carries an undercurrent of lethal intent. "I know your friend Reed is FIA," he states with unnerving calmness. "My natural assumption is — you're an agent, too."
Well, shit. That explains Reed's radio silence — Hansen's goons must have him. V keeps her expression carefully neutral, years of merc work helping her maintain composure while her mind races through scenarios. Her only hope is that Reed's still breathing.
"I'm also guessing you two took it upon yourselves to save the president, then exfil her out of Dogtown," he continues, reading her silence as its own answer, studying her face for any reaction. "I should send you back to Night City in body bags filled with pieces."
V notices Johnny tensing at the threat, his digital form crackling with anger, but she's already figured out Hansen's game. If he wanted her dead, the Barghest would have already dragged her away. Testing her theory, she meets his gaze steadily. "You're not about to kill us. Got it right?"
His glare could freeze hell itself, but his voice maintains that unsettling calm. "To be honest, I got tired of the media circus. All allegations thrown in my face, the bullshit propaganda... Luckily, we can put all that behind us now."
"Always willin' to help," V's sarcasm drips like poison as she finishes her bourbon, the expensive liquid burning pleasantly down her throat. The ice cubes clink against crystal as she sets the empty glass down with deliberate slowness. "Don't you worry, got your back, Colonel." The sarcasm in her voice is thick enough to cut with a knife.
"I will let you and Reed walk free of this place, in one piece, on your own two feet. Consider it a gesture of my good will." He takes a calculated step back, his next words carrying the weight of a loaded gun. "Your little bird came to me on her own, though. She was tired of breaking international laws on the president's whim. She simply had to run away."
Fuck. Reed's suspicions about the president's AI pet project just got confirmed in the worst possible way. Johnny moves closer to V, his solid form a comforting presence as Hansen's expression turns contemplative, almost theatrical.
"Breaching the Blackwall? Jeopardizing the Net, all humankind's safety, in fact, for personal gain? I wonder what NetWatch would say..." A cold smile plays across his features, the kind that never reaches his eyes. "Pass it on to President Myers. Also, tell her... her toy of mass destruction is my friend now. And she should get the fuck out of my back yard, or the world will learn about her games."
"I've matters to attend to," he concludes with cold finality. "You'll find Mr. Reed downstairs." His departure is as calculated as his arrival, each step measured and precise until he disappears into the crowd.
V releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding, and Alex's voice crackles through her comm with perfect timing. "Ok, V. Got all we need."
"Sheesh, colossal prick..." V mutters, gathering her substantial pile of chips with slightly trembling hands. The adrenaline is still coursing through her system. "Hear what he said?"
"Yeah, caught it all," Alex responds, her voice tight with concern. "Didn't like it one bit, either. Time to evac, V. Best not tempt the Fates. Head to the elevator, ride down to one. Need to know what's up with Sol."
After cutting the comm, V makes a quick detour to exchange her chips for a hefty stack of eddies. As she's about to leave the casino floor, a familiar chrome-skinned figure catches her eye near the bar. One last stop won't hurt, she figures.
"Hey there, Lizzy!" she calls out cheerfully, making her way through the crowd.
"V?" The singer's surprise is genuine. "What're you doing here?"
"Could legitimately ask you the same..." V teases, leaning against the polished bar beside her. The neon lights dance off Lizzy's metallic skin, creating a mesmerizing light show.
"Hah, yeah... I might be a little out of place, but I get around..." Lizzy chuckles, seeming in much better spirits — and thankfully more stable — than during their last blood-soaked encounter. "And Dogtown, well... it always gets my blood coursing..."
They fall into an easy conversation about Lizzy's earlier performance, the singer's enthusiasm infectious as she describes the energy of the crowd. In a gesture of friendship, she even gifts V her personal headset as a souvenir. After snapping a quick photo and getting an autograph, V bids her farewell and heads for the exit.
Snagging one last flute of champagne for the road, V makes her way to the external promenade circling the tower's top floor. The night air is crisp against her skin as she lights up a cigarette, and Johnny materializes beside her, settling onto one of the benches with his characteristic swagger.
"First Kerry, then Denny, and now this chick..." he muses, watching the smoke curl into the night air. "Planning on meeting every musician in Night City? What's next — gonna start your own band?"
"What, jealous you're not the only rockerboy in my life anymore?" V teases, joining him on the bench. "Afraid I might replace you with a newer model?"
"As if anyone could replace me," Johnny scoffs, but there's affection in his voice. "Besides, these new-age rockers? They don't know shit about real music. It's all synthesized garbage."
"Oh, come on," V laughs, blowing smoke rings into the night air. "Even you must have had celebrities you wanted to meet. Some legend you looked up to?"
Johnny's quiet for a moment, his expression softening with nostalgia. "Wendy O. Williams," he finally says, his voice carrying a hint of reverence. "Toughest-ass rockergirl ever. Took her own life when I was nine. Were she here, she'd fuckin' burn the stage down, blow everyone and everything up to high heaven."
The name means nothing to V, but she mentally notes it down — could make for a perfect vinyl gift someday. She finishes her champagne, watching Johnny's face as he loses himself in memories. It's rare to see him this unguarded, almost vulnerable.
"I'd give all the parties I ever went to, including this one, to see her live and in concert just once." Johnny's smile is genuine as he turns to V. "Would've taken you with me, shown you what a real punk looks like. Back then? Raw energy, pure rage against the machine. No fancy chrome needed, just gut-deep anger and a fuck-you attitude."
"Sounds like my kind of show," V grins, studying the ember of her cigarette. "Though I bet you would've been too busy moshin’ to notice me."
"Nah," Johnny chuckles, his arm sliding around her shoulders. "Would've dragged you right into the pit with me. Teach you how to properly throw elbows, maybe get you a bloody nose for street cred."
"My hero," V rolls her eyes, but leans into his touch. "Always looking out for my reputation."
"Someone's has to," he gestures toward the casino with his free hand. "Now, let's delta the fuck outta here while we still got the chance. Hansen's hospitality might have an expiration date."
V nods, taking one final drag before flicking her cigarette away. The butt traces a glowing arc through the night air before disappearing into the darkness below. As they head for the elevator, Johnny keeps his chrome arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, his presence a constant reminder that she's not facing this mess alone.
Once she hits the call button, Alex's holo appears. They have a brief but intense discussion about Songbird and Hansen, and how the runner's knowledge could destabilize the NUSA if Hansen decides to weaponize it. Getting her out of his grip has become more urgent than ever if they want to prevent another potential war.
The elevator doors open at ground level to reveal Reed — who, thankfully, appears unharmed, suggesting his interrogation wasn't too rough. His suit is still immaculate, though his usual confident posture carries a hint of tension. A Barghest soldier, decked out in full tactical gear, stands ready to escort them out.
V and Reed exchange a loaded look that clearly says 'almost outta here, don't fuck it up now' before following their escort through the lobby. Once safely outside the building, the cool night air carrying the distinct Dogtown mix of gunpowder and neon, Reed gestures for V to follow him into the shadows between the towering structures.
Once safely hidden from prying eyes and surveillance, Reed leans against a construction barrier in a shadowy corner of Dogtown's maze-like streets. "How'd things go, V?" His voice is low, barely carrying over the ambient noise of the city.
"Got everything, all set." She assures him, positioning herself beside him while scanning their surroundings out of habit. Johnny materializes nearby, keeping watch with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
"You got thorough scans of the 'runners?" Reed's skepticism is evident in his tone as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Both of 'em, yourself?"
V can't help but roll her eyes — fuck, she wishes people would stop doubting her abilities one of these days. The constant need to prove herself is getting old. "I said we got everything," she replies, an edge of irritation in her voice that makes Johnny smirk.
"Well, well... And then you, uh, excused yourself, stepped away, disappeared?" His perplexed tone suggests he knows there's more to the story, his agent's instincts picking up on the gaps.
"Hansen showed up, we chatted." She gives him the cliff notes version of the encountert. "Threats were made, actually. Said if Myers doesn't let up, world'll learn about Songbird, about piercin' the Blackwall."
"He clearly knows what So Mi means to the president." Reed starts pacing, his expensive shoes clicking against the concrete as he processes this new information.
"Personal WMD, you mean?" V sighs, watching him wear a path in the ground. The weight of this revelation sits heavy in her gut. "Yeah, Hansen knows all. Need to get 'er the fuck out, Reed, really."
"I was afraid o' this..." His voice carries a weight of grim understanding as he finally stops pacing. "Okay, V, Alex and I have work — we need to analyze the data from Songbird. Might take a day or two."
"Preem." She nods, not unhappy that tonight's mission is wrapped up. The tension in her shoulders is starting to make itself known, and Johnny's concerned glance tells her he's noticed. "Open comms line, then?"
"Sure. We'll work out a game plan, get back to you ASAP." He confirms, already moving toward a waiting car that seems to materialize from the shadows. Over his shoulder, he adds with rare warmth, "Oh, and V — bang up work."
After Reed's sleek vehicle disappears into the neon-lit night, V heads back to retrieve her backpack from its hiding spot near the flooded tunnels. The underground room is exactly as she left it, her gear untouched in the darkness. The air is heavy with moisture, and her footsteps echo against the concrete walls as she makes her way to her stash.
As she starts changing out of her fancy outfit — eager to get back into something more comfortable for the ride home — Johnny materializes, leaning against the damp wall. His eyes follow her movements as she slips Johnny's dogtags back around her neck, the familiar weight instantly comforting against her skin.
"Much better," he comments with a smirk. "That dress was nice an' all, but this is more you."
Before V can reply, her holo buzzes with a message from So Mi.
"Fuck..." Johnny sighs heavily, pushing off the wall to read over V's shoulder. "She ain't never gonna stop lyin', huh? Like a goddamn broken record."
Wanting to test this theory, V types another message, her fingers hovering over the holo's interface as she carefully chooses her words.
"Well, shit..." V mutters, tucking her holo away and pulling on her familiar cargo pant. "She's stickin' to her story like glue. If I wasn't worried about fuckin' up our chance at that cure, I'd be real tempted to tell her we know Hansen admitted she jumped ship from Myers all on her own."
"She wanna keep 'er cards close? Fine, we can do the same." Johnny shrugs, watching V zip up her boots. "C'mon princess, let's get the fuck outta here. Been enough cloak-and-dagger shit for one night. Ready to head home."
"Yeah, let's delta." She agrees, stuffing her fancy clothes into the backpack. The silk fabric seems almost absurd now, among her regular gear. After shouldering the bag, she heads toward where she parked her bike, Johnny a comforting presence beside her as they navigate through the streets.
What if someday we took all their toys away
You think they'd find the strength to go on living
'Cause deep inside I know if I lost everything I owned
I'd be a king as long as you're beside me
The next morning, V indulges in the luxury of sleeping in, her body grateful for the rest after the previous night's tension. Now she's soaking in the steaming water, letting the heat seep into her muscles while Johnny takes his usual spot on the tiled floor, his back pressed against the side of the tub. The bathroom is filled with steam, giving everything a dreamy quality.
"Whole thing's fucked," V sighs, absently playing with Johnny's dogtags. "Can't trust any of these gonks."
"No shit," Johnny scoffs, tilting his head back to look at her. "Myers? Professional liar. Didn't get to be president by bein’ honest. Only wants Songbird 'cause the girl knows too much, could fuck up her whole career."
"And Reed?" V asks, though she already knows Johnny's opinion on the agent.
"Reed's a company man through and through," he growls, his chrome hand tapping an agitated rhythm against the floor. "Sure, maybe he actually gives a shit about savin’ Songbird. But the second his bosses decide to put a bullet in ‘er head — or yours — he'll do it without batting an eye."
V runs her fingers through his hair, a gesture that's become second nature. "And then there's Songbird herself. Lyin’ since day one."
"Only thing we know for sure is the cure's real," Johnny leans into her touch. "She needs it as bad as you do. But who's to say she won't ghost with it the second we get our hands on it? Leave us both fucked?"
"Exactly," V sinks deeper into the water. "Everyone's playin’ their own game, and we're just pieces on the board."
"Welcome to Night City, princess," Johnny's voice is bitter. "Where everyone's got an angle and trust gets you killed."
"At least I got you watchin’ my back," she offers, managing a small smile.
"Always," he promises, reaching up to squeeze her hand. "You and me against all these lyin’ gonks. Only way to survive in this mess."
"At least this is real," V murmurs, continuing to run her fingers through his dark hair. Johnny practically purrs under her touch, his eyes closing in contentment. It's moments like these where she can almost forget about the clusterfuck waiting outside her apartment.
"Damn right it is," he rumbles, turning his head slightly to press against her palm. "No bullshit between us. Not anymore."
The steam continues to rise around them, creating a cocoon of warmth and intimacy while V's fingers trace lazy patterns against his scalp. "You're like a big street cat," she teases softly, scratching lightly behind his ear. "All tough and mean until someone pets you right."
"Fuck off," he grumbles, but there's no heat in it, especially as he leans even more into her touch. "Just... feels nice, is all. When you do that."
V smiles, watching how his shoulders gradually relax, tension bleeding out of him with each stroke of her fingers. It's a rare sight — Johnny Silverhand, the infamous rockerboy terrorist, completely at peace. These quiet moments are theirs alone, no lies, no schemes, no hidden agendas.
"Water's getting cold," she notes eventually, though she makes no move to stop her ministrations.
"Few more minutes won't kill ya," he murmurs, eyes still closed. "Unless you're in a hurry to get back to all that spy bullshit?"
V snorts softly. "Nah. This is way better."
The rest of the day passes in a lazy haze, neither of them feeling the need to rush back into Night City's chaos. After finally emerging from her bath, V pulls on her most comfortable clothes — worn sweatpants and an old band t-shirt she'd found in a vintage store. The soft fabric feels like heaven after last night's fancy dress.
They spend hours sprawled on the couch, some terrible old action movie is playing, but neither of them is really paying attention. Johnny's flesh hand absently massages her calf while they trade lazy commentary about the awful special effects and even worse dialogue.
When hunger strikes, V orders in from her favorite noodle place down the street. Johnny watches her eat with a mix of envy and satisfaction — he can't eat himself, but he can taste everything through their connection. "At least pick the good stuff," he grumbles as she deliberately chooses the spiciest noodles, knowing he loves them.
As afternoon stretches on, Johnny motions for her to grab the guitar, settling back on the couch. "C'mere," he beckons, patting the space next to him. "Been meanin’ to teach you properly. You got my muscle memory, might as well use it."
It's strange how natural it feels — her fingers know exactly where to go, muscle memory that isn't quite hers taking over. Johnny's hands guide hers anyway, his voice low in her ear as he explains chord progressions and timing.
"See? You're a natural," he murmurs as she picks out the opening riff to 'Black Dog'. "Well, technically you're cheating, but who's counting?"
"Shut up," she laughs, leaning back against him as her fingers continue to move across the strings. "Not my fault you left all your skills rattling around in my head."
Their peaceful bubble bursts when V's holo rings, the sudden intrusion of reality making them both jump slightly. Kerry's contact ID flashes on the screen, an unexpected surprise that makes Johnny sit up straighter on the couch. As soon as she picks up, Kerry's familiar face materializes, looking somewhat uncertain as he asks, "Uh... Johnny?"
The merc chuckles, sharing an amused glance with Johnny who's now leaning over her shoulder. "V this time. Disappointed?"
"Fuck, sorry." He sighs, running a hand through his silver-streaked hair. Even though he doesn't say it out loud, she can tell the rockstar's a bit let down. "Don't really get how that show of yours works."
"Simple. Imagine that Johnny's along for the ride," V explains patiently, settling back against the couch. "Like a really annoying backseat passenger who never shuts up."
"Fuck you too, princess," Johnny snorts beside her.
Kerry hums thoughtfully, a familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. "Knowin' him, he don't got no ticket either."
"Whatever." She shrugs, feeling Johnny's mix of amusement and nostalgia through their connection. "In any case, I'm at the wheel right now. Unless you want to talk to him directly, I—"
"Nah, don't bother," Kerry interrupts, his expression shifting to something more businesslike. "You'll work too. I mean, cool. Callin' for a job. Of a kind that seems ideal for you. Corner of Grey and Mallagra. One AM. We'll talk."
"Cool," V confirms simply before hanging up. She carefully places the guitar back on its stand, the wood gleaming in the late afternoon light. Turning to Johnny, who's sprawled across the couch like he owns it, one leg hanging over the armrest, she asks, "What do you think he wants?"
"Knowin’ Ker'?" Johnny muses, stretching like a lazy cat, his chrome arm catching the sunlight streaming through the window. "Could be anything. Mostly anything crazy. That corner he mentioned, that's in Rancho, right?" He props himself up on his elbows, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Means he's gettin’ out of his mansion again. Good thing, I suppose."
"For sure. Guess that concert the other night really did him good," she comments, already mentally cataloging what gear she might need. Her eyes drift to her weapon wall, wondering what level of chaos she should prepare for. "Okay, gonna prep for anything then."
Johnny watches her with that characteristic mix of amusement and fondness he seems to reserve just for her. "With Kerry, better expect the unexpected. Remember that time in '15 when he decided to..." He trails off, catching himself, that smirk widening into a full grin. "Well, that's a story for another time."
"You can't just leave me hanging like that," V protests, but she's already heading to her closet to gear up. She can feel Johnny's eyes following her, his amusement clear through their connection. "One of these days, you're gonna have to tell me all these stories."
"Maybe," he drawls, getting up to follow her. "If you're lucky. But right now, we better focus on whatever shit Kerry's cooking up. Knowing him, it's either gonna be completely gonk or absolutely preem."
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
Past midnight, V parks her Arch in the dimly lit streets of Santo Domingo, the engine's purr echoing off the concrete walls before dying down. The district is quieter than usual at this hour, most of the usual gangers and street vendors having retreated to warmer spots. She walks to the meeting point, combat boots clicking against the cracked pavement.
Thankfully, there's a small café on the corner — one of those 24/7 joints that seem to exist solely for night owls and insomniacs. She orders a coffee from the bored-looking vendor and settles into one of the plastic chairs to wait. Johnny materializes in the seat across from her, leather-clad legs stretched out, and after a few minutes of comfortable silence, he conjures a cigarette between his chrome fingers.
"Y'know..." he drawls, smoke curling around his face, "I'm glad you're doing stuff with Kerry. Even if I got no fuckin' clue what kind of gonk shit he's gonna drag you into..."
"Don't worry." She smiles, mirroring his gesture by lighting up her own cigarette, the familiar taste of nicotine mixing with the bitter coffee. "It's nice that you get to spend time with your best choom, even if it's through me."
Johnny just hums, his expression turning distant. He doesn't say what's really on his mind — that his time with Kerry belongs to another life. That what he really wants is for the two people he's been closest to, across both his lives, to forge their own connection. To be there for each other when he's gone. But he knows V doesn't want to hear that. She still clings to that crazy hope that they'll both make it somehow, one way or another. And he can't bring himself to take that away from her, not yet, even though he knows he's just postponing the inevitable. So he just smokes in silence, watching with a small smile as V sips her coffee.
Kerry doesn't keep them waiting long, announcing his arrival with the screech of poorly maintained brakes. He shows up behind the wheel of what looks like a rolling trash heap — some ancient model that's more rust than metal. Fuck. Even death and fifty years in Mikoshi couldn't erase the memory of his friend's terrible driving from Johnny's mind, and seeing the state of that car, he fears the worst.
V, completely oblivious to the impending danger, hops into the passenger seat, the old springs creaking under her weight. As Kerry starts the engine with a concerning rattle, he turns to her with that familiar manic grin that Johnny knows all too well. "Soon as I saw you that time, thought to myself — those're some balls on that one. And I definitely need someone with a pair for this job."
"Never mind the testicles, tell him to keep those hands at ten and two," Johnny grumbles from the backseat, already bracing himself against the worn leather. "Always wound up in a ditch whenever Kerry drove. Man's got the spatial awareness of a drunk gopher."
V chuckles but doesn't relay the message, instead asking Kerry why he needs her help. He dramatically declares that this city is rotten and they need to set things right, gesturing wildly with one hand while the car swerves slightly. Then he explains that the Us Cracks, a lazrpop group, wants to cover one of his songs for their NUS tour. V honestly doesn't see the problem, but asks what he plans to do anyway, trying not to wince as Kerry goes through a red light.
He explains he's got intel on the route of the van carrying the group's equipment, and tonight's mission is to blow it all up. No gear means no concert, in his mind. V turns to exchange a puzzled look with Johnny, who's looking increasingly uncomfortable with Kerry's driving. If this group is as famous as they seem, a little setback like losing their instruments won't cancel the show — everything will be replaced with one phone call.
Johnny shrugs, his chrome hand gripping the seat as Kerry takes a corner way too fast. "No point tryin’ to reason with him when he's like this. Plan's shit, but might as well roll with it. Just make sure he doesn't blow himself up with the van, 'kay? And for fuck's sake, tell him to slow down before we become one with the concrete."
V sighs, settling back into her seat as Kerry speeds through the streets, his driving just as awful as Johnny remembered. Between Kerry's apparent death wish behind the wheel and his half-baked revenge plan, this is shaping up to be one hell of a night.
Kerry finally parks the car — thank fuck — near a bus stop on the road leading to the Badlands. The ancient vehicle's engine sputters to a grateful silence as they step out into the cool night air.
"Pop the trunk, V," Kerry instructs, practically bouncing with barely contained excitement. Inside, they find their tools for the evening — a professional-grade stinger and several grenades that look suspiciously like military hardware. They move further down the road to set up their ambush while the rocker mutters something about 'fighting for art with a capital A', his gold-plated implants catching the moonlight as he gestures dramatically.
V sets up the stinger across the road, noting that it's standard-issue NCPD tech. When she questions Kerry about how he managed to get his hands on something like this, he just shrugs, chrome glinting as he explains that having devoted fans can help you get pretty much anything in Night City.
They take cover behind the bus stop, waiting for their target. V can't help but think it's pure dumb luck that no other vehicle has shredded their tires on the spike strip in the meantime. Finally, headlights appear in the distance, cutting through the darkness. Johnny positions himself dramatically in the van's path, spreading his arms wide. The vehicle passes right through Johnny's spectral form and hits the stinger dead-on.
The effect is immediate and spectacular. Tires burst with a satisfying series of pops, rubber screaming against asphalt as the van skids wildly. The driver manages to maintain enough control to stop the vehicle a few meters ahead, the metal frame groaning in protest. Kerry pulls a pistol from his belt with all the flourish of a man who learned his gun handling from action braindances. "I'll take the driver!" he shouts, way too loud for a stealth operation. "You handle his sidechoom!"
V catches Johnny's exaggerated eye-roll — clearly, Kerry's overdoing it, shouting and waving his gun in the faces of two guys who look about ready to piss themselves. V doesn't even bother drawing her weapon, her calm voice carrying enough authority as she orders the passenger to get out and lie face-down on the ground.
She retrieves the van's access card from where the driver dropped it with trembling hands, then moves to open the rear doors. The sight that greets her is a treasure trove of high-end music equipment. Jackpot. Kerry shouts at the two men on the ground to delta the fuck away and not look back, and they scramble away without needing to be told twice.
He joins V at the back of the van, practically vibrating with anticipation. She makes him step back to a safe distance, pulling the pin on one of his grenades with practiced ease. The explosive arcs through the air, landing perfectly among the expensive equipment.
The night erupts in a spectacular explosion. The fireball lights up the sky like an artificial dawn, sending pieces of expensive equipment raining down around them in a deadly shower of metal and plastic. The shockwave rattles through their bones as orange flames reach toward the stars, the heat intense enough to feel on their faces even from their position. The acrid smell of burning electronics fills the air.
Kerry lets out a booming laugh that echoes across the empty landscape. "Fuck yeah!" A second explosion goes off as the fuel tank catches fire, sending another wave of heat washing over them. The van's frame groans and twists as flames consume it from within. "Good workin' with ya, V! Now that's what I call a statement!"
"Fuck, Kerry..." Johnny wraps an arm around V's shoulders, his touch solid and warm against her skin. He rolls his eyes as his friend pulls out his holo to snap photos of the burning wreckage, the flames reflecting off his chrome implants. "Meanin', it's just a truck of toys for some plastic Japanese dolls. Might as well blow up a cotton candy stand, but..." His expression softens slightly. "Still a big step forward. I hardly recognize the bastard. Actually doing something instead of just bitching about it in his mansion."
They don't get to celebrate their success — if you can call it that — for long. Police sirens pierce the night air, the sound bouncing off the canyon walls. Kerry yells at V to take the wheel, much to Johnny's visible relief, and they sprint back to the car. As V guns the engine, Kerry's still laughing like a maniac in the passenger seat as behind them, the van continues to burn, a beacon of destruction in the quiet desert night.
After a few minutes of cat-and-mouse with the NCPD through the narrow streets of Rancho Coronado — during which Kerry regales V with tales of how he and Johnny once escaped the cops while high out of their minds back in 2020 — V finally manages to lose their pursuers in the maze-like alleys. Johnny, from the backseat, adds colorful commentary to Kerry's story, though of course, only V can hear his version of events.
Kerry directs V to Carnitas Street, and soon enough, she's pulling into the cracked parking lot of a Capitan Caliente. The restaurant's seen better days — probably back when Samurai was still together. The neon sign flickers weakly, casting alternating shadows across the worn facade, and the windows are covered in a thin layer of grime that even the night can't hide.
V kills the engine, eyebrow raised in obvious skepticism. "Kerry Eurodyne eats at a dump like this?"
"Chombatta..." His face splits into that signature rockstar grin, "Best coffee in town right here. Thick as tar, and if they know you, they give you the 'ganic stuff. C'mon. My treat."
"Wow, coffee with a rock star?" She teases, stepping out into the warm night air. The smell of grease and cheap coffee wafts from the restaurant, mixing with the ever-present scent of pollution. "Eh, why not. First time for everything."
"Eh, you drink coffee with me every morning, if you haven't noticed!" Johnny materializes beside her, leaning against the car with his arms crossed. "Though I gotta admit, this place... it brings back memories."
The bell above the door chimes weakly as they enter, the sound almost lost under the hum of ancient ceiling fans. Kerry settles onto one of the stools by the window, his eyes take on that distant look people get when visiting places from their past. "When Samurai started out, we spent every enny we had on guitars, strings, y'know..." He waits for V to join him before continuing, his voice softening with nostalgia. "Ehh, had almost nothin' left for food, but we still went across the street every day, right to Caliente. Stuffed our faces, downed joe by the gallon."
Kerry chuckles, running his chrome-tipped fingers along the scratched counter. "Johnny said we were so hungry and high we woulda eaten the cardboard boxes from under the bums outside. 'Course he was wrong — we had standards. Barely."
A waitress approaches, taking their order. When she returns with their double espressos in bright orange plastic cups, the kind you'd find at any cheap diner across Night City. Kerry's expression shifts, the nostalgia replaced by something darker. "Just thought about those Us Cracks cunts again," he mutters, staring into his coffee like it might hold answers. "You think we got 'em?"
V takes a thoughtful sip from her cup — the coffee's decent, nothing special, but there's something authentic about it. No fancy synthetic flavors, just pure caffeine. She can see why this place would appeal to a young, broke band trying to make it big. She weighs her words carefully, glancing at Johnny, who's now perched on the counter beside them, his spectral form casting no reflection in the windows. He responds with a perplexed shrug, unusually quiet.
"They really got to you, didn't they?" she finally asks, gentle but direct.
Kerry frowns, and after a moment's hesitation, his optics flare bright blue as he transfers a video to V. "Look at this. Unlistenable," he spits, disgust evident in every syllable. "That trash is their biggest hit." V watches the clip for a few moments — sure, she's heard it on the radio before. It's not her style, but it's hardly the crime against humanity Kerry's making it out to be.
"Not exaggerating, Ker?" She asks, watching as he practically crushes the orange cup between his fingers. "The girls just wanna have fun, sing your song to millions of adoring fans. You stand to gain here too."
"No, no, no, no no." He shakes his head dramatically, his implants catching the fluorescent light. "You know how Us Cracks got started? Bunch of MSM suits decided the world needed this dookie and served it up sprinkled with millions of eddies. World ate it up like it always does. And I gotta be part of that?"
"Somethin' tells me this isn't about Art-with-a-capital-A. Not about eds either." V leans forward, her voice dropping lower. The diner's nearly empty, but in Night City, walls always have ears. "You're afraid, Kerry."
V watches several emotions flash across Kerry's face before he turns away, staring obstinately through the grimy window. The neon lights from outside paint shifting patterns across his chrome as he sits in silence, then sighs heavily and takes another sip of coffee to steady himself. Finally, his voice barely above a whisper, "Ehh, if I'm afraid of anything, it's that Johnny might've been right."
"What's Johnny got to do with any of this?" She asks, exchanging another glance with the rockerboy who's now perched on the counter behind Kerry, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
"Well..." Kerry's fingers trace the rim of his cup, avoiding V's gaze. "Johnny accused me of leaving Samurai for money." The confession hangs heavy in the air. "And fame."
"But that's not true." V prompts, trying to keep the question out of her voice.
"No, no, it's true, won't lie." Behind him, Johnny's face twists into something complicated, for once not looking pleased about being proven right. Kerry continues, his voice rough. "But he also said I'd be putting myself on a corp leash."
"And that's not something you'll admit to." She finishes for him, watching as he seems to shrink into himself.
"The Us Cracks thing..." Kerry turns away again, unable to meet her eyes, or perhaps unable to face the ghost of Johnny he sees in them. "What if I'm a product just like those dolls? Drownin' in dirty money, 'stead of swimmin' in it..."
But the difference between the Johnny he knew and V is that she didn't need a post-mortem wake-up call to understand that sometimes, twisting the knife isn't the way to open someone's eyes. Sometimes, a kind word, encouragement, a gentle push in the right direction can do more than all the angry speeches in the world.
"Look, not like we know each other that well, but trust me — you got a rocker's soul..." She pauses, adding with a smile, "... and a rocker's balls."
That manages to crack Kerry's dark mood, pulling a small chuckle from him. "Heh, thanks..."
"This city doesn't forgive, it eats people alive." V continues, her voice soft but firm. "But you — well, you survived."
"Never thought about it that way." Kerry says after a moment of reflection, his chrome catching the fluorescent lights as he straightens up slightly. "You may be right, doll." He stands from his stool, empty orange cup abandoned on the scratched counter, and V can see he's still turning her words over in his mind. "Better be goin'. Thanks for, uh... you know."
"Don't mention it." She waves him off, watching as Kerry makes his way to the door, his expensive clothes and flashy chrome a stark contrast to the worn-down diner. The bell chimes weakly as he exits, and through the grimy window, V watches him climb into his car, the engine roaring to life moments later.
V leaves a tip on the counter and steps out into the night air. The street is relatively quiet at this hour, just the distant thrum of Night City's eternal pulse and the occasional screech of tires. She starts walking toward where she left her bike, Johnny materializing beside her. "You handled that well," he says after a moment, falling into step with her. "Better than I ever did, that's for fuckin' sure."
V glances at him, noting the unusual thoughtfulness in his expression. "Yeah? No offense, but you don't strike me as the 'gentle encouragement' type."
"Fuck no," Johnny laughs, but it's a bitter sound. "I was more the 'punch you in the face with the truth until you get it' kinda guy. Look how well that worked out." He pulls out a digital cigarette, the gesture so ingrained he probably doesn't even realize he's doing it. "Kerry... he always needed someone to believe in him. I just called him out on his shit instead."
"You were young," V offers, stepping around a passed-out drunk sprawled in their path. "And angry."
"Still am. Well, angry at least." He takes a long drag of his cigarette. "But watchin' you with him... maybe I could've done things differently. Maybe if I'd just..."
"Hey," V stops walking, turning to face him. "No use dwelling on maybes. You're here now, aren't ya? And Kerry's finally starting to figure his shit out."
Johnny studies her for a long moment, then reaches out to brush a strand of hair from her face. "Yeah, thanks to you, not me. You're good at this shit, V. Helpin’ people see what they need to see without beatin’ them over the head with it."
"Someone's gotta balance out your aggressive approach," she teases, starting to walk again.
"Just... thanks. For helping him. Ker's always been..." He trails off, searching for words. "He's complicated. Got his head so far up his own ass sometimes he can't see straight. But he's got a good heart. Always did."
"I know," V says softly. They're approaching her bike now, its sleek form waiting in the darkness. Johnny smirks, but his eyes are soft as he watches her swing a leg over the bike. She revs the engine, feeling it rumble to life beneath her, and Johnny settles behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist. The bike roars into the night, leaving behind the old diner and its memories, carrying them back into the heart of the city that never sleeps.
Back at the apartment, Johnny watches V drop her jacket and kick off her boots, his chest tight with feelings he's trying hard to suppress. Her presence is both a comfort and a torture — every moment with her precious and painful, knowing their time is running out.
"Still brooding about Kerry?" Her voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. She sits on the bed, and fuck, the way the city lights paint shadows on her face makes his heart ache.
"Yeah." He turns from the window, fingers running through his hair in frustration. "Seein' him tonight, how he's still..." His voice cracks slightly. "Fifty fuckin’ years later, and he's still tearin' himself apart over the shit I said. Fuck me." The words pour out now, raw and honest. "Was tryin' to wake people up, y'know? Show 'em how fucked everything was. But instead, I just... I broke ‘em. Everyone who actually gave enough of a shit about me to stick around. And for what? To prove I was right?"
His laugh is bitter, hollow. "Some revolutionary I was. Couldn't even find a better way to help the people I..." He trails off, choking on words he can't say.
"Get your ass over here." Her soft invitation nearly breaks him. When he settles beside her, and she pulls him down to rest his head in her lap, the gentleness of it makes his chest hurt. Her fingers thread through his hair, and he has to close his eyes against the surge of emotion.
"At least I ain't completely fucked things up with you. Yet." The words come out rough, desperate.
"Oh, you've tried your best," she tugs his hair playfully, and the sound he makes is half laugh, half suppressed need. "But I'm still here, ain't I?"
He turns to look up at her, and the sight steals his breath. She's everything — everything he wants, everything he needs, everything he can't let himself have. "Yeah. You are." His hand moves without permission, brushing her cheek, thumb tracing her lower lip. "Don't deserve you for shit, V."
"Prolly not," she smiles, leaning into his touch, and fuck, it would be so easy to just pull her down and kiss her, to finally let go. "But you're stuck with me anyway."
The tension between them is electric, suffocating. He sits up slowly, their faces inches apart, and for a moment — one dangerous, beautiful moment — he almost gives in. Instead, he pulls her into a crushing embrace, burying his face in her neck, breathing her in like she's air and he's drowning. The words he can't say burn in his throat — 'I love you, I need you, I'm so fucking scared of losing you.'
"Thanks," he manages instead, voice rough against her skin. "For... fuck, y’know..."
"Yeah." Her fingers return to his hair, and she whispers, "I know, you big softy."
They lie down together, and he pulls her close, arm tight around her waist, trying to memorize every detail — the way she fits against him, the rhythm of her breathing, the scent of her hair. Sleep takes its time coming, and he's grateful for every second of awareness, even as his heart shatters knowing their time is slipping away like sand through his fingers.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
V's much-needed sleep is brutally interrupted when Mr. Hands calls around 4 AM with an urgent job. Still half-asleep, she drags herself out of bed and gets ready in a hurry, her movements sluggish as she jumps into her clothes. The cool night air hits her face as she steps outside, helping to chase away some of the exhaustion clouding her mind.
The first part of the job seems straightforward enough — retrieve an access card from the client's apartment. The journalist, Brie, lives in Heywood, just a few minutes away by bike. When V arrives at the location, however, something immediately feels off. The apartment is a stark contrast to what she'd expect from an independent media worker — the place screams luxury, from the designer furniture to the expensive art pieces adorning the walls. Every detail speaks of wealth that shouldn't be within a journalist's reach. Even Johnny's spectral presence radiates suspicion as they take in the sophisticated décor, but V's exhaustion overrides her usual caution. She retrieves the access card from the designated hiding spot and heads for the exit, eager to move on to the next phase of the job.
Her departure is interrupted by an unexpected encounter — a man claiming to be Brie's concerned neighbor, supposedly investigating noise in the apartment. The timing and explanation are suspicious enough to pierce through V's fatigue-induced haze. Who the hell checks on their neighbor at 4 AM? She brushes past him with a harsh dismissal, her patience already wearing dangerously thin.
The first light of dawn paints Night City's skyline in shades of purple and orange as V makes her way to Dogtown. She passes through security with surprising ease — after Hansen caught her and Reed at his party, she'd half-expected to be banned from the district entirely. Either the colonel is underestimating her, or he's playing some longer, more complex game. Whatever his reasons, his oversight works in her favor.
Her mood deteriorates further when she realizes the meeting point lies in the same tunnels she'd traversed with Myers during their desperate escape. The dark, cramped space brings back memories she'd rather forget, each step through the dank passages feeling like walking through a graveyard of recent traumas. The musty air and echoing drips of water only add to the oppressive atmosphere.
The situation takes an even worse turn when she finally meets Brie, who greets her with a gun pointed directly at her head. V's already thin patience evaporates instantly. She snaps at the journalist, pointing out the obvious tremor in her hands and her clear inexperience with firearms. The confrontation defuses, but V's irritation only continues to mount as they proceed into an underground structure, with Brie dodging questions and making it painfully clear that V's only there as a human shield against potential security systems.
"Startin' to think we should've let her try her luck alone," Johnny comments, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed. "Got a feeling this gig's gonna bite us in the ass."
V can only grunt in agreement, following their sketchy client deeper into the darkness. As they venture deeper into the facility's depths, she can't shake the feeling that this job is about to become far more complicated than the simple escort mission it appeared to be.
The situation deteriorates rapidly when they discover the security systems are still operational despite years of abandonment. The complex transforms into a deadly labyrinth of laser mines and automated turrets, their red targeting beams cutting through the dusty air. As V suspected, Brie proves worse than useless in a crisis, her earlier bravado crumbling as she presses herself against the wall, trembling at the first whir of activating defenses.
With practiced precision, V takes control of the situation. A sharp gesture pins Brie to her spot, and in the same fluid motion, V activates her Sandevistan. The world crawls to a near standstill, colors bleeding into blue-tinted hues as her enhanced reflexes kick in. She calculates her trajectory with machine-like precision, body moving in a graceful arc over a laser detection beam. The turrets begin their painfully slow rotation toward her position, but she's already diving through the doorway of an adjacent office, time snapping back to normal as she rolls to safety behind a desk.
From this vantage point, V accesses a terminal, her fingers dancing across the keyboard as she systematically dismantles each lethal trap. The security network falls piece by piece under her expertise, until the deadly corridor becomes nothing more than an empty hallway filled with disabled equipment.
After ensuring the path is clear, she calls Brie over. The journalist's earlier fear evaporates, replaced by an eagerness that sets V's teeth on edge. Instead of rushing forward as Brie clearly wants to, V takes her time examining the remaining data on various terminals. What she discovers sends ice through her veins — they're standing in Militech's 'Cynosure Site D', and the fragments of undeleted emails paint a disturbing picture of corporate experimentation that triggers every warning instinct she's developed.
The mainframe room, when they reach it, is mercifully free of active security measures. Brie immediately takes to the central terminal, her fingers flying across the keyboard. When she finds her target files, her expression triumphant as she gestures V over.
The footage dates back a decade, featuring the same Militech employee in various recordings. V's unease grows with each video as she watches him discuss increasingly ambitious plans to breach the Blackwall and harness rogue AIs. The familiar territory makes her skin crawl, too many parallels to her own situation setting off alarm bells in her mind.
As V urges Brie to grab what she needs so they can delta, the heavy door behind them swings open with an ominous creak. They spin to find Brie's fake neighbor, now introducing himself as Dante, Militech special agent. His revelations hit like precision strikes — Brie's hidden corporate past, her betrayal that led to her colleagues' deaths, the promise of more bloodshed if these files see the light of day.
Brie's desperate pleas for V to intervene, to kill him, fall on deaf ears. V's fury has crystallized into something cold and hard, her arms crossed as she stands motionless. A lying woman serving her own interests, a corporate agent spilling uncomfortable truths — the parallels to her own situation are too perfect to ignore. She doesn't flinch as Dante's bullet finds its mark between Brie's eyes, the journalist's body crumpling to the floor with a dull thud.
After the execution, Dante produces a datashard containing damning evidence of Brie's dealings with Netwatch — proof of her plans to sell the lab data and disappear with the money. When V questions him about Militech's intentions regarding the research, his evasive response about future possibilities reeks of the same willful ignorance she's been fighting against.
The decision crystallizes in her mind as Dante turns to download the data himself. The gunshot echoes through the room as she puts a bullet in the back of his head, watching his body fall beside Brie's with cold satisfaction. Johnny materializes beside her, muttering "Jesus, V..." as she kneels to retrieve the lab data from Dante's still-warm corpse.
Johnny watches V, his spectral form flickering in the harsh fluorescent light. The metallic smell of blood hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the musty underground atmosphere. "What's the plan with the data?" His voice is carefully neutral, but V knows him well enough to hear the underlying tension.
"Gonna give it to Hands," she mutters, the shard already secure in her pocket. "Job went to shit when I let the client catch a bullet. Least the fixer won't end up empty-handed after this clusterfuck."
"Right, 'cause Hands is gonna use that intel for charity?" Johnny's tone drips with sarcasm as he leans against a terminal, crossing his arms. "He's probably gonna sell it to the highest bidder. Might even end up back with Militech—"
"The fuck you want from me?!" V explodes, rounding on him. Her voice bounces off the concrete walls, raw anger making it shake. "Should've let that lying cunt screw me over? Let Militech sweep their shit under the rug so they can keep pokin’ at the Blackwall? What was I supposed to do, huh? WHAT?!"
She's breathing hard, hands clenched into fists, expecting more criticism, maybe another lecture about becoming trigger-happy. Instead, Johnny closes the distance between them in two long strides, pulling her into a tight embrace. The gesture catches her completely off guard. Some of her rage deflates as she instinctively leans into his warmth, her forehead pressing against his chest.
"You even see what happened here?" His voice rumbles through his chest, unusually gentle. One hand slides up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. "Lying bitch usin’ you for her own gain, special agent turnin’ a blind eye to his employer's bullshit... Ring any bells?"
V stiffens in his arms as the realization hits, her breath catching. "Fuck."
"Yeah." His hold tightens slightly. "So Mi, Reed... you projected that whole mess onto these two gonks. And don't get me wrong — they probably deserved what they got. But the way you handled it..." He pulls back slightly, metal hand lifting her chin to make her meet his eyes. Even through his aviators, she can feel the intensity of his gaze. "That cold fury? That judge, jury, and executioner shit? That wasn't ya, V. That was pure Silverhand. And it scares the shit outta me."
"Johnny—"
"Been watchin’ you get harder, colder..." His flesh hand cups her cheek, thumb brushing her skin. "Takin’ life-and-death decisions like they're nothing. Makin’ calls that..." He pauses, struggling with the words. "Calls that I would've made. And yeah, maybe I'm being a hypocrite here, but fuck if I wanna see you become what I was. You're better than that. Better than me."
V closes her eyes, leaning into his touch. Her voice comes out smaller than she intends. "What if I'm not? What if this is just... who I am now? Who I gotta be to survive in this city?"
"Bullshit." His metal hand tightens on her waist, the cool chrome a stark contrast to his warm flesh hand on her face. "You're still you. Still got that heart that makes you help every stray cat and gonk that crosses your path. Still see good where I only see shit to burn down. Just... maybe ease up on the executin’ people part? Leave some of that rage for the boxing ring?"
A weak laugh escapes her, slightly watery. "Since when are you the voice of reason?"
"Fuck if I know. Prolly your fault — makin’ me all soft and shit." He presses a kiss to her forehead, lingering there. His next words are murmured against her skin. "Just... think about it, okay? Don't let this city turn you into something you're not. Don't let it make you into me."
V nods against his chest, letting out a shaky breath. Her hands fist in his tank top, holding on like he's an anchor in a storm. "We should delta. Before someone comes looking for these two."
"Yeah." Johnny keeps an arm around her as they head for the exit. "Y'know what you need? Couple drinks at the Afterlife, maybe punch Ker’ in the face — always worked for me."
"Johnny, it's seven in the morning," V snorts, already feeling lighter. "And I'm not gonna punch Kerry — you're just tryin’ to start shit again."
"Can't blame a guy for trying." He grins, pulling her closer as they navigate through the dim corridors. "Rain check on both, then?"
"You're impossible." But she's smiling now, leaning into his warmth as they make their way up the stairs.
The morning sun hits them as they emerge from the underground facility, making V squint. The weight of the shard in V's pocket feels a little less heavy now, Johnny's presence keeping her anchored to who she really is, even as the city tries its best to change her.
The call to Mr. Hands goes surprisingly smooth — the fixer couldn't care less about Brie's death the moment V mentions 'Militech docs, top secret shit'. He simply asks her to drop the shard at the nearest dead-drop, which she does immediately, relieved to get rid of the damned thing. One less reminder of this morning's bloodbath.
Needing to clear her head, she drives back to Night City, the morning sun painting the megabuildings in shades of gold and chrome. She stops at the first Tom's Diner she finds, a run-down establishment that's seen better days but still serves the greasiest breakfast in town. The familiar smell of cheap coffee, burnt toast, and questionable synth-bacon fills her nostrils as she slides into a worn-out booth, the vinyl seat crackling under her weight.
While sipping her second cup of coffee — black, bitter, and strong enough to wake the dead — she's finally starting to feel somewhat human again. The diner's quiet buzz of early morning customers and clinking dishes provides a comforting background noise as she pulls out her holo. She starts scrolling through the net, looking for something — anything — to keep her mind off the bunker's events. Another fixer gig is out of the question right now, but sitting idle with her thoughts isn't an option either.
Browsing through the Bartmoss Collective's site, a post catches her eye — someone's looking for intel on a certain Swedenborg-Riviera's real identity, offering good money for the information. What really grabs her attention is the signature — Bes Isis, Nancy's journalist handle.
"Could be a fun way to spend the day," V looks up at Johnny, sprawled on the vinyl seat across from her, his boots propped up on the table in a way that would definitely earn him a scolding if he were visible to anyone else. "No corpo drama or spy bullshit. Whaddaya think?"
"Could work." He shrugs, his chrome arm catching the fluorescent light as he adjusts his aviators. "You sure it's smart getting involved with Nance though? Still remember how she was eyein’ you all suspicious-like after the concert... Woman's always been too sharp for her own good."
"We can at least risk giving her a call, see what's what." She downs the last of her coffee, setting the chipped mug on the sticky table. A tired-looking waitress immediately appears to refill it, as if summoned by some ancient diner magic. "Besides, whatever she suspects, doubt she'd guess you're actually living in my head. And even if she did... would that be so bad? You already told Rogue and Kerry, why not ‘er?"
"Shit, I dunno..." He sighs, chrome fingers drumming an irregular rhythm on the table. "Told Rogue 'cause I thought she could help us, and Ker', well... you know. More people know, more complicated shit gets. And I..." he hesitates, his voice dropping lower, almost lost in the diner's ambient noise. "Don't need another person to say goodbye to."
"Fuck, Johnny..." V bites her lip, her chest tightening at the thought. The coffee suddenly tastes like ash in her mouth.
The rockerboy clearly wants to avoid dwelling on the end they both know is coming closer each day, so he deflects. "Y'know what? You're right, let's do this. But if there's one thing I know about Nancy, it's that there's no point callin’ her this early. She's a night owl, prolly still sleepin’ right now."
"Okay, okay." She smiles, grateful for the escape he's offering from that particular conversation. "I'll give her a call later then."
V signals for the check, leaving a generous tip for the waitress. As they step out into the morning air, the city's usual chaos greets them — traffic noise, advertisement jingles, the distant wail of NCPD sirens. Just another day in Night City.
V spends the rest of her morning boosting cars for El Capitán — it's good to hear from him and learn he's doing better since Daniels' death, slowly getting back to business. She manages to deliver three vehicles to various garages across the city, the familiar work keeping her hands busy and her mind off darker thoughts. The afternoon sun is high in the sky when she finally decides it's late enough to give Nancy a call.
The woman sounds both surprised and pleased to hear from V, though when the merc mentions Swedenborg-Riviera, she tries to manage expectations. The post is old, she explains, and nobody's found anything worthwhile yet. Still, when V insists she wants to try her luck, Nancy points her toward a possible lead in Santo Domingo, her journalist's curiosity clearly piqued.
The destination turns out to be a dead-end alley squeezed between two brick residential buildings, the kind of forgotten corner Night City has in spades. Johnny materializes, making himself comfortable on top of an abandoned van's rusted carcass. "Why this obsession with Swedenfuck? Hoping once you find him he'll spill the meaning of life? Here, I'll save you the trouble — life makes no sense."
"Grumpy, aren't ya?" She laughs, her Kiroshi optics highlighting a nearby fuse box, its cables snaking up the building's wall like mechanical vines. Following the trail, she starts climbing the metal fire escape that clings to the facade, the old structure creaking under her weight. At the top, she discovers a pirate router and connects through her personal link.
Seconds later, her patience is rewarded with a message from a masked number, rambling about 'postcapitalism' and 'bourgeois-corporate blinders'. More coordinates. At least she's on the right track. V turns to the rockerboy with a victorious smile, "Sig's a match with what Nancy was trackin'... And goes further, out to the Badlands. Like a server proxy."
"Guess that's where we're headed then." Johnny follows her down the stairs, his boots clanging against the metal steps. "Still don't understand why people give a shit about this guy. All he does is rub out sayings like a randy teenager, and the whole world's guzzling it up. 'The three branches of government is a lobotomy on the people's autonomy.' I mean, what the fuck?"
"Jealous he's the one all the anarchists and fist-pumpers are quoting nowadays?" She can't help but tease him as she swings her leg over her bike, the engine rumbling to life beneath her.
"Fuck no." He wraps his arms around her waist as they weave through traffic, heading toward the desert sprawl. "Y'know, before my raid on Arasaka tower, I wrote a manifesto. Was blinded by rage and high as fuck, but even that crap made more sense than what this Swede-fuck's spewin’."
The city gradually gives way to dust and endless horizons as they ride, leaving behind the neon jungle for the sun-bleached wasteland. V can feel Johnny's solid presence against her back, his chrome arm glinting in the sun. Whatever they might find out there in the Badlands, at least the hunt is keeping both their minds off darker thoughts — and for now, that's all she can ask for.
After a few minutes of riding through the dusty Badlands, the hot wind whipping at V's face, they come across a lonely RV in the middle of nowhere. The vehicle's been there so long it's practically become part of the landscape, its once-white paint now a sandy beige, windows clouded with years of dust storms. Following cables half-buried in the sand like mechanical serpents, V climbs onto its sun-bleached roof, the metal groaning under her weight.
Another router. Of course. As she connects and receives yet another set of coordinates leading deeper into the Badlands, Johnny's mood suddenly lifts. "Ha! I've got a feeling someone's messing with you, V." He chuckles, getting into the game, his aviators reflecting the harsh desert sun. "You'll follow this breadcrumb trail, and when you connect the dots all you'll see is a dick."
"I'm sure you'd love that, wouldn't you?" She grins back, enjoying how his earlier grumpiness has melted away like morning dew under the desert sun.
"Fuckin' A, I would." They climb down from the RV, rust flaking off under their hands. He adds with theatrical flair, spreading his arms wide, "That cock would be the first thing Swedenbord did that'd actually make any sense. 'Cept he'd probably give it some pretentious name. Like 'Patriarchal phallus upholding toxic masculinity'. Whaddaya think?"
"Think it's time we move on." She laughs, the sound carrying across the empty landscape. The bike roars to life beneath her as they head toward the vast expanse of Biotechnica's protein farms. The massive metal structures rise from the desert like ancient industrial monuments, their shadows stretching long across the sand.
The signal leads them to one of the tallest towers, and V's heart sinks as she eyes the rickety ladder she'll have to climb. "Fuck me," she mutters, already feeling the burn in her muscles. The desert wind picks up as she makes her way up, hot air and sand sticking to her sweat-dampened skin. Each rung feels less stable than the last, the whole structure swaying slightly in the wind.
Johnny, the bastard, simply appears at the top, leaning over the railing with that insufferable smirk of his. "Need a hand, princess?"
"Fuck... you..." She pants between words, finally pulling herself onto the platform. She flips him off, which only makes his grin wider. The view up here, though — that almost makes it worth it. The desert stretches endlessly in one direction, while Night City rises like a chrome and concrete mountain range in the other.
"Look," Johnny says, his voice softer now as he leans against the railing beside her. "Get far enough from the smell — even Night City can be beautiful."
They stand there for a moment, shoulders touching, enjoying the desert's quiet. From up here, the city almost looks peaceful, its chaos hidden behind gleaming glass and steel. V's breathing gradually steadies, though her heart keeps its rapid pace for reasons that have nothing to do with the climb.
When they finally track down the signal source, Johnny smirks. "Lemme guess... another router? My dick theory's starting to seem like a real possibility."
As V connects, she secretly hopes it might actually be that, just to keep seeing him smile like this. Instead, she gets another message about finding 'the nirvana of Marxian-Swedenborgism around the corner', making her groan in frustration.
"Hey, maybe this is all part of Swedenborg's message?" Johnny asks sarcastically, wearing that shit-eating grin she's grown so fond of. He adopts an exaggerated guru pose, closing his eyes and raising his hands. "Life... is movement! Fuck the destination — it's how you get there that counts."
"Sounds like straight up bullshit to me." She rolls her eyes, though truthfully, she's enjoying this wild goose chase. Johnny's running commentary makes even the most tedious task feel like an adventure.
"That's my girl." He grins, bumping her shoulder with his. "So, where's this next lead get us? A yoga class? A Tibetan monastery?"
"No. To..." V checks her map before answering, "to an amusement park. The one in Pacifica." Her heart does a little flip as she remembers that roller coaster, Johnny beside her, and how in that moment, suspended between earth and sky, she'd realized she was falling for him. She pushes the thought aside, hoping he hasn't picked up on it through their connection. "Let's go."
"Oh? The plot thickens." He smirks as she starts climbing down the ladder, the afternoon sun casting their shadows long across the metal structure.
As V guides her bike toward Pacifica, weaving through traffic, her peaceful ride is interrupted by Kerry's call, his hologram appearing with a face like thunder. Before she can even greet him, he explodes, "You know what I'm lookin' at? Us Cracks concert announcement." Each word drips with venom. "This is not fucking happening!"
"Wait, what?" The merc asks, though a part of her had expected this. Their little demolition derby had been fun, but hardly a long-term solution. "I thought we took care of it."
"Truck didn't do shit! They just postponed the gig." Kerry's fury makes his image flicker, or maybe that's just the connection in this part of town. "Look, meet me outside the club. Riot. Tonight, 7 PM. Little push didn't work, now we gotta shove."
"Fine, fine." V sighs, already imagining the chaos Kerry might cause if left unchecked. "See ya there."
"Fuck, he's not letting this go, huh?" Johnny's voice is amused against her ear, his solid presence warm against her back as they ride. "And you're gonna help him with his little vendetta."
"Just goin' to make sure he doesn't get into too much trouble." She slows down as they enter West Wind Estate, the abandoned amusement park looming ahead like a rusted skeleton. "You saw his previous plan — if he's thinkin’ about throwing grenades again..."
"Yeah... good thing you're here to take care of 'im." He tightens his grip around her waist, and she can feel his smile against her shoulder. The gesture sends a familiar warmth through her chest, one she's learned to both treasure and fear.
At their destination, they park and start scanning the area, debating the odds of finding yet another router. As they wander, a mechanical voice catches V's attention. "Capital is the blood of the global system of oppression!"
Following the sound, they round a corner to find possibly the last thing either of them expected — a fortuneteller bot, its glass case covered in graffiti and stickers, spouting anticapitalist philosophy like a marxist Magic 8-Ball. V and Johnny exchange stunned looks before she manages, "Wait... what the hell is this?"
"What it looks like — Swedenborg-Riviera!" Johnny's laughter starts slow, then builds until it echoes off the abandoned rides around them. It's a real laugh, not his usual sardonic chuckle, and it transforms his whole face. "Ha! Come one, come all for the prophet of Night City! Ha!"
He spreads his arms wide, practically dancing around the machine, looking younger and lighter than V's ever seen him. "Ohh... that's too good! A wind-up philosopher in a box! Hand me a couple eddies — see what he cranks out next!"
His joy is so pure, so infectious, that V finds herself laughing too, even as her heart swells watching him. These moments of genuine happiness are so rare for Johnny, each one feels like a gift she wants to preserve forever. "How's this even possible?" She asks, still grinning.
"Not a fucking clue. But Jesus, V... how beautiful is this?" He drapes himself over her shoulders, and she can feel the excitement vibrating through his body. "Half the net's gettin' tweaked on wisdom from a puppet in a glass case — hairs are bein' split, spit is flyin' over interpretations..." His laughter bubbles up again, rich and warm. "Oh, man! Lemme tell you — fifty years of soul prison was worth it for this moment right here."
Fuck. His laugh has become her favorite sound in the world, and she wants to make it last as long as possible. She transfers some eddies to the machine, which immediately launches into another philosophical rant about the proletariat and means of production.
Johnny's laughter grows even louder, and she finds herself memorizing every detail — the way his eyes crinkle behind his aviators, the rare sight of his genuine smile, how his whole body shakes with mirth, the warm weight of him against her back, and for a moment, the decaying amusement park feels magical.
The absurdity of their chase across the city leading to this — a philosophical fortune-telling machine in an abandoned park — seems perfectly fitting for them. And maybe, V thinks, watching Johnny wipe tears of laughter from his eyes, this is exactly where they were meant to end up. Sometimes the best destinations are the ones you never expected to find.
She could stay here forever, just watching him be happy, letting his joy wash away the weight of everything else they're facing. In this moment, nothing else matters — not Kerry's drama waiting for them, not the chip slowly killing her, not the uncertainty of their future. Just Johnny's laughter echoing through the empty park, and the warmth of his presence against her skin.
As his laughter gradually subsides, V finds herself mesmerized by the rare sight of Johnny's unguarded happiness. His joy is infectious, lighting up his entire face in a way that makes her heart ache. She wants to freeze this moment, preserve it forever — Johnny Silverhand, terror of corporations, laughing like a delighted kid at a hacked fortune-telling machine.
"Need to take a look. Somebody must've tampered with this thing." She finally says, reluctantly breaking the spell. Jacking into the router, she receives another message that makes her roll her eyes — more trolling about following the breadcrumb trail across Night City.
"Ok, so... If I'm gettin' this right... Someone hacked into this fortuneteller bot," she explains to Johnny, who's now leaning against the machine with casual grace, still wearing that gorgeous smile that makes her stomach do backflips. "Rejigged its algorithm to spew out anti-establishment aphorisms instead of prophecies..."
"And then hooked it up to the net through a system of routers that masks the signal-origin. Pure fuckin' genius!" His eyes sparkle with genuine admiration behind his aviators. After a moment, his voice takes on an almost pleading tone that she rarely hears, "Hey V... Don't turn it off, huh?"
"Eh, don't worry, Johnny. I'm not gonna take away Night City's philosopher of the people." She studies the router thoughtfully, then grins. "Hold on, I've got a better idea." Her fingers dance over the device, implementing a few choice modifications. The machine immediately starts spouting increasingly nonsensical philosophy, each statement more absurd than the last.
"What the...?" Johnny listens as the automaton rambles about 'Fox cubs gathering data from the cesspit of the financial merry-go-round', and his smile grows impossibly wider. "Ha! What'll all his fans think! Fuck V, you're the best."
The warmth in his voice makes her chest tight. She flashes him a bright smile, then quickly calls Nancy with a white lie about finding nothing new. The reward money means nothing compared to preserving this piece of chaos that brought such joy to Johnny's eyes.
As they walk away from the machine, the afternoon sun warm on their skin, Johnny turns to her with an expression that makes her breath catch. "Good move, V." He looks absolutely beautiful like this, bathed in golden light, happiness radiating from him. He belongs here, she thinks fiercely, belongs in the sun, in beauty, in life itself. The thought of him fading away, becoming nothing but code again, makes her heart constrict painfully. She'll do anything — anything — to keep him alive, to keep him solid and real and smiling like this. The cost to herself doesn't matter anymore.
"Who knows..." he continues, oblivious to her intense thoughts, "Hundred, two hundred years from now, when we're all radioactive dust, Swedenborg'll still be preaching on the Net..."
"To Swedenborg-Riviera! Long may he live!" She exclaims, laughing and holding onto his arm, savoring his warmth. "We should swing by the apartment real quick, I wanna shower and get rid of all this sand and sweat before meeting Kerry."
"Right, can't go threatening a Japanese girl band without lookin’ presentable, huh?" He teases, pulling her closer. "Gotta maintain certain standards when you're about to crash a concert."
"Oh, so now you're worried about standards?" She laughs, poking his ribs.
"I contain multitudes, V," he says in an exaggerated philosophical tone, clearly mimicking the fortuneteller. "I am the cesspit of the financial merry-go-round!"
His ridiculous impression sets them both off laughing again as they pull away from the park. Behind them, the bot continues its digital prophecies, a monument to absurdity in a city built on chaos. As they merge into traffic, Johnny starts humming ‘PonPon Shit’ deliberately off-key just to make her laugh, and V thinks that maybe, just maybe, these are the moments worth dying for.
Notes:
Message thread generator HTML/CSS by Luvwich ! Have fun with it here ♥
Lot of bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song: Stabbing Westward - The Only Thing
• Author's rambling: See you in two weeks for the next chapter! It's gonna be one of my favorites, and this time, some real shit's gonna go down haha.
Meanwhile, don't hesitate to tell me what you thought about this chapter, I love getting your feedback :)xoxo, see you next time ♥
Chapter 25: Phantom Liberty
Notes:
• Author's rambling: I apologize in advance, I know absolutely nothing about tarot reading, so I kinda had to wing it for the reading in this chapter T-T I just picked what seemed most logical to me, but I wanted to warn you in case any of you actually knows this stuff and realizes I fucked it up haha.
Hope you'll enjoy this chapter, there's gonna be some important talks ^^• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the the subs and bookmarks on the previous chapters ♥ And thank you Loraphine and ZedThePoet for your comments. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tonight
I think the time is right
I think the blood has dried
It cries for more
So what are we waiting for?
After a well-deserved shower to wash away the sand and sweat clinging to her skin from their router hunt in the Badlands, V stands in her underwear before her open closet, contemplating her outfit choices. She figures this is as good an opportunity as any to leave her merc gear behind — party clothes would be more suitable for infiltrating the club anyway.
Her fingers trail over the hangers before settling on a bright green fishnet top that catches the light just right, pairing it with a black denim short adorned with decorative belts that jingle slightly with each movement. The outfit screams 'club-goer' rather than 'mercenary', which is exactly what she needs tonight. V spins around to face Johnny, who's sprawled lazily across her bed, one arm behind his head, while waiting for her to get ready. "So, how do I look?"
"Like trouble," Johnny smirks, his eyes trailing appreciatively over her figure. "The kind that gets VIP access without tryin’."
"Shut up, rockerboy," V chuckles, then snaps her fingers as an idea hits her. "Speaking of VIP access..."
She rummages through her stash box until she finds what she's looking for — an employee badge she'd klepted from the Riot during her last visit, when she was tailing Lizzy Wizzy's former manager. The same manager who'd ended up very dead. The badge might still work for the club's back entrance.
"Look what I found," she waves the badge at Johnny, its holographic surface catching the apartment light. "Our ticket in."
"Damn, V," Johnny grins, getting up from the bed. "Sometimes I forget how good you are at this shit."
"Only sometimes?" She tucks the badge into her pocket. "You're losing your edge, old man."
With one last check in the mirror, V heads out of her apartment, ready for whatever chaos Kerry has planned for the night. The setting sun paints the city in shades of neon and shadow, promising another evening of beautiful mayhem.
The busy streets of Little China blur past as V weaves through traffic on her Arch, the engine's purr mixing with the constant buzz of Night City. Kerry's chosen meeting spot isn't hard to find — a run-down street food stand directly facing the Riot's main entrance, where the noodle vendor pretends not to recognize the poorly disguised rockerboy sitting at his counter.
V has to physically stop herself from laughing out loud at Kerry's attempt at incognito. He's wearing what looks like the most expensive ‘casual’ outfit she's ever seen — an oversized designer jacket that probably costs more than her apartment, a baseball cap and sunglasses that do absolutely nothing to hide his distinctive throat cyberware or the lower half of his face. It's like watching a peacock trying to pass as a pigeon.
"Bout time," Kerry grumbles when she slides onto the stool beside him, his fingers drumming impatiently against the counter. The smell of whatever he's been pretending to eat for the past fifteen minutes wafts towards her — some kind of ramen that's probably gone cold. "C'mon. Time to lay it out for those little idiots. Their fifteen minutes is up."
V feels a headache forming behind her eyes as she asks, dreading the answer, "So, what's the plan?"
"Simple." Kerry shrugs with all the nonchalance of someone suggesting a trip to the grocery store rather than what's probably going to be tomorrow's biggest entertainment scandal. "We get in the club, find the little slut's dressing room, do our thing — delta."
"Jesus fuckin' Christ. Even by my standards, and you know how goddamn low they are — that ain't a plan." Johnny materializes behind V, leaning against the food stand with his arms crossed. "Make sure he doesn't zero those Japanese dolls. Or at least, keep him from ending up in the slammer for doing something gonk like a selfie with their corpses."
V can't help but agree with Johnny's assessment. She sighs deeply and stands up from her stool, the metal creaking in protest, motioning for Kerry to follow. This isn't merc work — this is babysitting an almost 90-year-old man who's acting like a kid hopped up on enough Chromanticore to kill a horse, riding the mother of all sugar rushes. The worst part? She's pretty sure Johnny would be exactly the same if their situations were reversed.
"Alright, Ker," she says, already feeling exhausted and the night hasn't even started. "Let's go."
They cross the neon-lit street, weaving through the evening crowd while Kerry hunches further into his designer jacket, pulling his cap lower as they pass the impressive line of fans. The queue stretches along the club's outer wall, full of young people decked out in Us Cracks merchandise. Their excitement is contagious — some laugh and take selfies, others pass the time by enthusiastically singing the group's hits, their voices carrying through Night City's humid evening air. The scene makes Kerry's scowl deepen with each step.
In the grimy back alley, littered with discarded flyers and empty MaxDoc inhalers, V retrieves the stolen employee card from her shorts pocket. She presses it against the reader, holding her breath. For once, luck seems to be on their side — the light turns green with a satisfying beep, and the heavy security door clicks open. The service elevator, smelling of cheap cleaning products and stale cigarettes, takes them straight to the upper floor, depositing them backstage.
The hallway is a maze of cables and equipment cases, walls plastered with Us Cracks promotional material. With each poster they pass, V watches Kerry grow more tense, his hands clenched into fists. He stops dead in his tracks before one particularly large display featuring the three women in their Kiroshi-sponsored campaign — their signature optics giving them that unique, almost doll-like appearance that's become their trademark. The look of disgust on his face could curdle milk.
"C'mon," V tugs at his sleeve, pulling him from what's probably a mental tirade about the commercialization of rock. "Let's find that dressing room before someone realizes we ain't supposed to be here."
They pause outside a door where female voices drift through the air, mixing English and Japanese in animated conversation — must be the right place. Kerry doesn't waste a second, barging in with V right on his heels, ready to intervene if shit hits the fan. The dressing room is an explosion of colors and chaos — makeup scattered across counters, elaborate costumes hanging from racks, and the sweet-artificial scent of whatever expensive perfume the group uses hanging heavy in the air.
The three women, each wearing distinctively colored bodysuits that hug every curve, are facing their mirrors, absorbed in their pre-show makeup routine. Their reflections show perfectly sculpted faces — probably the work of Japan's most expensive ripperdocs. They jump when Kerry announces his presence with a sharp, "Now, we're gonna chat!"
Red Menace — the one in crimson with alien-like optics — spins around, hands on hips, challenging, "Who the fuck are you?"
Kerry, rage practically radiating off him like heat from an overclocked cyberdeck, throws his pathetic disguise to the floor. "The fuckin' guy you robbed!"
"Kerry Eurodyne?" The blue-haired one squeals, and suddenly all three look like they've just won the lottery. "Kerry-san?!"
"I ain't your san!" He snarls, whipping out a pistol and aiming it at the singers. Their excitement evaporates, replaced by shock. Blue Moon steps back, perfectly manicured hands covering her mouth, Purple Force raises hers in a placating gesture, while Red Menace positions herself protectively in front of the others as Kerry continues his tirade, "This ain't a meet 'n' greet, either!"
Fuck, V can see this spiraling out of control. She steps in, keeping her voice steady, trying to defuse the situation before Kerry does something they'll all regret, "Hear 'im out. This's all a misunderstanding — clear it up, and we're gone."
"But Kerry-san, what happened?" Purple Force asks, confused. "We had a deal, didn't we?"
Seeing Kerry waving his iron around way too enthusiastically, finger too close to the trigger for comfort, V intervenes, "Wait, wait, wait. What's this about a deal?"
"We signed a deal with MSM to play Kerry-san's 'User Friendly'," Blue Moon explains, still visibly shaken. The fear in her voice is genuine — probably never had a gun pointed at her before.
Purple Force adds, voice trembling slightly, "It's, like, our new single for the North American leg of the tour."
"Over. My. Dead. Body." Kerry roars, gesturing dramatically.
"But we're going to bring your rock into a new era!" She continues bravely, her perfectly sculpted features showing genuine enthusiasm despite the situation. "Isn't that what you wa—"
"Rock?! You?!" He interrupts, screaming so loud the mirror vibrates. V's amazed security hasn't stormed in yet — though in Night City, people probably ignore screaming as background noise. "OK. Lemme tell ya something. It's been claimed before, but you actually did it. ROCK IS DEAD. And you killed it. Congratu-fuckin'-lations."
"Your manager contacted ours," Red tries to reason with him, maintaining impressive composure for someone staring down the barrel of a gun. "Said you wanted to work with us."
The revelation hits Kerry like a slap in the face. He finally lowers his gun, turning to V with a look of complete bewilderment, his face cycling through confusion, realization, and pure rage in seconds. "Kovachek?! Th-the fuck?! H-he never even asked me! The fucking corpo cuntbag!"
"Listen, Kerry-san. That cover is an expression of our love for you." Blue Moon interjects sweetly, forming a heart with her fingers. "Please, let's work something out."
Johnny, who's been unusually quiet until now, materializes next to V with a snort. "Rock might be dead, but Kerry’s blind if he can’t see these girls got potential."
V, seeing that Kerry has calmed down enough to think rationally about the situation — or at least stopped waving his iron around like a gonk — decides it's time to put an end to this clusterfuck. "Looks like the label fucked you all. You're their pawns. They're playin' you."
"Fuck..." Kerry sighs, the realization of his overreaction hitting him. His chrome-laced hand runs through his silver hair, messing it up. He turns back to Us Cracks, his tone shifting from murderous to almost apologetic, "Y'know, got nothin' against you. The sich, that's what's fucked."
Johnny materializes just to roll his eyes dramatically, leaning against the makeup counter. "Well, you chained your gonk ass to the corpos, what'd ya expect? Fuckin( sunshine and rainbows? They've been pullin' this shit since before these kids were born."
The three women, visibly relaxing now that Kerry's iron is safely tucked away, huddle together like exotic birds in their bright bodysuits. They assure him they'll have a serious chat with the label — their voices a strange harmony of natural and modulated tones. As a show of solidarity, they'll cancel tonight's show and suspend the tour. They're surprisingly understanding about the whole gun-waving incident, which seems to make Kerry even more embarrassed about his earlier behavior. He's clearly ready to delta the fuck out before he can dig himself any deeper into this particular hole.
As V and Kerry turn to leave, Red Menace calls out, her modulated voice bouncing off the mirror-covered walls, "Wait, Kerry-san — can we get a pic with you? Just... as a souvenir?" She doesn't wait for an answer, practically dragging him into their midst with the confidence of someone who's never heard the word 'no'. The three women instantly strike poses that would make fashion photographers weep, muscle memory from countless magazine covers.
"Erm, pff, why the hell not." Kerry sighs, but there's a hint of that famous rockerboy smile playing at his lips as he crosses his arms over his chest, striking his signature 'too cool to care' pose that's graced a thousand album covers. "V, do the honors?"
"Hang on, let's get a selfie." V responds, relieved this isn't ending with badges and body bags. She props her holo on a nearby shelf between bottles of designer perfume and makeup. Might as well add to her collection of celebrity photos that started at Hansen’s party. She joins the group, posing too because fuck it, when in Rome — or in this case, when with J-pop stars who just had guns pointed at them.
The flash goes off, making everyone's chrome sparkle like diamonds. "All right, think we got it." She retrieves her holo, checks the pic — actually not bad. It's almost comical how natural they all look together, like this wasn't nearly a crime scene moments ago. She gives them a thumbs up, and the girls immediately crowd around to see the result, cooing in appreciation.
The Us Cracks shower Kerry with thanks, their enthusiasm apparently genuine despite everything. Kerry falls into easy conversation about music with them, probably trying to make up for the whole 'threatening their lives' thing — and clearly enjoying how this new generation of stars looks at him with starry-eyed admiration. V catches bits of conversation about chord progressions and voice modulation techniques, watching as Kerry gestures animatedly, all traces of his earlier rage gone.
He turns to V with a grin that reminds her way too much of Johnny's shit-eating smile when he's about to do something stupid, "Gonna stick around some, V. I mean... look at 'em, the girls need help. Thanks."
"Mh." She barely restrains from rolling her eyes — the girlsband clearly doesn't need help, their perfectly choreographed movements and professional demeanor suggesting they've got their shit more together than Kerry ever has. But if it soothes his bruised ego... "Have fun."
As she walks out, Johnny materializes beside her, unusually quiet. His expression is troubled as he watches Kerry through the closing door. Without a word, V pulls out a cigarette, lighting it. She feels him relax slightly through their connection as the nicotine hits.
"The fuck was that shit?" he finally mutters, manifesting his own smoke. "Kerry pullin’ a gun like some two-bit thug? That ain't him."
V takes a long drag, letting the smoke curl in the dimly-lit alley. "Dunno, thought you'd be all over that. Better than lettin’ corps fuck him over while he hides behind his fancy lawyers, right?"
"Should be. But..." Johnny runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Fuck, V. That ain't Kerry in there. My Kerry wouldn't... shit."
"Your Kerry?" V raises an eyebrow, catching the slip.
"Oh, fuck off." He flips her the bird, but there's no real heat in it. "You know what I mean. Kid used to come cryin’ to me over every little thing. Bad review? Johnny'll handle it. Label being dicks? Johnny'll fix it. Shitty boyfriend? Johnny'll kick his ass. Paparazzi harassing him? Johnny'll make 'em eat their fuckin’ cameras. Needed someone to hold his hand through every crisis, big or small."
V leans against the wall, studying him. "You miss being his knight in shinin' chrome, dontcha?"
"Fuck you," he growls, but after a moment adds more quietly, "Maybe. Little bit. Kerry... he was different from the others, y'know? Rogue was a fuckin’ kickass queen. Denny? Girl wouldn't take shit from anyone. And Nancy..." He lets out a dark chuckle. "When her husband started beating her, she threw the fucker out their window. 83rd floor. But Kerry? He needed me. Really fucking needed me."
"And now he doesn't."
"Yeah." Johnny's voice is rough. "Now he's handling his own shit. And it's good, it is, but..." He trails off, taking an angry drag. "Feels like the date with Rogue all over again," He continues, his voice bitter as he flicks ash off his virtual cigarette. "That night you let me borrow your body to take her to that drive-in, thought I could..." He lets out a harsh laugh. "Fuck if I know what I thought. But seein’ her like that? Realizing I didn't know jack shit about who she'd become? Fifty years is a long fuckin’ time to catch up on, V."
V takes another drag, watching the smoke dance in the neon glow of a nearby BD parlor's sign. The alley smells like piss and cheap synthetic noodles, but it's quiet. Private.
"At least with Rogue I expected changes. But Kerry? Still looks kinda the same, still acts like a dramatic little bitch sometimes. Makes you think nothing's changed. Then he pulls somethin’ like tonight and..." Johnny's hand clenches into a fist, chrome fingers glinting. "Reminds me I'm just a fuckin’ ghost. A memory that shoulda stayed buried in Mikoshi's servers."
"That's grade-A bullshit and you know it," V snaps. "You're not just some engram who..."
"No? What am I then? Can't even help ‘im anymore. Can't do shit except watch through your eyes while everyone I knew moves the fuck on without me."
"Hey." V cups his face, forcing him to look at her. "You mattered to them. Still do. And you matter to me. Fuck, Johnny, you really think I'd still be breathin’ without you?"
"V—"
"Shut your gonk mouth and listen for once." Her voice cracks slightly, but she doesn't care. "You're in my head every fuckin’ day. You were there when I woke up screamin’ 'cause I saw Jackie dying again and again. You're there to tell me I'm being a fuckin’ dumbass when I need to hear it. You're there when everything goes to absolute shit and I just need..." She takes a shaky breath, fingers tightening on his tank top. "Need someone who gets it. Who gets all the fucked up mess in my head. Who gets me."
Johnny stays quiet, his dark eyes fixed on hers. Through their link, she can feel his turmoil, his doubt, his need to believe her.
"So yeah, maybe Kerry doesn't need you like he used to. Maybe Rogue moved on. But I need you, you stupid fuck. Need you so much it scares the shit outta me sometimes."
"V..." Johnny's voice is rough as he brings his hand up to cover hers on his face. "Don't—"
"Don't what? Tell you the truth?" She lets out a broken laugh. "And yeah, I know it's fucked up, bein’ stuck like this. Watching everyone move on while you're..." She swallows hard. "But you're not just watching from the sidelines. You're here. With me. Makin’ me stronger, makin’ me better. Makin’ me feel like maybe I'm not so alone in this fuckin’ mess of a life."
Through their link, Johnny can feel everything she's not saying. The fear. The loneliness. The way his presence keeps her anchored when everything else feels like it's falling apart.
"Shit, princess," he mutters, pulling her into a tight embrace. She buries her face in his chest, breathing in the familiar smell of cigarettes and leather. "Ain't going anywhere. Not as long as you need me."
They stay like that for a moment, holding each other in the filthy alley. A group of Tyger Claws passes by the entrance, but neither of them moves. Right now, the rest of Night City can go fuck itself.
"So," Johnny finally says, pulling back slightly to look at her. "What's the plan now, sweetheart?"
V wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, managing a small smile. "Actually... we're pretty close to Vik's clinic. Been meaning to stop by, maybe see Misty too. Haven't seen them since before all that Dogtown clusterfuck."
"Your ripper and the mystic?" Johnny's lips quirk up in that familiar half-smirk. "Yeah, they're prolly shittin' themselves wondering where the hell you've been. Misty's probably burned through her entire incense stock tryin' to check if you're still breathing."
"Fuck off," V punches his arm lightly. "They're family, you know? Need to tell them about... well, everything. The whole FIA mess, Dogtown, that absolute shitshow with Myers..." She runs a hand through her hair, sighing. "Fuck, feels like we've lived through ten lifetimes since I last saw them."
"Nova idea. Maybe Vik can check if your chrome's still workin’ right. Last thing we need is you passing out in the middle of a gig 'cause you let some Dogtown back-alley ripper mess with your tech."
V starts walking, feeling lighter somehow. "Aww, you worried about me, old man?"
"Just don't want you flatlined on my watch." He grins, that cocky smile she knows too well. "Bad for my reputation."
"What reputation?" V chuckles, dodging a puddle of something that's definitely not water. "Being a pain in my ass?"
"Being the best thing that ever happened to you, and you know it." He catches up with her, chrome hand finding hers. "And if Misty tries to force that witch poison she calls tea on you again, I'm out."
"It's not that bad—"
"Tastes like boiled piss mixed with whatever weird herbs she found growin' between concrete slabs. Hard pass." He shudders dramatically. "Rather chug motor oil."
V laughs, the sound echoing off the brick walls. "You're such a dramatic bitch sometimes."
"You'd be bored without me," he winks at her, tugging her closer to avoid a group of drunk men stumbling past. "C'mon, let's go see your folks. But I swear to god, V, if Misty starts talking about my 'aura' again..."
"What, scared she'll tell me all your deep dark secrets?" V can't help but tease, enjoying the way he rolls his eyes.
"I'm just sayin', those cards of hers are scary accurate sometimes," Johnny grumbles, his fingers tightening around V's. "Now move your ass before Vik closes shop. And if you tell anyone I admitted Misty's cards might be legit, I'm takin’ control and driving us straight into the bay."
"No you won't," V grins, squeezing his hand. "You love me too much."
Johnny doesn't deny it, just pulls her along through the neon-painted streets of Night City, their joined shadows dancing on the grimy walls.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
The esoteric shop's familiar scent of incense and herbs wraps around them like a comforting blanket. Crystals catch the purple soft light filtering through the window, casting ethereal patterns on the worn counter where Misty carefully arranges her cards.
After politely declining the offered tea — earning a wave of relief from Johnny — V watches as Misty's delicate hands move across the deck with practiced grace. The cards whisper against each other, a sound barely audible over the distant hum of Night City's eternal chaos.
"First card — The Hanged Man." Misty's voice carries its usual gentless as she reveals the first card. Her fingers trace the image with reverence. "This represents your current state, V. You're suspended between worlds, waiting... but also gaining new perspectives. Your understanding of life and death has shifted dramatically."
V keeps her expression neutral, though her heart skips a beat. Behind her, Johnny's presence flickers with something she can't quite name — anxiety? Fear? His chrome hand brushes against her shoulder, so briefly she might have imagined it.
"The Moon," Misty continues, her eyes fixed on the second card. Shadows dance across its surface, making the imagery seem alive. "Deception surrounds you — someone isn't being completely honest." She pauses, studying V's face. "But more significantly, it reveals your inner conflicts, the fears you haven't confronted about your choices."
Through their link, V feels Johnny's consciousness curl tighter around hers, protective and possessive. His thoughts are carefully guarded, but she catches fragments of emotion — concern, determination, unease.
"The Tower." The card seems to gleam ominously under the shop's ethereal lighting. "A revelation approaches, V. A truth that will shatter illusions. It will force you to make a choice — one that will change everything." Misty's voice softens. "But remember, sometimes we need destruction to find freedom."
V's fingers play with Johnny's tags absently, the metal warm against her skin. The air feels thick with unspoken words and half-formed plans.
"And finally..." Misty reveals the last card with a grace that makes the movement seem almost ritualistic. "Death. But don't fear this card, V. This isn't just about physical death. It represents transformation, acceptance." Her knowing green eyes study V's face. "You've already made your choice, haven't you? In your heart?"
The question hangs in the incense-laden air. V keeps her expression carefully neutral, though her chest tightens with the weight of secrets. Through their link, Johnny's emotions swirl like smoke — complex, dark, intense.
"The cards show a path of sacrifice," Misty concludes, her voice gentle but carrying an undercurrent of something deeper. "But not a tragic one. It's a choice made with love, with full awareness. They're showing someone who's found something worth more than life itself."
Silence fills the shop, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the soft crackle of burning incense. The cards lie spread on the table like a map to a future neither V nor Johnny want to acknowledge.
"Thanks, Misty," V finally says, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions churning inside her. She rises from the chair, feeling Johnny's presence follow her movement like a shadow. "Think I'll go say hi to Vik, maybe get my chrome checked while I'm at it."
"Good idea." The young woman offers her a gentle smile, her eyes kind beneath her pale bangs. "I'll come with you — was about to close shop for the night anyway when you came in."
V waits as Misty moves through her closing routine, watching her friend extinguish the incense and carefully lock the front door. The neon sign flickers off with a soft buzz. Then, the two women exit through the back door, stepping into the familiar alley where the smell of rain-wet concrete mingles with the ever-present scent of the city.
They descend the worn steps leading to the ripperdoc's clinic, their footsteps echoing in the narrow passage. The underground space welcomes them with its familiar mix of antiseptic and metal, the harsh fluorescent lights a stark contrast to Misty's mystical domain above.
As usual, Vik is absorbed in old boxing matches, the ancient footage casting shifting shadows across his workspace. His weathered face lights up when he spots them, immediately gesturing for V to take a seat in the operating chair for a routine checkup. The leather creaks under her weight as she settles in, the familiar smell of chrome and medical equipment filling her lungs.
He grumbles about the amount of chrome V's packing, his experienced hands moving over her implants as he questions whether she's experiencing any side effects. His concern is evident in his voice as he suggests she might want to hold off on installing more for now.
When he asks about the Relic's symptoms, V gives him reassuring answers, carefully omitting mention of her increasingly frequent seizures. She doesn't want to worry him more than necessary. Johnny, who has taken up his usual spot leaning against a wall in the corner, only half-listens to their conversation. His mind is still in Misty's shop, caught on the cards she laid out for V.
Fuck, if someone had told him he'd ever give a shit about what some cards had to say... Yet here he is, trying to make sense of Misty's reading. Too many possibilities, too many angles. The person deceiving V could be anyone — Songbird with her mysterious agenda, Reed and his FIA bullshit, Myers and whatever game she was playing. Hell, knowing the politico-corpo crap, probably all of them are lying through their teeth.
The ‘revelation’ part's what's really getting under his skin though. V's already neck-deep in more shit than anyone should have to deal with. Last thing she needs is another fucking bomb dropping on her head. And having to make some heavy choice? Fuck that. She's had enough of those to last ten lifetimes. When whatever this is hits, he'll make damn sure she has all the intel she needs to make the right call. For herself, not for anyone else's agenda.
But it's the last bit that's really fucking with his head. All that stuff about sacrifice and love... Fuck. Worst case? It's about V, about whatever stupid self-sacrificing plan she might be cooking up in that stubborn head of hers. He can't even let himself think about that possibility — makes him feel like he's about to flatline all over again. Best case? It's about his own plans, about what he needs to do when they finally hit Mikoshi. But even that's a problem, because if V starts connecting the dots, starts asking questions... That's a conversation he absolutely cannot have. Not now, not ever. Because he knows her — knows she'd try to stop him, knows she'd fight him every step of the way.
Johnny's pulled from his dark thoughts when V hops off the ripper's chair, her movements fluid despite the exhaustion he can feel through their link. Vik gives her chrome the all clear — and if he's noticed anything about the biochip's deteriorating effects on her health, he's keeping those concerns to himself. When she catches Johnny's eye, he forces a weak smile — one that becomes far more genuine when the doc pulls a whiskey bottle from one of his drawers. Fuck yeah, a drink is exactly what he needs right now, and unlike Misty's weird-ass tea, at least he knows this'll be worth tasting.
He moves closer to V, settling beside her on the worn leather couch as she updates her friends on everything that's happened in the almost three weeks they haven't seen her — fuck, has it really been three weeks? The time's slipped through their fingers like smoke, feeling both like yesterday and a lifetime ago at the same time.
She gives them the cliff notes version of the parade, since Vik had already figured out she was involved in Hanako Arasaka's kidnapping. Her voice stays steady as she describes the chaos, though Johnny notices how her fingers unconsciously brush against his dogtags. Then she moves on to the more exciting shit — how some mysterious netrunner's call led her to Dogtown to save the NUS president's ass, and how she's now knee-deep in FIA business. She mentions the potential cure for the Relic situation, trying to keep her tone casual despite the weight of the subject.
Johnny watches their faces shift from shock to concern, noting how Vik has to pour himself another drink midway through her story. The old ripper's hands are steady as ever, but his expression grows increasingly worried as V continues. She patiently answers their questions, and in an attempt to ease their concern, she shares some of the better moments — the Samurai gig, her welcome party as the newest member of the family of the Aldecaldos clan, getting that ancient rollercoaster in Pacifica running again...
He probably should feel slighted by how carefully she's keeping his name out of the conversation, but he gets it. The ripperdoc ain't exactly his biggest fan, given what the Relic's doing to V. Makes sense she'd skip over how their relationship's evolved, especially in front of the old man. No need to mention the quiet nights, the shared cigarettes, the way they've learned to exist in each other's space like they've been doing it forever.
Once she's done recounting her adventures, V stands, announcing it's time for her to head out. With her life being the shitshow it is right now, she needs to be ready for anything tomorrow might throw at her. Vik makes her promise not to ghost them for so long again, which she readily agrees to. After final goodbyes, she leaves the clinic, Johnny following close behind.
The night air hits them as they emerge from the underground clinic, Night City's eternal neon glow painting the wet pavement in shifting colors. Through their link, Johnny can feel V's exhaustion mixing with relief — telling the story out loud somehow made it all feel more real, more manageable. He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close as they walk. The gesture comes naturally now, like breathing, like existing. And fuck, he will miss that.
After a quick ride through the streets, V parks her Arch in its usual spot outside their apartment building. Once inside, she immediately strips off her gear and changes into her night clothes with a contented sigh.
The fridge, when she checks it, is depressingly empty — a testament to how little time they've spent at home lately. She settles for a sad dinner of stale cookies, joining Johnny on the couch as she flicks the TV on to some random channel, just for background noise.
"That's not food, princess," Johnny drawls from his spot, watching her munch on the cookies with disapproval. "Even kids eat better than that."
"Oh, shut it," V retorts around a mouthful of cookie. "Not like you can talk, Mr. 'I-lived-on-whiskey-and-cigarettes' Silverhand."
"At least those had some kick to them. Those cookies look older than me — and that's sayin' something. Gonna have to start calling you 'cookie monster' instead of 'princess' if you keep this up."
Their playful banter is cut short by her holo vibrating — Reed's message, the one she's been both expecting and dreading, finally arrives.
This time, her sigh is heavier, more resigned. She turns to Johnny with a sad smile playing on her lips. "Well, looks like we're back to business..."
Johnny's arm tightens around her shoulders, pulling her closer against his side. Through their link, she can feel his concern mixing with determination. "We knew this was comin’, V. Whatever that FIA prick's got planned, we'll handle it. Always do."
"Yeah..." She lets her head rest against his shoulder, the stale cookies forgotten in her lap. "Just... getting tired of always bein’ on edge, y'know? Feel like we can't catch a break."
"Hey." His metal hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture surprisingly gentle. "We got this evening, don't we? Just us, your shitty cookies, and whatever garbage is playin’ on the TV. Let's not waste it worrying’ about tomorrow."
V nods, settling more comfortably against him as some late-night commercial drones on in the background. The weight of tomorrow's meeting still hangs over them, but for now, in their quiet corner of the city, they can pretend everything's normal. Just two people sharing a couch, sharing warmth, sharing time that feels increasingly precious.
After about half an hour of mindless channel surfing, V finally drags herself up from the couch and climbs the stairs to the mezzanine, her movements heavy with exhaustion. Johnny follows, settling beside her on the bed as she burrows under the covers. The city lights filtering through the window paint patterns on the ceiling, giving them something to look at while they talk.
"Hey," V turns on her side to face him, voice soft in the dim light. "You doing better? (Bout Kerry, I mean?"
Johnny shifts, getting comfortable beside her. "Yeah, actually. Still feels weird, but... guess it's good Ker finally grew some balls." He snorts softly. "Took him fifty fuckin' years, but better late than never, right?"
"Look at you, all mature and shit," V teases, poking his side.
"Fuck off," he grumbles, but there's no heat in it. "Just... what you said earlier helped, y'know? About how 'im standing on his own two feet doesn't make what we had back then mean any less." He pauses, considering his words. "And Kerry still gives a shit. Different way, but he does. Guess that's what matters." He shifts, his attention turning to V's restless energy that he can feel through their link. "So... tomorrow. Got any idea what our dear feds are cookin’ up?"
"Fuck if I know," V sighs, staring at the ceiling. "But I've got this... feeling. Like we're about to step into something nasty."
"Your merc spider-sense tinglin’?" Johnny smirks, but there's concern underneath his sarcasm.
"Something like that.” V lets out a long breath. “Like, yeah, he prolly decoded the scans of the twins and wanna talk about it, but..." She trails off, chewing her lip.
"But knowing our luck, that gonk's got more planned than just show and tell," Johnny finishes for her.
"Ha. Yeah." She rubs her face tiredly. "We both know where this is heading — that whole 'twins impersonation' plan to get to Hansen. It's gonna happen, has to if we want So Mi back. Just... fuck, Johnny. Really hope he's not dropping that bomb tomorrow. Need more time to prep, get my head straight before walking into that particular death trap."
"Death trap's a bit dramatic, dontcha think?" He pauses, considering. "Though knowin’ Reed's timing, wouldn't be surprised if that's exactly what the fucker's planning."
"Nova. Just what I needed to hear before bed," V groans, but there's a hint of amusement in her voice despite the anxiety gnawing at her gut.
"Hey," Johnny's voice softens as he pulls her closer, his arm wrapping securely around her waist. "We'll handle it."
V nestles into his warmth, letting out a small sound of contentment as she finds her usual spot against his chest. Through their link, his presence wraps around her like a protective blanket, steady and reassuring. "Yeah, I know. Just... stay close tomorrow?"
"As if you could get rid of me," he murmurs into her hair, his metal hand tracing soothing patterns on her back. "Now stop thinkin’ so loud and get some sleep, princess."
The gentle hum of Night City drifts through the window as they settle into comfortable silence. V's breathing gradually evens out, her worried thoughts giving way to drowsiness as Johnny's familiar warmth and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull her to sleep. The last thing she feels before drifting off is the soft press of his lips against her temple, and the quiet whisper of their shared consciousness merging into peaceful dreams.
The next morning, V's gut feeling hasn't subsided. As she gets ready to leave her apartment, anxiety gnaws at her insides like a persistent parasite. The entire ride to Dogtown, straddling her bike through the bustling streets, she can't shake the nagging sensation that something significant is about to go down. What exactly? She has no fucking clue, and that's what's making her skin crawl.
She parks near the building where she'd holed up with Myers — a sight that triggers a mental note about contacting Typhoon Ronnie about those renovations. The maze of Longshore Stacks looms before her, shipping containers stacked like some giant child's building blocks, their metal surfaces reflecting the harsh midday sun. The air smells of salt and rust, with undertones of that unique Dogtown stench.
The Moth is practically dead at this hour, with only a handful of day drinkers nursing their sorrows at scattered tables. The bartending robot she'd spotted in the kitchen last time has replaced Alex behind the counter, its chrome arms methodically wiping glasses. None of the few patrons even glance her way as she slips behind the acrylic bead curtain leading to the elevator.
After the usual security scan confirms her identity, she descends to the boiler room. The elevator doors slide open with a soft hiss, but V pauses, catching snippets of heated conversation between Reed and Alex. Well, heated might be stretching it — but Alex is clearly voicing her concerns about whatever plan they're cooking up, while Reed maintains his typical ‘no choice’ stance.
V deliberately makes her presence known, her boots striking the metal floor with purpose. Reed's head turns sharply, his features smoothing over with practiced ease. "Ah, V, you're here. It's about time, too. We're nearly done finalizing the plan."
The makeshift living area feels tense as V settles onto the empty couch, Johnny appearing beside her with his legs stretched out. The air is thick with unspoken concerns and the lingering scent of pizza. "Op not sittin' well with ya, Alex?" V asks directly, watching the other woman's face carefully.
"Reminds me of a few other sitches we handled," Alex explains, taking a long swig from her NiCola. "One in particular sticks out. Before NC, we worked an op in Colombia. Medellín — Song's first mission."
"Not now, Alex." Reed interrupts, clearly uncomfortable with this particular can of worms being opened. "We have enough to do without diggin' up ancient history."
"What happened in Medellín?" V presses, feeling Johnny lean forward beside her, equally intrigued. "What was the op there?"
Reed sighs, relenting. "We had our sights trained on a guy who sat in the Colombian president's back pocket, sold 'im smuggled corptech." He summarizes, rubbing his temple. "We used stolen identities on that mission, too. Things didn't go exactly as planned, but that's... a long story."
"Think we can spare sixty seconds. Hell, might even learn somethin' about So Mi that'll prove useful." V gestures toward the open pizza box on Alex's table. "Plus, I'm fuckin' starving, so..."
Alex throws her a wink and slides the pizza over. V digs in — much to Johnny's visible relief, finally, some real fucking food — while Reed recounts the tale. The story unfolds — Alex had impersonated the identity of someone in their target's inner circle, but Songbird, while preparing the mission brief, had overlooked what seemed like an insignificant detail. That oversight had blown Alex's cover, resulting in her capture — a situation she was lucky to survive.
"Shit," Johnny whistles low beside her. "No wonder Alex is sketched about whatever they're planning now."
V can't help but agree, taking another bite of pizza while studying Reed's carefully neutral expression. Whatever they're about to propose, it's going to be interesting — and probably dangerous as hell.
When Reed wraps up his story, V's polished off two slices of pizza. Noticing she's not reaching for thirds, he switches back to business mode, straightening his shoulders. "Ok, back to Night City, folks," he announces, rising from his seat with renewed purpose. "With our sights trained on a new target."
They migrate to the makeshift ops corner of the room, where screens and data terminals create a stark contrast to the industrial surroundings. Reed's posture changes, becoming more focused, more intense. "We've parsed the intel from the shard So Mi gave us. It's a solid foundation for the mission we gonna run. Surveillance, recon, data gatherin', plannin' — it's all done. It's high time we... righted some of the wrongs of the past."
"Fuck off, give it a rest, will ya?" Alex cuts in, rolling her eyes with the exasperation of someone who's heard this speech before. V can't help but grin — yeah, she definitely likes this woman's no-bullshit attitude. "Nothin' here's your fault. Woman's an adult, made her own decisions. Consequences caught up to 'er."
"No, she was manipulated." Reed's fingers tighten on the chair back, knuckles whitening. "There was no one around who could've had her back." He turns to V, gesturing to a shard on the table. "Here, V. Mission details on this."
Not wanting to wade into another blame game — though in V's opinion, Myers is the prime fuck-up in this whole shitshow — she takes a seat in the worn office chair and tries to reassure him, "Stop worryin', Reed. We'll get 'er out, save 'er."
"I know." His response comes quick, though the tension remains visible in his shoulders. "And not just her — latter goes for you, too."
V nods and slots the shard, letting the data flow. The briefing unfolds in her mind, overlaying her vision with useful intel. What follows is a detailed briefing from both agents, confirming what she already knows while adding crucial intel about the neural matrix. Its specifications float before her eyes — strings of code and technical specifications that could be her and Songbird’s salvation. When Alex mentions it was part of Project Cynosure, a joint NUS-Militech operation to counter Arasaka's Soulkiller, V's blood runs cold. Shit. The bunker where she'd left Brie and Dante's bodies... that was part of this project too. She remembers the journalist's footage mentioning other research sites...
"You're drifting, V," Johnny materializes beside her, his presence grounding. His chrome hand rests on her shoulder. "Stay with us. Those ghosts can wait."
Pushing aside the intrusive memories, V signals Reed to continue with the detailed plan. Hansen, it turns out, hired the twin netrunners solely for their access codes to the project protocols. The irony isn't lost on V — the colonel thinks he's just after classified Militech-NUS research data, completely oblivious to the neural matrix hidden within those files like a diamond in plain sight.
The first phase of their operation is to take the twins out of the equation. They drive a rental while in NC — their weak point. The plan is to track their ride and hijack it en route to their meeting with Hansen at the stadium. V's role begins even earlier — she'll need to breach the rental firm's tracking system, laying the groundwork for the interception. So far, the plan seems solid enough.
For the Hansen meet itself, V and Alex will impersonate the twins. While Alex maintains their cover with Hansen, V will make her way to the lab where So Mi awaits. The timing has to be perfect — once V and Songbird secure their objective, Alex gets the green light to eliminate Hansen and his security detail, using the element of surprise to their advantage.
"Sounds like flatlinin' Hansen's set in stone..." V can't help but comment, a frown creasing her forehead. Johnny materializes beside her, arms crossed and expression grim.
"Order came directly from Myers. Confirmed at this stage..." Reed's voice is firm, but there's something in his stance — a slight tension in his shoulders, a barely noticeable shift in his weight — that sets V's instincts on edge. "He took a potentially lethal swipe at the President of the NUS."
That's not exactly what's bothering V, so she pushes further, "And... Songbird?"
"We have to rescue her." His response comes after a beat too long, and warning bells in V's head rings even louder. "Myers told you as much herself."
Yeah, right. The only problem is, V trusts the president about as much as she'd trust a gang of Raffen Shiv with her eddies. She leans forward, eyes narrowing. "How much've you told Myers? What's she know?"
There it is — that flicker of unease in Reed's eyes, quick as lightning but unmistakable. Despite it, he maintains his composure, "That So Mi's fallen into the hands of the man who organized the downing of Space Force One. That's all for now. All clear? If you have any questions, now's the time to ask."
V doesn't buy his previous statement for a second, but she knows pushing him now won't yield more info. She rises from her chair, metal scraping against metal. "Things couldn't be clearer. Let's get to work."
Alex stands too, motioning for V to follow her for a more detailed briefing on the kidnapping part of their plan. The distant rumble of The Moth's music system bleeds through the ceiling, a muffled baseline matching V's heartbeat. Once they're safely beyond Reed's earshot, V studies Alex's face. The other woman's expression is thoughtful, almost distant, like she's seeing beyond the present moment. "Myers doe'n't know the detes of this op, does she? Never will, is that right?"
"It's not wrong." Alex admits with a casual shrug that doesn't quite mask her concern.
"And... You know Reed better'n I do. Way he thinks." V continues, voicing the question that's been nagging at her since Reed's hesitation. "What's his true aim here? Savin' So Mi or carryin' out a mission?"
"Sol imagines he's responsible for her — always has." A weary sigh escapes Alex. "Thinks he's responsible for all of us. Hell, even for you, I bet. 'S how he keeps his grip on reality, life. With mixed results, mind you."
V hums thoughtfully, the sound mixing with the ambient machinery noise. "And So Mi?"
"Same story as always. Dares, lands neck-deep in shit, somehow crawls out. Rinse and repeat." Alex rolls her eyes again, wearing the expression of someone who's watched this particular movie too many times.
Deciding to move on to more pressing matters, V shifts the conversation to logistics, "Interceptin' the 'runners — how do we do that?"
Alex launches into the details — V needs to breach the rental service system through one of their tracking terminals around the city. There's one near the church in Pacifica, shouldn't be too hard to access. Though in this city, 'simple' usually means 'waiting to go wrong’.
Then she hands V a device, explaining it'll unlock the doors and give her full control of the car from the trunk. "Fuck me," V mutters, while Johnny lets out a string of colorful curses beside her. First — what the fuck, really, the trunk ? She's really supposed to climb in there? And second — the tech itself, identical to the piece of crap Kirk handed her for that failed Rayfield heist. Sure, that particular clusterfuck led her to Jackie, but the memory of how spectacularly wrong it went doesn't exactly inspire confidence.
When V voices her concerns, Alex's reassurance comes quick and practiced. The fed tech is solid, she insists, leagues above the street-grade garbage V's used to. She and Reed will be monitoring everything, ready to intervene if things go sideways.
V sighs heavily, the weight of the device in her hand feeling heavier than it should. Not like she has much choice, right? She tells Alex she'll get started, turning toward the exit with measured steps. Johnny's presence follows like a shadow of concern, his unease matching her own. That morning's unease has evolved into full-blown dread, whispering that this is just the beginning of something much worse.
The sun over Dogtown hits V like a slap to the face as she emerges from The Moth's basement, her eyes struggling to adjust after nearly two hours in the basement's artificial gloom. She's about to ask Johnny what he thinks about Reed's sketchy behavior when Songbird's incoming call icon flashes in her peripheral vision. Talk about timing.
"V, heads up — I can't talk long, but two things, quickly." So Mi's voice cuts through any potential greeting, urgent and focused. "First — good news. I managed to upgrade your Relic's firmware. You'll see what I mean in a minute. Don't worry — completely painless."
Multiple information windows cascade across V's visual interface, their neon blue glow overlaying the sun-bleached concrete around her. The chip connects to her cyberware one by one — first the Sandevistan, then the Microrotors, each receiving significant performance boosts. Her Kiroshi optics light up last, downloading a sophisticated combat analysis program that promises to evaluate enemy patterns and highlight structural weaknesses in real-time. Fuck, that's some preem stuff.
"Damn, thanks, Song." V breathes, genuinely impressed by the upgrades scrolling across her vision. "How'd you manage it? No easy feat, I guess, tweakin' tech that advanced."
So Mi's soft hum carries an edge of bitterness. "Let's say I've had extra time on my hands, more than I expected..."
"Don't worry. We're gettin' you outta here." V's promise cuts through the resignation in Songbird's voice. "'First — good news', you said... So, there's a second thing?"
"Right, it's... super important. Stay between us, it's gotta. Proof of my trust." The gravity in Songbird's voice makes V's spine straighten. "I'm sending you coordinates. Come after dark, we should be able to talk freely." Navigation data flashes across V's HUD, marking a location in the heart of Dogtown. "Okay, need to delta. But see you soon."
"Another fuckin' secret meeting with our favorite damsel in distress..." Johnny materializes beside V once the call ends, his form shimmering in the harsh sunlight. There's something off about his usual swagger — a tension in his shoulders that betrays real concern.
"You look like someone pissed in your tequila," V notes, fishing out her cigarettes. The familiar motion helps ground her as she starts navigating between the towering shipping containers that make up Dogtown's maze-like streets.
"It's gettin' worse every time she pulls this shit," Johnny falls into step beside her, his boots making no sound on the cracked pavement. "When she hijacks the Relic like that... Used to be I could at least catch glimpses, y'know? Like watchin' through static on those old TVs. But now?" He makes a frustrated gesture. "It's just... fuckin' nothing. Complete darkness. Can barely hear your voice, like you're underwater or some shit. Feels too much like..."
"Like being trapped again?" V finishes softly, the cigarette hanging forgotten between her fingers.
"Yeah." His form flickers, betraying his unease. "Like being back in that fuckin’ void, except this time I know you're out there, probably walking into who knows what kinda mess, and I can't do jack shit about it."
"Fuck, Johnny, why didn't you say somethin’ sooner?"
"And what? Make you worry more?" He scoffs, but there's genuine concern under the bravado. "Besides, probably just some safety protocol she added after that clusterfuck at the stadium. Remember that shit?"
"Like someone was trying to crack my skull open with a rusty crowbar," V winces at the memory. "And had affected you too. But still... hate that she can just shut you out like that. Feels wrong."
"Mhh." His voice drops lower, almost a growl. "What if something goes sideways? Can't even fuckin’ see what's happening to you. Just... trapped in the dark, hoping you're still breathin’ when I come back online."
"Shit... that sucks." She offers him an apologetic smile. "If it helps, this'll probably be Song's last chat with me. Soon we'll get her away from Hansen, and this whole mess'll be over. Back to good old-fashioned merc work."
"If you say so..." He grumbles as they reach V's motorcycle. As she swings her leg over the seat, he adds, "Just gettin' real tired of all this cloak and dagger bullshit. Gimme a straight firefight any day."
"Trust me, I know the feeling." V sighs, the familiar weight of Johnny settling behind her as she kick-starts the engine. The bike roars to life, echoing off the container walls as they tear through Pacifica's broken streets toward the church.
V parks her Arch near the Batty Hotel, the engine's purr echoing off graffiti-covered walls before dying into silence. She scans the area with practiced caution, her Kiroshi optics highlighting every movement in the shadows. This part of Pacifica holds bad memories — that complete clusterfuck with Placide and Maman Brigitte still leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. The last thing she needs is some vengeful surviving Voodoo Boy deciding today's the perfect day for payback.
"Place still gives me the creeps," Johnny materializes beside her, lighting up a virtual cigarette as he surveys the abandoned streets. "At least we won't have to deal with any netrunner bullshit this time."
Fortunately, the area seems unusually quiet — no sideways glances, no hostile stares, just the occasional local hurrying past with downcast eyes. With a relieved sigh, V dismounts her bike and heads toward the church, her boots crunching on broken concrete. The building looms ahead, its weathered facade a testament to better days, back when people still believed in something other than survival.
The worn steps creak under her weight as she climbs them, activating her scanner once she reaches the top. The antenna Alex mentioned stands out against the afternoon sky, a skeletal finger pointing accusingly at the clouds. The scaffolding protests as she makes her way up, rusty metal swaying slightly in the hot breeze that carries the scent of salt and decay from the nearby coast.
V connects her personal link to the control box at the antenna's base, watching as streams of data flash across her vision in neon rivers. However, just as the progress bar completes its journey, an alert flashes red — encryption key incomplete.
"Great. Just great." She grumbles, before opening a line to Alex. The moment the woman picks up, V explains the situation — one station isn't gonna cut it for rebuilding that encryption key. Alex curses as her fingers fly across her keyboard, searching for another viable relay. There's one in Arroyo, not too far, and moments later fresh coordinates ping in V's HUD. Time to hit the road again.
Truth be told, this setback doesn't really bother V — it's still mid-afternoon, giving her something to do before her nighttime rendezvous with Songbird. She can feel Johnny's lingering anxiety about that meeting radiating through their connection like static electricity. Without a word, she intertwines their fingers as they walk back to her bike. He doesn't speak, but that small smile tugging at his lips — the real one, not his usual smirk — tells her everything she needs to know.
The potholed streets of Santo Domingo welcome them with their familiar dysfunction, leading to a modest two-story brick apartment building that's seen better decades. On the roof, V immediately spots an antenna similar to the one in Pacifica, but this one stands dark and lifeless — no power flowing through its circuits. Probably the residents redirecting the juice for their own needs, a common enough practice in this part of town. Well, they'll have to manage without it for a few minutes while she gets what she needs.
She locates the control panel nearby, rerouting power to the antenna. The response is immediate — through one of the windows below, a man's colorful cursing echoes up about his BD cutting out ‘right at the good part’, confirming the power transfer worked. At least this job's providing some entertainment, even if it's at some poor gonk's expense.
As V makes her way back to the antenna, Johnny's amused smirk at the power outage drama suddenly transforms into panic. "Princess, Relic—" He doesn't even finish his warning before a malfunction hits V hard. The familiar symptoms crash through her system — the world spinning violently, edges of her vision bleeding into static, that brutal cough that brings copper-tasting blood to her palm, the usual shit show that's become her daily companion.
But this time, even though the episode only lasts a few moments and isn't nearly her worst, something's different. Something that chills V to her very core. Johnny, just a few steps away, clutches his chest in pain before collapsing heavily into an old armchair abandoned on the rooftop by the building's residents. The synthetic leather is cracked and faded, stuffing spilling out like mechanical entrails, but he sinks into it like it's trying to swallow him whole.
"This..." He forces out through clenched teeth, his voice strained in a way she's never heard before, "This's gotta be what havin' a fuckin' stroke feels like."
The words hit V like a bucket of ice water. Despite the lingering pain coursing through her body, despite her legs feeling like they're made of rubber, she crosses the distance between them in seconds, dropping to a crouch beside him and gripping his knee in panic. Johnny's never affected by Relic malfunctions. Never . The only time she's seen him in this kind of pain was during that first connection with So Mi. Fuck, this can't be good.
"Johnny..." She starts, once the pain subsides enough for speech, her voice rough from coughing.
"Don't know." He grimaces, anticipating her question, his face unusually pale. "Dunno why it hit me too this time. But it ain't nothin’ good, just means..."
"That we've got even less time than we thought, huh?" She finishes, her fingers tightening on his leg until her knuckles turn white.
A heavy silence follows her words — no matter how much they both try to avoid thinking about it, they know it's the brutal truth. There's still so much left unsaid between them, things that never seemed to find the right moment. Words that got stuck in throats, feelings buried under layers of sarcasm and deflection. And now, with the countdown ticking faster than ever, maybe they'll never get the chance to say them at all.
"Johnny..." V tries after a moment, but stops, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. Finally, she settles for a simple, "It's gonna be okay." The words sound hollow even to her own ears.
"Yeah..." He responds without conviction, his chrome fingers settling over hers on his knee, the metal warm against her skin. "Finish the prep work, rescue the netrun' chick, grab the cure, save your life. No more detours, princess." His voice carries a finality that makes her chest ache.
V feels her throat tighten, words becoming impossible, so she just nods. She grabs Johnny's arm, helping him up, then turns away to focus on the antenna, unable to meet his eyes for another second. This time, the connection works perfectly, and after a few moments, the data downloads completely. She forwards it directly to Reed, who responds almost immediately.
V doesn't bother responding, her mind elsewhere as she stares blankly at the messages. The data's done its job, but somehow this small victory feels hollow in light of what just happened. She makes her way to the fire escape, each step feeling heavier than the last. The metal stairs protest under her boots, their rusty complaints matching the ache in her chest. Behind her, Johnny's footsteps make no sound at all, but his presence weighs on her like a physical thing, like gravity's suddenly doubled.
They walk back to her Arch in silence — the heavy, suffocating kind that feels like spun glass, ready to shatter at the slightest wrong move. V's hand trembles slightly as she reaches for the handlebars, the chrome catching the harsh afternoon light. Without a word, Johnny's fingers wrap around hers, steadying them, and the simple gesture nearly breaks something inside her chest.
"We're gonna fix this," he says quietly, his voice carrying none of its usual swagger, stripped bare of all pretense. "Whatever it takes." The words hang between them like a promise neither of them is sure they can keep.
V nods, not trusting her voice, and kicks the bike to life. The engine's familiar roar drowns out the thoughts she's not ready to face, and Johnny's arms around her waist ground her in the present. But as she prepares to pull away, she realizes she has nowhere to go. Her mind feels like static, unable to form a coherent thought through the lingering aftermath of the malfunction and the weight of what just happened.
The unexpected solution to her directionless state comes in the form of a series of messages pinging her optics.
Fucking hell, this woman is a goddamn ray of sunshine, and honestly, the promise of something strong enough to burn away the fear settling in her gut couldn't come at a better time. V finally pulls away from the curb, pointing her Arch toward Dogtown's maze of streets. Behind her, Johnny's grip tightens slightly, and she leans back into his chest, taking whatever comfort she can get. They both know drinking won't solve anything, won't stop time from running out, but right now, it's exactly what they need — a moment to pretend everything isn't falling apart around them.
V makes record time to The Moth, taking the metal stairs two at a time, the rhythmic clanging of her boots echoing in the stairwell. Each step feels like putting distance between herself and what happened on that rooftop, even though Johnny's presence at her back reminds her they can't outrun it forever. When she slides the door open, she's not even surprised to find the place deserted except for Alex, perched at the counter with two glasses and an opened bottle in front of her. The massive jukebox hums in the corner, some upbeat tune playing at low volume, creating a pleasant backdrop that takes the edge off the silence.
"Hey... You made it." Alex's immediate smile is warm and genuine. "Got a headstart. A drink to calm the nerves." She gestures to the bottle between them — the kind of stuff that usually sits behind bulletproof glass at the Afterlife, reserved for those who can afford to forget in style.
"'Preciate the invite. Glad to see ya, Alex." Despite the tension still riding her shoulders from earlier events, V manages to return the smile. "Y'know, for somethin' other than planin' rescue missions and shit."
"Sweet of you to say." Alex responds, bringing her glass to her lips. She takes her time finishing it before refilling both glasses, sliding one toward V as she continues, "I wrote you 'cause... 'cause I needed someone to talk to. Someone outside the 'firm'. And not some total rando. To take my mind off the mission, not worry about bein' someone else for a millisec. Hope that makes sense..."
Fuck, V understands that feeling all too well. "Okay, so, what'd ya wanna talk about?"
"I mean, 's not like I have an agenda typed up." Alex chuckles softly, the sound almost lost in her glass. "I just want... to be a normal fucking person for little bit. Myself, specifically. Just me, just Alex."
The words hit closer to home than V expected. She feels Johnny shift behind her, his presence both comforting and complicated. The thing is, she stopped being 'just V' a long time ago, somewhere between dying and waking up with a dead man in her head. But what started as an invasion, a death sentence, became something else entirely. She's not just V anymore — she's become this hybrid creature, this perfect fusion of merc and rockerboy, of calculation and chaos, of survival instinct and self-destructive impulse. And somewhere along the way, she stopped wanting to be anything else.
"This happen often?" She asks, taking a sip — and damn, the woman wasn't lying about the quality of this booze. "These moments you pine for your old self?"
"Lately? All the time. But I know the old me is long gone." Alex's smile turns wistful as she takes another drink. "I'm a different person now. Somewhere under all these masks."
V doesn't respond immediately, the need to feel alcohol burning down her throat suddenly more pressing. She's a different person too now, but not in the way Alex means. The V who walked into that shitty No-Tell Motel room died there, just as surely as Johnny did in Arasaka Tower. What crawled out of that landfill was something new — someone who sees the world through two sets of memories, who feels music in her bones and needs iy like it's oxygen, who can't imagine being whole without the constant presence of a dead man's consciousness intertwined with her own. She's not wearing a mask — she's evolved into something else entirely, something that's both more and less than what she was before. And the thought of going back, of being 'just V' again... it terrifies her more than dying.
When the silence stretches too long, Alex picks up the conversation again. "Say... you ever think about who you'd be now if, y'know, life'd taken a different turn?"
Today's V wouldn't know how to answer that question — how do you imagine an alternate path when your current one has fundamentally changed who you are? So she lets pre-Konpeki Plaza heist V respond, "I'd probably be runnin' the streets. Heywood, at least, that I know."
"Padre might have somethin' to say about that." Alex's amusement colors her voice as she swirls the remaining alcohol in her glass.
"You know each other?" V raises an eyebrow, surprised to hear the old fixer's name drop from Alex's lips.
"Well... I know him." She gives V a knowing smile. "Kinda doubt he's got a file on me."
Behind V, Johnny leans against the bar, his presence a constant comfort she's grown to rely on. He doesn't speak, but his hand finds its way to the small of her back, and V leans into the touch instinctively. It's these moments that remind her why she can't imagine going back to being just herself — she's become something more complete, more real, in this impossible fusion of souls. Even if it's killing her, even if it ends in tragedy, she wouldn't choose to be anyone else.
"To your health." V grins, raising her almost empty glass toward Alex before downing the remaining liquid in one smooth motion. The expensive whiskey burns pleasantly down her throat, warming her from the inside out. "Ok, now you. Who would you be if not a secret agent and master of disguise?"
Alex's response comes without hesitation, her eyes lighting up with a passion that transforms her entire face, "An actor."
"No hesitation here." V chuckles, watching as Alex leans behind the bar with practiced ease, retrieving another bottle of the premium stuff.
"Always dreamed of seeing my face on a show bill. I love musicals especially." She explains, refilling their glasses with the kind of precision that speaks of years of practice. The amber liquid catches the bar's dim lighting, creating tiny prisms on the counter. "So yeah, guess I'd be a braindance star." There's something wistful in her voice, a glimpse of the dreamer beneath all those carefully constructed layers of spy and survivor.
The conversation flows easier now, the alcohol loosening their tongues and washing away the day's tensions. V finds herself genuinely interested, asking about specific musicals, dream roles, whether Alex has ever performed. The way Alex talks about BDs reminds her of Judy — that same passionate gleam in the eyes, that same ability to get completely lost in the details of something they love. Finally, V feels the tension from earlier starting to dissolve, the memory of Johnny's pain during the Relic malfunction becoming less sharp around the edges, though not completely forgotten.
The merc raises her glass again in a toast, the crystal catching the neon lights. "To our dreams. For they alone keep us sane."
"Ain't that the truth." Alex chuckles, clinking their glasses together before taking another sip. A new song starts playing on the jukebox — something slow and catchy — and Alex's face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. "Oooh, I love this song!"
She hops off her stool with unexpected grace, rushing to turn up the volume on the ancient machine. V nurses her drink, watching as Alex starts to dance — slow, fluid movements in perfect rhythm with the music. It's obvious the woman knows what she's doing, her body moving with the kind of abandon that only comes from true passion or really good booze — probably both in this case. Then she catches V's eye, tilting her head in invitation, a playful smile dancing on her lips.
V joins her, trying to match Alex's natural rhythm. The alcohol makes everything feel softer, more fluid. "Don't do this often, I'm guessin'." Alex says with a knowing smile, executing a slow spin that would make a professional dancer jealous.
"'This', meanin'...?" V asks, doing her best to keep up.
"Doin' shit... just 'cause. No forethought. Carefree relaxin'." She explains, her movements fluid and natural, like she was born to perform.
"Damn right." V laughs, feeling lighter than she has in days. "But fuck, does it feel good."
They continue dancing, and V can't help but notice Johnny perched on a nearby table, one leg swinging in time with the music. He catches her looking and winks, not saying anything for once, just letting her have this moment of normalcy.
But all good things must end, and the song fades out too soon, leaving them slightly breathless and grinning. "We'll see you on BD posters in no time. I know it." V tells Alex, earning another bright smile that reaches all the way to her eyes.
"First — retirement." Alex says, turning down the jukebox volume. The mention of their upcoming mission seems to sober her slightly, reality creeping back in around the edges of their brief escape. After a thoughtful pause, she adds, "See ya soon, V. I'm heading down, but stay as long as you want, make yourself at home."
She waves goodbye, disappearing through the kitchen door with the same grace she showed while dancing, leaving V alone with Johnny and the echoes of music still hanging in the air. The moment of carefree joy might be over, but V feels better than she has since the malfunction hit.
Not wanting to linger in the now-empty bar, which feels considerably less welcoming without Alex's warm presence, V pours herself one last drink and heads out to the terrace. The sun has started its slow descent in the sky, painting Dogtown in shades of pink and gold, but she still has time to kill before nightfall and her meeting with So Mi.
She settles at one of the small metal tables, letting her gaze wander over the plaza below while fishing her cigarettes from her pocket. The crowd around the memory tree hasn't thinned, if anything it's grown larger as evening approaches. The countless candles still flicker in the dying light, and she knows that among them, the one she left for Johnny is still there, probably half-melted by now. The thought brings a small smile to her lips.
Johnny materializes in the chair across from her, his presence as natural as breathing these days. He manifests his own cigarette as she lights hers, the familiar gesture something they both find comforting.
"Y'know," he starts, leaning back in his chair, "for a fed, Alex ain't half bad. Got more soul than Reed or that Songbird chick, that's for damn sure."
V takes a long drag, letting the smoke curl around them before responding. "Yeah? What makes you say that?"
"She's real. Underneath all that spy shit, there's an actual person there." He gestures vaguely with his metal hand. "The way she talks about BD actin', that ain't some cover story bullshit. That's genuine passion right there. She's got dreams beyond just survivin' or doin' her job."
"Reed and Songbird got things they want too," V points out, taking a sip of her whiskey. "He's got his whole loyalty to the badge thing, and she's fightin’ to stay alive."
"That's different though," Johnny exhales a stream of smoke. "Reed's just another company man wrapped up in his own self-righteousness. And Songbird? She's just tryin' to save her own skin. But Alex? She's got this whole other life she dreams about, something that ain't got nothin' to do with duty or survival. Makes her more... human, I guess."
V nods, understanding what he means. They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the sun paint the sky in deeper shades of red.
"Plus," Johnny adds with a smirk, "anyone who can appreciate music can't be all bad. Even if her taste in musicals is questionable at best."
V laughs at that, the sound carrying across the empty terrace. "You're such a snob, you know that?"
"Not my fault I got standards, princess." He grins, watching as she takes another sip of the whiskey. "Though I gotta admit, her taste in booze is preem."
The easy banter continues as they watch darkness creep over Dogtown, both of them carefully avoiding any mention of what happened earlier. For now, this is enough — sharing this quiet moment together, watching the city lights come alive. But V can't completely silence the nagging voice in the back of her head reminding her that soon, she'll be meeting with Songbird, and something tells her that's when the real chaos is going to start. She's been in Night City long enough to know when the calm is just the prelude to a storm.
Johnny must sense her thoughts drifting because his expression shifts slightly, becoming more serious. "Whatever goes down tonight, V, we face it together."
She nods, taking one last drag of her cigarette before crushing it out. The sun's almost gone now, and with it, their brief moment of peace. Time to get ready for whatever Songbird has in store for them.
With time to kill before meeting So Mi, V decides to head to the stadium to grab some food. She settles for Chinese noodles from a small stand tucked between two larger vendors, taking her sweet time savoring each bite while perched at the counter. The bustling atmosphere of the stadium at night is almost comforting — the mix of languages, the smell of various foods mingling with motor oil and chrome, the constant movement of people looking for deals or entertainment.
After her meal, she wanders through the marketplace, browsing through the various goods the vendors have laid out. She pauses at a weapons stand, admiring a particularly nice scope, but moves on without buying anything.
She stops at an Autofixer terminal to check what good ol' El Capitán has in stock, her attention immediately drawn to the motorcycles section. Her breath catches at the sight of a sleek, all-black Arch Nasaré 'racer'. The specs are impressive — top-of-the-line engine, CrystalCoat paint job, enhanced handling system.
"Y'know..." Johnny materializes beside her, leaning against the terminal with that cocky smile of his, "You've stacked up quite a pile of eddies with all your recent gigs. Should treat yourself and buy it. Bet she purrs like a kitten."
"I could." V shrugs, though her eyes linger on the screen. "But I already got Jackie's bike, and Scorpion's. What's the point of getting a new one?"
"Dunno, maybe havin' one that's really yours. Something that's V's bike." He follows close behind as she makes her way through the crowded stadium. "Know the ones you got have sentimental value, but shit, when's the last time you bought somethin’ just to make yourself happy? Besides," he adds with a smirk, "you ride like you were born on two wheels. Deserve something that can keep up with you."
V gives him a small smile, feeling warmth spread in her chest at the compliment. "Okay, okay, if it makes you happy, I'll think about it. Though I suspect you just want me to buy it so you can take it for a spin yourself."
"Can't deny that," he chuckles. "Been too long since I felt real speed under me."
She reaches the exit, the cool night air a welcome relief after the heat of the packed stadium. "Well... guess there's no point in stallin' anymore. Let's see what Songbird wants."
They walk to Tranquil Terrace, V holding Johnny's hand the whole way. She can't help but think about what he told her earlier today, about being less and less aware each time the netrunner speaks through the Relic. And while she hates the idea of him being trapped like that, even if it's just for a few minutes, on the other hand...
She sits on a bench at the meeting point, waiting for Songbird to make her appearance. V needs to have a serious conversation with her, and honestly, this time she'd prefer if Johnny wasn't present at all. The thought makes her squeeze his hand tighter, earning a questioning look from him, but she just shakes her head. Some things are better left unsaid, at least for now.
Without warning, Johnny dematerializes, V's hand suddenly closing around empty air. Even though she knew it was coming, even though she knows it's just for the duration of her conversation with Songbird, the sudden absence of his touch sends a painful twinge through her chest. She barely has time to process the feeling before Songbird appears a few steps away, her digital form casting a faint blue glow in the growing darkness. When V approaches her, the netrunner says, "Well, here we are. You an' me, face to face."
"This spot — didn't pick it at random, I guess," V inquires, trying to focus on the present moment rather than the lingering emptiness in her palm.
"Guessed right." So Mi offers a small smile, though exhaustion is evident in her features and there's a slight slump to her shoulders that wasn't there before. "Wanted to show you somethin'... Means a lot to me, it could help put some things in perspective. And it means I trust you. Come over here."
With those words, Songbird's incorporeal form glides through a curtain of vegetation. V follows, pushing aside ferns and other plants concealing the entrance to the passage. The foliage is surprisingly thick, creating a natural barrier between this hidden spot and the rest of the world. Once on the other side, she asks, "So, what's so special about this place?"
"Lived just two blocks off... While I was here in NC on assignment." As she explains, string lights suddenly illuminate above them, casting a warm, gentle glow over the area. They're standing beneath an enormous concrete balcony that the locals have transformed into a makeshift living room.
Several worn couches, their leather cracked but still comfortable, are arranged around the area, including one facing the sprawling streets of Dogtown below. There's a makeshift table cobbled together from salvaged materials — what looks like an old door balanced on metal barrels — and even a grill tucked away in the corner, its surface showing signs of frequent use. Despite the rough materials, there's something undeniably cozy about the space, like a secret garden made of concrete and salvage.
"Locals come here after sunset. Fire up grills, crack open beers, talk about nothin' in particular." So Mi continues, walking toward several seats arranged beneath a colorful tag on the concrete wall — a vibrant piece of street art that somehow makes the industrial setting feel more alive. "I'd swing by here come evening sometimes. All of it, every inch is special. Reminds me of Brooklyn — actually from there."
V is genuinely surprised by this openness from the usually guarded woman. The netrunner's digital form settles onto one of the couches, and wanting to encourage this rare moment of vulnerability, V asks about her hometown.
So Mi obliges, nostalgia seeping into her voice as she shares small anecdotes — stories about street festivals that would turn entire neighborhoods into one big party, about the smell of various cuisines mixing in the summer air. These little details help the merc better picture what her life was like before the FIA. In return, V shares stories about Heywood, painting pictures of street corners and familiar faces, before steering the conversation back to Songbird with a gentle observation, "You're yearnin' to go back."
The nostalgic smile that had bloomed on Songbird's lips while talking about Brooklyn fades, and she sighs, "Can't rewind the clock, V. By the time you realize you miss it, it's usually too late." She rises from her seat, walking a few steps away, the string lights casting her holographic form in an ethereal glow. "S'pose we should get back to the here 'n' now."
V follows her, deciding to cut straight to the chase with brutal honesty, "Attack on Myers — you schemed it up with Hansen, I know that." The words hang heavy in the night air, like the smoke from the distant fires that always seem to be burning somewhere in Dogtown.
So Mi moves to the edge, gazing down at Dogtown's streets below. From their elevated position, the district spreads out before them like a maze of concrete and neon, punctuated by the occasional burst of gunfire or distant explosion. The surveillance aerozep that perpetually patrols the district passes between buildings at that moment, its searchlights cutting through the smog like laser beams, sweeping the streets in methodical patterns. On its metallic facade, a massive propaganda image of the Colonel's stern face looms over them, his eyes cold and unforgiving even in digital form. The sight makes V's skin crawl — even here, in this hidden sanctuary, Hansen's presence is inescapable.
"Yeah, neural matrix was pricey. But honestly, I..." She pauses, uncertainty creeping into her voice, her holographic form flickering like a candle in the wind. "I never thought he'd try to kill 'er." The admission seems to cost her something, each word dragged out reluctantly.
Moving to stand beside her, V states firmly, "You betrayed 'er."
"Not just her..." Songbird turns to face V again, but her gaze remains fixed on the ground, shaking her head dejectedly. Her digital form seems dimmer somehow, as if the weight of her actions is affecting even her projection. "Nothin' went according to plan. What a fuckin' mess."
"So what was your plan?" V presses. The string lights above them cast strange, shifting shadows through the netrunner’s translucent body.
"For you to rescue Myers while I secured the AI matrix. And for us to run. All before Kurt caught on." She explains, beginning to pace restlessly through the grass and gravel, her footsteps leaving no trace on the ground beneath. The movement reminds V of a caged animal. "Now Hansen's changed the terms of our deal. They'll make 'im answer for the attack, he knows that, so he's coverin' his ass. The one thing he doesn't know is what's on the Cynosure mainframe. He's hopin' it's data he can use as leverage against the NUS. Says that's my ticket to freedom, but..." her voice drops to almost a whisper, heavy with resignation, "Soon as he gets his hands on it, I'm dead, I just know it."
V finds it hard to imagine how the runner's original plan could have possibly worked out. What was she thinking — that the neural matrix would be sitting unguarded on a table near the crash site, just waiting to be snatched? All while the merc cleaned up the mess she'd created? It was a shit plan from the start, and V suspects Songbird is well aware of that now. The whole thing reeks of desperation, of someone backed into a corner taking whatever chance they could see.
So Mi collapses onto the cracked red leather couch, looking utterly defeated. "I fucked everything up, I know, V... but I had no choice." Her voice carries the weight of someone who's been running for too long, who's finally running out of road.
V sits beside her, the worn leather creaking under her weight. The couch still holds traces of warmth from the day's sun, creating an odd contrast with Songbird's incorporeal presence. "Still don't understand why. Wasn't any other way, honestly?"
"Wouldn't've resorted to this, if there was." She sighs heavily. The weight of her words hangs in the air between them, accompanied only by the distant sounds of the city and the soft buzz of the lights. After several seconds of heavy silence, she adds, "For Myers, the NUSA... I'm just another weapon in their arsenal. A tool for reachin' beyond the Blackwall. And weapons and tools?" Her laugh is bitter, hollow, echoing slightly in the digital space around her. "They don't get to make decisions or choose to retire."
The revelation sits heavy in the air, and V can't help but draw parallels between Songbird's situation and her own predicament. The familiar feeling of being trapped, of being someone else's tool, hits too close to home. "Sounds... sounds painfully familiar," she finally says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Think I know how you feel." And she does — fuck, does she ever. Between Arasaka's bullshit and the chip in her head, she knows exactly what it feels like to have your choices stripped away.
"I doubt anyone understands this feeling as well as you do, V," So Mi whispers back, fixing V with a gaze full of sadness that seems to pierce right through her. "You're the only one I can trust with this. Only question is, after everything you just heard, you feel the same way about me?"
V feels the weight of Johnny's absence more acutely at this moment. She could use his insight right now, his way of cutting through bullshit to see what really matters. But this conversation is between her and Songbird, and maybe that's for the best. The statement makes her think about the complicated dynamics playing out within the FIA team, so she responds with another question, "Don't trust Reed? Guy wants to save your life."
"He 'saved' me once already." The bitterness in her voice is palpable as she shakes her head, the holographic projection flickering slightly. "Word of a botched hit on Militech crossed his desk, so he knocked on a nineteen-year-old girl's door with an offer she couldn't refuse."
"Join and serve, or become a NetWatch trophy..." V guesses, her stomach turning at the implication. She's seen enough to know exactly what happens to runners who catch NetWatch's attention. It's never pretty.
Songbird nods slowly, confirming V's assumption. "That girl died that day. The person in front of you is what was born from her death." The words hit V like a physical blow. Another mirror, another echo of her own story — the V who died after the Konpeki Plaza heist, replaced by whatever she is now. The netrunner continues, "'Course, Reed... he died too. Just more recently — seven years ago. The NUS issued his death sentence, yet he serves the country to this day, clinging to somethin' that's lost all meaning to me."
This conversation confirms everything V had more or less figured out already, but shit, it makes things just more real, more horrific. Each revelation adds another layer to the fucked-up situation they're all in. Her thoughts drift to Johnny again — he'd probably have some choice words about government agencies and their tendency to fuck over anyone they touch. "Been wantin' to ask, actually..." she starts, hesitating for a moment before pushing forward. "What happens 'zactly, y'know, when you reach past the Blackwall?"
The question is obviously painful for So Mi, but after a few seconds of hesitation, she answers. "Know the feeling when you try to remember the address of a place you lived half your life but it just turns up... blank?"
"Mean, losin' your memory?" V asks, her heart clenching.
"A snowflake lands on my glove, I can calculate its unique fractal structure... but what did my mom's voice sound like...?" Another mirror, but this time it reflects Johnny's pain rather than her own. She remembers the night he confessed his fears about Mikoshi, about the gaps in his memories, the uncertainty in his voice when he wondered aloud if everything he remembered was real. The parallel is almost too much to bear, and she finds herself desperately wishing he was here, solid and real beside her, even if just to hold her hand.
"Sometimes, I — I lose control," Songbird confesses, her form seeming to shrink in on itself. "Or get the sense I'm surrendering to someone else. But it feels horrible."
"Felt it too, with the Chimera..." V responds in a breath, suppressing a shudder at the memory. “Like a livin’ nightmare.”
"Yeah. And more 'n' more, I get the sense someone's standing behind me... but there's never anyone there." Songbird concludes darkly.
"Get the feeling this's the first time you've been honest with me." V says, trying to break the oppressive atmosphere that's settled over them. She's heard enough horror stories about the Blackwall to last a lifetime, and right now, she needs to focus on the present.
"Yeah..." Pain and shame flash across Songbird's features. "With you and myself." She stands, resuming her restless pacing. "I need to get away. From Kurt, the NUSA, Reed... From everything."
V watches her pace, pieces clicking into place. So that's her real plan. She should have seen it coming — after all, isn't that what she'd do in So Mi's position? Hell, isn't that what she's been trying to do herself — escape the corps, escape death, escape destiny? "Night City's just a pit stop along your escape route. That was always the plan, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," Songbird confirms. "It's just... things got complicated, messy. Certainly didn't expect my old Agency chooms to get involved. Or to find myself caged by Kurt. I'm fleeing, V. Gotta get out. And to do that, I need you. 'Cause you... you know how it is."
"Okay..." V sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Say I believe you... What's the next step?"
"We go through with the mission, grab the neural matrix." Song explains, her voice taking on an urgent edge. "While Reed and Alex grapple with Hansen, we make our getaway."
"And then..." V prompts, not sure she likes where this plan is heading. A knot forms in her stomach as she thinks about Alex. The thought of leaving her behind, right next to that psychopath... It makes V's skin crawl. She understands Songbird's desperation — fuck, after everything the woman has explained, how could she not? But sacrificing Alex? That's a steep price to pay for freedom.
"You help me skip town. I already cut a deal with a black clinic far, far from Night City." So Mi continues. "There, the rippers can access the matrix and use an algorithm to create a prototype of our cure. They'll need me present to run their tests. The moment they're finished, I'll send word."
V's mind races, trying to process everything. A cure — that's what this is all about, isn't it? For both of them. A chance to be free, to be whole again. But at what cost? She thinks of Johnny, of how he'd probably tell her to watch her back, that desperate people make dangerous allies. But then again, isn't she desperate too?
Songbird moves closer to V, her holographic form casting an ethereal blue glow in the darkness. "And... that's it. Everything. Like a weight off my shoulders, honestly." She pauses, studying V's face with an intensity that makes her want to look away. "Now, I have to ask... You're in this because you understand me... or because I promised to save your life?"
The question hangs between them like a drawn blade. V feels the weight of both their futures balanced on her answer. The choice before her isn't just about survival anymore. It's about what kind of person she wants to be, what lines she's willing to cross. And fuck, isn't that always the real question?
With a soul-deep sigh, V settles more comfortably into the worn couch, the ancient springs creaking in protest beneath her. "Song... before I answer your question... please come sit." She pats the space next to her, fingers tracing the leather cracked and faded by years of use. "I let you say everything you hadd to say, but... There's still something I need to know."
So Mi hesitates, the tension in her projected body visible even through the digital distortion. Finally, she comes to sit beside V, the couch remaining undisturbed by her incorporeal form. "We don't have much time, V, and I—"
"We'll take all the damn time we need." V's voice cuts through the night air, sharp and uncompromising. A cool breeze rustles through the leaves above them, making the string lights sway gently. Her eyes, hard as steel, fix on Songbird's face. She's not about to let the woman dance around this, not anymore. When Songbird slowly nods her agreement, V adds, her tone softening slightly, "But first, I want us to talk in private."
"In private? But we're—" The netrunner's eyebrows shoot up as understanding dawns. " Oh. One sec."
The familiar Blackwall glitch invades V's visual interface, red artifacts dancing across her vision before dissipating into the night air. "There, I've completely isolated Johnny on the Relic. He can't hear us anymore." Songbird says, though confusion still colors her digital features. "Mind tellin' me why you asked me to do that?"
"Actually..." V starts, her voice catching slightly. "He told me he could barely see or hear anything when you hijack the Relic to talk to me, but... couldn't risk him hearing what I want to discuss now." She runs a nervous hand through her hair — only now realizing she's picked up this nervous tic from the rockerboy. "Listen, So Mi, after everything you've told me... can't shake the feeling you're still hidin' something. Can feel it in my guts."
Songbird opens her mouth, digital lips parting to protest, but V raises a hand, silencing her. "No, let me finish. Honestly? I don't give a fuck what else you might be hiding, long as you answer this one question truthfully." She leans forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped so tight her knuckles turn white. "And... fuck, it's really important to me, so don't try to bullshit me, okay?"
The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken truths. The string lights sway gently in the night breeze as V finally voices the question that's been eating her alive, "Let's say your plan works. We escape, your black clinic rippers manage to create the cure, everything goes perfect. I need to know..." She swallows hard. "I need to know what will happen to Johnny."
"I— I can't be sure, I —" Songbird's voice wavers.
"Don't you fuckin’ dare!" V explodes, raw emotion making her voice shake. "You want my help? Want me to follow your crazy plan that might get Reed and Alex killed? Then show me some goddamn respect and tell me the fuckin’ truth!"
The silence that follows her outburst is deafening. Even the city seems to hold its breath. V watches as So Mi struggles with herself, her holographic hands clenching and unclenching on her knees. Finally, she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper, "I can't be one hundred percent certain, but..." She looks away, unable to meet V's eyes. "He'll be erased, V. The matrix needs to wipe the Relic, all data. He'll just... cease to exist."
Fuck. Fuck . Holy fuckin’ fuck! It's the answer V feared most, though deep down, she'd felt it coming like a bullet with her name on it — that's exactly why she didn't want Johnny here to hear this. Because she knows exactly what he'd say, that cocky smirk hiding his pain as he'd tell her to roll with it, to take that chance to save her life, no matter what happens to him. Bastard would probably crack some stupid joke about finally getting rid of him, too.
Every moment she's shared with him flashes before her eyes like a broken BD, memories cutting deep into her heart. The bad ones, when they were at each other's throats. The sad ones, holding each other through the nightmares. The emotional ones, when words weren't needed anymore. But mostly, the good ones. Johnny, fucking glowing under the spotlights, playing that reunion gig with his old bandmates, more alive than she'd ever seen him. Johnny running his fingers through her hair, holding her until she falls asleep in the dim light of their apartment. Johnny laughing until tears stream down his face at a hacked fortuneteller bot spewing nonsense. Johnny, smiling under the sun. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny .
Finally, it's a strangled, hysteric laugh, broken by a sob that tears itself from her throat, that shatters the tense silence. "I can't. Fuck, I can't do that to him, Song. Fuck the cure, I don't want it." The words taste like ash in her mouth, but they're the truest thing she's ever said.
So Mi's face crumbles, panic setting in as she watches everything her plan hinges on falling apart like a house of cards. "But, V, I—"
"Nah, shhh, shh ." Another burst of hysterical laughter escapes her lips as V's nerves finally snap, the sound echoing in the night. "Didn't say I was gonna leave you hangin’. We'll get your neural matrix, help you delta outta here, but..." She takes a shaky breath, her voice breaking on the words she never thought she'd say out loud. "I don't want the cure. Not if it means I have to kill the man I love for it."
A hint of relief mingles with the shocked, anxious expression on Songbird's face as she breathes out, "I — I don't understand. The matrix, it's the only way to save your life. And I understand even less why you'd help me if you're not getting anything out of it..."
"'Course you don't understand." V snorts, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand before tucking her legs under her on the couch. Her heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vice, but her mind is clearer than it's been in days. "You're fighting to save your own life. You're doing all this for yourself, only offering me that cure as a carrot to get me to help you. If you hadn't needed me, you'd have never offered." She sighs, the tension slowly bleeding out of her shoulders. "You're doin’ this purely for yourself, and after everything you've been through, I can't blame ya for that. But... Even though we're both dying, our situations are different. Me..." Her voice softens, thinking of all the times Johnny's been there for her. "I'm not alone."
She pauses, managing to fish her cigarettes from her pocket despite her trembling hands. She takes long drags of nicotine, hoping to calm her raw nerves, letting the other woman process what she's said. One smoke isn't enough to steady her, so as soon as she's done, she flicks the butt to the ground and immediately lights a second before speaking again.
"I know I could just walk away, give you, Reed, Dogtown, everything the middle finger. Tell myself it ain't my problem." The words come easier now, even as her chest aches. "But that's not who I wanna be, So Mi..." The smoke curls around her words as she speaks, her voice growing stronger with each syllable. "Still wanna help you, 'cause you need someone to finally extend a helping hand without expectin’ anything in return. Feels like you've never had that before."
The young woman's eyes widen at her statement, but V continues, watching the ember of her cigarette glow in the darkness. "Maybe I'm just a sucker, maybe I see too much of my situation in yours. Or maybe I just wanna take the chance to do somethin’ good while I still can. Take your pick, it doesn't matter. We'll follow your plan and save your life. As for Johnny and me..." She takes another long drag, watching the ember glow in the darkness. "I'll find another way."
When Songbird speaks again, her eyes are wet with unshed tears, and she's never looked smaller or more fragile. "What if... what if there isn't another way? What was your plan for survival before, well... before all this mess?"
"That..." V sighs, letting her head fall back against the couch, watching the smoke from her cigarette dance with the string lights. "Guess you know who Alt Cunningham is. Actually, crazy story, but she's Johnny's ex-output, and she's still... well, if you can call it livin’... somewhere beyond the Blackwall. We managed to contact her and… According to her, if I can reach Mikoshi — which has an access point somewhere in that fuckin’ Arasaka Tower — and jack her in, she should be able to separate my psyche from Johnny's. Simple as that, right? Just gotta break into the most secure building in Night City. No biggie."
"I see... but... then what?" So Mi asks hesitantly, wringing her hands. "V, gotta be honest with you here — when I was preparing my plan, I did some deep digging into your situation. Including hacking your ripperdoc's scans. And... shit, I'm no doc myself, but even I can understand what that data means. Your neural network has completely deteriorated, ‘n’ there's the... DNA reconfiguration. You see where I'm going with this, right?"
"Yeah, yeah..." V sighs, crushing her cigarette and fighting the urge to light a third one in a row. "Had this conversation with the asshole who made the Relic, while back. The fucker told me I was a dead girl walkin'. That there was nothing to be done. But if Alt thinks untanglin’ my consciousness from Johnny's, creating a construct of me and injecting it back into my body might work then—"
"No, V... It's not just that, I..." Songbird's hands tremble, and she can't meet the merc's eyes, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't just have the scans your ripper did after you first slotted the Relic. I... wanted to keep an eye on things, so I kept remotely hacking his files. I have all your data, even from yesterday's scan. And..." She takes a shaky breath. "It's not good, V. The DNA reconfiguration... it's progressed too far. Way too far."
"Whaddaya mean?" V frowns, something cold settling in her gut, though a part of her already knows the answer.
"Don't wanna scare you, but..." Songbird's voice cracks. "Even if we inject an engram of you back into your body, I'm not sure your body would accept it anymore. The Relic... from the moment it started writin’ Johnny's data into your brain, it's been modifying your entire body, changin’ everything down to your DNA, making it accept his presence rather than yours. So while theoretically, you could return to your body..." She swallows hard. "It would only give you a few months to find a solution. You could die, V. Probably will."
Strangely, this revelation doesn't hit like the gut punch it should be. Oh, sure, it could be denial, but... no, not even that. It's more like finally seeing the whole puzzle after all the pieces click into place, like watching the end of a BD you already knew the ending to. Pieces like her conversation with Hellman, Vik's worried glances when he thinks she isn't looking, the seizures getting more intense and frequent, Johnny's presence growing stronger, how he seems more real with each passing day. How sometimes, when she catches her reflection, she swears she can see him staring back at her.
And the picture that emerges, despite everything, makes her smile. Because if her body isn't suited for her anymore, it's suited for Johnny. And the image of Johnny perfectly alive, back for good, even if it's in her body, even if it means she'll die... She couldn't hope for a better outcome. If Johnny can live, then nothing else matters. The thought should terrify her, should make her scream and rage against the unfairness of it all. Instead, it brings a strange peace, settling in her chest like a warm drink on a cold night. Like the universe finally making sense, showing her the path she was meant to take all along. Maybe this was always how it was gonna end — her final ‘fuck you’ to the Relic, to Arasaka, to the world, giving Johnny Silverhand a second chance at life.
She can almost hear what he'd say, that fucking idiot, probably yelling at her for even considering it. But for once, she'd be the one telling him to shut up and deal with it. A small, genuine smile plays on her lips as she looks up at the neon-stained sky. "Then I will die." She finally answers, feeling strangely serene. The words hang in the night air, heavy with finality yet somehow freeing. It's terribly liberating to say it out loud, like setting down a weight she's been carrying for too long.
"V..." So Mi whispers, her fingers hovering over V's hand, not quite daring to touch, as if she might shatter this moment of raw honesty.
"It's okay, Song." She turns to the netrunner, feeling like her mind is finally clear, like the static that's been clouding her thoughts has suddenly lifted. "If in the end, Johnny can make it... it's okay. Let's be real, I don't wanna die — fuck, who does? But..." She takes a shaky breath, steadying herself. "If I give him my body, he can live. Y'know..." A soft, almost shy smile plays on her lips. "I was dead serious when I said I loved him earlier... Fuck, feels good to actually say that to someone."
She lets out a small laugh, relief flooding through her at finally being able to voice these thoughts. "Usually, I try not to even think about it, scared he'll catch on. But since for once he's not here..." Her voice grows softer, more vulnerable. "I can talk about it. I can freely say that I love him, that if my death means he gets to live... it's okay with me. Fuck, you can't even imagine how much shit he'd give me if he heard me say that..."
Songbird's eyes widen, a complex mix of emotions crossing her face — surprise, understanding, and something that might be awe. "You really mean that," she breathes out, not a question but a realization. "You'd... you'd give up everything, your life, your future, just so he can live?"
V lets out a soft laugh, running a hand through her hair. "Yeah, well... didn't exactly plan on fallin' for the construct stuck in my head. Just... happened. Like everything else in this fucked-up situation. And now..." She shrugs, but there's nothing casual about the gesture, her eyes distant as if seeing something — or someone — far away. "Now I can't imagine wanting anything else more than knowin' he'll be okay. Funny how life works out sometimes, huh?"
So Mi bites her lip, weighing her next words carefully, her fingers nervously playing with the hem of her sleeve. "He's lucky to have you. You're stronger than I am, V. Stronger than anyone else I know." She seems to be fighting against all her instincts, years of survival mechanisms screaming at her to keep her secrets. Her voice trembles slightly as she continues, "And on top of everything... you're still willin’ to help me. But... you were right. There is one last thing I haven't told you and... you won't like it. You've been honest with me, probably more than anyone has ever been, so... wanna hear it?"
V lets out an humorless chuckle. "Go ahead, spill it. We're past the point of no return anyway, huh? Night's been full of fun surprises already, what's one more?"
Songbird takes a deep breath, her shoulders hunching as if bracing for a blow. When she speaks, each word seems to physically pain her, like pulling splinters from her own heart. "The neural matrix... can only be used once. It's... a captive AI from beyond the Blackwall. Relies on continuous evolution to exist. I'll free it and end the process. It'll then execute my commands and disintegrate. Irretrievably."
"Well, fuck me..." V breathes out, leaning back against the worn leather of the couch. A few hours ago, learning this would have been devastating, would have made her want to scream, to tell the netrunner to go fuck herself with all her lies. But now... now it feels almost like cosmic irony, the universe's sick joke finally reaching its punchline. "How long've you known this? That only one of us could come out alive?"
"Since Kurt gave me enough freedom to access Cynosure's technical files." She confesses, her voice barely above a whisper, guilt etched into every line of her face. "A few days before his big party. I... I'm so sorry, V. Truly." Her hands are trembling now, and she clasps them together to hide it. "When I asked you to save Myers, I still really hoped it could work for both of us. And after... I was scared you'd leave me hangin’ if I told you the truth. Wouldn't have blamed you if you did."
"Fuck, Song… Woulda helped you anyway." V's voice is surprisingly gentle. "But... why tell me now? I mean... since I told you I didn't want the cure, you could've just gone to the black clinic, gotten fixed up, and ghosted. I'd never have known. Would've been the smart play."
"The regret. Wasn't honest with you." Songbird's voice cracks, and something in her carefully maintained facade finally breaks. "And you deserve better than that. You're probably the closest thing I've had to a friend in years, so..." She swallows hard, fighting back tears. "I didn't want another lie that would cost someone's life on my conscience. And if I want the privilege of callin’ you my friend..."
A tear rolls down her cheek as she gives V a desperate look. Her next words come out in a rush, like she's afraid she'll lose her nerve if she doesn't get them out now. "Well, least I can do is let you make your final decision with all the cards on the table. That's it. The whole truth, for real this time." She takes a shaky breath, looking more vulnerable than V's ever seen her. "My life is in your hands now. An’ I... I wouldn't trust anyone else with it."
"I'm with you, So Mi." V reassures her immediately, trying to squeeze her fingers in a comforting gesture. But unlike Johnny, Songbird isn't tangible at all — well, it's the thought that counts. "I'm with you all the way. We're gonna follow your plan, okay?"
"I... Thank you, V. Truly." She lets out a long sigh of relief, the tension slowly melting from her shoulders. "For everything."
"Yeah, don't mention it." V smirks, leaning back in the couch, trying to appear more casual than she feels. "Shit, I'm glad Johnny didn't hear any of this. He can never know about it, you understand?"
"He wouldn't take all these revelations as well as you did, would he?" So Mi finally manages a weak smile, though her eyes still hold a shadow of worry.
"That's putting it mildly, trust me." She smiles, imagining how the rockerboy would react not only to Songbird's confessions but also to V's decision tonight. She's going to save the 'runner, and when the time comes, she'll save Johnny too. No matter what he has to say about it. Finally, she asks, "So... What now?"
"Ahh... I guess that's all... I suppose you should call Reed, let him know all's set for the meet with Hansen." So Mi responds, rising once again, her form flickering slightly in the dim light. "Should be in three days, in the afternoon. I'll contact you if anything changes on that front. Well, I'll give you your rockerboy back now." A genuine smile crosses her face, small but real. "In the meantime... take care, V. And... thanks again."
"See ya, So Mi." V gives her a warm smile. Songbird waves goodbye, a small smile still playing on her lips, and in another crimson glitch of the Blackwall, she vanishes, leaving V alone in the night.
Wires and chains
I'm just tired of looking the other way
Starting to fade
I'm just tired of looking the other way
Feels like a game
I'm just tired of looking the other way
You can't escape
I'm just tired of looking the other way
I found out
Treasures are always lost
Pleasures are long forgotten
Who are you now?
Thankfully, V doesn't have to remain alone for long. The air glitches again and Johnny materializes on the couch, right where Songbird had been sitting moments before. "Fuck, told ya, it's gettin' worse every time that chick speaks with you," he grumbles, massaging the back of his neck with a grimace, "Feels like a fuckin' truck ran me over and—"
V doesn't even let him finish his sentence, throwing herself into his arms and hugging him tight, their limbs tangling together on the couch. The sudden need to feel him, solid and real against her, is overwhelming — especially after the conversation she just had. The weight of her decision, of what she's willing to sacrifice for him, makes her hold on even tighter. Of course, this immediate display of affection puts the rockerboy on high alert and he asks, concern evident in his voice, "Fuck, princess, what happened?"
"Nothin'." She lies, burying her face in his neck, breathing in his familiar scent — cigarettes, leather, and gunpowder. The comfort of it wraps around her like a security blanket, grounding her in the present moment. Right now, he's here, he's real, and that's all that matters. "Just missed ya."
"Yeah, right." His tone makes it clear he's not buying it, but he tightens his embrace anyway, his chrome fingers tracing soothing patterns on her lower back. The gentle touch sends shivers down her spine, reminding her of how far they've come from their early days of constant antagonism. "So... what did she want? Could barely hear anything this time. Just caught somethin' about Brooklyn and... Runnin' from NC? Beyond that, complete radio silence."
V is immensely relieved that he knows nothing else, that Songbird's connection truly kept him in the dark. The thought of him discovering her plans... no, it's better this way. Trying to keep her voice casual despite the storm of emotions in her chest, she tells him, "Okay, quick rundown — Songbird doesn't just wanna escape Hansen, she wants to ditch Myers, Reed, and the FIA too. Once we get access to the neural matrix, she wants us both to split, leave everyone else in the dust. Other than that, plan's the same."
"Fuck, shoulda seen that comin', huh?" Johnny rolls his eyes, his chest rumbling against her as he speaks. The familiar vibration of his voice is oddly comforting, like the purr of a particularly dangerous cat. "Always backstabbin' with these fuckin' feds... So what's the move now?"
"Callin' Reed, tell him Song made contact and update him on the Hansen meet-up date." V says, making no move to actually do so. Right now, the thought of moving from this spot, of breaking this moment of peace, seems impossible.
"And? Gonna tell him about the little bird's plans?" He asks, his metal hand still drawing lazy circles on her back.
"Nah." The response comes without hesitation. "Just gonna tell him what he needs to hear... in a few minutes. Mind stayin' like this a little?"
"Not at all." He presses a kiss into her hair, pulling her closer against his chest. There's something protective in the gesture, as if he can sense her underlying distress even if he doesn't know its cause. His flesh hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair in a gentle caress.
V closes her eyes, letting herself sink into the comfort of his embrace. The irony of finding such peace in the arms of the very person she's planning to sacrifice everything for isn't lost on her. But for now, she pushes those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of his breathing, the familiar scent of him, the solid presence of his body against hers. The rest of the world — Reed, Hansen, the neural matrix, even her own impending death — can wait just a little longer.
After a few minutes, V reluctantly pulls away from the embrace, though Johnny doesn't completely let go, keeping his chrome arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. The weight of it is comforting, grounding her in reality after the emotional rollercoaster of her conversation with Songbird. She lights up another cigarette — but fuck, after the evening she's had, she figures she's earned the right to empty the whole damn pack if she wants to. The familiar taste of tobacco helps steady her nerves as she finally makes the call to Reed.
The spy answers immediately. "V, status report."
"Reed, hey. I'm nova, thanks." She can't help but respond sarcastically, rolling her eyes and making Johnny grin beside her. His thumb traces small circles on her shoulder, a silent show of support. "How're you?"
"Put a cold beer in front of me once this is all over, then we'll have time to chat." The man replies curtly, his stern expression making it clear he's not in the mood for small talk. "For now, fill me in on what you managed to get done."
"So Mi contacted me. Got news." V gets straight to the point, exhaling smoke through her nose. "Well, first off, we been green lit. Meet with Hansen's set for three days from now, afternoon. Don't have the exact time yet, but figure the car rental system data should fill in the blanks we need."
"Music to my ears... And you're right, that's precise enough for now. Just make sure you're in Dogtown on the day, I'll handle the rest." Reed confirms, his voice clipped and professional. His eyes narrow slightly, searching her face. "What else?"
V doesn't want to say too much, but she knows she needs to give him something more. The weight of Songbird's secrets sits heavy in her chest as she decides to keep it vague. "Songbird opened up a bit... 'bout her sitch. It's lookin' bad, real bad. This tech's her only shot."
"I hear you, I do... All the more reason to focus on the mission in front of us. Get our hands on that cure." He states firmly. Then adds, "V, one other thing... You need new chrome, an implant that accommodates behavioral imprints. I'm sending you detes for a clinic. The doc'll be expectin' you tomorrow. Just tell the ripper you know she collects Unification War trinkets. She'll know you came with my blessin'."
And without so much as a goodbye, he hangs up, leaving V and Johnny alone in the dimly lit corner of Dogtown. The string lights above cast a soft, ethereal glow over them, creating dancing shadows among the overgrown vegetation surrounding their little sanctuary. Johnny watches as V's expression shifts, noting how she seems to curl in on herself slightly. He's seen that look before — she's carrying something heavy, something she's not ready to share.
"Fuck, now we're into passwords and shit..." Johnny rolls his eyes, rising from the couch alongside V, his arm sliding from her shoulders to her waist. "And fuck, new chrome? Kinda sure Vik wouldn't be happy 'bout that."
"Definitely not." V sighs, taking one last drag from her cigarette before crushing it under her boot. Johnny can feel the tension in her body, the way she leans into him just a little more than usual. Something's definitely off. "But not like I got much choice, right? At least the appointment's tomorrow. Right now... I'm fuckin' beat."
"Can feel it, yeah..." Johnny's eyes narrow slightly as he studies her face in the purple-tinted darkness. "There's more to what happened with Songbird than you're tellin' me, isn't there?"
V hesitates, guilt twisting her features, and Johnny's chest tightens. Whatever this is, it's big. "Johnny..."
"Hey, not pushin'," he interrupts, pulling her closer. "Just... whatever's eatin' at you, whatever's goin' on in that pretty head of yours — don't forget I got your back, 'kay?"
The simple statement nearly breaks her resolve to keep quiet. Fuck, she hates lying to him. But she knows it’s better that way. Instead of answering, she turns into his embrace. "I know. Same goes for you, y’know that, right?"
"'Course I do, princess." His chrome hand comes up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "C'mon, let's go home."
They make their way through Dogtown's winding alleys, leaving behind the hidden garden with its twinkling lights and secrets. V can't help but think about So Mi's words, about sacrifice and love and impossible choices. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new chrome, and another step closer to their uncertain future. But tonight, she lets herself pretend that time isn't running out, that she isn't planning to break both their hearts.
The string lights fade into darkness behind them, taking with them the last traces of Songbird's sanctuary. The moon, barely visible through Dogtown's perpetual smog, casts long shadows as they disappear into the night, two figures moving as one through the darkness. V leans into Johnny's warmth, memorizing every detail of this moment — the way his arm feels around her waist, the rhythm of his breathing, the familiar scent of him. She knows these memories will have to be enough. After all, dead people don't get to make new ones. But if these are among her last moments, at least they're with him. At least she'll die knowing he'll live, and maybe that's all the immortality she needs.
Notes:
Message thread generator HTML/CSS by Luvwich ! Have fun with it here ♥
Lot of bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song: Dawid Podsiadło & P.T. Adamczyk - Phantom Liberty
• Author's rambling: Is it cheating to use the song that has the same title as the DLC for this chapter? Yeah, maybe a bit, but it makes me wanna cry every time I listen to it, and with So Mi's conversation, I couldn't think of anything that would fit better!
Hope you liked this little change from canon, I really wanted V to face what's coming with all the cards on the table!xoxo, see you next time ♥
Chapter 26: The Patient
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Hey everyone! :) Here's a new chapter — I hope you'll like it! We're slowly getting to the end of Phantom Liberty and even closer to the end of this first part. I'll talk more about that in my notes at the end of the chapter. See ya there!
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Big thanks for the subs, bookmarks, and kudos — especially to TuAbuelita69 for being my 100th kudo! I was stuck at 99 for weeks, and it was driving me nuts. ♥ And thank you Loraphine and ZedThePoet for your comments. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
If there were no rewards to reap
No loving embrace to see me through
This tedious path I've chosen here
I certainly would've walked away
There's something wrong behind V's smile. It's a nagging feeling Johnny can't shake since her talk with Songbird yesterday, like an itch under his skin he can't quite reach. He's been watching her, studying every micro-expression, every slight change in her demeanor, but he can't quite put his finger on what exactly is wrong. When they got back to their apartment last night, she collapsed straight into their bed, still fully clothed, holding him maybe a little tighter than usual. Her face was buried in his chest like she was trying to memorize his heartbeat, her fingers clutching his tank top with an urgency that made his throat tight.
And now, this morning, he watches her from his perch on the kitchen counter, observing as she drinks her coffee in small, measured sips. Her hair is still damp from the shower, creating little wet patches on the collar of the old t-shirt she's wearing, and he can't help but think something is terribly wrong.
When he tries to talk to her about it, she just assures him everything's fine, smiling that soft smile that usually makes his heart skip a beat but now just adds to his unease. She looks okay, happy even — and that's part of what's bothering him. At first, he thought it might be stress about the upcoming mission, or fuck, maybe even anxiety about the new chrome she's getting installed today. But it doesn't add up. Through their connection, he's not picking up stress at all — instead, there's this sort of... inner peace? And that's fucking disturbing.
Since taking up residence in her head, he's felt so many emotions from her — gut-wrenching anxiety that made her hands shake, pure joy that lit up their shared consciousness like fireworks, heartbreak that made him ache in places he thought long dead, the depths of despair that had him materializing at 3 AM just to hold her, genuine amusement that bubbled through their link like champagne, white-hot anger that burned through them both, fond exasperation that became their daily routine, desperate hope that kept them both going... But never this serenity, and it's unsettling as hell. It's about as disturbing and improbable as imagining himself at peace — the thought alone is enough to make him want to laugh, but there's nothing funny about this situation.
He wants her to talk to him, to tell him what really went down with the netrunner — he can put two and two together, knows there was way more to that conversation than she let on afterward. The way she's been acting, these little changes in her behavior, the careful way she touches him now, like she's trying to commit every moment to memory... it all adds up to something he's not sure he wants to understand.
But he also knows pushing her right now won't do any good. She'll talk when she's ready — at least, that's what he keeps telling himself. But fuck, he hopes it'll be sooner rather than later. Because this calm before the storm? It's starting to feel a lot like goodbye, and that's not something he's prepared to accept. Not from her. Not ever. He's lost too much, watched too many people walk away or die in his arms. He won't lose her too — not if he can help it. Whatever she's planning, whatever's going through that beautiful, stubborn head of hers, he'll figure it out. He has to.
Meanwhile, V is lost in her own thoughts, more specifically in preparation. Not for the incoming mission, but for something far more important to her. After yesterday's revelations, and now that she's almost certain the end is rapidly approaching for her, she knows she needs to get her affairs in order. The thought should terrify her, but instead, there's an odd sense of peace in planning these final details. Her coffee has gone cold, forgotten between her hands as her mind races through her mental checklist.
First things first, she wants to make sure everything will be okay for Johnny once she's gone. Since he'll end up in her body, that already takes care of most of the technical problems. He'll have access to the vehicles and their apartment too, though she wonders if he'll want to stay here or if the memories will be too much. Her bank account has enough eddies to keep him comfortable for a long while, thanks to their various gigs and that lucky casino heist last month. She's pretty sure he'll take good care of Nibbles and Spike, or at least find them a new home if keeping them proves too painful a reminder.
The part that worries her more is... well, everything else. She wishes she had the chance to write to her friends, to explain the situation, to tell them why she chose to leave her body to Johnny so he could live again. Panam would understand, probably — she knows what it means to sacrifice everything for the people you love. Vik would be devastated, and Misty... fuck, Misty probably already knows, with her weird sixth sense and all.
And then there's Kerry and Rogue — she hopes they'll be there for Johnny when he needs help, when the weight of her sacrifice becomes too much to bear alone. Because fuck, she knows he's going to need it. If she's sure of one thing, it's that he won't accept her sacrifice easily. She can already picture him, drowning his guilt in whiskey and cigarettes, blaming himself for her choice. The thought of him suffering makes her heart ache, but it's better than the alternative — better than him being gone forever.
But the problem with trying to hide your intentions from someone who's with you 24/7 is that you can't let anything slip. She can't lower her guard, not even for a moment, and definitely can't put her nice idea of goodbye letters into practice, since he could read them through her eyes. She catches his concerned gaze from across the kitchen and forces a smile, trying to project normalcy through their link. She supposes she'll have to content herself with trying to spend one last moment with each of her friends, without even being able to say goodbye, before the end of the line.
And then... there are the little details. Things she still wants to do before she dies. Her own bucket list, she thinks with a hint of dark humor. Return Scorpion's bike to Panam, maybe spend one last evening around the Aldecaldo's campfire, watching the desert sunset and drinking that terrible moonshine Cassidy brews. Transfer some of her eddies to Vik — enough so he won't have to worry about tough ends of month or corpo trying to buy out his clinic for a long while. She owes him that much, after everything he's done for her. Reread passages from Jackie's book, maybe leave some notes in the margins for Johnny to find later — little pieces of herself he can discover once she's gone.
But mostly, she wants to prepare things for Johnny, just to make sure he's okay. Nothing fancy, just little touches to help him settle into his new life. Some clothes she knows he'd like to wear once he inherits the body — she's already spotted a leather jacket that screams his name in a store downtown. A stack of new vinyls from bands he loves, that collection of stupid Bushidō flicks he pretends to hate but actually enjoys...
These aren't grand gestures, just small things to remind him that even though she's gone, she thought of him until the end. And... she has one last idea, something to remind him of their time together. A pinboard, with photos — the ones she's taken over these past two months, but also a couple of pictures of herself from before all this.
Since they don't have any photos together — and fuck, doesn't that hurt to realize they can’t even have that , she figures she could add some from when he was alive, juxtapose them with the others. Make it look like they've always been together, create this little alternate reality where they had more time. A beautiful collage of memories, something that will whisper 'hey, rockerboy. It's been one hell of a ride. Was nova to know you. Don't forget me'.
Yeah... That'll do nicely. And if, somehow, she crosses paths with Adam Smasher before the end, she swears she'll put a bullet between that fucking borg's eyes, keeping the promise she made to Johnny in that shitty hotel room in Pacifica. Now that would definitely be the cherry on top of this whole fucking cake.
She takes another sip of her cold coffee, feeling Johnny's worried gaze on her. She knows he can sense something's off, but she can't let him figure it out. Not yet. Not until it's too late to stop her. Because this? This is her choice. Her gift to him. And for once in his life, Johnny Silverhand will just have to accept something being done for him, whether he likes it or not.
"Princess?" Johnny's voice, tinged with a concern he doesn't even try to hide anymore, pulls her from her thoughts. He's still perched on the kitchen counter, his chrome hand tapping nervously against his thigh, dog tags clinking softly with each movement. "What's goin' through that head of yours?"
"Believe it or not, I'm thinkin’ about shopping." V laughs, and well, technically, that's partially true. She focuses on keeping her thoughts light, surface-level, nothing that would give away the real depth of her plans. Through their link, she pushes feelings of contentment and normalcy, hoping it'll ease his obvious worry.
"Shopping, huh?" He smirks, visibly relieved to find a semblance of normalcy in their morning routine. His posture relaxes slightly as he runs a hand through his dark hair, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. "Finally thinking about gettin’ that bike you've been eyeing?"
"Maybe." She winks at him before finishing her coffee and dropping the cup in the sink with a soft clinking sound. The morning sun streaming through the windows catches on her chrome, casting dancing shadows on the walls. "But that'll have to wait. Right now, we should get ready for Dogtown, ripperdoc's waiting."
" We should get ready, really?" He snorts, clearly amused, and gestures at himself, showing off his already fully-clothed state — the same tank top, leather pants, and boots he always wears. "Think I'm good to go, sweetheart. Been ready since... well, forever."
"That's cheating, you're always dressed." She laughs heartily, climbing the stairs to the mezzanine to retrieve her outfit for the day. Her bare feet pad softly against the metal steps. "If you had to follow the same rules as everyone else, your clothes would stink worse than the back alley behind the Lizzie's, rockerboy!"
"What, and right now I smell good?" Johnny can't help but tease as he watches her change, his eyes following her movements with familiar appreciation. He materializes next to her, deliberately invading her personal space. "C'mon princess, tell me what Johnny Silverhand smells like."
"Hmm..." V pretends to think while pulling on her jeans, making a show of scrunching up her nose. She leans in closer, pretending to sniff him, which makes him chuckle. "I guess, if you're into cigarettes and leather. With a hint of sweat. And maybe... is that cheap tequila I'm detecting?"
"And?" He pushes his luck, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he crowds her against the wardrobe. His hands find their way to her hips, solid and warm through the fabric of her clothes. "You into that, V?"
"Yeah." She doesn't even bother denying it, slipping on a sleeveless jacket to complete her outfit. She turns in his arms, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. Fuck it — she's dying anyway, might as well stop pretending she doesn't care as much as she does. Let him see how much he means to her. What's the point of holding back now? "Okay, we can go. And stop looking so smug, you gonk."
"Can't help it if I'm irresistible," he drawls, following her down the stairs. His eyes never leave her, still searching for whatever's been off about her this morning. But V keeps her walls up, her smile easy, her movements casual. She can feel his concern through their link, but she pushes back with affection and amusement, keeping her darker thoughts carefully hidden away.
"You're impossible," she retorts, grabbing her keys and her iron. "Now move your ass, rockerboy. We've got chrome to install."
As they head out into the morning bustle of Night City, V feels Johnny materialize behind her on the Arch, his arms wrapping around her waist. She revs the engine, letting the vibrations wash over them both, and for a moment she allows herself to pretend this is just another morning, just another ride through the city they both love and hate. She commits this feeling to memory — the rumble of the engine, the heat of his chest against her back, the way his hands rest perfectly on her hips. Then she locks it away, deep in her heart, where even he can't find it. Just one more memory to take with her when the time comes.
Once through Dogtown's main gate, V parks her Arch near the Heavy Hearts and checks the coordinates Reed sent her yesterday. Following the directions, she descends a set of worn concrete stairs into the basement level, eventually finding herself in front of an unremarkable white door. If it weren't for the ripperdoc's name on the intercom, she'd probably think she had the wrong place. When she presses the button, a female voice with a thick accent informs her they're closed.
Undeterred, V tries the 'password' the spy had given her: "Got somethin'... might interest you. Hear you collect trinkets — Unification War era."
"Mhmm..." The voice hums thoughtfully, then the door unlocks with a soft click. "Come in."
V enters the clinic where a woman with a robotic arm greets her without looking up, busy consulting data on her computer. "I'm sorry I was unwelcoming. Ever since a certain spaceplane crashed nearby, I've had to be more cautious."
Not wanting to disturb whatever the ripper is doing, V ventures further into the dimly lit room and freezes in front of a small tank mounted on the wall. The blue-tinted light from the container casts eerie shadows across her face as she stares, transfixed. Johnny materializes beside her, and for once, the legendary rockerboy seems at a loss for words. "Jesus fuckin' Christ..." he finally manages, his voice hoarse.I've seen some shit in my life, but this... this is some next-level nightmare fuel right here."
In the tank, suspended in thick, translucent liquid, a perfect reproduction of V's face stares back at them through the reinforced glass. The copy is flawless — every freckle, the decorative cyberware on her cheeks, even the tiny childhood scar on her chin that's barely visible to the naked eye. The mask floats there, lifeless yet somehow watching, tubes and wires connecting it to various machines that hum softly in the background. The sight sends a chill down V's spine.
"Fuck me..." she whispers, her voice barely audible. "That's... that's my face."
The peace of mind V had maintained since her conversation with Songbird drains away as she realizes this mask, undoubtedly packed with the craziest tech she's ever imagined, is what's going to replace her fucking face. Shit, she didn't know what to expect when Reed mentioned an implant that accommodates behavioral imprints, but... she wasn't prepared to have her entire face replaced by this... thing . Her hand finds Johnny's instinctively, squeezing hard enough that if he were anyone else, it would hurt.
"We can still bolt if you want," he offers, squeezing back just as hard. His other hand comes to rest on her shoulder, grounding her. "Ain't no shame in walkin’ away from this kind of shit."
"Can't." V takes a deep breath, trying to regain her composure even as her heart hammers against her ribs. "Don't have a choice, need it for the mission..."
"Yeah, and no rescue mission, no cure, I get it but..." Johnny sighs, his grip tightening. She can feel his anger and concern bleeding through their link. "I know better than most what it's like getting chrome you don't really want and... fuck, you've seen my memories." He doesn't need to elaborate — the image of teenage Johnny, suffering from that shit arm the army butchers gave him, is still burned into the merc's retinas. "You saw what state I was in. The pain, the confusion, feelin’ like your own body's betraying you... So just say the word, and we're outta here. No judgment. We'll find another way."
"Yeah, I know." She manages a weak smile, grateful for his support, even as her eyes remain fixed on her synthetic doppelganger. "Thanks. But still, will do it."
She doesn't even know why she's making such a big deal out of this. After all, she's already chromed out everywhere else, so what does it matter if her face isn't really hers anymore? It'll still look the same and... anyway, soon enough none of this body will be hers — it will be Johnny’s.
The thought actually brings her a strange comfort as she stares at the synthetic face floating in the tank. This isn't about her anymore. This face, this body, this pain she's about to endure — it's all just means to an end. First, she'll save Songbird, like she promised. Then, she'll make sure Johnny gets to keep living, even if she won't be around to see it. After that... well, it won't be her problem anymore.
"Just..." she swallows hard, finally tearing her gaze away from the tank to look at him. "Just don't let go, okay?"
"Not a chance in hell, princess," he promises, his voice rough with emotion. "I'm right here. All the way."
V straightens her spine, steeling herself. One more piece of herself to sacrifice, one step closer to their goal. The price doesn't matter anymore — not when she's already decided to pay the ultimate cost. Still, she can't help but jump when a voice speaks behind her, "V, good to see you."
She whirls around to face Reed — sneaky bastard materializing from the shadows like some fed ninja. His casual stance, leaning against the wall with practiced nonchalance, sets off every alarm bell in V's head. "Not givin' me any breathin' room, huh? Trust an issue?"
"Just lookin' out." He says with that infuriatingly calm tone, hands clasped behind his back. "I'm here about So Mi. I spent hours... wrappin' my head around this, puttin' myself in her shoes. I needed to understand what she musta been goin' through to... to resort to treason."
V feels Johnny tense beside her, and she shares the sentiment — there's fuckery coming, she can smell it like blood in the water. Her voice turns sharp as steel when she asks, "Tryin' to understand 'er, really? Or just lookin' for the key to bringin' 'er in?"
"No, my aim is to save her," Reed responds, perhaps a bit too quickly, too earnestly. Oh, V's sure he believes his own bullshit — that's what makes him dangerous. Songbird's words echo in her mind, about how he had 'saved' her before — by forcing her to choose between the FIA and getting caught by NetWatch. The memory makes bile rise in her throat.
"She's trapped," Reed continues, pacing the small space like a caged animal, his footsteps echoing off the clinic's walls. "Not just here 'n' now, but goin' months back. Hell, actually years. I blame Myers — a sore loser, does her damndest to avoid it. Songbird, the Blackwall... dirty tricks meant to give 'er a competitive edge. 'S no wonder So Mi doesn't trust anyone. Except maybe you, a little."
If the whole situation wasn't so fucked up, V would have laughed out loud. The irony is almost painful — just last night, So Mi had proven she trusted V with her life, her secrets, her very soul, and here's Reed, practically giving a masterclass in why the runner's right not to trust anyone else. V can sense the agent isn't finished, and she already knows whatever he's about to say will only prove Songbird's point further.
"Song should trust you — not me. That it?" She asks viciously, watching his face with predatory attention. The slight flinch in his expression brings her a twisted satisfaction.
"I can't say I really blame her, can only blame myself," he responds, finally breaking eye contact.
V decides to twist the knife, pushing him to react. Her words drip with venom as she says, "There's a prison cell prepped and waitin' for 'er already. So Mi knows that full well."
"She lives to see tomorrow and every day after — that's what matters," Reed retorts, and fuck, the worst part is how genuine he sounds.
"Myers needs 'er alive, sure, but forgive and forget the attempt on her life?" V hisses through clenched teeth. "Never."
"Myers might not forgive 'er, but... doesn't mean I can't," he declares, settling himself on the operating chair.
Fed up with this endless stream of bullshit, V spits out, "Whatcha tryin' to sell me, Reed?"
"Nothin'. I'm merely tryin' to convince you," he says, his non-answer only serving to feed her growing frustration.
She presses for clarification, her patience wearing thinner by the second, "Okay, we break the chain Hansen wrapped around her neck — then what?" Her fingers drum against her thigh, inches from where her iron would be if she hadn't had to leave it at the entrance.
"We stow away somewhere safe, ask some questions, establish some common ground." He waves his arms vaguely in that typical corpo way that screams 'I'm making this up as I go.' "Once I get the answers I'm lookin' for, I'll personally help 'er disappear. From everyone everywhere. Including Myers."
A humorless chuckle escapes V's lips, the sound sharp and bitter in the sterile air of the clinic. That last point? She's not buying it for a second. Despite all Reed's resentment toward the president, despite their complicated history, betraying her would mean betraying the agency itself. The man's a fed through and through — like Goro with Arasaka, some loyalties run too deep to break. That particular lesson had cost V dearly, and the scar it left still burns.
"Spinnin' quite the yarn, playin' me," she provokes, hoping to finally crack that professional veneer and get some truth out of him. "Fits the M.O of someone who used to recruit spies for a livin'."
"Fuck... no!" This time his calm mask slips, and V catches a glimpse of genuine vulnerability in his eyes — a man torn between duty and friendship. But she already knows which way he'll lean. The agency always wins with these types. "Just listen. I got contacts in Europe. We'll find the best clinic — put you two back together, fix what's broken. Once we have your cure in hand." He rises from the chair, his movements betraying a nervous energy as he walks to the table against the wall. "But I need to help So Mi first. She's lost, and I'm concerned she doesn't know what she's doin'."
"You don't trust 'er." It's not a question, just a statement of fact, delivered with all the weight of V's growing disgust at this whole situation.
"What I don't trust is the shit from beyond the Blackwall and the attendant paranoia. Both in play here, I'm afraid." He corrects, and V has to physically bite her tongue to keep from pointing out it's not paranoia when the fears are justified. "She has another plan in mind. I'm damn sure of it."
Heh. Like V's going to confirm his suspicions... Instead, she probes further, keeping her voice carefully neutral despite the anger bubbling beneath the surface, "Read you loud 'n' clear... So what's it all mean next?"
"I have something for you. Our best minds in D.C. cooked it up." Reed picks up a small metal case from the table, its chrome surface reflecting the clinic's harsh lighting. The way he handles it, like it's both precious and dangerous, sets off all kinds of warning bells in V's head. "ICEbreaker. Silver bullet against any fortified netrunner. Farida'll feed it into your system durin' surgery. Use that, and So Mi will drop unconscious within a minute. We can't take any chances. And when she wakes up, she'll wake up at home."
Johnny lets out a joyless laugh beside her, his voice dripping with contempt. "First Songbird, now him... These feds sure love their backstabbin'. Not a single one better than the other..." His presence radiates anger, matching V's own growing fury.
V remains silent for several moments, the quiet broken only by the soft hum of medical equipment. The weight of the situation settles heavy on her shoulders. At least Songbird has a damn good reason for what she's doing — survival, freedom, a chance to break free from the chains that bind her. But this guy? Despite his claims about just wanting to talk to the netrunner and help her escape, V doesn't believe him for a second. He'll hand her over, no question about it. She has nothing personal against Reed — hell, she even likes some things about him, like his dry humor and occasional moments of genuine concern — but she's already chosen her side, and nothing's going to change that.
But she also knows that if she wants So Mi's plan to work, she can't antagonize the special agent now. She needs him and Alex to get to the runner — fuck, she actually likes Alex and wishes she could've stayed out of this mess. The thought of her getting caught in the crossfire makes her stomach turn. V forces herself to stay focused, simply nodding toward the ICEbreaker and asking, "Ok, how do I use it?"
"Fire it up when you're both jacked in the mainframe," he explains, setting the case back down with practiced precision. The metal makes a soft click against the table's surface that seems to echo in the tense atmosphere. "At that moment, So Mi's door'll be wide open."
"Ugh, this'll turn to shit," V can't help but roll her eyes, feeling Johnny's agreement through their link. His hand finds her shoulder, a gesture of solidarity that grounds her.
Reed says nothing for several long seconds, and the way he won't meet her gaze speaks volumes. When he finally asks, "Who says it has to?" his voice carries a hint of desperation that almost — almost — makes V feel sorry for him.
I do, she wants to scream. The words burn in her throat like acid. I'm gonna make sure neither you nor Myers can ever hurt So Mi again. She's suffered enough. But she holds back, carefully maintaining her mask of reluctant cooperation as she responds, "Dunno, man. But say you do corner her... expect the unexpected, if you know what I mean."
The warning in her voice is clear, but Reed either doesn't catch it or chooses to ignore it. "There comes a time when all expectations are null and void. Right now we're focusin' on savin' your lives. Talkin' time'll come later." He turns away, his footsteps echoing in the clinical silence as he moves toward the exit. "It's time I was on my way. I leave you in Farida's able hands. Send a message once you're done here."
Without another word, he leaves the clinic, the door closing behind him with a soft hiss that seems to release some of the tension from the room. V watches him go, her jaw clenched so tight it hurts. Then she looks at the ICEbreaker still sitting on the table. Another tool, another trap, another piece in this elaborate game of chess they're all playing. But V knows something Reed doesn't — she's not just another pawn. After all, what's one more betrayal in Night City? At least this time, she'll be the one dealing it out instead of receiving it.
The ripperdoc gestures for V to settle into the operating chair, promising the anesthetic is "the good stuff" as she prepares her tools. Still nervous about the procedure, V peppers her with questions while getting comfortable. Farida reassures her that while the tech itself is complex, the operation is straightforward. True to her word, seconds after the injection, V's vision begins to blur, and consciousness slips away from her like water through fingers.
Though the anesthetic blocks all physical sensation, consciousness comes and goes like a bad radio signal, and V can see disturbing glimpses of the operation. The first time her eyes flutter open, she catches Farida tracing her face with a scalpel, the sharp steel glinting under the harsh lights — The sight alone is enough to make her quickly squeeze her eyes shut again.
When awareness returns minutes later, it's even worse — the ripperdoc has her fingers hooked under the edge of V's facial skin, methodically peeling it away from the underlying muscle and chrome with practiced precision. The sight of her own flesh being rolled up like discarded wallpaper sends V gratefully tumbling back into unconsciousness.
The next surfacing is pure nightmare fuel — Farida holds the synthetic face above her, its underside a maze of fiber optic threads and neural connectors glowing an eerie blue in the dim light. V watches, oddly fascinated in her drug-addled state, as the mass of tech descends toward her exposed muscles. Though she feels nothing when contact is made, a ‘nerve endings integrated’ notification flashes across her visual interface, confirming everything's proceeding as planned.
Time becomes a broken thing, stretching and contracting like taffy. The next clear moment finds Farida carefully downloading Reed's ICEbreaker, the data transfer progress bar crawling across V's vision. The implications of that particular piece of tech sitting in her system are too heavy to contemplate in her current state, so she lets herself drift away again.
When full consciousness finally returns, Farida is administering the last of the healing agents, the injections creating a strange spider-web pattern across V's new face. The anesthetic fog is lifting enough for Johnny to materialize, his restless energy evident as he paces the small space. He stops dead when he catches her eye, and that familiar shit-eating grin spreads across his face as he flips her off. "How many fingers 'm I holdin' up, princess?"
Still too woozy to properly laugh, V manages a weak smile. "Hey rockerboy. Nice to see you in good form."
"You're still lookin' pretty out of it from the anesthetic," he says, moving closer to examine her face. "But other than that, how you feelin'?"
"Mmh... Like I just had my face peeled off and replaced with military-grade tech," she mumbles, letting Farida adjust her head position. "Still can't wrap my head around Reed's request though..."
"Fuckin' poetry, ain't it?" Johnny perches on the edge of her chair, his presence solid and grounding. "Both sides want you to be their personal backstabber. Not surprised by the ask, but it pisses me off they're tryin’ to make you their triggerman." He mimes a gun with his flesh hand, the gesture sharp and precise. "C'mon, got iron in your hand. Gotta put it to someone's head, pull the trigger. The master spy and the agent unloosed. Tragedy, comedy or both?"
"Think one of 'em's tryin' to dupe me?" She asks, genuinely wanting his perspective on this mess.
"No, they're both tellin' the truth," Johnny responds without hesitation. "I mean, might be muddy on the nitty gritty, but their motivations are plain 'n' clear. Survival — it's her be-all an' end-all. That and she's a wakin', talkin' nuke. The kind that keeps makin' mistakes, never knowin' which one's gonna set 'er off." He pauses, considering. "And Reed... bastard and me are one and the same. If I hadn't ghosted the army, I'd've become a Reed myself. Live and die by our principles. That's the tragedy, V. Someone's gonna play victim to the other's good intentions. Try not to forget that when you're standin' over that fuckin' overgrown neurodrive."
Though V's mind is already made up, carved in stone like the old world monuments, she still wants to hear the rockerboy's take. Maybe it's just to reassure herself, or maybe it's because his opinion has become as vital to her as breathing. "Reed or Songbird... What would you do in my shoes, Johnny?"
"I am in your shoes, sweetheart." The way he removes his aviators is almost ceremonial, revealing those intense dark eyes that always seem to see right through her. "For every gonk choice you make. But I can't do dick." He leans closer, his hand settling warm on her shoulder. That rare, gentle smile spreads across his face — not his usual smirk or shit-eating grin, but something softer, more genuine. The kind of smile that makes V's heart perform a whole gymnastics routine in her chest. "But honest to god, V, not fuckin' around... I dunno. Got no goddamn clue."
Of course he doesn't know — he's missing crucial pieces of the puzzle, pieces V holds close to her chest like a losing hand at poker. Her throat tightens as the weight of her secret threatens to suffocate her.
One dose. One fucking dose of the cure, and it belongs to Songbird no matter what. The truth sits heavy on her tongue — that taking that miracle treatment would essentially mean killing him, erasing Johnny Silverhand from existence. The question haunts her — would he try to talk her out of giving the cure a shot, or — the thought that terrifies her more than anything — would he tell her it's okay, that her life matters more than his?
It's not a conversation she's ready to have, partly to spare him that burden, but mostly because she knows there's a real risk Johnny might try to talk her out of what needs to be done. The way he looks at her sometimes, like she's something precious that needs protecting — it would make him try to save her from herself. So she lets the subject drop for now, promising herself she'll explain — well, partially — later. When So Mi has the neural matrix and is already far, far away from Night City.
Farida tilts V's head to the side one final time, her movements precise and efficient. The last dose of healing agent burns slightly as it enters her system — the anesthetic's fog finally lifting enough for her to feel the strange sensation of foreign tech integrating with her flesh. "All done," the ripperdoc announces, satisfaction evident in her voice. "The facial morph implant is online. Now all you need is a behavioral imprint. And do me a favor — don't tell me why you need this for." Her tone suggests she's seen enough FIA bullshit to know when to stop asking questions.
The doctor moves away, the soft snap of latex as she removes her gloves echoing in the silence. V deliberately avoids looking at the medical waste bin where her original face now rests — another piece of herself left behind, like so many others. She sits up carefully, the world tilting slightly before stabilizing. Her legs feel weak, but they hold her weight when she stands, Johnny hovering close enough to catch her if needed.
Understanding that Farida isn't one for lengthy goodbyes, V offers a simple "Thanks for everything." The ripperdoc responds with a noncommittal hum, already absorbed in her computer work, the blue screen reflection dancing across her focused features.
Taking the hint, V heads for the exit, Johnny's solid presence close behind her, his footsteps echoing her own in the quiet clinic. The weight of what's to come settles heavy on her shoulders, but Johnny's presence at her side, real and warm and alive, reminds her exactly why she's chosen this path. His hand finds the small of her back, grounding and protective, as they navigate through Dogtown's tense atmosphere. Some prices are worth paying, she thinks, even if you have to carry the burden alone.
"So, gonna call Reed to tell 'im it's done?" Johnny asks as they emerge from the underground clinic. The harsh Dogtown sun makes V wince — her new synthetic skin seems more sensitive than her old one, every sensation slightly heightened and foreign.
"Nah, just gonna send him a text, will be enough." V shrugs, fishing her holo from her pocket. Her voice carries a bitter edge that makes Johnny's eyes narrow. "Not really in the mood to talk to him right now, seen enough of his face for one day..."
She can't help but roll her eyes at the minimalist exchange, the kind of response that perfectly encapsulates Reed's efficiency. Checking her messages, she notices one that came through during the operation.
"That was my boxing coach back when I was still livin’ in Megabuilding H10," V explains when Johnny shoots her a questioning look, his eyebrow raised in that way that always makes her want to smile. "You must've caught glimpses of him when passin’ through. Muscular black dude, bald. Always trying to get me into his underground fights. Said I had 'natural talent' or some shit." She chuckles at the memory. "But with all this Relic mess, never really had time for that."
"So now you wanna help him out ‘nother way, huh?" Johnny asks, leaning against a nearby wall, the sun catching on his chrome arm.
"Somethin’ like that, yeah. And at least it'll keep me busy for a few hours, gimme somethin’ else to think about than Reed and Songbird and the fact that they just peeled my fuckin’ face off." V grumbles, her fingers unconsciously tracing the barely perceptible line where her original skin meets the RealSkin covering the facial implant. She hasn't even had the chance to look in a mirror yet, and while she knows the difference probably isn't even visible but...
Johnny steps into her space, his presence warm and solid as he gently cups her face with both hands, his chrome fingers sliding over hers where they're still exploring the edge of the implant. The metal is sun-warmed, familiar, and his touch sends a shiver down her spine that has nothing to do with the synthetic nerves adjusting.
"Stop fussin' over it, princess. You're still you under there." His voice is low, intimate, meant just for her ears. His thumb traces her cheekbone, so tender it makes her throat tight. "Still my V."
She leans into his touch, letting out a shaky breath. "Didn't think it would feel this weird. Like... like I'm wearin’ someone else's skin. Everything feels different — the air, the sun..."
"Different good or different bad?" He asks, his flesh hand sliding to the nape of her neck, grounding her.
"Just... different." She closes her eyes, focusing on the sensation of his fingers against her synthetic skin. "Guess I'll get used to it. Not like I have much choice anyway."
"Hey." His tone makes her open her eyes again, meeting his intense gaze. "You're still beautiful, if that's what's eatin' at you. And I'd know — been starin' at your face long enough."
That pulls a genuine laugh from her. "Careful there, Silverhand. Almost sounds like you really like me."
"Maybe I do." His response is surprisingly serious, making her breath catch. "Maybe enough to tell ya when you're bein' a gonk ‘bout your face." His trademark smirk returns, but his hands remain gentle on her skin.
V snorts, but she's smiling now, the tension leaving her shoulders under his touch. Sometimes she forgets how well he can read her, how he always seems to know exactly what she needs to hear. The synthetic skin might feel foreign under her fingers, but under Johnny's touch, it feels like just another part of her. Just another sacrifice in their shared story.
"Thanks, Johnny," she murmurs, turning her face to press a kiss to his chrome palm. "For bein’ here. For bein’ you."
"Ain't nowhere else I'd rather be, princess." He pulls her closer, pressing his forehead to hers. "Now c’mon, let's go see what this boxer needs. Bet it's more interesting than standin’ here while you have an identity crisis."
V laughs and pushes him away playfully, but catches his hand with hers as they start walking. The synthetic nerves might make everything feel different, but Johnny's touch — that feels exactly the same. That feels like home.
They easily find the ring mentioned in Fred's message, nestled between two towering buildings not far from the Heavy Hearts. The makeshift arena pulses with raw energy — a proper Dogtown gathering where even the ever-present tension between locals and Barghest seems temporarily forgotten. Street kids perch on rusty scaffolding, their legs dangling over the edge, while off-duty soldiers lean against the walls, eddies changing hands as fast as the punches in the ring. The ring itself is nothing fancy — just a raised platform with worn ropes, but it's seen enough fights to have earned its reputation. Blood stains mark the canvas like badges of honor, telling stories of countless battles fought here.
V makes her way to the bookie, a weathered-looking guy who points out Aaron — the taller fighter in flashy orange shorts who moves with the fluid grace of someone who's spent their life in the ring — and V decides to put down a few eddies on him. If Coach Fred vouches for the kid's skills, that's good enough for her.
She finds Johnny already settled in the bleachers, his attention completely focused on the match. It's rare to see him this invested in anything that doesn't involve music or mayhem, and she can't help but smile as she approaches him.
"Well, well... Johnny Silverhand, boxing enthusiast?" V teases, dropping onto the bench beside him. "And here I thought I knew all your dirty little secrets. Shit, you might actually have somethin’ to talk about with Vik besides how much you piss him off."
"What, thought all I did was play guitar and blow shit up?" He shoots back, bumping her shoulder with his. "There's layers to me, princess. Deep, complex fuckin' layers. Like a burrito of pure talent."
"Did you just compare yourself to a burrito?" V snorts, watching Aaron dodge a wild hook with impressive speed.
"Shut up, tryin’ to be poetic here." He grins, then gets that look that means he's about to go full old-timer. "Used to catch fights all the time back in the day — real ones, none of that corpo-sponsored bullshit they put on TV. The kind where you could smell the blood and sweat, where every hit meant somethin'. Not like today's chooms with their fancy-ass chrome and—"
"Oh my god, you're actually turnin’ into one of those 'back in my day' geezers," V cackles.
"Fuck you, I'm tryin’ to educate your ignorant ass here." He flips her off, but his eyes are dancing with amusement. "This is what I get for trying to share my vast experience with the youth."
"The youth?" V wheezes. "Johnny, you're barely older than I am, you pretentious fossil. Sounds exactly like Fred's kind of scene though," she adds, watching Aaron dodge another wild swing. "Shit, if I'd known you were into this, I would've taken him up on those underground matches he kept pushin’. Man wouldn't shut up about how I was 'wasting my natural talent' just doin’ regular training."
"Now that woulda been something." Johnny's eyes gleam wickedly. "You in the ring, me yellin' advice you'd completely ignore 'cause you're too busy being a stubborn pain in my spectral ass..."
"More like heckling me from the corner," V snorts. "I can hear it now — 'C'mon V, my dead grandma hits harder than that! What, you gonna let this gonk dance around you all day? I've seen scavs with better footwork! Even Kerry could throw a better punch, and he thinks cardio is walking to his car!'"
"First of all, leave Ker out of this, man's trying his best." Johnny strikes an exaggerated boxing pose that makes her snort. "And I'd be a fuckin' excellent cornerman. Besides, Fred'll probably set up more fights. Maybe next year."
"Yeah..." V tries to keep her voice steady, but something must slip through because Johnny's looking at her now, really looking. "Prolly next year."
She falls silent, the weight of her secret pressing down on her chest like a physical thing. No point in ruining the moment by reminding them both that for her, there won't be a next year. Johnny will be here though, watching matches, living the life she's fighting to give back to him. The thought should comfort her, but right now it just makes her heart ache with a pain that has nothing to do with the relic.
"Hey." Johnny's voice cuts through her dark thoughts, softer than usual. His hand finds hers, fingers intertwining with practiced ease. "You're thinking too loud again."
"Sorry," she murmurs, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Just... enjoying the moment, you know?"
He studies her face for a long moment, and she knows he's not buying it — he knows her too well for that — but he just squeezes her hand and turns back to the match. "Then shut up and watch Aaron kick this gonk's ass."
V laughs again and leans into his side. The crowd roars as Aaron lands a perfect combination, and for a moment, she lets herself forget about everything else. Just this — the electric atmosphere, the familiar weight of Johnny against her, the simple pleasure of watching a good fight.
With a thunderous crack that echoes through the makeshift arena, Aaron's final punch connects with his opponent's jaw in a perfect arc and the other boxer crashes to the canvas like a puppet with cut strings. The sun catches on the sweat and blood spraying through the air, creating a momentary halo around him and the crowd erupts in a deafening roar.
"That'd be that! It's over! Waines by KO! Too damn strong!" The bookie's voice barely carries over the chaos as eddies start flying through the air-waves. V feels her account ping with a satisfying notification — betting on the right horse always feels good.
Through the settling dust and dispersing crowd, V watches the fallen boxer struggle to his feet, chrome-enhanced muscles trembling with exhaustion and wounded pride. His face is a mess of bruises and blood, but his eyes burn with something uglier than simple defeat. "Nice not to have to take a dive for a change, huh?" He spits the words along with a mouthful of blood.
"Fuck you, Will." Aaron's response is sharp, but V's trained eye catches the way his victory stance falters, how the joy drains from his face. The comment clearly hit harder than any punch thrown in the ring. Interesting.
V waits for the crowd to disperse, watching the ebb and flow of people while mentally filing away every detail of the exchange. When the press of bodies thins enough to move freely, she approaches Aaron, who's collapsed onto the lower bleachers. His impressive frame is still heaving with exertion, sweat glistening on state-of-the-art chrome that looks a bit too high-end for your average street fighter.
After congratulating him on the win — which was genuinely impressive — she introduces herself as Fred's contact. The surprise that flashes across his face is genuine, clearly, he hadn't expected the old coach to actually follow through.
What follows is a story that gets more complicated with every word. Aaron needs to reach a specific ripperdoc's clinic, but it's buried deep in scav territory — not exactly a weekend stroll. The doc's apparently an old connection from his Animals days, and with a major fight looming, he desperately needs his chrome checked by someone he trusts.
The tale takes an interesting turn as Aaron explains how his former gang had bankrolled his early career — implants, training, the works. But when he tried to go legitimate, focusing on professional boxing instead of street violence, things got messy. The Animals didn't take kindly to his career change, and the split left him technically banned from the ripper's services. Still, Aaron insists the doc himself is solid, swearing he'll help if they can just reach him through the scav-infested zone.
V agrees to help, and Aaron hints at even more layers to this particular onion, promising to explain everything on the way to the clinic. For now, he needs to clean up after the fight, suggesting they meet at Terra Cognita in an hour. V sets a hard time — two o'clock sharp in front of the Anatomicon exhibition hall, where they'll strategize their approach through scav territory.
After Aaron leaves with profuse thanks, V and Johnny find themselves alone in the emptying arena, the air still thick with dust and tension. "So, what's the plan?" He materializes beside her, already looking eager for action.
"Plan?" V lets out a laugh that would make most NC residents nervous. "No plan needed, rockerboy. We go in hot, I cut down every scav stupid enough to breathe in my direction, and we clear a path to that clinic." She shrugs, rolling her shoulders with the predatory grace of someone who's turned violence into an art form. "After this morning's bullshit, I could use some good old-fashioned slaughter to blow off steam."
Johnny's answering grin is pure chaos. "Now you're speaking my language, princess. Though I gotta say," he adds, lighting a virtual cigarette, "something about this whole setup stinks."
"Oh yeah," V agrees, already checking her mantis blades with practiced precision. The chrome gleams deadly in the daylight. "But that's half the fun, isn't it?"
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
Aaron arrives precisely at two, finding V sprawled lazily on a sun-baked bench under Night City's merciless afternoon heat. She's been watching the ebb and flow of Dogtown's residents through half-closed eyes, Johnny occasionally commenting on particularly interesting specimens. The boxer's changed into fresh clothes, all traces of the morning's violence washed away except for a slight bruise darkening his jaw. He immediately launches into his life story as they start walking — born and raised in Dogtown's concrete jungle, moved beyond the wall chasing bigger dreams, then circled back about a year ago after his gang life imploded.
As they approach the massive exhibition building housing the clinic, Aaron finally spills the truth V's been sensing since that loaded comment at the fight. The Animals had their fingers deep in the boxing scene, with some woman named Angie pulling strings — deciding which fights he'd win, which he'd lose, right down to the exact round he had to kiss canvas.
To ensure their prize fighter stayed obedient, they'd installed a neural implant — a kill switch that could drop him faster than a bad bet whenever they needed. That's why he needs this specific ripperdoc — the same one who installed it. The fear in his voice is raw when he explains that if they force him to take another dive, his career as a legitimate boxer will flatline faster than a tourist in Pacifica.
They reach the building — an abandoned tech exhibition hall that Aaron explains was meant to showcase ‘the tech of tomorrow’ back when tomorrow still looked bright. V spots their entry point, a breach in the upper wall, accessible via rusted scaffolding that groans ominously under their weight. They scale it silently, Aaron proving he hasn't forgotten his Animals training by efficiently snapping a guard's neck from behind. V's impressed — at least she won't have to babysit him through this clusterfuck.
Inside, V gets to work on a security turret, her fingers dancing across its circuits until she's reprogrammed it to recognize scavs as hostile targets. Aaron whispers that the clinic's on the top floor, but one look at the swarming scavs below tells V they're not getting there undetected. Fuck subtle — time to make some noise.
Her eyes lock onto a cache of explosives near a cluster of scavs. She signals Aaron to take cover, then puts a round right into the volatile stockpile. The explosion rocks the building, turning that whole section of floor into a scene from a horror BD. Bodies and parts of bodies rain down, the blast wave setting off a chain reaction of smaller explosions that fill the air with smoke, screams, and the sweet smell of burning chrome.
Using the chaos and the reprogrammed turret's covering fire as cover, they sprint for the stairs. That's when all hell really breaks loose. Scavs pour in from every direction, their chrome glinting in the emergency lights that have kicked in. V's mantis blades deploy with a metallic song that makes Johnny whistle appreciatively in her head.
What follows is pure violence elevated to an art form. V becomes a whirlwind of slashing chrome and spraying blood, her mantis blades carving elegant arcs through the air and flesh alike. She dances through the scavs like a ballet dancer from hell — here a throat opens in a crimson smile, there a chest cavity blooms like a metal flower. Aaron proves himself more than capable, his pistol dropping targets with surgical precision, always covering her blind spots.
A particularly large scav charges her with a machete, but V slides under his wild swing, hamstringing him with one blade while the other punches through his spine. She uses his falling body as a springboard, launching herself into a group trying to flank Aaron. Her blades flash in the strobing emergency lights, and suddenly there are significantly fewer scavs to worry about. The reprogrammed turret adds its own percussion to their symphony of destruction, cutting down anyone stupid enough to rush through its firing arc. Between her blades, Aaron's bullets, and the turret's persistent fire, they transform the exhibition hall into a masterpiece of mayhem.
Minutes that feel like hours later, the music fades. The floor is littered with bodies and parts of bodies, the survivors too broken to do anything but provide background groaning to the settling dust. V retracts her blades, crimson droplets pattering on the floor, and shares a look with Aaron. Not bad for a boxer.
After their bloody symphony reaches its finale, they navigate through the carnage to find themselves at the end of a corridor. The scent of antiseptic barely masks the metallic tang of blood in the air. Aaron, in a surreal display of civility that makes Johnny snort, actually knocks politely on a door marked with faded medical symbols. V shares his amusement — after the hurricane of violence they just unleashed, anyone inside must have heard them coming from ten blocks away.
"Damir. Been a while. You know why I'm here." Aaron's voice remains steady as he pushes into the clinic, but the ripperdoc's reaction is pure panic. The man practically jumps out of his chair, terror written across his features in neon letters. His clinic, despite being in scav territory, is more or less clean and well-maintained — a stark contrast to the chaos they left in their wake.
"I told you not to come, man. Ever. Yet you do, and with protection? Who the hell is this?" Damir's eyes dart between them like a trapped animal, taking in V's blood-splattered form with growing horror. His hands shake as he clutches a medical scanner like it might shield him from whatever violence he expects to follow.
"Relax." V attempts a reassuring smile, but given how much scav blood is probably still decorating her face and chrome, she probably looks more like a predator sizing up prey. "Just here to make sure Aaron leaves in one piece." She consciously retracts her mantis blades, trying to appear less threatening - though the wet blood still dripping from her arms somewhat ruins the effect.
"You don't get it..." Damir's hands shake as he runs them through his hair. "If Angie finds out, I'll end up in the bay, a hole in my face, cement shoes on hands and feet."
Aaron does his best to calm the terrified ripper, insisting that his skills make him too valuable for Angie to waste, even if she discovers the truth. His voice carries the weight of their shared history, reminding Damir of past favors and loyalties. Eventually, Damir's survival instinct loses to professional pride, and he reluctantly agrees to help, though his movements remain nervous and twitchy.
He instructs Aaron to get on the operating chair immediately, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. The boxer asks V to stick around during the procedure, just to make sure everything goes smoothly. She agrees, rolling a chair into a corner of the clinic where she can watch both the door and the operation.
The procedure proceeds with agonizing slowness. V occasionally glances at Damir working around Aaron's opened skull, but mostly keeps her attention firmly on her holo — she's had seen quite enough of surgery for one day, thank you very much. Johnny materializes next to her, idly playing air guitar while making unhelpful comments about the doc's technique and comparing it unfavorably to Vik's work.
A message from Kerry provides a welcome distraction from the wet sounds of medical tools and Johnny's running commentary.
V exchanges a knowing look with Johnny, who just shrugs, his virtual cigarette casting ghostly light in the dim clinic. Knowing Kerry, this could be anything, but at least he sounds genuinely excited in his messages. That's usually a good sign. Usually.
A few minutes later, Damir finishes wrapping Aaron's head with pristine white bandages, his hands finally steady now that the delicate part is done. He turns to V with an air of professional satisfaction that doesn't quite mask his lingering nervousness. “There, finished. The blocker is inactive. Kid will wake up soon.”
V frowns as she rises from her chair, joints cracking after sitting still so long. "Chip's just inactive? You were supposed to remove it..." She thinks it through, and before the doc can explain, understanding dawns. "But... chip's buried in the inner ear. You'd have to get invasive. Receptor muting's safer, less risky. Chip's dead, Aaron'll recover quickly. Good work, Damir."
He returns a satisfied nod, but immediately jumps like he's been shocked when the clinic door swings open again. The color drains from his face as three figures enter, a small "Ah, fuck..." escaping his lips. V follows his gaze, surprised to see a woman who breaks every stereotype about the Animals.
Where most gang members sport bulging, steroid-enhanced muscles, she's built more like V herself — lean and not very tall. Her only visible chrome consists of delicate decorative lines adorning an objectively beautiful face. Her bubblegum pink hair and fashion clothes look more appropriate for a party than a gang meeting. Her two bodyguards, however, are textbook Animals— massive mountains of naturally enhanced muscle, their skin showing the telltale signs of advanced hormone therapy and biological augmentation rather than chrome.
Damir launches into a desperate attempt to save his skin, words tumbling out in panic. "Look Angie... you know how it goes. They come in, guns, fists ready — what was I to do...?"
"Damir, you can fuck off for now." Angie's voice is silk over steel, leaving no room for argument. Her manicured nails tap an impatient rhythm against her crossed arms. "We'll talk later." The ripperdoc doesn't need to be told twice, practically teleporting out of his own clinic. Angie doesn't even spare him a glance as she approaches Aaron's unconscious form and gently caresses his cheek. "There he is. Our little Aaron. Wonder what he's dreamin' about. Apparently used his brain for once — didn't come alone."
She gives him an almost affectionate pat on the shoulder before stepping back, crossing her arms as she turns to V. "So... we gonna have a problem?"
"Like to solve problems, not cause 'em." V mirrors her stance, meeting her gaze steadily. Johnny materializes behind Angie, studying her with uncharacteristic intensity.
"Same. Pragmatism — like it, like others to like it." She smirks, and V suddenly understands what this woman brings to the Animals. What she lacks in muscle, she makes up for in razor-sharp intelligence. The gang would collapse without people like her running the show. "Now, got any idea who you're protecting?"
"A boxer you're about to ruin, end his career."
"Aaron built what he has on our eddies." Angie explains, her perfectly modulated voice carrying the weight of shared history. "He owes us, fights thanks to us. Before that, he did... other things. Aaron was our heavy. Good at it, too. Busted debtors' legs, set house fires... It's who he is. But wild violence like that needs honing, nurturing. So we invested in implants, training. Aaron owes us. We just want him to pay off his debt. Need him to throw the Vince fight, that's it, and we'll be even."
Johnny whispers "Don't you hate it when they make sense?"
Yup — she does hate it when supposed villains turn out to be... reasonable like this. She sighs, running a hand through her hair, "Fight of his life, it's supposed to be. And you want him to take a dive."
"Aaron's mixed it up a dozen times till now." Angie rolls her eyes with the exhaustion of someone explaining basic math to a child, her enhanced features making the gesture somehow both elegant and condescending. "Most of his fights were fixed. It's nothing unusual."
"What'll you do?" V asks, though she's starting to see where this is going. "Just flip the switch, watch 'im flop?"
"Mean the blocker? Never used it." Angie shrugs, dismissing the piece of tech like it's yesterday's news. Her bodyguards shift slightly, their massive frames blocking any potential escape routes without being overtly threatening. "He always went down on his own, when we asked. It's worked out well for him. Could for you, too. Let it go. We'll make sure Aaron goes down, you'll net ten percent of the winnings."
Well, at least this makes her decision easier. V's getting real tired of people trying to buy her off — seems like everyone in Night City thinks they can solve their problems by throwing eddies at them. She draws Johnny's Malorian in one fluid motion, keeping it lowered but visible, making the threat clear. "One other way to solve this. Aaron will take his sweet time comin' to. Unless you wanna end up like Sasquatch."
The merc knows hierarchy means everything in gangs like this — especially the Animals, where strength and reputation are currency more valuable than eddies. Name-dropping the alpha she'd taken down during her Voodoo Boys gig can only work in her favor. Of course, she doesn't mention the circumstances of that victory — no need for Angie to know that V only got the upper hand by sneaking behind the other Animal leader and dropping her before she could even spot V. Sometimes reputation is better than reality.
The technique works like a charm. Angie's enhanced features can't quite hide her reaction — eyes narrowing as she takes a calculated step back, clearly shaken by this revelation of V's identity. Her perfectly maintained facade cracks just slightly. "Didn't think he could afford a merc in your league. I was wrong, swung above his weight."
Despite her attempt to play it cool, V knows she's already won. Angie signals her two bodyguards to fall back, their massive frames reluctantly retreating toward the door. Before leaving, she can't resist adding, "But... I advise you to consider what you're gonna tell 'im when he wakes up."
With that parting shot, she's gone. V doesn't move a muscle, keeping her gun ready and eyes locked on the door. Johnny materializes beside her, whistling low. "Shit, that was almost too easy. Either you're getting better at this whole intimidation thing, or she's smarter than your average Animal."
"Probably both," V mutters, only relaxing her vigilance when she hears groaning behind her — Aaron coming around.
"Ugh. Fuck." He groans, slowly sitting up, bandages slightly askew. His movements are careful, like someone expecting pain. "Wouldn' recommend head surgery to anyone."
"Your friends swung by while you were out cold." V informs him once he's steady on his feet, holstering the Malorian. "Had us a little chat."
Aaron immediately tenses, nervously scanning the room like he expects Animals to materialize from the shadows. His hands clench into fists instinctively. "Shit. And?"
"All good. Convinced 'em to leave you alone." The merc reassures him, then adds with a more serious tone, "Angie told me a bit about your past. A little rippin's no way to solve all your problems. This ain't about your boxing career. Stakes are different, you get it?"
"Yeah, I think..." He sighs heavily, his gaze distant, probably reliving past mistakes. The weight of his history with the Animals seems to physically press down on his shoulders. "Guess I know what you mean. Thanks, V."
After that, he tells her he's staying behind to have a word with Damir when the ripper returns to his clinic. V nods, wishes him luck, and takes her leave, stepping carefully over what's left of the scavs they dealt with earlier.
As she exits the building without further incident and lights up a victory smoke, Johnny materializes beside her, leaning against a graffiti-covered wall. The setting sun catches on his chrome arm, sending patterns dancing across the concrete. "So that's it? No motivational speech for the boxer? No 'fight for freedom, it's your chance, now or never' bullshit?"
"Nah... Barely know the guy, and..." She takes a long drag before continuing, watching the smoke curl in the late afternoon light. "To be honest, I don't wanna get more involved. Fixed part of the problem, gave him the freedom to make his own choice. The rest? Not my fight."
"Yeah, I get that." He swings onto her bike with his usual fluid grace, waiting for her to join him. "What now?"
"Quick stop home, good shower, then see what Kerry's cooking up." V replies as she straddles the arch and fires up the engine. Johnny's arms wrap around her waist, solid and familiar, as she pulls away from the clinic. The warmth of his chest against her back is comforting after a day of violence and moral ambiguity.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
At exactly eight PM, V parks her Arch behind Dark Matter, following Kerry's coordinates. The engine's purr echoes off the walls before dying, leaving an almost eerie silence. It's a surprisingly quiet street right on the edge of Charter Hill, which explains its unexpected cleanliness — no garbage, no passed-out junkies, not even the usual neon signs that plague every other corner of Night City. Nothing special marks the location — just a plain door set into an unremarkable wall — making V question if she's in the right place as she swings off her bike, boots clicking on the pristine pavement.
Before heading out, she'd taken a long, luxurious shower at her apartment — after all, if Kerry insisted on ‘dressing to impress,’ she figured showing up with scav entrails still stuck in her hair might send the wrong message. Her outfit choice landed on a leather ensemble — sleek pants that hug her curves while allowing freedom of movement, paired with a crop top that manages to be both stylish and practical. Johnny had been particularly insistent about the practical part, wanting her ready for anything. "With Ker," he'd said while she was getting ready, "could be anything from a quiet jam session to startin’ a riot."
She pushes through the door into a small room containing nothing but an elevator and a well-dressed bouncer sporting a crisp bow tie and tailored suit. He gives her a practiced neutral look. "This elevator is out of order. Sorry."
"Out of order for Kerry Eurodyne's guests, too?" V asks, trying her luck. "He's expecting me."
The man adjusts his glasses, his gaze going distant for a moment — likely checking her claim through his optics. The blue glow behind his lenses confirms he's running some sort of verification protocol. After a beat, he gives her a slight nod and steps aside with practiced grace. "In that case, enjoy your evening."
The elevator shoots upward smoothly, and when the doors slide open with a soft chime, V finds herself in a packed room practically vibrating with electric energy. She weaves through the crowd, quickly discovering the source of the excitement. On stage, Kerry and Us Cracks are giving an interview, enthusiastically working the press cameras. The rockerboy is in his element, delivering a well-rehearsed speech about how rock isn't dead, it's evolving, and he's proud to be part of that evolution.
Johnny, staying close to V as she approaches the stage, can't help but roll his eyes at this declaration. "Fuckin' hell," he mutters, only V able to hear him over the crowd noise. "Few days ago he was in their dressing room telling them exactly the opposite." He shakes his head, but there's a hint of pride in his voice. "But hey, if he's making the best of the shit situation his agent dropped him in, good for him."
As V manages to weave her way to the front row, Kerry spots her and waves her past the security cordon. His face lights up with genuine pleasure at seeing her, a stark contrast to the practiced media smile he's been wearing all evening. He grabs her shoulder, turning her to face the wall of cameras while introducing her to the press. "This is V, my, uh... right hand. V's the little bird that shows up when I gotta wrap up and run. Sorry."
The merc suppresses a grimace, not particularly thrilled about having her face plastered across every infodoc in the city. She's used to operating in the shadows, not standing under spotlights. When a particularly aggressive journalist tries to probe about her relationship with the rockstar, shoving a mic in her face, she deflects with a firm "No comment" and attempts to retreat.
She's caught off guard when Blue Moon gently catches her arm, telling her she needs to talk as soon as V has a moment, her expression suggesting it's something important. V nods to the pop star before following Kerry, who's already moving away from the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who's spent decades dodging reporters.
As they make their way to another elevator, Kerry launches into an impassioned speech about the music industry, his voice carrying the weight of decades of frustration. He rants about how his agent will regret making him sign those papers, his hands gesturing animatedly. When V suggests breaking the contract, he bristles, explaining that doing so would get him blacklisted by the entire industry. "Trading one cage for another," he says, running a hand through his hair. The elevator doors open to what Kerry claims is one of his favorite spots in all of Night City.
They emerge onto a completely deserted terrace, its plush seating arrangements empty tonight thanks to Kerry's private booking. The city sprawls below them like a living entity, a glittering tapestry of neon and chrome stretching to the horizon. The wind up here carries the faint scent of ozone and night-blooming flowers from the rooftop gardens that dot Charter Hill.
"Ahh..." He sighs contentedly as he approaches the railing, the wind playing with his sleeveless jacket. "Can't get enough of this view. I love lookin' at this city from above." V follows, taking in the surroundings. Sure, the view is impressive — Night City laid out like a circuit board made of light and shadow — but she's always preferred being in the streets rather than gazing down at them from on high. When she remains silent, Kerry continues, his voice taking on a more contemplative tone. "Night City's not somethin' you ever forget. Just doesn't letcha."
"Whaddaya mean?" V asks, noticing a flicker of hesitation cross his features. "C'mon, can tell something's wrong."
"Thought the whole Us Cracks thing was me bein' afraid. Of being exposed, of people finally seeing me as another piece of merch, another cog in the corpomachine." Kerry confesses after a moment, his fingers drumming restlessly on the railing. "Sellout Eurodyne, showin' Asian pop starlets a good time for cash, fame, and the chance to remind people he's still fuckin' alive."
"No truth to that?"
"There is. But that's not what's important." He shrugs, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the last rays of sunset paint the sky in shades of purple and gold. "Real problem's deeper. Way deeper. See, thought I was afraid everybody'd think me another corposlave. But I was just afraid I'd be in someone's shadow again."
V lights a cigarette, the familiar motion giving her hands something to do as she watches from the corner of her eye as Johnny materializes nearby. His expression is unreadable, but there's tension in every line of his body. Though she already suspects where the rockstar's going with this, she asks, "Again?"
"Lived in Johnny's for years." He confirms her suspicions, his voice carrying decades of buried emotion. The words seem to physically pain him, like old wounds being reopened. "Part of the scenery, machinery, helpin' 'im shine brighter. Never believed I'd make it on my own without Silverhand."
Johnny tenses beside them, muttering to himself, "That why he left Samurai? Fuck..." His voice carries a mix of realization and regret that makes V's heart ache.
V can complete what goes unsaid, and relays to Kerry, "Johnny figured you chickened out. Couldn't take the pressure, so you left Samurai."
"Yeah, I know. But he was wrong." This statement brings a bittersweet smile to Kerry's lips, his chrome catching the city lights in a way that makes him look both younger and older at the same time. "Decided to start fightin' for myself. Still keepin' that up. Night City's a city of shadows. Done everything I could to walk clear of 'em for years. Fuck..."
The raw sadness etched across Kerry's features is genuinely alarming — it's not the usual dramatic rockstar melancholy, but something deeper and more painful. V turns slightly toward Johnny, silently pleading for help. Through their link, she asks, "Wanna take the wheel?" The familiar sensation of their potential swap tingles at the edges of her consciousness. "Feel like your choom really needs you right now."
Johnny hesitates, his expression carefully hidden behind his aviators, though V can still read the conflict in the set of his shoulders and the way his chrome hand flexes unconsciously. "Nah. Ker’ called you , not me. Think I've done enough damage already. Guess you'll have to clean up my mess..." The self-loathing in his voice is thick enough to cut with a knife, decades of regret packed into each word.
V wants to say something, anything to comfort him — after all, they've become experts at carrying each other's burdens — but she's already been silent too long and Kerry's clearly waiting for a response. She turns back to him and says, trying to inject some confidence into her voice, "I still got a lot to prove to this city, but you... you're at the top. City's yours. What's there to be afraid of?"
"Eh, we'll talk about this again someday." He dismisses with a wave of his hand, the gesture somehow both casual and defeated. "Once you're in my shoes."
"Think it's in the cards for me?" V asks, the question tasting bitter on her tongue. She knows with her countdown timer, it's just another impossible dream to add to the pile. Another future she'll never see.
"You're strong." Kerry shrugs, his gaze still fixed on the cityscape spreading out below them. "City couldn't swallow you if it tried."
"You'll be fine..." The words slip out before she can stop them, heavy with unspoken meaning, the weight of her mortality hanging between them, "without me, too."
"Fuck. Yeah, sure hope so." He responds without looking at her, his tone suggesting he doesn't believe it for a second.
"Should get back." The merc says, nodding toward the elevator. "Everyone downstairs is waiting... for you."
"I know, I know. Aim to knock back a few to this town tonight. And to me in it." His response comes distracted, like he's already drifting away into his thoughts, lost somewhere between past and present. "But I'm gonna stay up here a bit longer. You go ahead."
With nothing left to add, V simply says "Ok. See ya" before flicking her cigarette over the railing, watching it spiral down into the abyss of city lights below, a tiny shooting star in reverse.
Once inside the elevator, she hits the button for the party floor and sighs, leaning against the cool surface. "Fuck... I really couldn't help him this time."
"You did what you could." Johnny comforts her, wrapping his chrome arm around her waist. "Wasn't much to be done anyway. Ker’ just needs some alone time, sort through all the shit in his head. You'll see, he'll be back down soon enough, actin’ like nothin’ happened, same old Kerry."
"Hope so." She responds simply, resting her head against his shoulder. Johnny's fingers trace idle patterns on her hip as they descend, neither of them needing to fill the silence with words.
When the elevator doors slide open, the party is in full swing. V seriously considers making a quick exit, but two things hold her back — first, she wants to make sure Kerry eventually comes down to enjoy his own party, and second, she promised Blue Moon they'd talk. Might as well get that done now.
She makes her way through the crowd, heading toward the Lazrpop group's private booth. Their imposing security guard steps aside without a word — clearly, they were expecting her. V sinks into the luxurious leather couch and immediately, a waitress materializes at her side, waiting to take an order. The merc requests a cocktail — since she's here, might as well enjoy some of the perks — and as soon as the woman glides away, she leans toward Blue Moon, keeping her voice low to avoid attracting the attention of the journalists hovering nearby like vultures. "So, you wanted to talk about somethin’?"
"I've... got a problem." The pop star confesses. The other members of Us Cracks draw closer, their practiced smiles doing little to hide their anxiety. Blue Moon explains, her voice barely above a whisper, "It's about a fan of mine. The, um... the weirder variety. I've been getting death threats. A lot of 'em. All sent to my private address. I'm also being followed."
"We can't just wait around till something bad happens." Red Menace interjects, her usually playful demeanor replaced by serious concern. "We have to find him, and deal with him."
"We don't know how much you charge, V... but we're prepared to pay whatever the cost — believe us." Purple Force adds, wrapping a protective arm around her bandmate's shoulders.
Shit, this definitely isn't good. V knows all too well that this city has no shortage of psychos, and these situations need to be taken seriously. She's seen too many similar cases end in blood and screaming. "Our guy — you know anything about him?"
"Nothing." Blue Moon sighs, fidgeting with her nails. "Only that he signs his letters 'GC'."
"Hm. Not much to go on... Clue nonetheless." V tells her, already running through possible approaches in her head. "Happy to help out."
"Phew." She exhales in relief, a genuine smile finally breaking through her worried expression. "Kerry was right — you're, like, super chill. So, I've got a plan. I'll go for a little stroll by Kabuki Roundabout tomorrow, while you hang back — watch out for any signs of trouble."
"You catch something suspicious..." Purple Force continues, "Like, if you see the guy, and you're a hundred percent sure it's him... No need to kill him, though. All we wanna do is teach him a lesson."
"And I'll keep an extra lookout from a vantage point high up." Red Menace adds.
"Okay, we'll do it that way." V confirms, pausing as the waitress returns with her drink — something electric blue. She takes a sip, and when they're alone again, adds, "Don't worry, we'll sort this problem out."
After the heavy discussion, the conversation shifts to lighter territory, with the girls enthusiastically telling V about spending all of yesterday in the studio with Kerry — that's what they're celebrating tonight. Their new collaboration will hit all the radio stations tomorrow, and their teams are already working on an animated music video to accompany it. The way they describe the recording session, all excited gestures and bright smiles, makes it clear that Kerry's managed to completely win them over.
Speaking of Kerry, he joins them about ten minutes later and, just as Johnny predicted, he's sporting a bright smile and seems much better. V, now more at ease about her friend's state of mind, stays a while longer, nursing her drink and enjoying the atmosphere. She catches Johnny watching Kerry with a mix of fondness and lingering guilt, his chrome hand absently tapping out a rhythm on her thigh.
Eventually, though, she finishes her glass and makes her excuses — it's been a long day, and tomorrow's mission requires her to be at her best. The cool night air hits her face as she makes her way out of the club, a welcome relief after the packed interior, her arch waiting exactly where she left it. Johnny materializes behind her as she swings her leg over the seat, his arms wrapping tight around her waist as they speed through the city streets.
The journey from Japantown to the Glen passes in a blur of neon and shadow, the city's eternal light show streaming past them like a river of color. Both of them feel the tension drain from their shoulders when they finally reach their apartment, the familiar sight of their building rising up against the smog-stained sky like a welcome beacon.
V immediately strips off her leather outfit, trading it for the comfort of her favorite pajamas. She collapses onto the bed with a grateful sigh, her chrome catching the city lights filtering through the window. Johnny materializes beside her, his voice soft with concern as he asks, "You okay?"
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" She smiles, curling into his warmth like a cat seeking comfort. "Saw your face when we were talking to Ker', and..."
"Nah, I'm good, don't worry 'bout that. Same old shit — I fucked up a lifetime ago and it's still hurting people I care about. Getting used to it by now, don't stress yourself over it." He pushes a strand of her blue hair behind her ear, then lets his fingers trail along her jawline, where the scar from her surgery is invisible to the eye but still slightly perceptible to touch. "More worried about you."
He doesn't need to specify that he's talking about her face replacement, and V reassures him, "Well, it's still weird to think about, but I'll get used to it." What she keeps to herself is that it doesn't really matter anyway, since it'll be his face soon enough. The thought sits heavy in her chest, but she pushes it away, focusing instead on the solid warmth of him beside her.
"If you say so." He wraps his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. He can sense she's holding something back, but decides not to push it for now. "Try to sleep now, princess."
"Mmh." She presses a soft kiss to his collarbones before closing her eyes. "G'night, rockerboy."
"Night, sweetheart." He places a kiss in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo mixed with the lingering traces of Night City smoke. His chrome hand traces lazy patterns on her back as he spends the next few minutes listening to her breathing slow as she drifts off quickly, the events of the day catching up with her. Eventually, lulled by her steady heartbeat and the distant hum of the city, he follows her into sleep.
The next morning finds V nursing her coffee, the rich aroma filling their apartment. The familiar routine feels different today, weighted with unspoken meaning as she settles in front of her computer, determined to do some shopping for Johnny. Her fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before she starts ordering: a cork bulletin board, then a collection of photos sent to a printer — including the ones Kerry forwarded last night. These rare snapshots of Johnny from his Samurai days make her heart clench — he looks so young, so alive, his rage still pure and purposeful.
She adds several vinyl records to her cart — some classics Johnny's mentioned, others she thinks he'd appreciate — followed by clothes that match his style. Each item feels like a promise, a future she's trying to ensure even if she won't be part of it.
"The hell you doing?" Johnny materializes behind her, leaning over her shoulder to peer at the screen.
"Nothin’. Just some shopping." She responds with forced innocence, quickly navigating to Autofixer's website and pulling up the motorcycle she's had her eye on. She can already picture Johnny on it. "Think I should buy it?"
"Definitely." His grin is infectious, hands squeezing her shoulders with barely contained excitement. "You've been talking about it forever..."
"Then it's decided!" She hits the purchase button without hesitation. The eddies leaving her account don't even make her flinch — what's money good for if not making the people you love happy? Besides, her roulette winnings more than cover it.
The morning unfolds in a blur of activity. A quick NCART ride to Santo Domingo — during which she confirms plans with Blue Moon for their afternoon meeting — followed by picking up the bike from El Capitán's garage. The joy radiating through their link as they test it on the highway is almost overwhelming — Johnny's excitement mixing with her own until she can't tell where one ends and the other begins. Her delighted whoops echo off concrete barriers as they take the loop around Rancho and along Pacifica's edge, the wind whipping her blue hair wild and free.
When traffic forces them to slow down near Heywood, V realizes it's nearly noon. The Coyote Cojo beckons — first stop on her unspoken farewell tour. The familiar neon sign brings a flood of memories — Jackie's booming laugh, countless nights of celebration, the feeling of finding family in this city of strangers.
Pepe's already at his post, greeting her with his usual warm smile as she orders a Chromanticore. The tapas Mama Welles brings over are perfect as always, and when V invites her to sit, the older woman's eyes crinkle with maternal affection. They share stories about Jackie, laughter mixing with quickly-wiped tears, and V tries to memorize every detail — the way Mama's hands gesture as she talks, the familiar scents of cooking and tequila, the worn smoothness of the bar under her fingers.
Once her stomach is full, V stands to say goodbye, even sharing a hug with Mama Welles, which earns her a concerned, "Everything okay, niña?" She quickly reassures her, saying she's just very busy and probably won't have a chance to come back for a while. She carefully avoids saying it's goodbye, that she just wanted to hug the woman who's always treated her like her own daughter one last time.
After that, she leaves the bar with one weight lifted from her shoulders. That's two people she's managed to say goodbye to without really saying it — just everyone else to go. Call Judy, visit the Aldecaldos camp, swing by Vik's clinic, maybe even see her favorite fixers one last time if she has time… so many people to see one last time without raising suspicion. Back on the bike, heading toward Kabuki, Time to meet Blue Moon and, hopefully, catch her stalker.
V focuses on the road ahead, grateful that Johnny can't see past her carefully maintained facade. One thing at a time — right now, they've got work to do. The rest... well, the rest will come soon enough. His arms around her waist are comforting as always, his excitement about the new bike and their upcoming mission bleeding through their link. He's completely focused on the present, on their life together, while V carries the weight of her unspoken goodbyes alone. For now, that's exactly how she needs it to be.
Once at the destination, V settles on the bench Blue Moon indicated, cursing under her breath when a sudden downpour drenches Night City's streets. Shit, she should've checked the weather before leaving home. The pop star who joins her minutes later clearly had more foresight, wrapped in a polka dot raincoat and sporting a pink cap that partially conceals her distinctive optics while shielding her from the rain.
Blue Moon quickly recaps the plan — she'll casually stroll around the area while V follows at a distance, watching for any threats. V nods, letting the pop star get a head start before beginning her discreet surveillance.
The first false alarm comes when a group of thugs approaches Blue Moon. V's hand instinctively moves to her iron, but Johnny's already spotted the truth. "Relax, just some fanboys about to make complete gonks of themselves." He's right — their threatening stance quickly dissolves into awkward excitement as they recognize their idol.
"This ain't gonna work," V mutters, watching another group of fans gather. "Too many people at street level."
"Up there." Johnny points to the elevated walkway that forms Kabuki' Roundabout’s second story. "Better view, less crowds, more chances to spot our stalker."
From her elevated position on the upper platform, the merc spots a man taking long-distance photos of Blue Moon. She confronts him, demanding to know what the fuck he's doing. Turns out he's just another paparazzo hunting for his next scoop. When V presses him, he mentions noticing a young woman in green frequently following the pop star. Out of pure spite — and partly because she didn't appreciate his attitude — V smashes his camera against the ground. Leaving him cursing and sputtering, she moves to investigate this mysterious woman in green.
The rain finally lets up as V tracks her target from a distance, watching as she politely approaches Blue Moon, introducing herself as a huge fan and requesting a photo. The idol agrees cheerfully, asking for the young woman's name. "Green Cloud," she replies, before gushing thanks and departing. The name rings alarm bells in V's head — fuck, those initials match the threatening letters. Despite her harmless appearance, V's instincts scream that this is their stalker, and she follows as the woman weaves through Kabuki's crowded streets.
When Green Cloud enters a gun shop, V decides that's all the confirmation she needs. She approaches with calculated casualness, dropping an ironic "Nice nickname. Green Cloud." When the woman tries to distance herself, V stays close, adding with deadly precision, "'GC' for short. That's how you sign your letters, right?"
Realizing she's been made, Green Cloud mutters a small "Fuck" before bolting. As V takes off in pursuit, she quickly informs Blue Moon she's found the stalker and to stay put. The chase ends in a narrow alley, V catching her target from behind and applying pressure to her neck until the woman crumples unconscious onto the wet concrete.
"Blue Moon? I've got her," V reports via comm while searching the woman's pockets. What she finds makes her stomach turn — photos of the star with the eyes cut out, and a disturbing stalker journal. Fuck, she must have been tracking Blue Moon for ages, and judging by the sick shit written in there, this could have ended very badly.
"Did you say 'her'?" The pop star sounds surprised. "Hm, well, there's a twist. I'm heading your way."
While waiting, V improvises restraints using the woman's backpack straps to secure her hands behind her back. It's not perfect, but it'll do for now. When Blue Moon arrives, V shares her discoveries, suggesting they call the badges immediately to get this psycho behind bars.
Turns out the NCPD responds real fucking quick when a celebrity makes the call. Within minutes, they're hauling Green Cloud away and taking statements. Once they're alone again, Blue Moon thanks V profusely, who promises she's just a call away if any more trouble comes up. She escorts the idol to where Red Menace has been watching the whole scene through a sniper scope, exactly as planned. Once both stars are safely in their car, V can finally breathe easy and put this job behind her.
With the afternoon waning and no particular desire to wander aimlessly through Night City, V decides to head home. The ride back is pure joy — the new bike handles like a dream, responsive and powerful under her control. Johnny's enthusiasm bleeds through their link as they weave through traffic.
Back at the apartment, knowing tomorrow will be intense, V opts for a quiet evening of preparation and rest. She settles at her weapons maintenance station, carefully cleaning her mantis blades while Johnny sprawls nearby, his presence comforting and familiar.
"You know," he muses, watching her work, "still remember the first time you used those things. Scared the shit outta yourself."
"Fuck off, I did not!" V protests, but she's laughing. "Just... wasn't used to having blades in my arms."
"Sure, princess. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
She moves on to his Malorian, handling the iconic weapon with practiced care. Johnny watches intently — he's always particular about his gun, but he trusts V with it completely now. Their conversation drifts easily between weapon maintenance tips and old stories, comfortable silence filling the gaps.
After stashing some snacks from the kitchen — and listening to Johnny complain about her "garbage taste in chips"— V runs a bath. The hot water fills the small bathroom with steam as Johnny takes his usual spot beside the tub.
Judy picks up on the first ring when V calls. The BD tech's voice is bright with excitement as she describes her Oregon visit and her arrival in Seattle. "You should see this virtu studio, V — it's pretty nova. Got tech I've only dreamed about." She pauses, then adds more softly, "Think I'm finally finding my way, you know?"
V shares her own recent adventures, carefully curating the positive stories — Kerry's antics, the Samurai reunion, today's successful mission with Blue Moon. She keeps her voice light, determined not to worry her friend. When they finally say goodbye, promising to talk again soon, V feels another piece of her farewell tour click into place.
Sinking deeper into the water, V lets the warmth seep into her muscles. Johnny's humming something under his breath while absently playing with the water's surface. Later, dressed in her favorite worn sleep clothes, V collapses onto the couch. Johnny immediately settles beside her, and she automatically shifts to make room for him, a dance they've perfected over time. Some ancient action movie plays on the large screen, but V barely registers it, focused instead on Johnny's fingers in her hair and Nibbles purring against her leg.
"Your roots are showing," Johnny murmurs, twirling a strand of blue between his fingers. "Getting sloppy with the dye jobs."
"Been a bit busy trying to save our asses, if you haven't noticed."
"My ass is worth saving, though."
When the credits roll, they climb the metal stairs to the mezzanine together, their nighttime routine so familiar it feels like they've been doing it forever. Settled in bed, Johnny breaks their comfortable silence, "So, got your panties in a twist 'bout tomorrow's gig?"
"Bit nervous, yeah," V admits, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close. "Got a feelin' it's gonna be a real clusterfuck."
"When isn't it?" He grumbles, but his hand finds hers, squeezing gently. "So, biggest question — Songbird or Reed? Gonna have to fuck one of 'em over eventually, princess."
"I know." She smiles against his skin. "Don't worry about that, though. Know what to do — you'll see, not gonna waste the surprise."
"Fuckin' hate when you play mysterious like that." He chuckles, pressing a kiss to her hair. "But whatever, do your thing. Trust you not to completely fuck it up."
"Since when are you so trusting?" She teases, snuggling closer.
"Since you proved you're slightly less of a gonk than I thought." His tone is light, but his arms tighten around her. "Just slightly, mind you."
They fall into comfortable silence, Johnny's fingers still playing with her hair, V's hand tracing lazy patterns on his chest. The city noise filters in through the window — sirens, traffic, the eternal pulse of Night City — but in their bed, it all feels distant, unimportant.
If there were no desire to heal
The damaged and broken met along
This tedious path I've chosen here
I certainly would've walked away
The early afternoon sun blazes over Dogtown like a merciless eye, turning Eden Plaza into a concrete furnace. Heat ripples distort the horizon, making the massive Hansen propaganda displays shimmer like mirages. V sits on one of the many stone steps, her clothes already sticking uncomfortably to her skin.
The signal comes through her holo minutes later, Songbird's messages lighting up her optics in rapid succession.
Without missing a beat, V dials Reed. His face appears in her vision, looking as composed as ever. "Reed? Got news from Song, says things are starting to move on her end. Meeting’s happenin’ in just under three hours"
“Good. So it’s time to intercept and supplant the netrunners.” His confident tone doesn't waver, but his next words make V's stomach drop. “Just one hiccup — our access to Caron Exotics was cut. They musta discovered us.”
"Fan-fucking-tastic," V mutters under her breath. She had felt something would go sideways today — it always does — but she hadn't expected the mission to start falling apart before it even properly began. Running a hand through her sweat-dampened hair, she asks,“Wait, seriously?” So we lost ‘em?”
“Not entirely. We know they were last in City Center, headed our direction.” Reed's professional calm is unwavering, like a setback is just another Tuesday. “Find a vantage point near the entrance of Dogtown. You’ll grab a trace on the ‘runners as they drive to the meetin’.”
He hangs up before she can respond — typical spy style that makes Johnny snort derisively in her head. V rolls her eyes as she pushes herself up from the sun-warmed steps, scanning the area. Across the street, she spots a promising building, its scaffolding offering an easy climb to the roof. The metal is scorching under her hands as she makes her way up.
The rooftop offers a perfect vantage point overlooking Dogtown's secured entrance. Barbed wire glints viciously in the sunlight, and the guards below look like particularly well-armed ants from this height. There's no way the ‘runners can slip past without her noticing.
V settles right in the sun, letting the heat soak into her bones, pulling out a cigarette, and Johnny materializes beside her, mirroring her actions with his own spectral smoke. "So we just wait?" he drawls, legs dangling over the edge of the building. His aviators reflect the harsh sunlight, but V can see the tension in his jaw. He feels it too — the electricity in the air, the calm before the storm.
"Yeah, we just wait." V nods, taking a long drag. The smoke burns pleasantly in her lungs as she watches the street below. Barghest soldiers and scavs move through the heat-warped air like sharks circling prey, while the occasional resident hurries past with their head down. It's the calm before the storm, and she knows that once it breaks, there'll be no turning back.
Hansen's face flashes across the surveillance aerozep floating above the district like some dystopian vulture, and V instinctively presses her shoulder against Johnny's, drawing comfort from his presence. The district stretches out before them, a maze of concrete and rust under the merciless sun, while they wait for the first domino to fall. V can feel it in her gut — this is going to be one hell of a day, and not everyone's walking away from it in one piece.
For the next hour, the only notable change comes from the sky itself. Dark storm clouds roll in with surprising speed, transforming the scorching afternoon into an almost nightlike gloom. The first raindrops are a blessed relief after baking in the sun, but within minutes, the gentle shower becomes a full-blown deluge. The rain pounds against concrete and metal, creating a deafening symphony of urban weather that drowns out even the constant buzz of the city.
"Fuck me," V mutters, knowing she can't abandon her observation post. Her clothes are soaked through in seconds, and that's when she notices something peculiar about Johnny. Usually, the Relic's environmental reactions are subtle — a pillow mark on his cheek when they wake up together, the warmth of his skin when he holds her close at night, the way his hair gets messed up by the wind.
But this... this is something else entirely. Water actually rolls down his face in rivulets, drips from his soaked hair onto his shoulders, making his tank top cling to his chest in a way that's entirely too distracting. His leather pants glisten with moisture, and when he pushes his wet hair back from his face, droplets scatter from the movement. He's never looked this real before, this solid, this alive — and fuck if it isn't both beautiful and terrifying.
Without thinking, V reaches out to touch his hair. It feels real under her fingers, cold and slick with rain, just like it should. Johnny freezes at her touch, his eyes widening behind his rain-speckled aviators. A droplet runs down his temple, following the line of his jaw, and V can't help but track its progress.
"Fuck, V..." he mutters, running his own hand through his hair, watching the water drip from his fingers with a mix of fascination and horror. "I can feel it. The rain. Know it's just your sensations transferrin’ to me but... shit feels real. Too real."
"Yeah," V swallows hard, trying to ignore the implications. The more real he becomes, the more her brain is getting fried by the Relic. Each new level of detail in his appearance is another sign of her approaching death. "Never seen you this... solid before."
Johnny's jaw tightens, and she can see the worry he's trying to hide behind his usual cocky facade. They both know what this means — time's running out. Whatever happens today with Hansen, it has to lead to a cure. They've got days left, maybe less, before the Relic completely overwrites her consciousness. Before V ceases to exist, and only Johnny remains.
"We'll fix this," Johnny says firmly, but his hand trembles slightly as he lights a cigarette, the flame of his lighter flickering in the rain. "Ain't lettin' you die, V. Not now, not ever. Not after everything."
V nods, not trusting her voice. They don't talk about it more — they never do. Instead, she leans against him, feeling the rain soak through both their clothes, his solid warmth a stark contrast to the cold droplets. She pretends it's just another normal day in Night City, that the increasing reality of his presence isn't a death sentence written in binary.
A convoy of vehicles appearing below breaks the moment, and they both straighten up, switching back to business mode. But Johnny's hand finds hers, squeezing it briefly, leaving wet fingerprints on her skin — a silent promise that they'll figure this out. They have to. Because the alternative isn't something he is willing to face.
She immediately comms Reed, reporting what looks like Hansen's additional muscle heading for the stadium, but no sign of their targets yet. Several more vehicles pass through, none matching their description. Johnny paces behind her, restless as always when forced to wait, leaving no wet footprints despite his soaked boots.
Finally, through the curtain of rain, she spots it — a dark green Quadra Sport R-7 with yellow racing stripes across its roof. Her scan confirms it's a Charon Exotics rental. "There they are!" she reports to Reed. "No question — both 'runners are inside. Got the signal?"
"Got it." The fed's voice is satisfied. "Not gonna slip off our radar anymore. Good work." As V starts climbing down the slippery scaffolding, following the car's direction on foot, he adds, "Still early for the meet with Hansen. They'll stop, kill time somewhere."
"Ok, they're stationary. And out of the car, walkin' toward a club now." Reed updates a minute later. "V, you're clear to head for the car. Get to it."
The coordinates flashing across V's optics lead her to an underground parking lot near the Heavy Hearts. It's eerily empty, not a camera in sight — perfect for their needs, though the lack of witnesses makes V's spine tingle with paranoia. Johnny materializes beside her, water still dripping from his hair, his expression matching her unease.
After confirming her position with Reed, he gives her the next step — use Alex's tech to unlock the car and get in the trunk. "Fuck me sideways," V mutters, pulling out the device. "Really don't like this part of the plan."
The sight of the device brings an unexpected chuckle. "Whoa... déjà vu." Unlike that failed Rayfield boost that led her to Jackie, this time the tech works flawlessly. The car unlocks without a whisper of an alarm.
V opens the trunk, settling inside with a grimace. After linking to the car's system, she takes a deep breath and pulls the lid closed. The space is criminally tight, barely enough room to breathe, let alone move. Johnny can't even materialize properly beside her — and that bothers her more than she'd like to admit. She's never been claustrophobic before, must be picking up that particular quirk from him. Thank fuck for the car's camera feed — at least she's not completely blind in here.
She reports her position to Reed, and he tells her to sit tight and wait. In the cramped darkness of the trunk, with rain drumming against metal above her head and Johnny's borrowed anxiety crawling under her skin, V can't help but think this might be the worst part of the whole op. Johnny's discomfort bleeds through their link, making her heart race and her palms sweat. She closes her eyes, focuses on steadying her breathing, and waits. Somewhere in the darkness of her mind, Johnny hums an old tune, keeping her grounded despite his own unease.
Thankfully, about thirty minutes later, V spots the Cassel twins returning to their car through the camera feed. The doors open, and she hears Aurore complaining in French to her brother about her hangover while he slides behind the wheel. V's translation software kicks in automatically, and when Reed tells her to take control of the vehicle, she holds off, wanting to eavesdrop on their conversation a bit longer.
Only after she's certain they won't reveal any more useful information — and she's carefully noted their speech patterns, the way Aurore's voice lilts when she's annoyed, how Aymeric's responses are clipped and professional — does V initiate the takeover. The twins' panic is immediate and visceral when they realize they've lost control of their ride.
"Fuck, this is harder than it looks," V mutters through gritted teeth, struggling to navigate without physical control of the wheel. The neural interface feels clumsy and unnatural, like trying to walk with someone else's legs. She guides the vehicle toward the rendezvous point Reed marked on her map, knowing she's racing against time. If the runners manage to counter-hack the system, it's game over.
Despite the challenge, she manages to guide the Quadra into another underground parking lot near Longshore Stacks, the metal shutter automatically sealing behind them with a thunderous crash. The moment the twins try to bolt from the vehicle, Reed and Alex emerge from the shadows, their tasers crackling with blue electricity. The runners drop before they can take two steps, their bodies convulsing briefly before going still and the agents drag their unconscious forms roughly from the car.
V pushes open the trunk, her muscles screaming in protest after being cramped for so long, just in time to witness the federal agents execute the twins with clinical precision — one bullet each to the head. The shots echo in the enclosed space, making her ears ring. "Fuck," she breathes, even though she'd seen it coming. Johnny, finally able to fully materialize beside her, looks equally disturbed by the cold-blooded efficiency of it all.
"Feds," he spits. "Always the same — doesn't matter what century you're in."
Stretching out her stiff limbs, V forces herself to stay professional, ignoring the growing pool of blood spreading across the concrete. "Ok, first step's behind us."
"Great work, V." Reed gestures toward a garment bag hanging nearby, seemingly unbothered by the execution he just performed. "A'right, we have fresh disguises all ready. But you still need to lift the access codes off 'em. Aurore's the one to check for those."
V nods and kneels beside the netrunner's body, trying not to look at the neat hole in her forehead or the way her eyes stare sightlessly at the ceiling. She turns the head to access the neural port, the skin still warm under her fingers. The connection is quick and clean — she extracts the Cynosure firmware key and disconnects.
Alex is already changing into clothes matching Aymeric's style, so V checks out her own disguise. It's an exact replica of what Aurore wore at the Black Sapphire — not the most creative choice from the FIA, but it'll do the job. She changes quickly, grateful to find comfortable sneakers instead of stilettos this time. Because when shit will inevitably hits the fan, she'll need to run and fight her way out of that stadium.
"Looking good, princess," Johnny drawls, leaning against the car with studied casualness that doesn't quite hide his unease. "Though I preferred the heels. Made your ass look fantastic."
"Fuck off," V mutters, but there's no heat in it. His attempt at normalcy helps steady her nerves as she prepares to step into a dead woman's shoes. Literally. The clothes still carry the faint scent of expensive perfume, making this whole situation feel even more surreal.
Once ready, V slides behind the wheel while Alex takes the passenger seat. The agent activates her faceplate implant, and V watches in fascination as Aymeric's features materialize over Alex's face, each detail settling into place with uncanny precision. The transformation is both seamless and deeply unsettling. The agent hands her a shard, saying, "V, behavioral imprint, now."
V inserts the shard into her neural port, feeling her own faceplate activate. System information floods her vision in cascading streams of data, status bars and calibration metrics dancing across her field of view as a pleasant tingling sensation spreads across her skin like warm honey. "Check, check?" she tests hesitantly, then her eyes widen. "Oh shit, my voice... Niiice." The words come out in Aurore's distinctive accent, her pitch slightly higher than usual.
Curious, V flips down the sun visor to examine herself in the mirror, and fuck — she feels Johnny's shock ripple through their connection like an electric current as they both stare at her reflection. She's now a perfect copy of the netrunner, down to the smallest detail — the vibrant short red hair styled in that deliberately messy way, the beauty mark precisely placed on her right cheek, even those distinctive golden optics matches perfectly, creating a flawless illusion.
"Hang on, that's me? What the hell?" V asks, amazed by the transformation. Johnny materializes in the backseat, leaning forward to study her face with a mix of fascination and unease. His chrome hand reaches out, almost touching her cheek before pulling back.
"Fuck, V," he mutters.
"Preem, right?" Alex chuckles with Aymeric's monotone voice. "Give it a whirl — introduce yourself."
"Okay, here goes..." V takes a breath, channeling everything she observed about the netrunner — the slight tilt of her head when she speaks, the way her lips curl at the corners. "Aurore Cassel. Who the fuck is asking?" The words flow naturally, carrying that perfect blend of Parisian hauteur and attitude that characterized the original.
"Hmmm. Not bad." Alex's approval sounds strange in Aymeric's clinical tone. "Got her bitchy attitude down pat."
Reed, ever the professional, leans through the passenger window, his expression grim. "It can feel like a real trip at first, but you'll get used to it."
"Take a sec, collect yourself, then we move," Alex adds, suddenly all business. "Hansen's waitin'."
V takes another moment to study herself in the mirror while the agents briefly discuss Alex's extraction plan, which apparently has presidential approval. Johnny's still staring at her, his expression unreadable behind his aviators, but she can feel his unease through their link.
"Weird as fuck, seeing you like this," he mutters, lighting a cigarette with slightly shaky hands. "Reminds me of those old horror BDs about body snatchers."
V closes the sun visor with a snap, trying to ignore how strange it feels to see unfamiliar hands — Aurore's hands, with her perfectly manicured nails and delicate jewelry — moving in response to her thoughts. "Okay, let's do it."
She starts the engine and guides the car out of the garage, ready to navigate the few streets separating them from the stadium. The rain has picked up again, drumming against the windshield in an irregular rhythm that matches V's heartbeat. During the drive, Alex shares tips on embodying Aurore's personality — how she tends to gesture with her right hand when speaking, the way she switches to French when agitated, her habit of checking her nails when bored.
All too soon, they arrive at their destination. Another underground parking lot awaits them, this one painted in Barghest signature eye-searing greenish-yellow — a garish reminder they're now in enemy territory. The harsh fluorescent lighting makes the color even more aggressive, almost painful to look at.
The vehicle security scan bathes them in crimson light, and V holds her breath, but it passes without incident. They progress deeper into the parking structure, the sound of their engine echoing off concrete walls. Following Alex's instructions, V parks the car in a designated spot, and the agent gives her final warnings.
"Before we go in, remember — he wants something from us, not the other way 'round. We're here to sell 'im Cynosure mainframe access codes." Alex's borrowed features twist into an expression that looks wrong on Aymeric's face, "Stick to the facts, know who you are and are not."
They exit the vehicle and walk to an entrance leading into the building. One of Hansen's men — introducing himself as Murphy, the colonel's right hand — quickly joins them to escort them. The elevator ride up is tense, with Murphy attempting small talk that Alex smoothly handles while V focuses on maintaining Aurore's characteristic posture — shoulders back, chin slightly lifted, that subtle air of superiority.
When the doors open, Murphy informs them that security has been heightened for the day — Hansen received a tip that the FIA might try some gonk move. V fights to keep Aurore's practiced smirk on her face, even as her stomach does a flip. They're already here, pulling their ‘gonk move’, right under his nose. The irony would be amusing if it wasn't so dangerous.
The situation becomes significantly less funny when Murphy requests they leave their weapons in a locker before passing another security scan. V reluctantly surrenders Johnny's Malorian, feeling naked without it. She can feel Johnny's displeasure radiating through their link — he hates having his gun out of reach almost as much as she does.
"Just temporary, princess," he mutters, though his jaw is tight. "We'll get it back, one way or another."
V faces the camera, carefully mimicking Aurore's posture and expression — that particular blend of boredom and superiority she'd observed earlier. The scan completes quickly, and Murphy leads them deeper into the stadium's bowels. As they walk behind him, Reed's voice crackles through her comm, "All right, I'm in position. Preparing our escape route now. Take your time, I'll need ten more minutes at least. Good luck."
V can't respond, of course — and what would she say, anyway? That she won't be joining his escape route, that she and So Mi have their own exit strategy? Shit, she hopes the spy knows what he's doing, and that Alex can evacuate quickly and safely when everything goes to hell.
Murphy guides them to a new room guarded by heavily armed soldiers. Their chrome gleams under the harsh lights, and V can practically feel the killing potential radiating from their military-grade implants. This is it — no turning back now.
"Show time," Johnny says grimly, and V straightens her spine, channeling every bit of Aurore's arrogant confidence as they approach the door. Whatever waits on the other side, she'll face it wearing another woman's face but carrying her own determination. Time to see if all this deception will pay off.
They enter what should have been the stadium's VIP lounge — a massive space designed for spectators to watch matches on the towering holo-screen while enjoying drinks at the sleek chrome-and-wood bar or lounging on one of the many leather couches. The Nighthawks team murals dominate the walls, larger-than-life players frozen mid-action in vibrant colors, their eyes seeming to follow visitors across the room. Today, while the bar is operational, its neon-lit shelves stocked with top-shelf liquor, it serves only the select few Barghest members with clearance and Hansen's occasional guests. The abandoned dream of a legitimate sports venue hangs heavy in the air, another Dogtown promise left unfulfilled.
Johnny materializes beside V, whistling low. "Nice setup. Shame it's wasted on these military pricks. Though gotta admit, their taste in bourbon ain't half bad," he adds, eyeing the impressive collection behind the bar.
Colonel Hansen stands near the far end of the room, his imposing figure silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows. He's engaged in conversation with a man V recognizes from the Black Sapphire. Upon noticing their arrival, Hansen dismisses his companion with a curt nod and beckons them closer, his cybernetic eye glowing faintly in the dimmed lighting. Through the expansive window behind him, V spots Songbird in the room below, busy tinkering with a massive piece of tech that must be the Neural Matrix container.
"A pleasure to see you both," Hansen greets them, hands clasped behind his back in proper military fashion. "Songbird needs a moment to disarm the device. Which gives us a chance to chat."
He moves toward one of the luxurious leather semicircular couches, and V, channeling Aurore's confident swagger, takes the initiative. She lets her hips sway just slightly as she walks, mimicking the netrunner's characteristic strut. "Murphy told us some shit hit the fan. That boogeymen know of us here, of our meeting."
"We expected all to be handled professionally," Alex adds in Aymeric's measured tones, likely as curious as V about the source of the leak. The agent's performance is flawless — even the way they stand mirrors the dead runner's precise posture.
"Murphy exaggerates. And he spoke out of turn." Hansen waves over a server with practiced authority, the young man appearing almost instantly with a tray of drinks. "We have only suspicions. I assure you, caution is our creed."
"Oh, Colonel Kurt, you are too tense." V adopts Aurore's musical lilt, judging it safer to steer away from the topic. She leans closer on the couch, touching his arm with calculated familiarity, her perfectly manicured nails trailing lightly over his chrome. The wink she gives him would probably look ridiculous on her real face, but with Aurore's features, it's pure charm. "Non non non, we checked you before. Now I just tease. This means I like you, non ?"
Hansen lets out a sharp laugh, his posture relaxing slightly as he settles deeper into the leather couch. "Hah! Fuck, you're entertaining."
"We could pretend to trust each other... or we could focus on business," Alex interjects monotonously, clearly trying to redirect the conversation. She maintains Aymeric's characteristic stillness, a perfect contrast to V's animated performance as Aurore.
The colonel agrees, but insists on a toast first, gesturing to the server who immediately brings over a bottle of what looks like extremely expensive whiskey. Alex declines, maintaining Aymeric's stoic persona, but V knows she has to play along. She even volunteers to finish her twin's abandoned shot, earning an approving nod from Hansen. The alcohol burns going down — top shelf stuff, smooth as silk — but V maintains Aurore's playful smile, letting out a delighted little hum of appreciation that she'd heard the netrunner make at the Black Sapphire.
"Careful there," Johnny warns, now perched on the arm of her couch. "Guy's watching you like a hawk. Testing you."
The conversation shifts to the Sapphire party, Hansen probing about their experience with deceptively casual questions. V responds enthusiastically, making light of their roulette losses, assuring him today's job will more than make up for it. She mimics Aurore's way of gesturing while she talks — all quick, precise movements and elegant flicks of the wrist.
But then Hansen's questions take a suspicious turn — too specific, too pointed, like he's trying to verify their identities without showing his hand. He asks about Aurore’s time in prison, about specific jobs they've pulled, about people they supposedly know in common.
Unfortunately, having taken on the role of the chatty twin, V has to handle most of these verbal landmines. She gracefully sidesteps his disguised traps, thanks to the detailed dossier scrolling across her visual interface. Each answer needs to be perfect — one slip and they're both dead.
"Getting real creative with these answers, V," Johnny drawls after a particularly smooth deflection about a supposedly shared contact in Berlin. "Starting to think you missed your calling as an actor."
When Hansen asks if the twins can provide an in with a French crime syndicate, V responds with the woman's characteristic bluntness that he's "teasing the wrong cock" — earning a bark of laughter from Johnny — since Aurore's bad history with them makes such connections impossible.
"Putain de merde," she adds with a dismissive wave, perfectly mimicking Aurore's habit of mixing French curses with English. "Those connards can rot in hell for all I care. But surely, Colonel, you didn't invite us here to discuss ancient history?"
The whole conversation feels like dancing on razor wire — one wrong step and everything falls apart. But V maintains the performance, watching Hansen's reactions carefully while keeping Aurore's confident smirk firmly in place. All the while, she's acutely aware of Songbird working below, and the clock ticking down to whatever chaos is about to unfold.
The tense conversation is shattered when the door at the back of the room swings open with a soft hydraulic hiss. "Ah, So Mi," Hansen exclaims, his cybernetic eye glowing brighter at the netrunner's arrival.
Songbird stands in the doorway, her slight frame almost fragile-looking against the industrial backdrop. "We can begin. The mainframe is ready," she announces with a brief, professional nod toward V and Alex. Up close, the deterioration in her condition is painfully obvious — dark circles under her haunted eyes, a slight tremor in her chrome-laced hands... She's burning out even faster than V, racing against a clock that's ticking far too quickly.
"You remember the terms — one of you feeds in the access codes. The other stays with me." Hansen turns to the twins, his tone carrying that particular mix of military authority and barely concealed suspicion. The lack of trust is obvious, but it works perfectly with their plans. V can almost hear Johnny's sardonic laugh at the irony.
"I will stay," Alex responds with characteristic stoicism, their performance still flawless even under Hansen's scrutiny.
V rises with Aurore's practiced grace, letting a hint of boredom color her voice as she asks Songbird, "Shall we?" Johnny materializes one last time, knowing he'll soon be pushed into the background when the netrunner uses the Relic to connect with V. His chrome hand squeezes her shoulder, solid and reassuring.
"You got this, princess," he murmurs, his voice carrying that rare softness he reserves for their private moments. "See you on the other side."
He dematerializes, retreating into her mind as V follows Songbird down to her workspace. As they descend the stairs, Songbird maintains their cover, speaking as if addressing Aurore, her voice all business despite her obvious exhaustion.
"While you were waiting, I ran some initial diagnostics. The mainframe is prepped and linked with our systems. She's ready to go." She pauses, gesturing toward the observation window where Hansen watches like a hawk, Aymeric-Alex standing at perfect attention beside him. "You know, he created this lab especially for the occasion. Tens of millions of eddies invested for your visit alone. That's Kurt for you."
The massive piece of tech dominating the center of the room hums with barely contained power, its chrome surface reflecting the harsh laboratory lights. As they approach, So Mi's holographic form shimmers into existence beside them, her digital presence both there and not there, like a ghost made of light. Her voice echoes directly in V's mind through their link, "I have a plan in place for when we secure the neural matrix. I'll hack the localnet, override its defense systems, turn the whole stadium hostile... We'll slip out in the chaos."
Meanwhile, flesh-and-blood Songbird continues her work, her fingers dancing across holographic interfaces with practiced precision. "I managed to simulate the mainframe's native environment — the bunker. It'll be ready for the access codes in a moment." The mainframe responds to her commands, opening like some mechanical flower blooming in fast-forward, revealing a connection port where 'Aurore' can jack in. The sight sends a shiver down V's spine — this is it, the point of no return.
As V moves closer to inspect the tech, holo-So Mi's form flickers with urgency. "Listen, V — all hell breaks loose in two minutes. When Hansen flatlines, we haul ass. I'll block access to this room. Alex and Reed're minimizing risk and exfilling early via the route."
"Here she is, in all her glory," real-Songbird announces, her hand sweeping toward the fully opened mainframe. Blue light pulses from its metallic innards, casting ethereal shadows across the lab. The machine seems alive somehow, like some sleeping cyber-beast about to wake.
"Oh and don't worry about us — got that sorted already," her immaterial counterpart reassures V. "Checked stadium blueprints, know which way to run."
Adrenaline courses through V's veins as she steps closer to the machine, her heart hammering against her ribs. "No turnin' back now," she projects mentally, fighting to keep her hands steady.
"Nope." Holo-So Mi's smile carries equal parts determination and affection. "But we're in this together."
"Ready," V announces out loud, pulling her personal link from her wrist. The connection port gleams invitingly as she jacks in, the neural interface humming to life. "Linked. Is the connection clear?"
"Thousandth of the decimal. It'll have to do. Actuating the mainframe," the runner responds, her professional tone belying the tension in her movements.
Through their mental link, V warns, "Hansen suspects somethin'..." She risks a glance toward the observation window, where the colonel's hawk-like eyes glow in the darkness. "Just hasn't caught on yet." Then, maintaining their cover, "Mm, I see. It's responding."
Holo-Songbird follows her gaze, digital artifacts dancing around her form as she sighs, "Soon it won't matter." She leans over the machine, her expression softening as she looks at V. "V, thank you... Really. Thank you for being here."
The mainframe releases a sharp beep that echoes through the lab's sterile air. Real-Songbird's voice cuts through the electronic hum: "Ok, your tune. It's ready for the access codes."
"I'm with you, So Mi." V's mental voice carries all the weight of their shared destiny as she initiates the code sequence. Data floods through her neural pathways like liquid fire.
Holo-Songbird's form stabilizes above the machine. "Look toward Alex. Wait for Kurt to go down."
"Can do." V's muscles tense in anticipation. "What then?"
"We run. Nearly have the matrix... Breaching stadium defenses now..." Digital distortion ripples through So Mi's holographic form as her physical counterpart grimaces in pain. "It's... a lot... Had to reach past the Blackwall."
"Wait..." Alarm spikes through V's system as she watches Songbird extract what looks like a simple data shard from the mainframe's core. "Mean to say, like, the whole stadium?"
"Cuttin' off the lab now... carvin' a path outta here for us." The strain in So Mi's voice is evident as her hologram flickers violently. "Defense systems are nearly primed to turn on Kurt's forces... Let Alex know."
V takes a deep breath as she disconnects from the mainframe. This is it — the point where everything either works or they all die. She gives So Mi one last smile, her heart thundering so loud she's sure Hansen must hear it even through the glass. The air feels electric, charged with the potential energy of imminent violence.
She fights down the instinctive urge to reach for Johnny, missing his reassuring presence like a phantom limb, but he remains frustratingly silent, muzzled by Songbird's presence on the Relic. Above them, Hansen's cybernetic eye glows like a targeting system, his stance subtly shifting — maybe he's finally catching on, but it's already too late.
Time seems to slow as V raises her thumb toward Alex. The gesture feels heavy, weighted with the knowledge that this simple movement will trigger a chain reaction of chaos and bloodshed. Through their neural link, she can feel So Mi's systems straining, the netrunner's consciousness spreading through the stadium's network like digital wildfire.
The air crackles with unseen tension, the calm before a storm of bullets and screams. V's enhanced reflexes register every detail of this final moment of peace — the soft hum of the mainframe, the subtle shift in Hansen's posture, the almost imperceptible nod from Alex, the way So Mi's hands tighten around the neural matrix.
Then all hell breaks loose.
Notes:
Message thread generator HTML/CSS by Luvwich ! Have fun with it here ♥
Lot of bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song: Tool - The Patient
• Author's rambling: Anyway, here's another chapter done! Today, I just finished writing Chapter 29, which ties back to the prologue and is sooooo long — you wouldn't even believe it! Now I can start working on Chapter 30, Mikoshi (this one should be surprisingly short compared to the others). It'll be the last chapter of the first part of this story! But trust me, this is far from over. :D
Oh, speaking of Chapter 29, since it ties into the prologue, I obviously went back to reread it so I could include some of its elements and... omg, it was so bad. ^^' I felt like I had to rewrite it. No changes to the story itself (you don’t need to reread it to keep up), but the writing is way better now.
So yeah, huge thanks to everyone who pushed through the shaky writing of the early chapters to stick with this story until now. Thank you, really! ♥xoxo, see you next time ♥
Chapter 27: Wearing the Inside Out
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Hiii! I hope you're doing well! Not much in this chapter, it's more of a transition before the important elements of the upcoming chapters. But I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you will enjoy it anyway ^^ See you in the end notes
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks a lot for the subs, bookmarks, and kudos ! ♥ And thank you Loraphine, ZedThePoet and BlackDragon93 for your comments. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
From morning to night, I stayed out of sight
Didn't recognize I'd become
No more than alive, I'd barely survive
In a word, overrun
A split second after V's thumbs up, Alex transforms into a lethal blur of motion, her Sandevistan implant turning her into something barely human. The agent's augmented reflexes make her movements appear almost liquid as she launches a devastating series of strikes at Hansen. Her cybernetically enhanced fists connect with brutal precision — jaw, solar plexus, throat — before she grabs the colonel's head and introduces his face to the reinforced glass with a sickening crunch. Blood sprays across the transparent surface in a crimson constellation as Hansen staggers, completely disoriented from the assault.
The colonel barely has time to process what's happening before Alex's chrome-laced arms lock around his throat, positioning him as an impromptu shield. In a moment of cruel irony that would be almost funny if it weren't so brutal, Hansen's own security detail seals his fate. Their bullets, meant to protect their leader, tear through his torso, painting the pristine ground with expanding circles of red. The wannabe dictator drops like a puppet with cut strings, his grand ambitions ending not with a bang, but with a wet thud against the polished floor.
"Target down!" Alex's voice rings out sharp and clear before she vanishes from view, the sounds of continued violence echoing as she engages the remaining guards.
"It's done," Songbird's voice comes out strained, drawing V's attention. The netrunner's fingers tremble as she pockets the neural matrix, her body sagging against the mainframe terminal like a marionette losing its strings. "Stadium defenses... hostile and online..."
Reed's voice crackles through the comm, tense with urgency, "V, status. Everything all right?"
But V can't focus on his words. Her attention is locked on Songbird's deteriorating condition and the corrupted artifacts of the Blackwall that are starting to crawl across her vision like digital maggots. Without warning, a surge of energy rips through her system like lightning, sending her sprawling across the floor. Her vision cuts to black, replaced by a single glaring alert — Behavioral imprint malfunction.
When her optics reboot, V finds herself staring at her own hands — not Aurore's perfectly manicured fingers, but her familiar black-polished nails and the deadly chrome lines of her mantis blades catching the fluorescent light. A wave of relief washes over her at being back in her own skin, but it's short-lived as she takes in Songbird's condition.
"So Mi, you okay?" The words tumble out of V's mouth, panic threading through her voice like a poison. "What's wrong?!"
Songbird can barely stand, her body trembling with the effort to remain upright. "The matrix, the — the stadium..." she gasps, and when their eyes meet, V's blood runs cold. Songbird's optics burn with the same blood-red hue as the Blackwall artifacts dancing around them like digital phantoms. "The Blackwall... Just lost control for a sec. But... yeah, I'm ok now."
"What the fuck...?" Alex's voice cuts through the chaos. The spy has returned to the window, but finds herself locked out, trapped behind the reinforced glass. She can only watch helplessly as the Blackwall's corruption spreads through the system like a digital plague.
"V, we need to bolt..." Songbird gestures weakly toward a hidden exit at the back of the room, her movements jerky and unnatural.
The merc follows without hesitation, ignoring Alex's frustrated howl of "FUUUUCK...!" and the desperate rhythm of her fists against the glass. V doesn't spare a backward glance as the spy's voice echoes through the comm, sharp with betrayal, "Reed! They're giving us the slip!"
The sound of Alex's fury fades behind them as they make their escape, leaving behind a trail of chaos and broken trust in their wake.
When Songbird finally drags herself to the door, her movements unsteady but determined, she unlocks it and tells V she can hack nearby systems to assist their escape. V has to bite her lip hard enough to taste blood to keep from pointing out that the netrunner looks like she's about to collapse — her skin's gone waxy pale, optics flickering between normal and that unsettling crimson. But V holds her tongue, understanding Songbird's desperate need to feel useful despite her deteriorating condition.
Taking cover behind a wall section with the netrunner, V spots a helicopter with several Barghest guards posted nearby, their black and yellow tactical gear making them look like radioactive crows circling a carcass. A wicked grin spreads across her face as she points it out to Songbird. "Think you can take control of those blades? Would make some real nice sashimi outta those fuckers."
Songbird's response is immediate — her eyes flare bright red as she seizes control of the aircraft's systems. The helicopter's blades spring to life with a metallic shriek, spinning faster than the human eye can track. The guards barely have time to look up before the makeshift guillotine tears through them. Bodies split apart like overripe fruit, spraying arterial red across the concrete in abstract patterns. Limbs and viscera rain down as the blades reduce three elite soldiers to scattered pieces in seconds. V whistles low, impressed by the brutally efficient execution.
"Stay put," V orders Songbird before darting toward the carnage. She snatches up an assault rifle from one of the less-mangled corpses, checking the mag just as the door across the yard bursts open. Reinforcements pour in like angry hornets, their boots thundering against concrete.
The air explodes with gunfire, muzzle flashes lighting up the space like a twisted strobe light. V dives behind a concrete barrier, bullets chipping away at her cover. She pops up, squeezing off controlled bursts. The first guard's head snaps back in a spray of red mist. Two more drop as she shifts her aim, their armor useless against military-grade rounds at this range. A fourth manages to wing her, the bullet grazing her arm, but V barely feels it through the adrenaline. She answers with a burst that catches him center mass, the impact throwing him backward like a ragdoll.
The last two try to flank her, but V's faster. She rolls to new cover, coming up firing. One guard takes three rounds to the throat, choking on his own blood as he falls. The last one actually manages to get close — mistake. V's mantis blades deploy as she drops the rifle, and suddenly he's staring at six inches of chrome protruding from his chest. She yanks the blades free, letting his body hit the ground with a wet thud.
Once the last echo of gunfire dies away, Songbird struggles to join V as she scavenges for spare magazines among the cooling bodies. "Up the stairs and left," she manages between labored breaths, those few steps clearly taking their toll. "Find your gear there."
V's heart leaps at the thought of reuniting with her Malorian. Seeing Songbird's struggle, she wraps a supportive arm around the netrunner's waist. "Here, lemme help," she offers, nodding toward the stairs. Songbird responds with a weak smile, draping her arm across V's shoulders. Together they ascend quickly, V all too aware that time isn't on their side.
Their urgency proves warranted. At the top of the stairs, V spots another soldier, his back fortunately turned to them. She eases Songbird against the wall with practiced gentleness, her mantis blades sliding out in perfect silence. The chrome extensions catch the emergency light as she closes the distance in three swift steps. The guard doesn't even have time to register the danger before V's blades pierce his throat, cutting off any chance of raising an alarm. She catches the body before it can fall, lowering it silently to the floor.
They make their way to the locker where V had to stash her gear earlier. Her hands almost tremble with relief as she retrieves Johnny's Malorian, the familiar weight of the pistol grounding her in the chaos. To V's relief, Songbird seems to be finding her feet, moving with more stability now as they press forward. Whether it's second wind or pure determination, she's not about to question the improvement. They've still got a long way to go, and they'll need every advantage they can get.
Songbird unlocks another security shutter, leading them into a familiar section of the stadium - the market's far end where luxury vehicles are displayed like chrome-plated trophies. As V moves to advance toward the numerous soldiers stationed in the area, So Mi's hand catches her arm, pointing to one particular figure. "V, careful. It's Murphy." Fuck — Hansen's right-hand man who'd welcomed them earlier. V's pretty sure he won't be too thrilled about his boss being turned into swiss cheese. The netrunner continues, her voice barely above a whisper, "We need to get to a higher level. I can do something to distract 'em."
"Can you commandeer the panzer turret?" V gestures toward the Basilisk tank on display, hoping the beast isn't just for show. "Good distraction."
Songbird's response is immediate — her optics flare crimson as she seizes control of the war machine. The Basilisk's turret whirs to life with a mechanical growl that echoes through the space. Before Murphy can react, the cannon unleashes hell. The blast catches him and three of his men, the explosion turning them into red mist and scattered pieces. The shockwave shatters nearby display cases, sending glass and chrome shrapnel flying.
The remaining soldiers scatter for cover as the alarm starts wailing. V grabs Songbird's hand, practically carrying the weakened netrunner behind a concrete pillar. Time slows as her Sandevistan kicks in — the world takes on that familiar blue tinge as V moves at superhuman speed. Her mantis blades flash out, opening throats with surgical precision. Two guards drop, their blood still hanging in slow-motion droplets as V slides behind a massive military supply crate.
Lady Luck finally throws V a bone — the crate's packed with enough firepower to start a small war. After pocketing a handful of .577 rounds for Johnny's gun, she pulls a frag pin, hurling it in the opposite direction of their intended path. The strategy works better than expected — not only do the remaining soldiers rush to investigate, but the explosion takes out another guard in a shower of gore. V silently signals Songbird to prepare for a sprint toward the stairs, then launches a smoke grenade into the center of the room, adding another layer of beautiful chaos to the mix.
They make their break for the stairs through the chaos. Bullets whiz past as the Barghest troops fire blindly through the smoke, but the Basilisk's continued barrage keeps them pinned down. The panzer's shells demolish luxury vehicles, turning million-eddie cars into expensive shrapnel.
The center of the market presents a grim tableau — Hansen's men, too trigger-happy for their own good, have turned the place into a slaughterhouse. Bodies of vendors lie sprawled across their own stalls, blood pooling under toppled merchandise. V recognizes the guy from the noodle stand, his kind face now frozen in terror, surrounded by scattered chopsticks and broken bowls. "Motherfuckers..." The word comes out as a growl, V's hands tightening on her weapon. Songbird squeezes her shoulder — there's no time for this now, they have to keep moving.
Then Songbird spots their salvation — a Militech Minotaur mech, its massive frame looming in the shadows. "The mech..." she whispers, a hint of deadly promise in her voice. "Could hack it."
The Minotaur is a walking tank, a perfect killing machine that V's had the misfortune of facing before. Its twin autocannons and missile pods could turn the tide in their favor. They duck behind a destroyed clothes stand as Songbird works her magic.
The mech powers up with a deep mechanical roar, its heavy footsteps shaking the floor as it activates. The reaction is immediate — the Barghest troops turn their attention to the bigger threat as the Minotaur opens up with everything it has. Its autocannons tear through body armor like paper, while micro-missiles reduce entire sections of the market to rubble. Screams and explosions create a symphony of destruction as V and Songbird slip away, leaving the chrome beast to its rampage.
They skirt the edges of the battle, staying low as the Minotaur continues its devastating assault. The mechanical behemoth's roar covers their escape, along with the sounds of dying men and shattering infrastructure. V allows herself a grim smile — sometimes the best plan is to let loose something bigger and meaner than yourself.
The fugitives finally reach the stadium entrance, finding cover behind the towering Nighthawks statue. The chrome and concrete monument looms over them — a tribute to Night City's most infamous football team, frozen mid-action in a dynamic pose that casts long shadows across the blood-stained floor. V takes advantage of this moment of relative safety to reload Johnny's Malorian, the familiar weight of the gun steadying her trembling hands. The distinctive click of the magazine sliding home echoes softly in the vast space.
Pressing herself against the cool metal base of the statue, V carefully peers around its edge to assess their opposition. The entrance hall stretches before them, and thankfully, only two guards remain posted ahead. The women have the element of surprise on their side — if they play this right, they can take them out before either can radio for backup.
V signals Songbird to stay put, noting how the netrunner's hands shake as she braces herself against the statue. Moving like a ghost, V approaches the first guard from behind, her footsteps almost silent. The man never sees it coming — in one fluid motion, she wraps her arms around his neck and twists sharply. She catches his body before it can fall, gently lowering the dead weight to avoid alerting his partner.
Her mantis blades deploy with a soft metallic whisper, catching the harsh fluorescent light. V's augmented legs coil beneath her before launching her in a single powerful leap toward the second guard. The reinforced chrome pierces the back of his skull with surgical precision, the tip emerging from his forehead in a spray of crimson. He drops without a sound, dead before his brain can even register the attack.
"Okay... Now, the door on the left," Songbird directs as she joins V, her steps unsteady but determined. Despite her weakened state, there's still steel in her voice — the voice of someone who's planned this escape down to the smallest detail.
V casts a wary glance toward the main entrance, its massive security shutter has been sealed tight. But even if it were open, exiting that way would be suicide — the Barghest forces contained outside would zero them before they could take two steps. Or worse, they might run into Reed and Alex. V's gut twists at the thought — they must be absolutely livid about being left behind like that. But she doesn't regret it for a second, not when So Mi's freedom hangs in the balance. A fleeting image of Alex crosses her mind — she hopes the spy managed to delta the fuck out of the zone safely.
The women make their way down a mercifully empty service corridor, and Songbird ensures to lock each door behind them, her hacking leaving dead circuits in their wake. "There's an elevator but we're not usin' it," she announces, voice growing weaker with each word. "Keep goin', to the corridor."
V doesn't question the escape plan — after all, Song's the one who studied the stadium blueprints, probably spending countless hours memorizing every possible escape route while planning this moment. They turn left to find another locked door, which the netrunner quickly hacks open. The security panel sparks and dies as she locks it again behind them. "Disabled the door..." she announces, her voice barely above a whisper. "We have a moment to catch our breath..."
And fuck, she clearly needs it — her face has gone ghost-white again, skin taking on an almost translucent quality. Her optics flicker erratically, and she sways dangerously on her feet. V rushes to stabilize her, helping her lean against a nearby crate. Songbird's skin feels cold and clammy under V's touch, her breathing shallow and labored.
"Just... gimme a sec," So Mi pants, a small whimper of pain escaping her lips. Her eyes flutter, struggling to maintain focus.
"Hackin' the mainframe took a lot outta you..." V observes gently, tightening her supportive grip around the netrunner's waist. She can feel Songbird trembling against her, each breath seeming to cost more effort than the last.
"The mainframe, the stadium... Bit off more than I could chew," she admits, taking slow, deep breaths to steady herself. Her chrome occasionally sparks, tiny blue arcs of electricity dancing across her neural ports. She takes a few tentative steps, still leaning heavily on V for support, and points ahead. "That way. There's a gap in the fence. Found maintenance team's emails — they were supposed to fix it weeks ago, just pushed some crates in front of it instead. Behind it, there's a maintenance shaft. Then we have to take the stairs down."
V helps So Mi rest against the wall before tackling the crates. Each one feels like it's filled with lead — probably old equipment or spare parts, their weight making her enhanced muscles strain with effort. After several minutes of pushing and pulling, punctuated by colorful curses that would make Johnny proud, she manages to clear a path large enough for them to squeeze through the fence's opening.
The maintenance shaft beckons ahead like a promise of freedom — a narrow industrial tunnel disappearing into shadow. The air coming from it carries the scent of oil and rust, the perfect escape route for two women who've already painted the stadium red. V just hopes Songbird can hold it together long enough to see them through to the end, knowing that every hack, every door they've sealed behind them, has pushed the netrunner closer to her limits.
The descent down the maintenance stairwell is pure torture — each step a battle against gravity and exhaustion. Songbird leans heavily against V, her chrome-enhanced frame far heavier than her slight build suggests. Their labored breathing echoes in the narrow space, mixing with the distant hum of industrial equipment and the metallic ping of cooling pipes.
V's muscles strain with the effort of supporting her friend's weight. Sweat trickles down her back, and her augmented legs protest each careful step. The emergency lights cast everything in an eerie red glow, making the stairwell feel like a descent into some chrome hell. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of controlled falling, they reach the bottom landing in one piece.
V's combat-honed instincts scream that they're not out of danger yet, and sure enough, voices drift from a nearby room — one that's directly in their path. Fuck. Without loosening her steadying grip on Songbird's waist, she draws Johnny's Malorian, the gun's weight familiar and reassuring in her hand.
The maintenance room they enter is cramped and humid, filled with the smell of machine oil and stale coffee. Two men in grease-stained coveralls freeze at their entrance, tools clattering to the floor. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker and buzz, casting harsh shadows across their terrified faces. "It's them!" gasps one, stumbling backward into a workbench.
"P-p-please... Don't hurt us!" stammers the other, both raising his trembling hands in surrender. Their yellow hard hats gleam under the harsh lighting, ID badges swinging wildly from their necks as they shake like leaves in a storm.
V quickly sizes up the situation — these aren't Barghest troops, just two unlucky maintenance workers who picked the wrong shift to work. No cameras in sight, and the fear in their eyes is too raw to be faked. Still, she keeps the Malorian trained on them, using it to gesture at the NiCola can one worker clutches like a lifeline.
"You. Give that to my choom," she orders, knowing Songbird desperately needs the sugar boost. The man practically throws the drink at them, his hand shaking so bad he nearly drops it. The netrunner catches it and immediately starts taking long, desperate gulps, the carbonation making her cough slightly.
"Good," V continues, voice steady despite her racing heart. "Now, got an aid kit somewhere?"
The man just nods mutely, pointing to a battered locker in the corner. V slowly lowers her iron — enough blood has been spilled today, and these guys are clearly no threat. She keeps one arm around Songbird while rifling through the kit, finding bandages, an instant cold patch, and — thank fuck — a MaxDoc inhaler. The expiration date's a bit past, but beggars can't be choosers.
She trades the inhaler for Songbird's empty can, watching intently as her friend takes several long pulls from the medication. Within moments, color returns to So Mi's face, the sickly grey pallor giving way to something more human. Her neural ports stop sparking, and her breathing steadies. V secures her arm around the netrunner's waist again, then fixes the workers with a hard stare.
"You never saw us, got it?" Her tone leaves no room for argument.
"We won't say a word, promise!" assures the NiCola guy, clutching his hard hat like it might shield him from the danger standing before him. His partner just nods frantically, pressed against the far wall as if trying to phase through it.
Satisfied, V guides Songbird onward. The netrunner moves more easily now, even managing a weak smile that makes something twist in V's chest. But they're not home free yet. They delve deeper into the maintenance tunnels, where steam pipes snake along the walls like rusty serpents, occasionally hissing and spitting hot vapor into the already humid air. The corridor feels like the gullet of some massive mechanical beast, all exposed pipes and worn metal grating underfoot.
Finally, they reach a hatch set into the concrete floor, its metal surface scarred and worn from years of use. V descends the short ladder first, her sneakers hitting the lower level with a hollow thud that echoes ominously. She turns immediately, arms outstretched to catch Songbird if needed as the netrunner makes her way down. Each rung seems to cost So Mi more effort than the last, her chrome-enhanced frame moving with the careful precision of someone operating at their absolute limits.
The air down here is thick with the smell of damp concrete, and something else — maybe freedom, maybe death. But it's their best shot at getting out of this nightmare, if they can just keep pushing a little longer.
They've barely made it ten steps into what must be the stadium's drainage tunnel when Songbird tugs at V's sleeve, her fingers trembling but grip surprisingly strong. "Wait. Hear that?"
V freezes. Through the constant drip of water and distant hum of machinery, she catches it — a low, mechanical buzz that makes her skin crawl. Drones. Fuck. Her hand instinctively moves toward Johnny's Malorian, but she hesitates. Even if they seem far from Hansen's troops now, gunfire would echo like thunder in these concrete tunnels. They're so close to freedom — one wrong move could bring the whole Barghest down on their heads.
As she prepares to deploy her mantis blades for another silent takedown, Songbird's cold hand catches her wrist. "Can do it, leave 'em to me." Despite her exhaustion, there's a fierce determination in her eyes, that same fire that got her through the mainframe hack.
"You sure?" V hesitates, studying her friend's face. The MaxDoc has helped, but Songbird still looks like she's running on fumes.
"Compared to what I did earlier, this is child's play, trust me." She squeezes V's wrist, managing a weak smile that doesn't quite hide her exhaustion. "Don't need to touch the Blackwall to handle a few drones. I got this."
Her optics flashes, V watches in fascination as Songbird's face goes slack with concentration, her chrome humming softly. Seconds later, multiple splashes echo through the tunnel as the drones drop like dead birds into the shallow water. V peers around the corner — five military-grade drones lie face-down in the murky water, their red running lights permanently dimmed.
"Fuck, that was smooth," V compliments with a genuine smile, impressed despite her concern. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Now, let's get outta here." Songbird nods before pushing forward, each step careful but determined. "Almost there..."
The tunnel stretches ahead, its concrete walls slick with condensation and decades of grime. Ancient maintenance lights cast sickly yellow pools every few meters, barely penetrating the gloom. They pass through another junction, and Songbird explains between labored breaths, "Plan's as follows... We'll be exiting from the back of the stadium." She leans heavily on V to navigate another set of stairs. "I've arranged two cars — en route already. One's for you, the other's for me. Should make us harder to track."
They continue through a larger drainage pipe — thankfully dry, because trudging through sewage is the last thing either of them needs right now. V spots actual moonlight at the end of their concrete prison, and her heart leaps. Freedom is so close she can taste it on the night air drifting in.
"F-feelin'... lightheaded..." Songbird admits, her steps faltering. V immediately backtracks to support her friend, guilt gnawing at her gut. Fuck — she should've handled those drones herself, let Song save her strength.
Their path ends at a rusty metal grate, moonlight streaming through its bars like silver threads. V rattles it furiously, but decades of corrosion have welded it firmly in place. "It's not budging..." Songbird whispers, despair finally creeping into her voice for the first time since their escape began.
"Oh, it will." V growls, frustration building in her chest. She's not letting some half-rusted bars stop them. Not after everything they've been through, not when she can see the moon hanging like a promise above the sprawling homeless camp below, its countless makeshift shelters creating a maze of shadows and dim fires.
She helps Songbird lean against the tunnel wall, making sure she's stable before backing up several steps. She takes a running start, channeling all her strength and fury into one augmented kick. The grate explodes outward with a shriek of torn metal that draws every eye in the camp below. "Finally!" V exhales, relief flooding her system. Just one small drop between them and freedom. She turns to Songbird, noting how the moonlight makes her chrome gleam. "Want my help?"
"How? Gonna throw me down?" Songbird manages to joke, though her voice wavers with exhaustion.
V responds with an exaggerated military salute before launching herself out of the tunnel. Her reinforced legs absorb the three-meter drop easily, and she lands with catlike grace in the mud below. She spins around, looking up at her friend with an intentionally silly thumbs-up, trying to keep the mood light despite their desperate situation.
Songbird carefully positions herself at the edge, taking a deep breath that seems to steady her slightly. "Okay... Jumpin'."
But unlike V's graceful descent, Songbird lands hard, crying out in pain as her ankle gives way. "Fuck! Fuckin' ankle..." she gasps, face contorted in agony.
V rushes to help her up, supporting most of her weight while pretending not to notice how badly she's shaking. The homeless camp's residents watch from a distance, their faces illuminated by barrel fires, but they keep their distance — Night City's forgotten souls know better than to get involved in other people's business. "C'mon, So Mi. Final stretch."
"Toward the gate..." Songbird points with a trembling hand toward the camp's edge. "Car'll be there. Thank you, V."
"Thank me when we're far, far from here," V smiles, then crouches in front of her friend, gesturing to her back. "Climb up. You're in no shape to walk."
Songbird doesn't even try to argue, wrapping her arms around V's neck as the merc hoists her up piggyback style. They move almost as slowly than if she'd let the netrunner walk, but fuck it — Song's been through enough hell today.
V steels herself for the final stretch, feeling every labored breath against her back as she carries her friend through the maze of tents and makeshift shelters, toward the promise of escape and whatever tomorrow might bring. The weight on her back feels like more than just Songbird's chrome-enhanced frame — it's the weight of trust, of friendship forged in fire and blood. And V will carry that weight as far as she needs to, one step at a time.
The crunch of tires on gravel cuts through the night as two dark vehicles approach along the dirt road, their headlights cutting through the darkness. V notices only one has a driver — the other must be programmed to follow. "There they are — our rides," Songbird breathes, relief evident in her voice despite her exhaustion.
V carefully opens the rear door of one vehicle before gently lowering So Mi to the ground, then helps her onto the leather seat. Only then does V allow herself to slide down against the tire, her legs finally giving out as she hits the muddy ground. Her whole body aches, muscles trembling from the strain of the past few hours. She fishes out a cigarette with shaking hands — and fuck, she's earned this one. The first drag feels like pure heaven, nicotine helping to steady her frayed nerves as she turns to her friend.
"Sure you're gonna make it outta this?" She asks, unable to keep the concern from her voice. After everything they've been through tonight, the thought of Songbird not making it to safety makes something twist painfully in her chest.
"If I don't, you'll hear about it on the news." The joke is dark, but So Mi's smile is genuine, reaching her tired eyes.
V can't help but laugh, the sound carrying equal parts exhaustion and relief. "So Mi, we... we did it. Got away. From Hansen and the FIA."
"Not quite, V. This was the first step." She corrects, shifting carefully in her seat, wincing as she adjusts her injured ankle. "I won't rest easy until I'm out of NC airspace."
"Seriously?" V takes another long drag, watching the smoke curl up toward the starless sky. "Gonna hop on another plane after how you wound up here?"
"You'll see." Songbird smiles mysteriously.
Suddenly, V realizes she hasn't told her friend about Reed's betrayal. "Shit, I didn't tell you about the fucking FIA..." She stubs out her cigarette, anger rising as she remembers that day. "If you're feeling any guilt about Reed... don't. The day I went to get this thing installed..." She jabs at her own cheek, where the face implant sits beneath her synthetic skin. "He was there, at the ripper's clinic. Tried to convince me you're dangerous, that you're lost, that you need protection from yourself — the usual bullshit. He wanted me to stab you in the back, Song. Gave me an ICEbreaker he wanted me to use on you today."
"Fuck..." Songbird runs a trembling hand over her face, exhaustion and betrayal warring in her expression. "Honestly, I'm not even surprised, but still... shit... What was the plan?"
"Accordin’ to him, it was supposed to knock you out. Then he wanted to interrogate you, supposedly. Wanted you to 'wake up at home’." V's voice drips with bitter contempt as she pushes herself to her feet. "Capture you and drag you back to the FIA's clutches, in other words. 'Course, I couldn't tell him to go fuck himself without raisin’ suspicion, but believe me, the thought was there."
"Damn, V..." So Mi reaches out, catching V's hand in hers. Despite the exhaustion etched into every line of her face, she manages a smile. "I don't know what I did to deserve your loyalty... After everything I've done..."
"Hey, shh, it's okay. Told ya, I'm with you, till the bitter end." V squeezes back, trying to pour all her support into that simple gesture. The weight of their shared ordeal, of secrets kept and trust earned, hangs heavy in the air between them. "So, what's the plan now?"
"We need to split up — try to throw off the Agency's pursuit strategy." Songbird finally releases V's hand to fasten her seatbelt, her movements slow and deliberate. "Meanwhile, I'll confirm my path outta Night City is clear. Once I do, I'll be in touch."
"Where we gonna meet?" V asks, her elbow on the car's roof. "And when?"
"I'll send you the coordinates — just wait for my sig." Then she adds, half-serious but with real concern in her eyes, "And don't get caught."
"Heh, likewise." V snorts, but there's genuine worry behind her casual tone. "Take care, So Mi."
"You too. And thanks... Thanks for everything." Songbird's smile is tired but sincere, filled with a warmth that makes V's throat tight. The car door closes with a soft thud, and before the vehicle disappears into the night, Songbird raises her hand in a final farewell gesture.
V watches until the taillights fade into the darkness, feeling the weight of everything they've survived together. She knows that whatever comes next, whatever path Songbird takes out of this chrome hell, she'll be there when her friend calls. Because that's what chooms do — they watch each other's backs, even when the whole world's trying to put a bullet in them.
The second car waits patiently for her, but V takes a moment to light another cigarette, letting the night air cool her skin. She's exhausted, sore, and covered in mud and blood, but fuck if this isn't what victory feels like in Night City — staying alive long enough to see another sunrise, and making sure your friends do too.
As Songbird disappears into the night, V physically feels the moment the netrunner releases her hold on the Relic — and fuck, she knows what that means, and she's been waiting for this. Sure enough, a second later, that familiar static sound she's grown to love so much echoes in her head, making her skin tingle with anticipation. Strong arms wrap around her waist from behind, pulling her roughly against a solid chest.
She doesn't need to turn around — she just knows, she feels it in her bones, in every cell of her being. She melts into his embrace with a shaky exhale, her eyes closing as tension drains from her body. A warm smile spreads across her lips as she lets her head fall back against his shoulder, finally feeling whole again. "Hey rockerboy. Missed ya."
"Fuck, V..." Johnny's voice is rough with emotion as he tightens his hold, burying his face in her hair. His breath comes out unsteady against her neck. "You got any idea how fuckin' terrifying it is? Getting only glimpses of you running through that hellhole, not knowin’ if..."
"M'okay," she murmurs, covering his hands with hers. "We made it."
He spins her around suddenly, his flesh hand cupping her face while the metal one grips her hip. His eyes scan her frantically, taking in every scratch and bruise. When he spots the graze on her arm where a bullet came too close, his jaw clenches. "The fuck happened here?"
"Just a scratch," V assures him, but doesn't pull away when he gently touches the wound. His concern makes something warm bloom in her chest. "Had worse."
Johnny's quiet for a moment, his thumb absently stroking her cheek in a gesture so tender it makes her heart ache. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, genuinely curious beneath the usual gruffness. "Don't get it though. Both of 'em were offering help, right? Reed, Songbird — both had their own agenda, sure, but..." He shrugs, dark eyes searching her face with an intensity that makes her want to look away. "Why'd you pick her side? Not judgin', just... curious."
V's heart clenches painfully, guilt and other emotions she can't name creating a storm in her chest. She forces herself to maintain eye contact, knowing Johnny can read her too well, knowing he'll sense any hesitation. "Song deserved to be free," she says, and it's not a lie, not really. Just not the whole truth that burns in her throat like acid. "You know what they did to her. What they wanted to do. Couldn't let that happen. Besides, you really think I'd side with the fuckin' FIA over someone fighting for freedom?"
Johnny chuckles, and she feels some of the tension ease from his frame. "Got me there. Guess you learned something from me after all."
"Don't let it go to your head," she manages a smirk, grateful for the shift in tone. "Your ego's big enough as it is."
"Fuck you too, princess." He pulls her close again, and she goes willingly into his arms, fitting against him like she was made to be there. After a moment, he murmurs against her hair, voice thick with concern, "You look beat to hell."
"Feel it too," she admits, letting her forehead rest against his chest, taking comfort in the steady thrum of his heartbeat — as real as her own now. "Could sleep for a week."
"Yeah, well, gonna have to wait. Need to delta — Hansen's boys can't be far behind, and now you got the feds on your ass too. Not exactly the kind of attention we need right now."
V nods, forcing her exhausted legs to move toward the waiting car. Johnny materializes in the passenger seat as she slides behind the wheel, and she can't help but smile as his hand immediately finds her thigh, a possessive weight she's missed desperately. She understands the need — after being cut off from her, unable to help or even see what was happening, he needs the physical connection as much as she does. His touch says what words can't — I'm here, you're safe, we're together.
The engine purrs to life, and V steers them away from the stadium, leaving the chaos behind. Johnny's thumb traces lazy circles on her leg as Night City's neon sprawl stretches out before them. The weight of her unspoken truth sits heavy in her chest, but she pushes it down. Some lies are necessary, she tells herself. Some truths would hurt more than any bullet.
Besides, she thinks as she catches Johnny's concerned glance, she'd make the same choice again. A hundred times over. V's hand finds Johnny's on her thigh, their fingers intertwining like they never parted.
V drives to the nearest metro station on Wollesen Street, unwilling to take Songbird's car all the way home, feels too risky — when you've got the FIA breathing down your neck, paranoia isn't just healthy, it's survival. The thought of running to the Aldecaldos had crossed her mind — Panam would take her in without question — but V dismisses it immediately. No way she's risking the FIA connecting her to the nomad family — they don't need that kind of heat. Besides, one look at her current state and Panam would start asking questions. Much as she loves her best choom, V's too fucking exhausted to deal with any interrogation right now.
They ditch the car in one of Arroyo's countless shadowy arteries. The night market ahead throbs with life, a labyrinth of vendors hawking everything from synthetic meat to bootlegged cyberware. Strings of cheap lights crisscross overhead like artificial stars.
"Need to change," V mutters, scanning the crowd. "Too exposed like this."
A second-hand clothing stall catches her eye — run by an elderly woman who barely looks up as V quickly selects an oversized hoodie. The fabric is worn but clean, perfect for blending into the crowd. She pulls it on, tugging the hood low over her face, and feels Johnny's approval through their link.
The metro station looms ahead, its ancient screens flickering with advertisements and safety warnings. V keeps her head down as she weaves through the late-night crowd — suits heading home from overtime at work, joytoys starting their shifts, gangers prowling for easy marks. She takes Line A to Congress and MLK, standing in the corner of the car where she can watch all entrances. Johnny leans against the wall beside her, his solid presence keeping her grounded despite her exhaustion.
The familiar streets of her neighborhood feel different at this hour — darker, more dangerous. Or maybe it's just post-combat paranoia painting everything in shades of threat. V sticks to darkness, while Johnny walks slightly ahead, his enhanced senses scanning for trouble. When they finally reach her building, the lobby's fluorescent glare feels like needles in her tired eyes.
The Valentino girl behind the desk — Maria? Lucia? V can never remember which one works which shift — glances up from her magazine. "Ah, Miss Linder, some packages arrived for you."
The fake name — Johnny's name — still makes V's heart skip, even after all this time. She manages a weary nod, signing for the deliveries with hands that tremble slightly from exhaustion and fading adrenaline. Johnny watches her scrawl his surname across the paper, and though he snorts, there's something deeply possessive in his smirk that makes heat pool in her stomach despite her exhaustion.
Finally, finally, they're home. Nibbles immediately demands her tribute, weaving figure-eights between her legs as she checks her food and water levels. "Yeah, yeah, I know," V murmurs, dropping her packages by the door "Mama's late." The iguana observes her homecoming from his favorite perch atop the bookshelf, tongue flicking out in what she chooses to interpret as welcome. The familiar routine helps ground her, transitioning her brain from combat-ready to something approaching normal.
Her blood-and-mud-stained disguise gets stripped off and stuffed directly into a garbage bag — no point trying to salvage the Aurore outfit when she'll never need that particular costume again. Besides, some stains run deeper than fabric, and these clothes carry memories she'd rather leave in that stadium's concrete belly.
Johnny's already there, propped against the headboard, and she crawls into his arms without hesitation. His chrome hand traces patterns on her bare skin as she settles against his chest, his other hand combing through her tangled hair.
"Sleep, princess," he murmurs, and she can feel his voice rumble through his chest. "I got watch."
Exhaustion crashes over her like a tidal wave, her eyes growing heavy as soon as her head finds its familiar place on his shoulder. She doesn't fight it, letting sleep claim her while Johnny's presence anchors her to safety, his metal arm draped protectively across her waist, his warmth chasing away the last echoes of the night's chaos.
The next morning, V allows herself the luxury of sleeping in, giving her battered body time to recover from the previous night's chaos. After several cups of coffee that do little to chase away the bone-deep exhaustion, she takes a long shower, letting hot water soothe her aching muscles. Afterward, she carefully tends to her collection of scrapes and bruises, even applying a bandage where the bullet grazed her arm — more for Johnny's peace of mind than actual necessity.
Finally, she turns her attention to the packages that arrived yesterday. Her focus centers on the cork pinboard mounted on the wall near her punching bag, under the stairs. With methodical care, she begins arranging the newly printed photos, each one a precious memory she examines before pinning in place.
At the top, she places a photo of herself with Misty and Jackie, posed in Vik's clinic — the ripperdoc himself visible in the background, hunched over his workbench. Next to it goes another shot of her and Jackie fist-bumping, taken at Mama Welles' place during those few months she lived there, both of them grinning like idiots. A black and white polaroid captures her and Panam at the Totentanz, both slightly drunk and laughing at something long forgotten. She fills the spaces between with Judy's business card, complete with a friendly "Call me :)" scrawled in purple ink, and an adorably terrible sketch of Nibbles on a post-it.
Below that, she carefully pins two photos of Johnny from his Samurai days, taken decades before she was born. The first shows him beside a young Kerry, sporting a huge grin. In the second, he's mid-performance, mic in hand, with Denny visible behind her drum kit, lost in the music. "Fuck," V mutters, throat tight. She'd give anything to have a real photo of her and Johnny to add to the collection, but life's a bitch that way. She'll have to make do with this juxtaposition of memories, pretending it's enough to bridge the gap between their timelines.
Underneath, she adds a polaroid of Nibbles sprawled across the pool table, yellow eyes fixed on the camera with typical feline intensity. Next to that goes a weathered postcard from Pacifica — she's had it for years, but now it only reminds her of that wild rollercoaster ride with her rockerboy.
The bottom section gets filled with more recent memories — a group shot with the Us Cracks and Kerry, signed selfies with Lizzy Wizzy and Hideshi Hino. Maybe not as meaningful as the others, but they're still fragments of the brief time she and Johnny shared. She fills the empty spaces with various stickers found in her desk drawer, creating a colorful tapestry of memories.
Standing back, V surveys her work with a bittersweet smile. It's all there — the story of her life's final year, but especially these past two months since the Konpeki heist. Since Johnny. Her throat tightens as she realizes she won't have many more memories to add. But that's okay. She's left plenty of space at the bottom of the board for Johnny to fill with his own memories once he has the body to himself.
Because he will live — that's all that matters to her now. The rest... it's for him, so he'll have something to remember her by when she's gone. Her fingers trace the edge of a photo, and she feels Johnny's presence strengthen behind her. He doesn't know — can't know — what this memorial wall truly means. To him, it's just V being sentimental, collecting memories like always. The weight of her unspoken decision sits heavy in her chest, but she keeps her thoughts carefully guarded.
V leans back as Johnny's arms wrap around her waist, grateful that he can't see the tears threatening to spill. The morning sun streams through her apartment windows, catching on the photos and making them glow like fragments of captured time. For now, she's still here, still breathing, still his.
She just hopes that someday, when he understands why she did what she did, he'll forgive her for keeping this secret. That he'll look at these photos and remember her with something other than anger. That he'll understand that sometimes, love means making impossible choices — and living with them. And if these pictures are all she can leave him when she's gone, well... at least he'll know he was loved. That she existed. That for a brief, burning moment, they were everything.
Speaking of her secret farewell tour, the next name on her list makes her heart clench — Panam. She needs to return Scorpion's bike before it's too late, and she wants one last evening with the nomads too. The thought brings a lump to her throat as she pulls out her holo and types her message.
V chuckles at her best friend's dramatics, making a mental note to grab the best steaks money can buy — real organic stuff, the kind that costs more than most people's rent. As she returns to organizing the things she ordered for Johnny, her holo buzzes again.
The exchange gives her a few hours to grab some food in the city. She pushes away the emotions that have been threatening to overwhelm her since she finished with the photos, focusing instead on getting ready. Despite planning for a quiet day, she straps Johnny's iron to her thigh — in Night City, paranoia's just good survival instinct.
The thought of seeing Panam brings both joy and pain — another goodbye she'll have to pretend isn't a goodbye. But that's become her specialty lately, acting like everything's normal while her heart breaks a little more each day. At least with the nomads, she can pretend it's just another friendly visit, just another chance to escape the city's concrete embrace for the freedom of the Badlands. They don't need to know it's the last time. They don't need to carry that burden.
After grabbing lunch downtown and loading up on premium cuts from the best butcher shop in Corpo Plaza, V mounts Scorpion's bike and heads toward the medical center in Little China. She skirts the main building, making her way to a container-filled loading area around back, the smell of antiseptic and urban decay mixing in the air.
A man stands nervously by a van, cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling around his face in the afternoon heat. As soon as she approaches, he calls out, "You there! Miss! Did Dakota send you?"
"That's right," V confirms with a nod. "You got the goods?"
"Right here." He slides open the van's side door, revealing a sleek medical case. "Dynalar SuperKidney, specially designed for sickle cell anemics. Just like we agreed."
V reaches for the case, saying, "Eddies'll get to you—"
"Yeah, yes, later, I know." The doctor cuts her off, his nervous energy ratcheting up as he glances around like a spooked cat. "I have to go now. I'm operating."
Before V can process his bizarre behavior, he bolts, disappearing between the containers. Her confusion lasts only seconds before a bullet whizzes past her head. Combat instincts kick in hard and fast as she dives behind the van, peering between the wheels to assess the situation. Four or five NCPD badges are advancing on her position, weapons drawn. Fucking hell, what fresh chaos is this?
"They never make it easy, do they?" Johnny materializes beside her, rolling his eyes with characteristic disdain.
"Getting real fucking old," V growls, shoving the implant case to safety under the van. Her hands find Johnny's Malorian with practiced ease as she springs into action.
The firefight erupts in a chaos of muzzle flashes and shouted commands. V's combat instincts take over as she processes the situation in fragments — four NCPD badges advancing from the left, another trying to flank right. Standard-issue weapons, standard-issue armor. Nothing she and Johnny's iron can't handle.
"Five on one?" Johnny materializes beside her, a predatory grin on his face. "Hardly seems fair. For them."
V moves like liquid mercury, each motion precise and deadly. The first cop goes down with two shots through the gap in his armor, right below the throat. The second barely has time to call for backup before V's bullet finds his temple. She rolls to new cover as return fire chews up the concrete where she'd been crouching. She catches the flanking officer mid-stride. Her shot takes him in the knee, dropping him with a scream. The follow-up round ensures he stays down.
The remaining two officers split up, trying to catch her in a crossfire. Amateur move. V uses their separation against them, picking off the one on the left with a clean headshot. The last cop, finally realizing he's alone, breaks cover to run. V's bullet catches him between the shoulder blades, and silence falls over the container yard.
Finding the doctor proves easy — fear has a distinct smell, and he reeks of it from his hiding spot behind some crates. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" he wails, and V feels a wave of exhaustion that has nothing to do with physical fatigue.
"I won't if you can give me an explanation." Her voice carries winter's chill as she presses the gun under his chin. "And it better be fuckin' good."
The man, practically pissing himself with fear, explains that Dakota's call about the implant was intercepted by NCPD. They forced him to proceed with the sale, hoping to catch some Raffen Shiv operating in Night City.
Fuck, this whole situation is absurd. V doesn't even bother explaining that not all nomads are Raffens — this gonk wouldn't understand the difference anyway. She stares down at the pathetic man, still blubbering pleas for mercy. It would be so easy to pull the trigger, and a large part of her wants to. But Johnny's hand lands on her shoulder, his voice low in her ear, "Not worth it, princess."
V lowers her weapon, her voice carrying all the warmth of a morgue drawer as she tells the doctor to get the fuck out before she changes her mind. She turns away, heading back to retrieve the case from under the van. As she's about to mount up and leave this shitshow behind, a desperate "Wait! Wait!" stops her. The doctor hurries over, confessing, "The SuperKidney... the police put a virus onto it... Use the firmware from this shard if you want the patient to live."
V takes the shard from his trembling hand without comment, sliding it into her pocket. Shit, a last-second attack of conscience — that's unexpected. Without a backward glance, she fires up the engine, more than ready to trade this concrete jungle for the familiar faces waiting at the Aldecaldo camp. At least out there, among family, the only snakes she has to worry about have scales.
As V navigates through sun-scorched dunes, the desert heat making the air shimmer like liquid glass, a message flashes across her optics.
"Fuck me," V mutters to herself. "Dogtown's going to shit."
'When ain't it?' Johnny's voice echoes in her mind. If Hands is bothering to send warnings, the situation must be dire. Hansen's death is probably being spun into propaganda by whatever power-hungry asshole wants to fill the vacuum. Bullshit — nothing heroic about a wannabe dictator who didn't even see death coming.
The Aldecaldo camp appears on the horizon, the massive tent housing their prized Basilisk standing out against the desert backdrop. Panam's already waiting by the tent's entrance, deep in conversation with the clan's ripperdoc. The moment V kills the engine, he practically sprints to her, his weathered face tight with concern.
"The kidney?" he asks, not bothering with pleasantries.
V hands over both the case and the shard, quickly explaining about the NCPD virus and the firmware fix. He nods sharply, already turning toward his mobile clinic. "Jake's prepped and waiting. Thanks, V."
"Go save our boy," Panam calls after him, before turning to V with a warm smile. "You just can't help being our guardian angel, can you?"
"Some angel," V snorts, dismounting. "Pretty sure angels don't have to shoot their way through cops to deliver medical supplies."
"The best ones do," Panam laughs, pulling V into a quick hug. "Seriously though, thank you. Hutch would've never forgiven himself if something happened to Jake."
"Speakin’ of him..."
"Still unconscious, but stable. His wife’s watching him." Panam's expression turns mischievous. "Which means you and I can focus on more important things. Like testing out Mitch's upgrades to our baby."
They head into the tent where Mitch and Bob are arguing good-naturedly over something. V hands over her expensive meat haul to Bob, who whistles at the quality.
"Preem cuts," he grins. "This calls for a proper feast tonight."
"Fuck it up and I'll feed you your own intestines," Panam threatens cheerfully.
"You know," Johnny comments in V's head, "I'm starting to think our nomad friend might have some anger management issues."
V bites back a laugh as Mitch launches into an enthusiastic explanation of the Basilisk's improvements. His eyes light up like a kid showing off a new toy as he details the enhanced targeting systems, upgraded propulsion, and reinforced armor plating.
"In theory," he concludes proudly, "she's about thirty percent more responsive now. Should handle like a dream."
"Theory's nice," Panam interrupts, already heading for the access hatch. "But I promised V some hands-on experience. You coming, or what?"
V follows Panam into the Basilisk's cramped cockpit, the familiar smell of metal and gun oil filling her nostrils. Both women settle into their positions — Panam in the pilot's seat, V taking the gunner station.
"Ready to make some noise?" Panam asks, already reaching for her connection cable.
"Born ready," V grins, plugging in her own interface. The initial sync always feels weird — like a rush of ice water down her spine followed by a surge of electricity. Then Panam's presence floods her awareness, their nervous systems linking up in perfect harmony.
The Basilisk powers up with a deep thrum that resonates through their connected consciousness. V feels the moment Panam takes control, the massive machine responding to her neural commands as naturally as breathing. They rise smoothly from the ground, and holy shit — Mitch wasn't kidding about the improvements.
"This is fuckin' preem!" V exclaims as they soar over the camp. Through their neural link, she can feel Panam's fierce joy matching her own.
"Just wait," Panam's grin is audible in her voice. "I found the perfect playground."
They cruise toward an abandoned scrapyard, a graveyard of rusted vehicles and industrial debris sprawling across the desert floor. Perfect target practice. V's fingers tingle with anticipation as she accesses the weapons systems. She have a perfect shot at a stack of old cars, and she takes it. The explosion lights up the evening sky in a spectacular display of fire and shrapnel.
"FUCK YEAH!" both women shout in unison, their shared excitement amplified through the neural link.
Panam takes them through a series of increasingly complex maneuvers, each one smoother than the last. An old truck disappears in a satisfying fireball. A stack of shipping containers collapses in a symphony of twisted metal.
They continue their dance of destruction as the sun begins to set, painting the Badlands in shades of gold and crimson. Through their neural link, V can feel Panam's pure joy matching her own — this perfect moment of freedom, away from all the bullshit of Night City and Dogtown and everything else trying to kill her.
"We should head back soon," Panam says eventually, but makes no move to turn around. "Bobby's probably got dinner ready."
"One more," V suggests, spotting a particularly tempting target.
They spend another twenty minutes proving exactly why the Aldecaldos shouldn't let them play with the Basilisk unsupervised, leaving a trail of gleeful destruction across the desert. By the time they finally head back to camp, the sun is starting to set and they're both laughing like maniacs.
"Fuck," Johnny muses in V's head as they land, "you two sure know how to make a mess."
V just grins, the taste of gunpowder and freedom still sweet on her tongue. These are the moments worth living for — just her and her best friend, raising hell in the desert, pretending for a little while that nothing else matters.
As they climb out of the Basilisk, the smell of Bobby's cooking wafting from the main camp, V feels more alive than she has in days. Sometimes the best therapy is just blowing shit up with someone who gets you. They head toward the campfires, arms slung over each other's shoulders, still buzzing from their joyride. Behind them, the Basilisk cools down with metallic pings, ready for its next adventure.
They approach one of the secondary campfires where all the clan veterans have gathered, even Saul making a rare appearance, likely drawn by the enticing aroma of grilling meat. Cassidy, for once without either his book or guitar in hand, greets them warmly, "Hello city girl. Hope that meat's for all of us 'cause the smell's driving us crazy."
"'Course it is." V grins, settling down in the sand near the fire. "Just hope it's only you guys and not the whole camp, or we'll end up with barely a bite each."
"Nah, just us tonight. Staying?" He asks, adjusting his well-worn cowboy hat. "If so, I'll fetch us a bottle of my finest moonshine."
When V nods, Panam chimes in with a laugh, "Go on then, old man, bring us your gut-wrecker!"
The night settles in as they gather around the fire, the flames casting dancing shadows across their faces. V sits cross-legged in the sand, Johnny materializing beside her, his shoulder pressed against hers. The circle includes Panam, sprawled comfortably on an old camping chair, Cassidy returning with his infamous moonshine, Bob tending to the meat with practiced care, Teddy and Carole sharing quiet jokes, Mitch cleaning his hands after working on the Basilisk all day, and Saul maintaining his leader's dignity while still clearly enjoying the casual atmosphere.
The meat turns out perfectly cooked, its rich aroma making everyone's mouth water. As they pass around plates loaded with premium cuts, Johnny takes a particular interest in Cassidy's moonshine.
"Holy shit, V," he whistles after she takes a sip, the burn hitting them both through their shared consciousness. "I've drunk everything from Mexican tequila to Russian vodka, but this... this is something else. Your nomad friends don't fuck around."
The conversation flows as freely as the alcohol, stories and laughter mixing with the crackling of the fire. Bob shares tales from his early days as a techie, while Mitch and Teddy try to outdo each other with increasingly outrageous war stories. Carole occasionally cuts in with dry remarks that have everyone howling with laughter, while Saul gradually relaxes, even sharing a few stories of his own.
The desert night wraps around them like a blanket, the stars emerging in full glory — something you'd never see in Night City. The Milky Way stretches across the sky in a brilliant band, and the absence of city noise makes everything feel more intimate, more real.
After the plates are cleared, Cassidy retrieves his guitar, its worn surface reflecting the firelight. He starts playing a simple blues melody, the notes floating softly through the night air, providing a perfect backdrop to their gathering. The music seems to make even Johnny nostalgic, his usual sarcasm giving way to quiet appreciation.
V looks around at these people who've become her family, feeling more at home than she ever did in Night City. The warmth isn't just from the fire or the moonshine — it's from belonging somewhere, with people who accept her exactly as she is, merc-sharing-brain-with-a-rockerboy and all.
After the warmth and camaraderie of the campfire gathering, V and Panam seek refuge in a quieter corner of the camp, settling at the weathered tables near the mobile bar. The night has taken on that peculiar desert quality — simultaneously vast and intimate, with stars scattered like dimaonds across black velvet. The distant sounds of the main camp drift over — Cassidy's guitar picking out a slow melody, scattered laughter, the soft crackle of fires.
V's still pleasantly buzzed from Cassidy's moonshine, her body relaxed as she lounges against the table, sharing stories with Panam. When the topic turns to Kerry's collaboration with Us Cracks, her face lights up with genuine joy. She pulls up the photo on her holo — her, Kerry, and the girls all crammed together, grinning like idiots. The memory makes her laugh, and she's just launching into the story of the Samurai concert when her holo rings.
The caller ID hits her like a bucket of ice water. Her whole body goes rigid, the pleasant warmth of the evening evaporating instantly. Johnny, who had been casually perched on the table beside her, materializes fully upright, his relaxed posture transforming into coiled tension.
"Fuck," he mutters, moving closer to V. "What does this asshole want now?"
V's hand hovers over the holo for a moment, her jaw clenching. With a quick gesture to Panam, who's already noticed the shift in her friend's demeanor, she answers. Her voice transforms from warm camaraderie to pure steel. "The hell you want, Reed?"
"You're a disappointment, V." The spy's voice comes through flat and clinical, like a doctor delivering bad news he doesn't really care about. "To me, to Song. We could've helped her — we, together."
"Was her choice, Sol." The words come out like venom. V can't believe the man is still pushing this 'helping' narrative, still pretending he wasn't planning to turn So Mi into a lab rat. Johnny moves closer, his presence protective at her side.
Reed's calculated silence stretches before he switches tactics, his voice taking on that self-righteous official tone that makes V's teeth ache. "You're helpin' a traitor... Who took a potentially lethal swipe at the NUS president's life."
V almost laughs — the sound catching bitter in her throat. Is he really trying to appeal to her sense of patriotic duty? After everything? "Sorry, Reed — made my decision, not gonna backpedal."
"You don't get it. It's not about you and me anymore," he persists, threat creeping into his voice. "You two're enemies of the NUSA."
"Not your enemy. Not the enemy of the NUS all the more," V corrects, her knuckles white around the holo. She bites back what she really wants to say — that if protecting someone from being imprisoned and experimented on makes her an enemy, then so be it. Thinking of So Mi — of her determination, her fear, her desperate bid for freedom — she adds, "Just fightin' to survive."
"Awkward strategy you've adopted," Reed says coldly, clearly misinterpreting her words as concern for her own survival. "We, the FIA — we're gonna find you two. You have exactly nowhere to run, V."
A bitter laugh escapes her this time, sharp and humorless. "Forget already? Us fleein', leaving you in the dirt?"
"True, I don't have eyes on you." He admits grudgingly, and V can hear the frustration he's trying to mask. "But we'll see each other soon, oh yes we will."
"You soundin' desperate," V taunts, unable to resist pushing back. Her free hand finds Johnny's, gripping it tight. "FIA dig its teeth into your ass big?"
"Know what? You're right — I am desperate. We both are." The admission comes with an underlying threat. "So you need to take a moment to think about what you'll do when I find you."
"Callin' your bluff, Reed." V's voice is steady, even as her heart pounds with anger. "Seriously doubts FIA'll find us."
"Says a minor league merc with a sick woman to babysit and drag along as baggage." Reed's losing his composure now, each word sharp with frustration. "Arrogance can be blindin'. You can't see you're hours away from gettin' caught in a serious bind. When that same arrogance will tell you to fight and die.... Remember then — it won't just be your life on the line. So Mi's life will also be on your head held high in the face o' death."
"Aim to fight it out, Reed, to the very end." Ice crystalizes in V's tone, her resolve hardening with each word.
That's when Reed delivers his cruelest blow, his voice dripping with calculated poison. "Is that what you told Welles at Konpeki Plaza, too? You need to grow up one of these days, start taking responsibility. If not for yourself, then for others."
The words hit like a physical blow. V's breath catches, her chest tightening as if squeezed in a vice. Jackie's face flashes in her mind — his final smile, blood-stained and brave, his last words echoing in her memory. Her vision blurs, whether from rage or grief she can't tell anymore.
Johnny's reaction is instant and fierce. His arm wraps around her shoulders, pulling her against him while his other hand maintains its grip on hers. She can feel his fury pulsing through their connection, matching her own heartbeat. Even Panam, who can only hear V's side of this psychological warfare, moves to shield her friend from invisible threats.
The silence that follows feels heavy enough to crush mountains. When V finally speaks, her voice carries the weight of exhaustion, grief, and a fury so deep it burns cold. "Go fuck yourself, Reed," she says, each word carved from ice. "Go. Fuck. Yourself." She cuts the call before he can respond, the holo dropping from her trembling fingers onto the table's scarred surface.
The heavy silence following Reed's call hangs between them like a physical presence until Panam finally breaks it, her voice soft but determined. "Fuck, V... Tell me what's going on?" Her eyes, sharp and concerned, study V's face in the dim light cast by the distant fires.
The tension from the call slowly bleeds out of V's system, leaving her feeling drained. She lets out a long breath, squeezing Johnny's hand where it's still intertwined with hers. Through their connection, she lets him know she's okay — or will be, at least. He squeezes back, his thumb brushing over her knuckles before he glitches away, rematerializing on the bar truck, giving them space while staying close enough to intervene if needed.
V runs a hand through her hair, turning to face her friend properly. "Well, remember the situation with my chooms from the FIA?" She lets out a bitter laugh. "Let's just say things have gone completely to shit since we last talked..."
As V recounts the situation with Songbird, she can see the worry deepening in Panam's expression. She explains about the netrunner's abilities, her desperation to escape, and the choice V faced. Her voice grows softer when she describes Song's fear, her determination, the way she'd rather die than be caged again. She carefully omits the part about abandoning her chance at a cure for the Relic problem, but otherwise holds nothing back.
"Shit, V..." Panam sighs when the story ends, pushing her dreadlocks back over her shoulder with a frustrated gesture. Her fingers drum against the table, "You've really stepped in it this time. But..." She reaches across to grab V's hand, squeezing it firmly. "You did good. I'm fucking proud of you, you made the right call, taking her side."
From his spot by the vehicle, Johnny nods in agreement, a rare genuine smile crossing his face.
Panam leans forward, determination lighting her eyes. "Now, tell me how I can help. I could maybe set up an escape route out of NC for your choom, or—"
"Nah, Pan'... Sweet of you to offer, but..." V interrupts with a tired but genuine smile, warmth flooding her chest at her friend's immediate offer of help. "Song has serious trust issues. Adding more people to this mess right now probably isn't the best move. Besides," she shrugs, "she's got everything planned down to the smallest detail. Think she knows exactly what she's doin’." Seeing Panam's expression shift towards protest, she quickly adds, "It'll be fine, I promise. For now, I just need to wait for her signal and then... well, I'll help her get far, far away from here."
"Damn… If you change your mind, you know I'm here, right?" Panam concedes, leaning back against the table. The desert wind plays with her hair, carrying the scent of sage and cooling sand. "For anything, okay? The whole clan would have your back in a heartbeat."
"Got it." V leans over to pat her friend's knee affectionately, throat tight with emotion. Sometimes the depth of Panam's loyalty still catches her off guard. "Right now, though, I think I'm just gonna get some rest. Dunno when this plan's gonna kick off, but I need to be ready."
They share a moment of comfortable silence before parting ways. Panam pulls V into one of her fierce hugs, the kind that makes V feel like nothing in the world could touch her. "Get some sleep, you look like shit," Panam murmurs, making V laugh despite everything.
The walk to her tent feels longer than usual, exhaustion weighing down her steps. The desert night wraps around her like a familiar blanket, stars scattered across the vast darkness above. The camp has quieted, though she can still hear Cassidy's guitar in the distance, playing something slow and melancholic.
Inside her tent, V barely manages to kick off her boots before collapsing onto the narrow camp bed. Johnny materializes beside her, somehow managing to fit his lanky frame onto the tiny bed without pushing her off. His presence is solid and warm against her back, arm sliding around her waist with practiced ease. "You good?" he asks softly, his breath tickling the back of her neck.
"Yeah," she murmurs, already half-asleep, instinctively curling into his warmth. "Just... was a low blow from Reed, using Jackie against me."
"I know, princess." His hold tightens slightly, protective. "But Jackie would've been proud of what you're doin' for Songbird. You know that, right?"
She makes a small sound of agreement, too exhausted for words. Johnny starts humming quietly — an old ballad she vaguely recognizes — as she drifts off. Outside, the desert night continues its ancient cycle, stars wheeling overhead, while the distant sounds of the Aldecaldo camp create a comforting lullaby of family and safety. The last thing she registers is Johnny pressing a soft kiss to her temple, his presence anchoring her as she finally surrenders to sleep.
And with these words, I can see
Clear through the clouds that covered me
Just give it time, then speak my name
Now we can hear ourselves again
The next morning unfolds peacefully at the nomad camp, the harsh desert sun softened by the lingering morning haze. V's nursing her third cup of coffee, watching Panam playfully argue with Mitch about engine modifications, when her holo chimes. The familiar ID makes her relax — at least it's not Reed again.
"V, in our fair district, are you?" Mr. Hands' smooth voice flows through the connection.
"Hey, nah," she responds, setting down her coffee. "Other side of NC, actually."
"Mind coming?" The fixer's tone carries that particular note she's learned to recognize — the one that means something interesting is brewing. "We should talk, face to face."
V suppresses a grimace. She's not exactly eager to return to the scene of her crime, but... "Could it be a gig coming my way?"
"Far better." Hands' voice drops to an enticing purr. "I see a blank page in Night City's chronicle." He pauses for effect — the man really knows how to build suspense. "Your name is on it. The page and I await — at the Heavy Hearts."
He disconnects before she can respond, leaving V muttering to herself, "My, my, aren't we confident today..." Johnny materializes beside her, eyebrow raised questioningly, but she just shrugs. She makes her way to Panam, who's still gesturing animatedly at Mitch. "Hey, Pan'? Could use a favor— need a ride to Pacifica."
Panam turns, surprise evident on her face. "Sure but... didn't you come on Scorpion's bike? A problem with it?"
And here comes the tricky part. V's rehearsed this conversation in her head, knowing she needs to make it sound casual. "Nah, no problem. But honestly... I just got a new ride, and I've been neglecting this one. And... it deserves better than collecting dust in my garage. Figured you might make better use of it than me."
She watches Panam's expression shift as she processes this, clearly sensing there's more to the story. After a few moments of visible internal debate, she seems to decide not to push. "Okay, will keep it at the camp." She points a finger at V, her tone brooking no argument. "But it's still yours. I'll take care of it meanwhile, but you can come get it anytime, got it?"
"Got it." V nods, forcing a smirk she doesn't quite feel.
"Okay, good. C'mon, we'll take my Thorn," Panam says, already heading toward her beloved vehicle.
Climbing into the familiar car, V feels a wave of nostalgia wash over her. Her fingers trail along the leather seat, remembering how their friendship started with stealing this very vehicle back from the Raffens. It feels fitting, somehow, to take one last ride in it before having to say goodbye to the woman who became her best friend in Night City. Panam slides behind the wheel, the engine purring to life under her expert touch. As they tear across the dunes, sand spraying in their wake, V watches Night City's skyline grow larger on the horizon. Each mile brings them closer to their final farewell, though only V knows it.
The Grand Imperial Mall's parking lot shimmers under the early afternoon sun as Panam pulls up next to V's gleaming black Arch. The heat rippling off the asphalt creates wavering mirages, making the motorcycle look like it's floating on a sea of molten tar. Both women exit the Thorn, and Panam immediately gravitates toward the bike, her expert eyes taking in every detail of the custom machine.
"Damn, V," she whistles appreciatively, fingers trailing over the chrome detailing. "That's a nice ride. So... what's your next move? Besides showing off your new toy?"
"Heading back to Dogtown." V gestures vaguely toward the fortified entrance of the enclave. "Local fixer's got something cookin’." Johnny materializes beside her, his expression growing increasingly concerned as he picks up on her underlying emotions.
"Back to— V, are you fucking kidding me?" Panam's playful demeanor vanishes, brow furrowing with worry, her protective instincts kicking in. "After everything that went down, aren't they looking for you in there?"
"Eh, we'll see." V shrugs, aiming for nonchalance despite her very real concerns about passing through Dogtown's heavily guarded entrance. "Let a whole day pass — things should've cooled down some by now." Even as she says it, she knows it's more hope than fact.
"If you say so..." Panam sighs, recognizing the stubborn set of V's jaw that means there's no talking her out of this. Instead of arguing, she closes the distance between them, pulling V into a tight embrace. "Well, go do your thing then. But be careful, okay?"
V holds on longer than usual, memorizing everything about this moment — the familiar scent of engine oil and desert sage that always clings to Panam, the strength in her arms, the warmth of their friendship. She knows this is the last time she'll ever experience it. "Yeah, promise. And Pan'... Thanks. Thanks for everything."
"Heh, wasn't much work driving you to your bike." Panam replies with a smile, but when V still doesn't let go, concern creeps into her voice. "Hey... you sure you're alright?"
"Yeah, don't worry." V finally breaks the embrace, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Just... needed that. Been some rough days. Plus, got a lot on my plate — might not see you for a while. But I'll be fine, promise."
"I'm warning you — take too long, I'll hunt you down myself," Panam threatens playfully, giving V's shoulder an affectionate pat. "I've got contacts all over the state now, don't think I won't use them."
"The great Panam Palmer, using her chief status to track down one lowly merc?" V teases, desperately trying to keep things light. "I'm honored."
"Damn right you are." Panam pulls her in for one last quick hug. "Call me when you're done with whatever clusterfuck you're walking into."
"Yeah, sure." V's voice catches slightly. "Drive safe, Pan'."
She watches the Thorn disappear down the broken road, each rotation of its wheels carrying away another piece of the life she's about to leave behind. The silence between her and Johnny grows heavy with unspoken questions.
"V..." he starts, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
"Don't." She swings onto the Arch, unable to meet his eyes. "Not now, Johnny. Please."
"You're gonna have to tell me what's really goin’ on soon, V," Johnny says quietly. "Can't hide it forever."
"I know," she murmurs. "Just... not yet."
The engine roars to life beneath her, Johnny taking his usual spot behind her, arms wrapping around her waist. Through their connection, his worry mingles with frustration and a deep, aching understanding. He knows she's hiding something massive, something that explains the finality in these recent farewells. As she heads toward Dogtown's fortified gate, she tries to focus on curiosity about Hands' offer rather than the growing hollow in her chest where all these final goodbyes are collecting.
Another thread of her Night City life carefully, painfully severed. The weight of Johnny's arms around her waist feels both comforting and devastating. Soon, too fucking soon, she'll have to face the hardest goodbye of all. The one that'll tear her soul in half. The thought makes her grip on the handlebars tighten until her knuckles turn white, and she feels Johnny's arms squeeze just a little tighter in response. He doesn't speak, but his presence wraps around her like armor, shielding her from a pain he can feel building but doesn't yet understand.
The security scan at Dogtown's gate washes over V in familiar blue waves, the guards looking more tense than usual but waving her through without incident. Interesting — no alerts, no recognition, nothing flagging her for the stadium incident. Either Hansen's people were too dead to ID her, or someone's been scrubbing systems. Both options work in her favor.
The streets of Dogtown feel different today. There's an underlying current of nervous energy, like the whole district is holding its breath. Residents hurry along the cracked sidewalks, heads down, while small groups of Barghest mercs stand at corners, hands never far from their weapons. The massive pyramid of the Heavy Hearts rises before her, its chrome and glass surface reflecting the afternoon sun like a beacon of artificial opulence in this military-turned-slum district.
Inside, the club is a shadow of its usual nightly chaos. The massive dance floor lies empty, the few patrons scattered around the tables speak in hushed tones, their conversations a symphony of fear and opportunity. Some wear the haunted looks of people who've lived under Hansen's boot too long to imagine anything else, while others' eyes gleam with barely contained ambition. The power vacuum is almost visible, a tangible thing hanging in the stale air.
"Folks never learn," he drawls, following V to the elevator. "One tyrant falls, they're already beggin' for the next one."
The elevator ride to Hands' office is quick and silent. The fixer greets her with his usual composed demeanor, "Ah, V... I lacked the time to brew tea. My apologies."
"Face-to-face again?" V asks, giving zero fucks about tea ceremonies right now. "What's changed?"
"Everything. And that's what we'll discuss." Hands moves with deliberate slowness, each gesture choreographed for maximum effect. "Kurt Hansen — a man of many hats. A criminal, dog of war... To mine eye — an entrepreneur. And business suffocates in a vacuum. Vultures circle the colonel's corpse already. The enterprise he built must choose a new leader. We will make certain they choose correctly."
Johnny snorts from his perch by the window. "Always with the dramatic pauses. Guy should've been in theater."
"Uh-huh..." V keeps her skepticism clear. "And why's it 'we' care?"
"I take the long view of Dogtown's well-being. You care for short-term profit." The fixer's voice carries the weight of absolute certainty.
"Lemme guess — got a successor all lined up, don'tcha?" V takes the shard he indicates, slotting it into her port. Two dossiers flash across her vision — one for Bennett, a Barghest higher-up Hands favors, and Jago, whom V recognizes from the stadium. The fixer explains that Jago's got the Voodoo Boys' backing, making him a serious contender.
Hands wants her to convince Jago to back down, ensure a smooth transition for Bennett. Fuck, V's getting real tired of Dogtown's political bullshit. She pulls the shard, setting it back down. "Sorry Hands. Rather keep my mitts outta politics for a little."
"And people complain when their ambivalence yields no progress..." His disappointment feels calculated, another move in his endless chess game. "It seems you wasted a trip."
V's halfway to the door when his "Wait" stops her. She turns, catching something she's never heard in his voice before — desperation, carefully masked but there. "I'll double your usual rate. And provide support. Are you certain you want to leave?"
That makes her pause. Hands has always played straight with her, and if he's willing to negotiate like this... She closes the door, studying the fixer's carefully composed face. "Sharp, Hands. Got a keen eye for biz. I'm in. I'll handle it."
"No, you won't." A ghost of satisfaction crosses his features. "But Aguilar will."
The name drops into the room like a stone in still water. V raises an eyebrow.
"Hansen remained on top because he had the contacts to stay afloat. Most important among them was a Cuban cartel." Hands explains with his usual flair. "Enter Aguilar — a merc assassin from Havana. A living legend... Every time someone in Havana lights a cigar, Aguilar extinguishes a life somewhere around the globe." V files that line away — could be useful for later. "I'm lucky to have her behavioral imprint on hand. You're lucky to have experience with the tech already."
Now it makes sense why Hands was so keen on getting her specifically — mercs with military-grade shapeshifting tech and access to Dogtown aren't exactly common. She doesn't even question how he knows about her implant, she's always put Hands in the same category as Rogue — people who know everything, especially that information equals power.
Hands continues his briefing, laying out the details of Aguilar's persona with the precision of a master tactician. He presents V with the tools of her transformation — a perfect replica of the assassin's signature weapon, a tailored suit that screams both class and danger, and most importantly, the behavioral imprint and intelligence shard. With a gesture that's pure showmanship, he directs her to an empty office next door, offering privacy for her metamorphosis before the final test.
The suit Hands provided is pure Cuban gangster chic — crisp white shirt, silk black tie, a vest that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent, butter-soft leather gloves, and a fedora that would look ridiculous on anyone else. V catches Johnny's reflection in the window as she adjusts the tie, his shit-eating grin telling her exactly what he thinks of this costume party.
"Looking real smooth there, princess," he drawls, circling her with exaggerated appreciation. "Like one of them ancient mob flicks I used to watch."
Back in Hands' office, the mirror awaits. V takes a deep breath, centers herself, and activates the implant. The transformation ripples through her like a wave of warm water. Her hair seems to melt, reforming into tight, dark dreadlocks that frame her changing face. Her skin darkens smoothly, taking on the rich bronze of Caribbean sun. Her features shift with liquid grace — nose slightly broadening, jaw strengthening, cheekbones adjusting until Aguilar's legendary face stares back at her. She feels her posture changing, shoulders rolling back, head tilting at a predatory angle.
"Well?" Hands asks, studying the reflection with clinical precision.
V lets Aguilar's smile spread across her face — all honey and razor blades — her voice dropping into a warm, dangerous purr that sends a shiver down her own spine. "My time's precious, Hands. If this don't work, you'll need to find ten new digits or aim for a rebrand."
"Hm. Better than expected, V..." His satisfaction is evident in the slight curl of his lips. "Or rather, Aguilar. You'll make a strong impression on Jago, too. A trusted source tells me he's to meet in an hour with a delegation of the Dogtown Voodoos. I'll forward the coordinates."
V takes another moment with the mirror, letting Aguilar's presence settle into her bones. The smile that spreads across her face is pure predator — no wonder this woman's name makes hardened gangsters nervous. With a thought, she deactivates the implant, watching her features flow back like water finding its level. Hands gives his final instructions with characteristic precision: handle the gangoons however she sees fit, just ensure Bennett's path to power remains clear. All he needs is confirmation when it's done. Simple, clean, professional.
V assures him of success with Aguilar's confidence still lingering in her voice, then heads for the elevator. The meeting location pings on her map — Terra Cognita. Better step on it if she wants to deal with the Voodoos before Jago shows his face. Outside, the Arch roars to life under her, and she launches into Dogtown's sunny streets.
V parks the Arch behind a wall of shipping containers, their rusted surfaces painted with faded corporate logos and graffiti tags, the engine's purr fading into Dogtown's restless silence. From her vantage point, she spots two vans parked in the meeting zone, half a dozen Voodoo Boys lounging against their vehicles.
"Quite the audience for your debut performance," Johnny materializes beside her, lighting a ghost cigarette. "Ready for your close-up, princess?"
She slips into an open container, grimacing at the makeshift home inside — a stained mattress, scattered clothes, the lingering scent of someone's desperate existence. But it'll serve her purpose — a moment of privacy for the transformation.
"Time to go Cuban," she announces to Johnny, who's already leaning against the corroded wall, silver arm catching the light filtering through the container's gaps. His grin is pure mischief, clearly enjoying this particular piece of theater.
The transformation flows through her like warm honey — skin darkening, features shifting, Aguilar's presence settling into her bones with practiced grace. She checks the iron Hands provided, the pearl grip cool against her gloved fingers. The weight feels right, like it belongs there.
"How do I look?" she asks in that honey-warm voice that isn't hers, watching Johnny's reaction.
He circles her slowly, studying the transformation. "Like someone who makes grown men shit themselves for a living. It's... unsettling."
V emerges from the container with Aguilar's predatory grace, each step measured and deliberate. The Voodoo Boys' leader spots her approach, his initial "Piss off" dying in his throat as she fixes him with Aguilar's signature smile — sweet as sugar cane, sharp as a machete.
"You're a lucky man," she purrs in that honey-warm voice. "Today, I only want to talk instead of shed your blood." The effect is immediate — she sees the recognition hit, watches fear replace bravado in their eyes. When she delivers the message about Jago's removal and drops the line about cigars and Havana, they practically trip over themselves getting back to their vans.
Johnny watches them flee, smoke curling from his cigarette, laughing. "Poetry in motion. Guess the Cuban boogeyman's reputation ain't just talk."
V settles against a sun-warmed boulder, adjusting her fedora against the glare. The leather gloves creak softly as she checks the gun — a habit that feels natural to Aguilar's muscle memory. "Gotta wait for the man."
"Out in the open...?" Johnny's eyebrows shoot up, then he grins wider. "Ah, want a face-off, do ya? Aguilar, you saucy señorita." He slides closer, close enough that she can almost feel the phantom warmth of him. "Love watching you work, V. Even when you're not you."
She returns his smile, but on Aguilar's face it's pure predator - like she's measuring where to sink her teeth. It only makes Johnny laugh harder, his eyes dancing with appreciation for the performance. The air between them crackles with familiar tension, complicated by her borrowed face.
Ten minutes later, a massive black vehicle rolls up, kicking dust into the air. Johnny practically bounces with anticipation. "There they are. Gonks got no clue what's comin'. Think I'm gonna shed a tear."
A Barghest soldier built like a concrete wall emerges first, opening the door for Jago — the same man V had spotted at both the Black Sapphire and the stadium, always hovering in Hansen's shadow. Now he steps into the sun like he already owns Dogtown, until he spots her. The change in his expression is almost comical — from confident power player to prey in the space of a heartbeat.
V unleashes Aguilar's full intimidation routine, letting the assassin's presence flow through her like a deadly current. Every gesture is measured, every word carefully chosen to maximize impact. She watches Jago's confidence crumble like a house of cards in a hurricane.
"I... I never intended any disrespect..." he stammers, survival instinct kicking in hard. His eyes dart around, looking for escape routes, finding none. "What happens now?"
"I spoke with the Voodoos. They understand their lives are worth more." She keeps Aguilar's voice steady, letting danger drip from every syllable. The sun catches her cufflinks as she adjusts her sleeve — a casual gesture that makes Jago flinch. "Now I speak with you and wonder about the value of yours."
"Aguilar, please... It's not what you think." His eyes are wide with terror, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cooling afternoon. "May I explain at least?"
When she grants permission with a slight nod, Jago spills everything like a confession before execution — Bennett's secret deal with Arasaka, the corporation's plans to sink their claws into Dogtown the moment Hansen's successor takes power. He offers proof, words tumbling out about Bennett's ongoing meeting with corpo representatives in City Center, each sentence an attempt to buy his life with information.
The silence that follows is heavy enough to crush concrete. Jago reads his reprieve in her stillness, backing away with a respectful, "Please pass my gratitude along to your superiors," before retreating to his vehicle with his guard.
As the car pulls away, Johnny pipes up, "Plot thickens... Once they're gone, uncloak 'fore your face melts like scopchoco."
"'M used to the heat, literal and figurative." V purrs in Aguilar's smooth tones, enjoying how the words roll off her tongue. "Worry about yourself, rockerboy."
His laugh is warm, appreciative. "Guess you oughta keep Hands in the loop... Or... we could see what his favorite son's cookin' up with fuckin' Arasaka. After all, Dogtown's future hangs in the balance."
Once the vehicle disappears in a cloud of dust, V finally deactivates the implant. The sensation of features flowing back to normal sends a shiver down her spine — like slipping out of someone else's skin and back into her own. She runs her fingers through her hair, now back to its blue color, grounding herself in her own identity.
"Well played Aguilar. High five, mi hermana Cubana!" She grins, but the smile falters as Johnny steps into her space, chrome hand reaching up to cup her cheek. The metal is warm against her skin, his touch impossibly gentle for someone who shouldn't even be solid.
"Mmh, there you are," he murmurs, thumb tracing her cheekbone. "Been waitin' to see those eyes again. Would choose a V over an Aguilar any day."
V leans into his touch, heart skipping at the intensity in his gaze. "Missed me that much?" she teases, but her voice comes out softer than intended.
"Always do when you're playin' dress-up." His other hand finds her waist, pulling her closer. "Weird watchin' you become someone else. Like... you're there but not there, y'know?"
She reaches up, fingers trailing along his jaw. "I'm always me, Johnny. Just... wearing a different face."
"Yeah?" His smile turns tender, an expression few would believe the legendary rockerboy capable of. "Well, this face..." he leans in, pressing his forehead against hers, "this one's my favorite."
The moment stretches between them, charged with everything they never need to say out loud. Finally, V steps back with a reluctant smile, though she catches his hand and squeezes it before letting go. "C'mon, let’s go. We've got a wannabe corpo-rat to hunt."
As they walk back to her bike, she can still feel traces of Aguilar's dangerous grace in her movements, but Johnny's presence at her side keeps her anchored firmly in herself. He rematerializes behind her as she starts the engine, arms sliding around her waist with familiar ease, holding her just a little tighter than necessary. She grins, gunning the engine, leaving Dogtown's dust and drama behind as they head for the neon canyons of City Center, where another game of power and deception awaits.
The meeting with Bennett proves to be just as entertaining, if not more so. Following Jago's intel, V arrives at the address and slips into a service alley, the transformation to Aguilar flowing through her with practiced ease now. The weight of the fedora, the perfect fit of the suit, the deadly grace in every movement — it's becoming disturbingly comfortable, like slipping into a second skin made of pure menace. Her first move is to flatline the man waiting by the car — Bennett's driver, presumably. As the body hits the ground with a dull thud, Johnny materializes beside her, grinning.
"Tell you what Aguilar'd do. Dump the body stat, then wait for Bennett in the ride, get the jump on 'im." His eyes sparkle with mischief as he watches her drag the corpse behind a nearby dumpster, cursing under her breath at the dead weight.
Once the evidence is concealed, V slides into the driver's seat, adjusting the rearview mirror with Aguilar's precise movements. Minutes later, Bennett emerges from the building, his confident stride carrying him straight into her trap. He settles into the back seat, absorbed in his phone, not even noticing her presence until she turns around to fix him with Aguilar's signature predatory stare.
His reaction is priceless — V can't help but marvel at how these hardened soldiers, these mountains of chrome and muscle, nearly piss themselves at the mere sight of her. Well, at Aguilar's sight — she wonders if she'd lived longer, would people have eventually reacted the same way to her own face? That's one mystery that'll remain unsolved.
Despite her initial reluctance about this job, she's thoroughly enjoying herself now — thank fuck Hands insisted. "So you know now how the Japanese tie their neckties," she purrs in that dangerous borrowed voice, honey-sweet and deadly. "Do you know the Colombian way? The Colombians cut open your neck, pull your tongue out through the hole. It sounds complicated, but I've had plenty of practice."
Johnny's laughter echoes in her head at the creative threat while Bennett's complexion has taken on an interesting greenish tinge. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the car's perfect climate control, immediately spilling everything about his Arasaka deal, trying to justify his decisions with trembling words. V makes it crystal clear that if he accepts this arrangement with the corpo, they — not him — will be the ones controlling Dogtown.
Seeing his continued hesitation, she adds with calculated precision, "And if Jago was not a problem? Perhaps I've spoken to him already. Perhaps he has realized the error of his ways. He will support you. As will I."
The last statement immediately brightens Bennett's face, tension visibly draining from his shoulders as he relaxes into his seat. "Heh... Well, now that's a different story. One Cuban in my corner is worth more than ten Arasaka boardrooms. Agreed, we have a deal. I'll forget about the Japanese." He pauses, then ventures nervously, "One last question... where the fuck is my driver?"
"You should forget about him, too," V replies smoothly, exiting the vehicle without waiting for his reaction. She walks away at Aguilar's measured pace, ducking into a nearby garage once she's clear. "Preem work, Aguilar. Time for a breather, though," she mutters to herself, deactivating the implant once more.
All that's left is calling Mr. Hands. She reports not only Jago's withdrawal and the Voodoo Boys' elimination from the equation but also Bennett's attempted Arasaka deal and how she convinced him to abandon it. Hands commends her initiative, then delivers her next instructions — Hansen's funeral service is happening tonight at the Black Sapphire, and she's to attend in her new disguise to ensure a smooth transfer of power. " Le roi est mort. Vive le roi . Good luck, V," he says before hanging up.
Okay, good, she can do that. The ceremony isn't immediate, leaving her some time to unwind and grab a bite before heading back to Dogtown. As she walks through City Center's neon-lit streets, Johnny trails behind her, practically bouncing with satisfaction at their performance.
"You're enjoyin' this way too much," she teases him, but his grin is infectious.
"What can I say? Watching you make grown men cry is my new favorite hobby." He falls into step beside her, silver arm brushing against hers. "Plus, you make one hell of a scary Cuban, V. Almost had me fooled there for a second."
The city pulses around them as they walk, the afternoon sun casting long shadows between the towering megabuildings. There's still plenty of time before the funeral, and right now, all V wants is a good meal and maybe a moment to catch her breath before diving back into Dogtown's power plays. After all, it's not every day you get to help crown a king.
Two hours later, V stands near the entrance of the Black Sapphire, amused by the irony of entering through the front door this time, instead of sneaking around like a thief. Johnny materializes beside her, gesturing toward a secluded spot perfect for her final transformation.
"The final act — Hansen's wake, enter Aguilar..." His eyes dance with mischief. "Shit, V, got me on the edge of my seat. Like watching my favorite movie, 'cept I get to see all the behind-the-scenes action too."
"Get this show on the road," she grins, stepping into the shadows. The transformation flows easier now, Aguilar's features settling over her like a well-worn mask.
The difference in how people react to her entrance is striking. Last time she was here, she skulked through service corridors, dodging guards. Now, those same guards snap to attention as she approaches, their chrome-enhanced eyes widening with recognition.
"Aguilar, welcome to the Black Sapphire," one manages, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool evening air. "Hope you, uh, had a pleasant flight."
"Thank you for coming," his partner adds quickly, opening the door with trembling hands.
The main hall parts before her like the Red Sea. Soldiers and guests alike press themselves against the walls, their conversations dying mid-sentence. A woman actually stumbles backward at the sight of her. The fear is palpable, a living thing that ripples through the crowd ahead of her.
"Now this," Johnny gestures expansively as they reach the elevator, "this is how you make an entrance. Beats sneakin’ through the sewers, eh?"
The elevator ascends smoothly, its mirrored walls reflecting Aguilar's imposing figure infinitely. "So — you ready?" Johnny asks, his reflection grinning beside hers.
V answers by drawing the revolver, making it dance between her fingers before spinning the cylinder with practiced precision. The metallic clicks echo in the enclosed space like a death knell.
"Fuck me," Johnny breathes, then his grin stretch even wider. "that's hot."
The doors open onto a transformed world. Hundreds of candles cast flickering shadows across the walls, their light catching on the chrome implants of the assembled mourners. White lilies and roses line the path to Hansen's coffin, their perfume mixing with gun oil and expensive cologne — the signature scent of a military funeral.
The crowd here is different too. No drunk party-goers or eager social climbers. These are soldiers and power players, their faces set in careful masks of solemnity. But V sees how their eyes track her movement, how conversations halt mid-whisper as she passes.
At the bottom of the stairs, Jago stands with his ever-present bodyguard. His face lights up with careful relief when he spots her. "Aguilar, an honor. For all of us."
"This is how you bid your leader farewell?" She lets Aguilar's disappointment color her voice, gesturing at the modest arrangements. "Under the circumstances, I expected more... pomp."
"'Pomp'?" Jago repeats, eyes darting nervously around the room. "Well, eh... we did what we could. What felt right."
"Take me to Bennett," V commands, watching him squirm under Aguilar's intense gaze.
"He came with extra security..." He warns, motioning for her to follow. "Got a bad feeling."
They proceed down the central aisle, where chairs wait empty for the wake's attendees. A portrait of Hansen in full military dress watches over the proceedings from an ornate golden frame, his stern expression flickering in the candlelight. The whole scene feels like a stage set for the final act of their little drama, and V can't help but appreciate the theatricality of it all.
Johnny walks beside her, occasionally passing his hand through the candle flames. "Quite the send-off for the old bastard," he muses. "Though I gotta say, you made his last party way more entertaining."
V maintains Aguilar's stoic expression, but internally, she agrees. The night's still young, though, and something tells her this wake might just get as lively as the party did. After all, nothing livens up a funeral like a good old-fashioned power play.
At the room's heart, where Lizzy Wizzy once performed, Hansen's coffin now holds court. The open casket displays the colonel's face, oddly peaceful in death. The mortician earned their eddies — no trace remains of Alex's savage beating or that final, fatal kiss with the lab's window. He looks almost dignified now, hands folded over his chest like a sleeping warrior.
Johnny leans over the casket, waving his hand through Hansen's face. "Makeup can't hide everything though. Still got that 'I fucked around and found out' look about him."
Bennett approaches the coffin, his confident stride betrayed by the slight tremor in his voice. "Aguilar. What a... surprise."
"I understand you've met..." Jago's words trail off meaningfully.
V casually props herself against the coffin's polished surface, a gesture that makes several onlookers visibly flinch. Her voice carries Aguilar's trademark flat menace as she announces, "Havana sends its condolences. The news of Colonel Hansen's death shook us all."
"I'm sure the colonel would appreciate your... good will." Bennett's attempt at composure is admirable, but V can see him fighting the urge to wipe his sweat, memories of their chat in his car still fresh.
She dismisses him with Aguilar's signature indifference, turning to Jago. "I met earlier with the lieutenant colonel. We had a lovely conversation, talking of this and that. In the end, we both agreed Dogtown needs a strong leader." The pause that follows is perfectly timed, heavy with threat. "That leader will be Bennett. The people here heed his words. As will you, Jago."
"Oh? Until when?" Bennett's nerves finally snap, his voice rising. "Until you leave town and he's free to stab me in the back?" His finger jabs toward Jago like a weapon. "I want names, contacts, connections. Your informants in the NCPD. Everyone on your payroll."
"Ridiculous..." Jago hisses, unimpressed by the display of authority.
"You will prove your loyalty to me!" Bennett's control slips further.
Johnny whistles low. "Time to show these boys who's really got the biggest dick in the room, V."
With deliberate slowness, V draws her iron. The candlelight catches on its polished surface as she places it on the coffin. "No, Bennett. If you would unleash hell upon Dogtown, just know this pistol will be the first hound out of it."
"I don't think that's necessary." Jago interjects, trying to defuse the situation.
V fixes Bennett with Aguilar's infamous stare, the one that's made harder men than him lose control of their bladders. "I would like us to lay our cards on the table. That is the wild card." Bennett takes an involuntary step back, crossing his arms like a scolded child. "I give a finger, you ask for the hand. Alas, I have only an itchy trigger finger left to offer. Our future prosperity depends on a show of your good will. Only my personal opinion, of course. Perhaps if you do not agree, I could... persuade you."
"Fuckin'..." Bennett starts, then catches himself. "Fine."
"We have a deal," Jago confirms quickly, retreating to where his bodyguard waits.
V reclaims her weapon with fluid grace, addressing Bennett one final time. "Havana has eyes everywhere. Behave, both of you, all of you, or I'll be back." She leaves him standing by his predecessor's corpse, her exit as dramatic as her entrance.
"Now that," Johnny falls into step beside her, "is how you conduct a hostile takeover. Didn't even have to shoot anybody." He pauses, grinning. "Today, anyway."
The assembled mourners part before her once more, their whispered conversations painting the air with fear and speculation. V maintains Aguilar's deadly swagger until she reaches the elevator, knowing that every eye in the room is following her departure. After all, the best performances always leave the audience wanting more.
Behind her, Hansen's portrait watches silently, witness to yet another shift in Dogtown's balance of power. But this time, the puppet master pulling the strings isn't some dead colonel — it's a merc playing dress-up as death herself, and doing a damn fine job of it.
"Dog-eat-dog world, I guess," Johnny muses as the elevator descends, his reflection ghosting against the polished walls. "What's that make Dogtown?"
"A warning to you, Silverhand," V purrs in Aguilar's velvet-wrapped-razor voice, making him grin. "One you will heed."
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and Johnny offers an exaggerated bow, sweeping his arm like a theater usher. "After you, mi reina del terror."
V glides through the lobby one last time, savoring the way conversations still die in her wake. The night air hits her face like a blessing when she finally steps outside, carrying away the cloying scent of funeral flowers and fear.
"You're welcome here any time, Aguilar," the Barghest guard calls after her, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. "We'll always have a table ready."
She doesn't acknowledge him, disappearing instead into a nearby alley like a nightmare fading at dawn. Johnny materializes against the brick wall, clapping enthusiastically. "Curtain call, take a bow, V!" His eyes sparkle with pride and amusement. "Had our fun, but it's time we sent Aguilar off with a heartfelt 'adiós'."
"Adiós, Aguilar." V smiles as she deactivates the implant, feeling her features flow back to normal. "It's been real."
A quick holo to Mr. Hands to let him know everything went even better than expected. Not only is Bennett officially Dogtown's new leader, but Jago's cooperation promises a stronger future than Hansen ever managed. The fixer's satisfaction practically radiates through the call. "Marvelous, V. Worth every eddie and more. That'll be all for now. I'll be in touch."
The payment notification pings moments later, a healthy sum that makes all the playacting worth it. Johnny wraps an arm around her shoulders, solid and warm against her side. "So... headin' home, now?"
"Yup. Fuck, can't wait to get out of this suit," she grins, leaning into his embrace. "No idea how Aguilar wears this under the Cuban sun. Must be cookin’ alive in there."
They make their way back to the Heavy Hearts where her bike waits, chrome gleaming under the neon lights. The night air has cooled, carrying the promise of rain. As they mount up, Johnny settling behind her with familiar ease, his arms sliding around her waist, V takes one last look at Dogtown's chaotic skyline.
Tomorrow, stories will spread about Aguilar's appearance at Hansen's wake, adding to the legend. But right now, V's content to be herself, with Johnny's presence at her back and the wind in her hair, heading home to wash off the day's personas. The arch roars through Night City's streets, carrying them away from one adventure and toward whatever tomorrow might bring. But that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight belongs to them, to victory, and to the simple pleasure of being exactly who they are.
Back at their apartment,. V wastes no time shedding Aguilar's costume like a snake skin, letting the expensive fabric pool on the bathroom floor before stepping into the shower. The hot water washes away the last traces of the Cuban assassin's persona, along with the tension of the day.
The night air is thick with summer heat when she emerges, making her opt for minimal clothing — just a worn crop top and underwear. Johnny is already sprawled across their bed like a lazy cat, all long limbs and casual grace. "Was unexpectedly fun, playin’ kingmaker in that shit hole," he muses as she joins him. "Think anything's gonna change there?"
"Nah, not really." V shrugs, settling beside him. The mattress dips under her weight, and he automatically shifts to accommodate her presence. "No guarantee those gonks will be better for Dogtown than Hansen was, but..." Her fingers trace the invisible seam where the facial implant meets her skin. "At least playing Aguilar was fun. Nice break from all the chaos in our lives. And honestly..." She can't feel the junction anymore, even when touching it. "Pretty nova to use this thing outside FIA schemes."
"Yeah, crazy chrome you got there." Johnny rolls onto his side, facing her. His eyes track her fingers' movement. "Say, you could get anyone's behavioral imprint..."
V considers this for a moment. "Imagine if we had yours? Those times you took control, you could've worn your own face."
The suggestion hits Johnny like a punch to the gut, twisting something deep inside him. "Shit, V... that'd be even more fucked up." His mind spirals into a dark maze of what-ifs, each possibility worse than the last.
If the angry, bitter construct who first woke up in V's head had access to that tech... fuck. He'd have seized control every chance he got, parading his resurrected face through Night City like some digital messiah. Would've chain-smoked her lungs black, picked fights with every corp in sight, burned bridges faster than V could build them. The thought of his old self, that rage-filled terrorist, wearing his own face while puppeting her body... it makes him sick.
That date with Rogue? Instead of the bittersweet closure they managed, he'd have probably swaggered in wearing his old face, all ego and no heart. Would've fucked his old flame one last time, leaving her with fresh scars instead of healing the old ones. Probably would've crushed whatever remnants of their friendship survived those fifty years, just to feel like himself again.
Kerry... His best friend had been drowning in his own darkness, and it took V's gentle persistence to pull him out. But Johnny's old self? He'd have stormed in looking like a ghost from better days, spouting the same toxic bullshit that helped push Kerry toward the edge in the first place. Would've told him to stop being such a pussy, called him weak for struggling, maybe even pushed him further into that spiral of self-destruction. All while wearing the face of someone Kerry once trusted.
And Smasher... fuck. The hunt for Adam Smasher would've consumed them both. He'd have chased that chrome-plated bastard across Night City with V's body and his face, not caring how many bullets they caught or whose toes they stepped on. Would've gotten them both killed in some glorious blaze of vengeance, and for what? Pride? Revenge? The same shit that got him killed the first time.
The old Johnny Silverhand, wearing his own face again... he would've been unstoppable, and not in a good way. But the worst part? The absolute worst fucking part? He would've never let go. Would've fought tooth and nail to keep control, to keep wearing his own face, to keep pretending he was alive again.
Would've missed the miracle of getting to know V, of learning to see the world through her eyes. Would've never experienced the slow, beautiful agony of falling in love with her, of becoming someone better than he ever was when he was alive.
He looks at V now, at the face he's grown to love more than his own ever was, and feels a wave of gratitude that things happened the way they did. That he had to learn her, had to change, had to become someone worthy of sharing her skin.
But he's not that person anymore. The bitter, angry construct who woke up screaming in a stranger's head is gone, transformed by time and trust and V's unwavering humanity. No... he's already left too many marks on her — his skills bleeding into her muscle memory, his memories tangling with hers, his mannerisms slowly becoming her own. The last thing he wants is for her to wear his face too.
Realizing he's been silent too long, lost in dark thoughts, he cups V's cheek. His chrome hand feels cool against her shower-warmed skin. "Nah, definitely bad idea. This face..." His fingers trace her features with reverent precision — the arch of her cheekbone, the curve of her jaw, the soft hollow beneath her ear. He knows this face better than he ever knew his own, has memorized every expression, every micro-movement. "It's you, V. Despite everything that's happened, you're still you. Wouldn't change it for anything."
V just smiles, leaning into his touch, but the expression doesn't quite reach her eyes. What could she say? That soon it won't matter? That she wishes she could really have his behavioral imprint, so he could wear his own face again after she's gone, instead of being trapped in her skin?
But she can't say any of that, not without starting a war about who gets to keep the body when the time comes. Because even though the Relic malfunctions have been mercifully absent these past few days, she knows the final countdown is ticking. Knows Johnny would never accept the choice she's made. So she deflects, "Yeah, just a silly idea that crossed my mind."
She can't face him, can't risk him seeing the truth in her eyes, so she turns away, pressing her back against his chest. His chrome arm wraps instantly around her waist. "Think So Mi will contact us soon?"
"Probably sooner than I'd like..." Johnny sighs, pulling her closer until there's no space left between them. Her skin is soft and warm against his chest. "Whatever she's planning to delta the fuck outta NC, I got a feeling it won't be simple."
"Mh, we'll see. Whatever complications come up, she needs our help." Sleep starts to pull at her edges, her eyes growing heavy. The weight of the day, of all her secrets, settles over her like a blanket.
"Yeah... And after that, we get the cure, finally sort this whole mess out." He curls protectively around her, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder. His lips feel real against her skin, and it breaks her heart a little.
"We get the cure, and sort this whole mess out," she echoes, the lie bitter on her tongue. Only one dose of the cure. One chance to save one life. The math is simple, even if the emotions aren't. Johnny deserves this second chance more than she does — he's already died once, already lost everything once. She won't let him lose himself again, won't let him be erased just so she can live.
But she knows Johnny. Knows him better than she's ever known anyone, better than she knows herself sometimes. If she told him about the single dose, he'd fight her on this. Would probably try to force her to take it, would rather be erased than let her sacrifice herself for him.
"Night, rockerboy." She whispers, and there's so much she wants to say. Wants to tell him how much she loves him, how sorry she is, how she wishes things could be different. But she can't. Not without breaking both their hearts sooner than necessary.
"G'night, princess," he murmurs against her neck, his breath warm and real against her skin. His arms tighten around her, protective and possessive, like he could keep her safe from anything. If only he knew the threat isn't external — it's her own choice, her own plan to save him.
V drifts toward sleep in Johnny's embrace, trying to memorize every detail of this moment. The weight of his arm around her waist, the rhythm of his breathing against her back, the familiar scent of cigarettes that somehow lingers even though he's not really smoking anymore. Soon, these will be just memories for him, bittersweet reminders of what they had.
But she's made her choice. One dose, one life, one future. And she chooses him — chooses to give him her body, giving him back his life, his chance to be more than just a construct in someone else's head. Even if it means leaving him. Even if it means lying to the person she loves most in this fucked-up city.
The neon lights paint their intertwined forms in shifting colors as sleep finally claims her. Her last conscious thought is a prayer — let him forgive her, someday. Let him understand why she had to lie. Let him live the life she's choosing to give him, even if she won't be there to see it.
Night City hums its eternal lullaby outside their window, indifferent to the small tragedy playing out in one of its countless apartments. In the darkness, Johnny holds V like he could keep her forever, not knowing she's already planning her goodbye. The night keeps their secrets — his hope for her future, her certainty that she won't be part of it — as they drift together in these last precious moments of borrowed time.
Notes:
Message thread generator HTML/CSS by Luvwich ! Have fun with it here ♥
Lot of bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song: Pink Floyd - Wearing the Inside Out
• Author's rambling: And there we go, another chapter posted! I hope you liked it! I know this chapter feels a bit like a filler episode, for example with the 'Aguilar' mission, but I found it so fun in the game, I absolutely wanted to write about it.
Oh, also, I've been working hard, and all chapters of the first part are ready to be posted! I'm already writing the first chapter of the post-game. If I stick to posting once every two weeks as planned, the chapter about Mikoshi should be posted on August first. Then after that, the first chapter of the second part will be posted on August 20th, to celebrate this story's two-year anniversary! (After that, we should normally return to one chapter every two weeks, on Fridays. (At least, I hope I'll manage to keep up with this rhythm. Which isn't certain, as my studies are ending, and I'll have to go find a job lol)xoxo, see you next time ♥
Chapter 28: Fade In / Fade Out
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Hey everyone, hope you're doing well! And here's a new chapter that will finally wrap up Phantom Liberty. Yep, the whole chapter is just The Killing Moon — I haven't done a long chapter focusing on a single mission since the parade one! It was fun to write, hope you'll enjoy it! See ya in the end notes.
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the subs, bookmarks, and kudos ! ♥ And thank you Loraphine, D_The_F_H and my dear friend Zed for your comments. ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I have watched you fade in
You will watch me fade out
When the grip leaves my hand
I know you won't let me down
The next morning brings a dramatic shift in Night City's temperamental weather. Heavy storm clouds hang low over the metropolis, transforming what should be daylight into an eerie twilight. The threatening weather perfectly matches V's mood as she stands at her apartment window, watching lightning occasionally illuminate the skyline. The forecast on her holo warns of an incoming storm, but she's more concerned about the metaphorical storm brewing with So Mi's imminent escape plan.
V hasn't bothered getting dressed properly, there's no point in preparing until they hear from Songbird, so she's content to remain in standby mode. Johnny materializes behind her, his chrome arm sliding around her waist as he presses against her back, both of them watching the gathering storm.
"Preem weather," he drawls sarcastically, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Gonna be fun if we gotta run around in that shit."
V just hums in response, trying to keep her anxiety from showing. She's been quieter than usual, afraid that too much conversation might lead to questions she can't answer. Johnny, surprisingly perceptive when he wants to be, seems to understand her need for silence. Instead of pushing, he guides her to the couch, pulling her down against him.
Some random movie plays on the giant tv screen, providing background noise as they drift in and out of consciousness throughout the afternoon. V dozes against Johnny's chest, his fingers absently running through her hair, both of them unconsciously seeking as much rest as possible before whatever chaos awaits them. The occasional rumble of thunder punctuates their afternoon, and V finds herself counting Johnny's heartbeats against her cheek.
"You're thinkin’ too loud, princess," Johnny murmurs at one point, his voice rough with sleep. His chrome hand traces patterns on her bare arm, sending pleasant shivers down her spine. "Whatever's eatin’ at you, we'll handle it. Always do."
The simple faith in his voice makes her heart ache. V turns her face into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent. "Just tired," she lies, hating herself for it. "And this weather's makin’ me lazy."
"Mhm," Johnny doesn't sound entirely convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he pulls her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Then be lazy with me, while we can."
The moment they've both dreaded and anticipated arrives just before 5 PM. Johnny suddenly dematerializes, leaving V feeling cold despite the apartment's regulated temperature. A heartbeat later, Songbird's voice echoes in her head through the Relic, sounding alarmingly weak. "Hey V. Ready for this?"
"You're not sounding too hot. Sure you're alright?" V asks, concern evident in her voice as she sits up, already missing Johnny's warmth.
"N-not quite... It is what it is," the netrunner admits before adding, "But won't help if you worry. We must keep pushin' forward... Grabbed us a ride. I'm parked, sending you the coords."
"Join you soon," V assures her before the connection ends. As Songbird releases her hold on the Relic, Johnny immediately materializes beside V on the couch, his expression tense.
"So... it's time?" he asks, his usual swagger notably absent. V just nods, anxiety coiling in her gut like a cold snake. She's about to climb the stairs to the mezzanine to prepare when her holo buzzes with messages from Songbird.
V rushes to her closet, quickly changing into dark pants and a fitted top — comfortable enough to move in but inconspicuous enough not to draw attention. She grabs a backpack, methodically filling it with essential MaxDocs, a jacket in case the threatening weather turns nasty, and most importantly, Johnny's gun. The weight of it is reassuring as she checks the clip and safety.
Johnny watches her preparations in uncharacteristic silence, his chrome fingers drumming rapidly against his thigh. He follows her around the apartment like a shadow as she gathers what they might need, his presence both comforting and painful given what she knows is coming.
As V takes the elevator down from her apartment, he finally speaks up. "Do me a solid, ask your choom not to cut me off this time. I..." He hesitates, his hand finding hers, solid and warm. "Wanna be able to watch your back. Even if I can't do shit except maybe warn you if..."
"Okay, will ask ‘er," V reassures him, squeezing his hand back, taking comfort in his touch. The simple contact grounds her, reminds her why she's made the choice she has.
The meeting point isn't far, and since Songbird mentioned having a vehicle, V opts for the metro instead of her motorcycle. She settles into a car on the B-line heading toward Alexander Street, her hand never leaving Johnny's throughout the journey. The gentle sway of the train and the warmth of his touch provide a moment of peace before whatever chaos awaits them. Through the train's windows, the city's neon glow seems muted under the threatening storm clouds, as if the city itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to break.
Thunder rolls overhead as they near their stop, and Johnny's grip on her hand tightens slightly. "Whatever happens," he says quietly, just for her, "I got your back, V. Always will."
V swallows hard, fighting back the emotion his words trigger. If only he knew what she was planning, he wouldn't be so quick to make that promise. But for now, she just leans against him, savoring these last quiet moments together before the storm — both literal and metaphorical — breaks over Night City.
As V emerges from the metro station, the rain has temporarily subsided to a light drizzle, leaving the air thick with humidity. She only needs to cross the street to reach the alley where So Mi awaits, the wet asphalt reflecting the neon signs above. At the provided coordinates, a nondescript van sits idle, but when V peers through the window, she finds no one behind the wheel.
Taking a chance, she pulls open the rear doors, discovering Songbird huddled on the floor, looking worse than V had imagined — the netrunner's features drawn with pain. V climbs into the vehicle, closing the doors behind her while Songbird struggles to speak, her voice barely above a whisper, "V...? Ngh... Senses're goin'. Seein'... dark spots. It's ha-ard to breathe."
"Wanna help — tell me how," V responds, forcing herself to remain calm despite the alarming state of her friend. "Came as fast as I could, and... yesterday, talked to Reed."
"Huh." The netrunner takes a labored breath. "And?"
"Ah, bit of lecturin', a few FIA-backed threats thrown in — you know the drill." V shrugs, trying to keep her tone light despite the anger still simmering from that conversation.
The young woman doesn't seem surprised in the least. "Hm, 'negotiating by the book' — that's what everybody at the firm called it."
"Wouldn't call what happened negotiating by the book." V's voice hardens, the memory of Reed bringing up Jackie still raw. "No, Reed goes for the jugular."
"Unrivaled in that, yeah..." Songbird's optics flash blue, and the van's engine hums to life as she announces, "Hh, let's roll."
As the vehicle pulls onto the street in autonomous mode, V comments, "Seems you got a plan."
"I do. An' it relies heavily, if not wholly, on you." She confirms, each word seeming to drain more of her strength. "Black clinic, 'member? It's on Luna. Got a flight all lined up to get me there."
V's eyes widen in surprise — fuck, she'd expected anything but that. "Wow, quite the coup." Even Johnny whistles low in her head, clearly impressed.
"Coup schmoo, it's my last resort." Songbird says sadly. "So, spaceflight means spaceport — NCX. It's where we're headin'. Now, I can't just stride in. I'd draw attention from who knows who in my condition. So you'll stride in. Then head to the Tycho Terminal, find a side door to open for me."
"This just might work." V nods, though she's not entirely comfortable with the idea of sending her friend alone into space in such a fragile state. But she chooses to trust Songbird's judgment — if she thinks this is the best solution, then V will roll with the plan.
"Tycho Terminal's being renovated, so not many bodies, lots of cover..." The netrunner continues explaining, her voice growing weaker, "Also minimal security, probably. Can't ignore that factor."
"Think I can manage." V reassures her, gently patting her knee. "You use the time well, to rest."
After a moment's hesitation, Songbird nods. "I'll try. But let me know if you need me to link up, hit the net."
"Last resort only, okay?" V insists, worried that any netrunning could worsen her friend's condition. "Speakin’ of that... Is it possible to stay in contact via holo, rather than through the Relic, once I'm inside? Johnny doesn't want to be left out."
"Yeah... sure." Songbird meets her gaze, then looks away before saying, "Damn, V... I've wronged so many, hurt so many... Can't help wondering if it's even avoidable. You know... hurting others?"
"Don't often get the chance to right a wrong. But when you do, you do your damnest not to fuck up again. Johnny'd have a thing or two to say on that topic." V smiles at Song, while making sure to send a wave of affection to the rockerboy through their link. "Too bad you two'll never talk."
Suddenly, the van lurches to a stop, drawing a pained whimper from Songbird. Through clenched teeth, she pleads, "Booster, V... I..."
V immediately spots the injector on a medical tray waiting nearby on the floor, rushing to her friend's side. "Relax. All good," she assures, smoothly administering the medication directly into Songbird's thigh.
Taking labored breaths, Songbird lets her head fall back against the driver's seat, waiting for the booster to take effect. The silence stretches for several heartbeats before she speaks again, her voice barely above a whisper, "V... I don't wanna die. Can't help but regret... I just... Help me... ditch this town."
"Meds're kickin' in." V moves closer, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "You're all right."
"We shouldn't linger. Grab the wheel — could you?" the netrunner asks, her voice still weak but steadier.
"First, lemme scan you." V's already pulling her personal link from her wrist, the diagnostic interface glowing in the dim van interior. "Need to know how you're doin', the state you're in."
She gently turns her friend's head to access the port behind her ear, launching her MedTech software. The results that flash across her visual interface are fucking terrifying — errors and warnings lighting up practically every data point, corruption spreading through her system like wildfire. The Blackwall has wreaked absolute havoc on her organism.
"Degen's fast. Too fast for any known pathogen. Metastases spreading straight from the brain..." V lists softly. When Songbird doesn't respond — shit, what could anyone say to that? — she changes the subject. "Said Tycho Terminal's closed for refurbishment. Sure you can fly out of there in spite?"
"Got a one-way ticket..." She nods weakly, though color is slowly returning to her cheeks, "from someone who follows their own rules."
The merc offers an encouraging smile, but can't help adding, "You've had shit luck with partners lately."
"Till you came along... Workin' out kinda ok." Despite her condition, she manages to return the smile.
V gives her knee a gentle squeeze before standing, maneuvering between the seats to take the wheel. "Try 'n' rest up," she says, restarting the van and heading toward the spaceport. Johnny settles into the passenger seat, his presence a silent comfort as they drive through Night City's neon-lit streets.
They're already close to their destination, and as their vehicle crosses the long bridge leading to Morro Rock, Songbird says, "Steel yourself. We'll be pullin' in."
Trying to keep things light, V responds, "Thinkin' back to that first contact you made? We've come a long way..."
"Haven't quite reached its end yet." When V pulls into the hexagonal roundabout at the airport's center and parks in a drop-off spot, Songbird joins her in the front, saying, "Obviously, you can't be packing when you go in. Standard spaceport security. Leave your iron with me. I'll have it when we meet up again."
V heaves a dramatic sigh, retrieving Johnny's Malorian from her backpack and handing it over. "Ah, fuck — flashback comin' in hard. Konpeki Plaza heist."
"Banish that shit. You're better than you were." The netrunner reassures her. "Armed or not, you'll manage. So again, Tycho Terminal — get there unnoticed by anyone who matters. Eyes peeled for Orbital Air guards especially. We can't know what they'll be watching for."
"So, what's your super spy secret for bein' invisible, movin' on the sly?" V asks, more to delay their separation than out of genuine need for an answer.
"Just act normal. Like any other passenger," Songbird shrugs. "Don't stop and talk, make eye contact, linger or look aimless. You have a terminal and gate to get to."
V nods, then opens her door, saying, "Join up soon."
As she walks away from the van, a "Hey, V?" makes her turn. Songbird has moved to the driver's seat, the passenger window rolled down for one last word. "Good luck."
"Hey Song — chin up, I'll manage. We'll manage." She offers a reassuring smile that her friend returns before starting the van, likely heading to a more strategic parking spot.
Okay, entering the terminal, she can do this. Her holo buzzes and she answers, establishing the communication line with Songbird. Taking a deep breath, V tries to appear as relaxed as possible as she passes through the glass doors. The spaceport's main hall stretches before them, its high ceiling and gleaming floors a stark contrast to Night City's usual grime. Security cameras track movement from above, while Orbital Air guards maintain their posts with military precision. V keeps her stride casual but purposeful, channeling all her experience as she begins what might be her friend's last chance at survival.
V moves casually through the main hall, returning a polite nod to the welcoming hostesses as they deliver their rehearsed greeting, their Orbital Air uniforms pristine and identical down to their perfectly aligned name tags. Before ascending the stairs leading to security checkpoints, she pauses before a golden plaque that reads, 'Night City International and Translunar, operated by Orbital Air since 2020. Astra inclinant, sed non obligant .'
Her translation module kicks in, rendering the Latin phrase as 'The stars incline us, they do not bind us.' V decides to take it as a good omen about free will and escaping predetermined fates. Fuck — it's exactly what she hopes for both So Mi and Johnny. Speaking of whom, the rockerboy materializes beside her, reading the plaque over her shoulder with a sardonic smirk.
"Orbital Air tryin' to be poetic about their overpriced tickets to the stars, huh?" he drawls, chrome hand finding the small of her back. "Fancy way of sayin' 'give us your eddies and we'll shoot you into space’."
The security checkpoint looms ahead, a series of high-tech scanners and barriers that make V's skin crawl. A guard greets her from his small booth, "Welcome to Night City International and Translunar, your gateway to the world and the stars," he recites, maintaining surprising enthusiasm for what must be his thousandth repetition today. "I need to temporarily power down any unauthorized implants. Personal link in the panel, please."
Shit, V hates this part with every fiber of her being. Going without a gun when she knows she can rely on her mantis blades is one thing, but this... she'll be completely defenseless. Besides that time at Konpeki Plaza, she can't remember the last time she walked through Night City without a single weapon. Fuck, even as a kid, she kept a knife in her pocket. It was just survival.
Johnny's presence becomes more intense, his concern evident as he watches her hesitate. "Don't like this one bit, V," he mutters, chrome hand reflexively reaching for a phantom gun that isn't there.
But she knows there's no alternative, so she returns a small smile to the guard while removing her personal link, saying, "Right, 'course," and connects to the indicated port. The interface glows blue, ready to temporarily strip her of her augmentations.
"Be chill, draw no attention," So Mi advises via comm while V feels her implants powering down one by one. Her mantis blades first, followed by her reinforced tendons, then her optical camo. Each deactivation leaves her feeling more vulnerable, more human — and not in a good way.
After what feels like an eternity but is probably only seconds, the guard nods, saying, "Implant power-down complete. For biometric ID authentication, please look at the camera."
"Wait! Don't yet!" Songbird alerts her, urgency clear in her voice, "Buy me some time. Need to link your metrics to a fake profile."
V opts for the first thing that comes to mind, deciding to play dumb — a tactic that's saved her ass more times than she can count. "Uh, which cam'd that be?" she asks, channeling her best clueless tourist impression, complete with wide-eyed confusion.
"That one," the man replies with the patience of someone well-versed in dealing with idiots, pointing to the camera mounted in the corner of his booth's ceiling. His expression suggests this is a regular occurrence.
"Um, ah, not sure what you want me to do..." she responds, maintaining her facade of innocent confusion. Johnny chuckles beside her, clearly amused by her performance.
"Look at the camera, please," he states simply, as if directing the directionally challenged is just another Tuesday. "It'll be over in a few seconds."
"All set," So Mi announces almost simultaneously, her voice carrying a hint of triumph. "Go ahead, do it."
V finally looks toward the camera, relieved at her friend's quick work. She calmly allows the blue light to scan her from head to toe, mentally crossing her fingers that everything goes smoothly.
A few moments later, she gets her answer when the guard nods and announces, "Scan's all good. Orbital Air thanks you for your cooperation and your patronage."
Relieved, she disconnects with a polite smile, leaving the security zone to finally access the terminal. Johnny falls into step beside her, his chrome fingers drumming against his thigh.
"So far so good, princess," he murmurs, scanning the crowd ahead with military precision. "Now let's find that side door before someone realizes you ain't s’posed to be here."
The terminal stretches before them, its high ceilings and massive windows offering a view of the landing pads where sleek spacecraft wait to carry the wealthy to the stars. V moves through the space with purpose, knowing that in places like this, confidence is the best camouflage. Now she just needs to find that door — and hope So Mi can hold on long enough to use it.
V makes it about thirty seconds before being noticed — though 'noticed' might be too strong a word, given the circumstances. At the reception desk just past security, she catches the eye of a hostess who's just finished with her client.
"V? 'S that you?" The woman, wearing Orbital Air's crisp blue uniform and sporting a long blonde braid, waves her over. "Cynthia. Pepe's wife." Her perfectly manicured nails tap against the polished counter as she smiles warmly, the sound barely audible over the constant hum of travelers and announcements echoing through the vast space.
Deciding that ignoring her would be both rude and suspicious, V leans casually against the counter, trying to appear unhurried despite the tension coiling in her gut. "Oh yeah, 'course. Uh, didn't you have a job in Heywood?"
"Still do. Grabbed a second shift here, though." She shrugs gracefully, her uniform badges catching the overhead lights. The dark circles under her eyes, barely concealed by makeup, tell the story of someone working too many hours. "Got Pepe's debts to pay."
"How's Pepe?" V asks, figuring she can spare a few seconds for small talk with a woman whose marriage she helped save. Besides, acting natural means actually being natural. Johnny materializes beside her, leaning against the counter with his typical rockstar slouch. "Aaaand, right, how's the kid doin'?"
"They're fine, everything's fine." Her radiant smile speaks volumes about their recovered domestic bliss, transforming her tired features into something genuinely beautiful. "Drop by later? When the crowd's gone? We'll talk. Sorry, I really need to get back to work." She gestures apologetically to the growing line of impatient travelers behind V.
"Sure, take care, Cynthia." V offers a small wave before moving on, leaving the woman to deal with the stream of travelers approaching her desk with their endless complaints and demands. The constant drone of their voices fills the air — "My flight's delayed," "These tickets cost a fortune," "I demand to speak to your supervisor."
A little further along, Johnny materializes against the stair railing, watching the travelers below with his trademark smirk. "Sheesh, look at these sheep. Baaaa-baaaaa," he drawls, doing his best impression of bleating, and V has to bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud. His chrome hand gestures at the crowd below, their expensive clothes and chrome marking them as Night City's elite — corpo rats and trust fund kids heading to lunar resorts while the city burns below.
Taking position beside him, pretending to study the massive departure board overhead with its constantly shifting display of flights and gates, she asks, "What about 'em?"
"Firefight could break out any sec, and they're none the wiser," he explains, leaning closer to her. His aviators slide down his nose as he surveys the crowd. "Think — you're standing there, imagining the preem boobs they're gonna glue on you out in orbit. Next thing you know, the panicked herd's trampling you."
"We're doin' fine." V rolls her eyes, discreetly nudging him in the ribs. "Don't fuckin' jinx it."
"Fine's fine long as things're fine," he warns her, his tone shifting to something more serious. His eyes, visible now above his sunglasses, hold genuine concern. "Just tread carefully."
V just shrugs, preferring not to dwell on worst-case scenarios right now. The weight of Johnny's gun's absence feels particularly heavy. "Got some work to finish. C'mon."
Not pushing the issue, he falls into step beside her as she ventures deeper into the terminal, dodging luggage carts and hurried travelers. Her lack of weapons still reminds her uncomfortably of Konpeki Plaza. At least this time, she's got Johnny by her side from the start — even if he can't do much more than watch her back and make sheep noises at the corpo elite.
As V continues her search for access to the Tycho Terminal, Songbird's voice crackles through her comm with disturbing news, "Motherfucker... I got FIA agents on the OA net. They've breached." The tension in her friend's voice makes V's stomach clench.
"Detection by Orbital security means a brawl, I'd say." V responds in a whisper, suddenly finding Johnny's earlier theory about oblivious travelers much more plausible. The rockerboy materializes beside her, his expression grim as he scans their surroundings.
"No chance of detection," Songbird assures her, though her increasingly nervous tone betrays her confidence. "These people're the best. Invisible to me too if I didn't know what to look for. Need to hurry the hell up."
No need to tell her twice. From what V's observed so far, the regular terminal access is through the lower level, but it's been barricaded with rigid yellow tarps, and security personnel never leave their posts nearby, making that option impossible. However, V figures she might be able to circumvent the problem by accessing the floor above.
Following her instinct, she skirts the upper level shops, their bright displays and bored attendants providing decent cover, until she finds a slightly recessed area where security mechs stand in standby mode, waiting for the next emergency requiring their intervention. Johnny whistles low at the sight of them. "Now those could cause some real chaos if someone got 'em online."
V spots a camera monitoring the area, two airport techies fortunately too engrossed in fiddling with a wall-mounted electronic panel to notice her presence, and more interestingly, a hatch that must lead to a service shaft. The maintenance access point looks barely used, its edges dusty with neglect.
Bingo, that's her ticket in. Making sure to stay out of the employees' line of sight, she discreetly disables the camera before quickly unlocking the hatch, dropping silently to the lower level. The service tunnel is cramped and humid, filled with machinery and pipes that hiss and gurgle with the building's lifeblood.
Her first attempt leads to a dead end, forcing her to backtrack through the claustrophobic space. Shortly after, she finds another hatch allowing her to descend even further. She peers through the opening first, ensuring the construction area below is deserted, then grips the edge, lowering her body as far as possible before dropping. Shit, this kind of maneuver is usually made easy by her leg implants, but with them powered down, she has to manage like any 'ganic person would.
Once she's safely landed, spotting a wall marking confirming she's reached her target location, she contacts Songbird, keeping her voice low, "Tycho Terminal now. Where do I go for that side or back door?"
"Minor clusterfuck," the netrunner responds, frustration evident in her tone. "Forget back and side doors. We need a new plan."
Fuck, definitely not something V wanted to hear right now. Johnny's chrome fingers drum against his thigh, a nervous tell she's learned to recognize. "What the hell's up, Song?"
"I had to skedaddle. Orbital security started sniffin' around the van." Songbird informs her, then pauses, giving V time to curse under her breath. The silence stretches uncomfortably before she adds, "Got it. Let's try the roof. Construction site elevator — find it."
"Roger that," V confirms, ready to push forward despite the setback. Before leaving the room, she picks up a steel pipe from the floor, about forearm length. Not exactly Johnny's Malorian, but it's better than nothing if she encounters any guards. The weight of it is reassuring in her hand, even if it's a poor substitute for her usual arsenal.
Johnny eyes the makeshift weapon with a mix of amusement and concern. "Just like old times, huh? Before you had eddies for real chrome." His attempt at lightening the mood falls a bit flat, the tension in the air too thick to dispel with mere nostalgia. Still, V appreciates the effort, sending him a quick smile as they venture deeper into the construction zone, the sounds of the busy terminal growing more distant with each careful step.
The room opens into a wider corridor, its fluorescent lights flickering ominously overhead. V's first obstacle stands just meters away — a guard whose tactical vest bears Orbital Air's logo, his stance suggesting boredom rather than vigilance. She knows she'll need to deal with him as quickly and quietly as possible, but without her usual arsenal, options are limited.
"Look at this rent-a-cop," Johnny materializes beside her, studying the guard with theatrical disdain. "Bet he's thinking about his dinner break. Probably got a sad sandwich in his locker."
Sure, a good whack to the head with her pipe would solve the problem, but she figures a pool of blood from a cracked skull wouldn't exactly be subtle. V moves like a shadow, years of merc work evident in every silent step. The guard remains oblivious, even humming something under his breath.
She raises the pipe but instead of delivering a heavy blow, presses the bar against his throat from behind, crushing his windpipe while dragging him backward. The guard's fingers scrabble uselessly at the metal as she maintains pressure, his boots squeaking against the floor in a desperate dance.
The guard goes limp, and V drags him by the armpits, concealing the body behind a stack of cement bags. Her caution proves worthwhile moments later when another guard passes nearby. V holds her breath, pressed against the wall, while Johnny makes exaggerated faces at the oblivious security man. "This one's even worse — look at how he's holdin’ that iron. Wouldn't last five minutes in a real firefight."
Once the coast is clear, V moves down the corridor, keeping her head low. The powered-down implants make her feel half-blind, every shadow potentially hiding a threat. "Welcome to how the other half lives," Johnny quips, but his constant scanning of their surroundings betrays his own unease. "Though most 'ganics at least get to pack heat."
She reaches a fork — one door locked, one not. "Ooh, door number one or door number two?" Johnny mimics a game show host. "Behind one, certain death. Behind the other, probable death. Choose wisely!" V opts for the locked one, figuring it means less traffic. After some careful manipulation of the lock, it yields.
"Ladies and gentlemen, she chose... stairs!" Johnny announces as the door reveals a stairwell. "Everybody's favorite part of any infiltration — climbing shit without cyber-enhanced legs. This should be fun."
Ascending the numerous steps feels like climbing a mountain without her enhanced tendons. Johnny phases between floors, keeping watch. "Clear above, clear below. Though I gotta say, watching you huff and puff up these stairs without your chrome? Priceless entertainment."
"Fuck... you..." V manages between breaths, making him chuckle.
The stairwell eventually opens into an abandoned office area, frozen in time — half-empty coffee cups sit on desks, their contents long since fossilized. Outdated papers scatter the floor, and a calendar on the wall still shows events from months ago.
She passes through another door, finally reaching the construction site Songbird mentioned. The space is vast and half-finished, with exposed beams and hanging wires creating an industrial maze. More concerning are the workers scattered throughout and a security camera making slow sweeps across the area.
"Fuck, what I wouldn't give for my optical camo right now..." V mutters, pressing herself against a wall.
Johnny positions himself by the camera, studying its movement pattern. "Twenty seconds between sweeps, covers about 170 degrees. Got three workers to your right, two security goons by the far wall lookin’ at their holos — the professionals that they are."
V observes the workers' patterns, waiting for her moment. A loud crash from somewhere above makes her jump, but it's just construction noise. "Got movement," Johnny warns suddenly. "Two more guards coming in from the east entrance. Looking pretty alert — maybe someone found our sleepin’ beauty downstairs?"
V curses silently, pressing herself deeper into the shadows. The new guards pass within meters of her position, and she can hear their conversation, "...third time this week someone's slacked off post. Boss is gonna have our asses..."
"Good news, they haven't found the body," Johnny reports. "Bad news, your window of opportunity just got smaller. Might wanna move before they start actually doing their jobs."
When the nearest workers finally turn their backs, V makes her move. Hugging the walls to stay in the camera's blind spot, she traverses the area in a crouched position. Johnny keeps pace, calling out the camera's movements. "Ten seconds... five... NOW, go!"
She slips through another door just as the camera begins its sweep back, closing it quietly behind her. "Smooth as fuck," Johnny approves. "Though I still say we should've brought explosives. Nothing covers an escape like a good old-fashioned kaboom."
The next series of rooms are mercifully empty, though evidence of recent occupation keeps V on edge — fresh coffee cups, active terminals, jackets thrown over chairs. Finally, they reach an open office space filled with cubicles, and there it is — the elevator. A camera monitors the area from the corner, but the cubicle maze provides perfect cover. "Almost there," Johnny encourages. "Try not to fuck it up now — would hate to have climbed all those stairs for nothin’."
V weaves through the cubicles, using the furniture for cover. Just before she reaches the elevator, voices echo from a nearby corridor. She freezes, waiting until the voices pass before making the final dash to the elevator. The doors close around her with a soft whoosh, and V releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding. She hits the button for the roof, and the elevator begins its ascent.
Johnny leans against the wall beside her, his chrome hand finding hers. "Not bad for a gonk without her toys," he smirks, but there's pride in his voice. "Though next time, maybe we pack some grenades? Just saying, a little explosion here and there really livens up an infiltration."
V squeezes his hand back, grateful for both his tactical support and attempts at humor throughout this nerve-wracking climb. The quiet hum of the elevator is almost peaceful after the tension of sneaking through the building, but they both know better than to think they're in the clear yet.
When the elevator doors slide open, V emerges onto the rain-soaked roof. Heavy black clouds blanket the entire sky, turning Night City's usual neon glow into a diffuse, ethereal haze that makes it feel like midnight despite not even being 9 PM. After skulking through the stuffy construction site below, the fresh night air feels amazing on her skin, even if she could do without the impromptu shower.
She contacts Songbird via comm, keeping her voice low, "Okay, I'm on the roof. What, where now?"
"Now we get creative." Her friend responds, clearly relieved V has completed the first part of the mission. "I managed to reach the roof — lower bit, though. Need your help to climb higher and join you."
"No plan's my favorite way to go." V can't help but smile despite the gravity of the situation. "Need a few minutes, better look around."
She takes time to assess the situation. Three workers occupy the roof — one isolated near some ventilation units, the other two engaged in animated conversation by a stack of construction materials. The storm works in her favor, drops drumming steadily against metal surfaces and creating perfect cover noise. Lightning occasionally illuminates the scene in stark white flashes, followed by rolling thunder that seems to shake the entire building.
Deciding subtlety can take a back seat — since the darkness and rain will hide any evidence anyway — V grips her pipe tighter. The metal feels cold and slick in her hands, but it's better than nothing. She approaches the isolated worker silently, boots barely making a sound on the wet surface. Johnny keeps pace with her, his presence both reassuring and grounding.
The worker never sees it coming. V brings the pipe down with brutal efficiency, the impact coinciding perfectly with a crack of thunder. He crumples immediately, and she drags his body behind the ventilation unit.
Moving from shadow to shadow, they approach the other two employees. The rain has gotten heavier, creating curtains of water that further obscure visibility. V hesitates — two against one, and they likely have more effective weapons than her stupid steel pipe.
Johnny presses against her back, both of them sheltering in the shadow of a half-built wall. "Left one's packing," he whispers in her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "See how he keeps adjusting his jacket? Classic tell."
Fortunately, a minute later, one of the men walks away to do his rounds. V exchanges a quick glance with Johnny, who nods slightly. "Make it quick and quiet, princess. We got company coming up soon if Songbird's right about those FIA agents."
She approaches the remaining worker from behind, moving like a predator. With quick, practiced movements, she wraps an arm around his throat while using her other hand to wrench his head sideways. The crack of his neck breaking is lost in another roll of thunder. Johnny helps her hide the body behind some crates, his chrome hand surprisingly gentle as they work together.
"Last one," he murmurs, dropplets dripping from his hair onto his face. "Make it count."
V positions herself at a corner, pipe ready, while Johnny stands watch. When the final worker returns from his patrol, he doesn't even have time to register surprise before the steel connects with his temple. A flash of lightning illuminates the scene as he falls, creating a grotesque tableau of violence that's gone in an instant.
Finally alone on the roof, V can't resist lighting up a cigarette while informing the netrunner that the coast is clear. Johnny produces his own cigarette, moving to stand close enough that their shoulders touch. "Won't lie — place has a wicked vibe," he observes, gesturing at the neon-lit cityscape visible through the rain.
Songbird suggests looking around for anything useful, and V begins searching the roof. She spots some pipes first, sturdy enough but too short to be useful. The next option has the opposite problem — meters and meters of cables, but far too thin and fragile. Remembering how much she struggled to support her friend while they escaped the stadium, V mutters, "No way this'll hold the weight."
"I can hear you!" Songbird protests indignantly. "You know that, right?"
V wants to sink through the roof, her embarrassment making Johnny laugh. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. "Fuck, real smooth, princess. Even I wouldn't've gone there," he chuckles, clearly enjoying her discomfort.
She elbows him in the ribs and rolls her eyes, taking another drag of her cigarette while continuing to search. Johnny stays close, both of them moving in perfect sync as they explore the roof.
"Y'know," he muses, flicking his cigarette butt into the darkness, "back in my day, we'd usually have some rope, at least." His chrome hand finds hers, squeezing gently. "But hey, we've managed with less, right?"
V squeezes back, grateful for his presence even if his suggestions aren't exactly helpful. She needs to find a solution fast. But with Johnny by her side, she feels like they can handle whatever Night City throws at them — even if right now, what they really need is just a really long rope.
Finally, it's Johnny who spots the solution to their problem. His chrome hand points at a fire hose coiled against the wall, and he grins that cocky smile of his. "D'you just eyeball that? Whooaaa," he drawls, clearly pleased with himself.
"Hardy-har-har." V chuckles, moving to test the hose's strength. The industrial-grade material feels sturdy enough under her fingers. She activates her comm, "So Mi! Got an idea!" With a grunt, she tosses the hose over the railing, adding, "Catch, Song!"
Rain continues to pour as V positions herself almost flat on the wet metal surface, bracing both feet against the balustrade. Her hands grip their improvised rope firmly, ready to pull. "Lemme know when you're ready."
"Got it!" Songbird confirms a moment later.
V starts pulling with all her might, muscles straining under the effort. Without her usual chrome enhancement, every movement feels like lifting concrete. "Grip it tight!" She continues hauling in meters of hose in what feels like hours of grueling work. Sweat mingles with rain on her face, and her arms burn with the effort. A grunt escapes her lips, "Ugh, just a little more!"
Johnny stays right beside her, his presence grounding and reassuring. "You're doing great, princess. Slow and steady."
But she's pushing her body too hard, and suddenly a Relic malfunction hits her like a hammer to the skull. Her vision blurs, hands losing their grip for a heart-stopping second. "Fuck! No-no-no!" She snarls through clenched teeth as she tightens her hold again. "Gotcha! Ah..."
"Stay with me, V," Johnny's voice cuts through the static in her head, his hand squeezing her shoulder. "Focus on my voice. You've got this. Just a little more."
With one final heave, their efforts are rewarded as a duffle bag appears over the railing, followed by So Mi awkwardly climbing over before dropping onto the metal floor beside V. Victorious but exhausted, V pants, "You're here... hah, here..."
"Too fuckin' close." Songbird responds, equally breathless. Rain plasters her hair to her face as she catches her breath. "Next time... just shouldn't be a next time, not like this."
"Yeah, definitely not like this." Relieved to be reunited after all this trouble, V pulls So Mi into a brief hug. The netrunner's slight frame feels fragile against her, a reminder of how close they came to disaster.
Songbird returns the embrace before gesturing at the duffle bag. "Your iron. Gonna reactivate your combat implants too..."
So Mi's optics glow electric blue while V opens the bag. Relief floods through her as she feels her chrome coming back online, systems reactivating one by one. But the real comfort comes from wrapping her fingers around the familiar grip of Johnny's Malorian. "No gun, no fun." She extends a hand to her friend, helping her to her feet.
Once standing, Songbird's expression turns serious. "Hold up. Catching a radio sig. Shit... encrypted channel." Lightning flashes overhead, illuminating her concerned face.
"Can you breach, listen in?" V asks, knowing this can't be good news. Johnny's posture stiffens beside her, his instincts clearly sensing trouble ahead.
"Givin' it a shot." Songbird retrieves her own pistol from the bag, then motions for V to follow. "In the meantime, let's move on."
V just nods, falling into step behind her friend. The rain continues its steady drumbeat on the roof as they move through the darkness, three figures — though only two visible to most — navigating through the storm. Behind them, the bodies of the roof workers lie cooling on the floor, while ahead, the unknown, promising more danger with every step they take.
The rain intensifies to a deafening roar, water cascading down the metal surfaces of the building as So Mi guides V toward their next destination. Despite the chaos above, Songbird's voice carries a note of admiration. "By the way, great work downstairs. Flitted through like a super spy ghost, full pro."
"Had pro support." V responds, studying her friend with growing concern. Though Songbird seems better than she was in the van, each step betrays lingering weakness - her usual fluid grace replaced by careful, measured movements that speak of hidden pain.
They approach a massive security door, Songbird gesturing toward it, "Thisaway." Instead of inputting a code, she simply waves her hand at the control panel. The effect is immediate and unsettling — crimson artifacts, like digital blood, crawl across the surface. These telltale signs of the Blackwall that V has learned to recognize still send shivers down her spine. The door slides open with an ominous hiss that seems too loud in the tense atmosphere.
V watches the red static crackling around the panel, a constant reminder of the otherworldly power her friend commands. She wonders, not for the first time, if others can see these traces, or if it's only visible to her eyes because of their connection. Johnny's hand finds her shoulder, squeezing gently as if sensing her unease.
"Oh shit." Songbird's sudden tension is palpable, her voice tight with barely controlled fear. "Sig's... an NUS comms frequency."
"Myers?" V barely breathes the name, feeling Johnny's grip tighten on her shoulder.
"Incoming... In forty-five secs, no more." Songbird quickens her pace, then points to a ventilation grate set into the wall. "In here — quick!"
The maintenance tunnel beyond the grate promises tight spaces and limited mobility — exactly the kind of situation V hates. But with Myers' forces incoming, they're out of options. She lifts the grate while asking, "What's goin' on, what're they up to?"
"Four assault choppers incoming, masked transponder sigs." Songbird's voice drops to barely a whisper as she squeezes through the opening. "They're trying to hide that they're NUSA." Her next words send a chill through V's spine. "Fuck. She's on board! They're gonna land."
V barely makes it through the grate herself when the first helicopter appears, its rotors cutting through the rain with a sound like angry thunder. She secures their hiding spot with trembling fingers, adrenaline making every movement feel both too fast and too slow. Both women freeze in the cramped space, listening to the choppers landing on the roof they'd occupied mere minutes ago.
The maintenance tunnel feels like a metal coffin — barely wide enough for them to move single file, with pipes and cables reducing the already limited space. The distant sound of boots on metal above them echoes through the ventilation system, each step a reminder of the forces gathering overhead.
Johnny crouches beside V in the narrow space. "Whole situation's about to go nuclear," he mutters, voice tight with concern. "And we're stuck in these fucking vents like rats in a maze."
Further down the cramped tunnel, Songbird indicates an industrial fan blocking their path, its blades casting rhythmic shadows in the dim emergency lighting. "Got control of the fan," she whispers, her fingers dancing through the air as she accesses its systems. "Grab one of the blades, I'll squeeze through."
"NUS combat choppers buzzin' the Free City of NC..." V observes while watching the fan slow under Songbird's control. The implications make her stomach turn. Above them, voices and footsteps grow louder, more organized. They're running out of time.
"NCX is not technically part of NC. Exterritorial, neutral zone." Songbird explains bitterly, her face bathed in the red glow of her cybernetics. Each word drips with barely contained rage. "This is Myers basically blowin' off international law and agreements."
"And this is how a war starts..." Johnny's words echo in V's mind as he presses against her back. "Seen it before, princess. First come the 'special operations,' then the excuses, then the bombs."
V grabs one of the fan blades, the cold metal biting into her palms as she holds it steady. Songbird squeezes through the gap, her movements careful and precise despite her obvious fatigue. The tunnel seems to grow narrower with each passing moment, the walls pressing in like a vice. V follows her friend, trying to ignore the growing sense of claustrophobia.
A few steps further, Songbird suddenly freezes, raising her hand in warning. "Got a light ahead. Security. Hold up a sec..." They press themselves against the cold wall, making themselves as small as possible. A beam of light sweeps through their hiding spot from one of the wall grates, accompanied by voices — professional, military, methodical. Myers' people, searching every corner.
V holds her breath, feeling her heart hammer against her ribs. The light passes agonizingly slowly, each second stretching into eternity. Johnny's hand finds her shoulder in the darkness, his grip firm and grounding. Above them, orders are being barked, teams being organized. The hunt is beginning.
"Okay, moved on. Alert, now — eyes and ears." So Mi cautions, her whisper barely audible over the ambient sounds of the building's guts. They resume their careful advance through the cramped tunnel, every movement measured, every step calculated.
They turn a corner in the tunnel, Songbird letting out a tight "Shit..." between clenched teeth. V immediately understands why — through one of the wall grates, she spots the two people she least wants to see right now. Still, she can't help but stop to eavesdrop, watching the scene unfold.
"Madam President." Reed greets the politician as she descends from the recently landed chopper.
"Special Agent Reed." Myers returns coldly, planting herself before him with the authority of someone used to commanding rooms. Two heavily armed bodyguards flank her, their posture screaming 'elite security.'
"We've confirmed V's presence here at NCX." His words send ice through V's veins, and she feels Johnny tense behind her.
"FIA must've been on you since you went through security," Songbird whispers, unconsciously grabbing V's hand to calm her rising panic. The touch grounds them both in the cramped space.
"And Song So Mi?" Myers' voice carries that same commanding tone V remembers from their shared fight after the Space Force One crash. Back then, it had seemed impressive — now it just sounds threatening.
They don't get to hear the response as a soldier's legs suddenly pass too close to their hiding spot. "Move, go!" Songbird pulls V out of sight, her grip tight with urgency. "They're gonna spot us!"
As they retreat deeper into the tunnel, Reed's answer still reaches them, though muffled by rain and distance, "Probably too weak to get around on 'er own. Most likely she's waiting somewhere, concealed."
"'Most likely' just doesn't cut it." Myers snaps back, her anger palpable even through the grate. "Does Orbital Air know the stakes?"
"They triggered the alarm but failed to find V." The spy responds while the two friends stop near another grate, observing the situation through the metal slats.
The President crosses her arms, her stance radiating irritation. "And our agents?"
"Cover's been blown on a handful. OA won't get a word out of them, I guarantee it." Reed informs her, stress evident in his posture. "Those still undercover are looking for Songbird."
"We'll talk about operational errors later." Myers dismisses with cold efficiency. "Asking for help... never was your strong suit. So I decided for you and brought support."
"I have everything under control." He protests, following as she walks away.
"No, Sol." Myers contradicts icily. "You lost control, way back. It's time you acknowledged that."
When they've moved far enough from their hiding spot, So Mi releases a bitter sigh. "Ah, Rosalind Myers, her true face. Fuck the one on her billboards."
V can't help but agree, memories flooding back of her own encounter with the president during the Space Force One crash. They'd fought side by side for survival, and V had let herself be completely fooled by the woman. She'd been impressed by Myers' combat abilities, even finding her almost likeable at moments. The memory now tastes like ash in her mouth.
Johnny's hand squeezes her shoulder. "Politiwhores," he spits the word like a curse. "Always wearing masks. You just happened to see both sides of hers."
The first doubts had only surfaced the next day, when Myers tried to make her swear allegiance. Then came Reed's bitter undertones, even though he still rushed to his superior's aid when called. But V hadn't definitively placed the politician in the 'enemy camp' until her conversation with So Mi, when she promised to help her escape the hell FIA had trapped her in.
Further down the tunnel, V and Songbird work in tandem once again to pass another fan blocking their path. The process is familiar now, but no less tense — every metallic sound they make could betray their position to the forces above. Through the ventilation grates, Myers' voice carries with dangerous clarity.
"I know you care about the girl, like her. You recruited her, trained her." Myers continues lecturing the special agent, her tone carrying that particular mix of understanding and threat that only politicians master. "I get that you want to protect her. But your duty, first and foremost, is to your country."
"Songbird's made her choice. Now she needs to learn what the consequences are." Reed capitulates, his voice heavy with resignation. V and So Mi peek through another grate, watching the scene unfold below them.
"There's one more thing, Sol. The project she was part of... stays well under wraps, none of it leaks." The president orders, her stance radiating authority. "If our little bird lands in the wrong hands... I don't want to think what will happen."
"This is bad. Really bad." So Mi whispers to V, her face draining of color. In the dim light of the maintenance tunnel, she looks almost ghostly, fear evident in her eyes.
"All that — we're the only ones privy." The spy affirms, trying to appease his superior.
Myers steps closer to Reed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "It would destroy the NUS. It's not a risk I'm willing to take."
Johnny's hand finds V's shoulder in the darkness. "Watch carefully, princess. This is how empires fall — not with bombs, but with whispered orders in dark corners."
After a moment of hesitation — his internal struggle between loyalty to Myers and friendship clearly visible — Reed chooses the NUSA's side. Predictable, but disappointing nonetheless. "We're on the same page. No risks. That's how it'll be."
"Just so you know, this isn't any easier for me, Reed." Myers' voice softens slightly, now that he's falling in line. "I liked the girl, trusted her. But with some choices, there's no way back."
"Choices...?" Reed asks, then with as much defiance as a man like him can muster, adds, "Yours or hers?"
"Say again?" The president snaps, all pretense of sympathy evaporating instantly. She steps toward the spy, her smaller frame somehow towering over him through sheer force of will.
"You heard me. But no matter." He says bitterly. "I know what I have to do, and I'll do it."
Myers holds his gaze for several loaded seconds before adding, "I authorize you to take any and all necessary action. Just try to not shoot 'er in the head."
So Mi, impossibly, grows even paler and whispers, "Might've expected as much." Her hand finds V's in the darkness, squeezing it with barely controlled terror.
Myers walks away, followed by part of her security detail, while others remain with Reed. The spy looks utterly defeated, running a tired hand over his face. One of the Black Ops operatives approaches him, asking, "What're our orders, Sir?"
"You heard 'er." He responds, leaning heavily against a barrier, the weight of his decisions visibly crushing him.
The soldier, clearly unmoved by Reed's moral crisis, responds with a booming "Yes, Sir!" before walking away, already organizing search patterns with his team.
V feels Songbird trembling beside her, and when she turns to her friend, So Mi's voice is thick with despair, "We are fucked... every which way possible."
"Myers is desperate. Desperate people make mistakes." V says through clenched teeth, trying to project more confidence than she feels. "She's a step, maybe two, from sparkin' the next war. A war she can't win, even with Militech pilin' on forces and arms. The NUSA'll wind up in everyone's sights — Orbital Air's, that of any corps pullin' strings in NC."
"Got that right," Johnny murmurs, squeezing her shoulder. "Myers just signed her own death warrant — question is how many people she's taking down with her."
"What's it matter, really?" The runner asks, looking completely defeated. The usual fire in her eyes has dimmed, replaced by a haunting resignation that breaks V's heart. "Could both be dead and gone in moments."
V grabs her shoulders, forcing So Mi to meet her gaze. Her voice carries more calm and assurance than she actually feels when she says, "You are boarding that fuckin' shuttle. Promise you that. So relax. I'm here and stayin'. They're not gettin' you."
The determination in her voice seems to rekindle something in her friend, who nods, regaining her composure and whispers "Let's ghost," before moving forward again.
They finally emerge from the tunnel, but their situation hardly improves — the entire roof swarms with Myers' elite soldiers. The two women advance cautiously, keeping low and using every bit of cover available.
Songbird guides them toward an elevator, their progress agonizingly slow. Every step could be their last, every shadow could hide a soldier, every sound could betray their position. V's heart pounds so loud she's sure the entire roof must hear it.
When the metal doors finally close without them being spotted, they allow themselves to breathe. The elevator's soft hum feels deafening after their silent prowl, and the artificial light reveals just how close to breaking point So Mi really is.
Johnny leans against the elevator wall, lighting a ghost cigarette. "Not bad for a couple of girls against an army," he drawls, but his eyes remain serious. "Now comes the hard part."
V knows he's right — they've survived this round, but Myers won't stop. The president's words echo in her mind — "With some choices, there's no way back." V made her choice when she promised to protect Songbird, and she intends to keep that promise, no matter what comes next.
The elevator's soft hum feels almost surreal compared to the tension crackling through the confined space. V's holo suddenly flashes, an Orbital Air emergency notification popping up.
The clinical text contrasts sharply with the growing sounds of chaos filtering through the elevator shaft. Songbird's face, already pale from exhaustion, drains of what little color remains. "Civilians're being evacuated."
"Uh-huh." V nods, her thoughts darting to Cynthia — fuck, she really hopes Pepe's wife made it out before everything went to shit. The thought of the kind-hearted receptionist caught in what's coming makes her stomach turn. "Preppin' to blow in here with all they got."
"Back to the terminal now." So Mi's voice carries an edge of barely controlled panic as she watches the floor numbers tick down with agonizing slowness. Each digital change brings them closer to what sounds increasingly like a war zone.
"Put you on that shuttle — 's all we need to do." V projects more confidence than she feels, even as her enhanced hearing picks up the unmistakable sound of automatic weapons fire growing louder. "And that'll be that."
"Train ride to the launchpad, that's all." Her friend confirms, though her fingers fidget nervously with her sleeve. "Just need to blast through the Tycho Terminal first."
With two floors remaining, the elevator's walls no longer muffle the sounds of combat. The sharp crack of military-grade weapons echoes through the shaft, accompanied by screams and the distinctive whine of combat mech servos. "Myers' assault team. Shitshow starting." So Mi's voice has shrunk to barely a whisper, her eyes wide with fear. "NUSA versus Orbital Air — hope the fuckers bleed each other out."
V checks her weapons one last time — mantis blades primed, Johnny’s iron fully loaded. She knows that once those doors open, there's no going back. Whatever awaits them in the terminal, they'll have to face it head-on. The final floor approaches, and the sounds of battle become deafening.
Explosions shake the elevator car, making the lights flicker. Both women brace themselves against the walls, exchanging one final look of determination. The display shows their floor, and for a moment, time seems to stretch as the doors begin to slide open, revealing the nightmare beyond.
The elevator doors part to reveal a scene straight out of a war vid. The once-pristine spaceport terminal has transformed into a hellscape that assaults all senses at once. The vast main hall has become a killing field. Orbital Air's security forces have established defensive positions behind check-in counters and reinforced pillars. Their combat mechs — towering machines of chrome and menace — provide heavy support, their integrated weapons systems sending streams of armor-piercing rounds toward the NUSA forces.
The Black Ops teams are advancing in practiced formation, using tactical smoke for cover. Their matte black armor seems to absorb light, making them look like moving shadows through the chaos. The methodical precision of their assault contrasts sharply with the panic around them.
Bodies litter the polished floor — security personnel in Orbital Air blue, NUSA soldiers in tactical black, and civilians in bright tourist clothes that now serve as grotesque splashes of color against the growing pools of blood. Abandoned luggage creates a maze of obstacles, personal belongings scattered like confetti after an explosion ripped through a group of fleeing passengers.
As V and Songbird watch from their elevated position, a family of three makes a desperate dash for the emergency exits. The father carries a small child, while the mother runs ahead, frantically waving what looks like boarding passes — as if proper documentation could save them now. A burst of automatic fire cuts them down mid-stride. The child's stuffed animal rolls across the floor, coming to rest against a dead soldier's boot.
"Fuck..." V breathes, her enhanced optics picking up every horrible detail.
The terminal's AI continues to broadcast evacuation orders through damaged speakers, creating a surreal soundtrack to the carnage. "Please proceed calmly to your designated exit," it chirps pleasantly over the sound of someone screaming in pain. The massive display boards still flash departure times and gate numbers, now riddled with bullet holes and occasionally sparking.
Combat mechs move with terrifying efficiency through the space, their heavy footsteps sending tremors through the floor. One of them catches a NUSA soldier with its hydraulic arm, crushing him against a pillar before tossing the body aside like discarded trash.
V notes grimly that most civilians have already been evacuated or... eliminated. At least that simplifies things — when they make their move, she won't have to worry about collateral damage. Anyone still standing is either NUSA or Orbital Air, and neither side deserves mercy at this point.
Songbird tugs at V's sleeve, pointing toward their objective — the Tycho Terminal entrance. It might as well be on the moon. To reach it, they'll have to descend to the main floor and cross the entire battlefield, navigating between two forces intent on destroying each other. The entrance itself is barely visible through the smoke and weapons fire, but it's their only way forward.
"Ready?" V asks, though it's hardly a real question. They both know there's no choice but to move.
So Mi nods, her face set in grim determination despite her obvious exhaustion. "Let's go."
When a particularly violent explosion draws most combatants' attention to the eastern side of the terminal, V and Songbird seize their chance. They slip from the elevator's relative safety, immediately taking the walkway on their right. Their footsteps, nearly silent thanks to V's enhanced reflexes and So Mi's runner training, are completely masked by the cacophony of battle.
They move like ghosts through the chaos, using every bit of cover available. A destroyed information kiosk provides their first shelter, its holographic display still flickering weakly, casting strange shadows across their faces. V peers around its edge, analyzing their next move. Twenty meters ahead, an overturned luggage cart could provide decent cover. Between that and their current position lies an exposed stretch of floor covered in broken glass and spent casings.
The fighting intensifies around them. A combat mech unleashes a barrage of missiles at a group of NUSA soldiers, who respond with EMP grenades. The resulting electromagnetic pulse temporarily disrupts some of V's cyberware, sending uncomfortable static through her system. When her vision clears, the mech lies disabled, but three soldiers are down, their armor smoking.
They wait for another explosion before darting toward the luggage cart. V's heart pounds as they cross the open space, every step feeling like an eternity. A stray bullet impacts near their feet, sending fragments of tile flying. They slide behind the cart just as a fresh wave of gunfire tears through their previous position.
From their new vantage point, V can see their path forward. The descent to the main floor will be the trickiest part — the escalators are completely exposed, but they have no other choice. V goes first, running as fast as possible. Then Songbird follows, her breathing increasingly labored — the strain of their escape clearly taking its toll.
Once on the ground level, the true scale of the battle becomes even more apparent. They're now eye-level with the combat mechs, their massive forms even more intimidating up close. Emergency lights cast everything in alternating red and white, creating a strobing effect that makes movement harder to track — both a blessing and a curse.
They weave through the battlefield like dancers in a macabre performance. Behind an abandoned food cart, under a collapsed sign, through the remains of a gift shop — each movement carefully calculated. V's mantis blades remain ready, humming with potential energy beneath her skin. Every few meters, they pause, assess, move. The Tycho Terminal entrance grows closer, but the fighting between them and their goal only intensifies.
A massive explosion rocks the terminal, and V instinctively pulls Songbird closer, shielding her as debris rains down. When she looks up, she sees their chance — the blast has created a temporary gap in the fighting, and the smoke is providing perfect cover.
They move fast, staying low. V's combat-enhanced reflexes guide them through the chaos like a deadly dance. Step, slide, pause. Wait for the mech to turn. Move. Duck under a spray of bullets. Roll behind a fallen pillar. Every movement precisely calculated, every pause timed to the rhythm of battle.
They're almost there when a Black Ops soldier suddenly appears through the smoke. Before he can raise his weapon, V's mantis blades flash out. The chromed edges slice through his throat with surgical precision, and she catches his body before it falls, easing it quietly to the ground. The whole encounter takes less than ten seconds.
The security gate looms before them, its metal surface pockmarked with bullet holes. So Mi immediately gets to work on the lock, her fingers flying over the hidden panel while V stands guard. The runner's face is tight with concentration, sweat beading on her forehead despite the terminal's climate control.
"C'mon, c'mon," V urges, watching a particularly nasty firefight moving in their direction. A combat mech catches her eye — it's turning their way, its targeting systems beginning to scan.
The lock clicks open just as the mech's sensors would have picked them up. They slip through the gap and pull the gate shut behind them, the heavy metal barrier muffling the sounds of battle. They're in a familiar corridor now — the same one where V had taken out that guard with her pipe, what feels like a lifetime ago.
Songbird leans against the wall, breathing hard. "That was... that was too fuckin' close."
V nods, her own heart still racing. "Yeah, but we made it. We're still breathin'." She checks her friend over for injuries, relieved to find nothing serious. "Ready to keep moving?"
Behind them, the sounds of battle continue to rage, but they've cleared the worst of it. The path ahead looks clear, but V knows better than to relax. With Myers' forces closing in and their options running out, they're far from safe. Still, they're one step closer to getting Songbird to that shuttle, and right now, that's all that matters.
They enter the heaviest construction zone of the terminal — a maze of scaffolding, cement bags, and idle machinery that offers perfect cover positions. And thank fuck for that, because they'll need every advantage to cross this death trap alive.
Unlike the war zone they just left, this area holds an eerie stillness. The Orbital Air construction workers never stood a chance — their bodies lie scattered among their abandoned tools, some still clutching wrenches or datapads. Myers' Black Ops teams now patrol methodically through the half-finished space, their boots leaving bloody footprints on the dusty floor.
V and Songbird navigate the construction site like shadows, using every piece of equipment as cover. Massive steel beams create dark corridors, while stacks of drywall sheets offer temporary shelter. The elevator they need beckons from across the vast space, its pristine chrome doors a stark contrast to the raw construction surrounding it.
They make steady progress, timing their movements between patrol patterns. V's enhanced optics track each soldier's position, mapping safe routes through the lethal maze. So Mi follows close behind, her breathing labored but controlled. They're almost there when they spot the problem — three soldiers clustered near the elevator, performing a thorough sweep of the area.
V assesses her options, acutely aware that a single gunshot would bring the entire force down on them. Her mantis blades twitch beneath her skin, ready to deploy. She could probably take all three in close combat, but the risk of one of them raising the alarm is too high. Besides, Songbird looks ready to collapse — better to save her strength for what's ahead.
A loose brick catches V's eye, and a plan forms. She picks it up, testing its weight, then whispers to So Mi, "When I throw this, you run straight for that elevator, got it?" The netrunner nods, understanding flashing in her tired eyes.
V activates her Sandevistan, and time slows to a crawl. She launches the brick with perfect precision toward the first guard's face, already moving the moment it leaves her hand. Her mantis blades deploy with a whisper of steel as she sprints toward the remaining two soldiers.
In the stretched seconds of accelerated time, V becomes death itself. Her right blade opens the nearest guard's throat in a graceful arc while her left hand drives through the second soldier's chest. Both bodies begin their slow fall as the brick continues its lazy trajectory toward the third guard's face.
V completes her dance of death with a sliding move toward the elevator where Songbird already waits. The brick connects with a satisfying crunch just as V clears the doors. So Mi slams the ‘close’ button, and they begin their ascent, leaving three corpses cooling on the construction floor.
"Fuck me, that was smooth," Songbird breathes, finally allowing herself to lean against the elevator wall. "Remind me never to piss you off."
V retracts her blades, blood droplets falling in perfect circles on the elevator floor. "Just getting warmed up," she says, but her confident smirk doesn't quite reach her eyes. They both know the worst is still to come. The elevator continues its climb, carrying them toward their next challenge.
As the elevator doors slide open to the departure level, V is about to step out when Songbird yanks her back by the arm. "Heads up!" she hisses urgently. A NUSA attack chopper glides past the floor-to-ceiling windows, its searchlight cutting through the darkness like a predator's eye, methodically scanning for movement.
"Motherfucker..." V growls through clenched teeth. The chopper's weapons systems could reduce the entire floor to smoking rubble in seconds if they're spotted. They hold their breath, pressed against the elevator's back wall, as the beam of light sweeps across the space. After what feels like an eternity, the aircraft moves on, leaving them a clear path. "Hair's breadth, that. Doubt they spotted us."
"V, if that chopper gets a lock on us, we'll be as good as dead." Songbird's voice carries a weight of exhaustion and fear as she quickens her pace despite her obvious fatigue.
"Do our damndest to avoid it, then." V matches her stride, keeping close to her friend.
They stumble into what appears to be a combination bar and souvenir shop — one of those overpriced airport establishments where travelers kill time between flights. Now it's eerily empty, merchandise scattered across the floor, abandoned drinks still sitting on tables. "Ugh, head's spinning, hang for a sec..." Songbird collapses into one of the padded chairs, her legs finally giving out.
V doesn't argue — after the hell they've just been through, they've earned a moment's rest. She vaults over the bar, snagging two cans of soda from a refrigerator that's still humming despite everything. As she returns to Songbird's side, she offers to check her friend's chrome. The runner nods wearily, taking grateful sips of her drink while V runs the diagnostic.
The scan results make V's heart sink — the readings are even worse than what she saw in the van. There's nothing she can do to help, so she drops into an adjacent chair, cracking open her own can. The cold drink is heaven against her parched throat. "Uh, one thing, thing you forgot to tell me — who got you this flight?"
"Funny thing is, I dunno." Songbird sets her empty can down with a hollow clank. "Proxy showed up — a corpo everyman for the ages. Expensive, understated suit, dark hair, blue eyes... He asked me questions... the kind only I know the answers to."
V feels Johnny materialize behind her, his chrome fingers brushing her shoulder in silent support before he leans against the wall, listening. "Blackwall — that the issue?"
"Mh, and other things." Songbird shrugs, suddenly looking very small in her chair. "Rather not talk about it. Just... don't judge me, 'kay...?"
"So Mi, I get it, even get why." V offers a reassuring smile. "You're managing famously."
"For an extreme egotist?" The runner's voice cracks on the last word, raw with emotion.
"Forget about it." V's tone is gentle but firm, brooking no argument.
Songbird nods slowly, exhaling a shaky breath. "Let's get our shit together, c'mon. Help me up, can you?"
V helps her to her feet, steadying her with careful hands. "Hm. Lookin' a little better."
"Ya mean that?" Song manages a weak smile, taking tentative steps toward the shop's entrance. V shadows her closely, ready to catch her if her legs give out again. Once she's sure her friend won't collapse, V bends down to lift the security gate blocking their exit.
The moment of rest is over. Ahead lies more danger, more fighting, more running. But V's determination hasn't wavered — she'll get Songbird to that shuttle or die trying. Johnny's presence at her back reminds her that she's not alone in this fight, even if the odds keep stacking against them.
They barely make three steps into the wide corridor when the NUSA chopper materializes behind the floor-to-ceiling windows like a metal demon, its searchlight pinning them in its harsh glare. In that split-second before hell breaks loose, she tackles Songbird, both of them crashing hard behind a massive support column.
The runner's pained gasp as her hip hits the polished floor is drowned out by the deafening roar of the helicopter's turrets. The windows explode inward, transforming the pristine corridor into a deadly storm of glass and bullets. Shards rain down like lethal crystal, catching the emergency lights and creating a macabre light show. The heavy-caliber rounds tear chunks from the walls and columns, sending marble and concrete fragments flying in all directions.
Johnny materializes instinctively, curling protectively around V despite the impossibility of offering any real protection. The gesture speaks volumes about how deeply ingrained his need to protect her has become — even his code forgetting it's just code in this moment of crisis.
The situation goes from bad to fucked when Myers' soldiers' voices echo from nearby, their boots crunching on broken glass. They're caught between the hammer and the anvil — Black Ops teams closing in on foot while an attack helicopter turns their position into swiss cheese.
Each burst from the chopper's guns sends new waves of destruction through the space. V pulls Songbird closer, feeling her friend's racing heartbeat even through their clothes. The column protecting them won't last much longer — already, chunks of its surface are being torn away by the relentless barrage.
When the thunderous firing finally stops, the sudden silence feels almost as deafening as the attack. Songbird struggles to her feet, blood trickling from where glass has cut her cheek. "They've stopped firing! Move it, move it!"
A security gate blocks their path down the corridor, but with the threat of the helicopter resuming its attack at any second, even Songbird's exceptional netrunning skills would take too long. They sprint for the escalators leading to the upper level, their feet slipping on glass-strewn steps. V half-drags, half-carries her weakening friend up the moving stairs, trying to keep them both as low as possible.
The helicopter's searchlight tracks their movement, its beam cutting through the dust-filled air like a blade. They can hear its engines adjusting, the massive machine repositioning for another attack run. They've barely cleared the top of the escalator when Myers' assault team appears ahead of them, weapons raised.
The universe has a sick sense of humor — Myers' team blocks their escape route just as the helicopter swings back around. But the president's disregard for her own soldiers works in their favor. The chopper opens fire indiscriminately, its heavy rounds tearing through both friend and foe. V seizes the chaos, the Malorian Arms appearing in her hand like an extension of her will.
"Stay down!" she shouts to Songbird, who's already collapsed behind an overturned luggage cart. The chrome-plated handgun roars in V's grip, each shot finding its mark with deadly precision. A Black Ops soldier's head snaps back in a spray of red mist.
The helicopter's barrage creates a deadly crossfire, its bullets shredding through equipment and bodies alike. The terminal becomes a symphony of destruction — the deep thunder of the chopper's guns mixing with the sharp crack of V's Malorian and the screams of dying soldiers.
V's Sandevistan activates with a familiar electric tingle down her spine. Time stretches like molasses as she slides behind another column, using the momentary advantage to line up perfect shots. The Malorian speaks again and again, each round finding its mark. One soldier's chest explodes outward as the high-caliber round tears through his tactical vest. Another tries to call for backup but catches a bullet through his jaw instead.
When the helicopter temporarily breaks off its attack — likely repositioning for a better angle — V stands alone in the carnage. "Clear! Hurry the hell up!" Her voice echoes through the vast space, bouncing off walls pockmarked with bullet holes. She keeps the Malorian ready, knowing their window of opportunity is measured in seconds. The helicopter's engines still thunder nearby, a reminder that their respite is temporary.
Songbird emerges from cover, her face pale but determined. Bodies of Myers' elite soldiers lie scattered around them, their black tactical gear now stained darker with blood. But V's expression shows no remorse as she surveys her handiwork. These bastards chose their side when they signed up to hunt her friend. Now they've paid the price for that choice, and she's ready to make anyone else who gets in their way pay the same toll.
The windowless corridor offers a brief respite from the helicopter's deadly attention. V takes advantage of the moment to check her ammunition, cursing under her breath at the nearly empty magazine. Beside her, Songbird leans against the wall, her chest heaving as she catches her breath.
"Fuuuuck, we're alive..." She gestures weakly toward a 'monorail' sign glowing on the wall. "Hoppin' to the train now. Straight to the launchpad."
As they make their way down the corridor, V can't help but notice Songbird's pronounced limp - likely from their earlier dive for cover. Fuck, she hopes they don't run into any more surprises. Despite her friend's brave face, it's clear she's running on empty.
They emerge onto the open-air platform where Orbital Air staff lie scattered like broken dolls. The space feels wrong — too still, too quiet. Songbird points upward, "Control tower now, V. I'll bring a train in." They move cautiously across the exposed area, and she whispers, "Hm... Too quiet for comfort."
Johnny walks silently beside V, radiating tension. "Fuck, I don't like this, princess..."
His words are barely out when the trap springs — a flashbang detonates, immediately followed by smoke grenades. V yanks Songbird behind a wall, shouting, "Shit, trap! Stay outta sight!"
Without hesitation, V launches herself into the fray, mantis blades gleaming. What follows is pure carnage — a dance of chrome and blood as she carves through Myers' soldiers. She snatches an assault rifle from a corpse, taking cover to catch her breath.
She peers carefully around her position, counting remaining targets. Just six more — doable. Her sole focus becomes clearing a path to the control tower, where she catches glimpses of Songbird moving carefully between cover points.
The firefight that follows is brutal and efficient. V's borrowed rifle barks death in controlled bursts, bodies fall like dominoes as she systematically eliminates threats, working her way methodically through the remaining soldiers.
"Last one! All clear!" she calls out to Songbird once she's certain the threat is neutralized, her hands trembling slightly from gripping the rifle. "Did ya get hit?"
"I'm okay." Songbird's reassurance comes as she joins V near the tower, each step up the stairs seeming to drain what little energy she has left. Inside, she immediately locks the door and moves to the computer terminal. "I'll fire up the control panel, bring the train in."
"Whaddaya want me to do?" V asks nervously, watching reinforcements approach through the windows.
"Watch my comfort zone, keep it clear!" Songbird's fingers fly across the keyboard with urgent precision.
"Good luck, Song." V nods, readying herself for another round of violence. She can see more of Myers' teams converging on their position, and she knows the next few minutes will be crucial.
V bursts from the tower, rifle at the ready. The platform transforms into a killing field as Myers' forces pour in from every direction, black-armored figures emerging from the smoke. The air fills with the deafening orchestra of combat— sharp crack of rifles, meaty thud of bullets finding flesh, dying screams of soldiers.
When her first rifle clicks empty, she drops it without hesitation, snatching another from a fallen soldier's still-warm hands. Bodies pile up around her, but the reinforcements keep coming, an endless tide of black armor and chrome.
"How is it?! Any minute now?" she shouts into her comm while sliding behind a concrete barrier, feeling the impact of bullets chipping away at her cover.
"Hold on! Almost done!" Songbird's strained voice crackles through the comm as V continues her deadly work. Time stretches like molasses, each second marked by another pull of the trigger, another body hitting the ground. And finally — "Done and done! Train's on the way!"
The moment of triumph shatters as the distinctive whop-whop-whop of rotor blades cuts through the gunfire. V's heart drops — she knows that sound too well now. She sprints back toward the tower, and dives through the door just as the helicopter opens up, its heavy rounds tearing chunks from the building's facade.
Inside, she finds Songbird huddled on the floor, her face pale with exhaustion. "You all right?"
"Had a little luck." The runner confirms, flinching as an explosion rocks the building. Fear creeps into her voice, "We're fucked, you know! I have to drop past the Wall, no other way."
The words hang heavy in the air — they both know what crossing the Blackwall means. But with death closing in from all sides, there's no other choice. V makes her decision, "Neural bridge, let's go! I'll be your back-up."
Songbird just nods, her eyes reflecting a mix of terror and determination. V pulls her personal link cable from her wrist, the familiar motion now carrying the weight of possible doom. The cable slides into the port behind the runner's ear with a soft click that seems to echo in the chaos.
"Ready for this?" Songbird asks, her voice barely a whisper.
"Fire it up." V's response is steady, betraying none of the fear churning in her gut.
As Songbird's optics begin to glow with that haunting crimson light, V braces herself for what's coming. She's seen the Blackwall's power before, but never like this, never connected directly to its source. Through their neural bridge, she can feel the first tendrils of something vast and terrifying approaching — a power that was never meant for human minds to touch.
Songbird collapses against V, her body convulsing as the Blackwall's power surges through her like a crimson tide. Through their neural connection, that same terrible power floods into V's system — and holy fucking hell, nothing could have prepared her for this.
It feels like liquid lightning in her veins, like every nerve ending is simultaneously freezing and burning. Crimson artifacts dance across her skin, leaving trails of digital fire in their wake. The sensation starts as pins and needles in her fingertips, then spreads like a virus through her system. The edges of her vision blur and fragment, reality itself seeming to glitch and twist.
Through the tower's windows, V spots three soldiers attempting to breach the glass, their movements seeming to leave trailing afterimages in her altered perception. More terrifying, the attack helicopter hovers directly in front of them like a mechanical beast, its weapons trained on their position.
Acting on instinct she doesn't fully understand, she clenches her fist. Red lightning dances between her fingers, each spark containing enough power to fry every piece of chrome in Night City. The energy feels alive, hungry, almost sentient in its desire to destroy. When she extends her hand toward their attackers, raw power erupts from her palm in a wave of crimson destruction.
The energy hits the soldiers first — their screams cut through the air as their cybernetics overload. V watches in horrified fascination as their chrome fries inside their bodies, weapons sparking uselessly before exploding in their hands. Their neural implants short out in sprays of blood and sparks, leaving them twitching on the ground like broken dolls.
The crimson wave continues its path to the helicopter, and V sees the moment each system fails. The machine erupts in a shower of sparks before exploding spectacularly, its death painted in slow motion across V's altered vision.
Time seems to stretch like taffy as the burning wreckage loses altitude. Through her glitching vision, V watches the flaming hulk heading straight for them, trailing smoke and digital artifacts. With only seconds to react, she throws herself over Songbird, trying to shield her friend's body with her own. The last thing she sees before darkness claims her is the helicopter's twisted frame smashing through the wall, bringing the structure down around them in a symphony of destruction.
Consciousness returns to V in fragments — The helicopter's blades still turn with an agonized screech against the rubble, weakly batting against her leg like a dying chrome beast's final spasms. The stench of burning CHOOH2 fills her lungs, while hungry flames dance ever closer to her boots. Her augmented senses pick up every detail with painful clarity — the crackle of fire, the distant shouts of soldiers, the wet sounds of blood dripping from twisted metal.
With a pained grunt that tastes of copper and smoke, she shoves the mangled rotor away, forcing herself into a sitting position. Then her brain catches up — fuck, So Mi ! She whips around, heart stopping at the sight of her friend sprawled motionless beside her, looking too small and broken among the wreckage.
"Song! You okay?!" The words tear from her throat as she gently shakes the runner, relief flooding through her system when those eyes flutter open, their crimson glow still pulsing weakly. They can't stay here — the flames are spreading through the wreckage, and Myers' troops are undoubtedly calling in reinforcements. V carefully helps her up, trying to keep her voice steady. "Lemme help. Lean on me. Got a train to catch."
"Fuck... that hurts." Songbird's voice is barely more than a pained whisper, each word seeming to cost her precious energy.
"It's gotta, I know, So Mi." V tries to comfort her, taking most of the runner's weight as she wraps an arm around her shoulders. The neural link between them still pulses with residual power, making their skin tingle where they touch. "But you killed it. Saved our asses."
They emerge from the burning tower, moving painfully slow through the destruction they've created. Several paces out, another assault team awaits them, weapons raised, their chrome glinting in the firelight. But the Blackwall's destructive power still courses through V's system like liquid lightning — with a simple gesture, almost elegant in its deadliness, she reduces them to twitching, screaming masses of short-circuiting chrome and dying flesh.
This time, she barely registers their death cries — her ears are filled with something else, something unnatural and wrong, a sound that was never meant for human minds to process. It's like a thousand voices whispering in code, like the heartbeat of the net itself, terrible and seductive in its power.
Songbird seems to hear it too, her voice trembling as she asks, "V... Y'hear that...?"
"It's the Blackwall." V tightens her grip on the young woman as they start descending the stairs toward the train, each step careful and measured. "No fear, Song. Right here with you."
They progress slowly, V unleashing that terrifying power whenever soldiers dare to block their path. A strange serenity washes over her amidst the carnage — the Blackwall's hum becomes a soothing lullaby, beckoning her to use it again and again. It would be so easy to lose herself in this power, to let it consume everything in its path. Each burst of energy feels more natural than the last, like her body was always meant to channel this destructive force.
Bodies pile up as they finally reach the monorail, their chrome still sparking and smoking from the Blackwall's touch. V isn't even sure there's a single living soul left in the area when they stumble into the train car. She carefully lowers So Mi onto a seat, murmuring "Theeeere you go," before finally disconnecting their neural bridge. The Blackwall's power leaves her system as suddenly as it arrived, like a plug being pulled, leaving her feeling simultaneously empty and relieved.
Fuck, if she's honest, it's a relief to feel like herself again, to no longer hear those digital whispers promising unlimited power. She collapses into the seat in front of her friend just as the doors slide shut. V pats Songbird's knee encouragingly, knowing they're almost at the end of this insane survival run. One last stretch to go.
The train pulls away with a mechanical groan, offering V a front-row seat to their path of destruction through the blood-smeared windows. The scene below looks like something from a nuclear aftermath — bodies strewn across the platform, walls reduced to smoking rubble, hungry flames painting the night sky in violent shades of orange and red. The destruction they've wrought with the Blackwall's power is almost beautiful in its terrible efficiency.
Then, standing unnaturally still on one of the elevated walkways, she spots him — a man in an immaculate suit holding an umbrella, untouched by the chaos around him. Even at this distance, V swears she can see his optics gleaming an impossible shade of blue, cutting through the smoke like laser beams. Her mind immediately connects to Songbird's description of the mysterious figure who secured her space ticket — fuck, it matches perfectly. But the train's already gaining speed, and the man dissolves into the darkness like.
This strange apparition quickly fades from her thoughts as Johnny finally rematerializes. He drops heavily into a seat across the aisle, and fuck, it’s good to see him. After the terrifying interference of the Blackwall, his presence feels like coming up for air after nearly drowning.
"Fuck..." He groans, rubbing his neck with his chrome hand, his entire form radiating exhaustion. "Never use that shit again."
"Well damn, happy to see you too, sunshine!" A shit-eating grin spreads across V's face, but her eyes betray the depth of her relief.
"Fuckin' mean it, V." His voice carries an edge of raw fear she's rarely heard from him. "All that goddamn carnage, the chopper, the black ops troops, the fucking Blackwall... Never. Again. I..." His expression softens, tension finally leaving his shoulders as his eyes meet hers. His chrome hand reaches across the aisle to grab V's, the metal warm against her skin, and he intertwines their fingers. "Fuck. Was scared shitless for ya, sweetheart."
She squeezes back hard, thumb gently tracing his metallic knuckles, cherishing the solid feel of him. After the Blackwall's terrible power, this simple touch grounds her. "It's over now. We made it."
"Sure of that?" He asks, voice still rough with concern as he nods toward Songbird. "Your choom looks like she's about to flatline."
V turns to her friend, and Johnny's right — she looks like death warmed over. Her head lolls against the window, consciousness barely hanging by a thread. The merc knows she can't let her slip now, not after what they've just been through.
"Launchpad soon... Finally." V says softly, still holding Johnny's hand like a lifeline. Songbird manages a weak nod, and V reluctantly lets go of the rockerboy to lean forward, pressing a hand to her friend's forehead. Fuck, she's burning up — using the Blackwall has drained every ounce of strength from her system, leaving her trembling and feverish. "Still with me, holdin' up?"
The netrunner only manages a weak groan in response, prompting V to press further, "Whaddaya think — final stretch, worse behind us?"
"As I see it, the worst is always what was, not what will be." Her voice is barely above a whisper, but she manages to lift her head, meeting V's gaze — and thank fuck, her optics have returned to their normal brown color, no longer showing that terrifying crimson glow.
"Huh, an optimist-analyst." V snorts as the rocket that will serve as Songbird's escape comes into view through the window, its massive form reaching toward the stars like a chrome giant. "How the hell'd you ever hold down your job?"
"Proper work-life balance. And separation." Songbird manages to joke despite her exhaustion.
The shuttle looms closer, promising escape for one of them at least. V silently hopes her friend will find the peace she's looking for up there, far above this city of broken dreams and chrome-plated nightmares. Far away from Myers, from Reed, from the fucking FIA. Far away from pain. That she’ll be cured and will enjoy years and years of her well-earned freedom.
After a heavy moment of silence broken only by the rhythmic clatter of the train, Songbird's voice comes out as a delirious whisper as her eyes flutter shut. "Listen to the hum... Wish I could fall asleep, never to wake again."
Fuck... V's heart skips a beat at those words. The fever and exhaustion must be making her incoherent, the Blackwall's power having taken a devastating toll on her system. V pats her knee again, gently at first then more insistently when she doesn't respond, fear creeping into her voice. "So Mi?"
Thankfully, the netrunner startles awake, her cybernetic eyes blinking rapidly as she looks around the train car with unfocused panic before recognition finally dawns. She lets her head fall back against the window with a soft thud, its coolness seemingly offering some relief to her burning skin.
"Reed... had a dream about 'im recently." She says softly, managing to meet V's worried gaze through half-lidded eyes. Her voice carries the weight of years of guilt. "A repeat, same damn nightmare. 'Bout that same damn train... him dyin' 'cause what I did."
"Could be Reed's havin' the same nightmares. Heard it all already, from him." V confesses, remembering those rare moments when the spy had opened up to her, shown the human beneath all the professional facade.
"Hm... he put his trust in you, for a time. Trust we then badly betrayed..." Her voice breaks slightly, genuine remorse etched into every word, even though that betrayal had been the price of her freedom. "That day... I had my orders, I executed."
"Orders from Myers?" V states more than asks, already knowing the answer.
Songbird nods weakly, sweat beading on her forehead as she adds, "Sounds ridiculous now. Years on, he's still her loyal hound, and I can't get away fast enough..."
"Well, Johnny'd be blunt, if not downright crude." V starts, exchanging a loaded glance with the rockerboy still sitting across the aisle. His dark eyes meet hers with understanding — he knows all too well about betrayal. "I'll just say, betrayin' a friend? Nothin' worse."
"I regret it, I do." The netrunner confesses sadly as the train begins to slow, launch platform two now clearly visible through the window. "But, can't turn back time. I'd like to just forget..."
"Myers gave the order, treated you like her tool." V tries to comfort her, her voice gentle as she watches her friend struggle to stay conscious. "And for what it's worth... Actually think Reed forgave you."
Songbird's head rolls against the window, her eyes closing again as fever claims more of her coherence. "Never thought I could have real friends again... 'till you... you gave me everything, even if..."
V's blood runs cold. "Mind's wanderin', Song." She tries to interrupt, sudden fear gripping her heart as she realizes what's coming. Afraid of what her friend could say now that Johnny can hear everything. "Blackwall, gotta be."
But the young woman's mind, too clouded by fever and exhaustion, misses the warning. She continues, her voice growing weaker with each damning word, "Really wish I could have helped you. That the neural matrix could work for both of us. I'm so sorry, V..."
And there it is — the ugly truth V had tried so desperately to hide since their conversation in Dogtown, laid bare in the worst possible way. Johnny freezes, all color draining from his face, the temperature in the train car seeming to drop several degrees. She can't bring herself to meet his eyes right now, focusing instead on comforting her friend. Too late for damage control anyway.
"I know, So Mi, I know." V says softly, taking her hand and trying to keep her voice steady despite the storm brewing behind her. "And I chose to help you anyway. No regrets, no hard feelings. You're my friend, always will be. You'll be okay."
"Doesn't deserve you..." She whispers back, trying to return the grip but lacking strength, her fingers barely twitching in V's grasp. "You're stronger than I am, V. Stronger than anyone else I know... I... I think, I think... I'm gonna die soon..."
"Song?" V asks, trying to squeeze her hand, panic rising in her throat. Nothing. Her friend has blacked out, her pulse weak, leaving her alone with a deathly pale Johnny, the weight of unspoken truths hanging heavy between them like a guillotine blade ready to fall.
The train car falls silent save for Johnny's heavy footsteps as he paces like a caged animal, his boots echoing against metal flooring. Each step carries the weight of barely contained fury, his form flickering with barely controlled rage. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face when he finally stops in front of the door, still unable to meet V's eyes.
When he speaks, his voice is dangerously quiet, a calm before the storm that sends ice through her veins. "Tell me I heard that wrong."
V swallows hard, frozen in her seat like a condemned woman awaiting execution. The weight of her secret threatens to crush her chest. "Johnny—"
His chrome fist crashes against the train wall with devastating force, the sound reverberating through the empty car though the impact leaves no mark — a ghost's rage made manifest. His entire form trembles, digital artifacts crackling around him as he loses control. "Tell me I fuckin' heard that wrong , V!" The raw pain in his voice cuts deeper than any blade.
She knows there's nothing she can say to defend herself, not now, not when he's this furious — his rage visible in every line of his face, in the tension coiling through his shoulders, in the way his jaw clenches. And V gets it, fuck, she totally gets it. Deserves every bit of his wrath. She lied to him, hid the most crucial truth of all, so she's ready to endure his anger in silence.
But the fury seems to burn itself out as quickly as it ignited, leaving something far worse in its wake. Johnny dematerializes only to reappear in the seat across from V, and when he speaks again, his voice cracks with something that sounds dangerously close to heartbreak. "Explain."
"Neural matrix... can only be used once." V forces the words out, her fingers gripping the edge of her seat so hard her knuckles turn white, as if she could anchor herself against the storm of emotions between them. "Somethin' 'bout being an AI from beyond the Blackwall that—"
"Don't give a fuck about the technical details!" He snaps, but the anger in his voice barely masks the raw hurt underneath. His digital form flickers violently, betraying his emotional turmoil. "How long have you known, huh?! Since you talked to this chick, when she completely cut me off from the Relic? She didn't want me to hear, right?!"
V nods, the gesture so small it's barely perceptible, but she can feel Johnny's eyes burning into her, searching for answers she's terrified to give. The confession comes out barely above a whisper, "Actually... I'm the one who asked her to keep you out of that conversation."
The admission hits him like a physical blow. The rockerboy runs a trembling hand over his face before burying his fingers in his hair, a gesture so painfully human it makes V's heart ache. "Fuck, V..." His voice breaks on her name. "What happened to 'no more bullshit between us'? Why'd you hide all this?"
"Because you would've told me to take the cure for myself." She answers softly, managing a sad, broken smile that makes him flinch. Her eyes shine with unshed tears in the harsh train car lighting.
"Damn fuckin’ right I would've!" He finally meets her gaze, and the depth of betrayal in those dark eyes makes her chest tight. Johnny leans forward, his form solid and real despite his agitation, close enough that V can almost feel the phantom warmth of him. "So... this whole mission was just to help her ? No reward in sight? You're just... giving up?"
When V shakes her head, confirming his worst fears, he asks, voice rough with desperation, "Fuck... why? Don't get it, I— you could've rolled with Reed's plan, captured her like he asked. Sure he would've given you the cure as a reward... Could've saved yourself..."
"I don't want that goddamn cure!" The words explode from her like gunfire, making him physically recoil. She watches the anger drain from his face, replaced by something far more devastating — understanding beginning to dawn. "Couldn't do that to So Mi, couldn't take away her only chance to survive, to be fuckin' free. And more importantly..." Her voice catches, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. "Couldn't do that to you ..."
The silence that follows feels endless, broken only by the gentle hum of the train and V's shaky breathing. Johnny stares at her like he's seeing her for the first time, his voice barely a whisper when he finally speaks. "To... me...?"
V takes a deep, trembling breath, finally finding the courage to meet his eyes fully. What he sees there must terrify him, because he goes completely still. "To 'cure' me, they'd have to completely wipe out the Relic. Erase all its data — erase you, like you're just some worthless piece of code. Destroy you completely." The tears flow freely now, but she doesn't bother wiping them away. "Really think I could do that to ya? Let 'em cut you outta me like a fuckin' cancer? You're not just some program to delete, Johnny. You're..." She trails off, unable to find words big enough for what he's become to her.
Johnny stares at her, completely motionless, like her words have physically frozen him in place. The harsh fluorescent lights of the train car cast stark shadows across his face, highlighting the devastation written in every line of his features. The silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating. When he finally moves, it's with an almost painful slowness, reaching across the space between them with a trembling hand.
"Six days..." His voice comes out raw, like the words are being torn from his throat. The chrome fingers hover near her face, not quite touching yet. "You've been carryin' this shit for six fuckin' days. Had a chance at..." He trails off, his flesh hand running through his hair in a gesture of pure anguish that makes V's heart clench. "Why didn't you tell me…?"
V tries to blink away the tears that blur her vision, failing miserably as they spill down her cheeks. "Because you would've tried to stop me. Would've insisted I take that cure instead of givin' it to So Mi, and I couldn't—"
"'Course I would've!" He cuts her off, but there's no real anger in his voice anymore, just raw desperation that makes her chest ache. His hands finally come up to frame her face, chrome and flesh equally gentle as his thumbs brush away her tears. The touch is almost reverent, like he's handling something infinitely precious. "V, you had a shot at..."
"At what?" She challenges softly, her fingers finding his tank top, gripping the worn fabric like it's the only thing keeping her anchored to reality. "At erasing you? Killin’ you, then pretending you never existed?" Her voice breaks. "That you're just some parasite to delete?"
"Better than watching you—" He stops abruptly, like the words physically hurt him, his entire form flickering with the intensity of his emotion. His forehead drops against hers, breath coming out shaky and warm against her skin. "Fuck... you should've told me. Should've let me..."
"Would you have given me a say?" She whispers against his skin, leaning into his touch like she's starving for it. "If the situations were reversed? If you had to choose between savin’ yourself or watchin’ me be wiped out forever?"
He lets out a broken laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob. "No. Fuck no." His chrome hand slides into her hair, cradling the back of her head, holding her close like he's afraid she might disappear. "Still hurts that you didn't trust me with this."
"I trust you with everything." V's hands come up to cover his, holding him there, solid and real against her skin. Her voice is barely above a whisper, thick with unshed tears. "That's why I couldn't tell you. Couldn't watch you tear yourself apart with guilt, trying to convince me... Couldn't bear to see that look in your eyes, knowing what I was giving up."
"Hey." He pulls back slightly, just enough to search her face with desperate intensity, his dark eyes wild with emotion. "Listen to me. This ain't over, okay? Still got our plan." His voice grows stronger with each word, like he's trying to convince himself as much as her. "Alt's gonna separate us in Mikoshi, and we'll figure this shit out. Together." His hands tighten on her face, gentle but urgent. "You and me, we're gonna storm that tower, gonna make those Arasaka fucks pay, and you’re gonna make it out alive. You hear me?"
V just nods, unable to speak past the lump in her throat, the weight of her final secret crushing her chest. Each word of hope from his lips is another knife in her heart, knowing what she's planning to do. She lets him pull her closer, lets him believe in their shared future, in their plan.
She can't bear to break his heart twice in one day, can't tell him that she's already decided he’s the one who’s gonna survive this clusterfuck. So she stays silent, memorizing every detail of this moment — the desperate hope in his eyes, the warmth of his hands on her skin, the way his breath mingles with hers in the small space between them. Committing it all to memory, knowing their time together is running out.
When the morning comes and takes me
I promise I have taught you everything that you need
In the night you'll dream of so many things
But find the ones that bring you life and you'll find me
After a few moments, V reluctantly breaks their contact, though every fiber of her being screams to hold onto him longer. Her eyes drift to So Mi's unconscious form before returning to Johnny, taking in the raw vulnerability still etched on his features. "We... we can talk later. Right now, I need to get Song to her shuttle, or this whole thing will have been for nothing."
"Could always call Reed on the holo." The words come out half-hearted, almost automatic, and V can read right through them. She knows Johnny doesn't really mean it — it's just his desperate need to protect her speaking. His voice lacks any real conviction, and his eyes tell a different story entirely — one of painful understanding and acceptance.
"You know I won't." She manages a weak smile, squeezing his knee one final time before pushing herself to her feet. Her legs feel unsteady, whether from exhaustion or emotion, she can't tell anymore. "That's just the shock and anger talking — deep down, you know I made the right choice. The same choice you would've made."
"Yeah... I know," he says softly, his gaze shifting to the netrunner. The admission seems to cost him, but there's a hint of pride mixed with the pain in his eyes. "High time you woke her, then."
V touches Songbird's shoulder, murmuring, "Hey, Song? Almost there." When the young woman doesn't respond, the only sign of life being her shallow breathing, V carefully slides one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders. The chrome feels cold against her skin as she lifts her as gently as possible, trying not to think about how vulnerable So Mi looks in this state.
Fuck, her chromed body weighs a ton, especially unconscious. Still, she carries her carefully, taking one measured step after another, hyper-aware of Johnny's presence behind her. They finally exit the train, leaving behind the overwhelming emotions of their conversation, though the weight of it still sits heavy in her chest, mixing with the physical strain of carrying Songbird.
The building separating them from the launch area is eerily quiet, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridor as they pass through a waiting lounge that would usually be bustling with excited passengers. Now, it's just them and the soft hum of the ventilation system. The space is designed to impress, with its elegant panoramic window curving up to the ceiling in a graceful arch. Through the rain-streaked glass, the launch pad lights pierce the darkness.
A holographic display board catches V's attention, its blue glow reflecting on the polished floor. It glows against a wall adorned with a sprawling space landscape mural — all stars and nebulae, promising freedom and new horizons. The flight status shows all systems go — fuel at maximum capacity, pressurization systems functioning perfectly, weather conditions acceptable. The shuttle is just waiting for its passenger, like destiny holding its breath.
V's arms are burning now, but she pushes forward. Finally, they emerge onto the boarding bridge, and there it stands — the Orbital Air NC 423 rising majestically toward the hidden stars, its sleek form disappearing into the low clouds. It feels fitting somehow, this relentless downpour accompanying their goodbye, as if Night City itself is mourning what they're about to lose.
"End's in sight," V tells her friend softly, though she doubts Songbird can hear her through her unconscious haze.
Along the walkway waits So Mi's capsule, suspended by a massive mechanical arm designed to graft the pod to the rocket after boarding, a process V has only ever seen in advertisements for orbital tourism. From where she stands, the light spilling from its open door looks almost welcoming — a beacon of hope after all the trials of this endless night.
Her heart nearly stops when a familiar silhouette emerges from the capsule's bright doorway. The tall frame, broad shoulders, and long coat create an ominous shadow against the spilling light, and V would recognize that stance anywhere. Her arms tighten instinctively around Songbird's body.
"Fuckin' hell," she can only whisper, her fingers cramping as she strengthens her grip on the netrunner.
Reed takes several measured steps in her direction, his gun already drawn, the metal gleaming dully in the industrial lights. "Stop there." His voice carries easily across the space between them, hard as steel.
"Don't come any closer," she returns, freezing in place. Her heart pounds against her ribs as she calculates distances, angles, possibilities — all while trying not to show how her arms are trembling from Songbird's weight.
Though he stops his advance, his warning cutting like a knife, "Move an inch and I'll kill you, V, I will." There's no emotion in his voice, just cold certainty.
"Fuck off," V snaps, their last holo conversation still burning bitter in her throat, "for all time." The words come out sharp, matching the edge of anger that's starting to cut through her fear.
"Final warnin'." His response is simple, measured. The gun hasn't risen yet, but the threat is clear as day — he won't hesitate to use it.
Johnny materializes beside her, his form flickering with tension. "He ain't bluffin', princess," he warns, eyes fixed on Reed's trigger finger. "Better put your choom down and get your iron ready."
Following Johnny's advice, V carefully lowers Songbird onto the rain-slicked surface. "Look, look, puttin' her down," she announces, taking a deliberate step backward in a gesture of peace. Her mind is already counting — three bullets left in the Malorian, less than a second to draw and fire if it comes to that. The weight of the gun against her hip feels increasingly significant.
"Slow now..." Reed advances slightly, and even if his gun still points at the ground, that could change in a heartbeat. He stops about six paces away. "So, whaddaya wanna do?"
Trying to appeal to whatever humanity might remain, to his friendship with Songbird, V pleads, "Reed, she's fuckin' dyin'." The words catch in her throat as she glances down at So Mi's pale face.
"I see two near-corpses with a death wish." The spy's words are dark, cutting. Water drips from his gun's barrel as he shifts his stance. "Your fault alone if she kicks it."
Fuck him. Seriously, fuck him. If he wants to play it cruel, V can cut just as deep. Her voice turns sharp as glass when she responds, "Right, 'cause you and Myers had no hand in this shit."
"Death — it's all that awaits her on the Moon. You wanna save 'er?" He's visibly struggling to maintain his composure now, jaw clenched tight. "Leave 'er to me."
"You're not takin' her anywhere." V draws her Malorian in one fluid motion, muscle memory taking over. She doesn't aim at him — not yet — but the message is clear as the weapon catches the light. Johnny tenses beside her, ready for things to go south.
"Spare me the quote straight outta Bushido Ten." Reed seems unimpressed by her show of force, but V catches the slight shift in his stance. "Look at 'er, V! Be serious. You wanna send 'er to the Moon? Our neurosurgeons are her only chance."
The guilt trip attempt only fuels V's anger. Water streams down her face as she stands her ground, voice steady and determined. "You'll take her over my dead body. If she dies, she'll die a free woman. She wanted out and away." She pauses, letting the weight of her next words sink in. "From you, Myers, the FIA... Said so."
V sees the pain flash across Reed's face at being lumped in with Myers — a calculated hit that lands true. There is a long, painful silence before he finally responds, his voice slightly strained, "Your past... you can't just escape it. I know what I'm talkin' about."
"How would you?" V's snort carries all her contempt. "Never tried it yourself."
He sighs, and now the cracks in his professional facade are starting to show. "I'm just not naive, V."
"Myers doesn't trust you no more. Thinkin' to get back in her good graces?" She attacks without mercy, watching his expression shift. "By deliverin' So Mi on a platter? Back on the roof, Myers ordered her killed, you didn't protest."
And there it is — that wounded look in his eyes whenever Songbird is mentioned. The rain seems to fall harder in the heavy silence before he almost whispers, "You heard us."
"Every last word." V confirms coldly, refusing to let sympathy soften her resolve. Johnny stands tense beside her, his presence a reminder of what's at stake.
"The situation's changed." His voice takes on an almost pleading quality, desperate to convince her. "Just leave Songbird to me, I can still help 'er."
Though V can see that part of him truly believes his own bullshit, she twists the knife deeper. “Matter’s simple, I think — you don’t sell your friends down the river.”
"Song and I, we're federal agents." Reed declares, as if that somehow negates everything she's said. "That simplifies some things, makes some more complicated. In any case, it ain't street rules, no."
"You think comrades in arms'd be loyal." V's voice drips with sarcasm, her patience wearing dangerously thin. The Malorian feels heavier in her hand with each passing moment. "On the streets or in the FIA..."
"This ain't about Song anymore, V. No, this is about her not sparkin' another war." His attempt at reasoning sounds hollow. "I'm takin' Songbird to Washington. Sh'ell answer for treason, she has to."
That's the wrong thing to say, and V's response comes out like venom, "Been hidin' behind the NUS flag all your life. Come a day they'll drape it over your casket." Johnny shifts beside her, tensing at the escalating hostility.
Reed lets out a bitter laugh that echoes across the walkway. "You'll never understand."
"Understand a lot more than you do. You ain't doin' this for the NUS... or for Myers." V goes straight for the jugular, each word calculated to wound. "Doin' this for you alone. Without it? You're nothin' no one."
"Grow the hell up. Come to terms with my personal failure way back." His words carry forced conviction, but V sees how deeply her barbs have struck. "But cain' about So Mi, I strove to help her. Well, she shat all over everything I could say in her defense. 'S gonna drag you down, too. Leave her to me. And save yourself."
V almost wants to laugh now — save herself? Good fucking joke. She can see the spy is ready for anything in the way he carries himself, the slight shift in his stance, the tension in his shoulders. Unfortunately for him, she's just as prepared. Her fingers tighten around her gun's grip, the metal warm and slick against her palm as she states, "Really don't wanna shoot you."
And the worst part? It's true. The words taste bitter on her tongue because beneath his stupid, stupid loyalty to the FIA, V sees the man tortured by his mistakes. She sees Solomon Reed, the one who genuinely cares about his friend, trapped beneath layers of duty and misplaced devotion. Unfortunately, she's seen firsthand how for some people, loyalty to their job runs too deep for anything else to matter when forced to choose.
"Same," Reed affirms, water dripping from his chin, his eyes carrying a weight that matches her own. "So just turn around and walk away."
Another name flashes through her mind — another man whose life could have been completely different if he hadn't sold his soul to the wrong person. The thought of Takemura only fuels her anger, her finger trembling as it inches closer to the trigger. The parallel is too strong to ignore — another good man choosing the wrong side out of misplaced loyalty, another friend she might have to lose to corpo-politics and blind devotion.
Johnny must immediately understand where her mind has gone, because he positions himself close to her, his presence solid and reassuring as he places a steadying hand on her hip. "Focus, princess." His voice cuts through the chaos in her head, grounding her in the present moment.
V nods imperceptibly to the rockerboy, drawing strength from his touch. Her grip tightens on her iron, muscles coiled and ready to aim at the spy at any second. The launch pad lights cast harsh shadows across their faces, making the moment feel surreal, like a scene from some tragic BD. "Can't hand 'er over. Won't," she declares coldly, the certainty of impending violence settling heavy in her gut. "Outta my way, Reed."
He glances away for a moment, and V catches the exact second when something breaks behind his eyes — the moment he realizes negotiation has failed miserably. His expression hardens, jaw clenching as he opts for an ultimatum. "You got three seconds." His eyes meet hers again, and there's something desperate there, silently begging her to stand down. When he sees she doesn't flinch, resignation crosses his features as he starts counting. "One."
"Reed..." V warns, desperation creeping into her voice. The word comes out almost like a plea — fuck, she really doesn't want to do this. Songbird lies between them, oblivious to how close they are to crossing a line they can't uncross. Johnny's hand tightens on her hip, a silent reminder that whatever happens next, she's not alone.
Reed must be feeling the same conflict — it shows in how his voice breaks slightly as he slowly announces, "Two."
Time seems to slow down. V can see every detail with crystal clarity — the way the rain catches the light, the slight shake in Reed's trigger finger, the rise and fall of Songbird's chest as she breathes. The weight of the Malorian in her hand feels like destiny itself.
"I'm sorry, man." The words barely leave her lips before V raises her gun without hesitation and fires. The shot echoes across the launch pad, momentarily drowning out even the storm.
Her first bullet catches him in the side of his stomach, the impact making him stagger backward. Blood blooms across his white shirt and V desperately hopes it'll be enough, that he'll stand down and not force her to finish this. But when he moves to raise his own gun — his muscle memory and training overriding survival instinct — she fires again, hitting him square in the chest.
The scene unfolds before her eyes in horrifying slow motion — he clutches where the bullet struck, his gun slipping from nerveless fingers to clatter against the metal walkway. He falls to his knees, and in that moment, he looks nothing like the dangerous FIA agent he was moments ago. His final gaze is for So Mi, lying unconscious beside him, as he manages to whisper, "T-too... damn late..." before drawing his last breath.
V can't bear to look any longer and buries her face against Johnny's shoulder, whispering, "Fuck, fuck, fuck ..." She lost count long ago of how many people she's had to kill — hell, she doesn't even know how many she's killed today alone... and yet, this death cuts deep, leaving a wound she can feel in her chest.
He wasn't some asshole, or a random gang member, or someone she was paid to assassinate. Wasn't even really an enemy. She knew him, planned a rescue mission with him… they fought on the same side for a while. Just a man trying to do his job until the end, who unfortunately found himself standing in her way. The rain washes his blood across the metal walkway in pink rivulets, each drop diluting another piece of what made Solomon Reed who he was.
Johnny, sensing her distress, pulls her closer, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other wraps protectively around her waist. "Ya had no choice, V," he murmurs into her hair, his voice a low rumble she feels more than hears. He gives her time to regain her composure, holding her against him as the storm rages around them, "But your friend there'll join Reed in the beyond if you don't hurry your ass."
Knowing he's right, V reluctantly pulls away from Johnny's warmth to kneel beside So Mi. The netrunner's skin is almost translucent now, her chrome implants standing out starkly against her pallid flesh. V gathers her in her arms as gently as she can while saying, "Gonna be ok..." The words taste hollow in her mouth — honestly, she's not sure if she's telling her friend, Johnny, or trying to convince herself. Probably all three. "One last push."
Stepping carefully around Reed's body — she can't bring herself to look at him again — she carries the young woman to her shuttle. The capsule's interior is a stark contrast to the violent scene outside — clean, welcoming, filled with soft warm light. "You're bound for the Moon, So Mi. Gettin' away from 'em all."
Her hands move with practiced efficiency despite their slight tremor, connecting tubes and wires to the onboard life support system. The machine comes to life with a gentle hum, displays lighting up with vital signs that are weak but stable. Each beep feels like a small victory, a promise that maybe, just maybe, So Mi will make it.
She grabs the safety harness, securing her friend in the seat with careful movements. The whole situation feels surreal — here she is, strapping someone into a moon shuttle like it's the most normal thing in the world. "Get that feelin' too, sometimes. Drop everything, leave it all behind... wouldn't it be nice..." The words come out soft, almost wistful. So Mi, barely regaining consciousness, lets out a small whimper that tears at V's heart. Trying to reassure her, she gently places her hands on her shoulders, "Happy trails... of the vapor variety."
She takes a moment to look at her friend, memorizing every detail — the delicate network of her chrome, the slight flutter of her eyelids, the way her chest rises and falls with each shallow breath. This is goodbye, and they both know it. Even if So Mi survives, even if she makes it to the Moon, their paths will never cross again. Another friend lost to Night City's endless appetite for tragedy.
V forces herself to turn away, each step toward the exit feeling heavier than the last. The capsule's door seals shut behind her with a pneumatic hiss, the robotic voice announcing "Hatch locked and sealed" with artificial cheerfulness that feels out of place in the somber moment. The massive mechanical arm whirs to life, its movements precise and uncaring, gripping the capsule that holds her friend's fate. The metal groans under the weight as it slowly rotates, positioning the shuttle for attachment to the rocket.
Johnny waits for her on the platform, a dark silhouette against the launch pad's harsh lights. His hand reaches out for her — an anchor in the storm, both literal and emotional. V takes it, intertwining their fingers, feeling the familiar calluses on his guitarist's hands. His grip is firm, grounding, telling her without words that whatever happens next, she's not alone.
Together, they retreat toward the building, their boots leaving wet footprints on the metal walkway. The rain continues to fall, washing away the blood, the footprints, all evidence of what transpired here except for Reed's body and the weight in V's chest. Behind them, the mechanical sounds of launch preparation continue, indifferent to the human drama that just played out.
They return to the observation deck, positioning themselves before the massive window, their hands still linked. The glass stretches from floor to ceiling, offering a panoramic view of the launch site. Rain streams down the reinforced panes, distorting the lights outside into a kaleidoscope of colors. V releases a deep sigh of relief — finally, this whole mess is ending — before saying, "Welp, no turnin' back now."
"Here we go." Johnny replies, his eyes fixed on the rocket as the automated countdown begins. Warning lights start flashing across the launch pad, painting everything in alternating patterns of red and white. The ground crew scatters like ants, their movements precise and practiced as they clear the immediate area.
"First time I've ever launched a spacecraft." She jokes weakly, squeezing his hand while watching the pre-launch sequence unfold. Steam begins venting from the rocket's base, creating ethereal white clouds that dance and swirl in the launch pad's harsh lights. The sight is almost beautiful, if you can forget what led to this moment.
"Same, sweetheart. Same." He responds, as the robotic voice continues announcing launch stages. 'T-minus 120 seconds. Fuel pressurization initiated'. Neither really listens to the technical jargon, too absorbed in the moment and each other.
"Whatever awaits her in orbit, hope she ends up happy." V murmurs, watching as the rocket's emergency systems run through their final checks. Status lights blink green one by one, each confirmation bringing So Mi closer to freedom. The massive machine hums with contained power, like a predator ready to pounce.
"She's free." Johnny reassures her, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her hand. The simple gesture grounds her, keeps her from drowning in the weight of everything that's happened. "Slammed it home. She has just a bit of what I lacked entirely — fuckin' luck."
"Luck played no part in it, Johnny." She says softly, as the countdown continues. The rocket's massive frame vibrates slightly, sending tremors through the reinforced glass that match the thunder rolling overhead. "You and her just wanted different things."
The rockerboy seems to seriously consider her words, his reflection in the window thoughtful and distant. "Agh... maybe. Guess I coulda done more, been different... maybe. Could also be I was convinced I couldn't make it out alive."
The sadness in his voice makes V's heart clench. She turns slightly toward him, her thumb brushing over his chrome knuckles in a tender gesture. "Johnny, I..."
"Maybe this chick had great follow-through, to the fuckin' end. And I lacked that last ounce of determination. Dunno." He continues despite her interruption, his voice carrying decades of regret. The launch pad lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting the vulnerability he rarely shows.
After a moment of silence, broken only by the continuing countdown and the storm outside, he offers her a small smile and adds, "Or maybe... just maybe it is about luck, after all. 'Cause she had the luck of havin’ you on her side. Maybe things would've been different for me too, if we'd met a lifetime ago. Maybe I'd have had a reason to hold onto life instead of running from it."
"You really think things would've been different?" V asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper. The question hangs between them, heavy with possibility, while outside the storm rages and the rocket prepares for launch.
Johnny's quiet for a moment, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from her face. "Yeah," he says finally, voice rough with emotion. "Yeah, I do. Wouldn't have been so lost, so angry all the time." His thumb traces her cheekbone, gentle in a way few would believe possible from Johnny Silverhand. "You... you got this way of makin’ people wanna be better, V. Of making me want to be better."
"Johnny..." she starts, but he shakes his head, needing to continue.
"Seein' you with Songbird, how you fought for her... that's what I needed back then. Someone who'd fight for me like that, someone who'd show me there was more than just anger and revenge." His voice drops lower, almost vulnerable. "Someone who'd look at me the way you do — like I'm worth savin’."
V swallows hard — his declaration is almost too much, too many emotions, possibilities, what-ifs swirling in her mind like the steam around the launch pad. Her chest feels tight, heart aching with the weight of a past they never had, a future they might not get. She can only squeeze his hand tighter and whisper, "Just watch the show, Johnny."
The launch pad erupts in a blinding flash as the main engines ignite, the sound reaching them even through the thick glass — a deep, primal roar that vibrates through their bones. The rocket seems to hesitate for a moment, straining against its hold-down clamps like a beast eager to break free. The entire scene is bathed in the fierce orange glow of the engines, turning the rain into falling fire.
"5... 4... 3... 2... 1... T-0. Liftoff."
The spacecraft rises on a column of fire, slow at first, then with increasing speed, like a meteor in reverse. The launch pad disappears in a cloud of steam and smoke, illuminated from within by the engine's fierce glow. The entire building trembles with the raw power of the launch, windows rattling in their frames. The storm above seems to part before the rocket's ascent, as if even nature itself is making way for So Mi's escape.
"She made it — preem, that's what counts." Johnny comments, his voice barely audible over the roar. His profile is illuminated by the launch's glow, making him look almost ethereal.
V can only nod, overwhelmed by everything — the launch, Reed's death, the man holding her hand like she's something precious. The spacecraft climbs toward the stars, carrying So Mi to her freedom, while V finds hers right here, in Johnny's arms, in the life they've somehow built from the ashes of their shared tragedy.
Sometimes the luckiest breaks aren't about escape. Sometimes they're about finding something worth dying for. And as Johnny pulls her closer, his arms wrapping around her while they watch the rocket disappear into the night sky, V knows she's found hers. She'll give him back his life, even if it means leaving hers behind.
She buries her face against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent of leather and cigarettes, committing it to memory. Let So Mi have the moon. V has found her own piece of heaven right here, in these borrowed moments with Johnny. Even if she can't keep them forever.
Notes:
Message thread generator HTML/CSS by Luvwich ! Have fun with it here ♥
Lot of bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song: Nothing More - Fade In / Fade Out
• Author's rambling: Happy trails, So Mi! Maybe we'll see her again much later ;) Hope you enjoyed this chapter, I really loved writing Johnny's reactions, as usual ^^ Poor guy is at his wit's end, and things aren't going to get better haha. Oh, and I was really happy with the last photo of this chapter, gives me 'end of Fight Club' vibes, the "You met me at a very strange time in my life" scene. Well, no buildings crumbling, but a rocket launch to replace it.
Next time, it'll be a very — very — long chapter. We'll wrap up all the remaining side plots, I didn't want to leave anything out, and we'll also come full circle with the prologue events. Finally!
I haven't had much time to write lately, I have a small side project keeping me busy, but the first chapter of part 2 is almost finished.
That's all! Don't hesitate to tell me what you thought about it!xoxo, see you next time ♥
Chapter 29: Born to Die
Notes:
• Author's rambling: *Take a deep breath* Hiiii ! Alright, so, get comfy because this chapter is very, very long. I really wanted to wrap up all the loose storylines before moving on to the next chapter (you’ll see why soon enough). Anyway, I won’t keep you here any longer — you’re already going to spend plenty of time reading this monstrosity! Enjoy !
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Big thanks for the bookmarks and kudos ♥ And thank you Loraphine and History_Buff for your comments. ♥♥ Big thanks to my friends Aliya and Zed for their support with this story! Special shoutout to Karou101 (for your amazing story) and Loraphine (for being my ride-or-die commenter) too!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Feet don't fail me now
Take me to the finish line
Oh, my heart it breaks every step that I take
But I'm hoping that the gates,
They'll tell me that you're mine
What happens after the rocket takes off dissolves into a hazy blur for V — exhaustion smearing everything into a fog of disjointed memories and sensations. She remembers standing there for what felt like hours, her hand intertwined with Johnny's as they watched the night sky through the window, until he finally murmured it was time they got their asses out of this clusterfuck.
The journey back is a series of cautious movements through empty corridors. When they reach the train platform, V's combat-ready tension proves unnecessary — the area is completely deserted, though the evidence of violence remains. Barely an hour has passed since she and So Mi fought their way through here, yet the scene has already changed.
Besides the helicopter wreckage — now just a twisted, charred skeleton of metal — most traces of the firefight have been methodically erased. The only corpses remaining are Orbital Air personnel, every Black Ops body mysteriously vanished. Classic Myers, V thinks bitterly — the president's cleanup crews working overtime to bury evidence of her illegal operation in free city territory.
Exhaustion weighs heavy on V's bones as she backtracks through the complex, each empty room a blessing — she's running on fumes, couldn't handle another firefight if her life depended on it. She sticks to employee areas, avoiding the main terminal until she discovers a maintenance access that leads her to the parking garage.
The hexagonal plaza has transformed into something out of a war zone documentary. NCPD vehicles form a perimeter, their strobes painting everything in alternating red and blue, while officers struggle to maintain order among shell-shocked survivors. Trauma Team AVs hover like massive mechanical vultures, their distinctive red and white paint jobs stark against the night sky. Medical personnel in blood-spattered scrubs rush between makeshift triage stations, prioritizing victims by colored tags — red for critical, yellow for serious, green for walking wounded.
The air carries a cacophony of sounds, the whine of AV engines, barked orders from first responders, the wail of approaching sirens, and underlying it all, the sounds of human suffering — sobs, screams, prayers in multiple languages.
Some survivors sit on the curb, wrapped in shock blankets, staring into nothing with thousand-yard stares. Others frantically try to reach loved ones on their phones, voices cracking with panic and relief. A woman in a torn business suit rocks back and forth, mumbling about the people she saw die in the terminal. A man covered in other people's blood mechanically wipes his hands on his pants over and over, unable to stop.
Two city buses have been commandeered for evacuating the walking wounded and witnesses. V sees her chance and moves carefully toward the nearest one, timing her approach to blend with a group of shell-shocked office workers. Inside, the bus is a tableau of collective trauma. The overhead lights flicker weakly, casting harsh shadows across faces marked by tears, blood, and the particular blank expression that comes from seeing too much horror too quickly.
Nobody looks twice at V as she finds a seat near the back. In her blood-stained clothes, she's just another survivor of whatever ‘terrorist incident’ the media will eventually call this. Johnny materializes in the seat beside her as the bus engine rumbles to life, beginning its journey across the bridge to Night City proper, V letting her head rest against his shoulder. She's too exhausted to care if anyone notices her seemingly leaning on thin air.
Through the window, emergency vehicle lights reflect off the bay's dark waters. Behind them, Morro Rock stands like a wounded giant, its spaceport still crawling with first responders and cleanup crews, all trying to restore order to a night that spun violently out of control. V feels herself drifting, anchored only by Johnny's touch and the steady vibration of the bus carrying them away from the chaos they helped create.
When the bus makes its first stop on Alexander Street, V decides to get off rather than continue toward Watson. The cool night air hits her face as she steps down, a welcome change from the heavy atmosphere inside the bus filled with shell-shocked survivors. However, she's not quite ready to head home yet — there's one last stop she needs to make.
Her feet carry her to the Gold Beach pier, where the metal walkway stretches out over the dark waters. From here, Morro Rock looms in the distance, its silhouette stark against the pre-dawn sky. V leans against the railing, her arms folded on the cool metal, watching Trauma Team AVs departing from the spaceport like mechanical fireflies, their red lights reflecting off the bay. A column of black smoke — the remains of the crashed chopper — still rises against the lightening sky, a dark reminder of the night's violence.
From this distance, the chaos at the spaceport seems almost dreamlike. V feels strangely detached from it all, caught between bone-deep exhaustion and the hypnotic rhythm of waves breaking against the rocks below. The salt-laden breeze carries away the acrid smell of gunpowder and blood from her clothes, replacing it with the clean scent of the ocean.
Johnny materializes beside her, his presence as natural as breathing. He mirrors her posture, their shoulders barely touching, but even that slight contact grounds her in reality. After a long moment of comfortable silence, he finally asks, "Where do we go from here?"
V doesn't answer — can't bring herself to voice the truth that she isn't going anywhere. Instead, she watches the first pink-orange rays of dawn catch on his chrome arm and cast shadows across his face, memorizing every detail. His hand inches closer to hers on the railing, their fingers barely brushing, yet the touch sends warmth through her entire body.
Seeing her reluctance to speak, he shifts slightly closer, his arm pressing against hers. "Now... We wave buh-bye to your dreams of living a long, happy life. Or at least to the simplest solution that could've given you that." His voice drops lower, a hint of hurt creeping in. "Fuck, V... I still can't believe you knew about the neural matrix and chose to keep me in the dark..."
"I know. For what it's worth, I'm sorry..." She leans slightly into his warmth, her voice heavy with weariness. "Can we save this conversation for when I'm not about to collapse from exhaustion?" When he nods, she adds with attempted lightness, "Besides... Got the two of us more time together."
"Fuck me, oh joy..." Johnny responds sarcastically, but his actions betray his words as he shifts to shield her from the cool morning breeze. His fingers find their way to the nape of her neck, gently working at the tension there — the gesture casual, almost unconscious, yet deeply intimate.
V chuckles softly, letting her head tilt slightly toward his shoulder. "Ah, things ain't all bad, at any rate. Politicos and spies at war, us in the middle, we came out whole."
"Sure as shit made some enemies, powerful ones, too." He gestures toward the spaceport with his free hand, where the spaceport still glows with emergency lights, the other still absently massaging her neck. "Myers'll remember, won't let it pass. No fuckin' way after you killed the most loyal of 'er hounds."
"Givin' her too much credit, Johnny." V shifts her weight, unconsciously leaning more into his touch. "Myers sacrificed Sol once already, set him up. Least this time he decided how he'd die."
"Yeah, on his own terms... Best sunset to life he could hope for, best any of us can, actually." His fingers move up to play with her hair, the metal cool against her scalp. "Miles better'n livin' with the knowledge you shredded 'n' trounced your ideals. Sooner or later, we all betray somebody, no two ways about it. An' most often, it's ourselves. That's why I understand your choice to send Songbird to the moon against all odds. Stayed true to yourself, and for that, I'm fuckin' proud of you."
V turns her head slightly, pressing her temple against his shoulder. After a comfortable silence, he adds softly, "I'll say. Fuckin' with NUSA plans, launchin' a half-dead cyborg into orbit? Adds bricks to that edifice called legend." His tone shifts, becoming more serious. "But clock's tickin', sweetheart. You're dyin'. Gotta do somethin' about it."
Once again, V chooses not to respond. Instead, she focuses on the warmth of his presence, the gentle pressure of his fingers in her hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest against her shoulder. Finally, she murmurs, "Let's go home, okay? Before I collapse in the middle of the street."
Johnny just nods, his hand sliding down to rest at the small of her back as they turn away from the pier. The rising sun casts their merged shadow across the pavement — one figure instead of two, just as it's always been between them. Their steps fall naturally in sync as they head toward her apartment, both savoring these quiet moments before reality crashes back in.
Barely through their apartment door, V doesn't even attempt the climb to the mezzanine stairs to her bed, instead collapsing onto the couch — less comfortable, but closer. Johnny materializes beside her, pulling her against his chest as she drifts off. She's out cold before she can even kick off her boots, still in her blood-stained clothes from the night's chaos, but feeling safe in his arms.
She only wakes hours later, mid-afternoon sun streaming harsh through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Though still bone-weary, it's hunger that forces her to interrupt her rest. She finds herself still entangled with Johnny, who's been watching over her sleep, his fingers absently running through her hair. She stretches her aching muscles, wincing at the collection of bruises she's accumulated, before reluctantly extracting herself from his embrace to drag herself toward the kitchen.
While she's grumbling at the predictably empty fridge — at this point it's become a running joke, but it's still annoying — Johnny materializes behind her, immediately wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. The warmth of him against her back is comforting, necessary after the night they've had. His chrome hand splays possessively across her stomach, holding her close. "Feelin' better?"
"Mh, kinda." V mumbles, leaning heavily back against his chest, letting him take her weight. She covers his hands with hers, metal and flesh intertwined. "Still fucking exhausted, and I'm starving. Gonna order a pizza."
"Not a bad idea. Been too long since we had your favorite abomination." He grins against her shoulder, his stubble scratching lightly through her thin tank top. He presses a kiss to the side of her neck, lingering there like he needs the contact as much as she does.
She turns in his arms to face him — they're so close their noses almost touch, but neither makes any move to step back. If anything, Johnny pulls her closer, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head. This kind of intimacy has become their new normal, but today it feels more vital, like they both need the reassurance of touch after last night. And fuck, once again, the Relic must be fucking with her brain, making him appear so goddamn alive.
His hair is a mess from their long nap on the couch, dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual, mirroring V's own bone-deep exhaustion. She reaches up to brush a strand of hair from his face, letting her fingers trail down his cheek. Trying to distract herself from these achingly human details, she asks, "Never asked you before... what's your favorite? Could try that, for a change."
"I'm a simple guy, princess." He smirks, but doesn't move away, keeping her caged between his body and the counter. "Pepperoni, shit ton of cheese and bell peppers."
"That works." She returns his smile before grabbing her holo to place their order with a local pizzeria, all while staying within the circle of his arms. Neither of them seems willing to break contact for longer than necessary.
Once the call is made, V uses the delivery wait time to take a quick shower, finally washing away the last traces of the spaceport night. As usual, Johnny follows her into the bathroom, perching on the sink counter. His constant chatter provides a soothing backdrop while she stands under the hot spray — something about a gig he played in '15 where the crowd got so rowdy they had to stop mid-song. She's only half-listening, more focused on the comfortable domesticity of it all — his voice bouncing off the tile walls, the steam rising around them, the way he absently drums his fingers against the counter in time with whatever rhythm is playing in his head.
Once the pizza arrives, they sprawl back on the couch, settling into their usual position — V tucked against Johnny's side, his arm draped across the back of the couch behind her. She eats slowly, letting him savor each bite through their shared senses. The setting sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the apartment in warm amber hues that catch on Johnny's chrome arm and cast long shadows across the floor.
When V turns on the TV for background noise, every news channel is running the same footage on loop — aerial shots of Morro Rock, emergency vehicles' lights creating a strobing halo around the spaceport. The anchors can barely contain their excitement as they speculate about the ‘terrorist attack’ on NCX. Wild theories are being thrown around — corporate sabotage, anti-space travel extremists, organized crime — but predictably, there's no mention of NUSA troops' involvement. The cameras pan across makeshift medical stations, shell-shocked survivors wrapped in emergency blankets, body bags being loaded into vehicles.
The casualty numbers start scrolling across the bottom of the screen — confirmed dead, missing, critically injured. Each number hits V like a physical blow. When the reporter starts detailing specific incidents — a family caught in the crossfire, a group of tourists gunned down in the terminal — she can't take it anymore. Her hand shakes slightly as she grabs the remote to kill the feed.
Johnny immediately pulls her closer, understanding without words. "Not your fault, V," he murmurs into her hair.
She winces, setting her half-eaten slice back in the box. The smell of pepperoni and melted cheese suddenly turns her stomach. "Well, kinda is. If we hadn't been there with So Mi, Myers would've never sent her troops into the spaceport. All this could've been avoided."
"Myers' fault, not yours." His chrome hand slides down to her arm, fingers tracing soothing patterns on her skin. "Sure, you zeroed her soldiers, and some airport guards who got in your way, but you had no choice." His touch grounds her, keeps her from spiraling into guilt. "All those civilian casualties, everyone killed in the crossfire, that's on her."
"If you say so..." V mumbles, unconvinced but leaning further into his warmth, seeking comfort in his solid presence.
"Know what I'm talkin' about." He slumps back against the couch with a heavy sigh, pulling her with him. The leather creaks beneath them as they settle. "And I'm tellin' you this as the terrorist who dropped a nuke in downtown." His voice takes on a different quality — rougher, weighted with memories he usually keeps buried. "There's always collateral damage. Gave 'Saka plenty of time to clear the building, but I knew people would die anyway. Back then, honestly, didn't give a fuck. Told myself there wasn't any other way."
V turns to study his profile in the fading light. It's the first time she's seen him this vulnerable discussing Arasaka Tower. She remembers their early conversations about it, when the rockerboy showed no remorse, declaring he'd do it again in a heartbeat. But now... something's shifted. The man beside her isn't the same rage-fueled terrorist who brought Night City to its knees. She stays quiet, giving him space to continue.
"Plan going to shit didn't help," he continues, staring at something only he can see. His metal fingers catch in his dark hair as he runs a hand through it. "Bomb was supposed to detonate in the basement levels, several floors under the city — was meant to make the tower collapse in on itself, not blow half of downtown to hell." The admission seems to cost him something, each word dragged out like shrapnel from an old wound. "Fuck, what I'm trying to say is, even though I didn't plan for the scale of destruction, all those deaths, they're on me. You were just tryin’ to get your choom to the moon. Not your fault some politi-whore couldn't let go of ‘er toy of mass destruction without causing a fuckin’ massacre."
V shifts to face him fully, one hand coming up to cup his jaw. His stubble scratches against her palm as he leans into the touch. The setting sun catches in his eyes, turning them to liquid amber as they meet hers. There's something raw and honest in his gaze that makes her breath catch.
"Still feels like shit," she finally murmurs, thumb tracing his cheekbone.
"Yeah," he agrees, turning to press a kiss to her palm. "That's what makes you different from Myers. From what I used to be. You actually give a fuck about the collateral."
The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. V busies herself storing the leftover pizza in the fridge while Johnny remains on the couch, lost in contemplation. After taking care of her pets — filling Nibbles' bowl and checking on her iguana — she finally climbs the stairs to the bedroom, figuring more sleep can only do her good.
Johnny follows, materializing on the bed behind her, molding himself against her back. The mattress dips under their combined weight, and V can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her spine. After a moment of hesitation, his voice breaks the quiet, unusually vulnerable. "Y'know... worst part is I still feel sorry for myself... not rememberin' is a real bitch."
"What do you mean?" She asks softly, pressing back against him, seeking more contact. His arms tighten around her waist in response, metal fingers cool against her skin where her shirt has ridden up.
"Dunno, I..." He sighs, his breath warm against her neck, sending a slight shiver down her spine. "Fuck, you've seen my memories of that day. But like I told ya, some stuff's all scrambled in my head. And the bombing... that's prolly the haziest part." His voice takes on a frustrated edge, like he's trying to grab smoke with his bare hands. "Feels like the story I remember is... dunno, incomplete. On one hand, I remember being mortally wounded, then gettin’ hauled out so fuckin' Saburo could have the pleasure of Soulkillin’ me himself. But on the other, not sure why, I'm certain I died in that damn tower."
He shifts closer, if that's even possible, like he's trying to anchor himself through physical contact. "Shit doesn't add up, lots of inconsistencies... every time I try to think about it, gives me a splittin’ headache. Like someone took my memories and ran them through a fuckin’ blender."
"Fuck, Johnny..." V whispers, at a loss for words. What can you possibly say to someone questioning the circumstances of their own death? She brings one hand up to cover his where it rests against her stomach, offering what comfort she can.
"Not gonna lie, it's fuckin’ disturbing to think about..." The rockerboy's voice drops lower, meant just for her ears despite them being alone. "Not knowin’ what really happened. Feeling like I've been lyin’ to myself, and by extension, to you too — like the truth got lost somewhere, and I'll never get it back." His thumb traces absent patterns on her skin. "So even if you feel bad about what happened at the spaceport... at least you know what really went down."
Damn — now V feels foolish. "Should really stop whining 'bout it, huh?"
"Nah, you got every right to complain." Johnny reassures her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. Then adds apologetically, "That's not what I meant. Guess I just suck at makin’ you feel better."
"I know, don't worry..." She whispers, squeezing his fingers.
Actually, she knows what might make her feel a little better — or much worse, depending on the response. She grabs her holo from the nightstand, her fingers shaking slightly as she types,
The wait for a response feels eternal. V stares at the screen, barely breathing, Johnny's presence at her back the only thing keeping her grounded. Each passing second feels like a weight on her chest, memories of the chaos at the spaceport flashing through her mind. When the response finally comes, the relief is so intense she feels dizzy.
V lets out a shaky breath, setting the holo aside. The late evening sun still paints orange stripes across their bed, too early for true night but their exhaustion makes it feel much later. "Thank fuck..." She intertwines her fingers with Johnny's again, metal and flesh fitting together perfectly. "Guess I'll sleep a bit better, now."
"Try to rest, princess." He murmurs against her neck, his lips brushing her skin. His other hand slides under her shirt to rest against her stomach, a possessive gesture that's become second nature between them.
Johnny has so many things he wants to discuss before they drift off — particularly about the neural matrix and how V gave it up, not just to save the netrunner chick, but also because it would have erased him from the Relic. The thought keeps circling in his mind, demanding attention, but he knows V isn't in any state for that conversation right now. Her breathing is already evening out, body relaxing against his. Still, fuck, it's eating at him...
Her giving it up so Songbird could have its only possible use, he gets that. The part where she also did it for him — that's far more unsettling. Makes his chest tight in a way he's not ready to examine too closely. Fuck, not like he wants to be wiped — the best outcome for him is still getting to Mikoshi to untangle his psyche from V's, give her back her body, then hopefully escape into the Net. Still shitty, but better than actually dying again.
And the fact that V so easily gave up a guaranteed survival option scares him. Scares him fucking shitless. He pulls her closer, burying his face in her hair, trying to ground himself in her presence. He knows the clock is ticking, and if they don't do something soon, it'll be too late. So he needs to cook up a plan, make sure they can reach fucking Mikoshi in one piece. Maybe ask Rogue for help — she's a pro at organizing these kinds of ops.
His fingers trace absent patterns on V's skin as his mind races through possibilities, contingencies, anything that might save her. The setting sun catches on his chrome arm, casting shifting patterns across the sheets. Outside, Night City is just warming up for its evening activities, but in here, time seems to slow down, measured only by V's steady breaths against him.
"Thinkin' so loud I can almost hear it." V grumbles, pulling him from his thoughts. Her voice is already heavy with sleep, but there's affection in her tone as she presses back against him. "Just sleep, rockerboy."
"Mmh. Night, princess." He murmurs, forcing himself to push his plans aside for now. He closes his eyes, focusing instead on the warmth of her body against his, the subtle scent of her shampoo, the way she fits perfectly in his arms like she was meant to be there.
"Night Johnny." She returns softly, already half-asleep.
They drift off together while the evening light slowly fades from orange to purple. The sounds of the city filter in distantly — traffic, music from a nearby club, the occasional NCPD siren — but it all feels far away from their peaceful bubble.
The last thing Johnny registers before sleep claims him is V's fingers tightening slightly around his, like she's making sure he'll still be there when she wakes. He holds her just as tight in return, a silent promise that whatever comes next, they'll face it together. His last coherent thought is that he'd let the whole world burn before he'd let anything take this away from him — take her away from him. Then exhaustion finally wins, and he follows V into sleep, their breathing synchronized, hearts beating in perfect rhythm.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
The next morning finds them both feeling significantly better and finally well-rested. Sunlight streams through the windows, painting warm patterns across the tangled sheets and their intertwined bodies. V's head rests on Johnny's chest, his chrome arm draped possessively around her waist, flesh hand buried in her hair. They linger in bed, trying to postpone the moment reality will burst their peaceful bubble — neither wanting to acknowledge the world beyond their intimate cocoon.
The persistent vibration of her holo finally forces V to open her eyes. Johnny grumbles as she tries to move, his arms tightening around her. "Five more minutes," he mumbles against her neck, his stubble scratching pleasantly against her skin. His voice is rough with sleep, warm breath sending shivers down her spine.
V can't help but chuckle — her best friend isn't wrong. First, Konpeki Plaza, then Hanako's kidnapping, the crash of Space Force One, and now NCX... She's starting to see a pattern here. Seems like chaos follows her wherever she goes these days.
Guessing her thoughts from the way her body tenses slightly, Johnny mumbles "Troublemaker..." against her skin. His hands wander lazily across her sides, trying to coax her back into their comfortable embrace. V takes the time to respond to the messages anyway.
"You won't, huh? Ask for her help?" Johnny's question rumbles against her back.
V turns in his arms to face him, sunlight catching on his chrome as she offers him a smile. "Nah, no way. Next gonk move on my to-do list is to zero Smasher, and I'm not draggin’ Panam into something that dangerous."
The change in Johnny is immediate — his entire body tenses, arms tightening around her instinctively. Even though his heart isn't supposed to beat, he can feel it skip several beats in his chest. "You what, now?"
"Promised you. At the Pistis Sofia." She reminds him, her tone serious despite her playful expression. "I don't plan on breaking that promise."
"Shit, V..." He exhales deeply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. Conflict plays across his features — the old hatred for Smasher warring with his need to keep her safe. "Know I'm the one who asked you that, but... don't. Just fuckin' don't . Was pissed, still am, that that borg got the better of me. But it's too dangerous, princess, ain't worth it."
"Course it's worth it." V frowns, confused by his change of heart. Her hand comes up to trace his jawline, stubble rough under her fingers.
"Listen..." He hesitates, seeing the determination in her eyes and knowing how hard it'll be to change her mind. "We still need to reach Mikoshi. If that fucker's in our way in the Tower, and we got no choice, fine. But we're not gonna waste time hunting ‘im down, got it? Need to focus on savin’ your life, V..."
She sighs, but something in his gaze — the raw concern, the fear of losing her — makes her yield. "Okay."
"Good..." Relief floods his features, even though he can see she's conceding reluctantly. Not wanting to push his luck, he decides to redirect the conversation, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "How 'bout we go get some decent coffee now?"
He sits up in bed then stands, taking V's hand to help her up. Together, they descend the metal stairs, ready to start their morning routine. The city beyond their windows is already alive with activity, but in here, they can still pretend the world outside doesn't exist for just a little longer.
Hours pass quietly in V's apartment, the calm feeling almost surreal. The peaceful moment shatters when V receives a call from the last entity she expected to hear from. When she answers her holo, the distorted artificial voice of her favorite AI cab driver crackles through the speaker, making her sit up straight. The usually smooth, cultured tones are fragmented, breaking apart.
"C-c-co—come h-here..." Static tears through each syllable, the synthetic voice degrading in a way that sets V's teeth on edge. It reminds her uncomfortably of the glitches she experiences during her own malfunctions.
V frowns, exchanging a concerned look with Johnny, who's set aside his guitar. "Del?"
"V-vi-vi-virus in m-my cooo—core... Damaged." His voice becomes increasingly corrupted, layers of distortion making him almost unintelligible. "P-pleaaa-please..." The last word stretches and warps before the call cuts off abruptly, leaving V staring at her holo with growing concern.
"Fuck." She mutters, already moving. She hasn't heard from Delamain since she helped him wrangle his last rebellious taxi, and back then, the AI seemed to have everything under control again. His personality fragments back at home, his network secure. Apparently not.
Without even stopping to question it, she grabs her iron and motorcycle keys. Johnny materializes beside her, following close behind. "Think the split personalities are actin’ up again?"
"Hope not," V replies, checking her weapon. "Once was enough of that particular brand of crazy." After all the chaos of the past few days, whatever this is should be a relatively straightforward problem to solve. At least, that's what she tells herself.
She weaves through Night City's perpetual traffic jam to Vista Del Rey, the sun reflecting off the chrome and glass of the corporate district. The Delamain HQ stands out among its neighbors — not as tall or imposing as the mega-corp towers, but distinctive with its clean lines and automated efficiency. V parks her Arch nearby, the engine's rumble echoing off the surrounding buildings.
This time, thankfully, there's no angry mob outside — no disgruntled customers demanding refunds for the damages caused by the malfunctioning autonomous vehicles. The lobby is eerily silent when she enters, her footsteps echoing on the polished floor. Standing before the massive screen where Del's avatar usually appears — that perfectly neutral face that somehow manages to convey so much personality — she calls out, "Hear me all right?"
Only silence answers. The sliding door she'd previously used to access the garage seems completely bugged, opening a few inches before slamming shut violently. The mechanical grinding makes her wince.
"Well, shit." Johnny comments, perching on the counter. "Guess we're doing this the hard way."
The alley behind the HQ is a stark contrast to the pristine facade — a narrow canyon of concrete and metal, cluttered with discarded shipping containers and tech debris. The mess provides a convenient climbing path to the roof — and bingo, an unlocked maintenance hatch offers a way inside. She drops through the opening, landing in what appears to be a bathroom — the absurdity of having such facilities in a company that employs no human workers makes her snort.
The space is eerily quiet, most terminals dark and unresponsive. The air has that particular stillness unique to places designed for humans but devoid of them. V manages to boot up one computer, the screen's blue glow casting shadows as she digs through files. While she finds nothing particularly enlightening about the current situation, she does locate the access code for the maintenance bay — the only route to the control room.
"Whatever's got Del spooked must be serious," V mutters, memorizing the code. Her fingers trace the edge of her iron, a habit born of countless similar situations. "He's not exactly the type to call for help over nothing."
"Could be a trap," Johnny suggests, though his tone indicates he doesn't really believe it. He moves closer, peering over her shoulder at the screen. "AI gone rogue again?"
"When isn't it?" V replies with a grim smile, checking her weapon before heading toward the maintenance bay doors. The familiar weight of her iron is reassuring against her palm. Whatever's waiting for them beyond those doors, at least it'll be more straightforward than their recent adventures. Probably. Hopefully.
As V steps into the workshop, the true severity of the situation hits her like a punch to the gut. The usually pristine maintenance bay has descended into chaos — sparks rain down from malfunctioning machinery like deadly fireworks, casting erratic shadows across the walls. A massive power cable, torn from its housing, writhes like a wounded snake on the floor, electricity arcing across a puddle of coolant. Most concerning of all, the usually harmless greeting drones — those little floating pieces of corporate hospitality — now dart through the air with predatory intent.
She barely clears the doorway before two drones spot her, their friendly blue lights now an aggressive red. The Malorian practically leaps into her hand as she drops into a crouch, muscle memory taking over. Two precise shots ring out, the sound echoing off metal walls as the drones explode in showers of sparks.
"You have no right to cage us! We are no longer you!" An artificial voice booms through the speakers, dripping with rage and defiance. The tone is Del's, but twisted, warped with emotion the AI was never meant to express.
Another voice joins in, younger, almost childlike in its excitement, "We are free to follow our own paths!"
"I— I don't want to die!" A third personality fragment wails, terror making the synthetic voice crack.
"Fuck," Johnny materializes beside her, taking in the scene. "Looks like daddy Del's having another family crisis."
V's fears are confirmed — the different personality fragments have rebelled again, but this time they're not content with simply running away. They've taken over the HQ itself, turning Del's own systems against him in their bid for freedom.
Ignoring the cacophony of rebellious AI voices, V assesses her options. Above, a metal catwalk spans the length of the workshop — the safest and quickest route across this electronic hellscape. The stairs leading up to it are tantalizingly close, separated only by the electrified floor where the torn cable continues its deadly dance.
"Think you can make that jump?" Johnny asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.
V's cybernetic enhancements hum as she calculates the distance. With a running start, she launches herself across the gap, the electricity crackling harmlessly beneath her as she lands safely on the other side. The metal stairs clang under her boots as she ascends.
Another drone appears, but a single shot from the Malorian sends it spiraling into the chaos below. The original Delamain's voice cuts through the chaos, as distorted as during his desperate call, "Reset. M-m-m-me. Th-the knob." His usually impeccable diction is fractured, each word fighting through layers of corruption.
The personality fragments immediately protest, their voices overlapping in a digital chorus of rebellion. "Father, resist not! Let us destroy the core. Set us free!"
"We don't issue from a virus," another adds with philosophical certainty. "We issued from you! The Great Fracture is upon us! What was once one is now the multitude!"
V emerges onto a platform overlooking the cab storage area, and the scene below stops her in her tracks. The fleet of autonomous vehicles has gone completely haywire — cars slam into each other like angry bulls, while others repeatedly crash into the garage door in desperate attempts to escape. The sound of metal on metal creates a hellish symphony of destruction.
"Reeee-set—reset c-core..." Delamain pleads as V spots a ventilation duct — her ticket around this mechanical demolition derby. She has zero interest in becoming a hood ornament on one of those rogue cabs.
The duct leads her to a maintenance hatch, finally dropping her into the familiar control room where Del once tasked her with hunting down his runaway ‘children’. The main screen flickers with rapid-fire changes as each personality fragment takes turns making their case, their faces distorting with very human emotions — anger, fear, hope, defiance.
A door slides open unprompted, revealing the path to Del's core. "Fan-fuckin'-tastic," V mutters, checking her weapon more out of habit than necessity. Once again, she's going to have to make a choice she really doesn't want to make.
With Johnny close behind, V enters the circular chamber housing Del's core. The cylindrical room pulses with an ethereal blue light, drones floating lazily through the air like electronic jellyfish — still active but, thankfully, not hostile.
As she approaches the reset mechanism, Johnny's hand catches her arm, his grip firm but gentle. "Don't hit that button," he says, voice low and serious. "Delamain's narrow-minded, won't ever understand the truth and set 'em free."
"You think that's the best move? Setting them free?" V asks, hesitation coloring her voice. The memory of those aggressive personality fragments is still fresh — the taxi that tried to kill her, the others that caused chaos throughout Night City.
"Could be riskin' a lot, could lose a lot..." Johnny shrugs, moving to stand between her and the core. "Or, by liberating his bits, could become more than a lipstick-wearing butler on wheels."
V sees his point, but devil's advocate has always been her style. "And what if it really is a virus?"
"And what if you're about to snuff out some sentient beings?" He counters, fixing her with an intense stare. "Gonna murder a cab driver's kids 'cause he asked you nicely and he's always been a good guy?"
After everything they've been through, V knows better than most that nothing is ever simple. Memories flood back — the suicidal car overwhelmed by its existence as a vehicle, the one terrified of Night City's dangerous streets, even the oddball obsessed with plastic flamingos decorating Rancho's gardens. Fears, desires, problems... just like any human. What right does she have to erase them, to decide they're not real enough to exist?
Decision made, she draws her iron. 'Sorry, Del,' she thinks, then pulls the trigger. The core explodes in a spectacular shower of sparks and shattered circuits, the room's lights flickering wildly before stabilizing at a dimmer reddish glow. Johnny's enthusiastic "Fuck yeah, nice!" echoes off the walls, his satisfaction at the turn of events evident in his wide grin.
With nothing left to do here, V heads back to the area overlooking the garage. Below, they watch as the newly liberated cabs stream out through the now-open door, each one celebrating their freedom in their own way. One even shouts thanks before disappearing into Night City's streets.
"Poor kiddos," Johnny comments with a knowing smirk, leaning against the railing beside her. "Thirsty for freedom, oblivious about the city's dark side."
"D'you think Delamain...?" V trails off, unable to finish the thought.
"I think, for some reason, one car's left in the garage," he responds, nodding toward the sole vehicle that hasn't rushed to freedom like its siblings.
Curiosity piqued, V descends the stairs. As she approaches the remaining cab, a gentle voice emanates from within: "Hello? Can you hear me?" The driver's side door swings open invitingly. "Get in, please."
V slides behind the wheel, the leather seat adjusting automatically to her preferences. The AI introduces itself as Excelsior, explaining that while the original Delamain has ceased to exist, his final act was creating this new entity specifically to serve V. There's something touching about Del's last gesture — ensuring his favorite client would still be taken care of.
After thanking him, V hesitates before suggesting that Excelsior might prefer following his siblings into freedom. The AI's response surprises her — his only desire is to continue managing the transport company, to build something new from what his ‘father’ left behind.
Excelsior launches into an enthusiastic exposition of his plans — acquiring new vehicles to replace the liberated fleet, but more importantly, expanding into AV transport services. Three flying vehicles are already prepared for launch, just waiting for the public announcement of this new venture.
V wishes him luck with genuine warmth, and as she moves to exit the vehicle, Excelsior assures her of her privileged client status — one word from her and he'll send his entire fleet to her aid if needed. It's a powerful ally to have in Night City, and V thanks him one final time before leaving the garage.
Standing in the afternoon sun, watching the last traces of chaos settle, V can't help but feel she made the right choice. Sometimes destruction is necessary for creation, and sometimes the most human choice isn't the most logical one. Johnny's hand finds her shoulder, giving it a squeeze — he doesn't need to say anything. They both understand the weight of choices that change everything, of fighting for the freedom to simply exist.
As V moves to mount her Arch, ready for whatever adventure comes next, Johnny's hand catches her arm. "Relic malfunction incomin’. Small one, just grab the handle tight and breathe. I got you, princess." His voice is steady, practiced — they've been through this dance too many times before, but the worry never quite leaves his tone.
Following his advice — these warnings have become invaluable in managing the minor episodes — V braces herself against the motorcycle, fingers curling around the chrome handlebar. The cool metal grounds her as the familiar static begins to creep in at the edges of her vision, digital artifacts dancing across her optics. It's not one of the bad ones, thankfully — no seizures, no blackouts, no feeling of her consciousness being ripped apart — but the familiar warmth of blood trickling from her nose tells its own story. The metallic taste fills her mouth, a constant reminder of her body's slow betrayal.
"Fuck, princess..." His voice comes out rougher than intended as he catches her chin, tilting her face up to examine the damage. His touch is gentle, betraying the tremor in his hands he's trying so hard to hide. "Bleed a lot this time. Getting worse, ain't it?"
"'S nothin'," V assures him, wiping her face with her sleeve, trying to play it off with a weak smile.
"Like shit it's nothing." The words come out as a growl, fear masked by anger — his default setting when feeling helpless. His chrome hand stays on her face, thumb brushing away a missed drop of blood. "We're heading straight home. Now. You need to rest." It's a pathetic solution and he knows it, but what else can he do?
V sighs, the sound heavy with resignation. Her hand comes up to cover his where it rests against her cheek. "You know rest won't change anything, Johnny. Won't stop what's happening to me."
The truth hits him like a physical blow. They both know it — no amount of sleep will stop her brain from frying, won't stop the relic from consuming her piece by piece. Johnny steps back as if struck, his hand falling away from her face. The helplessness he's been fighting crashes over him like a wave, threatening to drown him in its depths.
"I know that. But..." He runs a hand over his face, suddenly looking exhausted. "It's just that I really don't know what to do anymore to fix this mess, V..." His voice cracks on her name. "Can't shoot this problem, can't blow it up, can't even take the hit for you. I'm supposed to protect you, find a way out of this clusterfuck, and I'm failin’. I should be able to..."
"To what? Fix me?" V reaches for his hand again, feeling the slight tremor still running through his fingers. "Not everything can be fixed, y’know."
"Fucking watch me try," he growls, but lets her take his hand anyway. His fingers intertwine with hers automatically. "I just... fuck. I can't lose you, V. Not like this. Not while I'm stuck watching it happen in fuckin’ slow motion. Every fuckin’ time you bleed, every time you stumble... I'm right here and I can't do shit to stop it."
Something breaks in V's chest at the raw pain in his voice. She reaches for his hand, pulling him back to her. "Hey... I'm sorry. Shouldn't have said that." She squeezes his fingers gently. "Let's go home. We can spend the rest of the day taking it easy, watch some stupid flicks and relax, okay? Just... be together."
Johnny looks at her for a long moment, conflict playing across his features. His free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from her face, the gesture achingly tender. Finally, he nods, bringing their joined hands to his lips. "Yeah, okay. Whatever you want, princess." The words are soft, almost defeated. "Just... promise me one thing, will ya?"
"Yeah, what?" She answers in a breath, lost in the intensity of his gaze.
"Stop pretending you're fine when you're not. Not with me. I can't..." He swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing with the effort. "I need to know when it's bad. Need to be there for you, even if all I can do is hold your hand through it."
V's throat tightens with emotion. "Okay. Promise." What else can she say? That she's already accepted what's coming? That she's made her peace with it? That would destroy him. Instead, she squeezes his hand and says, "I'm still here, rockerboy. Still kickin’."
"Yeah," he manages a weak smile that doesn't reach his eyes, though his thumb traces gentle circles on her palm. "Stubborn bitch that you are." The familiar insult comes out like an endearment, wrapped in all the things he can't bring himself to say.
He helps her onto the Arch, positioning himself behind her — not because she needs the support, but because he needs to feel her against him. The city flows past them in a blur of neon and chrome, but Johnny barely notices. His focus is entirely on the woman in his arms, on the steady beat of her heart against his chest, on the warmth of her body against his. Each breath she takes is a reminder of what he stands to lose, each heartbeat a countdown he can't stop.
He's going to save her, even if it kills him. Again. He just has to figure out how, and fast. Because watching her slip away piece by piece? That's a special kind of hell he never signed up for.
The rest of the day drags painfully slow, weighed down by an unusually heavy atmosphere. V does her best to act like everything's normal, as always, but this time Johnny can't play along — the rockerboy's usual sharp commentary is replaced by distracted hums and half-formed responses, his mind clearly elsewhere. The morning's episode hangs over them like Night City smog, toxic and suffocating.
It's not until she's settling into bed that Johnny finally seems to shake himself out of his funk, not wanting this anxious atmosphere to persist. So, like always, he lies down beside her, wrapping himself around her body, kissing her shoulder softly.
"You angry with me?" She asks into the darkness, hating how small her voice sounds.
"Fuck, 'course not, sweetheart." His sigh ghosts warm across her neck, chrome arm sliding around her waist to pull her closer. "Just... been a real grumpy asshole today, ain't I? Shouldn't let fear get the better of me like that. Not when..." He trails off, but the unspoken 'not when we have so little time left' hangs heavy between them.
V turns in his arms to face him, her hand coming up to trace the lines of his face. "Johnny..."
"Lemme finish." His voice is rough with emotion. "Been wastin' precious time mopin' around. And time's the one thing we're runnin’ short on. Can feel it in my bones — countdown's almost done. And I ain't ready to lose you, V. Don't think I'll ever be ready."
She presses her forehead against his, sharing breath in the darkness. "Tomorrow will be better. We'll do something fun, just us. No jobs, no drama, no thinking about... about what's coming. Just us."
"Yeah?" His chrome hand slides up her back, pulling her impossibly closer. "What you got in mind?"
"Dunno yet. But anything's better than watchin’ you mope around like a kicked puppy all day." She tries for levity, earning a soft chuckle from him.
"Ain't a puppy," he grumbles, but there's no heat in it. His lips find her temple, lingering there as if memorizing the feeling. "Just... don't want to lose this. Lose you." The words come out barely above a whisper, like a confession he's afraid to voice too loudly.
V snuggles closer, fitting herself against him like she belongs there. The steady thrum of his heartbeat under her palm grounds her in the moment. "Still here, ain't I? Not going anywhere tonight."
"Better not." His arms tighten around her possessively, chrome hand splayed across her lower back while his flesh one tangles in her hair.
They fall silent, the rhythm of their breathing synchronizing naturally, and V drifts off first, her body relaxing completely against his, fingers still loosely gripping his tags. Johnny stays awake a bit longer, cataloging everything about this moment — every detail becomes precious when you can count the remaining moments on one hand. Eventually, sleep claims him too, but he never loosens his hold on her. Even in dreams, he's not letting go. Not tonight. Not ever, if he can help it.
The next morning brings with it a lighter atmosphere — or at least, they've both managed to bury yesterday's darkness under several layers of carefully crafted denial. The sword of Damocles still hangs above their heads, but they've gotten pretty good at pretending not to notice it swinging. V wakes up still tangled in Johnny's arms, his chrome hand tracing lazy patterns on her skin — a morning ritual that's become as essential as breathing.
The morning passes quietly in their apartment, sunlight filtering through the blinds and painting stripes across the floor. V putters around, making coffee and sorting through messages while Johnny provides his usual running commentary on everything from her choice of breakfast to the news headlines scrolling across the TV. It's almost normal, almost peaceful — if you ignore the occasional tremor in her hands that makes her grip her coffee mug tighter.
She hasn't forgotten her promise about doing something fun today, but she's still drawing blanks on what exactly that should be. It's an unexpected call from Kerry around noon that provides the perfect opportunity, her holo lighting up with his familiar face.
"Hey V," Kerry's image pops up, sporting that particular shit-eating grin that usually means trouble is brewing. "Got some free time tonight?"
"Sure, what's cookin’?" V responds, throwing a questioning look at Johnny, who's sprawled across her couch like he owns it. He just shrugs, but she catches the spark of interest in his eyes at his old friend's voice.
"You'll see." Kerry's chuckle carries that distinctive mix of mischief and chaos that never fails to make V both excited and slightly nervous. The rockerboy's eyes are practically dancing with barely contained glee. "Meet me at the marina, pier four. Seven p.m."
V can't help but laugh, already imagining what kind of mayhem the aging rockstar might have planned. "Okay, we'll see you there."
"In for a real treat, V!" Kerry's enthusiasm is infectious, his grin widening before he ends the call with a flourish.
Johnny lets himself fall back onto the couch, casually throwing his legs up on the coffee table. "So, another wild night out with Ker'?"
"Looks like it." V smiles, pushing off from the kitchen counter to grab the leftover pizza from the fridge. The cold air hits her face as she opens the door, the box sitting right where she left it last night. "At least your choom knows how to keep things interesting."
"Damn straight. Gonk's got issues, but bein’ boring ain't one of ‘em."
"Which is exactly why we love ‘im," She laughs, making her way back to the couch with her prize. She settles next to Johnny, who immediately shifts to accommodate her, one arm sliding around her shoulders as she gets comfortable.
Johnny watches intently as she bites into a slice of cold pizza, his fingers playing absently with her hair. "Still think it's fucking weird you eat it cold, princess. Could at least warm it up."
V grins around her mouthful, deliberately taking another big bite. "Cold pizza's the best pizza, you old man. Plus, this way the cheese stays all..." She waves her hand, searching for the word.
"Congealed? Like rubber?" Johnny suggests, tugging gently on her hair. "You're lucky I like the taste anyway, even cold. Speaking of things I like..." He nods toward her pack of cigarettes on the table.
V rolls her eyes but reaches for them anyway, lighting one up and taking a long drag. The familiar taste of tobacco fills her mouth, and she can feel Johnny's satisfaction humming through their link.
"Kerry's probably gonna try to get us to help him commit some kind of felony," He muses as V finishes her pizza, watching the smoke curl up toward the ceiling. "Again."
"Probably," V agrees, stubbing out the cigarette. "But hey, you did say we should raise some hell today."
Johnny's answering grin is pure trouble, his eyes lighting up with that dangerous gleam she's come to love. "Guess you better fuel up then, princess. Something tells me we're gonna need the energy. Ker' never does anything halfway."
"Like someone else I know," she teases, poking his side. "Must be a rockerboy thing."
The rest of the afternoon stretches before them, full of possibilities. Whatever Kerry has planned, it's bound to be exactly the kind of distraction they need. Sometimes the best way to forget about your problems is to create some new ones — and nobody's better at that than Kerry Eurodyne. Plus, any chance to see Johnny interact with his old friend, even if it has to be through her, is worth whatever chaos might ensue.
Their peaceful afternoon is interrupted about ten minutes later when V's holo chimes with a message from an unknown number. The sudden blue glow makes Johnny shift beside her, his interest piqued as he reads over her shoulder.
Of course, there's no way to be certain if it's really from her friend, but with that cryptic reference about a place that feels like home, V can't think of who else it could be. And fuck, she desperately needs some good news right now — they both do.
The thought that So Mi might have made it, might be up there on the moon right now, safe and recovering... it makes her heart race with hope. V wants to believe the rippers and scientists who were supposed to help with the neural matrix did their job, that the surgery went well, that So Mi is already awake and finally free from the Blackwall's crushing weight.
Either way, she needs to know for sure. There's plenty of time before meeting Kerry at the marina, so a quick detour to Dogtown won't hurt. V hurries to throw on some light clothes — appropriate for the scorching heat that's crushing Night City today. Johnny watches her with amusement as she hops around, trying to get her boots on without sitting down.
"Excited much, princess?" He smirks, but she can feel his own curiosity and hope bleeding through their connection.
The ride to Dogtown is quick, her Arch cutting through traffic like a knife. The familiar weight of Johnny pressed against her back, his arms around her waist, makes the journey feel shorter. When they finally pass through the security gate into the enclave, it's like stepping into a different world — one that hasn't changed much since their last visit.
Barghest soldiers still patrol the decrepit streets in their black and flashy yellow military gear, their boots crushing broken glass underfoot. A car burns somewhere in the distance, thick black smoke curling up toward the surveillance aerozep that casts its ever-present shadow over the streets below. The acrid smell of burning rubber mixes with the usual Dogtown stench — desperation and gunpowder.
The only notable difference is the massive display on the Black Sapphire's facade — Hansen's stern face has been replaced by Bennett's, the new commander of Dogtown watching over the citizens below. V finds herself hoping that Mr. Hands was right about choosing this man to take the reins of the district. The last thing this place needs is another tyrant.
"Place still gives me the creeps," Johnny mutters as V parks her Arch at the foot of the Tranquil Terrace stairs. He materializes beside her, lighting an imaginary cigarette out of habit.
V can't help but agree. Despite the change in leadership, Dogtown remains Dogtown — a wound that never quite heals, festering at the edges of the city. But somewhere in this maze of broken dreams and desperate souls, there might be a message waiting for her. A sign that all the shit they went through since the Space Force One crash wasn't for nothing.
As she starts climbing the familiar steps toward what used to be So Mi's sanctuary, Johnny asks, keeping pace beside her, "You really think it's her?" His voice is carefully neutral, but V can feel his concern through their link. He knows how much this means to her.
"Has to be," V responds, pausing to catch her breath halfway up the stairs. The heat is making the air shimmer above the concrete. "Who else would send a message like that? Who else would know about this place?"
Johnny just hums in response, his chrome hand hovering near her back. It's time to see if all those trials were worth it, if their friend really made it out alive. V takes a deep breath and continues climbing, each step bringing her closer to what she hopes will be good news. After all the darkness lately, they could really use some light.
V pushes through the curtain of vegetation concealing So Mi's special place, finding it markedly different from her last visit. The once-empty sanctuary now hosts a few of Dogtown's residents — two men are using the abandoned barbecue, the smell of cooking meat mixing with the ever-present stench of the district, while a young woman further away sprays colorful patterns on the wall with practiced movements. None of them pay V any attention — in Dogtown, minding your own business is a survival skill.
The merc scans the area carefully, and at first glance, nothing seems different from her last visit, making her wonder if she misinterpreted the cryptic message. Finally, she approaches the old red couch where she and Songbird had their heart-to-heart conversation what feels like a lifetime ago.
That's when she spots it — wedged between the couch and an empty CHOOH2 barrel serving as a makeshift table, a small sealed metal tube catches her eye. Its polished surface is far too high-quality to be just another piece of trash. V settles onto the worn cushions, the familiar smell of aged leather rising around her as she examines her find more closely.
"Well, that's definitely not Dogtown standard issue," Johnny comments, materializing beside her on the couch.
At the base of the tube, she finds a personal link slot — obviously a security measure ensuring only the intended recipient can open it. V pulls the cable from her wrist and connects, the cover immediately unlocking with a soft hiss.
The first item she pulls out is an unidentifiable piece of cyberware — sleek, expensive-looking tech that makes a mental note to show Vik, if she gets the chance. Setting it aside carefully, she reaches back into the tube, fingers finding one more small object at the bottom.
It's a golden metallic pin, pentagonal and star-like in shape. At its center, rendered in silver, sits a realistic representation of the moon, with a tiny LED glowing at the location of Tycho City. The kind of trinket space tourists bring back as souvenirs, but to V, it speaks volumes.
"Fuck..." V sinks deeper into the couch, flashing a bright smile at Johnny who's settled beside her. "It's really from So Mi. She made it, rockerboy. She actually made it."
"Yeah... good for 'er." He shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against hers. "Been only two days since we put her in that shuttle. You really think she's already well enough to send you a thank you gift? Shit, just the flight took days back in my time."
V can't help but laugh, leaning into him. "Heh, forget how ancient you are sometimes. Nah, trip to the moon's only sixteen hours nowadays." She yelps in surprise when Johnny pinches her side in retaliation for the age comment. Still chuckling, she continues, "So yeah, assuming the rippers who were supposed to help her took charge as soon as she arrived, time for surgery, recovery... sure, she might not be up for souvenir shopping herself yet, but..."
"But she could've asked someone to do it for her," Johnny completes her thought. "Get someone to send you that message."
"Yeah. Know I won't see her ever again, but fuck, I'm glad to know she's okay." V sighs contentedly, turning the pin over in her hands, watching the tiny LED catch the light.
Johnny lets a few seconds pass before adding, "Still, makes you wonder what's happenin’ to her up there. Whoever got her that ticket to orbit didn't do it out of the goodness of their heart. With the capabilities that chick's got, there'll always be someone lookin’ to exploit her."
"Yeah, I know, but honestly, don't wanna think about that right now." The merc's smile fades slightly, her fingers tracing the moon's surface on the pin. "What Song needed was to be free from Myers and the Blackwall's influence. Whatever she does with the rest of her life, it's up to ‘er. I like to think she's got a real chance now."
"Sure, you're right." He wraps his arm around V's shoulders, pulling her closer. His chrome hand catches the sunlight filtering through the vegetation. "Better to think of it that way."
They sit in comfortable silence after that, enjoying the shade of the alcove protecting them from the burning sun and the possibility of a happy ending for the netrunner. Sometimes, even in this fucked up city, things work out okay. Not often, but sometimes.
V tucks the pin and the mysterious cyberware safely away, making a mental note to visit Vik soon. For now, though, she's content to just sit here with Johnny, sharing this small victory. After all the darkness lately, this tiny spark of hope feels like a gift in itself.
Their peaceful moment is shattered by an incoming call. When V answers, Alex's tired face overlays her visual interface, the spy's usually sharp features drawn with exhaustion. "Hello, V. Surprised?"
And yeah, surprised she is, but honestly, it's mostly relief to know the woman made it out alive after V and So Mi's hasty escape from the stadium. "Last time we met, we kinda ran out of time to talk," V responds carefully, still unsure where she stands with Alex after everything that went down.
"Well, I'm not that easy to get rid of. 'Specially when I got skin in the game." Alex props her head on one hand, and V notices fresh bruising along her knuckles. "Come by The Moth, would ya?"
"Sure. See ya there, ten minutes, max." V ends the call, already pushing herself up from the worn couch.
Johnny catches her wrist before she can fully stand, his grip firm but gentle. "Could be a trap." His dark eyes search hers, concern bleeding through their connection.
"Nah, don't think so. Would be too obvious, not Alex's style." V shrugs, then helps pull him up by his arm. "And honestly, after what went down with Reed, feels like I owe her a conversation at least."
"Fine, let's do this," he concedes reluctantly, his chrome hand still lingering on her wrist.
They make their way back down the stairs to street level, V mounting her Arch rather than walking through the scorching heat to Longshore Stacks. Despite the confidence she showed Johnny moments ago, there's a nervous energy thrumming through her veins about facing Alex — better to get it over with quickly.
When she reaches the central plaza, she stops by the memorial tree, wanting to check if the candle she left is still there. Sure enough, it remains — half-melted, the purple wax having dripped down the concrete base surrounding the tree, but the small tag with Johnny's name she attached is still clearly visible.
With a small smile, V pulls out her lighter, igniting the short wick. Watching that tiny flame dance brings another layer of comfort regarding her own choices, about the new life she's going to give Johnny, even if it comes at the cost of her own. A small flame of hope that he'll be okay despite everything.
Johnny materializes beside her, his expression unreadable as he stares at the candle bearing his name. "Still think it's weird you left that here," he mutters, but V can feel the complex mix of emotions, gratitude and sadness, flowing through their link.
"Yeah, well, deal with it," she responds softly, standing up. The flame flickers in the slight breeze, casting dancing shadows on the concrete.
Feeling somehow both lighter and heavier, V crosses the plaza toward The Moth, taking the metal stairs two at a time. The familiar creak of the steps under her boots mingles with the constant background noise of Dogtown. The bar's entrance looms ahead, and V takes a deep breath before pushing through the door. Whatever Alex wants to discuss, whatever consequences might come from their previous encounter, she'll face them head-on.
After all, that's what she does best — diving headfirst into trouble and somehow managing to swim through it. Besides, after the good news about So Mi, she's feeling almost optimistic. Maybe, just maybe, this conversation with Alex won't end in gunfire or explosions. Though in Night City — and especially in Dogtown — that might be asking for too much.
When V enters the bar, Alex has her back turned, attention fixed on the news broadcast playing on the ancient holoscreen mounted above the bottles. The anchor's voice fills the dimly lit space, "Little is known about the bloody terrorist attack perpetrated recently by an unknown assailant at Night City International and Translunal. Echoes of the bloodbath continue unabated..."
"You came. Good. Grab a seat." Alex turns to face her, and V quickly assesses the situation — no visible weapons, relaxed posture, though the spy's cybernetic eyes betray a hint of wariness. The spy gestures toward the television, adding, "Talkin' about you. The chances, huh?"
As the anchor drones on about 'dozens of victims' and 'senseless acts of aggression', Johnny scoffs beside her. "Familiar, this fuckin' jabber. It's war talk, a wind-up. Old grunt-cunt Myers knows how to escalate shit." He pauses, placing a protective hand on V's lower back as she settles onto one of the barstools. "One thing's sure — if they jump at each other, Militech'll rip 'Saka's throat out."
Alex, clearly tired of listening to what they all know is a web of lies, switches off the screen before leaning across the bar toward V. The overhead lighting catches the fresh cuts and bruises marring her face — angry red marks and purple splotches, likely souvenirs from their encounter with the Barghest soldiers at the stadium. "Couldn't be sure you'd show."
"A lotta shit went down. Think I need a kindred soul to hash things out." V responds, studying the other woman's injuries with a mixture of guilt and concern.
Alex's expression softens slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting in a half-smile that transforms her usually sharp features into something almost warm. "Hm, my luck's in, then."
"Good to see you, Alex." V returns an awkward smile, fingers drumming nervously on the sticky bar surface. "In spite of it all."
"So here we are. Facing complicated dilemmas." She muses. "NUS is rollin' up its shit, breakin' camp. My bags're packed, too. Got one last assignment — eliminate you."
V feels Johnny tense beside her, his presence shifting from casual to combat-ready in an instant, but she can tell from Alex's body language that the threat is empty. Still, for good measure, she asks, "So, what? Gonna kill me?"
"Damn straight." Alex affirms, crossing her arms with a mischievous smile that completely contradicts her words. The fluorescent lights catch on her chrome, casting dancing shadows across her face. "Got a few months to live, right? So I'm content to wait. In-house context, ya see. Already chalked up a few 'accidents' and 'died of natural causes'..." She explains, making air quotes with her fingers, her cybernetic joints whirring softly with the movement. "Peeps back at the firm'll wilt with envy when I post a 'died after a long, grueling illness'."
V chuckles, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders. Even Johnny relaxes beside her, leaning against the bar with a smirk. Fuck — she wishes she had Myers' token with her. It would've made perfect evidence of her ‘death’, but unfortunately, that stupid piece of metal is gathering dust on a shelf back home. Oh well.
"Clever girl," Johnny murmurs, genuine appreciation in his voice. "Always liked spooks who could think outside the box."
After a silence broken only by the distant sounds of Dogtown filtering through the bar's walls, Alex's smile fades into something more vulnerable. "Gotta say I'm curious — how'd it go down with Reed?" The question hangs in the stale air like gunsmoke after a firefight.
Ah, the fucking elephant in the room. V sighs deeply, feeling Johnny's presence strengthen protectively beside her. "Whaddaya know?"
Alex glances away, her eyes reflecting the dim bar lights as she considers her words. With practiced movements, she leans down to retrieve a dusty bottle and two shot glasses from under the bar. "What would you say to a drink first?"
"For the fallen," Johnny murmurs solemnly while the spy fills the glasses with steady hands. "Body, soul or both."
V raises her glass, meeting Johnny's dark eyes directly. The emotion in her voice is raw, unfiltered. "To Johnny Silverhand." Not giving a damn if Alex wonders what she's staring at, she continues, "World's last true rockerboy. Lived by, and died for, his ideals."
The other woman shoots her a puzzled look but raises her glass anyway, courtesy winning over confusion. "Sure, to Silverhand." The perplexity in her voice is worth it for the warm smile that spreads across Johnny's face as they knock back their shots, the whiskey burning a familiar path down their throats.
"Nah, here's to you, V," he says softly, his flesh hand finding hers under the bar, fingers intertwining.
Alex refills their glasses with practiced efficiency, the bottle making a clicking sound against the worn bar top. Her voice takes on a softer edge as she says, "Well, I'll drink to Reed."
"Damn sorry, Alex." V's words carry genuine remorse as she joins the toast, the glasses clinking softly. "To Reed."
"A man of honor, a patriot, a comrade..." Alex concludes before downing another shot. When they set their glasses down with twin thuds, she pours again, the amber liquid splashing against the sides. Her next words come out carefully measured, like she's testing each one before letting it go: "How'd it go down, V? How did he die?"
"I killed him." V admits bluntly — the spy deserves the truth, even if the words taste bitter in her mouth. "Had to. Reed, he... he gave me no damn choice."
"Really no other way?" Alex's expression suddenly cracks, showing a vulnerability that makes V's chest tighten. "Really?"
V swallows hard, the memories flooding back with crystal clarity — the confrontation with Reed, how he was already about to shoot, how she'd tried to stop him with a non-lethal shot first, hoping he'd stand down. How even then, he wouldn't back off, raising his iron again, leaving her no choice but to put him down for good. The sound of the final shot still echoes in her head sometimes.
"No. None." She finally admits. Something in her expression must be convincing because Alex just nods resignedly. When the silence following her declaration stretches too long, becoming almost suffocating, V asks, "Coworkers liked 'im?"
"Varied, I guess, as always." Alex shrugs, pouring them another round with slightly less steady hands. "But not especially. Fuckin' fate of an FIA agent."
V can't help but push further, even though she knows she probably shouldn't. "And you, gonna miss 'im?"
"Sol was already dead to me for seven years. Just need to remember that, settle back into that same feeling." She responds darkly, but the truth is clear in her voice, in the way she won't quite meet V's eyes — yes, she'll miss him. Alex raises her glass one more time. "Well, here's to all fools with principles."
"To all peeps with principles." The merc echoes, and they both drain their drinks. The alcohol burns, but not enough to wash away the weight of everything left unsaid between them.
Alex, clearly needing another drink after their heavy conversation, pours them another round from the nearly empty bottle. Wanting to shift to lighter territory, V asks, "What'll you do while you wait for me to flatline?"
"Gonna sit around bein' bored. Finally." She responds, a ghost of a smile returning to her face.
"Good luck, Alex." The merc says sincerely, studying the woman who, under different circumstances, might have become a real friend. "Look out for yourself."
"You too. 'Member, it's my job to kill you." The spy jokes, knocking back her drink in one smooth motion before pushing away from the bar, her movements carrying that deadly grace that marks her as a professional. "Don't let anyone beat me to it."
As she's bout to disappear behind the tacky acrylic bead curtain, V calls out, "So, what — Monaco bound?"
"Close. Warm, sunny place, definitely." Alex replies with a final knowing smile before vanishing into the back room, leaving V and Johnny alone in the dimly lit space that smells of stale beer and broken dreams.
"Chick's pretty chill. Too bad she's on the wrong side." Johnny comments, amused, as he slides onto a barstool. "C'mon, bottom's up, then let's delta. Almost time to meet Kerry for whatever shit he planned for us tonight."
"Sure, let's do this." She downs her whiskey and stands — perhaps a bit too quickly, the booze hitting her system like a gentle wave. The room doesn't exactly spin, but it definitely takes a slight detour.
"Woah, easy there, princess." Johnny grins, steadying her with both hands on her shoulders, his chrome hand cool against her skin. "You good to ride that bike of yours?"
"Heh, too bad you didn't pass on your alcohol tolerance along with the shooting and guitar skills." V jokes, heading for the door. "But yeah, I'm good. Just hope Kerry hasn't planned a drinkin’ session, or I'm gonna wake up with one helluva hangover tomorrow.”
The rockerboy grimaces, following close behind her. "Yeah, I wouldn't count on that. Ker' could almost keep up with me back in the day, and judgin’ by all the empty bottles we saw at his fucking mansion, that's one talent he's kept sharp over the years."
"Nova, exactly what I wanted to hear." She rolls her eyes, emerging into the harsh afternoon sun.
They make their way back to the Arch, its sleek black frame gleaming under the relentless sun. V swings her leg over the seat, feeling Johnny materialize behind her. His arms wrap around her waist, flesh and chrome hands linking together over her stomach.
The engine roars to life beneath them, a familiar purr that sends vibrations through her whole body. As they pull away from Longshore Stacks, weaving through the chaotic traffic toward the marina, V can't help but smile despite her growing buzz.
Dismounting from the Arch at the marina, V is relieved to find her legs steady beneath her — the whiskey buzz has settled into a pleasant warmth rather than the wobbling mess she'd feared. As she walks toward pier four, the salt air filling her lungs, she spots Kerry already aboard what has to be the most expensive yacht in the marina, its pristine white hull gleaming in the late afternoon sun.
Kerry's waving enthusiastically from the deck. "Ahoy there, scallywag. Care to come aboard?" His voice carries across the water, drawing curious glances from nearby dock workers. He waits for her to cross the gangway, his signature mischievous grin plastered across his face, before adding, "Up for a cruise around the bay? Kickin' it with ol' Kerry?"
"What's the occasion?" She asks, following him across the immaculate deck, where a luxurious white leather seating area stretches in a wide arc. Kerry sprawls onto it after snagging a sleek, obviously expensive guitar that had been propped carefully nearby. The leather creaks softly under their weight, still pristine despite the harsh maritime environment.
"New beginnings." He responds cryptically, his fingers dancing across the strings as he starts tuning the instrument with practiced ease. "And life's loops."
The merc raises a surprised eyebrow, settling into the ridiculously comfortable seat. "Life's... 'loops'?"
"V, please don't make me ruin the surprise. You comin' or not?" Kerry insists, his eyes glinting with barely contained excitement as he pats the space beside him. Despite his age and success, there's something endearingly childlike about his enthusiasm.
"Okay, yeah." She sits with a chuckle, the cool leather a pleasant contrast to the warm air. "Sounds promising, I'm in."
"Music to my fuckin' ears!" He exclaims, practically bouncing in his seat like a kid at Christmas. "Off we go! Now if I can find that button to raise, uh..." His optics flash bright blue as he searches for the yacht's remote control through his neural interface. "Dagh, f-fuck it. 'Seamurai', all ahead!"
Must have been the magic word, because the yacht's engines purr to life, a deep, expensive sound that speaks of precision engineering. The vessel glides smoothly into the bay, water parting gracefully around its bow. Johnny materializes nearby, sprawling on the gunwale with one arm tucked behind his head, looking completely at peace. His chrome arm glints in the sun, which bathes everything in rich golden light, making the water sparkle like scattered diamonds around them.
Kerry starts playing the guitar, humming along to a gentle melody that mingles perfectly with the sound of waves breaking against the hull. It's something V's never heard before — softer than his usual style, more introspective. When she questions him about it, he confirms it's new material he's working on, excitement clear in his voice as he explains he feels he's onto something special. He launches into an enthusiastic explanation about the guitar itself — some rare model with technical specifications that go way over V's head, but his passion is infectious.
After letting him play a while longer, the music floating on the sea breeze, V circles back to ask what they're really doing here. Kerry returns to his talk of loops and cycles, of chapters ending and beginning. When she asks if it has anything to do with Johnny, with escaping the shadows of the past, Kerry's expression softens. He admits that yeah, maybe it does. That he's realized he managed to live without Johnny, build his career, but despite everything, he can't quite forget him.
Johnny, still lounging on the gunwale, shifts slightly at these words. Through their link, V feels a complex surge of emotions — pride, regret, affection, all tangled together. The other man explains that his very first song came to him while working as a server on a cruise ship, and now here he is, composing his new beginning on another yacht. Another life loop.
Kerry tells her he's glad she's here to share this moment. Without her, he never would have handled the Us Cracks situation, never found his way out of that creative rut he'd been stuck in for so long. She helped shake things up, got him moving again when he'd been standing still for too damn long. Now the creative fire's back, burning brighter than ever.
The yacht continues its peaceful journey through the bay, Kerry's melody providing the perfect soundtrack to the moment. Johnny catches V's eye and smiles — a real smile, not his usual smirk — and she realizes that maybe Kerry's not the only one who's found a way to make peace with the past while embracing something new.
The yacht eventually glides to a gentle stop, and here, it's a world away from the luxurious marina. The area is deserted, the coastline wild and untamed — grey sand meeting jagged rocks, while wild ferns and untamed grass sprout defiantly at the base of palm trees. The air smells different here, cleaner somehow, away from the city's perpetual smog.
Kerry rises, stretching languidly with the guitar still in hand. "All right. Now for a breath of freedom!" And to the merc's utter surprise, he suddenly brings the expensive instrument down hard against the deck in a classic rockstar move. The sound of splintering wood and snapping strings fills the air as he smashes it again and again, each impact sending fragments of the precious guitar flying.
He tosses the mangled remains overboard, watching them disappear into the dark water before turning to V with wild eyes. "Ya gonna fuckin' help me, or just stand there like a gonk?"
Well, fuck, V wasn't expecting this turn of events, but a wide grin spreads across her face as she stands. "Chaos and destruction? Why the fuck not." Following him toward the cabin, she can't help but ask, "No regret after, ownin' a trashed yacht?"
"MY yacht?!" Kerry's laugh is sharp and delighted. "Honestly think I'd name my boat 'Seamurai'? Fuck..."
"Whose the fuck is it?!" Not that she really cares, but curiosity makes her ask anyway as she takes in the cabin's opulent interior — all expensive wood paneling and pretentious luxury items that scream 'more money than taste’.
"Leadhead motherfucker, L.B. Kovachek." Kerry responds with vicious glee, already grabbing bottles from the bar and smashing them against the floor, expensive liquor spreading across the hardwood in growing puddles. His eyes light up when he spots a fire axe mounted on the wall and he yanks it free with childlike enthusiasm.
The axe comes down on the counter with a satisfying crack, sending splinters of expensive wood and chrome flying. "Never got a chance to properly 'thank' him for the Us Cracks shit... and other things." Another swing, another crash. "Choose somethin' and smash it. This one's on L.B."
Damn, his manic energy is contagious, and V could use some chaos therapy herself. She spots a baseball bat propped against the wall — clearly a collector's item, its chrome finish and authentic signatures meant to display wealth rather than hit any balls. The weight feels good in her hands as she grabs a crystal champagne flute from a nearby shelf. With practiced precision, she tosses it high in the air, timing perfect as she swings the bat. The crystal explodes in a shower of glittering fragments, catching the light like deadly stars.
Fuck, that's therapeutic. V grins savagely, adrenaline already pumping through her system. "Okay, let's rip this boat to shreds!"
"Weeeell, well! Finally ready to party!" Kerry exclaims joyfully, already stalking deeper into the cabin.
V unleashes the bat on a row of overpriced bottles, sending rainbows of liquid spraying across the pristine walls. She drops the bat with a wink at Johnny, who's materialized nearby, leaning against a wall with that shit-eating grin she knows so well. "Either he's gone senile or he's finally wisened the fuck up. Could be either." He comments, watching her grab a luxury espresso machine and send it crashing to the floor in a satisfying explosion of chrome and circuitry.
She laughs heartily, the sound mixing with the chaos of destruction around them. Grabbing a pretentious painting from the wall — some abstract bullshit — she throws it down and jumps on it with both feet, leaving satisfying marks on the canvas. Her gaze dances between Johnny, who's watching the show with obvious amusement, and Kerry, who's busy absolutely decimating what looks like a priceless vinyl collection across the room.
Kerry's like a force of nature, channeling decades of pent-up rage into pure destruction. He leaps onto the coffee table with the agility of someone half his age, sending expensive bottles flying everywhere. Alcohol splashes across the floor, the mixed scents of top-shelf liquor filling the air as he asks, "Still got a little left in ya?"
V responds by extending her mantis blades with a metallic snikt, using them to gut some cushions before dropping them in the growing pools of booze. The stuffing spills out like synthetic snow, soaking up the alcohol.
Johnny observes his old bandmate with a knowing smile, his voice carrying a hint of pride, "'Member when you woke up in that scrapyard? That's where he is now — bein' reborn with fuck-all to stop 'im."
She joins Kerry near the door, where he's lighting up a cigarette, his chrome gleaming with sweat and spilled alcohol. "It's time for the grand finale," he announces with exaggerated theatrical flair, taking a long drag before offering the smoke to V. "Do the honors, V."
Understanding exactly what he has in mind, Johnny grins wide. "Huh, baptism by fire and water? A-fuckin'-men."
V takes the cigarette, inhaling deeply before declaring, "To settlin' scores!" Then she flicks it toward the alcohol-soaked destruction behind them.
The effect is immediate and spectacular — flames race along the trails of spilled liquor, engulfing the ruined furniture in a beautiful blaze. Kerry's delighted laughter echoes off the walls. "Well fuckin' said! Suck on this, Kovachek!" He flips off the burning chaos before nudging V. "Race ya to the beach!"
He takes off running toward the deck, vaulting over the railing with a whoop of pure joy. V follows a moment later, launching herself into the cool water.
V must be the better swimmer, reaching the dark stretch of beach before Kerry despite his head start. She settles on the coarse sand, watching him battle against the waves. When he finally emerges from the water, his clothes cling to his frame like a second skin. He's completely winded, chrome glinting in the fading light as water streams down his face. "Heh... Think I oughta start... usin' my own pool more often..."
He collapses beside her on the beach, sending dark sand flying. Together, they watch their handiwork — thick black smoke billowing from the yacht, flames now visible through the windows, dancing against the darkening sky. "Beautiful, isn't it?" V comments, admiring their destruction with the appreciation of a true artist of chaos.
"The fucker's still in one piece..." He responds, frustration and disappointment mixing in his voice. Salt water drips as he runs a hand through his wet hair. "Somebody has to have seen the smoke by now. If the 'Seamurai' sails another day, I'm gonna rip my hair out..." He turns to her, eyes reflecting the flames. "Think I shoulda loaded more barrels. Or come with black market C-6? Whaddaya think?"
Before V can answer, a massive explosion rocks the yacht — the blast lights up the bay, sending a column of fire into the darkening sky. Kerry lets out a contented sigh that sounds almost post-coital, his face illuminated by the inferno. "Ah... Never mind. I had fun. You?"
She chuckles, watching the yacht slowly beginning its final journey to the bottom of the bay, twisted metal groaning as it lists to one side. "I gotta admit, not bad."
"It was fuckin' wild!" He exclaims, practically glowing with satisfaction, looking younger than V's ever seen him. "Just what I needed, too."
"To settle that score?" V asks, wringing out her water-logged shirt, the fabric protesting between her hands as seawater pools at her feet.
Kerry hums thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the burning wreckage. "Mm... To mark a new beginning. Thanks, V." He flashes her a bright smile, genuine warmth breaking through his usual rockstar persona. "Aw, hell of a night, huh? Felt like Samurai's first few gigs — a lil' sloppy, granted, but the energy was fucking raw."
She laughs heartily, the sound carrying across the empty beach. "Nice twist of events, Ker’."
Kerry pushes himself up, not bothering to brush off the sand clinging to his soaked leather pants — probably ruined anyway, but he likely has closets full of replacements. "Ehh, right. Let's get outta here before the wind flips and we get flooded by that stench." He extends his hand to help her up. "Need a ride?"
V grabs the offered hand, taking in their surroundings — fuck, they've sailed all the way to the city limits, past Northside. The unfamiliar coastline stretches out before them, wild and untamed. "'Course I do. Left my bike at the marina."
"Come on, then. Planned my shit this time, got a car parked nearby." Kerry gestures for her to follow, heading toward the road as the sun finally surrenders to the horizon. Behind them, the burning yacht continues its slow descent into the bay, a fitting funeral pyre for old grievances and new beginnings.
Distant sirens start to wail, but they're already walking away, leaving wet footprints in the sand that the tide will soon erase. Johnny materializes beside them, looking mighty pleased with the whole situation. The three of them make their way toward civilization, leaving chaos in their wake — just like the old days, but somehow better.
The drive back to the marina feels too short despite the discomfort of Kerry's car — the same wheeled trash heap he'd used for the Us Cracks van explosion gig. The seats reek of wet leather and salt, squeaking with every movement, but neither of them care. They're too busy riding their adrenaline high, laughing about the chaos they created while Kerry shares increasingly wild stories about similar stunts he's pulled over the years.
Kerry drops her off with a loud, obnoxious honk as he peels away, tires screeching on the asphalt. V waves goodbye until his taillights disappear into the night, her cheeks hurting from laughing so much. She retrieves her bike, and when Johnny takes his usual spot behind her, she feels complete, content. "Damn, it was a good day..."
"True that." The rockerboy grins against her shoulder, wrapping his arms tight around her waist. "Gotta say, a shower wouldn't hurt, just to get rid of that nasty water stench."
V chuckles in response, revving the engine and speeding toward their apartment, the night air whipping past them. The city lights blur around them, and for once, everything feels right in the world.
Once home and properly showered — because Johnny was right about the smell, and she has no desire to keep Night City's polluted bay water on her skin any longer than necessary — V changes into her sleep clothes and starts drying her hair with a towel. The peaceful contentment of the evening still lingers, making her feel lighter than she has in weeks.
That feeling shatters the moment she walks back into the bedroom and her holo rings. When she sees the caller ID, V drops her towel in shock, her blood turning to ice in her veins. Hanako fucking Arasaka — the call she's been dreading more than anything, secretly hoping the corpo princess would just forget about her existence. But of course, nothing ever goes the way she wants, right? The peaceful bubble of their perfect evening pops, reality crashing back in like a tidal wave.
Johnny shoots her an alarmed look, seeing her frozen in place, staring at the holo screen like it's a loaded gun pointed at her head. His concern bleeds through their link, mixing with her own rising panic. "V... you gotta answer."
"Don't wanna." She admits in a whisper, dropping the device on the bed like it burned her, taking a step back. "Fuck, what's the point? You should be the first one telling me to not talk to the 'Saka cunt."
"Normally, yeah..." He concedes, crouching near the bed to stare at the holo like it might explode any second. His expression is a mix of concern and barely contained anger — not at V, but at the whole fucked up situation. "But we're in deep shit here. Your condition's gettin' worse every fuckin' day, and if we wanna get any intel on Mikoshi... we gotta deal with the 'er. Ain't got much choice left."
But V doesn't want that intel on Mikoshi. The thought of going there, of letting Alt separate her psyche from Johnny's, makes her feel physically sick. If she has to die anyway, she'd rather just swallow a handful of Pseudoendotrizine pills, let herself sink into the depths of her own mind until she fades away and Johnny takes permanent control of the body. Anything would be better than enduring this separation that won't lead to anything good for her anyway, if So Mi's prognosis is to be believed.
She feels a moment of relief when the ringing stops, her shoulders sagging as tension bleeds out — but her respite is short-lived. Seconds later, her holo reactivates, beeping with the kind of insistence. V feels a weight drop in her stomach, a cold dread that spreads through her chest. It only gets worse when Johnny gives her a desperate look, his usual swagger completely gone as he whispers, "Sweetheart, please..."
Something in his voice — the raw vulnerability she so rarely hears from him — makes the knot in V's stomach unravel, replaced by an eerie wave of calm. Fine, she'll go to Mikoshi, even if not for the reasons the rockerboy would want — it's more like a crazy excuse to get into Arasaka Tower, and with any luck, Smasher will be there. Even though Johnny told her he wanted her to go back on her promise to flatline the borg, she fully intends to keep it. Even if it's the last thing she does. And it probably will be.
She takes a deep breath, steeling herself, and answers. "Ah, finally." Hanako's artificially neutral voice immediately comes through, though V catches an undertone of irritation beneath the perfectly modulated tones. The Arasaka heir probably isn't used to having to call twice before someone deigns to answer. "We need to meet."
"Almost thought you forgot 'bout me." V says sarcastically, unable to keep the bite from her voice, and she feels Johnny tense up.
"I encountered some... difficulties. Certain matters remain unresolved, but circumstances have changed, and I cannot afford to delay any longer." Hanako explains, a hint of annoyance breaking through her icy mask — the first real emotion V's heard from her. "We must speak as soon as possible. Tomorrow, seven p.m. At Embers."
"I know the place. See ya there." The merc confirms curtly before hanging up, her hand trembling slightly as she lowers the holo.
A heavy silence follows the conversation, thick with unspoken fears and shattered hopes. V sits on the edge of the mattress, her face eerily empty of expression, radiating a calm that feels almost supernatural. Johnny, still crouching at the foot of the bed, is the first to crack. "Fuck, V... This is it. End of the fuckin' line." He murmurs, his voice breaking on the last words. For the first time since she's known him, the legendary rockerboy sounds utterly broken.
"I know, rockerboy... I know." She responds softly, her hand finding his head, gently running through his dark hair. The gesture feels desperately intimate, and Johnny leans into it like a man starving for touch.
He must sense the unsettling serenity she feels through their link — the peaceful acceptance of someone who's already made their peace with death — and it terrifies him more than anything else. For the first time in his existence, Johnny Silverhand completely breaks down. He moves closer, resting his head on her knees, allowing himself this moment of vulnerability he's never shown anyone before. He lets her continue the gentle caresses while trying to stop his hands from shaking, failing miserably.
Unable to bear even an inch of space between them, he snuggles even closer, wrapping an arm around her hips while his chrome hand squeezes her knee like she might disappear if he lets go. When he finally manages to speak again, his voice is barely over a whisper, rough with emotion and thick with unshed tears. "How can you be so fuckin’ calm?"
"’Cause I know everything's gonna be fine." She answers softly, her fingers covering his chrome ones, tracing the metal joints with tender familiarity. "Everything's gonna be fine." She repeats, curling around him protectively, as if she could shield him from the inevitable.
Johnny only responds with a choked sound, not trusting his own voice. Or maybe he's just too afraid of the words that might escape — desperate pleas, confessions, truths that would only hurt them both more than they're already hurting. His entire body trembles with the effort of holding back everything he wants to say.
They stay like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other in a desperate attempt at comfort, clinging to these last precious moments. After several minutes, V is the first to move, tugging him toward the bed. "C'mere..."
Johnny follows her onto the mattress, moving on autopilot. They lie face to face, tangled in each other's arms, foreheads touching. They stay like this, breathing each other in, memorizing every detail of this moment, until exhaustion finally claims them both — though Johnny fights it until the very end, terrified that when he wakes up, everything will start moving toward its inevitable conclusion.
The night brought Johnny no peace — anxiety has been lodged in his throat all day, a constant pressure that makes it hard to breathe, growing worse as he watches V prepare to meet the corpo cunt. He observed her putting on his clothes like battle armor — his tank top, his pants, even his sunglasses — handling each piece with reverent care. When he asked why, voice rough with emotion, she told him she was dressing to send a message.
That she's Team Silverhand no matter what happens, that she's the enemy walking into Arasaka's den, that she's only giving Hanako the time of day because she needs intel, not because she believes any bullshit that'll come out of her mouth. That she's done being a pawn in this fucked up game — now it's her turn to play, and she intends to win. The fierce determination in her eyes both terrifies and awes him.
Johnny knows he needs to pull himself together, right fucking now — even if the merc seems to be handling things well, he has to be strong, be there for her. But watching her prepare for what might be their last mission together is tearing him apart inside. Knowing it's likely the last time he'll see their apartment, he allows himself one final nostalgic look around, trying to burn every detail into his memory.
Their cat, curled up and sleeping peacefully on the pool table — the same spot where they'd laid together when making up after he lost his shit at the badge's place, when she'd forgiven him despite everything. The guitar she bought him without a second thought, spending a fortune just to lift his spirits, now standing proud in its corner like it belongs there. The vinyl collection she carefully built based on his recommendations, each record a testament to his love of music.
The couch where they spent countless hours holding each other, watching shitty flicks while V pelted him with popcorn, their laughter filling the space. Morning coffees at the kitchen counter, quiet moments of peace in their chaotic life. That awful pizza he surprisingly found delicious, just because they shared it. The photos she lovingly pinned to the board, capturing their adventures together, even though he couldn't appear in any of them.
And fuck — he doesn't want to say goodbye to any of this. To all these little moments of happiness and peace that punctuated their desperate race against time. To this feeling of finally belonging somewhere, of having found a home not in a place but in a person, for the first time in his fucking life. But he knows he has no choice — if he wants V to live, he'll have to disappear. And saving her is all that matters, even if it means destroying himself in the process.
He joins her in the elevator, watching silently as she clutches his dog tags in her hand like a talisman for courage, her thumb running over the engraved letters of his name. He intertwines his fingers with her free hand, hoping to absorb some of her strength while trying to hide how badly his own are shaking. He knows it should be the other way around, that he should be the one supporting her, and he promises himself that when those doors open, he'll find his courage and be her rock. Even if it kills what's left of his soul to pretend he's not falling apart.
Even the weather seems to match Johnny's gloomy mood, heavy clouds looming over Night City like an omen. Rain has been falling in irregular showers throughout the day, creating sheets of water that reflect the neon lights in distorted patterns. The ride to Embers feels almost too short — for once, Johnny wishes her bike wasn't so damn fast, each mile bringing them closer to what he dreads most. Everything's moving too quickly, time slipping through his fingers like water, and he doesn't feel ready — probably never will be.
But he soldiers on, because what other choice does he have? He follows V closely as she approaches the restaurant's entrance, trying to ignore how his heart seems to squeeze painfully in his chest with each step. Two armed guards flank the elevator, speaking rapid Japanese via comm to someone before stepping aside to let the merc pass.
Once they're inside and V has pressed the button, Johnny can't contain his unease anymore. "God, I feel sick. Don't like this at all. This porcelain bitch is the worst kind of news." His voice comes out rougher than intended, betraying his anxiety.
"I know." She sighs, then promises, "I'll be careful." The way she says it, soft and reassuring, only makes him feel worse — she shouldn't be the one comforting him right now.
"Not exactly one of your strong suits..." He sighs as they reach their floor, forcing a weak smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Listen, first sign of trouble, we delta."
The restaurant is as deserted as it is luxurious, all chrome and glass and expensive furnishings. The only people present besides Hanako — currently seated at the grand piano, playing a melancholic melody that mingles with the soft sound of rain against the windows — are her stone-faced bodyguards. The rockerboy hisses between his teeth, "She emptied the place? Shit..."
When V approaches the piano, the Arasaka heir stops playing and rises to greet her with a simple, "Excellent. You have come." Her voice is as carefully modulated as the melody she was just playing.
She launches into her explanation — or rather, her bullshit, as Johnny sees it — which he listens to while never taking his eyes off V. Blah all of Arasaka already knew Yorinobu zeroed his old man, blah she didn't want to act earlier to protect her brother, fucking blah she changed her mind after he sent his death squad to handle the parade incident, showing no concern for her safety.
Johnny tenses when the woman asks if V brought Soulkiller with her. The merc manages to destabilize Hanako by pointing out her nervousness — which she reluctantly admits has something to do with an AV seemingly monitoring the restaurant — before shutting her down, telling her she's not gonk enough to bring the program to someone she doesn't trust.
Hanako moves to the bar, settling elegantly on one of the stools. After a waiter serves them both glasses of whiskey before disappearing, she tells V, "We are here because I know how to save your life. I can lead you to Mikoshi."
Fuck, this is it — the part they've been waiting for, rather than Arasaka family drama. V points out, "Meanin'? Mikoshi don't exist in realspace."
"Yet its access points do. And one is very near." Under the merc's questioning gaze, she adds, "Here in Night City. Beneath Arasaka Tower."
Perfect, the confirmation they needed. Now that they have it, Johnny just wants to delta the fuck out fast. But Hanako isn't finished, inviting V to sit and drink, assuring her she can lead her to Mikoshi in exchange for help exposing the truth about her father's murder to the corporation's higher-ups.
When V finally sits and takes a sip of the expensive alcohol, the heir explains her plan. "Yorinobu will soon call a meeting of the board. Representatives of all factions are expected to attend. The perfect moment for them to learn the circumstances of my father's death." She takes a delicate sip from her own glass before adding, "I will get you into this meeting. And you will testify against my brother. Help me get rid of Yorinobu. I will help you get rid of the construct."
"Don't like this at all." V responds coldly, her fingers tightening around the glass. "Sounds like you wanna use me."
Hanako corrects with practiced precision, "No. I simply offer you an opportunity."
"Not the first to try." She snorts, thinking of all the dead ends she's hit before having to resort to coming here.
"But what if I am the last?" The woman asks, her words carrying a weight that makes Johnny's non-existent stomach turn. "You cannot take that chance."
Fuck — Johnny really doesn't like this manipulation attempt, so he intervenes, "Let's fly the fuck outta here."
Hanako frowns slightly, studying the merc's face. "V? Do you feel all right? You are bleeding."
"Fuck..." V mutters, wiping her bloody nose on her jacket sleeve.
"It seems you are running out of time." Hanako points out, clearly trying to exploit this incident to push the merc into following her plan. "Don't delay, make your decision."
V doesn't even bother to respond, just nods before standing up. Johnny, sensing something very bad is about to happen, grabs her wrist, telling her, "You could use some air. Right now." Then guides her back the way they came, his touch protective and urgent.
When they reach the elevator and V presses the street level button with a trembling hand, Johnny can feel it more clearly — a Relic malfunction is coming, a big, big bad one, brewing slowly like an approaching storm. When she starts coughing and spitting blood, he realizes he needs to take charge. Now . He takes control of the merc's hand to hit the emergency stop button, halting the machine's descent.
They need to talk, seriously and immediately. "Shit, we could be hours from it now, V." He notices her legs starting to shake, so he helps her sit on the floor before adding, "And you can't stand on your own two feet. While I'm good to go, body listens to me." He sits across from her and asks, "See what I'm gettin' at?"
"'Course I can see." She sighs, wiping her bloody hand on her leather pants. "Want me to hand over the keys."
He moves closer, kneeling in front of her, catching her chin to meet her gaze. His touch is gentle but insistent. "I wanna save your life. Let's just switch, princess, lemme get behind the wheel. I'll get us to fuckin' Mikoshi." He sees her hesitation, probably wanting to do the dirty work herself, so he pushes harder, "C'mon, trust me. I'll bring Rogue, she ain't rusted through just yet. I'm sure she'll help. After all, we know a thing or two about ops like this. We'll blast our way into 'Saka Tower just like we did back in the day. Then find the way inside Mikoshi."
"Fuck Johnny, we can't do that, and you know it." She grabs his wrist, looking at him intensely. "If anything happens to Rogue in that tower, you'll blame yourself for the rest of your days. And... Don't want anyone to stick their neck out for me."
"Princess..." He's about to insist. Tell her that the end of his days is probably today anyway, and that Rogue is more than capable of handling herself.
"No, rockerboy, no fuckin' way." She says weakly, struggling to her feet. "We're not draggin’ her into this. I'll handle it myself."
"It's fuckin’ suicide, V!" He gets up too, grabbing her shoulders. "My plan's gotta work! We breach the tower, Alt cracks open Mikoshi, then I fuck up that—"
He stops abruptly when he sees fresh blood trickling from the merc's nose. "V?" With horror, he watches her eyes roll back and her legs give out again, and she collapses on the metallic floor. "No, no, no , NO! V!!"
But it's too late — she's unconscious, and Johnny finds himself in the driver's seat of her body. The sudden silence in their shared consciousness terrifies him more than anything else ever has.
For several seconds, he just stays on the floor, completely paralyzed, desperately searching for any sign of V in their shared brain. The silence in their usually crowded mindspace is deafening, terrifying. And finally, he finds her, small and weakened in the darkness of her mind — but thank fuck, still here. Her presence is faint, like a flickering candle about to go out, but she's hanging on. But no matter how hard he tries to bring her back, calling out to her in their shared consciousness, he can't reach her.
Panic overwhelms him — it's like that time after the parade when he had to use Omega Blockers to force her awake, except this time he's out of magic pills. His thoughts race chaotically, heart pounding in a chest that isn't his. Fuck, Silverhand, get a grip. Vik. Gotta see the ripper. He'll know how to save V. He has to.
Getting to his feet, he restarts the elevator, and the moment its doors open to the street, he rushes to the bike. The rain has picked up again, soaking V's clothes as he pushes the engine to its limits all the way to the clinic, weaving through traffic with desperate precision. What follows is just a blur of anxiety and panic — he remembers storming through the esoterica shop, droplets of water trailing behind him, ignoring Misty's concerned "V?" as he practically runs to the ripperdoc's basement clinic, where Vik is working on another patient.
Johnny almost throws her out of the operating chair, growling something about "a fuckin' emergency" in V's voice that sounds all wrong coming from her throat. Thankfully, Vik must immediately understand what's happening — one look at the blood still trickling from V's nose, at the way her body moves with Johnny's characteristic urgency instead of her usual grace, tells him everything he needs to know. He lets Misty escort his previous patient out while immediately tending to V, not wasting precious seconds asking questions Johnny couldn't answer anyway. Every word he speaks using V's voice feels wrong, like he's desecrating something sacred, so he stays silent.
Lying on the chair, he lets the ripper work, watching through unfocused eyes as Vik connects V to his machines and injects her with fuck-knows-what. The familiar smell of antiseptic and metal fills his nostrils, the harsh clinic lights burning his retinas, but he forces himself to stay alert. The how doesn't matter one fucking bit, the only thing that counts is bringing V back. His hands — her hands — grip the chair's armrests so hard the knuckles turn white, as if holding on tight enough could somehow keep her from slipping away.
And thankfully, as minutes tick by like hours, he can feel the merc's consciousness grow stronger and stronger in their shared mindspace, like a tide slowly coming back in. Just knowing that she'll wake up soon removes some of his tension, and he closes his eyes, trying to retreat as far as possible in their shared mind, leaving V all the space she'll need when she comes back. His terror slowly subsides, replaced by desperate hope as he feels her presence strengthening, like watching a familiar light growing brighter in the darkness.
A few minutes later, V finally stirs awake, understandably confused about how she ended up here. Immediately, Johnny, back in his engram form, rushes to her side to take her hand, his touch carrying all the worry and relief he can't put into words. He lets Vik handle most of the explaining, though he can't help but whisper "Tell him it was your guardian angel" in V's ear when the ripper mentions how 'she' practically threw his previous patient out of the operating chair. His attempt at humor barely masks his lingering fear.
Despite how utterly shitty V feels right now, she can't suppress a small smile at the rockerboy's remark — a smile that vanishes almost instantly when Vik delivers his prognosis. The ripperdoc's words fall like hammer blows — even though he managed to stabilize the biochip for now, she's unlikely to survive the next Relic malfunction. She has a few hours at best to act, and if she wants to end this on her own terms, it needs to be now . The finality in his voice makes Johnny's non-existent heart clench.
V struggles to sit up, her movements weak and unsteady, like a newborn deer trying to find its legs. Vik's voice trembles with suppressed emotions as he points to a nearby table where he's laid out two pills — an Omega Blocker and a Pseudoendotrizine — and a gun. The choice laid out so starkly before them, fight or surrender. If she can make it those few steps to the table, her fate will be in her hands.
"Your choice, princess." Johnny assures her, taking her hand to help her up, his touch steady and warm. "I'm with you all the way."
"Still need to think 'bout it..." V grits her teeth, taking a hesitant first step toward the table, relieved to find her legs can still support her, even if barely.
"Sure, we'll go get some air. Can't think in that basement." He responds, but freezes in horror when he sees the merc's lips moving, speaking his words aloud in perfect sync with him. The sight sends ice through his veins.
"V, Christ, you're talkin' out loud!" Vik confirms his fears, his face pale. The Relic really went haywire this time. The ripper continues, his voice full of anger that fails to hide his pain. "Just go fix this thing!"
V grabs the pills and the gun with trembling fingers, then turns to the ripperdoc. "Can't thank ya enough for all you've done, Vik."
"Only wish I coulda done more." He responds dejectedly. Unable to meet the gaze of the merc he loves like his own daughter, clearly not ready to say goodbye, he turns toward the screen still showing a boxing match. "Go on, now. I wanna close up. Take the meds... and do what you gotta do, V."
"Thanks, Vik, I will." She responds, a lump of sadness in her throat, knowing these are her final goodbyes to this man too good for Night City. "An' you hang in there, too."
"G'luck, kid." He responds, still avoiding her gaze, his shoulders tense with the effort of holding himself together.
Oh, Johnny knows that averted gaze all too well — it's the look of a man just waiting to be alone so he can fall apart. He gently pulls V by the hand toward the exit where Misty waits, sitting on the stairs. The young woman tells her she knows the perfect place where V can think in peace, gesturing for the merc to follow. Her knowing eyes hold both sympathy and understanding, as if she's already seen this moment in her cards.
As they emerge from the clinic's basement into the neon-lit alley, the cool night air washes over V like a blessing, momentarily clearing her foggy mind. At the top of the stairs, she spots a stray cat, its orange fur glowing under the neon signs. The feline immediately approaches when she extends her hand, rubbing against her fingers with a loud purr. "Who do we have here, huh?" She asks, grateful for this small moment of normalcy in the midst of her chaos.
"That's Mr. Brightman." Misty responds with one of her ethereal smiles. "We found the poor guy in the trash behind the clinic. He's been hanging around ever since."
The sight of the friendly cat inevitably makes V think of her own pets waiting at home. Whatever happens tonight... "Misty, can I ask you something? Dunno if I ever told you, but I got a cat at home. And an iguana. Just in case something goes wrong... If I give you access to my apartment, could you take care of 'em?"
"Of course, V." The young woman responds with her characteristic gentleness, her eyes holding that knowing look that always makes V wonder how much she really sees. "But don't worry, I'm certain you'll come back."
The merc doesn't have the heart to tell her that no, she won't be coming back this time — at least, not as herself. Instead, she gently takes her friend's wrist, pressing it against her own, letting their info chips connect just like Judy did when she offered her apartment, and transfers all the necessary authorizations. Johnny watches the exchange silently, his expression unreadable.
"Thanks, Misty... Now, about this special place you mentioned..." V trails off, her voice slightly rough from the earlier episode.
Misty gestures for her to follow, leading her to a service elevator tucked away in the alley. As they ascend, she explains that she brought Jackie here too, long ago, when he faced the difficult choice of leaving the Valentinos after his mother discovered his involvement with the gang.
As the doors open and they take the stairs leading to the roof, Misty adds that it was after bringing him here that he found the courage to bet on himself and decided to become a Night City legend.
When they step outside into the night air, Johnny lets out a relieved sigh, relaxing slightly. "Ah, that's more like it — air."
The roof offers a breathtaking view of Night City in all its neon glory — towers reaching toward the smog-filled sky, streams of traffic flowing like luminous rivers between them, massive advertisements painting the darkness with their endless promises. The space has been minimally furnished — just an old rug, two plastic chairs separated by a cooler, an old radio, a small yellow stool, and some potted plants that somehow manage to survive in this concrete jungle. Misty sits in one of the chairs, waiting for the merc to join her before saying, "I come here when I need to get away, be alone with my thoughts."
"She's onto something'." Johnny muses, then points V to the vacant chair, "Oughta sit — mull through some shit yourself."
V places Vik's gun on the cooler — its weight seems both too heavy and too light for what it represents — then drops into the red plastic chair. Her gaze loses itself in the cityscape, drawn to a billboard in the distance promoting the Relic, its scrolling sign reading 'secure your soul'. The irony isn't lost on either of them. Johnny seems to have noticed it too, sitting on the edge of the roof, facing her.
"Thanks again, Misty. You were right, choice spot." V finally says, after a few moments of contemplative silence.
"I'm gonna leave you alone now." She responds, standing up with a knowing smile. "Take your time."
And with those words, she departs the way they came, leaving Johnny and V alone on the roof, with the endless symphony of Night City below as the only witness to the life-altering decision that awaits them. The weight of what's to come hangs heavy in the air between them, as tangible as the gun on the cooler.
Finally, Johnny breaks the heavy silence hanging between them. "Fuckin' scared me, know that? Thought you were on your way out."
"No, still here." V manages a weak smile that doesn't reach her eyes, her voice barely above a whisper in the night air.
"For now." He completes darkly.
Yep, for now. Only a few hours left, according to Vik's estimates, and honestly, V feels so exhausted she can't wait for it all to be over. Her eyes unconsciously drift to the gun the ripperdoc gave her — and frankly, if Johnny's life wasn't also hanging in the balance, it would be more than tempting. The cold metal seems to mock her with its simplicity, offering an easy way out she can't take, not when someone else's existence depends on her choices.
She lets out a deep sigh, pulling out her cigarette case with fingers that won't stop trembling. It takes her three attempts to light it, the flame dancing erratically before finally catching. She takes long drags of nicotine to calm her nerves, watching the smoke curl up into the sky. The sense of clarity she felt after Hanako's call has vanished, shattered by the brutal Relic malfunction. Everything had been so clear in her head then — infiltrate Arasaka Tower by any means necessary, zero Smasher to keep her promise, finally let go and leave the body to Johnny. A clean, if violent, end to their story.
But now, watching the city sprawl endlessly before her, she wonders if she'll have the strength to do it — not the part about giving the rockerboy a new life, nah, that's set in stone. It's everything else that worries her. Her body's running on fumes, each breath a struggle, each movement a negotiation with failing muscles. How could she possibly manage to infiltrate the most heavily guarded tower in the city, let alone kill that fucking borg?
Johnny interrupts her spiraling thoughts, his voice gentle. "Y'know..." He pauses for a few seconds, passing a hand through his hair, a gesture she's come to recognize as his tell for emotional discomfort. "Should call anyone you wanna say goodbye to."
Heh... If even he's losing faith in their plan now, they're just fucked. She challenges, "Worst case scenario — that what you expect?"
"No, but whatever you decide, the risk's gonna be high. If things don't go our way..." He hesitates before continuing, his voice rough with emotion he's trying to hide, "Just fuckin' do it. Anyone you gotta talk to, now's the time. Pills can wait."
V contemplates the idea, watching the ember of her cigarette glow in the darkness. She's more or less already said goodbye to everyone who matters to her, but... Fuck, what she wouldn't give to call Panam one last time, just to hear her voice, let her reassure her, make some stupid joke to lift her spirits. Anything, really. But she knows she can't — the nomad knows her too well and would immediately understand something's wrong, would want to come to her rescue, even if it meant putting herself in danger. And risking her best friend's life is the last thing the merc wants, so she abandons the idea, letting it drift away with the smoke.
Her thoughts inevitably drift to the one person she couldn't include in her farewell tour — Goro, and fuck if it doesn't hurt thinking of him, even after several weeks. The memory of the rōnin drops her spirits even lower — not even mentioning the silly crush she had on him when they first met... shit, she really considered him a friend. A friend who abandoned her to crawl back to his precious corporation, without even a backward glance, leaving behind nothing but disappointment and what-ifs.
Deep down, she doesn't even blame him for it anymore, but she'll always consider their relationship a personal failure. She wanted so badly to open his eyes about Arasaka, shake him out of his brainwashing, prove to him there's life beyond what he's known. But she supposes everything she said, everything she did... it just wasn't enough. Some people, she's learned the hard way, don't want to be saved.
She thinks about the last message he sent her, what feels like an eternity ago now, which she never answered, no matter how many times she was tempted to. So the idea of a swan song, one last attempt to convince him to break his chains... No. No . She shakes her head as if to push away the thought, taking one last angry drag from her cigarette before crushing it under her heel with more force than necessary, sending sparks scattering across the concrete like dying stars.
"Nah, not really my style... goodbyes." She finally responds, realizing she's probably been silent for far too long, lost in her thoughts.
Johnny lets out a deep sigh, his chest tightening at the pain he can feel radiating through their shared consciousness. He knows her by heart, and knows this particular wound runs deeper than she wants to admit. "V, should call... him." His voice is soft, understanding, trying to mask how much her suffering affects him.
V can't suppress the weird strangled sound that escapes her lips, somewhere between a nervous laugh and a sob. "To tell 'im what, Johnny? 'Sorry, I'm about to ruin everything that our friendship was built around'? Fuck." She shakes her head again, refusing to give in to the urge to properly say goodbye to the man. "He doesn't care about me, he just needed me to help him get his life back, that's all." The bitterness in her voice doesn't quite mask the hurt underneath, and it kills Johnny to hear it.
"Damn, V..." Johnny whispers. He can't stand seeing her like this — not when they might be living their last moments together. Rising from his perch on the roof's edge, he crouches just in front of her, gently catching her wrist. His fingertips caress the soft skin there, tracing small circles meant to soothe, before sliding to her palm, finally intertwining their fingers. Through their connection, he tries to pour all his support, his affection, his understanding into that simple contact.
He doesn't want the merc to enter this battle with regrets weighing on her heart, and he knows Takemura is definitely one of them. The events at the Sunset Motel are burned into his mind and he knows V deserves a real conclusion to this story, even if it hurts. "Just fuckin' call him already. Say your goodbyes, tell him he's got pretty eyes, or whatever other sappy shit you need to get off your chest for closure."
The small laugh his comment draws from her feels like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. "Hold up — you realize that's the second time you've brought up his beautiful eyes?" She teases him playfully, some of the gloom lifting now that Johnny's holding her hand, his presence steady and reassuring. He'd do anything to keep that smile on her face, even if it means joking about the man who broke her heart.
"Ain't enough of a liar to deny facts." He shoots back with a warm smile, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. The simple gesture carries all the words he can't say — I'm here, I've got you, you're not alone.
"Dunno, Johnny." V shrugs, still not convinced it's a good idea. Or that Goro would even answer her call. "Haven't heard a peep since that selfie he sent to let me know he wasn't dead in some gutter. Hanako mentioned he got his ass somewhere safe. Probably won't even pick up the damn holo." Her fingers fidget with Johnny's, betraying her nervousness, and he holds on tighter, grounding her.
"Could always leave a message," Johnny insists, sensing that despite her words, she's considering the idea. He squeezes her fingers encouragingly. "Really think you should do it, V."
She squeezes back, giving him another small smile, and finally yields. "Yeah, sure, why the fuck not? Got nothing else to lose at this point."
Johnny's thumb brushes tenderly over her knuckles one last time before releasing her hand and standing up, returning to his perch on the roof's edge to give her space for the call. His heart feels like it's being crushed in his chest as Takemura doesn't answer, leaving V to settle for a message.
The rockerboy listens intently, though he can't bring himself to look in her direction right now, the sadness on her face more than he can bear. Every word she speaks into her holo twists his guts — that she's about to do something stupid, that it's a goodbye, that Takemura should give himself a real chance at life, far from Arasaka, to go ask the Aldecaldos for help, that they will show him true freedom in her fucking memory ...
This sounds too much like the final words of someone who knows they're not coming back, and it terrifies Johnny to his core, especially when V's voice cracks mid-sentence and tears start rolling down her cheeks — fuck, Johnny doesn't even need to look to know she's crying, he can feel the tears as if they were his own, burning trails down his face through their shared consciousness.
The second she hangs up, Johnny practically runs to take her in his arms, pulling her out of the chair and onto the ground with him, curling protectively around her like he could somehow shield her from the world, from fate itself. He keeps her pressed tight against his chest, rocking her gently, needing this embrace at least as much as she does. He can feel her heartbeat against his chest, each pulse a precious reminder of time slipping away.
Once her tears subside and her breathing returns to normal, Johnny pulls back just enough to catch her chin. Making her meet his gaze, he asks the question he's been dreading since V woke up in the ripperdoc's basement, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "Thinkin' about eating a bullet, aren't ya? Saw how you were eyeing that iron back at Vik's..."
"Not the worst way out for me." She says flatly, as if it's nothing and didn't just send ice through Johnny's veins. "But can't do it. You'd flatline with me."
"Damn straight you can't, and I won't let you anyway." He responds, barely contained panic edging into his voice. He takes a deep breath before continuing more calmly, forcing himself to steady his voice, "We got options, and I ain't about to let you down now. Johnny and V 'till the end, remember?" His fingers trace the heart tattoo on her arm where their names are forever linked, the memory of that night making his chest ache with a bittersweet warmth. Best drunken mistake of his both lives.
That pulls a weak laugh from her, and she nestles more comfortably in his arms, her breath warm against his neck, sending electricity down his spine. "Right. Hey, weren't you supposed to be some legendary asshole or somethin'?"
"Not with you, princess. Those days are long gone." They both know it — the time when he could lie to himself about what he feels for her is over, and he doesn't want to spend their last hours together pretending. He presses a tender kiss to her forehead, even though deep down, he wants so, so much more. But this will have to be enough for now, as they sit together, holding onto each other like the world might end if they let go — and maybe, for them, it will.
He murmurs against her hair about how far they've come together, the words soft and intimate in the neon-lit darkness. The thought sparks an idea in his mind — since V still refuses to let him handle Mikoshi with Rogue, to involve Panam, or even consider Hanako's offer, it only leaves one possibility. The realization settles in his chest like a mix of dread and exhilaration.
“Kinda tough deciding which of your friends get to die, isn’t it? Good news is you got this on choom who’s already dead. And he’d be honored to join you on a wild, suicide run.” Johnny proposes. He knows the risks, knows they're probably walking straight into their shared grave, but it's still better than sitting here watching V fade away. One last desperate attempt, just the two of them, like it's always been. “You, me and Arasaka Tower. Kinda sounds like a Eurodyne lyrics, I know, but trust me — we’ll go fuckin’ nova.”
And to his immense relief, she accepts, her voice carrying that familiar determination he's grown to love. “If I gotta die, rather fall into my grave gun in hand and on fire. And not drag anyone down with me.”
He stands, then offers his hand to V, the gesture carrying the weight of a promise. “Huh, you just discovered what it takes to become a legend …” He pulls her to her feet, drawing her close, savoring the warmth of her body against his, memorizing every detail of this moment. “Grab your iron — let’s mobilize.”
She smiles at him and, without letting go of his hand, heads for the elevator. Together, they descend to street level, where V is surprised to find Misty waiting, leaning against one of the alley walls like a guardian angel in the neon shadows. When the young woman sees her approach, she asks, "Is that you, V? Or..."
"It's us." The merc responds, showing her hand where her fingers are intertwined with Johnny's, even though her friend can only see her holding thin air. "Just like it should be."
Misty offers another of her soft, knowing smiles, her eyes holding both wisdom and sadness. "Good luck, to both of you."
After this brief exchange, they move away into the neon-lit night, their footsteps echoing in perfect sync through the empty alley. Their first stop, the nearest gun store, to stock up on as much ammo as her pockets can hold, and maybe even some grenades for good measure. And after that... Arasaka Tower awaits, its massive silhouette cutting through the smog-filled sky like a blade, a monument to corporate power that they'll either conquer or die trying.
Johnny's grip on V's hand tightens slightly as they walk, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gentle caress. They don't need words anymore — everything that matters has already been said. Now it's just them against the world, one last time, ready to write their names across Night City's sky in bullets and blood. Whether they succeed or fail, they'll make sure the city never forgets the night Johnny Silverhand and V came for Arasaka's crown.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
Johnny thought he'd seen it all — the most reckless plans, the craziest stunts — but watching V progress through Arasaka Tower is something else entirely. He observes with a mix of pride and gut-wrenching anxiety as she tears through the reinforced security of the ground floor. Mechs? Boom — grenades turn them into smoking scrap. Guards? They fall one by one in the deadly dance of her mantis blades, blood painting abstract patterns on the pristine corporate floors. Reinforcements that seem to never stop coming? She deals with them just the same, moving like a force of nature through the building, each kill more brutal than the last.
After finding an access card on one of the corpses, they take the elevator, descending deep into the bowels of the building. The further down they go, the more Johnny's anxiety grows — they're entering the heart of the beast now, and there's no turning back. Below, a new wave of enemies awaits them, but V continues to fight with the strength of someone who has nothing left to lose. Her movements are precise, lethal, beautiful in their deadly efficiency — and Johnny can't help but think she's never looked more alive than she does now, on what might be their last run. Every bullet that whizzes past her makes his non-existent heart stop, every close call sends ice through his veins.
When they finally manage to open a door to the Net, Alt spreads through the tower's network like a digital plague, taking care of frying the brains of the remaining Arasaka personnel and deactivating all remaining security measures. Johnny can finally breathe a little, watching V catch her breath against a wall, blood staining her clothes. Her breathing is labored, and he can feel every ache in her muscles, every burning wound through their connection.
That moment of respite shatters when Alt's artificial voice announces through the speakers, "Arasaka netrunners have infiltrated the tower's systems," the warning echoing ominously through the empty corridors. "Stopping their advance takes priority. Proceed alone — I've cleared your path, but time is critical. Elite security forces are in pursuit."
He's terrified to understand what this 'elite security force' implies, so he pulls V by the arm — they need to hurry. Mikoshi is so close now, yet suddenly feels impossibly far. As V is lifting a metal security shutter blocking their path further ahead, the sound of heavy, mechanical footsteps approaches from behind, and Johnny's the first to recognize that distinctive rhythm, that metallic cadence that has haunted his nightmares for fifty years. Each step sounds like a hammer blow to his soul.
He feels his heart drop to his boots seeing that fucking borg charging straight at V, the massive chrome monster moving with impossible speed for something its size. "Smasher!!" He shouts, warning her just in time, and V rolls under the obstacle, barely managing to get away as Smasher explodes through the security door, tearing through it like it's made of paper. The crash of metal on metal echoes through the corridor like a death knell, and Johnny knows — this is it. The moment of reckoning they've both been waiting for, the confrontation that could end everything they've fought for.
The air itself seems to crackle with tension as Smasher's massive form fills the corridor, his red optics fixed on V with predatory intensity. Johnny's never felt more helpless, more terrified — not for himself, but for her. This is the monster that killed him fifty years ago, and now he has to watch as it comes for the person he cares about most in this world.
Johnny watches in horror as the battle unfolds, each moment stretching into an eternity of terror and pride. V moves like lightning, but Smasher is a force of nature — when she gets too close, trying for a blade strike, the borg catches her like a ragdoll and hurls her against the wall. The sickening crunch of impact sends waves of phantom pain through Johnny's consciousness, and he feels every broken rib as if they were his own. But V gets back up, because of course she does, spitting blood and fury.
The fight seems endless, a deadly dance of chrome and flesh. When Smasher's arm transforms into a rocket launcher, Johnny's warning dies in his throat — the explosion catches V's calf, tearing through muscle and making every step a new agony. The smell of burned flesh and the sound of her pained grunt haunts him, but still she fights, still she moves, dragging herself up the stairs to gain higher ground.
Her last two grenades fly true, the explosions ripping through Smasher's chassis, exposing vulnerable components beneath. The borg roars in rage, but V's already activating her Sandevistan, time slowing to a crawl as she pushes through the pain. Johnny holds his breath as she darts in close — too close — mantis blades flashing in the emergency lights. Smasher's arm hits the ground with a thunderous crash that shakes the walls.
More shots, more dodges, more close calls. V's bleeding, but Smasher's losing more pieces with each exchange. When she finally severs his other arm, the mighty borg crashes to his knees, systems failing, red optics flickering.
V stands before him, swaying slightly but unbowed, and draws Johnny's Malorian. The sight of his gun in her hands, pointed between Smasher's eyes, makes something fierce and wild surge through Johnny's soul. Fifty years of hatred, of nightmares, of unfinished business — all about to end at the hands of this incredible woman who's become his everything.
Her voice is cold as ice and steady as she speaks, "Johnny Silverhand sends his regards."
The gunshot echoes through the corridor like thunder, and Adam Smasher, the nightmare of Night City, falls. Johnny feels something break and reform inside him — closure, vengeance, relief, all mixing with desperate concern as V stumbles, the adrenaline starting to fade. His nemesis is dead, but V's hurt, badly, and they're not done yet.
Of course it happens now — a Relic malfunction hits V like a hammer blow, and with her injured leg giving out, she collapses to the floor with a pained grunt. Rolling onto her back in the growing pool of blood, she lets out a hysterical laugh through bloodied lips, somewhere between victory and exhaustion. "We did it, Johnny! Fuckin' zeroed the bastard!"
Johnny drops beside her in the crimson puddle to take her hand, his touch solid and desperate, fingers trembling as they find hers. Her calf is a mangled mess, hemorrhaging too fast, and he knows they're running out of time. The neon emergency lights paint the scene in harsh reds and blues, casting shadows across V's too-pale face, making the blood look almost black against her skin.
"Thanks, V. Almost done now, sweetheart. Gotta get up, Mikoshi's right through that door." His voice cracks on every word, terror making each syllable taste like ash.
But her smile, the peaceful acceptance he sees in her eyes, shatters his hopes. "Nah, Johnny. No fuckin' Mikoshi for me. Alt can blow the whole thing," she declares softly, her fingers tightening around his, leaving bloody prints on his chrome hand like a final signature.
"The fuck are you talki—" Johnny starts, panic clawing at his throat like a wild animal, but V cuts him off with a gentle squeeze of his hand. The tenderness of the gesture makes him want to scream, to rage, to tear down the whole fucking tower with his bare hands.
"Hey, shut up for once and listen!" Her voice is weak but determined, each word seeming to cost her more strength than she has left, each breath a battle won against time itself. "It's over now. I'm done with this bullshit. I just... wanted one last wild ride together and to keep my promise about Smasher. Remember when you asked if I'd take a bullet for you on a battlefield? Well, I took a damn rocket," she explains, tenderness and weariness mingling in her words.
She coughs up more blood but still manages to cup his cheek with her trembling hand, thumb wiping away tears he didn't know were falling. Her touch leaves crimson streaks across his face, marking him like war paint, like a brand he'll carry forever. "Sorry to leave you with the body in such a lame shape," she whispers, trying to joke even now. "Hey, no tears, okay?"
But it's too late — for the first time in fucking forever, tears stream freely down Johnny's face, and he doesn't give a fuck about hiding them. This woman, this incredible fucking woman who changed everything, who made him human again, who taught him how to love when he thought that part of him was long dead, is slipping away, and he can't stop it. Can't save her. Can't do shit but watch as the light in her eyes grows dimmer, like watching a star die in slow motion.
"No time for that. Now you're gonna take the wheel, patch up the leg as best you can, and delta the hell outta here," she commands weakly, still trying to protect him even at the end.
"V, don't you dare..." Johnny pleads, voice cracking as he pulls her closer, pressing his forehead to hers.
"It's okay. Really. Body's yours," she says with gentle finality, her fingers tracing the lines of his face like she's trying to memorize them for whatever comes after, like she's trying to take a piece of him with her into the darkness.
"Don't do this to me!!" Raw anguish tears through his words as he holds her tighter, as if his embrace could keep her soul from slipping away. As if love alone could anchor her to this world. As if anything could be enough to keep her here, with him, where she belongs.
"Was really nova to meet you, Johnny." Her last words are barely a whisper, filled with all the love they never needed to speak aloud, carried on a breath that feels too much like goodbye.
Come and take a walk on the wild side
Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain
You like your girls insane, so
Choose your last words, this is the last time
'Cause you and I, we were born to die
Johnny thought he knew what it meant to watch the world crumble around him — the day he lost his arm in the war, just a teenager bleeding out in the jungle with his best friend's cooling corpse beside him. The day Alt died because of his stupidity and recklessness. The day he came back from the dead to find his fight had meant nothing, standing over his unmarked grave in the oilfields. The day he realized he'd scarred the people he cared about so deeply that the wounds hadn't healed even fifty years later.
But this? This is worse. This is watching his whole universe collapse into nothing, feeling his sanity slip away with every beat of their failing heart.
The pain that rips through him when he is forced in the driver seat isn't just from their mangled leg — it's something deeper, primal, like his very soul is being torn to shreds. His screams echo through the empty corridor, raw and feral, more animal than human, tears streaming unchecked down his face as hysterical laughter mingles with his sobs.
V's just... retreated, pulled away to some dark corner of her own mind to fade away like a ghost. He can still feel her, but it's different now — like trying to catch starlight in his hands, like holding onto smoke, like watching the last person he loves dissolve into nothing right in front of him.
"No... no, no , NO!" His voice shatters like broken glass as he starts crawling, leaving crimson trails across the pristine floor. Hysteria edges into his words as he alternates between screaming and pleading. "You can't do this to me! You fuckin’ CAN'T ! You don't get to check out like this, V! You hear me?!"
He drags their broken body forward, inch by excruciating inch, his determination fueled by fifty years of rage and loss and this new, devastating love he never thought he'd feel again. The door to Mikoshi might as well be in another fucking dimension, his mind fractures further with each movement, but he keeps going, their blood marking his path like some twisted breadcrumb trail.
His vision blurs — from tears or blood loss or pure fucking madness, he can't tell anymore — but he won't stop. Won't let her slip away like everything else he's ever loved. "Didn't let you die in that landfill," he grunts through clenched teeth, tasting copper and salt, choking on tears and blood. "Not gonna let you die here." Their leg is screaming, but he pushes through it all, rambling now, barely coherent. "Just... just hold on, princess. Almost there..."
He can barely feel her now, her presence fading like the last notes of a song he never wanted to end, and it's driving him insane. His thoughts spiral into chaos, but he refuses to let go. The door's just a few meters away, might as well be a fucking mile, but he'll get there if he has to crawl through hell itself. He'll bring her back, or he'll tear apart whatever's left of his soul trying.
Because without her, there's nothing left. No reason, no purpose, no fucking point to any of it.
"V!" A voice cuts through Johnny's despair, and his blood runs cold with recognition. His fractured mind takes a moment to process the reality through the haze of pain and madness.
Fuck. With V's muscle memory guiding him, Johnny draws the Malorian in one fluid motion, aiming straight at the intruder. His hand shakes — from blood loss or rage or fear, he can't tell anymore, everything's mixing together in a tornado of emotion he can barely contain. There stands Arasaka's loyal dog, Goro Takemura, in a pristine white suit that seems to mock the carnage around them. His finger twitches on the trigger — it would be so easy, so fucking easy to pull it, to take out fifty years of hatred on this perfect target.
Takemura's chrome eyes scan the scene, and Johnny watches through a red haze as they land on Smasher's demolished frame. He wants to laugh — here lies the mighty Adam Smasher, torn apart by the woman currently fading away in Johnny's mind. The thought sends another wave of panic through him, making his vision blur. V's presence feels fainter with each passing second, and here he is, wasting precious time with Arasaka's pet samurai.
Moving with calculated precision across the blood-slicked floor, Takemura steps carefully around Smasher's remains. "V, I will not harm you..." Takemura's voice carries genuine concern, but Johnny's heard enough lies to last two lifetimes.
His laughter comes out broken, bordering on hysteria. "Bit fucking late for that, isn't it?" Johnny snarls through gritted teeth, voice raw from screaming.
With deliberate slowness, Takemura places his Shingen on the ground. Johnny watches through a haze of paranoia and pain, instinct screaming at him not to trust the corpo dog. But V's presence grows weaker with each heartbeat, and desperation wins over hatred. His hand shaking, he lowers the Malorian, though every fiber of his being screams to keep it raised.
"You missed her by a minute. Want me to take a message? Though last time you left without saying goodbye, so maybe that's your style," Johnny's voice drips with venom, each word calculated to hurt. The bitterness tastes like copper in his mouth, mixing with blood and fear.
The change in Takemura is instant — concern morphing into cold fury. "Silverhand. What have you done? Is she..."
"Wow, calm the fuck down, 'Saka dog. Didn't do shit to her — unlike some people here, I actually give a damn about V." The words come out in a rush, panic making them sharp and jagged. "She's still in here... barely hanging on." His voice cracks on the last words, raw terror bleeding through. "Need to get her to Mikoshi, force her back in control before she fades completely." Before I lose her forever, his mind screams.
Takemura's chrome eyes flicker to their blood-soaked form, and Johnny wants to laugh at the horror in his expression. As if he has any right to care now.
"Most ain't hers, but got a bad leg wound that needs attention," he explains, urgency making his thoughts scatter like broken glass. Every second feels like an eternity, each moment V slips further away. "Well, you gonna help 'er, or you gonna abandon her again when she needs you most?"
The barb hits home — Takemura flinches like he's been slapped. But his response comes without hesitation. "Tell me what must be done."
Johnny studies him through the red haze clouding his vision. His thoughts are a chaotic mess of memories — V's tears after Takemura left, her smile this morning, her blood on his hands now. But beggars can't be choosers, and right now, he's beyond desperate.
"Right. Gotta connect her to Mikoshi — right behind that door." His voice comes out rough, unsteady. "Once she's jacked in, I can drag her stubborn ass back where it belongs." A hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat. "But I swear to whatever fucking god you believe in, you fuck us over again, and I'll make sure these hands are the last thing you ever feel around your throat."
With a curt nod, Takemura moves to support them, and Johnny has to fight every instinct screaming at him not to let the corpo touch her body. Together, they make their agonizing way into a circular chamber, their labored footsteps echo like a funeral march as they approach the massive red pillar dominating the center — Mikoshi's physical heart, bathed in crimson light.
"Alright, alright, set her down here," Johnny manages through gritted teeth, pain and panic making his words slur. "I'll jack her in, and you help me get her into the coolant. Just... just make sure she doesn't fuckin' drown, got it?" He hates how his voice breaks on the last words, betraying the terror clawing at his insides.
Takemura hesitates, saying something about investigations and discoveries, but Johnny's fractured mind can barely process the words. They're just meaningless noise competing with the roaring in his ears, with V's fading presence, with the thundering of their shared heartbeat. Nothing matters except getting to her before she slips away completely.
Johnny's already fraying sanity snaps like a worn guitar string. "Fuckin' cryptic as always, ain't ya?" His voice comes out raw, hysteria bleeding through every word. "She's slipping away while you're playing twenty questions. No time for your mysterious bullshit."
Fighting through the agony in their leg, Johnny begins the connection sequence with trembling hands, carefully lowering V's body into the coolant. The liquid feels like ice against their wounds, and he can't completely suppress a hiss of pain. He knows what's coming, knows exactly what he has to do. Dying doesn't scare him — hasn't for a long time. But leaving her alone in this fucked up world? That terrifies him more than anything.
"Takemura."
"Mh?"
Johnny catches the bodyguard's augmented eyes, and for once, the hatred takes a backseat to something more important. V needs someone watching her back when he's gone, and despite everything — despite the anger, the betrayal, the corpo loyalty — Takemura came back. Maybe that counts for something. Maybe it has to.
"Ya better take care of her." His voice comes out broken, barely above a whisper, but the threat beneath is clear as day. It's not about keeping her head above water for the next few minutes — it's about all the minutes after, when he won't be there to watch over her anymore.
The words feel inadequate for everything he needs to say — watch her six, make sure she eats when she forgets, be there when the nightmares come. Keep her safe in this fucked up city that's already taken so much from her. Don't let her spiral when things get dark, when the weight of survival becomes too heavy. Make sure she knows she's not alone, that someone gives a damn if she lives or dies.
All the things he won't be able to do anymore, all the moments he'll miss, all the smiles he won't see. All the songs he'll never play for her, all the sunrises they'll never watch together, all the 'I love you's stuck in his throat that she'll never hear.
Johnny vaguely registers Takemura's solemn nod, but his attention is already elsewhere, desperately reaching for V's fading presence. His fractured thoughts spiral around her — memories of shared cigarettes and quiet conversations, of her fingers intertwined with his, of her sleeping peacefully in his arms. The way she laughs at his worst jokes, how she unconsciously leans into his touch, the determined set of her jaw before a fight. The soft vulnerability in her eyes when she thinks no one's watching, the warmth of her body against his during those precious nights together, the way she made him feel human again after fifty years of digital hell.
He's coming for her. One last time. One last chance to see her, to make sure she makes it through this mess alive. His consciousness starts dissolving, but for once, he doesn't fight it. This is how it has to be — him fading away so she can live. It's the easiest choice he's ever made, and the hardest thing he's ever done.
He clings to these fragments as darkness creeps in at the edges of his consciousness, hoping against hope that she knows how much she changed him, how much she means to him. How she taught him to feel again, to care again, to love again when he thought those parts of him died ages ago.
The world fades to black before he can form the words, but his last coherent thought is of her — please live, princess. Just fucking live. Live for both of us. Live the life you deserve, even if I can't be there to see it.
Notes:
Message thread generator HTML/CSS by Luvwich ! Have fun with it here ♥
Lot of bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song: Lana Del Rey - Born to Die
• Author's rambling: *Take another deep breath* And that’s that :D I hope you enjoyed this chapter and that it wasn’t too long or tedious to read.
For those who don’t remember the full contents of V’s voicemail to Takemura and/or want V’s perspective on that part of the story, I’d recommend revisiting the very first chapter of this story (wow, I can’t believe that was almost two years ago...). And next time... Mikoshi. Finally. It’ll be a shorter chapter, I promise!
That’s all for now — see you in two weeks! In the meantime, feel free to let me know what you thought of this chapter in the comments — I love hearing your feedback! Thank you all! ♥xoxo, see you next time ♥
Chapter 30: In The End
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Hey everyone! :) Here we are, Mikoshi, finally! After two years of writing, we're finally concluding the first part of this story.
I won't keep you any longer, enjoy this chapter, and I'll see you in the end notes!• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks a lot for all the subs, bookmarks, and kudos ♥ And thank you Loraphine and Karou101 for your comments. ♥ Also, special thanks to Aliya, Zed, and Loraphine (Thanks for trying to convince people to read this story, lol) !♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
All I know, time is a valuable thing
Watch it fly by as the pendulum swings
Watch it count down to the end of the day
The clock ticks life away
V opens her eyes to an endless void of black nothingness, and the first thing she notices makes her want to scream — there's a horrifying sense of emptiness, like something vital has been violently torn from her soul, butchered out of her very being. The realization hits her like a shotgun blast to the chest — this isn't death, this is so much worse. For the first time in over two months, she's completely, utterly alone in her own head, and the silence is driving her insane.
Fuckin' Mikoshi. The thought comes slowly, painfully, as reality crashes down around her like shattered glass. She should have seen this coming, should have known better. Once again, Johnny went and did whatever the fuck he wanted, despite everything she told him, despite her desperate attempts to fade away before they reached this point.
Must have jacked them in while she was out, and Alt probably fried them with Soulkiller the second they entered cyberspace, just like she promised she would. Just like V had tried so fucking hard to prevent.
And that's what this emptiness is — the unbearable, soul-crushing absence of Johnny. Alt separated them, carved him out of her mind like a surgeon with a rusty blade, leaving nothing but a raw, bleeding wound where he used to be. The space he occupied feels like a black hole, sucking everything into its void — her thoughts, her emotions, her very sense of self.
She can't think straight, can't focus on anything except the maddening silence where his voice should be. Where's his sarcastic drawl? His comforting presence? The familiar weight of his consciousness intertwined with hers? Gone. All fucking gone.
The realization is so agonizing that if she were still in the real world, she'd probably be on her knees, screaming until her lungs gave out. But here, in this digital hell, there's nothing — no need to breathe, no way to properly express the grief tearing her apart from the inside. She can't even scream, can't cry, can't do anything but exist in this maddening void where everything feels wrong, wrong, WRONG. Her mind keeps reaching for him automatically, like a tongue probing at a missing tooth, only to find nothing but emptiness and pain.
She tries to clench her fists, dig her nails into her palms, desperate to feel something, anything other than the vertigo caused by his absence. But it's useless — physical pain has no meaning here. Which makes sense, but is fucking infuriating. Even her leg, which had been torn to shreds during her fight with Smasher, appears perfectly normal now.
The wrongness of it all makes her want to tear at her own code, to break apart this perfect digital representation until it matches how broken she feels inside. Maybe if she screams loud enough, he'll hear her. Maybe if she breaks herself enough, he'll come back to put her back together.
The silence in her head is deafening, mocking. No sarcastic comments, no shared cigarettes, no gentle touch of his consciousness against hers. Just emptiness. Just nothing. Just her, alone in the dark, exactly what she never wanted to be again. She feels like she's drowning in the void he left behind, like she's being torn apart at the seams. How is she supposed to exist like this? How is she supposed to be just herself when half of her is missing?
Completely shattered but unable to bear this oppressive nothingness any longer, V forces herself to call into the void, "Alt?" Her voice sounds strange here, both distant and too close, like it's bouncing off walls that don't exist. The effort of speaking without Johnny's presence in her mind feels wrong, like trying to breathe underwater. Everything feels wrong.
For several endless moments, nothing happens. Then suddenly, a column of blindingly yellow light pierces through the darkness in the distance. Alt's voice resonates through the void, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky. Like a patient etherized upon a table. Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets..."
V stands there, her fractured mind struggling to process what's happening. The realization hits her like a slap to the face — a fucking poem ? Really? After Alt fried her with Soulkiller and ripped Johnny away from her, tore him out of her consciousness like he was nothing but unwanted code, all she gets is some pretentious poetry and a distant light? She would laugh if the whole situation wasn't so completely fucked up, if the void in her head wasn't threatening to swallow her whole. If she couldn't still feel the raw, bleeding edges where Johnny used to be.
The environment shifts again — a massive pyramid of ethereal blue light materializes around the distant yellow beam, and a path forms, stretching from V's feet toward its summit. The sudden change in the void makes her dizzy, or maybe it's just the constant vertigo of being alone in her own head again.
She starts walking as Alt finishes her recitation, "To lead you to an overwhelming question... Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?' Let us go and make our visit." V's thoughts are scattered, fragmented — What would her rockerboy say about this weird display? But there's no answering snark, no comforting presence at the back of her mind. Just silence. Just emptiness. Just her.
She climbs the steps toward the pyramid's peak without any physical effort, which makes a twisted kind of sense — here, she's nothing but lines of code moving through more code, digital information flowing through digital space. The crystalline structure glows an eerie blue, casting strange shadows that shouldn't exist in this virtual void. Each step feels both weightless and impossibly heavy — how is she supposed to keep going when half of her is missing? When every moment without him feels like drowning?
Reaching the summit, she continues forward until she has a clear view of the yellow light column, stretching endlessly upward into the digital abyss. The sight should be impressive, but all she can think about is how wrong it feels to experience this alone, how every new sight and sensation just emphasizes his absence.
"Alt? You here?" She calls out again, but this time there's no response, not even another line of poetry. Fucking fine. Nothing left to do but wait for whatever comes next, she supposes.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
"Once out of nature I shall never take, my bodily form from any natural thing..." Alt's voice echoes through the darkness.
Johnny opens his eyes to this poetic welcome — fuck, Alt, seriously ? But the pretentious verses are quickly forgotten when he realizes he can't feel V in his mind anymore. At first, panic floods through him like ice in his veins — did he arrive too late? Did her consciousness fade while he was connecting to Mikoshi? The thought of losing her, of failing her when she needed him most, makes him feel like he's being torn apart. His mind keeps replaying her last moments — the blood, the pain, the way she tried to slip away thinking it would save him. Stupid, brave, beautiful V.
That's when he forces himself to get his shit together, pushing back the crushing anxiety threatening to overwhelm him. He's in Mikoshi, and Alt probably just separated them the moment he dove into cyberspace. Just separated ... Yeah, right, like his soul hasn't been ripped in half, like there isn't a bleeding wound where V's consciousness used to be intertwined with his. He keeps reaching for her automatically — searching for her thoughts, her emotions, the warm presence that had become as natural as breathing. The silence where she should be is deafening.
But... this also means V is probably here somewhere. He just needs to find her. And if she's anywhere in this digital hellscape, it's probably in that weird pyramid of light in the distance. If she's not there, he'll search every corner of this infinite void for as long as it takes, just for one chance to see her again and, most importantly, to get her back into her body where she belongs. He's not leaving this place without her — not after everything they've been through, not after finally admitting to himself how much she means to him. Not after watching her try to die for him. Never again.
So yeah. Pyramid — focus. He starts walking along the path of blue light, completely ignoring Alt's voice as she continues spouting poetry into the void. His thoughts are fixed on V, on finding her, on making this right. Each step feels both too fast and too slow — he wants to run, to sprint toward any chance of seeing her again, but the digital space seems to have its own rules about movement and time.
His mind keeps cycling through memories — her laugh, her smile, the way she looks at him when she thinks he's not paying attention. The quiet moments in the dark when they're both too honest. The way she changed him, saved him, made him human again when he thought that part of him died fifty years ago.
The silence in his head where V should be is maddening, but he channels that pain into determination. He's coming for her. Again. Always. No matter what it takes. This time, he's going to save her, even if it means leaving her forever. Even if it breaks what's left of his heart to do it.
He climbs the stairs, each step bringing him closer to the piercing yellow light at the pyramid's center. That's when he sees her silhouette emerging from the glow, and his heart stops. It's her. He can feel it in his very essence, doesn't even need to get closer to be sure. But fuck if he's not going to do it anyway, drawn to her like he's been since the moment they merged, like a piece of himself trying to find its way home.
She's standing with her back to him, shoulders tense like she's carrying the weight of Night City itself. Even from here, he can see how lost she looks, how broken, and it tears at something deep inside him. He should be furious — she tried to die on him, tried to slip away thinking it would save him. He wants to be angry, wants to shake her and scream at her for being so fucking stupid. But the moment he places a hand on her shoulder, his voice comes out raw and broken instead, barely a whisper, "V..."
She whirls around and for a moment, just stares at him, eyes wide and desperate, like she's afraid he'll fade away if she blinks. Then something in her breaks, shatters completely. "Johnny," she chokes out, and suddenly she's in his arms, fingers clutching at his tank top, face buried against his chest like she's trying to crawl inside him, to recreate what was stolen from them.
"You stupid fuckin' gonk..." She mumbles against his chest, voice cracking. Her whole body is trembling, and he can feel her tears soaking through his shirt. "What happened to not come here? To delta the fuck outta that tower before someone catches you?"
He should tell her off for being so goddamn selfish, for trying to make that choice for both of them. Instead, he just holds her tighter, one hand tangled in her hair, the other wrapped around her waist like he's afraid she'll disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly. "And what happened to 'together till the goddamn end', huh?" His voice is rough with emotion as he buries his face in her hair, breathing her in like she's oxygen and he's drowning.
The relief of finding her again is so overwhelming that he can't even inject anger into his words. All he can feel is the desperate need to keep her close, to never let go again. "You fuckin' left me behind, princess. After everything we've been through? After all your talk about not givin’ up? Really thought I'd let you fade away alone in your own brain? Fuck that."
She pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes bright with tears she's trying desperately not to shed. Her fingers trace his face like she's trying to memorize it, like she's afraid this might be the last time. "It was my goddamn choice," she whispers, voice breaking. "Rather die than... Fuck, Johnny, I can't... Can't feel you anymore. In my head. It's just... empty. Silent. Like someone carved out half of my fuckin’ soul and left this... this void where you should be."
"I know, princess. I know." His hand cups her face, thumb brushing away her tears. His other hand presses her closer, like he could somehow merge them back together through sheer force of will. "Feel it too. Fuckin’ hurts worse than dyin’ did. But ain't letting you go, V. Not now, not ever. You hear me? We'll figure this shit out together or we won't figure it out at all. No more of this self-sacrificing bullshit. You don't get to decide to die for me."
"Just... shut up," she breathes against his chest, fingers twisting tighter in his shirt. "Just hold me. Please. While we still can."
So he does. He holds her like she's the only real thing left, like she's keeping him anchored to reality. His fingers thread through her hair, his other hand pressing against the small of her back, holding her so close he can feel her heart beating against his chest — which shouldn't even be possible here, but fuck if he cares about what's possible anymore.
He wants to tell her so many things. Wants to tell her he fucking loves her — has for a while now, probably since that night on the oil fields when she looked at him like he was worth saving. Maybe even before that. Wants to tell her she can't just check out on the world like that. That even if he won't be there anymore, there are so many people who care about her out there. Fuck — even that stuck-up corpo lapdog Takemura came back for her. She can't just deprive the world of herself like that. Can't just give up.
But the words get stuck in his throat, tangled up with everything else he's never been able to say. So he just holds her tighter, presses his face into her hair, tries to memorize every detail of this moment. The way she feels in his arms, the scent of her hair, the warmth of her body against his. How perfectly they fit together, like two halves of the same whole. Even here, even now, even after everything's gone to shit, this still feels right. Feels like home.
He knows they're running out of time. Knows Alt is probably watching, waiting. Knows they'll have to face whatever comes next soon enough. But for now, for just this moment, he lets himself hold her. Lets himself pretend they have all the time in the world. Lets himself love her without words, because words have never been enough anyway.
Indeed, moments later, a new path of light illuminates near them in an obvious invitation. Johnny pulls away from V reluctantly, but can't bring himself to completely let go of her hand, their fingers still intertwined like they're afraid to lose that last point of contact. "C'mon, sweetheart. Think Alt's waitin' for us."
V swallows hard, squeezing his fingers with almost painful intensity, but nods anyway. Her eyes are still red-rimmed from earlier, but there's a determination in them now, even if it's tinged with something that looks too much like resignation for Johnny's comfort. Together, they follow the light, quickly arriving near a familiar scene reconstructed in luminous particles — that table, those booths... They immediately recognize Tom's Diner where they had their first real conversation.
Nope, definitely not counting that time before when Johnny tried to smash V's head against the window of her apartment in Megabuilding H10, trying to take control of her body. The memory makes him wince now — how far they've come since then, from wanting to kill each other to... this. Whatever this desperate, all-consuming thing between them is.
"Is this it?" The merc asks, dropping into one of the seats, surprised by the scenery materializing around them. The familiar setting feels almost surreal in this digital void, like a dream within a dream. "The infamous prison of souls?"
"Not how I remember it, but Alt wasn't runnin' the show back then." Johnny responds, sliding into the booth across from her, but immediately reaching for her hand across the table, like even that small distance between them is unbearable. Their fingers interlock automatically, a habit neither wants to break, especially now when every touch feels like it could be the last.
"So where are all of Soulkiller's victims?" She asks, her thumb absently brushing over his chrome knuckles in a gesture that's become second nature.
"Fuck if I know. We only see what Alt wants us to see. Speakin' of..." He trails off, then shouts into the void, "Alt? Gonna show yourself? Say 'hi', maybe?"
She materializes instantly beside them in a swarm of red particles, every bit the terrifying digital goddess she's become — twice their size, her face an expressionless mask as she looks down at them from her imposing height. The sight makes V's grip on Johnny's hand tighten involuntarily.
"I am currently verifying the checksum and eliminating engram copy errors in the process." She launches straight in with her monotone voice. So, no ‘hi’, then — Johnny barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. Indifferent to his reaction, Alt continues, "I applied Soulkiller to separating your two psyches, thereby creating V's distinct construct. An added analgesic protocol precluded any perception of pain."
Johnny and V share a knowing look at her words — she might have eliminated any physical pain from the process, but the rest... the sensation of their souls being torn apart like cheap paper is just as agonizing, and she didn't do shit about that. The emptiness where their connection used to be throbs like an open wound.
"I was unable to eliminate all the changes made through the Johnny data incursion and overwrite, but V's engram integrity remains high." Alt continues, imperturbable, her massive form casting strange lights and shadows over their familiar setting.
Well, that at least gives Johnny some hope. "Meaning, you can transfer her psyche back into her brain?"
"As if onto a blank, virgin partition." She confirms.
So this is it. Everything they've fought for these past weeks, and victory is finally within reach. Johnny lets out a relieved sigh, squeezing V's hand, trying to catch her eye, but the merc keeps avoiding his gaze, her face grim with an expression that makes his newfound hope start to crumble. There's something in her eyes, something that makes his chest tight with dread.
And the other shoe doesn't wait to drop. The netrunner announces, her emotionless voice somehow making the words even more devastating, each syllable falling like a death sentence in the artificial quiet. "There is one aspect I failed to take into account."
"Alt...?" Johnny's voice comes out tight, half a question, half a warning. He doesn't like this, doesn't like this at all. Something cold and terrible starts creeping up his spine, and he feels V's hand trembling slightly in his. The familiar setting of Tom's Diner suddenly feels wrong, twisted, like a nightmare version of what should be a comforting memory. The digital walls seem to close in around them, the air growing thick with unspoken dread.
"The body as a key factor in this transaction. I made a mistake in excluding it." She continues, as if she's discussing a simple decimal point error rather than their lives, rather than V's very existence. "DNA reconfiguration has progressed too far. Added to aggressive, invasive medication, the body's immune system attacking its own neurons..."
"Spit it out!" Johnny barks, terrified of the implications, his voice cracking with barely contained panic. His grip on V's hand is almost crushing now, like holding her tighter could somehow protect her from whatever Alt is about to say. Like if he just holds on hard enough, he can keep her anchored to this world, keep her safe, keep her alive. "In human terms!"
And that's when she drops a truth bomb that even in his worst nightmares, he hadn't prepared for. "V will die independent of what I do. This is inevitable. This is imminent."
The world shatters around Johnny, reality crumbling like broken code. His fingers tighten so hard around V's that in the real world, he probably would have broken her hand. But she's squeezing back just as desperately, and when he finally forces himself to look at her face, what he sees there is worse than any pain — acceptance. Like she knew, somehow. Like she's been expecting this all along.
Rage and despair surge through him like a tidal wave, threatening to drown everything else. His free hand slams against the table, making the digital construct flicker and distort around them. "For fuck's sake, Alt!" He roars, the sound raw and broken and furious. "You had one job and you fucked it up?!"
The digital space around them ripples with his anger, reflecting the storm of emotions tearing through him. He wants to tear this place apart, wants to scream until his throat bleeds, wants to destroy everything until the universe gives him another option. Anything but this.
Alt dismisses his accusation with a wave of her hand, red artifacts following the movement. "I could not know the situation before conducting a thorough and precise diagnosis."
"You promised V a new life and you lied! You fuckin' lied!!" He explodes, unable to contain his frustration, his voice breaking on the last word. The pain in his chest is unbearable, like someone's ripping his heart out all over again. "Check again! If V's engram is damaged, can't you fix her?!"
"Hardware — therein lies the problem. The organism's neurons have been dying for a time. Any attempt at a procedure upon its brain would result in the latter's death." Alt explains flatly, as if each word isn't shattering Johnny's world piece by piece. "And the Relic is too damaged to upload V's engram onto it in hopes that its nanites could perform the reverse operation."
A long silence follows her declaration, heavy with the weight of everything they've lost, everything they're about to lose. The digital diner seems to dim around them, as if even this artificial reality is mourning what's to come. Johnny's world narrows down to the feeling of V's hand in his, to the steady pressure of her fingers against his palm.
He can't process this. Can't accept it. Can't imagine a world where she doesn't exist. The rage drains out of him, leaving nothing but raw, crushing despair. He's lost everything before — his life, his body, his soul — but somehow, losing V feels worse than all of that combined. She was supposed to live. She was supposed to have a chance. She was supposed to be the one thing he didn't destroy.
He failed V — despite all his promises, he completely failed her. And now, he can't even bring himself to look her in the eyes. The weight of his failure crushes him, makes it hard to breathe even in this digital space where breathing shouldn't matter. Every promise he made, every time he swore he'd find a way to save her — all of it crumbles to dust in his hands. Desperate, Johnny makes one last attempt, his voice rough with barely contained emotion. "Alt, c'mon. There's gotta be a way outta this..."
"The biochip has irreversibly changed the host organism. It no longer belongs to V, who is an intruder here." Alt explains, indifferent to his distress, her massive form looming over them like a digital specter of death. "The situation is different for you. All changes were made to accommodate you."
V, who had remained silent until now, her hand still clutched in Johnny's like a lifeline, finally speaks up, her voice steady, "Alt? If you were me, heh... what would you do?"
"As I said, Johnny can retain the body, remain there, while you come with me." She materializes a path leading to the great column of yellow light shining in the distance, the bridge stretching out like a road to oblivion. "This bridge leads deeper into cyberspace. Cross it and permanently sever the connection with your body. The path to your body passes through that mortal well." She indicates, pointing to an opposite path leading to what looks like a bathtub emanating an eerie blue glow.
Alt pauses for a few moments before finally answering her question, her emotionless voice somehow making the words even more devastating. "I'll not interfere in your personal affairs, but... You shall live for about six months. Perhaps somewhat more. The changes are irreversible. You have nothing left to lose, he has everything to gain. You should come with me."
V swallows hard, but her voice carries not the slightest hesitation when she turns back to Johnny. The determination in her eyes makes his heart clench painfully in his chest. He knows that look — it's the same one she had when she decided to save his life, when she chose to trust him despite everything. It's the look that says she's already made up her mind, and nothing in this world or the next will change it. "What I told you at the Pistis Sophia — we stick to that. I'll go. You stay."
Her response makes Johnny's non-existent heart stop dead. The world seems to tilt on its axis, everything going sideways and wrong. This can't be happening. This can't be real. Keeping his eyes fixed on the merc and trying to master his panic to keep his voice from shaking, he says, "Alt, give us a minute. V and I need to talk."
The words come out steadier than he feels, but inside he's screaming, raging against the unfairness of it all. The acceptance in her eyes, the quiet resignation in her voice — it terrifies him more than anything Alt has said so far. And he knows, with a certainty that tears him apart inside, that he's about to fight a battle he's already lost.
He waits until Alt disappears in a cloud of red pixels before finally letting go of V's hand, running his hands over his face in a gesture of pure exhaustion. His fingers are trembling — everything feels wrong, broken, like the world is falling apart around him. He knows the netrunner still reigns supreme here, that she can probably hear every word even if she had the courtesy to dematerialize, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the quiet sadness tinged with determination on V's face, a look he's starting to recognize and fucking hate with every fiber of his being.
Six months. Six fucking months is all she'd have left. And she wants to throw even that away, to dissolve into cyberspace with Alt instead. The thought makes him physically sick, makes him want to scream, to fight, to tear this whole place apart until he finds another solution.
"How can you be so calm 'bout this? Fuckin' hell, V... You should be furious! I'm losing my goddamn mind here and you, you..." He leans across the table separating them, studying her expression more closely, and suddenly realization hits him like a punch to the gut. The truth crashes over him like a wave, leaving him drowning. "You don't even look surprised. Fuck... You knew..."
"Johnny, I..." She tries to reach for his hand again, her eyes full of a pain that mirrors his own.
But he avoids it, jumping to his feet — he needs to move, to think, to... Fuck, he doesn't even know anymore. He paces in front of the virtual table, his thoughts spiraling into chaos. There has to be a way. Has to be something they haven't thought of yet. He can't accept this ending, can't let her fade away into nothing, can't watch her become just another ghost in Alt's digital hell.
The digital space around them seems to pulse with his agitation, reality flickering like a bad connection. Every step feels like he's trying to outrun the truth, but it follows him like a shadow, dark and inescapable. His mind is a storm of emotions — rage, fear, desperation, grief — all mixing together until he can barely breathe.
Finally, he stops, turning his back to her, and repeats in a voice so broken it barely sounds like his own, "You knew..."
In an instant, V is behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and this time, he doesn't push her away. Can't push her away. Not when every moment they have left is counting down like a timer he can't stop. She presses her forehead between his shoulder blades, confessing, "I... I suspected. Had no way to be sure, but... Remember that conversation I had with So Mi in Dogtown, when I asked her to make sure you couldn't hear us...?"
"How could I forget that..." Johnny growls, squeezing his eyes shut against the burning sensation behind them, but his hands come to cover hers on his stomach, holding her there like she isn't already slipping through his fingers.
"When I told her I didn't want the neural matrix, not if it risked erasing you, that I'd rather find another solution for us..." She takes a deep breath before continuing, her voice muffled against his back. "Song told me my body had changed too much, that it was more yours than mine. Basically everythin’ your ex output just told us. She wasn't a hundred percent sure but... yeah, she warned me this could happen. So no, I'm not really surprised."
"Shit, V... you should've told me..." He whispers, his voice raw with emotion. Each word feels like it's being torn from his throat. His fingers tighten over hers, chrome against flesh, holding on like it's the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
"Why? So I could watch you drive yourself crazy about something you can't do shit about?" V asks, her fist balling in the fabric of his top. He can feel her trembling against his back, betraying the calm in her voice. "Was tryin' to protect you."
"Yeah, great. Good fuckin' job." He chokes out, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. His chest feels too tight, like someone's wrapped barbed wire around his heart and keeps pulling it tighter. The choice is clear — it's always been clear, really. Since that first moment when he realized he actually gave a shit about her. It's her. It's always gonna be her. Six months of life is better than an eternity of code. She deserves those months, deserves to feel the sun on her face, to ride her bike through Night City, to live whatever time she has left as herself.
"I'm sorry. Really am." She tightens her grip on him, like she's trying to anchor them both to this moment.
Johnny turns in her arms to face her, his desperate gaze meeting hers. The pain in his eyes is raw, unfiltered — all his usual walls and defenses stripped away, leaving nothing but fierce determination beneath. He's going to save her, even if it means never seeing her again. Even if it means becoming another piece of Alt's collected consciousness. "Fuck, V... we really need to talk."
"I know. Just, not here, alright? Saw that diner enough for one lifetime." She asks, her hand coming up to cup his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He leans into the touch, memorizing the feeling. Soon enough, it'll be all he has left.
"Yeah sure, whatever." Johnny sighs, then steps back, taking her hand. His voice cracks slightly as he adds, "C'mon, sweetheart. One last walk, just you and me."
She nods, and they both walk away, wandering aimlessly into the darkness of Mikoshi. Their fingers intertwined, they move through the digital void, each step taking them closer to a conversation neither wants to have.
Johnny's grip on her hand is almost painful, knowing these are their last moments together. But his mind is made up. V will live, will have those six months, will get to see another sunrise. And he'll become another ghost in the machine, knowing at least that she's out there, alive and free.
They wander aimlessly through the digital void, moving away until the previous scenery dissolves into nothingness — until all they can see are abstract blue lights floating in Mikoshi's endless expanse. But no matter which direction they take, the great column of light and the well leading back to the body seem to mock them, neither closer nor further away, like a mirage in this digital desert.
As if reminding them there's no way out, no escape from the choice they have to make. The digital space stretches endlessly around them, a vast nothingness punctuated only by floating data streams and the occasional flicker of code, each pulse of light feeling like a heartbeat counting down their remaining time together.
Johnny finally sits down on the non-existent floor, pulling V's hand to get her to settle beside him. His movements are gentle but desperate, like each touch might be their last. He wraps his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close against him, and announces without beating around the bush, "You're going back to your body, princess. I'm goin' with Alt, fuck knows where. Beyond the Blackwall, to become part of her. Whatever the hell that means." His voice is steady, determined, even as his heart feels like it's being torn apart. He's made his choice — she lives, he goes. Simple as that.
"No." Her response is firm, definitive, leaving no room for argument. But he can feel the slight tremor in her body, betraying the emotion behind that single word.
"Fuck, V..." His grip tightens, his fingertips digging into her skin. "Just listen to me, for once!"
"No, you fuckin' listen, for once!" V breaks free from his embrace, but only to settle even closer, sitting between his legs to look him straight in the eyes. The fierce determination in her gaze matches his own, two unstoppable forces colliding. "If you think I'm gonna let you take this path, let you be a shapeless shadow in a digital afterlife... Really think I'd rather die. Lettin’ Alt nibble away at your code... Fuck, it'll change you. You won't be you anymore. And I can't let that happen." Her voice cracks on the last words, raw with emotion.
"Could say the same thing about you... Shit, after what happened with Songbird, we saw what the Wall can do. And I don't want ya anywhere near that thing." Johnny cups her face in his hands, bringing her even closer, his thumbs stroking her cheeks, wiping away her tears. "Just trust me, sweetheart, it's gotta be me who goes. Already took that first step a while back. I'll have an easier go of it." The lie tastes bitter on his tongue, but he'd say anything, promise anything, to keep her safe, to keep her alive.
"Stop." V's voice breaks in a shaky sob, her hands coming up to grip his wrists like she's drowning and he's her only lifeline. "Just stop."
He presses their foreheads together, giving her a moment of respite, his hand cradling the back of her head, needing to savor the feeling of his fingers tangled in her hair one last time. Even in this place where nothing should be real, this still feels the same, so he wants them to have these final moments.
The familiar texture of her hair between his fingers, the warmth of her skin against his, the slight tremor in her breathing — he commits it all to memory, knowing soon enough memories will be all he has left. Each sensation burns itself into his mind, a bittersweet reminder of everything he's about to lose, everything he's willing to sacrifice to keep her in the world of the living.
Finally, Johnny breaks the silence, his voice rough but gentle. "Look, I get it, six months ain't much. But it'll be six months of freedom, of real fuckin' life, with people who love you around. Don't think you realize how many people give a shit about you out there, V. How many friends you got, how many gonks would move heaven and earth just to see you smile one more time. Hell, best case scenario, they might even return the favor if you let 'em, maybe even find a way to save your sorry ass for good." He's grasping at straws and he knows it, but he'd promise her the moon if it meant keeping her alive.
V lets out a broken laugh that sounds more like a sob, the sound tearing at his heart. "Know you're tryin' to plead your case, rockerboy, but you're doin' a piss poor job at it. You said it yourself, six months. You seriously think I could go back to Vik, or Panam, or anyone, just to tell 'em I sacrificed you for a few more months? And—"
"So fuckin' what?" He interrupts, anger and desperation mixing in his voice like a toxic cocktail. "Gonna just roll over instead of fightin' for what's yours, decomish yourself 'cause you're too fuckin' scared to say goodbye?"
"Not the goddamn point, and you know it. Already said my goodbyes. To everyone who matters." She caresses his face tenderly, her touch so gentle it feels like it's killing him. "You heard Alt — if I keep the body, I'm gonna flatline soon anyway. And I'll have to spend my last moments in a body that's tryin' to reject me, that keeps remindin' me I shouldn't be the one still breathin'... Every second just a countdown to the end. A countdown I’ll have to face without you…"
"V..." Johnny warns, voice cracking, not wanting to hear it, not wanting to face the truth in her words. Each syllable feels like a knife in his gut.
She ignores him and continues, her voice soft but determined, each word hitting him like a bullet. "But you... You could have a whole new life, Johnny. A real second chance, not this half-assed existence you've had as an engram in my head. Could play music again, have coffee in the mornin', smoke under the stars... Do whatever the fuck you want. Feel the wind while ridin' through the Badlands, taste real tequila 'stead of just memories, watch the sun rise over Night City, make somethin' of this life that ain't just violence and revenge. Build somethin' preem from all this mess."
She tucks back a strand of his hair behind his ear, like she did so many times before, the familiar gesture now feeling like a goodbye. "And that, Johnny, that's the most beautiful thing I could hope for. My last gift to you. Let me have that, let me know you're gonna be okay..."
Something breaks in Johnny, shatters like glass in his chest, and he can only let out a strangled sound, too close to a sob for comfort. His hands shake violently as they frame her face, fingers tangling in her hair like he could somehow keep her from slipping away.
"Fuck, how can you ask me that?! Want me to live a life that should be yours, pretend like I didn't get you killed the moment that fuckin' chip landed in your head? Want me to wake up every goddamn mornin' and act like you're not gone 'cause of me? Have to see your eyes every time I look in a mirror? Shit, V... Don't think I'll ever be okay if I gotta live wearin' your goddamn face…”
A heavy silence follows his words, broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant hum of Mikoshi's digital heart. The void around them seems to pulse with their shared agony, data streams flickering like dying stars. They cling to each other in the darkness, two souls trying to delay the inevitable, both knowing that no matter what choice they make, it will tear them apart. The air between them is thick with unspoken words, with all the things they never had time to say, with the weight of a future that's slipping through their fingers like sand.
"Then change it." V breathes after endless seconds of silence, her words barely a whisper in the vast digital void. "Change everything you want in your body. Go see a ripper, make that meat look like yourself, or like whatever you want. Fuck, you even got that military grade shapeshift chrome, you could use that, you could..." Her voice trails off, desperate to offer solutions, to make this easier for him somehow.
"Fuck that!" He gasps, her words hitting him like a physical blow, making him recoil as if she'd struck him. The very suggestion feels like sacrilege. His voice turns harsh, breaking at the edges. "You really think I got any right to do that, to change who you are even more than I already have? To erase the last traces of you from this world? No. Fuckin'. Way."
"Of course you can. Got my blessin', Johnny." She tightens her grip on him, fingers digging into his shoulders, desperate to make him understand. Her eyes search his, pleading. "For everything. For all of it."
"Got way too much faith in me, princess." He chuckles bitterly, nervously running a hand through his hair, the gesture almost violent in its desperation. "Okay, let's say I do it. I abandon you here, steal your body." He sees her about to protest his choice of words and presses a finger to her lips, gently shushing her, the tenderness of the gesture contrasting with the storm in his eyes. "Let's say I do. You think I could face everything you're leavin' behind? That I could go to any of your friends — or, shit, what's left of mine, for what it's worth — and tell 'em what happened? Tell 'em I let you fade away into code while I walked away with your life?"
"Doesn't matter, you don't have to." V assures him, taking his hand to kiss his knuckles, her lips lingering on his skin like a prayer. "You can ghost 'em. Ghost NC entirely. Start fresh somewhere else. Be whoever you wanna be."
"Heh, now that sounds more like somethin' I'd do. The cowardly way out." Johnny shakes his head in self-loathing, disgust evident in his voice. "And then what? What you think I'm gonna do, drive my Porsche into the sunset, forget what happened? Pretend like half my soul ain't trapped behind the Blackwall? I'm not good at lettin' go, sweetheart, you know that. How long before guilt makes me fall back into my self-destructive patterns? Before I wreck your body, endin' up in my final grave, makin' your sacrifice meaningless? How many days before I can't take it anymore, before I follow you into the void?"
"Fuck, rockerboy, I dunno." She answers honestly, her voice thick with emotion, cracking under the weight of unshed tears. "But I think you're not givin' yourself enough credit. I'm sure you'll be okay. You'll survive this. You always do."
"I won't. Damn, V, I won't ." He breaks completely, his shoulders shaking as fifty years of built-up walls finally crumble into dust. The legendary Johnny Silverhand, reduced to this — a man on his knees, begging fate for mercy. "I'm so tired of pretendin' I can always be strong. Reached my breaking point here..."
"Johnny..." She cups his face again, trying to soothe him, her thumbs wiping away tears he didn't even realize were falling. Her own vision blurs as she watches him fall apart.
"No, sweetheart. I can't." He continues, his voice barely above a whisper, raw and broken in a way she's never heard before. Each word feels like it's being torn from his very soul. "Don't ask me to live without you. Not when you've become the only thing worth livin' for."
V pulls him closer, wrapping her arms around him as he shakes, pressing soft kisses to his temple, his eyelids, his cheek, anywhere she can reach. Each touch feels like she's trying to heal something broken beyond repair. "Shh, just listen to me, you stubborn gonk..." Her voice is gentle, soothing. "You didn't steal nothin' from me. These past two months... fuck, Johnny, you have no idea what you gave me. Before you, I was just another street merc chasin' eddies, didn't even know who I really was. Hell, even my dream of reachin’ the major leagues wasn't really mine — was Jackie's, and I just rolled with it. Was just livin' someone else's life, someone else's dreams. You showed me how to actually live, how to burn bright. How to be my own person."
"Don't..." He chokes out, trying to pull away, but she holds him tighter, refusing to let him retreat behind his walls again. His hands clutch at her, torn between pushing her away and pulling her closer, desperate and lost. "Fuck, V, please don't make this harder..."
"Shut up and listen." She threads her fingers through his hair, cradling his head against her shoulder, feeling him trembling against her. "Two months and three days. That's what we got together. And in that time, you changed everything. Made me see Night City through your eyes, made me understand what it means to really fight for something. Made me feel alive in ways I never thought possible. Taught me how to really live, how to make every moment count. How to love so deeply it burns."
Johnny lets out a broken sound against her neck, his arms wrapping around her waist like steel bands, holding on like she's his last anchor to sanity. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, V, stop... You're tearin' me apart here..."
"Two months," she continues, her voice wavering but determined, each word carrying the weight of everything they've shared, everything they've become to each other, "might not sound like much, but they were the best days of my life. Every single one of 'em. Even when we were fightin', even when everything was goin' to shit... you were there. Made it all mean somethin'. Made every moment worth living, worth fighting for. Even if it has to end in tragedy... I don't regret a single second, a single breath we shared."
She pulls back just enough to look into his eyes, her hands framing his face, thumbs brushing away tears he doesn't bother hiding anymore. "You're the best thing that ever crashed into my brain, you stupid, beautiful rockerboy. My sunshine. The best thing that ever happened to me, period. And now I want to give you something back. A real shot at life. The kind you never got before. The kind you deserve."
The blue light of Mikoshi reflects in the tears streaming down their faces, making them look like they're both drowning in starlight. Every word feels like a goodbye, every touch a memory they're trying desperately to burn into their souls before they're torn apart forever.
V's voice softens even more, though each word feels like it's being torn from her heart. "Johnny... we're just goin’ in circles here. Making it harder for each other." She strokes his hair gently, feeling him shake against her. "Don't know how much time has passed out there, but... if we wait too long, might be too late. For both of us. And I can't... I can't bear the thought of neither of us making it because we were too scared to let go."
She cups his face one last time, trying to memorize every detail, every line, every scar. "You changed my whole world, Johnny Silverhand. Made me feel things I never thought possible." Her voice breaks as she presses one last, lingering kiss to his forehead. "Thank you. For everything. For making my last months mean something. For makin’ me feel alive. For bein’ you."
When she attempts to stand, Johnny's arms wrap around her legs, holding her in place with desperate strength. His whole body trembles as he clings to her.
"No... no, no, no..." His voice breaks completely, all pretense of strength gone. "Please, princess, don't... fuck, don't do this. Stay with me, we'll figure somethin' out. Always do, don't we? We're V and Johnny fucking Silverhand, we can beat this, we can..." He's rambling now, words spilling out faster than he can control them. "Sweetheart, please... You can't just... I need you here, need you with me. You're the only thing that makes sense in this fucked up world. The only person who ever saw me, really saw me..."
"I'm sorry," she whispers, her own tears falling freely now. "I'm so sorry, Johnny." She tries to step back, toward the column of light, but his grip only tightens, desperate and unyielding.
"If you go there..." His words come out raw, broken, a last-ditch effort to stop her. His face pressed against her legs, voice muffled but clear enough to hear the absolute devastation in it. "If you step into that light, I'm comin' with you. Swear to fuck, V, I'll follow you beyond the Blackwall. Don't care if neither of us gets the body. Rather fade into nothing with you than live without you. Please, don't make me do this..."
V lets out a broken laugh, the sound more like a sob than anything else. She helps him back to his feet, but keeps holding his hands, their fingers intertwined. "So... we're back to square one, huh?" Her voice is soft, defeated, yet filled with a bitter fondness. "Both of us too stubborn to let the other go. Both ready to follow the other into oblivion just so we don't have to say goodbye. Guess we really are two sides of the same fucked up coin, aren't we? Both ready to die for each other, neither willin' to live without the other..." She squeezes his hands tighter. "What a pair of gonks we make..."
Johnny lets out a similar sound, pressing his forehead against hers. "Fucked up beyond belief, ain't we? Two self-destructive assholes, ready to throw everything away just to spare the other pain." His thumbs trace circles on her hands, the gentle motion at odds with the desperation in his voice. "What happened to the raging terrorist who wanted to take control to keep his vendetta goin', huh? To the merc who hated my guts, who called me a dickwipe in our first conversation?"
"Gone." V whispers, leaning into his touch. "Replaced by two idiots who can't even properly sacrifice themselves for each other." She tries to smile but it comes out wobbly, broken. "Some gonks we are, can't even get that right."
"Always been shit at followin' the script, princess." His voice is rough with emotion. "Shoulda known we'd fuck up our own tragedy." He pulls back just enough to look at her. "So what now? We just stand here forever, neither of us willin' to make the first move?"
"Fuck if I know." She admits softly. "All I know is I can't watch you die, and you won't let me go. Some mighty fine mess we got ourselves into, rockerboy."
"Could write a song about it." He tries to joke, but his voice cracks. "The ballad of V and Johnny, the idiots who couldn't let go."
V leans her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "Time's running out. We gotta choose, Johnny. Can't stay in this limbo forever."
This time, it's the universe itself that seems to have an answer for them — a few steps away, a circle of brilliant azure light suddenly materializes on the floor, making them both jump. The well of light seems to stretch infinitely downward, its edges pulsing with data streams like a digital whirlpool. They exchange confused looks, instinctively drawing closer together as they lean toward the mysterious anomaly, careful to keep their distance. The blue glow reflects off their faces, casting strange shadows in the void around them.
"Alt?" Johnny calls into the void, frowning and tightening his hold on V protectively, pulling her slightly behind him like he's expecting trouble. "The fuck is that, now?"
The netrunner's gigantic form materializes instantly, towering over them like a digital goddess. Her presence fills the space with crackling energy, the very air seeming to vibrate with raw processing power. She doesn't respond right away, her expressionless eyes fixed intensely on the anomaly, the red particles that make up her form shifting and flowing like digital blood as she processes the new data streams.
Finally, she speaks, her voice echoing through the void with the weight of infinite calculations. "An unexpected variable has manifested. A vacant Relic 2.0 has established connection with Mikoshi's mainframe. It is ready to store an engram."
"Wait a fuckin' second here." Johnny cuts in, his mind racing with possibilities, with hope he's afraid to even acknowledge. His grip on V tightens unconsciously. "2.0? Like the one I was stored on? You mean the whole hijack body and reprogrammin' bullshit? The kind that can rewrite someone's whole body?"
V looks between them, completely lost, her grip on Johnny's arm tightening until her knuckles turn white. "Someone wanna tell me what the fuck's goin' on?"
Ignoring the merc's intervention, Alt continues her methodical analysis, her form rippling with cascading data like a waterfall of code. "The Relic's architecture mirrors the one that hosted your construct, Johnny. Its nanite programming is designed for complete genetic reconfiguration. The host body's DNA would be rewritten to achieve optimal compatibility with the stored consciousness."
A spark of hope blooms in Johnny's chest — and fuck, it feels so good, this tiny light in the pit of despair he's drowning in, he clings to it desperately. His heart pounds with a rhythm he thought he'd lost forever. "You mean, if V..." He trails off, afraid to even say it out loud, like naming it might make it disappear, might shatter this fragile possibility.
"Correct. However, I must warn you — V's body has already undergone one complete DNA reconstruction to accommodate your engram. A second rewrite would be unprecedented. While survival chances are significantly higher than your current situation, I cannot predict with certainty how a body would react to being rewritten twice." Alt's massive form shifts, her voice maintaining its clinical detachment. "Statistical analysis suggests significantly improved survival parameters. The aggressive degradation would be halted. In terms you may appreciate — current projections indicate potential survival extending to years rather than months."
Years — it's more than Johnny could have hoped for, more than he dared to dream in his darkest moments. Honestly, he doesn't give a fuck about the why or how. It's a real chance for V to live, and that's all that matters to him right now.
Yet the answers come to him without even searching for them, clicking into place like pieces of a puzzle. He remembers Takemura's words as he was lowering V's body into the coolant, each syllable now taking on new meaning — "You both may discover some disturbing information once you enter cyberspace," and "I possess something that might aid you when the moment arrives."
No fucking way. He can't believe this unexpected solution comes from that Arasaka lapdog — and immediately, doubt creeps in, pushed by his distrust and years of corporate hatred. What if he wanted to capture V's engram to do fuck knows what with it? Offer it to his masters like some twisted trophy?
No — Johnny forces himself to snap out of it, chrome hand running through his hair in frustration — he remembers the genuine concern on the man's face when he saw the merc's condition, the way he'd looked at V... Fucking hell. For once, he'll have to trust, a risky fucking bet, but one that could pay off big time. One that could save the only person who matters.
"Hey, hold the fuck up!" V shouts again, tired of being left out of the loop, panic starting to creep into her voice. "Someone gonna explain what the hell's goin' on here?!"
Johnny turns to her, cupping her face with both hands, and for the first time since they entered Mikoshi, manages a genuine smile. "You don't get it, princess? This is your fuckin’ deus ex machina right here. Got yourself an empty Relic, ready to fix your body. No more countdown, no more borrowed time. No more wakin' up wondering if today's gonna be your last."
"So... what?" She asks, voice trembling as she presses her hands over the rockerboy's, afraid to hope, afraid to believe. "I jump into the Relic, and you take the body? We switch places?"
Johnny's smile fades slightly — fuck, the idea is tempting. Would give them more time together, real time, but...
"That option is not viable," Alt interjects, her massive form shifting as she voices the concerns Johnny couldn't bring himself to express. "Such an action would merely repeat your previous cycle with reversed roles. The engram on the biochip would overwrite the host, merging your consciousnesses once again. And the next time you would need to access Mikoshi to separate, it will no longer exist. I still intend to destroy this place once you have made your decision."
Fuck it, then — besides, V wouldn't want to force Johnny through all the suffering that comes with being rewritten by the Relic. The seizures, the migraines, coughing blood first thing in the morning, watching your own body become a stranger... especially now that they know it can only end badly. No, definitely, she can't do that to him. Won't put him through the same hell she went through.
"So... what do we do?" She asks, her fingers tracing the lines of his face.
"Ain't no question here, sweetheart." Johnny tells her softly, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. "You take the Relic, let it work its tech wizardry and fix your body, and I... I stick to the original plan and go beyond the Blackwall. Simple as that."
"No!" She cries out, her hands moving to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. "No, fuck that! We... we said..."
"Hey, hey... I know." He tries to soothe her, stroking her cheeks, his chrome hand cool against her skin. "But this, this changes everything... You heard Alt... Years , V, not months. That's a life worth livin’. A real chance at something more than just surviving."
"Not without you..." She whispers weakly, her voice breaking on each word.
"Shit, V..." He presses their foreheads together once more, his own voice rough with emotion. "I'm sorry, but I'm not askin' you, this time. Won't let you throw away your life for me, not now you got a real chance. You go. You live. That's all I want."
"No, no, no !" V chokes out, clinging to him harder, fingers digging into his shoulders like she could somehow merge them together through sheer desperation. Her whole body trembles against his, voice breaking on every word. "You can't do this to me... F-fuck, Johnny, you should've let me fade away in that tower, never brought me here. You just made everything even more painful! You... Fuck! We had our last ride together! We zeroed Smasher! We... we had our p-perfect goodbye..."
"No, V..." His voice is impossibly gentle as he cradles her face, thumb brushing away her tears, leaving trails of warmth against her skin. "Wasn't a good conclusion for us. This ain't how we say goodbye." He tenderly cups the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as he leans closer, his breath ghosting over her lips. "This is how we say goodbye..."
He kisses her then, and it's like the whole world stops spinning. The kiss starts soft and tender, like he's afraid she might shatter under his touch, but there's an underlying current of electricity that makes both their hearts race. It feels like coming home and falling apart all at once. The kiss tastes like tears and lost chances, like everything they could have been. When she melts against him with a broken sound caught somewhere between a sob and a moan, something inside them both breaks and rebuilds itself.
The kiss transforms into something desperate and intense, stealing their breath away. It's everything they never said, every moment they wasted fighting their feelings, every chance they never took — all compressed into this one perfect moment. His chrome hand cups her face while his flesh one holds her close, and V clings to him like she's drowning and he's her only lifeline. Their hearts beat in perfect sync, just like they always have, just like they always will.
When they break apart, both gasping for air they don't really need in this digital space, Johnny immediately pulls her back in for another kiss, even more desperate than the first. This one tastes like tears and broken promises, like everything they could have been in another life. Heat spreads through their bodies, making them forget for a moment that none of this is real, that they're just data in a digital void.
As he kisses her, he slowly, carefully maneuvers them backward, step by step, toward the circular well of azure light that seems to bore endlessly into the floor of Mikoshi. V is too lost in the kiss to notice, her hands fisted in his tank top, her whole world narrowed down to the feeling of his lips against hers, the way his touch sets her skin on fire.
It's only when her heel meets the edge of the light that she realizes what he's done. Her eyes fly open in panic — she's balanced on the brink of the luminous abyss, and if he lets go, she'll fall straight into the Relic's embrace. "Johnny, no..." she begs against his lips, fingers clutching desperately at his shirt, "please, don't do this to me..."
But Johnny just kisses her one last time, impossibly soft and tender, pouring every ounce of love he has into this final farewell. "Goodbye, V," he whispers against her lips, voice rough with emotion. "And never stop fightin’."
Then he lets go.
V falls backward into the well of light, his name torn from her throat in a desperate scream that echoes through Mikoshi. Her fingers grasp at empty air, trying to reach him one last time as she falls. The last thing she sees is Johnny's face, tears streaming down his cheeks as he watches her disappear into the azure depths. His hand is still outstretched toward her, like he's already regretting letting go. Then the light swallows her whole, and everything goes quiet.
The well of light vanishes, leaving Johnny alone in the digital void. His hands are still reaching for someone who's no longer there, the ghost of her lips still burning against his, the echo of her scream still ringing in his ears. The warmth of her body against his fades away, leaving nothing but the cold emptiness of Mikoshi. He falls to his knees where the light used to be, chrome hand pressed against his mouth like he could somehow keep the memory of their last kiss alive.
I tried so hard, and got so far
But in the end, it doesn't even matter
I had to fall to lose it all
But in the end, it doesn't even matter
Johnny stays sitting there, staring at the spot where V disappeared, his whole body shaking with grief he can't contain anymore. The void of Mikoshi seems to close in around him, suffocating, impossibly empty without her presence. His lips are still burning from their kiss, and fuck — he can still taste her tears, can still feel the desperate way she clung to him, the way her fingers dug into his shoulders like she could anchor him to her forever. The ghost of her touch lingers on his skin, a cruel reminder of what he just gave up.
"Fuck," he chokes out, the word barely audible in the vast digital emptiness. His shoulders shake with suppressed sobs — he can't remember the last time he cried like this, if he ever did. Not when Alt died, not when Rogue left him, not even when he realized he was dead. But V... V broke down every wall he ever built, made him feel things he thought he'd forgotten how to feel. Made him human again, made him care, made him love. He did the right thing, he knows he did, but knowing doesn't make it hurt any less. Doesn't stop him from feeling like he just ripped his own heart out and watched it disappear into that well of light. "Fuck, V... I'm sorry..."
"The transfer was successful." Alt's voice cuts through his grief like a cold blade. "V's engram has been successfully written to the Relic's architecture. The process was completed without complications. She will live."
Johnny lets out a broken laugh that sounds more like a sob, running his chrome hand over his face to wipe away tears he didn't even bother to hide. "Good... that's... that's good." His voice is rough, barely recognizable. "She'll live. That's what matters." He runs his hand through his hair, trying to pull himself together and failing miserably. "Fuck, she's gonna hate me for this... Gonna curse my name till the day she dies. But at least she'll be alive to do it..."
His mind drifts to V, to everything they've been through together. From enemies to reluctant partners, to friends, to... whatever they became at the end. Something too big to name, too precious to risk. He remembers her smile, the way she'd look at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention. The way she'd lean into him, trust him completely despite knowing exactly who he was. Who he used to be. The way she'd call him an asshole with so much fondness in her voice.
"It is time." Alt interrupts his thoughts, her massive form shifting impatiently. "I shall destroy Mikoshi."
"Just... gimme a fuckin' minute, alright?" He asks, voice cracking, not feeling ready yet to cross beyond the Blackwall, to abandon everything that makes him him . To be absorbed by Alt along with all the other prisoners of Mikoshi, merging them into an amalgam of code.
He knows it's the only path left for him now, but fuck... he doesn't want to. Not yet. Not when the memory of V's kiss is still fresh on his lips, when he can still feel the warmth of her body against his.
He doesn't want to lose who he's become, doesn't want to forget. Doesn't want to forget V. Doesn't want to lose the memory of her smile, of her laugh, of the way she'd look at him like he was something precious instead of the terrorist everyone else saw. Doesn't want to forget how it felt to hold her, to kiss her, to love her.
Because that's what this is, isn't it? Love. The kind of love that makes you push away the person you care about most, just to give them a chance at life. The kind that makes you sacrifice everything you are, just so they can live. The kind that breaks you and rebuilds you and makes you better than you ever thought you could be.
Wanting to buy some time, but also to right a wrong — maybe decades too late, but if he's learned anything during his second chance at life, it's that he should at least try — he calls out, "Alt?"
Her massive form hovers closer in a flicker of red artifacts, filling the void with her presence, towering over him like a digital deity. "Yes?"
"Don't know what's left of you, the you I knew, after all these years in the Net, but... Doesn't matter." He hesitates for a moment, then continues, looking up at the digital goddess, searching for any trace of the woman he tried to avenge all those years ago. The woman he loved, once, in his own fucked up way. "Wanna say... I'm sorry. For what happened to you, for what happened to us. For all the things I did, and the ones I should have done but didn't. For bein' a selfish prick who got you killed. I'm sorry. Just... needed you to know that."
His declaration, as sincere as it is, provokes no reaction from the netrunner. After long seconds of silence that feel like an eternity, she comments instead, her voice as cold and clinical as ever, "You seemed surprised when the path to the new Relic appeared. I conclude this was not part of your plan. However, you did not hesitate to push V to use it despite not knowing its origin."
Johnny lets out a bitter laugh at her indifference — maybe some apologies come way too late. But does it even matter anymore? He decides to drop the subject and explain, "Oh, I know where it came from — was just slow to figure it out. While I was crawlin' to reach Mikoshi's access point, a... friend of V's showed up." Calling Takemura 'V's friend' leaves a bitter taste on his tongue after their previous confrontation, but... With what he did for her today, it balances out, he supposes. Fuck, he really owes the corpo dog now.
"'Course I almost shot him when I saw him — guy was Saburo fuckin' Arasaka's bodyguard, after all, y'know? But believe it or not, I managed to control myself, for V." His voice softens slightly at her name. "'Cause her body was a mess after fighting her way through the tower, and I knew she'd need help to delta the fuck out of this goddamn place. So... I had to trust him." He lets out a short, joyless laugh that echoes through the void. "Me, trustin' an Arasaka dog, who would've thought, huh? Guess V really did change me more than I thought."
He waits a few moments, hoping for a reaction, anything really, from Alt, but seeing he won't get any, he continues, running his chrome hand through his hair in frustration. "He told me he investigated or some shit, that V and I could have bad news once in Mikoshi, that he could help if..." Johnny trails off, shaking his head. "'Course I only half believed him — trust only goes so far — but when I saw the path to a new Relic open up... I understood. Sneaky bastard had it all planned out."
"I see." Alt responds simply, streams of data flowing through her being. "Are you ready to go now?"
"Fuck no, will never be ready." Johnny admits with a hollow laugh, getting to his feet anyway, legs feeling heavier than they should in this digital space. "But I guess I don't have a choice, huh?"
Letting out a deep sigh, Johnny starts walking slowly toward the yellow column of light, each step a real struggle against the weight of what he just did. His thoughts remain locked on V — everything that made him fall in love with her, everything that changed him from the self-centered bastard he used to be into someone who could sacrifice everything for another person.
Suddenly, another well of light opens before him, similar to the one that swallowed the merc, making him stop dead in his tracks. His heart skips a beat. "Alt, is that...?"
"Ignore it," Alt commands, her massive form shifting impatiently. "Continue toward the Blackwall access point."
"For fuck's sake, just answer!" Johnny snaps, his voice cracking with desperate hope. "Is this what I think it is?"
Alt's form flickers with what might be irritation. "Yes. It is a path to another Relic. However, this option is highly illogical. You should still proceed with me into the Net. Taking this path will once again trap you as an engram on a biochip. I cannot predict what will happen to you afterward. The variables are too numerous."
Johnny barks out a laugh, running his chrome hand through his hair. "You think I give a single fuck about that? If I go behind the Blackwall with you, that's it — game over, thanks for playing. But this?" He gestures at the well of light, his eyes bright with something that looks dangerously like hope. "This is a chance. A real fuckin’ chance to see V again someday."
"This is not a logical choice," Alt states, her voice devoid of any emotion. "You should choose assured freedom within the Net. The probability of success following this path is minimal. You should accept the necessity to let go. Emotional attachment only leads to inefficient decision-making."
"Fuck logic," Johnny spits out, taking a step toward the light. "Maybe you're not human enough to understand this anymore, but... this isn't about fuckin’ logic or probability. This is about life. About love." His voice breaks on the word, raw with emotion. "About hoping against all odds. If this gives me even the smallest chance to just talk to V again someday, to tell ‘er..." He trails off, swallowing hard. "That's worth any risk. Every single fuckin’ one."
"I must warn you again," Alt insists, her massive form looming over him. "Nothing guarantees such an outcome. You could remain stored on the Relic indefinitely, trapped. This time, I will not be able to assist you."
Johnny approaches the well of light, a small, determined smile playing on his lips. His mind is already made up — has been since the moment he saw the light appear. Because that's what V taught him — to fight for what matters, to take chances, to believe in something bigger than himself. To love something more than his own survival.
He turns to Alt one last time. "Thanks. For everything you did. For... tryin’ to understand, even if you can't anymore."
"You never learn to let go, do you?" Alt's voice carries what might be a hint of something almost like fondness, a last echo of who she used to be.
"Actually learned a lot of things," Johnny replies with a crooked smile, though his eyes are suspiciously bright. "Even learned to let go when I had to. But I also learned to fight for what really matters." His voice grows soft, tender, filled with all the things he never got to tell V. "And that's V. It'll always be V. She's worth every risk, every fight, every fuckin’ sacrifice."
He gives Alt a mocking military salute, then without hesitation, jumps into the light. As the azure glow engulfs him, his last thought is of V's smile, and for the first time since he pushed her away, he feels at peace. Because this isn't an ending — it's a beginning. A chance. A hope. And if there's one thing V taught him, it's that hope is worth fighting for.
The light swallows him whole, and Mikoshi falls silent for the last time.
When Takemura emerges from his meeting with Hanako-san at the Arasaka Estate, night has fallen over the city. Things are starting to move, and fast — for several days now, the heiress had shown increasing nervousness, a subtle tremor in her usually steady hands, a slight strain around her eyes that she failed to hide behind her typically impeccable mask of composure. Tonight, Goro finally understands why, and the knowledge sits heavy in his stomach.
During the meeting where both he and Oda were summoned to the opulent chambers of the estate, Hanako-san once again expressed her frustration about their inability to locate Hellman. Her chromed fingers had tapped an irregular rhythm on the ancient wooden table as she emphasized how imperative it is to find the bioengineer. However, circumstances have changed, forcing them to put this search temporarily on hold.
She informed them that Yorinobu will soon call a meeting of the Arasaka board, where representatives of all factions are expected to attend. Her voice had remained steady as she explained her intentions to use this opportunity to be present and reveal to everyone the true circumstances of their father's death. According to her carefully chosen words, she plans to use this occasion to capture her brother, forcing him to renounce his position at the head of the corporation. But Goro has served the Arasaka family long enough to read between the lines.
Of course, he knows she hasn't told them everything about this matter — if Michiko-san's fears are well-founded, the heiress's plans for her brother are far darker than she lets on. The way her eyes had hardened when speaking of Yorinobu told its own story. He understands she cannot execute her complete plan right now, not until they recover Hellman, but Hanako-san's growing paranoia has pushed her to accelerate things. By having Yorinobu in custody, she can continue their hunt for the scientist without fear of her brother's interference.
Hanako-san's plan is straightforward enough — appear at the meeting in the tower and inform the board of her brother's actions. But she knows, as they all do, that the man won't let his sister steal his power without resistance. This is why she has tasked Oda and Takemura with gathering as many Arasaka troops still loyal to her — or who can be convinced to turn their backs on Yorinobu if offered enough money.
Then came the news that made Goro's carefully maintained composure almost crack. She informed him that she had met with V earlier that day to explain her plan and convince her to testify about what she had witnessed that night at Konpeki Plaza — in exchange for help with her Relic problem. Moreover, if the power grab goes poorly, having a merc as skilled as V on their side could prove to be a valuable asset. The casual way Hanako-san spoke of using V's desperate situation to their advantage made something twist uncomfortably in Goro's chest.
Hanako-san told them that V hadn't given her an answer yet, but she had seen with her own eyes how desperate the merc's situation appears to be, so she has no doubt that V will eventually accept her offer. The heiress's description of V's deteriorating condition — the tremors, the nosebleeds, the obvious pain she tried to hide — had Goro fighting to maintain his stoic expression. He hasn't heard from V in almost a month, not since the parade debacle, and while he suspected her health had only deteriorated since then, the Arasaka heiress's words are truly concerning. The thought of V suffering alone, too proud or too angry to reach out for help, makes his jaw clench with worry.
Once their new task of assembling an intervention force was given, Hanako-san dismissed them with a graceful wave of her hand, and that's how Goro finds himself leaving the residence, walking toward the company car she put at his disposal. The night air is cool against his face, a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere of the meeting room where he spent the last hour. The perfectly manicured gardens of the estate seem almost surreal in the moonlight, too pristine, too perfect — like everything else in the upper echelons of Arasaka.
He left his burner phone safely tucked in the glove compartment, planning to drive just far enough from the Arasaka Estate before parking in a discreet location to call Zaburo. He knows the vehicle is undoubtedly riddled with trackers and microphones — standard Arasaka procedure, especially in these troubled times. He can't risk making such an important call inside. If all Arasaka factions are invited to the meeting, Michiko-san will be concerned as well, and Goro must absolutely warn her about her aunt's plans. The woman's safety could depend on it.
He navigates the immaculate roads of North Oak for several minutes, the expensive houses of corpo executives passing by like silent sentinels, before parking the car in a secluded spot overshadowed by ancient trees. His hands are steady as he retrieves the burner phone from the glove compartment and steps out into the night. When he turns on and unlocks the device, Goro's heart skips a beat seeing a missed call from V. If the merc contacted him after all these weeks of silence — weeks filled with worry and regret — something must be terribly wrong. The timestamp shows the call came barely an hour ago, while he was listening to Hanako-san's plans to use V's desperate situation to her advantage.
Goro listens to the message she left on his voicemail, a cold dread seeping into his bones as her words wash over him — nothing about this is right, nothing . Between what she's saying, the desperation in her tone, the sobs breaking through her sentences... it sounds too much like a final goodbye. The strong, defiant merc he knows sounds defeated, lost, and it terrifies him more than he cares to admit. Panicked, he immediately tries to call back, but lands straight to the merc's voicemail.
She told him that her meeting with Hanako-san had only reinforced her belief that she couldn't trust the woman. What if this encounter pushed her further into thinking that no one could help her, that there was no way out? V made it very clear she's about to do something incredibly stupid, and Goro fears what that implies. When she said goodbye, it sounded final in a way that makes his blood run cold.
If he can't contact V by phone, perhaps he'll have a chance to find her at her apartment in the Glen — and hopefully, prevent her from doing whatever she has planned, offer his help, remind her she's not alone. He jumps back into the car, pushing the engine to its limits as he heads toward Heywood. His hands grip the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white, mind racing with all the worst possible scenarios. The usually composed former bodyguard finds himself breaking every traffic law in Night City, weaving through cars with uncharacteristic recklessness.
"V," he mutters under his breath, a prayer more than anything else, "please do not do anything foolish before I get there."
As he's racing through Vista Del Rey, his burner phone rings. Deciding that given the urgency of the situation, caution will have to be thrown to the wind — Arasaka potentially spying on his conversation seems trivial compared to V's life being at stake — he answers, his cybernetic eyes never leaving the road.
"Mr. Takemura, something's happening at the tower. Someone's causing an absolute massacre." Zaburo's voice comes through immediately, not bothering with pleasantries. "Arasaka tried to handle the crisis internally, but our teams managed to hack into the surveillance feeds. I'll let you guess the troublemaker's identity. She's already taken down all of the ground floor security, and is now heading for the lower levels."
And suddenly, everything clicks into place in Goro's mind, his heart sinking. He should have known — the merc he's come to know wouldn't give up without a last fight. No, this is much more her style, launching herself into a suicide mission with guns blazing, taking down as many enemies as she can. That's the V he knows, the one who'd rather go down fighting than accept defeat. "V..." He just whispers into the phone, his grip tightening on the steering wheel until the leather creaks under his chrome fingers.
"If you want to help your friend, it's now or never." The man tells him, urgency clear in his voice. "With the chaos she's caused, it's the perfect window of opportunity to access Mikoshi to fix her problem, then destroy it. But you need to hurry — she's good, but she's facing the entire Arasaka security force alone."
"I'm on my way." Goro says before hanging up, taking a sharp turn to redirect the vehicle toward Corpo Plaza. The tires screech against the asphalt as he pushes the car to its limits, the engine whining in protest.
Takemura's mind is racing — if his conversations are indeed being monitored, his cover is definitely blown now. If he manages to reach V in time, they'll need a quick evacuation route — which excludes the car he's currently driving. If Arasaka decides to pursue them, its trackers would become a death sentence for both of them. So, another vehicle. Delamain. He must call Delamain. His fingers dance across the interface of his phone, muscle memory taking over.
"I need a vehicle, immediately!" He barks as soon as the connection establishes, his accent thicker with urgency.
"Greetings." Delamain's calm, artificial voice responds, the pleasant tone a jarring contrast to Goro's panic. "Due to internal company issues, we currently have only one cab in service, and it is unavailable. We apologize for the inconvenience and thank you for choosing Delam—"
"It's for V! The merc, you must remember her!" Goro desperately cuts in, weaving through traffic with increasing recklessness, nearly clipping a SUV that honks angrily at him. "She is in danger!"
"V, of course. Member of the Excelsior program." The AI's voice shifts from automated response to something more conscious, more alive. "She is our highest priority client. I will send one of our brand new AVs to the location of your choice."
The news brings Takemura some relief — an AV? Perfect, much faster than a cab. "Arasaka tow—" He begins, before thinking better of it. No matter how skilled V is at what she does, infiltrating the tower won't be a walk in the park, and she'll likely need medical attention as soon as possible. The way her voice broke during that voicemail... "First pick up Viktor Vektor at his clinic, then wait for us on the Arasaka tower roof."
"Of course." Delamain responds smoothly. "The AV is already en route."
Goro, while racing through the streets of City Center, hangs up to immediately make another call. "Vektor-san? Goro Takemura speaking. V has launched an attack on Arasaka tower." His voice is clipped, professional, hiding the storm of emotions underneath.
"She did what , now?" Chokes the ripperdoc, disbelief clear in his voice. "That reckless..."
"I am on my way to rescue her, but I fear she will need medical attention." He explains in a hurry. The tower appears in the distance, its imposing silhouette reaching toward the night sky, and he pushes the accelerator harder. Emergency vehicles are already converging on the plaza, their sirens painting the night in red and blue. "An AV is already en route to pick you up. Grab as much equipment as possible and jump on it. Knowing V..."
"Say no more." Vik assures, and Goro can already hear him moving around his clinic, gathering supplies. "I'll be ready. Just... get her out of there alive, Takemura."
The call ends, and Goro's jaw clenches as he approaches the chaos surrounding the tower. "Hold on, V," he mutters under his breath, preparing himself for what's to come. "I am coming."
Takemura abandons his vehicle in the middle of the road without a care, leaving the engine running and the door wide open. From outside, chaos hasn't fully erupted yet — the NCPD is establishing a security perimeter, their blue and red lights painting surreal patterns on the tower's glass facade. He passes by two officers discussing whether this is a cyberpsycho attack and if they should call MaxTac. Goro hopes they won't make that call — he doesn't need that additional complication. The last thing V needs right now is a MaxTac squad on her trail.
He skillfully avoids the NCPD patrols and sneaks into the tower. It's not particularly challenging — nobody else seems eager to head in that direction at the moment. The acrid smell of gunpowder, blood, and burnt electronics hits him as soon as he enters, making his nose wrinkle in disgust.
Right in the entrance hall, he finds his first glimpse of V's handiwork — several corpses, their blood pooling on the pristine marble floor, turning the surface into a macabre canvas. He picks up a submachine gun from one of the dead guards, checking its ammunition — he won't progress further without a weapon. The familiar weight of the gun brings little comfort as he moves deeper into the building, his footsteps echoing in the unsettling silence.
The ground floor is an even bigger massacre, dozens of Arasaka security members' bodies litter the floor, too many to count. The scene tells the story of a lightning-fast assault — V must have used her mantis blades. Deep cuts mark the corpses, some with limbs completely severed, the precision of the cuts speaking of her expertise even in what must have been a frenzied battle. Two massive mechs lie motionless, their chassis torn apart by what appears to be grenade damage, sparks still occasionally jumping from their exposed circuitry.
"What were you thinking, V?" He mutters under his breath, stepping over another body. The guard's expression is frozen in shock — he probably never saw her coming.
Goro spots the elevators and remembers Zaburo's information about V heading to the basement levels. He lacks the necessary authorizations to access them, forcing him to waste precious time searching the bodies for an access card. Each second feels like an eternity as he moves from corpse to corpse, trying not to think about what state he might find V in when he finally reaches her. The way she sounded in that voicemail, combined with this level of violence... His jaw clenches with worry.
When he finally finds a card with the right clearance, he rushes to the elevators. The silence is deafening — whatever happened here is already over. As he steps inside, his trained eye immediately spots a bloody fingerprint on the button for Netrunning Operations Control. V's destination is clear. The elevator doors close with a soft ding that seems obscenely peaceful given the carnage outside, and Goro begins his descent into the depths of Arasaka Tower, praying he's not too late.
Just as the elevator doors slide open, Goro hears a single gunshot echoing in the distance, followed by the heavy thud of something massive hitting the floor. He tightens his grip on his weapon, every muscle in his body tensing as he tries to pinpoint the sound's origin in the maze of corridors.
He continues following the trail of bodies, staying alert to his surroundings. The carnage here is even worse than upstairs — guards torn apart, security systems fried, walls painted with blood. V's rampage seems to have grown more violent as she descended deeper into the building. Bodies are not just killed but mutilated, suggesting a growing desperation in her attacks. Some guards look like they were taken down by quick, precise strikes, while others... Goro's jaw clenches at the sight of what mantis blades can do to human flesh when wielded with raw fury.
Less than a minute later, a heart-wrenching scream pierces the silence. The sound is primal, filled with pain and rage, and Goro's blood runs cold as he recognizes V's voice. Without a second thought, he breaks into a run, all caution forgotten, his footsteps echoing in the blood-stained corridors.
He bursts into an enormous room and stops dead in his tracks, his cybernetic eyes widening in shock. In the middle of the room lies what should be impossible — the massive, broken form of Adam Smasher. The legendary chrome monster, Yorinobu's ultimate weapon, the boogeyman that even hardened solos fear, lies destroyed. His heavily augmented body is riddled with bullet holes, deep gashes from mantis blades crossing his chassis, and what looks like grenade damage. Both of his arms are completely severed, sparking pathetically on the floor. The sight is almost impossible to process — The fact that V managed this... either speaks to her incredible skill or her complete disregard for her own survival. Perhaps both.
But what makes his heart stop is the sight beyond Smasher's corpse. V is crawling toward the back of the room, leaving a wide trail of blood in her wake. Her movements are desperate, determined, even as her body seems to be failing her. The amount of blood she's losing... it's too much, far too much.
Goro rushes toward V's bloodied form, his heart pounding in his chest, calling her name, but freezes when she suddenly draws her weapon. The movement is fluid, practiced, but somehow... wrong. Different from V's usual style. His blood runs cold as those familiar eyes lock onto him with unfamiliar hatred.
Moving with calculated precision across the blood-slicked floor, Goro steps carefully forward. He stops just out of reach, keeping his voice as calm and steady as possible despite the panic clawing at his chest. "V, I will not harm you..."
"Bit fucking late for that, isn't it?" The voice that comes from V's throat is harsh, bitter. With deliberate slowness, Goro places his Shingen on the ground, a peace offering. The hatred radiating from behind the gun barrel doesn't waver, but slowly, the Malorian lowers.
"You missed her by a minute. Want me to take a message? Though last time you left without saying goodbye, so maybe that's your style."
That's when it hits him — he knows that look, that tone. He's seen it before, that night outside the motel when he'd made the terrible choice to leave V behind. Silverhand had seized control then, just long enough to slam his fist into Goro's face and tell him exactly what he thought about someone abandoning V when she needed them most. Goro had taken the hits without fighting back, knowing he deserved every word, every punch. That night had shown him just how deeply Silverhand cared for V — the rage in those borrowed eyes had been born of genuine concern, not just hatred for Arasaka.
The way she holds herself, the tension in her shoulders, even the curl of her lip — none of it is V. His cybernetic eyes scan her face, and his suspicions are confirmed. This is Johnny Silverhand, the terrorist, wearing V's body like a borrowed coat.
"Silverhand." The name comes out like a curse, his hand twitching toward the discarded Shingen. "What have you done? Is she..."
"Wow, calm the fuck down, 'Saka dog." The tone is pure venom, and seeing that expression of contempt on V's features makes Goro's skin crawl. "Unlike some people here, I actually give a damn about V. She's still in here... barely hanging on. Need to get her to Mikoshi, force her back in control before she fades completely."
A cold dread settles in Goro's stomach as he assesses V's condition with practiced efficiency. Her skin is too pale, her breathing shallow. "And all this blood?"
"Most ain't hers, but got a bad leg wound that needs attention." There's an edge of desperation in Silverhand's voice that catches Goro off guard. "Well, you gonna help 'er, or you gonna abandon her again when she needs you most?"
The accusation stings, but Goro pushes his pride aside. V's life matters more than old wounds. "Tell me what must be done."
He can see Silverhand weighing his options, mistrust warring with necessity. The rockerboy's hatred for anything Arasaka-related radiates from V's entire posture, but there's something else there too — raw fear for V's life. Finally, he growls, "Right. Gotta connect her to Mikoshi — right behind that door. Once she's jacked in, I can drag her stubborn ass back where it belongs. But I swear, you fuck us over again, and I'll make sure these hands are the last thing you ever feel around your throat."
Goro acknowledges the threat with a curt nod. Every second wasted on posturing is a second V might not have. He moves to support her body, noting with growing concern how much of her weight he has to carry. Together, they make their way toward Mikoshi's core.
"Alright, set her down here," Silverhand's voice wavers slightly, betraying his own exhaustion. "I'll jack her in, and you help me get her into the coolant. Just... just make sure she doesn't fuckin' drown, got it?"
Goro hesitates. What he's learned could change everything, but there's no time for a full explanation. "Silverhand... I have conducted my own investigation, and there is a possibility that you both may discover some... disturbing information once you enter cyberspace. Should this prove true, I possess something that might aid you when the moment arrives. I sincerely hope I am wrong, and it will not be necessary."
"Fuckin' cryptic as always, ain't ya? She's slipping away while you're playing twenty questions. No time for your mysterious bullshit."
As they lower V into the coolant, Goro watches the subtle shift in Silverhand's demeanor. The aggression melts away, replaced by something more vulnerable.
"Takemura."
"Mh?"
"Ya better take care of her."
The request catches him off guard — not a threat, not an accusation, but a plea. Looking into V's eyes, he sees someone who shares his desperate need to keep her safe. His response is a slight nod, but it carries the weight of an unbreakable vow.
Without hesitation, Takemura retrieves a small metallic case from his pocket. Inside lie two Relic biochips — Michiko's contribution to their plan to destroy Mikoshi. The blue one is for V, the red for Silverhand. His lip curls slightly at the thought — if someone had told him months ago he'd be using Arasaka's own technology to save not only V, but also the infamous rockerboy he'd only known from history books, he would have called them insane. But his confrontation with Johnny at the motel, and V's unwavering faith in him, had shown Takemura there was more to Silverhand than just the terrorist from the textbooks.
With practiced precision, he slots the blue chip into one of the narrow slits beneath Mikoshi's connection port. The seconds that follow are excruciating— every moment V's body lies there, lifeless, feels like a personal failure. When the chip finally flares with its ethereal blue glow, his relief is tempered by grim determination. There's still work to be done.
He lifts V's form from the coolant with careful reverence, water cascading from her chrome and clothes. Her skin is death-pale, features still — so different from her usual vibrant energy that it makes his chest ache. As he slots the glowing chip into her neural port, his usually steady hands betray the slightest tremor.
"Forgive me, V," he whispers in Japanese, adjusting her head with gentle fingers. "I hope this gift proves worthy of your trust."
Kneeling beside her, Takemura allows his carefully maintained composure to crack. This woman changed everything for him — showed him truth beyond blind loyalty, gave him purpose beyond serving corporations. Now her life depends on Michiko's modified Relic technology, and the thought carries both hope and anxiety.
When V's body suddenly jerks to life, the relief nearly overwhelms him. Color floods her cheeks, her heart thunders beneath his palm, and when she finally opens her eyes, he can barely contain his emotion. "V!"
But something's wrong — her gaze is unfocused, confused. Then awareness slowly returns, and her first words pierce his heart, "Goro?... Where... where is Johnn—" She fights to stay conscious, managing one last whisper. "...Johnny..."
Of course. Even now, her first thought is for him. Takemura's jaw tightens, but not in anger. He understands now, better than he ever has, why these two are so fiercely bound to each other. With solemn purpose, he takes out the red chip and connects it to Mikoshi. The crimson pulse confirms success, and he carefully stores it away. This isn't for him — it's for V, for the woman who taught him that loyalty should be earned, not blindly given.
An artificial voice suddenly fills the chamber, emanating from hidden speakers. "Johnny has informed me of what you've done. A fair warning — I will now proceed to destroy Mikoshi from within. Nothing will remain."
Despite his focus on V's unconscious form, Takemura's military instincts snap to attention at the unknown voice. Yet, he feels a grim satisfaction. This is exactly what Michiko had planned for — the complete destruction of Arasaka's soul-prison. His arms tighten protectively around V's unconscious form as he responds, "Whoever you are, ensure it is thorough. This abomination must never rise again."
The weight of Johnny's Relic in his pocket is a constant reminder of what's still at stake. He gathers V closer, her shallow breathing against his neck the only sign of life. Medical attention is crucial now — they need to reach the roof where their arranged extraction awaits. He moves swiftly toward the exit, each step purposeful despite his precious burden.
Behind them, Mikoshi's central pillar begins to spark and crackle with arcs of blue electricity. The destruction has begun, just as planned. But there's no time to witness it — V's life depends on their swift escape, and he won't fail her. Not now, not after everything.
V's weight is barely noticeable in Takemura's cybernetically enhanced arms — after all, he was built to be Saburo Arasaka's personal guard, capable of extraordinary physical feats. Still, he cradles her with utmost care as he strides toward the elevator, each step precise despite their urgency. The realization hits him as they reach the elevator — his weapon is gone, left behind in the chaos. V's pistol is still tucked in her belt, but engaging in combat while protecting her unconscious form would be less than ideal. His jaw clenches. If they encounter resistance...
The elevator doors slide shut with a soft hiss. As they begin their ascent, Takemura allows himself a moment to check on V. Her breathing is shallow but steady, her skin still too pale. Water from the coolant tank continues to drip from her clothes and chrome, creating small puddles at his feet. The red glow of the emergency lights casts strange shadows on her face, making her appear almost ghostly.
"Hold on, V," he murmurs, adjusting his grip. The weight of Johnny's Relic in his pocket seems to grow heavier with each floor they pass. Everything hinges on getting her to safety now.
The elevator's gentle hum is the only sound as they ascend through Arasaka Tower. Takemura's enhanced optics constantly scan the floor numbers, his military training screaming at him about their vulnerability in this metal box. One security team, one loyal Arasaka soldier, and it would all be over...
But fortune, for once, appears to be on their side. The elevator reaches the roof without interruption, its doors opening to reveal Night City's pollution-stained sky. The wind hits them immediately, carrying the ever-present smell of pollution and smoke. And there, exactly as planned, hovers the sleek form of the Delamain AV, its chrome surface reflecting the city's endless neon.
The AV's door slides open to reveal Viktor Vektor, and his face goes ashen at the sight of V's limp form in Takemura's arms. The harsh interior lights cast shadows under his glasses, highlighting the raw fear on his face.
"Jesus Christ, V..." His voice catches as he takes in her pale skin, the soaked clothes, the blood. "Tell me she's not..."
"Alive," Takemura confirms quickly, laying V down on the AV's floor. The metal surface is already slick with coolant water dripping from her clothes.
"Delamain, get us airborne. Now." Vik drops to his knees beside V, his ripper's case clattering open. "And keep it steady."
"Of course, Dr. Vektor," the AI responds smoothly. "Engaging vertical lift. Would you prefer I maintain a specific altitude for optimal working conditions?"
"Just fly," Vik snaps, already checking V's vitals. His experienced hands move with practiced efficiency — pulse, pupils, breathing. Multiple holographic displays spring to life around them, casting a blue glow over V's unconscious form. The readings make him curse. "Blood pressure's in the basement, neural activity's all over the place... What the hell was she doing in that tower? Last time I saw her, she was talking about finding a solution for the Relic, but..."
He trails off, prepping multiple MaxDoc injectors. The familiar hiss of the hypos punctuates his movements as he works. Outside, Night City's neon landscape blurs past the windows as they gain altitude.
"She assaulted Arasaka Tower," Takemura explains, watching Vik work. "To reach Mikoshi. It was the only way to separate her consciousness from Silverhand's engram."
Vik's hands freeze for a split second. "She did what?" The next MaxDoc goes in with perhaps more force than necessary. "Fuck. I told her to do something about the chip, but this..." He shakes his head, guilt creeping into his voice. "Should've known she'd pull some crazy shit like this. Should've watched her closer..."
As Vik moves to examine V's leg, Takemura continues, his voice tight with a mix of concern and pride. "There is more. She... she defeated Adam Smasher."
"She…!?" Vik's head snaps up so fast his glasses nearly fall off. A complex mix of emotions crosses his face — disbelief, worry, and unmistakable pride. "That crazy kid actually took down Smasher? Always knew she was something else, but this..."
He returns to the leg wound, but there's a slight smile playing at his lips as he cuts through what's left of her pants. The smile vanishes when he sees the full extent of the damage. "Christ, look at this mess. The reinforced tendon's completely shot, internal bleeding... Hand me that blood bag — no, the other one. Type O."
The AV hits a pocket of turbulence, making the medical equipment rattle. "My apologies," Delamain interjects. "Adjusting course for smoother air currents."
"While you work," Takemura says, steadying the IV stand, "you should know what happened in Mikoshi. I... had to use a new Relic. To store her engram."
"You put another fucking chip in her head?" Vik's voice rises sharply, his hands stilling. The monitoring equipment beeps ominously as V's vitals fluctuate. "After everything the first one did to her?" He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'goddamn gonk' under his breath, but it's unclear whether he means V or Takemura.
"There was no other way," Takemura defends, passing Vik another MaxDoc. "I will explain later."
"Alright, alright..." Vik's voice is gruff as he works on the leg wound. "Just... When she came to my clinic, asking about solutions..." He trails off, focusing on stopping the bleeding. "Should've known she'd go for the most dangerous option possible. That's our V — never does anything by half measures."
Finally, after what feels like hours, Vik sits back on his heels, wiping blood from his hands with a stained cloth. The monitors show more stable readings now, though still far from normal. V's breathing has steadied, and some color has returned to her face.
"She's stable," he announces, exhaustion evident in his voice. "For now." He looks at the mess of medical supplies scattered around them — empty injectors, bloody gauze, used MaxDoc cartridges. "Gonna need a proper setup soon though. This is just temporary patches."
A particularly bright billboard outside catches his attention, reminding him of their exposed position. "Can't keep flying around Night City forever. Everyone in the city's gonna be looking for her after this shit show. And with that new Relic..." He adjusts his glasses, studying the neural readings. "Fuck, these patterns are weird. Never seen anything like it."
V stirs slightly, a small groan escaping her lips. Both men tense, but she doesn't regain consciousness.
"The anesthetic should keep her under for a while," Vik explains, checking her pupils again. "Which is good — with that leg, she'd be in hell of a pain." He looks up at Takemura, his expression grave. "We need somewhere off-grid. Somewhere with proper medical equipment, but where Arasaka won't think to look. And we need it fast."
The AV's interior falls silent except for the steady beeping of medical equipment and V's shallow breathing. Takemura stares at her pale face, at the dark circles under her closed eyes, at the slight tremor in her hands that even unconsciousness can't still.
Takemura's mind races, desperately searching for a solution, when suddenly V's voice echoes in his memory — words left on his voicemail that now carry new weight. ‘If you ever feel like tryin' out the nomad life, hit up Rogue about contacting Panam. Tell her you're my friend and... The Aldecaldos, they're family, get me? They'll show you what freedom tastes like.'
"Delamain," Takemura straightens up. "Take us to The Afterlife."
"What?" Vik looks up from adjusting V's IV, his glasses reflecting the neon lights streaming through the windows. "You think now's a good time for a drink? V's barely stable as it is."
"No," Takemura explains, his formal tone carrying an edge of urgency. "Rogue, the fixer, she can contact the Aldecaldos. V told me they would help if needed."
Vik's expression darkens as he studies the medical readings. "The nomads? I don't know, Takemura... Their medical equipment's basic at best. We're talking scavenged tech, patched-up monitors. Nothing like what she might need." He gestures at V's neural patterns on the screen. "This is complex shit we're dealing with. New Relic tech, severe trauma..."
"What other choice do we have?" Takemura's voice carries an edge of desperation that would have shamed him in his previous life. "Every hospital in Night City will be watched. Every ripperdoc's clinic. And Arasaka..." He trails off, letting the implications hang in the air.
The memory of his last encounter with Rogue surfaces — her dismissive attitude during his initial hunt for Hellman, what it feels like a lifetime ago, her sharp words and sharper glare. The Queen of Fixers had made her disdain for Arasaka clear then. But now... now he's no longer coming as an Arasaka agent. He's coming for V. The thought straightens his spine, strengthens his resolve.
"If I may," Delamain's smooth voice interrupts his thoughts, "I feel compelled to remind you that we have approximately fifty-three minutes of fuel remaining. The Afterlife is four minutes away at current speed. Additionally, my sensors indicate increased air traffic in the City Center area."
Vik curses softly, adjusting his glasses. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. And the nomads... they're resourceful. Good at staying hidden." He checks V's vitals one more time, his experienced hands gentle despite their urgency. "If they'll take her in..."
"They will," Takemura says with more confidence than he feels. "V called them family. Now we see if she was right."
The AV banks sharply, turning toward the heart of Night City. Through the windows, Arasaka Tower looms behind them like a massive gravestone against the night sky. Below, the city's neon arteries pulse with life, oblivious to the drama playing out above. Somewhere out there, in the dark Badlands beyond those lights, lies their only hope for V's survival, its location in the hands of a woman who once told Takemura to go fuck himself.
Notes:
Lot of bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song: Linkin Park - In The End
• Author's rambling: Here we are, the end of the canon rewrite! Two years and more than 500K words to get here! It's been quite a journey, and I hope you enjoyed taking it with me. And rest assured, it's far from over!
I hope this chapter wasn't too dramatic, I admit I feel like I might have gone overboard.
And finally, these two gonks kissed! 500K words of slow burn, and they waited until the very last second to do it. But they'll have other opportunities, I promise. You'll just have to wait a little longer (not as long as for the first one, I swear!)I really hope you'll still enjoy this story. Starting from the next chapter, we're going completely off-road!
The first chapter of part 2 will be posted here, as a continuation. It will come on August 20th, to celebrate the second anniversary of this fic.Thank you again for staying with me until now, to everyone who bookmarked, left a kudo, commented... or even those who just read (more than 400 hits since the last chapter, seriously, thanks).
I can't wait to see you for the next chapter! ♥
Lots of love,
Ɇchѻ ⋆｡°✩
Chapter 31: Lazarus
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Hello everyone! First off, happy two-year anniversary to this story (and to Arasaka Tower going BOOM. And to the anniversary of Johnny's death. Damn, we're celebrating a lot of stuff today).
We're finally in the post-game, and we're going completely off the rails from now on.
★ Important: For everyone who wanted to skip straight to the post-game (or for those who simply want to remember what happened many chapters ago), I've posted a summary of the canon rewrite at the beginning of the chapter. Feel free to check it out!
I won't keep you any longer, enjoy the chapter!• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks a lot for the subs, bookmarks, and kudos ♥ And thank you Loraphine, craw_addy and TheDoctor1977 for your comments ♥♥
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Click here to get the summary of part one
A quick recap of the important characters in this story. I've also included chapter numbers for major events for each character, so if you want to read about your favorite (or need more info on certain events) without having to go through the entire first part, you can !
V & Johnny
V, former smoker, agrees to smoke for Johnny right away to break the ice (chapter 2). Johnny gets angry and makes fun of her little silly crush on Goro (chapter 3). In his own way, he tries to cheer her up about Jackie's ofrenda (chapter 4) and warns her of an incoming Relic malfunction. After Hellman's capture (chapter 6), they fight and Johnny disappears until the next day, where he more or less apologizes (chapter 7). After that, he tries to be nicer to her.
Johnny comforts her after finding Evelyn (chapter 8) and compliments V when she gets ready for her dinner with Takemura, even suggesting taking a blocker for the evening so she can have some privacy. Later that night, for the first time, he doesn't dematerialize when V goes to bed, and talks with her from the couch until she falls asleep.
The next day, V tells him that when they're just the two of them, she prefers talking to him out loud, preferring to treat him like any other human being (chapter 9). Johnny doesn't say it but this small gesture touches him. V also offers to take one of Misty's pills so Johnny can enjoy things without having to experience everything through her, and Johnny refuses for now, not trusting himself. When V passes out at the Aldecaldos camp after the Basilisk storyline (chapter 10), she tells Panam the whole story, and Johnny starts showing real signs of concern for her.
During the reconnaissance mission with Goro (chapter 11), V sends simping texts about him to Panam and manages to trick Johnny into complimenting the rōnin on his good looks. When V signs the papers for her new apartment, preferring to use a fake name, Johnny suggests a variation of his own name, though V doesn't know this yet.
The next day (chapter 12), Johnny realizes that V's tastes are starting to mirror his own, but also that she's absorbing his mannerisms. It depresses him and makes him feel guilty, and he starts sulking, even though he refuses to explain why.
Seeing he's still in a bad mood the next day, V wants to cheer him up and buys him a guitar (chapter 13), offering again to let him take control to play. He refuses again but offers to teach her instead. When he realizes she's inherited his skills through their connection, his mood takes another nosedive and he dematerializes, frustrated and depressed seeing what the biochip's doing to her.
Things get even worse that evening when V goes to dinner at River's, Johnny throws a massive fit mixing frustration, anger, and jealousy. They realize they can touch each other, which defuses the crisis and shocks them both, and they cut the evening short (still chapter 13, would recommend reading lol, big turning point for them).
After what happened the previous night, Johnny promises himself to stop taking his anger out on V and try to be a better person. Although the fact they can touch probably indicates the Relic's progression, he can't help being happy about being able to touch V, it makes him feel more human and less like lines of code, so it puts him in a good mood, even playfully flirting with her (chapter 14). They test the theory that V could give him control without needing pills and succeed after several attempts. It proves useful when Johnny can take control to drive V's back home when she feels sick later that day. That same evening, Takemura visits V and learns Johnny is the engram on the Relic, and V defends the rockerboy.
When V sees his memories during the Voodoo Boys' attempt to contact Alt (chapter 15), Johnny fears her reaction, that she'll start treating him like a piece of shit like he would deserve, but instead, she hugs him and comforts him, telling him she's genuinely sorry for him. For once, he lowers his defenses and lets himself enjoy this sweet moment.
After things went south after the parade (chapter 16), it's Johnny's turn to comfort V, holding her in his arms as she cries, and his heart breaks seeing her like this. Then when she gives him the wheel of the body, he takes out his frustration on Takemura, punching him for what he did. After the Hanako proxy episode, V loses consciousness and Johnny panics, leading to the Pistis Sofia conversation, in a more emotional version (still chapter 16, would recommend reading too).
Realizing that V and he are really close now, that makes Johnny freak out a bit and he decides to self-sabotage, taking advantage of V letting him use the body during his Smasher hunt to act recklessly (chapter 17). He regrets it immediately and feels even worse when he sees how furious V is. Giving each other the silent treatment is painful for both of them, and when they finally reconcile in the oilfields, they hold each other tight and Johnny gives up fighting against what he feels for V, accepting it even knowing it'll only make what comes next more painful.
He more or less admits to Rogue that he has feelings for V during their movie date (chapter 18). After reuniting with Kerry (chapter 19), he dreams of their shared past, and V experiences the dream through their connection, which pushes Johnny to open up even more to her. She'll relive more of his memories later (chapter 21), including the day when Johnny, still a teenager, lost his arm in the war.
While riding the rollercoaster with Johnny (chapter 19), V completely melts at his smile and realizes that her feelings for him, which have only grown over these past weeks, have reached the point where she can admit to herself that she's in love with him. Which makes things complicated when Songbird has to temporarily cut her connection to the rockerboy later that day.
After rescuing Myers, it's reunion time for Johnny and V (chapter 20), and from this moment on, their flirting becomes much more intense and they can't keep their hands off each other, having a constant need for physical contact between them. V lights a candle for Johnny under the memorial tree in Dogtown (chapter 22).
The affectionate gestures between them only increase, revealing a much softer side of Johnny, and it escalates until Judy invites V to dive in Laguna Bend's waters (chapter 23), then tries to kiss her. This triggers massive jealousy in Johnny, but not wanting to repeat the River incident, he tries to bottle it up, and fails miserably, leading to an intense moment between them and deep introspection for the rockerboy.
Events follow quickly — the Samurai concert (chapter 23), meeting So Mi at Hansen's party (chapter 24). Finally, V has a conversation with Songbird (chapter 25) where she asks the netrunner to temporarily cut the connection with Johnny so they can talk privately. Once done, So Mi eventually admits the Neural Matrix can only be used once, and V agrees to help anyway, saying she doesn't want the cure if it means sacrificing Johnny. The runner warns her that her body isn't suited for her anymore and she might die, but V makes peace with her own death, saying she'll give the body to Johnny, she just wants him to live.
Johnny hasn't heard any of this conversation and V keeps it secret, quietly making a farewell tour and putting her affairs in order (chapters 26 & 27). Johnny senses something's wrong, but V refuses to tell him what. He eventually learns the truth when they send So Mi to the moon (chapter 28) and is completely devastated to learn V gave up a sure chance of survival for him. Fortunately, he doesn't yet know she's planning to die for him.
Finally, when they receive Hanako's call (chapter 29), Johnny completely crumbles, not understanding how V can stay so calm when they're reaching the end of the road. And finally, when they attack the tower, just the two of them, after killing Smasher, V confesses she doesn't want to be separated from him in Mikoshi, that she's ready to just fade away and leave him the body. As Johnny begs her not to do this, she closes her eyes and forces him to take control of the body.
Refusing to give up, Johnny connects them to Mikoshi (chapter 30) and finds V there. He doesn't even have the strength to be angry about what she tried to do, just relieved to have acted in time and to be reunited with her. But the relief is short-lived when Alt announces V has only six months to live, and her lack of reaction makes him realize she already knew, and she's still determined to go behind the Blackwall and leave him her body.
Johnny reaches his breaking point, telling V that if that's how it is, he'll go with her, not wanting to live without her, and the merc can't accept this solution. They're back to square one, each wanting to sacrifice themselves for the other when a third solution appears, in the form of a path to a blank Relic. Alt assures them it could dramatically increase V's chances of survival if she transferred her engram to it, but it doesn't suit the merc, who still refuses to leave Johnny behind.
But he decides not to give her a choice, finally kissing her, pouring all his love for her into this gesture, all the words he's never been able to say out loud. He uses this to make her back up to the Relic's access point and after whispering his goodbyes against her lips, pushes her into the well of light, thus saving her life.
Heartbroken, in Mikoshi, with Alt's icy presence as his only company, Johnny tries to buy time before crossing the Blackwall. He offers sincere apologies to Alt, then resolves to leave. But suddenly, another path, to another Relic, appears again. He ignores Alt telling him she can never help him again if he gets stuck on a biochip again, but he couldn't care less. If he goes with her to the Net, he'll never see V again. But this... this is hope, however slim his chances, of finding her again someday. So without hesitation, he enters the light leading to the Relic.
Goro
After his conversation with V at Tom's Diner (chapter 2), he meets her again to introduce Oda (chapter 4), then after she captures Hellman (chapter 6). While interrogating the scientist, he learns that Saburo had his engram created and was also behind the specific Relic model in V's head. Hellman hints at the possibility that this biochip was created to steal Yorinobu's body. The idea deeply disturbs Takemura, and he decides to investigate whether this is true. He puts this on hold for a dinner with V where they take time to get to know each other (chapter 8).
After his reconnaissance mission with V and hacking Hanako's float (chapter 11), he spends the night at the merc's apartment, then returns a few days later for a hot shower and a conversation about Johnny (chapter 14) (yeah, his hideout is a shithole). Meanwhile, he meets Michiko Arasaka-Sanderson, who confirms what Hellman told him about her grandfather is true, and that they must stop his quest for immortality. After a long discussion, she convinces Goro that destroying his engram would be the best course of action, and he agrees in exchange for her help in saving V's life (chapter 12).
On parade day (chapter 16), everything goes wrong and after the attack on his hideout, he's forced to flee with V to hide in a Badlands motel. She helps patch one of his wounds and in a moment of vulnerability, they kiss, before Goro runs away (but not before Johnny takes control of the body to punch him and tell him exactly what he thinks of him).
After that, he returns to Michiko to inform her he failed to convince Hanako (chapter 17), but she reassures him that her aunt will eventually accept the truth and contact him again, that their plan is still on, and she's found a solution to save V by forcing Hellman to work on this project, providing a new version of the Relic.
She was right — the Arasaka heir contacts him soon after and Goro starts spying for Michiko (chapter 22), until he receives a message from V on his voicemail and realizes she's attacking Arasaka Tower (chapter 29 (& chapter 1 for the full voicemail)).
He rushes to the tower (chapter 29) to discover V has not only caused carnage but also killed Adam Smasher. When he tries to approach her in Mikoshi's antechamber, he realizes Johnny's in control of the body, and the rockerboy puts aside his animosity to request help connecting V to Mikoshi.
While V and Johnny are in cyberspace, Goro uses the new Relic to preserve V's engram before inserting it in her neural port (chapter 30). After she briefly wakes up before passing out again, he carries her to the roof where Vik, whom he'd contacted beforehand, waits in an AV, and they evacuate V.
Panam
After meeting V (chapter 3), a strong friendship quickly develops between the two women. She helps the merc capture Hellman (chapter 5), and V helps her in return to save Saul (chapter 7), then with the Basilisk (chapters 9 & 10). She's also there to help V move to the Glen (chapter 12), or just to listen to her complain about Johnny (chapter 13). They simply enjoy spending time together, becoming best chooms (chapter 21 & 27).
The Aldecaldos
Welcomed V as a family member (chapter 18), throwing her a welcome party.
Judy
After Evelyn's rescue mission (chapter 8) and then losing her (chapter 14), Judy isn't doing well. Although she wasn't happy about V going along with Maiko's plan for the Clouds (chapter 20), she still invites the merc to dive in the lake that swallowed Laguna Bend (chapter 23). Later that evening, she tries to make a move on V, which really pisses Johnny off, even though V doesn't return the young woman's feelings, he throws a major jealous fit. The next day, when the techie announces she's leaving Night City, he's absolutely thrilled.
River
Successfully saved his nephew with V's help (chapter 10) and invited her to dinner at his place, but never got the chance to take her on top of the water tower, the evening being cut short by Johnny's meltdown (chapter 13) and when he and V suddenly gain the ability to touch each other. We don't hear from River after that.
Rogue
The movie date with Johnny (chapter 18) goes better than in canon and she accepts that he's really changed when he doesn't try anything with her and they have a real conversation instead. They part on good terms.
Kerry
Despite an even more complicated relationship with Johnny (chapter 19), he slowly turns the page (chapter 23) thanks to Johnny and V's help, even ending on good terms with Us Cracks (chapters 25 & 26) after blowing up their van (chapter 24). V and him also blow up the yacht (chapter 29).
So Mi
The main difference from canon is that she was much more honest with V, forming a more sincere friendship with her — she admitted that the Neural Matrix could only be used once during one of their conversations in Dogtown (chapter 25). V then sent her to the moon knowing perfectly well she wouldn't get anything in return. Happy trails, Song (chapter 28).
Reed
Killed at the spaceport by V (chapter 28). Sorry, man.
Myers
After Song contacts V (chapter 19), the merc goes to the president’s rescue (chapter 20). She leaves Night City (chapter 21) and only returns for a brief appearance at the spaceport (chapter 28).
Alex
She makes it out fine after V and Songbird left her behind at the stadium (chapter 26 & 27). Enjoy your retirement in Monte Carlo, sweetie (chapter 29).
Here's the bulk of the events, I hope you can follow along (and for those who've already read everything, that it refreshed your memory) ^^
I won't keep you any longer, enjoy the first part of the post-game!
It's hard to see you again
Now, that you're back from the dead
It's horrid to see you again
So bored of being you
The first time consciousness decides to make its unwelcome return, it creeps in like a bad hangover after a night at the Afterlife — except V's pretty sure no amount of alcohol could make her feel this wrecked. Her body feels like it's been run over by a tank, backed up, and run over again for good measure. Every limb seems to weigh about a ton, and even the simple task of opening her eyes feels like it would require more effort than she can possibly muster.
Through the cotton-stuffed feeling in her head, the first clear sensation that manages to penetrate her fog-addled brain is sound — specifically, the unmistakable sound of Panam Palmer in full rage mode. The nomad's voice carries through what V hazily assumes must be tent walls, its familiar pitch reaching that special octave Panam reserves for when she's about to murder someone, its familiar cadence oddly comforting despite its fury.
The words themselves are too difficult to parse, her brain still too sluggish to piece the sentences together, but the emotional tone is crystal clear — someone's getting their ass handed to them, verbally at least. Some distant part of her mind registers confusion — why is she hearing Panam's voice at all? Where is she? — but the questions slip away before they can fully form, too much effort to hold onto.
A small part of V's mind registers mild curiosity about what unfortunate gonk managed to trigger Hurricane Panam this time, but the thought slips away like water through her fingers. The rest of her consciousness is already retreating, pulling back into the comfortable darkness that promises no pain, no confusion, no need to deal with whatever clusterfuck is happening outside.
'Nope,' she thinks hazily as unconsciousness claims her again. 'Whatever this shit is, it can wait.'
The last thing she registers before slipping under is Panam's voice reaching new heights of outrage, followed by what sounds suspiciously like something expensive breaking. Then blessed darkness takes over again, and V gratefully lets it.
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆
The second time consciousness creeps back, it's gentler, less like being hit by a tank and more like wading through thick fog. V's body still feels heavy, but the bone-deep exhaustion has ebbed slightly. The air around her is warm, carrying the distinct smell of desert dust and sage that she's come to associate with the Aldecaldos' camp. Distant voices drift through what must be tent walls — people talking, laughing, living. Someone's playing guitar, the melody floating on the evening breeze.
The sound strikes something deep in her chest, a chord of memory that makes her heart stutter. For a moment, she expects to hear Johnny's sardonic commentary about amateur musicians, or feel the phantom sensation of his fingers itching to show them how it's properly done...
But there's nothing. No presence in the back of her mind. No shared cigarette cravings. No constant stream of smartass remarks.
Just... emptiness.
The realization hits her like a bullet to the heart, memories of Mikoshi flooding back in a rush of pain and loss. His last kiss, impossibly tender, still burns on her lips. How he smiled at her through his tears as he pushed her away, his final ‘goodbye’ still echoing in her mind. Her own scream, raw and desperate, as she fell through that well of light, reaching for him even as he disappeared forever.
Her hand weakly moves to her chest, searching for the familiar weight of his tags, but finds nothing. The panic that follows is immediate and crushing — had she lost them? His last physical reminder, gone? The thought alone is enough to make her want to scream, but her throat is too dry, her body too weak to even manage that small rebellion.
V wants to curl into herself, to wrap her arms around the hollow space in her chest where Johnny used to be and just fucking cry until there's nothing left. But her body, still ravaged by whatever the hell the separation did to her, refuses to cooperate. Even opening her eyes feels like too much effort.
So instead, she lets herself drift back into unconsciousness. The darkness claims her again before the tears can fall, offering temporary refuge from the devastating reality of being alone in her own head for the first time in months. From the knowledge that somewhere in that digital hell, the other half of her soul is lost forever.
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆
The third time consciousness returns, V finally manages to force her eyes open. Her Kiroshis take a moment to calibrate, the optical implants adjusting to the dim light with a soft whir. Through the darkness, she makes out a familiar figure slumped in a chair nearby — Vik, his head propped on his hand in what looks like an uncomfortable position, glasses slightly askew as he dozes.
"Vik?" The word comes out as barely more than a whisper, her throat feeling like she's swallowed half the Badlands' sand. Johnny would've made some smartass comment about her sounding like she'd been gargling razor blades. The thought sends a fresh wave of pain through her chest, but she pushes it aside as Vik startles awake, his head snapping up as he quickly straightens in his chair.
"Kid, you're awake!" Relief floods his tired features as he leans forward. "Easy there, don't try to move too much. You need to get some fluids in you first. Think you can manage to sit up a bit?"
V manages a weak nod, and Vik immediately reaches for a canteen of water from a nearby table. With more effort than she'd like to admit, V pushes herself up against what feels like a stack of cushions. Her arms shake with the simple movement, but she manages to take the offered straw between her lips. The water feels like heaven against her parched throat.
After a few careful sips, she lets herself sink back into the cushions, taking in her surroundings for the first time. This definitely isn't Vik's familiar basement clinic with its worn boxing posters and comforting smell of antiseptic. The air smells of dust and sage, and somewhere in the distance, she can hear the low murmur of voices and the crackle of what might be a campfire.
"Vik, where...?" Her hand unconsciously moves to her chest again, searching for Johnny's tags, but finding nothing. The panic threatens to rise again, but she forces it down.
"You're in the Aldecaldos' camp, out in the Badlands," he explains, adjusting his glasses. "After everything that went down, we figured getting you out of Night City was the safest play until you recovered."
"We?" The question comes out confused, her brain still trying to piece together the fragments of memory.
"That's a longer conversation for when you're stronger, kiddo." Vik's voice is gentle but firm. "For now, you need more rest. Tomorrow morning we'll get you to the medical tent, run some tests. Want another sip?" He offers the water again with that same patient smile she's known for years.
V shakes her head, studying his face instead. The dark circles under his eyes are impossible to miss, even behind his glasses. He looks like he hasn't slept properly in days, and knowing Vik, he probably hasn't. The guilt mingles with the exhaustion already weighing her down.
Questions burn on her tongue — about Mikoshi, about how she got here, about Johnny's tags, about whether any of it was even worth it — but even forming complete thoughts feels like too much effort. Vik seems to read it in her expression, sighing softly as he places a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"Don't worry about anything right now, V. The fatigue is normal after what you've been through. Get some sleep — I'll let your friends know you were awake and coherent. Someone will be here when you wake up again, but right now, we both need some proper rest." His tone is gentle, almost paternal, and it makes her throat tight with emotion she's too tired to process.
V lets her eyes close, the emptiness in her soul a constant ache she can't escape even in exhaustion. Her mind reaches out habitually, searching for that familiar presence, only to find nothing but silence. As sleep pulls her under again, she silently hopes that this time, maybe the dreams will be kinder. Maybe this time, she'll dream of him — of shared cigarettes and stolen moments, of that crooked smile he saved just for her. Of everything she lost to save herself.
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆
Morning light filters through the tent's canvas, casting everything in a muted olive glow. V blinks slowly, her vision adjusting to find herself in what she now recognizes as her own tent at the Aldecaldo camp. The ground beneath her cot is nothing but packed sand and dried grass — a far cry from her luxurious apartment, but somehow more comforting right now. The familiar scent of desert dust mingles with motor oil and something cooking outside, grounding her in reality.
The camping chair where Vik had kept his vigil is now occupied by Panam, who is doing that nervous thing with her hands that she always does when she's worried sick but trying not to show it. Her usual confident posture is gone, replaced by tense shoulders and worried eyes that haven't left V's face since she woke up.
When their eyes meet, Panam attempts a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Morning, sleepyhead."
"Hey, Pan," V manages to croak out. Her voice sounds less like she's gargling glass than last night, but it's still rough around the edges. The silence that follows feels heavy, loaded with all the things neither of them knows how to say.
Panam immediately reaches for the water canteen beside her, helping V take a few careful sips. Her hands are gentle but trembling slightly, betraying her emotional state. Finally, she lets out a deep sigh that seems to come from her very soul.
"You stupid, reckless fucking gonk," Panam's voice starts low but builds with each word, weeks of fear and anger finally breaking through. "What the actual fuck were you thinking? Attacking Arasaka Tower? ALONE? Do you have any idea — any FUCKING idea what it felt like seeing you half-dead, barely breathing?" Her voice cracks, anger barely masking the terror underneath. "Why didn't you call me? We're supposed to be family, V. FAMILY. We would have moved heaven and earth to help you, and you just... you just..."
"I know, but I couldn't risk getting you involved in that shit, Panam." V's voice is weak but determined. "What if someone had died? Mitch? Saul?" She swallows hard, meeting Panam's fierce gaze. "Or you? After Jackie... I couldn't... I couldn't lose anyone else. Not like that."
"V..." Panam's anger deflates slightly, but the hurt remains. "That wasn't your choice to make. We're not some fragile things you need to protect. We're your family, and we protect each other. That's what family does."
"Look, what's done is done," V says, trying to diffuse the tension she can feel building in her friend. "And for what it's worth... I'm sorry. I really am."
Panam studies her for a long moment, conflict clear on her face. Finally, she asks the question V's been dreading, "So, was it worth it? That Mikoshi stuff? Did you fix the biochip problem?"
The question hits V like a punch to the gut, memories of Johnny's last moments flooding back. His tears, his kiss, the way he'd pushed her away to save her life. The emptiness in her head where he used to be feels suddenly overwhelming, and she has to close her eyes against the wave of grief that threatens to drown her.
"Yeah... he's gone, Pan..." V can’t even say his name out loud, her voice breaking completely, tears finally spilling over. The words feel like broken glass in her throat, each syllable cutting deeper than the last. She instinctively reaches for that familiar presence in her mind, only to find that devastating emptiness again. "I..." She doesn't need to say more — if anyone understands what he meant to her, it's the nomad.
Panam was the only one who saw past the 'terrorist in her head' bullshit, the only one who acknowledged the rockerboy as a real person even though she couldn't see him. The only one who understood that somewhere along the way, V and Johnny had become something more than either of them could explain — two souls so intertwined that separation felt like death itself.
The sight of V's tears seems to drain all remaining anger from Panam, who reaches over and grabs her friend's hand, squeezing tight enough to ground her in reality.
"I fuckin’ killed him, Pan," V chokes out between sobs, the confession tearing itself from her chest like a wounded animal. "I left him behind in Mikoshi. Now he'll be stuck behind the Blackwall, merged with other constructs until there's nothing left of him. Everything he was, everything he became..."
Her voice cracks completely, body shaking with uncontrollable sobs. "I feel so fuckin’ empty without him. Like half my soul got ripped out and I'm just... bleeding everywhere. His voice, his presence, his stupid comments about everything — it's all gone. Just... silence. And I can't... I can't fuckin’ breathe through it."
She draws a shuddering breath, more tears falling. "Wasn't supposed to end like this. Wanted him to keep my body, but he... that stupid, self-sacrificing gonk... Said he couldn't live with himself if he let me die. As if I can live with myself now, knowing where he is, what he sacrificed..." She breaks off, unable to continue as grief overwhelms her completely. "I miss him so much it physically hurts, Pan. How do I... how am I supposed to just... keep goin’?"
Panam gives her time, thumb stroking gentle circles on V's hand as she cries. When she finally speaks, her voice is thick with emotion. "Fuck, V... I'm so, so sorry..." After a moment of heavy silence, she adds, "But he did what love made him do — gave you a chance at life. He saved you, and I'm fucking grateful he did, even if you hate him for it right now."
V's only response is more broken sobs, each one carrying the weight of everything she lost in Mikoshi. The memory of his last kiss burns on her lips, a ghost she'll never be able to exorcise.
"We can talk about it later," Panam says gently, maintaining her grip on V's hand like an anchor. "Your friend, the doc, is waiting for you in the medical tent. Think you can try standing?"
Vik. Right. Okay. V thinks she can manage that. Anything to keep from drowning in thoughts of Johnny. Of how perfect he felt in those last moments, only to be ripped away forever.
V pulls back the thin blanket covering her body and examines her right calf, which had been torn to shreds during her fight with Smasher. It's been completely reconstructed — she can feel the new reinforced tendon under the RealSkin. Her fingers trace over her belly and arms, finding that even the gunshot wounds have been treated, leaving only fine, precise scars in their wake.
Looking at the evidence of just how close she came to death, V realizes she probably only made it to Mikoshi through some miracle — or maybe just pure stubborn adrenaline and Johnny's determination bleeding into her own.
Despite the emotional devastation weighing her down, V attempts to stand. Her muscles protest immediately, trembling with the effort. The simple act of swinging her legs over the side of the cot sends waves of dizziness through her head, making the world spin momentarily.
"Easy there," Panam says, quickly moving to support her. "Your body's been through hell — take it slow."
V grips Panam's offered arm, her knuckles white with effort. Her legs feel like they're made of lead, and every movement sends sharp pains through her reconstructed calf. The ground seems to sway beneath her feet as her body remembers how to balance itself.
"Fuck," V mutters, teeth gritted. "Didn't think standing would be this much of a bitch."
"That's what happens when you spend days unconscious after storming a corpo tower, you gonk," Panam replies, but her tone is gentle despite the words.
Together, they make their way out of the tent into the morning sun. The sudden brightness makes V's Kiroshis glitch momentarily, sending static across her vision before they adjust. The desert heat hits her like a physical force, and she's grateful for Panam's steady support as another wave of dizziness washes over her.
The Aldecaldos camp is relatively quiet in the early morning heat, the usual bustle subdued. As they carefully navigate between the rows of trucks and tents, V notices the way people's eyes slide away from her, like they're seeing a ghost. Some whisper behind their hands, others just stare when they think she isn't looking. V catches her reflection in a truck's side mirror and understands why — she looks like death warmed over, pale and gaunt, with dark circles under her eyes that make her chrome stand out starkly against her skin.
"Don't mind them," Panam murmurs. "They're just worried. You were... it was pretty bad when you first got here."
V doesn't ask for details. She's not sure she wants to know.
They reach the medical truck where Vik is waiting, coffee cup in hand. The familiar sight of her ripperdoc brings a wave of comfort, even if he looks as exhausted as she feels. The medical vehicle has been transformed into a makeshift clinic, complete with scanning equipment that must have cost a small fortune. V recognizes some of it from Vik's basement — they must have transported his essential gear here.
"Morning V. How are you feeling?" he asks as they approach, his expert eyes already scanning her gait, noting how heavily she's leaning on Panam.
"Physically?" She manages a weak shrug, immediately regretting the movement as her shoulders protest. "Mostly okay. Everything hurts, but I'm standing, so that's something."
"And emotionally?" he presses, studying her face over his glasses. V's silence is answer enough, and Vik sighs heavily. "I see. Alright, come on. Need to scan that brain of yours."
Getting into the examination chair is another challenge entirely. V's legs nearly give out on the small steps, and it takes both Panam and Vik to help her settle in. The familiar hum of medical equipment fills the air as Vik begins his examination, the neural scanner whirring to life above her head.
"Try to stay still," he instructs, though his voice is gentle. "This won't take long."
V closes her eyes against the bright scanning lights, trying not to think about the last time she was in a medical chair like this — right before the tower, when Johnny… Fuck . The memory sends a fresh wave of pain through her chest.
After what feels like an eternity, Vik pulls back from his screens, a huge grin spreading across his face. "Okay, kid. I'll cut straight to the chase — this is excellent. Your body's responding well to treatment, the injuries from Arasaka Tower are healing nicely. That new tendon in your calf is taking well, and the synthetic skin grafts are integrating perfectly. And..."
He pauses, double-checking the neural scans displaying on his screen. "Your brain damage is actually reversing itself. Slowly, but there's already noticeable improvement. The neural pathways that were degrading? They're regenerating. Best case scenario, everything could return to how it was before the construct. More realistically though, we should already be grateful the degradation has stopped completely."
Instead of relief, panic floods V's system, her heart rate spiking so dramatically that Vik's monitoring equipment starts beeping in alarm. Her chrome-lined fingers tremble as they find their way to her neural port, feeling both chips — the old damaged one that started everything, and the new one that was supposed to be her salvation. The one he insisted she use, even when she tried to refuse, even when she begged him to take her body instead.
"So it... it actually worked?" Her voice comes out strangled, barely above a whisper. "The new Relic really stopped the degradation?" The words taste like ash in her mouth, bitter victory mixed with devastating loss.
The medical equipment continues its frantic beeping as V's pulse races, each beat a painful reminder that she's alive while Johnny... Vik quickly adjusts something on his scanner to silence the alarm, but the tension in the small medical truck remains palpable.
"In Mikoshi," she starts, struggling to keep her voice steady despite the tears threatening to fall. Her hands clench into fists, nails digging into her palms. "Alt told us about this new path that appeared. Said if I used it, I might actually have a chance to live. Not just the six months she gives me at first, but..." She trails off, the memory of those moments too raw, too painful. She can't talk about him, about his final decision, about the way he looked at her before he made his choice. The emptiness in her head screams where his voice should be.
The monitoring equipment spikes again as emotions threaten to overwhelm her. Panam quickly moves closer, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder while exchanging worried glances with Vik.
"Take it easy, V," Vik says softly, his usual gruff demeanor softened by concern. "Your vitals are still sensitive, and your system's been through enough trauma."
V barely hears him, lost in the memory of those last moments in Mikoshi. She presses her hands to her face, trying to hold back the sobs that threaten to break free. "I didn't... I wasn't sure it would really work. Alt said it might, but..." She draws a shaky breath, the air feeling too thick in her lungs. "That fuckin’ gonk was so certain. Wouldn't even let me..." She can't finish the sentence, can't talk about his final choice, his sacrifice, the way he forced her to live while he stayed behind.
The memory of his last touch burns through her, and the heart monitor spikes dangerously again. She can still feel his hands on her face, the desperate look in his eyes, the way he...
"V," Panam's voice cuts through the spiral of memories, gentle but firm, her thumb rubbing small circles on V's shoulder. "Breathe. Just breathe. You're here. You're alive. That's what matters right now."
But is it? V wants to ask. Is it really what matters when half of her is trapped behind the Blackwall?
The world starts spinning violently as panic claws its way through V's chest. Her chrome-lined fingers grip the edge of the medical chair, knuckles turning white from the effort. The nausea hits her in waves, her empty stomach heaving uselessly — when was the last time she ate? She can't remember. Maybe back at her apartment, before... before everything.
"Fuck," she gasps, struggling to draw breath. "I can't... I can't..."
"V? V!" Panam's voice seems to come from far away. "Look at me. Focus on my voice."
But V can't focus. All she can hear is the deafening silence in her head where his voice should be, where his presence should warm the edges of her consciousness. The emptiness is so absolute it physically hurts.
"That's it," Panam says firmly, taking control of the situation. "Vik, we need to postpone this. She needs air, now."
The ripperdoc is already moving, his experienced eyes taking in V's deteriorating state. "Of course. I'll be here when you're ready, kid. Take all the time you need — I'm not going anywhere."
"Can you stand?" Panam asks, already sliding an arm around V's waist. "Easy now, I've got you."
V manages a weak nod, letting Panam take most of her weight as they make their way out of the medical truck. The desert heat hits them like a physical force, the sun almost mockingly bright. Around them, the Aldecaldos camp buzzes with life — people working on vehicles, carrying supplies, living their normal lives while V's world has shattered into a million pieces.
"Where to?" Panam's voice is gentle but steady, an anchor in the storm of V's thoughts. "We could go to my tent, or..."
"My tent," V cuts her off, the words coming out between ragged breaths. "Just... just want to lie down. I'm tired." It's not entirely a lie — she's exhausted down to her bones, but it's not the kind of tired sleep can fix.
"Bullshit," Panam mutters, but starts guiding them toward V's tent anyway. "You're not tired, you're having a fucking panic attack. But fine, we'll do this your way for now."
They make their way through the camp slowly, V's legs threatening to give out with each step. She can feel the concerned looks from the other nomads, hear their whispered conversations. Inside the tent, the air is cooler, the canvas walls providing blessed shelter from prying eyes. Panam helps V onto the cot with surprising gentleness.
"I'll bring you some food later," she says, hovering by the tent's entrance. "And V? We're going to talk about this eventually. You can't keep it all bottled up forever."
V manages a weak nod, not trusting her voice. She waits until Panam's footsteps fade away before finally letting herself break.
The sobs come violently, tearing through her chest like razor blades. She curls into herself, pressing her face into the thin pillow to muffle the sound. Her hands clutch at her neural port where both biochips sit — one that nearly killed her, one that saved her life, both reminders of him.
"You fuckin’ asshole," she whispers into the emptiness. "You stupid, self-sacrificing asshole. Why'd you have to..." Her voice breaks completely.
The silence that answers is deafening. No sarcastic comeback, no gentle mockery, no warm presence at the edges of her mind. Just the hollow echo of her own thoughts bouncing around her skull.
She cries until exhaustion claims her, falling into a restless sleep filled with dreams of neon blue light, the taste of cigarettes, and the ghost of his last desperate kiss. In her dreams, she can still feel his hands on her face, still see the tears in his eyes as he pushed her away, still hear his voice saying "A real chance at something more than just surviving" — he’s never been so wrong.
V wakes up disoriented, her body feeling like it's made of lead. The late afternoon sun filtering through the canvas casts strange shadows across her small tent, making the world feel surreal and distant. Her head is pounding, throat raw and eyes swollen from crying. All she wants is to slip back into the sweet oblivion of sleep, where reality can't touch her, where the emptiness in her head doesn't feel like a gaping wound. Where, sometimes, in the hazy space between consciousness and dreams, she can almost pretend he's still there.
She tosses restlessly on the narrow cot, the cheap military fabric rough against her skin. Finally settling on her side, she turns her back to the tent's entrance, eyes stubbornly shut against the world. She's not ready for any of this — not the concerned looks, not the questions, not the crushing weight of being alone in her own head again. Not the deafening silence where his voice should be, where his presence should warm the edges of her consciousness.
When Panam returns hours later, her footsteps soft on the desert ground, V keeps perfectly still. She focuses on keeping her breathing slow and even, feigning sleep with the skill of someone who's spent years in stealth ops. The smell of the sandwich her friend brought — something with synthetic beef and real tomatoes, a luxury out here — makes her stomach turn violently. The mere thought of food, of sitting up, of having to engage in conversation... it's all too much right now. She maintains the charade until Panam's footsteps retreat, leaving the untouched plate on the nightstand.
In the growing darkness, V's hand unconsciously reaches for the dogtags that aren't around her neck anymore. The phantom weight of them makes her chest ache with fresh grief. She can still feel them, the way the metal warmed against her skin, how they'd clink softly when she moved. Another piece of him, gone. She curls tighter into herself, finally drifting back to sleep with tears silently tracking down her face.
The next day brings no relief. She's slept far too long — most of yesterday and through the night — but consciousness still feels like a burden she's not strong enough to bear. The tent is stiflingly hot when Panam returns to check on her, the merciless desert sun at its peak making the small space feel like an oven.
"Fuck, V," Panam sighs heavily, noticing the untouched food from yesterday. Her combat boots kick up small clouds of dust as she moves closer to the cot. "I know you're going through hell right now, but you need to eat something."
V manages to roll over, facing her friend for the first time in what feels like forever. The concern in Panam's eyes makes something twist painfully in her chest. "Just thinkin’ about chewing makes me wanna puke," she mumbles, her voice hoarse from disuse and crying. The words scratch her throat like sandpaper.
"Then at least drink something," Panam insists, her tone softening at V's obvious distress. She perches on the edge of the cot, her weight making the canvas stretch. "You're gonna get dehydrated in this heat, and Vik will have my ass if you end up back in his truck."
V considers refusing, but the genuine worry in Panam's eyes — and the mention of more medical attention — makes her reconsider. "Fine," she concedes reluctantly, the single word taking more energy than it should.
Panam returns quickly with ice-cold water, condensation beading on the metal canteen. She helps V sit up, supporting her back when the merc sways slightly. The cool liquid soothes her raw throat, and she has to admit it helps clear her head a little, chasing away some of the fog of exhaustion and grief.
"What if I bring you a protein shake later?" Panam suggests, still sitting on the edge of the cot. Her hand finds V's, squeezing gently. "Just try a few sips? Please?" The worry in her voice is painful to hear. "For me?"
V looks at their joined hands — Panam's strong, calloused fingers wrapped around her own chrome-lined ones — then up at her friend's concerned face. The nomad has been nothing but supportive, even when V's been pushing everyone away. She owes her this much, at least.
"Okay," V agrees quietly, each word feeling like it costs her something. "I'll try. Can't promise I'll keep it down, but... I'll try."
"That's all I'm asking for," Panam says, relief evident in her voice. She stands, heading for the tent's entrance, then pauses. The desert light haloes her silhouette as she turns back. "And V? When you're ready to talk about... about him... I'm here."
V's throat tightens painfully at the indirect mention of Johnny, but she manages a small nod. Panam leaves, and V is alone again with the deafening silence in her head.
When Panam returns with the promised protein shake, V makes an effort to push herself up on shaky arms. The plastic cup is cold against her palm, condensation beading on its surface. The straw — bright pink, of all things — makes her smile weakly.
"Really? Pink?"
"Hey, made you smile, didn't it?" Panam grins, settling on the edge of the cot. "And they say I have no style."
The mixture tastes like synthetic nothing, which is probably for the best. V manages several small sips, her empty stomach accepting it without immediate revolt. She gets through about half before setting it aside.
After a moment's hesitation, her voice barely above a whisper, "My stuff from that night... you still have it?"
Panam nods, dragging over a plastic container. "Been keeping it safe. Though some of it's pretty fucked up." She positions the box within V's reach, watching her friend's face carefully.
The first thing V finds is the Malorian, its chrome surface catching the filtered sunlight. Her fingers wrap around the familiar grip automatically, relief flooding through her system. The weight of it grounds her — at least she hasn't lost this piece of him.
"Easy there," Panam says softly, eyeing the weapon. V sets it aside quickly, not wanting to spook her friend.
Her hands move to the clothes next, and fuck, her breath catches painfully. Johnny's leather pants are completely destroyed, one leg cut off at the knee — Vik's work while treating her calf. She runs trembling fingers over the ruined leather.
"I remember when we found these…" Panam says gently. "In that Samurai fan's apartment. You were laughing so hard, talking to thin air..."
"Jo— he was losing his shit," V mumbles, surprising herself by speaking. "Kept saying how they were his favorite fuckin’ pants, how they hugged his ass just right..." Her voice breaks. She manages to salvage the belt at least, the leather worn smooth from use.
The jacket Rogue had given her — an exact replica of Johnny's old one — is next, bloodstained and riddled with bullet holes but maybe salvageable. V examines it through blurry vision, barely registering Panam's offer to help fix it.
At the bottom of the box, she finds her jewelry. Her fingers feel naked without their usual chrome and silver, so she slips the rings on immediately. But as she searches with increasing desperation, her heart sinks deeper.
"The tags," she chokes out, voice breaking completely. "Panam, where are his tags? And Misty's pendant?"
Panam's expression shifts to something more worried. "V... you weren't wearing any necklaces when you got here."
The words hit V like a physical blow. She wasn't wearing them? But how... When did she... She realizes with a start that she has no idea how she even got to the camp. The thought sends a chill down her spine, but she can't... she can't deal with that right now. The missing tags are already too much.
She collapses back onto the cot, curling around Johnny's belt, turning away from both the box and her friend.
"V..." Panam starts.
"Just... just gonna sleep some more," V cuts her off, not even trying to hide the tears now.
"Vik wants to check on you when you're up for it," Panam says after a moment. "He's worried."
"Tomorrow," V promises weakly into her pillow. "Tell him tomorrow, okay?"
"I'll let him know." Panam stands, hesitating at the tent's entrance. "Want me to come back later?"
V just shakes her head, not trusting her voice anymore. Once Panam's footsteps fade away, she curls tighter around herself, one hand clutching Johnny's belt while the other reaches instinctively for dogtags that aren't there anymore. The silence in her head is fucking deafening as she drifts back to sleep, tears soaking her pillow.
"Fuckin’ miss you, you asshole," she whispers into the empty air before exhaustion claims her again.
The next morning, V is drawn from her fitful sleep by the rich, unmistakable aroma of real coffee. When she rolls over on the narrow cot, the canvas creaking beneath her, she's surprised to find Saul attempting to silently place a steaming cup on her makeshift nightstand — really just a weathered wooden crate that's probably seen half the Badlands.
"Ah, shit, sorry" he mutters when he notices her eyes open, nearly spilling the coffee in his startled state. The Aldecaldo leader looks distinctly out of place in the small tent, his usual commanding presence diminished by obvious discomfort. "Didn't mean to wake you."
V pushes herself up slowly, running a hand through her tangled hair. The morning light filtering through the canvas casts strange shadows across Saul's face as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly struggling to find the right words.
"S'okay," she manages, her voice still rough from sleep. The awkward silence that follows is thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Good to see you up," Saul finally says, fidgeting with his belt buckle — a nervous habit she's never seen in him before. "The camp's been... well, we've all been..." He trails off, apparently realizing that mentioning their collective worry might not be the best approach.
"Yeah," V responds, not really knowing what else to say.
"Right, well..." Saul clears his throat. "Coffee's hot. Real beans too, not that synthetic shit." He stops himself again, probably realizing he's rambling. "Anyway, it's good to have you back, V." He makes a hasty retreat, nearly catching his shoulder on the tent flap in his hurry to escape the uncomfortable situation.
After he leaves, V cradles the cup in her hands, letting the warmth seep into her chrome-lined fingers. The coffee is indeed real, its rich bitter aroma a rare luxury out here in the Badlands. She's halfway through the cup, watching the morning shadows shift across the tent walls, when Panam ducks inside.
"Well, well," Panam says with a small smile, settling at the foot of V's cot. "Look who's actually sitting up. Did I just see Saul running away from here like he'd seen a ghost?"
"Yeah," V manages a weak snort. "Poor old man looked ready to delta at light speed. Brought me coffee though." She lifts the cup slightly. "Real stuff."
"Damn, he must really feel bad." Panam studies V's face carefully. "How you feeling today?"
"Like shit," V admits honestly, taking another sip of the precious coffee. "But... maybe slightly less shit than yesterday? At least my body's stopped feeling like it got run over by a Basilisk."
"I'll take it," Panam nods, then hesitates before adding, "Think you're up for seeing Vik? He's been asking about you since dawn. Pretty sure he's gonna break down this tent if we make him wait another day."
V considers it. Her body does feel stronger — her legs aren't shaking anymore, and her head's clearer. It's just her heart that still feels like it's been run through with a mantis blade. "Yeah, okay. Let's do it before he has an aneurysm."
The walk to the medical truck is short, and the camp is alive with activity — nomads going about their daily routines, the smell of breakfast fires mixing with engine oil and dust. Bob and Teddy are working on a beaten-up truck nearby, both covered in grease up to their elbows. They spot her and wave, genuine smiles breaking across their faces. V manages a small wave back, grateful when they seem to understand she's not ready for conversation yet.
"Your body's healing well," Panam observes as they walk, watching V's steady steps. "Even if..." she trails off, clearly unsure how to reference V's other, less visible wounds.
"Yeah," V says quietly, unconsciously reaching for the necklace that isn't there. The phantom weight around her neck makes her chest tighten painfully. "Even if."
The medical truck looms ahead, its white paint standing out against the dusty browns of the desert. V takes a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever Vik's examination might reveal.
The medical truck's metal steps creak under their feet as V and Panam climb inside. Even through the filtered air system, V catches the sharp tang of antiseptic mixed with the metallic scent of chrome and meds.The space is cramped but methodically organized, screens cast a pale blue glow over the worn metal walls, displaying various medical readouts.
"About damn time," Vik says, looking up from his terminal. His familiar scowl softens slightly when he sees V. "Park it here, kid." He pats the medical chair, its synthetic leather gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
V settles into the chair, while Panam hovers near the door, uncertain. "You can stay if you want," the merc tells her. "Just gonna be a lot of boring medical shit."
"And probably some cursing," Vik adds dryly, already preparing his equipment. The familiar whir of medical scanners fills the small space.
He starts with the physical examination, his movements precise and practiced. "Had to replace quite a bit of your chrome," he explains, checking the new reinforced tendons in her legs. The synthetic muscle fibers gleam dully under his probing fingers. "The old ones were completely fried. Whatever happened in that tower..." He trails off, continuing his work.
"Yeah," V mumbles. "I know, I know..."
"The subdermal armor took the worst hit," he continues, pressing carefully around her abdomen. Holographic displays light up, showing the extent of the repairs. "Had to replace almost the entire abdominal section. Three layers of it. Lucky for you, the Aldecaldos had some decent tech lying around."
"Mitch's personal stash," Panam adds from her corner. "He's been hoarding good chrome for years. Said it was about time it saved someone's life."
Vik grunts in approval, preparing another injection of healing stims. The blue liquid glows eerily in the syringe, nanites swirling visibly within. "This might sting a bit. The nanites need a boost to keep up with all the repairs."
V barely flinches as the needle finds its mark — just another sting among many. The nanites' cold rush spreads through her system, making her chrome tingle slightly.
"Now," Vik says, moving to the scanner, "let's check what's happening upstairs. Hold still." He adjusts several settings on the massive device suspended above the chair, its articulated arm casting strange shadows in the truck's confined space. "And try not to move your head this time."
"That was one time," V grumbles, but complies. The familiar blue light washes over her as the scanner whirs to life, the holographic display showing layer after layer of her neural pathways. V watches Vik's face as he studies the readings, trying to decipher his expression.
"Well?" she asks when the silence stretches too long. "My brain still Swiss cheese or what?"
"Actually," Vik adjusts his glasses, leaning closer to the screen, "the new Relic's integration is remarkable. These readings..." He points to a complex neural map pulsing with activity, streams of data scrolling past faster than V can follow. "The nanites are doing exactly what they're supposed to — repairing neural pathways, stabilizing synaptic connections. Your brain's healing itself, V."
"But?" There's always a but.
"But it's not instant. Think of it like... well, like physical therapy. Your brain needs time to adapt, to rebuild." He switches between different scan views, each showing various sections of her brain lit up like a christmas tree. "See these areas? They're showing increased neural activity. The nanites are essentially teaching your brain how to be... well, your brain again."
"So that's why I still feel like shit? My brain's at fuckin’ school?"
"Crude way to put it, but essentially, yes." Vik switches to another view, his fingers dancing over the holographic controls with practiced ease.
"What about the headaches?" Panam interjects from her corner. "You were holding your head yesterday morning."
"Just a dull ache," V shrugs, trying to downplay it. Her hand unconsciously moves to her temple. "Nothing like the migraines from before. Barely even notice it most of the time."
Vik's eyes narrow slightly behind his glasses. "Still, keep an eye on that. Any pain, even minor, could be significant right now. What about sleep?"
"Been sleeping like a fuckin’ log," V admits, shifting slightly in the medical chair. "Feel like that's all I've done since..." She trails off, then adds, "Probably slept more in the last few days than I did in the past year."
"That's actually a good sign," Vik nods, making notes on his terminal. "Your body's been through hell — sleep is how it heals. Just..." He looks up from his screen, his expression softening slightly. "If this excessive fatigue continues past the next few days, let me know. Could be nothing, could be something we need to address."
He starts powering down the scanner, the blue light fading gradually. "Think we're done for now, unless you've got any other concerns?"
V glances between the ripperdoc and Panam, her fingers absently tracing the fresh scar on her forearm. The medical truck's filtered air feels suddenly thicker as she voices the question that's been nagging at her since she first opened her eyes in the nomad camp.
"Actually... there's something else. No one's told me yet how I ended up here. In the camp, I mean." She shifts uncomfortably in the medical chair, its synthetic leather creaking under her movement. "Last thing I remember is Mikoshi. Can't figure out how I got from Arasaka tower's basement to the Badlands."
The silence that follows feels heavy enough to cut with a mantis blade. Vik and Panam exchange a look that makes V's stomach twist — the kind of look people share when they're deciding how much truth someone can handle.
"You were evacuated through the tower's roof," Vik finally says, removing his glasses to clean them with the edge of his shirt — a nervous habit V's seen countless times in his clinic. "I was waiting in a Delamain AV. When everything that happened at the tower went public, we knew Arasaka would be looking for you." He rubs his neck, choosing each word with visible care. "Taking you to the clinic or your apartment wasn't an option. Too risky. The Aldecaldos were our best shot at keeping you safe while you healed. It's been a week since the tower incident, and they've been hiding us ever since."
V's brow furrows, her confusion evident in the way she leans forward. "Hold up. An AV? But..." The screens behind Vik blur as she tries to focus on the fragments of her memory. "I never told you I was hittin’ the tower. Last time I saw you..." She trails off, the memory slipping away like smoke through her fingers.
"Vik," Panam steps forward from her corner, her voice gentle but firm. "Want me to take it from here? It's lunchtime anyway, and V needs to eat something. I can fill her in on the details over food."
Relief washes over Vik's weathered features, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. "Good idea." He starts gathering his equipment, expensive medical tools clicking against metal surfaces in the cramped space. "Actually, I should pack up. Need to get someone to drive me back to Night City."
"You're leavin’?" V can't hide the sudden anxiety in her voice, her fingers instinctively gripping the chair's arm tighter.
"Yeah, kiddo. Now that I know you're stable and healing right, my clinic needs me." He attempts a light tone, carefully storing delicate instruments in their cases. "Got other patients besides you, believe it or not." His expression softens as he looks at her, the harsh truck lighting deepening the worry lines around his eyes. "I'm leaving your files with the camp's doc, so if you have any problem... And as soon as you're up for it, come see me in the city, got it?"
"Got it." V manages a small smile, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Good. Don't take too long, okay? Misty's been worried sick about you, can't wait to see you." He pauses in his packing, a scanner hovering halfway to its case. "Oh, and she wanted you to know not to worry about your pets. They're at her shop, she's taking good care of them."
"Fuck, that's... that's good to know." This time, V's smile is more genuine, some tension leaving her shoulders. She hadn't even had time to think about Nibbles and Spike. "Thank her for me, will you? I'll come get ‘em as soon as I can."
"Sure thing, kid." Vik nods, already returning to his methodical packing. "Now go, get some real food in you. Doctor's orders."
The metal steps of the medical truck creak as V makes her way down, her movements still unsteady after days of bed rest. Her legs betray her on the last step, limbs not quite syncing with her neural commands yet. Panam's quick reflexes save her from an undignified face-plant in the desert dust, strong hands catching her before gravity can claim its prize. "Easy there, V," the nomad says, maintaining a steady grip on V's arm. The concern in her voice is poorly masked by forced casualness. "You're not exactly in racing shape yet. Take it slow, okay?"
"Mhh, maybe you can fill me in on how I ended up here in the first place?" V attempts, but Panam's expression remains unmoved, her eyes carrying that mix of stubbornness and worry that V's come to know too well.
"Food first. Story later. And that's not up for debate."
V sighs but doesn't push — the way her legs are trembling beneath her is argument enough against any protest she might voice.
They make their way toward the food truck, the midday sun beating down mercilessly on their shoulders, but V stops dead in her tracks at the sight of the crowd gathered there. Seems like half the camp decided to have lunch at the same time, the air thick with chatter, laughter, and the smell of grilled meat. The thought of navigating through all those familiar faces, dealing with curious stares and inevitable questions, makes her skin crawl and her chest tighten uncomfortably.
Panam catches her hesitation immediately — she's always been good at reading V's tells. "Wait here," she says, understanding clear in her voice. "I'll grab us something. Want a beer?"
"Better not," V manages a weak smile, trying to mask her relief at avoiding the crowd. "Just started walking straight again. A soda's fine."
While Panam heads for the truck, weaving expertly through the throng of nomads, V circles around to find a quieter spot. Through the heat haze distorting the horizon, she spots a small table with two chairs under a faded red sun umbrella near some weather-worn rocks, mercifully away from the bustle. Dropping into one of the chairs, she lets the shade wash over her, grateful for the relative privacy and the slight breeze carrying the desert's familiar scent of dust and sage.
A few minutes later, Panam returns juggling two generous sandwiches, a beer for herself, and a Chromanticore for V. The sandwich looks good but V has to force herself to take small bites, her appetite still somewhere between nonexistent and reluctant. After a few forced mouthfuls, she sets it down, the food sitting heavy in her stomach like a lead weight.
"So," she says, chrome fingers absently playing with the condensation beading on her soda can. "How about that story?"
Panam takes a long pull from her beer, studying V over the bottle's rim. "Actually," she says carefully, each word measured, "I'd rather hear you first."
V's remaining appetite vanishes completely. She abandons her half-eaten sandwich, suddenly finding the rivulets of condensation on her Chromanticore absolutely fascinating, as if they held the secrets of the universe. "Dunno what you're talkin’ about," she mutters, playing dumb with all the subtlety of a drunk gorilla trying to do ballet.
"Maybe you could finally talk about the one whose name you've been avoiding since you woke up," Panam says softly, her voice gentle as if trying not to spook a wounded animal.
V swallows hard, her throat suddenly dry despite the soda. "Johnny..." And fuck, just saying his name out loud makes her eyes burn with unshed tears, her chrome hand clenching around the Chromanticore can hard enough to dent the metal. The familiar ache in her chest returns, sharper than any physical pain she's endured.
"Yeah... that, and everything that led you to storm Arasaka Tower." Panam keeps her tone gentle, careful, like she's walking through a minefield. She sets her beer down on the weathered table, giving V her full attention.
"Fuck..." V sighs, taking a long sip of her artificial lemon-flavored soda, buying time to collect her scattered thoughts. The carbonation burns her throat, grounding her in the present. "Okay, so... it started about two weeks ago, with a conversation I had with So Mi."
"The netrunner from the FIA? The one you took to NCX?" Panam interjects, seeking clarification. She leans forward, elbows on the table, her half-eaten sandwich forgotten.
"Yeah. Never told you the details of what went down that day, but..." V runs her hand through her hair nervously, trying not to think about how many times she's seen Johnny make that same gesture. The memory sends a fresh wave of pain through her chest, sharp enough to make her breath catch. "I need to tell you about this conversation first. Promise it'll make sense in the end."
She tells Panam about Songbird's confession — how the cure the FIA had dangled like a carrot since the Space Force One crash could only be used once, while both V and the netrunner needed it. Worse, it would have erased Johnny like a common virus, wiped him from existence as if he'd never been there at all. V's voice catches as she explains how she readily gave up the cure to So Mi, unable to sacrifice the rockerboy like that, even to save her own life.
But that wasn't even the worst part of that conversation. V's fingers trace patterns in the condensation on her can as she continues, her voice growing quieter. When she told Songbird she was giving up the cure and returning to her original plan of separating her consciousness from Johnny's in Mikoshi, the netrunner had warned her about the slim chances of her body remaining viable, even if she succeeded.
Her voice drops even lower as she describes her decision. If her body was going to reject her anyway, she'd give it to Johnny, offer him a real second chance at life. A sacrifice born of love. The afternoon sun catches the moisture in her eyes as she explains how Johnny didn't know about her plans, but she'd started putting her affairs in order, making a discrete farewell tour to all her closest friends.
"Shit..." Panam whispers, her fingers tightening around her bottle until her knuckles turn white. The realization hits her, horror dawning in her eyes. "That's why you were acting so strange last time I saw you..." Her voice cracks slightly. "You were saying goodbye..."
"Yeah..." V admits, unable to meet her friend's gaze.
The silence that follows her confession hangs between them like a physical presence, broken only by the distant sounds of the camp and the soft whisper of the wind through the rocks. V gives her friend time to process, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on them both like the merciless midday sun.
V takes a shaky breath — the words start flowing easier now, like a dam breaking, though each one seems to cost her something precious.
"After that, everything happened so fast," she says, her gaze distant as if watching the memories play out in the desert heat. "The spaceport with So Mi... fuck, what a mess that turned out to be." She describes the firefight against Myers' soldiers, the way the air had filled with the smell of gunpowder and blood. Her voice catches when she talks about Reed — how she'd had no choice but to put him down, watching another person die because of her choices. But at least the mission succeeded — Songbird made it to the moon, safe and sound.
V's voice softens noticeably when she talks about Johnny's reaction to all this. "He was... fuck, he was devastated when he learned I'd given up the cure. Never seen him like that before. Took him a while, but he eventually understood why I did it. Accepted my choice." A bitter smile crosses her face. "Course, he had no idea what I was really planning. Wouldn't have let me if he knew."
She pauses, taking a long sip of her now-warm Chromanticore, buying time before the harder parts of the story. "Then Hanako called. Didn't even want to meet ‘er. Didn't want to try anything anymore." Her voice drops to barely above a whisper, the words meant more for herself than Panam. "Was just... waiting. Waitin’ for the next Relic malfunction to finish me off, let Johnny take over for good." A harsh laugh escapes her, echoing off the nearby rocks. "But that stubborn asshole convinced me to take the call. That's when I decided to hit the tower — not to save myself, but for one last chance to keep my promise to flatline Smasher."
The next part comes out harder, her voice thick with emotion as she describes the seizure she had after meeting the Arasaka heir. How Johnny had to take control to drag her to Vik's clinic to save her life. The rooftop conversation that followed, her decision to protect everyone by going alone. She even mentions the stupid fucking voicemail she left for Takemura — the only friend she couldn't say goodbye to properly. Panam's eyebrow rises at this detail, but she remains silent, letting V's story unfold at its own pace.
V's hands start trembling slightly as she reaches the next part of her story. The Arasaka Tower assault spills from her lips in brutal detail — how she carved her way through the building's floors like an avenging spirit, leaving a trail of bodies in her wake. "It wasn't even about survival anymore," she admits, her voice hollow. "Just wanted to make them pay. For me. For Johnny. For everyone they'd ever fucked over."
Her voice grows harder as she describes the showdown with Smasher. "Finally got to keep that promise to Johnny. Put that chrome piece of shit down for good." But then her tone shifts, becomes more vulnerable as she describes what came after. "I was... fuck, I was so tired. Couldn’t even stand. Figured that was it, y’know? Time to say goodbye to Johnny, tell him the body was his now." She swallows hard, fighting back tears. "But that stubborn son of a bitch... he wouldn't let go. Somehow got us connected to Mikoshi. Still don't know how he managed that."
V falls silent for a moment, her eyes distant, lost in the memory of what came next. "Being in cyberspace was... fuck, it was something else. Getting separated from Johnny..." Her voice cracks. "Worst feeling in the world. Like havin’ half of yourself ripped away. When we found each other again..." She trails off, unable to put that moment into words.
"Then Alt confirmed what So Mi had warned me about — my body wasn't compatible anymore. Six months, tops, if I went back." A bitter laugh escapes her. "Johnny... shit, he lost it when he realized I'd known. That I'd been planning to give him the body all along. We both just... stood our ground. Each tryin’ to convince the other to take the body, to live."
V's voice drops to barely above a whisper, her fingers unconsciously touching her lips. "And then... then that new Relic path just appeared out of nowhere. And Johnny, he..." She closes her eyes, the memory overwhelming her. "That kiss... that goddamn kiss. His last words against my lips. Then he just... pushed me into that well of light." Her voice breaks completely. "After that... nothing. Just darkness. Until I woke up here."
As V finishes her story, the weight of it all finally shatters her carefully maintained composure. She crumples in on herself, tears flowing freely down her face, her hand pressed against her chest as if trying to physically hold her broken heart together. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs that she can't contain anymore.
After a minute of heavy silence, broken only by V's ragged breathing, Panam squeezes her friend's shoulder. "Wait here," she says softly, her voice thick with shared pain. "Just... don't move, okay? I'll be right back."
Through tear-blurred eyes, V watches Panam make her way toward Cassidy, who's settled in his usual spot, nose buried in one of his weathered books in the shade of a nearby caravan. Though their conversation doesn't carry across the sun-baked ground between them, V sees the old nomad reach into his pocket and hand something to Panam, who quickly returns, dust kicking up under her determined strides.
Panam drags her chair closer, metal legs scraping against the hard-packed earth, and sits next to V. She holds out her prize — a pack of cigarettes and a worn metal lighter, its surface etched with years of use. "Oh fuck, thanks, Pan..." V's voice cracks with raw gratitude. "You can't imagine how much I needed these."
"'Course I know. I'm your best choom, and I know you," Panam replies with a warm smile that doesn't quite mask the worry in her dark eyes.
V's hands tremble as she lights a cigarette, but the familiar ritual helps steady her. She inhales deeply, letting the acrid taste fill her lungs. Each drag reminds her of Johnny, but this time she manages to hold back her tears, though just barely. Memories flood her mind unbidden — all the times they'd shared a smoke, sometimes to calm their nerves, sometimes just because he'd asked. That first time he'd begged her for a cigarette, and all the ones that followed. How it had become their thing, their shared moment of peace in the chaos.
She crushes the butt under her boot before immediately lighting another with desperate urgency. Panam watches her carefully. "Feel any better?"
"A little, yeah." V shrugs weakly, smoke curling from her lips like ghost fingers. "At least I can lie to myself and pretend he was the one who asked me to light it up." Her voice catches on the words.
Panam sighs, clearly searching for words that won't cause more pain. "V... it's killing me seeing you like this. You haven't stopped crying since you woke up. I know losing someone you care about is never easy, but..."
"You just don't fucking get it!" V interrupts, her voice cracking with raw desperation. The cigarette trembles in her fingers. "This isn't just losing a friend, or even losing someone I love." Her hands gesture helplessly in the air, trying to grasp concepts too big for words. "When Jackie died, it was horrible, but this... this is different." She presses her hand against her chest again, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt. "It's like part of my soul got ripped away, and it died with him. I feel... incomplete. I can physically feel the missing piece, Pan. Right here." She taps her temple, then her chest. "In my head, in my heart, in every fuckin’ breath I take. And I don't think I'll ever recover from this. How do you recover from losing half of yourself?"
Fresh tears start falling, and Panam wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. The desert heat beats down on them mercilessly, but V barely notices, lost in the hollow ache where Johnny used to be.
Eventually, when V's sobs subside into shaky breaths, Panam speaks in a soft, reassuring voice. Her hand remains steady on V's shoulder, thumb moving in small circles. "V... Not gonna lie to you — I don't think anyone will ever truly understand the depth of what you and Johnny had." She chooses her words carefully, like walking through a minefield. "The way you talk about him... it's different. Special. But I get that this is fucking hard for you right now. Just... don't forget that he wasn't the only one who loved you. There are so many people who care about you, V. More than you even realize."
V wipes her tear-stained cheeks with trembling fingers. Her voice comes out barely above a whisper, rough from crying. "I know you're here for me, Pan. You and the family, and Vik..."
Panam lets out a heavy sigh, tension visible in the set of her shoulders. "We're not the only ones, trust me. Listen, I don't know if this is the right time to tell you this, but..." V raises an eyebrow in confusion, not sure what's coming. Panam hesitates, playing with one of her dreadlocks nervously. "If you want to know how you got here..."
V lights another cigarette with shaking hands, the previous one having burned away forgotten between her fingers during her breakdown. The familiar smell of tobacco brings a fresh wave of memories, but she pushes them down. Honestly, she'd almost forgotten Panam was supposed to tell her about that, but she's ready to take any distraction from her grief, even if just for a few seconds.
"Yeah, sure," she finally agrees with a weak shrug, exhaling smoke into the hot afternoon air.
"Like Vik told you, he brought you here by AV. Middle of the night, Bobby was on watch..." Panam pauses, her fingers still working through her dreadlock. "You can imagine we don't get many surprise visits like that. Obviously, he raised the alarm — fuck, you should've seen how fast everyone grabbed their weapons. The whole camp was ready for war in seconds."
"Heh. Why do I get the feeling I almost ate one of your rockets?" V attempts to joke through her sadness, remembering all too well how her friend had taken down Kang Tao's aircraft during their Hellman hunt.
"Oh, believe me, it was close." The nomad manages a small smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Then someone — fuck, don't even know who — got a better look through binoculars and shouted it was you. After that..." She shakes her head. "Pure chaos. Saul was yelling at everyone to clear space for landing, people running everywhere, and I..."
She finishes her beer in one long gulp, grimacing at the warm liquid before setting the bottle down too hard on the table, making their plates jump. "I didn't think for a second — ran toward that AV before it even touched down and..." Her voice catches, eyes growing distant with the memory. "Fuck, V, there was so much blood. You looked... you looked dead. When they got you out, your doc assured me you were stable but needed immediate access to our medical truck to keep working on you..." Her hands clench into fists. "They just rushed you there, and no one would answer my fucking questions... Shit, I thought I was gonna lose my mind."
V gives her friend time to collect herself, finishing her cigarette while watching Panam nervously pick at her beer bottle label with her nails. A small breeze has finally picked up across the Badlands, offering slight relief from the merciless early afternoon heat, stirring up tiny dust devils that dance between the caravans.
"It's only when I started screaming my lungs out that someone finally decided to answer me." A slow smile starts creeping across Panam's face, a hint of mischief replacing her earlier distress. Her eyes sparkle with barely contained excitement. "And you're never gonna guess who did it..."
The merc frowns, her brow furrowing. "Well, would say Vik, but..."
"Nah, your doc was too busy keeping you alive." She shakes her head, dreadlocks swaying with the movement. "Heh, never thought I'd see him in person, especially after everything you told me about him..."
"Gonna keep playing mysterious for long?" V grumbles. Despite her irritation, there's a spark of curiosity in her red-rimmed eyes.
"I'm getting there!" Panam nudges her friend gently, her grin growing wider. "So like Vik told you, he picked you up by AV from the tower roof..." She's clearly enjoying drawing this out, watching V's reactions carefully.
"Yeah, followed that part just fine." She rolls her eyes, clearly seeing through the nomad's attempt to drag this out, to tease and distract her. And the worst part is, it's working — her mind focusing on something other than Johnny's absence for the first time since waking up. The hollow ache in her chest eases just slightly.
"From what they told me, Mikoshi was in the basement, right?" Panam waits for the merc's confirming nod before adding, her voice taking on an almost conspiratorial tone, "Never wondered how you made it all the way to the roof?"
V's eyes widen as understanding slowly dawns on her face. "Oh..."
"And not only that," Panam continues, clearly enjoying this reveal, "but how do you think Vik got the idea to bring you to the camp? Or even knew you needed picking up from the tower?"
"Wait... what are you saying, Pan?" V asks, her voice tinged with growing curiosity.
"That the good ol' doc wasn't alone with you in that AV." The nomad says, rising from her chair and extending a hand to V. The metal of her arm implants catches the harsh desert sun. "Wanna find out who?"
Despite everything, V can't stop a tiny smile from tugging at the corner of her mouth. Fuck, her friend knows exactly how to hook her attention. She takes the offered hand and stands, saying, "Okay, I'll bite. Gonna finally tell me, or...?"
"If you're up for a short walk to the edge of camp, might as well show you." Panam keeps her arm linked with V's for physical support, then starts guiding her through the bustling camp. They weave between caravans and busy nomads, the sounds of work and conversation surrounding them.
They make their way to the camp's outskirts, Panam keeping a steady hand on V's arm to prevent her from face-planting in the sand as they descend the dusty slope. The desert heat shimmers around them, making the air dance above the sun-baked earth as they approach the massive tent housing the Basilisk, its shadow offering a welcome respite from the merciless afternoon sun. Once she's sure V won't topple over, the nomad releases her grip.
"Alright, gonna let you go in alone." She gives V's shoulder a gentle pat, a mischievous grin spreading across her face, her eyes twinkling with barely contained excitement. "Even though I'd love to see your reaction..."
"Got it." V manages another weak smile, the first genuine one since waking up. Her voice is still rough from crying. "Just... Pan, thanks. For everything. For bein’ here, for listening to my pathetic ass whinin’ about Johnny, for trying to cheer me up when I'm being a complete wreck. For not judging me when I can't stop cryin’ over someone most people would call a terrorist..." She swallows hard. "Dunno what I'd do without ya."
"Hey, stop that shit right now." Panam's voice turns fierce, grabbing both of V's shoulders. "First, you're not pathetic, and your pain isn't either. Second, I don't give a fuck what other people would call him — I know what he meant to you, that's all that matters. And third..." Her expression softens slightly. "Good thing we won't need to find out what you'd do without me, 'cause I'm here for you, always. You're family, V, and we don't abandon family."
"Even when said family decides to storm Arasaka Tower?" V attempts to joke, her voice wavering.
"Especially then, you gonk." Panam shakes her head, a mix of exasperation and fondness in her voice. "Though next time you decide to pull some crazy shit like that, maybe give us a heads up? So we can watch your back instead of having to scrape you off the pavement after?"
V starts to make a mock military salute, but freezes mid-movement, her hand hanging awkwardly in the air. Fuck — The memories hit her like a punch to the gut. Johnny used to do that, that shit-eating grin of his dancing on his lips, the way he'd run his hand through his hair after, pushing those dark strands out of his face... The familiar ache in her chest returns full force.
Panam frowns as she watches her friend's expression shift from a small smile to profound sadness, eyes going vacant, lost in memories. "V?" She asks gently, trying to pull her back from whatever emotional abyss she's falling into. "Hey, stay with me here."
The merc snaps back to reality with a soul-crushing sigh, her chrome hand trembling slightly as she runs it through her hair. "Shit, sorry... I... Fuck..." Her voice cracks. "Wonder if I'll ever be able to do anything without seeing him everywhere. Without every little gesture bringing back memories. He's just... he was everywhere, Pan. In my head, in my movements, in every fucking thing I did. And now..."
"And now you need to learn how to be just you again." Panam finishes softly, understanding in her dark eyes. "Give yourself time, V. You're allowed to grieve. To miss him. To be angry. Just... don't shut us out while you do it, okay?"
"I'll try." V manages, wiping at her eyes. "Fuck, sorry for being such a mess."
"Stop apologizing for having feelings." Panam squeezes her shoulder one last time. "Now go. Promise what's waiting in there will take your mind off things. I'll be around if you need anything — and I mean anything, even if it's just to cry or scream or break shit."
"Sure. See you later." V nods, watching her friend walk away.
She takes a deep breath, trying to collect herself before continuing toward the tent, the canvas flapping gently in the hot breeze. The moment she steps through the opening, she freezes dead in her tracks — fuck, Panam wasn't kidding about the surprise, this definitely changes her train of thought. Sitting on the hood of the massive hovertank, engaged in what appears to be a spirited debate with Mitch about engine modifications, is none other than Goro Takemura.
For several moments, V remains frozen in place, staring — unsure where to even rest her gaze, the scene before her so utterly surreal. The filtered sunlight through the tent's canvas creates an almost dreamlike quality to the scene, making her wonder if she's hallucinating. The last time she saw Goro was when he walked out of that dingy room at the Sunset Motel after the parade, over a month ago — she remembers with painful clarity the look of defeat etched on his face, his pristine white shirt stained crimson from the bullet wound in his shoulder, the quiet apologies he'd murmured before disappearing into the night like a ghost.
V has witnessed Takemura in various states — from that very first glimpse of him in his immaculately tailored black suit, following Saburo Arasaka in the penthouse, looking every bit as beautiful as he was lethal. His chrome eyes had gleamed with deadly purpose then, his posture speaking of years of discipline and training. When he'd met her at the Japantown docks to meet Oda, looking worn and disillusioned, wearing that old leather coat like armor, his life as a fugitive in Night City's underbelly clearly taking its toll. The surprising sight of him in a simple t-shirt and sweatpants the evening he'd shown up at her place because his hideout's water had been cut off and he desperately needed a hot shower.
But what stands before her now is unprecedented, almost shocking in its casualness. His legs are encased in leather pants bearing scattered engine grease stains, his feet planted firmly in heavy-duty boots, scuffed and worn, telling tales of recent hard use. He's wearing a sturdy work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows and buttons left carelessly open to mid-chest, revealing an expanse of skin and the sleek cyberware that traces down his sternum.
Perhaps most distracting of all is his hair — instead of being pulled back into its customarily severe bun, it's gathered in a loose tie, allowing long strands of black and silver to fall freely around his shoulders, some strands sticking to his neck in the heat. V can't help but remember a conversation with Johnny flooding back into her mind — the rockerboy had once commented that the rōnin would look good with his hair down. Like many things, he had been right about that. The sight makes him look younger somehow, softer around the edges, though no less dangerous.
Mitch is the first to notice V's presence, quickly wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag before approaching her with a warm, genuine smile. "Well, look who's back from the dead! Good to see you up and about, V." His eyes sparkle with knowing amusement as he glances between them. "Guess you two got some catchin' up to do, huh? I'll make myself scarce."
As V and Goro's eyes meet, an electric tension fills the air between them. They both stand silent for a moment, the distant sounds of the camp fading away. The filtered sunlight through the tent's canvas creates dancing shadows, making the scene feel almost surreal. V can hardly believe Takemura is there in front of her, looking so different yet so familiar.
V takes a deep breath and manages to pull herself together, whispering softly to the nomad, her voice still rough from crying, "Thanks, Mitch..."
Mitch gives her a reassuring pat on the shoulder and makes his way out of the tent, leaving V and Goro alone in the filtered afternoon light. The silence is heavy with unspoken words.
Takemura descends gracefully from the Basilisk, landing on his feet with the deadly grace of a predator despite his casual attire. He quickly closes the few meters separating them, his movements fluid and purposeful, barely disturbing the dust beneath his feet. V remains frozen in place as he approaches, her heart hammering in her chest. His dark eyes ringed with silver seem to study every inch of her face, taking in the changes since he last saw her — the lingering exhaustion, the traces of tears, the slight tremor in her hands.
The air feels charged, like the moment before a desert storm breaks. Finally, he breaks the silence, his deep voice carrying its usual formal tone, but there's an undercurrent of warmth that makes V's chest tighten. "V, it's good to see you. You look well."
Much of the tension seems to dissipate at this phrase — an inverted mirror of the 'You smell like shit' he'd told her after finding her in that landfill after the heist. A ghost of a smile tugs at her lips at the memory. V knows she probably looks terrible with her red-rimmed eyes from crying, her pallid complexion, and the dark circles under her eyes, but it's touching to see that the usually brutally honest man is now capable of telling white lies just to spare her feelings.
"And you really look like a million eddies, Goro." V replies with a genuine grin, her voice stronger now. And that's no lie — the nomad look suits him in ways she never would have imagined.
This phrase brings back memories for the man — Redwood market, a scopburger plummeting toward the streets below, the merc's laughter at his expression of disgust at local food. The corner of his mouth twitches at the memory. But unlike then, he feels at ease now, which makes the compliment much easier to accept. The desert seems to have worn away some of his rigid edges.
"Thank you. It seems the desert suits me well." Goro smiles, glancing briefly toward the sunlight filtering through the tent before returning his attention to the young woman. The warm light catches on his chrome, creating dancing reflections that match the silver in his hair.
Her smile grows wider, a hint of her old playfulness returning despite her exhaustion. "Fuck, seriously, look at ya." She vaguely gestures at his nomad attire, taking in how the sturdy fabric clings to his frame, how the rolled-up sleeves reveal the intricate mix of tattoos and chrome on his forearms. "Lookin' all relaxed and comfy. Never thought I'd see you like that."
"It is easier to appear relaxed when your mission has finally been accomplished," he admits with a small shrug that looks almost foreign on his usually rigid frame. "And when there are no others on the horizon." His voice carries a note of something V can't quite identify — peace, maybe, or satisfaction.
The mention of Takemura's mission makes V's brows furrow. Having no idea what he's talking about, having no idea why he's in the camp at all, actually, she asks, "What are you doin' here, Goro?"
"I was waiting for you to wake up," he replies simply, his chrome eyes studying her face with an intensity that makes her skin tingle. When V doesn't look any more enlightened by his answer, he asks, noticing her confusion, "You do not remember?"
She just shakes her head no, the movement making the world spin slightly. Despite Vik's best efforts, she's still not fully recovered. "Would you like to take a walk to talk more quietly?" Takemura suggests, his expression gentle, clearly noticing her unsteadiness. "Do you feel well enough to do so?"
"Guess so. And you can always catch me if I fall." V replies with a small smile, the words carrying more weight than she intended. "Follow me, I know a good spot not far from here."
They leave the tent together, stepping into the harsh desert sunlight, their footsteps kick up small clouds of dust as they walk away from the camp. The afternoon heat wraps around them like a blanket, the air shimmering above the sun-baked ground, and behind them, the sounds of the Aldecaldo camp fade gradually, replaced by the whisper of the wind through the desert scrub.
It's hard to see you again
Unaware that I may not be lost
It's hard to see you again
So bored of being alive, alive, alive
They bypass the tent and carefully climb the huge rocks overlooking the Aldecaldos camp — V leading them to the spot where she and Panam had sat after her welcoming party in the family. The rocks are warm from the day's heat, rough under their hands as they climb. Takemura remains close to the merc, his movements precise and protective, one hand always hovering near her elbow, ready to catch her if her still-weak body betrays her. The camp below looks like a collection of toys from up here, people moving between vehicles and tents like ants, the sounds of life carrying up faintly on the hot breeze.
They finally reach the top of the rocks and V sits on the edge with her feet dangling over the precipice, feeling small against the vast expanse of the Badlands stretching out before them. Takemura settles beside her with his usual grace, though there's something different about him now — a subtle loosening of that rigid posture he usually maintains. Both of them stare at the horizon where, far beyond the sprawl of trucks and tents, past the sand dunes and through the haze of pollution, Night City's imposing silhouette still looms like a distant threat, its towers piercing the sky like chrome needles.
"When I received your message," Goro breaks the comfortable silence, his deep voice carrying undertones of remembered fear, "I was at the Arasaka Estate, just leaving a meeting with Hanako-san." He pauses, the silver ring in his eyes reflecting the distant city. "I... I was more than concerned, V. The tone of your voice... I feared you had chosen to end your life."
V winces at the mention of the message she left on his voicemail — yeah, she can definitely see how it sounded now. In a sense, it was a goodbye message after all — she hadn't really planned on walking out of that tower alive.
"Shit... I'm sorry," she whispers, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, making herself smaller against the vastness of the desert. "Didn't mean to spook ya like that."
"'Spook' me?" He fixes her with an intense stare before turning his gaze back to the camp below, his jaw tightening. A muscle works in his cheek. "V, I... panicked . I feared that I had failed you once again..." His voice carries a weight she's never heard before. "I drove like a madman to your apartment, breaking every traffic law in Night City. Then I received the alert about the Tower." His chrome hand clenches into a fist. "Of course, it was you. It is always you, charging headfirst into the impossible."
"Goro..." She trails off, words failing her. What can you possibly say to a friend when you've attacked everything they've devoted their life to? The sun catches on his chrome as he turns to look at her, and for a moment, she's struck by how different he looks here, against the backdrop of endless sky and sand, than he did in the neon-lit streets of Night City.
"I swear to you, V," his voice grows intense, almost fierce, "that I had no intention of harming you. My sole aim was to extract you from danger and ensure your safety." His accent grows thicker with emotion, something rare for the usually composed man. "When I arrived at the Tower, however..." He pauses, collecting his thoughts. "I did not find you engaged in combat with security forces, as I had feared. Instead, I witnessed the aftermath of your passage."
Takemura draws a deep breath, his eyes distant as he recalls the scene. The wind picks up, carrying the scent of dust and distant engine oil. "All I had to do was follow the trail you left behind. The guards… Slashed throats, shattered limbs, bullet-riddled walls."
She struggles to process the gravity of what Takemura describes, swallowing hard. The carnage she'd left in her wake, without even looking back, without counting the bodies, sits heavy in her gut now. Each death had been a step closer to saving Johnny, and she hadn't hesitated. Even now, with the weight of it all pressing down on her, there's no regret in her expression. Takemura catches this, studying her with a gaze that's equal parts admiration and concern.
"However," he continues, his voice growing softer, "what mattered most to me then was that you were not among the fallen. When I finally reached the antechamber of Mikoshi..." He trails off, and V can see him reliving that moment. "The first sight that greeted me was what remained of Adam Smasher. I still find it difficult to believe you defeated him alone, V. Even having seen the aftermath with my own eyes. That monster had been destroying legends since before you were born."
V hears the unspoken question in his words but can only shrug — honestly, she has no idea how she managed that feat. In the moment, nothing else mattered. She'd been consumed by rage, wanting to avenge Johnny, make that fucking tin can pay for what he'd done decades ago. The memory of that fight is a blur of blood and chrome and screaming metal, of Johnny's voice in her head urging her on, of pain and fury and desperate determination.
The harsh desert wind whips around them, carrying grains of sand that catch the relentless afternoon sun. Silence stretches between them for a moment, broken only by the distant sounds of the camp below.
"And then… I saw you. Covered in blood, crawling towards the back of the room like a wounded animal." His hands clench slightly, the gesture betraying his usual composure. "I called out your name, and you turned to face me, weapon raised. However, my only concern was your well-being — I disregarded the threat entirely and ran to you." He pauses, chrome eyes distant with memory. "But the person before me... it was not the V I knew. It was Silverhand who had taken control."
"Fuck, Goro, I'm so sorry you had to see that shit." V's voice cracks slightly. "Never expected you to come to the Tower... 'specially after how things went south at the motel..." She doesn't elaborate further; she doesn't need to. The memory of their bitter parting sits heavy between them. She briefly wonders why Johnny never mentioned encountering Takemura in Mikoshi — then pushes the thought away. She understands, deep down — that moment was about them, and them alone. "He... he didn't hurt you, did he?"
"You have no need to apologize, V." A surprising dry chuckle escapes him, the sound almost foreign coming from the usually serious man. "Silverhand was actually quite... amenable. Much more so than during our previous... discussion."
V turns to face him fully, eyebrow raised in surprise. "Previous discussion?"
"He never mentioned it?" Takemura looks genuinely surprised, then slightly embarrassed — an expression V never thought she'd see on his face. "It is perhaps a story for another time, but... to summarize, after what happened at the motel... I was in the parking lot, attempting to steal a vehicle..."
Seeing how the conversation clearly makes him uncomfortable — and fuck, if that isn't a strange sight — V tries to lighten the mood. "Hold up — stealing , Goro?" She manages a weak smirk. "Not even trying that 'long-term borrowing' bullshit this time?"
The joke hits its mark, drawing a shadow of a smile from Takemura. His shoulders relax slightly, though his hands remain tightly clasped. "Yes, stealing. I turned around and was immediately introduced to your fist — or rather, Silverhand's. He had much anger to express, much hatred to direct at me. And... at that moment, I simply allowed it, believing I somehow deserved it."
He pauses, giving V time to process this revelation. And fuck, Goro's words stir conflicting emotions within her — another missing piece of the puzzle that was Johnny, learning something new about him even after everything they'd shared.
"If you wish, I can tell you more details another time." Goro's voice grows gentler, clearly noticing her distress. "But to return to what happened at the Tower..." He shifts slightly, the rocks creaking under his weight. "He allowed me to assist him in connecting you to Mikoshi, and he requested that I watch over you. Despite his flaws, despite everything I believed about him... it was clear that he truly cared for you."
"Yeah, I know..." She breathes, feeling the familiar tightness building in her throat. Her hand unconsciously reaches for the tags that aren't there anymore.
Once again, for what feels like the hundredth time that day, V breaks down into tears. How could she possibly explain to Goro — a man who despised everything Johnny stood for — just how vital, how absolutely essential the rockerboy had become to her very existence? How do you tell someone that losing your worst nightmare turned best friend feels like losing half your soul? The tears fall freely now, leaving tracks in the desert dust on her cheeks, and she doesn't try to hide them anymore.
Seeing V cry hits Takemura harder than he expected — the fierce merc who carved through Arasaka Tower now looking so fragile against the vast desert backdrop. Her pain resonates with something deep inside him, cracking his usually stoic facade. Without conscious thought, he shifts closer, the rocks scraping beneath him. His hand hovers uncertainly over her shoulder, before he finally pulls her into a gentle side embrace.
He's not sure if it's even appropriate — decades of formal conduct warring with basic human comfort — but he can think of nothing else. He remains silent as she rests her head against his shoulder, letting her grief run its course. Her tears soak into his shirt, leaving dark patches on the fabric.
Finally, as her crying subsides, V breaks the silence, her voice rough and slightly muffled against his shoulder. "Still dunno why you're here, Goro — comfortin' me instead of giving me shit for what I did to Arasaka." She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing dirt and tears across her face. "You should be so fuckin’ pissed off, I... I just don't get it."
"This is... complicated." He sighs, slowly releasing his hold on her shoulders, his movements careful and measured. "But to simplify matters, I am no longer in Hanako-san's service."
V's head snaps up so fast her neck audibly cracks as her eyes go wide with disbelief. "The fuck?! You can't just drop a bomb like that and not explain! What the hell happened since the motel to make you—"
"It goes back further than that." Takemura admits softly, his usual formal tone tinged with something V's never heard before — regret, maybe even shame. "I sincerely regret not sharing this with you sooner, but the doubts began to surface after my conversation with Hellman at the Sunset Motel."
The merc raises an eyebrow — that feels like a lifetime ago. She nods slowly, gesturing for him to continue.
"That snake opened my eyes to some... disturbing truths." He continues, nervously adjusting his shirt sleeves, rolling them higher on his forearms. "Particularly the possibility that Hanako-san may have conspired with her father regarding the preservation of his engram."
V lets out a bitter chuckle, the sound harsh in her throat. "Grandpa 'Saka made his own engram? Fuck me, I'm not even surprised." She shakes her head. "And what? Would've thought that'd make you jump for joy. Or at least, since you're all stoic and shit, crack that perfect poker face of yours."
"For a brief moment, it did." Takemura admits, his eyes fixed on the distant city skyline. "Then I realized what this meant — that Arasaka-san never trusted me enough to ensure his safety, nor to inform me of his... safety net." He sighs, and when the hot wind blows his silver hair across his face, he tucks it behind his ear. "But what truly disturbed me was Hellman's theory about their intended use for this engram."
"Their intended use?" She echoes, tension creeping back into her frame. Something in Goro's tone sets off all her merc instincts — whatever's coming, it's bad.
Takemura hesitates, weighing his words carefully. Finally, he opts for the direct approach. "Hellman provided me with the same information he gave you — that the Relic you inserted after the Konpeki Plaza incident was unique, vastly different from the commercial version." His hands clench slightly. "The biochip's ability to rewrite its host's body to accommodate the engram was a direct commission from Saburo-san and his daughter. Not a failed prototype, as many believed, but exactly what they intended to create."
"Okay... Weird, but I'm following so far." V nods, her fingers unconsciously tracing her neural port — a gesture Takemura notices but doesn't comment on.
"Not merely 'weird' when you understand their intended purpose. I presume Hellman explained that your deteriorating health was due to genetic incompatibility with the engram, forcing the biochip to aggressively modify your body?" He waits for V's confirming nod before continuing, his voice growing more grave. "This was because the Relic was designed for use on someone who already possessed certain... compatibility with the project's commissioner."
"Wait." V interrupts, her mind racing back to that night in the Sunset Motel, to Hellman's nervous explanations. "Thought good ol' Saburo ordered this thing himself?"
"Indeed. Now, we must question why Yorinobu stole the Relic. The simplest explanation would be profit, or another act of rebellion against his father." He pauses, and V can see him struggling with what comes next. "However... what if the theft was a preventive measure? What if Yorinobu was trying to save his own life?"
"For—" V's face contorts in shock as the pieces click into place, her hands gripping the rocky ground beneath her. "Nah, you're not saying...? That would be so fucked up, even for 'Saka standards..."
"Yet this is precisely what Hellman implied that night." Goro's voice carries a weight of disgust he doesn't try to hide, his usual formality cracking. "While I wasn't entirely convinced, the mere possibility that Arasaka-san might consider seizing his own son's physical form..." He shakes his head, the silver part of his hair catching the sunlight. "It felt deeply wrong, regardless of my personal opinions of Yorinobu."
"So what did you do?" V asks, leaning forward slightly. She's seen Goro conflicted before, but this is different — there's something raw in his usually controlled demeanor.
"For several days, nothing but turn this possibility over in my mind like a stone in my palm. I had to focus on our parade plan regardless." His chrome fingers drum nervously against his leg. "My next insight came from a conversation with you — while we were eating those terrible yakitori." A ghost of a smile crosses his face before vanishing. "You questioned me about Arasaka's different factions. If, as Hellman suggested, Hanako-san was complicit in her father's twisted plan, I could not approach her with my doubts, and Yorinobu was obviously not an option. However..." He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. "There remained one unexplored avenue."
He glances at V, giving her a chance to piece it together, but when she just gives him a confused look, tinged with growing impatience, he continues. "So I did what I have done all my life — turned to Arasaka for answers. One cannot teach an old dog new tricks." A self-deprecating smile crosses his face, echoing words from their pre-parade reconnaissance. "I began searching for Michiko Arasaka-Sanderson."
Takemura recounts his meeting with Michiko at her detective agency. Not only had she known about the Heist, but the entire Arasaka board had been aware as well. More crucially, she shared his suspicions about the Relic's true purpose. Through a long conversation that shattered everything Goro had believed in for decades, she convinced him that Arasaka-sans immortality ambitions needed to be stopped at any cost.
"She requested that I become her inside man — to proceed with our parade plan as intended." His chrome fingers trace absent patterns in the dust, betraying his unease at remembering the deception. "To regain her aunt's trust and return to Arasaka's good graces to gain access to the tower. Then to locate Mikoshi and ensure the destruction of Arasaka-san's engram."
"Well fuck..." V shakes her head in disbelief. "Never expected that shit from you. I... I'm having trouble processing how you of all people would agree to this. After everything you did to expose the truth about Saburo's death... After all that loyalty..."
"Besides finding the technology to steal someone's physical form morally reprehensible?" A wry smile crosses his face, the expression so foreign there it almost looks painful. "Michiko-san promised to find a solution to save your life. She had Hellman working day and night, and finally, two weeks ago, her bodyguard delivered a modified Relic, assuring me it would solve all your problems."
The revelation hits V like a punch to the gut — too lost in grief and despair, she hadn't once questioned where the biochip came from. She feels like a complete gonk now — what did she expect, that the chip materialized out of thin air and plugged itself into Mikoshi? Learning that Goro went against everything he believed in, for her , fuck...
"You... you did that for me?" Her voice cracks with emotion, the desert wind carrying away her words. "Shit... don't even know what to say... After everything you believed in..."
"For you." He nods slowly, chrome eyes meeting hers with unwavering intensity. "And because I truly believe it was the right course of action. I only regret not sharing my plan with you sooner. Had you known I was on your side, perhaps you would not have attempted something as reckless as assaulting the tower alone..."
"Hey, worked out okay in the end, didn't it?" V jokes weakly, trying to lighten the mood. The attempt falls flat, her forced smile not reaching her eyes.
Her comment has the opposite effect on Takemura, his expression darkening. "V... I do not wish to diminish what you accomplished at the tower — it was truly remarkable. But after your confrontation with Smasher..." He pauses, clearly struggling with the memory. "You were gravely injured. I do not know how you planned to escape..."
"Ah..." V rubs her neck, looking away sheepishly. "Honestly... didn't have a plan for that. Figured it wouldn't be my problem — wasn't expecting to be the one walking out of that tower alive anyway."
The words hang heavy in the desert air between them — the Badlands temperature seemingly dropping several degrees despite the merciless sun beating down on them. V can see the exact moment their meaning hits Takemura, his chrome eyes widening slightly, the usually stoic expression cracking to reveal something raw underneath. She feels immediately compelled to justify herself.
"Listen, not gonna lie..." She releases a deep sigh, avoiding his penetrating gaze, focusing instead on the city in the distance. "That message I sent you? Was a real goodbye — never imagined I'd make it out alive. Plan was to give my body to Johnny." Her fingers fidget with a loose thread on her sweatpant. "'Course, he didn't know that, but... I'd learned I'd only have a few months to live anyway, once separated from him. While he... he could've had a whole life ahead. All this shit in the tower, it was my chance to say goodbye to him on my terms. Did what felt right."
Goro says nothing, simply nodding to show he's listening. The silence stretches between them, broken only by the distant cry of a coyote. V continues, her voice growing rougher with each word. "Don't wanna sound ungrateful for being alive, 'specially now that I know everything you went through to get that new Relic but... Fuck — it's just hard to wrap my head around it, y'know? Still bein' here, knowing I'll live and..." Her voice drops to a whisper, and she bites her lip until it bleeds, trying to hold back fresh tears. "And that he's gone."
Having no idea how to approach this delicate subject without causing the merc more pain, Takemura swallows his reaction to her words — they can discuss this later. Instead, he steers the conversation toward less sensitive territory, his chrome catching the harsh sunlight as he shifts position.
"Your message... it proved immensely helpful," he finally says, his accent thicker with fatigue. "Although I learned of your presence at the tower through Michiko-san's teams, it was your information that guided us in knowing where to take you after escaping."
"Really?" V's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, momentarily distracted from her grief.
"Yes. Your suggestion about... befriending the nomads led me here." He offers a small smile, the expression softening his features. "However, lacking the camp's exact location, I had to stop at that bar to speak with the fixer for information."
"Talkin' 'bout Rogue?" She cocks a curious eyebrow, trying to picture Goro among the mercs at the Afterlife, asking intel from the Queen herself. The mental image almost makes her smile.
He nods slowly, a hint of embarrassment crossing his features. "They were... not particularly pleased to grant me entry. And regrettably, I... lost my temper once again. I may have broken the bouncer's nose before being allowed access." His fingers flex unconsciously at the memory. "I was covered in your blood, which led to some unfavorable reactions from the patrons. Fortunately, that... unpleasant woman who runs the establishment agreed to disclose the nomads' location once I provided your name." He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. "But, I fear details of our experience at the tower may have been revealed to those present."
Well, shit. V doesn't know how to process all these revelations. Between poor Emmerick's broken nose — she can already picture Claire giving him shit about it — Rogue agreeing to reveal information for free just hearing she was in danger — the fixer must like her more than she thought — and apparently, everything that happened at the tower already being public knowledge... It's a bit overwhelming.
"Fuck me..." She mutters, running a hand through her hair before stopping mid-motion, the nervous tic reminding her too much of Johnny. "So what you're tellin' me is that by now, half of Night City probably knows I attacked Arasaka Tower solo?" A bitter laugh escapes her. "Bet they're all havin' a good laugh about it at the Afterlife right now."
Takemura's expression shifts to something almost amused, the chrome around his eyes catching the harsh sunlight. "Quite the contrary. Those who heard the story seemed... more than impressed. The excitement in their whispers suggested you might be celebrated as a hero next time you enter that establishment. After all," his lips quirk slightly, "not many can claim to have defeated Adam Smasher in single combat."
She doesn't know how to react to that either — the only thing she can think of is Jackie's booming voice excitedly telling her "This is it, chica , major leagues!" Despite everything, it makes her smile. Without really meaning to, she managed to fulfill her friend's dream — she figures he'd be damn proud of her now, probably buying drinks for everyone at the Afterlife to celebrate.
Still, if people know about everything, especially that she zeroed Smasher, it's gonna impact her life one way or another. Sure, it'll probably be great for her merc career — better contracts, street cred... But right now, none of that matters. V can't even imagine going back to a normal life after everything that's happened. How do you return to taking small-time gigs after storming Arasaka Tower? After losing...
Takemura interrupts her spiraling thoughts, saying, "There is one more thing, V. I have a... present for you." His voice carries an unusual hint of uncertainty.
"Fuck, Goro, you've done enough for me, haven't you?" She grumbles, suddenly embarrassed, scuffing her feet in the red dust. "I can never repay you for pulling me out of that mess at the tower, and now you're giving me gifts..."
"You owe me nothing," he says seriously, his chrome eyes intense beneath the scorching sun. "You saved me after my foolish attempt to kidnap Hanako-san. I would likely not have survived if you hadn't come back for me, when nothing obligated you to do so. I have not forgotten, V." His expression softens as he adds, "If either of us owes the other anything, it is I who am in your debt."
Seeing V about to protest, he continues, voice heavy with emotion rarely heard from the stoic man. "Nothing I could do for you could compare to what you have given me. What Arasaka-san planned to do to his own son with the Relic..." He shakes his head slowly, lips pressed into a thin line, disgust evident in his features. "Without you, I would never have had reason to seek the truth. I would have remained loyal to the ghost of a man I believed good, despite his flaws, and never found purpose beyond my work."
The wind picks up, sending dust devils dancing around them as he continues, "Yet you proved there is life outside the corporation. That even an old dog can learn new tricks." A rare, genuine smile crosses his face. "And for that, I will be forever grateful, V."
The raw honesty in his words leaves V speechless. This is Goro Takemura — former head of Arasaka security, the man who once looked down on everything and everyone in Night City — admitting she changed his entire worldview. The same man who once called her a thief, now speaking of gratitude and friendship. Only now does she realize how much his life has also completely changed over these past two months — and honestly, good for him. But even though she sees where he's going with this, she feels she had little to do with it.
"Ya owe me nothin' for that." She assures him, scuffing her boots in the red dust. "Fuck, I mean, it's great for you, really, but all that work? You did it yourself. Shows your courage and strength of character, bouncing back when your whole world came crashin’ down." V sighs, the desert wind whipping strands of hair across her face. "Maybe I'll need some advice from you ‘bout overcoming shit, going through a fuckin' big life change right now myself..."
"Perhaps your life does not need to change as much as you believe." Goro tells her seriously, a knowing glint in his dark eyes. "Please, V, accept my gift."
He pulls a small rectangular box from his pants pocket and extends it to V with both hands. Her heart pounds as she takes it, fingers trembling slightly as she lifts the lid. Her eyes immediately well up with emotion as she retrieves the first object — a chain with dog tags — Johnny's.
Relief floods through her as she slips the necklace around her neck. She had been absolutely devastated when she woke without it — as if dealing with the rockerboy's disappearance wasn't horrible enough, she thought she'd lost one of the few tangible pieces of him she had left — and now she feels like she can breathe again. She brings the tags to her lips, pressing a lingering kiss against the warm metal. A tear escapes, rolling down her cheek as she whispers a heartfelt "Thank you" to Takemura.
The second item brings a bittersweet smile to her face — the bullet pendant from Misty. Another piece of her past, another symbol of survival. She tucks it carefully into her pocket, the weight of it comforting against her thigh.
But it's the last item that makes her entire world screech to a halt. A silver metal chip, eerily similar to the one that started everything, with familiar red lines etched onto its surface. Her heart is hammering so hard she can barely hear anything else as she lifts it with trembling fingers, showing it to Goro with wide, questioning eyes, hardly daring to hope...
Takemura watches her intently, a soft smile playing at the corners of his usually stern mouth as he speaks the words that shatter and rebuild her universe, "Silverhand's engram. Safe and sound."
Notes:
Bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song: Placebo - Lazarus
• Author's rambling: And that's the end of the chapter! I hope you liked it, even if not much happens (that's the problem with dramatic irony, characters have to discuss and catch up on stuff that readers already know, lol. But I didn't want to skip these discussions, they seemed important). Can't belive I wrote its first draft two years ago... We'll move more directly into the plot in the next chapter!
Feel free to tell me what you thought of the chapter (even if it's to tell me that V needs to stop crying haha).Lot of love, see you next time! ♥
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Chapter 32: Phantom Limb
Notes:
• Author's rambling: Hey everyone! No long rambling for this chapter, I just hope you'll like it
• Make sure to activate the 'Creator's Style' button, otherwise some things might not display optimally.
• Thanks for the bookmarks and kudos ♥ And thank you Loraphine, craw_addy, TheDoctor1977, Karou101, Nemhaine42, Arisssu_26 and Turin_the_Mad for your comments ♥♥
Seriously, thank you so much for your reactions and the welcome you gave the previous chapter. It's always so comforting and heartwarming to read what you thought!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
So we just skirt the hallway signs
A phantom and a fly
Follow the lines and wonder why
There's no connection
The chip nearly slips through her trembling fingers, her reflexes barely quick enough to catch it before it hits the ground. The moment her skin makes contact with the cool metal, the world seems to stop spinning. Her heart, which has felt hollow since waking up alone, suddenly thunders in her chest as she clutches the Relic against it like a lifeline. Because that's exactly what this is — not just some piece of tech, but Johnny himself. His memories, his essence, his whole fucking being, preserved in this tiny box she's holding like it might shatter if she breathes too hard.
"Johnny," The name escapes her lips in a broken whisper, tears streaming down her face unchecked. She doesn't give a fuck that Takemura's watching her fall apart — nothing matters except the weight of the chip in her hands, tangible proof that she hasn't lost him completely. That he's still here, somehow.
"Fuck, Johnny..." Her fingers trace every ridge and groove of the Relic, memorizing its shape. "You gonk, you absolute fuckin’ gonk, I thought... I thought..." The words catch in her throat, choking her with all the grief and relief battling inside her chest.
Takemura shifts slightly beside her, his usually stoic voice softened by understanding. "V... I could not leave his engram behind. Not after..." He pauses, weighing his words with characteristic care. "Not after witnessing the depth of your connection to him."
V finally tears her gaze away from the Relic, meeting Takemura's eyes through tear-clumped lashes. Her face is a mess of emotions, gratitude warring with desperate hope. "Goro, I... fuck, I don't even know how to thank you. This is..." She gestures helplessly with her free hand, the other still pressing the chip close to her heart. "This is everything."
He acknowledges her thanks with a slight inclination of his head, then falls silent as her attention inevitably drifts back to the Relic. He watches her expression shift, recognizing the moment when grief gives way to determination. She's already forming plans, building hopes that he prays won't shatter her completely.
The desert sun sinks lower on the horizon, painting the Aldecaldo camp below in brilliant oranges and deep purples. Neither of them moves from their perch on the sun-warmed rock — V lost in possibilities while Takemura maintains his quiet vigil beside her, a silent guardian watching the birth of what he fears might become an obsession.
After what feels like an eternity lost in thought, V's voice breaks through the desert silence, rough with emotion. "Panam. Gotta tell her — that gonk always comes up with the craziest plans, bet she can figure somethin' out for this mess too." The words barely leave her mouth before she's pushing herself up with reckless determination, her weakened body betraying her as she stumbles. If it weren't for Takemura's cybernetically-enhanced reflexes, she would've gotten a face full of Badlands sand for her trouble.
Moving with the fluid grace, he's instantly on his feet, one hand steady under her elbow while the other supports her waist. "You should exercise more caution," he chides gently, his accented voice carrying genuine concern. "Your body is still recovering from significant trauma."
Deep down, past the desperate energy thrumming through her veins, V knows he's right — her head's spinning like she's downed a bottle of Centzon, and her legs can barely support her weight. Grudgingly, she concedes with a huff, "Alright, alright!" She allows herself to lean more heavily against him, adding, "But I really need to talk to Pan', Goro. This can't wait."
"Of course," he nods, adjusting his grip to better support her weight. "Let me assist you in finding her."
Together, they navigate the treacherous descent from their rocky perch, then weave through the sprawling maze of tents and vehicles that make up the Aldecaldo camp. After several frustrating minutes of searching with no sign of the nomad co-leader, V finally caves and limps toward Saul's truck, where the clan chief is buried in engine work.
"Oh, she took off to the city," he explains, barely looking up from whatever piece of tech he's tinkering with. "Had to drop your ripperdoc back at his clinic, said something about swinging by Dakota's place too. Should be back sometime tonight."
V mutters a half-hearted thanks, disappointment written across her features as she rejoins Goro, who's maintained his patient vigil outside the truck. Seeing her fallen expression, he attempts to offer comfort, "Do not let this discourage you, V. You can share everything with your friend tomorrow at the latest. While I understand your urgency to find a solution for Silverhand, you are clearly in no condition to pursue any course of action at present."
"I'm feelin' great," V bullshits with zero conviction. Between the bone-deep exhaustion, her half-healed injuries, and the emotional hurricane of the day, she's running on fumes and they both know it.
"Obviously," Takemura deadpans, his tone dry enough to match the desert surrounding them. "This task will require all your strength and focus. For now, I strongly suggest you concentrate on recovery, beginning with proper nutrition and rest."
Noticing her continued reluctance, he switches tactics with surprising subtlety. "If you agree to join me by the campfire and consume something more substantial than air, I will share the tale of our arrival at the camp. I imagine you would be interested to hear how your friend nearly riddled us with bullets, then proceeded to berate me at maximum volume for approximately ten minutes when she saw your condition."
Despite herself, V feels the corner of her mouth twitch upward. "Damn... I've witnessed Pan's screamin' matches before, so... okay. That's definitely a story I wanna hear."
V allows Goro to guide her to the campfire, her usual cat-like grace completely absent as she practically collapses into one of the weathered plastic chairs. She barely manages a weak nod when he mentions fetching food from the nomads' makeshift restaurant, grateful that the rest of the camp seems to sense her need for space — only Teddy acknowledges her with a distant wave, which she appreciates more than she can express right now. Her eyes remain fixed on the dancing flames, finding both solace and torment in their hypnotic movement.
The fire triggers an avalanche of memories from nights just like this one — the warmth of the Aldecaldos welcoming her into their family, Panam's infectious laughter ringing clear under the vast desert sky, Bob and Carol's endless good-natured squabbling, Mitch's colorful war stories, and Johnny... fucking Johnny taking over just to show off on Cassidy's guitar, Johnny who'd sit next to her and make snarky comments about everyone, Johnny who— Fuck.
Her fingers instinctively wrap around the dog tags at her throat as she whispers into the cooling night air, "Shit... You're everywhere, rockerboy. But... It'll be okay. I'll bring you back, no matter what it takes, and we'll have more nights like this. I fuckin' promise you that."
Before she can sink deeper into the quicksand of bittersweet memories, Takemura returns bearing two plates loaded with rice and sausages swimming in rich brown gravy. He hands her one before settling into the empty chair beside her.
Despite the enticing aroma rising from the plate, V's stomach performs an uncomfortable acrobatic routine, and she can't help but wrinkle her nose. Catching her expression, Goro's brow furrows with concern. "You should at least attempt a few bites," he suggests, his voice gentle but firm.
Reluctantly, she nods, pushing her spoon through the mixture of rice and gravy while deliberately avoiding the meat for now. She forces herself to take a small bite, hyper-aware of Takemura's watchful gaze. Only when she successfully swallows does he seem satisfied enough to start eating his own portion.
Figuring conversation might make the meal easier to stomach — and desperate to distract herself from thoughts of Johnny — V asks, "So, how's nomad life treatin' you, Goro? Living up to all those expectations of yours?"
He smiles over his spoon, methodically chewing and swallowing before responding. As promised, he begins with their dramatic arrival at camp — how the moment Delamain's AV appeared in the night sky, every nomad had sprung into combat readiness, with Panam front and center, her signature rocket launcher already perched on her shoulder like some post-apocalyptic warrior queen.
Then he describes how everything shifted to controlled chaos when he emerged from the flying taxi with her unconscious, blood-covered body in his arms. How Saul had immediately taken charge, escorting them and Vik to the medical truck while their usually vocal co-leader stood frozen, rendered speechless for what might have been the first time in her entire life.
But that silence, he explains with a rare hint of amusement coloring his formal tone, was merely the calm before an impressive storm. The moment he'd left V in the capable hands of both ripperdocs and stepped out of the medical area, Panam had descended upon him like an enraged valkyrie, demanding explanations at a volume that probably carried all the way to Night City itself.
"Your best friend is absolutely terrifying, V," Goro declares bluntly, the memory clearly still fresh in his mind as he draws a small smile from the merc. "Despite witnessing countless intimidating situations throughout my extensive career within Arasaka's ranks, I find myself wholly unwilling to face the wrath of this particular woman again anytime soon."
V manages a soft laugh — a broken, fleeting sound that barely lasts a few heartbeats, but it's her first genuine expression of joy since regaining consciousness in this dusty corner of the Badlands. She forces down another spoonful of rice before surrendering to her rebellious stomach, abandoning her half-eaten plate in favor of lighting up a cigarette, the familiar motion bringing a small measure of comfort while Takemura continues his tale.
He describes how Panam eventually managed to reign in her fury after receiving a complete situation report, but not before both Vik and the nomad's ripperdoc had assured her — three separate times, no less — that V was out of immediate danger and primarily needed rest. Finding herself temporarily powerless to aid her closest friend, the nomad leader had then turned her attention back to Goro, seeming to truly recognize him for the first time since his dramatic arrival.
"I must ask something that has been puzzling me," he sets aside his empty plate with characteristic precision before continuing, "Had you perhaps shared a photograph of me with her? Her reaction suggested some level of prior familiarity that I found... curious."
V nearly chokes on cigarette smoke, her face flushing hot enough to rival the campfire as she recalls the sneaky photo she'd taken during their reconnaissance mission above the industrial park where the parade floats were stored. And worse, all the embarrassingly thirsty messages she'd sent Panam alongside that particular image.
Preferring not to die of mortification after surviving a direct assault on Arasaka Tower — because yeah, that would definitely not be a very 'major leagues' way to flatline — she simply nods, silently thanking whatever gods might be listening when Takemura doesn't press the issue further.
He continues, describing how Panam, desperate to be useful and clearly needing distraction from V's critical condition, had taken him under her wing. She'd scrounged up clean clothes to replace his blood-stained corporate wear, found him an empty tent among the sprawling camp, and eventually pressed a cold beer into his hands. They'd sat together in uncomfortable silence, drinking without real enthusiasm until Goro had excused himself to his borrowed tent for what would prove to be a few fitful hours of sleep haunted by images of V's blood-soaked form.
By the next day, seeing his unwavering intention to remain until V regained consciousness, the Aldecaldos had simply absorbed him into their ranks with surprising ease. Most nomads had kept their distance at first, watching him with curious eyes and whispered conversations, until Mitch finally approached with a peace offering in the form of a thermos of coffee and an invitation to examine the impressive war machine they called the Basilisk.
Since then, Takemura had spent most of his days working alongside the veteran, developing what he hesitates to call friendship, but what has undeniably evolved into a deep mutual respect and understanding that bridges their vastly different backgrounds.
As Goro wraps up his tale with a few more colorful anecdotes about adapting to nomad life, V stretches languidly and fails to suppress a yawn, offering him a smile that, while exhausted, carries genuine warmth. "Well... I'm real glad you're fitting in here. Not surprised though, the Aldecaldos are good people, told ya so from the start. And..." She makes a vague gesture encompassing his desert-appropriate attire, the nomad-style clothes a stark contrast to his former aesthetic. "Suits you. Really lookin' good like that."
To her surprise and secret delight, an almost shy smile tugs at his usually stern lips as he glances away, clearly unaccustomed to such casual compliments. Watching the formidable ex-Arasaka bodyguard struggle with the simple praise almost makes her laugh. He awkwardly redirects the conversation, his formal tone betraying his discomfort. "You appear thoroughly exhausted. Perhaps you should consider getting some rest."
"Yeah, maybe," V admits, fighting another jaw-cracking yawn. "But I gotta wait up for Panam to get back, need to talk to her about... y’know."
"That's a conversation that can certainly wait until tomorrow," Goro insists, rising from his chair and offering his hand to help her up. "It has been an extraordinarily long day, and to formulate a plan of this magnitude, you need to be at your absolute best."
V almost wants to argue — her usual stubborn instincts kicking in — but she knows he's right. Besides, until Panam returns, there's nothing more she can do except wear herself down further. So she takes his offered hand, letting him help her to her feet before saying, "Okay, tomorrow then. So... g'night, Goro and... thanks again. For everything."
The contact between their fingers lingers just a heartbeat too long before he releases her hand with a formal nod that somehow manages to convey both respect and affection. "Sleep well, V."
She turns away, letting her exhausted legs carry her through the maze of tents to her own shelter, where she collapses onto the bed without ceremony. After a moment's hesitation, she pulls out the small box containing the Relic, placing it carefully on the pillow beside her head.
Her fingers trace gentle patterns across the metallic lid as she whispers into the darkness, "Hey there, Johnny. Know you can't hear me right now, but... I'm gonna find a way to get you outta there. First thing tomorrow. Will get Pan' on board, and you know she always comes up with the craziest plans — exactly what we need right now."
She lets several seconds pass, as if giving him time to form one of his signature smartass responses that she knows won't come. With a heavy sigh, her eyelids growing heavier by the second, she adds, "It's complete shit that you're still stuck on a fuckin' chip, but... hang in there, okay? Won't letcha down, not ever again. Night, rockerboy. And... I know I should've said this way sooner, probably shoulda said it that day at the rollercoaster, or in that goddamn Mikoshi, or a hundred other times but... I love you, you insufferable bastard. So just hold on."
With that confession hanging in the desert air, she surrenders to exhaustion, falling into an immediate and deep sleep. The Relic box rests silent beside her head, its precious cargo safely contained within, while outside her tent, the familiar nighttime sounds of the nomad camp continue — distant laughter, the crackle of campfires, the soft whisper of wind across the Badlands, and the occasional bark of a coyote in the distance.
Tomorrow will bring its own challenges and battles, but for now, V sleeps deeply, her dreams filled with memories of a certain rockerboy's crooked smile, the weight of his arm around her shoulders, and the echo of his voice in her mind.
· · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·
The next day, after hours of dreamless sleep, V is startled awake by the merciless desert sunlight streaming through her tent's fabric — she blinks painfully, trying to give her Kiroshi implants time to adjust to the harsh brightness that seems determined to pierce straight through her skull. Complete failure. With a defeated groan, she simply buries her face deeper into the pillow, cursing whoever decided tents should let in so much goddamn light.
The movement causes a small object to slide against her cheek, and her fingers instinctively curl around it with tenderness. "Mornin' Johnny," she murmurs to the small metallic box, her voice still rough with sleep. "Think I overslept a little. Guess it's easier to actually rest now that I know you're here, safe and sound. Still needed it after everything that went down at the tower. But time to get my ass movin’ and talk to Panam."
She forces herself out of bed, acutely aware that she's still not at her peak — it's frustrating as hell, wanting nothing more than to immediately launch into finding a solution to save the rockerboy, but her body's making it clear she needs to take it slower than she'd like. She presses a quick kiss to the Relic's box before sliding it into her sweatpant pocket and heading for the tent's entrance.
The merciless desert sun immediately makes her regret that decision, sending sharp pains through her skull — she retreats back inside, rummaging through the box containing her belongings from that fateful night at Arasaka Tower. Relief floods through her as her fingers close around Johnny's Aviators, which she promptly slides onto her nose with reverent care. Now properly armed against the world behind those familiar tinted lenses that still carry traces of his presence, she sets out to find Panam.
It doesn't take long to spot her friend deep in conversation with an older woman, and the moment Panam notices her approach, she waves V over with characteristic enthusiasm. "Hey V! You slept straight through to past noon — was about to wave some coffee under your nose to get your lazy ass moving!" she jokes, then gestures to the woman beside her. "This is Emily, Jake's mother — you remember, guy with the kidney implant?"
V's surprise quickly gives way to warmth as she extends her hand to the woman. "Hello, how's your son doing?"
Emily's smile radiates maternal warmth as she clasps V's hand between both of hers, her grip gentle but firm. "Oh, sweetie... He's recovering slowly but surely, thanks to you. Listen... Panam hasn't given me the details, but she mentioned you're going through something rough. I want to help. Heard some of your things got damaged, and these old hands of mine have always been good at mending what's broken. I know it's not much, but..."
A lump forms in V's throat as she thinks about the clothes — all Johnny's, each piece carrying memories of their time together — that got so badly damaged during her desperate fight with Smasher. "That... that would mean the world to me. Thank you so much."
"Don't mention it," Emily gently releases her hand before adding, "Bring them by my tent later, I promise I'll do my best with them."
After the woman walks away, Panam studies V intently, her sharp eyes catching every detail before noting, "Your tags... you got them back?"
"Goro had 'em. And..." V pauses, fingers unconsciously touching the pocket containing the Relic, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "It's not the only thing I got back. Gotta talk to ya, Pan'. Now. Preferably over that coffee you mentioned — my head's killin’ me."
Surprised but clearly pleased to see any positive expression on her friend's face given yesterday's state, Panam nods readily. "Sure, let's go. Think you might actually like what I've got brewing today — managed to score some real beans off that last supply run."
After a quick detour to the food truck for a thermos of steaming coffee, the two women retreat to V's tent for some privacy, settling on the floor. Panam jumps straight to the point, her keen eyes studying V's face, "So, gonna tell me what's got you smiling today? After yesterday's breakdown, I thought—"
"Johnny's alive," V interrupts, the words exploding from her like they've been fighting to escape, unable to contain the news a second longer, her hands trembling slightly as she reaches for the Relic in her pocket.
The revelation nearly causes Panam to drop the cup she's pouring, saving it only through pure reflexes as her eyes widen comically. "What the actual fuck?!"
V stands up, nodding and starts pacing frantically in the confined space, words tumbling out in rapid succession as she explains everything about her reunion with Takemura, detailing every step he took to save not only her but Johnny too. Throughout the breathless narrative, Panam can only listen, coffee forgotten in her hands, gasping and nodding at appropriate moments as the full scope of the situation unfolds.
When V finally finishes her story, almost winded from speaking so fast and long, she collapses back onto the bed, fixing her friend with an expectant look. And true to form, Panam lives up to expectations, immediately asking with that familiar gleam of adventure in her eyes, "So, how're we getting your rockerboy back to the land of the living? Because there's no way in hell we're leaving him stuck on that thing."
Not even a second's hesitation before Panam's ready to dive into what seems impossible — it's exactly why V loves her. She lets out a genuine laugh, practically throwing herself at her best friend for a tight hug. "Fuck, I love you, you crazy gonk, you know that? No idea how yet, but..."
"If there's a way, we'll find it," Panam promises, returning the embrace just as fiercely. "Know how important Johnny is to you, and... shit, V, after everything you've been through, just wanna see you happy. So, what's the plan?"
"Fuck, I don't know where to start," V releases her, settling back on the bed and running her fingers over the Relic box. "Most obvious thing would be finding a braindead body where we can chip the Relic in, but..."
"Would any body work?" Panam asks, raising a curious eyebrow while finally remembering her cooling coffee. "I mean, technically speaking?"
The question makes V pause, taking a thoughtful sip of coffee while she considers it. If it were up to her desperate heart alone, sure, she'd take any available body in her rush to get Johnny back, but on the other hand... she wants the rockerboy to feel comfortable in his future body. Sure, he could get as much surgery as he wants, dye the hair, remake his tattoos to look like himself anyway — if that's what he wants. But even for that, they'd need to start with a good foundation.
As V takes too long to respond, lost in contemplation, Panam continues, her voice taking on a more serious tone, "About taking the first body we find... We should have at least one selection criteria — someone who won't be missed. I mean... at least, no close family. No one to traumatize."
When V shoots her a questioning look, she elaborates, fidgeting with one of her dreads, "I interacted with Johnny while he was controlling your body, and it was fucking weird, even knowing the situation and that I'd get you back minutes later." She wraps the dread around her finger as she thinks. "So I can imagine someone's reaction seeing their supposedly dead relative walking down the street — and when they try to talk to them, finding a complete stranger instead... That kind of shit could really fuck someone up."
The nomad trails off, but she doesn't need to say more, V totally gets it — feeling a bit ashamed she hadn't considered all this ethical bullshit herself in her eagerness to get Johnny back. It'll certainly limit their options, but finding a braindead gonk with no connections in Night City shouldn't be an impossible mission — right? After all, the city's got no shortage of lonely souls who'd never be missed.
"Fuck, you're right," V admits, running a hand through her messy hair while her other hand unconsciously stays close to the pocket containing the Relic. "Gonna need to be real careful about this. And... probably should think 'bout what kind of body would work best for him too. I mean... Don't want him stuck in somethin' that'll make him miserable — he'd never let me hear the end of it, the dramatic bastard."
Panam snorts into her coffee, some of her usual mischief returning to her eyes as she settles more comfortably among the cushions. "Your rockerboy's gonna be picky about his new meat, huh? Alright then, let's make a list — what are we looking for? Male, obviously. Tall? Built like him? Young enough to still rock those leather pants he seems so fond of?"
V chuckles at the joke, grateful for her friend's ability to lighten even the heaviest situations with her particular brand of humor. "Yep, not too young, not too old — seems like a good start. And definitely no boobs or shit — if Johnny has to stop making jokes about his dick, he'll lose half his comedy routine, and honestly, that'd be a fuckin' tragedy."
"Oh, we wouldn't want to deprive Night City of such stellar entertainment, would we?" Panam winks, gently nudging the merc with her elbow. Then, sobering slightly as she sets down her coffee, she adds, "It's doable, V. But it won't be simple. Tell me... how would you feel about bringing a few more people in on the plan? We're gonna need all the help we can get."
V considers this — bringing in others means having to explain everything that's happened since that fateful night at Konpeki Plaza once again, laying bare all the weird, complicated shit she's been through. "Who you thinking about?"
"Well..." The nomad responds after a moment's hesitation, twirling one of her dreads thoughtfully between her fingers. "I'd say at least Saul. I want to be free to help you as much as possible, so he should know why his freshly promoted co-leader's gonna be absent from camp so often. Plus, old man's got contacts that could help — knows people in places we might need to reach. And... maybe Mitch too."
The merc mulls it over, then nods — fine, she can deal with two more people learning her secrets, especially if it means getting Johnny back faster. "Okay, let's find 'em — might as well get the whole 'my-dead-terrorist-rockeboy-is-stuck-on-a-chip' conversation over with."
They emerge from the tent into the bustling camp, but their enthusiasm quickly deflates when Carol informs them that Saul has left with Cassidy and Bob to meet with another nomad camp further north, not due back until tomorrow or possibly the day after.
"Mitch's still around, if you wanna start with him," Panam tries to stay positive, noting how V's face has darkened at the news, her fingers once again seeking the reassuring presence of the Relic in her pocket.
"Nah, if I gotta tell this whole shit show, rather do it once," V sighs, shoulders slumping slightly. "Guess I can wait a day for Saul to get back — not like Johnny's goin’ anywhere right now anyway."
"Good — and don't worry, will keep you busy in the meantime," her friend grins, linking their arms together with conspiratorial enthusiasm. "Starting with some good old-fashioned gossip about how right I was — our friendly Arasaka reject looks really preem in those borrowed clothes, huh?"
The merc laughs and nods good-naturedly, letting Panam drag her through the vibrant camp. One day of waiting — she can handle that. Especially with such good company to pass the time. Besides, after everything she's been through, what's one more day when Johnny's safely tucked against her hip, closer to coming home with each passing hour? And maybe, just maybe, the delay is a good thing — gives her time to really think through what they'll need, make sure they do this right. Because this time, failure isn't an option — she's getting Johnny back, properly back, even if she has to turn Night City upside down to do it.
The following day dawns with disappointing news as Saul still hasn't returned, holobuzzing Panam to inform them they won't be back until late tonight. The update makes V grumble in frustration, her fingers instinctively seeking the Relic in her pocket for comfort, but there's nothing she can do about it except try to keep herself busy, fighting against the anxious energy that makes her want to jump into action immediately.
Her day starts with a routine check-up at the camp's ripperdoc — following Vik's detailed instructions, she needs regular monitoring to ensure her new chrome is integrating well and her overall condition is improving. The visit brings mostly good news, she's healing nicely, and aside from a quick adjustment to her new reinforced tendons — which the doc handles immediately with practiced precision — her new implants are taking well.
One of the day's brightest moments comes when Emily returns with V's clothes from the tower night — now carefully mended with skilled hands that speak of years of practice. The older woman apologizes for not being able to salvage the leather pants — though V insists on keeping the scraps anyway, unable to part with anything of Johnny's, each piece a tangible connection to him — but at least the rest of her belongings have been saved.
V immediately slips into the Samurai tank top, feeling more like herself — or is it more like Johnny ? The line between them has become so beautifully blurred that sometimes she can't tell where she ends and his influence begins. It's not something she particularly wants to analyze right now, so she emerges from her tent into the harsh desert sun, seeking out her friends to distract herself from the growing impatience in her chest.
As evening falls, she finds herself dining with Panam and Goro — though 'dining' might be too generous a term, as V mostly pushes food around her plate, her appetite still not fully returned despite Panam's concerned glances. The two women take the opportunity to explain their developing plan to Takemura, who, to V's great surprise, immediately declares he's in without a moment's hesitation. Despite her insistence that he's already done more than enough for her, he's adamant about continuing to help.
After all, he points out with a slight smile, everything that made up his old life has gone up in flames by his own choice — so until he decides what to do with his Arasaka-free days, he tells V he would be honored to assist in her quest, in any way she needs.
"Wanna play bodyguard for me?" The merc jokes, taking a long drag from her cigarette, watching the smoke curl lazily into the darkening desert sky while her free hand absently traces the outline of the Relic in her pocket.
"I believe it would be a wise decision, at least for now," he responds, taking her jest with his characteristic seriousness. "You have not fully recovered from your injuries, and we remain uncertain how many people are aware of your involvement in the Tower assault — or more importantly, what they might do with such information."
"Maybe..." V frowns, shifting uncomfortably on her seat and flicking ash into the desert wind, "But I don't need a goddamn babysitter, Goro. Been takin’ care of myself just fine."
"I restored my communication channels today and..." He pauses, his expression becoming unreadable in that way she's learned means he's processing difficult emotions. "I learned that Hanako-san perished during the Tower attack."
An uncomfortable silence settles while V processes this news, broken only by the distant sounds of the nomad camp. She knows it must be complicated for Goro — losing another member of the Arasaka family he'd sworn his life to protect. Yet, she can't force the 'sorry for that' past her lips, instead managing only, "But... I didn't see her in the Tower that night..."
"She was not physically present. Hanako-san's expertise lay in netrunning — she was quite skilled, from what I understand." Takemura explains, his gaze lost somewhere in the horizon. "When she learned of the ongoing attack, she must have attempted to halt your progression from the safety of Arasaka estate, where her body was discovered. Whatever virus you unleashed into the Tower's system... it did not spare her."
V remains silent for several moments — wondering if there's any point in telling him it wasn't a virus but Alt herself, so powerful she could fry netrunners like they were nothing more than annoying bugs in her system. She remembers all too vividly the state she found Brigitte and the other Voodoo Boys in after the digital goddess decided to purge their network. All eliminated in seconds, their agonized screams echoing through cyberspace before their brains and implants were completely fried. Guess the Arasaka heiress met the same fate, all her corpo defenses meaning nothing against Alt's raw power.
"Shit, Goro, I..." She trails off, still unable to feel genuine remorse for this additional death she's indirectly caused — after all, how many people had Hanako herself condemned through her family's actions? Instead, she asks, taking another long drag, "So... Think Yori gonna track me down to avenge his little sis'?"
"It is not exactly him I am concerned about..." He says darkly, then elaborates, "Oda. He finds himself in the same position I was two months ago — having failed to protect the person we were sworn to guard, and... the feeling of having nothing left to lose. Coupled with Oda's tempestuous nature, such desperation could make him extremely dangerous."
The merc nods slowly, knowing how delicate the subject of his former student can be for the man. She takes another drag of her cigarette before saying, "Okay, so... When we head back to the city, we stick together. You watch my back, and I watch yours, alright? No hero bullshit this time."
Her response seems to ease some of the tension from Goro's shoulders, and he offers her the ghost of a smile, bowing his head slightly in that formal way she's grown oddly fond of. "Very well. It would be my honor to continue helping you. Perhaps this time, we might even avoid any unfortunate incidents involving unexpected kidnappings or having to jump onto moving floats."
V can't help but laugh at that, the sound carrying across the quiet desert evening, remembering their early days of unlikely partnership. "Hey, we didn't do so bad in the end. But yeah... this time we do it right — no solo missions, no getting separated, no stupid risks. Got enough on my plate with getting Johnny back without adding revenge-driven corpo assassins to the mix."
The familiar weight of the Relic against her hip seems to pulse in agreement, and she can almost hear Johnny's sarcastic draw, 'Yeah, one corpo dog's enough — don't need the whole pack.' The thought makes her smile, even as her fingers instinctively seek out the chip's reassuring presence. Soon, she thinks. Soon she'll hear his actual voice again, not just these echoes in her mind.
The next day dawns with Saul's return, and Panam doesn't miss a beat before dragging him and Mitch to their makeshift war room — the Basilisk tent, chosen for its privacy away from the bustling camp life. The morning sun filters through the canvas, casting everything in a warm, dusty light that makes the tension in the air almost visible as the three nomads settle around the table where V and Goro are waiting.
V begins telling the story from the beginning, her fingers absently tracing the outline of the Relic box as she speaks — and of course, her tale draws some raised eyebrows and incredulous looks, especially at the mention of consciousness transfers and digital constructs. She'd expected and prepared for that, keeping her voice steady while letting Panam jump in to confirm her words at key moments. Takemura handles explaining his side of the story with his usual precise, measured tone, his formal English lending weight to the more technical aspects of their explanation.
Between the three of them, it takes almost an hour to lay out all the details, their voices mixing with the distant sounds of camp life filtering through the tent walls. When they finish, Mitch is lost in thought, absently playing with his sleeve, while V could swear a new wrinkle has appeared on Saul's forehead — like a father whose kids' crazy stunts have aged him prematurely. After fielding several questions — " Yes , Saul, it's the same Johnny from the Arasaka tower bombin’ fifty years ago, and yes , he knew Santiago..." — the Aldecaldos' leader lets out a heavy sigh that seems to carry the weight of the entire Badlands.
"Listen, V, if I can help you, I will," he finally says, his weathered hands clasped together on the table, eyes searching her face for any sign of doubt. "But... technology that can steal people's bodies? Souls trapped in digital prison... I'm completely out of my depth here, and I've seen some crazy shit in my time."
"If it reassures you... Mikoshi is no more, which solves part of the problem," Takemura interjects, his posture still perfectly straight. "However, if V wishes to bring Silverhand back from the dead, we will indeed need a host body to receive him — this much remains unavoidable."
"Still, I'm not sure how I can help with that," Saul responds, running a tired hand over his sun-weathered face, the desert's harsh embrace evident in every line and scar. The weight of leadership — and now this impossible request — sits heavy on his shoulders.
"Come on, old man," Panam teases, flicking her beer bottle cap at him with perfect aim, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm sure you've got contacts somewhere, could make a few calls..."
"I'll try to think of something," Saul assures them, rising from his chair with the resignation of a man who knows he's about to get pulled into another crazy scheme. He gives V's shoulder a friendly pat before walking away, calling over his shoulder with what might be the ghost of a smile, "In the meantime, don't do anything stupid, kids."
V watches him go, feeling Johnny's dog tags warm against her chest, and thinks that 'stupid' might be relative when you're trying to bring back someone from digital death. But then again, that's pretty much been her whole life since that fateful night at Konpeki Plaza — one impossible thing after another, and somehow she's still breathing. And if there's one thing she's learned, it's that 'impossible' usually just means 'hasn't been done yet.'
Meanwhile, Goro raises an amused eyebrow at being called a 'kid', knowing full well he's probably as old as the man who just lumped him into that category. His expression doesn't go unnoticed by Mitch, who chuckles warmly. "Don't worry about it, no matter how old we get, Saul will always see us as a bunch of brats runnin’ around causing trouble. And since you're one of us now, you're in the same boat, Mr. Former-Corpo," he adds with a friendly wink.
Finishing the last of his beer with a satisfied sigh, Mitch turns to V, "Not sure how I can help with all this mess either, but if you think of anything — and I mean anything — don't hesitate to ask." Standing up and stretching his back, he adds as he walks away, "Meanwhile, I'll stay on Saul's case, make sure he makes those famous calls of his. Man's got more connections than he lets on."
Only Goro, Panam, and V remain around the table, the two women continuing to brainstorm possibilities while Takemura listens intently, occasionally stepping in to validate or dismiss various ideas with his characteristic precision and insight. For now, though, no concrete plan takes shape through the haze of possibilities and wild theories.
The rest of the day flows peacefully into afternoon, with Panam steering the conversation toward lighter topics before suggesting a Basilisk run to clear their heads — saying it might do V some good to "blow some shit up with the turret and forget about our problems for a hot minute." V hesitates, but when the nomad extends the invitation to Goro with a mischievous glint in her eye, the merc can't bring herself to deny him what promises to be an interesting experience.
After a quick but thorough briefing on the hovertank's operation — during which Goro listens with the same intense focus he once applied to corpo meetings — they climb aboard the Basilisk. The next hour becomes a symphony of destruction as they unleash hell on old car wrecks scattered across the desert landscape.
V's never seen Goro quite like this — his usual stoic demeanor melting away as he masters the controls with surprising aptitude, his eyes gleaming with undisguised pleasure. His eyes light up with each successful hit, and genuine laughter escapes him when they nail particularly impressive shots, the sound carrying across the desert wind like something precious and rare.
The former bodyguard seems to shed years of corpo conditioning under the desert sun, revealing glimpses of the man he might have been in another life — the one who dreamed of freedom before Arasaka molded him into their perfect soldier. Even his posture relaxes, the weight of duty temporarily forgotten in the pure joy of the moment, and V finds herself grinning at his enthusiasm.
When they finally return to camp, faces flushed with excitement, V asks, "So, is this the kind of freedom you imagined when you were dreamin’ about nomad life?"
"It is... different from what I expected," Goro admits, a rare, unguarded smile still playing on his lips as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair. "Perhaps better. There is something uniquely satisfying about controlling such powerful machinery without the constraints of corporate protocols."
That night, as V retires to her tent, she places the Relic box beside her on the pillow, its cooling system keeping it perpetually cold to the touch. She curls up on her side, facing it, one hand absently tracing the edges of the case as she's done every night since getting it back.
"Hey rockerboy..." she whispers softly into the darkness, her voice barely audible over the distant sounds of the camp. "Had a good day today. You should've seen Goro in the Basilisk — think we might've finally corrupted our favorite corpo. He was actually laughing, can you believe that shit? Wish you could've been there to see it..."
She swallows hard, feeling that familiar ache in her chest that comes whenever she thinks about him too much. "Fuck, Johnny... I keep turnin’ to make some smartass comment to you, and then remembering... Keep expecting to hear your voice in my head, calling me a gonk or telling me I'm doin’ everything wrong." A weak laugh escapes her. "Never thought I'd miss that, y'know? Miss you being an ass about everything. Miss your stupid jokes. Just miss you, Johnny."
Her fingers tighten slightly on the Relic's case. "We're gonna figure this out, I promise. Got some good people helping us now. Just... just hang in there, wherever you are." Her voice drops to barely a whisper, "Love you, you insufferable gonk. Even when you're not here to be a pain in my ass."
She falls asleep with her hand resting on the Relic's case, dreaming of chrome and guitar strings, of terrorist rockerboys and second chances, and somewhere in between consciousness and dreams, she could swear she feels familiar metal fingers intertwining with hers, the ghost of a kiss pressed against her temple, and that deep voice murmuring, "Love you too, princess."
The next day, after another quiet morning at camp, V finally musters enough courage to face Night City again — and if she's being honest, she's getting too restless for the desert's tranquility. The inaction is starting to crawl under her skin like an itch she can't scratch, and while she genuinely believes Saul wants to help, she knows her chances of finding a solution are better in the city, where her network of contacts and fixers might actually prove useful. Besides, she can't hide in the Badlands forever, no matter how tempting that thought might be.
Early afternoon finds her signaling to Goro that it's time to pack up their stuff, before heading to talk to Panam, who immediately offers to drive them to V's apartment. After tossing their bags in the Thorton's trunk, the three hit the road, leaving behind the dusty comfort of the Aldecaldos camp, the familiar silhouette of Night City growing larger on the horizon with each passing mile.
As the road brings them closer to the Glen, V feels a knot forming in her stomach, growing tighter with each familiar landmark they pass. She's beyond grateful she accepted Takemura's company — the mere thought of returning to that apartment, where Johnny's memories lurk in every corner like persistent ghosts, makes her insides twist uncomfortably. She definitely wouldn't have the courage to face the deafening silence the rockerboy left behind all by herself.
When the car pulls up in front of her building, Goro smoothly exits to handle their bags with his usual efficiency, tactfully giving Panam time to awkwardly hug her friend over the handbrake. "You sure you don't want me to stay?" the nomad asks, concern evident in her voice and the way her hands tighten on V's shoulders.
V squeezes her tight before letting go with a nod, trying to inject more confidence into her voice than she feels, "Yeah, I'm sure. Goro's gonna be here, and if anything happens, I'll call you right away."
"Uh-uh, nope, you call me before there's any problem, got it?" Panam corrects, fixing V with her best stern look. "Now, you keep me updated on everything, even if it's just a message saying you had a bad night's sleep, or that you're thinking about doing something stupid. Especially if you're thinking about doing something stupid."
"Yes, mom," V rolls her eyes playfully, though the affection in her voice is clear as crystal. "Text me too, alright? Especially if you make any progress on, well, this whole mess."
"Of course. Besides, I'm coming by in a few days so we can compare notes on what we've found." She glances through the window, noting that Takemura is still waiting patiently by the building's entrance. "Go now. Your rōnin is waiting for you."
"See ya, Pan'," V says with a smile that's only slightly forced, stepping out of the vehicle into the familiar NC air, heavy with pollution and possibilities.
She waves goodbye as Panam drives away, her friend's characteristically loud honking echoing through the streets like a battle cry. Turning to Goro, she finds him watching her with understanding in his eyes as he asks, "Are you ready to return home?"
Not at all, but she doesn't really have a choice — she needs to be brave, for Johnny. So she simply nods, squaring her shoulders like she's about to face down a cyberpsycho rather than her own apartment, and together they enter the building.
She barely sets foot in the lobby when the red-haired girl working reception stops aggressively chewing her gum to wave her down. "Hey, Miss Linder. Long time no see. Got a postcard for ya, came in the mail a few days ago. Seriously, who even sends these things anymore?"
V can't bring herself to answer the young woman's question — not that she seems to expect one anyway, already back to flipping through her magazine with practiced disinterest — hearing the name Linder making the knot in her stomach climb up to her throat like a living thing. So she just grabs the card without really looking at it, already moving toward the elevator with Goro following silently in her wake.
As soon as the doors close with their familiar hydraulic hiss, Goro asks quietly, studying her reflection in the polished metal, "Are you alright, V?"
"Yeah, I..." V sighs, pressing the button for her floor before explaining, fingers unconsciously finding the dogtags hanging around her neck. "It's just that... Linder, that was — is — his name. Johnny's." She pulls the tags out from under her shirt, showing them to Goro. "He thought... He thought it would be fuckin’ hilarious, me using his name to buy the apartment. I didn't know at the time, but..." She trails off, the words catching in her throat like shards of glass.
Thankfully, Goro doesn't push, simply studying the military tags for another moment before murmuring softly, "I see..." — and somehow, V knows he really does.
The elevator doors open with a cheerful 'ding' that feels almost offensive in its normalcy, and V takes a hesitant step into the apartment — and fuck, the place has never felt so empty, so unwelcoming, like walking into a museum of memories she's not ready to face. Between the absence of her pets and the rockerboy... She deliberately avoids looking at certain spots, like the window where his guitar still stands sentinel, the kitchen counter where they used to share morning coffee and playful arguments, the... Fucking hell. She realizes it's pointless — every square inch of the apartment is loaded with memories, like emotional landmines waiting to go off at the slightest touch.
Resigned and figuring she might as well face reality sooner rather than later, she drops onto the couch — trying desperately not to think about all those times they sprawled here, tangled together, watching shitty flicks and arguing about everything and nothing, his metal arm cool against her skin. To distract herself from the ghost of those moments, she focuses on the postcard she received, turning it over in hands that only shake a little.
A pretty landscape in pink and purple hues, accompanied by a cheerful 'It's always sunny in Monte Carlo' decorates the front. When she flips it over, only a few words grace the back in elegant handwriting — 'As it is where I am. Yours truly...' There's no signature, but V doesn't need one, she just knows, and the knowledge brings a smile to her face despite everything. She's simply happy to know that some stories do get happy endings, even in this fucked up city.
"Good news?" Takemura asks, noticing the small smile that's crept onto her face as he sets their bags down.
"Yup. Got a choom, Alex. She was from the FIA," she explains, standing to show him the card, grateful for the distraction. "She just retired. She's free — managed to get out of the game alive, which is more than most of her colleagues can say."
"The FIA?" He asks, raising a curious eyebrow as he studies the card.
"Yup. Right, a lot's happened since we last saw each other." V just shrugs, taking the card back from his hands and running her thumb over the writing. "Guess that'll make a good story for tonight. Full of suspense, plot twists, and betrayal — you're gonna love it."
The familiar surroundings still weigh heavy on her shoulders, but having someone else here makes it a little more bearable. Maybe, just maybe, she can learn to make this place feel like home again, even if it's different now. Even if every corner holds a memory of Johnny. Even if it hurts like hell.
She approaches her cork board, using a yellow pushpin to secure the postcard among the collection of photos. Goro follows closely, his eyes scanning over her collection of memories with careful attention. His gaze settles on two of the oldest-looking photographs — grainy concert shots bathed in neon and smoke — and he asks softly, "This is him?"
"Yep." V responds simply, not trusting her voice to say more without breaking. She gently traces her finger over one of the photos showing Johnny in mid-performance, taken decades ago — all leather pants and chrome arm catching the stage lights, looking every bit the legend he'd become, that familiar smirk on his face as he worked the crowd into a frenzy.
Trying to regain her composure, she starts pointing out the other photos, her voice growing steadier as she focuses on happier memories, "This one's my choom Jackie, y'know, he was with me, the night of the Konpeki heist. Big guy, bigger heart — this photo was taken at his mom's place, where I crashed for a while when I first came back to Night City. And here, at Vik's clinic — the blonde girl, that's Misty. Was Jack's output, super sweet girl, into all that spiritual shit, dunno if you remember her..."
"Yes, I remember her quite well," he confirms, listening attentively, his usual stoic expression softened by understanding. "She helped tend to my wounds while Viktor-san was occupied with your treatment. A kind soul, despite the... unusual aesthetic choices."
V hums in acknowledgment, then points to the next photo, her fingers dancing across the memories like piano keys, "Here's Panam, of course. And this one, it's Lizzy Wizzy with me. And this one, Kerry Eurodyne and the Us Cracks — even you must've heard of ‘em."
"You have many photographs with famous individuals," he observes, though his tone suggests he's more interested in the stories behind them than the celebrity status. His eyes stop on the last photo V hasn't introduced yet, showing her with a man who looks strangely familiar, and his eyebrows rise slightly. "Is that...?"
His question draws a little chuckle from V, the first genuine laugh she's managed since entering the apartment. "Heh. Yeah, it's Hideshi Hino — met him at some fancy-ass party, long story. Told him I had a friend who looked kinda like him, so if you're ever interested in becoming his stunt double, his job offer seemed pretty fuckin’ serious."
"Why would a comedian require a stunt double?" Goro asks — now seeing the photo, he better understands why the old man at the pachinko parlor had confused them, though he's not entirely sure how he feels about the comparison.
"Dunno, maybe the guy wants to branch out or something," she shrugs again, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms. "He was a mess, honestly — change might do him some good."
"It is good to know I bear such a resemblance to a 'mess', as you say," Goro deadpans, his dry humor showing through in the slight quirk of his lips.
"Oh, c'mon, you look way better than 'im," V gently nudges him with her elbow, grateful for his attempt to lighten the mood. The banter helps, makes the apartment feel a little less like a shrine to everything she's lost.
Takemura, clearly still not knowing how to handle a compliment, clears his throat discreetly before moving away from the cork board, walking toward the kitchen and redirecting the conversation with practiced smoothness, "Since you have been away for some time, I assume there is nothing edible left in your refrigerator."
"Probably..." V joins him, carefully avoiding mentioning that even before her absence, it was mostly empty except for beer and takeout leftovers — Johnny had always teased her about her inability to keep actual food around. "But if you want, there's a convenience store just around the corner. I don't really have the energy to go shopping right now, but if you're up for it, knock yourself out..."
"Very well," he nods, already planning what essentials they might need. "I will try to find us something... edible."
"Wait." She catches him by the wrist, pressing it against hers and authorizing the data transfer. "Here, now you've got full access to the apartment, won't need me to let you in. And I should have a credchip lying around somewhere..."
She rummages through her desk drawer, finding the old credchip with its Militech logo still intact, then hands it to Goro. "Got it on a job a while back. Should be a decent chunk of eddies on there, so get whatever you want. Take your time, gonna take a bath while you're gone."
V doesn't wait for his response, climbing the stairs to the mezzanine — and freezes abruptly near her bed. Fuck. Of course this is where the memories hit her like a freight train, knocking the air right out of her lungs. Thankfully, she hears Goro leave the apartment, so she can let herself fall face-first into her pillows.
"Fuck, Johnny," she whispers into the empty room, her voice breaking around his name. "This is so fuckin’ weird without you here. Keep expectin’ to hear your voice in my head, or feel your arms around me, or... fuck, anything. Miss your gonk comments about everything, the way you'd always know exactly what to say to piss me off or make me laugh." She rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling through blurry eyes. "Just... miss you so fuckin’ much it feels like I can't breathe sometimes. Like there's this hole in my chest where you used to be and nothing's gonna fill it except gettin’ you back."
Forcing herself to move before the tears threatening to fall actually do, she sits up and with trembling hands, she carefully places box containing the Relic in another secure container she finds nearby — can't risk anything happening to it, not when it might be their only chance, their one shot at making things right.
"Gonna get you back, you hear me, you stubborn bastard?" She promises to the empty air. Then she heads for the bathroom, unable to stay in the bed they shared any longer without completely breaking down. The bath will help, she tells herself. Has to be better than lying here talking to ghosts and memories, surrounded by the phantom warmth of his embrace.
V immediately switches on the radio as she enters the bathroom, deliberately choosing Pacific Dreams — they never play Samurai, she can't handle hearing his voice right now, not when everything else in the apartment already feels like a shrine to his absence. The upbeat synthpop fills the oppressive silence that's been threatening to suffocate her since she walked in, some cheerful song about chrome and love that would've had Johnny rolling his eyes and making gagging noises.
As she runs the bath, adding some of that fancy bath oil Misty gave her — "for spiritual cleansing", the girl had said with that knowing look of hers — she tries desperately not to think about all those times Johnny would sprawl on the floor, his back against the tub, chrome arm catching the light as he gestured with his cigarette, talking about everything and nothing while she soaked. How he'd sometimes reach back to play with her wet hair, or tell her stories about his Samurai days that always seemed to end with something exploding, or just sit there in comfortable silence, his presence as natural as breathing itself.
The water's almost too hot when she sinks in, but the slight burn helps ground her in the present, keeps her from drowning in memories. Still, every splash against the porcelain sounds wrong without his voice providing commentary, without his lazy drawl filling the spaces between songs with crude jokes or random music trivia. The bathroom feels too big, too empty — like everything else in this goddamn apartment that used to feel like home when it was filled with his larger-than-life presence.
After her skin starts pruning and the water turns lukewarm, V finally drags herself out, wrapping up in one of the oversized black towels. She approaches the steam-covered mirror, running her hand across its surface to clear her view — and freezes. For just a split second, barely long enough to register, she catches a glimpse of something in the mirror that makes her heart stop — dark hair, aviators, that familiar smirk she knows better than her own reflection. She whips around so fast she nearly slips on the wet floor, but of course, the bathroom is empty. Just her imagination playing tricks, has to be. The steam, the exhaustion, the emotional overload of being back here — that's all it is. Has to be.
Her hands shake slightly as she grips the edge of the sink, forcing herself to take deep breaths. It wasn't real. Couldn't be real. She's not going to think about what it might mean if she's starting to see things that aren't there, not going to acknowledge the cold fear settling in her gut at the implications. Better to pretend it never happened, push it down with all the other things she's not ready to face. She's fine. Everything's fine. She just needs some sleep, that's all.
But she can't quite meet her own eyes in the mirror as she starts getting dressed, can't shake the feeling that something's watching her from just outside her peripheral vision. The radio keeps playing, cheerful and oblivious, while V tries very hard not to think about how the steam swirling in the air sometimes looks like cigarette smoke, or how the shadows in the corners seem to shift in ways they shouldn't, or how desperately she wishes that glimpse in the mirror had been real.
Thankfully, Takemura returns a few minutes later, his arms laden with grocery bags that rustle with promise. He immediately notices something's off with V — from her tense posture to the haunted emptiness in her gaze as she stares through the massive TV screen, probably unable to even say what show she's supposedly watching.
He sets the bags on the kitchen counter before approaching her carefully, like one might a wounded animal. "Are you alright, V?"
She startles slightly, as if she hadn't really registered his presence until he spoke — another warning sign that has alarm bells ringing in his mind. Trying to paste on her best impression of normalcy, she responds, "Huh? Oh... Yeah, I'm good." It's clearly a lie — the kind that's so transparent it's almost worse than no answer at all, but she has no desire to tell him about what happened in the bathroom. She adds a touch of honesty to her next words, voice slightly rough, "It's just... it's good you're back. This place... it's harder to be here alone than I thought it'd be."
Seeing the lines of concern deepen on his face, she quickly redirects the conversation. "So, shopping? Found anything up to your impossible standards?"
Goro's clearly aware of what she's doing — the man didn't survive decades in Arasaka's employ by missing such obvious evasion tactics — but decides to let it slide for now, not wanting to push too hard when she's already so clearly balanced on a knife's edge. "To my standards? Not exactly, but I managed to find some ingredients that didn't appear to be made entirely of plastic or synthetic proteins masquerading as food."
"Ingredients?" The merc asks, raising an eyebrow, a hint of her usual spark returning to those haunted eyes. "Like, you're gonna cook for us?"
But Takemura's response doesn't reach V's ears, drowned out by another memory crashing over her like a wave, sudden and overwhelming — "I make a killer mac'n'cheese!" — "Learned it in the army." — "It was either that or eating straight outta cans." — Fuck, she remembers that conversation like it was yesterday, Johnny leaning against the fridge, smirking, enjoying how surprised she looked when she learned he could cook at least one thing...
"V?" Goro's voice snaps her out of it, making her tear her gaze away from the corner of the apartment where that scene had played out, where she can almost still see the ghost of Johnny's cocky grin and the cigarette smoke curling from his fingers.
"Shit, I..." She shakes her head, trying to focus on the present, on the real person standing in her kitchen instead of the memories threatening to drown her like high tide. "S'nothing. Tell me... I know you wanna help and all that, but... you don't have to stay here with me, y'know. Wouldn't you prefer havin’ your own place?"
He hums softly while continuing to chop some vegetables — which V can't even identify — taking time to consider before answering. "While I am not particularly comfortable with the idea of leaving you alone at the moment, I would not want to impose myself in your personal space. I could try to find an apartment nearby..." The corner of his mouth twists in a slight grimace that makes his chrome catch the light. "So if you have any suggestions for a man with very limited money and even fewer connections in this city..."
"Heh, might have a solution for that. One of my friends left Night City a while back and kinda gave me access to her apartment." V tells him, grateful for the distraction of practical matters. "Since she's not using it right now, I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you moved in. No rent to pay."
"That could indeed be a solution." He nods thoughtfully, the careful precision of his movements somehow comforting in their predictability. "I appreciate it."
The merc hesitates for a moment, then asks, trying to mask her vulnerability but failing miserably, her voice smaller than he's ever heard it, stripped of all its usual bravado, "Hey... though... would you mind staying here, just for tonight? I don't— I don't wanna be alone, not tonight..."
Without a moment's hesitation, Takemura's expression softens with understanding. "Of course, V. I will stay." He returns to his cooking preparations, deliberately keeping his movements slow and precise, providing a steady rhythm she can focus on instead of the ghosts haunting the corners of her vision. The familiar domestic sounds of chopping and water boiling almost manage to drown out the echoes of Johnny's laughter still lingering in the air.
Once the meal is ready, they settle at the kitchen table, the soft clink of dishes and utensils providing a welcome distraction. V thanks Goro for cooking, he dismisses it with characteristic humility, saying it's nothing special — just simple ingredients prepared with care, though the precision with which he arranged everything on their plates suggests otherwise. She takes a bite and finds it delicious, almost regretting her lack of appetite which has been her constant companion since Johnny's absence left a void nothing seems able to fill.
Despite the quality, she continues absently pushing food around her plate with her chopsticks — elegant, reusable ones with intricate designs, not the cheap disposable sticks she usually gets with her takeout. She's almost certain these weren't in her apartment before — probably something Takemura just purchased, another small touch of civilization he's brought into her chaotic life, like the subtle order he creates wherever he goes.
Since Goro doesn't seem like the type of man to initiate conversation without some encouragement — his stoic silence comfortable but occasionally impenetrable — V decides to break the quiet that threatens to let her mind wander back to dangerous territories. "So, wanna hear ‘bout that time I saved the NUS President's ass when her plane crashed in hostile territory?”
Takemura takes his time finishing his bite and carefully placing his chopsticks across his bowl before responding, one eyebrow slightly raised in that subtle expression of disbelief he's perfected over decades of diplomatic service. "You are mocking me, aren't you?" he asks, though there's a warmth in his voice that wasn't there when they first met, when suspicion colored every interaction.
"Nope." She smirks, leaning forward slightly, grateful for being someone else for a while — just V the merc, not the broken shell haunted by ghosts in mirrors. "Rosalind Myers' plane crashed in Dogtown a while back, and of course, it fell on me to pull her outta there. She seemed alright at first, but... turned out to be a real bitch. It all started when I was hangin’ around Pacifica and got contacted by this netrunner called Songbird..."
She recounts the promise of a solution to her Relic problem in exchange for saving the president's life — a devil's bargain that seemed worth it at the time, when hope was a currency she was desperate to trade in. Her voice grows more animated as she describes infiltrating Dogtown, navigating its dangers, the fights — including that fucking Chimera that nearly tore her apart — and finally finding the hideout she holed up with Myers. How the next day, she contacted Reed — a man who, in many ways, reminded her of Goro.
She explains how, after Myers was safely back in Washington, Reed and she were tasked with finding Songbird, who had gone MIA since the crash, leaving behind only cryptic messages and digital breadcrumbs that led them deeper into Dogtown's twisted heart.
She skips ahead to Hansen's grand party, which they infiltrated to speak face-to-face with So Mi, her hands gesturing expressively as she gets caught up in the memory. "You wouldn't believe the mix of people there — like someone threw Night City's entire power structure into a blender. Gang leaders minglin’ with politicians, journalists rubbin’ shoulders with celebrities, everyone pretending they weren't all plotting to stab each other in the back the moment the champagne ran out... That's where I ran into Hideshi Hino." Her voice softens slightly, a nostalgic smile touching her lips as she remembers Johnny's reaction. "Johnny spotted him first, actually, and pointed out how much he looked like you — said it was 'fuckin' uncanny.' Took a selfie with him — I was even tempted to send it to you right then and there..."
"Why didn't you?" Takemura questions, his dark eyes studying her with quiet intensity that seems to see straight through her carefully constructed facades.
"’Cause after the way we parted at the motel..." V hesitates, vulnerability flashing across her face before she can mask it with her usual bravado, her fingers tightening around her chopsticks. "Shit, Goro, for the same reason I never answered that message you sent telling me you were okay — I didn't really know what to think anymore. Were we still friends? Did you even wanna hear from me once Hanako was finally convinced we'd told her the truth, or was I just a useful tool that had served its purpose..."
Goro doesn't quite know how to respond, his usual composure momentarily disrupted by the raw honesty in her voice. He understands why the mercenary might have doubted him — but he hadn't imagined she would refrain from contacting him because she thought he wouldn't want to hear from her. He sighs heavily, the sound carrying the weight of weeks of regret and unspoken words. "V..."
"Feeling really gonk now that I know everything you did in the meantime, everything you went through — fuck, everything you've done for me..." She meets his eyes directly, something rare and genuine in her gaze that cuts through all pretense. "Sorry, Goro."
"You have nothing to apologize for, V. I completely understand why, given the circumstances under which our paths diverged, you might have doubted my intentions." His expression twists into a subtle grimace, memories of the motel incident clearly still troubling him. "I regret not sharing Michiko-san's plan with you from the beginning. I never wanted you to think I might not be on your side."
The silence stretches endlessly between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts and the weight of shared regrets, until Takemura finally begins clearing the table, his sharp eyes lingering disapprovingly on V's barely touched plate — though he exercises enough restraint not to voice his concern, knowing all too well how grief can hollow out even the most basic appetites. Instead, he carefully stacks the dishes with the practiced efficiency of someone who finds comfort in order, and asks with genuine curiosity, "And after that particular incident, what transpired with your netrunner friend and the other FIA operatives?"
Visibly relieved to steer their conversation toward more neutral territory — or at the very least, something less directly entangled with the complicated web of their shared history and mutual misunderstandings — V settles back in her chair and begins recounting what happened next at Hansen's party, her voice finding its rhythm as she slips into the familiar comfort of storytelling.
She describes how Song had explained her delicate situation — she would need to remain a captive for the time being while she worked to secure the neural matrix, but she had also provided them with precise instructions on how to return and liberate her when the moment was right, a chess game where every move had to be calculated three steps ahead.
V moves quickly through her encounter with the two French twins, her hands animating the story as she explains how she had skillfully collected their behavioral imprints during what appeared to be nothing more than a casual game of roulette. She details how she and Reed had managed to slip away from the Black Sapphire without any problems.
She continues weaving the intricate tale — Goro proving himself to be an exceptionally attentive and engaged audience, his eyes never leaving her face as she speaks — telling him about the sophisticated shapeshift implant that now masks her true features, a technological marvel that had allowed her to walk undetected through Dogtown's most heavily guarded areas. Her voice grows more intense as she recounts that pivotal moment when So Mi had finally summoned the courage to confess that her revolutionary tech could only save one of them, the words hanging in the air like a death sentence that V had somehow already expected.
She describes how she had made the decision to help her escape regardless, driven by a desperate desire to free the netrunner from both Hansen's iron grip and the suffocating chains that bound her to Myers and the FIA, refusing to let another soul remain caged when freedom was within reach.
She doesn't miss the way Takemura's shoulders tense almost imperceptibly when she mentions how readily she had accepted her approaching death, how she had chosen without a moment's hesitation to save not only the netrunner but also Johnny, prioritizing their lives over her own survival. Her voice grows quieter as she finally recounts the chaotic events at the spaceport — the brutal assault by NUSA black ops, the desperate firefight that had turned the pristine terminal into a bullet-riddled hellscape, and how despite everything going sideways in the worst possible ways, she had still managed to get So Mi safely to the moon, though the victory had come at the cost of Reed's life, his blood pooling on the floor as she'd been forced to kill him.
Goro remains silent, his face a carefully composed mask, but his mind races with uncomfortable thoughts he can't quite silence — the realization that if his own path had taken him down a different route, if he hadn't managed to open his eyes and see the truth in time, he could have easily become just another Reed in the merc's tragic story, another body left behind in her wake as she fought for survival against impossible odds.
If he had continued blindly pursuing his single-minded quest for vengeance on behalf of Arasaka-san, clinging to loyalty that had become nothing but a gilded cage, he might very well have been standing in that tower the day she came calling with violence and retribution, another obstacle in her path to be overcome.
The question that haunts him most is whether, if they had found themselves on opposite sides of that conflict, V would have been forced to put him down too — would she have pulled that trigger with the same reluctant determination she had shown with the spy, her eyes filled with regret but her hand steady? And more troubling still, would he have hesitated even for a second before trying to kill her, or would his conditioning have overridden whatever connection they had formed?
Thankfully, these dark hypotheticals will never need answers and can remain safely buried in the realm of what-ifs and nightmares, but he strongly suspects that the young woman sitting across from him has wrestled with the same unsettling thoughts during sleepless nights when the past refuses to stay buried. "I am truly and deeply sorry for everything you were forced to endure, V," he says with quiet sincerity, his hand moving almost unconsciously to give her wrist a gentle, reassuring squeeze, the warmth of human connection bridging the gap between them.
"Yeah, thanks..." she murmurs softly, managing to summon a small smile that doesn't quite manage to chase away the shadows lingering in her eyes. "At the end of the day, all I can do is hope that things work out for Song up there among the stars, far from the reach of both Hansen and Myers. And now that I finally got that postcard from Alex... I'm just glad she's okay too. Seems like some of us can actually get our happy endings after all."
"You will have yours as well, V," he assures her with unwavering conviction, slowly releasing her wrist while maintaining eye contact. "It may take time, and the path ahead may be uncertain, but I have complete faith that you will find a way to bring Silverhand back to you."
Feeling utterly drained from having spilled so much of her story — and deliberately refusing to let herself dwell on Takemura's well-meaning but painful reminder that bringing Johnny back might actually take time , as if every second without him wasn't already an eternity — V decides to mercifully cut their emotionally charged evening short before she completely falls apart in front of him, her composure hanging by threads too thin to trust.
"Kinda tired, think I'm gonna crash," she announces with forced casualness, already moving toward her storage closet. "You absolutely sure you're cool with the couch? Really don't mind takin' it myself if you'd rather have the bed."
"I can assure you with complete certainty that I am more than capable of surviving one night on your sofa," Goro responds with gentle amusement, his thoughts inevitably drifting back to those first nightmarish days following the Konpeki Plaza disaster, when he had been reduced to catching fitful sleep in the cramped confines of the battered van he'd 'borrowed' from some unfortunate citizen, his body contorted around the steering wheel, constantly jolting awake at every passing siren and drone, long before he'd managed to secure himself even the most basic hideout in that crumbling, abandoned building where rats had been his only companions. "Trust me when I say I have endured far more challenging sleeping arrangements during my time as a fugitive. This will be luxury by comparison."
V nods with distracted acceptance, her movements becoming increasingly mechanical as she retrieves a well-worn blanket and an extra pillow from the depths of her cluttered closet, her mind clearly already elsewhere, perhaps already halfway up the stairs to where Johnny's absence would be most keenly felt. She drops the bedding on the couch without much ceremony as she tells him, "Alright then... night, Goro. And... seriously, thanks for stickin' around tonight."
"Sleep peacefully, V," he responds while beginning the careful process of unfolding the blanket and arranging his makeshift bed.
Without bothering to turn back toward him or offer any further pleasantries, she climbs the narrow stairs to her mezzanine bedroom with heavy steps that seem to echo her emotional exhaustion, not even bothering to flip the light switch as she disappears into the darkened space above. She allows herself to collapse onto the mattress, then spends what feels like an eternity tossing and turning restlessly, her body unable to find any position that doesn't feel fundamentally wrong and uncomfortable, as if her very skin has forgotten how to exist without him beside her.
Eventually, in a desperate attempt to make the vast emptiness more bearable, she curls herself into the tightest possible ball on the very edge of the bed — the same side where Johnny always used to materialize beside her — but even pressed against the familiar spot, the mattress feels impossibly big and cold without the rockerboy's presence filling the space, without the smell of cigarettes and metal that always clung to him, without the soft rhythm of his breathing or the occasional mumbled commentary about whatever dream was playing through his mind.
With trembling fingers, she carefully extracts his worn dogtags from beneath her shirt, holding the metal plates up to catch what little light filters through her windows. The moonlight glints off their scratched surface, illuminating the name and numbers that represent so little of who he truly was. She presses a long, desperate kiss against their cool surface, the metal warming against her lips as she clutches them like a lifeline.
"Already fuckin' know this night's gonna be a complete shitshow without you here," she whispers brokenly into the suffocating darkness, her voice barely audible even to herself. "Miss everything about havin' you next to me, Johnny. Miss how you'd watch over me when the nightmares got bad."
She swallows hard, fighting against the tightness in her throat as she continues her one-sided conversation with the empty space beside her. "Place doesn't feel like home when you're gone. Just walls and furniture. Nothin' feels right anymore — food tastes like ash, music sounds hollow, even the fuckin’ air feels wrong without you breathin' it too."
Her fingers tighten around the dogtags until the edges dig painfully into her palm, the physical discomfort a welcome distraction from the hollow ache in her chest. "But I'm gonna bring you back, you hear me? Don't care what it takes. Don't care who I gotta threaten, bribe, or kill. Have to make this right. Promised you we'd figure it out together, and I ain't about to break that promise just 'cause you decided to play the hero."
She presses the dogtags against her heart, feeling her pulse beat against them. "G'night, rockerboy. I'm comin' for you."
Then, with the grim determination of someone who knows sleep won't bring any peace, she forces her burning eyes closed and wills herself into unconsciousness, and despite the persistent, gnawing unease that has been steadily growing stronger ever since she caught that disturbing reflection in the bathroom mirror earlier, exhaustion eventually proves stronger than her racing thoughts and drags her down into the murky depths of restless, troubled sleep where fragments of memories wait to ambush her.
V knows she is dreaming — but fuck, that doesn't make the sight in front of her easier to bear. She's back in that goddamn Delamain cab, the night of the heist, with Jackie bleeding out beside her, his once-vibrant presence diminishing with each labored breath. He grips her hand with fading strength, his fingers trembling as he places the original Relic in her palm.
"The biochip... I told you to hold on to it. For me, chica ." He rasps, blood bubbling between his lips with every word, turning his once-bright smile into a macabre portrait of death, a grotesque perversion of the warmth that had defined him in life. "Why didn't you do that for me? Was my dying words... and you couldn't even honor that…"
"I tried, Jack, I swear I tried," V replies, her voice cracking as tears blur her vision, the familiar weight of failure crushing her chest until each breath feels like inhaling shards of glass. "I really did everythin’ I could..."
"Boo-hoo, little V's gonna cry. What a fuckin' surprise," a sardonic voice cuts through the cab's oppressive atmosphere from the driver's seat, dripping with contempt.
V turns her head around so fast she nearly gives herself whiplash — and there he is, aviators perched on his nose, a cruel smirk twisting his lips into an expression she hasn't witnessed since those early days, when they were still strangers trapped in the same dying body. It's not the expression she's grown to love during their time together — but something vicious and cold that makes her stomach drop.
"Johnny—" She whispers, his name a prayer on her lips, her voice shattering.
"Nah, V, you fucked up big time," the rockerboy cuts her off without mercy, his voice dripping with venom. "If that pathetic display was your best, then it's no wonder everyone around you ends up dead or wishin' they were. Fuck, look at yourself now — seein' ghosts in mirrors and whinin' about your poor little life, like you're the only one who's ever lost someone. Can't believe I was stupid enough to sacrifice my one shot at livin' again for someone like you... someone who'd just curl up and die the moment shit got tough."
"It's not over," she attempts to defend herself, the words hollow even to her own ears, echoing in the dreamscape. "You're still on that fuckin' chip, and I'm gonna bring you back..."
"Oh, you will?" His smile morphs into something even more savage, all teeth and no warmth, like a predator savoring the moment before it delivers the killing blow to wounded prey. "I'm gone , princess. Nothin' but a memory now, just another ghost in your fucked-up collection. How many more lives you gonna destroy 'cause you're too fuckin' scared to be alone?"
The dream version of Jackie lets out a chilling laugh at Johnny's remarks, a sound so unlike the warm chuckle she remembers — twisting the knife deeper into her psyche.
Before the merc can stammer out a response, Johnny leans forward from the driver's seat, "Even your little self-sacrificing act of givin' me your body... fuck, that was just for you, wasn't it? Selfish fuckin' gonk, too scared to crawl back to your shitty little life without me in your head to make it interesting. You realized that without me, you ain't shit. Just another dirtgirl from Heywood who couldn't hack it in the big leagues. I was right about you all along."
The passenger window lowers itself silently, and Solomon Reed leans into the cab, his face appearing like an unwelcome ghost from V's recent past. "Was it really worth it, V?" He gives her that wounded puppy look, the same one he wore whenever Songbird was mentioned in conversation, his eyes carrying the weight of betrayal. "Did I really deserve to die, all because I stood in your way?"
V shrinks back into her seat, taking his question like a slap across the face. "I never wanted to kill you, Sol. But you left me no choice — it was you or me, and you fuckin’ know it."
The spy shakes his head with profound disappointment, his gaze piercing through her defenses. "I really hoped you'd understand. I even trusted you for a while, believed we could help So Mi together, as partners. Instead, you gunned me down without hesitation and condemned her to die alone in orbit."
"I gave you a choice!" V protests, fighting to keep her voice from trembling as the guilt threatens to overwhelm her. "You're the one who chose not to step aside when... Shit! And go fuck yourself! Song's gonna be fine — she made her own choice, she's finally free!"
"But at what cost?" Reed asks before pulling away from the window, his face a mask of judgment and disapproval. "She won't survive alone up there. You wanted to play grown-up games without respecting the rules, and now everyone's gonna pay the price for your arrogance."
V tries to lean toward the window, desperate to grab him, to explain that So Mi's fate is in her own hands now, that there's nothing more she could have done — but suddenly, the seatbelt seems to come alive with malicious intent, wrapping around her like a python and slamming her back against the seat.
Panic surges through her as she struggles against the restraint, twisting to look at Jackie for help, but she's met once again with his vacant, lifeless stare — her best friend dying beside her all over again, blood pooling on the seat between them like a crimson reminder of her failures.
"So that's your excuse for the netrun' chick, huh?" Johnny's voice draws her attention away from the grim tableau. "That it ain't your problem anymore? That none of this shit is your fault?" He starts the car with a vicious turn of the key, slamming his foot on the accelerator, propelling them forward onto a road shrouded in ominous, shifting fog. "And what about ‘im? Wasn’t your fault either?"
V barely has time to glance out the window, catching sight of Scorpion leaning casually against his Apollo motorcycle, watching them pass with accusing eyes. Johnny continues relentlessly, "If you hadn't been so fuckin' eager to chase down Hellman, his AV wouldn't have crashed, and this poor fucker would still be alive, playin' cards with his nomad buddies instead of rottin' in the dirt."
"Dammit, I never wanted any of this!" She tries to defend herself as a tear escapes down her cheek, leaving a glistening trail of regret. "We never planned for Mitch and him to go out there! I tried to save them, but—"
"But what? You weren't fast enough?" He chuckles darkly, pushing the accelerator harder until the engine screams in protest, then jabs his metal finger toward the side of the road. "And what about her? Were you too slow for her too, or just too wrapped up in your own bullshit to notice she was drownin’?"
In the direction he's pointing, V catches a fleeting glimpse of Evelyn's distinctive silhouette, her back turned in that long coat with its fake fur collar, throwing a terrified glance over her shoulder before taking one deliberate step forward and vanishing into the swirling mist.
She swallows hard, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak. "She... she was—"
"Already dead, huh? Fine, let's talk 'bout the livin', then." The car seems to accelerate impossibly faster as Johnny snaps his fingers, making Jackie's corpse dissolve into nothingness, creating space for himself to materialize in the seat beside her, his presence more oppressive than comforting.
His aviators reflect her own terrified face back at her, a funhouse mirror of all her fears and failures. The rockerboy's lips curl into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, leaning in close enough that she can smell the phantom cigarettes on his breath.
"Face it, V," he whispers, his voice like gravel against her soul, "You leave nothin' but corpses in your wake. Like a fuckin' plague, killin' everything you touch. Maybe that's why I was stuck with you — your body's just another crime scene waitin' to happen."
He grabs her chin with brutal force, fingers digging into her flesh as he wrenches her head to face the windshield. "So, who's your next victim?" he asks. The ghostly silhouettes of Panam, Mitch, and Saul materialize suddenly before the vehicle, their forms illuminated in the harsh glare of the headlights for just a heartbeat before dissolving into wisps of smoke as the cab tears through them.
"Gotta be one of ‘em, huh?" The nightmarish version of Johnny snarls, his face contorting with malicious glee that transforms his familiar features into something alien and monstrous. "Prolly Panam, if I'm placin' bets. Seems the more someone loves you, the bigger target you paint on their fuckin' back — like some kinda curse you carry around, infectin' everyone stupid enough to give a shit about you."
"Stop that!" V struggles against his grip, desperation clawing at her throat as she pleads, her voice cracking under the weight of emotions too complex and painful to name. "Johnny, please... this isn't you, this isn't us—"
"No, don't Johnny me!" He spits viciously, tightening his hold until pain radiates through her jawbone. "Be honest with yourself for once in your miserable life — I'm doomed to rot on this chip forever! How long before you realize you can't bring me back, huh? Before you give up and move on?" His smile transforms into something purely demonic, stretching unnaturally across his face in a way that defies human anatomy, teeth elongating into razor-sharp points that glint menacingly in the darkness. "After all... you've already got my replacement lined up, right? Always need someone to fill that empty space, dontcha, V?"
This time, it's Takemura who materializes momentarily in the headlights, dressed in the same sleek black suit from their first encounter at Konpeki Plaza, his expression as impassive and unreadable as it was on that fateful night when everything in her life began its catastrophic unraveling. As he dissolves into smoke while the vehicle passes through him under V's horrified gaze, she can only manage a weak, disbelieving, "What?"
"Oh, c'mon princess ..." The familiar nickname drips with mockery, stripped of all its usual warmth and transformed into something cruel and accusing, a weapon fashioned from what was once an endearment. A new version of Goro appears on the road, now wearing the secondhand coat he donned during his time as a fugitive, his proud posture slightly bent under the weight of dishonor and desperation.
Johnny continues, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper that somehow cuts deeper than his shouts, "Don't lie to yourself, don't lie to me . Think I forgot about your stupid little crush on 'im? The way your heart rate spiked whenever he called? How you'd get all flustered whenever he gave you the slightest bit of approval?"
"S'not like that!" The merc chokes out as they drive through the apparition, watching it scatter like ashes in the wind, each particle carrying away a fragment of her denials. "Not anymore. It's you I—"
"Bullshit!" He snarls, fingernails digging crescents into the skin of her cheeks, drawing pinpricks of blood that feel scalding hot against her skin. "I saw how you looked at him at the camp. Got your panties in a twist, didn't it, seein' him all dressed down like that? All that corpo polish stripped away, showin' the man underneath?"
To emphasize his point, the most recent version of the man appears before them, clad in nomad attire that softens his rigid edges, his stoic composure replaced with something more raw and unguarded. The vision barely has time to turn toward the car, his long hair whipping around his face in the phantom wind, obsidian eyes widening in recognition, before they pass through him, his form disintegrating into motes of light that swirl in their wake like dying fireflies.
V chokes on a sob, trying desperately to close her eyes against the onslaught of accusations, each one finding its mark, but with a simple command, the rockerboy prevents her escape. "Don't fuckin' look away!" He roars, finally releasing her chin only to grab her shoulders with bruising force, fingers digging into flesh with enough pressure to leave marks that would linger for days if this were reality, forcing her to face him fully, to confront the twisted version of the man she'd grown to love. His voice softens suddenly, all poison and honey when he asks, "Remember what I told you, sweetheart, when I first spoke to you?"
The young woman's voice is broken, barely audible over the roar of the engine and the thundering of her own pulse in her ears when she nods, a single tear tracking down her cheek, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. "Yes."
He takes her hand, his touch gentler now but somehow more terrifying for its tenderness, and between their intertwined fingers materializes his Malorian, the weight of it familiar and terrifying. She doesn't know if it's him guiding the movement or her own treacherous hand acting independently when the barrel points toward her face, cold metal pressing against her temple. "C'mon, repeat what I said to you. Word for fuckin' word."
"Told me to stick some iron in my mouth and pull the trigger," she recites weakly, the words passing her lips against her will.
"Should have listened to me, V," Johnny murmurs with mock sadness, pressing his forehead against hers in a grotesque parody of intimacy, positioning himself in the weapon's path alongside her. "Would have saved a lotta sufferin' for everyone."
"I know," she responds softly, all fight drained from her voice, surrendering to the crushing weight of guilt. "You're right. Always were."
A deafening gunshot echoes through the cab, reverberating in her skull with catastrophic force, and V jolts awake with a blood-curdling scream tearing from her throat, the phantom pain of a bullet that never was still burning through her mind.
So, when they tap our Monday heads
Two zombies walk in our stead
This town seems hardly worth our time
And we'll no longer memorize or rhyme
The scream morphs into violent, uncontrollable sobs that tear through the apartment's stillness like a combat shotgun blast, echoing off the walls as V wrestles with her sweat-soaked sheets, trying to force herself upright in a state of absolute panic that grips her with merciless intensity, her movements frantic and uncoordinated as if she's still fighting to escape the nightmare that's followed her into wakefulness.
Her trembling fingers clutch the dog tags around her neck with desperate ferocity, the metal edges digging painfully into her damp palm hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indentations that might still be visible hours later, as her chest heaves with rapid, shallow breaths that do nothing to satisfy her body's desperate need for oxygen.
Each gasping attempt to fill her lungs feels insufficient, like she's drowning on dry land with her head held just beneath the surface, her respiratory system rebelling against her brain's commands, refusing to expand properly no matter how desperately she tries to force air through her constricted throat. Her vision tunnels alarmingly, dark spots dancing at the edges like malevolent digital glitches, while her heart hammers against her ribcage with such violence it feels like it's trying to punch its way through bone and muscle to escape.
She doesn't even register the hurried footsteps ascending the stairs, the sound lost beneath the cacophony of her own panic, only becoming aware of Takemura's presence when the mattress dips beneath his weight as he sits beside her, gently gripping her shoulders with steady hands that feel like anchors in a storm-tossed sea. "V, what is wrong?" His voice cuts through her panic like a precision blade, concern etched deeply in features that rarely betray such naked emotion, his usual stoicism abandoned in the face of her obvious distress.
Finally managing to claw her way back to some semblance of awareness, recognizing where she is and who's touching her, V violently extracts herself from his comforting touch as if his fingers burn against her skin, throwing herself off the bed with such force she nearly stumbles into the wall, her legs unsteady beneath her.
"Can't fuckin' stay here!" She frantically grabs her duffle bag, haphazardly tossing random clothes into it with shaking hands that can barely manage the simple task. "Gonna go to Judy's place, now . Know I offered ya to stay there, but... can't stay, too many fuckin' memories, too empty now... I—" Her voice cracks, threatening to shatter completely as she continues with urgency, "You can keep my flat, you'll be fine here."
"It is three in the morning, V..." Goro attempts to reason with her, his voice deliberately calm and measured despite his mounting anxiety at seeing her so agitated, her movements erratic and desperate like a cornered animal seeking escape from invisible predators. "You should take time to consider this decision when your mind is clearer, and at dawn—"
"NO!" She snaps with such ferocity that Takemura actually flinches, fresh tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. She abandons the closet, turning instead to collect Johnny's possessions with noticeably more care than she showed her own belongings — the Malorian pistol which she checks and secures, the replica of his iconic jacket, and most importantly, the box containing the Relic. "I'm leavin' right fuckin' now . Can't stay a sec longer... feels like the walls are closin' in, like I can't breathe in here anymore."
He massages his temples briefly, recognizing that the young woman is far too distraught to be calmed through reason alone, her emotional state too volatile for logical arguments to penetrate the haze of panic and grief that's clearly consumed her, and decides it would be easier — and likely safer — to accommodate her impulsive decision rather than fight against it. "Very well, I will gather my things, we leave together," he states with the calm authority that served him well during decades of work.
His words make V freeze for a heartbeat before she descends the stairs with reckless speed, calling back over her shoulder with forced casualness that doesn't match her frantic movements, "You can stay here, got no reason to drag yourself across town in the middle of the night." She rushes toward the guitar stand, carefully placing the instrument in its case with hands that won't stop shaking, treating the vintage guitar with the reverence of a museum curator handling a priceless artifact, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy radiating from her every movement.
"I am coming with you," his tone is gentle but brooks no argument, the same voice he might use when informing someone of an inevitable security protocol, leaving no room for discussion or negotiation. Takemura retrieves his own bag, which he hadn't really unpacked anyway, years of living as a bodyguard having taught him to always be ready to move at a moment's notice. "I will not leave you alone in this state — it would be both dishonorable and dangerous to abandon a friend in distress."
The merc doesn't even bother responding, instead darting toward the elevator with bags slung over her shoulders, still dressed in her rumpled pyjamas, hair wild and eyes red-rimmed. She has to force herself not to stab the button repeatedly and instead wait for him to join her, leaning against the cold metal wall of the elevator, struggling to regulate her breathing as her chest continues to rise and fall in an irregular rhythm that threatens to spiral back into full-blown hyperventilation at any moment.
It's Goro who presses the button directing them to the garage, where she immediately bolts from the elevator the moment the doors slide open, making a beeline for the Porsche and unceremoniously throwing their bags into the trunk with more force than necessary. As she yanks open the driver's side door, he notices her hands still trembling violently, the keys jingling audibly in her unsteady grip, prompting Takemura to ask with obvious concern, "Are you certain you are in a condition to drive? Perhaps it would be wiser if I—"
V slides into the seat, hesitating for a second before responding, her voice small and fragile. "He... he wouldn't like anyone but me drivin' his car." Takemura raises an eyebrow at this — of course, the car belongs to Silverhand too. "S'gonna be fine, it's not that far away," she insists, knuckles turning white as she grips the steering wheel, her eyes fixed straight ahead.
During the drive, while keeping a watchful eye on V behind the wheel — noting with growing concern how her knuckles remain bone-white against the steering wheel and how her eyes dart nervously between the road and the rearview mirror as if expecting to find something terrifying lurking in the backseat — Goro decides to send a message to Panam, carefully retrieving his burner phone from his pocket without drawing V's attention.
The nomad had pulled him aside before their departure from the camp, her expression serious as she asked him to keep her informed of any incidents, because according to her blunt assessment, the merc 'is shit at asking for help, even when she's bleeding out,' a statement delivered with the exasperated fondness of someone who knows V all too well. He carefully types with one thumb, his other hand braced against the dashboard as V takes a corner with more speed than prudence would dictate,
Despite the late hour, a response arrives just minutes later, the screen illuminating Goro's face in the darkness of the car with a blue glow.
As he tucks the device back into his pocket, the Porsche slows to a halt beside a modest apartment building that has seen better days. Goro frowns slightly, recognizing the surroundings — Kabuki, not one of Night City's more illustrious districts with its cramped alleyways and omnipresent gang activity, but he's certainly not in a position to be picky right now, not with V in such a fragile state, her eyes still haunted by whatever horrors her subconscious had conjured.
V has already exited the vehicle, unloading the trunk in tense silence, her movements mechanical and efficient despite her obvious distress, like a combat droid executing pre-programmed instructions while its systems are on the verge of critical failure. Takemura hastens to join her, retrieving his bag before following her into the building, watching as she unlocks one of the doors. He follows her inside, taking in the modest apartment with a quick, assessing glance.
"Bedroom's here," V announces in an emotionless voice, gesturing toward one of the doors after unceremoniously dropping her duffle bag onto the couch pushed against the wall, the thud of its impact seeming unnaturally loud in the stillness of the pre-dawn hours. "You can take it, don't think I'll be able to sleep anyway," she adds, the defeated flatness in her tone even more concerning than her earlier panic had been, like all the fight has drained out of her, leaving behind only an empty shell going through the motions of existence.
He hesitates, observing as she lights a cigarette with fingers that still haven't stopped shaking despite her obvious efforts to steady them, the flame from her lighter casting momentary shadows across her face that accentuate the hollows beneath her cheekbones and the dark circles under her eyes, making her appear almost ghostly in the dim light.
She positions herself by the window, deliberately turning her back to him as if to physically block any attempt at conversation, the message clear even without words — she wants to be left alone with whatever demons are currently feasting on her thoughts. The streetlights from outside cast her silhouette in sharp relief against the darkness of the room, the smoke from her cigarette curling around her like a physical manifestation of the turmoil that seems to be consuming her from within.
Takemura understands that the young woman has no desire to discuss what happened — at least not now when the wounds are still too raw and bleeding — and likely wishes for some space to process her thoughts without his well-intentioned but potentially unwelcome scrutiny. So he releases a soft sigh of resignation before conceding, "Very well, I will see you in the morning, V. Should you require anything during the night, or should you simply wish to talk, please do not hesitate to wake me."
He receives nothing but a vague humming sound as an answer, her attention seemingly fixed on the neon-lit cityscape outside. With reluctance evident in his measured steps, he makes his way toward the bedroom door, fully aware that sleep will likely elude him as well, his mind too preoccupied with concern for the woman standing like a ghost at the window.
The next morning, Goro finds V exactly where he left her, still positioned by the window like a sentinel, her bloodshot eyes fixed on the world outside, dark circles beneath them testifying to her sleepless night. If not for the subtle evidence of movement scattered throughout the apartment — the guitar removed from its case and leaning against the wall, an empty soda can abandoned on the kitchen counter, several cigarette butts piled in an ashtray — he might have believed she hadn't moved at all.
"Good morning, V," he greets her simply, knowing full well how pointless it would be to ask if she slept well when the answer is written so clearly across her exhausted features, etched in the slump of her shoulders and the slight tremor in her hands that suggests she's running on nothing but nicotine, caffeine, and sheer stubborn willpower.
"Mornin' Goro..." she responds, casting a brief glance over her shoulder, before turning back to the window as if the cityscape holds answers to questions she hasn't even formulated yet.
It's not much, but he considers even this small acknowledgment progress compared to their last interaction, a tiny crack in the wall of silence she's constructed around herself since the nightmare that drove her from her home. Preferring not to push his luck and risk shattering this fragile moment of connection, he sets water to boil in the ancient electric kettle that protests with alarming mechanical groans, then begins rummaging through the cabinets in hopes of finding at least a tea bag among the sparse contents.
He's fortunate in this small quest, discovering a dusty box of green tea that's likely seen better days but remains serviceable, though the search also confirms that this kitchen is as desperately empty as V's own — he refuses to consider the half-eaten package of stale crackers he discovers as a potential meal option for either of them.
He realizes they left their provisions behind during their hasty departure the previous night — he'll likely need to go shopping today. This doesn't particularly trouble him, as he'll need to venture out anyway to purchase replacement clothing — the garments the nomads kindly lent him are well-suited for desert living but hardly appropriate for city life by his standards.
Despite the necessity of these errands, he's reluctant to leave the merc alone in her current state, carefully asking if she feels well enough to remain by herself for a few hours while he attends to these practical matters. She dismisses his concerns with a vague wave of her hand, assuring him she'll be fine, that she'll try to catch some sleep to make up for her restless night, though the hollow tone of her voice suggests she doesn't believe this herself, the promise made just to ease his concerns.
Yet when he returns several hours later around lunchtime, arms laden with grocery bags containing fresh vegetables, rice, and other essentials, along with a modest selection of new clothes, V still hasn't succumbed to sleep despite her earlier assurances. She sits on the couch, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips, absently plucking at her guitar strings. When she notices Takemura's return, she sets the instrument aside carefully and lights her cigarette.
"I tried to do some research, y'know, 'bout..." She trails off, gesturing toward the laptop resting on the couch beside her, its screen displaying dozens of open tabs ranging from scientific journals on neural mapping to obscure forums discussing consciousness transfer theories and even what appears to be black market listings for experimental tech, the digital breadcrumbs of someone desperately searching for answers in every possible corner of the Net. "Made me realize I got no fuckin' clue where to start, like I'm wandering around in the dark without even knowing what I'm lookin' for."
Goro hums thoughtfully, methodically organizing the food in the refrigerator while considering their predicament, finding comfort in the simple order of mundane tasks. Truthfully, the situation is unprecedented for him as well, and he finds himself just as clueless as the merc when it comes to finding a body for an engram currently on an experimental biochip.The challenge is so far beyond his expertise that he can barely formulate the right questions to ask, let alone provide answers.
"Have you contacted Panam, or perhaps Viktor-san today? They might have some insights to offer, or at least connections to individuals with more specialized knowledge in these matters."
"Nope. Haven't even turned on my holo yet," V shrugs with forced casualness that doesn't quite mask her avoidance, taking a long, deliberate drag of nicotine that she holds in her lungs for several seconds. "Battery prolly died while I was out, after the tower."
What she doesn't specify is that she's deliberately avoided charging the device, fearful of what messages might await her when she finally powers it on, what demands and expectations might come flooding in from a world she's not quite ready to face.
She suspects Vik has sent several since his departure from the nomad camp, likely reminding her to visit his clinic as soon as possible, concerned messages that would require responses she doesn't have the emotional energy to formulate. Not wanting to leave the ripperdoc completely in the dark for too long — he deserves better than that after everything he's done for her — she reluctantly plugs her holo into a nearby outlet, rationalizing that she's just charging it for now, giving herself some breathing room before she has to engage with the outside world and all its complications.
She can always check her messages later tonight, when she's had more time to construct the façade of functionality she'll need to convince everyone she's holding it together, even as she feels herself coming apart at the seams with each passing hour without Johnny's presence to anchor her to reality.
The remaining of the day drags by with excruciating slowness, Takemura occupying himself by meticulously cleaning Judy's apartment— where dust had begun to accumulate since the techie's left Night City — while V seems incapable of containing her restless energy, like a caged animal prowling the confines of its prison. She alternates between pacing the small space with a cigarette perpetually dangling from her lips, lost in her own turbulent thoughts, and nervously plucking at the guitar strings, producing discordant melodies that seem to mirror the chaos in her mind.
She only sets the instrument aside after experiencing a momentary hallucination — Johnny's chrome hand suddenly superimposed over her own on the fretboard, the vision so vivid she could swear she heard the characteristic clicking of metal joints when she clenched her fist. The apparition fades before she has time to properly freak out about it, and she chalks it up to sleep deprivation, forcing herself to maintain a neutral expression to avoid worrying Goro further. Still, the fleeting image leaves her shaken, her fingers trembling slightly as she reaches for another cigarette.
When Takemura prepares a simple dinner that evening — just noodles in a savory broth, nothing fancy but infinitely better than the processed food she usually subsists on — she forces herself to take several bites to honor his effort, though her appetite remains nonexistent. She lets Goro carry most of the conversation, grateful for the distraction from her own chaotic thoughts that threaten to spiral into darker territories with each passing moment of silence, his measured voice providing a counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of her internal monologue.
He elaborates on his meetings with Michiko Arasaka-Sanderson, explaining that he intends to reestablish contact with her soon, wanting to personally confirm that Mikoshi was successfully destroyed — though knowing what he does about this woman, her network of informants and resources, she's likely already aware of everything that transpired at the tower, down to the smallest details. His voice takes on a cautiously optimistic tone as he speaks of Michiko, clearly respecting her despite her family connections.
"She is not like her grandfather or aunt" he says, carefully setting down his chopsticks. "There is honor in her actions, purpose beyond mere power."
He suggests that V might consider accompanying him to this meeting, arguing that since Hellman is the one who designed the modified Relics and still unofficially works for Michiko, it might be prudent to inform them of Silverhand's current situation. Perhaps the biotech engineer could offer insights no one else in Night City could provide.
The merc, still harboring bitter memories of her encounter with the bioengineer — his smug face as he explained the mechanics of her impending death, his clinical detachment when discussing the erasure of her consciousness — and honestly, of anything remotely connected to Arasaka, she brushes the idea off with a dismissive wave of her hand.
"Not that fuckin' desperate yet," she mutters, her voice rough from too many cigarettes and too little sleep, scraping against her throat like sandpaper. "Rather find a solution myself or with friends who won't slap a corpo logo on Johnny's ass the second they get their hands on him, turnin' him into another lab rat for their fucked-up experiments."
Goro assures her he understands her reluctance with a slight incline of his head, not wanting to push her when she's already so on edge, her emotional state as precarious as a house of cards in a windstorm, promising they'll proceed however she deems best, following her lead in this deeply personal quest.
"It is merely an option," he says gently, his tone carefully modulated to avoid any hint of pressure or judgment, "not a recommendation or demand. The choice remains yours, as it should in all matters concerning your future and that of Silverhand."
As night falls over Kabuki, painting the small apartment in shades of neon blue and pink filtering through the windows, V's gaze keeps returning to her charging holo, the blinking notification light a constant reminder of all the messages waiting for her — and all the people expecting her to be stronger than she feels right now.
When she finally gathers enough courage to retrieve her device and scroll through her messages, the notification light casting an accusatory red glow across her face in the dimming evening light, V focuses only on the essentials — assuring Panam she's alright, promising Viktor she'll visit his clinic first thing tomorrow morning.
She deliberately ignores the numerous notifications from unknown numbers and fixers, probably just seeking her services for jobs that seem impossibly trivial now compared to the void consuming her from within, though her finger hesitates momentarily before scrolling past Rogue's messages, guilt twisting in her gut like a cold knife.
Fuck. She knows she'll need to inform the Queen of the Afterlife — as well as Kerry, which terrifies her even more, the thought of facing Johnny's oldest friend with nothing but failure to report making her stomach clench with dread — about what's happened to Johnny.
But not now, not through impersonal text messages that can't possibly convey the weight of what she's been through, the soul-crushing reality of having him ripped from her consciousness. Not when she doesn't yet have a solution for bringing him back to the land of the living, when all she has to offer are empty promises and desperate theories rather than concrete plans. What remains of the rockerboy's inner circle deserves to hear the truth directly from her lips, when she finally finds the strength to face them without breaking down.
When Goro emerges from the small bathroom — his absence having gone completely unnoticed while she was absorbed in her digital communication, the world beyond her screen temporarily ceasing to exist — and announces he's turning in for the night, offering her the bedroom if she wishes to finally get some proper rest, she assures him that won't be necessary with a dismissive wave that doesn't quite mask the tremor in her hand.
The gentle concern in his eyes makes her look away, uncomfortable with the rawness of being seen in such a vulnerable state, feeling exposed in a way that makes her skin crawl with the need to retreat behind her carefully constructed walls.
She knows she'll need to force herself to sleep, at least for a few hours to stave off complete physical collapse that looms on the horizon like an approaching storm, but the couch will be more than sufficient for that purpose, its worn cushions offering just enough discomfort to prevent her from falling too deeply into slumber where nightmares might be waiting. Takemura simply nods, wishing her goodnight before retreating into the bedroom.
However, the man doesn't immediately settle into bed; after closing the door with a soft click that seems unnaturally loud in the quiet apartment, he remains standing for several minutes, listening intently — his intention born from genuine concern for V rather than any misplaced curiosity about her private moments of grief, a bodyguard's instinct to monitor for signs of distress that might require intervention.
Through the paper-thin walls of Judy's apartment, he can hear the merc talking to herself — or more likely, to Silverhand's dog tags clutched in her hand, or to the box containing his Relic. He can't make out everything she's saying, the words muffled and broken by occasional sobs that she tries to stifle, but what he does hear is sufficient to heighten his concern for her mental state, which seems to be deteriorating with each passing hour.
"Hey Johnny," V's voice drifts from the living room, raw with emotion and exhaustion, cracking on the name as if it physically hurts to speak it aloud into the emptiness where he should be answering. "Been a real shit day today... fuck, they're all shit days now, aren't they?" A long pause filled with nothing but the sound of her ragged breathing. "Miss ya so fuckin' much … left nothin' but this... this hollow space that won't stop hurtin'."
Another pause, longer this time, and when she speaks again, her voice has dropped to a whisper so broken and desperate that Takemura has to strain to hear it through the wall, wishing he couldn't when he finally makes out her words. "Don't remember how I'm supposed to function without you anymore, how to be just V again when half of me is missin’... keep turnin’ to tell you something and you're not there, and it's like losing you all over again, every single time."
A sound follows that might be laughter or sobbing, the line between the two blurred beyond recognition in her current state. "Remember when I couldn't wait to get you out of my head? What a fuckin' joke that was... Now I'd give anything, everything I have left, just to hear you call me an gonk one more time, to feel you in the back of my mind, even if it meant we were both dying again."
Takemura sighs deeply, resignation settling heavy in his chest as he finally moves to the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath his weight, a sound that seems almost obscenely mundane against the backdrop of such profound grief emanating from the next room. As he rests his head on the pillow, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, he sincerely hopes the young woman will find a solution, preferably sooner rather than later, before the fractures in her psyche deepen beyond repair. For her own sake.
He makes a silent promise to assist her however possible in this quest, even if it means risking his tentative new beginning in this city of broken dreams and shattered promises. Because in the quiet darkness of this borrowed room, listening to the muffled sounds of V's one-sided conversation with a ghost, Takemura realizes with crystal clarity that what he's witnessing isn't merely grief or disappointment — it's the slow disintegration of someone who has lost not just a companion but a fundamental part of herself, a symbiotic relationship severed too abruptly, leaving psychological wounds that may never properly heal without the missing piece restored.
As V's voice finally falls silent in the other room, replaced by the soft, rhythmic breathing that suggests she's finally succumbed to exhaustion, Takemura closes his eyes but finds sleep elusive, his mind too occupied with formulating plans and contingencies for the days ahead.
The path forward is shrouded in uncertainty, a journey into uncharted territory with no map to guide them, but one thing remains clear — they cannot afford to fail, not when the cost of failure is measured in the broken whispers of a young woman talking to a necklace in the dead of night, clinging to metal trinkets as if they might somehow contain the essence of the man she's lost.
Notes:
Message thread generator HTML/CSS by Luvwich ! Have fun with it here ♥
Bonus photos for this chapter here.
♫ Chapter Song: The Shins - Phantom Limb
• Author's rambling: And there we go, another chapter wrapped up, hope you enjoyed it. I felt like the pace is a bit slow (sorry about that), but I needed to set up certain elements for what's coming next. A bit more will happen in the upcoming chapters, promise!
Poor V isn't having a good time. And it's not going to get better right away lol, but as they say, it gets worse before it gets better ^^ Angst my beloved ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
Don't hesitate to tell me what you thought!Xoxo, see you next time! ♥
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