Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Johnny doesn’t dream too often, but when he does, it’s fucking weird. He remembers he had this one in his previous life, when he was still together with Rogue, where she was a three-headed hydra breathing fire at him. He doodled it out on a fast food napkin for her the next day, and he thought he’d drawn a masterpiece, but Rogue told him that she didn’t understand what the hell she was looking at. There was another, when he was foolin’ around with Alt, where he dreamt that they were fish in a tank, and he kept stealing all their little fish food pellets from her. He told her about it, and she told him to stop mixing Zoloft with Adderall. He actually followed her advice that once.

When he entered the mind of V, they shared dreams. A lot of nights, their dreams would be fuzzy memories. She’d dream of being RJ Linder, age eight, getting whipped for not shoveling dirt fast enough while his hands bled. He’d dream of being Valerie Ramirez, age twelve, getting thrown into a squad car after fighting back against her crazy stepmom. When she left him to galivant beyond the Blackwall, she was always in his dreams. Trapped in a white room with no windows or doors, she’d stand before him in silence, grinning; like she was proud of herself. Like she reveled in the pain she caused him. Like she hadn’t sentenced him to a hell on earth, forcing him to wake up every day, trapped inside her flesh. Alone. He wanted to claw her fucking face off for what she did to him, but he didn’t. If he was going to get her back, he had to keep her together, as best as possible.

When she did finally come back to him, she was his every fucking thought. It was honestly a little pathetic, coming from the man, the myth, the legend that is Johnny Silverhand. He dreamt of everything they’d do together, the sights they’d see, the nights they’d share, the life they’d make worth living. He made some kind of remark to Vik while they waited for her to wake, that he thought he’d been stuck in the mind of a woman for too long. Vik was less than amused. He threatened to give Johnny a root canal with no anesthesia, and didn’t say a word after Johnny reminded him that he’s not a dentist. Johnny said the same thing to V after she woke up, and she gave him this sleepy giggle that he still thinks about all these years later.

As they adjusted to their new lives and carried on as King and Queen of the Afterlife over the next few years, his dreams were relatively calm. Sometimes, he’d dream of sitting on a clean beach with V tucked safely into his arms. Other times, he’d dream of taking a bullet for her and dying in her arms. His dream death was much more peaceful than the other times. V had all the weird dreams instead, for a while. ‘Bout a year ago, she had one where she microwaved a fork and the microwave exploded, and she woke up from it panting like it was a nightmare. He laughed about it for a lot longer than he should’ve. Even now, it’s funny to him.

Johnny’s got a confession to make: he fucked up. Crazy, he knows, but he crossed a huge line that he didn’t exactly mean to, and it totally fucked their lives up. See, he got V pregnant. One might think that such an event is a natural occurrence when you’re raw dogging it for several years straight, but V had a birth control implant. It worked, even after all the rest of her implants failed and had to be deactivated, so they never bothered taking precautions like a couple of gonks.

Ultimately, they decided to go through with it. Tempting fate and whatnot, because they’d survived worse, but Johnny’s dreams got rather violent while V was pregnant. He could probably name at least a dozen ways he could accidentally kill their kid. To say he was afraid would’ve been a vast understatement. He had many ‘fathers’ during his childhood, and none of them treated him well. Who was to say he would be any different?

Whether it was pure luck or some kind of fuckin’ miracle, however, everything ended up fine. V and baby were both healthy, and to Johnny’s complete and utter shock, he did not kill their daughter on arrival. Instead, after V finally convinced him that it was safe to hold her, he cradled her tightly. And for the first time since the war, he cried so hard he nearly passed out.

Johnny would say he’s pretty content right now, honestly. Equally as crazy, he knows, but he’s currently dreaming of being smacked in the face by the very small hands of a very small dinosaur, and something about it is oddly soothing to him. The poor little dinosaur is trying to roar, too, but its vocal cords just aren’t that developed yet. He also thinks there’s something wet on his face, but he’s not sure he wants to know what it is.

One good hit to the eye finally has him recoiling hard enough to wake up. Both eyes shoot open in shock, and the sight that awaits him… Sweet Jesus… is his infant daughter’s chubby face, mere inches away from his own. Terrifying. Her big, brown, doe-like eyes are wide, and her mouth is open, drooling everywhere. She stares at him so curiously, cooing like an owl after the sun’s set (hah, remember those?). Her hair’s getting long—it dangles over his face, and the ends tickle his skin. It takes Johnny a minute to register what he’s even looking at before his brow furrows.

“Hi?” He greets Bella through the thick fog of sleep. His right arm is numb from being laid on, so he rolls onto his back to push up slightly with his left. “Where’s your ‘ma?” He asks groggily, like she’s even capable of answering. Almost as if she’s trying to, however, she grunts, before her attention shifts and she starts to climb up the stack of pillows on her mother’s side of the bed. Johnny lets out a soft snort as he rubs his prickly flesh hand against his eyes.

Once his vision clears, he scans his surroundings. Not actually, because he didn’t want fancy-ass Kiroshis, but still. Her side is, of course, unmade, because neither of them particularly care to be that neat. Her holo (physical, because she can’t do cyberware anymore and he’s just old school), however, is missing. He looks to his own bedside table just to double check, and his own is nestled right where he put it last night. Peeking at it, however, he catches the time and cringes—one in the afternoon. He’s not slept in this long since before their daughter was even born. He pockets the device for safe keeping, before he looks down toward the foot of the bed. Nibbles is missing, too… but he probably just followed V downstairs. He wouldn’t be surprised if she deposited their daughter on the bed to wake him up. Maybe their girl took herself a nice little nap next to her dad. The thought has him grinning something stupid.

Johnny fixes his sweatpants back over his ass before he scoops the little girl off her mother’s pillows. She smiles, almost all gums with a couple bottom teeth starting to poke out, and she hugs her arms around her father’s neck. Her hands immediately latch onto his hair, stubby, spitty fingers wiggling around his split ends. Johnny shifts to throw his legs over the side of the bed, and lifts onto his feet with a grunt as his knees pop. After regaining his bearings, he makes a pitstop to poke his head into the bathroom, only to find… nothing. So he backs out and heads for the stairs instead.

Stepping off and onto the main floor, he’s quick to find Nibbles, curled up comfortably on the sofa, but still no V. He takes a gander around—kitchen, living room, bar area, nothing. Bella’s room, double nothing. He peers out the windows and to the balcony… triple nothing, a new record. He hums to himself with slight concern, before he retraces his steps toward the armory.

“You in here, baby?” He calls out as the titanium door slides open. He steps inside, and while Bella lightly pushes off her dad’s shoulder to look around the room in wonder, Johnny feels his stomach twist anxiously. He spins on his heel and all but storms out of the armory before Bella can even think to start reaching for shit she can’t have.

He's starting to panic, he can feel it in his bones. It ain’t a good feeling—makes him all jittery, like a shitty cup of coffee or a bad high. Still, V hasn’t gone anywhere without telling him in... fuck, a long-ass time, he doesn’t know. She’s the communicative one, not him. Heaving a disgruntled sigh, he marches back out to the living room, where he lowers Bella onto the rug—which they very smartly, Johnny thinks, purchased so she wouldn’t hurt herself crawling around on hardwood—before all but throwing himself onto the sofa. The little girl is off to the races as soon as her knees touch the floor, quickly crawling toward the pile of toys stacked together by the TV.

He keeps an eye on her for just a moment before tugging his holo out of his pocket. First, he tries calling V. No answer. He doesn’t leave a voice message, because they live together and he doesn’t see the point. What he does leave, however, is a text message:

Johnny:

     WYA?

     Sent at: 1:18PM

Simple, but effective, maybe, he hopes. He sits back as he lazily sets the device aside on the cushion beside him, arms folding over his chest. To pass the time, He watches Bella as she pushes herself to sit on her butt and starts to slam her hands into a toy keyboard he got her. He smirks, despite the migraine-inducing noise. Family business, he ponders. Call him possessive, but he checks on the message after a couple minutes, and… nothing. V hasn’t even read it. So, he sends another.

Johnny:

     Hello????

     Sent at: 1:25PM

Another couple minutes pass. Bella moves on from beating on her keyboard to flinging around a stuffed animal. Nibbles continues to snooze peacefully by his side. V still doesn’t read his messages. Johnny’s mind starts to wonder. He frowns deeply as he picks his holo back up.

Johnny:

     Did I do something?

     Sent at: 1:31PM

He doesn’t think he did anything, but he’s been wrong about that before. Maybe he insulted her without realizing, or he looked at someone else a little too intensely. But she always told him about her grievances before, so why wouldn’t she now? Maybe he did something really bad. Maybe he’s splitting his attention between her and their kid unevenly. Does she think he doesn’t love her anymore? Because that couldn’t be further from the truth…

…

…Okay, he’s going fucking crazy. His leg is jiggling and it’s shaking the whole sofa bad enough to make Nibbles get up and hop down. The cat moseys over to his little sister and plops down beside her, causing her face to light up with excitement. She shimmies to lay on top of him, head resting against his back. Johnny would normally be tempted to snap a photo of it, but he’s too far out of his mind to even think about it. Instead, he shoves himself onto his feet and makes for the kitchen. If he’s going to go insane, he may as well stay hydrated while doing so.

His foot hits something lightweight and metallic. Johnny’s eyes widen as he looks down and finds an empty container of formula rolling around on the floor. There was some loose powder left, but it’s now strewn across the floor. He bends down to pick the container up and gives it a once-over, quickly finding a sticky note attached to the side.

     I’ll be back w/ more soon!
                                 - V
          P.S. Bella ate at 11

His shoulders slump, but he’s not sure he feels even the slightest bit relieved. This helps a little, but it doesn’t usually take her two or three hours to shop for formula. She could’ve gotten distracted, he supposes, but for this long? Without any sort of heads-up? Johnny’s got a bad feeling bubbling in his gut, and he debates calling around for a moment, before he forces a deep breath through his nose and sets his sights elsewhere: Bella. He can’t go too nuts when she’s probably gonna need to eat again soon. He wishes he could just whip a bottle up for her and let her drink as she pleases, but her doctor is insistent that they keep her going consistently on other stuff too, like mushy synth-fruits and veggies or yogurt. Y’know, stuff that’ll stain every fucking piece of clothing this household owns.

Johnny sets the empty formula container back down on the counter—he can only assume Nibbles was the one to knock it over to begin with—before turning back around to make his way over to his daughter. He crouches down beside her and Nibbles and slips his hands under her arms. “C’mere, peanut,” he affectionately calls out to her, before he hoists her into the air. She squeals as he stands up, but quickly shifts gears. Her face twists into a pout as she tries to reach for Nibbles, and Johnny snickers softly. She whines all the while he sets her in her high chair and straps her in, and he playfully taunts her despite his (temporarily tempered) internal panic.

“Oh, weeeehhhh, weeeehhhh, I can’t play with the cat that I literally live with, I have to eat food and shit myself instead. Jesus. You know how greedy you sound?” He hooks his index and middle fingers around her nose and gently pinches, smirking as she giggles in response. “Grow up,” says the forty year-old man to the ten month-old girl. He pulls away to roam over to the cupboards, where he digs for some sort of baby food he thinks he can smell like today without puking in his mouth a little. Carrots? No. Celery? No. Peas? Fuck no. Bananas? Sure, what the hell.

Grab the jar, hunt down a baby spoon, briefly forget the bib but suddenly remember it mid-step, drag a chair over, feed the baby. Should be the simplest task on the damn planet, but you see… Bella is Johnny Silverhand’s daughter. Not only that, but she is V’s daughter, too. This means that, naturally, life is a fucking game to her. He tries to go in with the ‘here comes the airplane’ bit, but Bella decides to grab hold of the spoon, yank it from her dad’s hand, and wave it around to throw mushy bananas everywhere. He wrestles it back from her and tells her to stop, but she does the same exact thing a second time. She thinks it’s hilarious.

“Dude,” Johnny grouses in disbelief as he swipes baby food off his face, “Bells, hun, c’mon. Don’t do Daddy like this, I’m your biggest fan.” It’s true! He is! The worst part about this, he thinks, is that he knows if V were here right now, she’d be doubled over laughing at this. It’s like their kid has her exact same sense of humor, and Johnny’s not sure whether to be endeared by it or pissed off. Maybe a little bit of both. He decides that enough is enough, however, after she does it a third time, and pins her teeny-tiny wrists between his index finger and thumb. He holds her arms up and out of the way, and only has to struggle a little more to slip the food in her mouth while she kicks around and throws a tantrum.

He tried his damndest to keep her from making a huge mess, but she still managed to get a ton on herself. Her face, her hair, and even her little neck rolls. Reluctantly, considering V’s still shown no signs of life, Johnny decides to give their daughter a quick bath. And by quick, it takes him close to an hour to get her to stop fighting him long enough to wash her hair. She’s got a hell of a temper for a kid so small, and he’s absolutely pinning that one on V too. Looks like her mom, acts like her mom… ‘Cept, V’s said since she was born that she’s got Johnny’s eyes. He’s not too sure if he agrees, but that’s alright. She’s still the only baby he’s ever thought is cute instead of an ugly little monster, made of wrinkles and piss-smell, but that could just be the bias talking.

By the time he gets her to put down her toys long enough to be scooped up and dried off, it’s about three o’clock. Four hours is not a long time to be gone and he knows it, but she still hasn’t seen his messages. What if she had a seizure at the wheel, and she crashed into a pole or a ditch or something? What if she stalled in the middle of the highway? Why the fuck would she be on the highway in the first place if all she was getting was formula? What if someone knocked her out and snatched her up? What if someone fucking shot her? Again? He’s just—he’s got this awful fuckin’ feeling in his gut and he cannot stress that enough. Sure, he hasn’t eaten yet today, but how can he when she’s still gone? Why should he be eating food if V isn’t? That’s just not fair. Nothing is ever fair.

Dry the baby off, throw a diaper on ‘er, pick out some jammies, realize she’s falling asleep as he’s buttoning up her onesie, tuck her into bed, easy as fuckin’ pie. Johnny would wager that he’s, uh, pretty damn good at this whole ‘Dad’ thing, honestly. Do most dads feed their kids in a timely manner? He bets not. Today is not the day to be getting an ego about his parenting skills, however; V is still gone, and he’s only just now realized he hasn’t changed his underwear yet. So he does that, then he sits on the bed, and agrees with his earlier self that he needs help. He calls up the only person he can think of that V would get lost talking to for four hours.

“Johnny,” Mama Welles warmly greets. He thinks she cut her hair? But he doesn’t want to say anything, just in case he’s wrong. Chicks are sensitive like that, and he actually respects Mama Welles.

“Hey, ‘Ma.” Case and point. He reaches and rubs the back of his neck with his rubber fingertips. “You seen V at all today? She left to go get formula somewhere around eleven, but she ain’t back yet ‘n she hasn’t read anything I’ve sent her.”

The woman shakes her head gently. “No, mijo.” Only a woman as tenacious as her could find a son in Johnny fuckin’ Silverhand. “Have you called Misty?”

He had a feeling, but he’s still a little disappointed. “Not yet. I’ll try ‘er now.”

“Please let me know when you find her.” Johnny nods. Mama Welles adds, “And please tell Isabella that her welita loves her very much.”

Johnny nods again. “Will do. We’ll bring ‘er by soon.” I just need to make sure V’s alive first. “Talk later.” He hangs up swiftly, because he knows he’ll get sucked into chatting for a while if he doesn’t. He doesn’t waste another moment before dialing up Misty.

She answers after the second ring, greeting Johnny with a friendly smile. “Hey, stranger.” He likes her, honestly. He’s become well-acquainted with most of V’s friends since bellyflopping his way into their lives, and Misty’s high up on the list of ones he likes. Most of the tarot reading, crystal worshipping, astrology loving girls he knew in his past life were freaky as shit, even for him. Misty, on the other hand, is chill. Friendly, but not overly so. She’s got firm boundaries, and he respects that.

“Hey,” he greets back, hoping he’s doing well hiding the tenseness in his voice. “You seen V? She left outta here ‘bout four hours ago, ain’t heard heads or tails of her since.”

Misty, too, shakes her head. “I haven’t, I’m sorry.” The options are slimming drastically and he’s getting a liiittle uncomfortable with that. “Want me to ask Vik?”

“It’d be appreciated.”

Before either of them can get another word in, however, Vik pipes up from the background, “Haven’t seen ‘er either.”

Motherfucker. “Alright, thanks anyways.”

“Could try River?” Misty suggests, and Johnny has to stifle a cringe.

“’Sppose I could,” he relents. “Talk later,” he hangs up again. A request to look out for her doesn’t even need to be posed; as much as he bickers with Vik, he knows those two would tell him right away if they came across her. River, on the other hand…

River’s a decent guy, don’t get him wrong. Johnny thinks that what he does for missing kids is a good thing. But River doesn’t like Johnny, because he thinks Johnny’s a self-serving prick (and he ain’t entirely wrong). It’s been especially awkward since he started dating Misty a couple years back, too. Considering how close V and Misty are, it’s like if two chicks went on a double-date with a cop and the Unabomber: it ain’t right.

So, he calls Kerry instead, because Kerry has been in a committed relationship with V’s little brother for a few years now, and if anyone would’ve seen her, it would’ve been those two.

Kerry picks up after the first ring, which might be the only time he’s ever done that in his entire life. “Hey, I was just about to call you!” His best friend exclaims, “Listen, I had this idea—”

Johnny interrupts him, “I’m kinda in a rush right now, Ker, sorry,” because he does actually feel bad, especially when Kerry visibly deflates. Is his boytoy not keepin’ him entertained anymore? “You see V at all? She’s been AWOL all day ‘n no one I’ve talked to has seen or heard from ‘er.”

Kerry’s eyes widen before he frowns with concern. “Haven’t seen ‘er. Here, lemme—” The older rockerboy leans over the back of his sofa, calling out to Vincent somewhere in the mansion. Johnny doesn’t pick up on what he says, but Kerry repeats it anyways when he sits back down. “Vince hasn’t seen ‘er either. Need me to keep an eye out? Call someone?”

He thinks, contemplates, lets his offer swirl around his wide-open brain hole, but he shakes his head. “Nah, think we’re good for now.” I hope. “I’ll let’cha know if I need to take you up on that, though.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Will do.” Click.

River hasn’t seen her, but he’ll keep his eyes peeled and put out feelers. Rogue ain’t seen her either. Last they heard from Panam and Judy, they were about 8 miles south of Idaho, so they’d be of no help. Claire hasn’t seen her, Emmerick hasn’t seen her, Nix hasn’t seen her… His brain blanks for a bit, trying to think of who else he could ask. While pacing around the loft, he tries Regina Jones, ‘cause her and V stayed close enough buddies that she personally visited just after Bella was born, but she hasn’t seen her either. After Reggie, though, Johnny finds himself coming up drier than a desert. He even double checks his messages, and V’s still not seen a single one.

By the time he’s finished playing round robin with his contact’s list, the beast seems to have awakened. Johnny checks the time—half past four. Lotta time wasted there, Johnny-boy. Before Bella arrived, V and Johnny thought that having her nursery on the first floor was a smart idea, for privacy reasons and stuff. After, however, neither of them could stand to be that far away from her, so Johnny ended up hauling her crib up the steps to keep by the bed. They finally decided to put her in her nursery a couple months ago, but while she has her mother’s face and attitude, she has her father’s vocal cords. They keep her door open at all times as a precaution, so when she yells out, as if trying to call for her dad, it echoes across the entire penthouse. Despite his turmoil, Johnny still finds it in him to laugh quietly as he hauls himself back down the stairs.

He pauses in the doorway of her room, arms folding over his chest as he leans against the doorframe. She’s standing, held up by her hands gripping the bars of her crib, and she’s bouncing in place like she’s trying to shake off an excess of energy. He and V both nearly had heart attacks, the first time they saw her do this. Happened out of nowhere, he swears up and down. Hasn’t really taken to walking or standing on her own yet, though.

“You look like a little prisoner,” he points out, “What you did to your lunch? Littering. Property damage. Assault. Could get you a couple years behind bars, at least.”

He pushes off the wall and approaches his daughter’s crib, finally. She lets go of the bars to hold her arms up for him, and he snatches her right up before she can fall down. The way she clings to him every time he holds her, he starts to understand slightly more why some people churn these little guys out like butter. Every time he changes a diaper, however, he goes back to remembering why he never, ever, ever, ever wants another one of these, ever. He’s content with just the one, thanks.

“Good thing you got your dad to bail you outta jail, huh?” He asks softly, and Bella responds with a little mumble that almost sounds like she agrees with him. He snickers softly as he presses his cheek to the crown of her head, and he sighs. He starts to meander his way out of the nursery, side-stepping Nibbles where he lays just outside the door. “Bet you’re gonna be loads of fun to put to sleep t’night, if Mama doesn’t show. Wish you could just… tell me what she was doin’.” He knows where she was headed, if the note’s to be believed. It’s the matter of where she ended up that’s really driving him batty.

He's waited long enough for her to show up on her own, Johnny thinks. He should’ve thought to move sooner, but time slipped out from under him. The later it gets, the less viable an option looking for her himself is going to become. The sun’ll start setting in the next couple hours, and as far as he knows, she could be miles outside the city. Maybe a car ride would do Bella some good, though, and pull some of that energy out of her by distracting her with all the passing buildings and lights. But if the situation’s more dangerous than he realizes, he could be risking exposing the poor kid to some scary shit early on… Fuck, maybe that’s a chance he’ll just have to take.

He pulls his head back and looks down at his daughter, her wide eyes meeting his as she coos. He reaches a hand to gently smooth back some of her overgrown hair. “Think you’ll be alright if Daddy goes ‘n puts a shirt on?” She blows a spit bubble in response, and Johnny takes that as a ‘yes.’ He makes his way out to the living room and sets her back down on the floor. Nibbles comes prowling over as Johnny makes for the stairs, like a guardian angel of sorts, to hover beside Bella as she crawls to her toys again.

Bullet necklace? Check—V’s kept his dogtags around her neck almost nonstop since he gave them to her. His own merch tee? Check, because SAMURAI ain’t fading from public memory just yet, not on his watch. Johnny Silverhand’s on a goddamn mission, and he’s going to make it this entire city’s problem no matter what. He listens to Bella’s violent smacking of her toy keyboard while he buckles his belt, and he tucks his aviators into the hem of his shirt before jogging back down the stairs.

He stoops down to pick Bella back up, but she tries to wriggle out of his grasp to keep playing with her toys. “C’mon, pumpkin,” he half-pleads as he turns away from the pile and heads for the door, “Gotta figure out what the hell happened to Mama first, then we can talk toys.” Or bedtime, preferably, but he supposes that depends on what time they get back. After he slides and zips his boots up, he pockets the keys to the Porsche and heads out into the hallway.

The elevator ride is Bella’s favorite part of leaving the penthouse, undoubtedly. Noisy as can be, she likes to listen to her voice bounce off the steel walls. Anyone in the lobby can tell she’s comin’, always. Thankfully, his little girl’s got a charming personality to make up for it. She waves to everyone she sees, no matter who they are. Different chicks in the complex stop to say hello when they see her, and if it’s V taking her anywhere, God help the timeclock they’re punching that day, because her Heywood born-and-bred ass is addicted to chit-chatter and gossip.

Bella’s second-favorite part of any trip outside is the complex’s parking garage. Her voice echoes a lot farther here, and that used to freak her out a little, but ever since she realized it was just herself yelling back to her, it’s like watching someone in the olden days turn on a lamp for the first time. It’s supernatural! It’s—It’s amazing! Tell the presses, quickly!

Blood isn’t an uncommon sight throughout the city at all, but in a complex like this; meant for all the rich motherfuckers who want to lounge on pool chairs and watch the shootouts in Watson from a distance; it’s a little ridiculous to see smeared on the concrete, Johnny thinks. Everyone who is anyone knows that he is absolutely not the squeamish type, but this shit feels different when he’s holding a goddamn baby—his goddamn baby, his and his girl’s. Early on, when V was pregnant, they debated leaving the city behind. Their lives were all blood and gore; why did their kid’s have to be too? V’s health ultimately won out, forcing them to stay put in NC, but as his eyes follow the tire-tracked streaks of blood to where they lead out of the garage, Johnny silently wonders if they made the right decision to do this when they did, knowing this shit could happen so close to home.

He shakes his head to himself, hoping to ward off at least some of the weird-ass thoughts he’s been having since Bella came into the picture. He can’t help but wonder if this is just… a dad thing, wanting to shield your kid from all the bad in the world. He looks down at the little girl in his arms. She was apparently watching when he did that, so now, she’s shaking her head too, with a big, drooly smile plastered on her face. A chuckle bubbles its way from his throat as he continues down the length of the garage. “You li’l weirdo.”

He can’t help but pick up on the faint purr of an engine. Bright taillights cascade across the garage, almost putting a spotlight on Johnny and Bella as they make their way toward the Porsche. He turns slightly so she’s not staring directly into the light, but it’s so bright that he can’t make out what the hell it is. He doesn’t hear any other footsteps or breathing, and he’s not seen anyone else here yet either. In fact, the only other thing he can note as he steps closer to his spot is that the trail of blood leads oddly close to the Porsche.

And that, looking further beyond the blinding taillights, the running car is a Quadra, parked beside the Porsche, in V’s spot.

His stomach drops to the furthest reaches of the earth as he breaks into a sprint to bridge the rest of the distance. He keeps a hand on the back of Bella’s head, his head cocked to try and shield her from the sight. “Don’t look, baby, don’t look. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look…” He chants in a whisper. Skidding to a halt by the driver’s side of the Quadra, he sees her door isn’t just wide open, it’s missing, and the body around it is dented inward. It’s as if someone tore the fucking car open to drag her out. There’s bloody handprints and splatter on, in, and around the car. He knows, deep down, whose it is, but the thought sends bile rushing up his throat. He swallows it back down, despite how painfully his stomach twists.

He reaches inside to turn the car off, if only to get rid of the fucking lights; which were apparently brightened during the struggle, if the open settings menu is anything to go by; and he feels his foot tap something small and solid beneath the car in the process. He gets his foot good and firm on top and swings his leg to slide it back. Out tumbles V’s holo, screen chipped and notification lights blinking with the messages she never received. Johnny stoops down to pick it up and accidentally opens the lockscreen—a photo of himself, fast asleep, holding a newborn Bella securely in his arms.

“Mmma?” The girl seems to question. Johnny doesn’t have the strength to say anything back. Instead, he pockets V’s holo, and pulls out his own from the other side.

He’s quick to dial a familiar number. He doesn’t let her get so much as a syllable out before he croaks, “ ‘Ma?”

Mama Welles knows that tone, she’s got a talent for reading people. Her shoulders stiffen, “Bring me Isabella, mijo,” she cuts to the chase before he has the honors. “You can tell me when you are here.”

“Thank you,” he chokes through a dry throat.

Click.

Chapter Text

Every now and then, her mother visits her in her dreams. During her early childhood, it was just the two of them; her father never even knew she existed ‘till her mother had already passed. They lived in a Megabuilding together, in the heart of Vista del Rey, where she was born. Even throughout her childhood, the neighborhood remained one of Night City’s most dangerous corners to live. Her mother paid a fortune to install extra locks and motion sensors in their tiny, studio unit, to keep her little daughter out of harm’s way while she worked all through the night.

From a young age, V’s had no choice but to know how to defend herself. From the time she was five and just starting preschool onward, her mother hid mace in her backpack, and made her swear not to tell anyone so she wouldn’t get into trouble. This world is full of evil, evil people, Valerie, her mother once told her, well-manicured hands gripping her tiny shoulders desperately. We can’t trust the ones who are meant to help us—we can only help ourselves.

By the age of eight, V was taking care of herself like a grown adult. Cooking, cleaning, washing her hair on her own, even tucking herself into bed at night. She took herself to and from school, walking with her head cast down and her mouth sewn shut, to avoid the gangoons patrolling the area. Many of the girls in her school lived in her same building; she would huddle by them for safety when crossing the streets. On her way home, when she would watch rotten cops accost working girls just like her mother, she would understand just a little more why her mother was so afraid.

She wasn’t to trust others, but… what else was V to do, when her mother hadn’t come home one night? She told her teacher, her teacher alerted the badges, and they didn’t even bother to look for her mother before ripping the little girl from the only home she’d ever known. They wouldn’t even retrieve her favorite teddy bear; ‘the system’ shipped her off to the dingiest group home in Heywood they could find, and called her mother’s case cold before her body had even cooled. Digging her out of a trash heap weeks later was simply a stroke of good luck, as was finding her father.

On the rare occasions her mother appears to her in her dreams, fog sits where her face should be. V doesn’t have any photos to remember her by, and any keepsakes she could’ve had were probably sold or tossed in a landfill once the apartment was offloaded. Still, she remembers her mother’s pretty dresses, her painted nails; her shoulders painted with freckles, her jet black, curly hair. She dreams that she’s eight again, and lounging with her mother on their sofa. Her head is in her mother’s lap, and her mother is humming a comforting tune. The sequins sewn into her dress scratch her cheek and snag her hair, but she doesn’t care—she’s happy, she’s safe, and she’s sound; a combination of feelings V’s not experienced since she was a little girl who still believed in fairytales and happily ever afters.

She supposes she’s come close, though, to fitting into her own glass slipper and dancing her own worries away in picturesque sunsets. Maybe birds would speak to her in pretty voices too, if they weren’t killed on sight. Sitting at the top of Night City’s food chain, she always feels compelled to keep an eye open when sleeping at night. Still, she’s found living to be much easier with someone at her side—someone who values her as Valerie the person, and not just V the fixer (and ex-merc, can’t forget that part), even if that same someone started out bitch-slapping her and telling her to kill herself if she was so afraid of him.

To V, Johnny is like… a dog. A dog, who was chained tightly to a pole in someone’s backyard and left exposed to the elements to wither away. He’s a big breed, one with a loud bark, a mean face, and broad shoulders. If you took one wrong step toward him, he’d try to lunge; but the pole would yank him right back, causing him to cough and whine in pain. If you took one right step, however, and reached out gently to pet him, he’d growl something fierce; but she couldn’t ever mistake the way he’d lean into her hand, desperate for someone to truly care.

He messed up a lot. He made countless mistakes, mauled a couple owners, pissed on a bunch more, and nearly bit her damn hand off, trying to act tough, but she didn’t think he deserved this. So, she set him loose. Unhooked his chain and opened the back gate wide for him to run free… and he chose to follow her instead, the one and only person who’d ever seen the whole of him. She even tried to walk away without him, but he continued to trail behind her, wagging his tail the whole way. She led him to the ends of the earth and flung herself off the edge, and he simply dove in after her, the trained, loyal hound he is.

When they lay together, she sometimes scratches his beard like he is a puppy, and he gives her this lazy grin that fills her heart every time. Breathing quietly, lungs whistling through the small gaps between her teeth; V know that if she dies here, there won’t be shit left for her daughter to remember her by. No sparkly dresses or painted nails, no rampant paranoia or pretty hair… If she dies like this, she’s leaving Bella behind with a hellhound, and she’s not entirely convinced he won’t lose sight of what’s important and try to raze this city to the ground. Again.

So, forgive her if she seems a little antsy.

V's got a confession to make: she fucked up. Crazy, she knows, but she crossed a huge line that she didn’t exactly mean to, and it may have totally fucked her family’s lives up. See, she left the penthouse unarmed. Rookie mistake, she knows, but she was only going to run to the store for baby formula. Their—and V can’t stress this enough—chunky little girl drank hers right up, you see, and she refuses to eat mushy fruits and veggies more than once a day. V keeps a gun in the glovebox, so she assumed a hundred-foot jaunt to her car would’ve been safe. Silly her.

She awakens in the back of a moving vehicle, laying on her side with her face smushed against the floor. She’s only able to will one eye to open, the other being swollen shut. Above her eyebrow is a nasty burning sensation, like a deep cut that’s yet to be bandaged. Judging by how tacky her face feels, her hunch must be correct. Dried blood is pooled beneath her head, almost gluing her to the floor. Her tongue combs over her teeth, catching on the jagged edges of broken molars. She tastes blood, but she can’t smell it too—her nose must be just as broken as her mouth, but it would seem her captors have made a fatal mistake: neglecting not only her ears, but also her body.

A couple of voices, speaking in Russian, draw her attention toward the front of the car. Without her Kiroshis, she’s lost the ability to translate what they’re saying. Still, it doesn’t require much brain power for her to recognize that they’re almost certainly Scavs. Fuzzy as her memories are of the previous… however long she’s been out, V doesn’t think they’re the same ones who snatched her up; she must’ve switched hands at some point. She’s made a hell of an enemy out of the Scavs throughout her years in the underworld; she should have expected something like this to happen again. At least they didn’t strip her down like last time… unless they planned to later. Ugh.

V stifles a groan as she pushes herself to sit up. The world around her spins and static crawls across her vision. She squeezes her eyes shut till the dizzy spell fades, before glancing over her shoulder. Her captors haven’t yet noticed she’s awake. Good. Her wrists and ankles are bound with rope, but not so tightly as to completely cut off circulation. The fixer lifts her hands to her mouth and, while breathing through the bolts of pain shooting across her jaw, she uses the remainder of her front teeth to loosen the knot binding her wrists. She pushes the rope off the rest of the way with the help of her steel-toed boot, while her captors continue to chatter incessantly up front. With her hands freed, it only takes a moment of fumbling before the rope binding her ankles is untied as well.

V scours the back compartment of the van, and almost chokes on the laugh that bubbles in her chest when her eyes spy a crowbar. This is easy enough that she’s starting to get a little suspicious, but she may as well have fun with this anyways. She reaches, and carefully takes the tool into her grasp. She can hardly even remember when she last had time for target practice, let alone when she last saw real action. Johnny had a damn conniption when he caught her shooting bottles out on the balcony while on bedrest… Not only that, but most tend to steer clear of causing trouble for the Afterlife fixers.

She stays crouched low as she approaches the seats, with a hand braced against the floor to steady her in case she takes a tumble on a sharp turn. The driver finally peeks into the rearview mirror, and only has a moment to yell in surprise before the fixer springs forward and digs one end of the crowbar deep into the side of his face, piercing his eye in the process. He shrieks and claws at the crowbar to try and pull it out without taking his eye with, while his cohort curses loudly and aims his iron—an assault rifle strapped to his chest. V grabs hold of the handguard and tilts the rifle up toward the roof just as the Scav begins to shoot. She roughly slams the butt of the gun down onto his face, and a sickening crunch echoes off the van’s walls as his nose cracks. He cries out in pain while she wrestles the gun out of his grip. She twists it in his strap and shoots, turning his face into a pincushion against the seat.

V whips around to face the driver just as he pries the bloodied crowbar from his face. The van is beginning to spin, and his foot isn’t letting up on the gas. With his partner’s gun, she fires shots directly into his stomach, pinning him against the door. The fixer is quick to toss the gun and its owner aside, and she crawls over the center console to take control. She pulls on the lock while the half-dead driver reaches after her, letting the door swing open before she pushes the man out to skid down the road in a bloody heap.

Planting herself in the driver’s seat, she grips the wheel tightly and pumps the brakes with her foot. V holds her breath as the van gradually skids to a rough halt, and heaves a sigh of relief when the world finally stills. She yanks the keys out of the ignition and leans back in the seat. She gulps down a few deep breaths, hoping to calm her pounding heart. Staring out the windshield, V finally begins to realize just how long she’d been out for. It’d been blue skies when she first stepped foot into the parking garage, and now, the orange evening glow is mixing with the steadily creeping dark of the night sky. Not only that, but as she pokes her head out the window, she realizes just how far from the city these men took her. What the fuck kind of Scavs operate out in the Badlands?

Whatever the case may be, she can officially mark her afternoon meds down as skipped. Vik will surely be happy about this.

With her pulse mostly regulated, V musters the strength to reach across the center console and grab hold of that strapped gun again. She fenagles it over what remains of the Scav’s head before nudging him back against the door with the muzzle. He flops over, and falls head (neck? wait, nope, there’s some jaw left too) first onto the floor. V loops the strap around her shoulder. Parts of her that she forgot could ache are, in fact, beginning to do just that. Maybe she should’ve taken Kerry seriously, the last time he suggested she take up yoga; she’s apparently more out of shape than she thought. Either that, or she’s managed to (yet again) piss off this body of hers; held up by spit, gum, toothpicks, and a dream.

To think: if V hadn’t suffered a seizure early into her pregnancy, she and Johnny could’ve been raising their daughter away from this cesspit of a city. No fame, no glory, no gunfights, no Scavs... just the illusion of freedom. Then again, she’s got a feeling that if they did run, their pasts would have eventually caught up with them anyways. That’s the beauty of Night City—you can never truly escape it, but… cheesy as it sounds, at least they would’ve had each other to suffer alongside.

God, she wishes she were holding Bella right now. That kid is like a sentient space heater, radiating pure warmth and love… but V won’t get to hold her again if she sits here dwelling on what could’ve been instead of hauling her ass back home. She’s not sure it’s a smart move to drive with her eyes as fucked up as they are, but it’s not like she’s got much of a choice otherwise. V heaves herself forward to sit up and sticks the keys back into the ignition, and… nothing. The engine sputters, then stalls. Her brow furrows in confusion.

“Come on…” she mutters as she twists the key again. Engine sputters, then stalls. “What the fuck?” Sputters, then stalls. Sputters, then stalls. She twists and twists and twists and twists, each time more desperate than the last, but the car simply doesn’t budge. The former merc grumbles under her breath and tucks the keys into her pocket, before hopping out of the van. She stumbles at first, clutching tightly onto the car door to prevent from falling. Once she’s certain her legs won’t buckle, V limps around to the front of the car. Without the sun or any sort of flashlight to aid her, she doubts she’ll be able to get very far with maintenance, but she knows her way around a car well enough to think she can get by.

Just as she props the hood up, shots ring out from behind her. She throws herself to the ground with a gasp as bullets pierce the engine, and she quickly crawls around to the back of the van while the engine catches fire. She rolls onto her side behind cover and uses the brief moment it takes for the Scavs to park to check how many bullets are left in the rifle’s magazine. Headlights flicker as gangoons step out of their cars, rubber-soled boots crunching against the dusty road. V slams the clip back into her gun and rolls back onto her stomach.

She peeks out from behind one of the van’s tires and takes aim, firing at her approaching assailants. One man yells and crumples to the ground while another drops dead as bullets pierce his chest. After pulling the trigger twice more with no fanfare, she sighs in defeat and rolls over, back flat on the asphalt. Masked Scavs swarm her like flies, aiming rifles in her face as she holds her hands up in surrender.

“Y’know—” V cuts herself off by clearing her throat, “Th-This ‘s been fun ‘n all, chooms, but I’d really appreciate a little communication. How ‘bout we start with—”

“Shut her up.” To her shock (somehow), a woman’s accented voice barks orders from the other car. Just as V turns her head to try and get a look at her, someone whacks the fixer over the head with their rifle and knocks her back out.

---

He knows there’s nothing left to glean from it, but Johnny’s looped the security cam footage about a hundred-plus times since Nix sent it over, desperate to pull something else, anything else, from it. V enters the parking garage unassumingly at around 11:30AM. A white van without license plates pulls in after she sits down and starts the Quadra. A handful of masked men—undoubtedly Scavs—hop out of the van and approach. Surely sensing the danger, V starts to back out as quickly as she can. She’s stopped when a couple ‘roided-out gangoons pry her door open, then off, then reach inside.

The camera doesn’t give a good enough view for Johnny to see what transpires directly inside the car. What he can see, however, are a few failed attempts to yank her from the car, thwarted by the frantic kicking of her legs. She beans one guy in the eye, crushes another one’s jaw, and even manages to swing a few punches. V smacks her hand against something when they finally throw her out, and that’s when the taillights brighten.

She clammers back onto her feet and tries to bolt from her captors, who give chase as she screams for help. The van’s driver hops out during the chaos, and intercepts her from the side with a tight bear-hug. She tries to kick her way loose from his arms, only to be thrown into a parked car. When she rolls onto her back, the man grips the collar of her shirt and starts punching her repeatedly. Johnny watches, acid bubbling in his gut, as her eye swells shut and blood begins to trickle from her nose. She claws at the man’s face and knees him in the groin, forcing him to finally let go; but before she can take off running again, the rest of the gangoons grab a tight hold of her and drag her to the van.

She struggles hard—thrashing around, trying to throw herself into her captors to knock them off their feet, even biting at their hands with her broken mouth. One of the men holding her arms grabs a tight hold of the back of her head, and smashes her face into one of the open back doors. Her body goes slack then, allowing her captors to lift her up and throw her inside. They slam the doors shut behind her before they circle around to hop in, and the van leaves behind a trail of tire-tracked blood as it speeds out of the garage.

When the video stops, Johnny finally decides that enough is enough, and he slams the laptop shut to stop himself from rewatching it again. He leans back in his booth seat, hands lifting to scrub down his face as he groans tiredly. Daylight faded fully into night about an hour or so ago, and neither he, nor any of the mercs or chooms he’s sent out, have made any headway on finding V. There’s thousands of unmarked vans and even more Scavs lurking in the corners of this city; no one’s going to find her with the snap of their fingers, but the clock is ticking, and Johnny fucking hates the sound it makes.

If she’s still alive right now, she won’t stay that way in the coming days. Whether or not organ failure will kill her before the Scavs, however… he doesn’t want to entertain either idea. V’s a tough nut to crack, he knows this better than anyone, but she won’t be able to Rambo her way out of trouble like she could back in ’77; not unless she gets damn lucky.

The absolute last thing he needs in this lifetime is to become a single father. The thought of lying awake at night, listening to Bella’s desolate wails for her mom…

“Boss,” Emmerick’s voice pulls him from his spiraling thoughts. Johnny lifts his head in time to watch as the bouncer steps aside, allowing River Ward to trudge his way into the Afterlife.

“Tell me you got something,” Johnny urges as he sits up. River holds up a stack of papers, bound together by a single paperclip.

“It’s not a lot, but it should steer us in a better direction.” With a flick of his wrist, the private investigator gently flings the papers onto the table before Johnny. He reaches, taking the stack into his grasp and dragging it over to flip through the pages. Some kid’s rap sheet—some Russian kid’s, to be precise. Not that he thinks everyone of Russian descent in this city is a Scavenger, but Maksim Ivanovsky’s profile clearly outlines his allegiance. Couple human trafficking charges, a bunch of shit about defiling corpses...

“Border Patrol found the kid lying on the ground a couple miles south of the city, beaten and shot to shit,” River explains as he moves to sit at the opposite side of the booth from Johnny, “Somehow managed to survive. My contact said he just got out of surgery, when she called a little bit ago. A few hundred feet down the road, badges also found a van; white, unmarked, and burning—with the body of another Scav inside, judging by the mask on the floor.”

“Too cooked to tell for sure?” The rockerboy stops quickly thumbing through the pages when he hits the jackpot: crime scene photos. He’s shocked they even still print these, ‘less River called in a favor to make it happen. Once a badge, always a badge… but he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, not while V’s still out there.

“That, and his head was shot to pieces.” Fun. “I’m thinking there were more shot, judging by all the blood, but their chooms must’ve taken those bodies with.”

“Picky sons of bitches...” It’s a hell of a scene, even from the distance at which the photos were shot. There’s another set of photos mixed in with ones from the crime scene, taken of the surviving kid and his injuries. His body is littered with bullet holes, and there’s some nasty gashes on his face; one seems to have even gouged out his eye. The markings look oddly specific, however. Johnny squints. “…Kid headbutt a crowbar?” He glances up to River briefly as he asks.

River nods, leaning forward with his elbows resting over his knees. “Badges found one in the front seat. Also found rope in the back, with bloody bite marks all over.” Promising, but not enough. Kidnappings happen all the time in this city, and V surely isn’t the only person capable of defending themselves to get picked up. Johnny flips to the end of the stack before sighing with discontent and dropping the papers back onto the table. River continues, “Nothing explicitly spells V, I know, but it wouldn’t hurt to scope out the Badlands.”

“Like we’ve got the time to comb through the entire fuckin’ desert…” Johnny bites in a murmur, running his flesh hand through his hair again. River doesn’t bother challenging him, he knows the stakes are higher than the goddamn sky. The one time they need the Aldecaldos’ help most… The rockerboy smooths his hand across his forehead, like he’s trying to nurse a migraine. He then folds his arms over his chest and flops back against the couch cushions with a huff. “Why even bother smugglin’ her past the border? The fuck’s waitin’ for her in SoCal, other than an untimely-goddamn-demise?”

River shakes his head, before pushing back onto his feet. “Could be any number of possibilities, but we’re not going to find out for sure if we just sit here, brainstorming.” Johnny hates to admit when River has a point… so he doesn’t. Instead, he gives the man space to continue. The ex-badge reaches across the table to gather the papers again. “I’m gonna see if I can get something out of Border Patrol. If V really was in the back of that van, I’ve got a hard time believing that a grown woman didn’t pop up in any scans. You comin’?”

Though he doesn’t answer directly, Johnny’s eyes narrow as he also stands. “And if this wasn’t V, and we’re just risking involving some crooked badges over nothing?”

“She may be your output, but we’re still lookin’ for a kidnapped ex-con with half-a-dozen bounties on her head and then some.” River steps out of the booth, stopping after a few feet to wait for Johnny as he begrudgingly follows. “Tack on the fact that the Russian mob might be involved, thanks to the Scavs, and the cops may not even want to touch this. Won’t know unless we try.”

Johnny pushes a sigh through his nose as he takes long strides to step in front of River, leading their way past Emmerick and out to the corridor of the Afterlife. As they traverse the stairway up, the fixer asks, “Is your contact still watchin’ the kid?”

“Mm.”

“Tell ‘er to take a hike, I got a better idea.”

---

The clock had just struck midnight when the Scav’s remaining eye finally opened. The other couldn’t be salvaged, cut so deeply that his only hope to avoid infection was to have it removed. The rest of the guy is stitched together tighter than taxidermy, leaving him sore all over. Val really did a number on him—because there’s no doubt in Vincent’s mind that this was his older sister’s handiwork. Groggy, disoriented, and high as all hell on painkillers; Vincent knows that answers most likely won’t be easy to get out of this gangoon. What his bosses at Arasaka loved about him, however, was his inability to turn down a challenge.

Ivanovsky, thankfully, isn’t so out of it that he’s incapable of perceiving a potential threat. Vincent stands at his bedside, a polite smile plastered over his lips to mask his anger. He leans in close, causing the young Scav to sink back into his pillows. “Hey, buddy,” the ex-corpo greets, soft and sing-songy, “It’s good to see you, alive and well. How ya feelin’? Pretty rough, I bet?”

“Wh-Who the fuck are you?” The man, who can’t possibly be older than his very early twenties, stammers in his native tongue.

“Who, me?” Vincent places a hand on his own chest. “Oh, my name is Vincent. You don’t know me, but I definitely know you, Maksim, and I’m very excited to talk to you today.”

“Fuck off, you—” The Scav’s curses are cut off with a gasp when he tries to move one of his hands, only to realize that both have been tied with rope to the bedrails. While his eye darts between his wrists in both panic and confusion, someone at his other side tsks their tongue.

“Oh, Vinny, Vinny, Vinny,” Ivanovsky’s attention is drawn to his left, where Kerry stands, arms folded over his chest, shaking his head with false disapproval. He takes a couple slow, lazy steps closer to the young man, and gestures toward his wrists. “Look what you’ve done now! This ain’t any way to treat our special little friend, is it?”

Vincent taps his fist gently against his head and blows a small raspberry into the air. “Gosh, how silly of me! You’re right, Ker, it isn’t; this is—” He reels his hand back and whips it across Ivanovsky’s cheek, leaving an angry red mark to settle onto his pale skin. The ganger cries out and squeezes his remaining eye shut.

“That’s more like it,” Kerry hums with a grin, before he reaches out to grip Ivanovsky’s chin tightly. The young man cringes when he feels the rockerboy’s breath hot on his face, and he tries to squirm back. Kerry bends to meet him face to face and holds him firmly. He speaks gently, as if he were talking to a small child. “Aw, hey, buddy, c’mon! You’re okay, big guy, you can do it. You can make him stop, bud, but only if you’re honest with us. Think you can do that? Huh?”

His chin switches hold, from Kerry’s hand to Vincent’s. Vincent forces his head to roll onto its other side, and the gangoon’s eye again opens wide. Full of fear, just like the countless others he’s responsible for hurting. Vincent, too, is bent to at eye level, face mere inches from Ivanovsky’s. “We’re lookin’ for someone important, Maksim—”

Kerry suddenly takes hold, pulling the man’s chin back toward him. “Someone very important, Maksim—”

He switches hands again with Vincent. “And we think you might know where she is.”

Kerry tugs out a small photo from his pocket and holds it up as he forces Ivanovsky to face him. “Do you know this woman, Maksim?” Warm skin, face covered in freckles; cropped, magenta hair, green cyber-optics, bullet scar on her forehead—Valerie. She’s smiling in this photo, illuminated by the sun setting between skyscrapers and holographic music advertisements. “Think really hard, buddy, you can do it.”

Ivanovsky stammers for a moment, before claiming in heavily-accented English, “I-I’ve never seen the bitch in my li—”

Kerry slaps him this time, hard enough to whip his head toward Vincent’s side. The ex-corpo grabs a tight hold of Ivanovsky’s chin again and leans even closer, to where their lips could almost touch. “We know that you know who she is, Maksim,” he whispers, his silly façade dropping, “And we know that you know where she was going.”

Kerry takes control back, speaking softly as he strays just centimeters from the man’s face, “You were the one behind that wheel, Maksim, and we saw what she did to your buddy.”

He switches hands with Vincent, who pulls back a smidge and speaks slightly louder to match Kerry’s tone, “He’s gone, Maksim, she killed him. Are you angry?”

Switch. “Are you sad?”

Switch. “She’s killed a lot of your people, Maksim; I bet that makes them mad.”

Switch. “Where were you taking her, Maksim?”

Switch. “Where did she go, Maksim?”

The boy’s verging on a full-blown panic attack; his eyes water with fresh tears and his chest heaves with every pant. He can’t fight back, can’t call for help, he’s too weak to scream for help—

Switch. “You took ‘er across the border, Maksim; why?”

Switch. “What were you doing all the way out there, Maksim?”

Switch. “You gotta tell us, Maksim—”

Switch. “—or you’re going to wish she would’ve just finished the job—”

“STATELINE!” Ivanovsky’s voice gurgles as he screams out. His eye darts between Vincent and Kerry as they finally release him. “I-I was—I was—I was t-to take her to Stateline, b-but that’s it!”

Vincent remains firm as he questions, “Did you see who took her afterwards?”

“M-More of us—More Scavengers!” The ex-corpo glances up to Kerry, matching his uneasy gaze. “They didn’t—they didn’t see th-that I was still alive. They hit her, a-and they dragged her into another van, and they continued driving. I-I-I swear, that is all I—” Vincent decks him across the face one last time, and Ivanovsky’s head lulls limply against his pillows. Vincent pushes a deep breath through his nose as he and Kerry both pull away, and Kerry is quick to circle around to the other side of the bed. The older man wraps an arm around his input’s shoulders, tugging him to his side securely.

“Got what we needed, baby, you did good.” His fingers knead Vincent’s shoulder, tender gaze meeting the younger man’s as he lifts his head. Kerry nudges him toward the door gently. “C’mon.”

Vincent nods and follows his lead out of the room, whispering to him softly, “Be feelin’ a lot better when she’s home.” As he’s sure they all will be.

Out in the waiting room sits Rogue, arms and legs crossed. The two approach her as her eyes fade from an orange glow to their normal grey hue. She lifts her head and stands to meet them. “Nice performance, both of you,” she compliments, a rare feat. She looks up to Kerry. “Did you remember to scroll?”

The rockerboy nods and reaches behind his neck. “Your kid knows I want production credits when this shit hits the scream sheets, right?” He pops a shard out from a slot and sets it in Rogue’s open hand. She pockets the chip before turning on her heel and making for the front doors. Kerry and Vincent follow closely behind.

“Take it up with Trace, not me,” she implores as she leads their little group out of the hospital. Vincent tugs his jacket tighter over his shoulders as they step outside. Rogue raises her voice over the wind, “I’ve got a few calls to make. In the meantime; Vincent, please do see that Kerry makes it home relatively unharmed.”

“Excuse the hell outta you!” Kerry hollers, outstretching his arms at his sides as the nippy autumn breeze wisps through his hair. “You ain’t exactly a fuckin’ spring chicken yourself, Grandma! Who was in there, bitch-slapping a kid just now? Me, not you.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” the former fixer sneers as she ducks into her car. She rolls her window down and leans out, bracing her arm against the door. “Meet me back at the Afterlife after you’ve tucked Grandpa into bed, and don’t say a fucking word to Johnny ‘till we’re there.” The window rolls up just as Kerry starts to protest, and Rogue peels out of the parking lot before he can be bothered to give chase.

Chapter Text

They found out last year, as springtime began its slow creep into the atmosphere. That time of year, the air gets so muggy, you could cut through the smog with a knife. Seasonal changes tend to hit V with a fury, but not like this. She couldn’t hold a damn thing down; not water, and especially not her meds. Airhypos could only do so much to keep her systems functioning, so Johnny decided enough was enough on day three, and practically dragged her to Vik’s to get to the bottom of this. He wasn’t going to lose her again, not after everything they’d been through.

When Vik tensely told—not asked—him to head upstairs and wait, the rockerboy immediately assumed the worst. Death, dying, long tunnels and bright lights; once again, V was going to walk a path he couldn’t follow. This time, he wouldn’t even be able to bring her back. Teeth grit, Johnny can attest that he may be a teensy bit dependent on her. But can you really blame him? He woke up from a fifty year-long nap inside her brain, for fuck’s sake! He was literally fusing with her—hell, he became her! V is the only reason he’s even alive; what would be the point of marching on without her? She already forced him through it once, he refused to even entertain the idea again.

Every step he took to reel her back in from the Blackwall felt like walking on pins and needles, and every breath he took while she was gone felt like he was sucking in pure cancer. Once a much-needed slap to the face, V became a fucking panacea for his gutted conscience, a cure-all potion for his rotten soul, and she just… left him. And she was going to leave him again, only a few years after he got her back. It felt like they’d hardly even lived life at all. There was so much he still wanted to see and do with her, shit he thought he was finally safe to dream about… and Johnny would have to learn all over again why he never bothered letting himself care about others—they all leave him in the end, no matter what he does.

Vik should’ve known that Johnny wasn’t going to stray too far. He sat at the top of the stairwell, silently eavesdropping while the ripperdoc informed V that she was pregnant. Johnny had almost gotten sick himself, listening to V walk herself through the first four stages of grief. That couldn’t happen, she made sure it never would! She growled in frustration and cried—how could he do this to her? How could her own body do this do her? There had to be something they could do to fix this, right? But, fuck… would things even be the same? Johnny’s not an idiot, he’d find out eventually. What would he think (he’d start to see his father in his own reflection)? What would he say (he’d beg her not to turn him into something he can’t be)? What would he do (he’d hightail it to the hills and never look back)?

The temptation to delta was overwhelming, but Johnny sat there like a loyal pup and waited until he could chauffer V home; with bloodshot eyes and tears streaking down her face; before running off. He took to spending his nights at the Afterlife, drowning himself in work and booze, in hopes that V would resolve this little issue on her own. He could excise it from his mind that way, pretend like this never even happened. When Claire would cut him off, he’d simply jump ship and find a bar that wouldn’t. He danced around his output’s and their friends’ worried messages for days, relishing the rebirth of a Johnny he swore was buried and gone. Before he could completely fall off the wagon, however, a nagging voice in the back of his head compelled him to answer a rare call from Vik.

“Eurodyne found her,” the ripper informed him flatly as he scrubbed blood off his hands. Johnny felt as though his heart had stopped, standing over V. She was sound asleep in Vik’s chair, heart beating steadily through one of the doc’s many monitors. Blood bag and IV hooked inside the crook of her arm, cannula settled around her grossly pale face—dried blood had crusted in the corners of her mouth and around her nostrils, leaving behind faint, rosy stains where the rest had been wiped up. Her t-shirt couldn’t be salvaged; he honestly thought she’d been stabbed at first.

“Got damn lucky he was even there at all. If he’d been just a minute later…” The ripper exhaled a disgruntled sigh through his nose. Johnny braced his hands against the arm of Vik’s exam chair, knees suddenly weak. The rockerboy gulped down the bile rising in his throat and looked up to the other man with confusion, like it hadn’t clicked yet. “Gotta wonder where her other half was, while she was writhing on the floor,” Vik pondered facetiously as he dried his hands off. Johnny’s steel fingers gripped the chair’s arm tightly.

“I didn’t—”

“—I don’t wanna hear it. Can smell the tequila on your breath,” Vik swiftly interrupted as he turned on his heel and made his way back over to V’s side, where he began to comb through her readouts on his monitors. “Mid-seizure, aspirating on her own blood, by the time anyone thought to check on her. Eurodyne managed to force her to cough the rest up before bringing her here.” Wasn’t that a familiar picture? Maybe there was more of him left in her than he thought, in… more ways than one.

Johnny found himself stammering, lost in both thought and reality. He shook his head gently in disbelief as he stared down at her. “What—What about the meds? Why aren’t they…”

“The meds she can’t stop puking up, you mean? Funny you should ask.” The ripperdoc’s patience for Johnny ran out the moment he was slotted into V’s skull. He kept his grievances mostly under wraps since V and Johnny became… a thing, but Johnny had crossed one line too many by this point. Vik faced the rockerboy with a deep scowl. “I’m going to tell you what I told her—pregnancy is like housing a damn tapeworm. That thing is going to eat her alive if she doesn’t do something, and fast.”

Vik pushed one of his monitors aside. “Lucky for me, I’m not qualified to treat this; you can go drive someone else up the wall instead.” He backed away from his setup and made for his desk. The ripperdoc pulled open one of his desk drawers and rummaged inside, soon procuring a small business card with a number written on the back. “I’ve got a friend in the area who treats working mothers and punks. Already recommended ‘er to V, but clearly, she hasn’t had the time to call.”

Johnny sluggishly circled around the ripper’s chair and took the card into his grasp, looking it over through bloodshot eyes. Nothing really registered. Vik pushed the drawer shut before leaning back against the desk and crossing his arms over his chest. “I already spoke with her about V’s particular case. She knows about the biochip, ‘mong other things.” The rockerboy’s frown deepened. Clearly, he’d missed quite a bit in the few days he’d been off drowning his sorrows. Vik nodded his head toward the unconscious fixer in his chair. “She decides to go through with this, I’ll stay on board as her primary; help out with meds, keep her noodle stable, so on and so forth. She decides it ain’t worth the trouble, my colleague ’ll take good care of her, and that’ll be that. But I want to make something clear to you, Silverhand.”

Vik jabs a gloved finger in Johnny’s direction. “Regardless of what you think or what you want, this isn’t your decision; it’s V’s, and V’s alone.” A factoid that the rockerboy would’ve once argued against, thinking his impact meant more to the world than it truly does. Three lives in, however, this cat would like to think he’s learned his lesson… to some degree, at least. “If I catch wind that you’re trying to sway her one way or the other, I’ll carve a nice, new home for your head up your own ass. We clear?”

“Crystal,” Johnny grimaced, knowing damn well by then that Vik isn’t one to make empty threats. The ripperdoc nodded once and stepped forward, knocking his shoulder against Johnny’s, causing the rockerboy to stumble back.

“Good—now get the hell out of my clinic,” he ordered as he returned to V’s side, “I’m keeping her overnight for observation. Should anything change, I’ll call. Not chasin’ after you, though, if you don’t pick up. ‘Bout time you learned a little thing called responsibility.”

He took the side of the alleyway out, avoiding the surely scrutinizing stares of Misty and River. With his head bowed in shame, Johnny walked his way home, instead of going straight back to the Afterlife to camp out in his and V’s shared booth again. Nibbles, at least, seemed happy to see him, purring and rubbing his hairless body against Johnny’s leg the moment he stepped inside the penthouse. There were still puddles of blood and upchuck on the kitchen floor, some of which had clearly been stepped in, judging by the dozens of crimson paw prints pressed around the whole fucking apartment. Though the weight of his actions hadn’t yet fully set in, Johnny got to work cleaning the place up anyways, figuring it’d save him some trouble later.

At some point, late into the night, he ended up crashing on the sofa. By the time he got up in the mid-afternoon, V had already made it home. He awoke to the soft sound of her snores echoing from the loft, and a blanket he didn’t remember covering himself with was layered over his body. He hiked up the stairs to shower and swap out his clothes, only to stagger at her bedside. Eyeing the way she breathed, how the color was slowly starting to return to her skin. Nibbles, laying on top of the comforter, burrowed himself against her stomach. At least she wasn’t completely alone, those past few days. Meant fuck-all in the end, however.

He ran. Again. Not far, but he felt as though he was suffocating, meandering aimlessly around in the penthouse, waiting for her to get up so they could attempt to have a semi-civilized discussion. He took his Porsche and set out on a little journey, to park it someplace where the air felt a little fresher and think. Of course, the rockerboy took an axe with him. Sounded like ass without an amp, but kicking his feet up on the dash and playing, while soaking in the blistering sun and dust of the Badlands, felt… peaceful, in a way. It was the clearest his mind had been in the days since V started yacking up her guts.

Johnny lost himself to the music till twilight started to swallow Night City whole. He snapped out of his trance when he felt a buzz in his pocket. Setting his guitar aside, he tugged his phone out.

V:

     At least take the rest of your shit if you’re leaving me

     Sent at: 6:22PM

The rockerboy wet his chapped lips as he stared at the message, contemplating his next words carefully. She started to type again while he thought, only to erase what she’d written and still. Johnny’s thumb finally began to move.

Johnny:

     I’m not leaving.

     Sent at: 6:25PM

The thought crossed him a handful of times, but his conclusion was always the same; he didn’t want to go, plain and simple. He was more than terrified of what the future had in store for them, but the thought of walking out, just to hear in the days following that V had collapsed again and—hell, maybe even died this time… His fear of losing her outweighed his fear of facing the consequences of his actions by tons. If he loved her so little that he’d bolt for good over this, he wouldn’t have fought to bring her back to begin with. For better or for worse, his mind, body, soul, everything belongs to her, and he’s just too damn selfish to let her go.

He swiftly followed up his last message,

Johnny:

     We’re talking tonight. I’ll be home in an hour, give or take.

     Sent at: 6:26PM

And waited with bated breath till she replied,

V:

     K

     Sent at: 6:27PM

She exists to torment him, truly.

It took him over an hour, actually, to make it back home. In his defense, he pitstopped to get her food—some could call it bribery, others could call it sucking up, but Johnny would rather think of it as a skillful calming tactic—and he just so happened to pick one of the busiest spots on that side of town to hit. It was… it was a whole thing, trust him. But he made it, after night had already fallen, and V was nowhere to be found inside. The blanket she covered him with the night before was missing, too. Johnny set their bag of food down on the counters before roaming over to the wall-spanning windows.

V usually finds her peace long after nightfall, when the city glows so loudly in the sky that it makes her wonder—are there even any stars left out there? They’ve got a hell of a view at the penthouse; she likes to stand outside, leaning with her arms folded atop the balcony’s barrier, staring off into space. It’s where she perched herself that night, hugging the blanket tightly around her shoulders. She’s always found her hometown to be beautiful. Even after all it’s done, all it’s taken, and all it will continue to take, she still thinks it’s a sight unlike any other.

Johnny stepped outside and onto the synth-grass, approaching to stand quietly beside her. He ogled at the void-like sky with his little fixer—at the brightly-lit buildings, at the tall, scrolling advertisements, at the flying AVs and their autocratic occupants. Johnny has to agree; Night City is beautiful, in all its smog-riddled, gore-covered, disease-infested glory. But it’s never held a fucking candle to the woman at his side, whose life he just couldn’t help himself from making a living hell.

When he looked down at her, and he noticed the lack of a cigarette between her lips or fingers, he knew what her answer was right then and there, and it fuckin’ hurt. All that confidence and conviction he built up out in the desert, stayed in the desert. After everything the two of them had endured throughout their lives, Johnny almost felt betrayed that V—of all people! —would stoop so low as to cling to this twisted, domestic fantasy. She knew what his father did to him, and to his mother. She felt his fear, felt the pain of his daddy’s belt whipping across his back. She felt every hand ever laid on him, how he cried and desperately reached for his old man when he was traded off like merchandise. He'd be a good boy, Daddy, he promised.

How could she do this to him? Place these expectations on him and think that he wouldn’t let her down, when she’d already seen the damage he’s capable of causing? Had they been together for so long that she’d forgotten what he did to Rogue, what he did to Alt? How he manhandled them both like the Daddy’s boy he is? Did she honestly think he wouldn’t do the same to her, to their kid?

 “Sure took your time,” V broke the silence hoarsely, steely as she poignantly avoided facing him.

Johnny shoved his hands into his pockets. “Made a pitstop. Got soup with your name on it in the kitchen.” Just like his daddy used to do to his mama; hurt her, then butter her up nice and sweet, then hurt her again, then butter her up again—cyclical. He thought, maybe flowers next time, ‘till he remembered that people get all sensitive to smells when their oven’s on high. V didn’t respond. He let the silence linger an extra moment before asking, “Doin’ any better?”

She shrugged half-heartedly. “I guess. Kept my meds down so far. Vik’s helpin’ with that.” She reached a hand from beneath her blanket to idly scratch the side of her nose. “He and his choom ‘re workin’ on a care plan for me. For us.” God, fucking…

As Johnny sucked in a breath, V finally lifted her head, staring into his eyes with anxious anticipation. He could hardly stand to look back. The bags beneath her eyes stuck out like sore thumbs, he hadn’t even noticed it when she was out cold in Vik’s chair. He doesn’t notice a lot of things, he thought. Johnny rolled his front teeth over his bottom lip. Regardless of how he personally feels about Vik, the ripperdoc was right—this wasn’t his decision to make. To try and make it for her would’ve been to betray an important part of his ideals. He’s not a politician, not a religious leader, and not some honky-tonk swing state leadhead—he’s Johnny Silverhand, or so he kept telling himself.

The rockerboy pulled his hands from his pockets to settle them on the steel bars of the balcony’s barrier. Silver-plated fingers curled around cold metal. Things were going so well. Everything was fine—great, even! They figured out how to properly manage V’s symptoms. She could finally function in a way she felt (mostly) satisfied with. He just… couldn’t grasp why she would want to change that. Why she would want to potentially make everything worse. Why he couldn’t will himself to simply walk away like he may have once upon a time. Releasing the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, he avoided facing her as he asked, “…What’s your plan, then?”

V cast her stare back out into the sea of neon lights as she tugged the blankets tighter over herself securely. She almost looked like a turtle, hiding in her shell for safety. Johnny couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen one of those in person. “I get to… load up on meds, see the docs all the time, kick my feet up, clench my ass, and hope for the best.” Even in the moment, he could tell she wasn’t completely certain in her own decision. The picture she’d begun to paint, it didn’t feel finished. She wasn’t sure how to finish it. Her voice wavered slightly as she failed to feign nonchalance, “If I’m lucky, I’ll get a little mini-me to chase around and… die on, eventually. If not, then… ‘guess… what’s another body to bury, huh.”

His stomach churned painfully. He wanted to grab hold of her shoulders and shake the sense back into her. That body nearly killed her just yesterday! How could she be so convinced that it wouldn’t happen again? That she wouldn’t be the one getting buried instead of this… this… thing they’d created? They’re a couple of walking, talking corpses; was it even fully human? Surely, no child of his could be. His mouth tasted acidic, like the precursor to coughing his guts up.

“…And me?” Johnny all but barfed out, almost timid in tone, “Where do I fit into all this?”

She didn’t look at him as she pushed a shaky breath through her lungs. “I don’t know,” V confessed, voice strained, “You left me. You ghosted. Only knew you were alive ‘cause of Claire ‘n Emmerick.”

Of course they’d tell her; it was stupid of him to think they wouldn’t. Not that he’d even thought to ask them to hide what he was up to, but… maybe thinking he was dead would’ve been better than knowing the truth.  Even as he faced her, and all her disappointment and despair, he still grasped at straws to try and justify his own wrongdoings. Old habits die hard. “I wasn’t tryin’ to—”

“Shut up,” the fixer spat weakly, glaring at him through wet eyes, “I needed you, and you weren’t here. If Kerry didn’t pop by, lookin’ for you, I’d... How’m I supposed to just…” forgive you? Her voice broke as she trailed off, shaking her head slowly to herself. She slipped her arm out from under the blanket to wipe her eyes on the ball of her palm. The imprint of bandages lingered in the crook of her arm, deep bruises already beginning to blossom where the IV had been connected.

Johnny’s never exactly been the best at dealing with other people’s emotions, especially when their hurt is caused by himself. Back in the day, he could usually get away with apology sex and blow and move on. Sometimes, grudges would be held. Other times, it was like nothing had ever happened. This time? With the one person he knows he loves more than anything? He was at a loss, for both words and actions. He fucked up, unequivocally and hopelessly, and he wasn’t sure he could stop fucking up. As much as he didn’t want this, he also didn’t want to just leave her either. He really couldn’t, even if he did. V had been his lifeline for so long by that point, the thought of her being gone in any capacity scared him even more shitless than the thought of becoming a father. His brow knit tightly as he started carding his fingers through his beard. Idle motions, self-soothing. Keep the bomb from going off.

“…I’m sorry, baby,” he offered quietly, earnestly. V huffed a bitter, empty chuckle.

“’Sorry’ ain’t gonna cut it,” she murmured, “Not this time.”

Johnny tried again, tone heightened with tempered panic. You can’t leave me. I’m not leaving you, so you can’t leave me. “This ain’t—this ain’t happening again. Swear on my fuckin’ life, Valerie, it ain’t.” Then quieter, as if it meant something, “You’ve got my word.”

A flame sparked behind her eyes. “Like I had your word in ’78?” Stopped him dead in his tracks, she did. He recoiled in shock, eyes wide. “When I woke up and you whispered all those sweet nothings in my ear? ‘Bout how—‘bout how I was stuck with you? And how I wasn’t ever getting rid of you? That we’re V and Johnny, for-fuckin’-ever? Were we still ‘V and Johnny forever’ when you were out trashing your—what—third, fourth liver? And I was choking to death on my own blood?”

“You think I was joking?” Nerve struck, Johnny snapped, stepping forward to bridge the gap between them. V stared up to him with a deep frown, unflinching as he ranted, “That I didn’t mean a thing I said? That I’ve just been fuckin’ with you, this whole time? All these years? Really think I’m that petty?”

She quietly swiped her hand across her face, mopping up the spittle flying from his mouth. “Know what I actually think?” That same hand reached out to push him back. He shifted just slightly, but stayed sturdy on his feet. “I think you’re still just a scared little boy in a big, tough man’s body, and I’m not about to be stuck raising two kids.”

Johnny pulled away with a frustrated sigh, shoving his hand through his hair and pushing back the loose strands hanging in his face. “Whaddya want from me, Valerie?” He asked through the anger simmering inside his chest, “I can’t take back what I did. I can regret it and fuckin’ grovel over it for the rest of my life, but that’s not gonna change anything.”

V glanced back out into the darkness, listless. “You’re right, it’s not.”

“Then what will?” Johnny reached out, finally disobeying his minimal self-control by taking V’s blanket-shielded shoulders into his grasp. His grip remained loose, yet V made no move to shrink away. Johnny near-frantically searched her tired eyes for some sort of answer as he pleaded, “I’m not a fuckin’ mind reader, V, tell me what’s gonna make this right!”

She fell silent. Didn’t speak for what felt like hours. Even looked away, casting her gaze down to their feet. Fear, primitive and childish, began to set in as painful bubbling in his gut—the kind he used to beat down with whatever he could find. Bottles, pills, needles, anything that presented itself to him. He released her shoulders to cup her worn face in his hands, calloused and metal thumbs beginning to stroke her cheeks in tandem. “Babe..?”

The fixer’s shoulders deflated as she frowned sadly, defeatedly. Keeping the blankets bunched tightly around her shoulders with one hand, the other slipped out again to pry his silver hand gently from her face. “I’m not…” she sighed as Johnny’s aging face fell with despair, “I’m not doing this right now.”

His breath caught in his throat. “What—”

“—I’m tired, John. You’re tired.” The rockerboy let his remaining hand fall from V’s face, limply hanging at his side. “And we’re both about a hair away from saying some bullshit we can’t take back. Just… drop it, for right now. Please.”

Throughout their time together, V has always managed to read him better than he could see himself—a feat unheard of until their forced mind meld. He could’ve continued pushing her, could’ve egged her on ‘till they fought an all-out war, but Johnny just didn’t have it in him (for once). Teeth grit and head bowed, he followed V back inside the penthouse. Left her to her own devices while she ate her soup, didn’t spare a single glance her way when she hobbled up the stairs and flopped into bed. She relinquished the blanket back into Johnny’s custody, at least, so he took over the couch for another night. He didn’t sleep, however—couldn’t. Not with his nerves so frayed and nothing to bandage them.

He'd been curled up on his side, watching some shitty nature documentary in the wee hours of the morning when he heard V stir. Not long after, footsteps quickly trailed into the bathroom. Keen ears perked at the sound of her knees dropping to the tile, before her subsequent vomiting was cut off by the door’s automatic closing. Johnny debated with himself silently, over whether he should check on her or not. The minutes dragged on, however, and she showed no signs of emerging anytime soon. Stretching as he stood, Johnny finally pried himself off the sofa to hike up the stairs.

She hadn’t locked the door, thankfully, nor did she seem at all shocked when the rockerboy stepped inside the bathroom. Her cheek was smushed against the toilet seat, tired eyes shut while she regulated her breathing. She looked like hot garbage, plain and simple; too thin, too weak, too grey. Took Johnny back to more dire times, dredged up a lot of more-bitter-than-sweet memories. Faintly, he wondered if this was somehow the norm, or if his little fixer is just that special. He lowered himself to sit beside her, collecting her magenta hair in his calloused flesh hand to brush out of her face. V uttered a soft groan that almost sounded like his name.

“Just relax,” he advised, voice gravelly as exhaustion clawed at him harder than their cat during baths. Her face felt boiling hot—feverish, but he couldn’t tell how much of it was from the problem at hand, and how much was from sleeping. She’d been snoring softly mere minutes before throwing herself out of bed. “Get it all out?”

She opened her mouth as if to speak, only to be interrupted by another sudden wave of nausea. She leaned over the bowl again, hands gripping the edges of the seat, and retched hard enough to make Johnny feel a little queasy. Once the spell let up, the man snarked, “Night City’s finest, huh.”

“Sh-Shuddup,” V rasped thickly in return. As if their spat the night before hadn’t happened, as if this entire debacle hadn’t happened, she let go of the seat and carefully laid back against Johnny’s chest. The rockerboy was almost too quick to wrap his arms around her, as was she to shift and press her warm face into the casing of his left arm. She mumbled, “Ain’t miracle workers… see ‘em both again today.”

His ‘ganic fingers began to thread through her sweaty hair, about as gently as a man like him could manage. He dipped his head, pressing his nose into her scalp and breathing her in. “What time?” He asked through a quiet, scratchy voice, “I’ll take ya.”

V’s eyes slipped shut as she relished in the comfort. She shook her head slowly. “…You don’t want this,” she asserted softly.

Knows him so well, he didn’t even need to say it. Then again, what else was his vanishing act supposed to convey? He’s about as subtle as a goddamn slug to the temple. “…No, I don’t,” he agreed after a fleeting moment of hesitation, “and I’m not even gonna pretend like I get why you do, but…”

He pressed his lips flat, allowing a deep breath to flow through his lungs as he attempted to formulate his thoughts. “…This isn’t worth runnin’ out over. I had my stupid fuckin’ moment, I got it outta my system. I’ll be good from now on.”

A brief flash of recognition crossed her face. “Don’t say it like that,” V scolded gently. She cracked an eye open and tilted her head to gaze up at him, brow knit with concern. Idly, he began to comb through her hair with his ‘ganic fingers. V pushed a weary sigh through her nose. “…’m still pissed at you.”

“I know, baby.”

“So… fuckin’ far beyond pissed, I could strangle you.”

“Wouldn’t be opposed.”

“But I don’t…” She inhaled sharply, just as Johnny noticed her eyes beginning to water. V shifted to sit up, scrubbing her hands over her face. Johnny’s hands settled in his lap. “Fuck, John, I-I don’t wanna do this alone.”

“Then don’t,” the rockerboy attempted to reason, biting back his growing frustration, “I already told you I wasn’t leavin’, V.”

Sniffle, sniffle. “Maybe not now, but later?” She lifted her head to interrogate him with bloodshot optics. “If shit gets dicey again?”

Johnny threw his bed… couch-head back with his silver hand. “Shit gets dicey again, we—we, V, not just you—will fuckin’ handle it, like we’ve always handled it.” V didn’t fight him as he pulled her back into his arms, instead burrowing herself into his shirt. He rubbed gentle circles between her shoulder blades. “I’ll keep sayin’ it ‘till it finally gets through. You know how much I hate repeating myself, but I’ll do it. Not fuckin’ playing.”

He'd hoped for something like a chuckle there, but instead, he was met with silence. V’s limbs shook, shivering like a dog left out in the rain. “…I can’t do this alone,” she professed meekly. Johnny’s hold around her tightened slightly, protectively. “I-I can’t be like my mom, ‘n not have anyone I trust to take care of this kid if I go early. It… it ain’t fair. The thought of… havin’ ‘em be shoved around the system, like fuckin’ meat…”

“I know.” He’s always known—he’d seen it in her memories, what V went through both before and after her father got his grimy Corpo paws on her. The foster care system, the juvenile detention system; they’re nothing more than legalized human trafficking, and no godforsaken child of his, no matter how wanted they are or not, was going to go through the exact same bullshit both their parents fought their way out of. He took a daring chance and pressed a chapped kiss to the part of her hair. “I know. But I fuckin’ swear to you, Valerie, I’m not letting that happen. I’ll fuckin’...”

Johnny shook his head as he thought aloud, “I’ll fuckin’ scream it off a rooftop. Shirtless. In the rain. With a boombox.”

Finally, he pulled a giggle out of V. Johnny smirked, unabashedly proud of himself. “Think the world’s seen enough shirtless Silverhand already,” she asserted hoarsely, before sighing in defeat. “…See Ames first, at eleven.”

The rockerboy nodded slowly. “Alright…” Then his brow furrowed as he repeated in confusion, “Ames?”

“Vik’s choom,” V elaborated before looking up, suspicious. She spared no beat before questioning, “Thought he gave you ‘er card?”

Oh yeah. “Didn’t read it,” Johnny admitted, far too casual for someone whose neck was on the line mere moments ago.

“Clearly,” V huffed, a shaky hand reaching to caress his fuzzy jaw. “Sitting here, waxing poetic, but you can’t even read a stupid business card. How’m I supposed to believe a thing you say?”

Her calmer tone felt like cool water flowing against a blistering burn, a satisfying relief. Could’ve just been the lull in rampant stress allowing her to finally drop her walls, but in the back of his mind, Johnny became convinced she’d forgiven him, even if he didn’t deserve it. He never has, but that doesn’t matter, not while he’s got his little fixer. Grinning, he nuzzled his prickly cheek against her warm touch, and—

—his hand collides with the mirror.

Glass cracks and breaks free around his steel fist, clattering loudly into the sink and onto the floor. Shoulders heaving as he breathes heavily, he stares into the mirror’s remaining pieces. A bloodshot eye, his pale skin, a deep snarl, the flecks of grey beginning to color his beard. It’s all going too fast and too slow; they’re running out of time, yet the world’s spinning has stagnated. They should’ve found her by now. Every hour, minute, second they’ve spent searching for her—it’s too much and not enough. None of this will mean a damn thing if all that’s left by the time they find her is sinew and bone. Maybe he’d accomplish more on his own.

“You’re lucky I don’t still own this place,” muffled behind the bathroom’s steel door snarks Rogue. Johnny whips his hand to shake off the remaining bits of glass before stepping over the mess he’d made. The door opens automatically as he makes for the exit. The former Queen of the Afterlife stands, leaning her back against the wall just outside. Her arms are folded over her chest, and her face offers little in the way of warmth or mirth. Not much to be had, given the situation at hand.

“Skippin’ out on a strat meeting? Ain’t the Rogue I know.” Johnny drawls lowly, dry cords rumbling in his throat. The door slides shut behind him as Rogue tsks her tongue.

“Took your sweet time, powdering your face,” she counters, “Almost thought you were fixing to wipe your hands of this. Someone had to check for sure.”

The rockerboy scoffs irritably, “Think you’re doin’ me any favors by playing babysitter? Back of the line, sweetheart, I got about five heads too many breathin’ down my neck already.”

“Johnny.” He huffs hot air out his nose, directing his gaze off to the side, focusing on cracks in the bricks. Anywhere but her face. “Just… making sure you’re keepin’ it together. Relatively speaking, at least.”

“When ‘ve I ever,” he mutters under his breath with a shake of his head as he turns to tread down the hall. Heels click behind him as Rogue follows. He hasn’t been this on-edge in… what—ten months, few days and change? Christ almighty, it’s almost been a year already. It’ll be a miserable fuckin’ occasion to celebrate without V, if this goes tits up. Ain’t it funny how the more he tries to push those thoughts back, the worse they become?

Drip.

Drip.

A dark cloud envelops the Afterlife when Johnny steps back out into the club. Heads turn his and Rogue’s way until River clears his throat to beckon them back. Inside the booth, the fixer remains standing, arms folded over his chest, while his predecessor sinks onto what used to be her sofa. As the former badge begins to outline the basics of their half-cocked maybe-rescue plan, Johnny diverts his attention. Claire must’ve left the tap nudged at the bar, or maybe the walls aren’t as thick as he thought. Or, maybe, he’s begun to tiptoe closer to the edge than he realizes. Wouldn’t be the first time. No matter. He knows the rough draft—he helped write it, after all; he can ascertain the rest on the way to Stateline.

Drip.

Drip.

And if V’s not there, he’ll figure out where she is, somehow. He’ll find her—like planets and moons, gravity will work its magic, pull him to her like he’s still safe at home in her skull. He’ll get her back, even if it damn near kills him in the process. He’ll kiss her feet and lick all her wounds clean, then bundle her and their baby girl up and take ‘em as far away from this hellhole as possible—to someplace cleaner and brighter, where V won’t have to put up a fight to fill her lungs, and their daughter can grow up still sensitive to death and violence. Maybe all that’s holy would grant him a full night’s sleep there too, for the first time since his own infancy… but that might be asking for too much. After all, who else is gonna make sure his girls are still breathing?

Drip.

Drip.

V had better still be breathing when they find her. If anything happens to her…

Drip.

He’ll kill ‘em all, he’s decided it now. No one’ll make it out alive, not even himself. He’ll blow this whole goddamn world up for V; everyone will know her then.

Drip.

Johnny sets out of the Afterlife before anyone else, ignoring the calls of their impromptu team with his fists clenched at his sides. If he doesn’t leave now, he’ll hurt something, someone. He doesn’t even know what set him off—everything and nothing at the same time. V needs him. He needs her, now.

Drip.

She wakes up once more with her face glued to the floor of a running van. Her temple burns something awful, and the flames radiate across her entire head. As she forces her only working eye open, it stings with sensitivity, despite the lack of light aside from the passing street lamps. A couple men lean over her, but she can’t read their faces from behind their glitching masks.

“Ah—she’s awake,” one accented voice alerts the vehicle’s other passengers. With each breath V takes, a whistling noise accompanies her exhales. The taste of iron lingers strongly in her mouth, sitting on her tongue like nicotine. These Scavs seem to have perfected their method of restraint; her arms and legs are chained together behind her back tightly. It doesn’t take more than a single brain cell for her to realize she won’t be able to fight her way out of this one—or, at least, attempt to. She lays still and quiet instead.

“She can’t move, yes?” That woman’s voice from earlier asks from the front of the van. V could swear on her life that she recognizes that voice, but she can’t put her finger on how. One of her captors confirms with a nod and a ‘da,’ before the woman orders, “Put her back under. Gently, no force.” At least someone seems to know what the hell they’re doing around here, even if that same person is aiding in her kidnapping. Before she’s given room to focus her thoughts enough to ponder what the purpose for all this is, one of the men covers her mouth and nose with a damp rag. Her working eye shuts as the fumes race down her throat, and within minutes, she is once again out cold.

Drip.

She wakes again, feeling all sorts of good around her body. All that pain has turned into nothing but dull throbs, thanks to the needle hooked in her arm. Normally, one would be averse to a non-consensual drugging. V, on the other hand, would rather consider it aftercare for her multiple beatings today. They’ve placed her on a softer surface as well—a bed, finally. There’s even a pillow tucked under her head, for good measure. If it weren’t for the fact that her hands are now chained to the wall and her feet to the bed frame, or the fact that she’s in her birthday suit and shivering (she knew it was fucking coming!), V could almost go as far as to say she’s comfortable. This is better than the back of a van, she supposes.

The world feels so distant and fuzzy and her limbs feel so heavy, she wouldn’t have even noticed the chains, had she not decided to risk a look around. Wall to wall, ceiling to floor concrete, dank and damp and dark. Splotches of red; some just old and faint as brushstrokes, some new and freshly crusted; stain said concrete, testaments to those who were locked in here before her. Spanning the ceiling is a single pipe, split open and dripping onto the ground. The sheets she’s laying on are oddly clean, but the musk inside this cell would’ve been close to unbearable, if she didn’t have years of commitment to Johnny Silverhand under her belt.

Crimson-stained wrappings tightly cover the various wounds around her battered body. It takes a crinkle of her nose to realize that her face has been patched up, too. The more abused half of her head is bandaged securely, covering her eye as well as the deep gash on her forehead. She rolls her tongue over her lips to find butterfly bandages sitting on top of the various cuts by her mouth too. Her teeth, however, are still fucked, and feel rightly so.

Her gaze crawls toward the cell door as it creaks open. A skinny man hiding under layers of scrubs steps inside, wearing the same kind of mask as the rest. He approaches her bed and perches himself at a computer she didn’t know was there. It illuminates the dark cell with a faint blue glow, causing V to flinch from the sudden optical intrusion. The Scav reaches for her hand and tugs out her personal link, jacking it into the computer silently. She strains her throat to produce something as diagnostic popups begin to flash in her vision.

“Y…ou… p-people, just…” The Scav glances to her, then back to his work. “…can’t… get enough ‘f me… can you?”

Her temporary keeper hums, “I could do without,” he insisted, drawing out a weak chuckle from V, “but I am not in charge.”

She wheezes gently as she asks, “W-Who… is..?”

He remains silent for a minute or two, studying her readouts in silence. He sidesteps her question to gawk, “…You are almost completely intolerant to cyberware…”

V smirked, “Coulda… told ya that myself.”

Another glance is spared her way. The man pulls away from his computer and reaches for the IV pole, beginning to… do something with the bag that’s keeping her so loopy. “You do not get to die yet,” he almost seems to attempt to reassure her, “You are needed, but not yet. Go back to sleep.”

V doesn’t bother trying to guess what she’s ‘needed’ for. Surely, they’re after the leftovers stashed throughout her body. What the Scavs could want with years-old Mantis Arm models, however… she doesn’t want to know. Luckily, the extra dose takes hold rather quickly, wrapping her in a comfortable blanket of numbness. V’s head relaxes back against the pillow, head rolling to the side. As her eyes slip shut, someone far off into the distance begins to scream for their life. This oughta be fun.

Drip.