Chapter Text
“It’s been two years. Think she would hold?” The man’s voice rang through the modest clinic.
The twinkle of the LEDs, the creaking of the chair, the water flowing through the pipes. Outside, people walked among them, ignorant of what transpired inside the small Watson medical facility. Too busy to fool themselves, to lie to themselves, to be mindless sheep.
“Where is this concern coming from? I told you it will take a while.” The other man’s voice was evident in its distrust and disgust of the other’s presence. Deeming it an insult and a danger to the very precious thing he wanted to protect, to spare, to let rest.
“A while, yes. Two years-”
“I DID ALL I COULD!” The small stool rolled into the wall with great force. The golden boxing gloves pendant swung violently as the cybernetics on his gloves groaned due the pressure. The might of the man before him was nothing compared to his rage. How dare he? How dare he disturb his precious daughter’s rest? She deserved it. At the very least, she deserved to sleep.
Untouched, unaffected, unbothered. The cybernetic hand, draped in all black plates, raised to calm the venom. The white eyes dropped into a defused glare, thin lips setting in snarl. His dog tags clicked as his boots took him to what laid on the chair. A sense of pity gripped at his heart.
“I am not inferring you didn’t. Out of all the people, you cared about her the most. I seen your shadow in our turf, heard of you requesting different parts. Parts that are too much for your kind and too outlandish for a simple Watson ripperdoc. How you think my boys tracked your smell?”
“Shit.”
“Indeed. Can’t blame you for that either. Desperation out of love always makes us do the unthinkable.”
“You think searching for parts for her is the unthinkable for me?”
“No, but selling your organs so you can keep her in her comatose state is.”
“Can do so much on a ripperdoc’s salary.” The grimace in his tone was palpable. Money, it was always money. Money got her in the mess, and the lack of money in his pocket almost ended her in a grave or shoe-box.
“You could have asked me instead of scurrying like a rat.”
“I tried to not end up pimping her up to men like you, Hansen.*
The colonel wasn’t pleased, glaring deeply at the ripperdoc. “I will pretend to not hear that, Vektor. Or her future may end abruptly due your sentiments.”
With a press of a button the climate system sprang to life. Slowly, the ice’s grip on her body dissolved into puddles. Small rivers danced towards the drainer in the cement floor. Washing the dust away, the sand and what stubborn stain of blood remained. The corpse laid stagnant on the vibrant blue leather of the chair, the skin grey with purple hues. Her mouth was opened, eyelids unfurled when the back was laid completely down. Her Kiroshi were removed long ago, some small scars from the augment left their imprint on the surrounding skin. Her chest was slashed by the claws of the tyrant and compressed by the crumbling cement and metal of the tower. She didn’t do this to have a pretty corpse. She did this to escape.
“She doesn’t look pretty.” Hansen’s words were met with an incredulous pointed look from the older male. “I am sorry. Insensitive of me.”
“She wanted this.”
“Wanted what?”
“To die.”
“V? She was young with potential.”
“She was dying, you know that.”
Colonel huffed in agreement, rubbing his nose, hands crossed on his back. “What are you proposing we do with her?”’
“We could use...” Viktor started.
Nodding, his mind reflected on their first meeting.
The fact he got her message was a feat, understanding it was the miracle. A garbled mess of exclamations, questioning signs, punctuation and so on. Through it the words “Meet me at Longstacks, 20.” were barely eligible. It made him think it was some rookie stray looking for a shelter in his organization. It happens. Broken boys or girls from rundown families always seek the comfort and shelter of Barghest. They think throwing a punch or putting a bullet in a fool’s head will get them that. No, at most a first class ticket to being top tier cannon fire or a seat on the beating express.
Leaning on the scaffolding, Hansen remarked her small stature. She shook and scratched at her elbows something fierce, luckily they were covered by an oversized olive knitted sweater that seen better days. Her boots clacked and raised dust while pacing left-right. Her nails had their black polish bitten, hazard lines laid on the long bed. He found it incredibly hard
to believe she was the agent FIA hoped to use to get to him, to take Songbird. They must be really stupid, desperate or both.
“You called?”
She jumped. Fucking jumped like a Phan filled rabbit. Turning around, her long hair flew around, wide eyes under the black mask she wore. He didn’t understand why she insisted on it, Kiroshi hid her identity to the cameras and he already seen her. A nice picture. Dark hair dyed black, deep olive skin, blue polycoria eyes peering up like a fawn. The epiphany of young spirit, thirst and desperation.
Her hand was shaking while he enveloped her. His were massive in comparison. He smirked at the symbolic image of a wolf and a sheep springing in his mind. He would eat her alive and she seemed aware of that. All that talk about her being the Ghost of Konpeki, a legend in the making, all illusions. If her forehead didn’t bear the mark of a bullet, he would have laugh at the idea of her coming back from the dead.
“Yes…yes. Right. I did. V..but you know that.”
He rolled his haunting white optics at that. “Listen, little girl. I have better things to do than pay a visit to a -“
“NO! DON’T GO!” He almost cut her throat with how quickly she gripped his bionic hand. Both hands grasped tightly into the fully cybernetic appendage of his, grabbing into his fingers. She calmed herself by studying it. “Yes, I did call you. And it’s urgent. They…they. They want to kill you, Kurt.”
He couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped his lips, looking at her with a mix of pity and patronising arrogance. “Sweetheart, everyone is reaching for my throat. Why would I care for another name to my list?”
“You don’t understand. You don’t understand. YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND.”
“So help me understand.” Despite his calm tone, she broke into loud sobs. He exhaled, patience wearing thin. Hushing her, Hansen brought to shorter woman to his chest. “There, there. You are okay, jewel. No one will hurt you. You are safe.”
“I am so tired.” Through her incoherent ramblings, this phrase came out again and again.
“Tired of what, sweetheart?”
“Of making bad choices. Of having the world resting on my shoulders. Of Johnny and…Arasaka…and.”
Arasaka…oh this will take a while.
He managed to convinced her to go up one of the unfinished upper floors while he fetched them something to drink. A bad habit that turned into a good communication tool. Deciding to go alone might seemed risky, but the locals knew better than to even look at him more than few seconds.
The woman sniffed, letting him touch gently the chip cap sticking out her port. She closed her eyes, leaning like a hungry dog for warmth. The streets of Night City are cruel and Dogtown isn’t any more lenient. Why not take advantage of his eagerness for a hands-on approach?
“So that what transpired in Konpeki.”
“Mmph.”
“And your…choom? He paid the price.”
“We both did. He died and I will soon follow him.”
“If you don’t get Songbird to help you.”
She nodded.
His short nails scratched his nose, breath coming out of his nostrils heavy. “Shit, V. I see why you are so fidgety. Ah, Songbird. Nasty little thing. I helped her, pull her out the fire and how she repays me? By letting me take the fall. But what can you expect from a NUSA mutt.” When he raised himself from the scaffolding floor, she gripped his hand again.
“WAIT! What do you mean you helped her out?”
“The little fire show you saw? It was a diversion so Song could leave the titan grip of the bitch...apologies for the language...Myers.”
He marveled and took deep pleasure as the wheels in V’s brain started to spill. The child like curious face she displayed was shifting into something Kurt was used to. Betrayal. V closed her eyes, her palms covering her sorrow facade. Sighting deeply, some incoherent mumbles escape through the finger.
“Should have known. GOD FUCKING DAMNIT!” She smashed the can into the brick wall, 35 m in front of them. “Is there ANYONE in this fucking city that doesn’t backstabs?”
Kurt couldn’t keep his poker face and erupted into hearty laughs. “First time living,V? Everyone here packs knives. Not for joining dinners, but to send chooms to their graves. I am surprised how you don’t follow the rules.”
“If I wanted rules, I would have chose the easy path. Be a corpobitch.”
“Instead you take money from corpobitches and steal their rides.”
“Hey! You whored yourself for less! Ideals. Blah! At least I can cry about my sorry ass in my Aerondight.”
“Ha. True, true.”
A moment of silence webbed into their conversation, broken only by V’s timid voice. “Will you kill her now that I told you her plan?”
“Kill, no no, I won’t. I won’t, V.” His palm pressed affectionately on the top of her head before starting to rub it repeatedly. “That wouldn’t get me what I want. And lead us into nothing. No, we need to be smart about this. Doubt she isn’t trying to listen in. Come here.”
He smiled as she did as ordered. Good soldier material. Pulling out Fang, V instantly moved away, but his hand on the back of her head stopped her. “Shh, just trust me.” With the tip of it, Hansen unscrew the Net connection port, loosing it so any spyware would go haywire temporarily.
“I could do that.”
“Think she wouldn’t have thought of a countermeasure? Songbird is not the innocent soul she portrayed herself to be. Myers spoiled her. Like she did me. My men. My people.”
“You had only men on your crew?”
“No, we had five women too on the team. One medic, 3 were netrunners and one was a ground mutt like us.”
“They all died?”
“The medic overdosed after having her husband die on her table from the wounds. Myers purged the 3 netrunners and the last one disappeared shortly after.”
“Oh. She really fucked you guys over.”
“Yes, she did, V.”
“How are you sure I won’t follow?”
“I am not, but gambling have been an affinity of mine.”
She raised her eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s wise?”
“Neither is negotiating your life with a NUSA deserter.”
“Touché.”
In the actual time, his haunting eyes settled on a damn corpse. No movement, no jitter. The juxtaposition of his memory of her and the stagnant body before him was gut wrenching. The short time she spend time with him, he grew to seek her more and more. Not solely on her use to him and his cause, but her being. Sarcastic, witty, intelligent and bizarrely naive. Her past as a nomad didn’t turn her into a rugged creature.
“You listening?” Viktor woke him from his pondering.
Trying to not look caught off guard, the Colonel nodded rapidly, vehement with his words. “Yes, do as you see fit. What you do best, doctor.” With that he parted, leaving the meager Watson clinic.
It took… days, months and hundreds of eddies. V was determined to die, rejecting implant after implant. No procedure seemed to make her brain spring back, only resting in the pool of blood. It was exasperating to both him and Viktor. So, in a feat of rage, Kurt forced Viktor to use Smasher’s body. Getting it to only display it as a mockery of Arasaka’s declining might, it seemed to be the missing key.
Her body took to the modified platings, cords and ports with ease. Minimal blood, minimal need of pure organs and minimal costs. At last, her brain activity seemed to skyrocket. Waves danced in hills, coming down and shooting up. Her skin started to be alive again, warm and olive. Only her eyes needed a slight custom job. Her body was a beautiful mix of matte black plates with glossy ones, golden accents trail down her chest, her hips, neck, collar bone and so on. Red lights twinkled on the entirety of her back and the two stripes across her throat, legs and arms. She was sharper than a Caliburn or an Aerondight. Sleek but bulky, her mass weight came to around 150 kg. Her curves and mannequin like torso hid a netrunning dream set-up with little tinkering to increase her fatality. Smasher was old school compared to the level of high tech he got her. If someone found out his paper trail, Hansen would be persona non grata in two continents.
Viktor wasn’t blind. In his younger years, he could have passed Hansen’s intentions under the veil of good will. Now? Not so much. He was building himself a super soldier, but choosing V was definitely out of a grudge. A punishment for what she would have done if V’s mind wasn’t so scrambled and her heart so heavy.
Vector felt dirty, didn’t feel any dignity during her reconstruction. V was one of the few people he had left and right now he was pawning her off to the higher bidder. It wasn’t right. His mind always and often reconsider on his actions and often fought with the urge to pull her life support. His salvation came from a naive hope that V would forgive him, forgive him for being weak, for being so selfish he would put her in jeopardy just to hear her cuss at him. To hear her, to see her, to stop fucking speaking with a corpse.
Waking her up was just as hard. Wasting 6 bags of A2 blood, half of coolant fuel for her rotating motors in her elbows, knees and shoulders, two pair of lungs and the list went on, hitting a nice figure of 75k. Vik had to call Hansen just to get Jago Szabo, his accountant, off his back. Who could have guest such a small man could pack so much anger? Vektor could. The time of being a boxing champion taught him that the smaller the figure, the potent the venom.
Kurt wasn’t phased, his focus remained on the reanimation of V. Nothing could make his glare soften, not Jago pointing the fact they lost over 1.6 million eddies on her reanimation so far, that they spend another 2 mil on bribing the most influential members of the NC Government and the chief of NCPD to posthumously acquit the merc, blaming the whole carnage of untreated side-effects of Arasaka’s negligence. His mind obsessed over the figure of V since her blasé entrance in his territory, in his fortress. Such fire, such thirst, the same hunger that sets his heart ablaze since his first contact with the real world.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The year was 2046, the rare sun rays stung his scleras, but the 15 year old Kurt barely registered it. His blue eyes, blue like the cold ocean in the winter, stared fixated on the corpse before him. His mother. Her pale skin turned into a shade of grey, dry, ashy, lifeless. The purple of the bruises pierced through, the blue of her veins trailed all over and the red of blood leaked out the gaping hole of her abdomen. He could see the intestines slip, hear the squeaky sound they made as they stuck to the floor. The smell was atrocious, but his nose didn’t register. Her fresh dyed hair still smell of the salon perfume, auburn red, her favourite colour. The pink of her nails was scratched in the attempt to escape the grasp of the attacker, blood crusted under the long bed. His mother’s pearls were spiraling all over the linoleum, her prized possession. Her warm tune ran hollow in his thick head, only her petrified screams dominated his mind.
It was just another day, he came back from his main job as a dismantler at the local junkyard. A job he got only thanks for his deceased father. Some illness took him when Kurt was ten, of course that was just his mother’s attempt to mask the truth. Not that will change much, his son had no love for him and neither did his wife. Hell, he never even seen the face of said man.
From the gold shine of champagne flutes to busted plastic cups, it was just a step. However his mother, Catherine, didn’t just step off the beaten path, she body rolled off it. It started innocent, just a thankful boss taking his overworked employee to some quality grub. One lunch turned to two, then a dinner, than a date and finally, Catherine woke up with the positive pregnancy test in her shaking hands. Douglas wanted nothing to do with it, urging her to abort, but Catherine was still haunted by her religious uprising. The man left them nothing, not even bothering to write a will. It allowed the corp to escape any sort of payment to a widow and her damn son. Catherine worked, but not at the level that allowed them to keep breathing fresh air with the most luxurious parfumes added, to sit their asses in premium Italian leather, to never walk on anything but marble and lacquered wood, to eat the most juicy grapes or succulent cuts of meat. Real meat, not the scop they had stomach it since they moved in Kensington.
Regardless, moving here was the worst thing in their fucking lives.
Their hunger. Their depravity. Their eagerness to strip them of anything they ever had. Worst than hyenas, worst than vultures, the human nature in these slums was anything except the will of nature. They clawed at each other’s flesh, not matter if alive or dead, hoping to prick out a half-decent organ or some used chromeware. Their beady eyes, bloodshot or jaundiced, crept through any gaps in you, in your soul. Shaky bruised hands with brittle skeleton fingers will claw with might on anything. It was ironic and tragic how their effort put in clawing never could get them out the abyss of poverty, the abyss the system that governs the land, the water, the soil, the food, the hearts, the people meticulously created and enforced.
But Kurt never had a desire to turn the sorrow of others into a lifelong mission of his livelihood. No, his mind focused on him as if the sun rolled around him first before planets and souls. His mind, his lungs, his heart, his people, his things. And those who threaten it, get punished. Either by the law of the divine or his.
The attacker were low-level klepto-maniacs from some rundown gang. It didn’t matter if someone hired them or thought they could prey upon him and his mother. Their bullets sloppily hit the target and the walls, table, chairs and other decoration framing Catherine in a sense of domesticity. Their muzzles still smoking when Kurt left the cover. The pump action shotgun slammed into the thin body of the boy, broke his right wrist, however it obliterated the goons. His eyes remained on his mother, yes, but the blood of the wicked drown the soles of his battered boots.
There. With a dead mother at his feet and the splintered remains crying red, Kurt didn’t feel weak. With the gun burning the thin layer of his battered dirty skin, the lesson was forever branded into him. As long as he has the gun, the power, the ace in the sleeve, the final say, he will never be like them, never be like his mother, a victim of circumstances, or like the murders, victims of their own arrogance.
Polar eyes came out the fog of memories. The tests will start soon. To see if V’s brain shows signs of being fully brought back. Her body passed the test with flying colours, however Vik and Barghest’ chief neuro specialist highly recommended to delay actual tests on her brain. One wrong step, be too abrasive or too slow and they lose her. Her consciousness will slip with the eagerness of a thread pushed through a needle’s eye.
The Net was red, blue, and green. It was cold, hot, dry and wet. The Net was dead, yet also so so alive. The screams of the ‘runners echoed by the sparks and tremors of the AIs. Churning, moaning, groaning, the expanse of cyberspace were aching in a constant drum for more, cannibalising itself for new information, gripping at the barest contact with the physical realm. Any gonk that dared was snatched like a piece of meat, a ribeye, a brisket, chuck roast, tri-tip, top sirloin, shank, flank steak, rib, in the deep dark ocean. Their screams, gurgling, pleads, all blanked by their jellyfish like tentacles. Rolling, twisting and engulfing their souls, hopes and dreams in their skirts, harvesting every centimetre for the perpetually updating pro-quo.
In this pit of vipers, she found shelter. Her fragmented mind could replay in comfort the movies her memories served to be. Sometimes even attempted at editing them, give them a happier ending, dim the bloodlust, erase the sadness, eviscerate the loneliness. Silly thing she is or was? Couldn’t do much. Her arms wasted at her side, legs weak and unresponsive, eyelid glued shut. Did they bury her or burned her corpse? Did Misty do her make-up over her deformed face? Did Vik tried to suture her body back? Did he bothered? Did she? Did they come to her funeral? Was there even a funeral?
She always wanted to be buried into the soil and have a willow tree or, at least, a daffodil growing from her guts. Didn’t like burning bodies. Didn’t like seeing the water wash away what little remains of a person that used to be her universe. Didn’t like being met by the impersonal grey face of a slot in the Columbarium’s rows. Preferring something permanent. What’s more permanent than a tree in the arid middle of nowhere?
That ensured she would be remembered. As an oasis from the scorching Sun or a hot-spot for pictures or picnics. Hell, she wouldn't mind if people only came to shag. At least, they would have visited her grave. They would just come and she would not be abandoned again.
Abandoned. Her deepest fear. Life, fate, destiny. Whatever it was. It wasn’t merciful with her. Her people left her, her own blood tossed her, her friends didn’t know her anymore. Was it so much for her to believe Johnny would stay?
They had a deal. She will leave and try to netrun her way back, as a creature of the wide web if nothing else. And he will take care of her body, nurture it back to life. He would feed it, wash it, rub cream and oils, dress it. He would give it all the love she couldn’t. But as the process was at its tipping point, the dog Johnny is betrayed her. His hands grabbed her shoulders akin to a Doberman's jaw does into the jugular. He snarled while throwing her out the way. The crude man lied to her again. Used her as others did. He never intended on her making out with him.
După ce s-a văzut cu sacii în căruță, he abandoned her. The burning flesh of her torn body was still hot. The carnage she made out of Arasake HQ was his desire, and desire he got. Using her weakness, people being kind to her, his sick fetish snaked into her brain waves. Like a drug, he turned her mind to be addicted. So addicted she didn’t bother no other soul with completing this suicide plan.
Taking the Caliburn she found in some cave. Probably merch klept by the Raffens the woman killed with Panam Palmer. The explosives filled the car to the brim. It was a baptism of TNT and other flammable fluids. Took down 4 levels, everyone dead. Not that her soul cared. Too tired to.
Slaughter guided her hands, the blood only made the knives enter easier. It was grotesque how romantic it all felt. How intimate his praising was whenever she decapitated some corpo or put bullets in their eye sockets. And like the good bitch she was, she only tripled the aggression. By the end, you would be justified to think the ghost of Adam Smasher possessed her.
It wasn’t enough. The adoration, the care, the gentleness, her hands adorned themselves in while putting back the pieces of his soul. So he could rest. Could come back rejuvenated and renewed to a more peaceful way of living. She left him her apartments, her guns, blades and beloved cars. Even her cat, the precious naked nugget, was fed prior. The litter is clean thoroughly so when he came back the pungent smell and a needy cat won’t greet him.
Just to betray her. To leave her in the same dark abyss. To torment her. The same torment Rogue endured. To ache for his touch, but be burned by it every time.
Now? Not even the most rabid AI touched her. Invisible to them. Abandoning her just as they did. Just like Johnny did. Just like Robert John Linder has done.
"You need to wake up, V." The voice shook her world despite the calm tone.
"You can see me?"
"Of course. You are part of me."
"Who are you?"
"No one you need to worry about. You just need to wake up. He needs you."
"Needs me? Who needs me? Johnny? Tell him he can go fuck himself."
"No and no. Just wake up."
"No, I want to sleep."
"You slept enough, Veronica."