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Chapter Text

Over the next few days, the hazy nowhere Valerie had been drifting through grew much less medicated, and the visit that had once felt undeniably real to her drugged-up mind now started to resemble a mocking trick of her imagination. Starved for entertainment her bedridden and blind body couldn't provide, her brain subsisted on a diet of feverish dreams. Having nearly convinced herself it had been one of those, she heard the familiar footsteps in her ward once again.

This time, finally lucid enough, the sergeant managed to recount all the small details she had uncovered about Peralez, Mr. Blue Eyes and her own conjectures regarding Night Corp. The existence of powerful players backing her challenger hardly unsettled the president. The scope and means of their influence certainly did. Myers listened in attuned silence, interrupted only by precise questions asked in a hushed voice, then curtly squeezed her hand—Valerie had been already aware it was the only one she had left now—and quickly walked out. A third visit would never come.

In the absence of a more meaningful calendar, Sergeant Linder restarted her timeline from the renewed sense of loss that tugged at her chest when the woman left. The mention that yesterday had been her own birthday provided her with a precise date. Time had dulled most things, yet seemed powerless against this fixation. As if four years ago, an FIA neurosurgeon stumbled upon that still sore node of conflicting emotions that Myers had left in her brain and mistakenly fused it into her neural system as its permanent part. The hospital provided no medication for that, but in every other aspect she was steadily getting better.

Only a week later, her body was disconnected from the medtech, transferred to a regular single ward, and assisted in removing the bandage from its newborn eyes. Ignoring strict orders to avoid strain, she turned on the wall-mounted TV the moment she was left unsupervised, her tender optic nerves flaring even at the dimmest light. Glued to the bright screen, the marine spent hours squinting and wiping away tears of discomfort her itchy kiroshis had no use for. She wasn't sentimental enough to shed real tears, but still, it was a relief to see that the woman was fine. Thriving, even.

The pundits, blurred into shifting patches of color, occasionally praised the incumbent president's campaign, revitalized by Myers' reportedly ad-libbed speech at some veterans' venue a few weeks prior. Apparently, it had become an instant classic that 'reminded the nation of the Rosalind Myers of 2065,' whatever that meant. However, this week's top story was Peralez' own daughter stepping forward with shocking accusations about her father's complicity in her mother's death.

Though no hard evidence had yet been presented, the claim and the claimant left a dent of suspicion on Peralez' previously immaculate facade. He had been losing both steam and ground in the polls ever since. The sergeant smiled at the thought that T-Bug would've appreciated her recalling Aristotle's definition of people as political animals. In that sense, Myers was an apex predator gaining on her prey, and that alone made Valerie feel as if things, for once, were going the right way. Or, at least, the least wrong.

The startling drop of her own name amid the presidential race coverage came entirely out of left field. A young, dark-haired woman standing before the pale facade of what she called Kress Hospital seemed to know more about the marine's treatment than the marine herself did. Confined to her dimly lit wards and the persistent fog in her mind, she remained, quite literally, in the dark about the fact that Sergeant Linder's name had gained recognition. The president's visits to her ward were public knowledge as well. Having overcome the initial shock, she accepted this new reality. After all, very little of President Myers' life could ever escape the spotlight, and even less—in the middle of her campaign.

The following day, Dr. Casteel noticed her inflamed eyes and reprimanded the sergeant for not following her instructions. She also informed her of the flowers sent from the White House—and the fact that they weren't permitted in the Neurology Department. The pursed lips and frown suggested that Dr. Casteel disapproved of the president's disregard for hospital policy too. Still, she passed Valerie the attached note and left.

It would've been nice to pretend she had managed to land at the bottom of Myers' personal memo, somewhere far below urgent state matters and yet another reminder to 'call Mom,' but she clearly hadn't. The white rectangle—equally formal in its shape and tone and stripped of any personal touch except the presidential signature—congratulated Sergeant Linder on her improvement and wished her continued 'exemplary record of service.' Valerie took the hint and sent the card straight to the bin.

Later that day, she tried on her shiny new cyberarm and adjusted its final design to make it look a little less shiny, and a little less new. The reporter had been right about that part, but it was the last bit of intel she would intercept from the outside world—on her doctor's orders, the TV panel in her ward went dark and mute. From now on, getting acquainted with her prosthesis was to be her sole entertainment until shipping out. That learning curve cramped her chrome fingers with frustration, barely soothed by the occasional walks in the hospital garden.

Located high above the ground, its greenery offered a welcome respite from the withering autumn beyond these walls, but it couldn't unwind her enough to forgive herself for the self-inflicted sting of hope. It had taken her four years to even consider moving on. Barely two weeks ago, the counter had been unceremoniously reset.

*****

A week later

For the past few weeks, she had settled into a new routine: all meetings strictly in the morning, a quick lunch, then a retreat into the Treaty Room for the rest of the day. Now that the thin margins her victory had been slipping through had finally closed, and everything hung in delicate balance, the White House rank and file might've found her shift of focus away from the campaign reassuring. If the president was absorbed in present affairs, it surely signaled she was confident in the future. Drowning in heavy thoughts and classified briefings, Rosalind was anything but.

Still, as long as the electoral coin kept spinning, it pulled everyone's attention off her hands. The 'free' states might claim independence from Washington, but their heartbeat still followed the same rhythm. With all concerned parties anticipating the winner, even the war machine had nearly ground to a halt. That slack carved out the time Myers desperately needed. The Treaty Room, in turn, offered her favorite fireplace, her favorite table, and her favorite kind of silence, only sharpened by the well-oiled ticking of the tall-case clock. A rare luxury in the campaign's turmoil, and an urgent necessity in light of a development she should've never overlooked.

Under her personal supervision, the FIA had established a full-fledged presence in Night City over a decade ago, but nearly all of its focus had remained on Arasaka and Militech. The first alarm bells had rung around four years ago, with a leaked report of Night Corp's AI tests. Coming from an unproven external source, it was troubling enough to justify infiltrating their headquarters. That attempt ended with the agent publicly exposed and the FIA forced to pull back. Then Texas, conveniently, became the low-hanging fruit and the new priority.

So, when it mattered most, the crucial crumbs of intel arrived with a simple merc. Once, she might've been surprised to learn that Valerie—she was still adjusting to that name—had been involved in this mess too, but it was so on-brand the president barely blinked. Had this story come from anyone else, she would've likely dismissed it as unusually well thought out but still a conspiracy theory. But once she had trusted the girl with her life, and that gut instinct—probably against her better judgement—hadn't changed.

And yet, those crumbs were too small and too stale to trace a proper lead, and came too late to prepare an effective contingency plan in case of her loss. As efficient as the agency was in gathering intelligence, hoarding it en masse only complicated the process of discerning the relevant, yet superficially unconnected pieces. Attempting to do so retroactively with a fraction of its manpower for discretion's sake made it tenfold harder. The FIA had grown bloated, bureaucratic, and predictable, while the unconventional threat demanded anything but. Severely unprepared for the open phase of the conflict, Rosalind prioritized not spooking Peralez' puppeteers.

Accidentally exposing the existence of personality-altering tech to the public was another major concern. An unrestricted scientific advancement, layered atop economic instability and historically low literacy, had brewed a perfect Petri dish for conspiratorial thinking. The revelation that Pandora's box had been opened was ominous enough on its own. If the news broke containment, it would spark mass paranoia and civic unrest, threatening to collapse everything she had meticulously built over the years into irretrievable chaos. A steep uphill battle ahead—and that hill's slope a fucking minefield.

The sheer number of decisions to make and variables to take into account had been grinding her down. Normally, she was comfortable calling the shots without full information at hand. Fog of war was a perfectly mundane forecast—the higher she climbed, the thicker it got. But now, she was utterly blind, unsure where to plant her foot at each step, but compelled to keep moving or risk falling behind for good. The consequences of every choice would catch up with her much later, when she had no control over their outcome.

At least, when it came to Peralez himself, conventional methods still proved effective. An anonymous tip with footage of his aide speaking to the future murderer of her mother, paired with a paper trail linking his campaign's funding to the gang, was enough to push his estranged daughter—already paranoid over the inexplicable change in her father's character—into suspecting foul play. The FIA hardly needed to manipulate the evidence: as Federalist Mayor of Night City, Peralez had welcomed support from 6th Street gangers and personally met with a few upstanding members of the 'local militia.' When both wings of that militia plunged into a minor civil war of their own, contradicting the impression that the gang had fully thrown its weight behind Myers, it only added credibility to the agency's spin that the assassin was, in fact, Peralez' very own deranged admirer.

Meanwhile, a dedicated research team had been scrambling to reverse-engineer the tech in an attempt to formulate at least one feasible theory of how it could function. Of course, entirely hypothetically, on paper, as none of them had actually seen it in action, relying solely on four-year-old memories of a barely conscious girl—against the president's better judgement, indeed. Detecting traces of the 'influence' would be the first step, with prevention hopefully coming second. Obtaining or reproducing it, however…

Rosalind hadn't yet decided whether she wanted to go that far but wasn't sure she could resist the temptation either if directly presented with the choice. A world where she could not merely influence people, but realign their entire belief system to match what was expected of them… Absently, she wondered if the ethics course was still part of the future scientists' syllabus. Perhaps it would make a fitting topic for the next conversation with her mother. The thought introduced a frown, closely followed by the intercom's chime, red glow awaiting her response. She pressed the button and rubbed her eyes, weary of the endless pages to be read.

"Hannah Atwood to see you, ma'am." Her aide's voice, slightly distorted, sounded far too loud for the room. The president drummed her fingers against the polished tabletop before responding.

"Thank you, Carol. Send her in." Myers released the intercom switch and leaned back in her chair, watching the heavy door swing open. There was little point in hiding her persistent fatigue or the scattered datashards littering the massive table.

"Madam President, I've cleared your schedule per your morning request," the visitor informed her from the threshold, a polite smile on her lips and a tablet in her hands. The door behind her closed quietly.

"Well, thank you, Hannah. I was hoping for an update on Petrochem votes, but that'll do. Next time, just have your aide tell mine it's done. You know, the old-fashioned way," Rosalind said, not bothering to hide her irritation as well. She preferred to delay the scrutiny of the human-sized polygraph for as long as possible, but she could hardly refuse a meeting without a believable pretext. If only she had ordered the elevators disabled for unscheduled maintenance—the residual limp in the woman's gait could've made this visit a phone call.

"Felt like a chat, you know. Just to make sure we're on the same page." Hannah's voice carried far less deference now that they were private. She surveyed the room, likely noting anything out of the ordinary, and casually set the tablet down on the low table between the sofa and the fireplace before shuffling to the liquor cabinet in the corner to pour herself a whiskey. Very few people would dare behave this way in Myers' presence, but then again, very few had known her this long and this closely.

"You're here to drag me for pulling the plug on 'Meet with the Press,' aren't you?" Rosalind deliberately crossed her arms but didn't expect the defensive pose or the preemptive choice of topic to throw the woman off the scent. "I won't waste my time on that. Two people still watch it. Both on life support."

"Nah. I'm here to drag you for taking me for a fool," Hannah confirmed her suspicion, settling into the armchair directly in front of the Treaty desk, glass in hand. "I cherished this hope you'd overcome your presidential midlife crisis, but as soon as your ass pulled a pinpoint ahead in the polls, you seem to have developed a new one." Far less deference. "The constant reschedules, late-night flights… Care to tell me what the fuck's going on?" That was too blunt even for her, which meant she was genuinely worried. And pissed. "I wouldn't've asked you, but Lloyd's so tight-lipped these days like his mouth's a butthole."

"Have you considered I might be having an affair?" Myers casually shrugged off the bluntness and offered another pointless misdirection.

"I actually have—you believe that?" Hannah sighed, rolling the tumbler between her palms. Rosalind had always found her a peculiar drinker, one who seemed to enjoy the idea of liquor more than the liquor itself. "Had to stop when I caught myself looking into that foster marine of yours. Too much even for you." The vexation in her visitor's voice was genuinely amusing, but it was more of a friendly dig than a probe. Still, unable to uncover a secret on purpose, Hannah had nearly stumbled upon another piece of the puzzle by chance. "If you insist on this line of defense, at least entertain me with a viable 'who.'"

"Lloyd, obviously," Myers replied dryly, and unfolded her arms, resting her elbows upon the table's smooth surface instead. "Like treating his mouth like a butthole too."

"Not bad, I'll give you that," her visitor nodded in approval. "Almost wish it were true. Too bad I know you tend to hole up here when serious shit hits the fan. And as your fucking Chief of Staff, it's kinda my job to know what shit it is this time."

"Hate to break the news, but we're in the middle of a war—and one week away from the election," the president habitually scoffed at her.

"Please. We both know Texas won't hold much longer. The election just decides who gets the spoils," equally habitually, Hannah dismissed the ridicule. "I'd rather it be you, but if you're keen on self‑sabotage, please, let me know. I'd like to evaluate my career options while I still have the time."

"Retirement's also a possibility, you know," Myers offered. Her determination to win was at an all‑time high, but for now she needed that limbo. Later, when she had to read her Chief of Staff in on what had truly been happening, the woman might even feel grateful for these last moments of ignorant bliss.

"No, thanks." Hannah waved the suggestion off and finally wet her lips with the whiskey. "I've missed twenty‑five Thanksgivings in a row, and I plan to stick to this sacred tradition until I strike turkey. So you owe me another term."

"Whatever keeps your family happy, I guess." The banter was unexpectedly soothing, almost therapeutic, and Rosalind found herself fighting a smile. "Doubt they appreciate bowling metaphors any more than I do."

"Speaking of happy, you want me to watch over Newcomb, or he's free to do whatever he wants?" Myers paused—the sudden shift in topic caught her off‑guard.

"That very much depends on what exactly we're talking about," she replied warily.

"Ah, you haven't seen the footage yet," the woman in front of her set the accessory whiskey aside and stretched her arm to pick up the tablet.

"Is it Peralez burning the NUS flag, and you are saving the news for my birthday?" Rosalind regarded the tablet with apprehension.

"Alas, nothing that exhilarating, but Newcomb seems to think your sarge can make a fine pet," Hannah muttered, scrolling through its contents.

"Can she?" Rosalind asked in a level voice, feeling completely out of the loop. Perhaps she should've paid more attention to her Communications Director's memos. And to the girl too, though that one had never given off an impression of a loose cannon.

"See for yourself." With a few swift taps on the tablet her Chief of Staff sent the file to the screen disguised as an idle mirror above the mantelpiece.

The video was shot from a first-person perspective, most likely through an eye-camera implant. Given the topic of the discussion, the distant solitary figure in olive PT gear was certainly Sergeant Linder. The president found the choice of a plain black cyberarm odd but made sure her face wouldn't reflect that. At least, complying with her expressed wishes, it hadn't eaten the girl's whole shoulder. Stopping an inch shy of the short sleeve, it might not give the marine a major boost in raw strength but hadn't taken another piece of her either.

Their last conversation had altered the circumstances too drastically to continue entertaining the idea of keeping the ex-merc close this time around. So, she dusted off a much older plan to send the girl to a military academy—especially since her new face and name wouldn't be tied to Saburo's murder—but remained uncharacteristically hesitant to convey this decision. Instead, for a time being, Myers chose to pretend Sergeant Linder didn't exist. Avoiding the problem, rather than facing it, was also out of character, but she justified it by being too overwhelmed with far graver issues to spare the bandwidth for something this small.

Contradicting her make-believe, the girl on the screen looked very much real even amidst the fake summer of the hospital's indoor garden, rows of marble planters with trees and shrubs spreading in every direction. Casually perched on a bench with her elbows propped against the knees, the marine appeared completely absorbed by something in her hands, her organic and metal fingers slightly brushing. This wasn't how Rosalind had expected to see that face for the first time, but it was actually the best way. She reluctantly touched the control panel to start the video and let the camera move closer.

At a distance, the posture alone made the figure resemble her merc—overlooking the different hair color—but as soon as the observer's shadow reached her, the marine raised her eyes, and the illusion of familiarity vanished. It was a good face, albeit pale, but too much of it had once been hidden behind a silly tattoo and an exo-jaw, so now Rosalind struggled to see any semblance or even assess how much of those features had been altered. The girl on the video jerked an eyebrow in an unspoken question, then tilted her head to the right, as if recognizing the person in front of her. The eye color and facial expressions remained unmistakably the same.

"Hey, do I know ya?" asked an unfamiliar voice with a familiar cadence.

"I didn't expect to meet a fan. Sarah Hartman, NN54," the unseen reporter introduced herself with an audible smile, and the shadow of her outstretched hand brushed the grass beneath the marine's feet. "Sergeant Linder, if I'm not mistaken?" The girl interrupted whatever she was doing and straightened up, offering the perfectly recognizable cheeky smile in return. The artificial wind gently rustled glossy leaves of a shrub behind her head.

"You're not," she lifted her hands slightly, and the camera zoomed in on her fingers, streaked with something grey. "Sorry, hands're in clay," she explained with an apologetic shrug, "Save that handshake for another time, wontcha?" After a moment of deliberation, Rosalind concluded that she liked the new sound of that voice, deeper and more velvety, but still bearing the same spry rhythm.

"Sure." Judging by the change in distance and the angle of view, the reporter chose to sit on the opposite bench. "Enjoying your stay at Kress Hospital, Sergeant Linder?"

"Well, I'm walking, talking. Got a chance to become an artist. What's not to love?" The girl responded nonchalantly but evidently didn't lower her guard. "Thought this was a military hospital. They patch up media too?"

"Oh, no, I'm just visiting a friend here." The woman's tone made no effort to hide it was merely a front.

"Uh-huh. So how's your friend?" the sergeant played along.

"Died an hour ago," the reporter sighed in exaggerated disappointment. "I'll have to find another if I want to talk to you again." The girl' eyebrows rose in amusement.

"Hope your next friend feels better, I guess." Valerie shook her head, smiling. "Doubt it'll worth the effort, though."

"And I doubt it will not." The playful notes in the reporter's voice never faded, nor did the girl's grin.

Rosalind was certain her face wouldn't betray her, but she wasn't too thrilled about this first-person experience of her marine flirting with someone else. The marine—she corrected herself, pushing the possessiveness aside. And then it hit her. She laughed, stopping the playback and staring straight through the mask of bemused innocence on Hannah's face.

"Are you really wasting my time just to gauge my reaction?" the president asked, incredulous.

"And whose fault is that?" The woman was clearly enjoying herself. "Two separate visits to a nobody piqued my interest—that's two more than you paid me last week."

"You had a scheduled kneecap replacement. Hardly a decent photo op." The reproach had no visible effect.

"Sure, but you know what a decent photo op produces, Rosalind? Fucking photos." That was a fair observation, but not incriminating enough to make her yield any ground.

"You should be grateful there were none. The girl looks much better now," Myers shrugged. "If I've satisfied your curiosity…" She moved her hand to the right, eager to turn off the screen. Watching it alone, without Hannah's calculated examination, felt like a safer option.

"Oh, come on! You'll like it better in twenty seconds—give or take. They'll start talking about you." Her Chief of Staff clearly didn't appreciate the attempt to wrap up her entertainment.

"I'm not the most vain person around," Rosalind denied the implication. "That title's fiercely contested in DC."

"I'm rooting for you in that race too," Hannah quipped, her voice dripping with performative admiration. Ignoring the poke, Myers tapped her fingertips against the tabletop, still in deliberation. That nose for bullshit would lead the woman to the semblance of truth sooner or later, but it might keep her busy and out of her hair for now, at least. In the grand scheme of things, the 'Sergeant Linder' mystery was a highly expendable one.

"Fine, but twenty more seconds is all I'll give," the president conceded, resuming the playback.

"Is it a hobby?" The marine frowned at the question. The voice had to clarify, "The clay thing."

"Um, no. Y'know, this thing feels nothing like mine," she nodded at her cyberarm casually, as if losing a limb were a mere nuisance. "So, I kinda have to trick my brain it is. My PT says it helps." The sergeant paused for a moment, then opened her hand—the camera zoomed closer on something resembling a severely deformed caltrop on her palm. "The bird's not buying that." The invisible woman's laughter grated on Myers' ears, but the girl didn't seem to share the sentiment.

"So… you and President Myers—what were you talking about during her visits?" The question prompted the marine to toss the reporter an inquisitive look, mirroring the one that Rosalind studied her face with now—the merc she remembered had never been good at keeping it straight.

"And here I thought you were digging my art," she inclined her head in mock reproach but promptly offered a convincing answer. "Honestly? My drugs did all the talking. Can't remember shit, just hoping President Myers got a laugh outta it." Distracting maneuvers, luckily, seemed to remain her forte, but the glimpse of cold indifference in those grey eyes was new. If Rosalind had to guess, her avoidance had been noted. The sergeant glanced to the left and rose from her bench. "Um, sorry to interrupt, looks like my PT's back. Means I gotta delta for some chrome check or brain scan or whatever if I wanna get back into those cammies by next week."

Myers stilled her hand from stopping the video—for now she could only hope the footage was extremely fresh. The USMC wouldn't refuse her even if she wished to snatch the sergeant right out of the barracks, but atypical requests attracted exceptional attention. Preventing the girl from making another foolish attempt on her own life outweighed the trouble, though.

"Can you answer one last question?" The frame indicated that the reporter had left her seat as well.

"Can ya do it on the go?" The marine started walking, not waiting for a reply.

"Sure." The camera accompanied her along the way, giving the president a chance to appraise that profile. Alas, it wasn't half bad either. "Who are you voting for in this election, Sergeant Linder?" The woman's voice took on a more professional tone for a change—likely in one last attempt to salvage a usable segment for her newsroom as nothing else in the footage could make the cut. Without slowing pace, Valerie turned her face toward her.

"Um, President Myers, of course," she responded with a smile, likely entertaining their unintentional inside joke, and added before looking away, "Fat chance of finding a marine with a different answer." The camera carried on alongside as the reporter asked a follow-up.

"Any specific reason why? Once a Night City resident, you might lend a fresh perspective to our viewers." The wheels of the press were certainly spinning fast, but Myers had little doubt that Sergeant Linder's identity, personally cooked by Reed, might crack under that little pressure. In any case, the girl's telling manner of speaking made any other place of origin highly disputable to anyone with ears.

"Meaning, 'sides Semper Fi?" The sergeant slowed to a halt to face the camera once more, fixing her gaze above it as if carefully choosing her words, while the artificial breeze shuffled her blonde hair. She wasn't smiling anymore, but that calm, serious look reminded Rosalind of her merc too. "Dunno much 'bout President Myers personally. You mighta figured that much. But she sure got a hell of a backbone. Can't say the same 'bout any politico from NC." Myers raised her eyebrows. Who would've thought the girl could be that good, giving a perfect non-answer while looking like a USMC recruitment poster? The sergeant took her cue to flash her final smile to the camera. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" The video stopped at the frame of her walking away toward an older man—likely the mentioned physical therapist. In a split second, the screen turned back into a simple mirror.

"See now what got Newcomb pumped up?" The question drew the president's attention back to her visitor.

"Well, I must admit the girl's surprised me." Rosalind caught herself tapping on the table again in contemplation and forced her hand to rest before continuing. "Still, not sure how she could be useful."

"Useful? Strong word. But creating the narrative instead of chasing it would make the guy's life easier, and a pet hero having your back certainly wouldn't hurt," Hannah shrugged, then said with a nonchalant smile, "Plenty of marines look good in the uniform, but hardly any can string together a proper sentence. We made the last one we found our President, you know. I'd look twice at such a wonder too, even if that lingo made my ears bleed."

"I thought you didn't approve of my 'foster marine,'" Myers' voice conveyed the disinterest suitable for discussing the taste of water.

"Nah. You may run a puppy shelter in the White House for all I care," Hannah sighed, then added, her tone unusually stern, "As long as you also get to live here."

"As I see it, it's not me who wants to adopt a puppy," Rosalind remarked dryly and found the right time to ask, "How old's the footage?"

"Doubt they've aired it yet," the woman put her mind at ease. "The guy kept an eye on your sarge in hopes of earning your forgiveness. Don't know why he's scared shitless—everyone knows you are meek as a lamb." The president gave an uneasy smirk at the commentary. At least Newcomb's timidness in her presence never translated into a lack of confidence in his dealings with the press. Otherwise, he would've been completely useless.

"He still has no plan. And very little time if the girl's up for hospital discharge," she noted as she reclined into the chair, carefully nudging her Chief of Staff toward the preferred course of action.

"Not if you intervene," Hannah suggested, obedient to the prompt. Rosalind took her time to imitate meditation over the request.

"Fine. I'll arrange her convalescent leave till the end of the year," she reluctantly agreed. "But do a proper vetting before you let Newcomb tie the girl to the admin. Or there'll be two people vying for my forgiveness." Poking holes in the sergeant's cover-up wasn't ideal, but it would give her enough time to deal with the mess of her own making.

"Not my first rodeo, Rosalind." The woman sounded almost scandalized.

"Surely hope that much." The president nodded and muttered as an afterthought, "A sergeant's allowance won't get a cardboard box in DC. Have Lloyd arrange her lodging." Her Security Department maintained several safe houses around Washington with aerial access and air-gapped privacy, which would come in handy. "Everything else's on you."

"Interesting," her Chief of Staff drawled thoughtfully, "having another tête-à-tête in mind, aren't you?" Myers raised an eyebrow at the suggestion and made a point to keep direct eye contact. She should've been more subtle, but any answer now would sound like an excuse. Yet, her visitor didn't seem to be waiting for one. "In case your sarge mentions it, I had my aide tell yours—the old-fashioned way, as you put it—to send her flowers on your behalf. Didn't want you to look like the careless asshole you are," she said with an innocent smile that widened as Rosalind involuntarily pursed her lips. Unknowingly, her Chief of Staff made her look exactly like that. The silent treatment was fine. Safe, even. After all, there had been more silence than words between them over those years. But dry formality couldn't sit with the girl. It never had.

"That's… very thoughtful of you." She could hear the strain in her own voice, but they both already knew she had lost this round.

"Might send her more now. At least she gives a fuck if you win." The woman looked unbearably pleased with herself.

"Once is more than enough, thank you," Rosalind cut the gloating short, promptly mending the breach in her cool. "Since you've already looked into her file, care to take another glance and tell me her regiment? And for the love of God, don't make me call the wrong colonel just because it's your idea of fun." Something in her voice silenced Hannah's content smile for good.

"Huh, you seem to know me well enough too. It's Bert's," the woman said plainly, wary of the shift in her mood.

"Look at you, so useful. Like a real Chief of Staff," Rosalind attempted a smile, aiming to ease the tension in the room. It wasn't Hannah's fault she had been delaying handling this matter.

"All right," her visitor grabbed her tablet and rose from the seat.

"All right?" This hasty retreat surely came as a surprise.

"You obviously won't spill more beans, and I have too much to chew on already to risk irking you further. I'm almost sure it's not another bout of midlife crisis," Hannah clarified with a hint of conciliation. "Can't rule it out entirely, though, considering there's a much younger girl in the mix." She couldn't help but throw in the final dig. The consistency made Rosalind chuckle. "But otherwise, you seem fine, so I can return to twisting arms."

"Hannah…" Myers' voice reached her visitor's back as she was already at the door.

"What?" Hannah glanced back over her shoulder.

"Thank you… for the pep talk." And for the nudge to deal with the sergeant. She would do it in a week. Two weeks, at most.

"My pleasure, Madam President," Hannah responded, opening the door, her voice once again perfectly respectful.

Chapter Text

A month later

Not even a month on her own in the city she knew nothing about, Sergeant Linder remained uncomfortably bad at judging how much time or effort it would take her to get anywhere by public transit. To avoid any transportation mishaps, she named the first spot she remembered passing each day on her commute between her provisional apartment and the physical therapy clinic. She had suspected it wasn't her kind of place, but the first step inside made it painfully obvious. Still, she put on her best game face and carried on. It was too late for a change of heart anyway.

Back in Night City, she wouldn't set foot in a joint frequented by corpos and other high-end clientele unless a gig demanded it. Yet she had never looked so out of place there, even if simpler diners were much more up her alley. In Washington's posh spot, she stuck out like a sore thumb and felt like a fish out of water. The perfectly polite personnel didn't bat an eye and promptly guided her to a requested booth, separated by slightly frosted yet still transparent plexiglass from the rest of the patrons—to bring her aquatic allusions full circle. At least, she wasn't late and even had ten minutes left to wait for the food, Reed, and her organic hand to turn less red.

She'd had limited encounters with cold in her previous life and had likely missed every chance to experience a real winter—either because she had been in a medically induced coma or simply barely conscious in a sterile ward. Now, the slushy sleet of early December on the pavement offered Valerie a taste of the season—and the discomfort of annoyingly wet feet. Though the Corps had swiftly transferred her personal belongings to make her weird convalescent leave more bearable, neither her sneakers nor the pleather biker jacket she wore today were of much help.

Quite the opposite: most booths and tables were occupied by women and men in dark, discreetly expensive power suits—a sharp contrast to her own choice of threads. Her formal Blues would've fit in better here, but the uniform made her too recognizable, and no one in this place seemed eager to draw attention. Even the quaint self-playing piano at the center sounded so softly its notes barely brushed the patrons' thoughts or conversations. The sergeant didn't welcome the extra time alone in her head, though. A simpler diner's noisy TV or radio would've drowned out any attempts at reflection. Here, she had to force the distraction herself, letting her gaze wander aimlessly around.

As far as she could tell, the local crowd carried themselves like the ordinary corpos she used to see in Night City, but unlike NC's players, they had an intrinsic inclination to moderate their appearances—probably much like their views. The deliberate lack of individuality lent the place the air of a Militech conference. She turned the thought over in her mind and quietly sighed: after all, that was exactly where she was, with Militech Tower occupying an entire city block just over the horizon.

A soft chime from the niche beside her table disrupted her observations—her bacon and eggs had finally arrived. The order was, as Valerie suspected, just as off-key with the place as she was herself, but tasting organic food she once could only read about had become a small indulgence she entertained whenever possible. Four years ago, she already had enough money to sate that curiosity, yet the ticking bomb in her head had put her life on indefinite pause. A year ago, she still had little appetite for living. This time Valerie intended to at least try.

She set the plate on the table, returned the metal cloche covering it back to the niche, and found the dish—white, yellow, and brown-red—oddly picturesque and more varied in color, shape, and texture than she had anticipated. But in her limited experience, that was often the case with organic food. Valerie picked up her knife and fork—and froze at a familiar voice behind her: "Sergeant Linder?"

She turned to the man entering the booth. Reed had probably left his coat—undoubtedly more suitable for the weather—at the entrance and now wore a light grey shirt with another unreasonably colorful tie and dark trousers. Too casual for the politico crowd, as well.

"What, won't even shove a barrel between my ri—," Valerie started, but bit her tongue when he gave a subtle shake of his head. The FIA agent pulled something resembling a pack of mints from his pocket and tossed it on the table. Nothing perceptible changed, but now he settled across from her, visibly relaxed.

"You've made a habit of getting into biz you know jack shit about," he said in his half-condescending, half-resigned tone.

"Meaning?" Valerie asked, her eyes fixed on the small plastic box on the table.

"Any decent spot in the DC metro area offers every whisper for sale, and at a bulk price," he clarified, paranoid as usual, but likely rightfully so. "Now," he nodded toward his 'mints,' "we can chat. How're you, Valerie?"

"All's good, I guess," she answered vaguely, still mulling over his words. "And everyone's chill 'bout it?" She cast another glance at the box, likely masking a short-range jammer. "Figured locals'd be more into keeping their shit private."

"You should've gone with 'Round Robin' if privacy's what you're after," Reed mocked her naivety. "Pretty much everywhere else is like this. The sharks know the underwater currents. 'Sides, curbs down the competition, since only the small fish get screwed," The agent nicely played into her nautical motif, his expression making no secret of who exactly Valerie was in this food chain.

"Not trying to navigate these waters, Reed. Just strolling the beach, dipping my toes here 'n' there," she smiled apologetically. The talk reminded her of a discussion she'd once had with a digital ghost in her head on the overgrown Dogtown basketball court, but this time she was pretty sure she wasn't getting into any game at all.

"If you say so," the man gave her an apprehensive look. "Still, a weird beach for a stroll. Had no clue the Corps paycheck could handle this kinda challenge."

"My first choice. Literally. Not 'zactly a native, y'know," the sergeant grumbled, carefully observing the agent in return: they might not have parted on the best terms, but nothing in his posture betrayed lingering hard feelings. "How about you? Still pencil-pushing?" She pointed her knife at his tie before finally putting it to work and cutting one of the yolks in half, fascinated by the way the yellow spilled.

"Something like that." For a moment, Reed fell silent, prompting Valerie to raise her eyes from the plate and look at his grim face. She mused if the president had played a part in this cruel joke, to willfully take his purpose and chain him to a desk. She also spotted some hesitance lurking beneath that surface, as if the man was weighing his next words. "Gonna give you a heads-up so you don't think it's an ambush," he said at last and proved her right. The sergeant caught herself covertly assessing the sharpness of the knife in her hand in case it was an ambush, then leaned back in her chair, deliberately setting the cutlery down on the edge of her plate. Reed's paranoia was contagious.

The agent himself didn't look like he was expecting a direct confrontation, and even if he were… The Night City merc she once was, up to her teeth in chrome and with her gun of choice in hand— that merc could've handled just about anything. As an unarmed marine, still not fully adjusted to her prosthetic arm, she might as well throw in the towel before it even started.

"There's an internal protocol. All agents gotta report unusual pings," unaware or, more likely, unconcerned with her wariness, Reed continued. "And yours is about as unusual as it gets. Had a choice: either I file it and raise a huge red flag over both our heads, or let someone else call the shots." A premonition twisted her gut in a cold knot, but Valerie let him finish outlining the situation. "Our mutual friend authorized me to scrap my phone log and meet you. Still have to file a report, but for her eyes only." The gut feeling proved right. "So I got two options for you here: we talk, or I let you walk. Either way, need you to answer one question off the record."

"I see," she tapped her organic fingers against the edge of the table, taking her time to respond. It didn't bother her that Myers would be privy to anything they discussed. Yet being the subject of a report felt slightly dehumanizing, especially since the president had shown no further interest in what she had to say. The fact that she had taken the warning about Peralez seriously enough to win her reelection and begin peace talks remained the only consolation.

It had been three weeks since the sergeant had finally delivered on her promise to vote for her—and had caught a glimpse of her victory speech on TV, in the lobby of her apartment building. Everyone in the capital had been following the election with bated breath during those days, but by the next morning, they had already moved on from news reports to the reality show of the month, leaving Valerie wishing she could put it all behind her just as effortlessly.

"Got nothing to hide." She shrugged the tension off her shoulders, knife and fork back in her hands. "Just got too bored not to holler the only guy I know here." Or anywhere, if she were honest. Her new face and name had burned all bridges and, trapped in her own head for years, she seemed to have forgotten how to build new ones.

If not for Lucas' habit of switching to Spanish that reminded her of Jackie, she might've stayed strangers with her own copilot—quite a feat, considering the twin neural link. He still remembered to text her now and then but had already been reassigned to a new crew, making it unlikely they would ever get to drive a panzer together. Sometimes, it felt so lonely she almost regretted turning down the invitation to dinner from that reporter. Almost. Having to guard every word was the surest way to spoil an evening. Alas, she was about to do exactly that.

Valerie sighed. "Ask away so we can just chat." She cut herself a decent piece of fried egg and took a bite, promising herself to at least enjoy the food. Soft as tofu, the whites were nearly flavorless, but the yolk part she actually liked. She poked the fork at the strip of bacon and opted to pick it up with her fingers, eyes back on Reed.

"Good," he nodded, his gaze sharpening as if taking in every flicker of reaction on her face. "Can't shake off how the last time I saw you, you were so desperate to get into the firm you tried to bribe me. A few months later, you're in my morning news as a war hero, personally attended by the President. And now the water-cooler rumor has it some marine's getting wooed by the admin. So, tell me, Valerie," the agent stressed her name, equally real and fake, "how the fuck did you wind up here?"

"Ohh," the sergeant blinked and, for the first time, regarded the situation through this lens. She was used to the strangest shit happening around her and to her all the time, yet even she estimated the odds of that hospital visit as borderline improbable. Selling it as the fluke it really was to Reed would be tough. The 'admin' part made no sense at all—the woman had clearly expressed her encouragement to report back for duty. She sighed again and gave him the plain truth and a direct look, as she had little else to give. "Enlisted soon after that talk, got my ass fried, woke up in a hospital bed. No clue how she found me there, never got a chance to ask. Just my usual dumb luck, I guess." She felt her mood getting sour and tried to cheer herself up with the bacon in her hand. Thin, it had gone cold by the time she finally bit into it, but she liked how crispy and salty it was.

"I see," Reed echoed her earlier response. "In my line of work, I don't take coincidences lightly. For your sake, I hope it was just your luck, no one else's. But doesn't look that way. Doesn't look that way at all." His words planted a sneaky suspicion that turned the bacon in her mouth to cardboard. Why had she never considered the possibility that she could be a sleeping satellite, intentionally launched by Peralez' masters back into Myers' orbit to strike on command? The rush of blood in her ears at the sudden unease virtually swallowed the agent's following words. "She generously took you off the hook once, but looks like that goodwill's over now." Valerie studied the man in silence, trying to grasp his meaning, only to realize that Reed suspected foul play on the president's part. The idea of Rosalind Myers intentionally digging up the useless ex-merc only to ghost her again nearly drew a hysterical laugh.

"How so?" she calmly asked instead, attempting to piece together the whole picture. "Said something 'bout the admin."

"They're vetting you," Reed's gaze turned sympathetic. "That's what I figured you wanted to talk about—to ask if your CV holds. Judging by how pale you are, you got no clue."

"No, Reed, none," Valerie shook her head, feeling slightly relieved he had interpreted her expression in the right and completely wrong way, both. The man seemed entirely out of the loop, and it was better to leave it that way. She shut her eyes for a moment and added, "Spent a few weeks in a hospital bunk. The next thing I know I'm on a leave, stuck in Washington with nobody I know around. You're the first person I get to chat with, 'cept my PT."

No wonder her transfer from Richmond to here had rubbed her the wrong way—especially paired with the insistence on her full recovery. As far as the USMC was usually concerned, the baseline requirement for fresh prosthetics was being able to wipe your own ass. It could easily serve as a front for a deep background check, which itself might be a mere sham for investigating any ties she might have to the people behind Peralez. She dropped the half‑eaten strip of bacon back onto the plate and pushed it aside. She lost her appetite, after all.

"Doesn't look like luck anymore, huh?" Reed said, brow furrowed, eyes locked on her. "Sorry, Valerie, can't help you out now. It's not like her to make a toy soldier outta a real one. Must've scored real high in Ohio or something." She wished it were that simple.

Another quiet chime from the niche interrupted their conversation. Given there were two cups of espresso, Reed had ordered one for himself. The marine stretched her cyberarm and transferred them carefully—along with both glasses of still water—to the table, nudging one coffee closer to the agent. The ability to sense temperature without feeling pain at the extremes was probably the best perk that had come with her new hand. In truth, it felt like the only perk.

Sometimes, she wondered how long it had taken Johnny to relearn the guitar. Every time she went to the gym in her apartment building to train her brain to treat the cyberarm as her own, she still couldn't shake off the strange tingle along her spine, that constant reminder that she was consciously thinking about using it rather than simply doing it. Over time, she had gradually improved in most manual tasks, but some things were consistently irritating. For example, the metal fingers were slightly slimmer due to the lack of soft tissue, and that tiny sensor lag, just a millisecond off when she gripped something with both hands at once, could still drive her nuts. The buttons would do that every time.

"Posh place, my ass. Twenty minutes since I ordered that coffee," she grumbled, relieved to find an outlet for her piling-up distress.

"You expect a quick synth swill? Bet they roast the beans by hand, one cup at a time." Reed met her exaggerated outrage with deadpan sarcasm.

"You're kidding?" Now that their conversation had shifted away from the previous topic, she found it easier to breathe, savoring the flavor of her coffee. It was intense, just like the synthetic stuff, but less… flat.

"Am I?" He lifted his cup, tiny in his hand, and finished the espresso in one gulp, always a man of clear focus and aim. "By the way, black chrome for an arm…" He shook his head in apparent disapproval. "You're pushing a Blackhand wannabe way too hard." The shift in subject seemed to lighten Reed's mood as well.

"Military prosthetics don't come in every shape 'n' form, y'know. Wished to be a Silverhand wannabe even less," the sergeant retorted grimly.

In reality, she had been presented with the widest range of options. The exclusion of Zetatech chrome from that list was the only thing that startled her PT. Funny how the Corps would bankroll prolonged recovery in the capital, but not a cyberarm with seamless neural and immune integration. But what could a simple sergeant know about military budgeting. In the end, she had picked the option closest to not committing to any choice at all.

"She didn't offer you custom? Should've been gold at least." The agent's tone made Valerie shot another glance at him. Reed's grudge against Myers had apparently deepened since she last remembered. Or he simply didn't feel the responsibility to hide it anymore.

"No preferential treatment, I guess," the sergeant muttered and finally tasted her espresso, instantly wincing at the unexpected bitterness. She rushed to chase it away with water, mentally marking her experiment with organic coffee as a failure—at least in its pure form. If it was an acquired taste, she wasn't sure she had the resolve to actually acquire it. "Will it hold?" Reed frowned at the abrupt question, which she only asked to delay the one she didn't have the guts to ask. She clarified, "My CV, I mean."

"Didn't account for that kinda scrutiny. But it should," the man replied after a brief pause. "Still, better set a backup plan ready, just in case it doesn't. Doubt she's gonna stick her neck out to cover your ass."

Another unwarranted mention, spilling the same bitterness she still tasted in her mouth, yet a sound recommendation. A fallback option wouldn't hurt. Valerie promised herself never to express this kind of resentment toward the woman: whatever anger she felt, the president hadn't wronged her in any meaningful way—not really. Reed, on the other hand, had long had every right to his. She fell silent, mustering the nerve to approach the subject she was actually interested in.

She devoted a good deal of her rack time to mulling it all over and over again—not only that week in Dogtown but everything she had witnessed in Night City during those months following the Konpeki Plaza heist. The more she replayed it, the clearer it became that she had failed to connect all the dots. It wouldn't help her in any way now, but she was too stubborn to let it go.

"Reed… Any news 'bout So Mi?" She watched his face darken at the sound of the name.

"No, Valerie. Had squeezed out the last update well before you woke up from that coma. Tried asking questions, but…" He sighed, his eyes dropping to the empty cup in front of him. "So I stopped trying." The way his gaze grew distant told her he hadn't forgotten those events either.

"That threw a wrench in the works between you and our mutual friend? You asking questions 'bout Songbird?" the sergeant gently probed in attempt to trace the roots of their deepened discord.

"Asking questions, generally. Or just talking." Reed glanced aside, as if recalling some encounter, yet she found the answer oddly evasive. "Yesterday was the first time I tried that line in years. Kinda surprised she actually picked up."

"Been thinking," Valerie paused, choosing her words with care. "That neural matrix she'd been after—the FIA used it on me?"

"Correct." The agent shot her a puzzled look but didn't show any further signs of discomfort.

"Wasn't some plug-and-play device, was it? I mean, not something even a genius 'runner could jump-start without help?" The sergeant grimaced at the clumsy phrasing. She hadn't been sure she could find the courage to hear the answers, so she had avoided preparing the questions as well.

"Not a chance. Took a lot of experts and gear. After all, gratitude's one thing the NUSA's good at," Reed smirked mirthlessly. "Where're you going with this, Valerie?"

"Who else can handle this sorta tech? What kinda black clinic? You ever find who promised her help?" Too shellshocked right after to analyze what had happened properly, now she couldn't get these thoughts out of her head.

"Huh, good questions, those. Four years too late, but still good. Can't tell you anything, though," the man gave a reluctant shake of his head.

"C'mon, Reed! My brain's turning to mush here. Toss me some detes to chew on," Valerie pleaded, as if the agent she remembered had ever been prone to changing his mind.

"Can't tell you anything, even if I wanted to. All her tech, every scrap of data, was wiped clean by the best 'runner in the firm. The only source of that intel could be So Mi herself, but if they managed to extract it, I don't have the clearance." His cool tone extinguished her hopes.

"So, basically, you know nothing?" She couldn't have hidden the disappointment in her voice even if she had tried.

"Only know they kicked off a new project right after that NC mess," he shrugged. "Called Blackbird—might be another coincidence, might not. Still active. Still gives me hope and nightmares, both." Reed's gaze turned distant once again. "Can only chase that sorta breadcrumbs now. Not even sure there's much to chase. The FIA's different these days. More a prestige gig for analysts than the agency I remember. Not even the war shook things up. With Arasaka outta the picture, the stakes and scope have shrunk. Heard they even halved the NC desk for Australia recently." Whatever Myers was doing about the Peralez situation, she was keeping it sealed tight if the man hadn't caught so much as a whiff. "Never thought I'd say this, but I miss the old firm."

"This old firm got you dumped in a ditch, Reed," Valerie commented absently. The old firm, and the woman she had been helplessly stuck on.

"The new firm makes me wear a noose to work." The way he tugged at his tie made her worry if he had considered that exit literally. She wished she could reassure him, tell him things were about to change, but the secret she had brought to Washington wasn't hers anymore, and it was way too grim to lift anyone's spirits. "Speaking of work, I've got a long drive back to Langley. If you're done nursing that coffee…" Even if the man remained calm, her questions had clearly stirred the old wound he preferred to lick in the solitude of his den.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm done," Valerie confirmed. Maybe if he had listened to her back then, he wouldn't be waving those garish ties as his last act of helpless defiance now. "Case anyone asks, 'zactly what we were talking 'bout here?" She glanced around, trying to figure out how she was supposed to pay. Her allowance, laughable by Washington standards, still left her with some scratch on hand—and plenty more in her stash if she could figure out how to access it.

"Don't bother." Apparently, Reed caught her wandering gaze. "I'll have the agency pick up the tab. After all, I was asked by the President to check if you're any FIA material. You were not, but we had a nice little chat about your panzer days."

"Sounds like a nice chat indeed," the sergeant said with a smile. "So… this line's still open if I wanna holler?"

"Got no further orders. Can't see why we couldn't grab a coffee next time I'm in town—long as I pick the spot." His expression softened just enough for her to breathe easier. In the end, she owed the man her life, even if she still couldn't quite find a reason to appreciate it.

"Thank you, Reed. For everything." She shook his hand and a minute later hastily walked out of the restaurant into the heavy, cold rain that had started while they were inside. She had always been bad at goodbyes. Reed sucked at them too.

By the time she reached her apartment building, the rain had soaked her to the bone—stepping from the elevator on the top floor, she left a noticeable puddle behind. As usual, she neither heard nor ran into any neighbors, despite the numerous doors facing the wide square of the elevator shaft. Before today, she wouldn't have thought twice about it, but now the silence crawled under her skin. She stepped inside the apartment, keyed on the ceiling lights, and gave the place a thorough once-over.

The unit was small—even smaller than her old Megabuilding H10 digs back in Night City. The pocket door on her left led into the bathroom, a wall on the right fenced off the sleeping nook. Ahead, a narrow living space offered a kitchenette with basic appliances to the left of the only window, and a single armchair with a small table beside it to the right. There was, quite literally, nothing to see here—except that for the first time she paid attention to the fact that all the tech that might need a connection to the local subnet was entirely missing. No food processor to pester her about a firmware update, no smart home hub to advise her to take an umbrella, no TV to blast her ears with ads. That felt deliberate: aside from its size, nothing else in the apartment suggested it was designed to save money.

She hit the shower as soon as she peeled off her wet boots and clothes, letting the hot stream unwind the tense muscles of her shoulders. But the cold knot in her stomach wouldn't dissolve, only tightening as she tried to retrace the path that had led her here. Considering she had been fully conscious for maybe a quarter of the last four years, there was no way to prove her personality hadn't been tampered with—and no way to establish the opposite, either.

Her avoidance of TVs and radios since returning from Europe now felt dubious. What if it hadn't been a conscious attempt to shut out Myers' omnipresence, but rather her subconscious resisting the conditioning? What if she had succeeded—right up until the moment she had snapped and tried reaching out to the president through Reed? Not to warn her, but to carry out her programming. Could it be that this swelling anger over how easily she had been discarded had never been hers? Every turn she had taken, every ostensibly trivial decision, now felt like a link in a long chain of events wrought by someone else's hand. Even this digs seemed to confirm that suspicion—a perfect cage to quarantine a compromised asset and see who might come looking. Valerie killed the water before the paranoia could drown her completely.

She dried off fast—though the plates and grooves of her cyberarm consistently took more effort than she would've liked—and made her way to the wardrobe in the sleeping area to pull on grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt, both pleasantly dry and blissfully button-free. Then she hauled the standard-issue military duffel bag from under the bed, dumped its contents right onto the blanket, and carefully examined the dark waterproof lining. A breath of relief escaped her when her fingertips brushed against the hard plastic of a keycard. They must've asked Lucas to help gather her belongings, and the guy had used her old bag, accidentally returning the access card to her safe deposit box along with it.

If she were to take off, all she needed now was to reach Phoenix. The cash she had stashed there would buy her a new ID, a ticket to anywhere on the planet, and a few years of humble life under a rock. Waking up her dormant implants wouldn't hurt either—the six-month restriction on neural strain had long expired. When she joined the Marine Corps, her deactivated chrome played nicely into the cover story of a fugitive employee from one of Arasaka's security subcontractors who had accidentally picked an unwinnable fight with a minor corpo boss. Now, the odds of ever returning to her platoon were about as slim as her chances of surviving without combat implants once hell broke loose.

If she were to take off. She still needed to mull everything over. There was no way to tell if the suspected conditioning would weaken with distance or just break her into a psychotic mess over time. Besides, who would send a chromeless assassin after the president? How close did they expect her to get to have a fighting chance? Myers was tough. Tough enough to publicly survive a plane crash and a full-scale manhunt. Tough enough to nearly kick her ass at their first meeting—and Valerie had been on her A-game back then. Nothing made any fucking sense. The nervous laughter she had managed to suppress during her chat with Reed finally found its way out.

The marine plopped onto the bed and looked left, toward the lone window. Streams of rain ran down the glass, blurring the flashes of neon outside into an impressionistic vision, yet the vertical brass-like bars of the decorative panel between the sleeping nook and the window gave off the same ominous semblance of a cage. She hoped that only the tiniest part of her hesitation stemmed from her inability to willingly let go of Myers—otherwise, it would be downright pathetic.

Valerie shifted her gaze to the ceiling, still no closer to a decision, then reached for a dry pair of sneakers. Maybe a few miles around the block would set her thoughts straight—rain or no rain, time and a clear head were all that mattered now. She barely managed to bring her chrome hand under sufficient control to tie her laces when the quiet ring of the doorbell informed her that she had already run out of time.

Surprisingly, its effect was as sobering as she had hoped the exercise would be. The sergeant rose calmly from the bed, turned off the ceiling lights to gain a slight upper hand with better knowledge of the unit, and moved toward the entrance. The man at the peephole obligingly froze a step away from the door, giving her a clear view of his blue suit and the three-letter badge on the left side of his chest. She had no trouble recognizing it. The agent looked hauntingly familiar, though she couldn't place the face until she opened the door and gave him an opportunity to introduce himself.

"Agent DeMarco, FIA. Sergeant Linder, I suppose?" The impassive voice dragged her mind four years back, to a scorchingly hot midday in the desert near the SoCal border, with dust from the presidential AV landing still stuck in her nose. She hadn't caught his name that day.

"Correct," she nodded plainly. His blank stare swept over the apartment behind her.

"Anyone else in the unit, Sergeant Linder?" the man asked, stepping inside and closing the door before casting a glance into the bathroom. Whether he was welcome or not clearly didn't concern him.

"No," she replied, her eyes following the agent's back as he moved deeper into the room.

"Any firearms?" he continued flatly, evidently failing to recognize her in return.

"No," she repeated. The man gave her a long, scrutinizing look, then nodded tentatively and scanned the humble surroundings one more time before fixing his eyes back on Valerie. The lone table lamp's sparse glow seemed more than sufficient to him.

"I'd ask you to sit down for now." He motioned toward the armchair in the right corner of the living area, just beside the only source of light. This way, he would see her perfectly, while she would struggle to return the favor. Beyond that, nothing in his attitude suggested threat or caution, which only added to her confusion. Even if the agency had failed to lure out their target and called off the operation, why send a single agent to detain her? And not just any agent—the last time she had seen the man, he had been the president's bodyguard.

"Why?" she raised her eyebrows, surprise mirroring her thoughts.

"Please, Sergeant Linder," was his only response, his outstretched arm insisting she take the seat.

Valerie calmly crossed the short distance to the armchair, wondering if she was wrong and if his visit had been caused not by her suspicions, but by something more mundane, like today's meeting with Reed, or even discrepancies in her CV flagged during the background check. She held little confidence she could talk her way out of those if needed, but judging by the agent's posture, he wasn't particularly interested in talking—at least, not to her. He simply watched her take the designated seat, then settled onto the lone bar stool in the kitchen corner across from her.

"Site's clear," he reported to his invisible listener, never breaking eye contact with Valerie. "Copy."

The clipped exchange offered no new clues about the reason for his visit, but the way he clasped his hands in his lap made it clear he was prepared to wait for whoever they were expecting. She briefly considered asking who it was—but ultimately decided not to: right now, she was in no mood to play a friendly marine and make small talk. The sergeant only shrugged and rested her palms on the armrests, letting her gaze drift lazily around the space in feigned calm: first to her right, to steal another appreciative glance at the neon fog through the rainy window, then to the left, to the bed behind the thin metal bars.

She grimaced slightly when her eyes caught the dark duffel bag atop the light blanket. Paired with discarded clothes, it gave the impression of someone hastily packing to leave. Not a reassuring sight at all, whether the agent had noticed it or not. She would bet he had. Valerie let her gaze return to the window, staring into the colorful night.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't track how long had passed until DeMarco cut the silence with a sharp "ETA?" Only then did she realized that she had been a fucking idiot all along. Valerie stared at him in silent panic, feeling the blood drain from her face, even before he straightened and announced—just as he had four years ago, though unknowingly, "Sergeant Linder, the President would like a word." That didn't explain much, but confirmed once again that the woman had uniquely fucked-up timing.

Neither the agent nor the president gave her a moment to collect herself. The heads-up came only seconds before she heard the entrance door slide open, expectantly. Contrary to her assumptions, DeMarco hadn't arrived alone. Valerie shot to her feet, heartbeat hammering in her ears in chaotic rhythm with the multiple footsteps echoing down the hall toward her unit. A few moments later, only the president crossed the threshold, leaving her entourage on the other side.

Valerie's eyes fell on the woman in front of her with that awkward, delayed realization that came more from knowing who she was than from actually recognizing her. Despite those brief hospital visits, the last time she had seen Myers with her own eyes had been in the same desert, the same four years ago as Agent DeMarco, now habitually occupying his place at the president's left shoulder. Reconciling that memory with the present was proving harder than expected. The long dark coat with its raised collar—whether shielding against the weather or partially concealing Myers' all-too-well-known face—didn't make it easier at all.

The sergeant idly noted that the coat had been barely touched by rain: only a few tiny droplets clung to its otherwise matte fabric, which resembled synwool but almost certainly wasn't synthetic. Mesmerized by the shimmer of water in the low light, she briefly pondered how the president had actually arrived—until a subtle twitch of Myers' eyebrow snapped her out of it. Valerie blinked and stiffened her jelly-like spine into something approximating proper attention, though the sweatpants discouraged an attempt at a salute.

"Madam President," she said, relieved to find her voice mostly steady. A touch of bewilderment and nervousness seemed fitting for a simple marine. She didn't even have to fake them.

"At ease, Sergeant," the woman replied with her familiar official cheerfulness that never quite reached those eyes. The marine tried to muster that ease as the president continued, "Glad to see you in good health." She cast a quick glance over her shoulder to the agent. "Thank you, DeMarco. Please wait for me outside," before turning her attention back to Valerie—or rather, the room. "So, how do you find Washington, Sergeant Linder?" she asked with a smile, giving the rainy view a brief look before surveying the compact lodging. The man's eyes lingered on Valerie for a moment longer before he nodded and finally headed for the exit. Neither she nor Myers paid him any attention.

"Uh, cold and… a smidge pricey, Madam President," Valerie answered, maintaining the facade until she heard the door shuffle closed behind the agent.

With the click of the lock, Myers' gaze settled fully on her. It became obvious that, regardless of how constrained she had felt under DeMarco's watchful eye, the agent's scrutiny had nothing on the president's. It instantly tightened the nauseating knot in her gut. Facing judgement couldn't be easy, but after only a few hours of draining paranoia, part of her welcomed meeting it head-on—even if she would've preferred braving it in yesterday's oblivious anger. She ran her far nimbler organic hand through her still-damp hair and stared back, silent—until the nerves forced her to speak.

"Yep, took me a minute to warm up to it too," she said, pointing at her own face. It hadn't occurred to her once that, as strange as it felt to see Myers in person after four years, the woman had never seen her new look at all.

The president gave a wry smile and broke the silence. "Your jaw—did it look like this before that abomination?"

"Dunno. Prolly," the sergeant frowned, thoroughly confused and faintly offended on her exo-jaw's behalf—and forgot to breathe when the woman stepped closer and let her fingertips gently trace the organic now jawline. The thick fog of drugs clouding her mind in the hospital had, paradoxically, given Valerie the clarity she completely lacked now. The uncertainty coiled her body into that specific fight-or-flight response where neither option existed.

"You don't remember?" Myers asked, dropping her hand. The sergeant had to agree with the harsh evaluation of her metal jaw—her memory couldn't have saved much when time had claimed its taxes, but a touch like that would've had strong odds of surviving. How long would her anger have withstood it? A second? Two? The president had already moved away to the window when the marine recalled the question.

"Not really… Was sixteen. Crashed a Thorton Colby so bad I needed a ripperdoc," Valerie made quick work of the story, watching Myers raise her chin slightly above the collar. The woman seemed quite absorbed in the view.

"Let me guess, you got that tattoo around the same time," she asked, not a hint of a question in her tone.

"Soon after," the sergeant admitted, apprehensive. However pointless, the exchange gradually helped her rein in her jittery nerves.

"Hmm, sixteen. Perfect age for all the bad choices," the president smiled all-knowingly, and Valerie frowned in suspicion that the faint memory of her telling Myers how she had come up with her cool mercenary name might be true.

"Perfectly capable of making 'em now," she retorted cheekily—and bit her tongue as the president looked her right in the eye, her expression blank.

"Aren't we all," the woman muttered. The cold knot in Valerie's stomach grew tighter.

"You shouldn't be here, Rosalind," she said quietly, dropping her gaze to her sneakers. The left shoelace definitely cried out for a redo.

"Well, everyone around seems to agree on that in fucking unison. Yet, here I am." That sounded like the echo of an argument that had happened behind the scenes, but it was the snarky undertone in Myers' voice that made Valerie lift her eyes. If not for the occasional glimpses on TV, she might've forgotten its sound by now. Yet the instant she caught the familiar tone the president avoided in official statements, she felt as though those four years hadn't passed. And the regret that they had. "Care to tell me exactly how Sergeant Linder came to know Agent Reed?" The sergeant blinked, the question interrupting her silly sentimental thoughts.

"Far as I know, Agent Reed just wanted to check if Sergeant Linder's any good for the FIA," she responded with a helpless smile, only to see that her cheekiness didn't land.

"Don't play with me, Valerie. I'm not in the mood." The sharpened angles of the president's jaw confirmed just as much. "Not sure if you're simply incapable of not attracting attention, but you make another mistake, I may not be able to cover it in time." The woman turned her attention back to the rainy night outside the window, visibly frustrated, yet completely unconcerned with her security. The sergeant carefully stepped back, stumbling into the cool metal railings to put all six feet of space between them.

"Rosalind…" she began, then faltered, unsure how to continue. The way Myers stood by the window—her side profile lit by flashes of blue and orange neon, hands in pockets, gaze drifting outside—tightened a lump in Valerie's throat. This place couldn't be farther from Dogtown, yet it instantly reminded her of it, thawing a long-forgotten memory of the last time she had felt useful and… alive. She cleared her throat and blurted out before she could lose her nerve, "Am I a mole?" Myers turned her back to the window and narrowed her eyes, examining her face as the sergeant rushed through the words. "I mean, like Peralez, or more like that poor bastard who zeroed his—"

"Is that why this look, like I'm driving needles under your nails?" the president interrupted the impotent mumbling. "A plant feeding a valuable but hardly actionable piece of intel to gain access and trust? Of course I've thought about it—it's the oldest trick in the book," she concluded with a dismissive shrug.

"Then why the fuck ya let your bodyguard go!?" Valerie breathed out in disbelief. The woman, for some reason, looked unbothered and amused.

"It was getting crowded in this shoebox," Myers said with a smile before turning more serious. "I also don't believe it's the case."

"You don't?" Unlike the president, the sergeant couldn't shake her doubts so easily. "You ever check who tipped you 'bout me? Or how I ended up in that hospital? 'Cause I sure as hell can't vouch for—"

"Valerie…" Another calm interruption, the kind that felt practiced. "Hate to ruin your theory, but I wasn't there for you that day. The plan was to take a few photos and congratulate your co-pilot on surviving that stupid stunt. Didn't even bother to find out who actually pulled it off."

"Then how—"

"A holo on his nightstand. Got a hunch and followed it to your ward." The president conveyed the facts patiently, as though it weren't the first time she had seen someone doubt objective reality. "If I believed anyone had the sheer capacity to track all the traces across two continents, make you survive something you shouldn't have, and condition me to recognize a face I had never seen, I might as well pull the trigger myself to save everyone time." Valerie stood still, unblinking, feeling the cold knot in her gut finally begin to melt away. It was surprisingly easy to trust that voice.

"Fuck, I'm such a gonk." She closed her eyes and lightly banged the back of her head against the metal railings, knocking off the last traces of sickening self-doubt.

"Well, it's not unusual for undercover agents to pick up their own flavor of mania. And that's basically who you are now…" The woman's voice trailed off. "Huh, going AWOL?" That sounded unbelievably close to shock. The marine opened her eyes and saw Myers studying something behind her back. The duffle bag.

"Um, was weighing that against spending the rest of my days in a lab right before ya came knocking." There was no point in denying the obvious. The sergeant rubbed her face, the cool surface of her chrome palm oddly comforting.

"If I thought it held any water, that's exactly what would happen." The president didn't try to deny the obvious either. Valerie dropped her hands and met the woman's gaze.

"That what happened to Songbird?" she asked.

"Not really," Myers lowered her head slightly, then turned away, leaving the sergeant to study her back. "We managed to scrape out the shit infesting her system. It'll spend the rest of its days in a lab."

"And So Mi?" Valerie sensed she wouldn't like the answer, but she owed Songbird at least that much.

"There's little left of So Mi," the president remained perfectly still. "The Blackwall had gnawed almost everything and short-circuited the rest, like a rat in a fusebox. Now she's a severely amnesiac girl with unpredictable fits of violence. She's in the best mental facility, getting the best care there is." Her voice never wavered.

"Didn't even try to use 'er?" The sergeant's skeptical glare drilled into the president's back. "Or just couldn't find a way?"

"Use her how exactly?" Myers met her with a counter question, her voice once again patient and calm, as if speaking to a child. "We got our data and tech back, but beyond that… it's not a skill set you can tap without the same person inside her skull, and a pretty autonomous person at that." She paused for a moment. "I assume whatever fears drove her weren't exactly her fears."

Valerie took a moment to think. She had little insight into the full extent of the AIs' influence on Songbird. The girl she remembered from the Cynosure facility had seemed severely possessed—for lack of a better word. But Cerberus, openly spewing inhumanly unsettling warnings through the netrunner there, had only taken advantage of her weakened state. It was the Blackwall that had enjoyed years of covert access to her neural.

If it had been shaping her emotions and actions—not just gradually erasing her memories and sense of self—even Songbird wouldn't have known which thoughts were hers. And how much would it even have to alter her personality, if it could leave her only the nostalgia of past days while wiping everything else? Maybe those last memories she clung to were left as bait.

Just like the piece of intel on the neural matrix that had pulled her to Night City in hopes of 'help.' Had she been primed to host a rogue AI from the start, just not the one she ended up catching by accident? After all, she had been rerouted to the long-buried research facility only when everything else failed and the FIA's ICE shredded her last line of defense against Cerberus. Once the trap had misfired, the Blackwall surely would've tried to erase every trace before quietly shutting the door. What were the odds that another AI had independently taken an interest in molding a human psyche?

The probability of the president answering that was zero, so she just asked, "You ever go visit—"

"No." The answer came before the marine had finished. This time, the woman turned around and clasped her hands behind her back. Valerie observed her in silence: clashing with its apparent openness, that posture felt like Myers' personal kind of armor.

"Did ya… was it your project, to lure a rogue AI into her chrome?" There was no reason to suspect an AI in something humans could do on their own, and, unlike Reed, the woman in front of her couldn't claim insufficient clearance. The president tilted her head, as if contemplating whether to dignify the question.

"I'm many things, but I'm not stupid," she finally said. "She was my right hand, an inch away at all times. That would have been no different from hugging a leaky nuke and hoping for the best." Cold as it was, the response intentionally made no attempts to appeal to emotions. Valerie doubted she would've believed a word if it had.

"So much for giving a talented kid a chance to make history," she muttered, regret tightening her mouth.

"Second chances are vanishingly rare," Myers' voice grew harsher as she slid her hands back into the coat's pockets with the briskness of holstering a gun. "Third chances almost never come. How many have you burned through by now?" Her features looked harsher too.

"Four, I guess," the sergeant shrugged. She had left her bullet pendant with all the other keepsakes in the safe storage box, but continuing that tradition could easily result in a whole necklace commemorating her close calls.

"Then you'd better remember you're not a fucking cat," the president said dryly, fixing her with a stare until the sergeant averted her eyes. "Whatever happened to that life wish," the woman sighed and turned away. This time, Valerie recognized fatigue in the slope of those shoulders.

"You all right?" she asked softly. "You look tired."

"Do I?" The president tossed a sideways glance at her, then returned her attention to the darkness splashed with bright lights outside before adding, "Must be because I'm fucking exhausted."

"It's 'bout the Peralez case, ain't it? How's he?" This subject was possibly even grimmer, but so much easier to bring up. Still, Valerie caught the reluctant pause.

"Back to NC. To the disappointment of its new mayor," the president muttered at last. That wasn't anywhere close to an answer.

"And Night Corp? You figure—"

"I am not filling you in," Myers cut her off, firmly indicating it had been the only answer she was going to get. "Turn off the lamp, will you? I presume the view is much better without the backlight." This time, it was Valerie's turn to sigh. She switched off the last source of light on her way to the window and stood by the president's right shoulder, taking a look outside too—facing the same direction had always been easier than direct eye contact anyway.

The rain had slowed, revealing the block ahead and the street below. Another armored DC Police patrol hued the pavement red and blue on its sweep through the borough. She had grown accustomed to this display of constant oversight, humbling NCPD in frequency and firepower. As far as she could tell, gangs kept a lower profile here, vacating the headlines for the art of high-profile hit jobs. The marine lifted her gaze upward, evading thoughts of political assassinations. A few apartment buildings across the street all sported landing pads on their roofs, their wet surfaces glistening in the flashes of neon. The observation led to a conclusion that amused her way too much to keep it to herself.

"Really landed your presidential AV on my rooftop just to remind me to lay low?" she asked nonchalantly as she watched a tiny figure hop out of an aerodyne and open an umbrella to reach the elevator reasonably dry.

"Have no idea what you're talking about, I'm at Camp David right now." Myers' voice was inexpressive, as if she were still mulling over something. "If there's an AV on your rooftop, it's certainly not mine," she added evenly. But as Valerie glanced at her, she could swear she caught a glimpse of a smirk.

"Uh-huh, so that tracker gone for good," the sergeant adopted a similar manner, her gaze following the rain trickling down the window.

"Had to ax their plans to get me another unless they guaranteed it couldn't be hijacked. Who knows how long it would have taken them to stick it into my molar otherwise." The smile that had seeped into Myers' voice evaporated rapidly as she muttered, surveying the closest buildings. "However much leeway that fuck-up'd earned me, my Chief of Security surely sent a flock of snipers to soak around." Valerie's mind raced through three consecutive realizations: first, there definitely had been an offstage argument; second, she had managed to forget that the matter of safety heavily crippled the president's mobility; third…

"They're watching us!?" Startled, she scanned the windows across the street as if a trained sniper could be spotted with the naked eye, then glared back at the woman with disapproval. "Coulda given me a heads up. What if I'd done something stupid!?"

"Ten minutes ago you were mortified I let my detail go," the woman reminded her nonchalantly. "Got any other stupid ideas left now that we've established you're not here to kill me?" She turned her head, frowning at the sergeant in pretend concern. Though Valerie's head had been vacant of any plans before, the flood of images that hit it now spread a warm blush across her cheeks. "Oh, that would look like self-immolation in a heat visor," the president habitually poked fun at the embarrassment she managed to discern in the scarce light and enjoyed the spectacle for a few more seconds before revealing the reason why this unit felt so strange. "No. The snipers' job is securing the landing pad. This is an off-grid safe house, the whole floor is. It can't be hacked, can't be surveyed. Even the window is one-sided. And conveniently blocks heat signatures," she finished with a subtle jab.

"Never been much of a blusher before ya, y'know," the sergeant muttered, and something in her voice erased Myers' fleeting smile, sending it back behind the usual mask of control.

"Guess so. At least you had enough common sense not to blush for that reporter," in passing, the president informed her that she was aware of her run-in with the press. Valerie would've liked to take this nudge as a sign of jealousy, but considering the most shocked she had ever seen the woman was when Myers spotted the bag and deduced the marine was about to take off, it was simply an offhand comment.

"Just for the record… I wasn't fishing for your attention by going to the media or anything," Valerie felt compelled to clarify.

"Oh no, I'm confident they found you on their own," the president glanced up at the dark, starless sky. "Which is exactly why I question your ability to stay off the radar."

"So… that why you've been dodging me—afraid I'm gonna steal your spotlight?" The sergeant tried to make it sound less like a complaint. The quiet chuckle confirmed her effort hit the mark.

"I've been dodging a decision on what to do about you," Myers confessed after all, and once again half-hid her face behind the collar. The answer came off surprisingly sincere. And ominous.

"Huh, if only Reed had a clue 'bout your troubles. The man thinks it's all you," Valerie tried to mask her anxiety with another joke, though it still slipped into her voice.

"Ah, yes. I'm such a mastermind, having planned… this," the president scoffed, then stopped delaying the inevitable and laid her cards on the table. "Four years at West Point. It won't be easy to get you in, but I assume, a Bronze Star, your colonel's reference, and a minor raise in federal endowment should do the trick."

Valerie froze, the night city blurring in front of her unseeing eyes. Four years. Four more years. She had been acquitted of any guilt, and the sentence still came. She couldn't even pinpoint what hit her hardest: the indifference in that voice or the implication that she had no choice in the matter. She slowly turned away from the window and slid against its glass to perch on the narrow windowsill, getting another opportunity to study the decorative railings—the same cage, just a different point of view. The anger surged back.

"Why the fuck even bother? Coulda just tossed me 'nother medal and sent me packing." Her tone made the woman turn her head and give her a sharp look, which she met with a stubborn frown and crossed arms, lowering her voice a notch still, "Keep your charity. Heading back to the barracks." She had failed to find purpose in the Corps, but at least, she had found numbing routine there.

"I'm afraid Sergeant Linder won't return to active duty due to unforeseen health complications," Myers informed her coldly. Of course, she had preemptively eliminated possible escape routes. When that card expressed its wish for the sergeant to continue her service, it certainly hadn't specified that it would be up to the president to decide where and when.

"That's it? I got no say at all?" Valerie stared at the woman in disbelief, but she didn't seem to care.

"If you so insist, I'll let you choose another academy," Myers acquiesced with a polite smile, which irked the marine even more than the words. Too enraged to bear it, she glanced away to her left, at the dark lamp in the corner.

"Y'know you can't treat people like this?" she asked without any hope of getting through. Here, in her element, Myers was all-powerful, and nothing could affect her terms.

"You know I can treat people much worse." The open contempt of that response made the sergeant clench her jaw and shift her gaze back to the woman. The poor lighting nearly convinced her there was a flicker of doubt in those eyes. "Valerie"—even that voice was softer now—"it's a good opportunity." It was the first attempt to actually persuade her, and the change in approach took the marine aback. A good opportunity was an understatement. It was a golden ticket, but for a fool, it was fool's gold. "Besides, in four years, you will be pleasantly over thirty," the president added with a genuine, if wry, smile.

"It bother ya that much?" Valerie found herself completely disarmed, smiling back, her arms uncrossed. As far as she was concerned, age was the least of their differences, so she had never given it much thought.

"Not really," Myers chuckled lightly, shaking her head. "You're a fucking kid, but I suspect that won't change much till the day you die." And then, as quickly as before, the tide turned. "Just wish you weren't trying to speed it up with your suicidal ideation."

"Whatcha talking 'bout?" Valerie blinked. "Got no suicidal ideations." This constant change in pace had once again left her off balance.

"Really? Never got to ask, but how do you actually lose an arm in a panzer?" The chill in Myers' tone marked the end of their brief ceasefire.

"Oh, that…" The sergeant paused, lifting the cyberarm and idly treading the neon-lit air with its black fingers. Most of her wounds had come from blunt trauma caused by the heavy fire pummeling her inside the tank or from sensory overload. But that couldn't explain the arm. "The first few strikes, armor held up all right, but Luc… my co-pilot bumped his head, so I tried to wake 'im." She noticed the anger creeping into Myers' eyes and cleared her throat. "Arm stretched, I caught another shell. The roof caved in just enough to pin me against the seat divider. They said it was too late by the time they got me out. Also promised Militech's engineers'd get the feedback." She shrugged as casually as she could manage, trying to rekindle the flames of resistance under the president's freezing gaze.

"When your arm's being crushed and your guts are getting torn to shreds by splinters of your own ribs, it takes a fucking effort not to choose retreat, don't you think? Was the prospect of becoming plus one in the KIA report worth it?" Myers stared her down until the marine lowered her eyes. Valerie didn't feel suicidal, but she had to admit she had been overly dismissive of death. "You had a chance that few people get. A clean slate to build the life you want to live. And you just squeezed yourself inside a metal coffin and tried to find an early grave. At least I can make sure the next time you pull that shit, they will actually bother saving your limb," the president said, turning away from the window. Afraid that the woman was about to leave, the sergeant sprang to her feet, but the next question tensed her for a completely different reason. "Does this fucking place have an ashtray?"

"Rosalind…" Valerie began, but Myers' glance advised her to shut up. "Above the sink," she conceded, leaning against the window and watching the woman move to the kitchen.

Unbothered by the deepened darkness of that corner, the president easily found the ashtray—its metal circle rang against the stone countertop—and fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pocket. Lighting up before dropping the pack by the tray, she pressed her left palm flat to the counter and took a long drag, the rings on her right hand catching a dull glint. Myers' whole posture signaled to give her space. The sergeant obeyed, her worried gaze silently following the little red light on its steady commute between ashtray and lips.

After the first angry cigarette, and somewhere in the middle of the second, calmer one, the president glanced her way at last. Valerie could almost feel the air in the room get lighter, despite the drifting lace of smoke. To her nose, it didn't smell half as bad as the lousy cigarettes Myers had endured in Dogtown—or her own clothes after Johnny's all-night bender.

"What's with the face? Did someone tell you I tend to smoke when I lose my cool?" The woman's voice carried vexation, though not quite anger.

"Reed did—back in Dogtown," the sergeant admitted reluctantly. "But it's kinda obvious now. Ya hid it better back then," she added, testing the waters. The president narrowed her eyes dangerously but saved her breath for another draw. "Mentioned something else today." Valerie knew she was pushing her luck, but she had been dealt a shitty hand and couldn't win unless Myers folded. "'Bout your admin vetting me. Bet it's not for West Point, they can handle their shit just fine. Figure there's another option you're not telling me 'cause sure feels like picking a route ain't that tough when there's only one lane open." The president slowly crushed the second cigarette before directing her steely glare back at the sergeant. It took everything Valerie had to hold it now.

"You think so?" Myers stepped closer, as if to take a better look, stopping just three feet away. "My Comms Director is always on the hunt for fresh talking heads, and your little impromptu with the press made him quite the fan of Sergeant Linder. It's not like you have any expertise to offer, but a pretty face and a patriotic heart will do." The way the woman examined her now made Valerie feel like an inanimate object. "It'd surely take some work, but nothing a speech coach and stylist couldn't fix. Would you like that?"

Each word dripped with disdain, daring her to choose wrong. What was wrong with the way she talked? And a stylist? The sergeant recalled the lifeless politico crowd she had seen earlier tonight and hastily stomped out the despair rising in her chest. Instead, she grinned straight into the president's face. "Lemme get this straight, either I march in some toy uniform for four years or go your toy soldier full-time?" she asked, borrowing Reed's mock.

"There's no 'either.' We're talking hypotheticals here." Myers' lips tightened in clear annoyance.

"Uh-huh. So, hypothetically, would I get to see you?" the marine feigned innocence.

"That's the extent of your ambition?" The woman sounded exasperated now. "Becoming my fucktoy?" Valerie stared at her in stunned silence, but the president pressed on, "Though you'd rather I don't call you that, wouldn't you? Otherwise, you're perfectly fine with me breaking your backbone to fit into a tiny box under my bed?"

"Always had jelly for a backbone around ya. No need to break anything, really." The calmness in her own voice surprised the sergeant. "At least I can make up my mind. 'Cause if ya could, you wouldn'ta wasted half an hour arguing with a fucktoy. Where's your backbone, Rosalind?"

Myers gave her a long, impassive look, then calmly turned toward the exit—too close in this tiny apartment to have any time to lose. In panic, Valerie lunged after her, catching her wrist and yanking it back. The president regarded the black metal against the dark fabric with that signature blank expression that should've scared her shitless. Instead, she went all in, slipping her left hand beneath the heavy coat and pressing the woman to her chest, the warm and unyielding back firm beneath her palm. Hiding from those eyes, she fixed her gaze on the dark kitchen wall and swore not to ruin this memory with pleading.

"When did you get so bold?" the president said, her voice flat, as she wrenched her sleeve free from the weakened chrome grasp, then paused, a trace of laughter slipping through. "And why the hell you smell like bananas?" Valerie squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the rigid muscles beneath her fingers melt as Myers' hands found her shoulders and reluctantly drew her in. She might've laughed at how her most random choice of body wash had ended up her wild card, but something caught in her throat.

"Can't let you go," she whispered, barely audible—her lips too close to the woman's ear to go unheard.

"I don't think that's up to you." The president pushed her shoulders away, inescapably setting the sergeant's eyes straight before her. With her own back blocking the sparse light from the window, Valerie could barely make out her features—yet the ever-shifting shadows formed a mask of wry amusement and something dangerously close to regret on that face. "I'll never hear the end of it," Myers muttered cryptically, then gripped her neck and made her call.

What little Valerie could recall of their past kisses had long since turned into a washed-out patchwork of impressions, but she would've never forgotten the sharp graze on her lower lip or the way the woman sucked at it, barely restraining herself from making it swell. This hunger was new—at least from the president's side—and indicative of tonight's frustration. As soon as she dared to respond in kind, Myers withdrew her mouth, forcing the sergeant, wide-eyed with fear, to tighten her one-armed grip.

"Oughta set some rules first," the president murmured, calming her with a palm against her cheek. "Don't touch my hair. Ever. Always a dead giveaway." Clearly no stranger to reining in overzealous lovers, she sounded almost routine, if not for her words brushing against Valerie's lips with warm, slightly unsteady breath. "And certainly no visible marks. I need to be ready to go on camera in five at all times."

Unable to form a coherent response, the marine blinked in acknowledgment. And just like that, both confident hands ran into her hair, exposing the double standards of those rules. The woman studied her face, unhurriedly choosing her next move. Down to her chrome fingertips aching with want, yet wary to either loosen her hold or utilize the clumsy cyberarm, Valerie had little choice or time. She leaned in to reclaim that mouth. That decisiveness was new, too—but from her side.

Myers' lips met her with a surprised smile the sergeant insistently wiped away—unlike the woman in her arm, she had been storing her frustration for years, not just for tonight. Determined to test how much novelty the president would tolerate for one evening, her mouth wandered off along that jawline. To their credit, prosthetic fingers proved trustworthy in handling the incessant collar, assisting her in reaching Myers' neck. Now, Valerie could sense the woman's pulse point beneath her lips, but just as well, it might've been her own blood thumping, accelerated by sharp gasps, hot on her ear, and nails grazing her scalp. One of the hands left her hair and clasped around her metal wrist, which, for a fleeting second, felt like her own—if only for the meekness a single touch instilled in it.

"Far as I looked, you have two hands," the president insisted, light breathlessness chipping away at the firmness of her voice.

For a moment, the marine stood still. Then, instead of instantly letting her chrome hand inside that coat, she persuaded her organic one to release its hold and grab the left side of the collar. Distracting the woman with another kiss, she dragged the heavy fabric from her shoulders while nudging her back toward the railings. An outright offer of a bed promised slim odds of acceptance. This was as close as Valerie hoped to get. Besides, if she could properly trap her there, the president might not vanish for another term.

Seeing straight through the plan, Myers smiled against her lips, but to her content, willingly shrugged off the coat. A few quickened breaths later, Valerie sent it flying back, to the armchair, the rattle of a falling lamp confirming she had mostly succeeded. Emboldened by the assistance, she pressed the woman into the bars and ran both hands down her body, enjoying its warmth and continued compliance until she tried to undo a single button of that thin shirt.

"No. Only I get to do that," the president breathed out a second rule, nibbling at her earlobe to preempt any objections—it was taking her alarmingly little time to map the sergeant's weak spots. "Not today," she added softly, almost in apology.

"Y'know I kinda waited four years?" Trying to steady breath and curb disappointment, Valerie reluctantly eased back and parked impatient hands on the woman's waist.

"For three of them you've been barely conscious. Way to cheat on my waiting list." Myers only laughed at her dissatisfaction, casually resting her elbows on the sergeant's shoulders to play with her hair. "Got one more matter left for today, and I'd rather show up slightly pissed," she explained, her mouth finding its way back to the earlobe and dissolving all resistance. "Doesn't mean my hands are tied." Valerie sensed the glee in that voice—and two palms sliding under her t-shirt to prove the point. Once again, those boundaries turned out to be entirely one-sided.

"Oh," she expressed the full range of her emotions, her ears getting hot—from the implication too, but mostly from the humiliating loss for words. The comment earned her an amused chuckle against her cheek, then another teasing nip that left her scraping for self-control. She tilted her head left, offering Myers' mouth full access to her neck. Soon, what began as careful kisses turned to sucking and biting, forcing the sergeant to fight for the last shreds of balance.

"Hold tight," the president whispered by her ear, casually displaying the spatial awareness Valerie utterly lacked now. It took her a few disoriented seconds to even notice the railings right in front of her eyes—and to cling to their solid metal above the woman's shoulders. She steadied herself just as Myers' hands began their slow ascent from her abs to her ribs, meticulously pulling the t-shirt higher and higher until the cool air brushed against her nipples.

The president seemed utterly pleased with the access she had won, even if the gambit cost her the last inches of maneuverability. Yet the new leverage gave the sergeant a pretense of self-control: when everything else in her yielded, her arms, somehow, obeyed. She pressed Myers harder into the bars and stole a brief taste of smugness from her lips—until the woman pushed her shoulders back and, with deliberate slowness, raked her nails across Valerie's upper body, her intent gaze feeding on every gasp and flinch.

Without breaking eye contact, she lifted one hand, licked her thumb, and slid it around an already hard nipple, forcing the marine to shut her eyes and surrender to the confident touches that tightened her breath and melted her treacherous knees. Abruptly, all the sensations stopped. Both hands withdrew, leaving her body shivering in the cool air and pent-up tension. The sergeant struggled against the pull of her heavy eyelids to open her eyes and focus on the president—only to find her rolling up her right sleeve.

"Ohh," Valerie confirmed she got the hint as both rings from Myers' hand disappeared into her pocket. The woman paid her a small smile and tugged her grey sweatpants slightly below her hip bones, composed, thorough, and seemingly unaffected—except for the weird green glint in her eyes when she met Valerie's wavering gaze. Or maybe that was a trick of the neon from beyond the window.

"Should've gone with this opening act—does wonders for your eloquence," came another tease as the president's knee nudged hers further apart.

"Yeah, scratch that speech coach," the marine tried for cheeky, but even to her own ears, it came off desperate.

"Oh no, where's the fun in that?" the woman murmured, brushing a brief kiss across her waiting lips—and slid one hand inside her sweatpants, the other securing her waist.

Almost used to it by now, Valerie distantly noted her ears getting remarkably hot, the complete lack of friction emphasizing she was just as remarkably wet. With a low hum of approval and the same probing gaze, Myers slid her fingers inside, her shoulder setting a steady, deliberate rhythm. The sergeant became acutely aware that this 'opening act' might end up pretty short, and there was little in her power to prolong it, not under that look. She hung her head in an attempt to hold on to her faltering willpower and avoid those eyes, their glint growing hungrier the dizzier she felt. The sight of the woman's wrist behind her waistband didn't help.

The marine promptly opted to brave it with a raised head. As an act of last defiance, she shifted her grip on the bars a few inches higher and countered the pace of that shoulder by slightly pulling herself up. Drawing every stroke out, she bit her lip on every delayed yet sharpened impact. High on the sensation and the illusion of control, she was riding the very edge, but at least now Myers tracked her every movement, clearly no longer unfazed. The small victory put a self-satisfied, even if premature, smirk across Valerie's lips.

The woman narrowed her eyes and pulled her mouth into a sharp kiss but kept the rhythm unchanged, accepting her terms. Of all the things, that concession was enough to disturb the fragile equilibrium, clenching Valerie's lungs and tensing every muscle. She froze mid-motion, unable to keep up the resistance, and sensed the fingers inside her speed up and tighten their focus. A wave of heavy warmth swept over her body, drowning her under its weight and that same all-seeing gaze.

When Valerie came back, she found herself clinging to the railing, entirely dependent on her death grip and the arm still anchoring her waist. She drew air into her empty lungs and started gathering herself piece by piece, barely registering when the fingers withdrew or the t-shirt slid down her torso. Tender kiss brushed her cheek—intentionally chaste, only there to ground her. Once assured the marine could stay upright, the woman slipped out of her reach.

The quiet broke with footsteps and the rush of water from the bathroom. Valerie unclenched her left hand to rub her eyes, still burned by the afterglow. Her chest, now getting a stable intake of air, was rising slower and slower until she was ready to maintain a semblance of composure after the insane day that had fast-tracked her from devouring paranoia to the most uncomfortable—and most unforgettable—sex to date. She burst out laughing, hanging by a thread.

"You all right?" She picked up mildly concerned notes in Myers' voice and cracked her eyes open. The president stood beside her, drying her hands with a towel. The sergeant summoned enough poise to pry the chrome fingers off the brass bar and stand on her feet.

"Thinking how I got your back against the wall, and ya still found a way to fuck me," she managed to retort, drawing out a fresh flicker of amusement in those eyes.

"Well, next time, try initiating deployment after a recon," the president offered her a solid tactical advice and pressed a fleeting kiss to her lips. Valerie blinked and stared down at her own hands: somehow, that towel ended up in them.

Unperturbed, Myers rolled down her sleeve and made enviably quick work of its buttons before heading for the armchair. There, she picked up her coat and set the lamp back on the table before switching it on, her usual keen and collected self. The dim light hit the sergeant's eyes like a ramp—her basic kiroshis definitely had a frustrating adjustment lag she hadn't noticed before.

"So… what now?" she asked, trying to disguise the simmering anguish behind the scarcity of words. This time, the woman truly was about to leave.

"I'll see what I can do," the president said plainly, casting her a quick side glance. Valerie grimaced: the exchange sounded too close to a fucked-up quid pro quo. Myers immediately caught the shift in her expression. "So now you're weirded out? Don't worry. I'm not exactly known for trading favors for sex," she muttered, her voice suddenly weary.

"Wouldn't mean that," the marine frowned. "Just looks—"

"It will look all sorts of ways," the president cut in sharply, then stepped closer, lifting Valerie's chin and brushing her thumb against it. Her voice softened. "None of which will be under your control. So maybe give it all another thought."

"Yeah, no," the sergeant firmly rejected the offer and tossed the towel to the armchair, no lamps harmed this time. Four years ago it had been outright impossible, she could live with fucked-up. Myers hesitated, lips pursed, but kissed her anyway.

"That background check on you better return squeaky clean. All the way up to your imaginary grandma," she muttered, stepping back.

"Can't be worse than my real one. Bet she's still smuggling 'round the Badlands 'n' knocking down Militech drones for fun," Valerie laughed, then fell abruptly silent.

They hadn't kept in touch since her grandmother chose to stay with the Bakkers and throw in with the Snake Nation. For all Valerie knew, she could've been long dead. Maybe killed in a skirmish with the Raffen Shivs, maybe by a random Militech or Biotechnica patrol. To corpos, nomads were ants underfoot, not even worth distinguishing a regular clan from the Shivs, and she doubted Myers' perspective was any more nuanced. The age gap between them definitely seemed the least of their differences.

The president studied her face but only remarked flatly, "A precious family nugget, but don't overshare it here." She pulled on her coat and confirmed the obvious, "I should go. This detour has already taken too much time. Another ten minutes will cost DeMarco his head."

"And here I thought you were the prez," Valerie stretched her lips in a semblance of a smile as she moved closer to adjust the raised collar that needed no adjusting, just to make the moment last a little longer.

"That is why they won't dare ask for mine," Myers commented dryly, catching her wrists with a pointed look. The marine shrugged apologetically and moved out of the way to make up for her slip. The president paused at the door, one hand on the handle, and gave a final, encouraging smile. She didn't seem any better at goodbyes.

"Wait, Rosalind," Valerie called. Myers' gaze turned reproachful. "The rings." The woman raised her eyebrows and shot a glance down at her right hand.

"Nice save," she said with a light laugh, slipping the silver bands back on her fingers. A second later, the door clicked shut behind her.

The sergeant grabbed the forgotten pack of cigarettes and the ashtray off the kitchen counter and lit up as she stepped to the window. The urge to smoke, clenching her throat every now and then, seemed to be the only thing she co-opted from the rockerboy's stay in her head. The cool glass felt as pleasant against her forehead as the full draw in her lungs. By the time the cigarette burned down to a butt, she caught the flickering beacon lights of an unmarked, dark AV drifting into view from behind. It headed south, rapidly gaining both altitude and speed above the rainy capital. Wherever this 'one more matter' was supposed to take place, it wasn't Camp David either.

Chapter Text

A month later

The snowscape beyond the window still sparkled in the early evening sun, but the ravine by the distant pines had already sunk into deep blue. The east-side windows offered a different panorama, more dramatic and picturesque—a sweep of mountain ridge and forested slopes worthy of their own postcard. Yet Rosalind had always preferred this one: somber and still. Exactly at this time of day, exactly from this window. She had even replaced the old barrier around the cabin with a transparent one, so nothing would spoil the view on the rare occasions she stayed here. The new fence remained electrical, of course, but any wildlife reckless enough to approach it would be chased away by ultrasound traps—after all, a deer carcass might blemish the sight too. People wouldn't venture into these parts at all.

Basking in the sun's attention for only a few evening hours each day, the room stayed relatively chill. Still, she left her jacket draped over the chair by the writing desk, relishing a rare chance to relax in just a light shirt, the cool parquet beneath her bare feet. It was enough that she had arrived in time for the sunset, changing into something more comfortable could wait. Despite the appearance of a cozy study with walnut panelling and a thick rug by the fireplace, in every other sense it was more of a well-ventilated vault, but it couldn't render her unreachable—the silence merely meant she still had some time.

It wasn't quite in her nature, this sudden yearning for seclusion. The whirlwind of events and people, with her at its center, was where she thrived most. But these last few months had drained her reserves of bright smiles and feigned concern for matters that had been losing significance with each passing day. The closer Christmas crept, the less real the world felt. Thin, like another postcard, it displayed a picture with little connection to night flights, sour coffee, and tiresome briefings. That, too, wore her down. Performatively deaf to Hannah's sarcastic comments, she made a last-minute change to her planned vacation and ran away to catch her breath behind the walls that had always stood sturdy against the passage of time. Very little ever changed behind them, and all strictly by her will.

The last major renovation took place here shortly after she had signed the Arvin Accord. Back then, this very room was known as her grandfather's smoking lounge, practically deserted after his death. Unlike Justice Myers', her own addiction was far more utilitarian by its nature. She repurposed the space into her private study and retired the old-fashioned leather chesterfields, nearly dripping with tobacco. A single modern sofa in the right half of the room and a massive walnut writing table on the left took their place. Intentionally conforming to the single resident's comfort, both were positioned to face the fireplace. At this hour, its flames would be barely visible against the still-too-bright sunlight pouring unrestrictedly through the arched windows, but in an hour or two the room should be dark enough to enjoy the fire. The stacked-stone fireplace and carved wall panels were among the few original features left completely intact. Rosalind liked them almost as much as the view, even if they still carried a cloying trace of Cavendish.

Another detail to appreciate was the refreshing absence of Christmas decor. She'd had to endure it for weeks and was resolute in not returning to the White House until it was gone. While she wasn't particularly fond of the holiday season, she valued its quiet that, for a fleeting moment, had lowered her security threat level to mere 'elevated.' Even Lone Star terrorists' attempts to derail peace talks showed less zeal in December. She rolled up her sleeves and picked up a tumbler from the tray on the desk, pouring herself two fingers of gin—while the concept of smoking as a hobby was alien to her, the idea of leisurely drinking was not.

Resting her elbow against the opposite forearm pressed to her body, she watched the warm sunlight play along the smooth facets of the glass and flicker in the clear liquid, carrying the promise of easing the edge. She had already read her official evening brief during the flight here. The unofficial one was due within half an hour and could swing either way. The Farm had barely produced three teams and a point of entry before being forced to restrategize around one link gone off the grid. She missed the days when the evaluation had been simple: an Arasaka-level threat, proliferating in the vacuum left by the corporation's fall—dire, but quantifiable and ultimately human. Now, the fixation on mundane issues felt like a conscious effort to ignore the true scope of the danger, as if neglect itself could ward it off.

An expected yet still intrusive ring of the intercom on her desk claimed her attention. She stepped back and accepted the call, gaze still tracing the jagged dark edge of the forest. "Sergeant Linder's AV's landed, ma'am," the agent's voice carried a bright lilt—cheerful even, were Rosalind prone to exaggeration. That touch of humanity was exactly why she had chosen Reyes to lead her detail here, granting DeMarco his well-deserved vacation, despite Lloyd's grumbly qualms. Her Chief of Security preferred boring predictability at all times.

"Thank you, Reyes. Tell the sergeant I'll see her at 2000. In the meantime, show her the guest room." Once the woman acknowledged the order, Rosalind disconnected and took a slow sip of her gin.

Of course, there was another reason for choosing her most remote residence for this stay. It was private enough to keep her extremely short guest list unknown to the press, if not to her Security Department or Chief of Staff. Whatever Hannah might think, that consideration had negligible influence on her decision, but personally introducing a highly chaotic, albeit minor, variable into her search for stability was contradictory, to say the least.

The ringing phone hindered her attempt to process the inconsistency. Too soon—the sun had only touched the tops of the trees. And a landline call surely implied bad news and its prolonged scrutiny. Disappointed, she closed her eyes briefly, slipped back into her jacket, and settled into the chair, setting her barely started gin closer to the slab of limestone—the last relic from the study's former purpose. Likely retrieved during the fireplace construction, a genuine ammonite imprint served as an ashtray—and a quiet reminder of the fate awaiting any species that lost its evolutionary war. Tacky, perhaps, but the grooves of this particular helix were perfect for holding cigarettes. Hardly would humanity leave behind a more functional fossil.

The president had long finished the call—and, eventually, the gin—by the time the intercom announced the visitor waiting at the door. Again, too soon, but likely on time, given the sky had deepened to purple with a thin crimson streak above the horizon. By habit, her hand moved to unlock the door while her eyes continued to skim the updated report, as if the letters might magically rearrange themselves into something more palatable under the low lamplight. She heard the quiet footsteps freeze just over the threshold, followed by the smooth click of the door returning to its place. Only then did she set the papers aside, straighten her back, and inspect the marine leaning her right shoulder against the wall, a puzzled frown on her face.

Rosalind found her Bravos paired with a service sweater the least expected but surprisingly well-fitting choice. Its muted green looked good on Sergeant Linder. The sergeant looked good too, maybe a bit too much. The new face had begun to grow on Myers, merging gradually with her merc's image. From the very first minutes of their previous encounter, she had felt as if she saw a ghost whenever she caught the girl in her peripheral vision. Now she got the same impression while looking straight at her.

DeMarco, though—despite his trained eye for faces and having met her merc at the Night City border four years prior—did not recognize her in the marine at all. Of that, she was certain. The background check had returned no red flags either, giving the president free rein to proceed with a plan of her choosing. Yet she couldn't shake off the irrational irritation of her hand being forced—and, unlike with her merc, consciously resisted any possessiveness toward the sergeant.

"Janet said I could find you here," Valerie began, and it took Myers a heartbeat to grasp whom she meant. Either Reyes was too human or, given an hour, the girl could charm a rock. Perhaps she should've kept DeMarco in the detail just to test the theory. Normally, a frivolous thought like that might've made her smile. Now it brought only displeasure, pressing her lips into a thin line. "Wanted to… thank you for hosting me," the marine went on, her cadence less spry and more probing. Talking like an adult instead of a street kid clearly required effort.

Rosalind knew full well that her own lapse of judgement was the source of this frustration, but still kept spilling it over the girl in front of her, tarnishing every word and gesture before they even formed. When Valerie's frown deepened, her eyes catching the ashtray beneath the table lamp—its circle of light revealing two white stubs in the grey ash—the president struggled to suppress the unearned anger welling up within her. She could feel a small sense of pride that there were only two, but the girl clearly didn't share that perspective. Too focused on keeping her own attitude in check, Myers let yet another opening for a response pass, leaving the sergeant to shoulder this one-sided exchange alone.

"How're you?" the marine asked, her usual concern softening her tone, before tacking on the belatedly formal and absurd now, "Madam President."

"We're alone here, Valerie. If we weren't… well, you've already fucked up the protocol," Rosalind said in her most controlled tone. Failing to respond to a direct question, as persistent and pointless as it was, would've exposed too much of her internal strain to the invited intruder. However disruptive and unwelcome her presence felt at this moment, the girl didn't deserve to know that. The president glanced at the table, considering a shard to hide behind. A little more time and quiet was all she needed to regain control over her vexation—there had to be something she could still control. Normally, she would go for another cigarette, but she lacked the capacity to deal with worry in those eyes on top of everything else. She briefly examined the marine in search of a more neutral topic and fixed her gaze on her feet. "I see they've warned you about shoes."

"Warned me?" the sergeant echoed, with her merc's smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, obviously encouraged by the response, however dry it was. She glanced down at her own socks, black against the white rug. "More like made me take 'em off." Alas, she appeared unable to stay in safer waters, adding a wistful frown to that smile. "How come I miss ya all the time and never expect to actually see you?" The resemblance grew uncomfortably close, prompting the president to make a random pick at last.

"That's quite reasonable." With effort, Myers kept her voice and expression level. "The latter, of course," she clarified as she slotted the shard in. The orderly flow of articles and numbers provided the distance and calm she needed, even if she had no reason to study the infrastructure report.

"Of course not the former." The sergeant's voice lost its hint of a smile.

"The former is the result of you being too young and impressionable. And having too much time on your hands, I assume." The girl had all the excuses in the world for her behavior, while she had to scramble for any that might justify hers.

"Certainly not something Madam President can afford," Valerie adopted the same dry, formal intonations.

"Certainly not," Myers confirmed from behind her digital cover. "Oughta finish this. The room could use a fire, though." She motioned toward the opposite wall—something to keep the girl busy at a safer distance from her mood.

"Sure," came the curt reply, followed by the soft rustle of footsteps across the rug and, moments later, a dull clank of wood—the only signs anyone else was still in the study.

Ten minutes later, the growing crackle of the fireplace had soothed her into coming to terms with the trap she had walked herself into. She extracted the shard and switched off the desk lamp for the night, watching the amber glow filter around the sofa and the girl's back blocking the hearth. The president rose, leaving her jacket on the chair, and fed the paper report to the shredder before heading toward the fireplace. Drawn by the unusual noise, the marine stood too and turned to her expectantly, exposing her handiwork. Rosalind had to fight a smile at the sight of the firewood creatively stacked into a tidy cone. Once again, Valerie frowned, clearly unsure what had sparked the amusement.

"Wasn't exactly expecting a teepee campfire," Myers admitted, a reluctant chuckle escaping her lips.

"Not s'posed to look that way, huh?" the sergeant asked, only slightly unsettled. "My first fireplace, y'know."

"Of course it is. Don't fret, it's fine," the president reassured her, settling onto the left side of the sofa, ankle over knee, the faint echo of her smile still present.

"Wasn't gonna," Valerie grunted, tugging at the service sweater. The heat by the hearth certainly rendered it excessive. Rosalind observed her closely, taking in the way the fabric pulled and folded across that taut frame—until her eyes caught the firelight glinting against the black chrome of the girl's right hand. Its movements remained noticeably awkward.

"Why refuse the RealSkinn?" she asked, voicing a detail that had long puzzled her. "They couldn't have just forgotten to offer."

"Uh… dunno." Valerie shot her a quick, startled glance. "Maybe later, when I forget how it looked. Didn't feel like scratching my nose with someone else's fingers." She shrugged, masking discomfort with a fake unbothered smile. Myers didn't press.

For all her bravado and extensive prior experience with the chrome, it had been taking the sergeant quite an effort to adjust to her cyberarm. And even more of that—to hide her personal grapple, as the loss of her organic arm had obviously left a noticeable hole in her confidence. After a brief struggle with the heavy wool, she sank onto the rug, bracing her back in the khaki shirt against the right slip of the fireplace, one knee bent for support. The green sweater landed on the floor beside her.

"You know you can sit here," Myers offered her the right half of the sofa in reconciliation.

"Like this view better. The rug's nice too," Valerie ran her left hand through its thick nap to demonstrate.

"Whatever suits you," the president didn't insist, her attention hijacked by the fluttering flames.

"Bad news?" the girl asked softly. Rosalind realized she had been staring into the fire for a long while—and that she had not been as successful at masking her mood as she believed.

"Last-minute update." She rubbed the cool stripe of EMP threading along her temple before offering a semblance of truth to account for her temper. "An agent got ambushed. Now the agency's scrambling to keep his chrome off the black market."

"NC?" The question drew her gaze to the marine.

"Why'd you think so?" The president narrowed her eyes in mild curiosity.

"A hunch," Valerie shrugged. "Didn't get much of an impression there're gangs on NUS's turf bold enough to push federal implants. Plus, doesn't look like your kinda problem. Unless it's all tied to a bigger sitch."

"Hmm, sounds like a reasonable hunch," Myers said, resorting to neither confirming nor denying. Funny how she knew the girl had a solid head on her shoulders and still would let that manner of speaking lull her caution.

"Also got a hunch Night Corp does that a lot. Using the Scavs when they need to disappear some poor bastard, I mean," the sergeant continued casually, pretty confident in her guess. "There was this girl, broke into their data fortress but had enough sense to line up a fixer in case something happened. And something did happen. Was barely in time to pull 'er outta Scavs' nest. That's actually how I pinned Night Corp to Peralez—found her databank in a totally different den and took a peek."

The president found herself smiling—proudly, at that. She had always enjoyed the company of people capable of drawing conclusions from seemingly unrelated fragments. A sure mark of intellect, in her book. They kept her on her toes but they were never boring. Hannah was like that, and they had shared half a century of friendship. Valerie seemed cut from the same cloth, which likely explained this odd sense of affinity. It wasn't that hard to ignore it, though. Whatever hold the girl had on her faded to nearly nothing as long as at least one wall separated them.

Now, reminded once again that there was something more to the marine than just looks, Rosalind caught herself studying that face and thinking how her thumb ached to caress a barely noticeable cleft on that chin and draw those tender lips into a kiss. She imagined slowly making Valerie come and watching her eyes turn hazy and lose focus. Risking a momentary lapse herself, Myers blinked the vision—and the smile—away.

"Know you won't let me in on this," the sergeant continued warily, probably confused by her silence, "but if that's the case, I'd lie in wait for the buyer. S' all the same to your guy."

"Sounds like a reasonable proposal," Myers remarked nonchalantly, remaining uncommitted to validating any theories. Usually, it would be the best course of action, but at this level of the game, an attempt to trace money or proxies was a fool's errand. The extracted chrome would be dealt with in a more trite but guaranteed way.

The ease with which the agent had been made was more disturbing. He hadn't been one of the FIA's best, admittedly, but not a rookie either. With every record painting the same bland picture—city development, some cyberware research, and zero interest in MIC or the outside world—Night Corp had perfected mediocrity so well they became practically invisible. That public portfolio had enough blind spots to make Arasaka and Militech look harmlessly transparent, yet past encounters had never hinted at anything this swift or brutal.

It had taken them over a year to nab the previous unfortunate mole, and even then, the FIA got nothing more than a patronizing finger wag and a warning to stay clear. Now, just a few days of cautious working up of a minor logistics clerk that shouldn't have even tripped the alarm had cost the operative his life—and poisoned the intel he had funneled into the agency. A second loss in one month. Valerie's stories from another life only cemented the grim conclusion. The remaining infiltrators were ordered to drop all extracurriculars and stand by.

It would've been game-changing to have this insight four years ago, but she'd never had a chance to actually talk to her merc back then. Truth be told, she had never expected to gain much from those stories beyond mere entertainment either. And she wasn't sure she wasn't repeating the same mistake, yet the useful bits of intel came so haphazardly, she could gather them either by having the sergeant recount every detail of her past or by openly discussing the present. The first option was simply unfeasible. The second—unwise.

As tempting as it was to have someone with that type of thinking to run ideas by or pick up a fresh one, pillow talks of that kind were the fastest path to compromising her judgement—or at least to second-guessing herself for trying to appease the girl, which effectively amounted to the same. Valerie might've proven reliable with too many secrets, but whatever she had managed to persuade herself of certainly wasn't Myers' sainthood. This tendency to avert her eyes whenever she edged too close to unsavory details she might struggle to rationalize hadn't escaped the president's notice.

If the sergeant managed to read anything on her face, she only offered, "Can fix ya a drink if you want."

"No, I'm good," Rosalind shook her head, discarding the matter for today, and couldn't suppress a smile at the sudden idea. "I try not to drink when I'm about to have sex." The firelight's glow masked the visual signs of embarrassment on that face, but the habitual 'Oh' instantly deepened Myers' smirk.

"Really enjoying this, ain't ya?" The outrage rang false, sabotaged by the smile on Valerie's lips.

"Quite a bit," Rosalind confessed. Perhaps this arrangement wasn't such a terrible idea after all.

"Where are we, by the way?" Still smiling, the girl shifted the topic. "All I know this… Vermont? At least Janet said so."

"Uh-huh. It's called the Northeastern Kingdom—or just the Kingdom," this time the president acquiesced to confirming her intel.

"Calling your, uh, residence 'the Kingdom?'" the sergeant's smile turned skeptical. "Kinda pretentious, don'tcha think?"

"This part of Vermont's called the Kingdom," Myers clarified with a soft laugh. "And this," she vaguely gestured around, "is just a family winter cabin."

"Oh, strike that. 'Just a cabin' is way more pretentious," the marine swiftly readjusted her stance. That made Rosalind wonder what the girl's childhood had been like. Her growing up on the road in some rusty old truck had held no significance four years ago in Dogtown. Here, it separated them by a combined century of vastly different life experiences—and at least two extra forks by the plate.

But that would've been of any importance only if this… fling were official. In their case, the only thing that mattered was time. Time until the sergeant felt slighted by her place and turned to other distractions. Time until the president lost the spark of novelty and remembered that the matters at hand were too important for a quick sex recess. Once again, she had to pull herself out of her thoughts and refocus on Valerie, who was still expecting a response.

"It is, isn't it," Rosalind agreed dryly. "This room used to be a dedicated smoking lounge. The library has a separate humidity and temperature control system. And a hidden staircase in the garage leads into a bunker."

"You're kidding me. A bunker? This how ya call your sex dungeon?" The suggestion made the president chuckle despite herself.

"Perhaps I should repurpose it too," she entertained the idea with a wry smile. "Over a century of opportunities, and it hasn't been used once. A complete waste of space and money, if you ask me." Who would've thought you actually had to live near the shelter to get inside in reasonable time.

"That sitch in Cuba with Soviet nukes spook your fam into buying it?" Myers raised her brows in surprise. The phrasing was exceptionally clumsy but could only refer to the Cuban Missile Crisis. She had no idea where the girl could've picked up something that specific—let alone how she knew what timeline to place it in.

"Building it, but yes… finished a month after JFK's assassination," the president said tentatively, narrowing her gaze at Valerie. By the look on the marine's face, she was beginning to realize what had thrown her off.

"I crack a book occasionally. Got a vague idea of what 'library' is, too." Valerie's darkened features displayed disapproval, quite genuine for a change. "Really think I'm some stupid gonk?"

Myers pursed her lips in return. This version of the girl she didn't like to indulge at all, preferring the one that joked around anything serious, not attempting a confrontation—she'd had enough of that at their last encounter. She weighed ignoring the remark but ultimately chose to respond, doubting she would have to if not for that black chrome hole quietly draining the girl's self-worth.

"Never thought you were stupid," she finally said, glancing at the flames. "I have an eye for talent, you know. You were mumbling in your sleep on that filthy mattress, and I was already choosing you an academy." Rosalind smiled at the silly memory and caught Valerie's intent gaze—perhaps a reminder of her plan to send her off was still too fresh. "My bad I had no idea we could have casual conversations on US history," she added, calmly meeting her eyes. "I believe we all have our preconceived notions. It's not like you have none about me."

"What notions y'think I have 'bout ya?" the marine asked, her sad smile warning that she was about to produce some sentimental nonsense. "Ros, I kinda—"

"Don't call me by the names you can't use in public. It'll become a habit you can't explain," the president preemptively cut her off, wincing. Ros? Where did that come from? Judging by the girl's expression, she was equally surprised. "And we're both better off if you stay away from that subject altogether."

"You can't possibly know what I was gonna say." Even abashed, the sergeant was too stubborn not to protest.

"Just because your face is such a mystery." Myers barely restrained an eye-roll. Instead, she glanced away for a moment, gathering her next words. "Valerie, whereas you're young and impressionable, I'm cynical and old," she stated the obvious. "This strange thing we have—it's already messy enough. I'm not talking feelings to boot."

"'Cause you don't do feelings?" the sergeant raised her eyebrows. The president sighed. Someone this sharp defaulting to the dullest drama the moment emotions were involved only proved her point.

"Not the nihilistic kind of cynical—more of the 'seen-it-all' sort," she half-heartedly clarified, not expecting to instantly dispel the sweeping generalities in a too-young head. "Claims like 'I don't do feelings' strike me as extremely naive. There's little I don't understand about how you feel. There's nothing I would like to comment on. When the silence gets unbearable, you'll know it's time to move on." Myers paused, observing her reaction—or, remarkably, the absence of it. "We good?" To her satisfaction, Valerie slowly nodded. The following reign of loaded silence made the president regret having refused another gin.

"Got any idea what to do with me now, at least?" The sudden question pulled her out of the meditation on whether she should right that wrong.

She regarded the marine with a glimmer of annoyed interest. Their last meeting had made it a touchy subject, and right now she would've expected Valerie to give it a wide berth, not march straight onto thin ice. Apparently, the girl was easily flustered, but not meek—just soft, selectively so. Rosalind was confident she could soak her into compliance with the right mix of neglect and despair, though the very thought was… revolting. There was nothing to gain from that, either.

"I do," she admitted after all, then reached into her pocket and tossed the shard, aiming for the rug by the girl's lap. "Here, take a look."

To her surprise, the black rectangle landed squarely in Valerie's organic palm—impressive coordination for a non-dominant hand, even if the effect was immediately undercut by the stretch of her left arm to the slot below her right ear. Myers had the headline committed to memory at a glance: If Sgt Linder Any Indication, USMC Love Their President. And Maybe Too Much. The aforementioned Sergeant Linder must've appreciated it too, as a quiet 'fuck' slipped from her lips as soon as she managed to insert the datashard. After a minute, she pulled it out with a sigh.

"How bad is it?" she asked cautiously. Given her limited acquaintance with Washington politics, it was unlikely that she could've grasped the full scope of implications from just a glance at the think piece—extremely uninspired apart from that headline.

"It's not," the president reassured her calmly. "Your hospital remarks were just a convenient prop. Militech's big on sponsoring the fourth estate, but lacks creativity. So I end up reading a slightly reworded op-ed like this every few months. At least this one had a decent photo," she concluded, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

"Why bother digging at the Corps at all?" the girl frowned, clearly trying to piece together the fundamentals of the power play. "Thought the FIA was your weapon of choice."

"It is. And way more practical," Rosalind agreed. "But it's intelligence, not an enforcer. The board ever decides to… ignore me, I can't fall back on the FIA. The Corps is a different—of all the branches, it retained relative independence from Militech. Conveniently, it's firmly in my corner," she drew out the succinct outline. In an effort to counter the USMC, Militech had tried to replicate its highly mobile, adaptive structure in their own academies over the years, but still struggled to instill any motivation beyond money.

"Not too eager to use 'em, though?" Valerie's voice was calm, yet Myers noticed a sliver of concern.

"Certainly not." The suggestion earned a humorless scoff. "Military and politics are a terrible match: one foot in the door—they get too comfy to leave. Best-case scenario, in a few years I'm stuck on a tribune watching military parades, with a loyalist junta in all but name breathing down my neck."

"What's the worst?" Now the sergeant definitely looked worried and… thoughtful, as if calculating contingencies. And she could bet the girl wasn't troubled about her own fate. Rosalind found that naive overprotectiveness meriting an amused smile.

"Oh, many. For one, it could end up being some ambitious young colonel's neck instead," she shrugged, her cheerful tone undermining the grimness of her words. "But last-resort options aren't meant to be used—as long as they remember you have one, they behave. So rest easy."

"Riiight," Valerie drawled, obviously not quite persuaded. What were the chances of the girl becoming her last line of defense? Evidently about the same as the odds of Space Force One plummeting into Night City. Barely contained levity kept Myers from moving on.

"That girl you mentioned saving in NC—was it your specialty? Damsels in distress?" she asked, the playful question catching the sergeant off guard.

"Never thought 'bout it this way." Valerie frowned in recollection, then nodded with a tentative smile. "Can say so, yeah."

"And how many did you fuck afterward?" The girl stared at her, clearly both abashed and unsure how to respond. Rosalind had to clarify with a laugh, "Present company excluded. Just want to see if there's a pattern."

"Um, no pattern whatsoever." The marine cleared her throat, managing to look embarrassed without appearing uncomfortable. "Maybe one that counts. And mostly for, uh, educational purposes." The answer, again, was too funny to let slide.

"Look at you—reading your books, having your… educational sex." Myers commended that thirst for knowledge with an approving nod.

"What can I say. I'm that curious," the sergeant grumbled at the taunt before diverting to the previous subject. "So, 'bout that Militech piece. What any of this have to do with me?"

"Well, it's almost a Christmas present." The president allowed it to pass for now, her mirth slightly restrained. "They used some marine as a poster girl for the Corps' support. It would be nothing but petty of me to keep that marine nearby to rub it in their face. And I'm famously that petty with Militech." To anyone watching, that alone created perfect context to justify Sergeant Linder's presence in any vicinity of the White House.

"To keep as what?" The girl warily furrowed her brow.

"For credible levels of pettiness, I need to target their turf. Preferably with something that makes you relevant. Coincidentally, I was… advised on establishing a presidential commission on veterans' cyberpsychosis crisis. Will be a hot topic right after the war." Rosalind enjoyed having planted the idea in Newcomb's head. It would serve as a perfect pretext. "Any acquaintance with the matter?" she inquired.

"You'd be surprised," was an instant answer. This time, Myers rolled her eyes—she wouldn't. Yet she noticed that however pleased she was with her plan, the marine still had reservations to voice. "How that gonna work? Ten minutes ago, you weren't so sure I could read. Doubt you'd expect me to draft some policy."

"I surely don't," Rosalind confirmed as much, not paying attention to the poke. Being able to read didn't cut it in the slightest—she wouldn't say that out loud, though. "There will be other people to handle that part. But it's an extremely costly issue. Without strong public support, it won't have a chance on the Hill. Luckily, Sergeant Linder's so damn likable." The president didn't need Newcomb's focus groups to confirm it, but they obliged nevertheless.

"Might piss Militech enough to look into me," Valerie muttered, though she didn't seem that concerned about the possibility.

"They can try," Myers dismissed her worries. To succeed where Hannah's nose had failed, Militech would need to know precisely where to dig. "But somehow I doubt it. You don't scrutinize the tool too closely when the hand wielding it is right here," she said with a smile. Rather than reassure the girl, her words erased the last trace of willingness to cooperate from that face.

"Managed to make use of me," the sergeant froze, her voice and eyes cold. "I'm impressed."

Rosalind discarded the smile and lifted her chin. Here she was, so satisfied with the arrangement that wouldn't raise anyone's eyebrows. Even better, it could help the girl, still adrift and searching for purpose, actually make something of her life for a change. Judging by that look, all the efforts went unnoticed, unappreciated, even scorned. With that, she determined she had reached her limit for patience. If the sergeant went cold, she could go glacial.

"Is it a 'yes' or a 'no?'" she asked, narrowing her eyes. The radical shift in tone tensed the marine before her. So resolute in her resentment a moment ago, her expression now betrayed uncertainty.

"Rosalind—"

"It's the 'Madam President' sort of address situation," Myers interjected, staring the sergeant down with an expression she usually reserved for forcing generals to fall in line. The girl held her eyes for a long minute, looking determined to refuse compliance, before finally lowering her stubborn head.

"Thank you, Madam President, for your consideration. It would be my honor," Valerie conceded in a strained voice and her most adult language, hands on the rug curling into fists.

"Much better," Rosalind tossed her way and left her seat at once, unable to rein in irritation with both of them. She circled the sofa, stepping into the cool darkness surrounding the desk, and pulled the limestone ashtray closer, leaving the marine and the fireplace behind, inside the warm circle of the flickering light. The shuffle suggested that Valerie had scrambled up to her feet too, but if she had any common sense she wouldn't dare approach. "So, whaddaya think I stand to gain from this?" Myers muttered through gritted teeth as she lighted up a cigarette, content to find her hands as steady as her voice. If that got the girl upset, she was in the right mood to not fucking care.

"Rosalind, I'm sorry," the sergeant directed a hollow attempt at making peace at her back.

"I would need an answer, not your sorries." Contradicting the harshness of her words, Myers' tone remained serene. She exhaled the smoke toward the dark row of bookshelves along the wall beyond the table and stayed silent, giving the girl the time to use that brain.

"More headache, I guess," Valerie admitted. "Some tension with Militech. Maybe a few points of approval rating if everything works out, but that's a long shot." The president let the grey column of ash fall onto the light stone as the girl added apologetically, "S' just one word that irked me, and I blurted that out." Rosalind had to focus on the soft rustle of the smoldering cigarette to keep cool.

"One word, huh?" She rubbed her forehead and took another slow draw. Her evening had been sliding steadily downhill. Quiet steps behind her prompted a turn. One sharp look froze Valerie in place as if she had hit a wall—her posture caught between fight and flight, with the blend of stubbornness and distress in the usual mixture. "Is this how it's gonna be? You dissecting my every word before picking which one gets you offended this time around?" She saw the girl open her mouth but didn't give her a chance to speak. "Don't bother—it's a rhetorical question. You might've seen those in your books," she scoffed, perching on the desk's edge and sliding the ashtray beside her.

"Yeah, can flap my trap faster than I can think." Once again, the sergeant clenched her fists, the defying tilt of her neck stiffening. "But it's kinda new to me—to just sit and nod. How'd you feel in my shoes?"

"I wouldn't get in your shoes at all," Rosalind derided the prospect. "Your lack of choice is your fucking choice. Own it. There's no way I'm relocating you into the East Wing," she said with a thin smirk. She couldn't tell from that expression if the Valerie did fully understood the ridicule, but she certainly didn't appreciate the tone. The president sighed, crushed the stub into the ashtray, and went serious. "Let's be realistic—we can't be on equal footing here. I won't ever pretend we are. So how about you pretend you somewhat trust me."

"Trust you?" The girl stared at her in disbelief. "Dunno half the reasons why you do what ya do. Just know you're out there making calls I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole, and there's enough shady shit to keep me awake at night. Figure that comes with the territory." Valerie let out a nervous laugh. "Either you're straight-up psycho, or that eats at you at least sometimes. And I don't think you're psycho, so… kinda narrows it down." Bemused by the spontaneous psychological assessment, Rosalind stared back at the marine, yet that train of thought appeared to be only gaining steam.

She stayed out of its course to get a glimpse of its inner workings. "Thing is, you can be so ruthless with people. With useful people. And I ain't even that right now. If all ya ask is to smile and wave, I'm fucking disposable. One screw-up, a little inconvenience, and poof—gone. Not in a 'shady shit' kinda way, sure. Not saying you'll sell me to the Scavs," the sergeant made a point to clarify, spilling her words even faster. "But every time I won't shut my mouth, I fucking die inside. Last time I slipped, you left me in that desert and never looked back. And it ain't like I gotta say anything to piss you off. Take today. Haven't seen ya in a month, and the first look I get me makes me feel like some trash-tier raccoon leaving stinky paw prints all over your kitchen. How the hell I'm here if I get under your skin this bad? Starting to think maybe—just maybe—if you could use me, I get to stick around a little longer. 'Cause I'm scared shitless that one day—"

"Valerie," the president firmly wedged in, pulling the emergency brake on this speeding-up disaster, "you're rambling." The girl blinked and slowly straightened her posture.

"Y-yeah," she admitted, flashing an embarrassed smile and rubbing her neck. "Ain't I." For once, Rosalind found that train wreck more baffling than enraging, and the lack of immediate consequences eased a sigh of relief from the sergeant's lips.

"That's… a lot to unpack," Myers generously downplayed the scale of the outburst and couldn't help but smile. "Bold of you to assume your presence doesn't inconvenience me at all, but I admit the 'trash-tier raccoon' look was uncalled for." The mental image was so vivid, it took effort not to laugh. The president stayed silent for a beat longer before admitting, "I left you in that desert precisely because I didn't enjoy using you. But not before I already had." Valerie frowned—she clearly preferred to believe she had been a free agent all along. "Nothing I do would be to my detriment, sure, but using you is off the table this time. I don't sleep with my assets." Rather than treating her words with a modicum of seriousness, the marine swapped the frown for a cheeky smirk.

"Actually—"

"Really about to twist this into some crude sex joke, aren't you?" Rosalind shook her head in mostly pretend disappointment and left the desk for the window. The landscape was remarkably bright, fresh snow casting the starlight back into the sky. She had forgotten how lucid the nights could be in the absence of light pollution, and how still. Only a few minor specks of darkness drifted slowly across the sparkling night—patrolling drones with built-in night vision didn't need searchlights giving away their location.

"Actually, I urgently need to come up with a better one," she heard the sergeant's reply, tinged with laughter. Surprised by her own lightheartedness, Myers smiled.

"Come," she called up, and in an instant, two palms—one warm, one cool—eagerly landed on her waist.

She tensed at the still-unusual combination and the way it disrupted her thoughts. The marine cozily nuzzled at her neck and stood still for a while, resting her chin on her left shoulder. The president lifted her hand to ruffle her hair—slightly longer than her merc's rattail but just as soft. She had always appreciated the girl's knack for brightening the mood. If only she could stay like that consistently instead of dragging them both through a fucking rollercoaster. Rosalind turned her head and pecked the warm cheek, noticing for the first time a subtle and highly unexpected scent.

"Is that… cucumber?" she asked in disbelief. "Are you taking perfume tips from a local greengrocer?"

"Knew you'd like it," the girl laughed, then faltered. "You don't hate cucumbers, do y—"

"No. No, it's… fine," Myers calmed her down, still incredulous.

"Soo, you're saying you're cool as a—"

"Don't push it," the president warned, fighting a smile, and ran her fingers through Valerie's hair once again. One of the deadliest solos she had ever seen evidently had a penchant for childish pranks and for smelling like fresh produce. Weirdly, she found both absurdly endearing. "You even seen real snow before?" she caught them both off guard with the question.

"Had a… brief run-in in DC. Guess, you wouldn't count half-rain as real snow, though," the sergeant said hesitantly. "This stuff squeaks like I'm walking in two rubber ducks. Real slippery rubber ducks."

"I'll have Reyes find you proper winter boots tomorrow. They should've warned you about the weather here." Myers was puzzled by this rare oversight from her usually reliable agents.

"They, uh, kinda did. Said it's gonna be cold. But Washington's cold too, so figured a woolly pully and all-weather would do." And a proper parka. Really, what did she expect, dragging a SoCal nomad into winter Vermont? "Didn't even pack my snivel gear," Valerie shrugged, while Myers shook her head, her smile widening.

"A shame. I'd've loved to help you out of long johns," the president remarked with practiced nonchalance, the muffled laugh tickling her neck.

"Bet you would," the sergeant said, "After all, Rule Two only ever applies to you."

"Rule Two, is it?" Rosalind found it amusing. "Very thoughtful of you to codify them."

"Yeah, too much time on my hands, y'know," Valerie said, drawing a small approving hum from her. "Not a bad skill set for a presidential commission either, right?" Another good one. Rosalind suddenly became acutely aware of how hot the room felt—even as the fire in the corner of her eye dwindled, having almost consumed that ridiculous cone of wood. And how frustratingly lacking was the positioning of those hands, comfortably heavy yet disappointingly still. "By the way… this your rule?" The question forced her to concentrate on their conversation.

"Mmm," the president took her time to check on her vocal cords. "Never had much taste for that sort of games. It's the closest you can get to parity—within reasonable limits, of course. But until I'm sure I can trust your judgement, I need to assess the risk myself."

"What your… risk assessment telling you now?" the sergeant murmured, her tone leaving no doubt about her intentions. She pressed a kiss to Rosalind's neck just above the almost nonexistent collar, stirring a sudden pool of weakness inside. The slow glide of her lower lip carried that weakness further down her body. Still, the president managed to notice the hair rule stood unchallenged. She tilted her head right in commendation, which the girl seemed to appreciate. "Y'know ya had your fill of entertainment. I still got no idea what your boobs feel like." Instead of answering, Myers simply tugged at her shirt and pulled the left hand from her waist to guide it beneath. The hot gasp by her ear, signaling that the sergeant was not expecting her request to be approved so promptly, sent shivers down her spine.

"Shoulda asked an hour ago," Valerie regretted the loss of time, her hand gliding upward and slipping under her bra. Rosalind sensed the open palm gently rubbing her right nipple, the fingers barely touching her skin. It felt good and surprisingly… sensual. Not the greedy grab she would expect—and, if she were honest, still enjoy. She closed her eyes to focus on the sensation leisurely passing over to the left nipple and coming back. The president had to admit, for now the marine remained rather assertive. "Care to elaborate on those… reasonable limits?" the girl continued her odd inquiry, wavering voice betraying how much she was enjoying it herself.

"Valerie, you blush at every opportunity," Rosalind scoffed, entertained by the question. "Nothing you would do could possibly count as unreasonable." Her chest rose higher in pursuit of that elusive palm, but the hand slipped away, retreating back to her waist, and the body pressing into her back went still. Myers opened her eyes, bracing for the ride to plunge once again.

To her relief, the apprehension proved wrong. After a few seconds of gathering courage, the hands at her waist slid lower and slipped into her own pockets in an uncharacteristically bold, possessive fashion—both hot now and teasingly close to where she needed them most. She caught those wrists to establish necessary oversight.

"Rosalind, I can't anymore," urged the heated whisper at her ear as the sergeant pressed into her back. "I want you really—really—bad."

"Enough to say it, at least," Myers replied with dry mockery, though it took effort to steady her voice.

"Yeah," Valerie murmured between slow kisses down her neck. "Enough to fuck you on this windowsill. Or your desk. Or against any wall of your liking. That couch or rug'll do too, if you're feeling extra adventurous."

"I'm strongly against fucking on a fucking rug," the president chuckled. "May I interest you in a bed?"

"Like… in a bedroom?" the girl sounded genuinely surprised but quickly fell back into the same playful tone. "How pedestrian. Yes, please."

Rosalind carefully pulled those hands out of her pockets and stepped aside. Without the girl's warmth, she felt less cozy but more like herself. She fetched her jacket off the chair and headed straight to the fireplace. The marine lifted her sweater from the floor as she pushed the oxygen valve control. The glass screen and vents snapped shut, smothering the residual fire. She reached the door—and glanced back at Valerie when no footsteps followed. The girl stood still, appearing slightly lost, her sweater hanging helplessly from her chrome fingers.

"Something's wrong?" Myers frowned at her reluctance.

"Need a moment or two. Can't see shit for now," the sergeant admitted.

"They installed you crappy kiroshis," the president realized, struck by the oversight. She had completely forgotten to handle that—and, of course, they had gone with the cheapest option.

The marine shrugged indifferently and only said, "Not like I need eyes in a panzer."

Rosalind stepped back and gently took the girl's warm palm to guide her out, the darkness and needlessness of words instilling a sense of excessive intimacy. She let go as soon as they emerged into the dim hallway light and moved toward the door across from the study, certain this time that Valerie followed her like a shadow—slightly confused and far too aroused.

"Shut the door, will you," she instructed the sergeant as they entered the bedroom and flicked through the controls on the wall to restore a sense of distance despite the girl standing only a few feet away. The floor lighting softened to a muted glow, just enough to suit the moment. The president cast a side-glance at Valerie hovering by the entrance and examining the room with a faint frown. "What, still expecting that sex dungeon?" she asked and came closer to take the pullover off the marine's hands. As the drapes slid shut to hide the room from the curious moon peeking over the mountain ridge, she reached the window and left both the jacket and the sweater on the stout armchair.

"Umm, kinda. Why your bed so damn high?" The question made Myers give the piece an unbiased eye.

Modern beds could easily be larger, but almost never this tall, indeed. Replacing a genuine early-1900s art deco bed frame, however, felt like sacrilege. Besides, it would break the room. To her eyes, especially after sixteen years in the White House, these dimensions were nothing but expected—by those standards, with the mattress barely bringing it to the three-foot height, the bed couldn't even count as particularly tall. It wasn't her fault Valerie's expectations were calibrated by Night City's Japanese-inspired interiors, with beds rarely rising to a knee.

"It's… antique," she explained with a quiet chuckle. "But it works the same way, I promise."

"Just doubles as a dining table?" The retort came quickly, though without much thought.

"In a way," the president confirmed with a nod, her smile widening as she caught the sergeant's ears tint pink. She would vastly prefer if that tendency to speak without proper consideration always resulted in the same amusing effect. "But I'd rather you undress first." Giving the girl's unpredictable modesty some space, she moved toward the bedside table, undoing her cuffs on her way.

"Real casual 'bout it, ain't you," she heard the sergeant mutter.

"What's 'it?' Sex?" The rings clinked against the nightstand beside a small tray holding two customary sleeping pills and a glass of water. "Well, yes. It's a very casual thing." Having undone her shirt, she glanced back to assess the girl's progress and cursed herself: Valerie was furrowing her brow in concentration, chrome fingers struggling with the left cuff without help from the organic hand. Rosalind made her way back and touched the smooth metal fingers to stop her. "Let me," she nudged calmly. The sergeant clenched her jaw but, after a moment, dropped her arms to her sides.

"My… 'fine motor skills,'" she sounded as if quoting someone, "need a head start now. A big one." She smiled, failing to disguise her discomfort and, obviously aware of it, avoiding eye contact. Quite an accomplishment, given they were mere inches apart.

"Your fine motor skills are very fine. Made sure of that," Rosalind attempted to put her at ease as she undid the left sleeve, and instantly pursed her lips at the unnecessary slip. "Stop calculating every separate move. Your conscious brain knows shit about how your fingers should work," she muttered, gliding her fingers up the metal wrist, this cuff already unbuttoned. "How does it feel?"

"Weird, I guess." The girl stared down at their hands. "Feel temperature and levels of pressure, and then… kinda recall the sensation. Right now I'd swear there're goosebumps running up my chrome."

Myers calmly studied her face. She didn't remember her merc having such long eyelashes—had little time to notice them, or little opportunity, given that preposterous skull tattoo. Valerie blinked and met her examining gaze with those serious grey eyes. Now it was the president's turn to break eye contact. Their issue became crystal clear: she was most comfortable with established detachment, while the girl stumbled without emotional cues as if in the dark. Yet only one of them would have to adjust. Nonchalantly, Rosalind focused on her task, swiftly undoing the uniform shirt, her muscle memory still perfectly attuned to the exact spacing between buttons.

"How do you manage when I'm not around?" She glanced at the sergeant's face. The girl wasn't looking, gaze fixed on something behind her right shoulder.

"Slowly." The reply was uncharacteristically curt and slightly unsteady in pitch. Myers hummed in appreciation—the girl had always been delightfully easy to distract.

She wasn't that hard to sidetrack either: once the last button was undone, she slid both hands inside the shirt. The skin beneath her fingertips was soft and smooth, the muscles underneath taut and pronounced. She savored the contrast as she drew the sergeant closer. Her lips grazed her favorite mouth, stealing uneven breaths and escaping humble pursuits until she finally taunted the sergeant out of this random restraint.

Both hands—to her utmost satisfaction—gripped her shoulders, rendering the next attempt at a kiss unavoidable. So indecisive a moment ago, that mouth had now grown bold and nimble, making her skin prickle with wanting more. Her hands left their warm rest, peeling the clothes off those shoulders and letting them fall to the floor. Her own shirt and bra followed suit. Rosalind pressed against the warm body and instantly knew something had gone awry—the girl's lips turned tentative, only one arm wrapped around her back.

"For fuck's sake," the president snapped, teetering on the brink of genuine anger.

"S' metal on skin, Rosalind, can't feel any good. Think, it's—" Not caring to listen, she lightly chewed on the sergeant's lower lip to prevent her from continuing and to vent some steam. It was the first time she had witnessed that expression carry even a hint of regret at the loss. Such a silly girl. As she pulled back, she was met with a frown of discontent—Valerie clearly found her disdain for that nonsense offensive. It might've looked stern, if not for the way the girl's eyes struggled to stay on her face, slipping lower with every glance. Myers smiled at her predicament.

"And I think you think too much," she sighed, "instead of just scratching that nose." The girl blinked, puzzled, but didn't protest when her hands were guided onto the president's chest. As expected, both palms instinctively cupped her breasts, both thumbs brushing her nipples with tender precision. "How does it feel now?"

"Right," Valerie gave up.

"Same here," Rosalind murmured, enjoying the fascinating variance in sensations as those palms slowly roamed along her ribcage and waist, drawing her closer. "A pity you're right-handed, though. I take it that's adding to your… performance anxiety."

"You just can't help yourself!" the sergeant laughed at the dig, despite unsteady breathing, and leaned in to kiss her neck. "Lucky for you, I'm a lefty."

"Then why shoot with your right?" Myers nearly frowned at the confession, but those hot, open-mouthed kisses felt too good on her throat.

"Not a fan of catching hot brass with my face," still busy, the girl whispered a habitually ludicrous explanation but ensured proper skin-on-skin contact, at least. Still, it did explain something.

"Your atrocious IAR score," the president squeezed those tight shoulders, both pleasantly organic, and briefly intercepted her mouth, "Didn't bother telling your instructor?"

"You looked into my file?" the sergeant frowned. "I still passed," she added hesitantly and flashed a cocky smile. "If it makes ya feel better, got perfect scores on everything with LBV." Rosalind gave her a thoughtful look.

"Your mouth," she decided. The girl stared in confusion. "Your mouth will make me feel better." She hadn't even finished the sentence before the floor seemed to vanish beneath her. Now, she had to rely on those shoulders for balance, sternly looking down at the unbothered marine.

"What're you—"

"Nothing I'd do could count as unreasonable," Valerie reminded her with a mischievous grin as she carried her toward the bed, completely unhindered by her weight.

"Can't imagine why I said that. Doing the unreasonable is basically your modus operandi," Myers grumbled as her back sank into the cool sheets.

"And look where it got me," was the cheeky response.

She lifted herself onto her elbows to do exactly that. Still only half-naked and smiling, Valerie stood motionless, hands on her hips. For now, the grin was fine, but the uniform trousers had overstayed their welcome. The girl seemed content to just stare at her. Rosalind didn't have any particular objection—the effort she had been putting into her body quite deserved the awe in those eyes—but the suspense was beginning to wear on her.

"Can we move on from these acts of veneration?" she proposed, arching an eyebrow at the pause—and noted that the girl's hair looked too orderly for her taste.

"Just picking my… disposition," the marine eagerly replied, but otherwise kept stalling. "Your Mount Everest of a bed is insane."

Ignoring the statement, Myers sat up and tugged at her service belt, drawing them closer—and positioning the girl's nipples right in front of her mouth to prove her wrong. One long, slow sweep of her tongue had Valerie already gasping and clutching her shoulders. A few more strokes certainly sent her biting her lips, but the president was too absorbed to check.

"Rosalind, any chance of a camera nearby?" came a slightly ragged plea from above. It seemed that even now the girl remained mindful enough to the established boundaries.

"Hm, Rule One, I assume?" she clarified the reason for the request and took her time to taste the other nipple. The fingers clawed deeper into her shoulders but didn't impede her slipping away. Once again propped by her elbows, she studied the confused sergeant. "I believe I could declare this… 'Mount Everest of a bed' a neutral zone, but you'd have to climb it first," she stated her terms as she pulled herself deeper onto the sheets.

Valerie nodded slowly but skipped undressing herself, hovering over the president and concentrating on undoing her slacks instead. Successful at this endeavor, she methodically stripped her of the remaining clothing, not lifting her eyes once. Myers assisted when necessary but otherwise observed, intrigued to see what kind of delay would occur this time. Regardless of the sergeant's self-proclaimed left-handedness, it was evident that what she had previously taken for mild performance anxiety was, in fact, full-blown stage fright—with no stage in sight, unless the bed counted.

Rosalind was still contemplating whether turning off the light might quicken the anticipation when Valerie grabbed her hips, unceremoniously hauling her to the edge of the bed. She watched silently, growing more incredulous, as the girl, in the same calm and orderly manner, proceeded to get down on her knees, the top of the mattress reaching her chest. Only after her thighs were firmly braced on the sergeant's shoulders did the president receive a single glance and another mischievous smile—but that was about the last setback.

At the first brush of that tongue, Rosalind gasped—more from shock than in response to sensation. The drawn-out prelude left her overly sensitive and, simultaneously, numb. She briefly wondered whether Valerie was experienced enough to eventually hit the stride on her own, until the next series of languid taps swept her off her elbows and arched her back. A rather definitive answer.

She barely had time to disarm her vocal cords before the influx of air shattered into jagged, irregular bits. Craving more contact, her hands rushed down and raked through the girl's hair, finding some purchase but no reaction. The head beneath her palms carried on the same unhurried motions, closing in on the same sweet spot. When her body inadvertently tried to recoil from a flicker of too-acute sensation, the effort went futile. In dazed bafflement, she tore her head off the mattress and looked down, only to see both hands confidently holding her hips in place. Any conscious attempt at wrestling herself free would demand more focus and coordination than she could summon now.

Wary of the strain, the girl lifted her eyes for a moment, her expression unusually dark and heavy, and Myers threw her head back, escaping at least the gaze. It looked like the deer in the headlights had become the hunter, and she would've laughed if not for the way the air hitched in her throat, as if on the verge of panic. The absurd sense of security reassured her that it was not.

Nearly breathless, Rosalind sensed the tension gathering as high as her navel. She forced herself to unclench her grip on the girl's hair, lest she hurt her, and, abandoning the last pretense of control, mercilessly crumpled the sheets in her fists instead. Whatever she might do now, nothing seemed to affect the relentless certainty with which she was moving toward the edge, almost being dragged there. The only thing she could ask was not to stop, but she might as well urge the tides.

Closing her eyes, she froze, vaguely aware of her body beyond the throbbing heat coiled within her, radiating an ever-expanding ripple across her synapses with every beat. A cool riffle brushed the top of her head, casting a shimmer of light that shivered down her spine. Aware that the next one should swell into a full-blown surge, she relaxed for the release, but the sergeant ignored the cue and went on.

In helpless frustration, Rosalind reached for the metal fingers on her hipbone to prevent Valerie from bringing unnecessary undertones into a single clear resonance. She should've told her in advance when to stop, that it wouldn't work. But then, of course, it did—in a muddled and intense fashion, as was often the case with the girl. Missing its target, her hand dropped onto the mattress, leaving the rest of her body to deal with the consequences of a stronger second outburst.

After the eternity it took her lungs to pump through—what felt like—half the air in the room, Myers opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, pondering if she really liked deep teal. A featherlike kiss on her inner thigh woke her from this stupor. She lifted herself back onto her elbows to look at the girl, still kneeling—and had to press her lips together to stifle a laugh. Now she was thoroughly satisfied with how messy that hair was, a wild gaze completing the picture.

"You mind…?" finally mobilizing her vocal cords, the president asked calmly and shot a glance at the fingers still clutching her hips.

"Uh, sure." The sergeant seemed momentarily startled—either by this tranquility or the sight of her own hands—and instantly released the grip.

Mindful not to overload frayed nerves, Rosalind carefully pulled herself away, course-correcting to the left, toward the headboard. Free to stand at last, the girl slowly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, awkwardly lingering at the edge of her vision as if unsure what to do with herself. Myers, however, had a more pressing issue for now. Her body felt pleasantly heavy, but the air in her throat grew too thin. Head reaching the pillows, she rolled onto her stomach to fetch a stashed pack from the nightstand—and caught the sergeant's concerned frown from the corner of her eye as she turned back.

"Do I look fucking displeased?" the president sighed, bending her knee to settle higher on the pillows. "I assume Reed wouldn't know that, but I also tend to smoke after sex." She lit up, savoring the girl's laughter and the first draw. "There must be an ashtray. On the table by the window." She briefly closed her eyes, feeling the weight of every breath at last.

The vaguely formed request snapped the marine out of her stillness. Moments later, she set down a solid marble square beside the rectangular bedside lamp—nearly everything in the room composed of right angles—and perched on the bed.

"Yeah, you look fine," Valerie concluded, pressing a soft kiss to her bent knee.

"Actually, I was prepared to remain mildly disappointed for a while," Rosalind admitted.

"Just mildly?" The girl's brows shot up.

"I don't do charity cases. You wouldn't have gotten anywhere near my bed if I'd expected worse… Or if I'd known you'd refuse to get into it." The president let a pointed glance settle on her trousers. Valerie smirked and intercepted her cigarette to tap the ash and steal a quick drag before returning it. "Didn't know you smoke," Myers said as she watched the marine finally stand and unbuckle her belt.

"Occasionally," the sergeant muttered, stepping over the green fabric. Rosalind appreciated the fact that she appeared to be quite confident in her body. She would've been foolish not to: every inch boasted strength, youth, and jackpot genetics. The president sat up to devote it appropriate attention as the girl came closer.

"Glad you kept those," she murmured, exploring her abs with a free hand but avoiding that painfully looking curved scar left by the kidney transplant—she wasn't sure whether it was still sensitive. For some reason, the sergeant frowned at her words.

"Actually, had to rebuild everything from scratch after the coma," she explained, eyes averted. Rosalind pursed her lips at the idea of the girl waking up a splinter of her former self. That couldn't have been easy on anyone's psyche. Valerie was the first of them to shake those thoughts off as she finally climbed onto the bed, and inquired with an innocent expression, lazily stretching on her side, "Sooo… you don't like games. That include roleplay?" Now it was Myers' turn to frown—too soon for spicing things up. "Got this idea, you're gonna love it," the girl's lips started to tremble with barely restrained joy. "Just imagine: you're the prez and I'm this shy marine—"

"Don't even think of calling me 'Madam President' in bed." Rosalind rolled her eyes but failed to resist smiling at this goofiness.

"Huh, so you're saying this ain't the 'Madam President' sorta address sitch?" the sergeant kept fooling around, compelling Myers to swiftly dispose of the cigarette, then press the girl into the mattress and catch those stupidly smug lips.

The body beneath her was warm and ready to accommodate her between her legs at the earliest demand. Rosalind braced on one elbow, her right hand gliding lower until slipping two fingers inside. Valerie gasped and arched her neck, offering it in place of her mouth. The president accepted the exchange, both hands on her back drawing all the signs of approval. Still, it felt too controlled, too coherent, when she wanted the girl tight, desperate, and clinging to her with fingers weakening by the second. And to see her eyes.

She carefully withdrew her fingers, smiling at the quiet but clearly disgruntled groan. The girl returned her head from its pillow exile, eyes casting an urgent plea. Seizing the moment, Myers shifted a few inches higher to cut out any future attempts to escape and kissed the disappointment off those lips. Her slick right hand trailed along the girl's thigh, coaxing her knee upward until Rosalind hooked it firmly around herself.

"Both," she instructed firmly. A flash of reluctance in Valerie's eyes was expected and promptly smothered by another kiss—if the president could yield some control, so could the 'shy marine.' With arms and legs wrapped around her in anticipation, Rosalind finally reached the desired extent of contact.

Floating so close they were sharing the same air, she entered the girl again, this time with a thumb, tracking every flutter of eyelids while catching every uneven breath. Still too controlled, until she began slowly rocking her hips—along with the girl, now bound to her—and saw that restraint quiver. The fingers on her back clawed at her shoulder blades, then tangled in her hair. The grey eyes started to lose their clarity but bared something hidden before, something raw. Something Myers would rather ignore.

"Light," she breathed out, her voice unexpectedly raspy but recognizable enough for room control to execute the order. The same way it nurtured intimacy, darkness turned every gasp sharper, every touch smoother, and every look—unseen. And she was fine with that.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Valerie woke in a still, dim bedroom alone, the opposite side of the bed she had been banished from already vacant and cold. The woman, partial to intense physical intimacy during sex, appeared highly allergic to any closeness afterward, but at least she hadn't dismissed the sergeant for the night. The slant of a single narrow ray of light slipping through the drapes onto the white pillows suggested that the sun was already halfway to its zenith. Probably inexcusably late for the president, as further inspection of the room yielded no trace of Myers—only her rings glinting faintly on the bedside table by the tray with a glass of water.

The marine sighed and slipped off the bed she still found ridiculously high, if undeniably comfortable. Her own body didn't feel that welcoming, though. Regardless of how fit she was, a handful of smaller, long-neglected muscles were sore and eager to remind her of the night before. Shaking off a few stubbornly vivid flashes, she focused on finding the woman. The search, however, was hindered by the absence of any clothes in plain sight.

Had she been back in the barracks, she would've suspected a prank on the spot. Her ability to sleep like a log in any circumstance had been a long-running joke in her platoon, and marines' humor often skewed toward the unsophisticated. But she doubted that hiding her clothes to make her wander the house naked could be Myers' idea of a practical joke. Encouraged by the thought, she persisted with the examination.

Unlike the president's study, functional rather than grand, her bedroom hit a full ten on the luxury scale, yet was unpleasantly cold. Valerie stepped off the chilled wooden flooring onto a warmer rug. No wonder that every room she had seen here had a fireplace. This one, facing the bed, was the most unusual, though, with a sequence of narrow white squares layered into each other until they reached the hearth—or rather, the transparent screen covering it for now.

To think of it, almost everything here was squarish: the two wide draped windows divided by a strip of wall, the armchairs with a low table between them, the bed, the rug. All in white, teal, or gold, except for the wood. And none hid anything resembling her clothes—she was certain of it, despite the scant light. Remembering the control panel by the entrance, she decided to check again once she opened the drapes. If that failed, she would try the barely noticeable doors flanking the fireplace. One had to be a bathroom, the other might be a wardrobe.

With the plan set, she headed for the controls—only to stumble on her familiar duffel bag right behind the nearest armchair. She could only wonder how it had found its way from the guest room, but at least her things were here when she needed them most. The sergeant guessed the right door on her first try and took a quick shower—though getting the hang of all the bathroom controls took her a little longer than she would publicly admit—then pulled on jeans and an olive t-shirt before stepping out.

The study across the hallway was closed. She glanced right and noticed a cleaning bot roll into one of the rooms and delicately shut the door behind itself, servomotors so silent it could pass for a ghost servant. She grinned at the sudden allusion forming in her head when a faint clink from the distant, sunlit doorway to her left attracted her attention. She set her course toward the light and sound, still finding the sensation of walking around in socks too weird—and too soft.

Contradicting the corridor's rigid right angles, the room she entered was perfectly round, a seamless glass panel from floor to ceiling curving along half its circumference. No wonder it was so bright. The large wooden table at its center was round as well. She smiled at the sight of the woman in a light blue shirt seated at its far side. Despite quite a few people Valerie had seen downstairs yesterday, the president was completely alone and already at work, eyes fixed on thin air, with half a dozen datashards awaiting their turn beside a small white coffee cup on a saucer, the likely culprit behind the sound that had betrayed her presence.

Myers lifted a finger, requesting another minute of silence, and the sergeant obliged, content to spend all the time in the world simply looking at her. It was a unique sense of freedom, being able to openly stare at the president. Despite the persistent concern creasing her brow, she looked less tired now, indicating she had managed at least a few hours of sleep. The prudently buttoned-up shirt not only colored her eyes blue but also betrayed the absence of a bra to the grateful onlooker. Valerie swallowed. Was it a normal sign of attraction to start salivating at the sight of another human being? She couldn't remember her body ever reacting this strongly to anyone else. The president sighed and pulled out the shard, her glance expressing mild discontent.

"I was quiet!" the sergeant protested.

"You were rather loudly staring." The woman returned the chip to the queue and picked up her coffee.

"Was taking in… the view." The marine looked around—quite literally—and guessed the most improbable purpose she could imagine. "Used to be an observatory, this?"

"No, always been the dining room," Myers replied, hiding her smile behind the cup. "The observatory's in the south wing, next to the library."

"'Just a cabin' my ass," Valerie said, allowing herself an open grin.

"Get yourself breakfast and sit," the president nodded toward the panel by the entrance. Two flat buttons with engraved triangles—one pointing up, the other down—looked nothing like any food processor the sergeant had ever seen. She braced for another struggle with an overly complicated home appliance, this time under the woman's watchful eye. "It's a dumbwaiter, Valerie," the president said, not bothering to mask the lilt of amusement in her voice. "A kitchen elevator," she clarified, meeting the still-oblivious frown. The marine recalled the food delivery system in that posh Washington spot and recognized the concept. "Can't offer you much of a choice, though. My meal plan will have to suffice."

"What, ya don't get to choose your chow?" The sergeant threw her a puzzled look and pressed the up button.

"Why, I do. Probably did it somewhere in August," the president replied with a shrug of indifference.

"Ah, way to get a say and a bit of intrigue too," Valerie noted approvingly as the mechanism in the wall clicked, and the dumbwaiter's shutter slid down. She retrieved a tray from the upper section, with temperature control—the lower compartment likely reserved for used dishes—and stared at it, then at the president, then back at the tray.

"Mhm, enjoy your very intriguing oatmeal." The corners of the woman's mouth twitched, clearly suppressing laughter. Valerie shook her head and placed the tray on the table two chairs clockwise from the president, with a purposefully loud clunk. "Oh, stop pouting! It's morning, it's breakfast. And if things haven't changed drastically since my time, it's still way better than the slop in the Corps," Myers reproached her lack of enthusiasm.

Deliberately not looking at her, the sergeant set the coffee aside—she wasn't quite ready for another attempt at warming up to espresso—and clenched the spoon as if gearing up for a fight. Of all the dishes she had ever read about, oatmeal had never enjoyed a reputation exciting enough to warrant a try. The first mouthful instantly informed her that she had managed to find an organic dish with an almost artificially bland texture, slightly remedied by the berries she failed to identify. But it was, indeed, leagues ahead of a USMC breakfast. On the account of pouting, she pleaded not guilty. She definitely was not.

"Not a protein bar, I guess," she finally gave up—and smiled when the woman laughed. Myers seemed to enjoy their banter, though the way she raised her eyebrows at the marine putting her elbows on the table as if guarding the tray suggested that there were other things the woman found entertaining. Valerie had her own musings to savor and put food out of thin air in her fairytale checklist. "Your detail on kitchen duty? They, like, draw straws?"

"Something like that," the president confirmed, and the offhand reply sparked an idea so obvious the sergeant almost laughed at herself for missing it.

"Hey, how 'bout making me your bodyguard?" she proposed before doubt could catch up. Now that she had voiced it, the plan seemed perfectly reasonable—way better than assembling an entire presidential commission just to spite Militech. The look on the woman' face, however, told her exactly how wrong she was.

"What a brilliant idea—introducing a rookie marine into my detail. No one would bat an eye," that tone openly mocked her suggestion. Valerie recalled Takemura's stories and had no trouble imagining Myers' bodyguards enduring a similarly convoluted process, even if less… samurai-ish.

"Can train, y'know. Can even learn how to cook," the sergeant held the line, though her voice lacked conviction now. Done by the book, the process would probably drag on so long that four years at an academy would feel like a weekend trip. Not the cooking part, of course—how hard could that be? "Not like I don't have the chops."

"That's the problem. You don't," the president muttered, setting her cup aside. Almost choking on oatmeal, Valerie stared at her in disbelief. Formal training was one thing, but if the woman remained unconvinced of her actual skill set after everything they had been through…

"I saved your life!" That sounded much better in her head. Out in the open, the words rang too loud and childish around the room.

"Exactly my point," Myers shook her head with a wry smile. "You're a savior, Valerie. A rare someone who has the means to do something and actually does, even if for self-validation. But bodyguarding's too much of a routine for you. And I can't have a crisis every other week just to keep you perky." Frowning at the unsolicited analysis, the sergeant prepared to argue, but the next words crushed her resolve. "Besides," the president asked, "how many bodyguards do you see here?" Valerie hesitated. Joining the president's detail did look like the surest way to never have another private moment with her again.

"Shoulda led with that," she grumbled half-heartedly, conceding defeat, then regarded the woman with sudden suspicion, spoon suspended above the bowl. "Wait… what do they think I'm doing here?"

"What do you think?" Myers gave her a baffled look. "I don't do privacy. Not in the way you'd normally expect." Her tone grew serious, even faintly apologetic. "My aides can be as unassuming as the three blind mice. My detail gets to witness plenty of very non-public stuff—the 'shady shit,' as you put it."

"Meaning… everyone here knows?" Valerie stuck the spoon into the porridge and left it there, absorbed in parsing her own emotions. Being the president's little secret didn't bother her in the slightest. She would've killed for the opportunity—in a way, she had killed for it. However, without external perspective, she had been able to convince herself that there was more to it than there actually was. Now, realizing how she was inevitably going to be perceived, the narrative was completely out of her hands—just as Myers had warned her back at that cramped apartment in DC.

"I don't know what they know. I don't explain myself," the woman calmly said in the meantime. "As far as I'm concerned, they might as well think we're playing chess here. But if that's the case, I'll have to replace them due to disqualifying idiocy. Most have been with me since Militech. Not my first affair they've got to witness." She concluded casually. The sergeant blinked. "Which startled you more: 'not the first' or 'an affair?'" The woman's gaze sharpened, observant of every twitch in her face.

"Actually, an affair sounds like a solid promotion from a fucktoy," Valerie smirked, trying to play it cool, but it didn't seem to trick anyone, so she might as well just ask. "'Kay, I'll bite. What other—"

"You don't want to know," the president interjected plainly—and probably was right. The marine fixed her gaze on the landscape beyond the window, where the snow-white slopes flowed into the nearly black fir forest under the clear blue sky, and absently nodded, lowering her gaze to the polished tabletop reflecting the same scenery upside down. "I should've guessed you're not quite aware of what you're getting into," she heard Myers sigh and returned her attention to the woman.

"What can I say, you're the first prez on my CV," Valerie shrugged, attempting lightheartedness she didn't feel. "I'll learn the ropes on the fly."

"If it gives you any comfort, I personally moved your bag to protect your reputation." The smile accompanying the subtle jab revealed that Myers wasn't fooled by that facade and tried to cheer her up herself.

"Yeah, rep's kinda all I got. Not like you're gonna make an honest woman outta me." This time the sergeant's smile was genuine, and genuinely grateful—not for the fact that the president had spared her presumed decorum, but for giving it even a thought. "Gotta start wishing you good night from that guest room. Real loud."

"Be my guest," the woman approved her plan with a short nod and swept her shards into her palm. "As entertaining as it is, I need to work. I'm already behind schedule," she muttered, rising from her place.

"How come? I'm here like fifteen minutes tops," the marine protested her hasty departure and watched Myers purse her lips.

"I overslept," she reluctantly admitted, and Valerie couldn't help herself again. "Stop smirking and finish your breakfast. Cold oatmeal's even worse." Despite the firm tone, Myers leaned in to kiss her temple before leaving the room.

"Then why eat it at all?" she raised her voice to reach the president.

"Because I'm a fucking adult!" came the reply. The sergeant laughed, then stirred her tepid porridge diligently and did her best. Her second espresso went down smoother, likely because she now knew what to expect. Ten minutes later, she collected the empty bowls and coffee cups on the tray and sent it downstairs, bent on not caring what anyone there thought—and on not overthinking everything herself.

After the sunlit dining room, the hall appeared even darker, so she gave her kiroshis a few moments to readjust before confidently moving to the thin line of light stretching across the floor. The door to Myers' study was left ajar, and there was only one way to find out if that was intentional.

"If it's open, you may come in," was the response to her knock and her unspoken question.

The president sat behind her desk, absorbed in a stack of paper files, just like yesterday. Valerie had rarely encountered real paper outside old books, given the massive landline telephone by Myers' right hand—way more complex than the one she had tracked down in Dogtown to contact Reed—it wasn't all that surprising. This fondness for old tech and means of communication seemed baked into the NUSA DNA, with only a regular terminal on the table to remind her she wasn't in a museum.

"What's the point of a vacation if you're still working?" the sergeant asked, leaning against the wall to gauge the mood.

"It just means scheduled meetings become one-pagers," Myers muttered in reply, too preoccupied to look her way, just like yesterday, but at least not giving her yesterday's treatment. "The unscheduled ones turn into calls. So I actually get to do something in the meantime."

"Like what?" Valerie hadn't expected the woman to offer her full attention—being allowed in the study was already more than she could've hoped for—but she certainly wouldn't mind some.

"Really want to know?" This time Myers finally met her eyes, as if genuinely weighing whether to share—which meant it was her meal plan for the next year at best.

"Why not?" The marine detached herself from the wall. "Y'know I'm a sucker for state secrets."

"Hm, all right," the president nodded and passed her the upper page, reclining in her chair.

Valerie accepted it carefully with her left hand, noting how thin the page felt, almost translucent. It was a list, indeed, but it had nothing to do with food—unless, of course, the president had ordered a menu with entries named after Texas military command. The sergeant had been exposed to enough TV in the barracks to recognize most of the names, their ranks providing another cue. The last one looked familiar too, but seemingly unrelated.

"Reverent Hurst?" she cast a puzzled look at the woman.

"A televangelist. His shtick is proclaiming Texas the true Promised Land and blessing missionaries in C-4 vests," Myers offered a summary, still closely watching her reaction.

"Ah, yes. 'Member something 'bout the Whore of Washington riding Militech the Beast." The marine grimaced. "So… a target list?" she guessed.

"That's how you know you've won the war these days—you pass one of those and assume the matter resolved," the woman calmly confirmed.

"What, you just, uh, mail‑order their heads?" Valerie asked, the memory of Reed's ordeal making her uneasy.

"Of course not. I want them to enjoy their right to a speedy and public trial," the president amended the letter but not the spirit of her conclusion.

The sergeant scanned the names one more time. She had seen enough strung-up and shot-down 'collaborators' to know the list wasn't full of innocents—all of them had likely earned their fate. What she couldn't know was whether ordinary civilians would've fared better if that theater of war had shifted into NUS proper.

"Seems pretty much done. Why even look at it then?" She mentally crossed her fingers in the hope that the reason wasn't pure gratification.

"Thinking if I want to strike one or two out in exchange for… cooperation." The answer made Valerie nod in barely restrained relief, yet she felt the need to change the subject. A mysterious host in an enigmatic house suggested two vastly different kinds of fairytales. Not shying away from her skeletons, Myers was certainly closer to Bluebeard. Ironically enough, she also appeared more guarded about her record of affairs than she was about her kill list.

"How do you get these here? Mail pigeons?" The marine tried to smile as she handed the page back. The woman fixed her with a final inquisitive gaze before responding. If that was some sort of test, Valerie had no means of knowing whether she had passed.

"By fax," Myers said, returning to her deliberations. The other pages in the pile appeared to be death row dossiers.

"By what?" The sergeant kept standing by the desk.

"Surely you remember landlines?" The president glanced up at the marine's confused face and nodded toward her monster of a phone. "Fax machines use them to transmit data." She winced, then corrected herself, "'Data' is generous—they scan a page on one end and print it on the other. Pretty obsolete tech."

"Not surprised. You're sure fond of that sorta stuff." This time a smile came off easier.

"You'd be surprised by the cost of getting a landline here. Could've had another useless bunker or two," the president's snarky reply steered the conversation into a perfectly safe lane, but just as quickly revealed she had no intention of riding it. "If I ask you to step out, please do. For now, just stay quiet."

"'Kay, can do," Valerie agreed, but still clarified, "Another rule to codify, this?"

"Just common sense. If it doesn't concern my work, you're free to voice your disagreements," the woman muttered, not shifting her focus, her expression habitually unreadable. "You don't seem to have much trouble with that."

"Don't have much success either," the marine shot back, glancing around the study and choosing her landing spot.

"Skill issue," came the curt reply. Valerie searched for signs of yesterday's irritation on Myers' face, still finding none. This reassured her that she could push a bit further. Aside from the couch, three deep windowsills offered varying degrees of separation from the president, yet the obvious choice faced the fireplace.

"Gonna need a minute of noise," she gave the woman short notice.

"What for?" Myers lifted her eyes from the desk and fixed them on her. The sergeant played deaf and stepped to the couch, quickly spinning it around so it faced the writing table instead. The president didn't look impressed with her efforts, simply noting, "You won't distract me."

"Wouldn't dare," Valerie grunted in response, straightening the rug beneath the couch, its long curved legs proving excellent handles. "Just grabbing the best seat in the house."

"Hmm." The woman returned to her papers. "You might've noticed they're identical—the back and the seat, I mean. After your little exercise, the rotation switch must be on the left." She gestured in that direction without looking at the startled marine.

"Meaning…" The sergeant promptly investigated the indicated spot and discovered a barely noticeable switch. She flicked it to a quiet click and, after a moment's hesitation, lightly pushed the couch's back. To her embarrassment, the hidden gears undid all her efforts, rotating the seat neatly toward the unlit hearth. "Coulda said something sooner, y'know," she grumbled, reversing the move.

"Where's the fun in that?" the president only said, nonchalantly turning the page. She didn't glance her way but was certainly biting back a smirk.

"Yeah, right." Valerie was fine with Myers poking fun at her on the condition she could see her smile. "Mind if I hit that library?" The bookshelves behind the woman gave her an idea. The mention of its being next to another round room in the opposite wing told her where to look. "Started this thing, figured I might find a copy here."

"Sure," the woman nodded. "You can always hit the gym too, burn off some of that energy."

"Nah, saving it for you." Her cocky response earned her a sharp look and an arched eyebrow, but the sergeant ventured outside before the president could respond.

The closest thing to a library Valerie had frequented before was Barlow's rusty Wanderer from her childhood. The cheerful old man had taken pride in nurturing a pretty outdated and disorderly collection of tattered books. Many missing covers and pages despite his best efforts, quite a few half-eaten by mold. Some Bakkers, of course, gave him a side-eye for wasting CHOOH2 on cargo that impractical, but she still remembered the hollow sense of loss when that shabby van went up in flames during a Shivs raid.

Old Barlow hadn't been cheerful ever since and passed a few years later, before their spineless capitulation to the Snake Nation. She suspected that every nomad family had its own kind of beating heart keeping it alive, imperceptible to outsiders and, sometimes, even to themselves, until lost. She didn't try contacting the Aldecaldos since Panam had cut her off for the sin of spending two years in a coma, and could only hope their heart was safe. Shaking off the ghosts of the old bitterness, she focused on the library before her.

It was of the entirely different world. Tall columns of bookcases lined all four walls—there were no windows here—leaving just enough room for two low armchairs and a coffee table in the center. There were more books behind their glass doors—fireproof, she was certain of that—than she would care to count. All in pristine condition, of course. The air here was slightly cooler and drier than outside, so she made sure to close the door to preserve the microclimate. The only similarity between that Wanderer and this room was that they both functioned primarily as storage spaces rather than cozy reading nooks.

The sergeant roamed among the shelves in an attempt to guess the logic of their arrangement but got overwhelmed quickly enough to search for an alternative solution. A tablet on the leftmost bookcase by the door proved to be just that. At first glance, she realized it was a digital catalog—something Myers could've mentioned as well. But where was the fun in that, indeed? A quick fumble with the list guided her to the exact bookcase, as its glass doors courteously swung open for her. Only then did she notice there were no knobs to access the shelves the traditional way.

Unsure what to do with the glossy dust jacket—very few books in her life had sported an accessory that fancy—she left it on the coffee table and stepped outside with the naked book in hand. Shutting the library door behind her, Valerie briefly considered taking a quick peek at the observatory but ultimately decided to save that experience for later.

When she came back, Myers appeared completely consumed with her papers and barely registered Valerie's presence, so the sergeant quietly stretched on her back, propping her head against the cushions she had gathered on the left side of the couch. Still, she couldn't resist stealing glances at the woman—and had to fight the urge to kiss every freckle on her face. With effort, Valerie forced herself back to the book. Within a minute of searching near the middle, she found her previous place. For the next hour or two, only the quiet rustle of paper—from the couch and the writing table alike—broke the silence of the study.

When the sun rose high enough to reflect brightly off the snow into the room, Myers left her seat and walked to the closest arched window, prompting the marine to pause her reading and observe her discreetly from above the book's edge as the woman lit a cigarette. The sight tensed Valerie up, but after a few moments she realized it wasn't angry or nervous smoking, just contemplative. She relaxed.

The habit itself wasn't concerning. She knew full well that the rigorous medical check-up the president was bound to undergo would surely detect any potential health complications. The only thing that worried her was the signs of distress, especially when she herself was the cause. However, that wasn't the case now: from her vantage point, all she could see was the dark silhouette of Myers against the blinding sunlight, yet her posture remained relaxed, eyes seemingly fixed deep in the far forest.

"Stop staring," the president muttered, exhaling smoke.

"You can't even see me," the sergeant replied, frowning at the woman's back.

"I don't need to," Myers chuckled softly and turned toward her, settling on the low windowsill and stretching her legs in grey slacks, ankles crossed.

"Haven't asked, but… why barefoot?" Valerie attempted another small talk.

"An old habit. And a pleasant change. You could give it a go." She was certain the president shot her feet a reproachful glance.

"Feeling naked 'thout shoes already. No way I'm ditching my socks," the marine dismissed the advice with prejudice.

"Well, at least you kick them off before bed or a shower, I guess," the woman shrugged, putting out the cigarette in her bizarre ashtray that looked like a rough chunk of limestone, but stayed seated. "By the way, your bathroom's on the left."

"Meaning… there are two bathrooms in your bedroom?" Valerie stared at the president as she nodded. "Wait, how did ya—"

"Not a hint of peaches or parsley was the obvious clue," Myers scoffed. Valerie sniffed the t-shirt on her shoulder—she appreciated the chance to carry the woman's scent.

"Mind if I use yours?" she found the audacity to ask.

"As you wish," the president conceded with a sigh, "Might sharpen your… olfactory sensibilities. Though, for your good name's sake, you'd better remember other people have noses too." The pointed remark made Valerie's ears grow warm. Myers, for once, ignored her onset embarrassment and only glanced at the book, its light-grey cover unrecognizable. "What've you picked?"

"Um… 'For Whom the Bell Tolls.'" The sergeant was slightly startled by the interest but couldn't complain. "Why?"

"Hmm, a peculiar choice," the woman said, her tone devoid of judgement.

"My friend's favorite book." And yet another thing that Valerie had postponed for four years. "Never struck me as a reading type before his ofrenda," she added—and instantly noticed a raised eyebrow even though the president refrained from making any comments for now. "Guess we do have our… preconceived notions," the marine begrudgingly admitted, hoping Myers wouldn't rub it in.

"How did he die?" The president let the opportunity to gloat pass—as much as the woman enjoyed making fun of her, she could also be surprisingly considerate.

"A stray bullet in Konpeki Plaza," the sergeant said grimly. Even after all this time, Jackie's death still stung.

"Two rookie mercs with a secret fondness for books, robbing Saburo's wayward son. Quite a peculiar story as well," Myers smiled, shaking her head, and that lifted Valerie's spirits.

"Wait till ya hear about our 'runner. She used to quote shit like Aristotle and Mark Aurelius all the time. That drove Jackie nuts." She grinned at the memories, but they quickly outran their warmth. "Come here," she asked, serious now.

The woman tossed a glance at her writing table as if estimating whether her schedule could spare a longer break, then stood. Surprised it had worked, the sergeant quickly made room on the couch. After a brief consideration, she placed the book face down on the floor to grab later—and caught Myers wincing. Valerie froze, aware she had messed up.

"I'm almost certain that's a first edition," the president explained the reaction, settling beside her, but as soon as she tried to correct her mistake, a firm hand pressed her shoulder back into the pillows. "It's fine. At least someone reads it, I suppose."

"Sorry, got pretty rough book manners." The marine produced an apologetic smile.

"It's a good thing that otherwise your manners are suave to a fault, isn't it?" With a renewed grin, the sergeant decided she had earned the poke and pried that hand off her shoulder to kiss the tender skin of the woman's wrist. "You won't distract me, Valerie," Myers reminded, taking her hand away.

"What do you think of it?" the marine asked, and, getting a perplexed frown instead of a response, clarified, "The book, I mean."

"Oh, it's very… Hemingwayan." A vague gesture of Myers' hands complemented the brevity yet amusing sufficiency of that review. Valerie couldn't help laughing. In a second, she, for some reason, couldn't help sitting up and kissing the woman.

"Should've become a critic," she murmured between kisses.

"A very Hemingwayan one," the president responded in her usual snarky manner and tried to push her shoulders back into the pillows. But the green glint of mirth in her eyes emboldened the sergeant enough to grab her waist and take them both down, meeting little to no resistance.

The prompt realignment on the couch, as well as a knee between her legs and two quite enthusiastic hands under her t-shirt, informed her that she could, in fact, distract President Myers to the point that she herself was left with little room for a measured response. Still, Valerie wasn't going to give up without a fight.

"Mind if we, uh, temporarily suspend Rule Two? Entirely for training purposes?" She applied for leniency.

"Well, you can try," the president issued a lukewarm go-ahead, but was in no hurry to provide any assistance. Instead, she was actively impeding the sergeant's efforts to reach the buttons of that shirt, pressing firmly into her and teasingly biting her ear.

Had this plan occurred even a day ago, Valerie would've been mortified to execute it. Now, after two more unsuccessful attempts to regain the initiative and focus, she threw one hand behind her head as far as she could reach and shifted their combined weight toward the back of the couch. As her fingers stumbled on the switch, the smooth twist of the mechanism swung them away from the writing table, swapping their positions along the way, cushions tumbling to the floor. Flat on her back now, Myers regarded the marine with appreciative amusement. And a promise of vengeance.

As she raised her chin to demonstrate the appropriate level of displeasure, Valerie opted to view it as an invitation to cover her throat with kisses and start undoing that shirt, watchful for any attempts at retaliation. Once she had triumphantly exposed the freckles below those collarbones, the president's hands ran up her back into her hair, coaxing the marine to lower her guard. Moments later—Valerie never registered how—her back hit the floor, softened by the rug and the displaced cushions beneath her. She stared at the white ceiling, listening to the most heartfelt laughter she had ever heard from Myers. Unable to resist its contagiousness, she tossed the pillows aside and burst out laughing too, another risky ploy already brewing inside her mind.

She sat up and yanked the president off the couch, leveling the playing field. Belatedly, she realized that even a pretty stern 'Don't' hadn't stopped her, and froze, eyes wide, bracing for ramifications. To her relief, Myers only chuckled but nevertheless took time to straddle her hips and pin her shoulders to the floor with both hands and clear determination. The dangerous tilt of her head warned against further escalation, but Valerie didn't mind surrendering—her hands had all the freedom they needed now that the woman was sitting atop. Too unfocused to consciously control her chrome fingers, she didn't even catch when they started to behave as intended until the last button came undone. No amount of determination could hold her down now.

Her arms clutching Myers' body in place, she dove headfirst into the parted shirt, mouth working rough and hungry over the sternum, then nipples, hard against her tongue. Valerie might've missed when once-restrictive and now-encouraging hands slid from her shoulders back into her hair to press her head tighter, but instantly recognized the deeper, needier gasps as the woman's hips ground against hers. One hand left her head only to unzip the slacks and tug at her forearm.

"Fingers. Now," the president demanded, breathless.

"The angle's wro—"

Her back slammed into the rug before she could finish the sentence, the same insistent hand urging her left wrist. Now the angle was right. Deftly skirting past the layers of fabric, Valerie drove her fingers inside, letting the woman ride them the way she wanted. Myers wanted it hard and fast, eyes shut in concentration and sharp-edged pleasure she was overly quick to hide by burying her face against the sergeant's shoulder. Valerie almost groaned in disappointment, but the hot voiceless moans by her ear offered another perfect guide.

And then Myers came, clenching around her fingers and collapsing on top, not a sound save for shaky gasps as usual. Yet the silence, splitting those torn breaths, struck Valerie as uniquely—in her brief experience—intense. A weak tap on her wrist nudged her to pull her hand away. She complied, careful not to disturb the woman and to give her the space to calm her breath. That was when the final foolish idea hit her head.

"Hate to ask, but…" she began, the inevitable smile stretching her lips as she sensed Myers' head leave its rest. The president shot her a hazy, annoyed glance, but remained expectantly quiet. "Did thee feel the earth move?" Valerie managed the quote, her chest trembling, struggling with barely contained laughter. The utterly baffled expression on the woman's face only made it worse.

In a quick flash of realization, Myers' gaze darted to the book left on the floor across the couch. She stiffened, trying to fight the reference, but ultimately failed and fell back onto the same helpful shoulder. Both shuddering in a fit of uncontrollable laughter, the president twisted Valerie's t-shirt in a powerless attempt to reclaim her cool.

The next time the woman managed to lift her head, her smiling lips still quivered. With the widest grin, the marine observed as Myers tried to say something—but then didn't, growing increasingly serious by the second instead. Valerie felt her own face mirror the same shift until both went still, staring at each other as gravely as death. Then something snapped in her chest as she watched those eyes turn distant and aloof. The president rolled off her swiftly and stood up, fastening the buttons with still slightly unreliable fingers. Her face, however, betrayed no commotion.

"Rosalind…" The woman remained silent. "I didn't fucking say anyth—"

"I have an urgent call in ten minutes. Might take a while," she interrupted coldly, voice too accustomed to leaving no room for objections. Defeated, the sergeant pressed her cool metal fist to her lips, silencing any hasty words she might regret, then pulled herself from the floor angrily—and grabbed the cursed book on her way out. She doubted the existence of that call in the president's schedule, but whatever it was, it kept Myers occupied for the rest of the day, and evening, and half the night.

Valerie tried hitting the gym she had discovered on her quest for the library, but busy muscles couldn't overpower busy thoughts, driving her to step outside in search of distraction. She discarded her unease at meeting the assessing gazes of Myers' detail and made her way downstairs. She was met with blank expressions rivaling the president's, instead. Janet—the dark-haired woman who had welcomed her yesterday—was probably the only one whose face didn't remind her of a brick wall.

She readily offered Valerie a fitting yellow parka and winter boots but firmly refused to let her roam the premises alone, following her outside, her own parka bright red. The sergeant deduced that the colorful outfits were intended to disguise them as careless civilians from accidental aerial surveillance. Military-grade drones patrolling the perimeter were a standard security feature for private estates of this caliber and needed no pretense.

At first, Janet maintained a polite two-step distance behind. It was mandatory without further orders, as the marine was promptly informed, so Valerie decided they might as well walk along. The agent proved unexpectedly amiable, carrying their small talk by offering friendly tips on walking through the snow and pointing out the trees they would pass. Valerie found those arboreal descriptions entertaining but overly pragmatic: the only things she really learned were how much effort it took to split different types of wood—and how long each would burn. Such knowledge would've come in handy yesterday though, before the president's task of lighting the fireplace.

As a marine of Night City nomad descent, she was safe to admit she knew little about any flora aside from cacti. Back in the Badlands, burning real wood for warmth or entertainment had long been a luxury relegated to books: nomads were content with campfires built of coal bricks and the occasional dead-dry shrub. Homeless city dwellers relied on old tires.

Despite the unusual circumstances, it felt like a genuine human interaction. One, that promptly earned the sergeant the nickname of 'panzer girl' and almost made her forget that, if the agent were given an order to kill the unsuspecting guest, she would execute it without a second thought. But it was her job, and Valerie had no place criticizing other people's career choices in the murder business.

When they turned back toward the house, the sun was already settling for the night, long deep-blue shadows stretching across the pink snow. A very unusual landscape to her eyes, and very… serene. Every squeak beneath her much less slippery boots calmed Valerie down. By the time they stepped inside, she felt soothed enough to accept Janet's invitation to join her and the other agents in the familiarly shaped round kitchen.

As the sergeant found out, the meals were actually delivered twice per day the same way she had arrived—by an unremarkable freight AV. And no one here had to suffer through oatmeal. In fact, she was even presented with a choice of chicken stir-fry or pot roast, organic all the way. She picked up a bit of both—and the slight shake of an agent's head in response to Janet's quick glance at their end of the dumbwaiter. That alone was enough to crush Valerie's long-warranted appetite.

Even so, she did her best to hide her worry and shove the food down her throat under the brick-walled stares professionally tracking her every move. After a polite round of goodnights, she walked back upstairs, oblivious to their opinions. Myers' thoughts on her account remained a mystery too, the study door still closed. The marine grabbed her things from the president's bedroom and moved into the guest room she was supposed to occupy. There, she rolled back to her cucumber scent, sank into a much more sensible bed, and read a few chapters before switching off the light.

Unable to fall asleep, she tossed and turned until someone warm, and faintly smelling of cigarettes and gin, slipped into her room and quietly perched on the edge of her bed, coaxing her drowsy body to cast away the frustrations of her restless mind and squeeze the intruder in her arms as hard as it could. And then undress her, stubbornly brushing off feeble protests, and pull her under the blanket. Valerie rolled over onto her back and, with a satisfied grunt, placed the familiar weight on top, where it belonged, despite its aversion to needless closeness. The last thing she registered before drifting off was a sigh and warm lips against her neck.

Chapter Text

Regardless of how ridiculously accommodating that shoulder was, or how unreasonably safe those arms made Rosalind feel, it was neither her preferred way of falling asleep nor an ideal state to wake up to. Besides, she had clearly overslept. Again! Who would've thought that an attempt to slip out of bed could, after all, rouse that sleepyhead—even if for that their limbs had to virtually intertwine. The marine stirred and mumbled, tightening her embrace before cracking one eye open to regard the president with unmistakable discontent, as if last night's concessions hadn't absolved Myers of all real and imagined sins toward the girl.

This time, Rosalind took the hint to establish explicit boundaries. By her decree, they were to spend the day apart: the president confined to the study, and the sergeant free to pursue any entertainments that wouldn't involve her—on the sole condition that she abandon this foolish estrangement and return to the bedroom by nightfall.

Fully awake and unusually reticent, Valerie refrained from revisiting yesterday or challenging the plan for today—and eventually let her go, but not before sabotaging her intermediate attempt at getting out of bed with a leisurely morning sex. By the time Rosalind had finally wrestled herself out of that grip, before she risked lingering there till unbecoming noon, her retreat resembled a rout.

On her way to the study, Myers took a quick detour to her bedroom to wash off the weakness those hands and mouth had left. Now that she had put enough walls between her and the girl, the air itself felt lighter, undeterred by the gloomy sky above the cabin, heavy with the promise of snowfall. After a quick deliberation, she settled on a beige pullover with jeans in case she would aspire for a walk, then disposed of the second unclaimed pair of sleeping pills to mask her inability to keep track of her medication without the aide's help. Her failure to maintain the schedule was a lapse enough.

Having skipped yesterday's lunch and dinner, she still didn't feel hungry for the oatmeal, yet the hot coffee pot she picked out of the dumbwaiter deepened the welcome sense of onsetting serenity. Two hours late, perhaps, but she was the president, which meant she was on time. Locked in her study at last, she notified Hannah she was ready to go through the next week's agenda—and the barrage of ridicule for the entirely speculative cause of this delay.

Half an hour later, as the fax kept pouring out a fresh dosage of briefs and reports, the president observed the first timid snowflakes tear off the clouds and unhurriedly float down, only to be tossed around by the rising ground wind. Settled on the windowsill with that pile, she meticulously worked through each page, annotating margins with questions and resolutions to be sent back.

That had taken her till lunch, which she spent blissfully alone, unconcerned about the girl in the least. If Rosalind understood anything about her, the sergeant had already won over her detail and dined downstairs, indulging in more variety at that—her bodyguards were not subjected to her doctors' strict guidelines. She herself put up with those as long as they didn't make too much fuss about her smoking. On her return to the study, she lit up by the window, upholding the other end of that unspoken deal.

The snowfall only thickened, blurring the sharp edge of the dark pine woods against the grey sky. Tomorrow, she would need to leave for the Farm. Once sealed after the CIA's downfall, the facility had been covertly restored as training grounds and a dedicated command center she preferred to visit in person for principal briefings or ops that might require her immediate input. Whatever the next day held, for now she remained perfectly calm—right until her eyes caught a bright speck of color on that opening, between the transparent fence and the ravine by the woods.

Rosalind involuntarily pursed her lips at somebody in yellow plowing her cherished winter landscape on a hover snowmobile—she had no doubt who that might be. Despite having no chance of prior acquaintance with the vehicle, the sergeant deftly swerved all over the immaculate surface, laying waste in her wake. It perfectly encapsulated her effect on the president's sense of normalcy and routine.

Myers steadied herself with a deep drag, holding back the urge to get Reyes on the line and that mess out of her sight. She should cease allowing the girl that much sway over her emotions. By tomorrow, the fresh snow would erase every trace of the intrusion anyway. Not risking provoking her irritation further, Rosalind moved from the window and sank behind the desk, immersing herself in the freshly arrived batch of commentaries.

An hour later, Reyes called with the scheduled report, reaffirming the elevated threat level and relaying Sergeant Linder's request to see her—if possible, of course. The slight fluctuations in the tone conveyed over the intercom that the agent genuinely wished to stay out of their business but couldn't outright refuse the presidential guest's plea. Equally reluctant, the president consented and, within a minute, allowed the sergeant into the study.

"Soo…" the familiar voice tried to seize her attention. Myers lifted her eyes with undisguised disapproval—only to grimace at the orange t-shirt with an acid-green logo she wouldn't bother to decipher. Valerie offered a repentant smile in return. "Apologies for that. Janet tried to warn me, but I didn't hear 'til it was too late."

"Is this about your sense of style?" the president muttered, returning to her reading. "Not sure if Reyes would be much help, but any second opinion can't hurt at this point."

"Hey, that's my Sunday best!" The girl was quick to object and just as quick to lose the excessive confidence. "Talking 'bout fucking up your—"

"It's fine," Rosalind lied. She wasn't about to let this silly antic disturb her peace more than it had already. "Just make sure you listen next time. For all you know, it could be a minefield."

"I…," the sergeant trailed off. "Huh? Really?" She sounded genuinely perplexed. "They all gave me this look like I was about to leave this place in a casket. And not from tripping over some landmine—"

"I said it's fine, Valerie," the president insisted, raising both her voice and her gaze. The marine stubbornly held her stare.

"If ya say so," she conceded at last and changed the subject. "You had a bite?" Rosalind paid the girl a sharper look, wondering whether she had to fire her detail for warming up to the sergeant enough to loosen their tongues. In the end, she concluded that, if that were the case, Valerie would already know the answer.

"I had lunch," she replied, solely to preempt the usual round of unsolicited concern. "Anything else?"

"Listen," the sergeant glanced at the sofa remaining turned toward the fireplace, and cleared her throat. "Know ya asked to stay outta your hair, but maybe—"

"Fine," Myers agreed, not caring to listen to the whole clumsy request with an evident intent, and refocused on the papers. Perhaps, under her watch, the girl wouldn't cause more havoc. "But just for an hour."

"Aye aye, ma'am," the marine beamed and promptly left the study, only to return with yesterday's book.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the girl occupy the closest windowsill this time around, but the reminder of her spoiled view nudged the president to mind her own business. For quite some time, she did exactly that, oddly comforted by this presence, if not by the insufficiency of the updated report. She glanced at the sergeant, consumed by her reading, eyes flicking back and forth across the lines, and conceived a frivolous thought experiment.

"Supposedly, you need to track down Night Corp's activity," she began without missing a beat, as if they were mid-conversation. "A decade's worth of data at your fingertips. How'd you proceed?" The girl stared, startled, and remained silent for a few moments, likely replaying the question in her head since she hadn't been fully listening.

"Um, dunno the first thing 'bout crunching the data," she frowned as she grasped the meaning. "Hardly an analyst, y'know."

"Just… entertain me," Myers shrugged. She held no real expectations for this exchange.

"Heh, entertain, ya say. 'K, doable." Valerie plopped the book onto her lap and stared at the ceiling, brow furrowed in exaggerated concentration, then shot the president a goofy grin. "Don't laugh, but I'd prolly hunt down some conspiracy junkie—the crazier, the better—and get a feel for the rumor mill." Rosalind didn't laugh. In fact, she pierced the sergeant with her most absorbed look, but the girl didn't notice and went on, grinning, "Maybe even slip into their message boards. Tell 'em there's a new clan of outer space vampires turning chooms into ghouls and, uh, thralls. Then feed 'em some of that data. Bet they'll eat that shit up and cough up—" The marine lost the thread, finally picking up her expression. "Hey, why the look?" Rosalind shook it away.

"Some… novel approach, that," she remarked vaguely to cover for her reaction. The agency had been monitoring such boards, mainly to ensure everything stayed under wraps. She personally received reports if any theories edged too close to items on the watch list. Actually using conspirologists to track events and people—that kind of originality felt like a gulp of fresh air, and the girl was demonstrating it on the first attempt without even realizing its worth.

"Kinda asked for entertainment," the sergeant frowned in confusion. The president let out an indefinite hum in response. Perhaps she should've asked her FIA analysts for entertainment, too. "Ran into their lot before, is all. Those brains are just wired differently, sniffing out patterns where everyone else gets zilch. Interpretations, though, could use some work."

"Hm, think so?" Rosalind smiled at the girl's attempts to justify the idea, already brilliant regardless of whether it would work, and opted to test it without Valerie's knowledge, lest it went straight to that head. Keeping her humble was already getting difficult enough, however satisfying it was to watch her grow back into her former self.

"What, wanna confess you're a reptilian?" the sergeant flashed a cheeky smile.

"No sooner than you admit you're a werewolf," Myers scoffed, pretty well-versed in the basic conspiracy lore herself.

The wolfish grin she saw on that face now instantly reminded her of this morning, when pinned to the mattress by that hot body and the cool metal arm around her waist, she clenched at the pillows, fervent mouth on her back and slow fingers inside driving her dizzy and weak. Sensing the tingle of that weakness in her fingertips, she kept her breathing and expression calm.

"Rosalind…" The sergeant's voice was tinged with unmistakable suggestion.

"Absolutely not. Read your book," Myers firmly quelled those untimely flames of hope, glancing at the ashtray in search of her cigarettes—and recalled having tossed the empty pack in the bin. She tugged at the middle drawer to her left, yet another secret stash, but found it stuck. A stronger yank pried it open, its sparse contents rushing forward with a disproportionately loud clank.

"You all right there?" Valerie asked calmly. The president cast her an irritated glance: ignoring her recommendation, the sergeant kept tracking her every move, the book still resting on her lap.

"Peachy," Rosalind grunted and diverted her full attention back to the drawer, instantly spotting the needed pack and a small black box. She frowned, musing how something like that could've ended up here, and took a peek inside. "Huh, I guess it's yours." She pushed the box closer to the front edge of the desk. The sergeant gave her a puzzled look and hesitantly rose from the windowsill, setting the book aside. "You had no uniform back then. Now that you do, you still can't wear this. But it's yours," the president explained as the girl approached her table and picked up the box, the chrome of her hand clinking lightly against its plastic as she opened it.

"A service ribbon?" she asked, confusion etching her face as she failed to recognize the strip's pattern: light blue with five white stars. Most likely, she had never seen one up close during her time in service.

"A corresponding service ribbon," Myers corrected. The marine took a closer look, then lifted her eyes to the president, smirking. Knowing full well that the girl found the stars forming a narrow 'M' amusing, she answered the implied question: "I'm not that vain. That pattern predates me by far."

"Uh-huh, and this is—"

"A 'V' device. They're supposed to go together," Rosalind explained and watched the smirk grow only wider. She rolled her eyes. "'V' for 'valor,' but you're right—probably another sixteen-year-old came up with that." Valerie shook her head at the jab.

"Was in the boot when I got that figured out. You actually handed a fucking Medal of Honor to some dirty merc?" Her glance flicked up at the president unimpressed by this self-deprecating description, then returned to the box, smile fading into odd melancholy. "And Naval no less—I keep it stashed but definitely 'member the anchor."

"Must've found the Air and Space Forces version a bit ironic given I'd crushed my SFO at your doorstep," Rosalind said dryly. Whatever hidden meaning the girl was trying to dig out of that box, there was none. "Too bad I fell short of your wish, but official decorations tend to be more… tame. At least you can wear that Bronze Star."

"Really had this talk 'bout medals in that ward?" Valerie's quiet voice conveyed her uncertainty. Apparently, she hadn't just been playing coy with telling that reporter she remembered little.

"Mm-hmm," Rosalind retrieved a cigarette and lighted it at last. "Had no idea you were that high, though. Seemed coherent. Funny, even."

"Figure ya find pretty much anything 'bout me funny," the sergeant grumbled half-heartedly. "Can recall some snippets, but…" She paused, trying and failing to fight a sudden grin. "Can't trust 'em much. One moment we're talking, the next you're naked and I got two 'ganic hands." Startled by her own admission, Valerie blinked. "Wasn't fantasizing 'bout you on purpose, y'know," she tucked in quickly.

"Surely hope so, Sergeant Linder. It would've been utterly impudent, wouldn't it?" the president murmured, reclining in her chair and taking a long draw paired with an equally long assessing look at the girl. To her satisfaction, the marine grew increasingly self-conscious until a flush of red crept up her cheeks. Finally! She had started to miss it lately.

Embarrassed by the unfortunate slip, the girl lowered her gaze back to her hand—and squinted at something. Her finger hovered above the box in deliberation, then retreated back into a loose fist, never touching its contents. With a quiet thump, the box closed but stayed in her hand. Her eyes shot up with the same probing expression.

"You believe in fate?" she asked.

"Fate, huh?" Myers arched an eyebrow at the most stray topic and paused for another long draw. Perhaps it was her turn to entertain the sergeant. "I get why it may be so enticing when you're young, this idea that your life has a plot—that's essentially what fate means." The girl watched her closely, clearly intrigued. "Another decade or two in the ring, and you notice that storylines go nowhere all the time, few things get real closure, and character development sucks. But, once you achieve some prominence, your biographers are bound to dig out divine providence in that heap of horseshit and routine. Just because plotless books are a hard sell, I suppose. And just like that, you either become a story of predestined success—or a cautionary tale with all the telltale signs. So no, I don't believe in fate." Rosalind stubbed out the cigarette and cast a pensive glance at the sergeant. "But for what it's worth, I can almost believe your life has a plot."

Valerie slowly nodded in thought, then slipped the box into her sweatpants pocket, circled the table, and leaned in for a kiss, unceremoniously bracing her chair with her right hand on the top and left on the armrest. The president willingly entertained the marine for another minute, her hand gripping the garish t-shirt to keep the girl's lips where she wanted them before pushing away, but not too far, saving the chance to savor the signs of struggle on that face. Her own breathing barely affected, she caught Valerie's mouth in another kiss.

"Four hours. If you leave me alone," she promised, sacrificing her plans for a walk and a few deferrable memos to the plea in those grey eyes.

"Make it three." The girl was desperate enough to bargain. Rosalind glanced aside at the white-knuckled grip around her armrest. Lauding her restraint, she pecked the sergeant on the cheek before releasing her t-shirt.

"You've got yourself a deal."

*****

"Make sure it's out before you fall asleep," Myers murmured from the bed, drowsy yet alert to everything happening around.

Valerie looked back and smiled. Flat on her stomach with both hands tucked beneath the pillows, the woman had retreated so deep into her half of the bed that her bent knee nearly hung over the mattress's edge. The position seemed designed not only to maximize her comfort but also to minimize the risk of intrusion into her personal space. Having finished tending the fire, the marine slid the transparent screen blocking all sounds back into place. Still perplexed by the notion of a silent fireplace, she rose from the hearth and softly slipped into the bed.

The mattress barely giving way under her chrome elbow, she inched closer, relishing the familiar warmth and scent. The woman didn't acknowledge her presence until Valerie ran her organic fingers up her side. That elicited a faint hum of displeasure, as if she were a bothersome fly. Her grin only widened. A whole day of abstaining from Myers made it impossible to willingly surrender her to sleep this soon after sex.

It also made the sergeant adventurous enough to test how far she could push. Today, the president had been uncharacteristically lenient with her blunders, so, in a way, it was her fault. Valerie brushed a kiss against the shoulder blade exposed by the blanket's oversight. The stoic silence that followed only emboldened her to slide her fingers along that bare back, tugging the covers lower, to the woman's waist. The room was more than warm for that.

"I told you I need to sleep." Myers' voice had a forbearing quality to it, as if right now she were enduring torture.

"Need? Or want?" Valerie tried her luck.

"Being an adult is a foreign concept to you, I assume, but the latter rarely matters." the president couldn't resist mocking her, burrowing her hands even deeper under the pillow, as if trying to hide under them entirely.

"Uh-huh…" In the same non-combative yet persistent manner, the sergeant ignored the weary jab and kept tracing the curvature of that back by touch until her fingertips stumbled on a faint ridge of scar tissue. Old and barely visible in the flickering light—yet she didn't take kindly to these reminders of Myers' mortality. "Why keep 'em?" she asked quietly, placing her hand at the woman's waist. Her own body had once shed its past marks until she caught a splatter of fresh ones, losing her arm in the process. No doubt, the president had every means to shed hers.

"Mmm, them what? Scars?"Myers muttered, reluctantly conceding to her persistence. "My Chief of Staff would argue I'm too vain to bother being perfect." A tiny prick of envy aside, Valerie found the idea of someone freely poking fun at the president entertaining. That was the only type of interaction she remained eager to reciprocate, but not initiate on her own. The woman must've been truly relaxed to let this rare glimpse of personal commentary escape.

"That how ya wind up the prez? Outta vanity?" The sergeant tried her best at sounding innocent as she pried for more.

"How indeed," Myers mused, her knee inching higher. "Out of vanity, yes. And hubris. But mostly, to avoid public humiliation." Valerie blinked at the answer and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. For now, the approach worked.

"What sorta humiliation? Your mom's best friend's kid became the Pope, so ya figured Militech CEO just wasn't cutting it anymore?" she probed deeper and immediately set off alarm bells. The president lifted her head from the pillow briefly, only to drop it back.

"You're awful at this," she chuckled at those fishing efforts, too placated for a real rebuke. "Never go for a career in corporate espionage. And never change," she added seriously.

"Seems doable," Valerie promised, kissing the little bony bump where the shoulder blade met the collarbone. "Bet you're still itching to spill."

"Not much to spill, really." The woman's tone turned reflective and dry as she shifted slightly. "Almost got ousted by the board, so I had pretty much two options: either go down in flames or run for the hills. Chose to run for president. The hubris was thinking it wasn't another lost cause." Now, that pensive mood turned sour. The sergeant winced at the result of her own careless poking. Had she really expected this particular topic to produce a lighthearted anecdote?

"Why stick with Militech in the first place?" She lingered on the subject, waiting for an opening to swerve away. "Doesn't look like you liked 'em that much." An odd thing to have in common for its former CEO and a Badlands nomad. "They pay that well?"

"Please. I'm so old money I couldn't care less. I wanted to make a difference." The answer came off surprisingly intense. Myers lifted her head again, chin propped on the pillow. "When both Kress and Landee were finally out of the picture, it felt like the dawn of a new era. But I suppose you wouldn't remember that," she couldn't help slipping in a usual prod at her age.

"You bet I wouldn't." A cheeky smile lit Valerie's face as she realized that the joke could easily swing both ways. "Born the same year Kress called it quits."

"Oh fuck," the woman burrowed her face back into the pillow. "What am I even doing here?"

"Telling me 'bout the good ol' days," Valerie pivoted her from this unwarranted introspection. The last thing she needed was the president second-guessing the sergeant's stay in her bed.

"The good ol' days they were," Myers agreed. "Until I realized determination didn't hold a candle to spinelessness and greed." That quickly took an even grimmer turn. "Windham was about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine. So, I was left to butt heads with the board without any support system. When that failed, I stole his seat right from under his ass at the party convention and ran on a blind hope for a CEO I could work with. Ha. The much hungrier pup they replaced me with won't take a dump on his own will." She stirred as if cold, prompting Valerie to pull up the blanket and press into her back.

The woman didn't seem to mind her weight, but stayed quiet long enough that the marine began to wonder if she would continue. She did. "After four terms, you can't help realizing your first one has become the good ol' days too. Just because back then I could promise something I can't anymore. A hope. A next New Frontier, if you will. All I have to offer now is the old Oregon Trail. Either cholera and chemicals or a drinkable water tax—that's some quality reenactment." There was no amusement in that laugh. "When I took office, the NUS was the thirty-first world economy, now we're twentieth. There go sixteen years of my life and the American pipe dream," the president didn't bother hiding contempt. "When the dust settles, Texas can take us back into the top ten, but I'm not sure if it matters now."

"Whatcha even trying to do?" Valerie asked in a hushed voice, afraid to disturb the moment. It was probably the first time the woman had let her peek into her mind. Did she even have someone to talk to like this? Maybe that Chief of Staff.

"I…" Myers paused, taking a moment to find the right words. "You know, in my entire extended family—believe me, it's a very tall and sprawling tree—there were only two Medals of Honor."

"What, wanna get one for yourself?" Not giving her time to finish, the sergeant frowned at the absurdly shallow sentiment.

"No, I just don't want to see this country's highest military award treated like a trinket. Least of all by clueless mercs." Her inconsiderate interruption drew a harsh response. "Not a dig at you," the president's voice lost its strain, "God knows you've earned it and more, but…" She let the thought hang in the air.

"I think I get it," Valerie nodded and let her forehead rest against the woman's back.

For her, it had always been more than a trinket. For years, it had remained the last thread that tied her to Myers, even if it was never touched by her hand. In the pocket of her sweatpants draped over an armchair sat the box she hadn't received back then. Inside that box was a tiny 'V' device, with an even smaller fingerprint etched by time and patina in its bronze. Aware it would only invite offhand ridicule, she would never mention its existence to the president—yet that fingerprint alone meant more to her than any medal ever could. But it didn't inspire awe, only tenderness. Hardly the effect Myers hoped for.

"Don't take setbacks that well, do ya?" the sergeant tried to lighten the mood.

"Do you?" the woman scoffed.

"Never got much choice," Valerie shrugged. "Life's always on the lookout for new ways to humble me."

"Well, can't say the same," the president dismissed the very idea of such humility. "The Arvin Accord served me my first full-size humble pie, and I hated its stench."

It must've been an entirely different life experience, not having to face a real blow for most of it. When Valerie had no choice but to spring back to her feet over and over, another fall could knock her back to the starting point but would barely scathe her desensitized pride. For Myers, it might've been the exact opposite, even the smallest loss burning like hell. But too proud and ambitious to ever give up, the woman had an exact idea of what her world should look like. And the will to see her vision through. If only she could make everyone believe in it with the same conviction she did. A cold suspicion crept up Valerie's spine. She drew back and studied the president in the wavering light.

"Whatcha gonna do with Night Corp's tech, Rosalind?" she found the guts to ask—and felt the woman tense.

"No." Myers' left hand left its seclusion, clearly aimed at using those sleeping pills to finish this argument before it began. The sergeant's hand shot out, catching her forearm midair.

"Please, think 'bout it. Can't trust anyone in this fucking world with this sorta tech!" she pleaded, feeling the ribcage beneath her heave with barely restrained anger.

"Think I don't know that!?" That was the only warning before Myers tried to shake her hand off. Valerie held firm through the brief flare of temper, releasing her once she ceased those futile attempts. She pressed a kiss to the woman' neck in apology, knowing full well she had crossed the line—and immediately felt fingers slip into her hair, tight enough to convey outrage but reining in their full force.

Unable to bottle the mix of tenderness and frustration, she turned the president around, mouth instantly stung by a kiss. This time neither held back. Still braced on the metal elbow, she slammed into Myers, wedging knee between her thighs and grabbing her hip. Their lips never parting, the kiss soon left Valerie breathless, smothering thought as her eyes shut tight. Spurred on by the hands clawing at her head and back, she ground hard against the woman, swallowing all soundless moans, until Myers squeezed her shoulders, arching into her, and pushed her away.

The sergeant rolled over onto her back and opened her eyes, the pent-up silence in the room disrupted only by their heavy breathing. For a time, they stayed just like that, on their respective sides of the bed—naked and tense, the tangled mass of blankets between them.

"Think I can hand it over to the agency or Militech and still trust the thoughts in my head?" the president cut into the quiet, always the first to reclaim control over her body.

"Why couldn't ya just say that?" Valerie asked, exasperation bursting back to life.

"Because I don't tie my hands with pointless promises, and I sure as hell don't explain myself. You're not my fucking moral compass." Myers made no effort to soften the edge. But why would she? She was the fucking prez. "Keep pushing and your frustration will rot into resentment."

"Not gonna resent you," Valerie brushed the warning off. After all, she had already made that promise to herself. Turning her head to the right, she caught a bitter smile on the woman's lips.

"Of course not," Myers muttered, glancing back at her before tugging a corner of the blanket free. "You'd rather resent yourself. For letting me go down the same road. For having to sit and watch." Somehow, that sounded like a ridicule. "Whatever horseshit you'll wrap it into—it's not up to you." She enunciated every word and turned onto her stomach, back into her insulated status quo, leaving the sergeant to glare at the ceiling alone. Valerie did just that for a while before finally breathing out her knotted aggravation in one long, and a bit exaggerated exhale. Then she turned onto her side and looked at the woman.

"Case ya wanna go for a ride in a drop-top through Dallas? Do I sit and watch too?" she grumbled. A beat later, the president's back quivered with quiet laughter, taking her appeal to extremes for an excellent joke.

"Such an easy way out, dying on my victory lap, isn't it?" Myers mused, her tone almost wistful. "Alas, another cop-out's off the table." And this coming from the same woman who had accused her of suicidal ideation! Valerie shook her head but shifted closer to gently tuck her in. "I really need to sleep," the president sighed, as if doubting the purity of her intentions.

"Fine, I'll watch your back," the sergeant pressed a very restrained kiss to her shoulder blade.

"You'll be dead asleep faster than me. Hardly a guardian," the woman scoffed. That earned her a restrained bite. "But first, take care of the fireplace." The marine complied—she had already exhausted all goodwill for the day.

She promptly choked the embers before returning to bed, but unable to keep her distance, she still edged closer. Maybe she wouldn't stay awake guarding the president's back all night, but she could at least shield it from the cold. After a brief hesitation, she placed her hand back on that waist. A moment later, Myers' hand found her wrist and pulled it higher. Satisfied with that compromise and the pleasant weight in her palm, Valerie smiled and closed her eyes for the night.

*****

The AV doors opened only after the hatch above the underground landing pad sealed shut again, still giving her the disturbing impression of being swallowed by the earth. The president left her detail by the aircraft and entered the narrow private corridor reserved for her alone. There were things even her bodyguards weren't meant to witness. And if danger ever lurked down here, it would be far beyond anyone's ability to stop.

Wincing at the tasteless recycled air, she crossed the passage, her footsteps silenced by the acoustic flooring beneath her feet. The agency had learned enough from years of building underground facilities to know that in this unnatural confinement, almost mute save for the low hum of ventilators, the echo of routine sounds over prolonged time could gnaw on the personnel's nerves.

The president entered the briefing room, its rigid practicality barely softened by a few abstract paintings on the walls. Content to find everyone assembled and ready—including one face she didn't recognize—she sent all four back to their seats with a nod, then took her place at the head of the conference table, the overhead displays flickering through their usual cascade of stats.

"So, whaddaya have for me, Nader?" she asked the woman in the beige suit on her right, the one she had personally picked for the role of Mission Director. Sharp and composed, she carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who had everything under control.

"Well, we've finished mapping all possible sectors across the city. Some look more promising, but for now only boots on the ground can give us more," Nader started the briefing. Her current assignment remained classified even from her former Station Director—for all he knew, she had been relegated to tracking orbital launches from Cape York. He had even filed a formal complaint about wasting her potential. Such accusations were entirely undeserved.

"And the issue why we hesitate?" Myers led her on.

"The issue is, we still don't know what makes our agents vulnerable, ma'am," the woman grimaced and switched all displays to a Night City map. "See those grey zones? That's where even our satellites are next to useless. For now, we've got to be smart about how we move, if we want at least a handful of agents left standing by next year." Rosalind paused, studying the map—or rather the infrastructure grid plan—some of those words hitting closer than she would like.

"Do we have their orbital net mapped?" she asked. If she had to play from behind, she'd rather drag them down as well.

"More or less," the woman had to grimace again. No wonder. The obstacles piling up at every turn must've started chipping away at her sense of control too. "We've tracked a few more subcontractors who might be lending their capacity to Night Corp and passed the intel to GI for a check, but—"

"Yeah, if we can trace them, that's not it," the president discarded the result.

"Exactly. So we want to try it backward," Nader said, glancing across the table at the young woman Myers hadn't placed. "We're finishing the calculations for an optimal net to counter both ESA's and ours and then we'll see where it takes us." Predicting placement might be more effective, indeed. "For now we treat any satellite we can't clear as a possible target."

"Good. What about Luna?" The scale of Night Corp's ambition went that far. At least, they weren't much interested in Mars—or so the agency believed.

"We've cut the channel with the Tycho cell for now. Even if it's still encrypted, just pinging it would expose the team. So we've worked up a fallback—a more… old-fashioned comms route." The woman once again had a solution ready at hand. "There are enough clippers running back and forth to slip through a message in a bottle, so to speak," she added with a brief smile. "We suggest using the shuttles going from the NCX Spaceport."

"Proceed," the president approved. Doing it right under Night Corp's nose was risky, but those shuttles certainly drew less scrutiny on the receiving end. "Circling back to operative security—the prototypes, they're holding up?" To her discontent, for now the implant couldn't shield from mind manipulation, it only detected fluctuations outside the norm. Yet with it, they could trust the incoming intel to some degree.

"All NC operatives have the implants now," this time Campbell spoke up. As Senior Operations Instructor, the agents were his domain. Rosalind shifted her focus to the man and his permanent frown. She didn't remember ever seeing him without it. "Some we had to pull out for upgrades, others were redirected to a reliable ripperdoc on-site. We've set up five synch points around the city to secure the data flow." Myers nodded, urging him on. She knew the principle. The implants were designed to upload through a secure channel whenever an agent passed close enough. "At the moment, no one's gone dark or sketchy. Or flagged." She knew the protocol in that case too: extraction when possible, elimination when not. "Our cell in Tycho, though," the man moved on, "we can't bring them back to Earth or send the implants up. Had to mark them all as potentially compromised." The Tycho team had drawn the shortest straw with that assignment, having to struggle against not only the weight of paranoia in their ranks but also the looming prospect of a harrowing reinstatement process on return.

"So, any ideas how we've lost two agents this month alone?" she asked Nader.

"A theory," she responded, but instead of elaborating herself, she passed the floor to the unknown young woman on the left side of the table. "Schaefer?" So, it was an initiation of sorts. The president reclined in her chair and gave the designated speaker a thorough look.

"Denise Schaefer, analyst, ma'am," she introduced herself and cleared her throat, but nervousness was more expected than the lack of it. "We've scooped some fresh data from NCPD archives to look for patterns," she began. Rosalind noted her tense facial muscles and dilated pupils—a sure sign of stimulant overuse, an occupational hazard. She also caught the impersonal 'we,' but if she was the one speaking now, the theory was hers alone. "The past few months show an unusual rise in informants and street dealers turning up dead or missing—but no decline in violent crime. We suspect that Night Corp got hold of Ophanim and tweaked it for their needs, highlighting… deviating behavior of a different kind."

"A sneakier one," Myers drew the obvious conclusion herself.

"Yes, ma'am," the analyst confirmed. Rosalind mulled it over. The implications were plenty. Ophanim was a surveillance algorithm Militech had developed for policing NUSA proper—a proprietary tech that had cut crime rates and generated the corporation too much revenue to enter the public domain in any form. Any resale was contractually prohibited, of course.

"What makes you think it's ours, not an independent development?" she asked.

"Night Corp barely reaches outside NC, and training such a system eats through the data like a forest fire through wood. One city can never be enough." The answer rang both simple and true. The president tapped her fingertips against the black non-reflective tabletop and gave the analyst a slow nod.

"Nader, did Militech's NC chapter raise any flags over the past few years?" She returned her gaze to the Mission Director at her right.

"No, ma'am. Their reports were mainly about Arasaka and, occasionally, Biotech—almost nothing on Night Corp aside from a contested construction site a few years back. We took a peek into their communications with the main headquarters. Nothing of substance either." Of course, she had taken care to check that. The woman produced the most reasonable follow-up, "Am I authorized to look into them?"

"You are," Rosalind sanctioned the investigation. It was a high-stakes gamble. If Militech Tower caught wind of it, that would raise a shitstorm of biblical proportions. But… with solid proof that their division had gone rogue, she would enjoy twisting their arms so thoroughly the crunch would keep all of Washington awake for months. "I take it we're already working on countering the algorithm?"

"We have a few options, but it'll take some time," Nader confirmed.

"Good. Locating the facility is still a priority. How do we do that with minimal groundwork?" Her Mission Director's calm expression indicated that she had an answer ready, and once again she deferred to her new analyst.

"First, we tried mapping logistics, as you know, ma'am, but that wasn't effective. No affiliated subcontractor would be used for that kind of work if they're not idiots. And I have a strong feeling they are not." Rosalind found the need for establishing a premise redundant at that point, but let Schaefer move on at her own pace. "So, there's another idea. We have the city's infrastructure grid and know which nodes can handle what load. If we can assess the facility's scale, it may drastically narrow our search."

"Yes, how do you propose we do that?" the president attempted to cut that long-windedness short. Everything made sense logically, yet the exact approach remained unclear.

"The good old money trail," Schaefer said plainly. The answer left Myers unimpressed. And here she had started to like the newcomer's thinking. "There won't be direct lines, sure, but if we can get their maintenance expenses—that we can play with." She narrowed her eyes in attention, a hope raising its head. "You can't run a facility without people. And people have basic needs. They eat, they drink, they use the toilet. We need just one item they forgot to disperse. And as we can guess the demand of the facilities we know—"

"So, you're suggesting we subtract what we know from the total and see what's left," Rosalind put the remaining two and two together. It was a gamble as well.

"Yes, ma'am," the analyst nodded enthusiastically. "But we'd need their general ledger—and that's their main data fortress."

"Breaking into it…" The idea was alluring, the hypothesis could indeed work, but it amounted to a frontal assault. Rosalind gave the temptation a slow shake of her head. "Too risky. It'll point straight back at us."

"We might have the right 'contractors' for the job." Nader intervened on her analyst's behalf. "There's a promising group of NC netrunners the firm has been working for years. Covered them from NetWatch a few times too." The president remained unconvinced but listened. "Led by one Sandra Dorsett." An FIA file on a young blond woman on the overhead displays accompanied her words. "A former NetWatch employee with a successful break‑in of their data fortress on her résumé. She was the first to tip us about their experiments. For now, she remains our sole contact in the group, so if anything goes sideways—"

"You'd fry her up before Night Corp comes asking and she'd remain just that—a former employee who flew too close to the sun," Myers muttered in deliberation and once again found herself drumming at the tabletop, the description stirring something at the back of her mind. She absently followed the hunch. "Does our contact also have an unfortunate run‑in with the Scavs on that résumé?"

"Well, yes. Just around four years ago. Why?" Nader looked startled.

"Must be a residual memory," Rosalind waved it off. "Assuming they come through, how can we make sure they've left no breadcrumb trail? We might be better off disposing of the contact afterward in any case." The suggestion stiffened the new analyst in the corner of her eye. Promising, but too green for real stakes.

"It's a valuable asset, ma'am. I suggest we keep them." Her Mission Director found it excessive too, and Rosalind had never doubted her risk assessment before. "They've proven useful on many occasions, and our 'runners are prepared to pick up the slack." Perhaps she had grown overly cautious. Besides, she could show some goodwill to a fellow damsel in distress from her merc's former life.

"Fine, let's make that happen," Rosalind agreed at last, watching their faces relax. No competent agent was light on betraying their assets.

"I'll be ready to present the plan for the operation in an hour, ma'am," Nader said with a confident nod. "Thank you, everyone." She dismissed the team, though she herself stayed behind. For certain topics, the circle of discussion grew even tighter. Rosalind left her seat and approached the nearest painting.

"How's the Blackwall?" she asked, once the door had closed behind the last man—the Senior Analyst, who, as she had certainly noticed, hadn't said a word.

"It's getting more… erratic." Once the conversation touched on less human matters, confidence drained from the woman's voice. Few could truly comprehend them with certainty. Alas, AIs didn't appear to have a mirroring weakness—or, rather, they seemed entirely unconcerned by their own imperfect grasp of human nature. "Keeps NetWatch looking the other way, but beyond that we—"

"From what, Nader?" Rosalind glanced at her, turning away from the fruitless attempt to breathe life into the room. "Looking the other way from what?" It certainly wasn't for the FIA's benefit.

"That we don't know, ma'am," she shook her head in response. At least, she didn't try to feign cool. "Neither does NetWatch, but they keep padding Mikoshi's defense. Not trusting Arasaka to handle their own mess at this point, looks like. We've located brief contacts with three more unaffiliated netrunners, but need more time to trace them outside the Net."

"Time, I don't think we've got much of that left," Rosalind grimaced but didn't press on. The urgency of the matter pushed everyone to their limits.

Songbird, Songbird… If the kid were here, she might've known exactly what to do. No one around shared the same understanding of the Blackwall's logic, but that overfamiliarity had come at a steep price. The president waved her hand, granting her Mission Director permission to leave for now. She would rather spend this hour alone.

"Ma'am," the woman left her chair but hesitated to leave. "There's one more matter."

"What is it?" Myers raised an eyebrow.

"A minor issue, but still. You might recall I oversaw the clean-up op after the SFO attack," Nader said. Off-topic, yet oddly tangential to her own thoughts. The president hummed in acknowledgment. "Had to go through countless camera feeds to make sure our… local asset was never exposed and wouldn't compromise us. About a week ago, I caught a video of one Sergeant Linder. Never met the NC asset, so I wouldn't know the face, but some mannerisms…" She trailed off, likely finding that she had said enough.

"Hm, I see." Rosalind confirmed as much. All Night City footage had her merc's face distorted. That was why she had only ensured that those who had seen the girl in person would fail to recognize her new face, not taking into account that a trained agent might even be aided by the absence of a standard visual anchor. A flaw, but she knew Nader well enough not to consider it critical. "Those observations, did you share them with anyone else?"

"No, ma'am. Just wanted to know if we could count on that asset going forward. Wouldn't mind having it on hand. I assume that's the source of our newest intel." Naturally, Nader wasn't privy to the sergeant's current whereabouts. She had only deduced that the president wouldn't have visited a random marine, the entire conclusion resting on the presumption that Myers remained rational as ever. She also had no idea how much the girl had changed—or she wouldn't have needed to ask.

"No, the asset's decommissioned," Rosalind denied the request, her tone and gaze firm. Perhaps it was for the better that the sergeant's present state had freed her from having to make this choice. "I trust I can count on your further discretion."

"Of course, ma'am," Nader offered a slightly disappointed nod before stepping toward the exit.

"Where did you find that girl?" The question caught up with her by the door.

"Denise? She's been on the Australia desk for the past three years. Came across one of her reports and gave her a try." The biggest fallacy of the agency becoming too bureaucratic was its tendency to overlook talent. Just like her former Station Director, Nader had a good eye for it.

"My advice—make her your Senior Analyst, if you haven't already." It was precisely advice, not an order.

"I knew you would approve, ma'am," her Mission Director said with a smile before leaving the briefing room.

*****

The coals and occasional sparks still cast a red glow around the soundproof marble hearth, but their dying light barely reached the bed. Instead of cozy sleepiness, that eerie silence fostered lingering unease. Ever since her return late in the evening, Myers had remained distant, making an effort to be half-present for sex and then retreating back inside her head. Valerie hugged her tighter. The woman didn't seem to notice, leaving her to track the steady beating of the heart beneath her ear, chest rising and falling deep enough to promise calmness, but way too frequent for that.

The marine frowned and pressed her lips to the warm skin an inch below the collarbone—and caught that breathing hitch, as if she had interrupted some heavy thoughts. She shifted her weight from the president's shoulder to her own elbow and looked her in the face. Myers didn't look at her, her unblinking stare absorbed by the ceiling, teal almost black in the fireplace afterglow.

"Whatcha not telling me, Rosalind?" she asked quietly. After a pause, the woman's lips stretched in a smirk.

"Pretty much everything. And I'd rather it stayed that way," she dismissed the question. "Sleep now, I need to leave at first light." Again. The sergeant forced down the selfish irritation at having to spend another day apart. She suspected this would be the pattern going forward, though with weeks, not hours, separating their nights, but wanted to dwell on that even less. One of them brooding in bed was more than enough.

"Uh-huh, if I learned anything from sharing my head with a heavy smoker, you're dying for a ciggie. And the reason's not good." The remark finally earned Valerie a sideways glance.

"Am I being interrogated in my own bed?" Myers scoffed, incredulous.

"Ya into that sorta stuff?" The sergeant tested whether a playful joke could smooth over the concern on that face.

"I am not," the president cooled down her cheekiness with sober tone. "But once you're already aware of my… urges, I see no point in keeping them to myself." Her hand fumbled toward the pack and lighter on the nightstand before she cast the covers aside and, slipping from Valerie's arms, left the bed cold and empty.

The marine sighed and rolled onto her back, watching her slide into her silky robe before reaching the window and parting the drapes halfway. This cigarette was unmistakably a nervous one. Valerie had little idea what she was supposed to do, so she let the bright orange speck in the smooth glass surface pulse a few times before getting up herself. She pulled on her sweatpants and t-shirt, then picked up the heavy ashtray. She set it gently on the windowsill beside the woman and wrapped her arms around her, pressing into her back. Myers' free hand covering hers and lacing their fingers was a solid hint her presence wasn't entirely unwanted. Another was that the president hadn't bothered to fetch that ashtray herself.

"Hey, what's eating ya?" Valerie whispered, aware this was the last attempt before her concern would feel like a nuisance. She fell silent, letting the woman decide if she had anything to share besides the quiet, both of them staring into the night, dark and still, now that the clouds had emptied their two-day reserves of snow but not dispersed. Even without the moonlight, the view remained striking, mountains climbing the starless sky, slopes of white now deep blue. She hoped it gave Myers some peace of mind her silly jokes couldn't provide. The orange light had died out in the ashtray before the woman finally gave up.

"I was going to lose. As surely as daylight. Me, Peralez, and anyone with half a brain in the country knew that." The sergeant quietly studied the obscure outline of that face reflected in the dark window and let her continue uninterrupted. "Then that speech the day I visited some silly marine with zero sense of self-preservation. Suddenly I'm likable again. And caring. An unpredictable wrinkle in probability for any algorithm, but very… human." Valerie caught a wry smile in the reflection and went still as the mountain ridge beyond the window, careful not to break the fragile trust. The woman carried on, "I don't believe in fate. But I do believe in luck. I also happen to know that luck is just a momentary crutch—it may save you from the fall once, but you'd better have a real plan to prop you up next time around." She sighed as she tapped a second cigarette against the high windowsill in deliberation. It ended up back in the pack. Myers rubbed her eyes and confessed, "Truth is, I barely have a plan."

The room wasn't cold enough to explain the shiver that grazed the sergeant's neck. The woman she knew had always had a plan—and another nested within it—never wavering to see even the grimmest and direst of them through. However horrific the results her determination could yield, her admission that she didn't know what to do was even more disturbing.

"That bad?" Valerie asked, bracing herself for the wall of silence or contempt but hoping the shift in their dynamic might count for something in the end. 

"Worse, because I'm not yet fully aware how bad it is. Been too blinded by Arasaka's fall and Texas on a platter to look twice." The president hesitated, closing her eyes in the reflection, frustration frozen into her features. The sergeant spotted her own worried frown in the glass. No wonder she would irk Myers all the time with that expression of a kicked dog. She dropped it before the woman would open her eyes. "We studied Peralez' every step as Mayor. If he's someone's puppet, that's his masters' string map. Local, at least," she clarified, as their national blueprint hadn't been revealed. "There was this one tiny thing that kept bugging me. Everything else followed the usual script. Some tipped their hand, most just chased populist points. But NetWatch pensions… cutting expenses—that I can understand, but halting that funding barely saved anything. Couldn't weaken NetWatch in NC either."

"Like… corpo bad blood or something?" Valerie tried to grasp her logic. To her, it all sounded like a usual power play.

"Mmm." She watched Myers avert her eyes, as if retracing the exact source of her discomfort. "Don't get me wrong, all big players have a score with NetWatch to settle. You just don't pull something this… petty."

"Meaning… what? A personal beef?" The sergeant remembered the president's—in her own words—pettiness with Militech and couldn't resist smiling.

"Exactly," the woman nodded to her through the glass. "Can an AI hold a grudge? What do you think?"

"Huh, I know they do." Valerie's smile only widened, even if that question puzzled her a bit. "I mean, Alt was damn cold, but even she—"

"Alt?" the president interrupted her recollection. "You traversed the Blackwall?" she asked in her least-surprised tone.

"Did a lotta stupid shit chasing that cure," the marine shrugged. It was her doing stupid shit that had crossed their paths, after all. "Wait—so you're saying it was the AI's call? Those NetWatch pensions?" The laid-out pieces finally clicked.

"Nothing else makes much sense," Myers simply confirmed.

Corporate thirst for power and influence was almost trivial. The use of AI tools was hardly novel, too. First, Soulkiller and that chip in her head, then the personality-altering tech with a much more restrained code name Valerie couldn't recall. Yet those words implied that not just Peralez, but all of Night Corp was a puppet, with that nameless AI pulling the strings. And maybe it hadn't been acting alone. Now, that shiver turned into the cold whips of terror, raising the hair at the nape of her neck.

"Rosalind, who promised So Mi help back then?" she asked, daring to hope her luck and this sincerity wouldn't run out. The woman lifted her chin, as if staring down the mountains barely outlined against the dark sky.

"The man you call Mr. Blue Eyes," she said at last.

"Fuck," Valerie breathed out, thoughts ricocheting inside her skull. Her run-ins with AIs had been hit-or-miss: sometimes unsettling but entertaining, like Delamain, sometimes only unsettling, like Alt. But she had never shied away from working with them, despite the barely veiled uncanny valley of their alien reasoning. Still, she had seen too much to dismiss the suspicion that whatever had spoken through Songbird wasn't all that different. It had merely cast the veil away. "Had this thought—don't laugh. 'S the Blackwall in on it?" Myers' reflection stayed silent, watching her talk. "All way too convenient. One fucker messes with her head and pokes her with a stick, the other dangles a carrot but also got a taste for twisting 'ganic brains," the sergeant rushed on before the impassiveness in those eyes turned to disappointment. "What if they were prepping her to host one of their own? Not Cerberus—that shithead just jumped the gun."

"Presuming you're right," the president narrowed her gaze, "why Songbird?" Why, indeed. If they cared that much about her access or position, they wouldn't have made her defect. So what had differentiated her from any other netrunner that came close enough to the Blackwall?

"Occam's razor—she's fucking borged," Valerie shrugged. "And her chrome's all neural, custom-built. Not your mass-market crap." That thought evoked a blurred idea that hadn't yet fully formed. "Getting rid of you was just a cherry on top. Really doubt Peralez woulda lost to anyone else."

"Occam's razor," Myers echoed. "If I didn't think a desk job would kill you, I'd make you an analyst tomorrow," she sighed, her tone and expression carrying neither confirmation nor dismissal. Valerie smiled, relieved she wasn't taken for a fool at least. Her grand theory of a global AI cabal plotting to enslave humanity would've made Garry the Prophet proud. As usual, her mind tried to shoo the worry with humor, but this time it stirred something in her memory instead.

"And Militech? They ever summon Lilith?" The question left her mouth before she had time to think it through.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Myers' immediate shift to a frown expressed her equal surprise.

"Listen," Valerie began and, too agitated to stand still, released her hold and hopped onto the windowsill to the president's right. "Told you I know a thing or two 'bout cyberpsychos. Had this gig, real nightmare fuel. Maelstrom, an NC gang—"

"I know what Maelstrom is. Go on." The impassiveness in the woman's voice calmed her down a bit.

"'K, so…" The sergeant sifted through the memory, recalling the scene. "Place looks like some fucked-up ritual. Blood everywhere, massacred bodies of those suckers around, and a fridge in the middle of a pentagram with this very borged and not-right-in-her-head girl inside. One still alive chrome freak mentions Lilith—I just gloss over it. Not even cracking top ten of the weirdest shit that night." She paused for a moment to get herself a cigarette. The president didn't mind, watching her with utmost attention. The marine took a quick drag and pushed on. "Later, I pick up another crumb. Was a smidge bored, so I took a local madman at his word. Promised me this secret meeting that'd prove all his batshit-crazy theories. Me a werewolf, you a reptilian—that sorta crap."

"Mm-hmm," Myers kept pace with her.

"So, I'm lying in wait on some empty construction site for fucking hours, like the biggest gonk in NC." Between puffs, Valerie's hands illustrated the size of a gonk she had felt. "And then this happens: two cars roll up. One's packed with Maelstromers, the other's just two Militech suits. They swap this weird-ass cryptic chatter about Lilith, throw in some Latin." She couldn't stifle a nervous giggle at how insane the story sounded. Was she really hoping the fucking president of the fucking NUSA would believe it? She found no answer on Myers' face, only patience. "Then the borged freaks hand over some shard to the corpos, and they all peel out. Curiosity my biggest sin, the chip comes into my possession." She preferred to omit how exactly. "I crack it only to find more cryptic shit inside. I crack that too, but it's a dead end. Just a command to kick off some project. Best I could guess, Militech was using borged freaks to lure a rogue AI they called Lilith. The conspiracy fluff added just for Maelstrom technomancers' vibes' sake. But now that I think 'bout it, that poor sucker who tipped me off got dragged away by blue-eyed suits before I could get back to him. And that description hits too close to Peralez' handler." She crushed the half-burned cigarette against the marble ashtray. "Long stretch, I know, but can't shake this itch it's all pieces of one big, stinking—"

"Valerie," the woman interjected softly, "is there a chance you saved that shard and whatever else happened to… spark your curiosity?"

"Yep," the sergeant enthusiastically nodded, baffled why she hadn't thought of it herself. "Dunno if it's any good, but worth a try. Can ya get me to Phoenix?" The president gave her an intent look.

"Instructions will be enough," she said at last, her voice uncharacteristically tight. "I don't need your involvement."

Valerie went quiet and stared down at her hands, one pale in the dim light, one pitch-black. She blinked. No Zetatech among those options. Of course. In just a few years, they had managed to make a breakthrough in ultra-compatible chrome and flood the market with it. On the surface, a positive development, but potentially more borged bodies ready-made for something else to creep inside. Myers' offhand slip about having a say in her cyberarm hadn't gone unnoticed. Was her insane hypothesis really that close?

The only unfinished business she had left behind—or rather, a whole tangle of riddles knotted into one mess—had a way of coming back to bite her in the ass. Whether that posed a threat to all of humanity was a negligible variable. She had never claimed to be a humanist. But it did threatened the woman before her, the only one she couldn't afford to lose. All while she kept sitting on her hands, one pale, one pitch-black.

The cruel irony was that she had to walk away now, when they were so close that with barely lifting a finger she could undo the loose knot of that robe instead, and be free to explore every inch of that body with her hands and mouth—the only language of affection Myers ever seemed willing to tolerate. As if sensing her internal struggle, the president lifted her chin and forced her to meet the inquisitive gaze that never failed to police her thoughts.

"Rosalind…" the marine stretched her lips in a flimsy excuse for a smile.

"Don't." Myers' voice was quiet but firm.

"Rosalind." This time around, Valerie adopted a more compelling tone.

"You won't go back," the woman stated plainly, already idly playing with the sergeant's hair as if the matter were resolved. Valerie caught her wrists, memory snapping back to the first time she had ever dared to do that—the unintentional audacity along with the following shock. She had never imagined back then that one day she could simply proceed with casually driving the president closer and gripping her by the waist.

"Kinda have to." This time the smile felt easy and true.

"I have an entire agency for that." Unimpressed with her cheekiness, Myers brushed her hands off and stepped away. "It's not your war."

"Not a war anyone gets to dodge. And definitely yours," the sergeant pointed out, staying put.

"You've tried to die on a few of those. I believe that's enough," the woman kept refuting her attempts at a dialogue. In her blue and gold robe, threads catching the last glow of the embers, she looked like she belonged to the room. The marine, in her sweatpants and yet another t-shirt—green tonight—did not. But there was somewhere else she did belong.

"It's my city. I got the chops, got rep there, know where to dig," she laid out, each fact meeting the same unfazed stare. So she went for the argument even the president couldn't deny. "I'm a fucking magnet for these sorta crap. You send agents who do everything their proper agenty way and get nada. I'll be back in a month and prolly trip over two side conspiracies along the way." If she thought that line of reasoning stood a chance, reality had other plans.

"You're too unserious." If anything, Myers sounded resigned. "We're not discussing this anymore." She moved toward the bed. Recognizing another prelude to those sleeping pills, Valerie hopped off the windowsill and slipped between her and the nightstand.

"Look, know you're hell-bent on this whole new idea of not using me, but it's getting stupid." She was at a loss why she was the only one here still thinking straight. "You're trying to bail a sinking boat with a rusty bucket when you've got a shiny water pump just sitting there."

"Well, that's because I've already found the perfect place for this… water pump." Myers' lips twitched, suppressing a smile, as her hands unhurriedly slipped beneath that out-of-place t-shirt. The sergeant did her best to escape the distraction—and felt the hard wood of the bed frame behind her. Now, she had successfully cornered herself. "Where it stays shiny and doesn't require spare parts." The woman stepped closer. "This analogy's getting out of hand," she murmured, warm breath brushing Valerie's ear and dissolving what remained of her resolve. "Stop trying to wriggle out of our agreement. What, not ambitious enough for you?" The dig nearly brought the marine back to her senses.

"Yeah, wanna check how many medals I can collect before thirty," she grumbled, her imagination already mapping slow kisses along that neck. As an act of unexpected mercy, the president clasped her shoulders and leaned away.

"And what if the next costs you a leg? Both? The second arm?" Valerie blinked at her. Were they talking literal spare parts?

"Not some Theseus's Paradox waiting to be solved," she let out an awkward laugh. "Still be me, I guess. Unless I lose my head too," she tucked in an attempt at a joke.

"You really think so?" For some reason, Myers didn't sound amused. "Think you haven't changed?"

"Maturing's a thing, y'know," Valerie parried, absolutely not thrilled to examine the topic.

"Oh, that's not happening for sure," the woman sighed, then shoved her onto the bed. Quite literally taken aback, the sergeant shook her head and tried to get on her feet just as Myers nonchalantly stood between her knees, cutting off the last getaway.

"Rosalind… you're not gonna fuck this outta my head," Valerie warned, though her hands were already drawing the woman even closer, now only a thin layer of fabric between those nipples and her lips.

"Watch me," the president scoffed, undoing the knot and letting the robe slide away. It took the bewildered marine every ounce of her will to hold still.

She shot a pleading look upward a moment before the woman lowered to her ear. One restrained, yet voiced moan was all it took to shatter that will. It was fake on every single level, yet her stupid body betrayed her outraged common sense. Teasing laughter sealed her defeat as Valerie hauled them both onto the bed and flipped Myers beneath her. With four hands competing to drag that t-shirt off her back, her only consolation was that, for the moment, the president's attention was all hers.

*****

Rosalind stepped out of the AV and started toward the cabin, her security detail close at her heels. She didn't blame a mid-twentieth-century architect for failing to predict an aircraft less intrusive than a chopper, but shoving the helipad a mile away from the nuclear shelter just to ward off the noise—that was a baffling choice. This time, she waved off Reyes' offer of a ride. After twenty-four hours of the Farm's fake windows and sterile air, she welcomed the stretch, the breeze—and a rare spike of high spirits that had nothing to do with New Year's Eve.

Just yesterday, she wouldn't have wagered on a positive outcome. Over the years, she had overseen her share of black ops with varying stakes, but to this day she had never supervised a corporate espionage operation so mundane in premise turn that nail-biting in execution. What had been meant as a smooth data heist ran into a series of obstacles that tripled its ETC and pushed her to the brink of aborting the mission. Yet, for once, all the wild risks and caffeine had paid off, Night Corp's general ledger their sole prize. Just as the FIA had suggested, the small things did betray the bigger picture. The paper towel expenses becoming that tell made for a fine anecdote.

Having tallied the numbers, the agency came to the definitive conclusion that the elusive compound was at least as big as Night Corp's headquarters, which, in turn, narrowed the field to just three locations. Two, naturally, were underground, as corporations tended to take root in the most literal sense. A well-timed investment in the Maglev restoration project could've easily cloaked a construction site of the right size.

The third candidate, lifted from conspirologists' message boards, was the boldest: underwater, beneath Del Coronado Bay. It wouldn't touch the city grid at all, but with the right engineering such a facility could moonlight as a cooling sink for a data fortress and even for a nuclear plant to power it. Either way, she finally knew where to dig—a neat cliffhanger for the coming year.

The packed snow of the pathway lightly crunched beneath her feet. She smiled, imagining the sergeant stoically trudging all this way in her slippery all-season boots. She'd had no way to inform her of the delay and now wondered what the girl had been keeping herself occupied with: the book, the gym, the desecration of her view—Rosalind was fine with any option unless it involved nurturing that silly idea of running away to Night City. As she passed the guest house, repurposed for her detail and med team, the president came to the conclusion she was even willing to forgive Valerie a single worried look.

Once she finally reached the cabin, Myers immediately shook off her coat along with her bodyguards and went upstairs, torn between the allure of a hot shower and the urge to check on the marine. In the end, her confused priorities nudged her left. She entered the guest room and, with a prick of disappointment, found it empty. The book on the bedside table confirmed that the girl had spent the night here, but evidently even she couldn't have slept in past noon, however tempting it would've been to dive under the covers and wake that sleepyhead.

Rosalind shook off the sudden craving just like her coat. Her body, high on long-earned dopamine, seemed to toss other concerns into the mix. Resolute on teaching it a lesson in restraint, the president set her course for her own bedroom, postponing everything else until after the shower and a proper cup of coffee. Inside, she left her rings on the nightstand and moved toward the bathroom, only to be swept off her feet midway.

"You're back. Finally. I tried not to run," breathed out the yellow hurricane, squeezing her tighter and giving her body too much sway over her mind. Rosalind smiled at the commentary, picturing the innocuous manner in which the girl must've excused herself to slip upstairs. Back on the ground, she burrowed deeper into that ridiculously bright parka to breathe her in: the same silly cucumber mixed with another scent—sharp, metallic, and reminiscent of her merc.

"Motor oil?" Surprised, she pushed those shoulders away to have a good look at the girl. "Are you cheating on me with a bot?"

"Yeah, ya know how I am. Hands got real itchy." With a laugh, Valerie pulled her back for a kiss. The president didn't object—neither to the kiss nor, for once, to the foolish sentiment that broke it. "Missed you so bad."

"We're back in DC in two days," she reminded, nonetheless. "Better start getting that 'missing' part under control. I trust you realize I can't see you this often, normally."

"Had a taste of your 'normally,'" the sergeant grimaced. "Still got two days." She went for another kiss, which Rosalind had to dodge this time. She caught Valerie's chin and enjoyed it following every whim of her hand as she scanned that face for disturbing signs of discontent. There were none. The girl was watching her patiently, eyes soft with an affection she had long made no attempt to hide. It was impossible that anyone could see it and remain unaware of Sergeant Linder's… excessive admiration, but it would only become a problem if the president herself wore that expression. That was impossible too. You wouldn't look that way at a part of yourself, like your hand. Startled by the instantly unsettling idea, she narrowed her eyes. "What?" The marine frowned in return.

"Nothing." That came off a little hasty. "Just… nothing." Myers took a step back from that embrace, claiming a sliver of space and time to collect her thoughts.

The analogy struck her as painfully apt: the sergeant did feel like a part of her, and worryingly vital. What had she expected, letting the girl cling to her all the time? That she somehow would be exempt from hazardous brain-chemistry spills? She might've thought Valerie was simply growing on her, when in truth, she was growing into. The subject of her musings gave her no chance to conjure an excuse to send her away.

"Know this look," she sighed with a reproachful smile. "Gotta delta before ya kick me off."

"When did you get so wise?" The president's mouth curved into an appreciative smile.

Having learned not to answer rhetorical questions, the girl only reminded, "Don't take too long. Just two days left."

Rosalind watched the yellow parka disappear in the doorway. Just like the sun sinking past the skyline, this departure rendered the room still and cold.

*****

She returned to the garage still smiling. After a full day of anxious waiting, she was relieved to find the president safe and unexpectedly lighthearted. The swift dismissal couldn't sour that. Maybe in broad daylight, things didn't look as grim as under the moonless sky—but more likely, the FIA's efforts had finally delivered a breakthrough. And if she was patient, Myers might even share details later that evening. For now, Valerie had her work cut out for her.

Yesterday, one sled had misfired too much for her liking. Now, stripped down and suspended midair, it obediently awaited its fate. Howell—the agent left in charge of the compound's security—had voiced his doubts before begrudgingly letting her tinker with it. She hadn't met that level of skepticism since her MOS maintenance instructor, when she had claimed mechanical skills her callusless, after three years of hospitals, palms couldn't back up. The sergeant took off her parka to keep it clean and resumed work. However little she knew about snowmobiles, she had fiddled with enough motorbikes in her life to know the drill. Acquaintance with hover propulsion tech came from her panzer days.

With his watch over, Howell came back to offer unobtrusive company and now watched her work from the nearest roll cab. She didn't mind the attention, enjoying another newly discovered perk of her chrome hand: hardly needing any tools for clips and screws made the process much faster than she had anticipated. In her nomad days, she would've been more frugal, taking extra time to isolate the faulty piece. Here, she swapped all four injectors wastefully, just to be certain. One look at the available tools and resources had told her there was no reason to skimp on laughable costs. Valerie carefully primed the fuel system, bleeding trapped air before starting the engine and checking for leaks.

Pleased with the clean job and the steady roar of the motor—too loud without the airbox—she nearly missed another pair of footsteps echoing against the bare concrete walls. She glanced back, recognizing Janet's red parka before her face. The agent must have finished checking the security systems upon arrival and moved on to a perfunctory patrol. The marine greeted her with a nod and killed the engine before the final stage of reassembly.

"Reyes," Howell acknowledged the senior agent in the following silence, hopping off the roll cab.

"All's good here?" Valerie heard Janet's question and offered her explanation first.

"Yep, caught this sled choking," she grunted, mounting the airbox. "Couldn't leave it like that."

"Had my reservations, but the sarge here seems to know what she's doing," the guy commented lightheartedly. 'The sarge' cast him a sidelong glance while reattaching the panels, but kept quiet. It amused her how much the presidential detail's mood seemed to hinge on Myers: as soon as she was back and in good spirits, everyone around slightly eased the sticks up their asses. All the better that she had managed to avoid another strain on the president's patience and taken her cue to leave.

"She's a nomad, what did you expect, Howell?" Janet mocked his concern and, for a change, stopped discussing her in the third person. "You ever need a job, let me know, panzer girl." Of course, the offer wasn't serious, but Valerie imagined Myers' face if she ever applied for a job in the White House motor pool maintenance and bit back a laugh, her back conveniently shielding her face from both agents.

"Will do," she nodded, switching the snowmobile into transportation mode, and gradually lowered its supports until it hovered on its own just a few inches above the floor, the engine purring smooth and soft. The sergeant thoroughly scrubbed the motor oil off her hands, well aware that the residual trace would cling for at least a few more hours, and shrugged back into her parka. Janet returned to the house, but Howell, to her surprise, grabbed his green coat off the roll cab and followed outside as she gently steered the sled out of the garage.

Back on the snow, she mounted the vehicle and stole a quick glance through the wing mirror. Expecting her test lap, the guy froze just beyond the faint swirl of snow kicked up by the rear turbine. Valerie shook her head in reproach—only a greenhorn nomad would've made this mistake. She wrestled with the temptation but ultimately gave in and drag-launched from a standstill, propelling a cloud of snow straight into the unsuspecting agent's face. Maybe the president's mood had rubbed off on her, too.

The sergeant laughed at the helpless 'Hey!' chasing her back—as far as she was concerned, he should be glad it wasn't sand. Then something firmer than a shout landed squarely between her shoulder blades. Now that the guy had switched to long-range weapons, she hurriedly searched for new tactics: in the fenced backyard, she couldn't possibly give him a wide enough berth, and zigzagging alone was way too predictable.

Another white projectile zipped past her ear, confirming that much. Were it a grenade, it could kill by sheer blunt force before any explosion, but a snowball merely threatened to send her sprawling like a sack of bricks. The marine was in dire need of cover—and a retreat. She veered hard right and skidded to a stop, ducking behind the snowmobile shielding her from Howell.

Mindful of his squeaky footsteps, Valerie kept low, avoiding easy headshots, and focused on gathering her own ammo. Her first attempts crumpled under excessive force when she tried to pack the fluffy snow, cold stinging her organic hand. She should've grabbed her gloves from the garage. Yet, necessity proving the best teacher, four precious projectiles finally found their way into the open back rack of the sled. Another snowball thudded near her knee, its trajectory warning her that the agent was almost done circling.

Immediately, she hopped back on the snowmobile, once again covering her retreat in another snowstorm—and heard the man laugh at the repeated lesson. No nomad would've made this mistake twice! She grinned and dedicated her cold-proof right hand to counterattacking Howell. Escaping the second volley of snow, he dodged right, only to catch her snowball with his face. The sergeant shook her head once again. And these were the people she had to entrust with the president's safety. She quickly emptied her reserves, none of the subsequent throws matching the success of the first.

Having circled around the house, she barred the pathway to the main entrance with the sled and braced for the last stand at the sight of the quickly approaching green parka. At least, Valerie found herself satisfied with the presidential detail's stamina: Howell was showing neither signs of slowing nor shortness of breath as he scooped up another handful of snow on the run and flung it, leaving himself out of ammo again.

Breaking from cover, she hurled two rapid shots his way. He escaped both only by plunging behind the corner. The next time the agent emerged from it, he successfully baited a misfire but failed to capitalize on it. Instead, he glanced behind her—and turned professional comically fast, the snowball slipping from his hand.

"Ma'am," Howell uttered, the last traces of snow melting off his instantly brick-walled face.

Valerie spun around, stifling the quiet 'fuck' in her throat, and faced Myers standing in the doorway. Well aware of the woman's distaste for loud colors, she wasn't surprised to see her parka in white camo with a fur-lined hood. Assisted by the scarf and high collar, it hid her face almost entirely, yet no one present could fail to recognize those eyes, now steely-grey. The president did not look impressed with Valerie's review of her detail's performance. Neither did Janet, stationed at her side. The sergeant nearly groaned. Little could tell Myers more about her maturity than taunting her detail into a snowball fight.

"I'm taking the east route, Reyes," Myers resumed the conversation they had started inside the house, her impassive gaze sliding past the marine as she stepped off the porch.

"Of course, ma'am. Ready as you are." Janet shadowed her, three more colorful agents behind them.

"No need to. Sergeant Linder will suffice," the woman declined the entourage and acknowledged Valerie's presence in the same breath.

"Ma'am," the senior agent's voice grew sterner, "you know that's not possible. I've got explicit protocols."

"Then pick who you'd rather disappoint, Reyes—Lloyd or me." The president nonchalantly circled around the snowmobile Valerie had no time to move. Unsure what to expect, the sergeant trailed the rejected squad.

"Two drones," she heard Janet announce her bottom line for these negotiations. "Then my death will be quick, at least."

"At thirty feet. I want to hear my thoughts," Myers adjusted the terms and set off toward the forest rolling off the mountain ridge, alone and light on her feet. Valerie shot Janet an apologetic glance but held her tongue and hurried after the president. Judging by the agent's face, she was stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea.

As they walked away, two drones humming above their heads as per agreement, the sergeant glanced back and noted the snowmobiles being arranged in a waiting line, all facing their direction. She was at a loss: neither the voice she had heard during the short exchange nor the back she observed now betrayed any intent or emotion, but Myers could hardly have kept her mood intact after witnessing that mess.

Valerie shoved her hands into her pockets, her organic palm painfully prickling from the cold, and fell into step beside the president's right shoulder, their shadows aligned on the snow trail ahead. Another minute of silence later, she risked a quick peek under that hood. The woman immediately caught the attempt and cast her a reproachful glance.

"I'm fine, Valerie," she said, only minor irritation edging her voice.

"And Janet? She in trouble?" the sergeant carefully probed. She didn't want anyone else catching heat for her antics.

"Only if I die here." Myers shrugged, with the same exasperating tendency to discuss her own death with offhand dark humor. "That Commission hearing will be a mess."

"Uh-huh, and the way ya talked like I'm not there—"

"That's how we interact in public. Unless it's a PR stunt." The woman still refused to admit to any annoyance, but the interruption was a tell of its own.

"So, anyone's watching, you hardly know me," Valerie played along. "But if they got a camera, you like me just fine?"

"You've got the gist." The president's tone shed the last trace of irritation.

"How'm I s'posed to act, then?" the marine requested further instructions, emboldened by easy success.

"You shall like me at all times, obviously," Myers replied, her voice tinged with a smile. "It's not like you have another face."

Valerie frowned at the implication that her expression might be betraying a secret not entirely her own. She couldn't be that transparent, could she? Even her blush had become a rare visitor, so she allowed herself the humble hope that her ability to mask emotions was improving too. The president, for her part, seemed unperturbed by this observation, just amused. The sergeant stayed quiet a minute longer, until they reached the first sparse trees.

"Can this hurt ya?" she couldn't refrain from asking, the outside world getting closer by the day.

"By 'this,' you mean possible rumors of a baby marine in my bed?" As per her usual, the woman was acerbic and blunt. "Hmm. Inconclusive. Can hurt. Can help."

"Help? How?" Valerie blinked, startled by both the answer and the numb resistance of her frozen forehead when her brow tried to shoot up. She pulled her hood on.

"Public opinion's unpredictable, but the optics aren't that bad." The president took the right turn at the first fork. Valerie followed suit, the woman's voice slightly muffled by the yellow fabric warming her ears. "I'm single. Far as I know, you are too. No broken vows. No children to drag through a potential divorce. That leaves pretty much just two narratives: a juicy scandal or a hopeless romance. If I let Newcomb spin a soppy tale of the president falling for a hero marine in the dying days of the war, that might just win me another reelection. Once everyone conveniently forgets your age."

"You've gotta be kidding me!" the sergeant burst out laughing.

"I wish," Myers muttered. Valerie didn't need to see her face to picture that eye roll. "Though I'd rather die than sit through that interview." The image alone drew another short laugh from the sergeant's lips.

She shot a quick glance at the woman, but the white hood still guarded that face. Seemingly lost in thought, Myers didn't share in her mirth. The woods and snowdrifts along the path thickened, their shadows now hopping between the dark trunks and branches to their left. The marine was still unaware of where they were headed, but it hardly mattered. Two days left—and then long weeks apart—left little room for worry and even less time to stockpile memories against the wait.

"And now?" she asked abruptly, interrupting whatever thoughts were bothering the woman. "This public, or—"

"Given the drones have cameras, I have no choice but to like you in either case." Myers' response was quick. Perhaps she welcomed that interruption. "But don't even think of shooting snowballs in my direction."

"You're arming me with all the wrong ideas, Madam President." The sergeant quietly weighed the risk of doing exactly that. Not a potential memory she had in mind, but…

"I'm serious, Valerie," the woman's firm voice dropped her playfulness down a notch. "There's a non-zero chance the drones' algorithm will flag it as an attack. And I like you alive."

"Oh." The marine shot a quick glance up at the war machines drifting lazily overhead and fell silent. Another fork ahead—she wondered idly which way they would turn.

"Did Reyes show you the forester's house?" Myers finally revealed their destination. "It's cozy. Just a mile into the woods."

"I took to rejecting other women's invitations to cozy little spots." Valerie was mildly intrigued. The house must be unoccupied at the moment—hardly could introducing her to a forester have been the president's plan all along. But surely they could find themselves a couch there. Or a table. Or a floor. She felt extremely indiscriminate toward any surface right now.

"How prudent," the president remarked, oblivious to the not-so-prudent images in her head, and took the left turn. Once again, the sun sent their shadows gliding ahead of them.

"Can I, uh, hold your hand?" the sergeant dared to ask.

"Valerie, I know you're young, but you're not five," the woman mocked her request.

"You're impossible!" Valerie shook her head and struck that from her mental checklist. She should've known better.

"I suppose that makes two of us." The signature scoff made her smile. 

Here, on a sunlit snowy trail, enjoying their usual back-and-forth, it was effortless to pretend they were real, with a hint of a future ahead. Stuck living one day at a time for too long, that planning muscle had become redundant—all the more surprising was to stumble on these thoughts. Like her hand tucked in the pocket, that long-frozen life wish began to thaw, prickling her chest with longing for more.

"You ever wanna run away and get a normal life?" she said, having no idea what a normal life looked like—once a dying merc, then a crippled soldier, both plagued by the most absurd twists of fate.

"Run away?" Myers' response carried the familiar sarcasm. "I'm starting to suspect you are a mind-controlled plant. Why bother killing me if you can just persuade me to take off and never look back? Cunning, even." The sergeant shot her a reproachful glance for the dig at her past paranoia. The hood remained unconcerned. "Alas, I'm too old for eloping," the woman sighed. Valerie tried to chuckle, but a creeping unease settled in. She shook the feeling off—it was simply a sign of the growing regret that she couldn't freeze this moment in time.

"And after this mess done, and you wanna retire? In, say, ten years, we're gonna look the same age—hardly a scandal." The woman laughed at her words, but refrained from comment. The marine hastily overtook the president, walking backward right in front of her like a second shadow. The distress gnawed at her, yet she still couldn't pinpoint its source. "Rosalind, I'm serious," she pressed, as if her life depended on the answer.

"Serious? About what?" Myers looked her straight in the eye, slowing her pace with every question. "If I want to retire? If I want to retire and live with you? Are you fucking out of your mind?" She came to a halt, anger narrowing her eyes.

The ridicule and that unwavering gaze forced Valerie to face her own inadequacy. How would that look, indeed? Did she envision them together drifting across the Badlands in a nomad caravan? Delusional. Had she accepted Myers' West Point offer, in ten years she might've emerged a decorated officer, well-mannered and well-spoken. That officer could've had the slimmest chance at a future by the former president's side. Instead, she had opted to become a toy soldier, designed only for short-lived entertainment, like all cheap toys. No wonder the woman mocked her at every turn.

Unable to endure that glare, the sergeant looked away—and spotted a white glitch against the black bark of pines, hidden by the snow before. The half-buried fear of something in her head wrestling for control twisted her gut. She tugged the hood off her head and stared up at the sky above them, its blue exposing the gathering snowstorm of noise in her kiroshis. And two drones, frozen at a distance far beyond what had been agreed.

"Rosalind, something—"

"Hey, look at me." Myers grabbed her head to force her to refocus on her face. "What's going on?" Valerie saw her eyes—no anger now, only concern—and blinked. Instead of responding, she squinted at the main building, barely visible through the trees, and picked out dark dots racing through the snow. She instinctively stepped forward to shield the woman, and in an instant heard, "I see. Must be some proper shitstorm to trigger Red Protocol." The president's voice was… serene. "It's all right, Valerie." A hand gripped her shoulder in reassurance. "What you're feeling, it's just an EMP pulse jamming all bots and unregistered chrome. Should've whitelisted yours," the voice carried on softly. Now she was almost sure one of the dark dots' riders wore Janet's red parka, another Howell's green. "Close your eyes, or your head's gonna hurt. You can't protect me from bad news, anyway." Of course, she disobeyed and strained through the white flurry to keep the closing snowmobiles in her line of sight, powerless to do anything—except one last stupid thing.

"Sooo… wanna rethink running away with me? FYI, I'm in long johns," Valerie said with the biggest, goofiest smile, as if she weren't scared shitless for the woman she was in desperate need to protect. Myers responded with genuine laughter, as if needing no protection at all—and briefly squeezed her hand. With a lump in her throat, the sergeant put it back on her mental list and ticked it off. And then, Janet reached them and took the president away.

*****

When she returned to her study, her Chief of Staff was already mid-surgery, along with the two bodyguards who had survived the blast. Rosalind spent five hours on the phone, demanding answers and fending off Lloyd's nagging insistence that she burrow into the bunker. If the attackers had the capacity to reach her here, they wouldn't have wasted time bombing a parking garage in DC.

News channels were quick to pin the assassination attempt on a Texas sympathizer. The FIA's preliminary report sketched a scenario the president knew all too well. A blue-collar loner from Clarke County, VA, had shown no interest in Texas prior to a week before the election, when he began parroting his newly acquired political talking points mid-shift. The continued erratic behavior cost him his job and severed his last connections to society, but never deterred him from obtaining C-4, expertise in suicide vests, and the White House Chief of Staff's personal schedule—an unforgivable security lapse.

Fortunately for Hannah, her detail and bulletproof Emperor bore the brunt of the blast. Her fresh second heart implant handled the rest. Always attuned to her gut instinct, she must've had it installed alongside that kneecap. For now, a proper medical blood pump kept her company until a spare organic heart could make its speedy journey across the pond.

With a grimace of disgust, Myers emptied the full ashtray into the bin. A cigarette or two was fine, but an entire pack downed in a few hours betrayed the compulsive nervousness she didn't like to admit. Were it a lucky guess that triggered it or a solid fingerprint left on their ICE during the breach—the plan had been set in motion months ago and waited for just one final provocation. And she had given them exactly that. Any pretense that she and Night Corp weren't in the open phase of the conflict had died tonight, and unlike her, they seemed confident enough to deliver a direct blow—purposefully personal, to provoke her most knee-jerk reaction.

She meant to lie low instead, publicly playing along with the Texas sympathizer story. Her speechwriters had already begun their overnight vigil, drafting a resolute diatribe for tomorrow's press circus. Delivered convincingly, it would cost the Texas delegation every concession her righteous fury could wring out. And, if Night Corp were only suspicious of the FIA's involvement in their data fortress raid, it would also buy her precious time. If they were confident, though…

She also should've trusted her gut and insisted on disposing of the outsourced netrunner right after the heist, but, just as she had feared, her subconscious inclination to appease the girl had begun to infect her judgement. Dismissing her detail for a walk had been yet another stupid instance of that. Now the inevitable internal investigation might cost a perfectly competent agent her career for failing to control the protectee. With the coming months unlikely to leave much room for seeing the sergeant, the quarantine should clear her head. Otherwise, she would be forced to admit defeat and cut her losses.

The president left her chair and stepped into the hall. Gone were the brief days of security that had granted her a semblance of privacy. Now, four agents flanked her for a fifteen-foot walk across the hall—but at least the FIA had lifted Red Protocol. As if they hadn't swept the house at least twice already, the detail cleared her into her bedroom only after a full scan. It was empty.

She shot Reyes a silent question, unconcerned with hiding her expectation of finding someone inside—Sergeant Linder would have to forgive her current indifference to preserving her good name. The agent looked unusually stern and repentant for her prior leniency, but surely they hadn't left the marine stranded on the forest trail, nor detained her on Lloyd's orders without consulting her first.

"In her room, ma'am," Reyes clarified curtly. Myers endured their presence for another short walk, but as soon as they reached the destination and she sensed the intent to repeat the scan, she decided she was done with this pointless ritual. Tightened security was fine—but not to a suffocating degree.

"Enough," her tone stopped the agents. "Wait here. On my responsibility." Everything around was on her fucking responsibility. This one was lighter than a feather. She swiftly shut the door behind her, cutting off needless arguments, and immediately breathed easier at the sight of the girl. Perched on the bed in the glow of the single bedside lamp, elbows against knees, the marine flashed a relieved smile that, for a fleeting moment, masked the same guilty conscience Myers had just observed on Reyes' face.

For a fleeting moment deceived, Rosalind returned the smile—then let it fade, eyes dropping to the familiar black box in the sergeant's hands, then to the duffle bag, zipped and ready for departure, at her feet. Plenty of plausible explanations existed—the president's vacation coming to an abrupt end was self-evident to anyone with half a brain. Yet she knew the real cause at once.

"Not today," she asked, wearily rubbing her eyes.

"I can't, Rosalind," she heard the voice she had grown so used to, and forced herself to look straight at the girl. "If not today, I'll see ya next in a year. Or maybe never. And I like you alive too."

"Of all the people, you think it's up to you to keep me alive? You?" The president was fed up with these delusions. The sergeant flinched but kept looking at her with those ridiculous eyes, still refusing to accept the simple truth. "You're not the same, Valerie. Your reflexes are gone. You can't trust your body the same way, and if you do, you're a fucking idiot. Half an inch off and you're dead. You're in a state to miss by a foot," Myers spelled it out, prying into the same breach she once had been relieved to see healing. Instead of reflection, her words sparked anger, bitter and raw.

"Not the same for a while, sure," Valerie shot back, pushing herself to her feet, left hand clutching the stupid box that had probably kicked off this thirst for heroics. "But just like ya said—when my arm got crushed and my guts got torn by my own ribs, I still outmaneuvered that barrage and took down more than a few units. All that on diet chrome. You can't make me feel less." Silly girl. Of course she could. With just a few sentences, she could reduce her to a shadow riddled with self-doubt, but… how could she.

She had played it all wrong, provoking in the sergeant only the burning desire to prove her worth. And now, if she were to cut her off entirely, that chip on her shoulder would drive the girl straight into the death trap without any life support. For a moment, the president considered simply walking out, back under the choking oversight of her detail—but that clenched jaw spoke of firm determination to follow it through this time. And she wanted this mess to become a spectacle for a select audience even less. Rosalind hit a dead end.

"I want you here," she said, reluctant and flat. Not at all how it should've come off.

"Yeah. For now," Valerie shrugged, anger turning her cold. "But I figure you need me there more. Grown-up shit, to do what's needed, ain't it?"

That was precisely why last-resort measures were never meant to be used. If deployed and proved ineffective, you had nothing left. The president walked past the marine to the window. To most, this view, with a sweep of mountain ridge and forested slopes, was indeed worthy of its own postcard. Yet her spine tingled with half-defeated anxiety each time she took a glimpse. During the renovation, she had even considered moving her bedroom to the west side to avoid seeing it altogether, but that would've left her half-defeated too.

"You have a fear? An irrational one, one you cannot control?" she said, shifting to at ease. After all those years in the Corps, that posture came so naturally she would barely register it.

"Uh, deep water, I guess," came the uncertain reply. "Why?"

"As a kid, I'd always sneak off to that room that's now my study," Rosalind smiled at the faint impressions in her mind, then grimaced. "Hated the tobacco stench there, but every time I saw the mountains from this side, I got scared of an avalanche. A ridiculous phobia. Can't even remember how it started. But the primal fear… that memory sticks. Can be a coward and try to outrun it. Can be a hero and face it. It doesn't care. Now I feel like that avalanche's finally coming for me."

"Rosalind—"

"I'll wake you up at 0500," the president cut the pleading notes in that voice off. If the girl wished to become her paper shield, so be it. Having skipped a week's worth of sleeping pills, she expected them to hit like a freight train. "We'll go over the details. On my terms."

"Can ya… stay for tonight?" Myers glanced back. By the look on that pale face, the girl already knew the answer.

"No, Valerie. I don't sleep with my assets." The decision was effortless now. Rosalind gave the snowy peaks a final look. A very picturesque view, indeed. She turned her back to the window and, uninterrupted, walked out of the room.

Chapter Text

She found the car at the agreed spot and immediately winced at the sight of another black Thorton. Dark and seemingly abandoned, as if no one had been expecting her here, its polished sides reflected the bluish streetlights as eagerly as the cold puddles scattered across the empty parking lot. Hopping around to keep her feet dry, she could only wonder how his car had stayed so clean in this weather. At least Reed hadn't picked an underground garage—those had a bad reputation in Washington these days.

With the news once again exciting enough to replace reality shows, the TV in the lobby of her apartment building was the first to tell her what exactly had happened yesterday. Upon her return to DC in the morning, she caught a snippet of coverage but didn't stay for the president's statement, switching back into avoidance mode. Everything Myers had to tell her had already been said, in great detail. It had been naive yet comforting to believe she was heading for Night City with whatever time they had left merely put on pause, but reality proved far less accommodating. If saving the woman meant losing her, Valerie was willing to grit her teeth and pay up. It was still a thousand times cheaper than the ultimate loss.

The cost of the request that had led her to Reed's Merrimac that evening was trivial at best. All she needed was to endure a lecture on how wasteful the president considered pulling together a team of 'washed-out has-beens.' Valerie bit her tongue and listened until her request was reluctantly approved. After all, she owed the man her life. Restoring his purpose might be the closest she would ever come to repaying that debt. She took the shotgun, unsurprised to find the door unlocked.

"Nova spot. Now I see why you called dibs on the next pick," she grumbled, settling into a squeaky pleather seat. The air inside was warm enough and smelled of coffee. The massive dark figure to her left barely moved, only the engine humming its greeting at startup. She glanced at the agent, now lit by the red and white lights of the control panel. Reed kept his eyes on the street as he sipped from the giant coffee cup. "Safer to get into a stranger's car if the stranger's inside, right?" she insisted on a conversation.

"I thought you took the cue that there's no such thing as 'safe' in this biz," the man finally replied. "Want some?" He nodded toward the second oversized cup in the car holder by her side.

"Cheap synth swill? Who ya taking me for?" she exclaimed, out of habit picking it up with her chrome fingers in case it was too hot, and immediately took a generous gulp. It tasted nostalgically disgusting. "Now that's what I call coffee."

"Posh Washington life hasn't rubbed off on you yet?" Reed shot a quick glance her way. He had grown more guarded since their last meeting, or maybe any secluded place had this effect on the man. Barely three cars had passed by since she arrived.

"Nah. Shoulda given it a chance while it lasted," she shrugged.

"How come?" Now that her kiroshis had readjusted to the sparse light inside the car, she could see a frown on his face. Despite the startle, he didn't hesitate to coin another moniker, "Myers find a better lapdog this quick?" Her jaw tightened at the mention. Prone to invoking the president's name in vain, Reed was the worst kind of company right now, but she couldn't postpone this talk.

"A better one? That's impossible," Valerie awkwardly parried the jab. Funny to think that years ago, when she was heading out to meet him, that was basically what the president had called him—a dog. Not that she would ever bring it up. "Ya ever miss Night City, Reed? Busy nights working the door? Lazy days cruising Westbrook in your pretty little Shion?" She studied his face for any crack at all. Reed responded with a baffled side glance.

"Had your head scrambled? Only ever drive Thortons." If anything, his frown only deepened.

"We all got our flaws. I'm just trying to forget yours." The reproach in her voice was entirely genuine.

"Yeah, right. So why Night City? Throwing a nostalgia party?" The man rattled the clearly empty cup, then shoved it back into the holder. He must've gotten here early to drain it that fast.

"Kinda. Like the one we had in 'The Fly,' back in Dogtown," she nodded cheerfully and got a front-row seat to Reed's paranoia as the agent immediately pressed his gun into her left side. Even without a cracked rib to worry about, Valerie winced but still felt mildly impressed by this display of professional caution. His full focus snapped onto her.

The FIA couldn't have fully vetted him on such short notice. Just to be safe, she wanted to see what friendly chatter might shake loose. Finding broken pieces in his head was a long shot. Her only tell would've been if the man had expressed any confusion over the validity of his memories. As always, Reed was absolutely certain of who he was.

"Keep your words very precise now, Valerie," the agent warned her grimly, as she froze, her cup halfway to her lips. "Either you're testing me for some stupid reason, or something is really, really, wrong."

"For a good reason, Reed," she assured him, swiftly discarding her phony lightheartedness before it earned her a slug, and slowly lowered the cup to her lap. "Good to see your old paranoid self."

"Spill." The man didn't lower his gun and was clearly as tense as his voice.

"Stuff I'm gonna tell ya is well above your clearance," she retorted, yet remained still to avoid provoking him further.

"You're no agent," he shook his head, annoyed with her cockiness, then shot her a wary look. "Are you?"

"I… dunno." Maybe she should've clarified the full terms of her employment. From the tilt of Reed's head, she got the impression that he was getting impatient with a talk still going nowhere. She sighed, ending the stall. "'Member that merc we used to know? Rumor has it the prodigal daughter's heading back to NC."

"Is she nuts?" That was a very good question she wasn't going to answer.

"Got unfinished biz left there, is all." She glanced outside at the closest concrete lamppost. "That talk we had, in Phoenix, high time we finish it."

"About you signing on with the firm? Thought I talked you out of it. Twice, if you count a month ago." Again, she wondered if an extra year of time could've made a difference. There was no way of knowing that.

"You see, that merc picked up a gig once, Reed," she prepared to come clean, "Real twisted. Some rookie politico and his wife wanted to know what kind of spooky shit was happening around 'em. In the end, the merc got to learn the spooky shit was happening to them. Something or someone was… reprogramming 'em both." She looked back at the agent and found him gripped by the story. "Had little proof though. A changed habit here 'n' there, a few sudden swings of mood, with a pinch of faulty memories. And this huge antenna on their rooftop, rerouting shortwave straight into their skulls."

"Huh. Keep going." The nod and the gun in his hand urged her as well.

"When the merc got the hang of what was really going on, the guy's wife asked not to tell 'im. Merc agreed. She could do zilch anyway, some other problems on her hands," Valerie admitted her nagging guilt but still offered herself a small excuse. "Two months ago the guy came this close to becoming the prez." The agent grew motionless, even by his unexpressive standards.

"Myers know?" he asked after a short bout of silence.

"Does now. But very few people do," she said, observing the empty street. "Handy thing to have in your pocket, ain't it? A charismatic politico that bends to your whim quicker than a weathervane to the wind. A few of those and a lotta things can go your route." The first drops of relapsing rain hit the windshield. "Toss in some outcasts with no friends or family to catch 'em snap 'n' go shooting. Looks like a perfect shitstorm, don'tcha think?" Forgetting to stay still, she rubbed her still distractingly organic chin. Too bad she wouldn't get to keep it. A silly sentiment, considering what she had already lost.

"You mean the murder of the guy's wife?" Too busy parsing her story, Reed let the insolence slide.

"Uh-huh. And an attempt on the previous mayor. And another just yesterday. Here, in DC," she nodded, confirming his guess.

"Got the firm buzzing like an angry beehive, that one. No wonder Myers took you off leash. Atwood's probably the only friend she cared to keep." The offhand remark threw Valerie off. Good thing she hadn't known this yesterday or she wouldn't have found the heart to push the woman into this arrangement right away.

"I… volunteered," she vaguely denied the president's hand in her choice—and dared a long-awaited second gulp, her coffee going from awful to awful and cold. The odds of getting shot at this point were negligible. "Can't just sit and wait. Wanna go back and do something about it."

"So that's why you wanted back in the fray," he concluded, not expecting an obvious acknowledgment. For a moment, he glanced away, probably also guessing if anything changed if only he had listened to her back in Phoenix. His gun, however, stayed in place to keep its watch. "What're you hoping to find there?" He returned his attention to her.

"Answers, Reed. Huge chance that shit ain't human-made. Ain't human-controlled," Valerie corrected her statement. The man gave her a sharp look but didn't interrupt. "Some invasive species from behind the Wall. Or, maybe, including that Wall, figuring out how to make us look the other way just long enough to flood through the breach. 'Member who else had a rough run-in with those?"

"So Mi…" the agent muttered and lowered his head. "Think she might've been… influenced that way?" His tone carried hope. Would it even matter if she acquitted Songbird of high treason now?

"Wish I could say 'yes,' but… no one knows for sure," she shook her head, for now keeping her theories close. "Might find the answer to that question too. But could really use a hand there, Reed." Valerie reached the level of transparency she was allowed for this talk. Now it was up to the man whether he wanted to go down that rabbit hole.

"Guess you and Myers had lots to discuss," he mused in hesitation, not ready to raise his hopes too high. "She approve my involvement in the operation?"

"Uh-huh, but you're free to choose," Valerie offered him the illusion of agency even if the opportunity of getting back into the roster, spiced with mentioning Songbird, probably had him sold. "Made 'er promise that."

"Made her promise?" Reed derided the claim. "You're funny."

"Occasionally," she dryly agreed.

"Hold on," he glanced at his gun as if he had forgotten it was still there—and holstered it fast. "Answers are good and all if you're feeling curious. But there's gotta be some deal. What else did she promise you? I'm not picking until I know what kind of fool I'm about to trust with my back." Valerie faltered. With all the time in the world, she couldn't have come up with a convincing version. All she had was one day.

"Nothing, Reed," she admitted, watching the rain pull into tiny strings of water on the windshield and almost physically feeling his inquisitive glare. Truly nothing this time. "That kinda fool."

"Nothing?" the agent grimaced. "Played brave little soldier just fine, but you're no patriot, Valerie." He paused, struck by a realization. "I see… This whole saving-your-ass story she sold you? Didn't happen like that."

"The Relic's cure? Never came up, a long-done deal." Valerie frowned at him in confusion. What else could there be to that story? Uneasy, her hand brushed for the small plastic box in her pocket, sharp edges biting her organic palm. She had relinquished all Sergeant Linder's earthly possessions, including the access card to the storage box, but snuck this as a reminder. "She… try to back out?" It would've been a rational choice not to waste a unique piece of tech on a terminal merc. Could she blame the president for that? The spit in her mouth grew bitter.

"No. Tends to stick to her word. That's why she rarely gives it," Reed reluctantly cleared Myers of that suspicion. Valerie swallowed, hard, and expectantly stared at the man. "I take it you don't know," he deduced with the same reluctance. "Must be saving it for the times of your dwindling loyalty, then."

"Saving what, Reed?" she asked, her voice dull and lifeless, barely recognizable even to herself.

"When I found you in NC, after the coma," he began, and she instantly shut her eyes, her next guess all but proven. "She sent me after you, the government footed the bill. Never told you this—wanted you out." Valerie fought the impulse to ask him to shut up. Had she given it a thought, she would've realized long ago that a regular agent's connections and funds couldn't have cut it. "'Sides, she ordered never to mention you. Seemed only fair not to mention her." She opened her eyes. Strange thing to imagine, the president switching into her own avoidance mode. She failed to suppress a short laugh. Reed shot her a wary glance before adding, "Should know, though, she only did it to get me outta her face. Not 'cause she ever gave a damn." Now she knew the tipping point of that deepened grudge. Funny that it had anything to do with her.

"Her angle, how it even matters, Reed?" she sighed, the box in her hand cutting deeper. "Used to save people 'cause it padded my pockets and made me feel good 'bout myself. Guess what? Nobody ever cared for my not-so-selfless reasons. They were just grateful to be fucking alive." The man kept studying her face, too closely for her comfort. To break the scrutiny, she shifted her glance to the wet pavement along the street. "Don't get me wrong, I owe you. But now… looks like I owe 'er too." And all this time, the woman had never brought it up. Maybe not to trigger her sentimentality. Or maybe because she wasn't some stupid gonk to toss around 'I saved your life.' All the more reason to return the favor.

"You may be right. But knowing one's angle comes real handy once you wanna get their measure," Reed's tone grew contemplative. "You, for one, deny any angle at all. Which means you're not on the hook. Thing is, I can believe you. I can't believe Myers trusting an asset with no strings to pull. So, either you're a secret medal junkie…" His laugh cut short in his throat. "…or the biggest fool of them all." Valerie caught the man in the corner of her eye shake his head in visible frustration. She expected him to come to this conclusion sooner or later. After all, a trained agent should be able to pick up emotional weak spots with ease, and there was little she could do to disguise hers. Not like she had another face.

"That be a problem?" She lifted her head higher and stared straight ahead through the grey strings of rain. Stirring personal matters brought her discomfort and an apprehension that now Reed was more inclined to reject her offer.

"Mostly yours." The agent's voice sounded weary but calm. "Suspected this much since Dogtown—she has this effect on recruits. Wears off with time, sure, but you didn't have a change of heart in four years." For some reason, he grew more cheerful with every word, as if her affliction began to amuse him. "Make sure you don't mid-op, and I can work with that," he announced his final decision and put both hands on the wheel, ready to roll.

"Really? Not worried what's gonna happen if she ever orders me to sell ya out for a better outcome?" Now free to ask riskier questions, Valerie expressed her surprise.

"Doesn't matter," Reed replied with a firm shake of his head. "So Mi tossed that medal away and still carried the order out." He gave her a quick, evaluating glance. "If anything, you're more likely to say no."

"How so?" she requested an explanation, unable to follow his twisted logic.

"Just 'cause that's how people work," he shrugged, as if it should be obvious. "You got a good heart, so you wanna pretend she has a semblance of it at least. Real shame she doesn't." Valerie nodded slowly, respecting the logic, and squeezed the box one last time. A tiny fingerprint on the dark bronze was all the proof he was wrong.

"Thanks, Reed," she said sincerely, digging into her other pocket for the datashard with his instructions. Now, she could pass him the extraction point and see what was awaiting them ahead. "D'ya need time? Pets to take care of? People?"

"I'm a pro, Valerie. Got no capacity for that stuff," the agent muttered, then shot her a mocking glance, still hung up on their previous topic. "You know she knows, right?"

"You bet." She handed him the shard and smirked, Reed's amusement finally growing on her. Playing the president's helpless admirer suited her better than any other role she had ever worn.

"Had that talk too, I take it? Tough luck," he slotted the shard, his eyes glowing blue. "What did she say?"

"Whaddaya think, Reed? Can't live 'thout me," she grunted, adjusting the chair for her comfort as the man started their ride. "That's why I'm going on a field trip to the other side of the world."

*****

With DeMarco habitually shadowing her, the walk through the harshly lit corridors of Walter Reed reminded her of the other hospital visit. She'd had too many of those lately—common enough in wartime, even if now it was a war of a different sort. At least Newcomb's cameras didn't follow her here. Not that he hadn't offered—he was simply smart enough not to insist. Rosalind pushed open the door, guarded by three more agents, and proceeded alone inside the ward. It was just as bright as the corridor, though the natural daylight seeping through the wide window felt gentler.

Ashen but awake, as promised, Hannah weakly met her gaze from the bed. Bandages marked a stitch here, a burn there, the blue robe hiding the ugly scar along her chest. The president had read the medical report in advance to know what to expect, yet she disliked personally seeing her Chief of Staff in this diminished state—and having failed to prevent it, too.

"Ah, you're conscious," Rosalind opened with her best dry disappointment as she crossed the ward, her steps inadvertently falling in rhythm with the steady beeping of the woman's new heart. She reached the window and looked outside, feigning interest in the grey Mid-Atlantic winter. "Just ran into your grandkids in the hall. They're worried you might survive." She went for an innocent poke to test the waters.

"Don't go anywhere near them. Can't trust you these days," Hannah responded in kind, her spirit evidently stronger than her voice. Relieved, the president offered the spotless window a smile. Her back exposed no such sentiment.

"Please. Both are well over thirty. Way too old for my taste," she parried. As she had long learned, leaning into the joke was far more effective at muddling the truth. Too bad they had no time for proper banter. In just five minutes, the automated drug-delivery system would send the patient into another slumber. But five minutes was enough to check the pulse. "The lengths you go to make me call on you in the hospital," she sighed for show, still.

"Speaking of which… how about telling me how I ended up here? And don't you dare feed me the official slop." Free to vent at the plexiglass, Myers grimaced at the question. So much for dreaming the medication might dull that grit for a day or two.

"Can't read you in yet," she made sure her voice carried a touch of authentic remorse. Its primary source, though, was the fact that the woman had nearly died, not the reluctance to share the exact premise of that incident. "Your doctors advised against any stress."

"Excellent stress reliever, aren't you. They oughta offer you part-time here. If they want to stock the morgue." The sarcastic remark was accompanied by the quiet buzz of a servomotor. Myers calmly glanced back over her shoulder: probably finding it hard to stand her ground while lying flat, Hannah adjusted the backrest section of her bed to sit upright. "You should know, I vastly prefer taking figurative bullets for your shit," she grunted a reproach. Unfazed, the president turned away.

"Well, taking figurative bullets for my shit is just your job," she shrugged and, after a moment's deliberation, added, "If it's of any comfort, I dispatched my best agent to handle it." Exaggeration, both in praise and expectation—but it inspired more confidence than the truth. The only one happy with this development was, probably, Nader. The president's preferred outcome would be the girl bombing the Farm's crash course.

"Comfort, huh?" her Chief of Staff croaked in laughter. "Your last best agent offed my Deputy and almost got you killed. And then you came back, pissed as a wet cat and eager to fry my ass for your poor judgement. So excuse me for not raising my hopes just yet." Rosalind felt her face freeze. She didn't appreciate a reminder of how she'd had to crawl through Dogtown's sewers only to realize who the traitor was. Meanwhile, Hannah was in no hurry to curb her bitter mirth. "And how do you even find time for a new protégé? Lately, you've been so thoroughly occupied…" The woman tripped over her next words and went quiet.

The president, in turn, went pensive, her gaze tracing the paved trails of the hospital park, where sun and wind worked together to dry the last traces of yesterday's rain through the bare tree branches. How Hannah kept stumbling onto the truth in that maddeningly sloppy manner, as if by accident, was beyond her. The silence dragged on so long that Rosalind began to hope the woman had dozed off mid-sentence, lulled by the quiet hum of machinery.

"So…" The voice behind her shattered that hope. "Who's that girl?" Myers considered ignoring the question but suspected that another act of silence might send the patient's blood pressure through the roof.

"Ironic you'd bring up my Night City visit," she muttered in the end. In the grand scheme of things, former Sergeant Linder's mystery was a highly expendable one. "She was the merc who saved my ass."

"Wasn't it Reed?" The doubt in that voice drew a faint smile from the president. Of all people, Hannah should know that she tended to come up with more plausible lies.

"And fetched Reed to exfil me," Rosalind clarified, skimming over the part where her merc had also cleaned up the aftermath, all while failing to name her price directly. A mercenary one step away from going pro bono—that didn't inspire confidence at all.

"Fine. I'm mildly impressed," Hannah conceded.

Myers only hummed in response. No wonder she was—that CV looked fucking impressive. But only on paper. In reality, they were talking about a lost girl, barely cobbled back together by sheer stubbornness, only to venture forth in pursuit of suicidal heroics. Rosalind clenched her teeth, sensing hot, heavy anger clutching her chest in a tight grip. Anyone else this infuriating, she would've been keen to kill herself.

"So, you've been recruiting her, not fucking," that voice was grim now, as if her Chief of Staff mourned the loss of her favorite running joke. Of course, she knew those couldn't go hand in hand. The president spun around, mood instantly lifted at the perfect opening for a comeback.

"Can't two things be true at once?" she remarked—and thoroughly enjoyed the perplexed frown on that face. Leaning into the joke was far more effective in muddling the truth, indeed. Alas, their time was up before the woman could respond. Watching her succumb to the sedatives, Rosalind gently pried the remote from her fading grasp and lowered the backrest as Hannah drifted away. "Sleep now. I need you back on your feet."

*****

A month later

Emerging from the viscous green mist of Sandevistan, Valerie dragged herself across the finish line and bent double, palms braced on her knees as she stared at the cold mud clinging to her boots. Today's track couldn't have been further from the Badlands or Night City. The only place there she might've come close to slipping into an ankle-deep puddle was that narrow alley below the Japantown food market, where street peddlers were prone to spilling their leftovers until caught. But FIA instructors preferred oiling virtual simulations with real-life elbow grease to properly translate faint muscle memory into pure reflexes. It wasn't anyone's fault that the morning rain had soaked the desert training ground into a swampy mess.

Four weeks of accumulated mental and physical overload had wrung every ounce of endurance from her, dead set on either breaking her or programming a killing machine with a cloak-and-dagger subroutine. With the president's voice deriding her abilities still ringing in her ears, she'd had no choice but to succeed. Luckily, the strain had also numbed her emotions and kept apathy at bay. Blissfully clear-headed, she kept catching her breath and waiting for Reed, his Ticon still thudding across the sludge. Unlike her, he didn't have to learn every procedure, but at his age it took the man much longer to bump up his game. Maybe he needed his dosage of that mockery to fuel him.

It was Sunday, which meant that the next three hours would be dedicated to a sniper practice as a treat. The agent squeezed her eyes shut, regaining the needed sharpness, when an insistent knock pulled her gaze upward. She glanced at the top level of the security booth. The sentry behind its plexiglass panel—Baker, if memory served—was gesturing for her to pick up the line. Valerie straightened and crossed to the intercom by the solid metal door. Agents here were rarely chatty, so it had to be something either genuinely important or irritatingly bureaucratic.

"They want you in the briefing room," his voice finally crackled through the speaker. "Just you," he added before she could even open her mouth. "Campbell says it's urgent."

"Ohh, man… how urgent?" Half her training sessions ended with the same summons—to get herself a fresh portion of intel dumps on Night City's finest or another batch of virtus designed to eradicate every tiny imperfection her instructors had picked up. For Campbell to interrupt a session, he must've rolled out of bed on the wrong side. "Can I have ten for a shower? I smell like a fucking ditch."

"No, Linder, didn't sound like it." The sentry had to disperse her hopes. "Wash your face, though—you look like a ditch too." Valerie sighed. Maybe it was urgent—the brass down in the command center hated the reek of operatives' sweat. It took too long to vent through the air filters underground.

"Yeah, yeah. Open up," she grumbled as she peeled off her left glove and wiped at her cheek, fingers coming away undeniably dirty.

Valerie ducked inside the ground level of the booth, separated from the sentry by a blast-proof ceiling with a locked hatch. She stuffed her vest and Malorian into the first empty locker, saving the cleanup for later. The security protocols wouldn't let her anywhere near the elevators with anything even resembling a weapon anyway.

She stared at the mirror above the sink as she hastily scrubbed the mud from her face. It had taken that reflection plenty of time to grow on her. Soon, she was about to say her goodbyes to the last remnants of the promising young marine. The agent grimaced into the towel as she wiped the still slightly muddy water off and tossed it into the laundry bin. She gave herself one final once-over. The combat boots and pants were unsalvageable, but at least the vest had protected her t-shirt from mud, black bio-cotton masking pools of sweat. She stepped inside the security passage.

There, 'Agent Linder' patiently stilled herself under the blue-rayed sweep before reaching the elevator doors. Johnny would've chewed her out for putting 'Agent' next to his surname, she would've reminded him that his ties to the NUS government hadn't started with her. Another scan flashed before she could push any button, and one more on the minus-one floor. She walked through the corridor of translucent walls, fake windows flickering at the edges of her vision. Each cubicle insisted on its own flavor of self-deception—from tropical paradise to snowy peaks. Silly. If the whole level could agree on one illusion at a time, it would feel less fake.

Her heavy boots quiet as socks against the plastic of the floor, she rounded the corner and spotted a familiar redhead by the water cooler. Denise was the analyst she often met during briefings. Not especially friendly—her intent gaze too sharp for that—but she happened to smoke, and Valerie had joined her a few times for a ciggie and a quick chat to check the vibe of the Farm. Today, though, those eyes seemed even more calculating, as if she knew what kind of news was awaiting her at the corridor's end. Valerie could only hope it wasn't her deployment delay. They exchanged brief nods as she passed by.

The agent entered the last security zone and, once the panel flashed green, pushed through the last door. The briefing room was almost vacant, save for the lone figure standing at the far end of the long conference table. Half-turned toward the entrance and studying the nearest overhead display above that table—it definitely wasn't Campbell. And certainly not how the 'no contact' clause was supposed to work.

"Oh fuck," Valerie stumbled. Whether Baker had set her up on purpose, she had just walked in on the president like an unsuspecting gonk, up to her neck in mud, sweat—and resurgent longing.

"What's with you and formal protocol?" asked the familiar snarky voice. At its sound, she would've expected all her newfound clarity to evaporate from her head. Yet it didn't. Valerie slowly advanced to the black table, silent and calm. She didn't know the answer anyway.

Flicking through her charts, barely distinguishable at this distance and angle, Myers didn't seem to draw any discomfort from silence and only motioned toward the farthest chair, intent on keeping the whole length of the table between them. The agent disobeyed the president's order and remained on her feet, even if just as far. Excluded from the surveillance grid, the briefing room was probably the only place in the Farm where such audacity was possible. Having to confine every grim secret imaginable, it could stand to keep a sillier one.

Unlike those graphs, the woman was worthy of her singular focus. Not letting her eyes stray for even a blink, Valerie made use of her upgraded optics and swallowed the distance between. Now she traced every thread of that crisp white shirt and navy blue pullover, too human amid plastic and chrome; could study each little line on that impassive mask, betraying how the president was equally quick to frown or smile—but, just like ever, failed to pinpoint the exact color of those eyes, absorbed by the screen. Breaking the illusion of closeness, the agent blinked the zoom away and pressed her organic fingertips into the table's black carbon. The metal ones would've left dents.

"Your deployment's set for Tuesday," Myers said, tone light with practiced indifference. Valerie only smiled, entertained by those little mind games coming to light, too. She used to be so blind to them and couldn't even blame those crappy kiroshis. At this point, her silence must have started to grate. The president turned from the display and leveled a probing look across the room. "Did you get a concussion?" she scoffed. Whether she had come here to pick a fight or give the cold shoulder, the odd trajectory of their meeting had certainly flipped the script.

"In a way." Valerie still refused to play by the rules. Whatever reason Myers had come here for—it didn't matter. She had come. So why not test just how much of that distance the agent would be allowed to close without optical cheating? "Your friend—she all right?" She unhurriedly half-circled her end of the table, fingertips gliding along its surface. The president narrowed her eyes.

"She's… fine," Myers replied, watching her closely, then added with a wry half-smile, "Want to send her flowers too?" Valerie faltered. One question, and the woman knocked her off balance and reclaimed control. To buy herself a moment and hide the slip, she dropped her gaze to her hand on the table—and grimaced at the dirt under her nails. Then shot a quick glance up in a sudden guess.

"Any ideas for the card?" she inquired and took another careful step. It was comforting to know that the woman across the room had never been guilty of that perfunctory gesture.

"Wish her a speedy retirement—you have a knack for those talks anyway. She'll be moved." The jab, wrapped in a tongue-in-cheek suggestion, was too promising a sign to waste. Maybe one day she would follow that advice. For now, she kept making her cautious way through the room, one step per chair. She counted fifteen. Plenty of time for the president to raise an objection. Staring her down as if in challenge, Myers closed the last bit of distance herself.

Her plan never spanning this far, Valerie grew acutely self-conscious of her current state of hygiene, pushing her toward the unthinkable—or, rather, away. She tried to retreat with a rueful mumble, "Shoulda given me time for that sho—"

"Just… shut up," the woman cut in, pulling her into a vexed embrace, fists crumpling the damp fabric on her back. The agent complied with a penitent smile, letting her vent on the poor t-shirt. The next words wiped that smile away. "I hoped you'd fail." That confession should've turned her bitter, but the familiar quiet tenderness clenched her throat instead. "Wanted you to crash and burn so hard even you'd have to admit you weren't cut out for this anymore." Now those fingers dug into her back with all the strength it must've taken to repress that anger.

"I am," Valerie whispered. The strangest apology—yet it was one. The price of leaving grew a hundredfold heavier. She clutched the woman as tightly as she could without hurting her and stood still, grief filling her veins with molten lead. Little by little, the hands on her back relaxed.

"You are," Myers accepted it at last, and lightly wrestled against her tight grip. Reluctantly, the agent shooed both hands into her pockets and watched the president step away to clear her throat. A rare body-language slip. "Your counter-surveillance skills could use some work, though," the woman covered for it.

"Everyone's a critic these days," Valerie sighed, unable to hide another smile. The president certainly couldn't expect her to become flawless in a month, but if that was all she could nitpick, the agent was pretty close. "I call it an edge," she declared, taking a step back too, and perched on the table. "Figure it's harder to crack me if I don't lean too hard into this spy shtick."

"That's a very tiny drop of reason in a whole bucket of wishful thinking, don't you think?" Myers countered that bravado with a reproachful look.

"My personal CHOOH2. Been rolling on it since I can 'member," Valerie shrugged it away—and instantly banished the grin from her face at the echo of familiar anger in those eyes. "Passed the combat," she reminded in her most reassuring tone, but judging by the president's eyes, it didn't quite hit the mark. "Chrome's settling all right. That's all that matters, really." Myers' expression went still and distant. Valerie wondered if she was imagining a report about the Scavs pushing her spare parts on the black market. She'd had that thought too. "Good thing there's no speech coach around to flunk me," she hastily steered away from the danger zone.

"There goes my dream of you speaking proper English," Myers muttered, her voice a bit strained.

"Not bloody likely," Valerie confirmed with a slow shake of her head.

"Did you just… quote 'Pygmalion' at me?" The president fixed her with an incredulous gaze and stepped closer, as if unable to stay away.

"Think so. But can't do cockney, if that's your thing. No clue how that's s'posed to sound." The line earned Valerie a genuine, if fleeting, smile.

"So. Some history, philosophy. Might cite Hemingway and Shaw." The woman looked both amused and faintly baffled. "What else do you read?"

"Not much lately. Did most of my reading as a kid." With Myers now well within arm's reach, the agent reminded herself firmly to keep her hands in check. "So yeah. Lotta fairytales, as you might guess." The short-sighted absence of pockets on her pants hindered the president from exercising the same restraint—her palms drifted to Valerie's shoulders, settling there in an almost absentminded, reflective manner. She didn't mind but had to ask, "Hey… an eddie for your thoughts?" Distracted, Myers blinked.

"Thinking of launching a nationwide hunt for another bookish nomad," she deflected, eyes skimming away.

"Why bother." Valerie caught the urge to shrug before the involuntary gesture could scare those hands off. "Can just introduce you to Cassidy."

"So there's some competition, then?" The president faked interest and ruffled her hair.

"Uh-huh." The agent made sure not to nod. "And once you see that cowboy hat, those boots, and a mustache worthy of its own Wild West BD…" Myers finally met her eyes and forced the thought to unravel.

"If you dare to die there," she promised, calm and unblinking, "I'll nuke that fucking city from orbit." Valerie stared back, the last traces of pretend carelessness evaporating, replaced by a hope she knew full well was beyond her means. She could hardly imagine a prouder woman, and never—a more impossible one. Still, she rose to her feet.

"That's seven million reasons to make it," she whispered. The hands in her hair slid back to her shoulders, her warm, organic palm cupped Myers' cheek. "How 'bout just one?" The woman remained silent, her face a mask of ice.

That look, that dead serious look—Valerie had seen it too many times. It always meant bad news. If only she had managed to hit that shower. Maybe her newest pineapple scent would've chased it away and bought her one more reprieve. She smiled helplessly at the silly idea and made her doomed move.

"No," the president stopped her calmly—and slipped out of her reach for good. It almost didn't hurt. "Good luck, Agent Linder. And don't let the bastards nab you," she tossed over her shoulder on the way out. That hurt a bit too much.

Valerie turned around but stayed where she was, bracing her fist and her gaze against the matte tabletop. This time, she refused to let her eyes follow the woman. She'd had enough memories of watching her walk away.

*****

Three weeks later

Most would've preferred to avoid driving through the night, the monotonous ribbon of grey road in the headlights only adding to the unrelenting pull of sleep, but her long-suppressed and only beginning to be sated longing for the open road wouldn't let her drift away. Unlike Reed, peacefully drowsing to her right, she took in every tiny detail with eyes wide open, happy at each green and white freeway sign, their arrows persistently nudging her onward. Here, she was almost home. And almost herself.

She had been deployed three weeks ago, with Munich as her first stop. There, in an unremarkable ripperdoc clinic, she severed the final ties to Sergeant Linder and stepped into an alternate lifepath. As it turned out, in hopes of patching up her threadbare neural system, the Night City merc called V had spent the last two years bouncing all over Europe. The hope paid off—but not before depleting her account and saddling her with heavy debts. Fleeing the impatient creditors more than willing to accept organs instead of cash, she ended up in Rotterdam just in time to cross paths with a family of the Thelas Nation. The Briars offered the fellow nomad in need free passage across the Atlantic aboard their cargo ship.

Before that, V had only heard stories about sea nomads. Now she found herself battling seasickness and Raffen Shiv raids alike, learning the hard way that those pests prowled the water with the same zeal they swarmed the land. The voyage to Havana earned her fledgling sea legs but only bolstered her fear of deep water. Still, she had promised the Briars to catch up whenever they swung by Del Coronado Bay. With renewed confidence in her reactivated combat implants, V took the first flight to Chicago and, that same evening, walked out of O'Hare International Airport with a clear path to her emergency stash—and a Night City solo career reset.

In the midst of its second reconstruction, the Windy City had failed to impress her once again. Skipping any pretense of sightseeing, she paid for the smallest room in the cheapest suburban motel, then headed for the nearest bar, determined to blind herself to those living conditions. There, while cooling down a sudden brawl, she made the acquaintance of an NUS Army veteran. He introduced himself as Reed. After a night of chat and tequila, she learned that the guy had just been cut loose from a security gig and was dead set on returning to Night City, where he had once worked the door. Taking it as a nudge from fate, V offered the gloomy guy a partnership—at least until they reached the city—provided he didn't mind a road trip instead of a Maglev ride. They shook on it.

The next morning, she dug up the stash and finally holstered her custom Malorian. The only thing missing was a halfway-decent set of wheels. Reed pointed her to the local autofixer, and after a long session of hood-gazing and haggling, she settled on a yellow Coyote, supposedly pawned by a settled nomad. To her satisfaction, it even came with a single mounted machine gun. Once she confirmed the car was roadworthy, V and Reed left Chicago in the rearview.

She smiled at her right hand managing the wheel on its own, her left fist prodding her metal chin. The FIA medical facility had kept her full-body scans, and her newly obtained RealSkinn now sported the same knuckle scars and matching callouses. Better yet, it had finally delivered her from that maddening grip lag. In this battered tac-vest and dust scarf, she looked like she had never left Dogtown. In a way, she never had. She passed control to her left hand and reached for the radio, tuning it to 89.7 FM. They were too far, but she wanted her return announced by music taking over the lifeless white noise. Reed stirred in his seat and cracked his eyes open.

"V… we pass any gas station?" he muttered, sitting upright.

"No, Reed, not since you signed off," she shot him a sidelong glance. "Shoulda told the medical your prostate won't let you sleep through the night." A month of training and living elbow-to-elbow at the Farm had taken the edge off the man's no-bullshit attitude. Ever since, she had been helping him discover his sense of humor, too.

"Heh. Not bad," he approved, lacing his hands behind his head for a stretch that shrank the car's already humble interior. "Next one's the last before the SoCal border. Pull in. I'll take the wheel."

"What, not trusting me to get your precious ass there in one piece?" V frowned at him skeptically.

"Just wanna give customs a taste of a real smooth talker." She took it as a snub.

"Oh c'mon. Been smuggling across that border long as I breathe," V mocked his lack of trust. "And we ain't even smuggling now!"

"You're sure?"Reed looked almost disappointed. She should've guessed she wasn't driving a reputable car. "That's why I'd rather take the wheel."

"Fine," she sighed, easing off the gas as the warm glow of a gas station bled into the bluish skyline. The man hopped out the moment the Coyote rolled to a full stop. She used that break to top off the tank and take the shotgun, readjusting the seat after Reed. At least he had the courtesy to bring her a coffee—and something else he dropped into her hands once he climbed in.

"What's this?" She frowned at the palm-sized device, resembling a weird cyberdeck with barely any buttons and just one port. It looked like the agency had left them a parting gift.

"The FIA's very own Agent. Its less… intelligent form," Reed said as they pulled back onto the road. She had heard of that tech—a mobile terminal paired with a phone, banned by NetWatch for being a bit too clever for its owners' good. This one, apparently, had been thoroughly lobotomized. "Easier to rebuild your connections if you can use the same number not risking a hijacked neuroport." V had to wholeheartedly agree. While she had been busy with her transatlantic adventures, Reed and procurement had been tightening every screw of the infiltration plan. "Give it a try."

It took her a bit of fumbling before she figured out the power sequence, her reflection hovering in the device's faintly translucent glass. Surprisingly, beneath that skull tattoo and metal jaw, she could still make out Sergeant Linder's features. The screen lit up, wiping the image away. A minute later, she had full access to messages and contacts from her previous life. She would need a decent subnet to peek into netpages or the mailbox, but the message counter flipped to '1' right there in her hands. She opened it only to be greeted by the universal disappointment of ads.

The next five were no better. V set the Agent aside until that chirping flock of belated spam exhausted either its reserves or her patience. Meanwhile, she nursed her synthetic coffee, observing the purple pre-dawn landscape the cameras piped into the windshield display. An hour at most, and they would reach the same border gate she and Reed had crossed four years ago.

"Rings some unpleasant bells." The man's strained voice echoed her own thoughts.

"At least we ain't in a fucking Thorton," she tried to look at the bright side, even if they were crawling along at the speed of an overfed slug whenever he took the wheel.

"You really hate them, don't you?" he asked, showing off his elite observational skills.

"What gave me away?" V snorted. The entry point was a compromise. With Chicago turning into a Night Corp outpost, their first priority had been getting under its all-seeing eye as quickly as possible—and doing it with the careless confidence of people who had nothing to hide. The agency pushed for taking the Maglev from there, but the haunted look on Reed's face made her counter with something better suited to a road-starved nomad. For the privilege of skipping the train, the man had surrendered his say in their choice of car.

"To think of it, we have nothing in common," he went on, dispensing insights. "You hate Thortons, like Myers… Is unreliability your thing?" She only shook her head at the jab, fairly certain he would never dare repeat that to the president's face. "Just got me thinking…" Reed still managed to instill intrigue.

"Shoot," she nodded, already sensing she was about to regret taking the bait.

"You ever wonder if Blackhand had a thing for Kress?" V rolled her eyes, but an amused chuckle slipped out anyway. Maybe that sense of humor was salvageable yet.

"Woulda made a better story than that shitty musical 'bout the Fourth Corporate War," she commented at last. The stream of spam had already dried out, and a faint rhythm of music began to bleed into the radio waves. With that came a single clear chime of a new message. She raised her brows and picked up the Agent.

Dear Miss V,

Thank you for volunteering to recover the wayward Siberian Husky. Baby Sauron has been a naughty boy lately, but we, at the American Animal Defenders' Association, remain firm believers that, with proper love and care, no animal is ever too far gone.

"What's that?" Reed asked, jolted by her sudden burst of laughter.

"A word from the AADA. Had no idea how I missed those," V happily offered the explanation, still grinning at the screen.

"From what?" he absently asked for further clarification, his full attention on the road ahead.

"American Animal Defenders' Association?" she prompted. "Our FIA friends?" Judging by his expression, the man remained absolutely clueless. "Thought you all got your assignments this way."

"No. Not on the list of pre-approved contacts," he shook his head, the deepening frown giving away his concern. "Lemme take a look." For a minute, he studied the text and the short backlog of AADA messages that had ever come her way. "Hmm. Fits the usual schtick. Probably wanted to test the tech and cheer us up on arrival." He relaxed slightly and handed the device back. "But… why Sauron? Means something to you?" The irony of its contents was completely lost on him.

"Uh, if memory serves, it's from this book, a sorta fairytale—"

"You? Reading type?" V pressed her lips together, firmly declining to engage in that line of discussion ever again. "Go on," the man gave up.

"So, there's this bad guy—Sauron. Basically, an evil wizard. Makes a magic ring to control everyone but loses it or something." She winced at her patchy recollection but pressed on, "It ends up with hobbits—these real small folks. And the only hope for the good guys is that two of those hobbits can sneak past Sauron to his volcano and destroy his ring." She didn't remember finding the plot that ridiculous as a kid.

"Enlightening," the man said flatly, likely reaching the same opinion. "So that makes us the, uh, hobbits?"

"Guess so." The comparison made her grin—Reed looked exactly like the guy who would need his second breakfasts if only to preserve his muscle mass.

"Yeah, V, fat chance a Comms Officer would come up with that shit," he said, then shot her a wary glance. "Myers know about your book habit?"

"Mighta come up once or twice." Her smile faded as she chose not to chase his implication that the message had anything to do with the woman. She knew exactly how deep this kind of hope could cut. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the column of light revealed as they cleared the long hill. Prodding the dark sky, the holo beams served as Night City's real-life GPS pin. Judging by their size, the SoCal border should be mere minutes away. The creeping uncertainty finally getting to her, V checked her Malorian to steady her nerves.

As expected, the wall emerged ahead as a thin dark line, eating up the slate sky with every mile under their wheels. Deep down, leaving her swagger behind, she had no idea what awaited them on the other side. Two brief visits over the past four years had shown her glimpses of just how rapidly Night City had changed, indifferent to her absence. The Farm's briefings confirmed that much. And it wasn't just the city. Those same four years, looping her back here, had twice reshaped her face, her body, and her very sense of self. Nomad, merc, marine, agent—she had been each of those, and now felt like all of them at once. 

"Hey, V," the man's voice offered her a well-needed distraction, with only a mile to the border gates. "How does that story end? The one with the ring and the volcano?"

"Uh, hate to disappoint, Reed. No idea," she said with a shrug and a smile. "Never made it to the third book."

V glanced at the eastern skyline in the rearview—the pink bloom of sunrise catching up with them—then returned her gaze straight ahead. Here, she should feel truly home, free like a fish in the sea. But the hook inside had sunk too deep for any hope of freedom. And she loved that hook.