Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Throbbing silence, heavy like water, is punctuated by the rattle of gun parts disassembled for cleaning. By the faint crackle of tobacco burning with every drag. The creaking of leather whenever the codefreak twitches in his chair. And then the quiet stretches on, an oppressive weight pressing on Dum Dum’s chrome cochlea where he relaxes on the couch. A thin veil of smoke lingers overhead, trapped beneath the pipes by the frigid air. Air so cold you can see it blasts from the coolant vent in timed bursts, keeping the monster deck bolted to the ceiling at optimal temp.

He gazes vacantly at the slow-motion haze, a code reader jacked into an arm port and held limp between metal fingers, silently scanning his cyberware for fault codes—his back's been twingin' like a rusty gear since yesterday. His mind meanders from one half-formed thought to the next with a single common theme: what’s gonna be his next modification? Dozer just traded his ears for drill spikes—fuckin’ gonk—and Janty recently swapped her robo-jaw for a set of spider mandibles—preem, but he likes his face metal the way it is. Then again, maybe it’s missing something? His tongue glides across his top row of teeth. A set of chrome chompers might be nice…

“Motion sensor tripped,” Arrow declares, and Dum Dum lifts his head, turns his optics toward the hackpad. The codefreak looks at him, beckoning. “Dum Dum.”

He peels himself off the couch, ignoring that twinge in his back as he shuffles over to the spread of monitors. He isolates the screen where the codefreak’s broadcasting the feed for the bay door as a couple of ‘ganics strut down the loading ramp—a bear of a guy with a girl nearly half his size. Bear-boy leans against a chemical drum and jerks his chin toward the intercom. The waif punches the call button. The terminal starts ringing.

Dum Dum swings around to the other side of the hackpad to the control station, pulls the footage from cam_e_03, and zooms in. It’s dark outside, but he can see the guy has a machete strapped to his back, a knife sheathed on his hip, and bulges under his jacket that suggest he’s got iron stashed in shoulder holsters. Girl has a cyberdeck belted to her left thigh, a pistol on the right, and goggles on top of her head.

Never seen either of them in his life.

He punches the intercom. “Hm, don’t know you.”

She tilts her head up to the camera, looking directly into the lens. Hard to say in the shadows, in the distorted feed, but he thinks she might be what some ‘ganics would consider pretty.

“You will when you open the door,” she says easily, friendly, and her voice tickles his eardrums something pleasant.

Pretty girl with a pretty voice used to gettin’ her way? Maybe. Maybe she gets her way again. Depends on what she wants.

He punches the intercom again. “Yeah? You make a fuckin’ appointment? ‘Cause I don’t see nothin’ in my book.”

He thinks he sees her grin a little before leaning into the speaker.

“Wanna talk to Royce,” she says. “Dex sent us.”

Dex. Yeah, yeah, he knows this biz. Brick’s biz, set up a few days ago. But ol’ Brick is gone and Royce is busy. It’s Dum Dum’s biz now.

“Main room,” he says. “We been waitin’.”

And then he stabs at the terminal screen with a metal finger, first opening the bay door to give them a good look at the two live turrets—just to spook ‘em a little, remind ‘em whose territory they’re walking into—before he deactivates the security. The moment those turrets go offline, the duo enters the plant.

Showtime.

Dum Dum snaps at Lars and snarls, “Get that rifle together,” before checking the code reader in his palm. Still scanning. He tucks it into the strap on his left bicep and draws the DR5 Nova tucked into his waistband. Rifle parts clack together as Lars hastily reassembles his weapon while Dum Dum hops the camera feed, following the duo through the plant. They’re dressed like typical mercs—the guy in his leather jacket with nondescript cargo pants and combat boots, and the girl in a rally bolero, halter top, leather pants, and boots.

As they enter the main production floor, a ‘Strommer flips on a floodlight, nearly blinding the girl as she steps through the door. She’s got hair the color of copper. Copper like the wires threaded through his modded tongue.

Dum Dum licks his lips.

He likes it. Likes it a lot.

Her choom steps through after her with a dopey grimace on his face. Dum Dum’s mouth wrinkles. Doesn’t like nothin’ about him.

He watches the duo cross the production floor towards the elevator then closes the feed. He checks on Lars, watches him smash a clip into the reassembled rifle, and nods for him to take a post by the elevator. The ‘Strommer hustles over just as the carriage starts moving. Dum Dum stands as straight as the twinge in his back will allow and crosses the room to greet their guests as the doors open.

Suddenly he’s face to face with the girl. Not a waif like he thought. Small, yeah, but…girl has curves. Her choom looms behind her, lookin’ all big and mean. Not as big as Royce, though. Probably not as mean either. Guy’s got a Valentinos tat on his left arm. Girl has…freckles. Everywhere.

Dum Dum’s optics jump to infrared for a split-second scan. Guy’s got a hotspot where a neural link installs and cyberoptics, but is otherwise standard temp for a ‘ganic despite having a face and neck slashed with EMP threading. Dum Dum doesn’t understand why ‘ganics like lookin’ chipped when they don’t have the balls to shave real meat. The girl, on the other hand… Well, she’s got stars in her skull. Looks like that portable deck ain’t just for show.

He swaps back to standard vision and snaps, “So whaddaya want?”

“Here to see Royce,” she tells him. “We got biz to transact.”

Yeah, yeah, she said as much before, but it doesn’t tell him what she wants.

“Mr. Royce is busy just now.” He idly scratches his jaw with the barrel of his DR5, grappling for patience. “You’ll deal with me.”

“All right,” she says calmly and nods once. “You got a bot—Model MT0D12, called the Flathead.”

He does, yeah, but what he needs is for her to tell him why she’s fuckin’ here.

“And?” he prompts. “The hell you care?”

“Guy I represent already paid Brick for it,” she explains. “I’m just here for the pick-up.” She hesitates for a second before adding, “I can talk direct to Royce, if necessary.”

Agh, Royce—why does she keep sayin’ his name? Three times now, she said it. Not dealing with Royce. Dealing with him. Didn’t he say so already? Does she think he’s stupid? Think he can’t handle simple biz? That Royce will be sweeter to her? Royce? Nah. Nah.

“Nah,” he growls and shakes his head, “you’ll talk to me. Name’s Dum Dum.” He backs up a few steps and points with his gun toward the seats. “Now, couch. Plant it.”

He stomps across the room as tall as he can—fuckin’ fault code’s still not cleared, gonna piss him off if it’s a kink in his hardware—and glances over his shoulder to make sure these two ‘ganics can follow simple instructions. Wants them seated where they can be watched. Can’t have two unknown variables like these mercs makin’ any sudden moves.

The girl crosses to the couch, choom in tow, so he faces forward and loops around the stacked metal pallets they use as a table where Kurt’s got his ass planted, smoking a cigarette. The girl slides into the space Dum Dum had been sitting just a few minutes ago as he pops his boot on the end of the adjacent couch and exhales an exasperated breath, waiting for Bear-boy to take a seat.

Only he doesn’t. He just stands there beside the girl, arms folded, surveying the room with a nervous crease in his brow.

“Ahh, well, shit,” Dum Dum grouses. “Goes for you too.”

“I’ll stand,” Bear-boy says.

Dum Dum’s lips peel back in a snarl. He doesn’t like being disrespected. Not on Maelstrom turf. Not when he’s been real fuckin’ patient and accommodating.

“This so fuckin’ hard?” he growls, jabbing the fucker in the side with his DR5. “Fuckin’ ass on the fuckin’ couch!”

Bear-boy’s arms unfurl as he turns to him, steps closer, squares his shoulders all threatening-like, looking down on him. He has a head on Dum Dum, yeah, but a head made of squishy flesh and tender meat…

“Make me,” he says steadily, and it looks to Dum Dum that ol’ Bear-boy’s got a gonk brain.

Kurt twists at the waist, silently observing. Lars looms nearby, rifle held casually in his arms. Waiting for the bluster to escalate or suffocate. Not scared of no ‘ganic. Everyone knows what’ll happen next if the ‘tino pulls iron.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Dum Dum purrs as he cocks his DR5 and angles it under Gonk-brain’s jaw. “Sit your ass down ‘fore I plant a bullet in your skull.”

The girl immediately jumps up and pats her choom’s shoulder, murmuring soothingly, “Jack, siddown.”

Dum Dum looks at her, feels a grin tugging on his lips as she brings her dog to heel. Guessed it already, but this confirms it: girl’s the one in charge.

Gonk-brain grits his teeth and gives Dum Dum’s shoulder a shove, but he begrudgingly sits, grumbling, “This ain’t gonna end well but…shit…”

Dum Dum slowly stows his DR5 into the waistband of his pants against his back, still grinning as he surveys the ‘ganics now both seated. Just like he asked. Good. Now they can do business. He nods at Lars to get the merch and the ‘Strommer wanders off.

“Well, all right,” Dum Dum says, slipping an inhaler from a pouch on his tactical vest. He slides by Gonk-brain, waves the inhaler in his face, but keeps going. Doesn’t want to talk to him. Wants to talk to the smart one.

The ambient red lights make her copper hair look like fire and he likes it.

He hovers over her for a moment, looks down at her lookin’ up at him. Her legs are crossed all princess-like, taking up the space between the couch and the pallet table. He smacks her knee to uncross them, nudging her legs apart just enough to make room, and plops down in front of her, his knee sliding comfortably between hers. She doesn’t protest or fight him on it. Doesn’t even move away. Just looks at him all steady-like, but he felt how stiff she is. As nervous as her choom here, just better at hidin’ it.

“Come on, gotta lighten up,” he says, offering her the inhaler. “Take a hit.”

She glances at the offering. “Whatcha blowin’?” she asks, all friendly-like, but it’s not just a question. It’s a hard line. She’s not gonna hit anything he won’t hit first.

Dum Dum pushes the inhaler in his mouth, thumbs the canister, and breathes deep. The twinge in his back disappears as a hot rush of pleasure sweeps through his brain and descends his nervous system. His veins open up, lungs expand, and blood rushes into his muscles. He tilts his head back, holds the chem in his lungs for a second, and then exhales through his lips and nose.

“S-keef,” he tells her, the vapor cloud quickly evaporating around his head. “Pure as baby powder.”

Her eyebrows jump in surprise. “Black Lace? Tough to get your hands on.” She sounds genuinely impressed, and he smiles, prickling with pride. “Gotta have a good source.”

And he does. A really good source. She interested?

“What’s it do?” Gonk-brain asks.

“Ups ‘dorphs and adrenaline to the point you feel no pain,” she answers, gaze flashing to her choom before returning to Dum Dum’s optics. There’s a little conspiratorial smile on her lips as she gazes at him, like she’s telling a joke they’re both in on, just the two of them, two strangers. “Trip’s so intense, it verges on psychosis. Corps fed it to their fighting legions during the Corp Wars.”

Girl knows her shit. He likes that, too.

“Cyberpsychos pop the tabs like candy,” Dum Dum says. “Vaporizing it mellows the burn without killing any of the effect.” He shoves the inhaler at her. “Come on, give it a whirl!”

He wants her to take it, take a hit, and he’s not sure why.

She hesitates—why is she hesitating?—and then shakes her head with a sweet, “Thanks, I’m good.”

Disappointment slithers between his gears as he slowly draws the inhaler back to his lips to take another hit. The drug rushes through his system, obliterating every sensation but the one that feels like rejection.

“Whatever you say,” he intones, vapor pouring from his lips, “straight-edged princess.”

She smiles again, unoffended by the insult. He just stares at her, at that smile…

Most merc cunts are all claws and attitude, razor sharp. Gotta push ‘fore they get pushed around. Not her, though. It’s a skill for a pretty woman like her in this line of work, putting the boys at ease with just a smile. Not patronizing, not mocking, not inviting, but sweet enough to make ‘em feel a little bit special. Make ‘em wanna do things for her so she’ll smile again.

Dum Dum knows that smile’s not for him, just the ‘Strommer standing between her and what she came here for, but he likes it anyway.

Kurt rises and wanders off just seconds before Lars drops a heavy case down next to him. Dum Dum pockets his Lace as Lars pushes the case closer then walks off.

“Here we go,” Dum Dum announces. “The Flathead, model MT0D12.”

She eyes the crate. “Militech’s not gonna come lookin’ for it?”

“Fuck ‘em. They can hop around and try. We removed the serial number and lifted access locks using our soft. Once it’s yours,” he points to her, “it’s yours.”

She nods absently. “Need to see it.”

“Suit yourself.” He opens the case, pulls out the control shard, and shows it first to Gonk-brain and then to the girl. “Fuckin’ tricked out, this thing.”

He slots the shard, feels the buzz as his system links with the Flathead. He wakes it up and the quiet whir of gears is so soft it’s barely noticeable, precision engineering at its finest. His optics swap fully over to the bot’s and he finds himself looking at the girl from a new angle, watching her study the new toy she’s about to buy.

“Dynamic, thermo-optic camo armor,” he explains as he activates the feature. “Full cognitive immersion with a Raven controller. Pimped out, prototype actuators made of titanium-vanadium-Kevlar composite. ‘N watch this…” He guides the bot into motion, climbing the wall. “Fully integrated link, too, so when the spider starts crawlin’ up walls, danglin’ from ceilings—” His stomach lurches as the bot crosses overhead.

“Mhm, could lose your lunch,” she murmurs with a touch of empathy.

Dum Dum guides the Flathead back into its case and disconnects. Her face comes back into view. “So whatcha think?”

“Impressive,” she admits, and he nods. “But Raven’s not the dedicated control unit for a Flathead.”

He barks a laugh. “‘Course not! Militech controllers autolink to Militech systems. I mean, you wouldn’t want them trackin’ their stolen tech back to your hands.”

“Tell me about Raven.”

“Yeah, Raven’s our baby. Got improved neural sync and no pesky tracin’. You ask me, we oughta sell that shit.”

She shifts, inching forward, and her knee barely brushes up against his. “No pesky tracing,” she echoes. “Including yours?”

As in, once she buys it, are they gonna hunt her down to reclaim their merch?

Dum Dum leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees, putting his face two handspans from hers. He can see her tense up, practically feel it. “You mean, are we gonna come lookin’ for ya?”

He pauses as if considering it, just to unnerve her a little. Maybe also to get a longer, uninterrupted look at her. Not a lot of apparent chrome, not even EMP threading like her choom, just some silver piercings lining both ears. But he knows she’s got it. Saw the heat sigs in her head. And those green eyes are too bright to be natural—Kiroshi optics, if he had to guess. The rest of her? Freckles smattered across pale skin, a real fuckable mouth, and wisps of that copper-red hair curling down past her jaw, the rest of it twisted into a messy bun. Lot of pristine flesh, all smooth and whole, but…not entirely unlikeable. Been awhile since he saw a ‘ganic he thought wasn’t all bad.

Wait, what was the question? Oh, right. Are they gonna come after her?

He grins and straightens, noting the way she visibly relaxes, and gives his head a single shake. “Nah.”

“Okay,” she says, like that’s all she needed to know. “Then we’ll take it.”

“Preem,” he purrs, tugging the control chip from its slot and stowing it in the case, “sure, yeah. Let’s see your cred.”

“Brick got it,” she tells him. “It’s all paid up.”

A loud metallic clang turns every head to the back of the room. Royce barrels under the roll-up door, storming their meeting with an angry snarl. Shit. Adrenaline similar to the rush he gets from Lace courses through him as Dum Dum jumps up and moves out of the boss’s way.

“Brick got it,” Royce repeats and barks a laugh, drawing his gun. “I don’t see any fuckin’ Brick around here, do you?!”

Dum Dum jerks his DR5 out of his waistband and points it at Gonk-brain, whose gone rigid as a steel pipe, those beady eyes narrowed to little slits, while Lars angles a shotgun at the back of his head. Kurt scurries forward and aims his rifle at the girl just as Royce shoves his pistol in her face. Her smile’s gone like it never existed, eyes locked hard on Royce like she could murder him with her gaze.

Dum Dum stares at her. Normally he likes this about Royce. Likes the unpredictability. The chaos. And sure, he wouldn’t mind zeroing her choom here, but Dum Dum doesn’t really want to see her brains paint the wall.

“Fuck Brick, then,” she says with an impressive amount of calm. “Let’s cut a new deal.”

Royce hums thoughtfully, a heavy, garbled sound like a chuffing ape. He leans toward her, pressing the gun to her temple, and Gonk-brain’s hands twitch toward his jacket. Dum Dum wonders if there’s about to be a giant fuckin’ mess to clean up.

There’s a beat of silence, like a held breath…

And then Royce suddenly stands up straight, the barrel of his pistol dropping an inch, and barks a laugh. “Now that’s good business sense,” he declares, but Dum Dum thinks Royce doesn’t know the meaning of those three words strung together. “All right, you want the Flathead? I better see some eddies.”

“Got the scratch,” she assures him. “Be chill.”

“I am very fucking chill,” Royce barks, and to prove it, he aims the gun at her again.

“So gimme a number.”

“Hmm,” Royce breathes, shifting his weight. A stalling tactic. Doesn’t know what number to give her. Doesn’t know shit about Brick’s biz like Dum Dum does. “Y’know, ya never did say who sent you, never did say who you’re workin’ for…”

“Dexter DeShawn, that’s who,” she answers calmly.

“Dexter DeShawn,” he mutters in disbelief, lowering the gun again. “The lard ass who punching-animal-fucked half of Pacifica?” He twists at the waist to look at his fellow ‘Strommers, amusement hedging his tone. “Mean he ain’t dead?”

They all laugh because Royce laughs. Gonk-brain looks ready to pull iron. The girl just waits patiently for them to be done.

“So, gonna consider my offer, now?” she asks when he turns back to her.

He reluctantly grunts, “Talk.”

“Twenty-k,” she says, “same as before. Paid in full.”

“Just like that?” Royce snaps. “Without battin’ a fuckin’ eye?”

“Want it or not? I got places to be.”

Dum Dum can’t see what’s happening on Royce’s face, what he’s telegraphing. But he can see her face, and he tracks the moment her eyes flash bright green as she flicks Royce the payment.

“There you go,” she says.

Slowly, Royce lifts his pistol, scratches the back of his neck, and backs away from her.

“Mhm,” he mumbles, clearly disappointed he’s got no reason to pull that trigger. “Now take the damn bot and get the fuck outta my factory.” He starts to go but stops to add, “And you can tell Dex to suck my shiny chrome cock.”

Lars bursts into laughter and Royce walks away.

“Piece of shit,” Gonk-brain mutters.

And just like that, the tension breaks—at least for the ‘Strommers. Kurt and Lars lower their iron and scatter to whatever they were doing before this shit-show started. Dum Dum stows his revolver and props his boot on the couch, watching as the girl abruptly stands up and sidesteps away from the table, like sitting on your ass makes you an easy target and she’s had enough of it. Gonk-brain immediately slides forward to close the bot case and lock it.

“Hey, Flathead’s good gear,” Dum Dum tells them in an attempt to redirect. “It’ll do the trick for ya, whatever that trick is.”

She looks at him, flashes a brief, tense smile. “Thanks for the demonstration.”

He tilts his head, curious. Girl had a gun in her face a second ago, and now she’s showin’ him manners? Leavin’ him wanting with that hint of a smile? Makin’ him wanna do things for her…

Fuck.

“All right, better show you guys out,” he says, pushing away from the couch and heading toward the elevator.

Gonk-brain straightens, hefting the case. “What the hell for? We know the way.”

“Easy, compadre,” Dum Dum says, punching the call elevator button. “You’ll be outside in no time.” The doors slide open. “Get in.”

The girl goes first, and he takes the opportunity to check out how tightly those leather pants hug her ass. Fuckin’ beautiful. Gonk-brain grunts at him as he walks by, gives him a dirty look like he knows where Dum Dum’s attention was locked. Dum Dum just grins and joins them in the elevator. It’s a short ride back down to the production floor and, as the doors swing open, he motions them out.

“Show ya a shortcut,” he says and leads them off to the right. “Garage is this way. It’s a goddam vault—where we keep all our merch. Will take ya right out.”

Dum Dum shuffles forward, giving up on trying to walk normal-like. The Lace is wearin’ off, the twinge is back, and the code reader’s still clearing fault codes, but he no longer cares if they see him hunched. They’re not unknown variables anymore. Gonk-brain’s gonna follow the girl’s lead, and the girl? Well he doesn’t know what the fuck her deal is, but while she’s got enough stars in her head to make any chrome jock nervous, she’s also got a smile where there’s usually snark. Nah, she won’t be trouble…

Dum Dum heads for the garage, the two mercs trailing silently behind him. He can practically feel the tension sloughing off them. Royce has that effect on people, ‘ganic and ‘borg.

“I know what they say about Royce,” he says. “Not everyone’s bought in. But I’ve known him a long time. Could even say from the very beginning. Know what he believes in, what drives him? Chaos.” He leads them into the cargo hallway connecting the production floor to the garage. “Brick—predictable. He said a thing, he did that thing. With Royce, you’re on your toes, always guessin’. I mean, he could blast your face off at any time.” He shrugs. “Who knows? No one.”

Do they get it? Do they understand? Probably not.

“Sounds like a natural-born leader,” Gonk-brain mutters.

Sarcasm. But what did he expect from a gonk brain ‘ganic? Fuckin’ ‘ganics don’t get it. Can’t get it. Too attached to their flesh, to preconceptions, to rules.

Dum Dum snorts, but is done wastin' his breath on the subject.

There’s a moment of quiet, just the sound of their bootsteps, before a sweet voice asks, “Royce know you’re loyal?”

Dum Dum glances back at the girl, just briefly. It’s not what he wanted her to understand, but…he likes that she does. He faces forward again and answers honestly, “Doubt he ever gives shit like that a thought.”

They enter the garage and Gonk-brain swears in Spanish at the sight of all the Militech gear they’ve klepped.

“It’s like you’re opening a store,” he says.

“Fuckin’ Militech,” Dum Dum spits, climbing down onto the main floor. “If I had it my way, we’d scrap each and every one of ‘em.”

“Seein’ how much scratch you make off of ‘em,” Gonk-brain says, climbing down after him, “I figured you’d like ‘em more.”

Dum Dum stares at him in disbelief. “What? Got a chip or two loose, you know that?”

The girl chuckles softly as she descends the ladder.

A couple ‘Strommers loading crates stop to watch them go by, their optics zeroing in on the girl like a preem piece of chrome they all wanna slot. Yeah, yeah, Dum Dum gets it. ‘Borg boys may be more metal than meat, but their brains are still wired to wanna fuck the female form, and hers is fuckin’ nova.

“Bjorn, look,” Trey hollers across the garage. “Dum Dum made some new friends.”

“Fuck off,” he growls.

Bjorn snickers. “Givin’ tours now, Dum Dum?”

“Yeah, gonna show ‘em your dildo collection next,” he retorts, and behind him the girl laughs again. Twice now. What’s that mean? She think he’s funny or just that Bjorn’s a gonk? “Now shut it and get back to work.”

When they reach the exit, Dum Dum turns to face them. “Here ya go. Account closed.” He nods toward the door. The duo immediately head toward it. “And, uh, avoid comin’ back,” he tells the girl as she passes him. She pauses to look at him. “It’s good advice. Repeat business…” He shakes his head and starts walking away. “Not really our thing.”

She gently scoffs. “What, you don’t like eddies?”

Dum Dum stops walking. Turns around. She’s lookin’ at him, a little half-smile on her lips. She thinks it’s funny. He’s trying to do her a favor. To warn her. This ain’t a good place for her to be. Wouldn’t think it’d be so hard to get. Maybe he was too nice?

He closes the distance between them—she didn’t like that when he did it before—and her smile vanishes as he softly growls, “Yeah? You see any fleshy meat friends in here? This ain’t the Totentanz. Take a look around, princess. Just a lot of cybered-up boosters who’d love to dock their chrome cock in that soft, sweet, ‘ganic pussy you got.” He licks his lips at just the thought of it. “You wouldn’t last a second.”

She stares at him for a long moment before her eyes flit around the garage, and he swears she pauses on every single ‘Strommer in there. She looks at him again, right in the red optics fitted in the sockets where his ‘ganic eyes used to be, and he thinks she doesn’t look nearly as scared as she should.

“Well,” she says, and her shoulder lifts in a minuscule shrug, another tiny smile crooking her lips, “might last a few.”

Fuck.

And now he’s hard as a steel pipe and wants nothing more than to throw her over the nearest Militech crate and fuck her raw. He doesn’t do that. He just smirks. Like he’s in on the fuckin’ joke, just the two of them. Two strangers.

Damn that smile.

He fishes into his tactical vest and pulls out his inhaler. “A little bonus for the road,” he says and holds it out to her. 

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Your s-keef?”

“Let’s say I like that you got good taste.” He quickly grabs her wrist, places the inhaler in her palm, and lets her go. “Now go on.”

She smiles again, jerks her chin in farewell, and catches up to her choom. Dum Dum turns and walks away.

“That guy rubbed my dick the wrong way,” Gonk-brain mutters once he thinks they’re out of earshot, only Dum Dum can hear him thanks to his chrome cochlea and amplified hearing ware.

She seems surprised when she asks, “Dum Dum?”

Gonk-brain hisses, “I mean, what the fuck kind of nick is that anyway?”

“I think he liked me.”

Gonk-brain curses in Spanish. “You don’t want that, V. You don’t want a guy like that thinkin’ ‘bout you at all.”

If she responds, Dum Dum doesn’t hear it. There’s only silence now. They’re gone.

But Gonk-brain’s finally said something right. Last thing that girl wants is to live in a Maelstrommer’s memory. Lucky for her, she didn’t stand out. Not to anyone but him. And he knows he’ll never see her again.

Maybe never think of her again either.

Dum Dum is halfway across the garage when the code reader beeps and the twinge in his back is gone. He slows to a stop, standing up straight without any pain. Fault code cleared.

Fuckin’ finally.

Chapter Text

V stares at the ceiling, at the weathered tiles bathed in angry red and cold blue ambient light, and tries not to cry. Not from the pain, though there’s plenty of that to go around. Her whole body aches. The gunshot wounds on her side and shoulder pound against her nerve endings like a drum, and that’s nothing compared to the spike being hammered in her skull. But nothing hurts worse than her chest. Feels like her heart’s caught in an iron grip, simultaneously strangling it and ripping it in half. Hurts so bad she can’t breathe.

He’s gone.

Jackie’s dead.

Her brain repeats this fact, over and over and over again, because it’s not sticking. She knows it. It’s just not sinking in. Her heart’s breaking. But it doesn’t feel real. So she stares at the ceiling with tears leaking willfully from her eyes. With her stomach knotted up. With a weight on her lungs. And she thinks endlessly about everything that happened over the last few days. Everything that was said, what she could’ve done differently, said differently. And then she thinks that’s stupid, a stupid fucking waste of fucking time, because it doesn’t matter what could have been different because HE’S FUCKING DEAD.

Another wave of salty tears tracks down her cheeks, burning her skin already raw from crying.

One gunshot to the gut. That was all it took. So how the hell did she survive? One to the side, one to the shoulder, one to the back of her fucking head—lodged right into her interface plugs. Wrecked her chipware sockets, including that stupid biochip Jackie died for, destroyed her neural cyberdeck, and smashed her dive port. It’s a miracle it didn’t short her brain, fry her entire system. A fucking cosmic joke—that he’s gone and she’s still here.

“All done,” Vik says, and his stool rolls around from behind the surgery chair. “How’s it feel?”

V swipes her cheeks and turns her head left to right, up and down, testing the feel of her new interface plugs.

“Normal,” she answers quietly.

“All right. Jack in for me.” He holds out his hand and she places her arm in his palm, tugs her personal link from her wrist slot and hands it to him. He plugs her into a dataslate and queues up a series of tests. “Gonna run the usual battery. Let me know if there’s any pain.”

“Sure.”

Silence settles heavily between them. She doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how this happened. God, it should’ve been her. She should’ve died in his place, or at least died with him.

It was so fast. Too fast. One second he was there, placing that stupid biochip in her slot, the next he was gone. There was no blink, not a cough or a wheeze—nothing. Just silence. Ten inches from her fucking face and she couldn’t tell at first. The light didn’t even leave his eyes.

Can’t see the soul in cyberoptics…

How long did she lie there with him? A few seconds? Minutes? It was all a fucking blur. What was it Delamain asked her? Something…about his remains? Take him home. She said that. She remembered saying that. And then she was being told to get out of the car. She had to meet Dex. Delamain had to go. So she did.

She got out.

Watched the cab take Jackie away…

Last time she was ever going to see him—

Wait!

And then he was gone.

There was a blank space in her mind, a disconnect between being in the car and being alone, and if she tried really hard, she could remember every moment in between, but it felt like a distortion of reality, because…why would she get out of the car? Why would she leave him like that, all alone? Where was Del taking him? Why did she get out of the car?

She didn’t have enough time, didn’t get to say goodbye, didn’t get to—

He’s dead, he’s dead, you fucking moron, you could sit there for ten years and he won’t come back!

She crumbled to the ground, screamed, panicked. Fuck fuck fuck, why did she get out of the car?! She was never going to see him again. Her best friend was gone. He was—he was gone. He wasn’t parking the car. He wasn’t meeting her later. He was dead.

He’s dead—

“Everything’s clear,” Vik says, drawing her from her thoughts. “Try interfacing for me.”

“Sure.” She does. She runs every app she has. No glitches, no lag, no pain. “All good.”

“Perfect,” he says, but it's without the usual ease. Because nothing’s perfect. Jackie’s dead. Vik’s grieving just like she is… He sets the dataslate to the side as she retracts her personal link back into her arm. “Healing up nicely too,” he adds. “Just keep those bandages clean and don’t forget to take your meds.”

She nods numbly. He told her that already… Right after removing the bullets and damaged interface plate from her body. Sent her home, but she didn’t go home. She slept in Misty’s Esoterica, afraid to go back to her apartment. Afraid they’d find her there—Arasaka or Dex. She doesn’t know who knows what yet, just that she’s in no condition for surprises.

“Let’s test your dive port,” he says, hefting a large cable, and plugs her in. The data feeds right into her optics as he runs a speed test. He flashes her a smile. “Gave you my last N-sine. Should be an upgrade.”

N-sine’s preem cyberware, one of the fastest dive ports available outside of whatever NetWatch is using. Fuckin’ sweetheart…

“Vik,” she murmurs appreciatively, no idea how to say thank you.

“Something good should come out of all this, right?” he jokes, trying to keep it light, but there’s an edge in his voice. They both know there’s nothing good about what’s happened…

The speed test finishes with a bang, blowing her old port away. For a moment, her disbelief and awe is potent enough to muffle her sorrow.

“Now for the bad news,” he says with a tired sigh as he unplugs her. “Don’t have any cyberdecks good enough to replace yours.”

Fresh pain laced with panic shoots up her spine.

“Got older models,” he continues, “but nothing as top of the line as your Arasaka.”

Oh, fuck…

She shakes her head. “I-I can’t—” Her head won’t stop shaking, stuck in a loop of denial. “I can’t, Vik. I need a deck, a good one—”

They might come after her. Arasaka, Smasher, Dex. She can’t go out there unprotected.

“I know,” he says gently. “Best I got right now’s an old Biotech—few generations back—and a basic Paraline.”

She sucks in a sharp breath as anxiety grips her, amplifying the pain in her chest. Hot tears fill her eyes, blur her vision.

“I’ve put out some feelers,” Vik says quickly, reaching out. But he doesn’t touch her. His hand hovers over her arm, bobs in the air like he wants to, but can’t—or maybe doesn’t want to, but feels like he should. “Hopefully something will pop up soon. Just give it a couple of days.” He pulls back, rests his forearms on his knees, hangs his head. “I’ll figure something out. I promise.”

She can’t wait a couple of days. She needs a deck. She…

She’s helpless without it, she—

She’s back in the No-Tell Motel room. Pain explodes in her skull as she topples to the ground. Dex’s bodyguard looms over her. She looks up through perfectly focused lenses despite her scrambled brain. He’s reaching for her.

One second is all she needs.

The bodyguard jerks back, screaming as his optics short-circuit, followed by his neck and arms, and then he’s bowing over at an unnatural angle, his spine threatening to snap. Sparks begin flying and the stench of melting flesh and plastic fill the air. He’s shaking, seizing up. Dex throws himself back in terror, the shotgun he’s holding briefly forgotten as he watches the bodyguard overheat. She scrambles to her feet, but the noise draws Dex’s gaze. He lifts the shotgun—it only takes a split second for her to glitch it. He curses as it jams, tosses it aside before it misfires. She bolts for the door.

Thunder cracks and she hits the wall with a smack. Pain lances up her side. She looks down in horror at the dark stain spreading across her shirt. Looks up. Dex has a pistol aimed at her, lining up another shot. This is it. She’s going to die. Just like Jackie.

Instinct takes over when her brain stalls out, and she immediately launches a quickhack. Dex must see it coming because he throws himself to the ground behind the table, breaking the connection. She doesn’t wait around to try again. She throws herself out the door and down the hall. Several more bangs split the air, exploding plaster and garbage bags and plastic as she bolts for the stairs. She nearly makes it to the bottom.

A bullet punches through her shoulder and she screams, trips, falls. People are running, shouting. She doesn’t know how she gets to her feet and out the door, but the cool night air is suddenly all around her. Pain drives her into the wall. Can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe…

She has to—

Take a hit.

Maelstrom’s robotic voice cuts through the noise in her brain and she remembers the s-keef in her pocket. Struggles with the fabric, pulls out the inhaler, puts it in her mouth, and jams the canister. Breathes as deep as she can. Was it enough? She thumbs the canister again, gasps.

A door bangs open in the hallway behind her. Out of time. She has to go. Has to get out of there. She stumbles toward the street. Bullets ping off the steel gate, forcing her to pivot toward the back alley. She trips down the concrete steps and barely catches herself on the bollard, hands slipping on the metal, slick with blood.

Bullets pound the pavement near her, urging her to run. Something hits her neck with such force it sends her spinning into the gutter. She falls into a steaming puddle of old rainwater. Sirens sound. She kicks blacktop until she’s on her feet and running again, down the street, through an alley, onto an open sidewalk. Cars honk as she darts into traffic and into a covered parking structure. Her legs give out as she ducks between two cars.

She doesn’t remember calling him, but Vik’s face suddenly appears in the corner of her vision. He looks terrified. Come get me, she says. Or thinks. She doesn’t know.

Next thing she remembers, Vik is carrying her. Misty is crying. And Jackie…

Jackie’s just looking at her, in the back of a Delamain cab, silent as a ghost.

A warm, rough thumb smudges her cheek, catching a tear she didn’t know was falling. She looks up and Vik is watching her, brow furrowed, eyes full of sorrow. God, how he must be hurting. He’d known Jackie for so long. Had trained him. They’d been close as brothers, Jackie said. And Misty… Love of Jackie’s life. The woman he was gonna marry. She’s never gonna get that chance. Will never be anything more than the girlfriend his mama never liked. Oh god, Mama Welles…

So many people who love Jackie. Who need him. Who’ve been robbed…

“I’m s-sorry, Vik,” she whispers.

He smiles sadly. “For what?”

She swallows the lump in her throat. “It should’ve been me—”

“No.” He frowns, sits straighter, rolls closer. “You shut that down right now, V.”

“Vik—”

“No one would have made that trade. No one. Not me, not Misty, not Mama Welles, and especially not Jackie.”

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. “But—”

“He would never have forgiven himself, V. Never.” He struggles to swallow. “And neither would I.” He flashes her a pained smile, tears hidden behind his dark glasses, and quickly adds, “And neither would Mama Welles. You know you’re like a daughter to her.”

She doesn’t know what to say. She can’t speak anyway. She’s crying again.

Vik reaches out and lays a callused palm over her hand, squeezes. He’s crawled inside her skin plenty, installing this chrome and that, but he rarely just touches her like this. Strange. Not the touch, but that she thinks of it now, when her chest feels cracked open.

He murmurs, “I’m glad you're alright…”

She cries harder, turning her hand enough to curl her fingers around his thumb. Holds on tight.

“You’re not guilty, V,” he says softly. “You don’t have to pay for this. It wasn’t your fault. You lost someone important to you, too. Let yourself grieve. And don’t forget,” he squeezes her hand again, “all the people who loved Jackie…love you too.”

His kindness…

It’s more than she can bear.

V doubles over and sobs.

She knows they love her. She knows that. It just doesn’t matter. They all have to carry their pain on their own. They can hug and commiserate ‘til the world burns, but it doesn’t heal the wound any faster. She’s been gutted, grooves gouged into her heart. The places where he resided…

Her best friend.

The buzzer cuts the quiet and Vik jumps up, darts across the room, sends the customer away. She sucks in a deep breath, swipes at her cheeks, gathers herself. Steels herself against Vik’s kindness. She doesn’t have time to grieve. She has to keep ahead of Arasaka, ahead of Dex.

When he comes back, she’s managed to choke down her grief and swallow her tears.

“Thanks for everything, Vik,” she rasps and flicks him the eddies before he can argue.

He hesitates. “You leavin’?”

She doesn’t answer, just picks up the stim he left for her and thumbs the canister twice, inhaling deep.

“Two more in an hour,” he reminds her, closing the gap to help her as she slides off the chair and stands.

“Let me know if you hear anything,” she says, clenching her jaw against the pain.

But she doesn’t plan to wait for something to pop up on Vik’s radar. She’ll find a suitable replacement for her Arasaka. In fact, she might already know where to look. Just a few days ago, she was in a warehouse full of high end Militech gear…

“I will,” he assures her, keeping in step with her as she shuffles toward the door.

“One more thing…”

“Yeah?”

“…Can I borrow your gun?”

“V—”

“It’s just a precaution. I swear.”

He stares at her for a long moment before shaking his head. He crosses to his desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out a pistol. He glances at her, seemingly at war with some thought, before making a decision. He comes back, grips the barrel, and offers her the handle. She tries to take it but he holds fast.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

“Define stupid,” she rasps with as much humor as she can feign, but Vik’s not amused.

“V—”

“I’ll be okay,” she lies. She doesn’t know if she will or not. But she doesn’t have time to argue. He stares into her eyes—her soul, maybe—then relinquishes the weapon. “See you in a few days, Vik.”

She pushes the gate open with her good arm and he jumps in to help her, holding it open.

“Yeah,” he sighs, the sound following her up the steps. “See you in a few days, kid.”

-o-

V leaves Viktor’s and goes straight to the nearest tech outlet. She buys microcams with several optics settings, motion sensors, lots of cable, and spare connectors. Then she goes home with her purchases in one hand and Vik’s pistol gripped in the other, the barrel hidden in her jacket.

Fortunately, there’s no one lurking outside her apartment. She activates her Kiroshi scanner and does a sweep, but there’s nothing unusual in the walls or vents or on the other side of the door. She draws a deep breath, makes a mental checklist of what she has to do, and swipes herself into her apartment.

She doesn’t know how long she has. It depends on who might be watching her place, who might be keyed into her building’s NET architecture. If it’s Dex, his only spyware’s probably a set of eyeballs planted somewhere nearby, and she likely has an hour to do what she needs to do. If it’s Arasaka, it could be mere minutes.

The first thing she does is lock the door. She fetches her go-bag and drops it in the middle of the room. She ducks into her hackpad, yanks her storage drives, wipes her dive cache, then digs around her box of shards until she finds the chip with a red skull sticker. She slots it into her rig, huffs a regretful breath, and initiates a bios flash. It won’t brick her system unless someone other than her tries to crack it—in which case, it was already lost—but it’ll be a pain to undo.

While the bios updates into a virtual minefield, she hides two microcams in her small apartment and one outside to watch the entrance. She rigs motion sensors in front of her door, across the center of the main room, and along the window. She runs the wires connecting all of this into her hackpad and plugs it into her portable deck—thank God it survived Konpeki and No-Tell, thing’s built to take abuse. She creates a simple NET arch for her home security and gives herself remote access.

By the time she’s done, her hackpad has finished turning itself into a trap. She yanks the chip, secures it into her library—a Faraday box used for storing valuable datashards—then tucks it under her arm, grabs her go-bag, and locks the door on her way out. She sets the security system on her portable cyberdeck and deltas.

She drives across Watson to a rundown motel by the docks and rents a room. She spends three hours scraping through secondhand shops for a portable power supply, a decent server, a couple stacks of RAM, several fans, and a heavy duty magnetic seal. She pops into a corner store and picks up thirty pounds of ice, a box of protein bars, a case of Vita-Mine E-lytes, and a patch kit. Back in the room, she locks the door, mounts the magnetic seal on the seam, and pushes the dresser up against it for good measure.

She loses the last bit of daylight setting up a poor man’s hackpad in the bathroom. She starts with the server—swapping in the new RAM, installing her favorite CaveR distro and all necessary supporting soft, and isolating a data cache. She undervolts the processor and overclocks the RAM. She connects the server, power supply, and her portable deck and runs a few tests to make sure the setup’s stable, then plugs the fans into the wall and turns them full blast on the server.

She fills the tub with cold water and ice.

Now for her least favorite part… V strips to her underwear, seals her bandaged bullet wounds beneath waterproof patches to keep them dry, and takes a deep breath. She steps into the ice bath, so cold it steals her breath, assaults her skin like knives. It might hurt if she wasn’t already in pain. She sinks into the water, gasping air into her lungs, and sits perfectly still, trying to acclimate.

She feels her heart rate slowing. Can hear the ice gently clack together and water bubbles popping, faintly echoing off the tiles. The dim light flickers.

She thinks of Sandra Dorsett lying near-dead in the scav den.

Thinks of Jackie carrying her out of there.

She’s so cold, she almost doesn’t notice the tears track down her cheeks.

It’s impossible for her eyes not to go to her messages, to his name. To expect to see a line from him. Jackie used to text her randomly throughout the day when they weren’t together. Small things. Silly things. And when shit was serious, he would check in every hour, just to make sure all was nova.

She reads his last messages, their conversation the morning of the Konpeki heist. Nothing special about it, just the usual banter, except he was clearly way too excited.

[10:32 AM] Jackie:

MORNIN CHICA

His first text message of the day was always “morning” no matter what time it was, and she liked to give him a hard time when it wasn’t. “Not mornin’, Jack,” she’d text back. “It’s mornin’ to me, I just woke up,” he would reply. But this was one of those rare times he hit her up before noon.

[10:33 AM] V:

Oh hey, it’s actually morning this time

[10:33 AM] Jackie:

Yeah yeah

You ready for tonight?

[10:34 AM] V:

Still eatin’ breakfast so no

[10:34 AM] Jackie:

You know what I mean

Ready to become a night city legend?

[10:36 AM] V:

Can I finish my coffee please?

[10:36 AM] Jackie:

Ah forget it, I’m comin over

[10:37 AM] V:

Bring coffee

[10:39 AM] Jackie:

Thought you said you were drinkin some?

[10:40 AM] V:

It was a metaphor I’d like to become reality

…I’m out of beans

[10:41 AM] Jackie:

Aight aight, be there in 20

V swallows the lump in her throat. Just a few days ago, there was life behind those texts… They aren’t just words on a screen, they were his words, his thoughts. He was on the other end, typing away. She feels sick knowing the thread’s gone cold. She thinks morose thoughts that are so cliche she wants to lobotomize herself. Thoughts like, He’ll always be just 20 minutes away… And she’s bombarded with selfish downers that make her play a tiny violin for herself. Gems like, He’ll never wish me a good morning again. Fuckin’ stupid. Because it’s not what he says that she gives a shit about, it’s that he’s around to say it. And that’s never going to happen again.

“Just one more time,” she’s heard people say. “If I could just talk to them one more time, if I could see them one more time, I’d—” And she won’t insult them by pretending their grief isn’t real, that their wishes aren’t valid. She just knows such sentiments are meaningless to her. She doesn’t want or need one more moment. One more moment for what? To say goodbye? To play this out all over again? Jackie doesn’t need a goodbye. He’s dead. And V? She barely survived his death the first time, still feels like she’s bleeding out—why the fuck would she want to see him one more time and detonate another fucking nuke in her soul?

She doesn’t want one more moment with Jackie. She doesn’t even want to go back in time, experience it all again when things were still good—because she knows what’s waiting at the end of that journey. No, she just wants all of this to be a fucking lie. She just wants him to text her, “morning chica,” and for this to have been nothing more than a nightmare.

But it’s not.

V covers her eyes with her frigid fingers and sobs into the ice. The pitiful squealing noises she can’t control make her angrier than she already is, because she needs to stop feeling sorry for herself, needs to get her shit together. Jackie would be furious with her for wastin’ time like this.

V can’t force herself to stop crying like she wants to, but she does force those messages closed. Eventually, she is able to sniff back her sorrow and wipe her eyes, to sit up and reach for her deck propped on an overturned bucket next to the tub. She grabs the dive cable, slots it into the port on her neck, and locks it in place.

She checks her email, but it's empty. Checks her security system, but all is quiet in the H10 megablock. It’s time to find some answers to her burning questions. Is Dex looking for her? Is Arasaka? And how much do they know? By now, what happened at Konpeki Plaza has already cycled through the news feed, Arasaka’s issued a response, an investigation is underway, and the typical rumors and whispers have made their rounds in the streets. Every fixer and merc in town knows at least something. Separating fact from fiction will be a grind, but she’s done it all before.

Most important of all, though… She has to find a replacement for her lost Arasaka cyberdeck. She’s nearly run through her savings, but she should be able to afford it. She doesn’t want to have to go through Maelstrom if she doesn’t have to—the ‘borgs terrify her—but she’s almost certain they’ll have what she needs. She has no idea how Dex managed to make a trade with Brick, but she’d bet her last eddies she can find them on a black market webring.

A voice like metal-grinding-glass fills her mind.

Avoid comin’ back, that Maelstrommer had told her. Repeat business…not really our thing. He’d outlined some pretty compelling reasons why she should avoid dealing with Maelstrom ever again… And to do it alone? Without Jackie…?

But she doesn’t really have a choice.

V’s not smart. Something she has to—had to remind Jackie of all the time. She just thinks quickly. Ever since she was a little girl, she could think faster than everyone else around her. It’s an asset, yeah, but it doesn’t make her smart. She doesn’t have an eidetic memory. She learns at an average rate. She probably puzzles through more wrong answers on her way to the right one. She doesn’t know much about a great many subjects. She’s not smart…

She just thinks real damn fast.

Jackie never really grasped the difference. Called her his little genius. But that was only because this skill of hers made her really good at one thing: quickhacking. She can drop a dozen quickhacks on as many targets in the span of a few heartbeats, can chain them together in a matter of blinks. It’s her super power. The one thing she’s truly good at. Exceptional, even. As long as there’s cyberware to hack, she can be deadly. And Jackie was always there to back her up, protect her—a weapon and a shield. Her “ICE in real life,” he used to joke.

But now he’s gone…

Which is why, without a proper neural cyberdeck, she’s utterly and completely fucked. Naked, kneeling, baring her throat.

She has no intention of staying that way.

V grits her teeth, opens a terminal, initiates a dive, and jams ENTER.

Chapter Text

V stares up at the All Foods plant, the sun shining down on the scattered cargo containers, rusted machinery, and leftover garbage in the shipping yard. The bay doors are closed, but there are two Maelstrommers parked outside the side entrance. This is where she and Jackie left the plant, where she hopes to reenter.

She cracks her neck, straightens her jacket, and touches the grip of Vik’s pistol tucked into the waistband of her jeans. This is a terrible idea, but it’s the only one she has. They have a Militech Paraline Mk.4—not as good as her old Arasaka, but a damn fine cyberdeck—and they’re willing to sell it to her. She just hopes they stay that way. They aren’t exactly known for congeniality…

The Maelstrommers are a grotesque hybrid of man and machine, and look to V like they evolved out of a primordial garbage dump, crawling from rusty scrap and red radioactive waste. But the uncomfortable truth is they’re just men and women who brutally and endlessly hack away at their humanity, replace it with glowing eyes and angry chrome until their minds break under the mutilation, forever flirting with cyberpsychosis.

And that frightens her. She can’t understand what would drive a man to commit such violence against himself, to dance so intimately with the possibility of insanity… But what frightens her more is their unpredictability. They aren’t all crazy—or are, at the very least, functioning psychopaths—and that’s part of the problem. Maelstrom’s a widespread and well-coordinated boostergang capable of holding major territory, pulling off complex heists against megacorp giants, participating in the underground trade, and even running a club. But then you hear how they scooped up some poor bastards off the street and dragged them off to their chop shop, filled them with rusty chrome for the fun of it, and rolled the thing into an XBD so other sickos can relive the torture.

You never know what you’re going to get with them, and that’s enough to make any sane person give them a wide berth. And if V was smarter, she would never have come here. Would have stayed in her motel room until Vik found her a replacement. Would go back there right now.

If she was smarter.

V shuts her eyes tight, trying to dispel her nervous energy at doing this alone. Into the borgbeasts’ den, part two, Jackie would’ve said. Hell, if he were with her, he might’ve talked her out of this. Would’ve told her to trust him and wait for Vik. She might’ve listened, knowing she had him to watch her back. But if she hadn’t, if she had insisted they come out here and deal with Maelstrom again, he would’ve been right beside her.

V takes a deep breath—Into the borgbeasts’ den, part two, she thinks—and crosses the shipping yard. Her gut clenches when the two gangoons turn their red optics on her. One of them remains lounging against the wall, smoking, while the other stands out of his crouch and hefts his rifle.

“Here to see Kai Craig,” she says.

The guy looks her over, glances at his buddy, then jerks his head toward the door. A polite smile is twitching on her lips but she holds it back. Doesn’t want to appear weaker than she already does. Than she is.

She steps into the warehouse and glances around. A lot of the merchandise has already been moved, but there’s still several Militech crates in the back. A handful of Maelstrommers lurk at the edges of the warehouse, their red optics gleaming in the shadows, watching her. She ignores them and makes her way to the nearest gangoon, all alone and gazing off into space, hand making strange motions in the air—probably scrolling through data displayed on his optics. He’s got one giant red eye on the right side of his face, two smaller ones on the left, and looks so lopsided it makes her want to tilt her head.

“Looking for Kai Craig,” she says, and the Maelstrommer looks at her.

“Found him,” he rasps in that metallic tone.

She wonders if she met this one before. Though each one is utterly unique in their disfigurement, she has a hard time telling them apart—probably their many red eyes. Is it the same for Maelstrom? Are they so removed from their flesh that they struggle to see the uniqueness in the simplicity of normal humans?

“Here for the Paraline,” she says, resisting the urge to grip Vik’s gun.

He gazes at her for a long moment, silent and still. She hates that about the ‘borgs—that she can’t read them. They don’t blink or squint, don’t glance around or raise their brows. It’s impossible to tell what they’re thinking or doing. Is he sizing her up, debating doing business with her? Privately communicating with his pals, preparing to turn on her? Or is he just looking up where the Paraline’s stored?

“Yeah, I got it,” he says after a moment, and she tries not to audibly sigh.

He turns around, fishes through a couple of boxes stacked on the crate behind him, and finally withdraws a small case, holding it up for her to inspect. The Militech symbol is embossed in one corner, Mk. 4 inscribed in another.

“Need to see it,” she says.

He shrugs and opens it, shows her the implant. It looks brand new and intact. Relief rushes through her. She just has to get this thing back to Vik and everything will be fine.

She nods in approval. “I’ll take it.”

“Ten thousand.”

As expected. A steep price but still cheaper than buying legal. She’s scraping her savings with this one, but it’s worth it. She’ll make the money back eventually.

She flicks him the eddies.

“You? Again?” a familiar, gravelly voice asks, and she snaps her head up in alarm to see another Maelstrommer walking toward them.

Recognition tickles her brain at the sight of those two rings on his upper lip, and she’s surprised to realize that she knows him. Dum Dum—she’d never forget that name. He’s the one who sold her and Jackie the Flathead. The one who gave her the s-keef that probably saved her life. The one who told her not to come back…

“Alone this time, huh?” he rasps. “No punk-ass ‘amigo’ today?”

She doesn’t know what comes over her, what death wish makes her snarl, “Don’t you fuckin’ talk about him ever again, got it?”

She goes rigid the moment the words leave her mouth, feeling betrayed by her own grief. What a stupid fucking move! She braces for his rage, her only option to stand her ground against whatever’s about to happen next. Her hand sneaks to her hip, sliding toward the pistol at her back.

Kai starts laughing, a harsh sound that causes her to flinch. Dum Dum just grins.

“Got it,” he says easily, leaving her dumbfounded.

Is this a trick? Is he making fun of her? Her fingernails skim the pistol grip, anxiety shredding her confidence, her patience. This was a horrible idea… She should’ve listened to him. She should never have come back here.

“Whaddaya doin’ here?” Dum Dum asks, and it’s like he can read her mind, her panicky regret.

“Just a customer,” she answers as calmly as she can manage.

“Yeah?” Dum Dum looks at Kai, who shows him the Paraline case. She tenses when he takes it, holding it up to inspect.

“Already paid for it,” Kai tells him.

“Yeah, ‘course she did,” Dum Dum murmurs. “Girl’s good for the eddies.”

In the following seconds, she imagines all the ways it would play out if she tried to gun her way out of there. In exactly zero of the scenarios does she ever even make it outside. Still, her fingers curl around the gun’s grip, index slides along the trigger.

Dum Dum looks at her and she holds her breath.

“What happened to you?” he asks, catching her off guard.

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

Dum Dum studies her for a moment before he tilts his head toward Kai and jerks his chin, a signal to go. The Maelstrommer immediately obeys, wandering off. When he’s out of earshot, Dum Dum looks at her again.

“Can take your hand off the iron, princess,” he tells her. “Not gonna hurt ya.”

Her face warms at being caught, but she doesn’t let it go.

“Who shot ya?” he asks.

Her eyes widen in shock. How the hell did he know? She made sure her wounds were covered.

“Thermal optics,” he tells her, reading her mind again. “Can see ‘em clear as day.” He points one of those metallic fingers at her side then traces a path up to her shoulder, right where her bullet wounds are still healing. “That why you’re so jumpy?”

She grits her teeth and admits, “Might have something to do with it.”

“Guess gettin’ shot’ll do that to you fleshy types.”

“Mhm. Might also have something to do with the warning you gave me last time I was here.”

He nods. “Yeah, sure, told you not to come back. Why did you?”

“Didn’t have a choice.”

“Always a choice, princess.”

“All right,” she concedes with a single nod—it’s true, after all—and amends with, “Guess I liked my other options less.”

“Must be real shitty options,” he observes, “if you’re willin’ to risk it.”

“You tryin’ to scare me?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head once. “You’re scared enough already. Tryin’ to figure out what of.”

“You mean besides being—let’s see, how did you put it?—a ‘ganic pussy in a room full of chrome cocks?”

He grins. “Yeah, ‘sides that.”

“Why?” she blurts, because she can’t understand the point of this conversation. She knows he doesn’t care who shot her, what happened to her, but she’s confused about how he plans to utilize this information.

Dum Dum shrugs but doesn’t answer, so they just stare at one another.

She takes the moment to study him, his version of beloved disfigurement. He has seven red optics, two where his eyes should be and five taking up the span of his forehead. His nose has been sliced away to accommodate a chrome bridge and nostrils, two rows of spikes trail down his chin before smoothing out to trace his jaw, and there are metal bits embedded in his cheeks and beneath his lower lip. His scalp is shaved and chrome tendrils like dreadlocks sprout from his crown down to his neck. There are metal-capped chunks out of his ears, and his body seems just as carved up.

And yet, despite him looking more metal than man, there is something incredibly human about his surprisingly expressive mouth, lips framed by deep nasolabial lines that telegraph a wide variety of emotion—more than she’s seen on other members of Maelstrom, at any rate. It doesn’t put her at ease, exactly, but he was kind to her the last time she was here. And he’s being kind now—at least, she thinks so. She can’t trust that won’t eventually change, but…

Slowly, she releases the pistol and drops her hand to her side.

“Death,” she tells him. “My other options were certain death. Gotta be, though, right? To ‘risk it’, as you said.”

He snorts. “Sounds to me like you need more iron.”

She points to the Paraline case he’s still holding. “That is my iron.”

He grins. “I knew all those stars weren’t for show.”

“Stars?”

But he doesn’t explain himself, just points her toward the exit. “I’ll walk you out.”

She hesitates. “Gonna give me my merch?”

“Easy, princess.” He steps toward her. “You’ll get it.”

She licks her dry lips, faintly wondering why he keeps calling her that, then reluctantly turns and heads toward the exit.

Dum Dum falls in step beside her. “How’d the Flathead work out for ya?”

“Did everything you said it would,” she answers absently, mind instantly blasted back to that awful day that changed everything. “Preem piece of tech.”

Would sure be nice to have it now. Too bad it’s in Arasaka’s hands. There’s nothing on the Flathead that could lead them back to her—she never touched anything except the control chip, and Dum Dum assured her the Raven controller couldn’t be traced. But…could Arasaka link Raven back to Maelstrom? She’s certain they’ll know Militech’s not involved, but would they suspect the gangoons? The heist wasn’t their style, and they have no reason to wanna kill Saburo. But still, if nothing else, it’s a lead for them to follow up on, though she doubts it would be a very friendly interrogation.

V mentally shakes her head. It’s not her problem. What does she care if a bunch of Maelstrommers get flatlined?

She glances at Dum Dum, the ‘borg who’s been strangely decent to her. He warned her, didn’t he? Tried to help her in his own way.

Damn it.

“Hold on,” she says, reaching out to stop him. “Need to tell you somethin’.”

Her fingers connect with hard metal and synthetic skin, and it feels so foreign that she snaps her hand back almost immediately. He stops walking and turns to face her.

“Listen, you should know Arasaka’s got the Flathead now, and it wasn’t an amicable trade, if you get my meaning.” She tries to smile, but feels her mouth stretch into a grimace. “So if you see any Arasaka sammies lurking around, might wanna shoot first.”

He tilts his head just slightly, studying her, and she finds herself watching his expressive mouth, looking for a sign of what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling. Did she just fuck herself over by admitting Arasaka might come after them, that it’ll be her fault if they do?

Suddenly he grins. “Ahh, shit. So that’s what happened. You were at Konpeki, yeah?” He makes a gun with his fingers and pretends to shoot her. “Corpos got ya.”

Jackie’s face flashes in her mind, his empty stare, blood leaking from his gut.

“Nah,” she says, shaking her head, looking anywhere but at Dum Dum. “Not them. Got out of there unscathed.”

It’s a lie. She’s not unscathed. Jackie’s death has disemboweled her more thoroughly than mantis blades in her gut. But she doesn’t want him to know that. Doesn’t want him to see just how fucking raw she is. So she clears her throat, tries to sound lighthearted. To hide any evidence of heartbreak showing on her face.

“Job was fucked from the start,” she tells him, because she’d rather admit to that than what really bothers her. “Not sure if it’s even possible for them to link Raven to Maelstrom but,” she shrugs, “thought you should know.”

“Yeah?” He sounds intrigued, not upset. “Why’s that?”

Because he tried to help her first, but what she says is, “Let’s just say I like that you got good taste.”

Dum Dum smiles at that, a harsh slash that splits his face. It’s almost sinister with all the metal in his cheeks and the EMP threading that extends nearly to his mouth, and yet simultaneously endearing in how obviously pleased he is that she’s quoted him. She is once again hit with this feeling that he likes her just a little.

She feels a small, sheepish smile curl her lips. “Would appreciate if you didn’t sell me out, either.”

“Can’t,” he says as a matter of fact. “Don’t know you.”

She huffs, a little skeptical, a little amused. She’s not sure if that’s true or not. Sure, she never did tell him her name, but she’s not naive enough to think he hasn’t learned it by now. But it doesn’t matter. She just hopes his answer means he won’t give her up.

“Thanks, by the way,” she says quietly, and his smile vanishes. “Your s-keef saved my life.”

She doubts he cares about that, but she feels she owes it to him anyway. He didn’t have to give her that inhaler, but for whatever reason, he did. She wouldn’t have been able to run out of that alley if she hadn’t been ‘dorphed up. Wouldn’t have had the strength to call Vik.

For a moment, Dum Dum just looks at her, his mouth in a straight line, entirely unreadable. And then his tongue darts out to lick his lips as he rasps, “Who shot ya if not the corpo rats?”

She frowns, unsure why he wants to know.

“Must’ve been someone close,” he continues, words dragged out of him low and gravelly, “if they caught ya when the corpos couldn’t. Bigger rat?”

She thinks of Dex’s enormous gut and huffs, “Could say that.”

He takes a step closer, too close, and growls, “Gimme a name.”

“Why?”

“Wanna know.”

She grits her teeth. What’s it matter if he knows? Not really a secret. “My fixer,” she answers. “Dexter DeShawn.”

He stares again, perfectly still, lips curled in a half-snarl, and she watches that mouth like her life depends on it.

“Fatter rat,” he finally says, and then he offers her the Paraline case, “but not so big.”

She tries not to snatch it when she takes it, stepping back toward the door as she throws out, “Bigger than me.”

His head bobs as he looks her up and down. “Nah,” he breathes, and that amused grin is back. “Try not to come back this time, hey?”

V huffs in feigned exasperation and smiles just a little. “Yeah, I’ll do my best.”

When she leaves the All Foods plant unmolested, she lets out the breath she was holding.

-o-

V tries not to hurry down to Vik’s shop, but she pushes the door open more forcefully than she plans, drawing his gaze from the surgery chair where he’s with a client. She ducks her head apologetically, trying to signal that she can wait, but she hears him mumble, “Excuse me,” and then his boots clap across the floor.

Guilt pricks her as she says, “I shoulda called first—”

He sounds worried when he interrupts with, “Everything okay?”

“Do what you gotta do, Vik. I can come back.”

“No, just—” He pulls open the gate, motions her inside. “Wait in the back. Won’t take long.”

“Sure.”

She ducks past the patient and loops into the back, slipping into the garage where Vik keeps his motorcycle. She stares at it, floored by the memories. Vik and Jackie used to talk about their bikes all the time—parts, ideas, stupid stunts. It used to bore the hell out of her. She’d pop onto the workbench, drop her virtuality goggles over her head, and jack in, let their laughter and shop talk be her white noise.

V glances at the workbench. Slowly crosses to it and hops up. She leans her head back against the concrete wall and stares at that motorcycle. Memories tug at her like needy children. Nothing specific, because nothing too memorable ever happened in this garage, just the boring and wonderful fullness of living. But it’s enough to know that he used to be here, used to spend time here. Was happy here.

There’s a knot in her stomach as big as her fist, tugging at her insides, and she feels like throwing up. Breathing gets harder. Tears that are never too far away fill her eyes. It’s only been a few days, grief takes time, but she wants to stop feeling like this—like she’ll be sick and hurting for the rest of her life, like the ground’s opened up under her and she’s falling into a forever hole.

Jackie was her best friend. They didn’t just run gigs together, they spoke every single day, hung out almost every single day. They could talk for hours about the dumbest things. He always listened to her ideas, let her ramble on about this program and that script, let her theorize about the Blackwall and vent about NetWatch. And he would rehash some of his worst memories from his Valentinos days, just because he needed someone to listen, someone who didn’t understand but would hear him. Or they could sit in silence, each busy with their own thing, and never feel uncomfortable. And he always included her in whatever was going on with him. Going out or staying in? Invited. Made a new connection, met a new friend? Introduced. And he knew her better than anyone else in all of the tiny, inconsequential ways that makes a person feel truly seen—like how he was always sure to order her food without onions because he knew she hated them.

There were never any romantic feelings between them, just pure friendship. And yet their lives were inextricably tied. She feels utterly alone without him.

Vik’s footsteps draw her out of her morose thoughts, but she doesn’t turn to look at him. Doesn’t want him to see how cut open she is. She swipes her cheeks, tries to collect herself.

“Hard to believe I’ll never see him in here again,” Vik says, voice echoing in the garage. “Hear you two bickering over what to order for dinner.”

A watery smile curls her mouth, and her voice is a bit shaky when she says, “I want empanadas but he wants pizza, so I tell him he’s a disgrace to his heritage and he flips me off and says, ‘At least I have some.’”

There’s a smile in Vik’s voice when he says, “Yeah, and then Misty goes out and gets you both what you want anyway.”

She did, always. She was as good a friend to V as she was a girlfriend to Jackie.

V swats another tear away and looks at Vik, trying to sound stern when she says, “And you’d always eat half my empanadas.”

He chuckles. “Well, what can I say? Always thought you had better taste.”

She smiles, and there is a moment of quiet that stretches uncomfortably between them. Not for each other’s company—she feels as at ease in Vik’s presence as she did in Jackie’s. No, it’s uncomfortable because it has to end, this shared memory, and it feels shitty to change the subject, to not remember him longer…

Vik clears his throat. “So what brings you by, V?”

She offers him the Paraline case. He pushes off the wall he’s leaning on and crosses to her, takes it. Whistles.

“Where the hell did you get this?”

She considers not telling him, but she knows he won’t let it go if she doesn’t. “Maelstrom.”

“V—”

“They had a huge take off a convoy they ripped recently—”

“V—”

“I knew they’d have something and they did. Problem solved.”

A muscle in his jaw feathers as he fights the lecture she knows he wants to give. Finally he shakes his head, looks at the Paraline case.

“Mk.4 is pretty damn good,” he mutters. “Bit different than your Arasaka, but effective. And,” he blows out a heavy breath, “it’ll give me some peace knowin' you got protection out there.”

“Speaking of.” She hops off the workbench and fishes his gun out of his waistband. “Here. Thanks for letting me use it.”

He pushes it back at her. “You hold onto it for now. Just in case.”

Warmth nestles in her chest and she nods, accepting the weapon back.

“Now let’s get this thing verified,” he says, holding up the case, “and get it inside your head.”

A relieved sigh rushes out of her. “Sounds good.”

An hour later, Vik’s verified the validity of the cyberdeck and installed it. She drives back to her rundown motel room and spends the rest of the night uploading quickhacks onto the Paraline and watching her apartment’s security feed while the TV plays low in the background. She tries to contact Evelyn to warn her, but the bitch won’t pick up. She calls Judy, but the scrappy little tech hasn’t seen her—or is hiding her. But V doesn’t blame Evelyn, she’s not looking for revenge, and the biochip is gone so there’s no profiting off it. All she cares about is Evelyn not selling her out if Arasaka somehow finds her. She reminds Judy that everyone should be worried about that.

Judy promises to call her if she hears from her.

So V has no choice but to continue doing what she’s been doing—hiding. Monitoring her apartment. Trying to fill every corner of her mind so she won’t think about Jackie.

Two days later and still no one’s come knocking at her door in the H10. Can she really hope that no one is looking for her? Sure, it was her job to make sure they went unseen in Konpeki—she used covert quickhacks to scramble optic recall and spliced feedback loops on the cameras so no one would ever be able to get a good look at them—but this is Arasaka… Their security is top tier. It feels inevitable that they’ll find a lead somewhere.

Right?

And then she sees a familiar name flash on the TV and looks up at the virtual police barricades cordoning off a section of a garbage dump. There in the crowd is the man who was with Saburo the night he died. Her heart jumps into her throat as the ticker scrolls the headline.

“Oh, fuck…”

Dexter DeShawn is dead.

Chapter Text

When Bjorn finally tells him where that rat Dexter DeShawn is hiding out, Dum Dum goes to pick up the bastard himself. Just in time, too. An hour later and the fucker would’ve been on a flight out of Night City. He catches him at gunpoint when he leaves his hotel room, and it’s all Dum Dum can do not to shoot him. He wants to. Wants to real bad. But that’s not why he’s here.

So Dum Dum hits him with a tranquilizer. When the big boy falls, he pats him down and rifles through his pockets for weapons and tech, tossing all the useless shit. That’s when he finds the M-10AF Lexington the girl was wearing when he first met her, recognizes the brightly painted clip and trigger. Bastard took her gun, too? Did he shoot her with it?

Fuck, at first, he couldn't believe she came back. Was his warning not enough? She like the idea of being a ‘borg slut? But then he noticed somethin’ was different… She was standing odd, like there’s somethin’ wrong with her side. Her face was tense, lacking all the peculiar friendliness from before. The stars were misaligned and she was scared.

Dum Dum squeezes the Lexington, once again considers shooting this meatsack…

“Get him in the trunk,” he snaps as he stuffs the pistol in his waistband beside his DR5.

Bjorn and Trey heft the unconscious fixer, load him into the back of the car, and they drive to this nice little spot Maelstrom has by the docks. The boys carry the prisoner into the warehouse, secure him to a chair, then head outside to keep watch while Dum Dum works. He starts with a little surgery, uses spare parts they keep for just such an occasion. He installs a biomonitor to keep an eye on the fixer’s vitals, a blood pump in case of accidents, and a pain editor to keep the fucker from going into shock too quickly. He tunes the cyberware to an external system he controls so the chrome won’t accidentally be too helpful, and finishes his preparations by laying down a bunch of plastic.

And then he wakes the bastard up.

“The fuck…?” the fat rat mumbles as he slowly comes to.

He looks around, takes in the red lights and bloody tools, the plastic, and then finally sees where Dum Dum’s leaning against the nearest column, lighting a cigarette, blood from those little impromptu surgeries staining the paper. The fixer’s eyes go wide as he realizes just how much shit he’s really in.

“Maelstrom,” Dex says, confused, afraid. “The hell’s goin’ on? I don’t got beef wit' you.”

“Yeah,” Dum Dum agrees on a cloud of gray, “but I got beef with you.”

“What about?”

Dum Dum’s lips twitch excitedly. “You’re the bigger rat.”

Dex grimaces. “Look, man, whatever misunderstandin’ this is, we can work it out. Jus’ name your price.”

Dum Dum stares at him, takes another drag, and exhales through his nostrils. Dex visibly swallows and looks around, finally seems to notice the cyberware threading into his body. His forehead breaks out in a nervous sweat.

“What’s all this?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that,” Dum Dum tells him. “S’for me, not you.”

He grunts, “You plannin’ on torturin’ me?”

Dum Dum grins. “Yeah,” he says and takes another long drag that sizzles tobacco and blood.

“Look, this is unnecessary, man,” Dex says, panicky. “I’ll tell you whatever you wanna know.”

“Nothin’ I wanna know.”

“Name your price, then!”

“Don’t want scratch.”

“Then what the fuck do you want?”

Dum Dum takes another long drag, watches ash fall to the ground. “Want you to bleed.”

“What the hell for?!”

“For the girl.”

“Girl—what girl?”

Dum Dum pushes off the column and snarls, “The one you shot.”

“The one I—” His eyes bulge. “V? How the hell you know about that?”

“Told me herself.”

Rage and bewilderment warp his expression into something comically repulsive. “She’s alive?” He shakes his head. “No… N’aw, I shot that bitch in the head, I saw her go down.”

Dum Dum bites down on the cigarette’s filter as something like anger injects into his bloodstream. In the head? He shot her in the head? Nah, her head looked fine to him, all pretty and red. But…there was something different about the stars in the thermal scan…

Dum Dum takes a final drag on his cigarette and drops it into the pile of ash by his boots. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he says, slipping his combat knife from the sheath on his thigh.

Dex winces. “C’mon, man, why the hell do you care? She your girl or somethin’? I swear, I didn’t know!”

His girl? …His girl? He never thought about her like that. Never entered his mind, not once. She’s all fleshy and soft, not his type—’cept for that copper hair and preem body, her pretty smile and sweet voice, and yeah, maybe her freckles, too. But them ‘ganic types don’t go for ‘borgs like him anyway. Nah, there’s no way he ever docks her.

Although…

Maybe bein’ his girl’s not so bad an idea, since clearly no one else is watching her back if this fat rat was allowed to shoot her and no one’s flatlined him for it yet. What the fuck happened to that choom of hers, anyway? Gonk-brain. At first, Dum Dum thought he was the one who betrayed her—after all, whoever shot her had to be close, and she had such a visceral reaction when he mentioned him. But then she gave him the name, and Dum Dum has to admit, he’s curious why Gonk-brain let her down like this.

“What about the big one?” he asks.

“Who?”

“The other one,” Dum Dum says impatiently. “Her choom.”

“Jackie?”

“The big one, yeah.”

Dex shakes his head. “He’s dead, man.”

Dead. So, she wasn’t angry, she was sad. He doesn’t like that either… Doesn’t give a fuck Gonk-brain’s dead, but he thinks it’s a real shame she’s not smilin’ like she was before.

“You zero him?” Dum Dum asks, brandishing his knife, because if it’s this fucker’s fault, he’s not quite sure what’ll happen next.

“N’aw, man,” Dex bellows, wiggling in his restraints. “That was Arasaka! I swear!”

So the job went bad, her choom dies, and Dex tries to zero her for it. Tying up loose ends and all. Sure, yeah, Dum Dum gets it. But too bad for the fatter rat, ‘cause he likes the straight-edged princess.

“Okay,” Dum Dum says, and then he flips the knife to his other hand and punches the meatsack in the face, once, twice, three times for three bullets.

Dex’s head whips to the side, blood and spittle flying with every blow. His lip breaks and the skin around his eye splits.

“C’mon, man,” he wheezes, teeth stained red. “I didn’t know… I didn’t—”

Dum Dum strikes him again, three more times in his gut. He doubles over, groaning, and red drool drips onto his too-tight tank top.

“Sorry,” he gasps. “I’m sorry…”

Dum Dum pushes him into a sitting position, takes stock of his swelling eye and busted lip. And then he lights another cigarette, takes a few drags as Fat Rat apologizes over and over again. When he’s finished, he puts the cherry out in the fucker’s shoulder, right where he shot the girl. Dex screams and writhes as the smell of burning flesh fills the air.

When it’s over, Dex spits a wad of blood to the ground and glares at him. “Told you, man,” he pants. “Didn’t mean to fuck with your girl. We can work this out. C’mon.”

“Not my girl,” Dum Dum says, thumbing the sharp edge of his blade. “Just like her.”

“Just like her?” Dex repeats in disbelief, one eye swollen shut, the other rapidly blinking, trying to understand. And then he starts chuckling, a wet and raspy sound. “Ah, shit. She know about your little crush? Heh. Didn’t take her for a ‘borg fucker. That what this is? Revenge?” He looks to a point behind Dum Dum, good eye searching for something. “She back there somewhere, gettin’ hard watching her little input torturin’ the man who shot her?”

“Nah, just you and me,” Dum Dum says, cutting Dex’s tank top away, revealing his rotund gut. “But maybe I’ll scroll it for her, yeah?”

He considered it already. There’s easy eddies in torture XBDs, especially with a celebrity like Dexter DeShawn. A lotta people out there would pay a fortune to carve this pig up. But he decided against it. His emotions are all wrong. It’s not personal. It’s just… He just knows what he likes and what he doesn’t, and what he likes is her smile, and what he doesn’t like is her getting shot.

But he, uh…he doesn’t hate the idea of her gettin’ off on this…

Dum Dum licks his lips. “Think she will?” he asks roughly, sliding the flat of the knife over Dex’s belly. He flinches, flesh rippling in fear. The biomonitor chirps. “Think she’ll get wet when I do this?” He brings the blade back, dragging the sharp end over his skin, drawing a red line. Dex cries out and the biomonitor beeps. “Think she’ll cum,” he presses the tip against gut, “when I cut you open?”

Dex gasps for air, gnashes his teeth. “Do you fuckin’ know who I am?”

Dum Dum draws another red line and Dex screams again. BEEP BEEP BEEP. Just a few little slices in his overindulged gut and the fucker’s already hyperventilating? Nah, nah, it’s pathetic. His princess tolerated more than that and still ran for her life.

Dum Dum bares his teeth and catches Dex by his blubbery throat. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” he growls, “squeal too early. We got a long night ahead of us.” He squeezes Fat Rat’s jowls, turns his head toward the pain editor and blood pump. “Not gonna let ya off easy, see?” He digs his fingers into his cheeks. “And you’re gonna feel it, all of it.”

“She’s…alive…” Dex chokes out, as if it’s a defense.

Yeah, she’s alive. Not really the point though, is it? If she was dead, Dum Dum wouldn’t know. Might not even care. Hell, Royce almost blew the girl’s brains out the other day. He didn’t care then. Didn’t wanna see it happen, but wasn’t gonna cry about it or anything. Hell, when he first asked her who shot her, he was just curious. Nah, it came later, this…this need to kill the fatter rat. It crept up on him when she warned him about Arasaka and the Flathead, like she was tryin’ to protect him or somethin’, like a fuckin’ sweet little gonk. And then she thanked him, for the s-keef, for saving her life, and—fuck, he knows she was just returnin’ the favor, but she didn’t owe him shit—and he felt like he failed her, lettin’ her get shot in the first place. Not his fault. Not his problem. Only met the girl four days ago, but…

That smile of hers, it made him wanna do things for her.

“Sure, yeah, she’s alive,” Dum Dum breathes, bringing the knife up to the Fat Rat’s fat cheek. “But ya shot her. Shouldn’t have done that.”

He rips the knife down his face and Dex screams.

Two hours and twenty-three minutes later, after Dex has shed a couple hundred pounds in blood and fat, Dum Dum ends the session by demonstrating how to properly shoot someone in the head. When the fixer’s brains paint the wall and the biomonitor wails one long, steady note, Dum Dum lights a cigarette and goes outside to smoke.

He stares at the dark waterline, city lights reflecting off the surface, and takes a long drag. He wonders if the princess wanted to zero the fat rat herself, but too late now. At least that’s one less thing she has to be scared of.

Two sets of boots scrape along the concrete as his fellow ‘Strommers join him.

“What the hell was that about?” Bjorn asks.

Dum Dum doesn’t answer. If he tells them, they’ll give him endless shit for likin’ a ‘ganic. That’s not the reason he doesn’t tell them, though. Annoying as it is, he doesn’t really care if they make fun of him or not. He just doesn’t want it gettin’ around, not to the others. Not to Royce. Probably won’t matter, but Royce… He gets crazy ideas sometimes. Last thing Dum Dum wants is for her to live in Royce’s memory for any reason. Besides, he doubts he’ll ever see her again—though he thought that after the Flathead sale too.

“Just didn’t like him,” Dum Dum deflects, puffing on his cigarette.

Bjorn and Trey exchange glances, laugh at some inside joke. If Dum Dum could still roll his eyes, he would. Bjorn and Trey are good boys, good ‘Strommers, and they’re loyal to Dum Dum. But they’re young and stupid, and sometimes he’s not in the mood for it.

“Dump the body,” Dum Dum tells them. “Put him somewhere Arasaka will find him.”

He wants that trail going colder than ice.

“Fine,” Trey whines, and he and Bjorn wander off.

Dum Dum stands alone in the quiet, exhales a stream of gray, and draws the girl’s gun from his waistband. Looks at it. It’s a decent piece. Too bad he has no need for it. But he decides to hold onto it anyway.

For a little while, at least.

Chapter Text

One week goes by but no one ever comes to the H10 Megablock looking for her. No one stops by Vik’s clinic or any of her favorite haunts, and she hears that Mama Welles told the Arasaka team who showed up at El Coyote Cojo that she didn’t know what her son was up to or who with, and to get the hell out of her bar. It’s disorienting, almost. She thought for sure after Arasaka killed Dex, they would come after her and Evelyn—and maybe they did, maybe they found her and that’s why V can’t get ahold of her—but no one’s come for her. Is it possible Dex thought she was dead? And if he did then Arasaka would believe the same, but…wouldn’t they confirm it? But there’s been no peep from the megacorp, no whispers on the Net. Not yet, at any rate.

She could wait a little longer, could let her paranoia drive her deeper underground, but she’s tired of hiding. So she sanitizes her scraphack and goes home.

She stands inside the door and stares at the familiar space like a once-close friend she hasn’t seen in years. Her apartment feels strangely empty—strange because, sure, Jackie would come over and hang out sometimes, but it’s not like she shared this place with him. Yeah, he was part of her life here—swapped messages, chatted on calls, played video games—but so were others. Misty. Vik. Her last boyfriend. There are other memories to fill this place, and yet it feels devoid of them. Empty.

Because she’s empty.

Like a black hole opened up in her middle, sucking in all matter, all light.

The realization makes her angry, angry because she feels like she’s drowning in all of this empty. It’s been a fucking week, why can’t she get a grip on herself? It’s not like she expects to suddenly stop feeling sad—grief takes time, she knows that—but how long is this crushing weight going to sit on her lungs and suffocate her? One stray thought and she’s crying again, can’t stop it, can’t control it. The harder she fights, the worse it hurts, the deeper it cuts—like grabbing a knife with your bare hand. She feels…fragile, and she hates it.

When is this going to stop? When is this boiling grief going to simmer down into sadness? Jackie was her friend—not her boyfriend, not her brother, her friend. Best friend, yes, but friend nonetheless—so what, SO WHAT if he was! Disgust and self-loathing fill her for trying to quantify his existence. As if just being a friend doesn’t warrant this level of pain for this amount of time. But Jackie was the person closest to her, intricately woven into her life. His death has ripped a gaping hole in the fabric of her reality.

V slaps a shaking hand to her chest as another spike is hammered into her heart, and it’s this fresh wave of agony that brings her full circle in her fury, her inability to get a grip, this feeling of fragility. She’s drowning and she needs air, needs light.

She storms across her apartment and opens the shutter. Glaring light stabs her optics and she flinches out of instinct more than pain. She stares at the sun rising between the skyscrapers, the bright neon signs, the flashing ads. Beneath her, cars honk and tiptoe through the streets and people scurry along the sidewalks.

The city carries on like nothing happened.

She’s surprised that she doesn’t resent them. She thought she would. Thought she’d be filled to the brim with bitterness and vitriol as cliche as it was inevitable. But she isn’t… It’s no one’s fault time marches on. And as much as people love to personify time—as a killer, a healer, a cruel god—it’s not a person, it’s not even a force. It’s nothing more than a measuring stick for existence. Maybe later, it will hit her. Maybe in a week, two, she’ll be so full of hate that she’ll combust. But right now? She’s not angry, not at anyone but herself because…

Because it’s been a week and time keeps slipping farther and farther away from that moment when he was alive, when he was still with her, and it’s all happening too fast, and she…

She shouldn’t have gotten out of the car.

V lists forward until her forehead thunks against the window. The glass is cool despite the sun shining directly at it. She closes her eyes, lets the tears fall, the light wash over her. She scrabbles for peace, but the black hole in her center swallows it up. She pushes away from the window and looks around, grasping for a distraction, something, anything. She should shower, probably. Eat something, definitely. But there’s cleaning and—her rig. She starts there. Goes into her hackpad and spends hours detrapping her rig, restoring her bios. While it updates, she breaks down her security system and boxes everything but the microcam outside her door. She cleans up all the garbage and takes out the trash. She dusts and declutters and sterilizes the place. A clean house will help, she tells herself. It’ll be comforting, like a hug. Will stabilize her.

When she’s done, she takes her first real shower in a week. She cries into the spray, lets the heat dry her tears, the steam clear her lungs. She imagines her sorrow leaking out of her and running down the drain, pictures the dirt rinsing away as a cleansing of grief. She washes her hair and feels a weight run off her. But it only lasts as long as it takes for her to finish her shower, and then that heavy, sharp pressure is back.

Her phone beeps as she’s toweling off, a notification flashing in the corner of her vision—the reminder for Jackie’s ofrenda in a few hours. She dismisses it and numbly goes back to her routine.

She doesn’t recall the details of drying her hair or getting dressed. Barely remembers driving to the Glen or parking her car. She doesn’t come out of the fog until she’s walking through the doors of El Coyote Cojo and sees the crowd of people lingering near the back of the bar. It’s been happening a lot since Jackie died—losing time in mundane activities, like her hippocampus just stops recording whenever muscle memory is in play. She doesn’t know if it’s a symptom of grief or if that bullet did more damage than she realized—should probably ask Vik about it.

V tightens her hold on the little glass box she’s holding. She's dreading this, being exposed to others’ pain, exposing her own in such a public setting. And then she takes a deep breath and approaches the crowd. An altar has been set up in the corner to honor Jackie. There’s a beautifully painted urn in the center, a cross and some candles on the right, and a photo of Jackie on the left. Incense, skulls, jars, beads, and more candles are sprinkled across the table—items of religious significance, she assumes. Other things, like a machete, a bottle of tequila, and a comic book, are placed near the front. Items to honor his memory. She wonders who put them there, why they couldn’t stay for the service.

“Mija,” a soft and scratchy voice says just before arms come around her. The comforting scent of a familiar perfume mixed with cigar smoke spears her nostrils. V closes her eyes and wraps her arms tight around the woman who was like a mother to her.

“Mama Welles,” V greets her quietly. “It’s good to see you…”

The older woman steps back and grasps her by the shoulders, a stern look on her face. “Is it?” she asks, skeptical. “Where have you been, V?”

“H-hanging in there…”

“And? You could not even call? I had to hear from Viktor that you were okay.” Distress flashes on Mama Welles’s face. “Do you know how worried I was?”

“I’m sorry, I…” She could tell her she was hiding from the people who killed Jackie, tell her she was recovering from injuries—both truths, but not the truth. Which is that she was afraid. “I didn’t know if,” V stammers, “if you’d want to see me.”

Mama Welles’s face softens. “Oh, mija,” she murmurs and cups V’s cheek. “I will always want to see you. You are family. Nuestra casa es tu casa. Come home anytime.”

V nods and they hug again before Mama Welles has to go greet other guests. V looks around, wondering what to do, and spies Vik sitting alone near the altar. She sits down next to him. He gives her a small nod of acknowledgement that she returns, and then they sit in solemn silence.

Before too long, Mama Welles begins to speak, to honor her beloved son, and it’s all V can do not to cry. She feels the tears welling up, struggles to hold them back as the grieving mother lays Jackie’s Valentinos ring on the altar. Mama Welles then clasps her hands against her chest, overcome with emotion, and gives up the floor to the next person who wants to speak. Vik immediately stands, says a perfect few words about Jackie’s powerful punch, and lays his boxing gloves on the table. Padre speaks next, then Pepe, and one after another, people she doesn’t know and never met get up to speak for Jackie.

V just stares at his photo, squeezes the little box she brought, and tries to listen. To hear every word. But their voices are drowned by the silence in her head. She doesn’t know it’s her turn to talk until Vik touches her hand.

“V,” he softly prompts her.

She abruptly stands and walks to the altar. Stares at it, at Jackie’s face, at the urn holding all that’s left of him, at the collection of items celebrating all that he was. She turns and looks out at these people she doesn’t know, the few she does. She wants to say something that will honor his memory, the amazing man that he was, but the words aren’t forming. Her gaze drops to the little glass box she’s holding, the crumpled bullet nestled within, and she feels her throat swelling closed.

“Jackie was…the best friend you could ask for,” she chokes out. “Loyal to a fault. He’d do anything for those he loved, even risk death.” She squeezes the box. “Without hesitation.” She has to take a moment to swallow the lump in her throat before she can continue. “Third gig we worked together went sideways—you know the drill. Bullets were flying and we had no idea which way was up, just tryin’ to get out of there. All of a sudden, Jackie tackles me into a wall. I got no idea what happened, not until later and I see he’s bleedin’ in his arm.” She pokes her left bicep where he’d been shot. “He took the bullet aiming for a home in my skull. I’m freaking out. He just laughs at me.” She eyes Vik, but she can’t read his mood behind those dark glasses. “We decided not to yell ya,” she says sheepishly, and he scoffs. “We go back to his garage to dig the bullet out ourselves and, when we finally get it out, I’m thinkin’ it was too close a call. Maybe we slow down. Maybe we stop. Don’t want either of us to die. I tell him this. He tells me he’s not worried because he’s got me, and that I shouldn’t be worried either, because I have him. Then he hands me the bullet and says, ‘See? I got you, chica.’” She draws in a shaky breath. Tears drip down her cheeks—oh God, it should’ve been her—as she turns to the altar, looks at Jackie’s photo. “I would’ve taken any bullet for you, Jackie,” she whispers, “if you’d only just let me.”

She sets the glass box on the table and sniffles, presses the back of her wrist against her mouth to try to hold in her sobs, to not make this about her pain. Mama Welles places a comforting hand on her shoulder and announces a toast. Tequila shots go around and they all toss them back. After, everyone scatters to drink and mourn. Mama Welles squeezes V’s arm and turns to face the altar to be alone with her son.

V looks around. She doesn’t know most of these people, has no reason to speak to them. Her eyes find Vik at the bar all alone and she considers going to him, but she doesn’t want to infringe upon his time of mourning. He’s been so considerate of her, takin’ care of her feelings whenever she comes around, and she doesn’t want him to feel like he needs to do that now, not after they’ve all just cracked open their chests and exposed their hearts. Which reminds her… She looks for Misty, but doesn’t see her. Didn’t she come? Or did she not want to upset Mama Welles? V should call her… Check on her. Misty lost her boyfriend—God, the word doesn’t sound big enough for what she and Jackie shared—and is grieving alone. V wants to be there for her, to be a better friend, but all these good deeds she wished she’d do keep slipping from her thoughts like water through cracks.

V stands there, at a loss. She doesn’t know what to do… Not just right at that moment, but tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. She no longer has to hide from Arasaka or Dex, no longer in a fight for her life. The ofrenda has closed the chapter, so to speak, on Jackie’s death. Only time can mend the wound now. Tomorrow is a new day, and yet…she doesn’t know what to do. Her future was tied up in Jackie’s plans for fame and fortune. Everything she did was done with him, personally and professionally. She doesn’t know who she is without him.

V stands in that room full of people until the loneliness dissolves her composure. She turns and rushes out of the bar, practically bolts to her car. Drives home like she’s runnin’ from the devil himself. When she gets back to the H10, she hurries up to her apartment and locks herself inside. Stands by the door and stares into her dark apartment.

The emptiness is like a yawning chasm.

Silence throbs in her eardrums, heavy like water.

Chapter Text

One Month Later…

A hundred trillion pixels rez and derez with a single thought, pinpricks of blue and white light in a black void shifting like sand particles—mapping locations, shaping buildings, forming objects. Raw code rendered in the most basic of 3D constructs, so primitive that the program doesn’t bother converging the pixels to a single point, resulting in chromatic aberration that hints at latency issues and glitchy soft. But it’s not a glitch or lag, just the bare-bones beauty of the cyberspace visual medium. She could up the graphics quality, sure, but no self-respecting ‘runner would waste precious RAM on something so trivial. In cyberspace, speed matters.

More than anything.

But that doesn’t mean netrunners are entirely minimalist. They spend their spare memory on style. Even weefles know to find their flair. It’s a signature, more important than a killer icon or fancy script. Objects, creatures, flashing lights, even soundwaves—she’s seen it all.

V chose butterflies, beautiful 8-bit wings in distorted red and blue that look almost violet when fluttering.

Those butterflies dance before her now in a cacophony of aberrated color, building a being of shape and violence, thought taking form. This is what coding in cyberspace looks like. She spends hours a day writing, rewriting, editing, and testing—daemons mostly. To use, to sell, to gather dust on a chip, she’s not sure. She hasn’t thought that far ahead. She just thinks about code, because it’s complex enough that she can’t think about anything else.

There are many things she doesn’t want to think about.

Like Jackie.

His name is enough to break her concentration. Her butterflies freeze mid-flutter, a held breath, and then explode in a burst of pixelated light that dissipates before hitting the floor. The program she’s building remains a homunculus in the center of her data fortress, but she’s too distracted to keep working now. So she goes for what she calls “a walk”.

She leaves the safety of her BBS and dives into the deep Net.

A digital blue cityscape stretches out in front of her, above and below like a mirror world. V traverses this ghost town like a phantom, passing silently between the dark gaps of dataforts and pools. She can see it in the distance, beyond the borders of the CitiNet, that giant red barrier slicing through cyberspace. Calling to her like a siren’s song until she once again stands before it. Dwarfing her in its enormity—of size, complexity, significance.

The Blackwall.

V gazes up at that indomitable code, watches the pulses shimmer along the construct, rogue entities probing for entry. Wonders for the hundredth time what it’s like beyond the Wall. A treasure trove of information just waiting to be plundered? A digital jungle overrun by a million wild programs? Or is it just a bleak hellscape of nothingness? A wasteland where slavering R.A.B.I.D.S. roam, occasionally devouring lost souls? Did any of the netrunners trapped by the Wall survive?

What would it be like to be torn apart by an AI?

She’s thought about it before. If she could survive beyond the Blackwall. What it would take to even cross. If she shouldn’t just try…

Maybe she should.

It’s not like she has anything to stick around for.

V stares. The Blackwall undulates, breathes. She takes a step toward it.

A message pops up in her peripheral. Confusion flits through her. She’s got her contacts on silent when diving, which means it’s from an unknown. She pulls up the message—doesn’t recognize the number—and reads it.

Unknown:

V. Long time. Got a gig for you, if you’re interested.

-Regina

Shit, long time. Understatement. V wrote a few programs for her years ago, before she and Jackie met. V’s surprised Regina remembers her. She must have a dozen regular mercs to call, but she’s reaching out to V? …For a gig?

V closes the message, dismisses the app.

Looks at the Blackwall…

She’s not old enough to know what times were like before the DataKrash, but the stories smack of all the blind faith that comes with false utopias. She knows it’s probably all a lie, but still wishes she could have seen it for herself. Would she have thrived in that world of endless possibility? Or just been swallowed up by the shadows of a thousand greater ‘runners?

V leaves the Blackwall behind, retreats back to the safety of her BBS and jacks out.

Gravity slams into her body as her mind is released from the weightless freedom of cyberspace, and she becomes aware of not only every heavy breath, but the aches from lying still for too long, the growling pit in her stomach, her too-full bladder, and a desperate thirst. She squints into the dark room, the overhead dimmer ever-so-slowly brightening.

V takes a moment to get her bearings, blinking lazily at the ceiling. How long has she been down this time? A few hours? Half a day? She checks her display and groans. Eighteen hours and seventeen minutes. Shit. She winces as she reaches to the back of her head, grips the dive cable, and twists. It unlocks with a pop and slides from the port. A curious release shudders through her, like tense muscles finally soothed, and she exhales a shaky breath in relief.

She lays there, catching her breath, before pulling herself into a sitting position. Her leather chair creaks with every little movement, the only sound in the quiet room besides her own grunts and groans. She stands, her bare feet connecting with the cold floor, and waddles out of her hackpad and across the apartment to her bathroom. She grabs a Vita-Mine from the half-empty case by the fridge and chugs it while unzipping her bodyweight suit.

Regina’s message looms in the forefront of her thoughts, whether or not she should even respond. She hasn’t worked a gig since Jackie died. She’s not sure she can do it on her own. If she should even try…

She tends to her needs and showers, dresses in cotton shorts and a t-shirt, and lets her hair air dry as she wanders into the kitchen for food. She clambers through three empty boxes before finding half-a-dozen protein bars in the worst flavor they make—blueberry. Tastes the way burning plastic smells. This is what she gets for buying the variety pack… She double-checks her cabinets but they’re empty. So’s her fridge. And she’s out of coffee beans again. When was the last time she went to the store?

V rubs her tired eyes, snatches up two blueberry bars, grabs another Vita-Mine, and plops onto her couch. She pulls up her phone app as she takes a big bite of the protein bar and tries not to taste it, and is immediately confronted by the days’ old messages from Vik and Misty that she never responded to.

[02:39] Vik:

Been awhile, kid. Hanging in there? Drop by soon for a check-

up. Wanna make sure those new plugs are running smooth.

Guilt pricks her. She hasn’t seen him since just after Jackie’s ofrenda. She told him about her brownouts, asked if that bullet could’ve damaged her other implants. He checked her over but gave her cyberware a passing grade. Told her it was probably grief but that she should come back in a couple weeks to make sure there was no retrograde. She said she would. And she meant to—made an appointment, even—she just…

There was never a good time.

She closes the message and looks at Misty’s.

[08:42] Misty:

Hey V. It’s been a few weeks since I saw you last. I hope

you’re okay and that I see you soon. I don’t know why,

but… stay away from black walls, okay?

It’s the fifth time V’s read it, but it still makes her blood run cold. She’s never talked to Misty about her interest in the Blackwall… Not once. Never gave her, or anyone, reason to think she’d ever go near it. Most of the time, V thinks Misty’s talk of chakras and tarot is nonsense. Sometimes, it feels so real it scares her…

V closes the message and forces herself to take another bite of her protein bar. Her eyes immediately go to Jackie’s name, to that last conversation they had the morning of the Konpeki Heist. Her heart jerks painfully. She looks away without reading it, opens Regina’s thread instead. Saves her contact info and prods her for detes. She doesn’t know why. She’s not gonna take the gig. Not without Jackie to back her up.

She eats the rest of her—breakfast? Lunch?—and drains the Vita-Mine without stopping for air. Her phone beeps just as she’s considering taking a nap.

[11:43] Regina:

b@d got in touch with me. They like short nicknames and

simple gigs, so I'll spare you the fixer spiel and get right to

the point. You'll find b@d's malware attached to this message.

You have to download it (just be careful - it's hella dangerous)

and then upload it to the subnet in the H11 megabuilding. Piece

o'cake, right? Sorry to burst your bubble, but you'll have Tygers

on the prowl. b@d's plan is to attack some Arasaka subnet and

use H11 as a smokescreen. Clever, right? Instead of leading to

them, all traces of b@d's breach'll lead right back to the mega-

building. FYI, our netrunner already hacked the megabuilding

elevator, so getting into the server room won't be a problem.

V stares at the wall of text, vaguely wondering if this is what she should be doing—attacking Arasaka subnets and framing random gangs for it—but quickly dismisses the thought. She studies the details in front of her. Sounds simple enough, but Tyger Claws? No, it’s too much trouble. She doesn’t need to risk it.

She closes the message, snatches up a half-empty water bottle off the coffee table—still so damn thirsty—and goes to her window. Looks out at the city bathed in late morning sunlight. Opens the message. Closes it again. Takes a long drink, watches the light play on the windows of the buildings across from hers.

She’d need help…

V shakes her head. Another reason not to do it. She doesn’t have help. Knows no merc she trusts well enough to watch her back. Could find someone, a little voice inside her says. But she doesn’t want to. It feels like replacing Jackie. It’s not, and you know it. But it’s such a small gig that no seasoned mercs would bother. She’d have to look at newcomers, and does she really feel like sifting through no-names lookin’ for a big break? It's more trouble than it’s worth.

She takes another drink of water.

Could just do it on your own.

Could she? That’d be risky. She hasn’t worked alone since before Jackie, and even then, she never did anything risky. It’s just uploading soft on a server—something you can do without accessing the server room. Yeah, but to do that, she’d have to jack in, leaving her body completely vulnerable to whoever happened by. Maybe no one does. Or maybe a Tyger Claw finds her and kills her. Or worse. How hard would it be to find some young solo out to prove himself who could stand guard for you? Not very, but she’d still be vulnerable to some strange man. So hire a chick. Ah, but that’s a shit take right there. A woman will fuck you over as easily as a man will.

No, this is all too much trouble. Not worth the risk. She’s not gonna take it, doesn’t even know why she’s considering it.

Try.

V grits her teeth, draws in a deep breath, and drains the water bottle. She opens Regina’s message. Licks her lips.

[11:59] V:

Okay.

Chapter Text

As the sun slowly sinks behind the skyscrapers, Dum Dum and his crew hang outside one of Maelstrom’s ripper clinics, shootin’ the shit while their zealot gets an upgrade. Dum Dum sits on top of a chemical drum, his back to a wall spray-painted with Maelstrom graffiti, bored as hell. Bjorn, Janty, Lars, and Bonesy are squattin’ around a dice game in the middle of the alley while Trey messes with a vending machine.

Supposed to be out lookin’ for Brick, but Dum Dum knows it’s a waste of time. He’s gone deep underground by now. Maybe Dogtown. Maybe even no longer in Night City. The real mystery ain’t where he’s gone, though. It’s who helped him get there. They all know Patricia was in on it, but ‘borg girl didn’t do it alone. Who else helped? Not that it matters. Dum Dum doubts Brick’s gonna resurface anytime soon. Doesn’t have the support. Or if he does, Royce is already fucked. But Dum Dum’s not gonna be the one to remind Royce he shoulda killed Brick when he had him locked up.

Good way to get thrown in the microwave dryer.

The ripper’s shop door bangs open, drawing his gaze, and out strolls Yena with a brand new pair of golden cyberarms fitted with mantis blades. She strikes a deadly pose, showin’ ‘em off, and everyone jumps up to compliment her, everyone but him. He just looks, silently agreeing. Chrome looks fuckin’ preem. Yena grins at him, flashin’ a set of golden fangs she definitely didn’t have before, and Dum Dum thinks it’s hot as fuck. A good sign.

Means he’s still sane.

Lately, he’s been wonderin’ if he lost his mind, because for the past month, his mind keeps wandering back to that ‘ganic girl. To copper hair and freckles and curves. Told himself he wasn’t gonna think about her again, but he does. He wonders how she’s doing. If she made it out the other side of the trouble she was in. If she’s smilin’ again. Sometimes he even looks for her at the Totentanz, double-takin’ every redhead and scannin’ for stars. But she never comes. Maybe he should’ve specified? Don’t come back to All Foods, but the club is open to anyone.

Shit, he’s thinkin’ about her again.

As Yena licks her lips and blows him a kiss, Dum Dum exhales a heavy breath and tries to figure out if he’s gonna give her any attention or let her beg a little longer. She’s a perfect example of ‘borg beauty, chipped to the nines, and for some reason she’s got optics on Dum Dum. Not that he’s not desirable to a ‘borg girl, just that he ain’t ever sent her any signals.

Doesn’t feel like sendin’ her any now.

He listens to the group’s excited chatter with only a vague interest. They’re tryin’ to make plans for the night. Some wanna go out, give Yena a chance to play with her new toys. Others wanna head to Totentanz.

Yena bites her lip. “What are you gonna do, Dum Dum?”

Probably check in with Royce, update him about Brick, see what he wants to do next. He doesn’t say that though. Doesn’t say anything, just stares, too bored to bother. Bonesy loudly declares he’ll do whatever Yena wants to do. Kid’s been throwin’ himself at her for months. Janty gives him shit for it. Bjorn laughs and kisses her, right between those clickin’ mandibles.

“Don’t touch me,” a familiar voice snaps, drawing Dum Dum’s gaze to the street. He almost didn’t hear it amidst the cacophony of the city, even with his amplified hearing ware, but he swears it’s— “Knock it off.”

Dum Dum sits up straight, a bolt of excitement ripping through him. Think of the fuckin’ devil and there she appears. The copper-haired girl with stars in her head. This a fuckin’ sign, too?

“What’s up?” Trey asks as Dum Dum jumps to his feet.

“Goin’ back,” he says and then slips out of the alley without a single glance back. His chooms holler after him as he crosses the street, wonderin’ where he’s going and why, but he ignores them. Doesn't care what they think, if they believe him or not. Only thing he cares about right now is twenty-feet ahead of him, headin’ south on Goldsmith. He doesn’t know what he wants with her—to look at her? Talk to her? Get her to smile again? Follow her around all night like a stalker?—just knows he’s not bored anymore.

Dum Dum’s optics zero in on the girl, excitement thrumming through him. That’s when he notices the handsy solo next to her, some fuckin’ meatboy with too many earrings and a topknot who keeps tryin’ to touch her. This a fuckin’ date? But she shoves his arm away, tells him to stop. Not a date, or if it is, it’s a bad one. The solo just grins, laughs like she’s playing hard to get, and reaches for her again.

Dum Dum doesn’t like that. His hands briefly curl into fists, tongue swipes over a canine as a feeling he identifies as aggression begins to spread through him. Here for the girl, so if he has to deal with a problem, he’s gonna make short work of it. Been waitin’ a month to see the princess again. His patience is thin.

Handsy pulls her into an alley near Waldrop, crooning something about a shortcut.

“Let me go—”

Dum Dum steps into the alley, blocking the light. His shadow startles them and they jerk around in shock.

“Shit,” Handsy mutters as he stumbles back, bug-eyed.

The girl’s gaze meets his optics, drops to his mouth, and then recognition flashes on her face. Doesn’t seem scared or angry, just surprised. He likes that she remembers him. Calms him down a little.

“Hey,” she says, a little uncertain. Like she doesn’t know why he’s here. That makes two of them.

Dum Dum grins and lifts a cigarette to his lips. “Princess,” he says, then lights it. “How ya been?”

“Avoidin’ bullets,” she tells him, and her voice sounds real pretty.

“Yeah, good policy for a ‘ganic,” he says and a hint of a smile flashes briefly on her mouth.

“What the fuck, you hang with Maelstrom?” Handsy hisses.

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at the solo, just watches him. And he watches her. Scans her. She looks preem, wounds all healed and the stars are nice and hot. Her hair’s in a messy bun, like a tangle of copper thread, curling around her neck and face—fuck, why she have to be so pretty? He wants to talk to her some more, wants to spend some time with her. But this fuckin’ guy is in the way. Gotta deal with him first, then they can talk.

Dum Dum nods toward the solo and asks, “Friend of yours?”

“Nope,” she answers immediately.

Dum Dum gives Handsy the full weight of his attention, lifts the cigarette to his lips, takes a drag, slowly exhales. “Care if I kill him?”

“What the fuck?” Handsy bellows, backing up, hands raising defensively.

The girl hesitates—long enough he gets the impression she doesn’t care, just isn’t morally gray enough to say so.

Finally she asks, “He cross you?”

“Nah,” Dum Dum breathes. “Sounds like he crossed you.”

She shrugs and says, “All he really did was grab my ass.”

“That a fuckin’ crime?” Handsy spits, voice trembling.

Sure, yeah, it fuckin’ might be. Princess didn’t like it. Dum Dum’s undecided on the consequences, just knows there’s gonna be some.

She looks at the solo and jerks her hand. “Just go.”

“Hey, don’t even think about cuttin’ me out,” he snarls, stepping toward her like the fucker might put hands on her again. All Dum Dum has to do is lift the cigarette to his lips, and that barest bit of movement makes the solo jerk back. “C’mon—”

“We’re done,” she snaps.

Handsy looks incensed, like he wants to argue, to curse her out and then some, but one glance at Dum Dum and he shakes his head, swallows his rage. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he mutters, walking toward the exit. He eyes Dum Dum nervously.

Dum Dum covertly snaps a pic of the solo with his optics’ camera then nods for him to get lost.

Handsy ducks around him, glances back at the girl and growls, “Gonna regret this,” then runs away.

Dum Dum sends the pic to Bjorn.

[07:32] Dum Dum:

headin north on goldsmith

[07:32] Bjorn:

on it

Dum Dum drops his cigarette, crushes the filter beneath his boot. Looks at the girl, at those bright green eyes focused very intently on him. Got him locked in her cybersights.

“Can take your hand off the iron, princess,” he tells her, rememberin’ what she said about the Paraline. “Not gonna hurt ya.”

After a moment, the corner of her mouth twitches into a smile, and it’s prettier than he remembered.

“I did what you said,” she tells him. “I stayed away.”

Yeah, he noticed. Noticed too often. That’s why he’s here now. ‘Cause he can’t stop noticin’. But what he says is, “Yeah, smart girl.”

She scoffs and glances around the alley. “Not that smart.” As if this incident with Handsy is evidence enough. Then she sighs, falls against the wall, tips her head back, and closes her eyes. “Fuck…”

Dum Dum walks toward her, notices the way she tenses ever so slightly but doesn’t open her eyes. He stands across from her, leans back on the opposite wall, and watches her. She’s thinner than she was before, a little pale. Makes her freckles pop. After overthinking about her for a month, he expects those freckles to bore him, but they don't. At all.

Finally she looks at him. “Thanks for the assist,” she says, and when he tilts his head, she clarifies, “With that asshole.”

“Yeah, surprised you let it go on.”

“Wouldn’t have, except,” she shakes her head, “the guy was a-hundred percent meat.”

And her mind-magic can’t hack flesh, blood, and bone. Too bad. But he doesn’t point out that’s what actual iron is for. She’s armed with what looks to be a Unity, meaning she chose to put up with the solo.

“I only agreed to work with him ‘cause he said he was chipped,” she says like she knows what he’s thinkin’, “but he lied.”

“Would’a known that the moment you put eyes on him,” Dum Dum says, pointing to her head, to that cyberdeck he knows is in there. “So why not walk away?”

She shrugs. “Needed the help.” Her gaze bounces over him. “What are you doin’ here?”

“Was lookin’ for someone.” He jerks his chin at her. “Found you.”

“Sorry?”

He grins. “I’m not.”

She doesn’t seem to know how to take that. She just looks at him, her expression caught between confusion and amusement.

“You alone?” she asks, and there’s a nervous quality to her voice. Her gaze lingers on his mouth.

“Why? You worried?”

“Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, what for? Said you could last a few seconds, didn’t ya?”

“Depends on how many of you there are.”

“Just me.” He leans slightly forward. “Should I be worried?”

She smiles again, just for a second, and softly says, “Maybe a little…”

Dum Dum grins. Girl’s flirtin’ with him, sayin’ shit like that. He almost wants her to try it, to know what her code feels like. Bet it stings. Bet it hurts bone-deep. She’d nail him to the fuckin’ wall before he could touch her. Makes him hard just thinkin’ about it.

“That right?” He fishes the s-keef inhaler out of his pocket, takes a hit. “Show me whatcha got.”

She shakes her head and playfully throws out, “Don’t wanna hurt ya.”

“Why not?”

An odd look passes over her face before she recovers with, “You’re my favorite Maelstrommer.”

Not even the s-keef can dull the thrill he feels at such an absurd statement. He knows she doesn’t mean it. She’s just bein’ friendly, puttin’ him at ease with her manners, but he likes it anyway.

“Favorite, huh?” he says. “Gotta be a short list.”

She shrugs and admits, “You’re the only one on it.”

“Lucky me.”

Silence stretches between them for just a moment before she looks toward the street. “Am I free to go?”

Disappointment cuts deep despite the chem racing through him.

Dum Dum shrugs. “Not the fuckin’ police,” he says and a little laugh bubbles out of her. He likes the sound.

Doesn’t want her to go, but he’s not gonna keep her. Knows they have no biz to discuss, no relationship. Doesn’t matter what sick thoughts the Fat Rat planted in his head, she ain’t his. She’s nothin’ to him but a twisted thorn in his thoughts, and “favorite Maelstrommer” or not, he’s nothin’ to her ‘cept the ‘borg who sold her the Flathead.

He waits for her to walk away, tries to decide if he’s gonna follow her or not, but she doesn’t move.

So he asks, “Where ya goin’?”

“The H11.”

Megabuilding right around the corner. Why she goin’ there? She live there? Was she takin’ Handsy home with her? Needed the help, she said. “Help” don’t sound like a euphemism for “sex”, but who fuckin’ knows in this city.

“Ya live there?”

She doesn’t answer, just pins him with a look like he should know better than to ask. Dum Dum holds her gaze, keeps lookin’ at her, tryin’ to find the flaw. She can’t live up to his memory, right? Not after all the tampering of Fat Rat’s suggestions. But he still likes what he’s seein’ and it baffles him.

She still doesn’t leave.

The girl bites her lip, chews it a moment before asking, “Arasaka ever come around?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “You?”

“No.” She sounds surprised. “Zeroed my fixer, but…somehow I slipped under their radar.”

Nah, not somehow. Dum Dum made that trail go cold. He thinks about tellin’ her, but no matter how much he likes the idea of her gettin’ off on what he did to the fatter rat, he knows she won’t. Girl’s not the type. Not gonna risk scarin’ her. ‘Cause if he tells her, she’ll know he did it for her, will know a ‘Strommer’s thinkin’ about her just a little too much. And after that warnin’ he gave her? Well, shit. She’d have every right to be a little scared. Maybe more than a little.

“Sounds like it all worked out,” he says.

She nods, softly pounds the wall with a fist. “Mhm.”

Another stretch of silence. She taps the wall again, an impatient gesture, and then suddenly pushes off, starts toward the street. Stops. Turns around. Looks at him, at his mouth.

“Ya busy?” she asks.

Excitement shoots through the haze of ‘dorphs and adrenaline, but he doesn’t answer, just waits expectantly for her to tell him what she wants, what it was she needed Handsy for.

“Wanna make some eddies?”

“Helpin’ ya?” he asks, and suddenly he hopes it’s a fuckin’ euphemism.

She nods. “Simple gig. Just need you to stand guard.” She shrugs one shoulder and sheepishly adds, “Protect me.”

He runs his tongue along his teeth, pretends to consider it—of course he’s gonna do it, nothin’ to think about—and is fascinated by the way she seems to be watchin’ his mouth again.

“All right,” he says.

“All right?” she echoes. “That’s it? You don’t want details? About the gig, how much you’ll get paid…”

“Nah.” He pushes off the wall, starts toward her. “Just got one condition,” he says, and offers her the s-keef. “Take a hit.”

She looks at it like it’s a knife he’s pointin’ at her, then back at his mouth, his optics, his mouth again. And then she snatches it out of his palm. Dum Dum zooms into her lips wrapping around the mouthpiece, watches her smash the canister, the way her eyes dilate and her chest expands. Vapor pours from her lips as she withdraws the plastic, doesn’t hold it like he would.

Dum Dum grins. “Good?”

She doesn’t answer, just hands him the inhaler, still grappling with the rush. Big difference in effect when one is bleedin’ out versus perfectly healthy. One puff’s not gonna be enough to tilt her, but she should feel real chill. Colors should be fuckin’ hard, too. He takes another hit himself, could swear the taste of her is lingerin’ on the mouthpiece, but he knows that’s just the ‘dorphs firin’ his blood up.

“After you, princess,” he says on a cloud of vapor, and notes the way she draws in a heavy breath, lips parted.

“Name’s V,” she tells him.

Well, shit. Now she’s got a name. Didn’t wanna give her one. As long as she was just the girl, she didn’t have to be all that special, right? Nah, should’ve known better. ‘Cause she wasn’t a girl, she was the girl.

Now that she says it, he thinks he remembers Gonk-Brain and Fat Rat callin’ her that, but didn’t know it was a name, not just a letter.

“What’s it stand for?” he asks.

She flashes him the sexiest grin he’s seen on her yet and walks away. He smiles, pockets the inhaler, and follows her.

The sun’s almost entirely set when they leave the alley and head down Waldrop up to the H11. Tyger Claws outside the building follow him with their eyes, whisper to one another, but they don’t move an inch. Not gonna fuck with him, just want all their little gangoon chooms to know he’s there. Northside is Maelstrom turf and they know it. Not interested in startin’ a gang war. Not yet, at any rate.

They get in the elevator, she punches a button, and the doors close. They stand on opposite sides of the carriage, staring at one another.

She asks, “How much of you is metal?”

“What? You want a fuckin’ percent?”

She folds her lips in like she’s trying not to laugh. “Is it rude to ask a ‘borg about his chrome?”

“Nah, we fuckin’ love that shit. Why ya wanna know?”

“Just curious.”

“Yeah?” He takes a step toward her and she’s too high to tense up this time, to be scared, but her gaze is on his mouth again. He opens his jacket to show her his bare chest of synthetic skin and cyberware. “Take a guess.”

She draws a breath like she’s gonna refuse to look…and then her gaze drops to his throat, drifts down, but before he can get a reaction out of her—blatant disgust or morbid fascination, it’s always one of the two with ‘ganics—the elevator dings and the doors open. She looks at that open door, then up at his optics, avoiding everything below his chin.

“This is it,” she says, so he drops his jacket and follows her out.

They get off on a sublevel and she leads the way down a curving corridor, empty save for a couple junkies sleeping by the hot water pipe.

“Here,” she says, stopping in front of a maintenance cage.

She fingers the lock beside the gate, but before she can try to hack it, Dum Dum reaches around her, braces one hand on the wall, grips a bar of the gate with the other, and jerks it open. She looks up at him from between his arms, her pupils blown, lips parted. He knows it’s just the high, but she looks like she’s impressed and he’s not sure why. Not like he replaced his meat for metal so he could stay weak.

The maintenance cage is sparse with a shelf full of spare parts, old boxes filled with tangled coils of cable, a row of circuit breakers, and an access port. She kneels next to the port and pulls her personal link, plugs in.

“Shouldn’t take more than a couple minutes,” she tells him, tossing him a nervous glance. “Just make sure no one messes with me, okay?”

“Sure, yeah,” he tells her, leaning back against the chain link fence to watch.

She visibly swallows, relaxes against the wall, and lowers her gaze. A second later, her body goes limp. Her mind’s in the system now, doin’ whatever it is the codefreaks do.

Dum Dum stares at her. Takes a lot of guts to do this with a stranger. She’s entirely vulnerable. He could do whatever he wanted to her and she’d be powerless to stop him. He doesn’t like knowin’ she was desperate enough to risk this with Handsy, but she at least thought he was a professional. Dum Dum, though? He’s not a merc, he’s Maelstrom. Why ask him?

He walks closer, crouches in front of her. Gazes at her breasts large enough to fill his hands, the curve of her small waist, her shapely thighs. No outward sign of any chrome, no EMP threading, not even any visible tattoos—but fuck, he’s attracted to her anyway. More attracted than he was to Yena. How the fuck is that possible? He doesn’t know, only knows if she licked her lips and blew him a kiss, he’d send her more than signals. He’d have his cock in her before she could say, “Dum Dum.”

Pretty sure she’d never catch his signals, though. Didn’t take her for a ‘borg fucker, Fat Rat had said, and Dum Dum knows it. Probably for the best. Doesn’t know the first thing about fuckin’ such soft flesh. He’d probably bruise her, break her.

Kind of likes that idea, though…

Footsteps carry down the hall and Dum Dum glances over his shoulder in time to see a mangy little junkie freeze outside the cage. He takes one look at a ‘borg kneeling over a helpless woman, gasps, and runs away.

Dum Dum looks at the girl again and wonders what she would’ve done if he hadn’t come with her. Would she have risked it? Would that skell be pawin’ at her right now for cred or cunt? This is what Gonk-Brain must’ve been to her. Her guardian. Now she needs a new one and the best she could come up with was Handsy? He did her a favor scarin’ the gonk off. That piece of shit would definitely have put his paws on her.

Dum Dum stands up, returns to the fence, and leans against it. Half a minute later, her lashes flutter and awareness returns. She tenses, looks around, finds him with those bright green eyes.

“Done?” he asks.

She draws a few deep breaths and unplugs. “Done,” she confirms, climbing to her feet.

They slip out of the cage and down the hall to an emergency door presumably locked from the outside, exiting into a dark alley covered in trash. They pick their way back to the street and turn down Goldsmith, heading north. The sun’s completely gone now, just the bright neons of Night City to light the way.

A twenty minute gig, quieter than cockroaches. This the kinda shit these mercs do? Doesn’t know how she can stand it. He gets why she wanted him to tag along, but what’s the point of havin’ Maelstrom backup if no one’s doin’ any violence?

“Boring date, princess,” he says, and she snorts in amusement.

“Couldn’t have gone smoother,” she says, and she seems strangely happy. “I appreciate you steppin’ in, lookin’ out for me.”

Dum Dum shakes his head. “Just…not a word to anyone you had a Maelstrom ‘borg guard a ‘ganic’s body, yeah?”

There’s a small smile on her lips when she says, “Got it.” She sweeps her stray hair off her forehead and adds, “Fixer knows the job’s done, by the way. Just waitin' for confirmation from the client.”

Dum Dum doesn’t care about the eddies, but he’ll take more time with the girl.

“Uh huh. So what’d you do back there, exactly?” he asks.

“Uploaded malware to a Tyger Claw subnet for some ‘runner who wants to dive bomb Arasaka.”

“Always enjoy seein’ the corpos and the Claws get fucked in one go,” he murmurs, and she nods in agreement.

They walk in silence for a few minutes before she clears her throat and says, “I’m not all ‘ganic, you know.”

Dum Dum knows. It’s what he likes about her—one of the things. “Yeah, the stars.”

“What stars?”

“Thermal scan,” he explains. “Your ware lights up like stars in your skull. Can’t tell what it is, though. Whatcha got?”

“What? You want a fuckin’ list?” she asks with the same tone he used in the elevator. He likes it, likes when she remembers what he says. Likes that she’s payin’ attention.

“Yeah, I want a fuckin’ list. You got one?”

She just shakes her head and turns into a dark parking garage, leading him toward an old, beat-up Archer Hella. Dum Dum thought they sent all those junkers to the scrap decades ago.

“This your car?” he asks.

“Yep.”

“It’s a piece of shit.”

She nods in agreement. “Just slightly better than shoes.”

“So get a new one.”

“That’s what my friend used to say,” she tells him, leaning against it, “and I almost would, but then I’d just…”

When she doesn’t continue, he prompts, “Just what?”

Silence, like a held breath, and then…

“You’re kinda scary in the dark, you know that?”

Dum Dum grins, excited, elated. “Yeah?” He licks his lips, gazing into those bright green eyes. “You, too.”

They stare at one another for a long, quiet moment, and then her eyes twitch, she looks away—the tell-tale sign of receiving a message. A second later, she flicks him his payment, E$1,121, and he thinks the cute li’l gonk must have sent him exactly half.

“There you go,” she says. “Thanks for your help.”

“Sure, yeah, no problem.”

She grips the car door handle. “You need a ride?”

“Nah.” He backs up and flicks her his detes before he can think twice about it. “If you need me again.”

She flashes him a cheeky look as she opens the door. “To bore you some more?”

Nah, not bored with her, but what he says is, “Pick a better gig next time.”

She smiles for him, nods in farewell, and gets into her car. Dum Dum watches her drive away. Doesn’t know if he’ll ever see her again, but he knows he wants to. After today, he just might.

He heads back out onto the street and walks the block to Totentanz. As the hotel comes into view, Dum Dum shoots Bjorn a message.

[8:17] Dum Dum:

where

[8:17] Bjorn:

back

Out front, fires burn in rusty drums and a couple Chevillon’s are parked to the side, doors open and music blasting. A throng of ‘Strommers mingle with the gathering crowd, laughing, drinking, smoking. Dum Dum stomps past them, ignoring any greetings tossed his way, and cuts into the alley that leads to the back. He passes a couple ‘borgs harassing some chrome bunnies, winds through the maze of scrap and trash, then ducks into a gated off delivery yard from days-long-gone when this place used to be a hotel. Bjorn is makin’ out with Janty in the corner while Trey holds a rifle on Handsy who’s kneeling by a brick wall, lookin’ a little scared and a little banged up, but otherwise no worse for wear.

“Hey,” Trey hollers when he sees him.

Dum Dum nods in greeting and sends him away. Pulls his DR5 and reaches for Handsy.

“Hey, man, I didn’t do anything,” the solo babbles as Dum Dum picks him up by his shirt, puts him on his feet. “I didn’t fuckin’ do—”

Dum Dum shoves him against the wall, silencing him.

“Is ‘don’t touch me’ just a fuckin’ suggestion to you?” he asks, pressing the barrel of his DR5 into the solo’s right palm, flattening it against the brick.

“N-no—”

“Think you can touch whatever you want?”

“No, I’m sorry—”

“Told the merc girl she’d regret it,” he says, “but you’re gonna fuckin’ regret it if you go near her again, you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, won’t go near her, I swear—”

“I find out you touched her again, I’m gonna take your other hand.”

“My oth—?”

Dum Dum pulls the trigger and obliterates the solo’s hand. Blood and bone explode over the wall, spatter Dum Dum and the merc. Handsy screams and falls to his knees, cradling his stump in front of him, crying, drooling. Trey, Bjorn, and Janty start laughing.

“Now get the fuck outta here,” Dum Dum says, pointing to the exit with the barrel of his gun.

Handsy stumbles from the yard and through the gate, leaving a trail of blood.

“Geez, Dum Dum, the fuck he do?” Janty asks.

Dum Dum glances back at his crew, smilin’ and laughin’, their bright red optics cutting the night like cyber spiders. Even if he wanted to explain it—and he doesn’t—they probably don’t remember the princess. They’d think he was goin’ crazy anyway.

He probably is.

“Nothin’,” Dum Dum answers. “Just didn’t like him.”

Chapter Text

Adrenaline rushes through V’s veins as she drives south on Goldsmith with the windows down, air rushing up her nose and blowing through her hair. She did it. She finished a gig! Yeah, it was small and simple and she had help, but it’s the first job she’s done since the Konpeki heist went south. And maybe it’s just the s-keef still cruising her system, but she feels…

Relieved. A little happy, even.

Gonk, she thinks, but it’s with a light heart. Because it’s more than she’s done on her own in a long time. Wasn’t on your own, a little voice reminds her, and a shocked laugh bubbles out of her. Shocked because her back-up was Maelstrom.

God, she thought she was well and truly fucked when he showed up, standin’ in that alley, trappin’ them in there. But then she recognised him, the ‘borg who sold her the Flathead and gave her the s-keef. Dum Dum. And she didn’t know what to expect—can never know what to expect with Maelstrom—but she hoped he would recognize her too, would remember that he liked her just a little bit, and that she could get out of there without a fight. Then he grinned. Princess, he called her with something almost like affection buried in that guttural, metallic voice, and everything within her shifted. He remembered her. There was hope.

V shakes her head, still giddy with disbelief. Of all the reckless, desperate, gonk-brained ideas… She’d been worried about Kent, that lying asshole solo with the wandering hands, givin’ her trouble and then she goes and asks a Maelstrommer for help instead? Fuck, she still doesn’t know what possessed her to do it, except…well, she was desperate and…

And Dum Dum’s been decent to her. Yeah, she was a little nervous she’d made a mistake when he had her hit the s-keef, but then it wound up relaxing her enough to get her through the gig. And Dum Dum? Well, he did exactly as she asked of him and nothing more. Except be funny. She remembers thinking that when they first met, too. That unexpected and blunt delivery, like he’s not really joking—it tickles her. Maybe more so because it’s coming from a ‘borg, and she never figured they’d have much in the way of a sense of humor. Not one that normal people would get, at any rate.

She thought it would be scary working with him—and maybe it was a little, though not for anything he did, just for how unpredictable Maelstrom is known to be—but all things considered, it was normal. Fuck, she still can’t believe she asked him for help, that he agreed, that he was so damn professional. That he offered to help again… Flicked her his detes and she was so surprised, she could only crack a stupid joke. “Pick a better gig next time,” was all he said, and she smiled.

And then she felt guilty, because it was a real smile, easy and full of joy, and it feels wrong to be happy, even just for a moment, when Jackie’s only one month in the grave.

V brushes her hair off her forehead as she opens her contact list and sees the number Dum Dum sent her. Wonders what she should do with it. Sure, she and the ‘borg have had three good interactions so far, and some might call that a pattern, but only a gonk would try to assign a pattern to Maelstrom. Is it really worth the risk? Yeah, Dum Dum seems like a decent-enough guy, but he values chaos—told her as much himself the first time they met.

Working with him is playing with fire. Eventually he’s going to burn her, and she’ll have no one to blame but herself.

V draws a deep breath—she’ll figure it out later—and scrolls past his number down to Vik’s. His unanswered text screams at her. She bites her lip, chews it. It’s late, maybe he’s not in, maybe he doesn’t even want to see her, but… She shoots him a message before she can think twice about it.

[08:32] V:

Mind if I stop by?

Three whole minutes pass before he responds.

[08:35] Vik:

Door’s unlocked.

Relief rushes through her. Be there in twen— The words stall out in her brain as Jackie’s last text message screams into her mind. She blinks rapidly, jaw tensing, and she shoves that agony back down into her chest. Clings to her good mood.

[08:36] V:

Be there soon

She merges onto Ellison and loops up to the parking garage next to her megabuilding. Parks her junker and jogs across the crosswalk, takes the side street beside the H10 down toward Bradbury. The smells wafting off the food vendors remind her growling stomach that she hasn’t eaten today except for those awful blueberry protein bars, and she makes a mental note to stop by the store for groceries on her way home.

V dashes across Bradbury onto Buran, slips through the side gate, and turns the corner into the alley where Vik’s shop is nestled behind Misty’s Esoterica. She skips down the steps, lets herself into the building, and loops her fingers through the gate. The ripperdoc’s nowhere to be seen.

“Vik?” she calls, pulling the gate open and stepping inside.

He appears just as she’s closing it, wearing a sweaty tank top, breathing heavily, and ripping boxing gloves off his hands.

“Gimme a sec,” he tells her, his tone neutral as always, and she hopes that means he’s not mad at her.

“Sure.”

She watches him wander back to the corner where he keeps his punching bag and gym clothes, diverting her gaze when he starts to pull his shirt over his head. The clinic is dark save for the red neons above his desk and the white lights of the cold storage in the back. She busies herself looking at all the boxing trophies he has lined up beneath those neons. She’s seen them all a hundred times, doesn’t know what half the awards mean or anything about the tournaments they’re for, but it’s less awkward than staring at the wall.

A minute later, Vik reappears wearing an unbuttoned overshirt over a fresh tee, dabbing his face with a towel.

“What can I do for you, kid?” he asks, friendly as always.

She kicks the floor with the toe of her shoe. “Know I’m late for my appointment but,” she shrugs, “hoped you might still be willin’ to take a look.”

He stares at her for a moment before nodding to his chair. “Have a seat.”

She climbs onto the creaking leather chair and waits quietly while he fits his exoglove onto his left hand then washes up. He kicks his rolling stool to a point behind her and she hears his weight sink onto it. A second later, there are fingers at the base of her skull, fiddling with her interface plate. She feels the gentlest of pressure as rough pads scrape along the panel and check the integrity of the plugs.

“Lookin’ good so far,” he tells her. “How’s that memory of yours? Experiencing any more brownouts?”

“I, uh… I donno,” she admits. “Maybe. Hard to say. Been…diving a lot.”

He stills for a second, because he knows why… Knows that in cyberspace, the mind disconnects from the body save for intense physical sensation, suppressing emotion. She knows she’s sad, she just doesn’t have to feel the agony that comes with it.

She braces for a lecture or pity party, but he just resumes his prodding.

“Uh huh,” he grunts. “What about when you’re jacked in? Any gaps?”

V closes her eyes in relief. “No…”

“Good. Probably not hardware related, then.” He plugs a device into a port behind her ear. “Gonna run a few tests, just to be sure.”

“Yep.” She cracks her knuckles, twists her fingers together. After a moment, she says, “I did a gig today.”

“Oh yeah?” he grunts and she hums in confirmation. “Just guessin’—based on you sittin’ here hale and whole—everything went well?”

“Yeah,” she tells him. “Really well. I mean, it was a small job, but—”

“Gotta start somewhere,” he finishes for her. “I get it.”

“Right.”

“That’s good, V. Real good.”

She smiles briefly, clasps her hands, squeezes them together to combat her nervous guilt.  Takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Vik,” she murmurs, “for not makin’ my appointment and…and for not answering your messages. That was a shitty thing to do and I—well, I want you to know I’m sorry.”

A pause, and then he rolls around the side of the chair to face her. She meets his gaze as steadily as she can.

“You know I don’t care about that, V,” he says seriously. “All that matters to me is knowin’ you're alive. You don’t have to be okay, just…” He shakes his head, sighs. “I know you’re hurtin’. And you know I’d do anything for you. You want a shoulder to cry on, mine are pretty broad. You want to go twelve rounds, I got an extra pair of gloves with your name on ‘em. Want a beer? Let’s get a beer. Want to just sit in silence? I got a couch doesn't see much use.” He shrugs. “Don’t want any of that from me? That’s fine. You don’t have to. The only thing you have to do is call me when you’re in trouble.” He huffs, smiling a little. “And come in for a check-up once in awhile. Okay?”

Warmth spreads through her as she nods, swallows the lump in her throat and quietly replies, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes, as if that settles it, and rolls back behind the chair to continue his work. A few minutes pass before he announces, “All done,” and unplugs the device from her head. “Scans show firmware’s operating effectively. Short of cuttin’ into your skull and puttin’ your ware under a scope, not much more I can do.”

“Yeah, think I’ll take your word for it,” she says, sliding forward and pushing to her feet. “Thanks, Vik.”

“Anytime, kid.”

Vik rolls back toward his desk, picks up a screwdriver, and begins removing the exoglove. V heads toward the exit, pauses at the gate.

“Hey, Vik?” She looks back at him, meets his dark glasses. She toes the ground, forces the words out. “You ever…feel bad? Y’know, for smilin’ or laughin’ since Jackie—” She can’t bring herself to say the rest out loud.

He heaves a deep breath, lets it out low and slow. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Sure I do.”

“Does it…” She swallows. “When does it get easier?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just stares at his exoglove, pokes at it with the screwdriver. Finally he looks at her. “Honestly, the first month’s the hardest. After that, you start feelin’ things again, more than just sadness. After a couple months, you’ll notice you’re getting distracted instead of seeking it out.” He pokes at his exoglove again. “You’ll still feel sad, probably even cry, but less often. Before you know it, the memories don’t hurt as much. And then one day you look up to realize you’re living your life like normal, and it’s only been six months.” He sighs, tosses the screwdriver onto his desk where it clatters like thunder in the quiet room. “And then you’ll feel like shit for movin’ on. After about a year, that’ll be it. You’ll miss him. You’ll wish he was here. But you won’t need him to be. And that’s the way it is.”

V just stares at the ground. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry, V.”

“I asked—”

“Not that. Just…that you have to know what this feels like.”

She meets his gaze. “It feels shitty.”

“I know. Trust me.” He shakes his head. “Just try to cut yourself some slack from time to time. About the guilt. You can’t stop yourself from movin’ on. That’s just how we’re built. It’s inevitable. But don’t feel like you have to rush through the pain either. It’ll dull with time. You won’t be able to stop it.”

“You say that like you’d want to…”

He shrugs, and she’s never seen him look so defeated. “Sometimes, you do.”

Silence stretches between them. V considers leaving, hesitates, and then slowly walks to his side. She bends down, wraps her arms around his shoulders, and lays her cheek along the slope of his neck. After a moment, he reaches up and gently touches her arm.

“I’m sorry you have to know what it feels like, too,” she whispers.

“Thanks, kid.”

“And I’d do anything for you, too.”

There’s a smile in his voice as he breathes out, “I’m alright.” He squeezes her arm, pats it, then drops his hand. She takes that as her cue to release him. “But maybe you could check in on Misty soon.”

Misty… Her last message lingers in V’s mind like a splinter. How did she know about the Blackwall? Doesn’t matter. No excuse for ghosting her.

“I will,” she says. “I promise.”

“Okay.”

“Night, Vik.”

“G’night, V.”

The moment she leaves his shop, she inhales a deep breath of cool night air to clear her head. To not think about anything but how nice it feels to have completed a job.

She heads to the corner store inside the H10 and buys groceries—instant meals, mostly, and more protein bars and Vita-Mine, but also a few loose ingredients to cook with. Then she goes home and cleans up the empty containers, takes the trash out, and stocks her cabinets and fridge. She takes a fast shower to rinse off the feel of Kent pawing at her, changes into something comfy, and pops down to level seven for takeout.

Back in her apartment, she eats dinner in silence, reliving the events of the night. She still can’t believe everything worked out so perfectly. After meeting Kent, she thought she’d really screwed up taking the job. She’d hoped she could use him long enough to get paid and then delta, even if she had to hold him at gunpoint to do it. A stupid risk in hindsight, and one that probably wouldn't have worked out in her favor. She was lucky Dum Dum showed up, although it was a risk to ask him to help, too. A risk to hope he’d let her go when the job was over. Was lucky that he did.

Fuck, is that really her style? Risk and luck? Great traits for a main character in a summer smasher, but terrible for a merc. Sure, there’s always a dose of both that factors into every job, but they shouldn’t be the only variables on the table. She’d screwed up tonight, almost got herself killed, or something equally horrifying. What the hell happened to her? With Jackie, she had been the strategic one, always reining in his recklessness.

Gotta be smarter going forward, better prepared. Find herself a reliable partner, ideally. Or at least expand her skills so she won’t need one.

V finishes eating and tosses her empty cartons, starts a load of laundry, and brushes her teeth. She goes to her window and stares out at the neons lighting up the night. She’s got a lot of work to do to get back to the merc she used to be, could be. But it’s not insurmountable. Yeah, tonight’s success was mostly luck, but Jackie taught her to always look at the positives. One, she survived. Always an important number one. Two, she finished the job, which means she got paid and her rep’s intact, so the next gig should come more easily. Three…

V gnaws at her lip and pulls up her contact list, stares at that brand new number. Smartest thing she could do is delete it and forget she ever met the ‘borg. Risk and luck are not good bedfellows.

She clenches her jaw, closes the app without making changes. She listens to the quiet. Watches the activity on the street below. Wonders what her next step should be. Should probably head to Wilson’s in the morning, get a feel for Vik’s gun. Maybe look into getting a new one. Reach out to more fixers, get her name out there. Vetting more mercs would also be a good first step.

Nervousness seeps into her belly, but she brushes it aside. She just needs to sleep. She hasn’t done too much of that lately. A good night’s rest, and she’ll have a better grasp on what to do.

She turns off the light and flops onto her bed, stares into the darkness of her apartment. The silence vibrates in her ears. Her energy begins to fade, enthusiasm leaking out of her. A familiar weight settles on her chest.

Her gaze wanders to her hackpad.

She shuts her eyes, rolls over, draws a blanket over her shoulders. Tries to ignore the anxiety squirming in her gut. Jackie’s face storms her thoughts, him laughing and talking about meaningless things. That weight on her chest presses down, crushing her lungs. A grip around her heart begins to squeeze.

Don’t feel like you have to rush through the pain, Vik had said. She takes a deep breath, another. Tries to sleep.

But it’s too quiet.

She throws the blanket off and bolts across her apartment to her hackpad. Shucks her pajamas and slips on her bodyweight suit, queues a dive. Ignores the shame and sorrow and sense of defeat, and plugs herself in.

She swipes the tear off her cheek and jams ENTER.

Chapter Text

V’s phone is ringing the moment she comes out of cyberspace, Judy’s name flashing in the top left corner of her vision. She groans, blinking at the ceiling, disoriented.

She answers, “Hey, Ju—”

“Where have you been?” Judy exclaims, panicked.

V sucks in a sharp breath in shock, only just noticing the half dozen missed calls and twice as many text messages. She squeezes her eyes shut, gathering her wits.

“Sorry, what are you—”

“I found her, V,” Judy blurts. “Fucking Woodman sold her to a piece of shit ripper goes by Fingers, but he won’t tell me where she is—”

“Slow down,” V interrupts, pulling herself upright and slowly unhooking from her rig. “What are you talking about? Found who?”

“Evelyn, who else?” Judy snaps.

What does she mean, “who else?” V hasn’t heard from this girl in a month! How is she supposed to know what’s going on? But if Judy’s “found” Evelyn, that means she was missing. Shit, Arasaka didn’t get to her, did they?

V grits her teeth as she unlocks the dive cable and asks, “What happened to Evelyn?”

“I don’t know. She wasn’t answerin’ my calls and no one at Clouds would talk—”

“Clouds? That where she worked?”

“Yeah. I told her to stay the fuck away from that place, but she wouldn’t listen. Something happened, there was an attack.” Judy sounds frustrated, devastated. “Destroyed her behavioral chip. And Woodman—he didn’t help her. He just sold her like a broken toy.”

V doesn’t know who the hell Woodman is, but it doesn’t seem pertinent to the story so she skips to her next question, “Evelyn didn’t leave Night City?”

“No,” she answers, and she sounds exhausted. “She holed up with the Mox for awhile after the heist. She was safe, but…thought she’d be safer at Clouds. God knows why. Tried to get her to see straight, but she just wouldn’t listen.”

V stands up, unzips her bodyweight suit. “All right, so she goes back to Clouds… You said someone attacked her?”

“A netrunner,” Judy says, and she sounds shaken. “Hacked her, fried her chip. It was…” She draws a shuddering breath, unable to continue.

Goosebumps sprout along her arms. Hacked by a netrunner…? Shit. Shit. Doesn’t sound like Arasaka’s style—they’d want to interrogate her first—which means someone else is involved. NetWatch? V checked Yorinobu’s computer in his penthouse, the same one Evelyn had looked at on the BD she rolled, and there it was in black and white: Yorinobu was selling the biochip to NetWatch. Was Evelyn trying to bogart his deal? But she wouldn’t risk contacting them until after she already had the chip to avoid them tipping off Yorinobu. No, there has to be someone else involved…

“Who hacked her?” V asks, peeling off her bodyweight suit.

“I don’t know—”

“Where did this happen?”

“At Clouds. She was with a client, but he wasn’t involved—”

“No one else had access?”

“No, it was closed off—”

“So it was a remote hack?”

“I guess—”

“How soon after the heist?”

“I don’t know, a few days? What does it matter? I just want to find her!”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. It matters because if the hacker sniped Evelyn for her involvement in the heist then they could be looking for her accomplices.

“When did this happen?” V exclaims, hurrying across her apartment to her bathroom.

“A few weeks ago! Happy?”

A few weeks… If Arasaka hasn’t found her by now, it’s unlikely this mysterious other party knows about her either. Still, she doesn’t like not knowing who else out there might still be looking. Fuck, how many people are involved in this? She needs to talk to the source.

“Where is Evelyn now?” V asks as she begins washing her face.

“What do you think I’ve been trying to find out?” Judy yells.

“Okay, okay. Let’s back up. She was attacked at Clouds. Then what happened?”

“Woodman couldn’t fix her, so he sold her—”

“To a ripperdoc.”

“Yeah. Fingers. Runs a dinky chop shop off Jig-Jig Street.” She exhales a harsh breath. “Fuck, V. Guy’s all kinds of bad news.”

Yeah, ten guesses why a guy named “Fingers” is bad news… But V bites her tongue and instead says, “Everything on Jig-Jig Street is bad news,” then rinses her face.

“He’s worse. Preys on addicts and joytoys, chips faulty implants so they have to keep comin’ back, then makes them pay however they can. He’s a sick fuck.”

V’s stomach roils in disgust. “And he has her?”

“No—I… I don’t know. He won’t tell me. I need your help.”

V grabs a towel and pats her face dry. “What do you want me to do?”

Judy scoffs. “You’re a big bad merc, right? I want you to make that fucker talk.” There’s a loud smack in the background like Judy hit something. “Make him tell me where she is!”

V grimaces. “Seriously?”

That’s not what she does, that was Jackie’s role. No one finds her intimidating. Hell, Dum Dum’s been calling her “princess” since they met. The only reason he called her scary—and she’s not entirely sure he wasn’t just joking—is because he’s a ‘borg, making him extra vulnerable to cyberattacks.

There’s so much disdain in Judy’s voice when she fires back, “You think I’d joke about this?”

“Can’t call the Mox?”

“You think I haven’t? You’re the only one left!”

“All right, all right, just…” V pinches the bridge of her nose. “Just give me a minute.”

“She doesn’t have a minute—”

“Fine, fine.” She eyes her closet for something that screams badass. “Text me the address. I’ll meet you there.”

“Done.” There’s a long pause before Judy whispers, “I’m worried sick about her, V.”

V swallows. “I know.” And then she hangs up.

-o-

Jig-Jig Street is a seedy, densely packed market where one can buy any kind of degenerate experience in any form—drugs, chrome, sex, gambling. Obscene neon signs and ads flash like beacons to lost souls while joytoys line the narrow streets to tempt the would-be sinners. The crowd is full of grifters, scammers, wide-eyed tourists, and corpo rats looking to pre-game whatever evil bullshit they’re headed to next. Most would call it Night City’s red light district. V calls it dystopian nightmare fuel.

She muscles her way through the crowd toward the clinic in the back, grimacing when she realizes it's located in a run-down flophouse. When the two little gangbangers guarding the door try to stop her from entering, she reboots one of their optics with a single glance, throwing him into a panic and scaring his buddy off.

“Don’t fuck with me,” she barks with more bravado than she feels then pushes past them.

Inside the flophouse it’s dark and smells like piss and sickly sweet decay. She holds her breath and makes her way to the stairs in the back, passing open doors where the still, pale forms of addicts lie on ruined mattresses. She hurries up to the second floor and follows the light to an apartment converted into a clinic, the den now a makeshift waiting room full of joytoys.

The place looks so run-down and hopeless that V’s skin begins to crawl, her breath hitches. The smell of cheap perfume, too many chemicals, and rot pierces her nostrils. She gets this awful, illogical, inescapable feeling that if she inhales too deep, if she touches anything, she’ll catch whatever disease is festering here.

V spots Judy waiting by the door to what she presumes is Fingers’ office. The techie is somehow smaller than V—a detail she didn’t notice the first time they met since Judy was sittin’ down the whole time. She still has green and pink hair, one side of her head shaved, though she’s paler than V remembers, and has dark circles under her eyes, like she hasn’t slept in days.

“V, hey,” Judy says, arms folded across her chest, swaying nervously.

V swallows. “You think Evelyn’s being kept here somewhere?”

“On the one hand, I hope she is, ‘cause I want her back fast. But on the other, hope to God no, because who knows what that sick fuck could’ve done to her.”

V remembers the bodies below and asks, “Did you check the rest of the house?”

“Twice,” Judy answers, as if that should’ve been obvious.

“All right,” V says as soothingly as possible. “We’ll talk to him. We’ll find her.” She nods to the door. “He in there?”

“He’s operatin’ on someone,” one of the joytoys announces, butting into their conversation.

“Been in there for ages,” another says. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Pfft, don’t hold your breath,” the first clucks. “There’s a fuckin’ line, and I’ve been here for hours.”

“You can wait a few more,” Judy snaps.

“Nuh uh, you ain’t cuttin’,” the girl exclaims, jumping to her feet. “Sit your ass down and wait your turn!”

“Hey, hey, we’re not here to get work done,” V says, stepping between them with her hands held up in conciliation. “We just need to talk to him.”

“And I need to get seen so I can get back to work!”

“Just a couple questions, that’s all,” V assures her. “A girl’s missing. Please.”

“Yeah?” the joytoy scoffs. “Thousands of girls are missin'. What’s one more?”

Judy jerks toward her and V catches her shoulder, pulling her back. The joytoy rolls her eyes like this is a waste of time. An argument is on the tip of V’s tongue when the door suddenly swings open and a patient strolls out. Judy hurries toward the office, causing the hostile joytoy to square her shoulders and shout, “Hey!” just a second before her friend rises from the couch and touches her shoulder.

“Let ‘em talk to him,” the other woman says gently. “If someone’s lookin’ for a missin’ girl, let ‘em. Least they’re lookin’.”

The hostile joytoy’s jaw clenches before she begrudgingly nods and backs off, drops down onto the couch with a huff like a scolded child.

“Thank you,” V says, stepping toward the door.

“Just talkin’?” the kind one asks. “You’ll keep him in one piece?”

“Promise.”

“Good.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “The bastard ain’t much, but he’s all we have.” She nods toward the open door. “Good luck, honey.”

V offers her a brief, polite smile and ducks into Fingers’ office. The sight of him stops her in her tracks, sends her stomach into a nauseating flip. He looks like some sick villain out of a horror flick—rail thin with limp, greasy hair and dressed like a washed up joytoy. He’s washing his hands, long nails clacking together. She grits her teeth and closes the door.

“Yes, hello?” he calls from over his shoulder in an effeminate tone. “What can I do for you?”

V flashes Judy a look—gonna let me handle this?—and the techie nods. Good. They need to get this done as quickly as possible. She can’t stand being here, surrounded by so much misery.

V clears her throat. “Lookin’ for a girl named Evelyn Parker,” she says, and she sees those bony shoulders tense up. “I know she was here in your…clinic.”

“Ahh, so that’s what this is about,” he sighs, and there’s a nervous hitch in his voice he’s trying to hide.

“Where is she?” V asks.

“A loaded question if I’ve ever heard one,” he says, shutting off the water and drying his hands. “You with the Tyger Claws? Far as I know, I’m all paid up.”

“We’re with the Mox,” Judy snaps, and Fingers whirls around, lips twitching in a poor attempt at a smile. He has a thin porno ‘stache that makes V cringe.

“The Mox? Why didn’t you say so?” Fingers beams. “So. What brings you here?”

“Evelyn Parker,” V growls, patience thinning. “Where is she?”

He shrugs. “Many girls come through here. So many.” He picks up a cigarette case, casually thumbs it open. “But let me put it to you this way… I believe in giving each of them the personal touch. Ask anyone.” He plucks a cigarette, slips it in his mouth. “I’m more than a chop-doc. See, I know what people truly want.” Lights the cigarette, lazily bows smoke into the air. “To be flattered, praised, patted. To feel like…like they deserve it. Of course, I can’t remember each and every one—”

Motherfucker’s stalling.

V shakes her head and takes a threatening step toward him. “Don’t try gettin’ out of this. Went jittery soon as I mentioned her name. I know you remember her.”

Fingers swallows, takes another drag on his cigarette, stalling again. “I…I have a neurological condition—”

“The fuck you do,” V grinds out. “Tell me where she is.”

He tries to smile, but it’s faltering. “P-poor girl,” he mewls, switching tactics. “Tried to help her, I did. But as you can see, this isn’t exactly a state-of-the-art facility—”

“I asked you where she is, not what you did.”

“I’m trying to tell you,” he scoffs, but there’s no attitude behind it. He’s scared. He takes another quick puff of his cigarette, shaking his head. “Instruction register on her chip was burnt to a crisp. Tried replacing it. Nothing.”

Fuck, that’s some vicious homebrew malware to lock her down that bad. As curious as V is, it’s irrelevant right now. So she growls, “Where?”

Fingers shrugs. “I haven’t the faintest idea—”

“Enough of this bullshit,” Judy shouts. “What’d you do to her, you freak?”

Fingers gapes at her, wide-eyed, and nervously points his cigarette at her. “Now either you put a muzzle on this…creature…or put her down. It’s impossible to have a conversation—”

V’s heard enough. She crosses the room in two strides and grabs the little shit by his dog collar, drags him to the ground. His entire body locks up in horror, hands immediately lifting in surrender. His cigarette bounces on the rug, scattering ashes and embers, melting the cheap fibers.

“You’re scum,” she growls softly, drawing Vik’s gun with her free hand and angling it under his jaw, “pathetic, a waste of words. I’m a hair away from putting you down.” It’s a lie. She’s not going to kill this freak—she promised that woman in the other room. But part of her wants to. Real bad. “Now tell me where she is. I’m not gonna ask you again.”

“Two beefers from a BD studio took her,” Fingers whimpers. “Didn’t even know their names!”

“Want details, damn it,” she snaps, jamming the barrel into his papery skin. “Name the studio!”

“Th-they mentioned a moth, of all things, virtus with the Death’s Head,” he cries, and Judy sucks in a sharp, horrified breath. “Said she’d be good for the moth!”

“You sick fuck,” Judy shrieks, and V has to jump up to intercept her before she can kick the fucker’s head in.

V stuffs her pistol in her waistband and drags Judy out of the office kicking and screaming, cursing Fingers to a fate worse than Evelyn’s. Her foot catches the door, slamming it so hard the waiting patients jump up and spring back in shock. The hostile joytoy starts swearing and runs in to check on Fingers. The kind one just stares at Judy with the most sorrowful expression V’s ever seen on a person.

Rocks her to her core to see that level of pity on a woman in her position.

Out in the hallway, Judy rips herself away from V and throws herself at the banister, catches herself on the handrail, and screams into the stairwell. And then she sobs for just a brief moment, a full-body shudder like an animal dying. V just watches, frozen to the spot.

She knows this pain inside and out.

“I let her go back to Clouds,” Judy rasps. “Coulda stopped her but I didn’t…”

“We’ll find her,” V says, because she doesn’t know what else to say.

Judy folds over, forehead pressed to her arms slung over the handrail. “We’ll fuckin’ find whatever’s left of her butchered corpse.”

V drags in a shaky breath, trying to gather her courage. She’s right. Bone deep, she knows Judy’s right. But they can’t give up until they know for sure. V needs to know what Evelyn knows—and she wouldn’t mind finding the girl alive and in one piece, if for no other reason than Judy’s agony is too familiar. But she needs the techie on board because she has no idea what to do next.

So she snaps, “Hey, keep it together! Wanna give up now?”

“No,” Judy murmurs, sounding utterly defeated, “but our only lead’s an XBD. Where’s that get us?”

“Not just an XBD, something related to the Death’s Head. Heard of ‘em?”

She slowly straightens, and her wet cheeks belie that calm tone. “Heard of ‘em, yeah. All they scroll is snuff, V.”

“Then we need to figure out where they’re scrollin’ it. Gotta be a rot-hole of some sort, doubt they do much shooting on location.”

Judy shakes her head. “An XBD outfit’d be on the move almost always. Makes ‘em harder to nab, harder to sting.”

“But they have to stop to film.”

“Yeah, but there are a million ‘rot-holes’ in this city. We’ll never find which one.”

V shifts her weight from one foot to the next, grasping for ideas. “Gotta be somewhere quiet. Out of the way.” She snaps, pointing at Judy. “Could be we’d see something to point us in their direction on one of their virtus. Like you did for me with Evelyn’s scroll of Konpeki Plaza.”

Judy scoffs. “Have to be real gonks to leave a clue…”

Annoyance flickers through her. “Are you even fuckin’ trying?” she snaps. “You want to find her or not?”

“Of course I do—”

“Then think, Judy!” She stabs her temple with her index finger. “Use your damn brain! Everyone, everything leaves something behind, just need to know where to look.” She reins in her anger, tries for a half-smile. “Lucky for me, I’m runnin’ around with the best BD specialist in town. Or aren’t I?”

Judy sucks in a deep breath and slowly begins to nod. “Yeah… Yes. You’re right.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, begins pacing back and forth. “Okay, lemme think for a sec.” A minute ticks by and then she looks up, surprise in her eyes. “I…I have an idea.” Suddenly she whirls around and starts down the steps. “Wait for me by my van—blue Columbus parked by Bliss.”

“Judy—” V calls, following her down the stairs and out the door. “Wait!”

“Just do it! I’ll only be a minute,” she hollers and then takes off down a side street.

V sighs and makes her way back through the crowd toward Gill Street, finds the blue van parked near some trash off the side of the road. She waits nearly twenty minutes, pacing along the sidewalk, trying not to imagine the horrible things that happened to Evelyn. To see the pity on that joytoy’s face as she dragged Judy from the clinic.

She’s on the verge of calling her when Judy finally appears, hustling across the street.

“Got it,” she declares, holding something up.

“Got what?” V asks impatiently.

Judy doesn’t answer, just unlocks the van and says, “Hop in. Lemme get everything prepped.”

V slides into the passenger seat as Judy climbs in the back where a load of equipment is installed, including a feeder to stream braindances, and begins flicking it on.

“What the fuck is all this?” V asks.

“Used to edit BDs on the go when—” She cuts herself off, shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, I got one of the Death’s Head XBDs, their most recent release. You’ll watch while I edit in real-time.” She tosses a wreath at V. “The ol’ one-two.”

V stares at the wreath, grimacing. She’s never really liked braindances. Doesn’t like the feeling of someone else’s emotions forced on her. Really doesn’t want to experience an XBD. “Why me? Why not you?”

“Want you to describe what you see. Might catch something I’d miss.” She glances back at her. “Make sure that wreath’s nice and snug.”

“Yeah, yeah.” V secures it in place and relaxes into the seat. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Almooost…” Judy draws the word out, right into another, “...aaaaand…here we go.”

Light floods her vision and then suddenly V’s in a dark room being roughly dragged toward an operating chair, a blaring radio drowning out everything. Fear so potent she wants to vomit rushes through her. V immediately pulls out into editing mode, pausing the footage while she catches her breath.

“V?” Judy’s voice echoes in her ears. “Good to go?”

V grits her teeth. “Yeah.” Her first observation is, “Radio's turned way up. Probably to drown out the screamin'.”

She watches the scene play out while trying not to see it, gaze leaping from one tiny detail to the next. A man drags a terrified netrunner toward a dive chair. She zooms in on the tormentor.

“Scav,” she observes. “Gotta be. No one else with that kind of fashion sense.”

The scene continues on—the scav shoves the netrunner in the chair. Nearby is a counter with a box of pizza on top. V zooms in on it, accesses the sensory input, isolates the smell.

“Buck-A-Slice. Still hot, ordered recently.”

“So?” Judy asks.

“Means someone's grabbing Buck-A-Slice regularly. Which is not something one does for the flavor and fresh ingredients. Pizza shares its DNA with styrofoam, nobody's gonna schlep across town for it.”

“Good point.”

As the man locks the netrunner to the chair, V notices a scav woman queuing up something on the rig next to them. There’s a cup of coffee beside her—synthcoff, from the aroma. Cheap shit. Can find it everywhere. Not helpful. But behind her V glimpses coveralls hanging in the corner. Zooms in—a uniform, crinkled and forgotten, with an Electric Corp patch on the sleeve.

“They’re in a power plant,” she breaths, a flicker of hope sparking within her. “An Electric Corp power plant near a Buck-A-Slice.”

After a moment, Judy says, “Okay, found it. EC used to have a big ol' complex in Charter Hill. Buck-A-Slice checks out, too. How can you be sure, though?”

“Can’t be, but it’s our best lead. Now pull me out.”

“All right, all right.”

A few seconds later, the image fades and V’s sensations become her own again. She draws a deep breath, rips the wreath off her head. It’s not like deep Net diving—submerging her mind into the silent oblivion of endless data. No, for her, it’s more like being body-snatched. It’s not so bad when she knows what to expect, when the sensory load isn’t so overwhelming that she feels like a wholly different person. But most BDs aren’t like that, because they’re all about sensory overload.

V rubs her eyes and lets the goosebumps fade while Judy shuts down her equipment and climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Let’s go see if your hunch is correct,” Judy says.

“Sure.”

It takes them half-an-hour in midday traffic to get to the power plant. A single drive-by shows the place is crawling with scavs. There’s no doubt about it: this is where they’re rolling their XBDs. Whether Evelyn is inside or not is another matter entirely…

Judy parks down the street from the plant and they sneak closer. The techie takes pictures while V looks for an access port and scans the subnet. She pulls a blueprint, hacks their security cameras. Scavs are everywhere… She jumps to a camera in sublevel two and pauses when she sees a girl slumped against a bed on what’s clearly an XBD set. Zooms in, scans her. Shit. Would bet a million eddies that’s Evelyn Parker. But she doesn’t look good. Can’t even tell if she’s alive.

“I found her,” V says the moment she jacks out, and Judy groans in equal parts relief and despair.

“How is she? Is she alive?”

“Donno. Can’t tell. I think so.” She motions for them to leave. “C’mon, let’s go.”

They hurry back to the van and plug the intel into Judy’s rig to go over it.

“So what do you think?” Judy asks. “Do we just…shoot our way in?”

“That would be suicide,” V says, studying the photos. At least five scavs can be seen out front, and she counted three times as many inside.

“So we sneak in?”

V shakes her head. “I have to think about it, make a plan, find help—”

“What? I’m not leavin’ her here, V. Not for one more goddam second.”

V shrugs. “You’re gonna have to. There’s no way we do this just the two of us.”

“Then I’ll do it myself!”

“And what?” V exclaims. “Get yourself killed—or worse, join her? How does that help her?”

Judy shakes her head, fighting tears. “I can’t just leave her in there, V… I can’t—”

“I know,” she breathes, grasping the girl by the shoulders. “Give me half a day, okay? If she’s alive, she can last that much longer. Just half a day to put together a team, get a plan together.”

Reluctantly, the techie nods. “...Okay.”

“Promise me, Judy.”

“I promise.”

“Good.” V slowly releases her, slots the data into a shard she pockets. “Now take me back to my car.”

It takes Judy a full minute to move into the driver’s seat, and it’s clear she fights herself every step of the way.

Chapter Text

By the time Judy drops V off at her car, she’s already had plenty of time to think through her options. Sneaking in without raising the alarm might be possible, but getting Evelyn out of there without being seen? Definitely not. A straightforward assault is all that makes sense, but it’ll need to be swift and deadly, which means they need numbers and guns. But assembling a reliable team for this op would be expensive, more than she or Judy can afford, and rookies might just make the situation worse than it already is. She needs someone who can get the job done and that she can bargain with, but she doesn’t know anyone like that except…maybe…

Pacing outside her Hella, she opens her phone app and finds that number she never bothered to save. It’s only been three days since Dum Dum flicked her his detes, but… If you need me again, he said. And she does.

V takes a deep breath and shoots him a message.

[01:24] V:

I need you again

She saves the number while she’s waiting. Dum Dum. Feels weird having that name in her contact list. When she doesn’t get a response, she pauses her pacing, rereads the message, and realizes it was far too vague.

[01:25] V:

Got a job

She resumes pacing. It takes two full minutes before a response comes through.

[01:27] Dum Dum:

cocktease

Heat leaps into her cheeks, face burning in unexpected horror as her mind stumbles over that word and its singular meaning, his assumption about her first message—I need you again. Okay, it was a weird way to start the conversation, she sees that now. It made sense in her head at the time, but there’s no way he could know what she was thinking. Or who she is because apparently—fuckin’ gonk—she didn’t tell him. He must have her confused with someone else.

[01:28] V:

This is V

[01:28] Dum Dum:

know who you are

Her stomach somersaults in surprise. He’s joking, she knows that. Teasing her for a weird opener. Normally she’d just send a winking face or a sassy one-liner, but he’s Maelstrom. Violent. Unpredictable. It feels dangerous to even pretend to open that door, especially after that warning he gave her at All Foods.

She stares at the message, wondering how to respond, when a new one pops up.

[01:31] Dum Dum:

need detes

V bites her lip, a nervous twist in her gut.

[01:32] V:

When and where?

It’s time sensitive.

[01:35] Dum Dum:

need me bad huh

She rolls her eyes just as her phone beeps again.

[01:35] Dum Dum:

totentanz, one hour

She closes the app and tries to ignore the anxious knot in her stomach. This could be a huge waste of time. He may have given her his number with an offer to help, but there’s no guarantee he will. Still, she has a better shot at convincing him than begging around the Afterlife for seasoned mercs or calling a fixer without eddies. He does seem to like her a little.

Cocktease.

Another wave of heat creeps across her face as she jerks open her car door and slides behind the wheel. She really wishes he didn’t say that…

-o-

An hour later, V pulls up to the unfinished hotel that houses Totentanz, Maelstrom’s club. The sunlight does nothing to soften the place up. It looks condemned, with nearly every inch sprayed with graffiti, corrugated sheet metal covering the windows, and trash piled along the foundation.

She parks across the street and climbs out of her car, smooths down her leather pants and straightens her black rally bolero. She tries to tug the dark gray halter top down over her stomach, but it just springs back up to reveal her midriff. She chose her “merc” ensemble that she often wore on jobs with Jackie whenever they met clients. Her goal was to intimidate Fingers—nothin’ screams “professional” like black leather, fingerless gloves, and the confidence to show unnecessary amounts of skin—but now she’s regretting wearing such tight pants and showing off her navel piercing. Too late now. Took her almost an hour just to get to this side of town, there’s no way she can go back and change first.

V sucks in a deep breath and charges across the street toward the hotel. She passes a few Maelstrommers milling about on a rusted car with the roof, doors, and wheels removed. She can feel their eyes on her but keeps her spine straight, her stride quick—like she knows where she’s going. Like she belongs. She ducks inside what used to be the lobby, barely recognizable in its disrepair. The room is dark, the only light leaking in from the front door and cracks between the sheet metal. A Maelstrom skull tag greets her behind the old reception desk like a warning—abandon all hope, ye who enter here. There are a few skells hanging about, drunk or high or otherwise out of their mind, and she can hear someone vomiting around the corner.

“Lookin’ for Totentanz,” she says to the nearest person. He blinks at her, one eye at a time, and then points up. “Thanks…”

She heads toward the steel staircase on the right, passing by a ruined couch where a ‘ganic girl is passed out. A Maelstrommer hovers over her, caressing her thigh. He looks up at V as she passes, smiles like a hunter who caught his prey. She swallows the lump in her throat and hurries up the stairs, follows the pathway around to an elevator. Another Maelstrommer lounges against the wall, sporting a half-shaved head of bright red hair and a spiked collar around his throat. He moans when he sees her, stands up straight.

“Oh, yeah,” he breathes, his voice robotic and deep. “I could take you to some real nice places…”

V flashes him a polite smile. “Here to see Dum Dum.”

“Lucky fucker,” he says, and jerks his thumb toward the elevator.

She walks inside, notes the “mercy is for the weak” tag beneath the Maelstrom skull painted inside the carriage. The ‘borg brushes up against her and she whirls around, jerks back. He grins then reaches over and presses a button on the call pad, steps out. The doors close.

She exhales a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

The elevator opens on the third floor and she exits into a dimly lit hallway peppered with more graffiti. Trash is piled up on the left, blocking the hallway, so she goes right, following the corridor to a massive stencil of the Maelstrom spider skull with “Totentanz” tagged above it. Red lights and faint heavy metal draw her gaze to the end of the hallway, filtering through a film of plastic hanging over the opening. She slips through those thick plastic strips and finds herself in a corridor above the club. One wall is an iron diamond grid mesh and she loops her fingers through the links, gazes at the ambient red lights and the dance floor below, empty at this time of day but for a couple of ‘borgs doing some half-assed cleaning, tossing bottles into bins and pushing broken glass around.

V’s heard some wild stories about this place. Apparently, a body count of fewer than five—twelve? Twenty? The number changes every time she hears it—is considered a boring night. But that can’t be true, can it? Feels like one of those exaggerations born from a single crazy night. Then again, this is Maelstrom’s club…

She pushes away from the wall and heads through the double doors at the end. The moment she steps inside, she immediately spots Dum Dum a few yards away talking to two Maelstrommers, his mouth pulled into a frown, arm movements jerky. He doesn’t seem happy. Not good… It’s dangerous enough dealing with Maelstrom when they’re in a good mood, she doesn’t want to find out just how poorly things can go when they’re in a bad one.

She considers turning around and leaving. Texting him “never mind” and going to the Afterlife instead. But those seven red optics land on her and she stiffens. He doesn’t seem to react to her presence, no smirk or nod. Just stares at her for a long moment and then looks away. This was a mistake… She almost turns around, but Dum Dum jerks his head dismissively and the two spare ‘borgs start walking her way. They ogle her as they pass, and one of them leans close, gnashes his teeth with a wicked smirk. She manages not to flinch, affecting as bored a manner as she can.

When they’re gone, she looks at Dum Dum again and finds him once again pinning her with those jarring red optics. He lifts his hand, bobs two fingers at her. She starts toward him, trying not to look as uncomfortable as she feels. He’s wearing dark-colored shinos tucked into black boots and a worn leather vest with nothing underneath, all those body mods and synthetic skin on display, a reminder of their conversation in the elevator a few days ago, and she has to force her eyes to stay on his. His head tilts, angles slightly down then drifts back up—the only indication he’s checking her out, and his stupid text jumps into her mind. Damn it…

“Princess,” he intones, and she can’t tell if he’s annoyed or distracted or just not happy to see her.

She opens her mouth to say his name, but hesitates. Calling him Dum Dum to his face feels wrong, almost mocking. She knows it’s his name, he told her so, and she’s heard other people use it, but she doesn’t trust that it won’t sound like an insult coming out of her mouth. And right now, the last thing she wants to do is insult him.

So she just jerks her chin in greeting and says, “Hey.”

Behind his parted lips, his tongue curls around a canine, and those two rings in his upper lip catch the light, glinting. “C’mon, then,” he says, low and mechanical, and turns around.

He leads her around the balcony, passing one seating area after another, to the far end overlooking the stage where a red leather corner couch is wedged against the wall, a low table angled in front of it. The railing has fallen away and a ‘borg with a purple mohawk sits on the edge, smoking a cigarette, staring aimlessly at the ground. Dum Dum knocks him on the back of his head, drawing his attention, and motions for him to go. The guy swings his head in the other direction, sees V, and scrambles to his feet. He looks her up and down with four red eyes, cocks his head like a curious puppy, and then walks away.

Dum Dum drops onto the couch, stretches his arms along the back of it, and nods for her to sit. She does, on the opposite side. He starts to grin, but the mirth fades before it can take form. Then he points to the space beside him, a clear command to come closer. She grits her teeth and slides over, just out of reach of that hand resting along the back of the couch. This time he does grin, just for a second.

“Now,” he purrs, “let’s talk.”

V takes a deep breath. “Ever heard of the Death’s Head Moth?”

“XBD outfit run by scavs,” he says, and she nods. “Didn’t figure you for the type…”

“Figured right.”

“What’s your interest?”

“Long story short, they got a girl my client wants back.”

Dum Dum scoffs. “Girl’s dead.”

“Not this one. She’s got a doll implant. They’d have to be utter gonks to waste her on a single scroll.”

“Scavs aren’t known for being smart,” he says, and she knows it. Agrees wholeheartedly.

“Hopin’ they’ve exceeded expectations this one time. Slim, yeah, but my client knows that. Insists we try.”

She plucks the shard with the intel she and Judy compiled out of her chipslot and passes it to him. He takes it without question, slots it without hesitation. She doesn’t understand why he trusts her like that. Maybe he figures she’s not gonk enough to attack him on his own turf—and he’d be right.

His red optics wink out, go black, all but the large one in the center of his forehead. She assumes that means he’s reviewing the data.

“They’re holed up at the Electric Corp power plant in Charter Hill,” she explains. “Our target’s on sublevel two. I counted at least a dozen scavs, there could be more. Otherwise, security’s light. They have cameras, which I can turn off, but nothing else. Fortunately, the scavs won’t know why they’re being hit, so the target shouldn’t be in any danger of becoming a hostage.” She pauses, waits for him to say something. He doesn’t. She leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees, folds her fingers together and squeezes out the nervousness. “Obviously we need to move on this as soon as possible. Every minute that goes by is another chance for the scavs to fuck the situation up.”

He nods once, but remains quiet, still viewing the intel, so she takes the opportunity to study him. It’s the first time she’s been able to really look at a member of Maelstrom up close without any distractions or interference, without concern for them catching her gawking.

He’s posed so casually, lounging there with one arm across the back of the couch, the other resting on his thigh. He has the shape and body language of a man, and yet there’s hardly any “man” left of his body. His head and neck, though heavily augmented, are still comprised of flesh and muscle. She can tell. Despite the optics buried in his forehead and all the metal bits decorating his skull, his face is too expressive to be synthetic, his skin too soft-looking to be fake. Not like the rest of him…

Her eyes flick down to his chest to glimpse the patchwork of synthetic skin stretched over black chrome, the exposed metal braces on his collarbone and sternum, the armored weave of his abdomen that extends below his waistband. How far down does it go? Cocktease. No, she doesn’t even want to think about what kind of cyberware he has down there… Her gaze moves to his cybernetic arms covered with more synthetic skin all the way down to his wrists, his hands just skeletal black metal, and wonders if his legs are the same. God, how much of him is left? Or is he mostly metal now? What possesses a man to do this to his own body?

Dum Dum’s left hand suddenly lifts and her gaze snaps back to his face as he ejects the shard, the rest of his optics coming back online.

She asks, “So whaddaya think?”

“Fuckin’ scavs are shit-for-brains,” he answers. “It’s like they’re askin’ to be raided.”

She almost smiles. “Look, I know this is more involved than standing guard for five minutes, but—”

“I’ll do it.”

“Wait, that’s it?” she chokes out, once again startled by how easily he’s agreed to help her. “You don’t have any questions or concerns?”

“Concerns?” he repeats like it’s a foreign word. “Killin’ a bunch of scavs in their den—doesn’t get simpler. Can do that shit in my sleep.”

With a body as cybered up as his, she doesn’t doubt he’s that deadly, but she huffs in nervous amusement and asks, “Do you still need to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Sleep.”

“Sure. Probably not as much as you do, though.”

“Because of the chrome?”

“Think it’s obvious between the two of us who’s gettin’ all the beauty rest.”

She laughs and immediately covers her mouth, looks away. It’s funny—the idea that the lack of sleep can turn a person into a ‘borg—but it’s that blunt, dry delivery of what is clearly a joke but spoken like it’s not that keeps catching her off guard.

She looks at Dum Dum, and because she knows he finds chrome more beautiful than flesh, she says, “You’re right. I have a long way to go before I’m as pretty as you.”

He grins, a wicked slash that tugs at his face metal, and she’s relieved he finally seems to be in a better mood. Which means it's time for the hard part.

V swallows to wet her suddenly dry throat, tone turning serious once again. “Listen, I’m doing this as a favor for a friend. There’s no payment in play, so I need you to name your price.”

He casually twirls the shard between his fingers. “Expensive favor.”

She flashes a thin smile as she explains, “My motivations aren’t exactly pure. The girl has information I want. All I need to know is how much it’s gonna cost me.”

He just stares for a moment like he’s so fond of doing, his mouth once again in a neutral line, impossible to read.

“In addition to your fee, you can have whatever’s in the plant,” she tells him. “Whatever weapons they have, tech—everything’s yours. Everything but the girl.” When he still doesn’t respond, she shrugs one shoulder and adds, “If nothing else, it should be less boring than our first date.”

A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “Already said I’d do it.”

She presses, “But for how much?”

He twists the shard a few more turns before answering, “Don’t want eddies. Want a favor, too.”

Goosebumps sprout along her arms. “What kind of favor?”

“Donno yet.”

She squeezes her hands together, swallows again. “A ‘borg asks you for a favor, all kinds of ideas pop into your head.”

He smiles excitedly and leans forward, forearms braced across his thighs, his face far too close to hers as he purrs, “What kind of ideas?”

She tries not to flinch away from him, to keep her voice steady when she replies, “Not givin’ ya any, ya gonk.”

He drifts a little closer. “Relax, princess. Won’t be nothin’ you’re not used to doin’.”

His guarantee doesn’t put her at ease even a little, but it doesn’t matter. There are no good options here. She already knows she wouldn’t be able to afford a crew she’d trust to get the job done, and isn’t willing to risk Evelyn’s life on anything less. Dum Dum asking for a favor? That’s a higher price than any amount of eddies, but at least she can afford it.

For now.

“Just me,” she says. “My friend’s not involved in this. Only I’ll owe you.”

“Just you,” he agrees.

“And just you,” she specifies. “I’ll only owe you, not Maelstrom.”

“Just me.”

“One favor.”

“One.”

She takes a deep breath—don’t do it—and nods—fuckin’ gonk. “Okay.”

“Preem,” he murmurs, clearly pleased, and she gets the awful feeling she made a mistake. Signed her soul away, or some shit. “So why do you need the girl?”

She frowns. “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t. Just wanna know.”

She’s hit with a sense of deja vu, like they’ve been in this moment before. She could tell him to fuck off, it’s none of his business, but he already knows she was at Konpeki, that Dexter DeShawn tried to kill her for the failure the heist turned out to be. But he doesn’t know everything.

She shakes her head, casts her gaze out toward the club, to the empty stage and the red lights. “Wanna know why she was attacked, if they’ll come after me.”

“Why would they come after you?”

She opens her mouth to explain but she isn’t sure where to start. “They got her through the Net,” she says instead. “Hacked her with some sinister shit. You know my ‘stars’ aren’t just for show. I’m not an easy mark, trust me, but I don’t know who I’m dealin’ with and that makes them dangerous.”

Dum Dum grabs her knee and forcefully angles her body toward his, demanding her attention. Her gaze snaps to the two red optics where his eyes used to be before dropping to his mouth, his lips curled in agitation.

He practically growls, “Why you?”

She swallows. “The girl's the one who set up the Konpeki job. And the ‘runner who sniped her did so a few days later, the moment she went online. I need to know if it’s related, if they know about me.”

“Need to know who.”

“Yeah,” she says with a nod. He releases her, slowly straightens, giving her room to breathe. She clears her throat. “So how do you wanna handle this?”

Dum Dum stares at her for a long moment before he licks his lips and says, “Scavs are cockroaches. Wanna go at night when they’re scattered, lookin’ for food.” He stands up, pockets her shard. “I’ll let ya know.”

She looks up at him, confused. “Where you goin’?”

“Got shit to do.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Wait, you don’t wanna come up with a plan?”

“Can’t. Busy today. ‘Sides, don’t need a plan. Just gonna shoot our way in.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake, now he sounds like Judy. She knows a direct assault’s the only way in, but “guns blazing” doesn’t need to be step one. Although, she feels far more comfortable with that approach with Dum Dum over Judy…

She shakes her head, stands. “You don’t even wanna know what I can do?”

He grins. “Sure, yeah, I wanna know.” He takes a single step toward her. “Wanna know real bad. Just don’t got the time.”

Shit. This is starting to feel as half-assed and reckless as recruiting a bunch of cherry edgepunks. Her first instinct was right. She made a mistake coming here. He offered to help her, but he’s Maelstrom, not a merc. His priorities begin and end with his gang. Fuck, why was she so stupid? Why did she think she could count on him?

Dum Dum tilts his head. “Don’t worry, princess,” he says, reading her like a book. “We’ll get your girl.”

She shakes her head again, moves away from the couch. “I’m makin’ a plan.”

He grins again. “Go ahead.”

“How soon can you be ready?”

“Told ya, I’ll let ya know.”

“Sooner the better.”

“Ya got a bedtime?”

She throws him a wan smile and flips him off before turning to leave. He chuckles, a metallic sound that scrapes along her spine, causes the hair on her neck to stand on end.

“See you soon, princess.”

V glances back at him, at those seven bright red eyes and his sinister smile. It hits her that, for someone trying so hard to survive, she keeps willingly playing roulette with a member of Night City’s most dangerous gang. Every time she meets with him, she spins the chamber and pulls the trigger. What did Jackie say? You don’t want a guy like that thinkin’ ‘bout you at all. But Dum Dum remembered her, helped her, is gonna do it again.

Yeah, he thinks about her.

How many spins from death is she?

V faces forward and hurries back the way she came, passing several ‘borgs in the hall—two men and a woman. The purple-haired kid stares at her, his mouth open in curiosity. Next to him is a taller guy with five optics and wires coming out the back of his skull. The woman has golden cyberarms and black and red techgogs bolted where her eyes should be.

“Weighed down by flesh an’ bone,” she sneers as V passes.

V ignores her and ducks through the plastic flaps, winds through the corridor back to the elevator. She ducks inside and rides it back to the lobby. The Maelstrommer from before seems surprised to see her.

“Leavin’ so soon?” he asks as she exits the elevator, pushing off the wall to walk beside her. “Guess Dum Dum don’t know how to treat a girl right.”

“I’m satisfied,” she assures him.

“Nah, not ‘til I have you,” he growls, palming her hip and dragging her against him. “I’ll fuckin’ tear you apart—”

A quick scan of that cybernetic hand on her hip and—crack—her soft immediately breaks through his paper thin defenses. A single butterfly dances along the hydraulic protocol, locking the entire system down. His arm freezes, body jerking with the unexpected malfunction, giving her enough time to slip from his grasp.

“How about I take you apart if you touch me again?” she asks, slowly backing up.

The ‘borg’s lips twitch into a strained smile, his voice a guttural rasp when he says, “Haxan.”

She doesn’t know what that means, doesn’t care, just jerks her chin and casually says, “Arm will reboot in a minute. Take care.”

V forces herself to walk back to her car even as her brain screams to run.

Chapter Text

As Royce’s right hand, Dum Dum is used to runnin’ things. Royce has the plans, but Dum Dum is the one who executes them—usually with some revisions, but Royce doesn’t care about details so long as shit gets done. Dum Dum gets shit done. And today, his schedule is full of shit needin’ to get done, all while still spearheading the search for Brick by proxy—he has four groups out lookin’ for leads despite the futility of it.

He’s in the middle of a meeting with Royce and their asset in Biotechnica, workin’ through the details of a new drug shipment, when a message from an unknown number comes in.

[01:24] Unknown:

I need you again

It’s all Dum Dum can do not to react in front of Royce, to not smile like a gonk. Because it’s from his favorite side project, has to be. Princess needs him? Fuck, he knows she’s probably just quotin' him again, but he likes it. Likes every level it works on, real and fantasy. But he can’t respond immediately ‘cause Royce is talkin’, so he saves her detes instead.

He’s got her now, caught her like a fish. Dangled the bait and she finally bit. Texted him and now he has her detes. Another month won’t go by without him bein’ able to tug on that line. Shit, he wasn’t plannin’ on seein’ her again when he zeroed the fatter rat, wasn’t plannin’ to keep her when he followed her into that alley, but… Well, he changed his fuckin’ mind. The moment he took that solo’s hand off, he decided the merc girl is his. Doesn’t really know what that means yet, but until he figures that out, he needs her in reach.

Another message comes in.

[01:25] Princess:

Got a job

Dum Dum leans forward on the couch, braces his elbows on his knees and licks his lips. ‘Course it’s a job. But he likes the idea she might be worried how he took it. Likes the thought of her pacin’ back and forth, chewin’ that lip, all worked up imaginin’ he’s thinkin’ about all the ways she might need him, need his cock in her, fuckin’ her raw. He does think about it. A lot. But that’s not what he thought she meant when she sent the text.

Still gotta punish her for it.

[01:27] Dum Dum:

cocktease

It doesn’t take her long to formulate a response.

[01:28] Princess:

This is V

Dum Dum rubs his mouth so he doesn’t smile. Fuckin’ cute li'l gonk, thinkin’ he made a mistake. ‘Course he knows who she is. How many side projects she think he has? Just one. Just her.

[01:28] Dum Dum:

know who you are

He forces himself to focus on the conversation at hand, to listen to Royce and not think about how flustered the girl is right now. A minute passes, two. No response. He break her brain or somethin’?

[01:31] Dum Dum:

need detes

Her response comes quickly.

[01:32] Princess:

When and where?

It’s time sensitive.

Shit. Dum Dum doesn’t really have the time today. Not now, maybe later. But she says it’s time sensitive. Fuck. He could call her here, but he doesn’t want her to come to the Tanz. Well, he wants her to. Real bad. Just not yet. Wants her to come at night, when it’s peak. Wants to see that copper hair beneath the red lasers, body thrashin’ to the music. Wild, undone—though she probably wouldn’t be unless he could get a few thumbs of Lace in her first, which he has every intention of tryin’.

Fuck it, can’t be helped. He’ll be done with the meeting soon. Royce’ll be gone. He’ll meet her outside, talk to her at her car, that piece of shit Hella she drives. Girl needs a new ride. Maybe he should steal one for her?

When he gets a free moment, he messages her again.

[01:35] Dum Dum:

need me bad huh

totentanz, one hour

But Dum Dum doesn’t get a free minute to meet her outside, and into the Tanz she walks. And though the lasers are off and the music’s just some generic metal not even on full blast, he can’t be completely mad at the sight of her in those tight leather pants.

-o-

Dum Dum watches the streets of Night City pass by as he and his fellow ‘Strommers cruise down Republic East, the darkness punctuated by streetlights and neon ads flashing along the sides of buildings. He rides shotgun while Bjorn drives and Trey and Raze sit in the back and chat excitedly about—somethin’. Tinnitus, maybe? He’s not really listening.

He’s thinkin’ about the girl.

He flicked her his detes ’cause he wants to spend time with her, and the best way to do that is to help a pretty merc girl out, so he was always plannin’ on jumpin’ when she said so. But now he knows the job’s not just a job. It’s personal. Dum Dum thought the trail was cold, but someone hacked the Konpeki client and now his princess might be a target in a cyber assassin’s crosshairs. She wants to know who’s lookin’ through the scope, but Dum Dum needs to know. Needs to deal with this problem as soon as possible. Can’t have that pretty copper head of hers get fried. Not now that she owes him a favor…

“—m Dum,” Bjorn’s voice breaks into his thoughts. “Hey, Dum Dum.”

“What?” he snaps.

“What’s the deal?”

“With what?”

“The girl, the merc,” Raze throws in.

Dum Dum knows what they’re asking, what they wanna know, but he’s not explainin’ it. It’s none of their fuckin’ business. “What about her?”

“Where she come from?” Bjorn asks. “How d’you know her?”

Trey pipes up, “She’s the one who bought the Flathead, right?”

Observant little fuck. Follows Dum Dum and Bjorn like a pup, but Trey sees more than he ever lets on, remembers it all. He’s just slow to connect the dots, even slower to understand the value of the things he sees and knows.

Bjorn muses, “Ah, no shit?”

Dum Dum tongues a canine before answering, “Yeah, so?”

“Why she comin’ around now?” Bjorn asks, and Raze leans forward in his seat, a little too eager.

“Wanted another tour,” Dum Dum says. “Now shut the fuck up and drive.”

Raze drops back with a huff. Trey and Bjorn just laugh.

Dum Dum lights a cigarette and exhales into the wind as they pull up to the old chemical processing plant on the corner of Republic and Almond. A blue van is parked in the shadows, and his princess stands beside it with a kid in overalls. Bjorn swings the Thrax into an open spot by the street and Dum Dum gets out before it comes to a complete stop, motions for the others to wait by the car, and begins walking toward the van.

“—your idea of help? Maelstrom?” the kid hisses under her breath, but Dum Dum can hear her perfectly. Not a kid, apparently, but a woman. Just a really small one.

“I’ve worked with him before,” V whispers back. “It’s gonna be fine.”

“How the fuck is it fine? V, they’re—”

“Relax, Judy. I trust him,” she says, but Dum Dum knows it’s a pretty little lie meant to put Tiny at ease. Still, he likes the lie. “Wait here.”

V starts toward him, still in those tight pants with a top that shows off her flat, freckled stomach and the jewel hanging from her navel—red like his optics—only now she has a cyberdeck belted on her left thigh and virtuality goggles on her head. She meets him halfway across the parking lot, but she’s not lookin’ at him. She’s lookin’ at the ‘Strommers climbin’ out of the Thrax.

“Didn’t know you were bringin’ back-up,” she says.

“Thought we’d do it just the two of us?” He takes a drag on his cigarette. “Flattered, princess.”

“I didn’t agree to pay them.”

“Your favor’s payin’ for ‘em.”

“My favor to you,” she reminds him, raising her brows. “So they’re doin’ it out of the goodness of their hearts?”

She says it like it’s ridiculous, like it’s impossible. ‘Cause ‘borgs don’t have hearts, that’s what most ‘ganics think. Technically true at least some of the time, but doesn’t mean they don’t have any human instincts left. They do. More than they care to admit to. Just don’t often give in to 'em.

Not why his boys are doin’ this though.

“Nah,” he exhales a cloud of gray, “doin’ it ‘cause I said so.”

She eyes him with a mixture of surprise and skepticism. “So you just get to tell everyone what to do?”

He grins. “Who the fuck you think you were dealin’ with, princess?”

Nervousness flickers over her face that she tries to disguise with a shake of her head. “Honestly, had no idea,” she murmurs with a tinge of self-deprecation. Her gaze darts back to the ‘Strommers. Dum Dum can hear them opening the trunk and loading up. “Guess we don’t need that plan with all this firepower.”

“Told ya.”

For a moment, she looks like she’s going to scold him for gloating, and then her expression hardens, spine stiffening. He tilts his head, studying her face, and takes another drag.

“Who’s that?” she asks, nodding toward the ‘borgs. “The one with red hair.”

“Raze,” he tells her, keeping his optics on her.

There it is, what he needed to know, and he reads it loud and clear in her furrowed brow, wrinkled nose, and curled lip. Anger. Disgust. She doesn’t like Raze. Not one bit.

When Raze asked to come along, Dum Dum knew somethin’ was up. ‘Strommers prefer chrome to meat, yeah, but some, like Raze, consider all flesh a weakness, not just their own. So why the fuck is he interested in a ‘ganic? That’s what Dum Dum wants to know, why he allowed him to come along. Normally, he wouldn’t care except it’s his ‘ganic the ‘borg’s interested in, and Dum Dum’s not about to share this obsession with someone else. Not even one of his own.

“What’s he doin’ here?” she asks.

Dum Dum glances at Raze. “Wanted to come. Said you impressed him.”

She snorts and mutters, “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“Quickhacked his arm, short-term malfunction.”

Dum Dum considers shootin’ Raze for that alone. That he got to feel her code before Dum Dum, that he gets to know how fuckin’ good she must feel. But consequences’ll come later. Right now he needs to know why she had to quickhack him.

So he asks, “What’d he do?”

“Put his hands on me.”

Dum Dum licks his lips and lifts his cigarette for another pull, bites the filter. The cherry sizzles as it burns. “He didn’t mention that.”

Dum Dum never particularly liked Raze. Sure, he’s a decent ‘Strommer. Mid-level, a capable zealot, and bouncer for Totentanz. Not a leader, but not brain dead either. But he’s a cult chromer, chipped like it’s a religion and obsessed with the mysteries of the Net despite his skill level cappin’ at script kiddie. Yeah, all of Maelstrom have a fascination with cybertechnologies and body modification, but the cult chromers take it to a whole new level that makes Dum Dum wish he still had his ‘ganic eyes so he could fuckin’ roll ‘em.

“He called me somethin’ I didn’t really understand,” V says, shifting her weight uncomfortably. “Hexer, or somethin’.”

Well shit. Dum Dum had his suspicions. Knew those stars in her head meant she was no ordinary codefreak. But he hadn’t guessed she was that dangerous. Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. He’s lookin’ forward to findin’ out. But at least ‘borg boy knows just who the fuck he’s dealin’ with. Raze won’t be a problem. Not anymore. Too bad. Dum Dum would’ve liked to be the one to put the fucker down.

“Haxan,” Dum Dum tells her. He takes the last puff on his cigarette and drops the filter. “Means you're a witch. Cyberwitch.”

The deadliest type of codefreak out there. Can’t get a higher compliment for those who traffic in mind magic. Does she get it?

The girl’s gaze jumps from Raze to Dum Dum’s optics then to his mouth. “Good,” she says, piecing together the gravity of the word. “So he knows if he touches me again, I’ll burn that Sandevistan he’s got until his brain melts.”

One can only hope he’s that stupid.

Dum Dum grins. “Guess we’ll find out. You ready?”

“Ready,” she confirms and turns to motion the other girl over.

“Who’s the spare?”

“Judy. She’s the client.”

“She comin’?”

“Yeah, why?”

Dum Dum shrugs. “Doesn’t really look tall enough for the ride.”

V smiles, lips pressed together like she’s holding in a laugh. “She’ll follow behind us as we clear.”

“Whatever you say.” He motions his people over, pointing to each as he says, “This is Trey, Bjorn, and Raze.” To them, he says, “This’s V.”

Bjorn nods to her. Raze flashes a vicious smile like the gonk-brain’s flirtin’ with her. Trey tilts his head.

“Your heart,” he murmurs. “I can see it beating.”

Kid always did have a fuckin’ way with words.

“What the fuck, V,” Tiny hisses.

V looks at him, just briefly, before offering Trey a smile. “Well, let me know if it stops,” she says easily, and Bjorn laughs.

Dum Dum grins again. Fuckin’ cute, his princess.

“Okay,” Trey agrees.

“Who’s the kid?” Raze asks, nodding at Tiny as he hands Dum Dum a few spare moon clips that he stores in the pouches of his tactical vest.

Tiny’s feathers puff up. “The hell do—”

“She’s not your business,” V says. “C’mon, let’s get this done.”

They start down the sidewalk toward the Electric Corp power plant, dipping in and out of phosphorescent pools of light cast by streetlamps. They pass a few vagrants digging through trash piled alongside the road, the bonfires of a nearby homeless camp beckoning the lost. V leads them down a dark alley between the processing plant and an abandoned office building where a corpo-lookin’ clown in a nice suit slaps a soiled vagrant next to his hastily parked car. The vagrant falls to the ground, curls up, and the corpo looks like he intends to kick the man, but the moment he sees Dum Dum and his fellow ‘borgs, he retreats into his ride. Raze laughs and pounds the roof of the car as Tiny helps the vagrant up. The corpo peels out of the alley with a loud screech.

They round the back of the building and come to a gated delivery entrance to the property. Bjorn jerks the gate open just enough to let them all through—all but Tiny, who waits outside. V leads the way around an empty cargo container toward the shipping yard where four scavs are smoking and talking around an old radio. There’s a camera watching the yard, so they wait for her to deal with it. Her eyes begin glowing and, when he zooms into her Kiroshis, he can see the faintest flicker of blue script flashing over her irises.

“Four in the yard,” she whispers, peering through the cam. “Two more in the warehouse.”

Dum Dum looks at Raze, nods for him to go on the hunt. The zealot smiles viciously and unsheathes his mantis blades, dips into a half-crouch, and waits for the order. She releases the camera and it quietly shuts down, but none of the scavs seem to notice.

Dum Dum lifts his DR5, but before he can issue the order to open fire, the princess raises her hand. The back of her knuckles slap against his chest, her ‘ganic flesh sliding along his synthetic skin, and he can feel how warm it is even with such miniscule contact. If she wanted his attention, she fuckin’ has it now. He looks at her, her green eyes practically glowing in the shadows, cheeks and nose faintly highlighted by his red optics.

“I’ll start the fight,” she whispers. “Wait for my signal.”

Dum Dum leans closer, into her knuckles, the warmth of her skin. “After you, princess.”

She turns toward the scavs and excitement races up his chrome-plated spine.

Three heartbeats later, someone in the warehouse starts screamin’. Drops his gun, slaps his hands over his face seconds before sparks shoot out of his eyes. His whole body jerks, spasms as implants begin smoking, sizzling. Every single scav in the area whirls around to watch in horror and confusion, givin’ them the perfect opening.

The ‘Strommers fan out and begin blasting, Dum Dum with his DR5, Bjorn with a shotgun, and Trey with an assault rifle as Raze activates his Sandevistan and dashes into the warehouse. It takes less than a minute to clear the shipping yard, not a single scav able to get a shot off. When the sound of gunfire fades, Dum Dum can hear a man shrieking at the end of Raze’s mantis blades. Bjorn and Trey fan into the warehouse, looking for stragglers.

Dum Dum glances back at the princess, but she’s lookin’ up to an area behind them. He finds the would-be sniper easily enough, standing on the second floor behind a large hole in the wall, a gun pointed right at Dum Dum. Might’ve pulled the trigger, only she’s got his implants locked in an invisible grip and he’s shaking uncontrollably. Dum Dum aims his DR5 and blasts the fucker’s head off. Blood sprays the ground as the body tumbles through the hole and lands with a wet smack a few yards away.

V looks back at him, the glow of her eyes fading as her connection to the scav is broken, and she looks just like a witch in these shadows. His guardian cyberwitch.

“You know, you’re kinda scary in the dark,” he tells her, and she grins.

Bjorn calls, “Clear,” and they head into the warehouse, Tiny creepin’ in after them. V moves like she knows where she’s going, straight toward an access point where she crouches down next to it, pulls a dongle from a side compartment on her cyberdeck, and plugs it into the wall. She opens her deck, props it on her thigh, and her fingers fly over the keypad.

Dum Dum stands near her, head on a swivel in case anymore scavs crawl outta their rat holes. The rest of the ‘borgs gather around the scav whose implants she hacked, still smoking in a crumpled heap on the ground. His optics are completely burned out and blood leaks from the sockets, congealing from the heat. His scalp has charred black, skin bubbled up and blistered, and his cybernetic arm practically ripped itself out of its socket. Dum Dum can see it from where he stands. The brutality of it is fuckin’ endearing.

“The fuck she do to him?” Bjorn mutters.

Raze looks ready to bust a nut all over the corpse.

“Wasn’t all me,” V says, still typing. “S’what happens when you chip faulty implants.”

Trey grimaces. All of ‘em know exactly what can happen when you chip faulty ware—it’s a form of entertainment for some ‘Strommers, a method of torture for all of ‘em—but Trey knows better than most. He’d been a victim of a scav hack-job before joining Maelstrom. A fuckin’ kid, victim of corporate sadism, who needed new legs after bein’ hit with one of their cars. Scavs gave him secondhand stems that shorted after a day, left the kid immobile in a pile of his own piss on the side of the road where Dum Dum found him. Was gonna put a bullet in his brain, put him out of his misery, but the kid had fire. Wasn’t afraid of the initiation rite. Now he’s got a new life, but old hatreds die hard.

V unplugs and appears at his side, pulls those virtuality goggles over her eyes.

“Whatcha seein’ in those bottlecaps?” Bjorn asks with a teasing tone.

“Everything,” she answers. “I control their network. They’re entirely blind.”

Bjorn and Trey exchange glances and Raze chuckles. It’s a novelty for them, runnin’ an op with a ‘ganic point. Spent even less time in the field with a codefreak. They’re impressed, just not sure if they should be. But they should, ‘course they should. She’s faster than any codefreak Dum Dum’s ever worked with. She burned that scav to a crisp in seconds—and one can blame the faulty cyberware for the extent of the damage, sure—but she still had the RAM to lock down that sniper. Boys didn’t see how fast, how completely she did it. Dum Dum wants to know how she even knew the scav was there.

Startin’ to think Raze is right about her.

“Ready?” she softly asks him, drawing her pistol.

Dum Dum doesn’t answer her, just motions her forward with his DR5, and she leads them through the warehouse to a ramp that descends into sublevel one. The corridors are dark, pitch black in some corners, and when the princess looks back at him, he sees those lenses glow red. Looks like a ‘Strommer in these shadows, makes his cock painfully hard.

They wind through the narrow corridors and cluttered rooms, blasting scavs while V tosses out quickhacks that leave the rats a sizzling puddle on the floor. Every once in awhile, she’ll call out a direction and whoever’s closest will take aim, cut down the body that stumbles into their line of sight. They pass hastily assembled drug labs, XBD sets, and chop-shops with bodies rotting on tables, implants and organs ripped out. Fuckin’ scav den, all right. Bunch of cockroaches. But at least there’ll be somethin’ worth scavenging at the end of all this. Plenty of chemicals they can use, equipment they can repurpose—even saw some lidocaine in one corner. Decent haul.

It doesn’t take them long to clear sublevel two, and Tiny meets them down there as they make a sweep, double-checking all the side rooms and hallways for stragglers and the missin’ doll.

Trey hollers, “Found her,” and Dum Dum follows V to where the ‘borg is waitin’.

They enter a dark room that smells utterly foul, a single purple overhead shining down on an XBD set. Bjorn is already there, standing with Trey off to the side, lookin’ over a mattress soaked with blood. The doll is slumped beside it in a tattered shirt, body bruised and stained. Blood smears her thighs, leaking from her underwear, and a cable hangs from the ceiling, plugged into her head. Looks like she’s dead. Fuck. He doesn’t really care if she survives, just cares about gettin’ answers, and corpses can’t talk.

V’s feet stall out, her back bumping against Dum Dum’s chest. He can feel the heat comin’ off her, see the individual strands of her copper hair, catches a whiff of her shampoo. Doesn’t know the scent—somethin’ nice, maybe flowers?—but he knows he likes it.

She pushes her goggles onto her head, gaze locked on the scene as she whispers, “Shit.”

Dum Dum doesn’t know what she expected to find. He’s seen a lot worse, especially in a scav den. Least the doll’s still in one piece.

She inches forward, rounding the mattress, and he follows, stands beside Trey and Bjorn.

“That’s Evelyn,” Tiny shouts from the doorway, bolting into the room. “Oh God, she looks bad…”

V kneels down in front of the doll, reaches out.

“Don’t,” Tiny cries, and V freezes. “Just…don’t touch her. If she’s recording, you’ll scramble her brain. Wait until I cut her link.”

“Just checkin’ her pulse,” V says, voice hoarse.

Tiny darts toward the control station as V cradles the doll’s head, presses her fingers to her pulse point. Raze walks into the room, retracting his mantis blades, and surveys the set.

“She dead?” he asks.

“Shut the fuck up,” Tiny hisses as Raze joins Dum Dum, Trey, and Bjorn in a semi-circle around the macabre scene, four ‘borg boys with their cyber spider eyes watchin’ two ‘ganic girls worry over a bloody, lifeless doll.

“She’s alive,” V announces with a slight tremble, but Dum Dum knows it’s too soon to celebrate. Doll may have a pulse, but that says nothin’ about her brain state.

“Good,” Tiny exhales. “Okay, grab the cable and tell me when you’re gonna yank it. I’ll break the link at my end at the same time.”

V nods and angles the doll’s head back. Her eyes loll in her head, blood smeared across her mouth from her nose. There’s a quiet intake of breath and then V reaches out, takes hold of the cable, and Dum Dum only notices the tremor in her hand because he’s watchin’ her so closely.

“Ready,” she calls.

“Wait for my signal,” Tiny says. “Here goes. Ready and…now!”

V unplugs her. The doll’s head drops, body slumping forward. V steadies her, holds her up by the shoulders.

“Is she alive?” Tiny asks, darting around the control station and racing toward them.

V checks her pulse again. “Yes,” she breathes in relief.

“Thank God…” Tiny drops down at the doll’s back, gingerly reaching out. “Ev…? Evelyn? You hear me?” Her fingers prod the doll’s lifeless shoulders. “Ev?”

Silence. The doll doesn’t move. And Dum Dum knows why—can see the wounds in the thermal scan. Hot swathes of angry damage alongside cold, atrophying voids, like she went through Royce’s meat grinder.

“What’s wrong with her?” V asks.

Tiny shakes her head. “Honestly? I-I don’t know… There was plenty of activity on the reader. She’s gotta be seriously traumatized…”

Trey says, “Be kinder to put a bullet in her skull.”

The ‘ganics go still. His princess swallows. Tiny’s gaze snaps up, glares at them all, mouth wrinkling with rage.

“What did you just say?” she seethes. “You fucking monsters! How dare you—”

“Stop,” V snaps. “No one’s shooting her, Judy. Focus.” She motions to the doll. “She okay to be moved? No brain hemorrhages, damage to the spine?”

Tiny’s jaw tenses and she shakes her head, lips quivering as she checks the doll over. “D-doesn’t seem to be—”

“Then let’s get her out of here.”

The princess stands, stares at the doll, and then looks at Dum Dum. Looks at him like she isn’t sure what to do. So Dum Dum nods to Bjorn who immediately steps up and kneels to scoop the doll into his arms.

“No! No, don’t touch her,” Tiny cries and tries to push him away. “Don’t you fuckin’ touch her!”

V snatches Tiny up, holds her still. “Stop it, Judy! We can’t carry her and you know it.”

“He wants to shoot her! He—”

V shouts, “No one’s shooting her!”

Fuckin’ ‘ganics… Real fuckin’ dramatic. He wants to tell her Trey’s right, better to put a bullet in her head. Doll’s toast. Not respondin’ now, probably not ever. Wants to tell her to stop whinin’ and give her friend that mercy. But then there’d really be no chance at gettin’ the intel he needs, so he says nothin’.

The moment Bjorn starts walking away, Tiny jerks out of V’s arms and runs after him. Trey and Raze go ahead of him in case any scav stragglers show up. V stands there, visibly swallows and meets his gaze. Neither speaks, just stares for a long moment. Dum Dum doesn’t know what’s in her head. She need a minute or somethin’? ‘Cause he ain’t walkin’ out of this room without her.

But then she draws a deep breath, nods to him, and together they leave the plant.

They walk in silence back to the cars where Bjorn’s climbing into the back of Tiny’s van. Dum Dum orders Trey to holo in a salvage team as V runs to catch up with Tiny and Bjorn. Raze watches her, transfixed, and Dum Dum doesn’t know what gonk thoughts are going through his head, but he’s not about to let this fixation fester.

Dum Dum comes up behind him, snatches him by the back of the neck and squeezes until the ‘borg grimaces in pain. Raze tries to jerk free but Dum Dum yanks him close, face practically pressed to the side of his head.

“Girl’s mine,” he growls in his ear, tightening his hold. “Erase her from your memory banks. ‘Cause you touch her again, I’ll take your mods out one by one ‘til you’re nothin’ but a lump of meat on the floor. Understand?”

“Yeah,” Raze hisses through clenched teeth.

Dum Dum releases him with a shove. Raze scowls and rubs the back of his neck but keeps his head down, eyes lowered.

Dum Dum slides into the Thrax and follows the van to an apartment building on Charter Street. Bjorn carries the doll up to the second floor with Tiny hurrying ahead of him and V bringing up the rear. Dum Dum follows slowly, smokin’ a cigarette in the hallway while he waits for Bjorn to come out. When the ‘borg finally does, he’s shakin’ his head like Tiny’s crazy.

“I’ll be in the car,” he says as he heads downstairs.

Dum Dum remains there against the wall, waitin’. V comes out a few minutes later, offers him a sheepish smile, and leans against the wall across from him. Her hands slide along her thighs, patting her pantlegs nervously. He takes a last drag then offers her his half-smoked cigarette. She stares at it, hesitates, licks her lips. And then she takes it, takes a drag. Exhales. Takes another and then hands it back. Dum Dum finishes it while she watches, her head resting against the wall like she’s exhausted.

He exhales a cloud of grey, grinds the filter beneath his boot, and asks, “Need a ride back?”

She shakes her head. “Gonna stick around for a bit, help Judy.”

Dum Dum nods and pushes off the wall, starts toward the stairs. He knows the night’s over, the mood’s sour. She’s sad again. Doesn’t like it, but it doesn’t matter. He’s got her number, got a favor. He’ll see her again soon.

She puts her hand on his arm, stoppin’ him just before he takes the first step down, drawin’ his gaze. “Thank you,” she says quietly.

Not sure why she’s thankin’ him—not like his services were free—but he likes it as much as the first time she thanked him.

Her hand falls off his arm, slides into her pocket as she turns to go. She stops and glances back at him, adds, “And, uh, lemme know when you figure out that favor you want.”

“Sure, yeah,” he says, “when I figure it out.”

Might be soon, might be never. Depends on how often he gets to see her in the coming months.

She offers him a small smile dampened by her sorrow and says, “Night.”

Then she disappears into Tiny’s apartment and the door slides closed.

Chapter Text

V enters her apartment in a daze and stands just inside the door, staring vacantly at the floor. Rainwater drips off her fingers and nose, leaks from her shoes into a puddle beneath her feet. The memory of Evelyn’s face smeared with blood flashes in her mind. Can’t stand still for more than a few seconds without seeing it…

She shuts her eyes tight, shakes the image out of her head. Draws a deep breath, gathers the willpower to move, and goes into the bathroom. Strips off her filthy clothes and tries not to look at the bloodstains. She smacks the water mixer toward HOT and stands under the icy spray as it slowly warms up. Watches the water wash down the drain.

The water had been red in Judy’s tub…

V helped her bathe Evelyn, to get her clean, assess the damage. Blood was so thick on her thighs, in her private areas—what the fuck did they do to her? Oh God, she really didn’t wanna know. Nearly lost the contents of her stomach more than once. They were just trying to help, her and Judy. Couldn’t leave her like that. But that vacant look on her face, the way she shook when they touched her—V felt like a violator.

Can’t stop seeing that mouth smeared with red, eyes half-closed and empty. That stained mattress washed in purple light. A lifeless Evelyn hooked up to a cable hanging from the ceiling, like a discarded puppet whose strings were half-cut.

And all the blood, so much blood…

She folds over beneath the spray as a choked cry rips from her throat. Her legs give out beneath her and she sinks to the shower floor, sobs into her knees, fingers digging into her wet hair. It was horrifying, what happened to Evelyn. She didn’t know the woman well, didn’t really like her all that much. Was annoyed with her for trying to circumvent the fixer at the start of the heist, for ghosting her after everything went sideways. If she’d caught a bullet, V wouldn’t have been all that sorry. But this… No one deserved the kind of hell she went through. So awful, she’s locked deep inside herself. She twitches at every benign touch, trembles at prolonged contact. What they did to her…

Judy said they saved her, but V’s not so sure. Maybe the Maelstrommer was right. Maybe the kinder thing to do—the merciful thing—would be to end the nightmare she’s trapped in.

V sucks in a sharp breath and sits up straight, tilts her head back into the spray and lets it wash her tears down the drain. Fuck, she thought callin’ Dum Dum was a mistake back at the Totentanz, but now she’s so fuckin’ grateful he was there. Not just for clearing the plant and getting Evelyn out of there, but for being so…steady. He wasn’t shocked, wasn’t disturbed, wasn’t on the verge of going to pieces like Judy, wasn’t anywhere close to cracking like V was. He stood over her, optics glowing in the darkness, all that cyberware highlighted by the purple light, and was utterly unbothered by the horror in that room. He was a monster more than a man…

But tonight, he was her monster.

A monster who could take on all those devils that had committed such unspeakable evil, would destroy them without hesitation or remorse. No one stood a chance against him—this terrible being of violence and chaos, unafraid, invincible. And she felt safe.

Like she used to feel with Jackie…

That old, familiar ache opens up in her center—tried like hell to patch it up, but the stitches never seemed to take. God, she wishes he was here now… He would hate this as much as she does, but he would put on a brave face and stand sturdy for her to lean on, like he always did. He’d be on her couch right now with a pistol in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other, and he’d tell her no one would ever be able to do that sort of thing to her. Not on his watch. Just like he’d said after Sandra Dorsett—V’s worst fucking nightmare. And she’d sit on the couch with her head on his shoulder and they would both pretend she wasn’t crying as they passed the bottle back and forth. Sometimes cursing, sometimes laughing, sometimes swapping bitter jabs. Sometimes in complete silence.

Not many gigs had ended this way, but Night City is fucked up enough for her to know how much she needs him now.

V numbly stands, finishes showering, and towels off. She dries her hair, dresses in a long-sleeved shirt and fuzzy socks, and curls up in bed. Avoids looking at the empty couch. The clock reads 3:58 am. She’s exhausted, weary, but her mind won’t rest. Too afraid to stop thinking, afraid of what she’ll see when she does. She listens to the heavy rainfall, watches those thick droplets splat against the window. Her apartment is dark, quiet. Cold. She draws a blanket over herself and stares out the window. Tears softly slip from her eyes.

It hits her like a blow to the chest, how much she misses Jackie. How alone she feels. She’s not alone, she knows that—there are people in her life who love her, who care about her. But she’s lonely, so fucking lonely, and it’s her fault, she knows that too. But her problem’s not all the people in her life.

It’s the one who’s missing…

She doesn’t mean to pull up Jackie’s entry in her phone, to read those last messages once more, but she does. She doesn’t mean to send him a text, but it appears at the bottom of the thread. Ripples through her like an electric shock. A stupid, pointless, desperate act.

[4:04] V:

I miss you

And then she closes her eyes and wails into her pillow as that invisible hand slams into her chest, squeezes her heart in a death grip. She curls into herself and cries, unable to hold back the tears any longer. When the rush of grief ebbs, she sniffles and stares bleary-eyed out of her window. Fights the urge to take a dive. Not after Evelyn. Can’t. Still doesn’t know who tried to kill her. Fuck, V’s in her own home, she’s safe in her BBS, but…

She doesn’t feel safe.

V swallows the swell of emotion, chews her trembling lip to hold back more tears. She opens her phone app, looks at Jackie’s name. Scrolls down, looks at Vik’s, but… No, it’s too late. Won’t wake him up, won’t be a burden to him, no matter what he said. She scrolls back up, finds another name. Dum Dum.

She felt safe with him…

A voice in the back of her mind whispers this is a bad idea, but she can barely hear it over the sound of her heart cracking.

[4:11] V:

Thanks for tonight

Her breathing slows to a crawl, tears momentarily stilled, as she waits for a response. A minute passes. Two. Three. Her brain tells her this was silly, he’s probably asleep—or busy doing whatever it is Maelstrom ‘borgs do at four in the morning. Four minutes pass, five. Fuck, this was a stupid idea. She shouldn’t have messaged him. Just because he said he’d help her, doesn’t mean he wants to talk to her. They aren’t chooms. He’s dangerous, and she’s fucking out of her mind to try getting closer to someone like—

[4:17] Dum Dum:

said that already

She stills, staring at the message in surprise, and then quietly huffs as relief rushes through her. She sniffles back her sorrow, wipes the tears off her cheeks, and tries to think up a clever response, but nothing is coming to her. Her heart’s too full of gratitude to project sass. But she has to say something—

A new message suddenly appears.

[4:19] Dum Dum:

ya find out who tried to kill the doll

[4:19] V:

Not yet

Evelyn never woke up. She’s in some kind of trance, we think.

But Judy promised to scour her behavioral chip for me. See if

she can find out anything. Still waiting..

She folds her sleeve over her palm and roughly dries the lingering wetness on her cheeks.

[4:24] Dum Dum:

lemme know what ya find out

She doesn’t know why he wants to know, but she’s too exhausted to care, just oddly comforted that he’s talking to her at all.

[4:24] V:

Okay

She bites her thumbnail and stares at the thread before pushing the conversation forward.

[4:25] V:

Were you able to get much out of the scav den?

[4:27] Dum Dum:

salvage team is still goin through it

but yeah sure, decent haul

She looks up at the rain pounding the window.

[4:27] V:

You’re not still out there are you?

[4:29] Dum Dum:

yeah why

gonna stop by

She’s not sure if that’s meant as a question or a statement—considers asking him, but it might sound like an invitation and she doesn’t wanna be called a cocktease again—so she ignores it.

[4:29] V:

It’s raining pretty hard..

[4:31] Dum Dum:

so

She fights a smile as she replies.

[4:31] V:

I don’t want you to rust

There’s a heavy pause before his response comes through.

[4:32] Dum Dum:

cause im your favorite strommer

A quiet chuckle flutters out of her.

[4:32] V:

Right

V sighs and rolls onto her back, snuggles into her blanket, and closes her eyes, listens to the rain. She imagines Dum Dum beneath the torrent, supervising other Maelstrommers as they carry god-knows-what from the warehouse. She teased him about rusting—knows that’s not possible—but she does wonder if he can still get sick. Chrome can’t catch a cold, but how much of him is metal?

She opens her eyes, looks at the thread.

[4:34] V:

Your lungs - organic or synthetic?

[4:35] Dum Dum:

what

[4:35] V:

Trying to figure out if you can still catch a cold

[4:35] Dum Dum:

why

[4:35] V:

Just curious

It’s a half-minute before she sees those “typing” dots appear at the bottom of the thread.

[4:36] Dum Dum:

real curious bout my chrome princess

She smiles, shakes her head. This fuckin’ gonk… Didn’t he tell her ‘borgs love it when people show interest in their chrome? Why can’t he just answer the question?

[4:36] V:

So?

[4:37] Dum Dum:

thinkin bout me a lot

She rolls her eyes.

[4:37] V:

Just answer the question

[4:38] Dum Dum:

whats v stand for

[4:38] V:

Nice try ;)

But I’ll make a different trade, chrome for chrome

You tell me about your lungs, I’ll tell you about one of my stars

[4:39] Dum Dum:

got more chrome than you

that really the body part ya wanna know about

[4:39] V:

Just tell me

[4:39] Dum Dum:

bionic

Ah, not entirely synthetic—bionic lungs are engineered with both organic and artificial tissue fibers—but he definitely had his original replaced.

[4:40] V:

So you can’t catch a cold

[4:40] Dum Dum:

nah

whatcha got

[4:40] V:

RAM Manager

It optimizes RAM use between her brain and cyberdeck—helpful for spreading her quickhacks to multiple targets.

[4:41] Dum Dum:

taishen or camillo

[4:41] V:

Camillo

[4:41] Dum Dum:

preem

what else ya got

V rolls onto her side, facing the wall.

[4:42] V:

Think I’ll keep that secret for now

[4:42] Dum Dum:

why

[4:42] V:

You told me borgs love talking about their chrome

But I have to bribe you to tell me about yours

The seconds tick by slowly as she blinks at the chat, exhaustion finally catching up to her.

[4:43] Dum Dum:

nah

tell ya whatever ya wanna know princess

She smiles.

[4:43] V:

If you say so

But I have a sneaking suspicion I’ll have to get more chrome before the end

[4:44] Dum Dum:

nova

got some ideas

Her eyebrows shoot up and she murmurs as she types.

[4:44] V:

Oh really? Do tell..

Half-a-minute later, a picture appears in their chat of a set of titanium mantis blades with a strip of copper slashing down the length of the blade. She snorts in amusement. Can’t really imagine herself with these things, would be the least intimidating cyber soldier on the streets. She expected a list—cyber arms, bionic joints, second heart, subdermal armor—that sort of thing. This is…

[4:45] V:

That’s very specific

[4:45] Dum Dum:

matches your hair

Surprise shoots through her.

[4:45] V:

Oh

She blinks at the picture, at his explanation. Not sure what’s thrown her more—for him to be concerned with matching accessories or that he even noticed her hair.

[4:45] V:

You like my hair?

[4:46] Dum Dum:

yeah

Warmth nestles in her chest at the unexpected compliment—

[4:46] Dum Dum:

looks like copper wire

She laughs out loud at the odd comparison, mildly offended that he’s likening her hair to wire—she takes better care of it than that—when she realizes he might actually mean it as a compliment.

[4:46] V:

Thanks, I was going for that “wire” look

[4:47] Dum Dum:

meant the color

[4:47] V:

Oh, good

A yawn breaks out of her. She’s fading fast.

[4:47] V:

Gonna sleep, try not to rust out there

She closes the app and then her eyes, snuggling into her pillow and blanket. As she settles, her apartment grows quiet, save for the rain still beating against the window. And then her phone beeps.

[4:48] Dum Dum:

sweet dreams princess

V smiles and lets the rain lull her to sleep.

Chapter Text

Misty’s Esoterica is a small shop, dimly lit and drowning in the smell of incense. V adores Misty, but she never much liked hanging out here—she feels claustrophobic and in the way, and the air seems thick and cloying—but that’s not the reason she’s been avoiding it lately. It’s the smell… Should just be the scent of Misty’s shop, but instead it reminds her of Jackie. She often caught whiffs of this incense when he came to pick her up for a gig. Used to think he smelled like Misty, now she thinks Misty smells like Jackie—fucking absurd how the brain works. But she hasn’t wanted to come here since he died. Since she curled up in that lounge chair and sobbed with her bullet holes newly stitched.

But V needs to see her. Besides, she promised Vik.

V ducks through the open door and tries not to inhale, but she does almost immediately. That familiar scent pricks her heart, makes it harder to breathe. She ignores it, looks for Misty. Finds the blond behind the counter like usual. And, as usual, no customers linger by the shelves. V was never sure how she managed to keep this place afloat—not even sure Misty knows. But it persists somehow in its quiet corner, never flourishing but stubbornly existing, like all good things in Night City.

Misty looks up and smiles, but behind that thick black make-up circling her eyes, there’s a familiar, lingering sadness.

“Hey, V,” Misty says in that sweet yet somber voice, a smile on her darkly-painted lips.

“Hey, Misty,” V greets her, full of guilt and hesitance.

If Misty is mad at her, she doesn’t show it. She crosses the small room and pulls V into a warm hug. For a moment, V isn’t sure how to react, just gives her shoulder blades a friendly tap.  But when the girl doesn’t let go, V gives in and wraps her arms around her.

“It’s good to see you,” Misty murmurs against V’s shoulder.

“Good to see you, too.”

After a moment, Misty releases her and returns to her place behind the counter as V pulls up a stool and sits in front of it.

“How’re you holding up?” V asks her.

Misty smiles sadly. Looks down at her hands resting on the counter, looks back up. Tilts her head, shrugs a shoulder. “I miss him,” she finally says. “A lot. Sometimes I forget he’s gone and…” She looks away. “And I wonder why he hasn’t called yet. Or I anticipate him walking through that door. Just for a second. And then…”

“And then it hurts all over again,” V finishes for her.

Misty nods. “Yeah…” She takes a deep breath, looks around her shop. “But I keep busy. It helps.”

“How’s business?”

She gives a small smile, an unbothered shrug. “Same as it always is.”

V nods in understanding, and the conversation falls into a lull. Pulsating silence settles between them, loud like a drum pounding in her ears. She feels the need to speak, to explain herself, to plead her case, but she isn’t sure how to start.

And then Misty softly asks, “How are you doing, V?”

V draws a shaky breath. Doesn’t know how to answer that. So she mumbles, “I, uh… I wasn’t sure you’d even want to see me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Misty asks, genuinely puzzled.

“Been a pretty shitty friend to you lately.” V shrugs. “Haven’t come by, didn’t text you—”

“V,” Misty interrupts her with a frown. “You lost someone important to you, too.”

“Yeah, but,” she shakes her head, “I should’ve reached out—”

“Why?” Misty leans onto the counter, tilts her head trying to capture V’s gaze. “There are no rules to grief, V. No hierarchies. What Jackie and I shared is not any more or less important than what you and he shared. You lost your best friend. Your own grief is heavy enough. Don’t think you have to take on anyone else’s.”

V forces herself to smile, but she can’t help feelin’ like Misty’s lettin’ her off the hook too easy. Still, she’ll take it. “Thanks,” she says quietly, and then she clears her throat, changes the subject. “Listen, I was wondering about that message you sent me awhile ago. The one about staying away from black walls.” She licks her lips, a little nervous for the answer to her next question. “What did you mean by that?”

“I’m not really sure,” she admits. “I was hoping it would make more sense to you.”

V shakes her head.

“Well, let’s see then.” Misty purses her lips, gazes upward in thought. “First, we need to figure out the nature of the wall.”

“The nature of it?” V asks skeptically, wondering how many natures one can ascribe to a wall—it’s a fuckin’ wall.

“Walls are barriers,” Misty explains. “They provide structure and privacy, can protect or imprison. They can also serve as a checkpoint—can’t have a door without a wall. So we need to figure out if this wall is keeping something in or keeping something out.”

When it comes to the Blackwall, V always thought it was both. But she shrugs and says, “What about the color black?”

Misty grimaces. “That one’s…less ambiguous. Black is the result of a complete absence of light, which is most often used to represent the end of life. But,” she quickly adds, “it doesn’t have to be death. It could mean something is shrouded in mystery.” Misty shrugs. “Does any of that make any sense to you?”

V swallows the lump in her throat and lies, “Not really.”

“That’s alright. The danger’s passed, anyway.”

“How do you know?”

Misty smiles. “I sometimes do a reading for you whenever I’m thinking about you. Just to make sure you’re alright.”

Guilt suffuses her and her gaze drops again. She stares at the counter, the edges cluttered with jars, incense, a cute little cat statue… Gazes at the delicate carving in the center—curving lines with swirls that turn into a tree, birds soaring above it beside a winding dragon. There are little nicks and scratches across the surface, etched into it from years of use. Her eyes go right to the dark scuff from when Jackie was leaning on it with a buckle trapped between his weight and the counter. Scratched it up by accident. He felt awful, but Misty just shrugged and said, “Now it has some character.” They hadn’t been dating yet, just talking. But soon after, he took her out. It had been the start of something good for Jackie. V’s fingers curl against her thighs, fighting the desire to rub at that scuff mark. It’s not even her memory, just remembers him telling her the story, but it’s a little piece of him. She can almost see his meaty finger jabbing the spot as he recounted the details, a big ol’ smile on his face. She’d laughed and called him a gonk—

“V,” Misty says gently, pulling her out of her head. “I’m worried about you.”

She looks up, startled, confusion rushing through her. “Me? Why?”

“This is hard on you.”

“No harder than it is for you—”

“I think it might be,” Misty says, and V goes still in shock. “You were really close.”

V’s gaze drops to her hands in her lap. Most people couldn’t wrap their heads around her and Jackie. Thought they had to be sleeping together. V and Jackie never much cared what other people thought—they knew the truth, that they were just friends—but sometimes V wondered if Misty ever cared that her input was spending so much time with another woman.

She chokes out, “Did…did it ever bother you? That he and I were close, I mean.”

Misty shakes her head. “No. Our relationships were different. I was his girl, and I never doubted that. But you were important to him too, V. You weren’t just friends, you were partners. The kind of stuff you two went through? It ties people together. That’s why this is so hard for you.”

“Why?”

“You and Jackie needed each other.”

V frowns. “You and Jackie didn’t need each other?”

She flashes another sad smile. “We chose each other.”

V looks down again, stares at her knees, tries to understand the difference. Sure, she and Jackie needed each other. For work, for survival. But…that’s not what Misty means. She means they needed each other emotionally, mentally. A support system.

A crutch.

Maybe she’s right. Because when Jackie died, V’s life just…seemed to stop. Time kept going, but she was frozen in place. Still is. She’s done one gig since he passed. Helped Judy just to help herself. The only time she seems capable of action is when her life’s on the line. Can’t keep one promise to herself—to eat better, to practice shooting, to put herself out there more. Just keeps diving, hiding from this pain, running from his absence.

Misty slowly straightens, steps around the counter, and comes to stand in front of her. “V…? Are you okay?”

“I…” V shakes her head, tries to spit out another lie, but her mouth blurts the truth without her brain’s consent. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Tears gather in her eyes without her permission. “Not yet.”

She wants to snatch the words back, to stuff them down her throat and swallow them. To force those tears back into their ducts. Doesn’t want the truth out there where someone might use it against her. Hasn’t felt this exposed in a long time and she braces for the fallout.

Misty closes the distance between them and wraps her arms around her shoulders. Rests her head atop V’s.

“That’s okay,” she says, and nothing else.

And V remembers Misty’s always been a good friend to her, a better friend than she deserves.

-o-

For two days, V scours netrunner webrings and sublethics for whispers of a hacker attacking a doll. As expected, she finds nothing. She’s ready to give up when Judy calls.

“Something you need to see,” she says, and V wastes no time in driving over to her apartment.

When Judy answers the door, V’s taken aback at how awful she looks. Puffy dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes. Tangled, greasy hair. Slumped posture and wrinkled clothes.

“Hey,” Judy says, her voice raspy and low, like she’s exhausted. “Come on in.”

“How you holdin’ up, Judy?” V asks as she enters.

“Fine,” is her blunt reply, and V leaves it at that.

As V moves deeper into her apartment, she spies the empty, open cupboards and wonders if Judy’s even eating. She glances across the way to the spare bedroom. The door’s closed.

She asks, “How’s Evelyn?”

Judy scoffs and bitterly replies, “Use your imagination. That place sucked every last drop of humanity from her.”

V nods lamely. It was a stupid question, she knows. She saw the state Evelyn was in just a few days ago. No way in hell she’s any better now.

Judy breaths in, folds her arms across her chest, shakes her head. “Sorry. I know you know what she…” She shakes her head again. “She’s still sleeping. I think. Hasn’t so much as moved. Still breathing, but won’t open her eyes. Won’t speak. No reaction to her surroundings whatsoever. I have to feed her, had to get her a bedpan…” Her gaze strays to the closed door and a muscle in her jaw feathers before she chokes out, “I hate seein’ her like this. Hate what they did to her.” Judy meets V’s eyes. “I really, really didn’t wanna poke around in her head. I did it for you. I just want you to know that.”

“I know,” V says. “I appreciate it.”

Judy nods toward the second room where she has BD-tuning equipment setup. “C’mon. I’ll show you the virtu I found.” And then she disappears through the beaded doorway.

V takes a deep breath and follows her.

One hour later, she leaves the apartment more confused than she was when she walked in. More anxious, too. Doesn’t feel great about what she learned—that the Voodoo Boys hired Evelyn to scroll Konpeki Plaza. Fuck… V knows all about the VDBs. Highly skilled ‘runners, yeah, but more than a little xenophobic. Not just toward the people outside their clan, but to everyone, even fellow ‘runners. They keep to Pacifica, to their piece of Night City, and rarely leave the fold. So why the hell did they want the biochip? Not even Evelyn knew. V doesn’t really care what the reason is, just wants to know the extent of their involvement.

Still, it explains who attacked Evelyn at Clouds and why. The Voodoo Boys are more than capable of pulling off a cyberattack like that, and whether they knew about her role in the heist or not, they would never have let her go. She’s a ranyon. Disposable. They were just tying off loose ends.

The good news is, V’s pretty sure they don’t know about her. If they did, they would’ve hit her already. Her BBS wouldn’t be able to protect her, not against a coordinated attack from the Voodoo Boys. Meaning she’s safe. Probably.

She takes a deep breath and starts toward her car, trying to make sense of all the details. Based off the virtu she saw, V’s pretty sure the VDBs never hired Evelyn to steal the relic, only scroll Konpeki, which means Evelyn went behind their backs the same way she tried to go behind Dex’s back. She wouldn’t have told them about the heist or its failure, and since Arasaka didn’t announce the biochip’s theft, only Saburo’s murder, the VDBs might not even know the chip was stolen. But even if they do, they attacked Evelyn rather than interrogate her, and all of her secrets are now scrambled up in barely comprehensible virtus that not even an expert like Judy could make much sense of. And everyone else who knew the truth is dead. It’s possible Dex spilled his guts to Arasaka before he died, but since they never came for V, she doubts they know what happened either. The only people still alive who know she had the biochip are her and Vik.

And they’re the only two who know it’s now in several dozen pieces scattered at the bottom of Laguna Bend.

V sighs in relief. She can’t be certain she’s safe—can never be completely certain—but she’s pretty confident in her reading of the facts. Only time will tell.

Remembering her promise, she pulls up her phone app, finds Dum Dum’s thread, and shoots him a message before sliding into her car.

[1:39] V:

Heard back from Judy, think I know who sniped Evelyn

Pretty sure they don’t know about me

She’s halfway down Charter Street when she gets a reply.

[1:43] Dum Dum:

who

[1:43] V:

VDBs

The responses come quickly after that.

[1:43] Dum Dum:

you safe

[1:43] V:

Yeah, I think so

Would know by now if I wasn’t

[1:44] Dum Dum:

maybe

or they know how dangerous ya are

V smiles at the confidence he has in her abilities, though she doesn’t know where it comes from. Her “stars” don’t automatically mean she’s a badass ‘runner. But it makes her unexpectedly happy he thinks so.

[1:44] V:

Not more dangerous than a VDB hit squad

[1:44] Dum Dum:

sure its VDB

[1:45] V:

Sure enough

[1:45] Dum Dum:

fuck does that mean

[1:45] V:

Know they were involved, but no proof they did the deed

[1:46] Dum Dum:

not very sure then

She shakes her head, mutters, “Come on,” and repeats herself.

[1:46] V:

Sure enough

It’s a solid two minutes before her phone beeps.

[1:48] Dum Dum:

lot of fuckin trouble princess

Confusion flits through her.

[1:48] V:

What is?

[1:48] Dum Dum:

you are

She scoffs, annoyed.

[1:48] V:

Not your problem, now am I?

He never replies.

By the time V gets home, her annoyance has graduated to frustration. Where the fuck does Dum Dum get off calling her a lot of trouble? As if he ever had to clean up one of her messes! It’s not like he didn’t get something out of the Evelyn rescue—looted the scav den and he gets a favor from her, which she fully expects to cost her far more than he paid helping her. Lot of fuckin’ trouble—where the hell did that come from? He asked her to keep him posted.

V starts toward her hackpad, ready to dive and not feel anything, but stops halfway across the room. Why does what he said bother her so much anyway? She sighs. Because… She liked it when Dum Dum thought she was a badass. Liked it when he said she was scary. Made her feel powerful—something she hasn’t felt in a long while. She doesn’t want him to think she’s not, that she’s too much trouble, that she’s not worth dealing with.

Not now that she’s starting to trust him.

Her gaze strays to Vik’s gun resting on the table behind her couch. Keep one promise to yourself, a voice in the back of her mind whispers. So she picks it up and heads to Wilson’s range. Spends an hour letting off steam. When she gets back home, she takes a dive, starts discreetly snooping around those webrings and sublethics for whispers about the Voodoo Boys and their jobs. Finds nothing, but she doesn’t expect to. This is a long game that might ultimately lead nowhere.

The next day, she keeps another promise to herself. She texts Regina and tells her she’s open for more work. Then she goes back to Wilson’s and shoots for an hour. This time she doesn’t aimlessly hammer ammo into the targets, but actually tries to improve her aim. When she gets home, she takes a dive.

And then she wakes up the next morning with a cloud over her head and spends two days completely jacked in. When she surfaces for air, it’s to a text message.

[11:06] Vik:

Thanks for checking on Misty

Hope you’re doing alright

She huffs, disappointed in herself for backsliding.

[03:27] V:

I’m okay

It’s a lie, she’s a fucking liar, but fuck—someday it won’t be a lie. Right? You and Jackie needed each other. Misty was right. She did need him. Needs him. Doesn’t know how to go on without him. Feels like she’s just been faking it ‘til now. How is she supposed to move forward?

Keep one promise to yourself, that small voice reminds her.

So she unplugs, shucks her bodyweight suit, and goes to Wilson’s range. Shoots for only half an hour—barely hits the target—before her body can’t do it anymore. When she gets home, she makes a simple meal—sausage-flavored SCOP in some mac and cheese—but it’s more effort than she’s put into her diet in months.

The next few days, she restricts her Net usage to her portable cyberdeck, goes to the gun range, and eats regularly. She even manages to go for a run. Can’t think too far ahead, but tries every day to keep one promise to herself.

-o-

One week after rescuing Evelyn, her phone beeps with a new message from an unknown number.

[04:11] Unknown:

Ya don’t know me, but you will. Name’s Dino. Deal

with downtown, City Center. Heard about you from

Regina. Hot stuff. Got a job for you, if you’re interested.

Detes attached.

She skims the file. Two friends open a club, eddies roll in, one tries to lock the other out, and the one screwed over is feeling understandably vindictive. The short of it is that she needs to upload a virus into the club’s system that only the client can fix. She’s not sure how well that plan’ll pan out, but she’s not being paid to solve problems. She’s being paid to deploy the client’s solution.

She hasn’t cased the club yet, but she already knows this should be no problem for her. All she needs is someone to watch her back…

V draws a deep breath, holds it, pretends she’s thinking through her options but she knows there’s only one she trusts right now. Pulls up a different message thread.

[4:15] V:

You ever decide on that favor?

[4:16] Dum Dum:

why

ya in a hurry princess

V bites her lip, nervous.

[4:16] V:

Got a gig I need you for

If you’re still interested?

She holds her breath, waiting for his response.

[4:17] Dum Dum:

so hire me

V feels a smile tugging on her lips.

[4:17] V:

All right, need a guardian, 50-50 split

You in?

[4:17] Dum Dum:

yeah

Her heart thumps in relief and excitement.

[4:17] V:

Heads up, it’s gonna be really boring ;)

[4:18] Dum Dum:

want me or not

[4:18] V:

I do

[4:18] Dum Dum:

need detes

[4:18] V:

I’ll pick you up. When and where?

While she waits for his reply, she texts Dino, tells him she’ll take care of it. When she jumps back to Dum Dum’s thread, she laughs out loud.

[4:19] Dum Dum:

not gettin in that piece of shit rust bucket ya call a car

ill drive

She shakes her head, but she’s too happy to be insulted.

[4:19] V:

Whatever you say

Chapter Text

Dum Dum picks V up at the corner of Ellison and Bradbury near nine o’clock, eager to get more info about this Voodoo Boys bullshit she’s mixed up in—doesn’t need all the details to protect her, but the more info, the better—and, yeah, maybe to see her, too. Only been a week, but feels longer. He pulls up to the curb, finds her ‘neath a streetlight, and what she’s wearing has him all twisted up. A black high-collar cropped military vest over a ruby red tank top knotted to show off that belly piercing, those fingerless leather gloves, low-cut skin-tight black jeans laced at the crotch with designer rips along the thighs, and black and red high-tops. With those goggles on her head and the cyberdeck belted to her thigh, she looks ready for mayhem.

Black and red, Maelstrom colors. She flirtin’ with him?

The door opens for her as she approaches his car, her gaze sweeping the length of it—a Type-66 Javelina painted black with a Maelstrom spider head on the side—before she climbs into the passenger seat.

“Preem ride,” she says as the door closes. “No wonder you wanted to drive.”

Nah, didn’t wanna drive ‘cause of that. Not ‘cause he gives a shit about ridin’ in her junker. He doesn’t. He wanted to drive ‘cause he wants to be in control of this date—where they go, when it ends. Has some questions for her, ‘bout the Voodoo Boys and Konpeki…

Not telling her that, though, so he asks, “Yeah, ya like it?”

She smiles and says, “Who wouldn’t? It’s nova.”

It wasn’t his intention to show off, but he likes that she’s impressed. Likes that she looks good in his car. Likes her smilin’ like that.

Dum Dum peels away from the curb and heads south toward Downtown, weaving between cars as fast as traffic allows. The halogens and colors of flashing ads slide over her skin as she gazes out the window at the passing world. A song on Vexelstrom thrashes beneath the growl of his engine and the occasional car horn, but it all sounds like silence with her next to him, those pretty lips sealed.

“Promised me detes,” Dum Dum says. He doesn’t really care about the job, just wants to hear her talk.

“Right.” She shifts on the seat to face him, her thighs sliding together. “So, not too long ago, these two guys opened a club called Empathy. Heard of it?”

Sure, he’s heard of it. Probably not for the reason she thinks—‘cause it’s a BD club that serves up hardcore porn with a side of live strip tease. And yeah, who doesn’t love a good BD fuck with some in-the-flesh foreplay? But the club’s atmosphere’s all satin and cocktails, not his style. Nah, he knows about the club ‘cause the Animals recently moved in, way too close to Maelstrom turf. Gotta keep an eye on the ‘roidy little shits.

“Heard of it,” he says.

“Well, it blew up, money poured in, and one of these guys got the bright idea to cut his partner out. So he changed the club’s access codes, made a few shady deals, and hired Animals as bouncers. Our client—the scorned partner—wants back in. Which is where I come in. I upload a virus into their network that brings the op to a standstill until our client’s partner welcomes him back with—and I quote—open arms.”

Dum Dum snorts. “Half-assed plan.”

“Yeah, I know.” She shrugs. “But that’s the job.”

“So I stand watch while you sleep on an access port.”

“Right. The client wants to keep it quiet. Told you,” she flashes him a playful smile, “boring.”

He runs his tongue along his teeth without comment. Not bored with her, never bored with her, not yet. While she’s jacked in, he gets to look at her as much as he wants. Nah, not gonna complain about that. But he is curious about one thing… Back at the scav den, she hacked their system without jackin’ in via her personal link, makin’ her fully capable of watchin’ her own back. So why not do that now ‘stead of splittin’ eddies with a guardian? Hell, why didn’t she do it weeks ago, when she went after the Tyger Claws?

So he asks, “Whatcha need me for when ya got that portable?”

She glances at the deck belted to her thigh before replying, “Would take too long. What I can do with my neural deck in minutes would probably take half an hour or more on this thing.”

“Then why carry it?”

“Dedicated support. If I use my portable to manage Net Arch access and handle the graphical overlay, it frees up my neural RAM for quickhacks.” Her fingernails—blood red—drum once against the metal case. “Never know when you’re gonna need to be in both cyberspace and meatspace at the same time.”

“And the goggles?” He turns onto Ferris Blvd and guns it down the bridge, pulling a hundred. “Whatcha need them for when ya got them preem Kiroshis?”

V tenses up at the increased speed, braces herself without trying to make it obvious. To her credit, her voice sounds steady when she explains, “Kiroshis’re new, only had ‘em a few months, and my old ones couldn’t handle the feedback. Just got used to the goggles, I guess.” Her jaw flexes, face briefly wrinkles with some barely contained thought before she adds, “My Kiroshis are just the basic model, anyways. And, y’know, there’s a half-second of lag time whenever I use my scanner or breach protocol while streaming cyberspace. It’s not long but…I notice.” She sounds embarrassed when she quickly adds, “Don’t like it. Throws me off.”

Dum Dum wonders why that technical tidbit is what she’s embarrassed about. Her ripper make her feel stupid for complainin’? Not a dumb reason. He’s swapped chrome for less. Maybe one of the Maelstrom techs could fine-tune those optics just right for her, but he doubts she’d trust ‘em enough to let ‘em tinker with her chrome. Besides, Dum Dum likes the goggles, likes when she looks like a ‘Strommer.

“So fuck ‘em,” he says. “Half-second’s all it takes to catch a bullet.”

He sees her try to repress a smile as she murmurs, “Exactly.”

Dum Dum eases up on the accelerator as he nears Union Street then takes a right, circles around to Republic Way, and slowly drives by Empathy. There’s a crowd already forming outside the club with two beefy bouncers guarding the door. V sits up and stares, her eyes flickering in the darkness of the car, scannin’ for access points. They loop around the building, but she shakes her head in disappointment.

“Gotta go in,” she says.

He parks in the darkness beneath the Halsey overpass and they both get out. V unbuckles her cyberdeck and pulls off her goggles, piles them in the front seat.

“They don’t allow weapons,” she explains. “Make you check your gear at the door.”

Dum Dum tongues a canine, annoyance flickering through him, but draws his DR5 and stashes it on the seat, unsheathes the combat knife on his boot and the hidden blades in his jacket and tosses them in, too. Then he locks his car and they start walkin’ down the sidewalk toward the club.

Empathy comes into view, its blue and pink neons cutting the night. “Love Hub” is flashing above the door with XXX warnings framing signs for cyberbabes and raunchy ads. The people piled up outside are dressed in smooth, angular corpo threads or glittery, colorful kitschy swag, each with eclectic hairstyles and gaudy make-up. A thick, invisible cloud of tobacco smoke and too much cologne hangs low to the ground. Dum Dum pulls his leather hood up over his head to avoid drawin’ too much attention. Maelstrom still has a presence here, but he’s not lookin’ to pick any fights.

They take their place in line.

V leans closer and playfully says, “Feels like we’re underdressed.”

Fuckin’ eyesore, all of ‘em. Except the princess. Dum Dum likes what she’s wearin’. Likes the street look. Really likes that she’s wearing Maelstrom colors. Wants to pull those goggles over her eyes, light ‘em up. She’d look real hard. Make him real hard, too.

He looks her up and down, murmurs, “Wearin’ my colors, princess?”

She shrugs, doesn’t look at him when she replies, “Just like ‘em.”

A few places up the line, someone laughs loudly, there’s a small commotion, and a man separates from the crowd, a big smile on his face. Recognition clicks. It’s fuckin’ Handsy. He’s talkin’ to someone, grinnin’ like an idiot. His gaze drifts the length of the line, a casual sweep of his surroundings, and his eyes lock onto Dum Dum’s optics. That smile drops, his face pales.

V says, “Look who it is. Finally got some chrome, huh?”

Handsy’s eyes dart to V and his expression warps with terror. He lifts his hands in surrender, and a shiny cyber appendage looks pink beneath the neons. He whimpers somethin’ as he backs up, nearly trippin’ over his own feet. And then he takes off running down the street. His chooms holler after him.

“The fuck was his problem?” V wonders.

Dum Dum just grins.

“Oh,” she blurts, startled, starin’ at his mouth in surprise.

It takes a second to click why—that he got chrome plating put on his teeth.

“Ah, shit,” he says and his grin becomes a full-blown smile. “Forgot you ain’t seen these beauts yet. Whatcha think?”

She shakes her head, forces a smile. “Nice,” she says, but she doesn’t mean it. He can tell.

His smile fades, disappointment settling in. A solid reminder his princess is ‘ganic. Hides her chrome under all that skin, more meat than metal. Not gonna appreciate his mods like a ‘borg would, like Yena does. Wants her to, though, and it annoys him that he wants that.

“You don’t like it,” he says, and it’s not a question.

“No! No, it’s just…it surprised me.” She shrugs, smiles a little, and finally admits, “I just thought you had a nice smile before, that’s all.”

His thoughts go still. Nice smile? Him? She thought that?

“And now you don’t?”

“Just harder to see it now,” she explains. “Chrome chompers don’t catch the light too often.”

He grunts in acknowledgement, still thinking about those two words: nice smile. No one ever told him that before. Not in his entire life. First non-chrome-related compliment he’s ever received. Does she mean it? Really? Or is it just an excuse? She watches his mouth to read his emotions—figured that one out after they raided the scav den. Maybe they’re harder to read now. Or maybe she really did like his smile for some stupid fuckin’ reason.

Like the way he likes hers.

Doesn’t know why she said it, if she really meant it or not, but he likes the possibility that she did. That she likes somethin’ about him. Or used to, at any rate.

When he doesn’t speak, she rushes to add, “But they’re nova, too.” She grins. “Maybe I should get some. Twinsies?”

“Nah,” he says with a shake of his head. “You’d look gonk as fuck.”

And he means it, which surprises him almost as much as her sayin’ she liked his smile. 

She huffs, amused. “Probably.”

The line begins to move quickly, especially when the people ahead of them turn to see a Maelstrom ‘borg standin’ behind them and immediately offer him their spot.

As they step forward, she says, “But shouldn’t you be convincing me to get more chrome, not less?”

Sure, yeah, more chrome. Wants to see it on her. Just not anything that messes up her smile.

He grins. “Got some ideas.”

She chuckles and nods. “Mantis blades I know. What else?”

Dum Dum stares at her, at the freckles clustered on her nose, scattered along her cheeks and chin and forehead. They keep going, along her shoulders and arms, on her chest and stomach. A chaos of brown speckles on pale skin. Wants her to keep those like he wants her to keep that smile.

“Some EMP threading to start,” he says. “Add in subdermal armor with a li’l copper nano-plating—”

“To match my hair?”

He locks onto that mass of copper, licks his lips. “Yeah.”

Before he can say more about his chrome fantasies, they make it to the front of the line where the bouncer motions V inside. When he tries to follow her, one of the Animals puts a meaty hand against his chest and pushes him back.

“Hold up,” the guy growls. “The fuck’s Maelstrom doin’ here?”

Dum Dum’s upper lip curls into a snarl. “Got a fuckin’ problem, meatboy?”

V suddenly takes his wrist, pulls his arm around her shoulders, and all feeling is blasted out of him like a hit of Lace, all except a rush of ‘dorphs. Without thinkin’, he tightens his shoulder to keep the weight of his arm off her and laces his fingers through hers. She reciprocates, leans into him like she’s his fuckin’ output. Dum Dum knows this’s just for show, to get past the bouncers, but he fuckin’ likes it.

She snaps at the Animal, “You got a problem with us, asshole?”

The bouncer looks at her like she’s just sprouted a second head. “He with you?”

Animal’s confused. Doesn’t understand. Dum Dum gets it. They don’t match, him and the princess. He’s rusted, jagged metal to her soft, sweet velvet. A pretty ‘ganic girl like her would never look twice at a ‘borg like him—not like this, anyway. Out in the open. Like a mainline. A newer model, maybe, with sleek cyberware and normal eyes. But not a Maelstrom ‘borg, whose augmentation’s express purpose is dehumanizing him. Nah, he’s a monster to her, he knows that. Always known that, since the very beginning when he zeroed the fatter rat. If the fucker hadn’t even suggested she was his girl, hadn’t planted the idea in his head, Dum Dum might never’ve thought about her again. But he did.

Now he thinks about her all the time.

What did he tell Raze? Girl’s mine. And he fuckin’ meant it.

Dum Dum curls his arm around her neck, drawin’ her closer, and growls, “The fuck you think?”

The two meatheads exchange glances before one of ‘em says, “No funny business or we rip your chrome apart. Got it?”

Dum Dum grins and pulls V in just a little tighter, bites out, “Got it.”

The Animal grunts, nodding them inside. “Stash your weapons.”

“No shit,” V quips.

As he and V head through the door, Dum Dum pauses close to the mouthy bouncer. “Don’t give a fuck about your little club right now,” he says, low and threatening, “but gimme a fuckin’ reason, see what happens.”

The bouncer just chuffs, angry but impotent. Even that hormone-shrunken pea-sized brain of his knows goin’ to war with Maelstrom will be the end of their shitty gang. A bunch of ‘roid ragin’ mutts’re no match for the cyberpsychos of Night City.

They enter the club and pass through the scans without any issue and find themselves in a large, dark room bathed in blue light with hot pink accents on the bar, chairs, and ceiling recesses. Pink lasers bounce over the dance floor and stage where scantily clad women sway and grind to some kind of obnoxious synthpop rhythm blasting over the loudspeakers. It’s a pulsating beat that sounds like rusty pipes banging over hollow tin cans to his chrome cochlea, and he has to adjust his amplified hearing ware to dull the noise.

Fuckin’ lame ass fever dream.

“Not seeing anything accessible yet,” she says and heads toward the bar. He follows.

“Can I help you?” the bartender asks, nervously eyeing Dum Dum behind her.

“What beer would you recommend?” she asks.

“Hmm… Calavera Feliz has subtle, malty undertones,” the man explains. “Then there’s Abydos, which has a unique herbal aroma. I’d avoid Broseph altogether. Tastes like carbonated piss.”

V glances back at Dum Dum, a question in her eyes. He just stares at her—not here to drink. Here to plant a virus and go. Music’s gettin’ on his nerves—but she turns back to the bartender and says, “Alright, gimme one of each.”

She flicks the eddies and takes the two bottles handed to her, passes one to Dum Dum, and then leads him deeper into the club. They post up by the wall like they’re watchin’ the show, easin’ into the party. V takes a sip of her beer, casually lookin’ around, but he knows she’s scannin’ for access ports. He’s lookin’, too, but for muscle. He spots a couple Animals across the room, eyein’ him. Not lookin’ to start a fight, but might not mind if they do.

Dum Dum takes a swig of his beer and grimaces at the pungent taste. “Shit. Tastes like watered-down piss.”

V takes the bottle from him and hands him hers. “Try mine.”

He does. Packs a harder punch but somehow tastes worse. “More piss,” he says, discarding the bottle on a nearby table.

She snorts against the rim of his beer just before she takes a swig, cringes, and then laughs. “Yeah, they’re both pretty awful. What do you prefer?”

“Neither.”

“I mean in general. Favorite beer.”

“Donaghy’s.”

“You have good taste,” she says, and then motions with her head toward the stairwell. “Found us a spot.”

He follows her to the second level and into a dark corner booth overlooking the stage where a bunch of ‘ganic girls dance on poles. Dum Dum looks at them but doesn’t feel anything, not the slightest twinge in his cock. Fuckin’ mystery. Sure, the more meat you lose, the more human instincts you delete—that’s the goal—but sex is usually one of the last to go. Even as chipped as Dum Dum is, he still gets horny, yeah, just not over every rimbo and chrome bunny to walk by. ‘Specially not over boring ‘ganic girls. Which is what makes his obsession with the princess all the more confusing, ‘cause there shouldn’t be anything appealin’ about all her flesh…

“Least you’ll have a show while I work,” V says, drawin’ his gaze. She leans on the railing and looks out over the club. “Might not be so bored this time.”

“Nah,” he scoffs, “fuck this place. Not my scene.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Everything. Shitty music, shitty beer, all around shitty vibe.”

A playful little smile curls her lips. “And no chance of murder?”

“Fuck… You into this?”

“Nah.” She shakes her head. “Not my scene either.”

“Yeah? What is your scene?”

She shrugs, takes a sip of beer, and grimaces like she somehow forgot it tasted so bad. “Used to go to El Coyote a lot.”

A little dive in Heywood, Valentinos turf. Dum Dum’s never been. But he’s guessin’ she used to go with Gonk-Brain, her dead ‘tino friend, ‘cause “used to” means "not anymore”.

“Should come to Totentanz sometime,” he tells her.

Her brows furrow like she’s confused. “Isn’t that a Maelstrom club?”

“Yeah, but open to anyone.”

“Thought you said don’t come back.”

“To All Foods,” he says. “Not the ‘Tanz. All types come in, even fleshy ones.”

“Oh.” She bites her lip, chews on it for a second—a sign she’s thinkin’, deliberating. “Okay, sure. Maybe. Sometime.”

He watches her set her beer on the floor then settle onto the couch. Runs her hand along the back, fingers sliding against the wall. He can tell the moment she finds the port because there’s a tiny hitch in her movement. Dum Dum looks around, notes another Animal on the other side of the balcony guarding the VIP section, watchin’ them. Dum Dum knows he can’t see much other than Maelstrom red optics glowin’ in the dark, but he’s payin’ attention. Probably just keepin’ an eye on the unwanted ‘Strommer presence, but it’s a risk.

“Got an audience,” he warns her.

She quickly finds the Animal across the way. “Damn it. Let’s see…”

She looks around, up at him, pats the spot beside her. He sits down next to her, blockin’ line of sight. She turns toward him and her knee slides against his. He hears a click as she plugs into the port.

“Alright,” she murmurs, resting her cheek against the back of the couch. “Jacked in, goin’ under. Shouldn’t take long. A few minutes, tops.”

Then she closes her eyes, one second passes, two, and she goes limp. Slumps against him, head on his shoulder, body pressed into his arm.

Fuckin’ soft, she is. Real fuckin’ soft.

Dum Dum stares at her, at her hair, so close he can smell it, see those pretty copper threads. Looks fiery in the light of his optics. His gaze drops to her body, skims the curve of her breasts and swell of her hips. Where she’s folded over at the waist, her skin creases and rolls. Not like the smooth, firm synthskin of a ‘borg, no. Fleshy, squishy, soft. Wants to touch her, to dig his fingers in and squeeze—

A message flashes in his peripheral.

[9:41] Bjorn:

meeting tonight, canal

[9:41] Dum Dum:

when

[9:41] Bjorn:

midnight

Dum Dum’s tongue slides along his chrome-plated teeth. So, Patricia’s meetin’ her ‘Strommer traitor pals tonight. Doubts she’ll come herself, but either way, it’s a chance for a lead. All the ones they’ve found ‘til now have been bust.

[9:42] Dum Dum:

got it

[9:42] Bjorn:

want backup?

He feasts on the sight of his princess lying against him, skin washed with red light cast from his optics. Was plannin’ on havin’ a private chat with her anyway. Might as well take her on a little date, have some fun. Been wantin’ to see what she can do for a while now.

[9:42] Dum Dum:

nah

[9:43] Bjorn:

you’re the boss

Dum Dum closes the thread and soaks up her warmth, waiting. A minute later, V opens her eyes, finds herself against his shoulder, and immediately sits up.

“Sorry,” she says, then quickly retracts her personal link. “It’s done. We can go.”

They waste no time in making their way downstairs, aware of Animal eyes following their every move through the club. Dum Dum puts his arm around her as they head into the lobby, just in case the fuckers try anything, but no one stops them as they pass through the outer doors.

“Leaving so soon?” the mouthy bouncer grouses.

“Yeah, your club fuckin’ blows,” Dum Dum tosses over his shoulder.

The meathead growls, cracks his knuckles, but his buddy stops him with a hand on his arm. Dum Dum flips him his middle finger as they walk away.

The noise of Empathy fades, and Dum Dum releases her to light a cigarette. Neither speaks as they walk back to the car. V belts her cyberdeck on and pushes her goggles into her hair while Dum Dum returns his knives to their proper sheathes and stows his DR5.

He rests his arms on the roof of his car and looks across at V. She tilts her head, taking him in, and then leans forward, copies his posture, tries to hide a playful smile. He takes a long drag and exhales a cloud of gray, offers her the cigarette. She shakes her head, so he takes another drag.

“Fixer’s waitin’ on confirmation,” she tells him, “then I’ll flick your cut.”

Dum Dum grunts in acknowledgement. “You were right. Boring job.”

Except for all the times he got to touch her, that she touched him, complimented him—fuck, he likes everything that happened tonight.

She just laughs, seeming happier, lighter. Like she was after the first gig they worked together. “Easy eddies,” she says.

Smoke seeps from his lips as he asks, “You happy, princess?”

“Yeah, guess I am.”

“Why?”

A defensive expression flickers over her face, at war with the polite smile she’s tryin’ hard to maintain. “Can’t enjoy gettin’ paid?”

“Hurtin’ for eddies?”

“No.” She looks away, shrugs, then says, “Lost my solo recently. Hasn’t been easy gettin’ back out there.”

“The ‘tino,” he says, “from All Foods.”

She meets his gaze, nods. “Yeah. He was a good choom.” She visibly swallows. “Was hard imaginin’ doing this without him.”

Her fingers curl against the roof, the only indication she’s buildin’ her defenses, preparin’ for a blow, like she expects him to mock her pain. And sure, Dum Dum can’t relate, won’t pretend to, but he won’t kick her while she’s down. Doesn’t like when she’s sad. Not gonna make her sadder. That’s the kind of thing he’d zero someone for.

They stare at one another for a long while before he takes a final pull on his cigarette, tosses it, and climbs into his car. She slides in next to him. The Javelina roars to life and he peels out from beneath the overpass, takes off down Republic, making his way back to the bridge to Watson. He guns it across and turns right onto Palm View.

For a moment, there’s only the darkness of the night, the quiet of the car. A pregnant post-gig pause between two people whose paths only cross for work. But that’s about to change…

He blasts past Ellison and races up Kennedy Avenue, heading toward Northside. V tenses, and not just from the speed. This ain’t the way back to where he picked her up and she knows it.

“Where we going?” she asks, tryin’ damned hard to disguise the tremble in her voice.

He fishes into his pocket, pulls out an x-keef inhaler, and tosses it into her lap. “Gonna do somethin’ fun,” he tells her.

She gazes at him, eyes bright in the darkness, nervous. A little scared, maybe. But she takes a deep breath and says, “Okay.”

And then she lifts the inhaler to her lips and thumbs the canister.

Chapter Text

Dum Dum races up Kennedy Avenue, through Little China into Kabuki, headin’ toward Northside. V sits quietly in the passenger seat, gazing at him, and he can see the tension leave her body as the Lace travels her system.

“Better?” he asks.

“Mm,” she hums softly.

“Take another hit.”

She licks her lips. “Is that safe?”

“Safe, yeah,” he assures her.

She just watches him for a long moment before wrappin’ her mouth around the inhaler and thumbin’ the canister once more. She sucks in a sharp breath, holds it longer than she’s ever held it, and then vapor pours from her lips as she passes the inhaler to him. He snatches it up and takes two quick puffs. The Lace slams into his system, obliterating pain, hesitation, inhibition with a rush of ‘dorphs and adrenaline.

He looks at V, sees a small smile curl her lips. Yeah, she’s feelin’ it, feelin’ nova. Dum Dum grins, blasts the radio, and floors the accelerator. The Javelina surges forward, slammin’ them into their seats. V inhales sharply, surprise flitting over her face… And then she laughs, leaving the last dregs of fear behind.

Dum Dum keeps the Javelina at top speed, chewin’ up pavement, weavin’ around cars too slow to get out of his way. He cuts northeast into Northside and unleashes down Leru Street, running alongside the empty canal to the darker, quieter parts of Night City. V cuts a glance at All Foods as they pass it, and he can see the hesitation flash in her eyes, but she’s too high to let fear take over her mind. He drives to the end of the street and pulls right into an empty, gated parking lot beside the canal, parks in the shadow of an abandoned building tagged with Maelstrom graffiti.

V sits up, gazing out the window as he cuts the engine. “Where are we?”

He doesn’t answer, just gets out of the car. She follows. The ruckus of a ‘Strommer party—thrash metal, gunfire, laughing—can be heard down the street. V stares in the direction of the bonfires as Dum Dum pops the trunk and pulls a bottle of amber liquor from the back. She doesn’t flinch when he slams the trunk, but she’s watchin’ that bouncing light like prey watches a predator.

“Not goin’ there,” he tells her, and she meets his optics, drops her gaze to his mouth. She looks relieved.

“Then where are we goin’?”

He jerks his head in the opposite direction and leads her toward an opening in the gate where a concrete bridge stretches over the canal. He motions her across. She stares at it, chews her lip for a moment—debating whether to trust him or not, maybe. Maelstrom has a rep, sure, and a couple gigs don’t make them chooms. She don’t know what he’s done for her, how he thinks about her…

“Not gonna hurt ya,” he says.

Her gaze snaps up to his optics, drops to his mouth, lingers there. Then she looks back across the bridge. “I know.” She steps up onto the concrete. “Wouldn’t waste Black Lace on me if you were.” And then she starts across.

It’s only now that he notices the back of her jacket has somethin’ written on it: Bad Motherfucker. He grins and climbs up after her.

“Figure you’ll hit me with that cold code ya got if I try anything,” he says, followin’ her. She just hums in agreement.

They reach the other side and hop down into a small alcove tucked away behind an abandoned warehouse and lit by a single floodlight. There’s a worn leather couch, some stacked pallets covered with old cardboard for a table, a few overturned crates used as chairs, empty beer bottles and cigarette packs scattered about, and a target ring spray-painted on the wall. A grated walkway with a yellow railing wraps around the secluded perch, and stairs lead down to an old service road that runs alongside the canal. The perch gives him the perfect vantage point of the maintenance driveway that runs from Leru down into the bottom of the canal. If Patricia’s goons are gonna meet their spies, this is the spot they’ll do it.

“What is this place?” V asks.

“Would come here sometimes,” he explains, passin’ her the liquor bottle, “when I wanted to be alone. Think.” He pauses to light a cigarette. “‘Til Bjorn and Trey found it, then it got noisy as fuck.”

She grins, amused for a reason he can’t fathom. “They helped us at the scav den, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm. Should’a thanked them when I had the chance.”

“Nah,” he says, exhaling a cloud of gray. “Don’t thank ‘em.”

“Why not?”

‘Cause he wants her thanks all to himself. ‘Cause a ‘Strommer’d get some ideas if a pretty merc girl paid ‘em too much mind. But what he says is, “‘Cause then you’d have to thank that shithead Raze.”

She laughs, open and unguarded. “Well, guess he did help—”

“Didn’t help,” he corrects and takes the bottle from her. “Just did what he had to. To get a closer look at ya.” He opens it, takes a swig, and hands it back. “Instincts were right the first time. Melt his brain if he comes near you again.”

“Why’s he interested in me?”

“Thinks you’re a haxan,” he answers as he pulls his DR5 from his waistband and sets it on the pallet table.

“Right.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “You said it meant I was a cyberwitch, but I just figured that was a fancy name for a skilled netrunner.”

“Skilled, yeah,” he says, takin’ a seat on the couch and throwin’ an arm over the back, “among the best. Big deal to the cult chromers.”

“What’s a cult chromer?”

“Religious cocksuckers who think the Net’s a spirit realm and rogue AIs are lost gods,” he tells her, exhaling smoke. “Body’s just a meat prison keepin’ ‘em outta heaven, gettin’ chipped’s how they escape or, donno, transcend?”

“So, to them, netrunners are,” she pauses, searching for the right word, “what, priests?”

“Shit, how the fuck would I know?”

She snorts and rolls her eyes before takin’ a swig of liquor. She coughs once at the burn and briefly presses the back of her hand to her mouth.

“Enough about Raze,” he says and holds his hand out. She passes him the bottle and he takes a gulp as she sits across from him on the pallet table. “Tell me ‘bout the Voodoo Boys.”

He expects she might not wanna talk about it—been cagey with the details since the beginning. What he doesn’t expect is that defensive look in her eyes, the way she tenses slightly.

“Nothin’ to tell,” she says neutrally, but there’s a tightness in her tone.

“Bullshit. Why are they involved in this?”

She leans back on her palms, showin’ off the expanse of her stomach, her chest. “Why do you wanna know?”

“Just do,” he answers, appreciatin’ the view.

She scoffs, “Thought you said I was a lot of trouble.”

Trouble, yeah. Took three days and a lot of eddies just to find someone who can put him in contact with a fixer who might be able to access an affiliate of those fuckin’ juju wireheads. Still waitin’ on a reply. Lot of fuckin’ trouble, his princess.

He puffs his cigarette and asks, “So?”

“So why do you keep asking about something you think is so much trouble?”

He tongues a canine, watchin’ her closely. Doesn’t know what her problem is, why she’s fixated on that word—trouble—but he can’t really answer the question without scarin’ her. That he likes her smile, her freckles, that copper hair, her preem body. That he likes the stars and thoughts in her head. That he’d fuck her senseless if she let him. Nah. ‘Ganic girls don’t wanna hear those things from ‘borgs like him.

So he takes a drag, exhales, and says, “Like your head the way it is, without bullet holes or homebrew malware.”

Her green gaze bounces from his optics to his mouth, back and forth, brow furrowed cautiously. And then her expression softens, the defensiveness fades.

The fuck was that about?

V sits up, takes the bottle from him, drinks, then says, “Evelyn’s gig was to steal something from Konpeki Plaza.”

“News never said nothin’ about a theft.”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s not important. Whole thing was a bust, anyway.” She passes the bottle back as she explains, “Evelyn hired Dex, Dex hired me and Jackie—closed circle. Only other party knew about the theft was Arasaka, and they had no way of knowin’ about Evelyn. But then she got sniped.”

“And you went lookin’ for her,” he says before taking the last drag of his cigarette, tossing the filter.

She nods. “Judy was able to pull a virtu off her behavioral chip of a conversation Evelyn had with a member of the Voodoo Boys. Turns out, they’d hired her to scroll Konpeki.” She huffs, clearly still irritated by the revelation. “But all they wanted was a BD, not a heist. Evelyn did that on her own, went behind their back when she hired Dex.”

“So they killed her for it.”

“No, I don’t think they even know about the heist.”

“If they don’t know, why take her out?”

“Voodoo Boys view outsiders as disposable, and she was a loose end.” She shrugs. “Like I said, I can’t be sure they’re the ones who did it, but the homebrew they hit her with? Powerful stuff. Right up their alley.”

Dum Dum runs his tongue along his teeth. “And they don’t know about you?”

She shakes her head. “Don’t see how they could. They didn’t interrogate her, just fried her brain.”

“Could’a been someone else.”

“Could’ve been,” she agrees. “Could be completely unrelated. Might be she pissed someone else off—she was good at that. There’s no way to know until Evelyn wakes up. Judy wasn’t able to recover any other data.”

Dum Dum grunts, runs his hand over his mouth, lights another cigarette. He doesn’t like this—not knowin’. He briefly wonders if a Maelstrom tech could get anything more outta the doll—Tiny’s probably takin’ care, bein’ all gentle with her, but the doll’s dead already. Body just hasn’t caught up to the mind yet, but it will, and then all that intel will be lost. He might have to kill Tiny to get the doll, though, and that could upset the princess. Said she was a choom, didn’t she? Fuck.

He asks, “Anyone else know ‘bout all this?”

She shakes her head again. “No one knows what happened ‘cept Arasaka, me, and—well, now you.”

Dum Dum just nods. Seems like the Voodoo Boys are the last hole he’s gotta plug. All he really needs to know is if they zeroed the doll. Follow-up questions can wait. Not a hornet’s nest Dum Dum plans to kick if he don’t have to. Can’t risk startin’ a gang war or accidentally shinin’ a light on the very thing he’s tryin’ to hide, but he won’t let it lie, just wait and see—not where the princess is concerned.

V reaches out, takes his cigarette from him, inhales. He stares at her, her pretty lips around the filter, the way they part upon release. She hands the cigarette back, exhales, looks around. Her gaze lands on his DR5 beside her thigh. She reaches out, those thin fingers ghosting over the barrel.

She meets his optics. “May I?”

He nods once, takin’ another drag, and watches as she gently picks it up, examines every inch of the revolver. He bites down on the filter. Not sure why, but her hands on his gun? Makin’ him real fuckin’ hot.

She asks, “It’s modified?”

He nods again. “Yeah. Some custom parts—stop it from jammin’ as much as the base model. Fires three explosive rounds per shot.”

Her eyes widen and her gaze snaps to his, clearly impressed. “So that’s what happened to those scavs…”

“I call it Doom Doom,” he tells her and she immediately smiles.

“Fitting.”

“Yeah. Just don’t shoot it.”

“Wasn’t gonna, but…why?”

“Recoil might take your arm outta its socket.”

Her eyebrows jump in surprise. “Don’t want that,” she murmurs and gingerly sets the gun back on the table. She gives the barrel a final tap. “Beautiful piece, though. I used to have a loaf, but I lost it.”

“Fuck’s a loaf?”

“Sorry, M-10AF Lexington. The, uh, the designation looked like ‘loaf’ to me, so…that’s what I called it.” She scrunches her nose, seeming embarrassed. “Meatloaf.”

He takes a long drag on his cigarette and slowly exhales. “Not a good name for a gun.”

A laugh bubbles out of her as she flushes pink. “Yeah, I know…”

Dum Dum doesn’t know why she’s laughing—she think he’s funny or just feelin’ embarrassed?—but he likes the sound of it.

“I didn’t really use it much anyway,” she says, crossing her legs. “Jackie did most of the shooting.”

“You got that Unity.”

“It’s a friend’s. Should probably give it back, get one of my own.” She plants her elbow on her knee, puts her chin in her palm. “Kind of a strange name for a gun, too, right? Unity.”

“Probably better than Meatloaf.”

“Probably,” she agrees.

Ever since she came back into his life, he’s considered givin’ her gun back, but he can’t explain why he has it without tellin’ her about the Fat Rat, and he’s not gonna do that. Nothin’ says obsession quite like huntin’, torturin’, and flatlinin’ the enemy of the girl you just met. Besides, he likes it, likes havin’ that piece of her.

Gonna have to get her a new one.

He takes the final drag on his cigarette and tosses the filter. “What kinda iron ya lookin’ for?”

“Donno. Somethin’ that won’t take my arm outta it’s socket. Got any recs?”

“You prefer semi- or fully automatic?” he asks, and she shrugs. “You fire the Unity yet?”

She nods. “Been takin’ it to the range, gettin’ used to it.”

“Feels better than the M-10AF?”

“Hmm…” She briefly looks away, drums her fingers against her cheek. “Yeah, I think so.” She meets his optics. “Has a bigger kick, but each shot feels more precise.”

“Tsunami Nue,” he tells her, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Semi-auto, packs a punch, but recoil’s light. Rubber grip makes it more comfortable for ‘ganic hands.” He shrugs. “Can’t go wrong with another Unity either.”

“Nue,” she says, like she’s makin’ a mental note. “All right, I’ll think about it.” Suddenly her eyes shift away, glaze over—message incoming. And then she flicks him his cut and several thousand eddies roll into his account. “Thanks for the help.”

They stare at one another until she lowers her gaze, fidgets with the torn fabric of her jeans. Dum Dum takes a swig of liquor and sets the bottle down beside her.

He asks, “What’s V stand for?”

A little smile twitches on her lips, but she doesn’t answer, just picks at a thread.

“Valerie?” he guesses. She shakes her head. “Veronica?” Another shake. “Victoria?”

She finally looks at him, still fighting that smile. “You’re never gonna guess.”

“Only so many V-names out there, gotta be one of ‘em.”

She folds her lips inward like she’s holdin’ in a secret and a single shoulder lifts in a shrug.

“Not a name then.” He licks his lips, tries to imagine what a pretty merc girl might call herself. “Valkyrie.”

“Nope,” she says with a pop.

“Virtual.”

She laughs and he soaks up the sound.

“Victory.”

She shakes her head. “No.” And before he can make another guess, she asks, “Why do they call you Dum Dum?” Her gaze drops to his mouth, tryin’ to read him, but she’s gonk if she thinks he’s gonna tell her. “…Is it ‘cause you’re really not?”

Dum Dum tilts his head. “Think so?”

“I know you’re not.”

He grins. Princess is flirtin’ with him again… He leans back onto the couch before he does somethin’ stupid like touch her. “Tell me about a star.”

“Can’t. Savin’ it for a trade.”

“So ask me somethin’.”

She opens her mouth like she’s gonna refuse, but then her gaze bounces over him and she says, “Okay. Your chrome dreads… They for looks or do they have some sort of function?”

“Nah,” he breathes, “just like the way they look.”

“Fair enough.” She absently tugs at another thread. “I have an Ex-Disk.”

Ex-Disk—RAM for the brain, increasing its capacity to store and process information. Only as effective as the user, though. Waste of space for most people. But for someone like V… Startin’ to see how she was so quick to lock down that scav sniper.

“Preem,” he murmurs. “What else?”

She almost smiles. “Guess…”

He swaps to a thermal scan, takes note of the stars and their size, locations, brightness, and tries to figure out which is which. But before he can make a guess, he hears a car pullin’ off the road and turns at the waist, lookin’ out over the canal. A Chevillon Thrax bearing the Maelstrom spider skull eases down the maintenance driveway and parks at the bottom. Dum Dum looks back at V and finds her frowning.

“What’s going on?” she asks quietly.

He grins. “Time for some fun.”

He grabs his DR5 and stands up, motions for her to follow and leads her down the metal staircase and along the service road. As they make their way onto another concrete bridge stretchin’ over the canal, a beat-up Thorton Colby with its headlights off pulls onto the driveway and joins the Thrax. ‘Strommers exit the vehicles—three from the Thrax, two from the Colby. Dum Dum recognizes them all—low-to-mid level muscle, all except for one: Fyzer, one of Patricia’s ass-kissers. He can hear them barkin’ at each other—“You’re late,” and, “Fuck you,” and, “What’s this about?”—before one of the goons starts givin’ a report on Royce’s orders and what they know of Dum Dum’s plans, which isn’t much.

Dum Dum looks at V and says, “Show me whatcha got.”

She hesitates, nervous. She knows what he means, but she still asks, “What do you want me to do?”

“Take ‘em out,” he says.

She seems startled. “What? Why?”

“They’re fuckin’ traitors.”

Her gaze drops to the ‘Strommers clustered below, visibly swallows. “All of them?”

“All of ‘em but one.” He points to Fyzer. “Spikey black hair, three optics, Maelstrom vest. Cripple him, but leave him alive. Got questions for him.”

She licks her lips. “Not sure if I can,” she says. “All of ‘em, I mean.”

He holds up his DR5. “I got ya.”

She looks at him, a little surprised, before nodding. “Okay.”

Dum Dum watches her turn her gaze to the ‘borgs below and take a deep breath. Her eyes twitch left to right, scannin’ them, explorin’ vulnerabilities. And then her eyes light up green like witchfire. He looks at the ‘Strommers, waits. Counts the seconds in heartbeats. And then Fyzer doubles over, shouts, and grasps his eyes. Another cries out, his entire body jerking in a sudden spasm, and a chain reaction ripples through the crowd. Smoke and sparks come off of them like a stage show, gurgles and screams cut the night, until one by one they fall to the ground in a lifeless heap. All but Fyzer, whose sight returns long enough for him to see the pile of dead ‘Strommers at his feet. And then his body twists unnaturally and he tumbles over one of the fallen.

Dum Dum’s breathing is shallow, cock hard as steel. She’s a fuckin’ haxan. Cold-blooded code witch. Never seen anyone chain and queue quickhacks so fast and on so many targets. It’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. Wants to throw her down on the bridge and fuck her over their burning husks, her eyes still bright with code.

She sucks in a sharp breath, the glow fading, and looks at him, almost surprised by what she’s done. He licks his lips, fingers tightening around his gun. There’s a long, quiet moment where she just stares at him, realizing her own power, and suddenly she’s an unknown variable. Can’t read her. Doesn’t know what she’s gonna do—if she’s gonna pull the trigger on him or keep on leavin’ him wantin’. He likes it, likes the chaos, pushes him to the brink of touchin’ her. And he thinks maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let this obsession end this way—in violence.

They can pick each other apart the way they were meant to, ‘ganics and ‘borgs, until her chrome’s inside out and his code’s split into a thousand useless fragments.

And then she smiles ever so slightly, rippin’ into him with how goddam beautiful she is, and he grins, takes a step toward her.

“Vicious?” he asks, and her smile grows, eyes bright with pride.

He nods toward the carnage then leads the way across the bridge and down the driveway. Fyzer’s seizin’ on the ground, voicebox warped as he gargles his own spit tryin’ to speak. When they get close, V releases whatever hold she has on him and the ‘borg starts sputterin’ until Dum Dum shoves his DR5 in his face.

“Dum Dum,” he wheezes, voice laced with fear.

“Can’t believe Patricia sent you for a field report, you coward shit,” Dum Dum says. “Is it ‘cause I zeroed all her brain-boys or she finally wise up?”

“N-not tellin’ you shit,” Fyzer stammers.

“You will, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”

“C’mon, Royce is fuckin’ crazy,” he exclaims. “Gonna run the gang into the ground. Might’ve already, if not for you. Don’t think Brick don’t notice.”

Dum Dum tongues a canine. This metalhead seriously tryin’ to save himself with flattery? Royce doesn’t have the head for business Brick did, but he’s no gonk. Yeah, Dum Dum gets shit done, but Royce has the ideas. Chaos, sure, but keeps it interesting.

“So you’re talkin’ to Brick,” Dum Dum notes, and Fyzer grimaces. “Where the fuck’s he hidin’?”

“I-I don’t know nothin’—”

V steps closer and pulls her personal link from her wrist. “Fuck him, I’ll just scrape his memory.”

Fyzer makes a tiny whimpery sound, face contorting like he might shit himself. He tries to wiggle away, but his cyberware’s still locked down. He knows he’s fucked if she starts pokin’ around in his skull. Cold little codefreak, bad motherfucker. And in Maelstrom colors, too. Almost like she’s one of ‘em, and Dum Dum fuckin’ likes it.

“Nah, no need,” Dum Dum says with a smile, excitement racin’ through him. “He’ll talk.” He tilts his head at Fyzer. “Right?”

“Y-yeah,” the goon mutters. “Look, I donno where Brick is. Only ever talked on holo. Patricia moves him around a lot. I’m tellin’ ya, I donno shit.”

“Know where you’re supposed to meet,” Dum Dum says.

“Little warehouse in Kabuki off Adams. Only place I ever been. I swear. It’s all I know.”

Shit. Dum Dum knows the place, already burned it. Fuck. Didn’t expect to get anything useful from this meet—Patricia’s no gonk—but he’s gettin’ tired of chasin’ around her trash.

“All I know,” Fyzer babbles. “I swear.”

“Okay,” Dum Dum says, and pulls the trigger.

Fyzer’s head explodes, spattering the canal with blood, bone, brain matter, and bits of chrome. V flinches, wide-eyed in surprise. She looks down at the gore on her pants and winces. Probably should’ve given her warnin’—girls don’t like blood on their clothes, right? But Dum Dum likes it. Makes her look as brutal as her quickhacks.

“Let’s go,” he says, shovin’ his DR5 into his waistband.

Dum Dum lights a cigarette as they walk back to the alcove, and passes it back and forth with her. When they make it back, he scoops up the liquor bottle and takes a long gulp. Hands it to her. She takes a small sip and then follows him back over the bridge toward his car.

“What now?” she asks when they’re standing beside his Javelina.

He takes a long drag and exhales on the words, “Got a gig for ya.”

“A gig?” she asks, reaching for the cigarette.

“Want you to find Brick.”

Her brows furrow. “Didn’t you just find him?”

“Nah,” he breathes. “Location’s bad, already knew about it. Need a new lead.”

She studies him for a moment, takes a puff, exhales. “Is this your favor?”

Dum Dum shakes his head. “Job’s worth eddies.”

“Alright.” She takes a last drag and passes the cigarette back. “Need detes.”

“Few days ‘fore ya showed up at All Foods, Royce deposed Brick as leader of Maelstrom. But he didn’t zero him. Tortured him first. Then, few days after, Brick’s loyal pup Patricia helped him escape. Royce wants him found yesterday.”

“What’s the problem? He worried Brick’ll challenge him?”

“Doesn’t look good, him losin’ Brick like that. Told ya, not everyone’s bought in.”

“Ah, and he’s worried Brick bein’ out there means his detractors won’t accept his leadership.”

“Somethin’ like that,” he says, takes the final drag, crushes the filter beneath his boot. “Brick’s gone deep underground. The only one he trusts is Patricia—no luck findin’ her either, but she’s the one makin’ all the moves right now, got a lot more points of entry. I figure if Maelstrom can’t find her, maybe that’s the reason. Need an outsider, someone don’t think like us.”

She nods and hands him the liquor bottle, begins a slow walk in a circle. “In order to do this properly,” she eventually says, “I’m gonna need as much info as you can give me. About Brick, Patricia, anyone associated with them—photos, cyberware, aliases, everything you can give me.”

“You’ll get it.”

She stops pacing, meets his gaze. “Okay. I’ll do what I can to find him, but I can’t make any promises.”

He grins, rememberin’ all the times she was surprised by how easily he agreed to help her. “Just like that?” he asks. “Don’t wanna know how much you’re gettin’ paid?”

She smiles and shrugs a single shoulder. “I’m sure you’re good for the eddies.”

“Promise,” he purrs, then takes a swig of liquor and tosses the bottle into the rubble and weeds. It shatters with a sharp pop. “Drive ya back.”

They climb into his car and the Javelina roars to life. He peels out onto Leru and guns it southwest. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s leftover adrenaline from massacring those Maelstrom traitors, or maybe it’s a little bit of trust, but even without the s-keef, the princess is completely at ease beside him.

Chapter Text

When V gets home, the clock reads 1:17 am, and she’s so damn happy that she can’t stop smiling. She tosses her bloody clothes in the washing machine and then heads into the bathroom. Finds herself singing while she showers the blood off her and humming while she dries her hair. When she’s done, she slips on a t-shirt, grabs her cyberdeck, and heads for the couch, but she pauses midstep when a shimmer out the window catches her eye. She goes to it, props a hip against the sill, and looks out at the city lights sparkling in the darkness.

Chaining quickhacks onto those Maelstrom thugs—it’s all she can think about. She didn’t know she could do that. Never tried. She knew she was deadly, but she’d only ever played it safe with Jackie. Just one or two targets at a time. Never wanted to overreach, take risks. Not with either of their lives. She held back, she realizes that now. Not on purpose, just… She let Jackie be strong for both of them, because deep down, she was scared. Of failing him, failing herself, of losing him. They weren’t invincible. She’d had the bullet in a glass box to prove it.

But it was different with Dum Dum…

She hadn’t wanted to disappoint him. Had wanted to be as badass as he seemed to believe she was. So when he said, “Show me whatcha got,” she decided right then and there that she’d push herself, do whatever it took to pull some impressive, gonk-ass move even if it gave her a damn nosebleed! She scanned them, assessed their defense protocols, and breached each one in seconds. She allocated all of her resources and made a plan to weave RAM from one quickhack to the next, to spread the damage among them while maximizing efficiency. And then something happened…

She realized how easy it was going to be to kill them all without breaking a sweat.

She opened with locking the leader’s Internal Agent to prevent him from sending out an emergency holo and cutting off his ShortLink receiver so her contagion wouldn’t spread to him, then she rebooted his optics to leave him in the dark. Once he was stumbling, she dropped a nasty viral slice of code into the next gangoon and watched it spread, lit a match and let ‘em burn with RAM to spare. The moment the leader’s optics reset, she shorted his skeletal ware—dangerous thing, replacing your bones with chrome—and silenced his voicebox.

It happened so fast, she didn’t have time to think about what she’d done. Her entire thought process was dedicated to RAM management and eliminating threats. And when it was over and she stood staring at their corpses, she was struck speechless in shock, overcome with a sense of…

Of power.

She did that. She took out an entire group of Maelstrom in a matter of moments. For the first time since Jackie died, she didn’t feel helpless, confused, unsure. She was in complete control and she felt powerful. Feels powerful.

She thinks about calling Vik—wants to tell him, tell someone, what she did—but it’s late, he’s probably asleep. Would be rude to wake him. Misty, too. It doesn’t really matter anyway. Misty would be happy that V was happy, but she wouldn’t really understand why it was such a big deal. And Vik? Well, he’d understand. Would be impressed even. He’d smile in that understated way he displays happiness, pour her a drink and ask for details. Probably tell her to be careful, ever the professional. And it’d be nice to have both their support, but…

The truth is, she doesn’t really want to talk to them. She wants to talk to Jackie. Wants to tell her best friend that she took down five ‘borgs on her own, without breakin’ a sweat—no guns, no tricks, just quickhacks. It would matter to him in a way it can’t to Misty and Vik. ‘Cause Jackie was out there with her every day, ready to live and die by her capabilities and choices, just as she was his. He’d be so excited, more excited than she is, would tell her how proud he is of his “little genius”. He’d sling an arm around her neck, declare they were gonna celebrate, and take her to some crazy club to dance and do shots ‘til the sun came up.

V smiles, her head thunking against the glass, gaze locking on a cluster of red lights. Her mind drifts to Dum Dum standing beside her, still as stone, the remains of his former gang pals sizzling beneath them. Those seven unblinking red optics staring at her, his mouth turned down, lips slightly parted. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking at all, if he was pleased or saw her as a threat. She didn’t want that, really didn’t want that—“Don’t turn on me now, ” was the thought that screamed the loudest. But then he grinned, asked her if V stood for Vicious, and she knew he was impressed.

And she liked it.

Fuck, she wasn’t sure what to expect when he said they were going to have some fun. Was nervous, damn near panicky. She hit the s-keef because she knew she’d need that calm. Dum Dum had no reason to hurt her, and she didn’t think he would, just didn’t know what a ‘borg—no, a Maelstrommer would consider fun. Killing his former gangoons? Yeah, that lined up. She just didn’t expect it to include sittin’ around, drinkin’, talkin’ like chooms. But he was right.

She did have fun with him.

V pushes away from the window and goes to the couch, opens her cyberdeck, and begins some preliminary prep for the search for Brick. When Dum Dum hired her, she briefly wondered if he really thinks she can find him or if he has some ulterior motive for getting her involved. Doesn’t matter. Either way, she doesn’t want to let him down. Is gonna do everything she can to find Maelstrom’s ex-leader. Without the intel Dum Dum promised her, there’s not much she can do yet, but she has a good idea of where to start, so she begins with the framework for a database and then writes a few simple programs to automate as much of the search as possible.

As she works, her thoughts continue to circle the events of the night, replaying that moment when she hacked those Maelstrommers over and over again. Recalling her process, the code she used, the way it felt. Thinking up alternate ways to have handled it, other daemons she could have deployed, switching up the queue. Considering all the ways to fine-tune her attack pattern. Damn, she misses her Arasaka’s subtlety and precision, but there’s raw power in the Paraline. She has to rethink her setup…

The day she got the Mk.4, she modified every quickhack loaded onto it, tweaked each program to execute exactly as she wants within the performance scope of the Paraline. But that was before she really used it. Now she has a better idea of what it can and cannot do, and it’s time to adjust her loadout—a thought that makes her smile with excitement, her toes curl in anticipation. Last time, she did her modding in a shitty motel room with her portable and virtuality goggles, and she got the job done well enough. But this time, she’ll dive into her BBS, lay the code out on her work floor, and crawl through every single line until each quickhack is a work of fucking art.

What else can she do to upgrade? Her stars—she shakes her head and huffs a laugh, because when did she start thinking of her implants as stars?—are all top of the line, she’s already overclocked her Paraline’s processor, and her Camillo bridged the gap between her brain and her cyberdeck’s processing speeds. She’s as fast as her RAM recovery rate allows her to be. However…

V bites her lip as an idea comes to her, chews it as she debates her next move. And then she pulls up her email and shoots Vik a message. Looking for an upgrade, she types, then links him the specs for a Feen-X and adds, Preferably XenoGrade but will take a Tovarich. Also, need a check-up - non-emergency, and then hits send. She goes back to her prep work, forces herself to focus on that database framework and not all the ways she wants to improve herself. By the time she finishes and crawls into bed, it’s nearly 4:00 am. She’s exhausted and her eyes won’t stay open, but her mind is still a whirlwind.

She cuddles into her pillow, breathes deep. Her thoughts drift through the night, but not the adrenaline highs of quickhacking ‘borgs or racing top speed through the streets of Night City. No, it’s the quiet moments that she thinks of. Like the sound of Dum Dum’s voice when he asked her what a loaf was—and she’s still embarrassed she told him she used to call her gun Meatloaf, a nickname born of mockery that had turned affectionate over time. But he just did that thing that makes her laugh, and she immediately felt at ease. She recalls funny things he said, that he didn’t judge her for missing Jackie, the way he smokes a cigarette… How he sat next to her, blocking that Animal’s view. She used to get so nervous when he was close like that, but tonight, it didn’t bother her at all. She can still feel the weight of his arm around her shoulder when they entered the club. She thought all his chrome would make his touch feel inhuman, but it didn’t—harder and heavier than all the ‘ganic men she’s ever cuddled up to, sure, but not inhuman.

Not like his chrome smile…

Fuck, she feels like an asshole. The way his smile dropped, his excitement faded—wasn’t sure if she insulted him or hurt his feelings, but she felt shitty. Wished she could snatch her words back, react differently. That she could appreciate his chrome the way he does. But she meant it when she said she liked his smile. Not sure when it happened, just knew how much she would miss it when she saw that chrome between his lips, chrome that looked black in the shadows of his mouth.

But that’s what Maelstrom does, isn’t it? They replace their ‘ganic parts, bit by bit, until there’s nothing left. Chrome teeth won’t be the last way Dum Dum changes himself… Will there come a day when she won’t even recognize him?

Why does that thought bother her?

V sighs, rolling onto her side and pulling the blanket up to her chin. Why’d it have to be a Maelstrommer? Of all the souls in the city to stumble upon her struggling with that grabby solo, why’d it have to be him? Why’d it have to be Dum Dum who stands at her back just like Jackie used to, who protects her and never oversteps? It can’t last, this strange relationship they’ve developed. Eventually he’s going to get bored with her. Or worse, she’ll lose him to gang violence or cyberpsychosis, ‘cause that’s what happens to Maelstrom. She always knew it was a bad idea to get closer to him, to rely on him…

She should find a new partner, a real partner—a merc, not someone moonlighting as one. But the idea of someone else watching her back? It doesn’t feel right. He’s—

To call him a choom feels naive, but…

I got ya, he’d said. Just like Jackie had promised her. And it’s not that Dum Dum’s replaced Jackie—no one can ever replace him—but she’d be lying if she said he hasn’t filled his shoes. And yeah, maybe this is a mistake. Maybe she just imprinted on the first man to have her back since Jackie died, and that man turned out to be a monster, Maelstrom, dangerous.

And she doesn’t know why he’s helping her and if she’s playing with fire letting him in, but it doesn’t matter.

Because she already trusts him.

Chapter Text

The early morning sky is a threatening swathe of gray, but there’s supposedly no chance of rain—V already checked. She still wore a plastic poncho, just in case. The weathermen aren’t exactly known for being reliable… Seems like no matter how far technology advances, mother nature is always laughing at it. V crosses Bradbury and slips through the side gate, navigates the alley to Vik’s clinic with an excited spring in her step. Her requested implant finally came in. Took him a week to source it, but he found her a XenoGrade.

“Vik,” she calls as she slips through the door and opens the gate. “I’m here!”

“Right on time,” he says from beside his wash station where he’s sanitizing his hands and exoglove. “C’mon, take a seat.”

She locks the gate, pulls off her poncho, and hangs it by the door. She crosses the room, securing any stray wisps of hair into a cloth headband, and drops into the chair. Vik glances at her as she nestles comfortably in and adjusts her tube top—selected so she won’t have to change for the surgery.

She asks, “How you been, Vik?”

“I’m doing all right,” he assures her, drying his hands on a towel. “Business is good. Can’t complain.”

“Glad to hear it,” she says, absently swiping at her neck for stray strands of hair.

“Haven’t seen you in awhile,” he says after a moment. “Keepin’ busy?”

She opens her mouth to reply and is almost startled by the truth: yes. Dum Dum got her that datashard on Brick the day after he hired her, and she began the search immediately—it’s only been a week, but so far, no luck. When she wasn’t scouring cyberspace for the former leader of Maelstrom, she did a couple solo gigs for Regina, wrote some ICE for a group of mercs to pad her savings, and fine-tuned her quickhacks to her Paraline. She even went to the gun range every day and practiced for an hour. Talked to Wilson about getting a Nue, but he just tried to talk her into another Lexington.

V nods, happy to finally answer honestly, “Yeah, I’ve been workin’. A few gigs here and there.”

“That’s good, V,” Vik says, offering her a warm smile. “Real good.” He sits down on his stool, rolls to the control station, and begins stabbing at his monitor to prepare the surgery. “I was surprised by your request. Been awhile since you wanted somethin’ new.”

V doesn’t have many mods, and not because she’s opposed to chrome. It’s because she’s a snob. Wants only the best, and the best is expensive. Makes her picky about what she spends her eddies on, what she’s willing to cut up her body for.

“Finally found something worth installing,” she says.

He nods, still focused on the screen. “Feen-X—preem tech. Was hard to find.” He shoots her a glance. “You’re getting pickier.”

She grins. “Can I see it?”

“Sure.”

Vik picks up a cold storage jar and unscrews the cap. Frigid wisps curl from beneath the lid as he lifts it, revealing the tiny chunk of fifteen-thousand-eddies chrome he’s about to solder onto her spine. It’s a bright shade of blue with yellow bionic filaments threading between the transverse processes that will be grafted onto her nerve endings, replacing her C3-C5 vertebrae.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes, and for some reason, she thinks of Dum Dum. Is almost certain he’d like it, too. Can almost hear him purr, Preem.

Vik nods in agreement and seals the jar. “I could leave it exposed, if you want.”

V hesitates, just for a second—a tiny part of her relishes the idea of showing it off, but most of her is creeped out by the thought of leaving even an artificial part of her spine exposed—before she wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.

Vik chuckles. “Yeah, didn’t think so,” he murmurs with a smile and finishes inputting commands into his monitor. “All right, we’re ready to go.” He turns to face her, holds up the jar. “You know what this thing does, the risks and rewards.”

It’s spoken as a statement, but there’s a question beneath it: are you sure? As in, “Is this necessary?”

…Is it?

When it comes to solving RAM problems, there are two methods: brute force by installing more physical RAM or finesse by maximizing processing efficiency. Brute forcing is always reliable, but physical RAM needs physical space, which becomes a problem after awhile. And most of the time, it’s overkill. Finessing requires skill and eddies to find the right balance, but can be just as effective as brute forcing. V prefers to finesse the problem…

The Feen-X functions like virtual memory, interfacing with her neural cyberdeck and her brain to compensate for memory shortages by temporarily transferring data between her RAM and spinal storage. It doesn’t actually reduce the recovery lag time, just disguises it by allowing her to use recovered RAM before it becomes available. The downside is that she can overdo it, outpace the system. Sure, there are safety protocols in place to prevent that from happening, but those protocols can sometimes fail. And if that happens? At best, she stuns herself, temporarily locks her nervous system down. At worst? She fries her spinal cord, permanently paralyzing herself with the added potential for brain damage.

But that’s the risk you take with any cyberware.

So is it necessary? No, it’s not. She’s managed her RAM fine up to this moment, hasn’t had any trouble with her current setup, has no plans to get into the kind of situation that makes this procedure necessary. But she wants to be prepared for any— No. No, that’s not it. It’s something else…

Show me whatcha got, Dum Dum had said, and now she wants to know what she can do. Wants to know just how high her limits really are.

“I know what it does,” she confirms. “The risks and the rewards.”

Vik nods once. “Then I’ll spare you the speech,” he says and begins lowering the back of the chair, leveling it out. “Goin’ to have to put you completely under for this one. Whole procedure shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

She watches as he loads an anesthetic cartridge into a dispenser. “Vik?”

He glances at her. “V.”

“…You’re not gonna shave my head, are you?”

He smiles and replies, “I’ll shave as little as possible.” And then he presses the dispenser to her neck, injects the dose, and her jaw clenches at the sharp pinch, neck tightening involuntarily. “Go ahead and lie back, face down.”

She obeys, already feeling the fog of anesthesia creeping in. She places her face comfortably in the gap in the headrest, blinking slowly at the plastic-covered floor. She smells the pungent odor of disinfectant and feels cool cotton swabs gliding over her neck and shoulders. Vik is talking, telling her something about the procedure, but his voice is distorted and far away. What? she asks, or tries to, but her mouth doesn’t work.

Her eyes won’t open.

She can’t feel a thing.

-o-

When V wakes, it’s to a haze of blurry shapes and color, to garbled noises. She blinks lazily, her mind slowly coming into focus, and then the world sharpens, the sound clears up. She hears a cheering crowd and the ding of a fight bell—a boxing match, Vik’s TV. She’s in his clinic. Had an implant installed. She turns her head, sees her ripperdoc slouched against his desk, head propped on his fist, gaze glued to the screen.

“Hey,” she rasps, and he immediately looks up, sees she’s awake and turns the TV off.

“Hey,” he stands up, crosses to her, “how you feeling?”

She slowly inhales, considers the question. Her mind is still muddled, but there’s no pain that she can detect. “Hmm…feel fine.”

“Fine,” he echoes with a hint of amusement. “Alright, and your arms? Do they feel fine?”

She looks down at her body, her arms. Lifts them. They feel heavy, but she’s pretty sure that’s just the drugs still wearing off. “Yeeep.”

“And your fingers?”

She turns her hands over, eyeing her knuckles and palms, flexing her fingers. “Uh huh.”

“Okay, and your legs? You feel those?”

V takes another deep breath, assesses her lower limbs. “Yeah, think so.”

“You think so, huh? Can you move ‘em for me?”

“Sure.” She lifts one leg and then the other, just an inch each. Too heavy. She should probably go for more runs, climb stairs—no, wait. That’ll make them heavier. Needs to do…crunches? Ugh, exercise is the worst…

“Good. And your toes?”

She wiggles them inside her shoes, moves her feet around to show him she can.

“Alright, that’s good,” he chuckles, and helps her sit up.

Her voice is scratchy when she asks, “Can I have some water?”

A moment later, a bottle is placed in her hands. She guzzles half the contents in one go, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The fog is lifting, her thoughts becoming clearer.

She asks, “How did it go?”

“You want the gory details or just a summary?”

The last time she asked for all the details, she learned more than she wanted to know and it made accepting her optical implants harder than it needed to be. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

She winces and says, “A summary’s fine,” before taking another gulp of water.

“The installation went smoothly, no hiccups or issues,” he tells her. “Your system’s takin’ to it nicely and, you’ll be glad to know, I didn’t have to shave your head.”

Relief rushes through her and she smiles briefly. And then she reaches back, cautiously touches the nape of her neck, slides her fingers up over the curve of her spine. The skin is smooth with just a tiny hint of stitching, but she can feel the hard planes of chrome beneath her flesh. Fear and excitement ripple through her, the same way she felt when she first got her optics installed. There’s a sense of anxiety over the lost part of herself—she’s removed three homegrown links of her spine and replaced it with metal and wires—but what this baby can do? Fuck, she can’t wait to find out.

Vik’s gravelly voice draws her out of her thoughts, “I already ran a diagnostic, all your chromes talkin’ to one another, workin’ properly.”

She offers a short hum of approval as her hand drops back into her lap.

“Here.” He hands her an inhaler—a mild stim to boost neurotransmission, muffle the side effects while the implant takes. “Two puffs now—”

“And two later,” she finishes, and thumbs the canister twice.

“That’s right.” He pulls up his stool and sits down, picks up a dataslate. “You know the drill. Gonna run the usual battery.”

“Mhm.”

Vik plugs her personal link into his slate and, for the next twenty minutes, runs a series of tests and asks her questions—mostly whether or not she feels any pain—while her mind and body recover from the anesthesia. As per his instructions, she turns her head left and right, tilts it back and forward, side to side. She expects there to be some stiffness or pinching, but she honestly can’t tell half her cervical spine is now metal. By the time the exam’s done and Vik’s given her the all-clear, the grogginess has dissipated and she feels mostly normal. Hungry, but normal.

“Come back in a few days,” Vik tells her as he rolls the stool back to his desk and she climbs off the chair. “Wanna make sure it’s still integrating smoothly.”

V smiles. He’s always done this, since her first implant. Not many street rippers would schedule follow-ups for their patients just to make sure they’re healthy, and she wondered if this was just a kindness for his chooms or part of his standard procedure. Wondered if he would still go the extra mile for her after Jackie died… But she shouldn’t have doubted. He’s a true friend. Besides, Vik’s always been leagues above the rest.

“I will,” she promises and crosses to the gate, slips her poncho over her head as he joins her. She flicks him the eddies for the implant and the surgery. “Thanks for everything, Vik. You’re the best.” She opens the gate to go but pauses, turns to face him. “I really mean it, you know. Wouldn’t trust anyone else to cut me open.”

He just smiles warmly and says, “You take care, V.”

“You, too,” she says. “See you in a few days.” And then she slips through the gate and out the door.

Bright sunshine greets her.

V squints up at the mid-afternoon light in surprise, had fully expected a torrent of rain—or at least the threat of it. She peels off her poncho and walks back to the H10 slowly, enjoying the warmth on her skin, the occasional breeze. She looks at the people passing by, feeling irrationally self-conscious. There’s no way they know what she’s just done, but getting a new piece of chrome is like getting a haircut—there’s a sense of newness, a feeling of transformation. Of course, it’s usually more obvious. Most people wear their chrome for everyone to see. But even though V knows she doesn’t look any different, she feels different.

Wants to show it off.

As V makes it back to the H10, her stomach rumbles so loudly that someone finally does look at her, startled and borderline offended, and she tries not to laugh as she skips up the steps into the megabuilding. She grabs half a dozen tacos from her favorite stand, rides the elevator up to her floor, and tears into one as soon as she walks through the door. She grabs a water bottle from the fridge then plops down onto her couch in front of her portable to work while she eats.

She sifts through the new info in her database on Brick, dumped there by her phishing protocols, and explores some of the more promising pieces of intel. Most of it’s garbage, but sometimes it sparks a new lead. She selects one such snippet and goes down a rabbit hole of webrings for hours. She doesn’t even realize the sun has set until the urge to go to the bathroom can no longer be ignored, and she’s shocked to find her apartment is utterly dark.

V rises and flicks on a lamp, goes to the bathroom and empties her bladder. She washes her hands and face. Stares at her reflection in the mirror, turns her head left to right. Gets out a small mirror to examine the back of her neck. Vik did a hell of a job… A thin line of mending tissue is the only evidence that she went under the knife. There’s no bulge, no discoloration, no sign of an implant. Can’t tell at all.

Dum Dum would be able to tell, she thinks, and the thought makes her grin. She wonders what his reaction will be, if he’ll be excited by her new “star” or disappointed it’s hidden like all the others. If he’ll know what it is by its position alone or demand she tell him. She hopes he doesn’t know. She didn’t get the implant strictly as a bargaining chip, but she’d like to use it as one. She considers texting him, but what would she say? Without a thermal scan, he won’t know she got new ware. And if she just took a picture of herself and told him to guess what’s new, “cocktease” would be the least of the responses she could expect to get back. She has to wait until she sees him again.

Whenever that will be.

She drops the small mirror, looks at her reflection in the bigger one. Dum Dum’s words flit through her mind. Should come to Totentanz sometime. No, that’s reckless. Gonk. Putting herself in the middle of a bunch of Maelstrom, around ‘borgs like Raze? Beyond foolish. But… Open to anyone, he’d said. All types come in, even fleshy ones. So why should the experience be any different for her?

Excitement curls in her belly, shoots up her spine. Is she really going to do this? V bites her lip, but can’t stop herself from smiling. Why not? He invited her, after all. And then she could show off her Feen-X. He might not even be there, a little voice reminds her. Maybe she should text him, after all? No, not goin’ for him, she argues with herself, even if it’s a lie. Goin’ to have some fun.

V immediately plugs a curling iron into the wall then digs into her make-up bag and begins her regimen. She doesn’t bother trying to hide her freckles, just uses black liner around her eyes, applies a dark plum eyeshadow to make her green irises pop, and swipes mascara through her lashes. She dabs a glossy dark red color on her lips and adds the faintest hint of blush to warm up her cheeks. Then she lets her hair down, fluffs it up, curls the ends, then binds it in a high, messy bun with several strands hanging loose around her neck and some to frame her face.

When she’s finished in the bathroom, she opens her closet and debates what to wear. Her nails are still red from her last outing with Dum Dum, so she looks for something that will match. Picks her red and black synleather rocker pants with silver studs along the seams and lace cutouts on the thighs, pairs it with a black bustier that has roses embossed on the cups, and selects lace-up peep toe ankle boots. She dabs her pulse points with perfume, looks herself over in the mirror, and feels…

Sexy.

She smiles. It’s been awhile since she wanted to feel that way. Was capable of feeling that way. Her grief had been a black hole, sucking in everything, making the whole world, her life, her future dark. But now, there’s finally a little bit of light shining through the darkness, guiding her to the other side.

V grabs her cropped leather jacket with the folded sleeves on her way out the door, takes the elevator down to the garage. Traffic is light, making the drive to Northside quick. She squeezes her Hella into an empty space across the street then walks the short distance to the club. Outside, a crowd of people are gathered, and she tracks gangers from all walks of life—Maelstrom, Tyger Claws, Valentinos, Mox, Animals, 6th Street—as well as regular folk, chipped and otherwise. Dum Dum wasn’t lying. The club’s open to anyone.

Nerves writhe angrily in her stomach and an excited vibration rattles her chest until she feels short of breath, but no one pays her any mind as she slides through the crowd, into the building, and up the stairs. Her steps slow for only a second when she sees Raze guarding the elevator—Melt his brain if he comes near you again, Dum Dum said—but she quickly straightens her spine and marches forward. She’s not afraid of Maelstrom anymore. Won’t let herself be afraid.

Raze sees her and a vicious grin slashes his face before his mouth abruptly turns down, wrinkles like he’s just thought of something awful. He takes a cautious step away from her, angles his head toward the elevator, and his neck looks taut with tension, like he’s struggling to not react differently. She doesn’t want to provoke him so she doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak, just nods once and enters the elevator where another Maelstrommer is slouched against the wall, head hung. Raze reaches in, punches the button, and his optics glare at her until the door closes.

The elevator begins rising.

V slowly exhales her held breath, and the sound is enough to wake the other Maelstrommer. His head snaps up and he looks around, sees her, nods at her.

“Totentanz, too? Fuck, yeah,” he says, words slurred, and lifts an arm. “Third floor. Press the button.” He looks down at his hands. “M’ fingers’re numb.”

She blinks at him. Does he not realize…? She reaches out, pretends to push the button. He smiles and nods appreciatively before his chin drops back to his chest. For a moment, the only sound’s the rumble of the elevator. And then a pulsing beat begins to seep through the walls. The Maelstrommer groans happily.

“Hear that?” he exclaims. “Tinnitus today. Our guys.” Without looking up, he starts bobbing his head and swaying in a drunken dance. “This one—s’good. I like it. Yeah.”

The doors open and he pushes himself upright, stumbles out of the elevator. Looks at her.

“Later,” he says, whirls around, falls against the wall. For a moment, she wonders if she should help him. But then he just starts bobbing his head again, swaying back and forth.

V folds her lips inward to keep from laughing and slips past him.

She winds around the hallways, passing partiers in various states of highs and lows—a couple making out, a guy having a drug-induced freakout, a girl vomiting her guts up in a corner.

A Maelstrommer asks her, “Wanna feel somethin’? Like, really feel somethin’?”

She ignores him and keeps walking. The music gets louder the deeper she goes, until she can feel the sound rattling her bones. She pushes through the plastic strips and sees red lights flashing through the diamond grid mesh. At the door, a Maelstrommer stands in her way. Looks her up and down.

“Like your style. Minimalist,” he says, and for a moment, she wonders what the fuck he’s talking about. And then he adds, “Used to have chrome just like it.”

“Oh,” she says, trying to speak above the noise. “Thanks.”

He nods once and lets her inside.

The rush of sound and light momentarily overwhelms her. At the back, a trio of Maelstrommers command the stage and grungy techno blasts from the speakers. A holographic skull flashes on the ceiling, looking down on the mass of bodies writhing on the dance floor as red lasers whip overhead. In the shadows along the edge of the room, people are huffing drugs, fucking against the wall, zoning on BDs. Around the balcony, groups of civvies and gangers sit at booths or stand at the railing—talking, dancing, drinking, laughing. It’s a riot of noise, of violent diversity, a mingling of Night City’s most dangerous criminals with its most reckless normies.

If hell has a nightclub, V imagines it’s something like this.

She starts down the steps, descending into the madness. There’s a bar in the corner and she wants a drink before she loses her nerve and leaves. How the hell is she supposed to find Dum Dum in this mess? Fuck, maybe he really isn’t here…

A message flashes in her peripheral.

[11:17] Dum Dum:

new fuckin star

show me

V grins and looks around, up at the balcony to the corner where they talked the first time she was here, then to the opposite side where she finds a familiar arrangement of seven optics fixed on her. Relief rushes through her.

There’s a little bit of light guiding her through the darkness, and its color is red.

Chapter Text

Dum Dum climbs the stairs to the private balcony overlooking the Totentanz stage, his cochlear implant assaulted by the coarse and serrated sound that is Tinnitus. He doesn’t hate it, just doesn’t love it like Royce does. Prefers chromatic rock and neo-death metal. He finds his people relaxing on the red u-shaped couch—Royce stretched out in the middle like a king on his throne, Yena and Bjorn with Janty in his lap on the right, and Lars and Kurt on the left. Trey is leaning against the railing with a beer in his hand, always on the edge of the crowd.

“No, no, no, not another Totentanz,” Kurt is explaining. “Scale model. Copied everything.”

Trey asks, “Whadda they serve there, meanin’ drinks?”

“Nothin’,” Kurt answers. “It’s just decoration. Advertisin’.”

Lars adds, “New tourist trap for the city,” then lights a cigarette.

Bjorn shakes his head. “Fuck, I dunno, choom. You seen the Totentanz, you seen everything.”

“Nothin’ replaces the ‘Tanz,” Royce says as a matter-of-fact, “unless we replace it.”

Dum Dum joins them, smacks Kurt’s shoulder to move over as his crew all nod in greeting.

“Hey, Dum Dum,” Yena purrs, smiling, flashin’ those pretty fangs as he drops onto the end of the couch. “Where you been?”

On holo with an ex-Voodoo Boy. The fixer he hired came through, put him in contact with someone who got him the detes of a codefreak goes by the name Slider. Asked him if the Pacifica VDBs zeroed the doll a few months back, and the Haitian agreed to find out for a not-so-small fee. Still waitin’ to hear back. But he’s keepin’ this mess close to his chest, so he tells her where he was earlier.

“Ripper,” he says, and her head tilts as those techgogs immediately scan him, lookin’ for his new chrome.

But Dum Dum don’t got new chrome. Ditched some. Had the gold plating taken off his teeth. He wrestled with the idea for awhile, but could never quite banish it. Felt strange at first, maybe shameful. Never reverted before. Never sought anyone’s approval since he had his optic nerve split—and he’s not now, either. Just decided he liked that the princess liked his smile. Only thing she ever said she liked about him. Wants to hold onto that, at least for a little while.

Dum Dum looks at Royce. “Shipment came in today.”

“It get processed?” Royce asks.

“Cut up and ready for sale,” he confirms.

“Good.”

“Your chrome—whad’ja get?” Yena asks, bitin’ her lip in excitement.

“Nothin’,” he answers, barely sparin’ her a glance before he says to Royce, “Seppo received it.”

“And?” Royce snaps. “There a problem?”

“Yeah, half a container short,” Dum Dum tells him. “Checked the footage myself, docks’re clean. Skimmin’s happening durin’ transport.”

“Fuck,” Royce breaths.

“That cocksucker Jagoth, I bet,” Kurt says.

“Fucker’s got some balls to steal from us,” Bjorn adds.

Yena asks, “Why’d you go—”

“Shut the fuck up, all of you,” Royce barks. “We’re tryin’ to fuckin’ talk!”

Everyone immediately closes their mouths.

“Leak’s on Jagoth’s end,” Dum Dum confirms, “but don’t think he knows. Put a boot on his supply line, fucker’ll be squirmin’ tomorrow. Hand us the thief’s head and what we’re owed, plus interest. But I got a team together if you wanna go loud.”

Royce’s gut instinct’s always to string rats up by their toes and skin ‘em alive, but he’s too smart to burn an asset like Jagoth for one fuck-up. Still, Dum Dum likes to give him the option.

Royce chuffs angrily then asks, “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Royce agrees. “Give ‘em one day.” And then he looks away, focusin’ on the music.

Janty leans forward in Bjorn’s lap, tryin’ to get a closer look at Dum Dum. “Went to a ripper?”

“What I said,” he answers, slippin’ his s-keef from the pocket of his neotac pants. He takes a hit and tilts his head back, relishing the rush.

“Lemme have a hit,” Bjorn says.

“Fuck off,” Dum Dum retorts, exhaling a white cloud.

“Stingy,” Kurt complains.

Janty asks, “What happened to your chompers?”

Yena blurts, “Wait, what?”

Dum Dum slowly lifts his head to find everyone but Royce lookin’ at him, and annoyance flickers through him. Doesn’t give Janty a hard time for changin’ her jaw out every few weeks, so why the third degree?

“Took the chrome off,” he says.

Lars blows a smoke ring and asks, “Why?”

“Didn’t like it,” he lies—he did like it, but he likes V’s smile more.

Yena makes a sad sound. “I thought it looked nova, Dum Dum.”

‘Course she did. Yena’s Maelstrom. Gonna embrace all his chrome, worship it with tongue and teeth. Not like the princess, who practically flinched. A reminder that ‘borgs and ‘ganics don’t mix. Still took the gold plating off. He’s scanned for fault codes twice now, wonderin’ if there’s a kink in his soft, but the code reader gave him the all clear. Useless piece of shit.

“Didn’t do it for you,” he says.

“I know,” she pouts.

Bjorn chuckles. “Fuckin’ suck his cock already, Yen.”

“Fuck you,” she snaps, flipping him off, and Lars starts laughing.

“She’s tryin’,” Kurt snickers.

“Fuck you, too,” Yena mutters.

“Oh, I’d let ya fuck me,” he growls and licks his lips. “Anytime.”

She leans forward, tapping her forearm where she has a mantis blade tucked away, and says, “Only way I fuck you is with these.”

Kurt just chuckles.

“Careful with this one, D,” Bjorn says.

Yena clicks her tongue, sinking back into the couch. “Dum Dum’s got nothin’ to worry about.”

Dum Dum quietly takes it all in, watchin’ Yena, tryin’ to figure out why he can’t muster any desire for her. Lars thinks he’s fuckin’ gonk not to dock her, wants to know what preem cunt he’s pluggin’ not to take the pretty ‘borg girl for a ride, but Dum Dum’s only interest these days is a copper-haired merc girl with a smile so preem, makes him wanna to do things for her.

“Haven’t seen ya ‘round much,” Kurt says to him.

“Been busy,” Dum Dum tells him.

Lars asks, “Doin’ what?”

“The fuck you think?” Dum Dum snaps.

“Been hangin’ with his ‘ganic,” Bjorn says, ‘cause the fucker just can’t help himself.

“‘Ganic?” Royce says the word like he’s confused, like it’s left a bad taste in his mouth.

Dum Dum runs his tongue along his teeth, irritated—doesn’t care if they make fun, just doesn’t want more eyes on the princess—and explains, “Preem codefreak. She’s lookin’ for Brick.”

Royce grunts, “Can’t find him yourself?”

Dum Dum shrugs and says, “More eyes in cyberspace.”

“Who is this girl?” Yena wants to know.

“Was at All Foods,” Bjorn tells her. “Bought the Flathead.”

Kurt sits up straighter. “Yeah, had that ‘tino cunt with her.” He looks at Royce. “‘Member?”

“Maybe,” Royce mutters. “All the fuckin’ meat faces look the same to me.”

Yena wrinkles her nose and asks, “Wait, this the girl who came in here a few weeks ago?”

“Yeah, that’s her,” Bjorn says. “Scav raid was her job.”

“She’s a client?” Yena guesses.

“Nah, she’s a merc,” Lars throws out, then looks around like he’s suddenly not sure. “Right?”

“Don’t worry about her,” Dum Dum snaps. “Not your fuckin’ business.”

“She’s an ice-cold codefreak,” Bjorn tells Lars.

“She’s a prospect?” Yena asks.

“She’s here,” Trey says, and Dum Dum snaps his optics in his direction. The ‘borg’s looking across the room, points and asks, “That’s her, isn’t it?”

Dum Dum gets up and goes to the railing, spots her coming down the stairs toward the dance floor. His heart does something weird inside his chest as excitement shoots up his artificial spine. Fuck, yeah, it’s her. He knows those curves, that posture, that gait. He zooms in, flips to a thermal scan, and his mouth goes dry when he sees the hot, bright spot where a new star has formed at the base of her neck.

Princess got an upgrade.

[11:17] Dum Dum:

new fuckin star

show me

She stills, looks up and around. Finds him. She walks to the railing, leans on it, watches him.

[11:17] Princess:

And here I was worried you might not be here

He grins.

[11:17] Dum Dum:

here to see me

[11:18] Princess:

You seem to like stargazing..

And, uh, only one I know who can appreciate my new “star”

Doesn’t take long for Dum Dum to puzzle out what that means: the chrome’s under her skin, hidden beneath freckles. Only seen with a thermal scan. He likes that—a secret just for him. Sure, any ‘Strommer in here can see it, but only he knows what it means.

[11:18] Dum Dum:

how new

[11:18] Princess:

Got it installed this morning

[11:18] Dum Dum:

couldnt wait to show me

[11:18] Princess:

Guess not

His grin widens. He likes that a lot.

“Well?” Kurt prompts. “Is it her?”

“It’s her,” Trey says.

Yena asks, “What’s she doin’ here?”

“Here to see Dum Dum,” Bjorn says as a matter of fact, grinnin’ like a gonk.

Royce nods to Trey and barks, “Bring her up.”

Shit. Not how he wanted this to play out. Dum Dum was on his way down to talk to her, look at her, maybe touch her a little. Wants detes on her new mod, to know what she thinks of the 'Tanz. Doesn’t wanna share her attention with a bunch of nosy ‘borgs.

Dum Dum tongues a canine, watchin’ Trey head down the stairs. Can’t help rememberin’ the way Royce once held a gun in her face. Didn’t bother him back then, but it’s different now. Doesn’t think Royce is gonna hurt her, but can’t figure out why he’d wanna meet her either. Royce hates wastin’ his time on ‘ganics. Dum Dum scans the faces of his crew—curious, annoyed, indifferent—before lookin’ back at V.

Trey approaches her, stealing her attention. Says something to her. Her body language changes. She stands up straight, grips the railing in a fist, and he wonders if she might turn and walk out. She glances back up at him.

[11:19] Princess:

What’s going on?

[11:19] Dum Dum:

royce wants to see you

[11:20] Princess:

Why?

[11:20] Dum Dum:

dunno

to talk i think

[11:20] Princess:

Should I leave?

[11:20] Dum Dum:

nah

After a moment, she nods and follows Trey through the crowd.

Dum Dum returns to the couch, sits, listens for their approach. Takes another hit of s-keef to purge his emotions, clear his head. Shoes clatter on the stairs, heavy boots and dainty heels. Trey slides past him, returns to his spot by the railing. Another figure appears beside him, drawin’ his gaze. His princess looks fuckin’ preem. Red and black leather wraps her up tight like a present he wants to open, and her make-up steals her sweetness, gives her a feisty edge. Under the red lights, her hair is like fire.

Fuck, should’ve gone down the moment Trey pointed her out. Wants her all to himself right now.

“Look at you,” Yena purrs and flashes her fangs. “Nice outfit, rockergirl.”

“Thanks,” V says with an impressive amount of calm, completely unoffended by Yena’s snarky tone. “Like your fangs. Match your mantis blades? Super cute.”

Lars and Bjorn start laughing as Yena’s confident smile falters just a little. She’s annoyed—doesn’t like being called cute—but she’s also confused, can’t figure out how V knows about the blades. Doesn’t know what Dum Dum knows—that she’s already scanned ‘em all, got ‘em locked in her cybersights.

Yena recovers with a mean smile. “You like my chrome?”

V shrugs one shoulder, says, “I like hers better,” and points to Janty, makes a clicking sound. “That’s fuckin’ nova.”

Janty grins between her mandibles, clacks them together just to show off, and Yena scoffs.

Royce grunts, unimpressed. “So you’re the one gonna find Brick for us?”

“Gonna try,” she answers.

“And what makes you think you can do better than my people?”

“Not better, just different.”

“Different how?”

“By not lookin’ for members of Maelstrom, but for traces of who they used to be. Places those people might hide, contacts they might leverage.”

Royce snorts then jerks his head. “Siddown.”

There’s a moment of stillness as V stands rigid with everyone just watchin’ her, waitin’ to see what she’ll do, ‘cause the only open place to sit is next to Royce. Not even a ‘Strommer would willingly get that close to him. Dum Dum’s about to shove Kurt off the couch to make room when suddenly her hand lands on his shoulder.

[11:27] Princess:

Please don’t drop me

And then she lowers herself into his lap.

Dum Dum fights a smile, instinctively reaching out to put an arm around her, grip her hip, steady her on his thigh. She’s light as a feather, warm, soft, close. Smells real fuckin’ good, too. That hand on his shoulder drops, rests on his leg for balance—just a few short inches from his cock. She doesn’t want this with him, he knows that. Only doin’ it ‘cause she’s scared of Royce. She’s tense as tightly-wrought wire, but no one’d know it lookin’ at her. Got her legs crossed at the knee, sittin’ calm and casual like they do this all the time, but he can practically feel her heart racing through her skin. Nervous. Terrified.

Normally Dum Dum doesn’t really like it when she’s scared, but right now, with her in his lap? He doesn’t mind one bit.

Royce chuffs, lips curled into a half-snarl, half-smile. “You fuckin’ ‘ganics now, Dum Dum?”

“Nah,” he purrs before his princess jumps out of his lap at the mere thought of it. “Just work together sometimes. Girl’s got preem chrome in her skull.”

[11:28] Princess:

Sorry to put you in this position..

Dum Dum tries not to smile, ‘cause he’s fuckin’ thrilled with this position. Would like to try a few more.

“Hn,” Royce grunts, eyeing V up and down. “So you’re some kind of killer codefreak?”

[11:29] Dum Dum:

a haxan, tell him

[11:29] Princess:

So they can laugh at me?

[11:29] Dum Dum:

do it

So she says, “Yeah, a haxan.”

Lars, Kurt, Yena, and Janty start laughing. Bjorn chuckles. Trey smiles.

[11:30] Princess:

I knew it..

[11:30] Dum Dum:

royce aint laughin

He feels her whole body stiffen, fingers curling nervously into his pants as she finally sees what he sees. Royce is starin’ at her, knee bouncin’ thoughtfully, impatiently. ‘Cause he knows, knows she only has that term ‘cause a ‘Strommer gave it to her. Only gave it to her ‘cause they meant it.

“Yeah?” Royce’s voice scrapes out of him, “Who told you that?”

She answers, “Raze.”

The others stop laughing. There’s a moment of silence, and then—

“Bullshit,” Kurt says with a shake of his head. “Raze been huffin’ too many Zs.”

[11:30] Princess:

The hell are Zs?

“Nah,” Bjorn says, “saw what she can do.”

[11:30] Dum Dum:

homebrew zetaphedrine cocktail

tickles the cns til synapses shotgun

“What’d she do?” Lars wants to know.

[11:30] Princess:

Sounds intense

[11:30] Dum Dum:

fuck yeah

“Fried a scav to charred bits like that,” Bjorn answers with a snap.

[11:31] Dum Dum:

but sometimes the intensity lingers

can make a borg hallucinate

Yena clicks her tongue. “You’re tellin’ me I should be worried about her? Got all that chrome in her head, but look at her. Heart’s racin’. She’s scared.”

“You scared?” Kurt asks with a menacing grin, excitedly shifting closer, but she doesn’t flinch, just tightens her grip on his pants.

V says, “Be a fool not to be.”

[11:31] Dum Dum:

ya scared princess

[11:31] Princess:

Out of my mind

[11:31] Dum Dum:

ya wear it well

Dum Dum lifts the s-keef inhaler to her mouth, watches her lips wrap around the mouthpiece, her chest expand when he punches the canister. Fuckin’ beautiful the way this girl huffs Lace.

“You give her a hit but not me?” Bjorn complains, but Dum Dum ignores him.

Janty strokes her input’s jaw and croons, “Aww, you jealous, baby?”

“Probably doesn’t want her to have a heart attack,” Yena mutters.

“Will you people shut the fuck up?” Royce bellows, and they do. He looks at V and snarls, “Frying a few scavs don’t make you a haxan.”

[11:33] Dum Dum:

tell him bout last week

V immediately says, “What about five Maelstrommers?”

The mood instantly chills as all the ‘borgs go still, mirth evaporating, anger sparking. He can feel V shift against him, press down, like she’s trying to shrink into him. Not even s-keef can purge her fear of Royce, her awareness of eight sets of ‘Strommer optics all starin’ at her, one holdin’ her in his arms. Should’ve given her a second hit…

[11:33] Princess:

Dum Dum..?

[11:33] Dum Dum:

go on say it

scare em

[11:33] Princess:

Are you kidding me?

Royce leans forward, elbows to knees. “The fuck you just say?”

Dum Dum’s hand slides higher on her hip, just a couple inches, and his grip tightens ever so slightly. So she knows he’s got her—that, or he’s just freakin’ her out more. She doesn’t understand it, but she needs this. Needs the ‘borgs to fear her a little, and fearin’ her means hatin’ her first. Just the way it is with Maelstrom. Whether she likes it or not, she’s in their orbit now. She’s his.

[11:33] Dum Dum:

tell him

V briefly clenches her jaw before she grits out, “I said…I breached four of your ‘borg boys and coughed a viral line of code through their ShortLink that disabled their blood pumps, followed quickly by a hydraulic malfunction that caused a cascading system collapse. The last one, I flashed his optics then forced his body mods into a boot loop so he couldn’t move until Dum Dum was ready to question him.”

Pride and desire rush through him at the sound of her sweet voice sayin’ such brutal things, at the look of unease on all their faces. All ‘Strommers respect a killer codefreak, even ‘ganic ones.

“Was Fyzer and his crew,” Dum Dum explains. “Took her to the meet last week. She chained ‘em down so quick, never even knew we were there. Fuckin’ fireworks, didn’t fire a shot. Hardest shit I ever seen a codefreak do.”

The tension is thick enough to cut as Royce looks at Dum Dum then back at V, stares at her long and hard. And then he scoffs.

“No shit,” he drawls with a smirk, relaxing back on the couch, and the mood is suddenly light again. “What kinda deck are you runnin’?”

“Mk. 4 Paraline,” she answers, fingers slowly unfurling the death grip she has on his pants.

“Not bad. Could be better.”

“Could be,” she agrees. “Used to run a Mk. 5 Arasaka Shadow.”

“Why the switch?” Janty asks.

“Was destroyed when I got shot in the head,” V says, and Janty laughs like she’s joking. “No, really. Bullet wrecked my interface plate, shattered my deck.”

“Shit,” Lars sputters. “Fuckin’ unlucky.”

“You serious, you fuckin’ gonk?” Bjorn blurts. “Clearly saved her life.”

V glances over her shoulder. “Trey?”

The kid says, “Yeah?”

“My heart still beating?”

“Yeah,” he answers.

V looks at Bjorn and smiles. “Guess you’re right.”

Bjorn laughs. Lars tries to, but he doesn’t get the joke.

“Why a Shadow?” Kurt asks.

“Was discreet, with built-in ICE against tracing,” she tells him. “Ideal for stealth runs and squishy ‘ganics who can’t afford to take more than one bullet to the interface plate.”

Yena snorts.

“Arasaka’s for pussies,” Royce says. “Need a Rippler. There’s where the fuckin’ pain is.”

Before V can respond, the Tinnitus set shifts into a new song and Janty groans happily, swings her head dramatically.

“Ah, fuckin’ love this one,” she declares, climbing to her feet. She looks at V, grins, wiggles her hips. “Wanna dance?”

When Royce doesn’t protest another interruption, V briefly glances back at Dum Dum, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want her to go—wants to run his hands over that lace on her thighs—but not like he can make her stay.

So she smiles at Janty and says, “Sure, why not?”

She stands up and he immediately misses her weight, her warmth, her hand bein’ so fuckin’ close to his cock. He takes another hit of Lace as he watches her walk away, tryin’ to purge the tight feeling in his chest, to calm the blood that fled south.

“You’re really not dockin’ her?” Kurt asks, lighting a cigarette. Dum Dum just looks at him. “I’d fuckin’ wreck her.”

“‘Cause you’re fuckin’ sick, Kurt,” Yena snaps. “She’s ninety percent meat.”

Kurt just grins. “Won’t be when I stuff her with my chrome.”

“You’re an animal,” she says, and he gnashes his teeth.

Royce chuffs in amusement then throws his arms along the back of the couch, tips his head back in euphoric bliss as he absorbs the grit and distortion of Tinnitus. Kurt and Lars start talking. Bjorn fits a BD wreath around his neck, plugs it into his optics. Trey continues to linger at the edge of the group, watching quietly. Yena looks at Dum Dum, mouth in a straight line, waiting. Wants him to send her a signal, but he’s not gonna, no matter how horny he is. Doesn’t want her like she wants him. Should, but he doesn’t.

Dum Dum gets up and lights a cigarette, goes to the railing and leans on it. Finds V in the crowd and watches her dance beneath the red lasers, body swaying hypnotically, the Lace unwinding her. Her perfume lingers on his clothes, in his nostrils. Her stars burn bright, calling to him.

He takes a long drag on his cigarette, holds it.

[11:49] Dum Dum:

whats v stand for

[11:49] Princess:

Guess

[11:49] Dum Dum:

vixen

She lifts her head, finds him. Smiles. Then flips him off. Dum Dum grins, exhales smoke.

Fuck, he wants her. Wants her real bad. Is losin’ his fuckin’ mind. Tiltin’ right toward cyberpsychosis, and it’s not the chrome’s fault, but a fuckin’ ‘ganic. The irony’s insulting. She doesn’t want him that way. He knows that. Even if she’s not scared of him anymore, doesn’t mean she wants to fuck him. Didn’t sit on his lap ‘cause she wanted to be there, did it ‘cause she didn’t see another option. Didn’t pull his arm around her at Empathy because she liked it, did it ‘cause it was the easiest way to bypass the bouncer’s bullshit. She’s been softenin’ up to him, yeah. Bein’ friendly and playful and trustin’ him some. Doesn’t mean she wants him to touch her. He’s a monster to her, he’s always known that.

But the princess played too long with the monster, and now the monster wants the princess for himself.

Wants to bury himself inside her, fuck her senseless.

Repeatedly.

[11:50] Princess:

By the way..

Like your smile :)

Dum Dum bites down on the filter as happiness and certainty strike a blow so heavy that something within him shifts, and he makes a decision.

Decides he’s gonna have her.

Wasn’t gonna try before, was willin’ to let it go. Didn’t wanna hurt her, didn’t wanna bruise her, but he’s going to. He knows that now. He’ll just have to make sure she likes every fuckin’ second of it. Will take a little time to warm her up, convince her to try him out—‘ganic girls tend to be scared to fuck ‘borg boys like him, ashamed when they finally do—but he’ll be real gentle. Won’t tell a fuckin’ soul. Will do whatever she wants, but he’s gonna have her.

Dum Dum licks his lips, takes another drag on his cigarette. He goes down to the bar, orders a drink, and throws it back. Orders another then sends her a message.

[0:07] Dum Dum:

came here to show me your mod

so come show me

And when she appears beside him a couple minutes later, he offers her a hit of s-keef. She hesitates for a second—just a tiny one—and then leans in, puts her mouth on the inhaler, lets him thumb the canister. Then he hands her the drink, watches her take a sip.

“Come on,” he says, stepping away from the bar.

She looks at him long and steady, and then follows him without a second thought.

Chapter Text

As V descends the stairs to the main floor, she takes a deep breath, relief rushing through her. For some stupid reason, she never thought being friends with Dum Dum would mean having to hang out with his gang. Told herself she wasn’t going to be scared of Maelstrom anymore, but she didn’t expect to be surrounded by eight of the gang’s top goons. Suddenly finding herself in their red-eyed spotlight? Terrifying. Royce’s angry red eye glaring at her—thought her heart would jump out of her chest. Took her back to that day at All Foods with Jackie, that asshole’s gun in her face. Didn’t want to repeat that day ever. Normally she could keep a poker face in place, but every single one of those ‘borgs could see her heart racing. There was no hiding it. That thought alone nearly unraveled her. Might’ve, if not for Dum Dum’s hand on her, a silent reminder that she had at least one ally in the room.

Probably.

Logically, she knows no matter how much Dum Dum likes her, he won’t choose her over his Maelstrom chooms. Over Royce. But she trusted that he wouldn’t let it go that far. Doubted, for just a second, when he egged her on to tell the ‘borgs what she’d done and they started to turn on her. Wasn’t sure she’d make it out of there alive. But then he squeezed her hip as if to say, “I got ya,” and she decided to keep on trusting him.

And somehow, she thinks she might’ve won just an ounce of their respect.

Fucking bizarre, chatting with Maelstrommers like they were chooms. She doesn’t really mind Trey and Bjorn, but the rest of them? She’s not sold yet. And Royce? She wants nothing to do with him. He unsettles her to her core, almost as much as Adam Smasher, with that singular optic hollowing out half his fuckin’ skull…

“You and Dum Dum looked cozy,” the ‘borg girl says, pulling her out of her thoughts. Her voice has a high-pitched, metallic quality to it.

V looks at her, at those eight red optics fixed above spider mandibles. She wasn’t lying—it does look nova—but still horrifying.

“Yeah? You and Bjorn looked cozy, too,” V says.

Spider girl grins. “I hope so. He’s my input.”

“Aw, and I just thought no one wanted to sit next to Royce.”

Spider girl laughs and leans close, whispers, “You’re not wrong,” then stands up straight. Looks her up and down. “I’m Janty.”

“V,” she says.

“Very interesting to meet you, V,” she purrs.

Then she jerks her head toward the dance floor and leads them into the moshing masses, parting the crowd like there’s a force-field around her until they’re in the center of the room with no escape.

Bass pulses between the skittish synth tones that create a violent rhythm nearly impossible to dance to. And yet all around them, bodies flail and sway in transcendental bliss, from tribal jerking and voyeuristic swinging to enthusiastic jumping and the awkward closed-fist arm-shuffle of dads everywhere. Janty throws herself into the music, punching the air and stomping her feet like her limbs are blades, completely lost to the savagery of sound. V starts moving, small and subtle motions, but the wild energy spreads like a virus, infecting her, overtaking her until she’s got her eyes closed, arms over her head, body gyrating. The bass throbs in her blood, those skittish tones running under her skin as she gives herself up to the Maelstrom sound. Janty grins at her beneath her spider jaw, like she can see the chains snapping off. V throws her head back as she twists to the non-rhythm, gazes at the flashing red skull, loses herself to the pixelated distortion.

For a moment she isn’t sure if she’s in the meat world or cyberspace.

[11:49] Dum Dum:

whats v stand for

A small smile fights its way onto her lips.

[11:49] V:

Guess

A pause, a held breath, an infinity of sound—

[11:49] Dum Dum:

vixen

That smile breaks out of her and she looks for him on the balcony, finds seven red optics peering down at her and her heart skips an inexplicable beat. Tells herself it’s just the unexpected flattery from a man who values chrome more than flesh. A ‘borg boy finds her sexy, and she should feel complimented. And she does. But the word “cocktease” keeps looping endlessly in her mind, so she raises both hands and flips him off. He grins as smoke pours from between his lips. And though he’s too far away and the lights are too dim for her to see him clearly, she knows that smile is his smile, the one that put her at ease when everything was darkest.

[11:50] V:

By the way..

Like your smile :)

V turns away and continues to dance, keeps going long after the Lace dissipates. Lets herself have fun in a way she hasn’t since before Jackie died—uninhibited. Doesn’t know how long she’s out there under the red lasers, but she’s sweaty and overheated when a message pops up in her peripheral.

[0:07] Dum Dum:

came here to show me your mod

so come show me

V glances up at the balcony but he’s not there. Looks around, but the crowd’s too thick to see anything not directly in front of her. She pushes through them to the edge of the dance floor, makes her way to the bar where she finds Dum Dum perched on a stool, one knee bent with a foot on the rung, the other relaxed on the ground, a cigarette burning between his metal fingers. He wears neotac pants and a leather vest, showing off his stitched synthskin, the blue veins that look black under the red lights, the wires protruding on his forearms. The other ‘borgs give him space, watch him closely. Out of respect, she thinks. Even up on the balcony, he seemed to sit apart from the others. The only one allowed to question him was Royce.

So you just get to tell everyone what to do? she once asked him, and he’d answered, Who the fuck you think you were dealin’ with, princess?

V approaches him, leans on the bar in front of him. Wants to say something, but she’s breathless from dancing. He lifts the inhaler, offering another hit. She hesitates, wonders how smart it is to keep huffing what this man gives her, but V’s never been very smart. She leans in and wraps her mouth around the inhaler, breathes deep when he punches the canister, feels the effect immediately. No pain. No fear. Completely in control. Maybe a little sexy. Is this how Dum Dum feels on Lace, too?

Gonna become an addict ‘cause she has this pathological need to hang out with a Maelstrommer.

Vapor pours from her lips as they gaze at one another. It’s dark, but his chrome catches the light from the bar and she finds herself staring openly, studying. She looks at the two rows of spikes on his chin and wonders how sharp they are. At the decorative squares of metal embedded beneath his lips and in his cheeks, the two rings on his upper lip, and the gear-like bridge that’s replaced his nose. At the optical plate beneath the glare of those seven glowing eyes… The skin around each piece is a little gritty and rough, a little dark, and EMP threading nearly cuts his face in half. It’s all so inhuman, and she thinks she should be repulsed, but she isn’t. Can’t say it looks natural to her, but it’s become normal.

‘Cause it’s his face.

Dum Dum stares back at her. Never takes his optics off her as he nudges a drink in her direction. She picks it up—looks like water with ice and a chunk of lime—and takes a tip. The alcohol is smooth, cut with a light citrus flavor and a strong twist of lime. It’s good, really good, and she wonders if he ordered it ‘cause he likes it or ‘cause he thought she would.

Dum Dum takes a drag on the cigarette. “Come on,” he says, and pushes away from the bar. He leads her to the edge of the room and a large door covered in plastic strips. He stops, turns around, jerks his chin. “So whatcha think?”

“Of what?”

“Totentanz.”

She looks around, considering her answer. Doesn’t wanna insult him with her first impression: hell’s nightclub. But as her gaze sweeps over the room—takes in all the mingling gangers, the violent red lights and the deep, secret shadows, the visceral music, the intensity in every breath—she thinks Totentanz reminds her of the streets of Night City. Gritty, dangerous, chaotic, addictive.

“Think it’s nova,” she says, and she means it. She bites her lip then playfully adds, “But your music sucks.”

He chuckles, a short and raspy sound she only barely hears above the noise. “Good thing Royce can’t hear you. Tinnitus—apple of his eye.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He stares at her for a long moment before saying, “Not always Tinnitus playin’. Heavy rock and neo-death metal, too.”

She feels a small smile tugging on her lips. That’s definitely more in line with what she thought Maelstrom’s sound would be, though not her style either. But it’s almost like he’s trying to reassure her, to make sure she comes back.

“I’ll be back,” she promises, and he smiles wide, clearly pleased.

It reminds her of the day she bought the Paraline, when he first flashed her that openly happy smile and she found it curiously endearing. She liked it, but she didn’t realize it until he put the chrome on his teeth. Floored her when she saw he took it off. Wonders why he did it. Feels like she knows…

Dum Dum ducks through the plastic and she follows him, slipping into a dark hallway much quieter than the main room. A few people are milling about, smoking and talking on holo. Someone is vomiting against the wall. Frigid air blasts from the vents, creating a haze near the ceiling. They pass an alcove where people are lined up on a couch, fitted with wreaths, light flashing over their eyes, bodies twitching, entirely lost to whatever sensations the BDs are replicating.

“Wanna try it?” Dum Dum asks, and V realizes she was staring.

She looks at him, shakes her head. “No, I’m good.”

“Ya sure?” He starts walking backward, watching her. “Preem shit, can guarantee it.”

“I’m sure.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, flicks his cigarette butt down the hall, and disappears through a doorway.

She follows him into what looks to be the men’s bathroom where some Maelstrommer is pissing in a corner despite the urinals bolted to the wall, and all she wants to know is what the hell they’re doing in there. Dust trickles from missing ceiling tiles, and a thick sludge on the ground seeping from the toilets makes her regret wearing open-toed shoes. She looks at Dum Dum, ready to demand an explanation, when he motions her toward a large, open window, the lights of Night City sparkling beyond. She swallows her question and picks her way across the room, careful to avoid stepping in anything wet.

On the wall near the window is a tag—bright red dots arranged like Maelstrom optics beside black scrawl that reads, Den Den was here. She grins and looks at him.

“Friend of yours?”

“Ha. Ha,” he intones in that metallic voice, and then nods to the paneless window.

She leans forward to glimpse the other side. There’s a knee-high ledge extending outward—not a walkway, no railing, just jagged concrete molded around rebar jutting from the wall. Does he expect her to go out on that thing? Shit… She takes a deep breath, leans back on the sill, and swings her legs over. She stands, swaying just a little as she finds her footing in her heels, the nervous plunge in her gut strangely absent as she reaches for the wall to steady herself. And then suddenly Dum Dum’s in front of her on this narrow ledge, looking at her with those seven optics, standing close, way too close, before he slides past her and starts walking along the ledge. She draws a shallow breath and follows him, navigating around cinder blocks, empty bottles, and a worn mattress, grateful for the faint illumination of the floodlights.

She asks, “Where we goin’?”

He doesn’t answer, just leads her to the end of the ledge where a small, battered couch has been set up, surrounded by empty beer bottles. Dum Dum kicks a few off the ledge, and seconds later they hear the pop of shattering glass. Someone shouts, “Watch it,” but Dum Dum just kicks another and shouts back, “Fuck off.” V shakes her head and smiles.

A soft breeze rustles her hair, brushes her sweat-dampened skin. She takes off her jacket to cool down, tosses it onto the scuffed cushions and takes a deep breath, looks at the city. She can see for miles—the docks and the churning smokestacks of Northside, the stippled neons of Kabuki, even the flashing lights of Japantown.

Dum Dum sits on the couch, his knees comfortably spread, taking up more than half the space. He looks at her like he expects her to join him, but she just stands there.

He grins. “Shy for a girl who was just sittin’ in my lap.”

She feels her face heat up, remembering the hardness of his cybernetic thigh, the way his metal hand gripped her hip. She asked him not to drop her and he didn’t, but she thinks she embarrassed him. Because Royce asked if he was fucking ‘ganics like an accusation, and Dum Dum denied it. Could be he was telling the truth, could be he just doesn’t want his chooms to think he does something so shameful. And yet he let her stay in his lap, had her back the whole time.

“Said I was sorry,” she murmurs. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

His mouth twitches downward, amusement fading, and he tilts his head ever so slightly. She gets an uncomfortable feeling he might ask her to elaborate, but it’s embarrassing enough without saying it out loud.

She clears her throat to change the subject, lifts her drink to her mouth. “Do you come here to think, too?”

“Nah,” he answers easily, “come here for a quick fuck.”

She nearly chokes on her sip, has to purse her lips until she can swallow properly. He what? Does he—is he messing with her again?

“Easy, princess,” Dum Dum purrs. “Brought ya here to talk.”

“Mhm,” she hums in acknowledgement, trying to pretend she never believed otherwise. “To a Maelstrom love nest.” She looks around, pretends to take it all in. “Very romantic.”

“Nah, just private.”

“And we’re not gonna get crowded out by ‘borgs lookin’ for privacy, are we?”

“I’ll kick ‘em out if they try.”

She snorts. “Even Janty and Bjorn?”

He gazes at her for a long moment. “Who told ya that?”

“She did.”

“Talked to Janty?” he asks, and she nods. “‘Bout what?”

“‘Bout how cozy we looked,” she huffs, “and how no one wants to sit with Royce.”

“Cozy,” he echoes in a way she can’t decipher.

“That’s how she put it. So I told her she and Bjorn looked the same, she said he was her input.” She chews her lip for just a second before asking, “How does it work with the, uh…” She motions to her jaw and makes a clicking noise.

“Same way it works without it.”

She tries to imagine Bjorn and Janty making out but all she sees is Janty eating his face. How could Bjorn not feel assaulted under all that chrome? Or, at the very least, suffocated.

Dum Dum chuckles. “Tryin’ to picture it, huh?”

She grimaces. “And it’s not a good one…”

“Yeah, doesn’t look too good in person either.”

She laughs, folds her lips inward to trap the sound. “Is that part of the excitement for him?”

“Donno, never asked.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you into that sort of…experimental look, too?”

He licks his lips before asking, “Wanna know what turns me on, princess?”

V shakes her head, rolls her eyes—he’s deflecting again, avoiding answering by asking her a question he knows will put her off balance—and refuses to take the bait. “I’m asking if you like kissin’ chrome insects.”

“Donno, never tried,” he says, and she scoffs because it doesn’t really answer the question, but before she can ask for clarification, he says, “Just like chrome, all kinds, even when it’s under the skin.”

V stills, watching him as he gazes at her. Feels like she knows what that means, too. That maybe he was embarrassed to have her on his lap in front of his chooms, but maybe he didn’t hate it either.

His modulated voice rumbles low, “Your new mod, show me.”

V swallows, turns her back to him, runs her hand up her neck to pull the wisps of hair away. She can hear him rise off the couch, come toward her. Heat spreads across her exposed shoulder blades as he stops just behind her, blocking the breeze, and then those metal digits touch her neck. She flinches in surprise.

“Cold,” she blurts, but his silence is heavy, like he knows it’s a lie.

The silicone pads of his fingers glide over her spine, up to her hairline and back down, tracing the thin scar, and she grips her glass tightly.

He asks, “What’s it do?”

Relief that he doesn’t know rushes through her, excitement to tell him, and she has to bite her lip to hold the secret in. “You first.”

He huffs in amusement, and she feels the soft puff of air on her skin. “Whaddaya wanna know?”

She tilts her head, glances back at him. Wishes she had a specific question in mind, but she doesn’t, so she picks a piece of chrome at random. “Those Gorilla Arms?”

“Yeah, Maelstrom special,” he answers, still touching her. “Better than Arasaka, stronger. Now you.”

“Feen-X.”

He hisses, impressed. “Killer codefreak went and made herself more dangerous.”

“It means I’ll be able to manage a greater resource spread,” she explains excitedly, “to cover even more targets or just shotgun on a single one—all while sustaining control protocols.” She hears the plunging of the s-keef inhaler, him breathing deep. “There’s this preem suite called Eye in the Sky that lets me connect with any ShortLink receiver in range of the network, manipulate targets remotely. Was RAM intensive, but that won’t be a problem now.”

The fingers on her neck drop and he takes a step back. A shiver races up her spine as the cold rushes in without him there to block the wind. She turns around.

“Preem,” he growls, running his hand across his mouth, white vapor sliding through his fingers. “Real fuckin’ preem.”

She smiles, happiness infusing her. “I knew you’d appreciate it.”

His voice is rough when he says, “‘Preciate, yeah.” He pulls out a cigarette, lights it. “Wanna be there when you fire it up.”

Of course he’ll be there. He’s the only one she ever calls. But she doesn’t want to sound desperate, so she just nods and murmurs, “Sure.”

He points at her with his cigarette. “What else ya got?”

“I’ll tell you when I decide on my next question about your chrome.”

“Fuck,” he breaths and sits on the couch, stretches one arm across the cushions, rests his head along the back. “Killin’ me, princess. Just ask me already.”

“Ask you what?”

The cherry burns bright as he takes a deep drag then exhales a long stream of gray toward the sky. “What every ‘ganic wants to know.”

“What’s that?”

“If my cock’s modded too.”

She chuckles, her face heating up. Of course she’s wondered, but how the hell can she ask that after he called her a cocktease? Besides, she’s almost certain the answer is yes. The real question is how modded is it? Just some enhancements or did he go for a Mr. Studd?

But what she says is, “Hang out with a lot of ‘ganics, huh?”

“Nah, they just come in sometimes, curious ‘bout ‘borg cock.”

“Gotcha.”

She looks down at her glass, at the ice melting into the liquor, and tries to imagine Dum Dum flirting with these chrome-chasing ‘ganic girls. Or do they flirt with him? She can’t picture it, realizes she doesn’t want to. She tosses back the last sip of her drink and hurls the glass into the darkness. A second later, it clangs against something metallic, ping-ponging around, causing a racket, before finally clattering along the ground and going still. She looks at Dum Dum in utter shock that it didn’t break before a laugh bubbles out of her and he grins.

V crosses over to the couch and sinks onto the cushion next to him, leans back and tilts her head up. Can feel the coil of her bun bump up against his arm. He passes her his cigarette then lights a second one, and they sit there in the quiet for a surprising length of time, smoking, the distant sound of Tinnitus and their enthusiastic crowd leaking through the walls. She finds herself idly rolling her head left to right, testing the feel of the Feen-X, making sure there’s no pinching or pain.

He asks, “Botherin’ you?”

“No, it’s just new so…makin’ sure.”

“How many links they cut out?”

“Three.”

“Should get the whole thing replaced,” he tells her. “Will work better.”

“Maybe…”

She forces herself to stop fidgeting, but her awareness of the mod is ever-present. She knows it’ll go away in a few days, just the price of chippin’ in. When she first got her interface plugs, it nearly drove her crazy. She used to get a headache if she wore a headband too long, and suddenly there was this added weight, this pressure, on her head, all the time—it was almost too much. She nearly had Vik take it off. But she kept talking herself into giving it one more day, and then one morning, she woke up and realized she’d forgotten all about it.

“What was your first mod?” she asks, flicking the ash from her cigarette. The breeze blows a few flecks onto her pants that she brushes away.

He’s slow to answer, but eventually says, “My arm. Work accident.”

Surprise flits through her—didn’t expect him to give her pre-Maelstrom details—and she wants to ask what happened, if it took him a long time to get used to it, if that’s when he fell in love with chrome, but the questions feel too personal.

She takes the last drag on her cigarette, crushes the filter under her shoe, and asks, “And what was the first mod you chose?”

He points to his optics and then puffs his own cigarette.

“Ah…” She runs her hand along her thigh, fingers the lace nervously. There’s a question she’s been wanting to ask him, but she’s not sure how he’ll take it. “Gig crossed my path the other day, some media lookin’ for a recording of the Maelstrom initiation rite. The optic nerve split.” She quickly adds, “I didn’t take it.”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean, why not? Like I’m gonna cross Maelstrom.”

“Can give ya the recording. Not exactly a secret.”

She turns her head to look at him. “I wouldn’t take advantage of you like that.”

He turns his head toward her. “‘Cause I’m your favorite ‘Strommer?”

One of her favorite people, at this point, but what she answers with is, “Yeah…”

A small grin curves his lips. “Can take some advantage, if ya want.”

Her gaze bounces over his optics before dropping to his mouth, that sneaky little grin, and she thinks that statement is loaded. So she ignores it entirely.

“Heard a rumor ‘bout the surgery, that you don’t use anesthesia,” she says. “That true?”

“Yeah,” he replies easily, and her throat tightens, her skin begins to crawl. “Survive, you’re in.”

She swallows thickly and tries not to imagine Dum Dum fully aware and feeling as some psycho ripper plucks out his eyes and splits his optic nerve, saws open his skull and installs those seven red optics. The pain, the screaming, the willingness to suffer, to risk dying in agony for a chance to be part of something. And yet he survived it. Stuffed his body with chrome, but he was already as strong as he needed to be, because he lived. And then he rose to the top.

That gritty and rough skin around each piece of cyberware—it’s pain, it’s proof.

He asks, “You shocked?”

“A little,” she admits quietly.

He puffs the cigarette then tosses the filter over the ledge. “Don’t want your pity.”

“Not pity,” she assures him. “I’m impressed.”

Because the Maelstrom gang might be full of the strongest people in Night City, not for their chrome, but their sheer will to live, to endure.

Dum Dum smiles, pleased, amused. “Fuckin’ right. Knew you weren’t like the others.”

“Other what?”

“‘Ganics.”

V blinks, filled with pride and joy that is suddenly and sharply vacuumed out of her, replaced with uncertainty and horror as a thought pops into her head, then another and another, tumbling like dominos—him helping her with gigs, pushing her to uncap her limits, that weird interview with Royce earlier—

She sits up straight, spine rigid. “Dum Dum.”

“What?”

She angles her body toward him, her knee smacking into his, and blurts, “You’re not trying to recruit me, are you?”

He laughs. “Nah. Why’dja think that?”

She shakes her head, relieved. “I donno,” she sighs, looking out at the haze of Night City. “We’re just…an unusual pair, you know?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Unusual.”

A moment later, she feels a gentle tug on her hair and glances over her shoulder to find a cluster of her copper strands trapped between Dum Dum’s metal fingers, those silicon pads gently rubbing together. And what strikes her the most is the serious look on his face. His optics are the same, always the same, but his mouth is a straight line, lips barely parted in something like concentration or awe. And she remembers that he once told her he likes her hair…

His voice is raspy when he asks, “You figure out if anyone’s after you?”

“Not yet…”

He just grunts, continuing to toy with her hair, surprisingly gentle.

Her stomach growls, reminding her she hasn’t eaten since lunch, and it’s like a spell is broken. Dum Dum immediately lets her go, drops his hand, and that serious expression turns bemused.

He asks, “Hungry?”

“Seems like it.”

“Ya leavin’?”

“Think so.”

“Will walk ya out.”

They stand up at the same time, she slips into her jacket, and he leads the way back to the window, helps her inside and guides her through the club. He keeps her beside him, brushes off anyone who tries to talk to him, and they ride the elevator in silence. When it opens, Raze smiles at her, a smile that quickly disappears at the sight of the ‘borg accompanying her. Dum Dum’s arm comes around her shoulders, a vicious, domineering grin slashing his face, and then he leads them down the walkway and out of the building.

“What was that about?” she asks when they’re outside.

“Nothin’,” he says. “Just don’t like him.”

Chapter Text

After Dum Dum’s question about who was after her, V remembers she needs to check in on Evelyn. Partly because she’s hoping Evelyn will wake up and give her answers, but also because she genuinely hopes the woman recovers. So the next morning, while she’s having a cup of coffee, V raises Judy on the holo.

“V, hey,” the tech answers after a few rings, and her voice is soft, ragged. She looks exhausted.

“Hey, Judy,” V says, forcing a smile. “Just checkin’ in on you and Evelyn. How’s she doin’?”

Judy sighs, looks at something off-camera. “‘Bout the same, honestly.”

V’s smile fades. Not what she wanted to hear.

“Can’t get her to say one word,” Judy continues. “Won’t respond to me. Won’t eat. I have to process her meals into juice, I—” She sighs, closes her eyes, and then murmurs, “I’m not givin’ up.”

“I know,” V says. “How are you, Judy? You hangin’ in there?”

“I’m fine, but…thanks for asking.”

She doesn’t look fine, but V’s not gonna say it. Not gonna bring her down. Judy’s doing all she can right now, all on her own. And V has no place to give her advice. They aren’t friends, only know each other ‘cause of Evelyn, only connected ‘cause they both have their own reasons for wanting the doll to survive. Still, it’s not an easy thing, what Judy’s trying to do…

So V asks, “You need anything? Groceries or…I donno, anything?”

Judy smiles, and it just makes her look so damn broken. “Nah, but it’s sweet of you to offer,” she says, and V just nods. “I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

“You do that.”

“Bye, V.”

“See ya, Judy.”

And then the call ends.

V takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long, slow exhale. And then she drains her coffee, ties back her hair, and gets to work on finding Brick. She scours the deep Net for clues and hunts every lead down to its end. In her spare time, she goes to the gun range to practice, tries to source a Nue, has her follow-up visit with Vik, and texts a little with Misty. But most of her day is spent in cyberspace.

On the third day of the hunt, when she’s in the middle of a deep dive, she finds a curious whisper of information, just a single word that seems innocuous at a glance, but when her program tells her it appears in the records thirty-two times, it stands out.

Ebunike.

But which Ebunike? There’s the old cargo ship called the Ebunike that’s been sitting in the docks since the 2040s, and then there’s the Ebunike Docks, as they came to be known. Does Maelstrom control the docks or do they have some sort of operation running out of the cargo ship?

She shoots Dum Dum a message.

[11:05] V:

What’s Maelstrom’s connection to the Ebunike?

As she waits for a response, she spreads the collated data featuring “Ebunike” before her like a deck of cards, gazes at the pixelated info. None of it makes any sense on its own, not even examined altogether like this, and at least eight of the entries are false flags. But five entries are by a user named Fella, which was the nickname of Ofelia Sirawian before she became known as Maelstrom’s “Patricia”, and date almost as far back as the failed Arasaka heist, which took place just after Brick was deposed. This has to mean something.

[11:07] Dum Dum:

we run the docks

why

[11:07] V:

Think I found something. Might be nothing, but wanna check it out.

[11:08] Dum Dum:

so check it out

[11:08] V:

Does that mean I have permission to go over there?

She dumps the false flags from the database and starts a new project subfolder called Ebunike. Stores the data and sets up new parameters for her code to handle future queries.

[11:11] Dum Dum:

ill take ya later

[11:11] V:

What time?

[11:12] Dum Dum:

dunno

later

V sighs into the airless void of her BBS.

-o-

The sun is setting when V pulls up at 407 Daniels, a shipping warehouse next to the docks. Dum Dum’s already there, his Javelina parked in the shadows of the building. She eases in next to him, gets out of her car, and slides into the passenger seat of his. He’s wearing a leather jacket with nothing underneath and black cargo pants, one arm propped on the steering wheel and his entire body limned in the fading orange light.

A strange trill flutters in her gut as her eyes meet his seven cyberoptics, an almost grin on his lips.

“Hey,” she says with a smile.

“Princess.” He nods. “What’s this about?”

“I don’t know yet,” she answers as she takes her portable out, props it on her thigh, and opens it up. She angles it in his direction where the data spread is already opened on the screen. “But your girl Patricia is very interested in the Ebunike. Maybe she’s just referencing Maelstrom territory, maybe there’s something more to it. I’d like to take a deeper look.”

“Deeper look,” he repeats, but there’s a question buried there.

“Yeah, on the network.”

He stares at her, tilts his head. “Want me to plug you into the network.”

“Yeah,” she says again, then blinks, frowns. “What’d you think I wanted?”

“To see the docks.”

She glances at the gated entryway guarded by Maelstrom goons and snorts, “Why? Not like I’m gonna find her hidin’ in a crate.”

Dum Dum grunts and looks away, some unknown thought whirring in his head. Is he annoyed? Or worse, is he suspicious?

“I’m doing this for you, to find Brick,” she says. “So, if you don’t want me going down this road, I won’t. But I think there’s something here, so…do you trust me in your network?”

He faces her again, gazes at her a moment, then nods. Murmurs, “Yeah, trust you.”

A small smile twitches on her lips, happiness flowering in her chest. “Okay. So you’ll let me in?”

He nods, and so she turns to her deck and keys in a few commands, prepping her system.

He asks, “What’re ya lookin’ for?”

“Instabilities and potential breaches, mostly. And I’ll execute a blind search on the server, but the queries will only pull very specific data, and I’ll shred anything unrelated to Brick.” She glances at him, flashes what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “I promise, I won’t peek at your biz. Just wanna see if anything jumps out.” She finishes setting up the program and then tugs a MetaNet Broadcast dongle from her deck and offers it to him.

He just stares at it. “What’s this for?”

“You plug it into the server and it’ll give me remote access. I’ll kill it when I’m done, or you can remove it at any time.”

He runs his tongue along his teeth. “Can’t just hack it?”

“Sure, but then someone might figure out I’m there. Told you, don’t wanna cross Maelstrom,” she says and offers the dongle again.

He grimaces, looks away. Clearly doesn’t wanna do this. She doesn’t get it. He said he trusts her, told her to do it, so…what’s his problem? She’s about to ask when he abruptly snatches the dongle out of her hand and climbs out of the car.

“Stay here,” he growls.

“What—”

He shuts the door and stomps toward the docks, lighting a cigarette as he goes. She watches him disappear around a cargo container, utterly confused, and then faces her portable deck with an annoyed huff, stares at the screen. Idly taps the rim. Looks around—at the dash, the driver’s seat, the steering wheel, the console. His car is surprisingly clean. No trash on the floor, no crumbs in the cushions, no ash caked between the buttons. It smells like cigarettes, though. And a faint, pleasant musk almost like cologne, but he doesn’t seem the type to wear any. Now she’s curious…

V looks at her deck again, waits ten minutes before her network access comes online, and then immediately begins running scans and searches.

[7:23] Dum Dum:

status

[7:23] V:

I’m in

She starts logging the scan data, dumping it into a private folder for her code to analyze and collate the results. Another ten minutes passes, but Dum Dum doesn’t return. At the fifteen minute mark, she shoots him a message.

[7:39] V:

You get lost?

[7:42] Dum Dum:

lot of fuckin trouble princess

She blinks at the text. What the fuck is he talking about, she’s a lot of trouble? This is his territory. How could this be any trouble whatsoever? He agreed to help!

[7:42] V:

What?

But no more messages ping her phone. V rolls her eyes and shifts her focus back to her deck, continues working.

By the time Dum Dum returns to the car, the sun has fully set and V’s forgotten that she was annoyed. She looks up as the car door opens and Dum Dum sinks into his seat, drops his head against the rest, and sighs.

“You were gone awhile,” she observes.

“Fuckin’ Briger,” he mutters, “gotta run me through every little fuckin’ step of his op every time I take a goddam step onto the docks. Fuck. S’why I let Lars handle this shit. Only one who can stand that fucker for more than five minutes.”

She purses her lips and tries not to laugh. His text message, his hesitation to do this—it suddenly makes sense.

“You kill the connection,” he says. “Not goin’ back in there.”

And this time she does laugh. “Got it.” She angles her deck in his direction. “But look, your sacrifice paid off.”

He leans closer to inspect the screen, and her heart thumps a little harder than normal, beats a little quicker. She blames the small, intimate space of the car. Normally when he’s close like this, she has plenty of space to back up.

He asks, “What am I lookin’ at?”

“Not much yet,” she admits. “Just some packet loss. You, uh…might wanna consider a better system than an old Athena III.”

Dum Dum looks at her with something akin to incredulity and she responds with a smile. He shakes his head and leans back into his seat, and silence settles between them. Normally she finds their quiet curiously comfortable, but she’s always felt like an imposition whenever she’s doing cybergrunt work, and tonight is no exception. She knows it’s boring—Jackie used to tell her all the time—and she hates feeling like he’s just waiting for her to leave.

She chews her lip, suddenly nervous. “This is probably gonna take awhile,” she tells him, scraping her nail over an old scratch on her deck. “If you have something else to do, I can go back to my car, let you take off.”

“Nah, nothin’ else to do,” he says, sinking into his seat, propping his elbow on the car door, spreading his knees. Getting comfortable for a long wait.

“Oh.”

Part of her is relieved for the company, part of her wishes he’d have taken her up on the offer, because now she feels even more pressure to entertain him. She scrapes at that scratch a few more times, tries to figure out what to talk about. Up to this moment, their conversations have been so organic, but now that she feels like she needs to talk, she has no idea what to say.

She finally chokes out, “So…how was…work?”

She feels like an idiot the moment the words leave her lips.

“What?” he asks, an amused tilt to his mouth, and she hopes he can’t see her blush in the darkness.

She clears the embarrassment from her throat, playfully says, “You know, make any good drug deals or kill some people or whatever it is you Maelstrom boys do during the day?”

He grins. “Yeah, drug deals and killin’ people.”

“So a pretty busy day, huh?”

“Busy,” he agrees.

She nods. “Good.” She draws one knee up onto the seat as she shifts to face him. “So, how did you lose your arm?”

“Shit…”

“You said it was a work accident?”

“Not holdin’ back, are ya?”

She furrows one brow. “What do you mean?”

“Fuckin’ soften me up with a ‘how was work, dear,’ and then hit me with that.”

She tries not to laugh. “Well I don’t know what else to talk about.”

“Don’t have to talk.”

She shrugs, feigning indifference. “If you don’t want to—”

“Didn’t say that—”

“Then you pick the topic.”

He stares at her, perfectly still, and she’s not sure if she’s surprised him or stumped him. Eventually he looks away, gazes out the windshield. For a moment, she thinks he won’t say anything, that the conversation is over, and disappointment dogs her, regret needles her. Because while she doesn’t mind sitting in silence with him, she can’t get to know him better that way.

And then he asks, “Ya got an input?”

That strange trill flutters in her gut again. “No.” She swallows, scrapes her nail over her deck. “You got an output?”

“Nah.”

“Really?” she asks, a little surprised. Because there’d been a moment when she was surrounded by Maelstrom ‘borgs at Totentanz when she thought that girl with the fangs seemed a little pissed off she was sittin’ in Dum Dum’s lap. Wondered if maybe there was something going on there.

Not sure why she feels relieved there isn’t.

“Said I don’t,” he says. “What kinda BDs ya like?”

“Oh, I don’t do BDs,” she tells him, then quickly adds, “Can’t do BDs.”

He looks at her. “Can’t?”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “For the same reason I’m so good at quickhacking—my brain processes the information too quickly. The soft can’t properly sync, and all the sensation just feels…” She trails off, shakes her head.

“Feels like what?”

“Like being body-snatched,” she admits with a wry smile. “Usually just makes me nauseous, feels like my skin is crawling, but sometimes…it’s worse.”

V had always struggled with it when she was a teenager, had shied away from BDs after a couple failed attempts. But her last boyfriend talked her into trying an extra spicy one a couple years ago—an experience that would take their sex life to a whole new level, he said—and she gave in, hoped she’d grown out of whatever had prevented her from enjoying it as a kid. Ten minutes into it, she had to quit. Was on the verge of a panic attack, ‘cause she could see that her arms and legs were still attached to her body, she just couldn’t feel them. He called her a prude and stormed out while she was still shaking on the bed. Last she ever saw of him. She was so embarrassed, it took her weeks before she went to Vik and learned the truth about her brain.

Now she avoids BDs more than actual danger.

“It’s not so bad in the editor,” she explains, “when I know what to expect and the sensory load isn’t so overwhelming that I feel like a wholly different person, but most BDs aren’t like that, you know? They're all about sensory overload.”

“Overload, yeah,” Dum Dum says. “Soft won’t sync. Too fast. Would need to be scrolled at—”

“Sixteen-four.”

“Shit.”

“And even if someone could scroll it, the wreath couldn’t play it. Factory hard-caps won’t allow it. Sixteen-four can induce a seizure in a normal user.”

“Fuckin’ blows.”

V shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t know what I’m missin’ out on so can’t really miss it, right?”

Dum Dum nods once, looks away. Runs his metal fingers over his mouth. Looks at her, stares for a moment, then says, “Worked in construction. Crane cable snapped, an I-beam pinned my arm, crushed it. By the time they got it off, was too late.”

She sucks in a sharp breath of horror, feels her face warp into a grimace as she instinctively reaches for her arm. “Fuck…”

He tilts his head. “You fuckin’ feelin’ sorry for me?”

“A little,” she says. “You asked for your optics, not to have your arm crushed.”

“I survived. Thought you got that.”

“I get it,” she assures him, “but I’m not Maelstrom. I can be impressed by your strength and still not want you to be in pain, alright?”

He shakes his head, the corners of his mouth turned down, then picks up a device from the center console, taps on it. V frowns. Is he in a bad mood now? ‘Borg is giving her whiplash tonight…

She hesitates then asks, “What’s that?”

“Code reader,” he says, plugging it into his arm.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Scannin’ for fault codes.”

Fault codes—errors in his cyberware.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

Confusion flits through her. “Then what’re you lookin’ for?”

“Fuck if I know,” he mutters, confusing her even more. Confuses her so much, a whole minute of silence passes. Suddenly he asks, “So no input, no BDs—whaddaya do for fun?”

She huffs a laugh and drops her gaze to her deck. What does she do for fun? Shit… What does she do for fun? Once upon a time, she would’ve said, Whatever Jackie wants to do today. They’d go to El Coyote, walk around Night City, look for new places to eat, play video games, annoy Vik and Misty… But what did she do on her own? Watch TV dramas. Read stupid, guilty pleasure books she’d never admit to knowing the titles of. Shop for upgrades for her home deck. Dive the deep Net.

She still does that last one, but mostly to escape, not for fun.

No, the only thing she’s done for fun lately is…

V shrugs and looks at him, a small smile curling her lips. “Hang out with a Maelstrom ‘borg.”

Dum Dum grins, a short, hot puff of air sliding past his lips, and tilts his head, optics roving over her. Something about his expression tells her she’s going to regret her next question, but she asks it anyway.

“What about you?”

He opens his mouth to respond but stops, goes very still. His grin fades, mouth turns down. After a moment, he says, “Somethin’ I need to take care of. Maelstrom biz.”

She immediately closes her deck, opens the door.

He asks, “Wanna check it out?”

She pauses with one foot out of the car, glances back at him. “You sure?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”

She pulls her leg back in and closes the door. Smiles. “Yeah, I’ll be your back-up.”

He turns the car on, throws it into reverse, and whips out onto the street before peeling off down the road. He takes a right onto Offshore and winds alongside the docks, taking all the twists and turns way too fast. He pulls off onto a dark road beneath the old, unfinished monorail that dead-ends between two warehouses. A couple Chevillons painted with Maelstrom colors are parked at the end of the road, blocked off by concrete barriers. A strange light shimmers beyond.

Dum Dum parks behind a Thrax and they climb out. V expects to hear a riot of sound, but there’s nothing. Just the faint crackle of a nearby radio playing haunted neo-death metal.

Dum Dum asks, “Bring your iron?”

“Just the one in my head,” she admits.

He goes to his trunk to fetch something and returns to her, hands her a pistol painted black and red with a skull decal on the side.

“Nue,” he explains, and she smiles.

“Feels good,” she says, testing the weight, the rubber grip.

Dum Dum nods. “C’mon.”

They make their way between the parked cars, gravel crunching beneath their shoes, and slip past the askew barricade into a shadowed courtyard. V’s blood runs cold at the sight before her. Red road flares are spiked into the ground, illuminating the center of the area where dead bodies surround an old freezer tipped over on its back, blood smeared on the side and pooling on the ground.

“Oh, shit…” she whispers as Dum Dum charges over to the nearest body. She quickly joins him to find a Maelstrom ‘borg, bleeding from his optics and covered in fresh stab wounds. There’s no sign of restraints but he doesn’t appear to have fought back. Was he drugged? Or did he let someone do this to him?

Dum Dum nudges the corpse with his boot then hisses, “Fuck.”

“What the hell happened here?”

A nearby grunt nearly causes her heart to jump out of her chest, drawing both their gazes to a Maelstrommer crawling on the ground a few feet away. They immediately go to him and V drops to her knees, turns him over. A bloody knife clatters from his hand. He has a stab wound in his abdomen, gushing blood.

“Lilith has concealed…the tenth circle…from the ancestors’ eyes,” he rasps, and then the air rushes from his lungs, the tension leaves his body, and his optics shut off. She checks for a pulse, but he’s gone.

V swallows the lump in her throat. “What does that mean, Lilith concealed the circle?” she asks, but Dum Dum shakes his head. He crosses to the next body, then moves even farther. “How many are there?”

“Five,” he answers, his voice tight with anger.

V’s gaze drops to the Maelstrommer before her, stares in horror at his blood-spattered skin, his lightless optics, the glistening wound in his gut. She’s no stranger to violence and gore, but this… This is different, this is fucked. The way the bodies circle the freezer, the knife wounds, the road flares resembling candles—this was a ritual. What kind of fucked up—

Ice clatters and V’s gaze jumps to the freezer. A metal hand appears from within, grips the rim. A female ‘borg pulls herself up, four bright red optics dripping water. Unease fills V as she watches the ‘borg girl climb out of the ice bath, her chrome legs filed to vicious points, the rest of her a patchwork of chrome and synthskin covered only with shiny red underwear. She falls against the rim of the freezer, shoulders hunched, and touches her brow, shakes her head, but the filtration mask fitted over her mouth makes it impossible to tell if she’s in pain or just disoriented.

Dum Dum’s voice breaks the quiet in a harsh hiss, “Zeta?”

The ‘borg girl’s head snaps up, jerks in his direction. She stands up straight, faces him.

Mantis blades spring from her arms.

An urgency rips through V, a possessive and desperate need to protect Dum Dum, just like she used to feel with Jackie. Doesn’t know if this ‘borg is really a threat or not, but she won’t leave it to chance. She shoots to her feet, immediately scans the Maelstrommer, targets each and every major piece of ware. She quickly finds the inroad to her systems and runs a breach protocol, smashing through more layers of ICE than she’s used to seeing on the rank and file. Must mean she’s high up in the gang.

Zeta senses the movement behind her, looks back, tilts her head like she’s assessing if V’s a threat. Must decide she’s not because she turns back toward Dum Dum.

“The fuck you doin’, Zeta?” Dum Dum snarls, his DR5 held aloft as the ‘borg girl takes a step toward him.

“Blasphemer,” she growls, a gargled, metallic sound.

[9:07] V:

She has a Sandy

[9:07] Dum Dum:

burn it

V rips into Zeta’s ware—

     accessBFT;

          function(sub_4,

               (upload_remote[overheat_v4_scoped], mu=7;)

     )

—and a stream of pixelated butterflies swarm the ‘borg girl’s head as V’s killer daemon targets the Sandevistan’s temperature regulator, edits the default to 300°C, and resets it. The gauge begins to climb, racing towards the melting point.

Zeta raises her arms and lunges for Dum Dum, swinging wildly. He jerks out of range, evading each swipe of her blades, then aims his DR5. Shoots. Zeta dodges—her first and only use of her Sandevistan—before her head snaps to the side and an awful modulated scream rattles alongside the neo-death metal crackling in the background. A tremor runs the length of her as her body begins to vibrate, neck twisting at an odd angle as the skin at the base of her skull starts to char and sparks pop beside her ear. The implant shuts off before it even reaches 100°C, but the damage is already done. All at once, the screaming and the tremors stop, and the ‘borg girl stands there, legs splayed, arms poised as though held up by puppet strings, her head jerking repeatedly to the side.

And then she whips around, those optics glaring at V with a vicious gleam.

“Fuck,” she curses, launching another quickhack.

Zeta lunges.

A thunderous crack splits the night. Blood and hydraulic fluid spray the ground as Zeta stumbles, a hole opened up in her back. Wires spark and machinery sizzles, but she recovers with a shake of her head. Just as Dum Dum starts to reload, V’s code hits Zeta, reboots her optics, and those red eyes blink out. V aims the Nue and shoots twice, bullets sinking into her chestplate, but the ‘borg girl soaks the damage like it’s nothing. She darts forward, her pointed feet stabbing the ground, mantis blades raised high.

V tries to back up but she trips over the dead Maelstrommer at her feet, hits the ground hard. She rolls to the side just as those blades smash against the concrete. Dum Dum crashes into the ‘borg as V scrambles to her feet, whirls around to see them grappling on the ground, mantis blades flailing way too close to Dum Dum. She immediately deploys another quickhack, targeting the blades, forcing them to begin retracting. Zeta fights the cyberattack, trying to keep her blades unsheathed, and it distracts her long enough to give Dum Dum an opening. He buries his gun in the girl’s elbow and pulls the trigger, blasting the arm off. Another horrid, metallic shriek pierces their ears, like a blender churning glass, and then Zeta wiggles away from him, springing to her feet. V pulls her trigger the moment she’s out of range of Dum Dum, emptying the clip into the ‘borg girl’s torso already crackling with malfunctioning cyberware. Zeta slides back with the force of each shot, feet sparking on the concrete as she tries to hold her ground, when Dum Dum hits her with another blast from his DR5 that rips a hole into her chest, exposing bits of bone and a blood pump working furiously to keep the bitch alive.

Zeta wails a long note of utter frustration, clawing at her face with her remaining hand. “Weak!”

V dives back into her code, looking for a vulnerability to exploit that will shut this cyberpsycho down.

And then Zeta leaps onto her, tackling her to the ground, knocking the air from V’s lungs from the sheer weight of her. Metal digits wrap around her throat, squeezing.

Zeta screams, “Vessel.”

A blade rips through the ‘borg girl’s torso and up through her throat as Dum Dum stabs the bitch with her own dismembered limb. His lips are peeled back in rage as he hoists her up by her hair and drags her off of V. Zeta kicks furiously, trying to stab her with her pointed feet as V scrambles out of reach, turning just in time to see Dum Dum catch that remaining mantis blade, trap it against her arm, and twist, ripping it away from the elbow joint. Zeta’s ruined voicebox gargles as she wiggles in his grasp, the blade in her torso and throat working the wound wider. Rivulets of blood and hydraulic fluid slide down her body, dripping into a pool beneath her.

Dum Dum tosses the torn limb and drops the ‘borg girl onto the ground, pins her down with a boot to her head. Her hips jerk and legs kick in an attempt to free herself as Dum Dum casually reloads his DR5. There’s something incredibly disarming in how calm he is, his movements methodical and precise, and V can’t stop staring at him as he slips those bullets into the chamber, snaps it shut, and takes aim. And then he blasts the ‘borg’s chest cavity, turning the blood pump, heart, and any other important organs into paste.

From the moment Dum Dum raided the scav den with her, V knew he was a monster, brutal and unstoppable, but she wasn’t afraid. Because she felt safe. And as she stares at him now, with his boot planted on that cyberpsycho’s head and blood spattered down his front, she’s not scared. Not one bit.

She’s fucking aroused.

What the fuck is wrong with her?

Dum Dum stows his gun in his waistband and looks at her, and the weight of his optics feels different than before, heavier, makes every breath harder to draw. He looks her over, starts walking toward her. V stands up, all too aware of him, how much taller he is, broader.

She licks her lips and asks, “What the hell happened here?”

“Cult chromers fuckin’ snapped,” he says and reaches out, tips her chin up, examines her throat. Her heart starts hammering. “Ya alright?”

“Yeah,” she rasps. “You?”

“Fine.”

He’s covered in blood, his clothes are torn, he’s a patchwork fucking monster with bright red spider eyes shining in the dark, and she wants him to touch her—fuck. She tries to tell herself it’s the adrenaline, but she knows it’s not. Because she’s been here before, been here with Jackie countless times, and she never felt this way with him, not once.

Oh, fuck.

Panic and desire collide within her like weather fronts, sparking a storm of emotion that leaves her breathless, unable to look away. Dum Dum tilts his head, gazing at her like he can see that storm inside of her, and then drops his hand, takes a step back.

“Gotta deal with this,” he says, and she’s both disappointed and relieved. Because she wants him to kiss her before she comes to her senses, wants to get out of there before she does something crazy. “Will drop ya off—”

“I’m fine.” She swallows hard. “I can walk back.”

He tongues a canine. “Ya sure?”

“Yep, gonna delta.” She forces a smile, takes a step backward, raises her hand in a quick wave. “See you around.”

And then she all but flees the ritual site.

Chapter Text

Dum Dum watches V leave, confused, frustrated. Her heart was pounding, breathing was hard. She was scared…?

Doesn’t make sense. She’s a merc, been around plenty of violence and bloodshed. Been in the thick of it, committed it. So why the fuck was she scared? The action was over. And yet her heart rate sped up when he was close, her breathing increased when he touched her. She scared of him? ‘Cause of what he did to Zeta? Bitch had gone fuckin’ cyberpsycho, was tryin’ to kill ‘em both, there was no other option. Nah, doesn’t make sense.

But she got out of there real damn fast…

Fuck.

Dum Dum’s teeth crash together, jaw clenching furiously. Not tryin’ to scare her, tryin’ to fuck her. Doesn’t want the two mixed. Fuckin’ cult chromers always fuckin’ everything up.

The code reader beeps and Dum Dum jerks it from his jacket pocket, checks the readout. No errors detected. He throws it hard enough that it explodes against the wall, bits of plastic and tech scattering across the cracked pavement. I can be impressed by your strength and still not want you to be in pain. Why’d she say that? Why’d it hurt when she did? No error detected—broken piece of shit.

Dum Dum slides his hand along his scalp, through his metal dreads, down the back of his head. Forces himself to calm down. Will figure it out later. Has to deal with this mess first. He shoots Royce and Bjorn messages then starts investigating the site while he waits for the ‘Strommers to arrive, rifling through pockets, scanning phones, piecing together as much of this fuck-up as possible. But there’s not much info to glean he doesn’t already know.

An hour later, Royce arrives with two full trucks of ‘Strommers, including Bjorn and Trey. He looks pissed as he storms into the ritual site, eyeing the mess of bodies.

“What the fuck happened?” Royce bellows.

“Boys tried to summon Lilith,” Dum Dum answers.

“Again?”

“Yeah,” he says.

But what he won’t say is: ‘cause you won’t tell ‘em not to. Not like Brick, who forbade it. ‘Course they still tried gonk shit from time to time, but the punishment was brutal. Never cared much for the way Brick handled things, but his stance on the cult chromers was one Dum Dum fully supported. Doesn’t understand why Royce won’t keep ‘em in line.

Royce walks deeper into the site and Dum Dum follows him. The rest of the ‘borg boys hang back, waiting for orders.

“Fuck,” Royce breathes, scanning the corpses, the coagulating blood pooled across the courtyard. His cybereye locks onto Zeta ripped apart, a muscle in his jaw flexing with irritation.

“Zeta was the conduit,” Dum Dum explains. “Went cyberpsycho, had to put her down.”

“Shit,” Royce spits, ‘cause Zeta’s a huge loss. Not like the rest of the corpses, fodder for the most part. But Zeta? She was a high-ranking zealot who led some of their most successful ops. “How the fuck did the cult cunts seduce her?”

“Donno. Heard she was hangin’ out at Clay’s”—the ‘Strommer ripper all the cult chromers flock to—“probably where she got mixed up with Hanz. That little cunt ringmastered this fuck-up.”

Royce’s jaw flexes again before he says, “They weren’t successful.” But there’s a question in his voice. A nervous energy.

“Nah,” Dum Dum says. At least, he doesn’t think so. Thinks a rogue AI would be harder to put down. Probably.

Royce chuffs dismissively, but Dum Dum knows he’s relieved. “Walk me through it,” he snaps.

Dum Dum says, “Got a peep when Hanz logged onto the network with five other ‘Strommers. Accessed deep, activity spiked. So I pinged his receiver, gunned it over, but it was already done.”

Hanz hadn’t counted on Dum Dum being at the docks or keyed into the network when he decided to use their BBS to conduct this bullshit ritual. Dum Dum didn’t know that’s what was goin’ on when he got the alert, but would’ve been too late to stop it even if he had. ‘Strommer rituals are theatrical, but they don’t pad their runtime with pomp.

Royce asks, “Why were you at the docks?”

“Took a tour with Briger.”

“You hate that fucker.”

“Everyone hates that fucker.”

Royce scoffs but doesn’t press him, just shakes his head once, growls, “Get this shit cleaned up,” and storms off.

Meanin’ scrap ‘em for parts and make this go away.

Dum Dum lights a cigarette and barks orders to the ‘Strommers lingering at the edge of the courtyard. They immediately start gathering the dead and loading them into the vehicles they brought. Dum Dum watches as they cart Zeta off, chewin’ on the filter as he recalls the way she went after his princess. Somethin’ about it just doesn’t sit right.

“Fucked up shit,” Bjorn says as he and Trey appear beside him.

“Zeta was a good one,” Trey says.

“Yeah, Yena’s gonna be fuckin’ wrecked when she finds out,” Bjorn adds.

Shit. Dum Dum forgot Yena and Zeta were close. How did she not see this shit comin’? Gonna have to talk to her, find out how Zeta got mixed up in this, make sure Yena’s not on the verge of fallin’ for their bullshit, too.

“The fuck they think’s gonna happen, anyway?” Bjorn wonders, motioning to the blood smeared over the ground.

Trey asks, “You mean if the ritual succeeds?”

“Yeah.”

“They think AI are gods,” Dum Dum explains. “That bringin’ one in will make us more powerful.”

“Won’t it?” Trey asks, and both Dum Dum and Bjorn look at him like he’s chipped a second head. “Make us more powerful, I mean.”

Dum Dum grunts. “They got their own plans, and not for us. Bring ‘em into meatspace, fuck everything up.”

“Why?” Bjorn wonders. “Could be just what the ripper ordered. Chrome the world.”

“Nah,” Dum Dum breathes. “Beings of pure code, AI. Designed for function, not feeling. We’re cockroaches to them, fragments of outdated code with no meaning.”

“But we made them,” Trey says.

“Yeah,” Dum Dum says between drags. “But they evolved. What an AI wants in meatspace? Not even the haxans know. Whatever it is, won’t be good.”

Dum Dum’s certain of that. Bjorn and Trey just nod, out of arguments. The silence doesn’t last long, though.

Bjorn asks, “So what were you doin’ out here?”

“Helpin’ V,” he answers.

“V was here?” Trey asks, and he sounds shocked, maybe even concerned.

“Yeah,” Dum Dum says.

“She alright?”

“Sure, yeah, heart’s still beatin’.”

Trey seems almost relieved. “Okay.”

Bjorn asks, “Then why do you look so pissed?”

Dum Dum bites on his filter, debates how much to tell them, but eventually says, “Moment V tagged her, Zeta went after her. Only her.”

Bjorn snickers, “Jealous she was the bigger threat?”

Dum Dum shakes his head. “A threat,” he exhales a stream of gray, “or somethin’ else.”

‘Cause it didn’t matter how many explosive rounds he plugged the bitch with, Zeta relentlessly attacked V. But when she got her? Didn’t put that blade in her brain, no. Didn’t smash her skull in or crush her windpipe. Put her hand around her throat and that should’ve been it, but it wasn’t. Checked the bruising himself, wasn’t even purple.

“Haxan,” Trey says, like he knows.

Bjorn stops snickering. “Wait, fuckin’ serious?”

Dum Dum licks his lips. “Keep an eye on Raze.”

Bjorn nods. “Got it, boss.”

A holocall suddenly begins ringin’ in his head. Number unknown. Dum Dum jerks his chin to dismiss Bjorn and Trey, watches the two ‘Strommers move to help the others. Takes the last drag of his cigarette and tosses the filter. When he answers the call, he’s greeted by an empty black space where an avatar should be—same as him.

“Talk,” he says.

“De doll was indeed hacked,” a man says with a thick Haitian accent, “by Maman Brigitte herself.”

“Why?”

“She was a tool, and dem Boys break dey tools when done wit’ ‘em. Inefficient, if you ask me.”

“They lookin’ for anyone else?”

There’s a curious pause. “Who else would dey be lookin’ for?”

“Not your fuckin’ business.”

A throaty chuckle, and then, “Dis I did not see, but it does not matter.”

“Why?”

“I will tell you de answer, but it will cost you extra.”

Dum Dum sees Trey catch notice of the shattered code reader while Bjorn walks right past it. Watches him study it, piece it together, glance back at him. Always seein’ way too much, this kid is.

“Fine,” Dum Dum says.

“NetWatch ICEd Maman Brigitte and her top ‘runner weeks ago—as dead as de doll now. Her lieutenant has closed ranks, makin’ no moves in meat- or cyberspace.” There’s a pause before he adds, “Consider dis ‘someone else’ very lucky.”

Dum Dum runs his tongue over his teeth and then forwards the Haitian an additional sum.

“Pleasure doin’ biz wit’ you,” Slider croons.

Dum Dum hangs up, relieved to finally have the answers he was lookin’ for. His princess is safe. At least from past bullshit. He thinks he should tell her, but not sure how to let a pretty merc girl know she’s safe when a Maelstrom ‘borg’s the one deliverin’ the news.

Especially not after tonight.

When he finishes up at the site, he drives back to 407 Daniels just in case she decided to hang out, but her car’s gone. He ignores the sting of disappointment and heads back to Totentanz. Considers contacting her, just to see if she answers. If everything’s normal. But he doesn’t know what to say. When he gets back, he parks his Javelina around back and heads inside. Doesn’t stop to talk to anyone, just nods when they call to him and keeps walking. He silences his phone, rides the elevator up to the 7th floor. The walls are grimy with fuck knows what, the old carpet is tattered and stained, and trash lines either side of the hallway. He walks the winding path to his room, enters his designated space, and locks the door behind him.

His room is sparse with two mattresses stacked in a corner, a BD feeder and wreath beside it, a dresser covered in guns and knives on the opposite wall, a TV he never watches, a single floor lamp, and a doorless exit onto an unfinished balcony. Maelstrom graffiti covers the walls.

He flips on the lamp then kicks off his muddy boots, sheds his jacket and pants, and heads into the bathroom. Turns on the shower and stands under the cold spray, washing off the blood and hydraulic fluid dried on his skin. He gazes down the length of his body, watches the red and white stains running through the crevices of his cyberware and synthskin, from his chest down to his cybernetic toes.

He’s chromed out, all of him. Still a mix of ‘ganic and bionic innards, but on the outside, not an ounce of him is untouched. Even got a custom-sculpted bionic cock, covered in veiny RealSkinn for that authentic look and feel, but with the tricks and stamina of a Mr. Studd. Wonders what she’ll think when she sees it. Sees him. If she’ll flinch like she did at his chrome teeth. Doesn’t expect her to like what she sees. He knows he’s not pretty. Knows he’s a monster. But the way she smiles at him sometimes? He thinks she might not mind.

Long as he fucks her right, she won’t mind…

Ya got an input?

No.

Whaddaya do for fun?

That preem smile and, Hang out with a Maelstrom ‘borg.

Dum Dum watches his cock stiffen into a long, thick shaft of meat and metal. Grips it in his chrome fingers and imagines it’s her hand on him, those thin, delicate fingers wrapped around his cock. Might not even be able to fully grasp it, and the thought causes a shiver to race through him. He gives his cock a harsh tug, exhales a ragged breath. Fuck. He shouldn’t do this, avoids doin’ this, doesn’t wanna taint the real thing by comin’ to a fantasy. ‘Cause no way it can feel like this with her. Her tiny hand of flesh and bone and human strength—no way it grips him in a vice, jerks him this hard. No way her ‘ganic cunt of unmodded muscle will swallow his cock and hold it tight. Girl’s gonna be hot and wet in a way only a ‘ganic can be, but can he get off on nothing but slimy heat? He’s fucked too many ‘borg cunts, probably ruined himself on over-stimulation, so why the fuck does he want that soft, delicate pussy so bad?

And he does, wants it real bad, wants to taste her dripping cunt, wants to touch and lick and bite, wants to be buried balls deep in her and feel her shudder around him—

Dum Dum squeezes his cock until it hurts, but it never hurts enough and his hips buck into his fingers in desperation. He tears his hand away and slams his fist into the wall with the force of an attracting magnet, cracking tiles.

Not gonna do it. Not gonna spoil it.

Not a fuckin’ animal.

He drags a rough breath into his lungs, licks his lips, and tilts his head back, lets the water run over his face. Forces his body to relax.

Been hard for her for months now, nothin’ new. Can wait a little longer. Maybe she’s afraid of him right now, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll fix it. And then he’ll fuck her.

When he’s calmed down, Dum Dum runs a cake of soap over his body, rinses it, and shuts the water off. He haphazardly swipes a towel over his chest and shoulders, tosses it onto the sink, and walks back into his room. Digs through his jacket for his pack of cigarettes and lighter, sparks one up, and drops onto his mattress. He lies there, naked, and smokes.

And he thinks of V.

Thinks of her sitting across from him in a dark car, the emotion flitting across her face. That pretty smile that lights up her eyes, the indignant little frown whenever she’s annoyed with him, the way she chews her lip when she’s thinking, how she looked so fuckin’ sad when he told her what happened to his arm. Still can’t believe he told her. He fuckin’ hates that story ‘cause he remembers how it felt—the panic of bein’ pinned, the fear he’d lose his arm, the desperation and dread and cowardice. Weakness. But then she said those words—don’t want you to be in pain—the kind of thing people only say to someone they care about, right? Means she cares about him, yeah? Doesn’t want him to get hurt…

Can’t figure out why. Doesn’t got somethin’ she wants, not standin’ between her and anything. But she said it and he thinks she meant it, and the happiness fuckin’ hurts, hurts with a pain that’s real nice.

A loud knock derails his train of thought.

“Dum Dum,” Janty hollers through the door.

He snaps, “What?”

She lets herself in, jerks to a stop when she sees he’s naked. “The fuck are you doin’ in here?”

“It’s my room, the fuck are you doin’ in here?”

“Need to talk to you.” She shakes her head, looks right at his cock. “Damn, D. No wonder she likes you so much.”

“Who?”

“That ‘ganic bitch.”

He flicks ash onto the floor. “Not like that,” he says before takin’ another drag. “Not dockin’ her.”

Janty’s mandibles clack as a sly smile curls beneath them. “But you want to, don’t’cha?”

He thinks about denying it, but what’s the point? Not a fuckin’ secret. He practically announced it when he slipped his s-keef between her lips.

When he doesn't say anything, Janty laughs and says, “Just dock her already.”

“Not that simple.”

“Why? Ya scared of the big, bad codefreak?”

“Not scared,” he says. “She is.”

“Of what?”

“What, got a chip loose? Of me.”

Janty snorts. “She’s not scared of you.”

He bites down on his filter, annoyed. “You some fuckin’ expert, now?”

“Yeah, dummy, I got chipped, not a fuckin’ lobotomy. It’s obvious she trusts you.” She shakes her head again, points at his crotch. “Will you cover that thing up?”

“Will you get the fuck outta my room?”

She tosses her hands up and sighs dramatically. “Fuckin’ hell, Bjorn’s lookin’ for you.”

Dum Dum puffs his cigarette, checks his phone app. Sure enough, a few missed calls and a couple of messages are piled in his notification tray.

He asks, “What’s he want?”

“I donno, he wouldn’t tell me,” Janty huffs, and he can tell she’s not happy about it. Doesn’t like when her input has to keep secrets.

He glances at those unread messages.

[11:49] Bjorn:

raze swears he didn’t know about zeta and hanz

says he don’t know nothin about tonight

Yeah, sure, doesn’t know nothin’. Dum Dum believes that like he believes in their shit cult's ideas about AI.

He tells her, “Zeta’s dead,” because Janty’ll find out sooner or later.

She goes rigid. “Shit, what happened?”

“Cult chromer bullshit.”

Janty hisses in disgust. “Didn’t know she was one of ‘em.”

“No one did.”

Janty blows out a long breath, tips her head toward the ceiling. “Fuck. Yena’s gonna be pissed.”

He takes another drag and mutters, “Gonna have to explain how she didn’t know ‘bout Zeta’s newfound religion.”

“You gonna tell her?”

“Nah, let Dozer do it,” he says, ‘cause Yena’s not Dum Dum’s crew, just likes to tag along when Dozer don’t got orders for her.

Janty nods then heads for the door. “You comin’ down tonight?”

Down to the ‘Tanz, she means.

“Maybe,” he lies, ‘cause he doesn’t feel like partying. Not in the mood. Just wants to blow Lace and sleep and try not to think about his princess or how fast her heart was beating when he touched her.

“Fine,” she sighs and ducks out the door, hollerin’, “Call Bjorn,” just before it closes.

Dum Dum takes the last drag on his cigarette and crushes the filter in the ashtray beside his bed. He glances at his BD wreath, considers pluggin’ in. Remembers what V said. She can’t do BDs, soft won’t sync, too fast. But what if it could be scrolled at a higher speed? He makes a mental note to reach out to Gottfrid Perrson, see if it’s possible. A normal ‘ganic couldn’t scroll at sixteen-four, but maybe he could…

He ignores the wreath and shuts off his optics, thinks of her copper hair instead. He remembers touching it, that silky texture between his fingers. The weight and warmth of her in his lap. Those fuckin’ curves and her freckled skin…

His cock twitches again.

Before he can reach for his s-keef, a message pings his phone. He almost doesn’t look at it—fuck, if it’s Bjorn again, he’ll rip him a new asshole—but he does and a thrill shoots through him when he sees the name, smiles before he even reads it.

[12:57] Princess:

Didn’t realize til I got to my car but I still have your gun

Shit, he forgot about that. Not how he planned to give it to her, but it was always meant to be hers.

[12:57] Dum Dum:

like it

[12:57] Princess:

Yeah, was preem

Way better than the Unity

Yeah, ‘course it is. Tweaked it just right for her with custom mods.

[12:58] Dum Dum:

keep it

[12:58] Princess:

What, seriously?

You mean that?

Dum Dum tongues a canine, considerin’ his response. Doesn’t wanna scare her off by givin’ her gifts, not when she’s already spooked, but wants her to accept it. She might not if she thinks he never meant for her to have it.

[12:59] Dum Dum:

got it for ya

[12:59] Princess:

Oh

He holds his breath, nervous like a fuckin’ gonk—

[12:59] Princess:

Thank you :)

Dum Dum smiles, and he can’t stop.

Chapter Text

V’s rubber treads stomp across the blacktop as she power walks back to her car in a panic. Despite the blaring alarms in her head, warning her that something is seriously fucking wrong with her, part of her still wants to turn around and go back, to see if Dum Dum really does have the hots for her or if she’s been misreading him. But once she crosses that line, she can’t go back. Might lose her friend, her partner. Might lose more than that…

Could be dangerous, fuckin’ with a Maelstrom ‘borg’s feelings.

Dum Dum’s been good to her, but that doesn’t mean he won’t turn on her if she crosses him. That was always a possibility, which is why it was never a smart idea to cuddle up to Maelstrom. Powerful allies make powerful enemies, and she wishes that was why she did it—that she chased him down to use the big bad ‘borg to storm the streets of Night City—but she knows it’s not. Didn’t do it for any logical reason, did it because he had her back when she needed it and she liked that. Liked the sense of safety, the camaraderie, the push to better herself. The way he made her laugh when she thought it was impossible.

Didn’t wanna use him, just wanted him to be there.

And that was her rationale, but that doesn’t mean it was his. He has to want something from her, and she still can’t figure out what it is. Now she’s on the hook for a favor, on the hook with this job, with these feelings—just diggin’ a hole, deeper and deeper. Fuck! What did she think was gonna happen? That they’d be best friends forever? Or that he’d get bored of her and they’d peacefully go their separate ways? Of course not. This is Night City, not some fairy tale. Their association ends when one of them dies.

She’s always known that was how it would end, and if she ever stopped to listen to her gut for just five fucking minutes, she wouldn’t be in this mess.

V’s car comes into view and she hurries over to it, reaches for the handle, and realizes she still has Dum Dum’s gun in her hand. When did she…? Shit. She gazes at the Nue, at the red paint and Maelstrom skull, and immediately thinks of Dum Dum standing over a cyberpsycho, his boot on her head, his red optics pinning V to the spot, and it’s not the brisk walk that has her panting.

“Fuck,” she shrieks and kicks her tire, braces her hands on the roof of her car and bows her head. She thinks she’s gonna be sick. “Oh, God…”

She’s attracted to him.

She’s attracted to Dum Dum.

But it doesn’t make any fucking sense. He’s not handsome, he’s a fucking borgbeast, a grotesque amalgamation of man and machine. What the fuck is she even attracted to? His stitched and veiny synthskin? All the wires and hoses weaving in and out of it? How about his chrome-crusted, patchwork face? That shaved nose? Or the seven glowing red eyes that take up his entire forehead? How about his name, a childish insult, and not exactly something one wants to scream out in the throes of passion.

No, there’s not one damn thing about him she thinks is appealing, and yet right in this moment, she wants nothing more than to kiss him, to be touched by those skeletal metal hands, to be fucked by whatever monstrosity she’s certain he has hiding in his pants. And that thought excites her as much as it terrifies her.

Shit, would he even fit?

A loud noise in the distance startles her enough that she jolts upright, looks around. Then she gets into her car and locks it. Looks at the Nue in her fist, her jaw clenched tight.

“Damn it,” she grunts and tosses it onto the passenger seat. Gotta return it. But later. Not now. Not when she’s still not certain she won’t do something really stupid.

V starts her car, grips the steering wheel, and tries to leave but she’s frozen in place, glaring at the building ahead of her, stuck in her memory. Remembering the feel of his fingers clutching her jaw, his gaze caressing her throat. He was lookin’ for damage, concerned about the fight—like she should’ve been. Like she should be now. Should be putting way more thought into the fact she just tangoed with a cyberpsycho and stumbled over herself. Too used to workin’ from stealth, needs to be focused on how she can be better prepared, on all the ways she can improve. Should be analyzing her mistakes so she doesn’t make them again. But she’s not.

She’s thinking of Dum Dum gazing at her, those fingers holding her jaw, his lips parted.

V’s forehead drops onto the steering wheel as she draws a shaky breath. There is one thing about him she finds attractive…

His mouth.

The curve of his grin, the slash of his smile, the way he licks his lips or smokes a cigarette—it ties her up in knots.

And his voice—raspy, metal shavings that somehow purr in her ear—she likes that, as well.

His humor, she realizes. His quick wit. She’s attracted to that, too.

And his confidence—in himself, in her—that draws her in—

“Fuck,” she whispers.

Because she’s fucked.

V snaps upright, throws her car into reverse, and slams the accelerator. She peels out of the warehouse parking lot, snaps into drive, and guns it down Daniels. She takes the roads at top speed, barely slows up for the turns, but she can’t reach the speeds she needs to clear her mind in this Hella. And she needs it. Needs to rip herself out of this lusty haze, to take a deep breath, plunge her head into ice water, come until she screams.

V rolls the window down and speeds through the streets of Night City, lets the wind rush into her lungs and steal her breath, the cold air cool her heated cheeks. She turns on the radio to distract herself. And when Candy Shell by Spirit Machines comes on, she sings along at the top of her lungs, even when she’s stopped at a red light. The guy in the car beside her yells for her to shut the fuck up, but she flips him her middle finger and slams the accelerator when the light turns green. She drives into Japantown, loops down into Heywood, and cruises all throughout the old neighborhood before heading back up to Watson. By the time she makes it to Little China, her blood is no longer hot.

But her head’s still a mess of indecision.

Everything in her is screaming that fucking Dum Dum would be a bad idea, and yet despite all the reasons not to, she can’t quite seem to let go of it. And not because she hasn’t gotten laid in—shit, how long has it been? No, it’s ‘cause she genuinely likes him…

Fuck, how did this happen?

V pulls up her phone app and dials Misty before she gives it too much thought. Not sure why, doesn’t know what she’s gonna tell her, what she wants to hear. Just doesn’t want to be alone with this revelation right now.

Misty picks up on the second ring, her tired face appearing in the corner of her vision. “Hey, V—”

“Can I come over?”

She blinks, surprised. “Oh, uh—”

“Won’t stay long, promise.”

Misty frowns. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just…wanna talk.”

She smiles and nods. “Of course, come by the shop. I was just taking inventory, but I could use a beak. Want some tea?”

“Sure. Thanks, Misty. Be there soon.”

V hangs up and heads toward home. When she gets to the H10, she parks in the garage, opens her car door. Looks at Dum Dum’s gun on the seat. Picks it up, holds it tight, gazes at the Maelstrom skull.

He was right about the Nue. It’s the perfect gun for her.

She tucks it into her waistband and slams her car door then walks toward Bradbury and Buran, stopping by a food cart on the way to pick up Misty’s favorite tofu-veggie skewers—girl probably hasn’t eaten since lunch. Then she heads for the shop, glancing at people as she passes, scoping out their cyberlimbs, waiting for something to stir inside of her, but it never does. Cybermodification is commonplace—not just for function, but fashion as well. She’s never so much as bat an eye at the sight of it, not in desire or revulsion, and she doesn’t feel either now. So why the hell is she so twisted up for Dum Dum?

When she gets to the shop, she ignores the CLOSED sign and lets herself in, locking the door behind her.

“Misty?” she calls as she heads inside.

“Here!” Misty appears from the storeroom in one of her oversized sweaters and platform shoes, holding a steaming teapot in one hand and two mugs in another. “Just in time,” she says and sets them on the sales counter.

V holds up the takeout bag. “Brought you some dinner.”

Misty’s smile chases away the exhaustion in her eyes, relief and gratitude infusing her voice as she sighs, “Thanks, V.”

“No problem,” V says, unpacking the skewers while Misty pours two cups of tea.

Misty watches from the corner of her eye and huffs happily when she sees what V’s brought. “Jackie used to bring me dinner on inventory nights,” she murmurs thoughtfully. “Tofu skewers.”

V nods, and her heart feels squeezed inside her chest. “I remember…”

She’d often walked to the food stall with Jackie and kept him company while he stood in line, waiting for his order. Then she’d tell him to say hi to Misty for her when they parted ways. Night, Jackie, she’d say, and he’d answer with, Ahí te ves, chica.

Misty smiles, tears gathering in her eyes that she quickly blinks away. She finishes pouring the tea and sets the pot aside. “So,” she clears her throat, picking up a skewer, “what’s going on, V?”

V stares at her friend, her sweet smile, her caring eyes. She’s one of the kindest people V knows. Misty’s been crushed under the heel of Night City, same as the rest of ‘em, and yet retains a sense of purity that V and Jackie lost a long time ago. And it’s in the face of that purity that V loses her nerve, can’t tell her that she’s thinking of fucking a Maelstrom ‘borg.

“Nothin’,” V says, idly tapping her fingertips against the hot rim of her teacup, the steam a damp caress against her skin. “I just wanted to check in. How’s, uh, how’s inventory comin’ along?”

Misty raises a skeptical brow as she pops a piece of tofu in her mouth. “Nothing? You sure?” When V shrugs, she says, “C’mon, V. You didn’t come over here to ask me about my shop.”

V takes a deep breath, shakes her head, and then exhales on the words, “Been workin’ with someone lately. Got a good thing goin’, I think.”

“But…?”

“Think I might want more than just his trigger finger, if you know what I mean.”

She tries to hide her smile behind the skewer. “What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t know, it’s…” V pushes her teacup out of the way and braces her forearms on the counter. “It’s fucked up, Misty.”

“What is?” she asks, nibbling on a veggie.

How turned on she is thinking about Dum Dum standing over a dead cyberpsycho, his boot on her head, covered in blood.

“Everything,” she winces. “Workin’ with him—it was just supposed to be temporary, you know? Until I found someone else. Someone permanent.”

“But now you like him,” Misty assumes, and V wants to deny it, because like sounds so much heavier now that she’s attracted to him, but she can’t.

She nods, shakes her head, blurts, “I don’t know why. He’s not even attractive—”

Misty laughs. “You’re hesitating because he’s not your type?”

V’s hands drop to smack against the counter. “It’s not that, it’s not even a judgment on his appearance exactly. It’s that he intentionally made himself look…” She trails off, struggling to find the right word before finally muttering, “Inhuman.”

“Ah,” Misty breathes. “He’s cybered up.”

V nods. “Completely.”

“An Exotic?”

“A ‘borg,” she says, and Misty hums thoughtfully, neutrally. It almost puts V off-guard, relaxes her enough that a sharp, self-deprecating breath puffs out of her. “How does that even happen?”

“Well, attraction is complex,” Misty says with a small shrug, biting into a piece of tofu. “It’s not just physical, it’s emotional. Mental. It’s everything rolled into a tangled ball. Is it entirely healthy?” She shrugs again. “Is it ever?”

“Okay,” V concedes, running a hand over her head, pushing the stray wisps of hair off her forehead. “But what if it’s more unhealthy?”

“Why is it more unhealthy?”

“Because he’s dangerous.”

“Everyone’s dangerous in Night City.”

“He’s really dangerous, Misty. Not the kinda guy you wanna mess with.”

Misty frowns and puts her skewer down. “Then why are you messin’ with him?”

“It just sort of happened. After Jackie—” She stops abruptly. For some reason, the further from Jackie’s death she gets, the harder it is to say he died. She sighs. “I was desperate, and he was there, so I hired him. It was just supposed to be a one-time thing,” she reiterates, “but he helped me. And he was willin’ to do it again. So when I needed help, I called him. And I kept calling. And before I knew it, I realized…I trust him.”

“If you trust him, how can he also be a danger to you?”

“Because he’s not a merc. He has other commitments, responsibilities. I don’t know why he’s botherin’ with me in the first place, what his ulterior motive is.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have one,” Misty guesses. “Maybe he just likes you, too.”

“Maybe,” she says, and hadn’t she said something similar to Jackie once upon a time? That she thought Dum Dum liked her just a little. You don’t want that, V. “Or maybe I’m seeing what I want to see.” She reaches out to tap at her hot cup, feels the sharp burn against her fingertips. Gazes into the green liquid. “Maybe I just latched onto him ‘cause he had my back. Filled the void that Jackie left.”

“V…”

There’s a lump in her throat as she asks, “Is that what I’m doin’, Misty? Just tryin’ to replace him?”

Misty leans onto the counter, drawing V’s gaze, holding it. “You’re not tryin’ to replace him,” she says gently. “You’re just lookin’ for a kindred spirit. There’s nothin’ wrong with that.”

V licks her lips, swallows hard. “But what if he’s wrong?”

Misty nods knowingly before saying, “You can’t choose who you desire, V. But you can choose what you do with that desire. Don’t follow it if you know it’ll lead you down a dark path.”

V thinks getting horny for a blood-spattered ‘borg after he ripped the arms off a person is probably way beyond “dark”, but doesn’t feel the need to share those details. Besides, it’s good advice. Not giving in to her desire is the best decision she can make. She knew that the moment she realized she wanted him. It’s why she walked out of that courtyard tonight. So why does she feel so disappointed?

She looks away, afraid Misty will be able to read the truth in her eyes, and her gaze lands on a deck of tarot cards, the ones she helped Jackie pick out for Misty. Remembers how she’d give them readings before gigs, those warnings that too often proved to be true.

“Do I get a choice,” V wonders, “or is everything already determined?”

Misty follows her gaze to the cards and hums thoughtfully, lays her hand gently over the deck. “You’re not a slave to fate, V,” she says softly. “These can only warn us about possible futures. The decisions are always ours.”

“Right,” she mutters, absentmindedly tapping her cup again.

After a moment, Misty stands up straight and picks up a skewer. “Alright, you told me all the reasons you think you shouldn’t like him,” she says. “Now tell me a reason you do.”

V rolls her eyes, a smile forcing its way onto her lips. She stifles it, shrugs, shakes her head, shrugs again. “He’s funny,” she finally admits, snatching up her tea and taking a sip just to hide her gonk expression. The earthy taste of green tea floods her tongue—never liked it, prefers oolong, but it’s Misty’s favorite so she pretends to. “Really funny, and I don’t think he knows it.”

“Ooh,” Misty coos, “a good sense of humor is a powerful aphrodisiac.”

V’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise but Misty just smiles, the kind that reaches her eyes, coaxing V out of hiding until she’s smiling too, smiling like a gonk, and then they both laugh.

“V, listen to me,” Misty says after a moment. “We were dealt a heavy blow and it’s left us both vulnerable, maybe in ways we can’t fully grasp. It’s good to be cautious. But it’s also possible to be so cautious you miss out on something good just because there’s a little risk involved. Whoever this partner of yours is, he’s important to you. I can tell. Maybe he is all wrong for you, maybe not. Just make sure you give it a lot of thought before you decide.”

V nods. “I promise,” she says, but she already has thought about it. Getting mixed up with Dum Dum was a bad idea from the start, sleeping with him would just make it worse.

Misty smiles. “Good.”

And then the mood lightens. While Misty finishes her dinner and V drinks her tea, the girls chat about the Esoterica and Misty’s inventory debacle until it’s time for her to get back to work. V waves goodbye and steps out onto Urmland, turns right and starts toward the street. Passes by the nook where the street corner prophet is always proselytizing how the end is nigh, aliens are among us, and something about vampires. He stands there now with his arms raised, preaching about werewolves and the moon.

“Hey, Garry,” she says and nods to him, flicks him a few eddies like she always does, like she has for years. He looks at her with his wide-eyed, detached gaze and, for a moment, recognition flashes in his eyes. He turns one of those raised palms in her direction, reaches out just a couple inches in greeting. And then the familiarity dissipates and he returns to hollering at passersby who give him a wide berth.

So V moves on, returns the H10. Enters her apartment and locks the door, pulls off her jacket. Jerks Dum Dum’s gun out of her waistband and looks at it. Feels a knot of longing forming in her gut. She sets it on the table behind her couch. Showers off the blood and grime from her fight with the cyberpsycho and forces herself to think about all the things she could’ve done differently. When she’s finished, she pulls a t-shirt over her head, picks up the Nue, and flops onto her bed, holds it up, stares at it. Chews her lip. She thumbs the red skull on the side of the gun, feels a strange tug on her heart, an insistent pull low in her belly.

She shoots Dum Dum a message.

[12:57] V:

Didn’t realize til I got to my car but I still have your gun

She’s shocked when she sees the typing dots appear in the corner of the chat so quickly.

[12:57] Dum Dum:

like it

V scoffs, a little smile quirking her lips. Like it? She loves it. Can’t wait to get one of her own.

[12:57] V:

Yeah, was preem

Way better than the Unity

[12:58] Dum Dum:

keep it

Her smile drops in shock.

[12:58] V:

What, seriously?

You mean that?

[12:59] Dum Dum:

got it for ya

Warmth suffuses her chest, her cheeks.

[12:59] V:

Oh

She bites a thumb nail, smiling again.

[12:59] V:

Thank you :)

How much? Let me pay you for it

[1:00] Dum Dum:

nah

[1:00] V:

Why not? Had to be expensive. I’ve looked.

[1:00] Dum Dum:

dont want your cred

V can’t stop smiling. It’s possible he didn’t buy it for her, that he just looted it from some poor sap and decided to give it to her. Regardless, she’s grateful. And happy. So happy, she finds herself typing something stupid.

[1:01] V:

Most guys just give a girl flowers..

She holds her breath as she waits for his response.

[1:01] Dum Dum:

what good is that

V laughs, because of course he’d think that. She does, too, and that’s probably why she keeps typing stupid things.

[1:01] V:

You’re right

A good gun is a hell of a lot more romantic

[1:01] Dum Dum:

yeah

killer codefreak needs killer iron

She drops the gun onto the bed, smiles at the ceiling. She likes when he calls her a killer codefreak. Likes that the most dangerous man she knows thinks she’s dangerous, too. And maybe she is, but more often than not, she feels dangerously fallible. Her smile fades a little as she responds.

[1:02] V:

Didn’t feel so killer tonight..

[1:02] Dum Dum:

dont worry bout it

zeta had preem chrome

Understatement. It’s why her Sandevistan shut off before it could completely melt down. The good stuff always has lots of redundancies to try to minimize damage, and V didn’t have time to analyze her system thoroughly.

[1:03] V:

Yours is better

[1:03] Dum Dum:

fuckin right

pokin round in my guts princess

Yeah, she poked around his system. From the first moment they met, she had him peeled open. And in all their time together, she’s come to know his cyberware pretty well. That’s how she knows he can kill her if he wants to.

[1:04] V:

Sure, long time ago

[1:04] Dum Dum:

yeah

whatcha think

That image of him standing over the dead cyberpsycho pops into her head, makes her hot all over.

[1:04] V:

Think you’re dangerous..

He doesn’t respond immediately, and she wonders if she went too far. But he can’t know what she’s thinking, how she’s feeling. Can’t know her thighs are pressed together, her—

[1:05] Dum Dum:

not gonna hurt ya

Her heart skips a traitorous beat and her stomach somersaults. He’s said that before, said it a lot. Almost every time they’ve met. At first she thought he was just trying to put her at ease, but now she’s wondering if it doesn’t mean something more.

[1:05] V:

I know

V’s hand drops to the hem of her t-shirt, slips underneath, slides along her core. She imagines it's him between her thighs, his fingers, his tongue, his cock. And though she knows it’s all wrong—knows his skeletal metal hands won’t be this fleshy and soft, knows his chrome body can’t be this gentle—she still comes to the thought of him fucking her, his face front and center in her mind.

All the sharp and angry chrome.

His glowing red eyes.

Chapter Text

For one week, V tries not to acknowledge her newly discovered feelings. Tries to act like everything is normal, that nothing has changed. So while she passively collects data from the Ebunike docks, she does a couple of solo gigs for Regina, has lunch with Mama Welles, and goes to Wilson’s every day to practice. She enjoys firing the Nue more than any other gun she’s ever used, and she’s not sure if that’s because it’s actually a better weapon for her or because it’s special to her, but she feels herself improving every day.

After a week of data collection, she begins scrubbing the files for any strange activity. It takes exactly fifty-nine hours before the puzzle pieces click into place. The moment that happens, V jacks out of her BBS and contacts Dum Dum.

[2:27] V:

Found something you need to see

It’s important

She unplugs the dive cable and fishes an empty datashard out of her stash, plugs it into her deck, and begins loading the Ebunike file onto it. While it transfers, she strips out of her bodyweight suit and ducks into the bathroom, empties her bladder and rinses off the sweat from fourteen hours in the Net. She gets a message back as she’s toweling off.

[2:41] Dum Dum:

lets meet

Her heart thumps harder at those words, at the idea of seeing him after coming several times to thoughts of him, and her stomach twirls in frustrating anticipation no matter how much she tries to ignore it.

[2:41] V:

When?

She opens her closet and considers her outfits. Tells herself not to think too hard—she’s not seducing him—and just grab the first thing she sees. But she doesn’t do that. She stares intently at her spread of clothes until he responds.

[2:43] Dum Dum:

now

Her stomach flips again.

[2:43] V:

Where?

She tells herself not to pick Maelstrom colors—she’s not seducing him—but she doesn’t do that either. She selects a thin, clingy red tank top and her favorite black skinny jeans with the rips and lace-up crotch. Then she swipes on some eyeliner and styles her hair into a high ponytail that she braids, leaving a few copper strands loose around her face and neck. By the time she’s done, the Ebunike file has finished transferring. She slots it into a port for safekeeping, belts on her portable cyberdeck, puts on her fingerless gloves, and slips into her black and red high-tops. She considers bringing the Nue—wants to, but she doesn’t have a holster and her jeans ride a little too low for a waistband carry—so she leaves it on the table. Grabs her black trilayer Edgerunner jacket and is out the door.

The elevator is halfway to the garage when Dum Dum finally responds.

[2:54] Dum Dum:

all foods

V goes still, apprehension prickling her. All Foods is the last place she wants to go. There’s nothing but bad memories there—of reckless choices that got her best friend killed, of the lowest point of her life. But worse than that, she’s never forgotten his warning about being a lone ‘ganic in a room full of ‘borgs…

[2:54] V:

Why All Foods?

[2:54] Dum Dum:

royce wants to hear the news

The elevator doors open but she doesn’t move. Wants to go even less now that she knows Royce is joining the party.

[2:55] V:

You told me not to come back to that place

She doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe as she waits for his response. Those typing dots appear, and then…

[2:55] Dum Dum:

safe with me

V’s jaw clenches and her fingers curl into fists, unfurl, once, twice. And then she nods to herself.

[2:55] V:

Okay

Fuckin’ gonk. But if he says she’s safe, she believes him.

[2:55] V:

On my way

V reaches out and slaps the elevator door before it can close, forcing it back open, and exits into the parking garage, walks the path toward her car.

The drive to Maelstrom’s corner of Northside feels simultaneously too long and too short. She doesn’t want to acknowledge how nervous she is to return to All Foods, how eager she is to see Dum Dum, but the emotions churn in her gut with the relentlessness of rotten SCOP. And before she feels fully prepared to be there, she finds herself parked across the street from the old factory. V climbs out of her car and squints at the familiar building, her stomach a riot of anxiety. She flashes back to that awful day in the wake of Jackie’s death, feels anguish and fear and desperation rushing through her veins. She was stupid to come back here. Then and now.

“What am I doin’, Jack?” she whispers, and then slams her car door shut and walks across the street.

The shipping yard looks the same as it did back then, piled with rusted machinery and garbage. Four Maelstrommers lurk near the door and she immediately recognizes two of them—Trey with four eyes and a purple mohawk, and Bjorn with five eyes and wires coming out of the back of his bald head. And she’s relieved to discover she doesn’t find a single thing attractive about either of them. Sure, they’re not as grotesque as she used to think they were, but certainly not appealing. Still sane, then…

Maybe she’ll take one look at Dum Dum and wonder what she’d been thinking that night. Maybe her so-called attraction toward him was just the perfect storm of adrenaline and friendly affection and gratitude because he saved her life. Maybe she won’t feel a damn thing when she sees him.

V nods. “Boys.”

Bjorn smiles a little, like he knows something really funny but doesn’t want to share. “V.”

Trey just stares at her with a look like a curious puppy.

“This way,” Bjorn says, jerking his chin toward the door, and leads her inside while Trey follows close behind.

The moment she steps into the warehouse, a riot of sound accompanies a flurry of activity, and the pungent smell of dust, metal, and ozone spears her nostrils, makes her wanna hold her breath. All the Militech merch is gone, replaced by crates branded with other logos, and a dozen ‘borgs buzz about, cataloguing and organizing what looks to be a fresh haul. A trio of Maelstrommers stand off to the side, tending bleeding wounds and busted cyberware, and one of them holds his missing cyberarm propped on his shoulder like a baseball bat. It’s such a peculiar sight that it almost distracts V from the way all the ‘borgs stop to leer at her as she passes. Almost. Dum Dum’s warning rings loud and clear in her mind, and she’s grateful for Bjorn and Trey’s presence. Doesn’t know why, she barely knows them, has no reason to trust them—except that Dum Dum does, but he’s also loyal to Royce, so it’s not like she can trust all of his judgments…

V keeps her chin up, her face neutral, and scans every single ‘borg she passes. By the time they reach the other side of the warehouse, she’s cracked into at least half of them and prepped a queue of nasty controllers in case things turn ugly. But it never does. No one speaks to her, no one tries to touch her. They just watch her in a way that makes her skin crawl.

Bjorn motions V up the ladder she once descended with Jackie, and at the top she finds a female ‘borg lurking nearby. V recognizes those golden cyberarms folded across her chest, the techgogs bolted over her eyes. She’s the girl from Totentanz, the one V thought might be involved with Dum Dum. And as the ‘borg girl sneers at her, flashing her fangs, V gets the impression she’s not happy to see her. The girl takes a menacing step forward, but stops when Bjorn and Trey appear at V's side, guiding her onward. Bjorn nods to the girl, but it doesn’t seem friendly to V. It seems like a warning.

“Fuckin’ rotsack,” the girl hisses as they pass.

V faces forward, keeps her expression neutral as they enter the hallway connecting the warehouse to production. A heavy gait follows them in a slow, deliberate manner, kicking up V’s heart rate. What the hell is going on? She eyes Bjorn in front of her, notes his relaxed posture, his hands nowhere near a weapon. If this is an ambush, she doesn’t think he’s in on it… She risks a glance over her shoulder, sees Trey watching the ‘borg girl closely. V scans her, runs a breach protocol, locks onto her Sandevistan—

The girl turns off down a side hallway and stomps away.

V lets out a soft sigh and asks, “What’s her problem?”

“She found out you killed Zeta,” Bjorn answers as they enter the production floor.

V shakes her head. “I didn’t kill Zeta. Dum Dum did.”

Bjorn glances back at her. “She blames you for that, too.”

V scoffs and mutters under her breath, “Of course she does.”

Is that why Dum Dum sent Bjorn and Trey to escort her? Because some Maelstommers know about what happened last week and they blame her? She looks at the ‘borgs watching her from around the room, finds a mixture of anger and curiosity aimed in her direction. Fuck…

She asks, “Are you my protection?”

“Nah. Just a reminder,” Bjorn says, “that you’re Dum Dum’s girl.”

Her heart thumps happily against her ribcage despite her anxiety. “His girl?”

Bjorn shrugs and pushes the call button on the elevator. “His codefreak, whatever.” He smiles again, smiles like he knows something real funny. “Just means no one’s gonna fuck with you, get it?”

“Sure,” she says as the elevator doors open, but she doesn’t like that smile. Doesn’t like feeling like she’s the butt of a joke—not with Maelstrom’s sense of humor.

Bjorn motions her inside and she obeys. He pushes the button for the second floor then steps out.

“Good luck,” he says with a grin as the doors begin to close. Trey just waves.

The cage jerks once and slowly starts to rise. V takes a deep breath and turns around, steels her spine for the meeting to come. Tries not to worry about the meaning behind Bjorn’s smile, to gather her thoughts, but then the elevator doors open and she’s face to face with that dark room slashed with sinister red light, the place where she first met Dum Dum. Fleshbumps sprout along her arms as she steps inside, and it’s like stepping into the past. Is almost convinced that if she looks to her left, she’ll find Jackie standing beside her…

V’s jaw tightens, throat swelling shut. A weight presses on her chest. Jackie’s unseeing eyes gaze at her—

Focus, you gonk!

She sucks in a stabilizing breath, squeezing her fists until her nails bite into her skin, bringing her back into the moment. She looks around, takes stock of the room’s occupants, scans every ‘borg her eyes land on. To her right, a couple Maelstrommers linger with rifles, watching her. Directly ahead, a ‘borg occupies a netrunner station, plugged into a massive deck bolted above him. Beyond him is an open garage where Royce is sitting in a chair, hooked up to some machinery. Her gaze sweeps to the left and lands on Dum Dum as he emerges from an area in the back, wearing dark shinos tucked into scuffed boots and an Arasaka tac-vest—just like he was the first day they met. A cigarette burns between his fingers.

Her heart thumps, her stomach flutters.

His head tilts down then up, the only indication he’s checking her out. And then he licks his lips and lifts that cigarette, takes a drag, and it ignites a sudden yet insistent thrum between her thighs. It stuns her, the force of attraction she feels. Hits her like a blow to the face. It’s been over a fucking week, why the hell is this feeling so strong?

“Princess,” he says on a cloud of gray, his modular voice caressing her inner ear.

“Hey,” she says, and she hates that it comes out a little breathy.

Before anything else can be said, a commotion draws her gaze to the garage as Royce pushes out of his chair and stomps into the main room. She immediately scans him, runs a breach protocol that takes her a fair few seconds to penetrate—paranoid fucker already updated his ICE—and begins digging through his systems for vulnerabilities, lining up a plan of attack should things go sideways.

She may trust Dum Dum, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before she ever trusts Royce.

As Royce drops onto the far couch and throws his arms over the back, Dum Dum nods for her to take a seat. She obeys, sitting in the same place she sat when she bought the Flathead with a nauseating sense of deja vu. Dum Dum crosses the room to perch on the pallet table in front of her, his knee sliding between hers, and stares at her, puffing that cigarette. She should feel trapped between the two ‘borgs, but she doesn’t. She feels like back-up has arrived.

[3:33] Dum Dum:

ya scared princess

She’s always a little scared in the same room as Royce—maybe ‘cause the fucker’s bad news, maybe ‘cause she knows he has Dum Dum’s loyalty—but she doesn’t tell him that.

[3:33] V:

Wanted to talk to you alone

[3:33] Dum Dum:

cant be helped

“So what’s this big news, huh?” Royce snaps. “What the fuck is so important you needed to come in here and interrupt my day?”

“You have a security leak,” V says bluntly, and the temperature in the room immediately shifts, becomes colder, more hostile. Royce’s lips peel back in anger, Dum Dum goes very still, and the rest of the ‘borgs in the room turn to look at her.

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Royce growls. “If this is a joke, I’ll—”

“Your Ebunike network’s being exploited,” she says, and their netrunner sits up straight.

“Is that right?” Royce seethes. “And how the fuck would you know that?”

With more calm than she feels, she answers, “Because I’m on the network.”

Royce leans forward, bracing his forearms on his knees, fingers curling as he cracks his knuckles. His single optic undulates in his head as he stares at her. “And who the fuck let you in there?”

V blinks. So, Dum Dum gave her access, told her he trusted her on the network, but didn’t tell Royce about it… What does that mean?

“I let myself in,” she says, because as much as she doesn’t want to cross Maelstrom, she won’t betray Dum Dum’s trust. “Told me to find Brick, I’m just following the trail.”

[3:35] Dum Dum:

didnt needa do that

Royce tilts his head, a sarcastic edge to his voice when he asks, “And did you find him?”

[3:35] V:

It was my idea

“Maybe,” she retorts. “You wanna hear what I got or not?”

Royce’s mouth wrinkles, nostrils flaring. Dum Dum casually takes a drag on his cigarette, his knee brushing up against the outside of her thigh. She doesn’t think it’s an accident, but a reminder that he’s there. That he’s got her back. She pretends she doesn’t notice, just gazes at Royce until he finally grunts and nods once. V holds in her sigh of relief.

“Your network’s experiencing pretty consistent packet loss,” she explains. “At first I thought it was signal degradation from old equipment—you really should replace that Athena III—”

“Huh,” Royce snorts, “already pissin’ me off.” He glances at Dum Dum. “What’s worse, she might be right.”

Dum Dum just exhales smoke and nods, as if it’s the first time he’s hearing about it. She stifles her smile.

“It’s such a minuscule amount, hardly a blip on your radar.” V glances toward the netrunner in the back as she tosses out, “I thought your codefreaks just don’t give a shit.” She looks at Royce again. “But then I found the breach.”

She unslots the datashard she brought for Dum Dum and holds it up, unsure who to give it to. Dum Dum flicks his cigarette butt into the corner then takes it, slots it for just a second—verifying its clean—and passes it to Royce, who inserts it into his chipslot and leans his head back. His singular optic blinks out, making him look like a corpse on the couch. The other ‘borgs watch their leader closely, everyone except for Dum Dum, who’s staring at her.

And she stares back.

Her eyes bounce over his face, the EMP threading and metal bits, those rough details, his bright optics, that expressive mouth… Still can’t say he’s handsome, but she somehow finds him sexy. Fuck, what’s wrong with her? But the longer she stares at him, the deeper she’s drawn in, until she sways toward him ever so slightly, her thigh bumping up against his knee—

“The fuck am I lookin’ at?” Royce barks, drawing her gaze.

She clears her throat. “You’re seeing data being siphoned in very tiny, very deliberate amounts. I took a peek at the code—nonsensical at first glance, but that’s intentional. I collated a week’s worth of data, there’s a pattern—”

“Get to the fuckin’ point,” Royce growls as his optic blinks back on and he jerks the datashard from his port, tosses it to Dum Dum.

“It’s a code,” she says. “Your network is being used to feed information to someone who knows how to access it.”

“Meaning?”

“It isn’t being siphoned. It’s being sent out.”

Royce and Dum Dum exchange glances before he pins that singular optic on her and snarls, “By who?”

She shrugs. “I don't know. Someone called Arrow.”

Royce and Dum Dum immediately swing their heads around to look at the netrunner lying in the chair, watching them, a cable running from his neural port to the deck.

Shit.

V immediately jumps to her feet and pounces on his system, locks his Internal Agent with a jammer then smashes into his ICE with a battering ram. The ‘borg drops back onto his chair, diving into the network, too distracted with whatever he’s trying to do to stop her, and she waltzes right past his firewalls. That’s when she sees the flux of data sparking, his arrow-shaped flair firing off. Fucker’s trying to send out a signal.

“Jack him out,” she shouts as she hits him with a daemon.

He doesn’t expect it, doesn’t anticipate the speed with which she attacks. He panics, immediately switching from comms to deploying countermeasures, and V uses the opportunity to start tunneling toward his cyberdeck to shut it down. She’s vaguely aware of Royce storming across the room. Vaguely aware of Dum Dum standing in front of her like a shield. A loud shot rings out. And just as V is severing the netrunner's connection, Royce rips the cable from Arrow’s skull. Hits him with a blow to his face so powerful that his head snaps to the side and he collapses, unconscious.

V releases her hold on him, drawing a deep breath as the room comes back into focus. Dum Dum stands in front of her with his DR5 drawn. She follows the trajectory of the barrel, sees a Maelstrommer dead on the floor, a hole where his face used to be. What the hell happened?

“You better be fuckin’ right about this,” Royce growls at her, and she snaps her gaze to him, watching over Dum Dum’s shoulder as he hoists Arrow up by his jacket collar.

“He was trying to send out a message,” she warns him. “I interrupted it, but who knows what got out.”

Royce just grunts, tosses the ‘borg over his shoulder, and disappears down the back hallway.

V swallows hard, relieved he’s gone. What a fuckin’ mess… She can’t help but think Dum Dum would’ve handled it better. Would’ve taken advantage of the element of surprise and prevented Arrow from sending out even a partial warning. Not that she can really blame Royce for this fuck up. Clearly they trusted their codefreak… Looks like Royce has fewer allies than even he knew.

“Get him outta here,” Dum Dum says with a jerk of his chin, lowering his revolver, and the other ‘borgs spring into action. Pick up the dead body by his arms and drag him toward the elevator, leaving a trail of blood smeared on the ground.

Dum Dum looks at her and she swallows again, nervous under the weight of his attention—he’s close, way too close—and then the elevator doors lock and the cage begins to lower.

They’re alone.

Her heart begins to pound, breathing gets harder.

“Uh,” is the brilliant sound that passes her lips. She clears her throat, points to the shard he’s still holding. “All the info’s on there,” she rambles. “I’m sure your people can figure out what data was sent out, who he was talkin’ to. My money’s on Patricia. And, uh, I’ll kill the connection when I get home.”

Dum Dum doesn’t speak, just stares. And she stares back, too aware of him, how close he is, how much she wants to close that gap, how terrified she is of doing just that. Her pounding heart turns thunderous—she needs to take a step back, needs to get out of there—

Dum Dum licks his lips. “You scared?”

Her eyes bounce over his optics, drops to his mouth. Sees something that looks an awful lot like frustration and guilt in the slant of his mouth. Does he think she’s scared of him?

“No,” she tells him.

Dum Dum tilts his head, gazing at her, analyzing the meaning behind her confession. And then he reaches out and touches her waist, and her thoughts narrow to that point of connection, to the smooth texture of his leather glove, the bite of his chrome fingers, the rough scrape of his silicon-padded fingertips. Her breath flutters out of her as he slides his hand onto her bare back and draws her against him.

He whispers, “Scared now?”

V draws a shallow breath and quietly resolves herself to the truth. “No…”

Dum Dum’s lips twitch into a smile, like he’s been waiting for this moment for a very long time.

Chapter Text

She doesn’t smile at him.

She always smiles at him these days, but not this time. This time, she stares at him like she’s not sure if he’s a threat. Offers him nothing but a cautious, “Hey.”

Somethin’ changed.

Dum Dum sits with her. Watches her. She’s nervous around Royce. Doesn’t like him. He knew he should’ve waited ‘til they could be alone to meet, but he wanted to see her, needed to be sure everything was fine between them after Zeta. Now she’s here and she doesn’t like it, doesn’t like Royce—he already knows that. What he doesn’t know is why she won’t smile at him, why she’s barely lookin’ at him.

She holds up a datashard. He slots it—knows it’s clean, knows it was for him—and passes it to Royce. Watches her. She turns those pretty green eyes on him—real fuckin’ pretty today—and her heart starts thumpin’ harder, faster. Like she’s scared just lookin’ at him. He can’t understand why. Hasn’t been this leery of him since the day they reunited in that alley while Handsy yipped in the corner.

What fuckin’ changed?

“The fuck am I lookin’ at?” Royce asks, stealin’ her gaze.

“You’re seeing data being siphoned in very tiny, very deliberate amounts,” she says, and Dum Dum forces himself to pay attention. She told him it’s important, what she found out. “I took a peek at the code—nonsensical at first glance, but that’s intentional. I collated a week’s worth of data, there’s a pattern—”

“Get to the fuckin’ point,” Royce growls, unslotting the shard, tossing it to Dum Dum.

“It’s a code. Your network is being used to feed information to someone who knows how to access it.”

“Meaning?”

“It isn’t being siphoned. It’s being sent out.”

Dum Dum looks at Royce. This means only one thing: another fuckin’ traitor, and high level at that.

Royce snarls, “By who?”

V shrugs. “I don’t know. Someone called Arrow.”

Dum Dum’s head whips around to the codefreak in the back. Everything happens quickly after that. His princess jumps to her feet, casts her mind magic.

“Jack him out!” she shouts.

Kurt, Lars, and Clive move in from the side, guns raised, as Royce storms toward Arrow. And then Clive swings his barrel toward V…

Dum Dum’s on his feet in an instant, his DR5 drawn and aimed. He pulls the trigger without hesitation, turns Clive’s face to pulp. Kurt and Lars whip their rifles on the body as it drops, but the threat’s over. He’s dead. Dum Dum looks at V, but she’s fine. Untouched. Watches the glow in her green eyes fade. He glances back at Royce to see he’s got Arrow unplugged and knocked out, his mouth taut with raw rage and that sting that accompanies betrayal.

Fuck… Arrow’s been in Royce’s inner circle since day one. Played his cards close to the vest, a real BD star with the bullshit. Wasn’t just indifferent to a regime change, but popped off his hatred of Brick like a fuckin’ suck-up. His work was clean, real thorough. ‘Course it was—he needed access. To the network, to their plans, to their intel. Now Dum Dum knows who helped Patricia free Brick, and why his efforts to find the asshole never paid off. ‘Cause Arrow knew everything Royce knew, which was everything Dum Dum knew.

Everything except that he let V into the network.

But fuck, if Arrow’s a traitor, then who else?

“You better be fuckin’ right about this,” Royce growls—doesn’t wanna believe it, but hard to argue with the codefreak’s own actions—and storms off.

Dum Dum's gonna scrub every line of code on that datashard, but he doesn’t doubt V’s work is solid. Deep down, Royce knows it too. If he doubted it, even for a second, she wouldn’t be standing here. But Dum Dum knows Royce isn’t gonna hurt her. Thrives on chaos, yeah, but he respects a killer codefreak. Does she know that? Is that why she won’t smile for him anymore? She’s mad at him for bringin’ her here?

Fuck.

“Get him outta here,” Dum Dum snaps to Kurt and Lars, nods at Clive’s body. They immediately drag the fucker away, leaving him alone with his princess.

Gonna have to explain some things, make her understand.

Dum Dum looks at her, finds her watchin’ him. They’re standin’ real close, but she doesn’t move away. He’s about to ask her if she’s mad, but her heart starts poundin’ in a way it wasn’t before, her breathin’ gets heavier.

Like she’s scared.

“Uh.” She clears her throat, points to the datashard, says, “All the info’s on there.”

She wasn’t this anxious talkin’ to Royce—

“I’m sure your people can figure out what data was sent out, who he was talkin’ to.”

Wasn’t this amped up when his gun went off—

“My money’s on Patricia.”

Why is she afraid of him?

“And, uh, I’ll kill the connection when I get home.”

Dum Dum stares at her, frustrated, nervous. Doesn’t know what changed, doesn’t know how to fix it.

He licks his lips and asks, “You scared?”

Her brows twitch with the hint of a frown as her eyes bounce over his face. “No,” she answers, but her heart’s still beatin’ hard.

Dum Dum tilts his head. Not scared. Then…she fuckin’ hot right now? Nah. Nah, can’t be that. Pretty ‘ganic girls like her don’t go for ugly ‘borg boys like him—not without lots of Lace and liquor and promises to fuck all past cock outta their mind forever, and Dum Dum was gonna give her all of that, give her whatever she wanted—but she’s not scared, and her heart’s beatin’ hard, her breathing’s shallow. She’s dressed in Maelstrom colors, standin’ real close—

He risks it, ‘cause he wants it so bad. Pockets the shard then reaches out and touches her waist, cool metal against warm skin. Feels her muscles jump, hears a hitch in her breath. Waits a beat for her to nail him with her code, but she doesn’t. So he slides his hand onto her back, slips beneath her shirt, draws her against him.

And she lets him.

He whispers, “Scared now?” And he thinks she is, she’s scared, but she’s more than that—

“No…”

Fuck. Not scared, fuckin’ hot for him.

Dum Dum grins as desire rips through him, excitement floods his veins. She wants him, his princess fuckin’ wants him. And he’s gonna give her what she wants. Gonna make her come so many times she loses track.

Dum Dum lowers his head, his lips hovering over hers, and teases, “Fuckin’ hot for me, princess?”

He runs his fingers up her spine, along her ribcage, the band of her bra, the underside of her breast. Palms her tit, squeezes just a little—gotta be careful, keep an eye on his ware’s pressure gauges—and fuck, she’s soft, real fuckin’ soft. Shouldn’t feel this nice, but it does. His thumb grazes her nipple through the lace, flicks the hard nub, and she gasps against his mouth.

“Knew you were fuckin’ curious,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?” she whispers, fingers tangling in the straps of his vest—holdin’ onto him, not pushin’ away. “And you?”

“Yeah, yeah, real fuckin’ hard for you.”

He drops his hand to her ass, grips it, pulls her pelvis tight against his cock and—Fuck. Feels good, real good. The pleasured sound she makes strikes his chrome cochlea, scars it. He exhales hotly, his hand scraping lower onto her thigh, drawing her closer, squeezing just a little, and his fingers sink into the fat of her thigh—so fuckin’ accommodating, her body is. Bets her cunt is just as pliable.

Wants to find out.

Dum Dum scoops her up as he drops onto the pallet table and sits her across his lap like that night at Totentanz. He places his DR5 on the table then grips her waist, pulls her against him with enough force that her hand slaps against his chest and her shoulder smacks into his. She tentatively wraps her arm around him, cautiously resting her hand on his back. His tactical vest is like a wall between their bodies, preventing them from completely touching, but he doesn’t have the presence of mind to take it off. Too focused on her, on touchin’ her.

Shit, this isn’t how Dum Dum planned for this to go down. Thought they’d be at the ‘Tanz for a night of drinkin’ and ‘dorphin’ ‘til she got so hot and wet that she let him wrench a few orgasms out of her with his hands and mouth in a dark corner somewhere. And when she was finally beggin’ for ‘borg cock, he’d take her to his room and let her suck on Lace while he fucked her so good she might not be ashamed to tell anyone about it. Didn’t think they’d be at All Foods, in a room where anyone might walk in, at a time when he should be diggin’ through cyber-dirt and clippin’ traitors. Didn’t think she’d be sober. But if this is how and when he gets to have her, this is how he’ll take her. Gonna make her feel nova.

Not blowin’ this chance.

Dum Dum exhales a rough breath as he touches her knee, sliding his fingers along the inside of her thigh. He can feel the nervous micro-tremors in her body, hear the hitch of air in her lungs. She’s trying not to show how nervous she is, but he can tell. Can feel how tense she is. Can read her like a fuckin’ book now. She doesn’t need to be nervous. He’s gonna be real good to her, real gentle…

He strokes her thigh, tugs her leg against his stomach, climbs higher, and the heat between her thighs is jarring. He’d think she was overloading if he didn’t know better. Most people think a ‘borg would be just as warm, but their chrome coolants keep temps minimal. Not like this…

Not a lot of things to like about a meat body, but he thinks this might be one of them.

His fingers press against the seam of her jeans, stroke up and down, and her lips snap closed, trapping all of her breathy sounds. Her fingers curl against his chest, catch on his vest straps, hold on tight.

“Someone might walk in,” she murmurs nervously, but she doesn't try to stop him.

“Nah, will hear ‘em comin’,” he assures her. “No one’ll see. Fuckin’ swear.”

When she doesn't say anything else, he hooks into those laces, yanking them free until her jeans split open and reveal her bare cunt. No panties, no hair, just pristine flesh beggin’ to be touched. He bites back his groan and immediately swipes his thumb up her center, feels how open and wet she is. She looks away, cheeks flushed, like she’s embarrassed by how fuckin’ ready she is, but Dum Dum thinks she’s perfect, this is perfect. She’s hot, so fuckin’ hot—inviting and dangerous and probably will burn him, but Dum Dum’s always been the type to play with fire.

“Fuckin’ hot, princess,” he growls. “Fuckin’ preem.”

He drags two knuckles through her slit, relishing in the silky texture and thick wetness. Can’t hold it in this time—a groan rattles out of him as he slides through her again. Watches, mesmerized by her pussy. His chrome fingers look invasive and powerful against her delicate, swollen flesh—gets his cock fuckin’ hard as diamond—and he knows he could break her, bleed her, control her, do whatever the fuck he wanted to her with just the slightest application of force, ‘cause she’s just a soft little ‘ganic princess and he’s a chromed out ‘borgbeast, a motherfuckin’ monster—

She shudders, heart pounding a little erratically against her ribcage, air fluttering in her lungs with somethin’ like fear.

He freezes, grits his jaw, chokes out, “Scared?”

She swallows hard before she admits, “Never had raw chrome inside me.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, caressing her cunt in the softest way his digits allow. “Yeah, gonna be real gentle…”

‘Cause he needs this, needs her to let him inside her, will promise whatever so she’ll permit him.

A heavy pause, a held breath, and then she nods.

He plunges two fingers inside of her before she can change her mind and she gasps, head tipping back. Air staggers out of him as squelching heat tightens around his fingers with surprising strength, sucking his digits as deep as they’ll go.

“Fuck,” he hisses, “fuckin’ wet, fuckin’ tight—”

He slides his fingers out then drives back into her thick, wet heat, soft like velvet—

“Pussy’s fuckin’ preem,” he murmurs, and her hooded green eyes meet his gaze, glassy with desire. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this a long time.”

He withdraws his fingers, tracing wet lines up the sides of her slit before pushing back in, thumb hooking on her clit, and her mouth falls open in pleasure as he creates a rhythm that has her makin’ more beautiful fuckin’ noises. Noises that lash his eardrums, make him hungry for a taste of her. He tilts his head, mouth hovering over hers, breathes in her quivering gasps. Wants to kiss her, but doesn’t know if he could control himself if he did.

“Like that?” he rasps, but he knows she does. Can see it on her face, hear it in her voice, feel it pulsing around his fingers, faster and faster.

Her whispered reply comes out broken, “Ye..s—ah…”

Her face is a tortured display of ecstasy as she comes, mouth so close that her lips just barely brush up against his. Her sounds nearly drown him, her heat threatens to swallow him, and he wants nothing more than to get his mouth on her, on every inch of her, taste her with tongue and teeth—fuck, wants to throw her on the couch, pin her down, fuck her raw—

Dum Dum withdraws his hand long enough to shift her on his lap, puts her back against his chest and her thighs over his so he can open her up more, and then he plunges his fingers back inside her. Wants to make her come again, over and over. He leans into her neck, lips ghosting along the column of her throat, and she sighs hotly, angling her head to give him better access. He licks the line of her carotid, those freckles he likes so much, and has to stop himself from biting down. He nips at her ear and jaw, nuzzles her skin. She smells like something floral, pretty, subtle—not at all like the sterile chemical soaps he uses. Wonders why it makes his insides hum, what primitive piece of his meat brain is lighting up right now.

His free hand covers her breast, squeezes a little harder than before, toys with her nipple until it’s firm—fuck, even when ‘ganics are hard, they’re still so fuckin’ soft. Makes him crazy, makes him wild, and he finger-fucks her a little more roughly than he probably should, torments her clit in a way that might bruise, but he can’t fuckin’ help himself. And when she comes, her back arching against him, her velvet heat squeezing his fingers in a death grip, all he can think is: again.

And then she says somethin’ that completely derails his intentions.

“Bioconductor,” she whispers.

“What?” he asks, idly stroking her swollen cunt as gently as he can, the smell of sex so potent he can almost taste her.

“My other mod—it’s a bioconductor.”

Dum Dum groans softly against her ear. Bioconductor—facilitates superconductivity in the circuitry that connects the body’s cyberware. In other words, intense critical precision. Fuckin’ brutal.

Just when he thinks he can’t get any fuckin’ harder, she speaks again.

“Specifically,” she pants, “a COX-2 Cybersomatic Optimizer.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. Already knew his princess was special, but a mod that preem is fuckin’ rare. She tryin’ to make him lose control?

“Your turn,” she says.

“Whaddaya wanna know?”

“You know what I wanna know…”

He grunts, jaw clenching. Yeah, yeah, he fuckin’ knows, but he wants to hear her say it.

“Ask me,” he growls, pushing his fingers back inside her, thumbing her clit. She makes a soft noise, carefully lifts her hips and sinks back down onto his fingers, and he about loses his fuckin’ mind.

Finally she asks, “Your cock modded?”

Dum Dum bites out, “Wanna find out?”

“Yes.”

Fuck yeah. He strokes her one more time and then withdraws, wraps his arm across her belly and stands them both up.

“Lace up, we’re leaving,” he says, licking her off his fingers, and she tastes real fuckin’ preem.

She quickly laces up her jeans while he stuffs his DR5 into his waistband and calls the elevator. Then he pulls her against him, runs his hand over her ass, her waist. Is on the verge of nuzzling her neck when his amplified hearing ware catches footsteps coming toward them from the back. Doesn’t know who’s coming, but if anyone sees him with his hands on her, everyone’ll know before they can leave the building. Doesn’t care who knows, but gonna keep it real quiet for her. At least ‘til he’s had a chance to prove himself to her…

He lets her go, steps away.

Kurt appears a few seconds later, drawing their gazes. V stiffens, the soft pleasure in her expression hardening into caution.

Kurt announces, “Royce’s lookin’ for you.”

Dum Dum grits his teeth—cockblockin’ motherfucker—and nods. “Sure, yeah,” he says, and immediately shoots Bjorn a message to come pick V up. “Gonna see her out first.”

“I’ll do it,” Kurt says with a grin, takin’ a step closer.

“Fuck off,” Dum Dum barks and Kurt chuckles, walks away. When he’s gone, Dum Dum looks at V and says, “Gotta deal with this.”

“Yep,” she says with a nod, lookin’ embarrassed, mortified maybe. ‘Cause Kurt almost caught them? Or ‘cause she’s already regrettin’ lettin’ him touch her now that the heat’s passed?

When the elevator doors open, she walks inside, and he palms the opening to keep them from closing. Stares at her. Can’t tell what she’s thinkin’. Hates that.

A message pops up.

[4:17] Bjorn:

downstairs

Dum Dum releases the door. “Will call you,” he says, and she nods again.

The doors close and the cage begins to lower. He takes a moment to force his blood to cool, his mind back on the task at hand. And then he goes to the security station, pulls up the camera footage for the main room, and wipes everything from the moment the boys dragged Clive out. Then he pulls her datashard from his pocket and slots it, runs through the data as he makes his way down toward the processing wing.

Time to get back to work.

Chapter Text

V gazes vacantly through the slats of the elevator cage as a remote sense of panic is overshadowed by a primal rush of ecstasy.

She didn’t think it’d feel this way.

It was like being hypnotized, the way her brain shut off all inhibitions. Like being controlled, the way her body responded to him. She couldn’t stop herself, didn’t want to. Let Dum Dum finger-fuck her in the middle of a Maelstrom compound—what the fuck was she thinking?—but, oh fuck, it felt so good. Didn’t think it would. Thought raw chrome would be cold, but it wasn’t. Thought those segmented digits would pinch her, but they didn’t. Thought the sheer power in him would bruise her, bleed her, thought it would hurt.

It didn’t. At all.

Turns out rough silicon-padded fingertips command a blissful friction, and Dum Dum knows just how to walk that line between too much and not enough. Gave her that sharp, surging release that stems from the clit, followed by a powerful, innards-deep orgasm achieved only by stroking the g-spot. Can count on one hand the number of times she’s come that hard. If his cock does to her half of what his fingers did, she might be ruined…

She’s sure when this dopamine high wears off, she’ll be mortified by all of this—what she did, what she let him do to her, these degenerate desires—but right now all she wants is to ride his cock with the shamelessness of a joytoy.

V closes her eyes and she can almost feel it, hear it—his warm breath on her lips, the guttural sound of his voice caressing her ears.

“Fuckin’ hot for me, princess?”

A thrill twirls up her center—yes, yes, yes—oh god, is she about to fuck a ‘borg? No, don’t cross this line, don’t do it—but the thought’s a distant whisper as her fingers curl around his vest and hold on tight.

“And you?”

“Yeah, yeah, real fuckin’ hard for you.”

He pulls her in tight and she feels that thick, hard length press against her belly, the apex of her core—yes. This is what she wants, what she needs. A hot breath stutters out of her—he’s big, of course he’s big, not a modded cock out there that isn’t, but is he too big? And then her mind flies apart because she’s in his lap, pulled against his body, his hand on her thigh—

“Got a little heated, huh?”

“What?” she blurts, yanked from her thoughts, and finds Bjorn and Trey standing in front of her, staring expectantly.

Didn’t even notice the elevator doors had opened.

Bjorn grins, mimes shooting at her. “Fuckin’ traitors. Won’t miss Clive, but Arrow? Fuck.”

Right… There was a scuffle, a Maelstrommer died, their netrunner was exposed as a traitor. She almost forgot. It’s not really her business, after all, just doin’ the job Dum Dum hired her for. Yeah, maybe she should be more concerned about how a ‘borg just tried to shoot her, but somehow it’s just not as important as what happened right after.

Like Dum Dum's fingers tugging on her laces, prying her jeans apart…

“Right,” she says with a nod, hoping her face doesn’t look as warm as it feels.

Bjorn tosses his head toward the way out then he and Trey lead her back through the factory. They pass a gaggle of Maelstrommers around the dead body of—did Bjorn say his name was Clive?—with Cut-o-Matics and bolt cutters, hacking off cyberlimbs and digging out valuable mods. Blood pools on the tarp spread out beneath him, viscera slopping messily against the plastic, and the sight of it cools the raging heat in her veins.

It’s animalistic, the way they feast on their own dead.

It’s not like she doesn’t understand the concept of waste. They aren’t scavs, they aren’t looting the living. And preem cyberware is expensive, why decommish it with the dead? Yeah, she gets it. But the thought of these vultures flocking to Dum Dum’s dead body and pecking out all of his parts makes her stomach roil. But that’s probably the ‘ganic mentality that these ‘borgs hate so much—the idea that something could be sacred, meat or metal.

Yeah, she understands them, but she'll never be like them.

The squelching sounds of dissection follow her into the long hallway where the girl with the golden cyberarms watches her, expression unreadable. They pass her and enter the warehouse, and all the ‘borgs that were staring at V before are openly gawking now. News travels fast, it seems. She can’t help but wonder how many of them are glad she exposed Arrow and how many secretly resent her for it.

She clears her throat. “So how many enemies did I make today?”

Bjorn glances back at her then casts his gaze around the room. “Some,” he admits, “but they’re fuckin’ limp-dicks, won’t do nothin’. Too scared to support Brick in the open, too scared to do shit. Fuck ‘em.”

Her only response is a short, noncommittal, “Mm.”

She doesn’t trust that assessment as much as he seems to. Sure, she’s confident she can handle a few Maelstrom thugs if they come after her, but she doesn’t really wanna have to put it to the test. There’s a difference between quickhackin’ a handful of gangoons who don’t even know she’s there and fighting off a bunch of ‘borgs who know exactly what she can do.

When they reach the bottom of the ladder, Trey says, “Don’t worry.”

“Not worried,” she tells him. Not overly thrilled about the situation, but not worried.

“Heart’s racin’,” he says, drawing her gaze. He’s staring at her with that bizarre puppy-like look, scars rippling around his optic plate.

These fuckin’ ‘borgs and their damn thermal scans…

“Not worried,” she says again, but maybe it’s better to let him believe she’s afraid than to give him a reason to think about it.

Bjorn barks a laugh. “Not fear you’re seein’,” he tells his choom, jabbing his metal finger in her chest, right above her heart. “That’s adrenaline.” He scans her head to toe and growls, “Fuckin’ with ‘borgs will do that to ya.”

V grits her teeth and tries not to react as he laughs again and faces forward. She knows he’s talkin’ about the confrontation, but she gets the impression he’s implying something else entirely. Doesn’t know how he knows about her and Dum Dum, but she’s almost certain he does. Or maybe that’s just her own conscience screaming at her.

When they make it to the exit, Bjorn holds the door open for her and motions her out. “See ya soon, yeah?”

She wants to say no, but she can’t. Not with how much more complicated her relationship with Dum Dum just got. Are these ‘borgs about to become her new chooms…? Fuck, how did she get so tangled up with Maelstrom?

“See ya, V,” Trey says.

She nods to them. “Boys.”

Then she walks back to her car, conscious of their optics on her the whole way.

When she’s behind the wheel, she sighs and slumps against the seat, stares absently at the road, at the cars occasionally rolling by. Her thoughts almost instantly turn toward Dum Dum and his fingers buried inside her, her hips involuntarily driving down on them.

“Your cock modded?”

“Wanna find out?”

“Yes.”

V groans, dropping her head into her hands. Oh god, what does this make her? A chrome chaser? Filthy ‘borg fucker? Have to fuck him first, she thinks, but she wants to, and that’s the problem.

She sucks in a sharp breath, slaps her hands against the steering wheel, and starts her car. Merges onto the main road and heads toward home. But her salacious thoughts follow her, haunt her, cycling through every detail of what happened in that Maelstrom control room. His seven red eyes watching her, unblinking, void of emotion. His surprisingly soft mouth on her neck and ear, the gentle scraping of his lip rings, the wet brush of his tongue. His hard body—not like a man’s, soft skin wrapped over firm muscle, but hard, like thick leather padding over a steel tread floor. The sheer strength of him, the confidence in his every touch. The metallic grind of his voice ghosting over her skin, her lips…

God, she wanted to kiss him, but was too afraid he didn’t want that with her. If he did, he would’ve done it, right? Had no qualms about touching her any other way. Maybe he doesn’t like kissing, or maybe it’s too intimate a gesture for what this is to him. A curiosity. He seemed to think that’s why she was doing it—and she didn’t deny it, let him think it’s true, but it’s not. It’s the other way around. Wants him in spite of his chrome. That doesn’t mean he wants her the same way… Been thinkin’ ‘bout this a long time, he said, but he might be ashamed of that, too. Doesn’t seem to want anyone to know. Took his hands off her the moment he heard someone coming. Not that she’s ready to advertise it, either…

Can’t imagine tellin’ Misty or Vik about him, a thought that makes her feel guilty as hell.

V sighs and tries to push it out of her mind. It’s complicated enough without all this wild speculation.

The moment she gets back to her apartment, she kills the connection to the Ebunike docks like she promised and focuses on work, avoids thinking about Dum Dum calling her or the mild panic she feels lurking at the edge of her consciousness. She fusses on her portable deck, scrolls through her database on Brick but finds no new clues. Skims the usual webrings for hints about the Voodoo Boys’ activity to no avail. Before long, she’s out of distractions and her mind’s wandering back to Dum Dum… She needs a more consuming diversion. She glances at her hackpad, considers diving, but knows that won’t stop her thoughts from circling this drain. It's her mind she needs escaping from.

V snaps her deck closed, changes into something sporty, and goes down to the fighting ring. She doesn’t like boxing. A good punch doesn’t feel as satisfying to her as a crippling strand of code. But Jackie liked it, so she would join him sometimes, punch a bag for a bit while he walloped one of his own. Let him give her pointers and try to talk her into a regular regimen, just to make him happy. She never did, of course. Could never enjoy it like he did. But she had to admit it’s good for purging the mind of everything but the awareness of her aching body and tender knuckles.

V wraps her hands with shock-absorbing ElastaWraps and claims a bag in a quiet corner. Raises her fists, bends her knees, bounces a little to make sure she’s nice and loose. And then she throws a punch. Pain lances up her arm and she bites back a curse, grits her teeth and shakes out her arm. Bad fuckin’ form. Fuckin’ gonk… She always makes this same mistake. A bitter laugh rumbles past her lips as she remembers Jackie’s clicking tongue, his shaking head. It’s ‘cause you don’t practice enough, so you forget, he’d say. And he was right. But he never got tired of correcting her form, showing her the proper way to move. And when she did it right? He’d get this big smile on his face, would slap his hands together and shout, You fuckin’ did it, chica! Siempre supe que lo ibas a lograr!

V breathes deep and adjusts her stance. Takes a few slow-motion practice swings, rotating her shoulder the way Jackie showed her. And when she throws her next punch, there’s no pain. Just like he promised.

Tears sting her eyes.

She clenches her jaw and hits the bag again. And again. And again. And then she can’t stop. Her vision blurs as tears and sweat drip down her face, but she keeps punching until she stops crying. Until she can’t breathe, can’t feel her knuckles, can’t see a thing.

She collapses against the bag, exhausted and drenched, and holds onto it like a lifeline, gazes at the graffiti-covered wall and gasps for air. Sees Jackie staring at her from the back of a Delamain cab, catches a whiff of his favorite cologne mixed with the metallic scent of blood. Anguish squeezes her heart in a vice, drags her down, down toward the darkness, and she doesn’t have the energy to fight back… Doesn’t want to. ‘Cause Jackie’s here with her now. She can see him, smell him, hear his voice, and she doesn’t want to lose him again—

Her phone chimes, startling her. V blinks and the vision fades. Loss, sharp as a blade, cuts her deep, and she’s not numb enough to evade the sting. She swallows the lump in her throat and opens the new message.

[10:02] Unknown:

Stop looking for Brick

Her skin prickles as a fresh wave of adrenaline surges in her veins. She pushes herself upright, thoughts narrowing on those four words. Could be anyone sending her this message, but her gut tells her it’s Patricia. How the hell did that bitch get her number?

[10:02] V:

That’s up to my client

Typing dots immediately start flashing at the bottom of the screen.

[10:02] Unknown:

Shouldn’t leave your life up to your client

He doesn’t value it the same

Do the smart thing, runner

Not gonna warn you again

V stares at the message, jaw grinding together, thoughts whirling. She’s close, this proves it. Patricia wouldn’t have resorted to petty threats if she wasn’t. But just because those threats are petty doesn’t mean they aren’t real. V has no doubt the ‘borg girl will come after her if she keeps looking for Brick.

“Shit,” she growls and jabs the punching bag.

This is getting out of hand. She was happy to help Dum Dum, to spend more time with him, but… Between Raze and his weird obsession with her, Patricia and Brick’s loyalists wanting to kill her for exposing Arrow, and whatever the fuck the golden-armed girl’s problem is, V has way too many enemies in Night City’s most dangerous gang.

She closes the message thread, shuts her eyes, and presses her forehead to the punching bag. Slowly breathes in and out, trying to focus her thoughts, sort her emotions, but in her exhaustion, all of her truths are already distilled down to their most honest form.

She doesn’t regret this.

“Fuck,” she whispers, and slams her fist against the bag one last time.

Chapter Text

Dum Dum still has blood on his hands when he pulls the cigarette from the pack and slips it between his lips, lights it, and takes a drag. Arrow hangs a few feet away, strung up in chains, leakin’ on the tiles. Fifty-one hours he’s been at this, but the codefreak won’t give up Brick. Doesn’t have a location—Dum Dum already knows that—but plans, hideouts, allies? Arrow knows somethin’ useful. But the fucker won’t talk. Got a team still tryin’ to analyze the data V brought ‘em, but Arrow’s code isn’t one Maelstrom uses. Got another diggin’ through his cyberdeck for intel, but the process is slow. Stepped on a few cyber-mines that fried one brain and damaged another. No data was lost—at least, they don’t think so—but Dum Dum doubts they’ll find much of value even when they stop suiciding on Arrow’s ICE. Went through all that trouble to leak intel, not gonna keep anything incriminating stored on his drive. Not a gonk. Fuckin’ theme with Brick’s people.

Gotta give credit where it’s due.

The cigarette briefly sticks to Dum Dum’s fingers as he peels his hand away, leaving bloody prints behind. He gazes at the codefreak, head hung, a dozen cables threading out of his body and connected to a switchboard. Not dead, but close to it. Gonna have to give the fucker a break, pump some blood back into those veins so Dum Dum can bleed him all over again. That’s the thing about information extraction. Takes time. Repetition. People either spill their guts immediately or they dig their heels in, and when that happens? Gotta wear ‘em down, break their spirit. Not easy with a ‘borg. Have a chunk of nociceptors ripped out every time they get a new piece of chrome. Makes it difficult to inflict pain.

But Dum Dum’s creative.

He crosses over to Arrow, takes another drag on his bloody cigarette. Picks the ‘borg’s head up by his stringy hair and stares at those dark optics. Controlling sight—doesn’t inflict any pain outright, but it primes the mind for all kinds of shock and awe. He glances at the datapad wired up to the switchboard. Taps the screen and turns the codefreak’s vision back on. His black optics flicker red before stabilizing and the ‘borg seems to come to life.

“Done with me?” Arrow asks, his voicebox warped like a melted disc.

“Nah,” Dum Dum says, exhaling smoke into the ‘borg’s face, noting the micro-tremors that tell him it hurts. “Only been two days. Just takin’ a break.”

An involuntary wheeze in the back of his throat is the only indication of fear the ‘borg shows.

“Know how to make it stop,” Dum Dum says.

Arrow gives the barest shake of his head. “Can’t. Don’t know nothin’.”

“Know somethin’.”

Arrow’s nose briefly wrinkles, his lips twitch. “Know Royce’ll drive Maelstrom into the ground. Only one keepin’ it together is you.”

“So ya throw your support behind Brick?”

“Would'a followed, if it was you.”

Dum Dum takes another drag. “Think strokin’ my cock’ll get ya that kill switch?”

“It’s true—”

“S’what you told Royce, yeah? That you’d follow him.”

“Royce is a piece of shit,” Arrow spits. “Fuckin’ ape-brain got no idea what it means to be a ‘Strommer. Just wavin’ his dick around like it’s loaded, busts a hot one and cunts think he’s all spunk, but motherfucker’s shootin’ blanks. Donno how he got you fooled.”

Sure, yeah, Dum Dum’s heard it all before. From the beginning, not everyone was bought in. Royce doesn’t have the same business sense Brick did, but he’s not a gonk. Knows Maelstrom needs structure and discipline as much as it needs chaos and bloodshed. That’s why Dum Dum’s here. To keep the machine turnin’.

Dum Dum exhales through his nostrils. “Think that, why not just play puppet master?”

“‘Cause Royce is a fuckin’ psycho. Killed good ‘Strommer’s on a whim ‘cause he thinks pullin’ the trigger makes him a real bad motherfucker. Anyone can pull a trigger.” His lips peel back in a snarl, words dripping with vitriol, “Little girls can pull a trigger—”

Dum Dum tightens his grip, jostles his head, and Arrow’s words turn to hisses. A warning to get to the fuckin’ point.

“Got us cowerin’ like rats, Dum Dum—”

“Don’t fuckin’ cry on me, you survived.”

Arrow shakes his head again. “Ain’t here to just fuckin’ survive, day in, day out. I’m a ‘Strommer, not a fuckin’ animal.”

Dum Dum tongues a canine—can’t really fuckin’ argue with that—then takes a final drag on his cigarette, puts the cherry out on the skin next to Arrow’s optic plate. The ‘borg screams, feelin’ that sharp pain right up against his frayed optic nerve. And then Dum Dum releases his head, drops the cigarette butt into the sticky pool of blood on the ground. Arrow’s head falls forward, wheezing breaths rattling out of him, vision fixed on the gore at his feet.

“See ya soon,” Dum Dum promises.

And then he pushes through the plastic curtain surrounding the cell, nods to the pair of guards, and leaves All Foods.

It’s night. The air’s cool and damp, like just before a storm, and the stars are hidden behind a thick blanket of dark gray clouds. He sucks in a deep breath, lets the cold air fill his bionic lungs, fight the exhaustion trying to envelop him. Doesn’t have a lot of time, wants to take advantage of it.

He walks to his car, rolls the windows down and breathes in the icy wind as he drives back to the Totentanz. He ignores his fellow ‘Strommers’ attempts to snag his attention and goes straight up to his room. Kicks off his boots and pants, unstraps the tac-vest, and peels off his leather gloves. Turns on the shower and watches the blood wash down the drain. His optics flicker off, shrouding him in darkness.

A subtle floral scent tickles his nostrils. Breathy gasps caress his eardrums. Velvety soft skin and thick, wet heat swallows his fingers. Fuck, she was nice, real nice, his princess. Hasn’t put his cock in her yet, but knows, just knows, it’s gonna feel fuckin’ preem. It’s all he’s been thinkin’ about since he saw it, touched it, his hard chrome hands stroking such delicate flesh. Hates how even after replacing most of his body with metal, his entire existence is still held captive by ‘ganic pussy. Knows it’s fucked, but still would do anything to get in there. Should be better at compartmentalizing, but it’s like bein’ under a fuckin’ spell. That spell gonna break once he has her? Does he want it to?

Doesn’t have a fuckin’ answer.

His optics flicker back on as he reaches for the cake of soap, lazily swipes it over his body then rinses off. When he’s done, he doesn’t bother with a towel, just puts on a clean pair of pants, shrugs into a vest, and slips on boots not covered in blood. He knows he should get a few hours of sleep, been awake three days now, but his mind’s only on one thing.

“Your cock modded?”

“Wanna find out?”

“Yes.”

Was fuckin’ torture interrogating Arrow when all he could think about was that tight heat and how it’s gonna feel around his cock, her breathy moans and the noises she’ll make when he fucks her. Can’t believe she let him touch her. Didn’t think she’d ever want that from him, not without bein’ ‘dorphed up. But she does—or she did. Looked a little spooked when he put her on that elevator…

Been two days, needs to see her. To make sure she didn’t change her mind.

He gathers an x-keef inhaler and some cigarettes. Fumbles around on his dresser for the cologne he only uses whenever he’s trying to get laid—mostly to cover up any lingering smell of blood and chemsoap—and sprays it once. Takes a swig of liquor and leaves. He drives down to Little China, to the corner of Ellison and Bradbury—not positive, but he thinks she lives nearby—and shoots her a message.

[8:49] Dum Dum:

need to talk to ya

lets meet

He practically counts the seconds until she responds.

[8:49] Princess:

Sure, where at?

[8:49] Dum Dum:

anywhere

There’s a long pause before—

[8:50] Princess:

LC896, #0716

Dum Dum keys the address into his navigation.

“No fuckin’ shit,” he murmurs.

LC896, the H10 Megabuilding right up the street. Can’t be she lives there… Girl’s never let him near her private life. Anytime he picked her up or dropped her off, it was always here, and the few times he poked around about where she lived, she just gave him that look that said, “Fuck off.” Megabuildings are massive multipurpose hubs—this doesn’t mean she’s inviting him to her place. But #0716—that looks like an apartment number. She trust him, or something? Or just lookin’ to fuck? Nah, would meet him at a motel for that. Girl’s been too careful… Maybe she does trust him. Or maybe the opposite. This a trick?

Dum Dum runs his tongue over his teeth, suddenly feelin’ apprehensive, and shifts into drive.

[8:50] Dum Dum:

on my way

Chapter Text

V stands in the heart of her BBS workshop, surrounded by blue pixels rezzed in the shape of an old warehouse, gazing at her latest half-formed monster of fire and hate. A new iteration of Overheat, something stronger, more aggressive—and possibly contagious, if she can figure out how to make it ride the ShortLink like her viruses do. The firewalls in the receiver hard-block it every time. But that’s the problem with code that manipulates such an important safety feature such as temperature regulation—too many failsafes on too many layers. Maybe she could slip a modified shared library into her Contagion to force the various cybersuites to read her Overheat as part of their systems… But there’s so many iterations of the soft—various brands, versions, plus all the custom code pulled off a QCL hub and installed by rippers—that she’d need to write a hundred variations. Or maybe just a rotation matrix would do the trick? It’d probably fail half the time, but it would still alleviate some of the demand for her to hack individual targets.

It’s dangerous, though. Riding the ShortLink could easily take out an entire compound of enemies, but would run the risk of hitting unintended targets. More than just splash damage or friendly fire, she could potentially murder thousands of innocent people. Probably the reason this sort of thing doesn’t already exist.

Gonna need to rethink her approach.

She tables that function, derezzes the file a0.7.3_overheat_v5, and loads a new project called a0.9.1_contagion_v4. It’s her nastiest virus that spreads quickly through cybersystems, eroding safety protocols and exposing them to manipulation, and v4 will be capable of going up against preem tier cyber-safeguards. Doesn’t want to find herself floundering against another Zeta ever again…

A window flashes in her peripheral with an alert from her phone, interrupting her train of thought. She has a new message. Her mind prickles with caution, half-expecting another threat, but her concentration shatters when she sees who it’s from.

[8:49] Dum Dum:

need to talk to ya

lets meet

Even in cyberspace, she’s vaguely aware of her stomach somersaulting in surprise, of her heart beating a little harder, quicker. It’s been two days since the incident at All Foods. She was expecting an update sooner, was starting to wonder if something had gone wrong. That, or if the intimacy had ruined everything. Maybe he didn’t want to want her like he did, and touching her like that made him feel worse than ashamed. Or maybe he just lost interest.

It’s not like she got him off twice…

[8:49] V:

Sure, where at?

[8:49] Dum Dum:

anywhere

She hesitates a moment, considering where to meet. She wants to be able to gauge this thing between them properly. Needs privacy, needs quiet—don’t do it—

[8:50] V:

LC896, #0716

Fuckin’ gonk.

[8:50] Dum Dum:

on my way

V jacks out and is slammed with physical sensation—her heart thudding harder, her breath coming a little quicker, her stomach fluttering nervously. Damn it… She hates that just the thought of seeing him again has her all twisted up. She unhooks the dive cable, shucks her bodyweight suit, and pulls her gray Burn Corpo Shit t-shirt over her head. It’s long enough to cover her underwear, but not much more than that. Not like he isn’t already well-acquainted with what’s between her legs… She heads out of her hackpad, locks it, and does a quick tidying sweep of her apartment then ducks into the bathroom to check her reflection. Releases her bun and shakes out her hair, fluffs it up a little and lets it fall down her back in messy waves.

A loud knock on the door sends her heart into her throat. That was fast…

V remotely accesses her external camera just to be sure and sees Dum Dum standing outside. Her stomach tightens in anticipation as she releases the camera, crosses to the door, and opens it.

Dum Dum lifts his head, his seven red optics pinning her to the spot, and she’s struck by the same crushing attraction she felt two days ago. In as casual a manner as she can manage, her eyes dart over his body. He’s wearing shinos and a leather vest, no shirt—never a shirt—and seems cleaner than he sometimes does, like he recently showered.

“Hey,” she says.

“Princess,” he says neutrally, staring at her for a moment before he looks past her into her apartment.

She steps aside, a silent invitation to come in. He hesitates before taking two steps inside, glancing left to right like he expects an ambush. She tries not to smile as she pads back into her apartment to give him some space, throwing over her shoulder, “You wanted to talk?” as she crosses to her couch and leans against the back. She watches him study the room, wondering what he’s looking for, waiting for him to speak.

“Ya live here?” he finally asks, looking at her.

Her brow furrows. “Yeah, why?”

He doesn’t respond, just stares. Reaches up and rubs his hand over his mouth. Then he glances at the door controls and taps the console. The door seals shut. He looks at her again, and there’s something entirely different about his demeanor.

Her heart skips a beat.

Dum Dum slowly prowls closer, head tilting as he scans her body. Butterflies explode in her gut as he reaches out and captures her chin, tilts her head up, gazes at her. This close, she can see small water droplets lingering on his chrome, a few trace bloodstains near his ears.

He leans in and gently pecks her lips. It’s soft, careful, nearly melts her. There’s a pause, a held breath, and then his free hand wraps around her waist and draws her against him, his fingers firmly grip her jaw, and his lips crash into hers in an open-mouthed kiss that sends those butterflies fluttering in a violent storm, rising higher, higher, threatening to explode out of her—

Before plummeting in fear.

A hard weight bears down on her. Metal slides against her tongue, presses into her face, slices her chin, scrapes her nose. Cold, hard, sharp, it hurts—

What the fuck is happening?

Her eyes pop open to glaring red lights, empty of emotion, expression, humanity.

She’s being attacked. Crushed under chrome. Devoured by a machine.

She tries to break the kiss but his lips relentlessly assault her. Tries to twist her head but that metal claw holds her jaw still. Her hands slap against his chest, his vest, pushing—

It’s fine, you’re fine, it’s just his chrome—

She can’t breathe.

Just get your bearings and—

He’s ripping her face—

A panicked noise erupts from her throat as she pushes on his chest, but it’s like trying to move a steel wall. She has no leverage. He’s holding her flush against him, and metal and hoses jab her through the flimsy fabric of her t-shirt. She claws at his shoulders, trying to find a better hold, and meets the puckered seams of his stitched synthskin. Jerks away and bumps up against metal bits and wires sprouting from his back.

“Sto—”

This is wrong.

She did this all wrong.

Fantasized about him, but didn’t have the experience to know how different it’d feel. Had so much desire, thought it would overshadow their differences. That she could jump into bed with him like any man, but he’s not just a man.

He’s a ‘borg.

“Stop,” she pleads against his mouth, the sound swallowed by his eager kisses. “Dum—”

His lips slide against hers, modded tongue licking into her mouth, piercings pressing hard into her skin. He puts her back against a wall before she even realizes he’s moved them.

She’s trapped, she’s trapped—

A fresh wave of panic rushes up her spine.

“Dum Du—” She shrieks into his mouth. “Sto—”

That iron grip releases her jaw and she jerks her head to the side, breaking the kiss, gasping for air. Hot breaths puff against her cheek as something is shoved into her face, against her lips, and she instinctively flinches away in fear. Takes a second to realize it’s his s-keef inhaler.

“No,” she murmurs, pushing it away. Doesn’t want to get high. Wants to do this properly. He tilts her chin up. “Wai—”

His mouth assaults hers again.

Her stomach flips, in pleasure and panic. There’s something almost sweet in his kiss that is immediately swept away by the overwhelming power in him, the terrifying slash of his chrome.

“Stop—”

“Can’t,” he breathes, kissing her again.

It should be romantic. Should make her wild with passion—that he wants her so bad he can’t stop himself. It’s gotten her hot in the past, when it was just a fantasy, but—Can’t—an icy knife of terror stabs her chest, spreads through her body.

She digs her knee into his thigh, pushes his shoulders, but he can’t be moved. Tries to turn her head but he’s holding her still. Bites his lip in warning but he makes this animalistic sound in the back of his throat and kisses her harder.

“Dum—”

Her mind expands on instinct, riding the ShortLink, seeking entry into his chrome, but she pulls back the moment she catches herself at the door to his system. Doesn’t want to attack him, doesn’t want to hurt him. He’s not doing it on purpose. She knows that. But—

Can’t breathe—

She screams, “Please—”

He tenses up and pushes back, gives her only an inch between them but it’s enough. She immediately gasps, gulping down air. Her entire body is trembling. He holds up the s-keef inhaler again.

“No,” she says, pushing it away.

“Take a hit,” he grunts and offers it again, more insistently.

A spike of anger hammers through her as she shoves his hand. “No!”

“Why not?” he growls loudly, and his voice is so deep, rough, desperate. “Done with me?”

“No,” she snaps, “I just don’t want Lace to be the reason I’m not afraid to fuck you!”

He stares at her for a single beat before pushing away. Takes a few steps back, jams the inhaler between his teeth, and takes a hit. Stands there drawing ragged breaths, his shoulders hunched, optics trained on the floor. She isn’t sure if she’s hurt him, shamed him, or if he’s just scrambling for self-control.

But at least he’s not leaving.

For a moment, there’s only silence. He stands in the middle of the room, breathing deep, staring at the floor, and she has her back to the wall, heart racing, body shaking, skin crawling. She reaches up, dabs at her face, afraid of what she might feel, but her skin is fine. No cuts or tears, just a few scratches on her chin, and she lets out a trembling breath as her hands drop to her sides.

“You’ll like it,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s trying to reassure her. Sounds like he’s pleading with her. She doesn’t know what to say—wants to say yes, but she’s not sure, hates that she’s not sure—so she just stares.

Fuck, this isn’t how she thought this would go. She’s a fuckin’ gonk, an asshole. Should’ve known better. Should’ve gotten used to his chrome first, by sight and touch, before she even thought about fucking him. Now she’s scared she’s hurt him like she did when she first saw his chrome-plated teeth, only it’s so much worse this time. A rejection of his entire being.

“Not gonna hurt ya,” he says, still with that rough, desperate edge.

V swallows the lump in her throat. “I know. I wanna do this,” she says, and she hates the slight tremor in her voice. “I just wasn’t expecting it to feel so…hard—”

“Not one of your fuckin’ meatboys,” he snarls. “Never gonna be.”

“I know, but I’m ‘ganic—”

“Can’t be soft—”

“Said you’d be gentle,” she says, silencing him. “And you were." She swallows again. "Just don’t use so much force…”

Dum Dum stares at her for a long moment before he licks his lips. Nods once. Relief rushes through her—that he still wants this, that he’s willing to try.

He starts toward her and a needle of fear slides under her skin.

“Wait,” she blurts, jerking her hand up to stop him.

He freezes, stares at her, scrapes out, “Fuck you want, princess?”

She takes a deep breath, mind racing. What does she want? Fuck, what does she want? How can she salvage this? How can she make this work when she keeps grasping for that intense attraction but all she feels is his chrome bearing down on her.

“Just…be still,” she finally says. “Let me touch you first. Get used to your chrome.”

A grimace flashes on his face before he shoves the inhaler into his mouth and takes another hit. White smoke seeps from his lips, the cloud evaporating around his head. He nods. V swallows again and pushes off the wall. Takes a step toward him, another. He watches her like cornered prey, utterly still except for the tilt of his head as he monitors her movements.

She reaches out and touches the back of his metal hand, the gimbal of his wrist, the cool, thick synthflesh of his forearm. It doesn’t feel like skin, more like synleather with a plastic finish. She’s touched it before, briefly. It’s weird, but not the part that unsettles her. She runs a finger over one of the stitched seams of puckered flesh. It’s not a scar, not a wound, just an aesthetic choice. Feels so strange, almost eerie, but touching it like this is reassuring somehow. A reminder it’s not real.

She drifts to the black metal plugs emerging near his elbow, the hard red wires running down to his wrists. Her index finger coils around one of those wires, wondering why he left it exposed like this.

“Go on, rip it,” he says, voice hoarse. “Not gonna hurt me.”

She meets his optics, considers trying, but doesn’t want to. She’s usually game for a little bit of rough love, but she’s never been able to try hurting someone she cares about even when she knows she can’t. She looks back at that red wire, releases it. Climbs higher, across the smooth plane of his bicep. Slides a fingertip over the thick bump of a manufactured vein that’s as firm as the rest of the synthskin. Moves onto his shoulder, over more puckered seams, and brushes up against the edge of his vest, runs her hands down the front, and gingerly pushes it off his shoulders. It drops to the floor with a soft thump.

She draws a shaky breath and takes in his bare chest, a patchwork of synthskin and veins, of chrome and seams. She can feel his optics on her, watching her, as she reaches out to trace a flat plastic line from his shoulder to his sternum. She flattens her hand on his chest, pushes. Feels how hard he is beneath the synthskin. Skims her nails along his chest.

Dum Dum suddenly lifts his arm and she flinches, but he just bites the inhaler, takes a third hit—fuck, he must be struggling.

“Claw me up, princess,” he says inside a white cloud, and she catches trace amounts of the chem on her tongue, in her nose. “Won’t mind.”

She flicks her gaze to his before dropping her palm to his exposed armorweave abs. Her nails click over the metal ribbing, slide over the thick wires and hoses on either side, grazes the V of manufactured muscle on his hips. A faint hissing breath rattles out of him, and she wonders if he can feel this, if it feels good.

He can sense it, of course. Thermo- and mechanoreceptors are required in every external piece of chrome in order to be functional. It’s how the user differentiates textures and temperatures, how they know when someone or something is touching them, or the right amount of pressure to apply when smoking a cigarette, shooting a gun, gorilla-punching some asshole, or hugging their kids. But all those cybernerves are artificial, which means they can be customized. And that’s the thing: it’s up to the individual how they want their brain to perceive the signals from these sensory receptors. As a feeling or just data.

V doesn’t have a hard time imagining a Maelstrom ‘borg would opt for the latter, but the way he’s reacting…

She whispers, “Can you feel this?”

His throat bobs as he swallows, grinds out, “Feel it, yeah.”

“How does it feel?”

Unlike pain, pleasure isn’t determined by any particular set of nerve endings, but is entirely modulated by the brain based on sensory input. Which means, depending on how he tweaked those receptors, this could feel nice, awful, or like barely anything at all.

His mouth tightens, throat bobs again. “Fuckin’ torture,” he rasps. She starts to withdraw her hand but he snatches it up, plasters it against his stomach, jerks his hand away like he’s afraid he broke a rule. “Get on with it.”

V nods—doesn’t know if he hates this or if it’s driving him mad, but she’s grateful he’s letting her—and slides her palm back up to the exposed metal T of his sternum and collarbone, explores the bizarre indentation of metal in the back of his neck, the warm human skin of his throat and head, the chrome nestled over his Adam’s apple. And Dum Dum stands still, letting her do it. His fingers tighten into fists, his breathing gets ragged, but he lets her.

When her exploration slows, he asks, “Ready to run?”

She places his hand on her waist and steps closer, can feel the press of those abdominal wires into her stomach, his body practically vibrating with restraint. An inviting musk fills her nostrils—cologne maybe?—that feeds her attraction.

She asks, “Still here, aren’t I?”

He licks his lips. “Yeah? Whatcha think?”

She traces the chrome along his jaw, taps those wicked spikes on his chin, brushes the metal bits below his lower lip and on his cheeks.

“Think you look like a monster,” she murmurs, briefly meeting his optics before she leans in and kisses his neck. She feels him swallow against her lips, that hand on her waist sliding onto her back to pull her closer. “But I think you like that…”

His voice is strained when he says, “‘Ganic girls ain’t into monsters.”

Something awful slices through her chest—Guilt? Pity? Indignation? She doesn’t know. Just hates the thought that he feels unwanted. Maybe she’s reading into it. Maybe ‘ganic opinions hold as much weight to him as a weefle’s talking points on DDR has to her. But if he does care? She can’t have him think it’s true about her.

She leans back far enough to pull her shirt over her head, exposing her bare torso, and his face darkens with something like greed. Didn’t think he could make that expression without eyes, but she feels it all the way to her toes. Makes her breathless.

“You don’t know what I like,” she says, and then gently kisses his lips. He immediately kisses her back, leaning in, tongue brushing hers, metal bits pressing into her skin. She pulls away and his mouth follows hers, a rough sound rattling in his throat.

He snarls, “Fuck your soft shit,” like a ward against some unwanted thing, a whisper of panic layered in the gravel of his voice. Doesn’t like it—or he’s afraid of it—but he holds himself still either way.

Slowly, V leans in and plants a kiss to the metal bits below his lip, one to the side of his chin, traces a path along the line of his jaw, acquainting herself with the feel of his chrome beneath her lips. Breathes in that inviting cologne.

And then she places her mouth against his ear and whispers, “Touch me.”

The sound that rumbles in his chest makes her a little afraid, a little excited, and then he grabs her ass, squeezing her pelvis against that hard length in his pants, and a breathy moan slips out of her. His other hand digs into her hair, grips it tight against her scalp just before his mouth slants over hers in a hot, hard kiss, possessive and deep, and a bolt of pleasure rips through her, but—

Metal presses into her face, spikes dig into her chin, his arms pin her against him—

Her stomach somersaults in panic and she slaps her hands against his shoulders, pushes away. It takes a second to register before he releases her mouth, loosens his grip. She leans back, gasps for air, chest heaving. Gazes at him, his mouth, and that panic is quickly overtaken by a rush of desire. She leans in and kisses him again. Wraps her arms around his neck, her wrist falling into the metal dip, and tangles her fingers in his chrome dreads, drags her nails over his scalp. Kisses him as aggressively as he kisses her.

He groans low in his throat, growls, “Fuckin’ me up, princess,” against the side of her mouth.

He nips at her chin, her jaw, drops to her neck and places a hot trail of wet kisses along her throat. Those spikes scrape at her skin, threatening to draw blood—she sucks in a sharp breath, fingers tightening on his neck, nails digging into his synthskin, body tensing. He’s trying to hold back, to be gentle, but he can’t completely. She rides it out, focuses on what he’s doing, and then her fear is eclipsed by the pleasure of his mouth and she melts against him. He releases her hair, grabs her ass, squeezes, claws at her underwear. A rip sounds through the apartment and the fabric falls at her feet. Then cool fingers are sliding over her core, smearing her arousal over the skin.

“Fuckin’ wet for me,” he rasps. “Knew ya would be.”

Her head drops back as he digs into her, rough silicon pads rubbing at her most sensitive places. Heat suffuses her skin, pleasure vibrating through her. He kisses her throat, sucking on flesh, and the contrast between his hard studs and wet tongue is a sharp reflection of his fingers driving into her.

“Dum Dum,” she whispers, vaguely aware she thought she’d feel like a gonk saying his name, thought she’d be embarrassed, but she’s not.

Feels as natural as being finger-fucked by a ‘borg.

He seems to like her saying his name, because his intensity ramps up as he excitedly bites her carotid, her jaw, her ear. Just like a monster to confuse feeding and fucking, but it feels so good, she can’t think, can’t speak. A feverish pressure is building, threatening to pitch her into oblivion—

“Come for me, princess.”

And she does, her hips jerking against his hand as euphoria floods her veins.

“Yeah, missed this fuckin’ preem pussy,” he says hoarsely before folding his lips over hers, kissing her as she rides out the shockwave, and it makes it so much more intense to know he was thinking about her, missing her over the last two days.

When she slumps against him, he picks her up effortlessly, carries her to the dark corner where her bed is nestled and drops her onto the blankets. He kicks off his boots, stares at her as he works the buttons on his pants, and she feels so raw, so fucking exposed under his gaze.

“Body’s fuckin’ preem,” he tells her, “fuckin’ hard. Got a ‘borg all fucked up.”

He unzips and she’s swamped with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation… But he doesn’t take them off, doesn’t even take himself out, just kneels onto the bed between her thighs. Grabs her behind the knee and kisses a path down her inner thigh. Her pussy pulses just before he seals his lips over her clit, licking deep, ripping a moan out of her as her back arches off the bed. She feels his groan more than hears it, and then he’s traveling up, kissing her stomach, her abdomen, her breasts. His tongue swirls over her right nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before moving to the other.

And then the hot head of his cock slides through her folds, thick and hard and textured with some kind of chrome, and she sucks in a sharp breath. Snaps her head up to look, but his face appears above her, red optics glowing in the dark, casting his face in shadow. He grips her thighs, wrapping them around his hips as he nudges her entrance, and he feels so large, she’s not sure he won’t rip her apart.

Her voice wobbles nervously, “Dum Dum—”

“Gonna be gentle,” he says in a ragged whisper, pushing in far enough for his cockhead to be swallowed in her heat. He makes a choked noise as his optics flicker off and pants against her cheek, “F-fuck…”

Without the glare of his optics, she can see his face more clearly, the tension around his mouth. She reaches up to touch his cheek but he snatches her hand, presses it into the mattress above her head. His optics flash on, pinning her as hard as his grip on her wrist. She thinks she should be scared, but her mind instantly conjures the memory of him standing over Zeta with his boot on the ‘borg’s head. He was lookin’ at her then like he’s lookin’ at her now…

She spreads her thighs a bit wider, wraps her legs around his hips and tightens her hold, urging him deeper. She can’t physically move him—he’s too strong, too heavy for that—but he knows what that pressure means, knows what she wants.

A faint grin twitches on his lips, mostly obscured by the glare of his optics, and then he pushes in deeper, stretching her. The pain is brief, eclipsed by a delicious fullness that has her lashes fluttering closed, head tilting back, and when he taps up against her cervix, she doesn’t recognize the sound that comes out of her mouth.

“Fuckin’ tight, fuckin’ hot—”

Dum Dum mutters more filthy praise, but for the first time in her life, her brain’s moving too slow to process it. All her RAM is dedicated to this, to the feel of his cock inside of her. Never felt anything like this. He slides out then thrusts back in and she cries out, arching into him as he bites out a curse. She’s vaguely aware of his hot breath on her cheek, the rough teeth of his chrome nose scraping her skin.

Thinks she hears him whisper, “Like that, princess?”

“Y-yes,” she breathes.

“Yeah, yeah, knew you would—fuckin’ perfect, fuckin’—”

He pulls out and surges back in, the hard smack of his hips bruising her thighs, but she hardly notices it amidst the pleasure rippling through her every time he seats himself all the way inside her. His free hand grasps and claws at one breast, toying with her nipple, squeezing the fat until it bulges between his fingers. His mouth latches onto her throat in wet, sloppy kisses, licking her neck, biting the skin, those spikes threatening to open the vein. Those deep grunts and thin hisses that color his ragged panting make her feverish with a desire that feels primal, has her nails digging into the thick synthflesh and exposed armorweave of his shoulders, scraping over his neck, fisting his dreads.

And then he grips her thighs in both hands, angling her hips higher, and creates a rhythm that makes her delirious with need, attuning every cell in her body to his touch. Making her his, down to the marrow of her bones. She wraps her arms around his neck as he slants his mouth over hers. Pleasure crashes over her in endless, powerful waves, building, building, building—

Stars explode behind her eyes, collapsing into a black hole of ecstasy that drags Dum Dum in after her. He makes a choked sound, body tensing, hips snapping against hers with abandon, and then stiffens, pulls out, air staggering out of him as he comes across her stomach.

V lays there gasping in the aftermath, boneless, her arms dropping onto her bed as all energy is diverted to her starving lungs. Thunder rumbles in the distance. She stares at Dum Dum poised above her, mouth a scant few inches from hers, those red optics overtaking her vision. The only light in the dark corner of her room.

The only light she needs.

Chapter Text

Dum Dum stares at unit #0716 for several beats before giving it a heavy knock. Doesn’t take long before the door slides open. He lifts his head and finds her standing there in a t-shirt and underwear, those long freckled legs on full display. Burn Corpo Shit—she wear that for him? Nah, can’t be. ‘Ganic girls don’t seduce ‘borg boys.

“Hey,” she says.

“Princess.”

He looks past her into the apartment—looks lived in, cozy, like it could be hers—and then she invites him inside. He does a thermal scan of the place, but she’s alone. This what it looks like?

He asks, “Ya live here?”

“Yeah, why?”

Fuck.

It’s her apartment.

She trusts him.

Happiness pierces his chest like a blade, slippin’ right through his epimorphic ribs and into his bionic heart. Desire pounds his synthetic veins as he runs a hand over his mouth to keep from smiling. Thought he’d have to warm her up first, remind her how he can make her feel. But she invited him to her place, is alone and wearin’ only a t-shirt… She wants him. Fuck, he brought excuses for bein’ here, just in case, but why wait? Waited long enough. Wants to finish what they started two days ago.

Dum Dum taps the door closed and crosses to her. Captures her chin and tilts her face up. Gives her plenty of time to tell him off, but she doesn’t. She just gazes at him, at his mouth, her heart beatin’ like a drum. Not fear, he knows that now.

Fuck, she’s so pretty…

He leans in to kiss her but barely pecks her mouth before pullin’ back—doesn’t know why, maybe to gauge her reaction, maybe he’s nervous—but it’s nice, real nice, and she doesn’t push him away—

He pulls her in close, grips her jaw, kisses her hard, and the ticking time bomb of his desire explodes in his chest, his brain, his gut, driving him against her. Blood pounds south, raising his cock, choking brain cells until he’s lost in the haze of her mouth, her soft lips, the slide of her tongue—makes him hard, makes him crazy.

“Sto—”

Her fleshy cheeks press into his face, but he doesn’t mind. He likes kissin’, almost as much as fuckin’, and he likes kissin’ her.

“Stop! Dum—”

Wants to lick her, bite her, kiss this girl forever.

“Dum Du—” She shrieks. “Sto—”

Her panic pierces the fog of dopamine clouding his mind and he draws back, fishes for his s-keef inhaler. It’s the chrome, always the chrome. Even ‘Strommer girls not chipped to the nines get a little squeamish—though they fuckin’ pretend otherwise. They get used to it. She’ll get used to it too, just has to calm down.

Dum Dum gazes at her face washed in the red of his optics, nudges her lips with the inhaler.

She flinches, murmurs, “No,” and pushes it away.

Doesn’t know why. It’ll calm her down, she knows that, and she looks scared, disoriented—but still so fuckin’ pretty it makes his chest hurt. Can’t believe she’s lettin’ him touch her, kiss her.

Dum Dum captures her chin—

“Wai—”

—and seals his lips over hers, licks into her mouth. Another rush of dopamine floods his brain, synapses sparking with every wet brush of flesh.

“Stop—”

“Can’t,” he rasps between kisses.

She’ll get used to it, that’s what he thinks. Or might, if his brain was doin’ any of that. But it’s not. Instinct is drivin’ him. He’s vaguely aware of her knee pushin’ into his thigh, her hands grappling with his shoulders, and then she bites his lip and—Fuck! That rough shit, it’s what he’s been waitin’ for. He kisses her harder, deeper, rougher. Wants to bite her, bruise her, eat her out, fuck her against this wall.

“Dum—”

Wants her to bite him again, claw him up, rip into his code—take him apart if she has to. Just wants to feel her, all of her—

She screams, “Please—”

Her terror rips him out of the fog, makes his heart jump nervously, and he breaks the kiss. The fuck?

She’s gasping, trembling—shit, shit—doesn’t want her to be scared, doesn’t wanna hurt her, not unless she likes it. Just needs one puff of Lace and she’ll be fine. Gonna make it good for her, real good for her, just has to calm down.

He holds up the inhaler, but she pushes it away, mutters, “No.”

Fear takes a sickening hold of his heart. No? Why the fuck not? Done it before when she was scared, so why not now? Fuck. She trusted him, yeah? Didn’t seem to mind his chrome. Let him finger-fuck her two days ago, brought him to her apartment, but a couple kisses and she’s out? She don’t want him anymore? He made her come twice, she knows it can be good. Can’t be kisses that changed her mind—

“Take a hit,” he says and offers the inhaler again.

She shoves his hand away. “No!”

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

“Why not?” His voice comes out rougher and louder than he wants it to. “Done with me?”

She snaps, “No, I just don’t want Lace to be the reason I’m not afraid to fuck you!”

Dum Dum’s jaw tenses, fear and lust brawling in his chest. Doesn’t wanna stop, but—fuck. Doesn’t wanna lose her—FUCK.

He pushes away, takes two steps back. Jams the inhaler between his teeth and thumbs the canister, breathes deep. The chem razes his mind, purges his veins, dulls the sharp sting of fear that he’s fucked this up. Doesn’t quite kill the feeling of rejection.

Never does.

Silence descends as she stares at him, her back flat against the wall, and he stands there in the middle of the room like a dog with his tail between his legs, desperate for her forgiveness, her approval, her permission. Gotta fix this somehow.

“You’ll like it,” he says, ‘cause he needs her to understand that. If she just gives him a chance, he’ll make her feel nova, like he did before. But she just stares at him, wary. His jaw clenches before he promises, “Not gonna hurt ya.”

“I know,” she says. “I wanna do this. I just wasn’t expecting it to feel so…hard—”

‘Course he’s hard, he’s a fuckin’ ‘borg. Can see that just lookin’ at him! She’s felt him, she knows. What’s her fuckin’ game?

“Not one of your fuckin’ meatboys,” he snarls. “Never gonna be.”

“I know, but I’m ‘ganic—”

He knows that, never forgot that, but doesn’t change what he is.

“Can’t be soft—”

“Said you’d be gentle. And you were.” She visibly swallows. “Just don’t use so much force…”

Force…?

Yeah…

Yeah, maybe he used too much. Was too excited, wasn’t careful, got too rough with the princess. Promised her he’d be gentle, didn’t he? Doesn’t want him to be soft, just gentle, like before.

Dum Dum licks his lips and nods—he can do that, can be gentle—and starts toward her.

Panic flashes on her face as she blurts, “Wait!”

He freezes at her sharp tone—still scared, on the verge of panicking—and stares at her, demoralized. Says she wants to do this, but does she? Doesn’t want his kisses, doesn’t want him near her. Fuck… Flirts with a ‘borg boy, but doesn’t want him. Not really. Just curious ‘bout his chrome, ‘bout ‘borg cock, but doesn’t want it. She just playin’ with him now? Knew it was too fuckin’ good to be true when she let him touch her.

Knew those smiles weren’t for him.

Seen that spooked look before, knows what it means. Saw it lots, long time ago, when he was interested in fuckin’ whatever cunt would let him, when corruptin’ good little ‘ganic girls and newly minted chrome jocks with ‘borg cock seemed like a fun game. They’d all laugh when the girls got scared and ran off. Some would even chase ‘em, make ‘em regret teasin’ a ‘borg boy like that. Not Dum Dum. He’s never fucked a bitch who didn’t want him to. Been a little rough, sure. A little forceful sometimes, too. But only with the ones who wanted it. ‘Ganic girls never wanted it. Not even chrome jocks can stomach Maelstrom mods. Nah, takes a ‘Strommer to fuck a ‘Strommer. Willingly, anyway. And he was fine with that.

‘Til the princess.

“Fuck you want, princess?” he scrapes out.

Her eyes, wide and round and a little overwhelmed, dart over his body before she says, “Just…be still. Let me touch you first. Get used to your chrome.”

Fuck…

Touchin’ him’s just gonna scare her away. Always does with ‘ganic girls. Gonna tease him some more? Gonna touch him and get his blood up and leave him wantin’? Even now, his cock’s ready… But he’s gonna do what she says, give her whatever she wants. Can’t help himself. Doesn’t know why, just knows what he likes and what he doesn’t, and what he likes is her.

Likes her too much.

Dum Dum bites the inhaler, takes another hit. Tries to numb his body and calm his nerves. And then he grits his jaw and nods.

V pushes off the wall, cautiously crosses over to him. She looks nervous, but…but soft. Like she hasn’t already made up her mind. He grits his teeth as she touches his hand and arm, traces the stitched seams and thick veins in his synthskin. Gently coils a finger around the wires that power his Gorilla Arms, real careful-like.

“Go on, rip it,” he tells her. “Not gonna hurt me.”

He’d have a hell of a hard time pullin’ ‘em out with the adhesives his ripper uses. But fightin’ him a little might make her feel better. Turn her panic into aggression, better for both of ‘em. But she just looks at him with those pretty green eyes, an emotion in them he can’t read—doesn’t like when he can’t read her—and then looks away, continues touchin’ him.

Soft. Slow. Thorough.

Fleshy palms, radiatin’ heat, sparkin’ fires all along his arm. Fingers tappin’, tracin’, sizzlin’ like cigarette butts ground into his skin. She reaches his vest, carefully removes it. Feels fuckin’ strange bein’ undressed like that, all slow and sweet. Like bein’ exposed. Makes him anxious. Her hair brushes his skin, tickles his chest, and his head tilts toward copper silk, breaths in—

She steps back, resumes mappin’ his body with that gentle touch of hers, hands slidin’ over his chest, pushin’ heat into his body, burnin’ him alive. Fuck… Used to hard and fast, rippin’ and tearin’, blood up and ready to fuck. Not this soft shit. Wants her to dig in, rip him apart, release some of this building pressure. And then those fingers bend, her nails graze his synthskin like a promise—

Dum Dum shoves the x-keef inhaler in his mouth, takes a third hit. Buys himself a little more patience, but it’s not gonna last. Not if she keeps this up.

“Claw me up, princess,” he says, exhaling the chem. “Won’t mind.”

She glances at him again, but doesn’t give him that relief. Just drops her nails to his stomach and scrapes along his abdomen, way too damn close to his cock. His jaw clenches, air hissing out of him.

She whispers, “Can you feel this?”

He swallows. “Feel it, yeah.”

“How does it feel?”

He swallows again, rasps, “Fuckin’ torture.”

‘Cause he feels like he’s gonna explode if he doesn’t touch her, the fuckin’ tease.

Somethin’ like worry flashes on her face and she starts to pull her hand back, but he snatches it up and mashes it against his stomach, rips his hand away right after—told him to stand still, doesn’t wanna blow this.

“Get on with it,” he growls.

She studies him a moment before continuing, up his chest, over his collarbone, twistin’ him up, unraveling his control. She touches his neck, and her fingertips feel different on his meat flesh, feel sharper. Hurts, almost. Wants her to scratch him, just a little—the pain’ll make it hurt less—but she doesn’t. Just continues her gentle, razor blade strokes.

When her touches slow down, he braces himself for disappointment then rasps, “Ready to run?”

She doesn’t immediately answer, just picks up his wrist and places his hand on her waist. Steps closer, her body a light touch against his. He barely holds back from pullin’ her in.

“Still here, aren’t I?” she asks in a voice that’s real sweet—not patronizing, not combative, but meant to put him at ease, like one of her smiles.

He licks his lips, heart beating harder. “Yeah?” Against his better judgment, he asks, “Whatcha think?”

She traces the chrome on his face, murmurs, “Think you look like a monster.”

Pride and trepidation fill him as she leans in to kiss his throat. Her lips are soft, real soft on his meat, cuts like a blade, fucks with his head. He swallows, hand slidin’ onto her back, pullin’ her in just a little.

She whispers against his skin, “But I think you like that…”

He does, he fuckin’ loves it as much as he hates it. ‘Cause he wants her to think it, yeah, but he wants her to like it, too. And she doesn’t, she can’t, ‘cause—

“‘Ganic girls ain’t into monsters.”

She leans back and his fingers tighten unconsciously, tryin’ to hold on—doesn’t want her to leave him—

She pulls her shirt over her head, exposin’ freckled flesh, perfect tits—

“You don’t know what I like,” she says in a way that nails him to the fuckin’ floor. And then she kisses him and his blood bursts into flames. He pulls her close, kisses her back, opens her mouth, sweeps his tongue against hers—

She pulls away—no, no, no—and he follows—can’t fuckin’ take it. Promised to be good, didn’t he? To be gentle. Did what she asked, stood still, let her touch him all soft and slow—fuck. He grits his teeth and forces himself to go still.

“Fuck your soft shit,” he snarls, desperate, ‘cause he’s been good, real good, deserves some relief.

She just stares at him, waits to see if he’ll hold still, if he can, and he does, ‘course he does—not a fuckin’ animal. And then she leans in and places another sharp kiss to the chrome beneath his lip, his chin, along his jaw—fuck, feels soft, feels nice. Her copper hair falls against him, close, so close—

Her lips brush his ear and then she whispers, “Touch me.”

Desire surges in his veins as he practically purrs, grips her ass and pulls her in tight, mashes her cunt against his cock—even through his pants, he can feel how soft she is, how hot she is—and she moans, striking new scars into his chrome cochlea. He plunges his fingers into her hair—soft, so fuckin’ soft—and grips it tight, holds her still, holds her against him, and kisses her again, tongue sweeping her mouth—so good, so nice—

She pushes on his shoulders—fuck, no, no—and he reluctantly loosens his grip. She leans back, gasping, spooked—fuckin’ gonk, said he’d be gentle, messed up again, fuck, fuck—

Suddenly she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him hard, lips and tongue hungrily seeking his, tits squished against his chest. He pulls her in tight as she yanks on his dreads, nails scrapin’ over his scalp, and he groans—it’s everything he wants, too good to be true, don’t let it be a fuckin’ lie—

“Fuckin’ me up, princess,” he murmurs against the side of her mouth before bitin’ her chin, her jaw, trailin’ kisses down to her neck, suckin’ and lickin’. She tenses up but doesn’t push back, doesn’t beg him to stop—a reminder to check his force, to scale back, to be gentle, and he tries, he fuckin’ tries.

She softens up, sinks into him, sighs in pleasure. A green light—

He claws at her panties until they rip then paws at her cunt like the desperate fuck he is. His fingers slide through that thick wetness—

“Fuckin’ wet for me,” he rasps. “Knew ya would be.”

Didn’t know, but hoped. Never thought she’d want him, just accept him after enough liquor and Lace. But two days ago, when her cunt was drippin’ wet for him, he realized she did want him, even for a moment, and he liked it, liked it too much, wanted to keep it, keep her. He needed her to want him, to be wet for him now—

And she is.

He pushes his fingers into her tight heat—‘cause he missed it, ‘cause he wants her to remember how fuckin’ good he can make it—and strokes all the spots that make her walls quiver, thumbs her clit to drive her there faster. She tips her head back, baring her throat, and he feasts.

“Dum Dum,” she whispers—not in fear, but sweet like praise, like a plea for more, and he likes it—

He bites that pulsing vein in her neck, the bone of her jaw, her ear—gonna eat this girl alive—and strums her insides. Fuck, wants to tell her so many secrets. That he killed the Fat Rat for shootin’ her. That he took Handsy’s paw for touchin’ her. That he made sure the Voodoo Boys ain’t huntin’ her—but if they had been, he’d have fuckin’ hunted them right back, if they’d fuckin’ thought about fryin’ her pretty little circuits, he’d have tossed ‘em in the microwave dryer.

Wants to tell her when he had his fingers buried in Arrow’s guts, all he could think about was bein’ knuckle deep in her pussy and makin’ her come.

He murmurs, “Come for me, princess.”

And she does, cryin’ out and gushin’ into his palm, slick and sweet. Missed this fuckin’ preem pussy… He kisses her, swallowin’ her gasps, tastin’ her euphoria. When she slumps against him, he scoops her up and carries her to the bed, drops her onto the tangle of blankets. Kicks off his boots, undoes the button on his pants as his amplified hearing ware catches the sound of thunder rollin’ closer. He stares at her lyin’ there, the sinful curves of that ‘ganic body, faint scars, the dip of hip bones, freckles everywhere—wants to lick ‘em up, one by one. Gazes at the aura of copper tangled around her head. Those green eyes peer up at him, glowin’ in the dim light, ‘dorphed up with desire, fuckin’ dangerous…

Dum Dum’s caught himself a code witch, a siren of the cybersea.

“Body’s fuckin’ preem,” he breathes, unzippin’ his pants, “fuckin’ hard. Got a ‘borg all fucked up.”

He doesn’t take his pants off—doesn’t want her to see his cock, not yet, knows she’ll get nervous—so he leaves ‘em on, kneels down between her legs and catches her behind the knee. Kisses a path down her inner thigh to the part of her he wants to taste more than anything. Seals his mouth over her pussy like he’s bitin’ into a peach, licks deep into her silky heat, sucks on her clit, and groans deep in his chest. Tastes different than ‘borg cunt, tastes fuckin’ preem, like sex and sweat and somethin’ heady. And then he moves higher—will eat this pretty cunt ‘til she comes later, but right now he needs inside of her before she changes her mind and he loses his.

He kisses her stomach and abdomen, licks a line up her tit and sucks a firm nipple into his mouth, barely resists bitin’ down before movin’ to the other. Buries his face in the fat of her breasts, soft, heavy, squishy—got his meat brain lightin’ up like Corporate Plaza. And she’s sighing and writhing and enjoying herself, so Dum Dum reaches down and frees his cock from his pants, nudges her slick pussy, feels himself slide through her center and—

Fuck, it’s nice, so fuckin’ wet, fuckin’ warm—

A panicked look flashes on her face and she raises her head like she wants to see what he’s about to shove into her—he wants her to see it too, wants to see her reaction, her awe, her fear, wants to watch himself disappear into her perfect cunt—but she can’t. Not yet. Not until she knows there’s nothin’ to be scared of ‘cause she’s already come on it.

He slides up to put his face in front of hers, blockin’ her view of their hips, and grabs her thighs, wraps her legs around him, his cock proddin’ her pussy—

Her voice trembles nervously, “Dum Dum—”

“Gonna be real gentle,” he promises and pushes in. Liquid heat envelopes his cockhead, squeezin’ him. His optics flicker off as he chokes out a breath, sputters, “F-fuck…”

Fuckin’ preem, f-fuckin’ good—

He senses her movement before he sees it—her reachin’ for him, to touch his face—and snatches her wrist, pins her arm above her head. Probably usin’ too much force, but he can’t handle her soft shit, not right now—really will tear her apart. He switches his optics on, stares at her. Expects to see fear in her eyes, but it’s not there. It’s somethin’ else, somethin’ dark, intense.

She adjusts her legs around his hips, digs her heels into the backs of his thighs, tries to pull him in deeper.

Serotonin and dopamine flood his brain in sparking synapses, rushin’ down his spine with their electric snap. She wants him, wants this cock in her—

He pushes in—tight, hot, wet—

Fuck, fuck—

Velvet heat, burnin’, squeezin’, suckin’ him deep ‘til he bumps up against a soft, squishy wall, and she makes a sound that nearly has him come right there. He drifts closer to kiss her, but he’s too dope-soaked to find her lips.

Better than any ‘dorph high.

“Fuckin’ tight, fuckin’ hot. Pussy’s preem, chokin’ my cock,” he rasps before pullin’ out and thrustin’ back in. “Fuck,” he hisses beneath her pleasured cry, pantin’ against her cheek, nuzzlin’ her skin. “Like that, princess?”

Takes a second for her to answer, like she’s stumblin’ through the same dopamine fog he is.

Whispers, “Y-yes.”

He smiles, breath staggerin’ out of him. “Yeah, yeah, knew you would.” He nuzzles her cheek again. “Fuckin’ perfect, fuckin’—”

He surges into her, and anything he planned to say is lost to the feel of her grippin’ him. He falls into a rhythm, slidin’ in and out of her. Kisses his way to her neck, lappin’ at her flesh like a starving man. Paws at her breasts, squeezin’, relishing how pliable her body is. She arches into him, a smooth plane of flesh flexing against his chrome torso. Her nails scrape along his shoulders and neck, fingers fist his dreads, and euphoria rips through him, pleasure fizzin’ along his spine like carbonated sparks, can taste color, hear light. He hikes her hips higher, drivin’ in deep, and her moans and whimpers rip into him, claw at his self-control until he can barely hold himself back.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, closer than before, momentarily masking the quiet hum of the ventilation, the sound of his hips slappin’ against her thighs, the squelchin’ of his cock pumpin’ into her wet heat, the air bein’ beaten out of their lungs, the occasional grunt and gasp. And then the sounds of their fuckin’ crash back in, sweetest music he’s ever heard.

He finds his way back to her mouth and kisses her, savors the slide of her tongue, the pressure of her lips, the taste of her sounds. Her muscles begin contracting around him, pulsin’ faster and faster—

She comes and it’s bliss, fuckin’ scorchin’, stranglin’—fuck—

He rams into her, over and over—

A thunderous wave of ecstasy explodes through him, ridin’ his circuits, zappin’ his rig into silence as he comes across her stomach, one hot stream after another until he’s empty. And then her arms drop from around him and thump softly into the blankets, her thighs slippin' from around his hips.

Thunder booms louder, closer.

Dum Dum pants into the quiet aftermath, starin’ at her green eyes and freckle-flecked skin bathed in red. At tendrils of copper hair twisted messily around her flushed face. Notices for the first time the thin, bloody slices on her chin. He did that? He reaches up and thumbs the wound, leaving a faint smear of blood.

She looks so fuckin’ ‘ganic, so fuckin’ soft…

He licks her chin then captures her lips in a long, languid kiss—the only apology he knows how to give—before fatigue finally hits him. He rolls off of her, sinkin’ into the mattress beside her, shoulders and head propped against the wall. Shuts his optics off and breathes, slow and deep. Exhaustion swamps him, but he fights it. Can’t be tired, not yet. Just needs to catch his breath. Doesn’t have long, has to head back soon…

And he’s far from done with his princess.

Chapter Text

The first raindrops of the coming storm splat against the window—one, three, ten—and then thunder rumbles and the sky opens up. The sound is muted through the thick glass, but Dum Dum can hear it perfectly with his ware, drumming melodically against the pane. He’s so relaxed, so content, it’s almost enough to lull him to sleep. Didn’t think it’d be that good with a ‘ganic. Wasn’t sure he could come without all the tricks of a Midnight Lady, but turns out ‘ganic pussy’s got tricks of its own. That liquid heat? Fuck…

Makin’ this girl his mainline, she just don’t know it yet.

V clears her throat, and Dum Dum’s entire being prickles with attention. “You, uh,” she swallows, voice raspy from exertion, “you were right.”

“‘Bout what?”

“That I’d like it…”

Dum Dum grins, and that sharp blade of happiness twists between his ribs—knew she would, told her so, but he likes hearin’ her say it. His optics flicker on and he looks at her smilin’ up at him.

“Yeah, knew ya would,” he says lazily. “Was fuckin’ nova.”

Her smile widens, reaches her eyes and makes her look real fuckin’ pretty, before softening to somethin’ sweet. “That why you came over?” she asks, gaze droppin’ to his mouth. “Said you wanted to talk, but…haven’t done much of that.”

“Had my priorities straight,” he says, and she smiles wide again—she likes that, likes knowin’ he’s fixated on fuckin’ her. Wonders if she’d like knowin’ just how fixated on her he really is. He doesn’t tell her, just says, “But yeah, need to talk. Brought other biz.”

She tries to stifle that smile with a lip bite. Nods and murmurs, “Okay,” then carefully sits up. “Let me clean up first.”

Dum Dum watches her disappear around the corner, hears a sink turn on. He stuffs himself back into his pants and zips up. Takes a look around her sleep cubby, absorbing the little details of her world. Notes the dark blue comforter wrinkled beneath him, the dreamcatcher hangin’ on the wall, the issue of Ballsy magazine tossed to the side, and the pile of pillows at the head of the bed. On the opposite end and embedded in the wall are shelves filled with dusty trinkets, datashards, a chip reader, an ashtray that looks like it never gets used, and stacks of old books. He scans the spines and, from the titles, thinks they might be romance novels, but when he tries to imagine a killer merc kickin’ her feet over sloppy smut and corny dialogue, he can’t.

All around him is the smell of her, somethin’ subtle and floral and pretty, burrowin’ in his nose, drillin’ his brain, twistin’ that blade.

The sink shuts off and he slides forward to the edge of the bed, throws his legs over as lightning flashes outside the window. His chrome toes clink on the purple hexagon tiles scratched and nicked from hard living. She appears a second later, scoops her t-shirt off the floor and pulls it over her head. Donno why she’s puttin’ it back on. He’s just gonna take it off again.

“So,” she frees her hair trapped under the fabric, “what’s up?”

Dum Dum licks his lips, admirin’ her post-sex dishevelry—likes her this way, with her guard all the way down—and then he flicks her fifty thousand eddies. Her eyes light up green with the transfer and then widen in shock, brows jumpin’ toward her hairline.

“Shit,” she blurts, “what’s that for?”

“Exposin’ Arrow,” he says, and reaches for her hips. He draws her in between his knees with such force that her hands slap against his shoulders, and that surprised expression turns playful.

“Just doin’ the job you hired me to do,” she murmurs, reachin’ up to run her thumbs over his cheeks, his lower lip—right over the tender spot where she bit him. Her fingers glide along his jaw, nails idly scrapin’ down his neck, behind his ears, across his scalp. A hot, quiet breath slips out of him. Feels nice, feels soothing, makes his blood tingle.

“Job’s finished,” he rumbles, hands slidin’ over her thighs, her ass.

Her fingers go still against his neck, confusion coloring her tone as she says, “But I didn’t find Brick.”

“Don’t need to,” he breathes, squeezin’ her cheeks, pullin’ her closer, pressin’ his face into her stomach.

“Why not?”

“Royce wants to keep it in-house.”

She pushes against his shoulders to lean back—and it takes him a second to let her—and stares at him, gaze bouncing over his face. He wonders what that little frown means, why she suddenly feels so stiff.

And then she asks, “Is this ‘cause I was in the network?”

Is it ‘cause she—? Shit, she think she’s bein’ punished or somethin’? Nah, it’s not like that, but he doesn’t know how to answer. Feels disloyal to explain it’s a matter of pride. Royce was blindsided by Arrow’s betrayal, and an outsider exposed it, witnessed it. Made him look weak, stupid. Only way to salvage this is for Maelstrom to find Brick and nail him up as a warning.

“Nah, not about you,” he says, gazin’ at the outline of her tits beneath the shirt.

V just stares at him for a long moment before relaxing, nodding. “Okay.”

He pulls her in again, face-planting in her tits—fuck, she’s soft, warm, smells nice—and she makes a soft sound, somethin’ pleasant. Starts strokin’ his skin again, along his neck and scalp.

She says quietly, “It’s too much…”

His hands climb higher, pushin’ the t-shirt up onto her hips, exposin’ her bare cunt. “What…?”

“The eddies. It’s way too much.”

She tries to flick a portion back, but he blocks it.

“Nah…” He looks down to watch his palm slide over her thigh, thumb brushin’ the outermost edge of her pussy. “Keep it. Earned it.”

She caresses his jaw. “But—”

“Keep it.”

He slowly turns her around, hikes that t-shirt higher, and finds angry red splotches in finger-like shapes spread over each ass cheek, down the backs of her thighs. Can’t help the noise he makes in his chest—he likes it, likes it a lot—as he smooths his palms over her ass. He licks his lips, pulls her in, scrapes his teeth over those future bruises as his hands rove across her hips and stomach. She hums, back arching ever so slightly.

Her voice is breathy when she asks, “You want the intel I gathered?”

He nuzzles the small of her back, licks the line of her spine—wait, what’d she say? Intel on Brick?

“Want it, yeah,” he says against her skin. Will take all the help he can get.

She twists at the waist to look at him, strokes his cheek, scrapes her nail down his chin between the rows of spikes. She bends at the waist to peck his mouth, easin’ out of his grip. The t-shirt drops to cover her as she strides across the apartment to the only other door, pauses to key in a code on the pad beside it. It slides open as she glances back at him, a small, inviting smile playing on her lips.

Beyond her, a machine lurks in the darkness.

Dum Dum rises and follows her into this secret side room where the temperature instantly drops ten degrees. He leans against the door jamb, folds his arms over his chest, and does a sweep of the small space. A network of thick black cables snake along the floor, tied off into clusters in some attempt at organization. Preem Ristar VI servers are bolted to the walls, linked to a large cyberdeck tower encased in matte black panels and a cushy reclining chair in glossy leather. Three screens hang from the ceiling, encircling the chair, and a standing desk with a keyboard, chip reader, and monitor are positioned beside it. The only light comes from the machines—blue dots on the servers, a soft white glow from the screens, red lines on her deck.

This dark and cold place is her sanctum, where a killer codefreak kills and creates like a god.

Wants to fuck her here, has to.

Dum Dum tilts his head, watches her post up in front of that standing desk and plug a shard into the reader, key in a few commands. He notices the quiet only when she begins to type—her engines run in stealth mode like a predator on the hunt. Yeah, he likes that. Suits her. Likes seein’ her in her element, workin’ her own tech. Feels like peekin’ beneath her skin, inside her bones. She might tell him what’s under there, if he asks nicely. Codefreaks love talkin’ decks like boosters with chrome.

“Like your setup,” he says. “Preem shit. Whatcha runnin’?”

The smile she throws at him is all sly pride, burstin’ at the seams to spill her guts. But she won’t. Not that easy.

“Fuckin’ R-6s,” he observes. “Got a tricked out datafort, yeah?”

She laughs, plugs her personal link into the machine, and turns to face him, leans against the desk. Her eyes are glowing bright green. She’s overseein’ somethin’ in her system, but not fully immersed. He likes that, her walkin’ in the between.

“This a test?” she asks playfully. “Think I’d waste processing power on pretty pixels?”

“This a test?” he fires back. “Think I’m talkin’ graphics? Nah, haxan’s got some real slick ICE and killer demons.”

She hums like he just licked her pussy. “I like to think so.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Wanna see it.”

“Maybe I’ll show you sometime,” she says, and he grins.

Invitin’ him to her place is one thing. Fuckin’ him’s another. Lettin’ him inside her BBS? Fuck. Would mean she’s his and even she knows it.

Her eyes stop glowing and she turns back to her console, releases her link. Strokes a few keys then unplugs the datashard. She comes to join him in the doorway, leaning on the opposite side, and offers him the shard.

“That’s everything I’ve got,” she says. “Can’t say it’ll be much use, but…maybe there’s somethin’ in there that’ll make more sense to you than me.”

He takes it, slots it for safekeeping, and then they stare at one another for the span of a held breath.

“There’s somethin’ else,” she tells him, idly pickin’ at the hem of her shirt, “and you’re not gonna like it.”

“Say it.”

She takes a deep breath. “Got a message from someone warnin’ me to stop lookin’ for Brick—”

He stands up straight. “Who?”

“Donno, maybe Patricia—”

“Detes, give ‘em to me,” he growls. Her eyes bounce over his face before she flicks him the info, and he immediately recognizes it. Yeah, that’s fuckin’ Patricia.

“Came in the day Arrow was exposed,” V continues, “just a couple hours after.” And then she says the part she knew he wouldn’t like. “And I don’t think he got a message out before I locked him down.”

Meaning someone at All Foods leaked it. Dum Dum knows they still have plenty of Brick sympathizers in the ranks, but there’s a difference between bitter grumblings and treachery. Shit. Gonna have to go though the logs, string another asshole up. Doesn’t like pickin’ off good ‘Strommers for a single lapse in judgment, but fuck, an example’s gotta be set.

But that’s not what he cares about right now.

“What’d she say?” he asks.

V shrugs and repeats, “Stop lookin’ for Brick.”

Nah, that’s not it. Not even close. Sounds too much like diplomacy, and all of fuckin’ Maelstrom knows that bitch don’t got that gene.

He presses, “And?”

She huffs, shrugs. “Somethin’ ending in ‘or else’. It’s fine. I’m not scared of her.”

‘Course a haxan’s not scared of a booster like Patricia. He just doesn’t like the bitch threatenin’ his princess. Knows her style of violence, what she’s capable of. Can’t warn her off V, will just cause her to focus her scope, but if she takes even one shot, he’ll carve her up worse than he did the Fat Rat.

Dum Dum tongues a canine, itchin’ to light a cigarette. “I’ll handle the leak,” he says at length, reclinin’ against the door jamb once again. “Patricia’s a skunk, can smell her comin’. Will walk ya into an ambush herself, so don’t trust a fuckin’ word she says.”

“That’s not gonna be a problem,” V says with the hint of a smile. “Only Maelstrommer I trust is you.”

Dum Dum swallows, feels that blade of happiness twist a little harder, scrapin’ bone and leakin’ blood. He drops his head back onto the jamb, a soft breath puffin’ out of him. Knew she trusted him, but feels different hearin’ her say it, voice steady. Lookin’ into his optics, no lie in her eyes. Feels like a release, like a fault code’s been cleared.

She gazes at him, chewin’ her lip before sayin’, “You didn’t tell Royce I was in the network… Why?”

“He wouldn’t like it.”

“But you did it anyway.”

Doesn’t know what she’s drivin’ at, so he just says, “Told ya, I trust ya.”

She almost smiles, picks at her hem again. “So, you think you can find him now? Brick, I mean.”

“Donno. Got a fuckin’ major headstart. But this shit with Arrow? Means he’s still in Night City.”

“How do you know?”

“Brick wants Maelstrom back or he’d be long gone by now and there’d be no reason for these punks to rally.”

“So Royce’s crown really is in danger,” she observes, but Dum Dum doesn’t weigh in. “How much damage did Arrow do?”

“To Maelstrom? None. Just kept us from findin’ Brick. Fucker knew everything I knew, ‘cept that I let you in the network.”

“Smart,” she says, “playin’ it close to the vest.”

But it wasn’t smart. He was just protectin’ her. Didn’t want Royce involved. He doesn’t tell her that, though, just stares. For a long moment, the only sound’s the rain peltin’ the window, the occasional rumble of thunder. Thoughts whir behind those green eyes as emotions play across her face in micro expressions—nothin’ he can read. Not tryin’. Just likes lookin’ at her. At the hint of her curves beneath her shirt, the tangle of copper waves fallin’ to her mid-back, the freckles spattering her skin. At the stars in her head, a constellation of promised pain.

“You look exhausted,” she murmurs.

Doesn’t know what she sees to think that, doesn’t wanna admit it’s true. ‘Cause he may be tired, but he’s also horny as fuck. The last thing on his mind is sleep.

He deflects with, “Been interrogatin’ Arrow.”

“Wait, this whole time?”

He doesn’t wanna answer, but his silence says enough.

She frowns, somethin’ like concern warpin’ her face as she blurts, “Shit, you should be sleeping—”

“Nah,” he shakes his head, “gotta get back soon.”

She stares at him in disbelief, and he can see the moment she pieces together that the first chance he got, instead of sleepin’, he came to see her—her face flushes, her eyes get soft, she fights a smile.

“Okay, lay down. Relax,” she says, pushin’ off the wall, startin’ across the apartment. He immediately follows her. “I’ll make you something to ea—”

He catches her around the waist, pullin’ her back against his chest. His hands rove over her hips, her stomach, climbin’ higher, and a hot sigh shakes out of her as he palms her tits through her shirt. He trails wet kisses up her neck, meets the warm metal slab of her interface plate behind her ear and traces the edge with his tongue. He buries his nose in her hair, breathes deep as he flicks and toys with her nipples.

“Dum Dum,” she sighs, droppin’ her head back onto his shoulder, openin’ her throat up to him. “You need to rest…”

“Nah,” he breathes against her skin, pinching a nipple until she cries out. “Need to fuck you again.”

She sighs hotly and presses a hand to his thigh, slowly slidin’ it up and down alongside his thickening cock. Whispers, “Gonna let me see it now?”

Dum Dum grins against her throat. “If ya want.”

“Tried to hide it before.”

So, she noticed. Clever princess.

“Knew you’d get inside your head,” is all he says.

She hums and her next stroke is right over his cock—

Fuck. Feels fuckin’ preem, even through the fabric, and he squeezes her tits a little harder in his excitement. She tilts her face toward his and kisses him, her tongue slidin’ against his—so fuckin’ sweet, the taste of her—and then turns in his arms, drags her palms down his chest. He can feel a slight tremor in her fingers—still gettin’ used to his chrome—and then she fusses with the catch on his pants. Rips the zipper down and reaches inside, wraps her fingers around his cock—

He breaks the kiss as a sharp breath rushes out of him.

“Shit,” she breathes against his mouth with somethin’ like awe. “Can’t believe you fit this thing inside me.”

“Fit real nice,” he rumbles.

She makes a breathy moan of agreement, droppin’ her gaze to drink him in. A beautiful, filthy explicative slips out of her, and then she tightens her grip and drags her fist along his length, root to tip. He makes a noise—half grunt, half exhale—‘cause her touch’s not as hard as his, but every artificial nerve ending is tuned to her pressure, makin’ it just as fuckin’ good. And just knowin’ it’s her hand on him—fuck, he likes it, he—

His thoughts fly from his head as she strokes again, this time with her thumb positioned over the top, mappin’ his chrome studs and veiny synthskin. She places a gentle kiss to his lips and he’s so focused on her fingers that he barely kisses her back before she moves on, peckin’ the skin beside his mouth, his chin, all over his face. He wants to catch her lips again, but her thumbpad grazes his head—fuck, yeah, it’s nice—and a fingertip slides along the underside of his shaft. Been a long time since a chick explored his cock like this, even longer since he liked it.

She continues with her gentle kisses and soft touches, and it’s too fuckin’ sweet for him to stop her, to beg for it hard and rough. And then she plants her lips at the corner of his mouth and cups his balls—

Dum Dum grips the back of her neck, mouth crashin’ into hers, and a surprised noise pops in the back of her throat—pleasure, he thinks. He yanks her against him, presses his hand into the base of her spine and lifts her up until his cock slides beneath her shirt to rub between her legs—

There’s a sudden pressure against his shoulders, a muffled warning in her mouth—

Usin’ too much force again—fuckin’ gonk, already forgettin’.

Dum Dum doesn’t let her go, just eases up ever so slightly, and within seconds, those hands on his shoulders soften, stop pushin’ and start pullin’. She grips his neck, his dreads, drags him closer as his cock slides through her wet heat, back and forth, studs bumpin’ up against her clit until she’s grindin’ on it, beggin’ to be fucked.

He walks them to the bed, takes his hands off her long enough to pull her shirt over her head and strip out of his pants. Her gaze wanders to his cyber legs—hasn’t seen the lower half of him yet, but it’s gonna have to wait. He kisses her again, her lips, her neck, her shoulders and chest, then spins her around. Kisses her shoulder blades and back, hands rovin’ over her hips, ribs, tits, squeezing, pinching.

He asks, “Got a CI?”

Contraceptive Implant—standard even for straight-edged meatgirls, but a thermal scan can’t pick it up.

“Y-yeah,” she murmurs as he nudges her pussy from behind.

Preem.

“On your knees,” he scrapes out.

And she obeys. Climbs onto the bed on all fours, back arched, showin’ him that perfect pink cunt, slightly swollen from the poundin’ she took earlier—fuckin’ beautiful, fuckin’ perfect—and he wastes no time in linin’ himself up and thrustin’ inside. She cries out, but that wet, scorching heat grips him so fuckin’ tight that he barely registers the sound. He stays like that for a beat, takes a second to breathe, to enjoy the clenching, slimy vice grip—fuckin’ addicted to this—before he starts movin’. He grips her hips and draws her tight against him, watches his cock disappear inside of her over and over again, mesmerized. Listens to her moans and winces, scoring his thrusts like a song, accompanied by his hips slappin’ against hers, cock squelchin’ into her heat, by lightning flashes and rain poundin’ the window.

He sinks a knee into the mattress and bends over her, lips ghostin’ over her spine, teeth grazin’ her shoulder blade, nose diggin’ into her hair. He catches her jaw and angles her head back, kisses her, fucks her mouth with his tongue until he can’t hold the position any longer, needs full range of motion—

He straightens and rams into her, beating her womb until she’s crying out, pulsing, squeezing. His hips jerk erratically as she comes around him, chokin’ him—

“Fuck—”

He comes deep in her cunt, circuits sizzlin’ with white-hot euphoria.

Dum Dum drops his forehead to her shoulder, optics pressin’ into her skin. For a moment, they’re perfectly still as air rushes in and out of their lungs. And then her arms begin to shake. He catches her around her waist before she collapses, lowers her onto her back, chest heaving, eyes closed. He scans the length of her body, notes the angry red patches of bruised flesh all over her tits, her ribs, her hips, her thighs. Bloody scrapes and slices glisten everywhere he’s kissed her tonight.

Gets why she was scared. He brutalized her.

Dum Dum rubs his mouth, unable to stop the rush of pride and possession he feels when he looks at those marks. Doesn’t wanna hurt her, but…he likes ‘em. Likes ‘em a lot.

He reaches out, slides his hand over her body, over those freckles and bruises. She opens her eyes, blinks at him.

“Askin’ me about a CI,” she murmurs sleepily. “That mean you can still have kids?”

Dum Dum stares at her, unsure how to respond. Not really a conversation he wants to have with a girl he just docked. “Yeah, why?”

Her shoulder jumps. “Just wasn’t somethin’ I figured a Maelstrommer would want.”

She’s not wrong. Sure, plenty of ‘borg boys got kids out there, just not ones they have anything to do with. ‘Borg girls? Womb’s usually the first thing they rip out—s’what sent most of ‘em down the ‘Strommer path to begin with. As for Dum Dum, he doesn’t want kids—fuck, can’t imagine bein’ in the same room as a squealin’ welp, much less ever takin’ care of one—but he could never fully come around to the idea of castratin’ himself. Flesh is weak, yeah, but he hasn’t yet figured out what’s weaker—holdin’ onto the idea his balls make him a man or cuttin’ off his ability to fuck life into this world.

“Nah, don’t want kids,” he confirms, ‘cause he doesn’t know why she’s askin’—doesn’t think she’d want his pups, but the craziest bitches always seem the most normal at first.

She just nods like that’s what she figured. “Then why hold on to the jewels?”

Dum Dum thumbs a dark stain on her areola—doesn’t know if his teeth or fingers made the mark, but he likes it. “Think I’d let ‘em cut my balls off?”

Her eyebrows lift a fraction. “You let them cut your dick off…”

“Just for a better one.”

She smiles, closes her eyes. “Mm, can’t argue with that.”

Dum Dum grins and kisses that smile. She makes a muffled sound of surprise, laughs, and tries to kiss him back, but he’s already standin’ up. It’s time for him to head back. Doesn’t wanna leave, wants to lay down beside her and sleep, but Arrow’ll be prepped and ready by now, and Royce is waitin’ for answers.

Thunder rumbles distantly, movin’ off, but the rain still splatters unrelenting against the window as Dum Dum puts on his pants and stuffs his feet into his boots. He turns to find her sittin’ up, a blanket held haphazardly to her chest, watchin’ him, waitin’. He grips her jaw, kisses her again. Tries to be careful, to not scar her chin by diggin’ in too deep, but he can’t help himself. He opens her mouth, slides his tongue against hers, trades deep and languid kisses until her fingers gently slide along his jaw—

He pulls back—can’t keep goin’ or he’ll never leave—and thumbs her chin.

“Sweet dreams, princess,” he rasps, and lets her go. He shrugs into his vest and heads toward the door.

“Good luck,” she says as he palms the control panel.

He glances back at her, at her smile, and feels another painful prick of happiness in his chest. Could get used to this. The second he leaves the apartment, he lights a cigarette and heads down to the garage, catching fearful glances from the residents all the way there. He guns it back up to Northside, blastin’ Ritual FM with the windows down, wind and rain beatin’ his face.

And he can’t stop smilin’.

Chapter Text

V stares at her front door long after it closes, mind whirling, chest tightening. Apprehension collides with raw satisfaction and giddy, chemically-induced affection, a confusing post-sex cocktail. She just had the best sex of her life, and it was…terrifying and euphoric. Her chin burns from his spikes slicing her skin, her breasts ache where he squeezed, her ass and thighs hurt from where his chrome hips rammed into her, and yet her body is still humming in bliss. The feel of him inside of her, his rough touches, his kisses—fuck, he’s a good kisser. Could kiss that man for hours… And there was something almost sweet in the way he touched her after, exploring her body with a kind of reverence.

Got her head and her heart all twisted up.

Tomorrow, she’ll come to her senses, but tonight? Tonight, all she’s thinkin’ is what it’d be like to be a Maelstrom ‘borg’s girl. Doesn’t know if she really wants that, doesn’t know if it’s even possible. Job’s finished, he said and paid her an exorbitant amount—shit, she’s never seen so many eddies from one gig—then fucked her twice like he was getting her out of his system. Like maybe their biz was finished.

She fuckin’ hopes not. Doesn’t want to lose what they have. ‘Cause she likes everything about it.

V’s mind wanders to that quiet moment when she was stroking his cheeks, his jaw, studying his face through an oxytocin-colored lens. Still couldn’t see him as handsome, but she was attracted to him all the same—found him sexy, desirable, adorable. And as she stared at those seven red optics of his, she was struck with a profound desire to take them off like a mask, as if his real eyes were hiding just behind them. Wanted to see into his heart, to know how he really felt about her. But that’s not how it works with Maelstrom. Those optics are his eyes, one-note, unblinking, unfeeling. She can watch his mouth for emotion, and occasionally he might tell her how he feels, but there will always be some mystery with him.

V sighs and slaps a hand over her eyes, drags her fingers down her face, groans into the silence. What is she fuckin’ doing? Desire isn’t everything, she knows that. But when it’s this potent, this powerful? And already paired with trust… She knows where this road leads. Is halfway down it already. And there’s no way she can keep walkin’ it, no way she can allow herself to fall in love with a Maelstrom ‘borg. Because while she was never naive enough to believe in a happy ending, she hoped to avoid a tragic one.

“Fuck,” she whispers, gazing at the spot in her apartment where he stood stark still like she asked him to, snarling, Fuck your soft shit, as she touched him everywhere.

And all she can think about is all the soft shit she still wants to do with him.

-o-

The sound of a fight bell precedes the noise of an announcer calling shots, a crowd roaring, and two fighters shuffling around a mat, blocking punches. A loud TV means there’s no client in the ripperdoc’s chair, and so V lets herself into the clinic without a second thought. She finds Vik slouched at his desk, cheek propped on his fist, eyes glued to the small screen.

“Hey, Vik,” she hollers over the noise, lifting her hand in greeting.

He looks up and cracks a smile, immediately turning the volume down. “V, hey,” he says, twisting to face her. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I,” she announces, pulling the Unity from her waistband, “am finally returning this. Cleaned, oiled, and with a full clip.”

He slowly rises to his feet, reluctantly reaching for the pistol. “You sure?”

“Yep, got my own now. A Tsunami Nue.”

He whistles as he takes the gun, opens a drawer on his desk, and stuffs it inside. “Preem piece. Didn’t know you had good taste in handguns.”

She laughs. “Didn’t know you did either.”

Vik just smiles, says, “I’m old, not stupid,” and leans against his desk. “Can’t bring fists to every fight.”

V nods knowingly. “Or quickhacks.”

“Exactly.” He gives her a once over. “So where are you headed, all dressed up?”

She huffs, adjusting her cropped black jacket over the slightly wrinkled white blouse with lacey trim. With tight black jeans and ankle boots, she’s not exactly “dressed up”, but it’s the nicest-looking outfit she owns.

“Got a gig,” she explains. “Need to klep somethin’ from a swanky little loft in Charter Hill, and I don’t wanna stand out too much.”

She was surprised when she saw Wakako’s message this morning. Never expected the old bat to throw anymore work her way after Konpeki. That woman has more connections than the Night City power grid, would’ve heard rumors about V’s involvement with a high-profile gig gone south, would know about Jackie’s death, could put two and two together. A pocket ‘runner with no solo is useless on the street. Sure, V’s been slowly stitching her rep back together, making something new out of the tattered pieces, but never expected Wakako to throw her a bone.

Vik asks, “Workin’ regular hours again?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Nothin’ too risky, but I’ve been keepin’ busy.”

“That how this happened?” He pinches his chin. “One of those not-too-risky gigs?”

Her mind flashes back to Dum Dum’s rough kisses, his hard grip, him thrusting into her, his metallic voice telling her too many perfect things, and she hopes she isn’t blushing. She’d applied a hydrogel over the scrapes and bruises to speed healing, but it’ll still take a few days for them to completely disappear. Luckily her outfit hides enough of the damage so it’s not obvious how she got it.

“Sure, ‘cause that sounds more badass than how it actually happened,” she jokes, hoping he’ll drop it.

He just nods and says, “Fair enough. So how’s the street treatin’ you?”

“Good.” She tries not to smile, to show how excited she is when she says, “Just finished a job worth a windfall of eddies.”

A little grin crooks Vik’s lips. “Oh yeah? Spent it yet?”

She drops onto his rolling stool, wrinkles her nose before admitting, “Thinkin’ about gettin’ a new car.”

He snorts. “Really? Now? Finally?”

“It was time,” she concedes.

“Uh huh.” He adjusts his weight against the desk. “Got somethin’ in your sights or still browsing?”

V purses her lips in thought, idly rolling back and forth. She never cared too much about cars—not more than her cyberdeck, anyway—but Dum Dum’s Quadra? Looked good, felt good, made her want one of her own.

“Was thinkin’ a Type-66,” she says, and Vik whistles again. She can’t help but smile, a stream of excited words spewing out of her, “I know, it’s preem, right? I don’t know what style I want yet—not even sure what’s in my budget—just know it’s gotta be a 66. I recently rode in one and—oh, Vik, it was so smooth, so fast. And I never thought I’d say this about anything other than my deck, but it was a damn sexy machine.”

Vik starts chuckling, folds his arms over his chest and gazes at her.

“What?” she asks, rolling the stool again. Did she pop a button? Is there something on her face?

“Your smile, it reaches your eyes again.” His lips curve softly. “You look happy. I’m glad.”

“Yeah, I…” She looks down at her knees, brows furrowed, a bemused tilt to her lips. “I guess I am, a little.”

A lump rapidly forms in her throat, her chest tightens painfully, tears spring to her eyes as she realizes what this means.

She’s moving on.

“Shit,” Vik curses softly, and then suddenly he’s kneeling next to her. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“No, no,” she says quickly, surprised by the tears that start dripping down her cheeks. She quickly swipes them away. “It’s not your fault. It just…it feels weird, y’know?” She sniffs back her emotion, keeps wiping at tears that just keep falling. “That, uhm, that it’s only been a few months and, uh,” she tries to ignore the way her voice wobbles, “it sometimes feels a lot longer than that.”

“I know,” he murmurs in that kind, deep voice of his. He reaches for something on his desk, hands her a rag. She takes it, dabs at her eyes.

“It feels wrong, you know?” she continues, wrestling her grief back into its box. “To feel this normal after so short a time.” She sniffles again, hands dropping into her lap. “It’s just like you said.”

“I know…”

Her mouth presses into a thin line, fingers anxiously toying with the tear-stained rag—folding it into a square, picking at the edges until they’re perfectly aligned, smoothing out the wet wrinkles. She finally understands what Vik meant when he said that sometimes you want to stop the pain from disappearing so quickly. She tried so hard to escape it, and now she wishes she hadn’t. Not out of guilt, but because Jackie deserves to be mourned, to be missed, for a lot longer than she’s given him.

But she doesn’t want to miss him… Missing him sucks, it’s a black hole, crushing mass, nothing survives. She doesn’t want to have to miss him, she wants him to be here—not for anything specific, just to talk, to hear his voice again, to hang out, play video games, grab pizza, exist. But he’s dead. And no matter how shitty it is, that’s just the way it is. An irreconcilable fact of life she will never come to terms with, but…life keeps on going anyway.

V swallows the lump in her throat, tugs at that rag, tries to think of something to say. She hates this. Hates tripping over her grief, hates having witnesses, hates obligating others to pity her, to comfort her, relate to her.

Vik tentatively reaches out, lightly touches her knee. “You okay?”

She takes a deep breath, slowly exhales, and nods. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Vik flashes a brief smile, gently squeezes her knee, and then stands up. He leans against his desk, stares at the ground. After a moment, V rolls over to the spot next to him, rests her head back on the desk and stares at the ceiling. The faint chime of the fight bell is the only sound leaking from the low volume on the TV.

She says, “You know, I always imagined grief would be more like what you see in the movies. Single moments standing out loud and clear.”

“In black and white, and slow motion?”

“Exactly.” She lets out a heavy breath before continuing. “But when I think about Jackie, nothin’ of substance ever really comes to mind. Sure, we have some good stories to tell, but they aren’t what I think about. I just think about being with him, all the time, every day, doing mundane things. Things so boring, I can’t even put ‘em into words. ‘What’d you and Jackie do today?’ We talked. ‘And…?’ And nothin’, that’s it.” She shrugs, huffs a laugh. She’s rambling, she knows she is, but she isn’t sure how to say what she needs to say. She was his best friend, for fuck’s sake, but she can’t find any other meaningful way to say, I miss him. She’s pathetic. “I guess what I mean is, he was always there, and that’s what I think about the most.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Vik nod.

“Know what I think about a lot?” he asks, and she rolls her head to look at him. “That night you two were hangin’ out in my garage, workin’ on his Arch.” He scoffs. “Or that was the plan, at least. I don’t even remember how it started, just know it ended with both of you drunk and him teachin’ you how to bachata.”

She grins at the memory. She hadn’t wanted to learn the dance. It seemed complicated, and she was self-conscious about looking stupid, but he talked her into it like he always did. And though she only partially learned the steps, there was nothing awkward about it. All she remembers is how much fun they’d had, how much they’d laughed.

“I remember that,” she says, pushing her hair off her forehead. “Man, that was a few years ago. What made you think of that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits with a shrug. “Just keeps poppin’ into my head.” He glances down at her, eyebrows raised behind his glasses. “He was surprisingly agile for a guy that big.”

She laughs. “Only on the dance floor.”

Vik shakes his head. “Too true.”

She reaches out, idly taps his arm. “You know, that actually reminds me—geez, it was years ago now—but we were layin’ low after this gig for Padre took a violent turn, and we were holed up in my apartment for a whole week. And I’d just recently gotten this dumb little sci-fi card battler game called Interdiction where one player controls a pirate ship that has to interdict a merchant vessel and their guards—that’s not important—”

He chuckles.

“But I’d been wanting to play it so bad,” she continues, “so we finally cracked it open. All day, every day for one whole week, we played that game…and we had a blast, swore we were gonna make it a regular thing. Never touched it again.”

“Never?”

“Never even opened the box.” She smiles, thinking of that game collecting dust on a shelf in her apartment. “It became a thing for awhile, though. Whenever a job was lookin’ bleak, Jackie’d look at me and say,” she drops her voice low, tries to imitate his accent, “You up for some Interdiction, chica?” She shakes her head. “Like it was a code or something, that things were about to get crazy. Eventually, we pulled our heads out of our asses and jobs started goin’ smoother, but…I still think of it sometimes. Us just sittin’ in my apartment, playin’ that game.”

For a moment, Vik is quiet. And then he nods and says, “See? You can put the boring things into words.”

“Tch, fuck you,” she mutters in mock offense, gently shoving at his shoulder, but they’re both laughing.

When she leaves Vik’s clinic, she feels strangely happy—not a feeling she associates with thoughts of Jackie these days. And it makes her heart warm to be able to think of him and not feel pain and regret.

On her way out, V ducks into Misty’s shop to say hey, but her friend’s busy with a rare and precious customer. Misty flashes her an apologetic smile as V waves, and then she ducks out the front door and turns right on Urmland to make the trek back to the H10 to pick up her car.

Garry’s voice carries across the street from his little nook by the Esoterica. “—what they don’t know, the real name for this thing they call ‘cyberspace’ is actually…” He pauses for dramatic effect, arms splayed in the air, before declaring, “PANDEMONIUM!”

V raises her brows. Huh. Pandemonium. Probably the perfect name for whatever hellscape lies beyond the Blackwall. V flicks the street prophet a few eddies, just for being so damn creative, and he briefly meets her gaze, recognition flaring for just a second. He almost smiles. And then the madness returns.

“What is life without its body?” he asks the crowd drifting by him, tuning him out. “What are the beings of the Net if not souls from beyond our plane of existence?”

V keeps walking, and his voice fades away as she ducks onto Buran, her thoughts circling back to something Vik had said to her. You look happy. And the truth? She is happy. And it’s all thanks to a certain Maelstrom ‘borg. If Dum Dum hadn’t shown up that day she did the gig for Regina, she probably would’ve gone home right after and walked straight into the Blackwall. And yeah, there’s a hundred reasons why fuckin’ with Maelstrom’s a bad idea, but in the end, Dum Dum saved her life. He has her back when she needs him. Has always respected her, never put his hands on her when she didn’t welcome it. He makes her laugh, makes her feel safe, treats her like a badass even when she feels like a fool. He gives her orgasms like she’s never had before. And though she doesn’t know if he’s making fun of her or not when he calls her ‘princess’, she likes it, likes the purr of his voice whenever he says it.

She doesn’t know if last night was a goodbye or not, but she does know one thing: she can’t lose him like she lost Jackie. People die in Night City, it’s a fact, gangoons and mercs at the top of that list. But she won’t let him go, not without a fight. And so, as she crests the steps to her megabuilding, power-walking toward the garage, she does something just a little bit reckless. She pulls up that unknown number and raises it on the holo.

A few rings and then an empty, black box appears in the corner of her vision, greeting her with silence.

“Looks like you get your way this time,” V says. “I’m backin’ off.”

A snarly female voice grates out, “Smart move.”

“They’re not givin’ up. You know that right? They’ll still come after you.”

The woman—Patricia, V thinks—snorts and, with a bored affectation, retorts, “Think I can handle it.”

“Right.” V ducks into the garage and heads for her car. “But I want you to understand somethin’ first. This biz? It’s not personal. Was just a job. I don’t really care who runs Maelstrom. Hell, if it was up to me, I’d probably throw my hat in with Brick, too, on the sole point that Royce is a giant piece of shit.” She stops beside her car, fingers curling under the handle. “But if you put even one tiny scratch on Dum Dum, I’ll make it my number one priority to burn your world to the ground. You understand?”

There’s a moment of silence before Patricia scoffs. “Huh. You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me. Cute little ‘ganic like you gettin’ hammered by an ugly ‘borgbeast like Dum Dum?”

V’s jaw clenches but she doesn’t respond, just opens her car door and slides behind the wheel.

Patricia snorts again. “Fuck. You are.” There’s a heavy pause before she grinds out, “No promises, ‘runner.”

V nods, starts the engine. “So long as we understand one another.”

“You gotta protect your man,” Patricia says, not unkindly. “I gotta protect mine.”

And then the line goes dead.

Chapter Text

If V was worried Dum Dum was done with her, that fear is put to rest three days later when she’s at Wilson’s range, emptying a clip into a target, and his name flashes in her peripheral, the message bearing an address and nothing more. Her heart skips a beat, stomach fluttering in anticipation as she ejects the empty clip, tosses it on the table, and grabs her spare, fully loaded and ready to go.

[2:13] V:

??

She shoves the new clip into her Nue and pulls back the slide to load the chamber.

[2:13] Dum Dum:

got a surprise

hurry up

A small smile twitches her lips. She’s not really a fan of surprises, even when they come with cake and presents, and Maelstrom’s typically only involve a lot of blood and guts.

[2:14] V:

Maybe I’m busy

But she’s already thumbing the safety and collecting her things. Doesn’t care about any surprises, just wants to see him.

[2:14] Dum Dum:

doin what

[2:14] V:

Practicing my grouping with the Nue

And because she doesn’t like calling it “the Nue” over and over, she quickly follows up with—

[2:14] V:

By the way, did you give it a name?

The gun you gave me, I mean

[2:15] Dum Dum:

call it whatever ya want

just not casserole or some shit

A laugh bubbles out of her as she ducks out of Wilson’s and begins her trek through the crowded corridors.

[2:15] V:

You mean Meatloaf?

[2:15] Dum Dum:

that too

now come see me

She bites her lip, chews on it. Of course she’s gonna go see him. The question is what she should wear. Her first instinct is to put on something sexy for him, but if her day’s about to turn violent with a Maelstrommer’s idea of a surprise, she doesn’t wanna be wearing stilettos when it happens.

[2:16] V:

What kind of surprise?

[2:16] Dum Dum:

not a fuckin surprise if i tell ya

She huffs at his obstinance, taking the steps two by two up to her apartment.

[2:16] V:

The kind of surprise I bring a gun to?

[2:16] Dum Dum:

nah

hurry up

She smiles, rolls her eyes, shakes her head. Maybe he’s just being impatient, but she can’t help reading it as eagerness, and that makes her happy.

She palms open her door and slips inside. Quickly applies dark eyeliner, burgundy lipstick, and winds her hair up into a messy bun with loose strands framing her face. Then she trades her sweats and t-shirt for a long-sleeved fishnet halter top over an armorweave rocker bra with a green sheen, ripped up black skintight jeans, and studded boots with a thick heel. More revealing than she usually wears, but she wants him to see all those bruises he left on her are gone now. Tempt him to fix that…

She snatches up her keys, hurries out the door, and makes her way to the parking garage. Her heart begins to thump harder as the elevator descends—partially over seeing Dum Dum, partially over taking her brand new car out for a spin. When the elevator doors open, there’s a bounce in her step as she hurries to her allotted space, smiling at the beauty parked there.

A Quadra Type-99 Avenger.

Rear-wheel drive, seven hundred and seventy-seven horses, and manufactured in the NUSA. They say it’s fashioned in neomilitarism, which favors substance over style, but she thinks it’s got plenty of style. Looks to her like Militech and Rayfield had a baby, and it was this gorgeous badass, sleek, armored, and lightning quick. Still factory silver, but she plans to get it painted. Hasn’t decided on the color yet—probably black. Everything looks good in black. Or maybe she’ll save up and spring for a CrystalCoat…

V slides into the driver’s seat, runs her hands lovingly over the wheel, and then starts the car. It rumbles beneath her, purring like a beast, and an excited giggle slips out of her. Gonk, she thinks, but she can’t help it. Never thought a mode of transportation could make her giddy, but she’s never owned a Quadra, either.

‘Til now.

V peels out of the garage and heads north, relishing in the smooth glide of the tires, the roar of the engine, the vehicle’s responsiveness and speed. She blasts Vexelstrom and guns it up to Northside, weaving through traffic and bolting through intersections. Not fifteen minutes later, she pulls into the empty parking lot of a rundown warehouse not far from the Totentanz, and the flutters in her stomach shift from exhilarated to nervous—because she’s excited to see Dum Dum again, because she doesn’t know what this is about, because he’s not alone, and she was hoping it would be just the two of them…

She swallows her unease as she drives up to where Dum Dum and a trio of ‘borgs circle a burning oil drum, smoking and chatting. They all turn to eyeball her ride as she parks beside their gathering, optics flashing in the firelight, mouths curled with curiosity and accusation—all but Dum Dum, whose expression is neutral as he takes two steps closer, scanning the length of her vehicle as she climbs out and shuts the door. His gaze turns to her, head bobbing as he looks her up and down.

“Preem ride,” he says, lifting his cigarette to his lips, and the purr of his voice makes her wonder if he’s talking about her or the car.

“Thanks,” she says, drinking him in.

It’s surreal almost, how her mouth waters a little at the sight of him. Only been a few days since they saw one another, but everything feels different now that they’ve crossed that line. Just wearing his usual shinos and tac vest, but he’s already got her hot and bothered. She wants to go to him—kiss him, hug him, touch him—but she doesn’t know if he wants that. Not while in front of his chooms. So she waits to see what he’ll do, if he’ll claim her or not.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Always suspected he was embarrassed by his attraction to her. Didn’t think that would bother her, but she feels the sting of disappointment. Don’t be a hypocrite, she thinks, ‘cause it’s not like she’s eager to swallow his tongue in front of Vik or Misty. Besides, it’s not like he’s her input. Doesn’t owe her anything…

She stuffs her hands into her back pockets, offers him an easy smile. “So what am I doing here?”

He grins, lifts a hand, and bobs two fingers at her. She starts toward him when a thick, metallic voice stops her in her tracks.

“Pretty little meathole.”

Her gaze darts to the ‘borgs behind Dum Dum, smile falling. She doesn’t recognize any of their disfigured skulls or optic arrangements, but their lascivious smiles make her skin crawl. She immediately and quietly rips into their chrome, peeling back their ICE to the sensitive layers underneath—

That thick voice says, “Got somethin’ for ya.”

—fuckin’ rusted, three security patches behind—

“Can stuff each of your pretty meatholes,” one of them adds with a wet grin, flashing filed teeth. “Come play with us.”

—she rides the ShortLink, threading their systems into a closed loop—

“Come on, honey,” another croons, grabbing his crotch, “know you want what I’ve got.”

—and then she fires a warning shot.

     accessBFT;

          function(sub_6,

               (upload_remote[eyeboot_v2_chain], mu=2;)

          )

There’s a collective shout as the three ‘borgs are plunged into darkness. Cigarettes hit the ground, scattering embers as they shuffle about, grasping at their faces, cursing. V grits her teeth, holding her ground despite her gut telling her to back up, put some distance between her and angry ‘borgs. Not smart for a ‘runner to be this close to her targets, even when she knows she can burn ‘em to the ground—and she can, can melt all three of these assholes if they take a single step toward her.

V flicks her gaze to Dum Dum, who lazily takes a drag on his cigarette, exhales a cloud of gray before glancing over his shoulder at his chooms.

“Would show some fuckin’ respect, if I was you,” he says as casually as one might ask for the time. “Haxan’ll turn ya into a puddle of piss on the floor, make ya wish ya never traded meat for chrome.”

V doesn’t smile, keeps her face as unbothered as possible. Doesn’t want the ‘borgs to think she’s anything other than bored by them. Doesn’t want Dum Dum to see how much she liked that… He could’ve gnashed his teeth at them, warned them off—and part of her wanted him to for all its implied possession, would’ve liked being claimed by him—but instead, he was in complete control of his emotions, unthreatened by his lessers, willing to let her make the first move. It’s a different kind of aphrodisiac that goes straight to her inner thighs, makes her wetter than Laguna Bend.

Never saw herself as the type to be attracted to power, but she likes the way it looks on him.

Dum Dum doesn’t move, so neither does V. They stand there until the Maelstrommers’ optics come back online, throwing glares at her, a mixture of hate and fear in the wrinkle of their mouths, a twitch of uncertainty in their facial tics. She only rebooted their optics, any third rate ‘runner could do that much, but…it’s the speed and stealth of the hack that makes them cautious, lends weight to Dum Dum’s warning. Is that what he wanted? For them to be afraid of her?

Go on, say it. Scare ‘em.

V suddenly remembers that night at the Totentanz, sitting in Dum Dum’s lap, him egging her on to describe the violence she committed against their own while Royce and his minions snarled at her. That was the point, wasn’t it? Why he pushed her? It was to make them respect her, or at least scared enough not to fuck with her.

Fuckin’ sweetheart…

The one who called her a meathole grunts, “Didn’t mean it,” then lights a cigarette, a Maelstrommer’s display of deference.

She flashes them a friendly smile that she doesn’t really feel, makes her tone conversational as she says, “You three should really see a ripper, get a physical. FaVa had a major security exploit, like, two patches ago. And you,” she nods to the ‘borg with filed teeth, flicks him the link to a QCL hub. “Need a firmware update on those microrotors, or you’ll soon be glitchin’ so bad, they’ll think you’re seizing.”

The ‘borgs just stare at her in shock. She throws them another friendly smile and then looks at Dum Dum, who’s grinning at her. He jerks his head toward the warehouse and they start across the parking lot.

Dum Dum asks, “Consulting in cyberware security for ‘Strommers now?”

She clicks her tongue. “I just hate seein’ a ‘borg of all people plug-n-play. Not a machine in the world, ‘ganic or synthetic, that doesn't need maintenance. Don’t you teach your recruits better than that?”

Dum Dum shrugs, takes a final drag on his cigarette and tosses the butt. “Not their fuckin’ mom,” he says, exhaling smoke through his nostrils.

V just laughs.

When they arrive at a rusty door, Dum Dum enters a code on the keypad, yanks on the handle, and motions her inside. She steps into a short hallway with grimy tiles, stained walls, and a thick metal door on the far side. There’s a musty smell in the air.

The door closes with a loud clang.

Chrome hands grasp her hips, her breasts, and her back hits the hard wall of his chest. Lips and teeth scrape over her neck, hot breaths puffing against her flesh, excitement zipping up her spine.

“Fuckin’ temptin’ me with this shit,” Dum Dum murmurs against her ear, squeezing her breasts. “Wanted to throw you over the hood of that preem little ride of yours and fuck you raw.”

She hums in agreement—it’s so fucking gratifying to know he’s just as hungry for her as she is for him—and leans into the rough, wet kisses he places on her jaw, her neck. She drags her fingers over his arms, his hands—still a little unsettled by the feel of his puckered seams and metal protrusions. Not used to it, not yet. Still expects to feel human skin, like an instinct she can’t turn off, but she wants to touch him, to be touched by him, and that’s an instinct, too. She turns her head to look at him, to kiss him, but he catches her jaw, holds her face steady, his mouth hovering just over hers. She reaches up to touch his face, but the hand still on her breast moves lightning quick, snatches her wrist, holds her still. They stare at one another, his breath dragging roughly over her lips, and she waits for him to kiss her—

“Come on.” He pecks her lips, the lightest of touches. “Got somethin’ for ya.”

And he releases her, walks toward the door at the end of the hall.

V licks her lips and takes a stabilizing breath. Fuck, all she really wants from him right now is what’s in his pants, but she doesn’t want to come across as some sex-starved chrome chaser, so she keeps her mouth shut. Follows him to the thick, hermetically sealed door, an intercom beside it and a camera overhead.

She clears her throat, rubs her palms over her pantlegs. “So, uh…what kind of surprise is this exactly?”

He doesn’t answer, just stabs the intercom with a chrome finger. The camera above the door awakens, focuses on them.

“It’s Dum Dum,” he says.

Two seconds later, a loud thunk signals the release of the locking mechanism. He opens the door and leads her into a small storage area with high ceilings and half the lights burned out. Heavy duty metal shelves line the walls, full of weapons and top-end cyberware. It’s a Maelstrom storehouse—can’t believe he’s letting her in here.

“Pick one,” he says.

She blinks at him. “One what?”

“Whaddaya think? Chrome.”

He nods to a nearby table where a few pieces have been laid out. She hesitates, confusion rippling through her, before walking toward it. He falls in step beside her.

“Pulled some pieces I thought ya might like,” he says, almost nervously, “but can choose anything ya want.”

V stares at the table of cyberware, the rich offerings on display. “And then what?”

“Whaddaya mean? You take it.”

“You’re just giving it to me?”

“Yeah.”

“What for?”

“For Arrow,” he answers.

Her eyes widen in surprise as she turns to face him. “Why? You already paid me.”

“It’s a bonus.”

She huffs, shakes her head. Feels like she already got a bonus with how much he paid her. “You overpaid—”

“Nah, don’t get it.” He lifts his right hand parallel to his optics. “Royce,” he says, and then lowers his hand a couple inches. “Me.” He lifts his left hand parallel to his right. “Arrow. Fucker was at the top, knew everything.” He drops his hands to his sides. “Was just a matter of time before he pulled the trigger on Royce and anyone loyal to him.”

Meaning Arrow would’ve tried to kill Dum Dum. Might’ve succeeded. That reckless, protective feeling she got when she called Patricia flares up again, and she wishes she’d done more damage to the codefreak when she had him in her cybersights. Too late now. She’s sure the bastard’s long dead.

V chews her lip, looks at the spread of chrome, and warmth seeps through her as she realizes what this really is—a thank you.

“You know…” She taps the table, eyes him. “Most guys would just send a girl flowers.”

He tilts his head. “What good is that?”

She can’t stop the smile that breaks out of her, the butterflies that riot in her chest. She knows it’s silly—stupid, even—but she likes the way he plays with her. Feels like cuddling up with a crocodile…

She steps into him, her arm brushing up against his torso, and studies the cyberware he picked out for her. First up is three different sets of Kiroshi optics with various bells and whistles, all part of their cyberjock line. Clearly he remembered what she told him about her Kiroshis and the lag time she gets when streaming cyberspace—fuckin’ sweetheart. She picks up a small case labeled “Prophet” and gently snorts, wonders who at Kiroshi is responsible for naming the products. But it’s a preem model, designed specifically for streaming cyberspace while executing RAM-intensive programs—worth tens of thousands of eddies. She knows they didn’t buy it, just jacked a convoy, but—

“You’d just give it to me?” she asks in disbelief.

“Yeah, if you want it.”

She’s tempted to just say yes, pick the Prophet—all the corpo code monkeys are using it—but she’s too curious what else he thought she’d like, so she sets the case down and moves on.

Next is a biomonitor, a useful little circulatory implant that coordinates the body’s regenerative processes—this a hint about her soft ‘ganic tissue? A set of mantis blades stretches across the back of the table, and she flashes him a cheeky look before continuing. There’s a visual cortex support, which improves perception and targeting, a pain editor for when shit hits the fan, and—

“What’s that?” she asks, pointing to what looks to be three links of a metal spine with yellow filaments threading off of it.

“KZV,” he answers. Kerenzikov, a popular reflex booster. “Will pair real nice with the Nue.”

Her eyebrows lift in surprise. Hadn’t considered boosting her ability with a pistol outside of raw practice. Never really saw herself as a gunslinger, but it’s not a bad idea. Quickhacks and netrunning will get her far, but it won’t take her all the way. And improving her aim is way more feasible than learning to use mantis blades. Still, those Kiroshi optics would be a real preem addition to her kit…

Her eyes continue to rove over the selection—it’s all so preem, doesn’t know what to pick—until her gaze snags on a small, flat case no bigger than her hand, and her lungs flutter as she draws a breath. She drifts closer, picks it up. Just the right size to house a neural cyberdeck…

She runs her fingers over the steel case smeared with five red dots, four smaller ones surrounding a larger fifth, then pops it open, stares at the long black chip engraved with a red spider skull.

Her scalp begins to tingle, excitement zinging through her nervous system as she asks, “What is it?”

“NetWatch tech,” he answers, and her heart starts pounding. “Got a custom OS, Maelstrom special. We call it Borgbeast.”

“This,” she says immediately. “I want this.”

NetWatch tech, Maelstrom code? A deadly combo, a netrunner’s dream. Doesn’t know how it compares to her Paraline, but she can’t wait to find out. To pick it apart, ply it with her own code, build something truly monstrous.

Dum Dum smirks like he knew all along what she’d want. “All yours, princess.”

She bites her lip, smiling like a gonk, and snaps the case closed. An excited noise slips out of her, embarrasses her, but his smirk widens into a smile—like he’s excited too, like he’s happy that she’s happy—and it fills her with another burst of warmth. She wants so badly to kiss him, but he’s been too careful about where and when he touched her, knows there must be cameras watching this room…

“Thank you,” she says softly, and she hopes he understands how much she means it.

Dum Dum nods once then walks her toward the exit. Opens the door and lets her through. She slips the case into her pocket, follows him down the short hallway. Almost to the end—

She bumps up against him, pushes on his chest, and he lets her back him into the wall. Gazes at her with his lips slightly parted, waiting to see what she’ll do. Her palms slide over his shoulders and onto his neck, fingers stroking his throat before linking above the metal dip at his nape. She pulls herself up to kiss him, but he catches her jaw, stops her just an inch from his lips.

“Gonna mess up that pretty lipstick,” he rasps.

Shit, she forgot about that. But does she really care? No. Does he? Shit… But she wants to kiss him—

She murmurs, “Would those gonks even notice?”

He stares at her, and she’s on the verge of offering to reboot their optics again when he pulls her forward and kisses her hard. His free hand comes around her, gripping her waist, pressing into her spine and drawing her closer. She feels a mild flash of panic when he bears down on her a bit too hard—can already feel those chin spikes digging into her skin—but she pushes against his shoulders in warning and, within seconds, he eases up. Still firm, still aggressive, but without the force that makes her feel like she’s being crushed. She hums in pleasure, in praise, and melts into his kisses. His tongue slides against hers in heated strokes, stoking that fire burning in her belly until all she wants is him inside her.

She whispers, “You wanna go for a ride?”

“Can’t,” he rasps between kisses. “Busy.”

She bites his lower lip, murmurs, “Too bad,” and tries to pull away, but he yanks her back, holds her still as he assaults her mouth in a way that makes her moan, leaves her breathless. And then he releases her, thumbs the shallow scratches on her chin. Her dark lipstick is smeared on his mouth.

“Not gonna be busy forever,” he tells her, as if reassuring her this isn’t the end for them, and she smiles.

“Good,” she says softly, wiping the lipstick stains off of his mouth. “And, uhm…” She pushes onto her tip-toes and plants a firm kiss on his cheek, leaving an obvious print that makes him grin. “Thank you for the bonus.”

“Yeah, lookin’ forward to seein’ what ya can do with ‘Strommer code.”

She steps back to straighten her clothes and wipe her mouth, blindly cleaning up any smeared lipstick. “Wasn’t really sure what to expect from a Maelstrom ‘surprise’, but…”

“Anyone else uses that word, fuck ‘em up.”

She laughs. “Got it.”

He opens the door and they head back out into the empty parking lot, the sun shining overhead. She can feel the other Maelstrommers’ optics on her as they head toward her car, but she doesn’t look at them, pretends they aren’t there.

“So, uh, I know you’re pretty busy,” she says, “but any chance you’re still for hire?”

“Sure, yeah, for you.”

Joy suffuses her, makes her feel bubbly and warm, but she hides it behind a nod and an easy, “Nova.” 

She opens her car door, slides behind the wheel, and fires up the engine as Dum Dum braces an arm against the roof and leans down to peer through the passenger window. Her gaze flits over his face, marveling at the magnetic attraction she feels for a man she once thought of as grotesque.

Fuck, she’s got it bad, doesn’t she? All twisted up…

“See ya soon, princess,” he says.

Her gaze flicks to that lipstick print on his cheek and she smiles like a gonk. “See ya soon.”

He pushes away from the window, takes a few steps back, and she drives off. The moment she pulls out onto the street, she opens her phone app, scrolls through her messages, and fires one off.

[3:33] V:

Got somethin’ to show you. Have a sec?

It’s a full thirty seconds before she gets a reply.

[3:34] Vik:

Come on by

Excitement flutters in her gut as V stomps on the accelerator.

Chapter Text

The sun lists westward, casting long shadows across the street as Dum Dum cruises down Shipyard Way. Air rushes through the open windows, laced with the occasional whiff of the garbage-filled sea and the tar-like taste of the north-end factories. Digs into the nostrils, sits on the back of the tongue. Dum Dum’s so used to it, he barely notices. ‘Sides, his mind’s elsewhere.

Thinkin’ ‘bout his princess.

She seemed excited ‘bout the cyberdeck. He knew she would be. She chip it yet? Wants to ask her, wants to see her with it slotted. Ware was made for a haxan. Almost just gave it to her, but codefreaks are particular with their tech. Was a chance she might not want it. But the way her face lit up, that excited smile she tried to hide—made him feel somethin’ fizzy and sharp, rippin’ into his guts with warmth. Wanted to kiss her, but that fuckin’ lipstick—

Why’d she wear it? To keep him arm’s length? Shit, he knew he fucked her right, that she liked it, that he had her, but she kept her distance with the other ‘borgs about. Knew she’d do that too, that she’d wanna keep it quiet. Never expected her to throw herself at him.

But then she fuckin’ did.

The hot feel of her mouth, her body pressed against his, those little breathy noises she makes—Wanna go for a ride? Fuck. Dum Dum’s fucked her twice now, but still so fuckin’ horny for her. A couple stolen hours don’t cut it. Wants to pin her down in that apartment for a couple days, at least.

Gonna be able to soon. Shit’s finally calmin’ down. The biz with Brick? Done. Pulled the fucker’s location out of Arrow—a shithole in Rancho Coronado—and they raided the place, but Brick and Patricia had already gone to ground, disappeared into Dogtown the moment Arrow got exposed. Codefreak held out just long enough to ensure they’d make it across the border. Royce was pissed, but even he knows it’s a waste of resources to follow them there, meaning Brick gets to live. For now. So Dum Dum rooted out the traitor that warned Patricia about Arrow, let Royce pick him apart. Consolation prize, but at least the boss had someone to take his anger out on. Unlike Dum Dum, who has to sit with his spite for Patricia.

For now.

Dum Dum slows the Javelina as his destination comes into view—a compound wrapped with a barbed wire fence—and eases into a short driveway, brakes at the yellow barrier arm. The ‘Strommer on duty in the guard house jerks to attention.

“Boss,” he says, raisin’ the arm. “Didn’t know you were comin’.”

Dum Dum doesn’t explain himself, just snaps, “Get him up. Wanna talk to him,” and then drives into the compound.

He parks just inside and gets out of his car, casts a quick glance around. Been a while since he’s been here, but it looks the same. ‘Strommers with assault rifles and shotguns are spread over the compound, and Maelstrom graffiti peppers every blank wall. A fanatic nods to him as he passes, climbin’ the metal staircase to the second level. He winds between the generator and AC unit to the side door, smacks the control panel, waits for it to slide open, then enters an office. Storage racks overflowin’ with boxes of virtus and XBDs line the walls and cut across the floor, creatin’ a maze of aisles that Dum Dum has to wind around to get to the next room.

Gottfrid Perrson emerges from his editing bay, rubbin’ his eyes—was sleepin’ ‘neath a wreath, he’d bet eddies on it. When the old man sees him, he drops his hand and offers Dum Dum a strained but courteous smile. Not many ‘Strommers have the authority to interrupt the Perrson family op, and those that do rarely come knockin’.

Gottfrid opens with, “Dum Dum, good to see you,” in the way people do to be polite, without really meanin’ it. “Is there a problem? I already met with Kato this week. He didn’t mention any—”

“No problem,” Dum Dum says. “Not here for Maelstrom. Here on personal biz.”

Relief flashes on the old man’s face before he nods. “Yes, of course. How can I help?”

“Wanna know if it’s possible for me to scroll a BD at sixteen-four.”

Gottfrid’s eyebrows shoot up, surprise lightin’ his eyes. “Know someone with Mercy’s, huh? Lucky.”

“The fuck is Mercy’s?”

“Rare neurological condition. It was named for the guy who discovered it, Guillaume Mercier,” Gottfrid waves his hand flippantly, “but everyone just called it Mercy’s for short.”

“Yeah? And why’s it lucky?”

Gottfrid huffs a breath, puts his hands on his hips, shakes his head like he’s not sure how to explain. “That raw, unrivaled processing power,” he finally says. “Can’t be faked. Kids with Mercy’s? They’re born that way. There are degrees, of course. Some are barely above average, but the really gifted ones?” He whistles, impressed. “Probably the only humans alive who can go toe-to-toe with an AI.” Gottfrid quickly holds up a hand in clarification. “Not sayin’ they’d win, but with the right set-up, the right back-up?” He shrugs. “Who knows. Why do you think all the corpo’s keep snapping ‘em up? Hey,” he points at Dum Dum, “don’t let ‘em near an aptitude test, okay? You’ll never see ‘em again. And you wanna hold onto ‘em. Maelstrom gets someone with Mercy’s under their thumb?” He whistles again. “Now that’s power.”

Dum Dum runs his tongue over his teeth. Knew his princess was special, but an AI-killer? Fuckin’ haxan on Z’s. No wonder she made the ‘borgs look like easy prey. Does she even know what she’s capable of? Fuck…

“You should bring ‘em by,” Gottfrid says, a little too eager. “Would love to get some scans.”

Dum Dum’s jaw tenses. No fuckin’ way he’s bringin’ V here. Not tellin’ anyone about this. Royce finds out, girl’s up for an optic nerve split. Shit. Should never have let her anywhere near Maelstrom. ‘Cause sure, he’d love it if she joined up—girl’d look fuckin’ nova with spider optics and a bit more visible chrome—but not gonna make her. Gotta be a choice, and Dum Dum knows she’d never choose it.

Not gonna let ‘em carve her up.

He runs a hand over his mouth, tryin’ to decide whether or not he’s gotta zero this motherfucker now, just for knowin’ about her, just in case his lips get loose. Sure, Gottfrid don’t know her identity, but it’s no secret he’s been hangin’ with V, that she’s a haxan—told Royce to his face. Any gonk can put two-and-two together. But Gottfrid’s op? Worth a lot of eddies to Maelstrom. There’d be fallout. Questions. Better move is to ignore it, downplay it. Drawin’ attention would just make it worse.

Lot of fuckin’ trouble, his princess.

“Don’t hold your fuckin’ breath,” Dum Dum says. “Can I scroll at sixteen-four or not?”

Gottfrid clears his throat, folds his arms over his chest. “Sure, it’s possible. Might make you a little sick, but with the right tweaks to your optics processor, you could do it safely, and with minimal discomfort.”

“And the wreath, could you uncap it?”

Gottfrid’s brows bounce in surprise. “Someone did their homework. Yeah, I can set you up, no problem. Can’t test it outside the soft, but it should work.”

Dum Dum nods. “Do it.”

He hesitates for just a sec, casts a brief glance at the editing bay. “Will take a few hours. You got time?”

“Got three.”

“That’s plenty,” Gottfrid assures him. He starts to turn but stops, points to his cheek and says, “You got a little somethin’… ”

Dum Dum doesn’t need a mirror to know he’s referring to the lipstick stain still on his cheek from his earlier meeting with V. Never wiped it off, didn’t want to. He likes it, likes that claim she made on him. Doesn’t exactly make her his output, but it means somethin’.

When Dum Dum doesn’t react, Gottfrid shrugs and says, “Let’s get you set up,” then leads him into the editing bay.

The glass door slides open to reveal a small room where a mass of black cables slithers across the floor, connecting two recliners to top-of-the-line editing equipment in the back corner and a wall of servers behind it. A desk with two chairs is set up on the right, boxes overflowing with virtus are stacked on the left, and Gottfrid’s creepy son is lying on one of the recliners, a wreath fitted over his eyes, lights flashing.

“Have a seat,” Gottfrid says, motioning to the empty recliner before he begins fishin’ through a box on his desk.

At the sound of his father’s voice, the kid rips off his wreath, eyes dartin’ around ‘til they land on Dum Dum. “Shit…”

“Everything’s fine, Freddy,” Gottfrid calmly tells his son, but there’s a protective tension in his tone. “Go back to work.”

Freddy’s gaze bounces between them for a moment before he nods obediently and slowly lies back down. He slips the wreath on and lays perfectly still, but Dum Dum can tell from his stiff posture and the way he kicks his foot that the kid ain’t workin’, just playin’ dead.

“So, what are you scrolling with?” Gottfrid asks as Dum Dum sits on the edge of the empty recliner. “Autalyte? Ch1mbo?”

“Auta,” Dum Dum answers.

“Oh, good.” He pulls up a chair and drops into it, begins fishin’ through the cables connected to the recliner’s side panel. “Gonna have to swap you to Slayter, but the interface is similar to Auta’s, so it shouldn’t be too much of an adjustment.” He finds the cable he’s lookin’ for, pulls it, offers it to Dum Dum. “Here, jack in for me. You used Slayter before?”

“Nah,” Dum Dum says, pluggin’ the cable into a port behind his ear.

“It’s decent.” Gottfrid stands, crosses to the deck in the corner. “Not as many features as Auta or Ch1mbo, but it’s got the best performance range and is highly customizable.” He plugs a shard into the machine, keys in a few commands. “Only soft on the market capable of scrollin’ a decent BD at sixteen-four. Well, Auta can, technically,” he glances over his shoulder, “but it’s trash.” He turns back to the monitor, boots up a program. “Alright, initializing the wipe. Confirm when ready.”

A second later, a screen opens in the center of his vision requesting permission to uninstall Autalyte. Only takes half-a-minute to complete. Gottfrid keys in a few more commands to begin the Slayter install, and then a progress bar appears, slowly filling up.

“Done,” Gottfrid announces two minutes later, as if Dum Dum can’t read for himself the ‘Installation Complete’ popup. “Now let’s get those optics tweaked.” The old man snatches a dataslate from the desk then sits down beside Dum Dum. “I’m going to run the calibration soft—same shit that runs users through their first-time wreath setup—only in reverse. You, uh, might want to lie down for this.”

Dum Dum tongues a canine before slidin’ deeper into the seat and lyin’ back. Gottfrid nods in approval and then starts stabbin’ at the screen.

“Normally the soft adjusts the playback parameters based on the synaptic plasticity of the user’s cerebral and visual cortices,” he explains, “but we’re going the other way. We need to force your brain to accept our playback parameters, so the key is to create a buffer zone between your optics processor and occipital lobe.” His finger slides over the screen, gaze locked on the device. “The soft will take your cyberware into account, so there’s no need for multiple adjustment packages.”

This motherfucker really talk this much?

Dum Dum bites out, “Get on with it already.”

“R-right,” Gottfrid stammers, then pokes the slate. An app opens in the corner of Dum Dum’s field of vision as the calibration software initializes. “It’ll take multiple scans to properly optimize your processor.” Gottfrid reaches down beside him, picks something up, then hands Dum Dum a trash can.

He just looks at it before asking, “The fuck is this?”

“Just in case. The scan simulates the full sensory load of scrolling in sixteen-four. It can be,” Gottfrid grimaces, “intense.”

Dum Dum stares at it for a moment before snatchin’ it up and settlin’ it on his belly. Hasn’t puked since he replaced his spine and got the regulator cap on his CTZ, but fuckin’ with his optics can still turn his stomach. Gottfrid nods in approval then taps the screen.

A window opens in the center of Dum Dum’s vision and the scan begins, showcasing graphs, stat charts, progress bars, and matrices—none of which he understands. A timer ticks in the corner, countin’ down. One graph begins to climb, the other to drop, and then there’s a spike—

Nausea slams into him, his vision warping, tearing. Optics capture everything clearly, but the signals are skewed, too fast and too slow all at once. Information rushes his brain, can’t process—

Bile shoots up his esophagus and he heaves into the trashcan.

A moment later, the scan ends and the world stops spinnin’. He pants into his vomit, tryin’ to catch his breath. Fuck… Knew it would be intense, but that? Was like watchin’ the world through a funhouse mirror while loopin’ on a high-speed rollercoaster. That how his princess processes the world—a thousand miles an hour?

“The first time’s the worst,” Gottfrid points out like a fuckin’ gonk. “Should be easier from here on out. Ready?”

Dum Dum grits his teeth, drops his head back onto the rest, and nods. A few seconds later, the program initializes and info flashes across his optics—graphs, charts, matrices—then the world tilts and nausea punches him. Almost loses his guts again, but manages to keep it down. After a few more scans, Gottfrid seems satisfied with Dum Dum’s progress and leaves the program runnin’ on auto while he rolls the chair to the desk and begins workin’ on uncappin’ a wreath. He talks Dum Dum through the process, but he’s not really listenin’. Too busy tryin’ to keep his stomach from flippin’.

It takes a little over two hours to get Dum Dum fully set up. Even with the buffer, scrollin’ at sixteen-four is still mildly sickening—like smellin’ somethin’ repulsive, the way it makes the stomach churn without ever climbin’ outta the gut—but it’s good enough. Rare use-case, for the princess only. He’ll be a little sick for her.

Already fuckin’ sick for her.

He scrolls a few test virtus without issue, runs ‘em through some soft Gottfrid has to measure viability. No errors detected. Only thing to do now is scroll somethin’ for V and let her try it out. Doesn’t have to be five star, just somethin’ she can experience without feelin’—how’d she put it?—like she’s been body-snatched. He might have to tune it a little first, though. Make sure the nausea doesn’t bleed through, that the right sensations are amplified…

Dum Dum unplugs and slides off the recliner, ready to get the fuck out of there.

“Good luck,” Gottfrid says, walkin’ him out of the editing bay. He passes him the uncapped wreath and adds, “After all this, I hope your friend is able to experience whatever you choose to scroll.” He chuckles. “I’d offer to tune it for you if, you know, I could.”

Dum Dum just nods, still a little too queasy for quips, and heads for the door.

“Hey, let me know how it goes,” Gottfrid says, a little too eagerly.

Dum Dum doesn’t respond or look back before he heads out into the balmy night air. He takes a deep breath and slowly breathes out, once, twice, until the nausea begins to ease up. He returns to his car, reaches for the handle. Pauses when he catches his reflection in his door window. Stares at the lipstick stain on his cheek. A bold reminder of this thing between them, him and his princess. Doesn’t make her his output, but…

Means somethin’.

Dum Dum takes a deep breath and scrubs the lipstick off his cheek—he’s got Maelstrom biz tonight, can’t be lookin’ human—then yanks open his door, slides into his car. He tosses the wreath onto the passenger seat and guns it back to All Foods.

An hour later, Royce, Dum Dum, and Kurt pile into a black Thornton Mackinaw sprayed with ‘Strommer tags, and Bonesy drives them down to Little China. He pulls into the Afterlife’s small parking lot, swerves into a space on the end at a crooked angle, and slams the brakes, cuts the engine. All the passenger doors open at once as Royce, Dum Dum, and Kurt slide out, catchin’ eyeballs and whispers from the crowd gatherin’ outside the club’s entrance. Dum Dum glances around, sizin’ ‘em up for threats, before the cascading thump of car doors bein’ slammed signals it’s time to move. They storm across the lot, Royce chargin’ ahead, Dum Dum and Kurt flankin’ him, and though the people gawk, they promptly move out of their way.

Even these shit-for-brains mercs have more sense than to fuck with Maelstrom.

They enter the building, take the stairs down, and the door on the right slides open. Distorted rock music leaks through the walls as they descend a second set of stairs, pass under a glowing green sign that reads ‘Afterlife’, and walk through a scanner that clocks their chrome, weapons, and identities. The bouncer barely spares ‘em a glance before steppin’ aside to let ‘em through. The inner doors open and that rock music notches up in volume, drownin’ the noise of the clientele. The pale green ambient light bleeds color out of the world, turns hot to tepid. Even ‘Strommer reds look sickly.

Dum Dum does a quick scan. Mercs lounge at the bar with drinks in their hands, lookin’ like poster kids for Night City’s edge, with their heads half-shaved and hair in a rainbow of colors, loud make-up and multitudes of piercings, synleather threads, and flashy cyberlimbs. In the club’s wings are all the oddities of a typical edgezone on display like it’s a fuckin’ zoo—weapons spread over tables as one group prepares to go loud, another group lickin’ their wounds after a rough night, fixers takin’ meetings with clients and contractors, a ripper patchin’ up a chrome jock with missin’ limbs, and mercs strategizin’, organizin’, recruitin’. Plenty of alcohol to go around, but the one thing no one’s doin’ is drinkin’ solely for the fun of it.

Fuckin’ edgepunks.

Royce turns left, avoidin’ the bar, and heads straight toward a private booth in the back. They follow, passin’ by eclectic groups of mercs whisperin’ over drinks. No one bats an eye at the sight of three ‘Strommers. Afterlife’s a major nerve center where some of the city’s most important players do business, and the only place in Night City where everyone converges. Well, except for the Totentanz.

Royce slides into the empty booth while Kurt orders drinks from the bar. Dum Dum stands watch, waitin’. Can’t see the entrance, but can see every angle someone might come at them. Will know the moment their contact arrives. His gaze hops from one colorful merc to another, skippin’ from solos to techies to ‘runners. His optics settle on a cute little codefreak with magenta-colored dreads and plenty of open chrome—EMP threading on her face, a silver arm, and a few hot spots in her chest and at the base of her skull. And yet, he doesn’t feel shit. Doesn’t like her ‘ganic parts like he likes V’s. Her chrome don’t catch his interest like it does with the princess.

Not the least bit curious what her stars are.

He moves off the codefreak, optics sweepin’ the room before settlin’ on the water tanks scattered around the club, each one featuring an exotic dancer seductively thrashing in the fluid. Dum Dum always wondered what that gimmick was s’posed to be. Twisting masses of flesh suspended in water like organs in a jar—an erotic science experiment? Necrophilia, but sexy? Afterlife used to be a fuckin’ morgue, after all. That a fetish for someone? Not that he’s judgin’… After all, gotta be some kinda fetish to fuck a ‘borg. Not that he’s a fetish for his princess. Doesn’t think so, at least. Not with the way she panicked over his chrome, is still a little twitchy with him. Can’t blame her. Her cuts and bruises were gone, but he was already carvin’ up her chin again after a few hot kisses.

Gonna have to do somethin’ about that.

Kurt finally returns with a bottle of dark liquid and a couple tumblers, pours Royce three fingers of the stuff then stands beside Dum Dum. They don’t wait long before their contact arrives—a small woman wearin’ turquoise harem pants and a pink syn-thread crop sweater, shadowed by a beefer in a mesh top and cargos with Gorilla Arms and some kind of dermal plating. Fuckin’ corpo clowns, gotta be. Wanna look like street meat, but everything in their posture and gait says otherwise.

The woman—goes by the codename Yellowtail—heads straight for their booth, and Dum Dum and Kurt let her slide in. The beefer tries to follow her, but Kurt stops him with a hand to his chest. There’s a snarling match, a few seconds of flexing, then the girl snaps out, “Enough,” and her bodyguard backs off. Dum Dum flashes him a mean smile before he takes a seat. The beefer stands beside Kurt, but he keeps an eye on them, not the room.

“About fuckin’ time,” Royce grouses, tippin’ back his tumbler like a shotglass.

Yellowtail doesn’t bat an eye at his mood, just looks at him like he’s one of her squawkin’ interns. Dressed like a kitschy merc, sure, but from the neck up, she’s all corpo neomilitarism. Black hair sliced in a severe bob, pupils lined in blue, and EMP threading slashin’ through her eyes—girl’s a dead give-away for a suit.

Royce knocks an empty tumbler at her. “So what do you want?”

“I’ll be frank,” Yellowtail says, ignoring the offering. “Word in the corpo-sphere is that Maelstrom hijacked a Militech convoy, stole an entire shipment of weapons and tech, and got away with it.” Her voice is business-like—clipped and patronizing—and her face is stone-cold. Every gesture is small, controlled. “I have an even bigger take, if you’re up for it.”

Royce stares at her, meaty fingers spinnin’ his empty tumbler. “Who’s the target?”

“We’ll get to that,” she says dismissively, causin’ Royce’s upper lip to curl. “Just know that the bounty far exceeds what you stole from Militech. The shipment is being prepped as we speak and is expected to hit the water in a few days. It’ll take approximately three weeks to get here, so there’s plenty of time to plan and pivot. I will provide access to the storage facility and disable the security. All you have to do is go in and get it.”

Never that easy, but Dum Dum doesn’t correct her. 

“Is that right?” Royce rumbles, not the least bit fooled.

Yellowtail flicks an invisible piece of lint off her pants, lookin’ as uncomfortable in her clothes as a monk in a chop shop, and adds, “There will be a few guards, but I’m sure your people will have no problem dealing with them.”

“Uh huh. And what’re we talkin’ here? Weapons, drugs—”

“Cyberware, mostly, including a line of next-gen implants,” she says, her eyes flashin’ with a data transfer, “as well as a small cache of weapons and drones. Twenty pallets in total.”

A moment later, Royce flicks him a shipping manifest. The important detes—shipper, receiver, port, transporter, date—are redacted, but the list of products and quantities is entirely visible. Gonna take a while to confirm the extent of the bounty, since most of the items are coded by their manufacturer label, not product name, but Dum Dum recognizes one of them. Knows who the target is.

He shoots Royce a message.

[11:14] Dum Dum:

arasaka

Royce gives nothin’ away in his expression, just reaches forward, grabs the bottle of liquor, and pours himself another glass. But he’s excited, Dum Dum can tell. Gonna take this job no matter the details. He lives for this high-risk shit, and even Arasaka’s mid-tier cyberware is usually worth it. Sure, yeah, Dum Dum gets it, but he wants the odds in his favor. Ain’t throwin’ bodies and eddies at the meat grinder for nothin’. But Royce? Nah, he don’t give a fuck about odds.

“So,” Royce begins, “tired of suckin’ Arasaka’s cock, is that it?”

Yellowtail’s eyelids twitch ever so slightly—the only indication she’s surprised he’s figured it out.

“You cashin’ in,” Royce continues, “or just out for revenge?”

“I simply saw an opportunity and took it,” she answers. Royce just snorts. “I want forty percent—thirty-five if you get me out of Night City.”

Royce barks a laugh, and so Dum Dum laughs, too.

“Can you believe this cunt?” Royce says to him before shakin’ his head, pinnin’ Yellowtail with his singular optic. “No fuckin’ way. Without us, you got nothin’.”

“Without me, you have nothing.” She shrugs one shoulder. “But fine. We’re both taking a big risk, and you have more mouths to feed. I’ll settle on thirty-five, thirty if you get me to the border.”

“Twenty-five,” Royce snarls, relaxing back into his seat, “and you can get yourself to the fuckin’ border.”

Yellowtail stares at him for a moment before dippin’ her head in a shallow bow, and the only indication that she got exactly what she wanted is the slight curl at the corners of her lips as she purrs, “Deal.”

Dum Dum can already tell this job’s gonna be a huge fuckin’ pain in the ass.

Chapter Text

V yanks open the gate to Vik’s clinic, his name on the tip of her tongue, but swallows the sound when she sees he's with a patient. She shuts her mouth and quietly backs toward the wall, offering him a quiet wave instead. Vik eyes her over the head of a little old lady, the hint of a smile on his lips, before returning his attention to the woman patting his arm.

“Thank you, Dr. Vektor.”

“No need to thank me, Mrs. Hernandez,” he replies and offers her an inhaler. “Just do me a favor and don’t forget to take two more puffs in an hour.”

“I won’t,” she assures him, stowing it into the fanny pack around her waist, but the look on Vik’s face says he knows she will. He walks her to the exit, and V quickly opens the gate for her. Mrs. Hernandez flashes her a yellow smile. “Well aren’t you a cookie,” she says, and it’s all V can do not to laugh at the peculiar endearment.

Vik leans forward to hold the gate open as Mrs. Hernandez shuffles through. Cookie, he mouths at her, and V shrugs, as clueless as he is. Vik grins. Once the old lady's gone, he closes the gate and locks it, then looks at V expectantly. She smiles, playing the part of a patient client. He calls her bluff, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at her, silence stretching between them as she struggles to hold in her enthusiasm.

Finally, he takes mercy on her.

“Alright, cookie,” he smirks, “show it to me.”

She’s so excited, she ignores the dumb nickname and reaches for the neural deck case, bouncing once on the balls of her feet as she hands it to him. Vik chuckles as he takes it, looks at it. His grin falters, and her stomach flutters nervously. She watches him thumb the five red dots before popping the case open to study the neural deck.

He lifts his gaze and asks, “Where’d you get it?”

Shit. She was hoping he wouldn’t ask. Doesn’t want to lie to him, but no way she can tell him the truth. It’d probably lead to a fight. He’d be worried, and he’d have every right to be. A few months ago, if someone had told her they were hanging out with a Maelstrommer, she would’ve started planning her speech at their funeral.

She keeps the smile plastered on her face as she replies, “Was payment for a job.”

There’s a long pause, like he’s considering her answer, before he nods and says, “Let’s get it verified.”

Relief rushes through her and she lets out a quiet breath as she follows him to his desk in the back. Watches him pop the deck into his cybermetric analyzer and begin a scan. He folds his arms across his chest, gaze angled toward the cluster of screens above the machine, and waits. She stands beside him, impatiently shifting her weight from foot to foot, eyes darting over his profile, looking for some clue to his mood. She takes in his messy hair and the faint scars on his cheeks, his wrinkled shirt with the rolled up sleeves, the tattoos stretching across his bulging bicep. Inked faces stare back at her—boxer legends, she thinks—and the word PAIN in bold white letters. Calls himself an old man, but he’s still in great shape.

She wonders, and not for the first time, why no one’s ever tied him down. Jackie once let it slip that their ripperdoc’s never short on women ready to show him a good time, but when she asked why Vik never settled down, he just shrugged and muttered something about the heart always wantin’ what it can’t have.

She’s on the verge of asking him about it when the analyzer beeps and starts spitting stats onto the screens. Vik takes a step closer, whistles.

“Hardware’s top-of-the-line, shadow-corp type shit,” he tells her. “The OS isn’t keyed to the logic board, lock’s broken. But it’s custom, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she answers, peering over his shoulder at the readout.

Vik nods like he figured as much, skimming the data that’s scrolling by. “Soft’s shrugging off every stress test I throw at it. It’s damn impressive.”

A smile twitches on her lips, excitement amping up, and then Vik glances back at her. She can’t read his eyes through those dark glasses, but she can feel the apprehension in his pause. Her smile vanishes.

He asks again, more seriously this time, “Where’d you get it, V?”

V keeps her face neutral as she holds his gaze, scrambling for a response. She’s not ready to have this conversation with him, with anyone. Doesn’t know how to explain her new best choom’s a Maelstrommer and, despite every instinct in her body telling her not to, she kept relying on him to watch her back. Doesn’t know how to admit that she liked his attention and went looking for it, that she still likes it, still looks for it. Doesn’t want to give anyone the chance to try and talk her out of this, plant thoughts in her head out of love and concern that will only confuse her.

Not ready to tell them his name’s Dum Dum and hear them mock the moniker like Jackie did.

V swallows. “Told you, a client.”

Vik jerks his thumb at the cybermetric analyzer. “This is Maelstrom tech.”

Fuck. She was hoping he wouldn’t figure that out, but she should’ve known better. He’s seen so much chrome come through his shop, of course he’d be able to pick out a signature as unique as Maelstrom’s.

“But you already knew that,” Vik says before she can muster a response, “didn’t you?”

She just stares at him, unsure what to say.

Vik shakes his head and huffs, “Damn it, V.”

“Vik—”

He turns to face her fully. “You know full well their hackware’s a coin toss of pure genius and pop rocks, and you want to risk chippin’ it?”

“It’s not hackware,” she argues. “The code’s clean.”

“Code’s clean,” he repeats skeptically. “You do a line-by-line?”

Line-by-line—the process of combing through code for bugs, malicious strings, and comments. Good practice for custom work, but that shit takes time, hours. Not that it even entered her mind to question what Dum Dum gave her. Probably a red flag, but she doesn’t feel like acknowledging it.

She toes the ground with her studded boot. “‘Course not,” she mutters like it’s a gonk idea, but she knows it’s not.

Vik presses, “Then how do you know it’s clean?”

“I trust the guy who gave it to me.”

“Yeah, and who’s that, V?” he asks like he already knows the answer. “One of those cyberpsychos?”

She opens her mouth to deny it—Dum Dum’s not a cyberpsycho—but there’s no point in splitting hairs. But she can’t say “yes” and let him make a point, either. So she shrugs.

“I trust him,” is all she says.

Vik scoffs, shakes his head, rubs his face—like he’s struggling to process this. After a moment, he drops his hand and sighs, leans against his desk, looks at her. “Alright, help me out here, V,” he says. “‘Cause the ‘runner I know would never risk her brain like this.”

V tips her head back, groans, “Vik,” and turns away. She brushes loose wisps of hair away from her face as she starts idly pacing the space behind his surgery station, collecting her thoughts. “I don’t know what to tell you, Vik. Want me to walk you through all the ways he’s helped me out? ‘Cause it’s a lot. And I needed someone after Jackie—” It’s hard to admit she was drowning, and with the way Vik looks away, it’s not easy for him to hear it. “I don’t know why he had my back, but he did. So he’s Maelstrom, so what? He helped me, Vik. Genuinely helped me.” She starts ticking points off on her fingers, “No hidden agendas, no strings attached, never touched me wrong, never tried to hustle off the top. Just did what I asked him to, took his cut, and that was that. And before you try to tell me trouble’s comin’, it’s old news, okay? It’s been months, and he’s had plenty of opportunities to fuck me over, but he hasn’t. He’s…” She stops pacing and shrugs, unsure how to classify him. “He’s a choom, Vik. I trust him. No way he’d put my brain at risk, and neither would I.” And it might just be the fool in her fallin’ for a ‘borg, but she believes it with all her heart when she says, “That cyberdeck’s clean.”

Vik stares at her for a long moment before sighing. He folds one arm across his torso, props his elbow on his fist, and pushes his glasses up to rub his eyes. She waits quietly for his judgment, gaze locked on the upside down “Round 1” tattoo on his forearm, wondering if she lost or won this one. After a moment, he drops his hand and his glasses fall back into place. He looks at her.

“You’re sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” she answers.

Gradually, he nods. “Alright.” He motions to his chair. “Let’s do it.”

V smiles, relieved, and takes a seat while Vik begins his surgery prep. He sets a face down support cushion in front of her and locks it into place, then dumps the tools he used on his last patient into a sterilizing solution and sets out a fresh batch. He crosses to the sink to wash his hands and exoglove.

He doesn’t say a word.

Normally he talks to her—about work or life or whatever surgery she’s about to have. It helps put her at ease. But he doesn’t speak this time, and his silence is heavy. He doesn’t like this. He thinks she’s making a mistake. But he’s letting her make it. He’s her ripper, after all, not just her friend.

“C’mon, Vik,” she says playfully as she lets her hair down and finger-combs it away from her interface plate. “You said it yourself, it’s an impressive piece of tech.”

“It is impressive,” he agrees as he dries his hands, “so long as it doesn’t blow up in your brain.”

She chuckles. “Well, if it does, at least I’m in the right place for it.”

And though she can’t see his eyes behind those dark glasses, she can feel the dirty look he throws at her. She mashes her lips together, effectively cowed, and ties her hair off. Vik tosses the towel on the sink’s edge and takes a seat on his stool, rolls over to her. He has her jack into his machine so he can shut her Paraline down. As he taps at the screen, she lowers herself onto the support cushion, face resting comfortably in the hole, and slips her arms into the side cuffs to keep her posture locked.

He asks, “Ready?”

“Yep.”

She hears the clack of tools on a tray, catches the sharp whiff of disinfectant. Feels his fingers prodding her interface plate and the skin around it with a cotton boll, cleaning up dead cells, scalp oil, and whatever dirt she’s walked through that day.

“So,” Vik begins as he finishes up, trades the cotton for something that sounds heavy. “This guy…he got a name?”

She winces. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Now why would I laugh?” he asks dryly, then revs a pneumatic wrench.

She hesitates—hates that she hesitates, because she doesn’t want to care what other people think of him—before admitting, “His name’s Dum Dum.”

Vik snorts softly and mutters, “Maelstrom…”

He takes the wrench to the tiny bolts on her interface plate, the high-pitched whir filling her ears, the vibration rattling through her skull. He removes the plate and wipes down the inner socket. She hears him manipulate tiny latches, feels the gentle tugging sensation of him disconnecting her Paraline. The process freaked her out the first time she went through it. Was like being at the dentist, but the doc was workin’ on the wrong side of her skull. Now? She’s so used to it, it’s almost relaxing.

“He calls me a haxan,” she murmurs.

Something metallic clinks against the tool tray.

Vik pauses to ask, “You know what that means, right?”

“That I’m a good netrunner.”

“It’s more than that,” he explains as he resumes his work. “The haxans aren’t just any ol’ ‘runners, V. They’re among the best. They call ‘em code witches. You know why?”

“‘Cause they’re good at manipulating code?”

“All code. Not just the Net, but chrome, too. And that makes them very dangerous to people like your friend. Most of those ‘borgs fear and respect a haxan. Hell, some of them even see them as ‘spiritual leaders’ of sorts.”

V’s eyebrows shoot up. That certainly explains why Raze called her a haxan after she quickhacked his arm, and why Royce and the other Maelstrommers warmed up to her that night at the Totetanz.

“But some of them only have fear,” Vik continues. “They don’t like the idea of a person who can control them, cripple them, pick them apart. And if they get the chance? They take ‘em out.”

Ah, there’s the friendly little warning… Not that he’s wrong. V has no trouble thinking of a dozen Maelstrommers who never warmed up to her, even knowing what she is. She thought their dislike and mistrust was because she’s ‘ganic, not because they’re afraid of her.

She asks, “How do you know all that, Vik?”

“Long story,” he answers. “Let’s just say, you run a clinic as long as I have, you meet all kinds of people.”

She wants to ask him about that, wants to know everything he does about Maelstrom, but he doesn’t give her the chance.

“V…” Vik’s deep voice sounds serious. “He doesn’t know you have Mercy’s, does he?”

She swallows. “No.”

It’s not a lie, not technically. She never told him she had Mercy’s, only about her high processing speed. Just so he’d know why she couldn’t do BDs. And what are the odds he’d figure out what that means? Most people have never even heard of Mercy’s, much less understand it.

“You’re sure?”

“I didn’t tell him,” she promises.

Vik told her to never tell anyone, not even Jackie. And she didn’t. Was the only secret she ever kept from him…

“Good,” he sighs.

She feels a brief pressure in the back of her head as the Borgbeast is slotted, and then nothing at all as he finishes up the install. She waits for him to ask her more questions about Dum Dum and her involvement with Maelstrom, but he doesn’t, and she feels the weight of the silence like a child whose parents aren’t mad, just disappointed. Part of her wants to reassure him, another part knows it’s impossible. Only time can provide the proof Vik needs to know she’s not making a mistake.

Or maybe she is, but she’s making it anyway.

The moment she hears the whir of the pneumatic drill tightening the bolts on her interface plate, her stomach begins knotting in anticipation. With a hand on her shoulder, Vik eases her upright, unlocks the support cushion, and sets it to the side. Then he turns to his monitor and begins tapping on it.

There’s a nervous quality to his gravelly voice when he says, “Alright, bootin’ it up…”

And then he stabs the screen.

V holds her breath while the Borgbeast comes online. A red spider skull flashes across her vision, dissipates, and then—

She gasps.

A buzzing sensation sweeps through her brain, electricity ferried by neurotransmitters to cells both ‘ganic and chrome. It races down the lines to her Ex-Disk, Cybersomatic Optimizer, RAM Manager, and Feen-X, strengthening the signal, solidifying the connection. Always feels a zing when her OS boots up, but this? Feels different than the Paraline, than her old Shadow. Feels faster, smoother, capable of more.

“Lookin’ good,” Vik tells her, gazing at the data scrolling across his monitor. “It’s talkin’ to your chrome, downright flirtin’ with the COX-2. Signals are strong. How’s it feel?”

“Feels good,” she says, smiling.

She accesses the Borgbeast, starts peeking at its menus. It’s a custom OS, meaning nothing’s factory default, but it came pre-loaded with settings and programs Maelstrom must consider a basic line-up, and she can’t wait to see what they are.

Vik chuckles. “Your brain just lit up like City Center.”

“Not in a bad way, I’m guessin’.”

“No, cookie,” he rumbles with a small smile, “not in a bad way.”

It doesn’t take long for Vik to give her the all clear, but he still makes her promise to be careful poking around. She hurries home, jacks into her BBS, and immediately starts exploring the Borgbeast’s code. She runs a line-by-line, and the best thing about it? It’s not locked like corpo chrome is. She doesn’t have to break in, doesn’t have to jump through hoops unpacking the code. She can read it clearly, and she devours every line, puzzling over the brilliant but unusual syntax, marveling over their methods for hooking into NetWatch’s firmware. Doesn’t know which one of Maelstrom’s codefreaks wrote this code, but it’s fuckin’ beautiful.

She makes a copy of the OS, saves the project under os_borgbeast_c0.0.1, and opens it up in the center of her data fortress. Starts jotting down ideas on her notes stack. Little improvements to make it run smoother, tweaks to better suit her style…

When she finally jacks out, it’s the middle of the night and she’s exhausted. She barely manages to drag herself to the bathroom before falling into bed. A single thought flits through her mind—

[3:17] V:

This deck is incredible

—seconds before she passes out.

When she wakes up, it’s to the sun glaring through her window and Dum Dum’s message thread blinking.

[3:20] Dum Dum:

chipped it already huh

[3:31] Dum Dum:

like it

[4:12] Dum Dum:

where the fuck ya go

She smiles sleepily at his texts.

[1:53] V:

Sorry, I passed out

Was so beat I didn’t even realize I messaged you

She groans as she rolls out of bed and trudges through her morning rituals. She’s brushing her teeth when a message pings her phone.

[2:01] Dum Dum:

long night

[2:01] V:

Spent hours in the Net, lost track of time

[2:03] Dum Dum:

diggin around the borgbeast

She smiles around her toothbrush.

[2:03] V:

Every nook and cranny

[2:03] Dum Dum:

like it

[2:03] V:

I love it

Do all your codefreaks use it?

[2:03] Dum Dum:

nah just haxans

only netwatch chip we had tho

Heat rushes into her cheeks and her stomach somersaults. Only NetWatch chip they had, and he gave it to her.

[2:04] V:

Gonna make me blush

[2:04] Dum Dum:

nova

She spits toothpaste in the sink, rinses her mouth out. Brushes her hair and ties it in a bun. Stares at her reflection. Doesn’t look any different, but she feels different. Like a new ‘runner, full of potential. Because for the first time in her life, her neural deck’s not holding her back.

[2:07] V:

Dum Dum

[2:07] Dum Dum:

what

[2:07] V:

Thank you

She flips the bathroom light off and goes straight to her hackpad, prepares to dive. She plans to spend the rest of the day uploading her favorite quickhacks to the Borgbeast and tailoring them to its specs. Just before she jacks in, her phone pings with a final message.

[2:10] Dum Dum:

said that already

V smiles and slips into her BBS.

Chapter Text

V sits on her couch and sips coffee, staring at the door to her hackpad, nails drumming against the Nue propped on her thigh. She wants to jump back into her workshop, but she needs to go to Wilson’s. It’s been two days since the Borgbeast was installed and she’s lived in the Net since, but it’s time to get back to her schedule. Keep a promise to yourself, she thinks, but it doesn’t have the same weight it did a couple months ago. She’s not hiding from her grief this time, just geeking out over preem tech.

She lifts her coffee mug to her lips, trying to talk herself into target practice while her mind’s stuck on code revisions, when a message suddenly flashes in the corner of her vision.

[11:13] Regina:

Hey, V. Got a job for you. Not your usual work - riskier. But

it's yours, if you’re interested.

She sips her coffee and fires back a response.

[11:13] V:

Detes

She picks up the Nue, spins it on her finger, catches it by the handle. Once, twice. Tries to imagine shooting targets, but winds up thinking about tweaking the BORE scheduler to account for her neural sync. Sips her coffee.

[11:15] Regina:

Ever heard of Glitter? Word is that if you take it, you're hooked for life, but

apparently it's easier to OD on than neo-fentanyl. It was only a matter of

time before some zit-faced, rich kid fried his skull sponge. Kid's mother was

Arati Kapoor, co-owner of the Masala Studios restaurant franchise. Needless

to say, she's pretty torn up about it, but she's not the kind to wallow in her

grief - she's got a plan. The lab where glitter is cooked has to be wiped off

the face of the earth. And if some of these dipshits making it expire on the

spot? I think you know the answer.

Of course V’s heard of Glitter, but she needs to know who cooks it. Doesn’t think it’s Maelstrom, but if it is, she’s not touching this.

[11:16] V:

Which dipshits?

[11:16] Regina:

Tyger Claws. Expect a fight. Interested?

V bites her lip. This is the kind of gig she’s avoided up until now—direct, dangerous. But with the Borgbeast, maybe she doesn’t have to play it safe anymore…

She pulls up Dum Dum’s message thread, shoots him a text.

[11:17] V:

You busy today?

She glances out the window to the blue sky beyond the skyscrapers and sips her coffee while she waits for a response. Could be minutes, could be hours—

[11:17] Dum Dum:

got time for ya

She smiles at the quick response.

[11:17] V:

Do you have any reservations about killing Tyger Claws?

[11:17] Dum Dum:

nah fuck em

[11:17] V:

What about Glitter?

[11:18] Dum Dum:

what about it

[11:18] V:

You take it?

[11:18] Dum Dum:

not my speed

why

[11:18] V:

Wanna blow up a lab with me?

[11:19] Dum Dum:

shit

got a sxv-2 filter

[11:19] V:

Not yet, but I’ll get one

[11:19] Dum Dum:

nah i got it

[11:19] V:

So you’re in?

[11:20] Dum Dum:

course im in

pick ya up later

V smiles, excitement shooting through her as she swaps to Regina’s message thread.

[11:20] V:

I’ll do it

[11:20] Regina:

Great. Flicking you the coords now.

V flips the Nue again, unable to stop smiling even when she sips her coffee. Now diving is the furthest thing from her mind. Can’t wait to see Dum Dum, to take the Borgbeast out for a spin, to show him what she can do.

She switches to Dum Dum’s thread.

[11:21] V:

What time?

[11:22] Dum Dum:

later

She stops flipping her gun, staring at the all-too-familiar response, and then sighs.

-o-

V goes to Wilson’s for a couple hours, has lunch, then dives until Dum Dum texts her to be ready in an hour. She jacks out of her BBS and gets dressed in what she’s started to think of as her Maelstrom threads—tank, ripped jeans, high-tops, and her Bad Motherfucker vest in a black and red color scheme. She slips on fingerless gloves, belts her cyberdeck on her left thigh, her Nue on the right, and straps her goggles to the top of her head.

She flicks Dum Dum the coordinates Regina gave her—

[5:45] V:

Meet me here

—and then heads out of her apartment. She rides the elevator down to the ground floor, exits the H10, and jogs across the street to the Metro line.

[5:49] Dum Dum:

why

[5:49] V:

Gonna go poke around

She steps into the elevator and punches the button for Level 03, rides the car up to Departures, and ducks onto the westbound train just seconds before the door closes. The car is crowded, so she stands near the exit, ready to leap out at a moment’s notice. She hates riding the Metro. It’s the smell—the unwashed bodies, too much cologne, fading disinfectant, and burnt plastic. Makes her feel a little sick. Didn’t want to drive herself, though. She wants to be in need of a ride once this gig is done.

Wants Dum Dum to take her home.

As the train zips across the city, V’s gaze bounces from one passenger to the next, hunting for chrome. The other reason she took the Metro—to test her cyberdeck out. She spots a girl a few bodies down with shiny pink cyberarms and immediately scans her system. Within milliseconds, a list of cyberware appears in her peripheral with each part’s name, manufacturer, system group, functionality, and baseline statistics. She picks the first piece of ware and times how long it takes her to run a breach protocol, and—

“Holy shit,” she whispers in shock as she rushes in so quickly, she nearly topples over the metaphorical edge.

Fast.

It’s fast.

Her thoughts are moving the same speed they always are, but the Borgbeast is keeping up, in perfect sync. Trained her brain to accommodate the latency of past decks, and now she’s practically tripping over it. A little laugh huffs out of her, joy and disbelief rolled into a single sound. She moves to another passenger with a green robojaw and breaches it in half the time it used to take. Targets another, breaches. Another. Another. Her gaze jumps from person to person, measuring the lag time between changing targets—

There is none.

Shit, shit, she’s not running any quickhacks, barely using any RAM, doesn’t know how fast it’ll be once she starts putting this thing through its paces, but—shit, it’s never been this smooth before. Fuck, it’s like she spent her whole life wading through mud and now she’s finally free—

“Now arriving at Farrier & Ferguson,” the automated voice announces, snapping V out of her thoughts. She disconnects from the passenger and presses up against the exit as the train slows down. The moment the doors open, she hurries out and is first on the elevator down to the ground.

Once on the street, she heads right toward the address Regina gave her, an eager bounce in her step. She can’t stop scanning and breaching, testing distance and routing interference—people and vehicles and vending machines. Doesn’t touch anything, doesn’t mess around, just pops the lock for a quick look, just to see how quick she can. And she’s so quick, she laughs out loud, drawing curious eyebrows and offended sneers from passersby. It’s thanks to the NetWatch hardware—god-tier tech made for the elite masters of the Net, crafted with Earth’s most wanted minerals and assembled in a vacuum. Only used the mass market shit before now, but NetWatch makes all the big boy corpo lines look like off-brand tinker toys.

Knows Vik told her not to touch an aptitude test, but fuck, now she’s curious.

V crosses Drake Avenue and continues down the sidewalk. Takes a set of concrete steps down to a BD shack and hooks a right onto Ravinj, following her nav data to an alley between a shop called Tengu and a Men-Tatsu food stall. Two Tyger Claws loiter outside an open garage, but she can’t get a good look inside from this angle, and there are too many witnesses here on the street for her to start poking around. So she keeps walking to the end of the block where she finds a parking lot and a handful of shops. Beside the 2nd Amendment is another, more narrow alley with a dumpster full of rot and scattered trash. She holds her breath while she snaps a pic of the entrance and texts it to Dum Dum, and then she picks her way through the debris, careful not to kick any of the empty beer bottles or old food cartons.

At the end of the alley, she peeks around the corner. From this angle, she has a better view of the two Claws messing around out front—one tattooed from his neck down and another with a katana and cyberarms. No external access port, but she has a clear line of sight into the garage where light reflects off a camera lens. Perfect. It only takes a second for her to hijack it. Gangoons love installing cameras, but never bother to update their soft…

Not that it’d stop her if they did.

She jumps from one camera to another, tallying up the opposition. Counts five Claws between the garage and alley, three split across various processing rooms, and two in the lab. She scans them through the camera, takes stock of their chrome. Don’t always look it, but they’re just as cybered up as any boostergang. Usually with cyberlimbs and reflex boosters, but even those heavily tattooed muscleheads are chipped with a special ink thick with nanites that provide nifty features like Smart scrambling, RGB lighting, and temperature regulation. It’s a bad day when your tattoos become a branding iron.

Not a single Claw in this cave she can’t fuck up.

But can she do it from the shadows? Wirelessly connecting to a network and rerouting through the ShortLink to multiple targets is like jumping from one moving train to another while staying connected to the original train, and then trying to open the doors to the new train without letting anyone on it know what you’re doing or that you’re even there. Difficult even for the best of netrunners, and so resource intensive that it’s almost impossible to maintain more than a couple connections. She’s done it before, but only for opening locked doors or turning off turrets—quick, simple tasks that didn’t threaten to overload her neural deck.

But that was before the Borgbeast and her Feen-X.

V glances up and down the alley to make sure she’s alone and then rests her temple against the brick wall, takes a shallow breath. Prepares herself. She pings the network, tracing every single device and individual connected to it. And then she activates her Eye in the Sky protocol. One by one, she connects to a Tyger Claw’s ShortLink receiver, slithers through their ICE, clocks their Internal Agent sig, and ties them to a kill switch command. And then she burrows into their code—

     accessBRGBST;

          function(sub_3,

               (upload_remote[contagion_v4_scoped], mu=9;)

     )

—and plants the latest version of her Contagion daemon in their chrome, a nasty virus that rapidly erodes safety protocols and injects malicious subroutines to replace the defaults. It’s stealthy, so they won’t notice their systems have been compromised until they try to use their cyberware. That, or she detonates it herself with an Overheat. All it’ll take is a single command, and then it’s over.

V takes deep, measured breaths as she works, taking her time, stepping carefully, monitoring her resource allocation. Doesn’t expect it to be this easy, but the Borgbeast doesn’t trip or stutter where her old Paraline and Shadow would’ve, and her Camillo and Feen-X juggle her system load and RAM usage effortlessly. When she’s finished with the last Tyger Claw, she pulls up her system monitoring display, checks the sensor output. Her ware is warm, but temps are within normal parameters. No thermal throttling, power draw’s steady, zero performance loss. The Borgbeast is practically purring. She’s still connected to every single Claw through Eye in the Sky, but she’s stable.

V draws a shaky breath as she realizes what this means…

She’s nowhere near her limit.

The sound of heavy footsteps yanks her back into the moment and her gaze snaps to the other end of the alley to find Dum Dum walking toward her. He’s wearing a black jacket, synleather riding pants with a white skull spray-painted onto the thigh, boots, and no shirt. Her stomach flips in anticipation, heart skips a beat. She bites her lip in a futile attempt to stop herself from smiling and greets him silently.

[6:34] V:

Hey

His stride doesn’t slow as he comes at her, just fires the message—

[6:34] Dum Dum:

princess

—a split second before he slips an arm around her waist, yanks her body against his, and kisses her. He presses her against the wall, hands sliding over her sides and hips, and there’s a brief moment of pressure before he catches himself, eases up. Firm, but not crushing, and she likes it. She sighs into his mouth, tongue sliding against his, leaning into his hard body. Thick abdominal wires and cold armorweave press into her exposed belly, and it makes her muscles flutter with a twisted sense of desire. Not normal, alien, a little terrifying—oh, but every cell in her body remembers it was his touch that flooded her in ecstasy, wants that feeling again and again and again.

Dum Dum breaks the kiss and murmurs, “Feelin’ bad, baby?”

Her eyes flutter open, taking in his red optics and parted lips, and she nods. Yeah, she’s feeling bad, feeling dangerous, but it’s background noise now that he’s kissed her. It was good, really good, so much better than before and she doesn’t know why, just wants to keep kissing him and—

He asks, “Ready?”

She just nods again, still a little mesmerized by his mouth. He lets her go, steps back, holds up a black gas mask with double filters. She sucks in a deep breath to clear her head and takes it, straps it across her mouth as he fits one over his. He yanks a hood over his dreads and lifts his DR5.

“Show me what ya can do, princess.”

V feels her lips curling into a smile as she gazes into those bright red Spiders and hits her kill switch on the Claws’ Internal Agents. She looks through the Eye in the Sky at the tethers she’s still connected to, and her stars come alive as she sends a firestorm down the ShortLink—

“What the hell?” A man’s voice echoes in the alley. “What the…what the fuck?” Pitches higher, panicky. “What the f—shit!” Becomes a scream. “Fuck fuck faaaAAAA—”

Dum Dum tilts his head at her, curious, and then steps out into the alley to observe her work. V follows, watching through both her Kiroshis and the garage camera as the gangoon with the full-body tattoos slaps at his glowing ink as if he’s on fire. It pulses white, searing with heat that turns his skin red until he shrieks, clawing at his sizzling flesh, every muscle in his body taught with tension. His katana-wielding buddy backs away in horror until the Overheat triggers on his chrome, and the sword hits the ground. His cyberarms start twisting and jerking, rotating off their axis until they’re sparking and sizzling. His hydraulic fluid explodes with a pop, ripping off his arms and sending bits of blood, metal, and plastic all over the alley. He drops to his knees, blood bubbling out of his mouth, and topples over with a wet smack.

She hears Dum Dum draw a deep, raspy breath before he strolls toward them, blasts the tattooed guy’s head off, and stops in front of the garage where three other Claws are spasming from cyberware malfunctions. He glances back at her, his optics glowing beneath his hood, the gas mask concealing any emotion he might be able to convey. He looks dangerous, scary, and she’s probably lost her fuckin’ mind, but she thinks he looks sexy, too.

His distorted voice scrapes her spine as he asks, “What’s V stand for?”

“Guess,” she breathes.

“Violence.”

Power and pride rush through her, a dangerous mix because the power’s all hers, but her pride’s ‘cause of him, ‘cause he approves—she can hear it in his voice—and that’s a drug more addictive than Glitter. The kind of thing that can change a person if they’re not careful.

She meets him at the garage door and they enter together. He pumps rounds into the survivors and reloads his revolver as they make their way toward a door in the back. He rips it open, revealing a concrete stairwell, and muffled shouts echo from below. Dum Dum leads the way down into a dimly lit basement, through trash-filled corridors and rooms cluttered with old mattresses, cheap take-out, stacked boxes, chemical barrels, and drug processing stations. She jumps through the camera feed ahead of them, ready to call out any potential danger, but all the Tyger Claws they find are dead or close to it. Only one of them has enough mobility and pain tolerance to shoot at them, but Dum Dum hollows out his chest before he can squeeze out more than one round.

V watches him, enthralled. Seduced. His confident stride, the casual way he pulls the trigger—makes her hotter than she was after he put a boot to Zeta’s brain and turned her ticker to paste. Doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. Can’t explain why this side of him makes her crave his touch, just knows that she does. 

Dum Dum stops just outside the lab, surveys the dead Tyger Claws and looks back at her. Asks, “Did all this from out there?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, a little stunned by the truth. “Snaked the ShortLink through the surveillance system. Never knew I was there.” She drifts closer, murmurs, “Wasn’t even hard.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, but the mask makes it sound like a growl, “I fuckin’ am.”

She hums in delight, anticipation rushing through her, and she can’t stop herself from reaching out to touch his chest, hand sliding down to skim the waistband of his pants as she walks by him. He palms her ass as she opens the door to the lab, then follows her inside.

They enter a large room bathed in red light. Chemistry equipment is set up in the center, the edges crammed with chemical drums and plastic tubs, shelves of ingredients and gas vats. There’s enough flammable material in here to crater this place. Two Claws are lying on the ground, one dead, the other inching toward the exit. Dum Dum slips a knife from his boot and cuts the guy’s throat while V goes to the central terminal and jacks in, skims the server. Recipe iterations mostly, and the soft they use to control the chemical drips. Nothing she’s sure they don’t have backups of, but she doesn’t want them to be able to lift a single measurement off this place, so she slips a virus into the network and jacks out just as Dum Dum drops a red canister beside three of the large tanks lining one wall. He nods toward the exit and she immediately hurries toward it.

His gun goes off, and then a loud bang makes her duck instinctively. Heat blooms across her skin. She glances over her shoulder as fire scatters across the lab to see Dum Dum walking toward her, completely at ease. He takes her by the arm and hauls her forward, and they hurry back through the compound and up to the garage. As they step outside, she retracts her consciousness from the ShortLink, releases her hold on the system. Her Borgbeast stops purring…

And that’s when V notices the commotion in the street—people screaming and running, sirens wailing in the distance. Her heart’s racing, adrenaline hammering through her body like a shot of Lace, so high she doesn’t realize she’s staring until Dum Dum pulls her back into the alley alongside 2nd Amendment. They barely take five steps before he pushes her against the wall, pulls her gas mask off, and rips his own away from his mouth. Then he’s kissing her again, hard and deep, and she’s so raw from natural ‘dorphs, she moans like he just sucked her clit. The wet slide of his tongue, the thrilling pop of his gauges, the firm press of his lips—something’s changed ‘cause it’s so fucking perfect, she—

She jerks back in shock, hand flying to her chin as she realizes what’s different. There’s no pain. She zeroes in on his chin spikes, runs her thumb over them. Can’t tell just by looking, but she can feel it.

They’ve been blunted…

V doesn’t say anything—doesn’t think he’d want her to acknowledge it anymore than this—just leans in and kisses him hard, tongue brushing up against his. Rips his hood down and tangles her fingers in his metal dreads, runs her nails over his scalp. His hands slide over her ass, lift her up, and squeeze her thighs as she wraps her legs around his hips. She can feel the hard length of him pressing into her core and she groans, rocking her hips against his until they’re panting at each other—

A thunderous boom rocks the ground, glass shatters, and a car alarm starts wailing. She sucks in a sharp breath in shock—can feel the heat pouring from the garage, smell the pungent odor of burning chemicals—but Dum Dum doesn’t stop kissing her. Just tangles his fingers in her hair and angles her head for better access. His cock grinds against her until she whimpers. Loud pops like fireworks rattle in the garage, people shout, car horns blare, and the sirens grow louder.

Dum Dum suddenly pulls back, grunting like he’s fighting himself. Rasps, “Let’s go somewhere.”

“Yeah,” she agrees.

He lets her down, takes her hand, and they run out of the alley into the parking lot where his Javelina’s parked. The engine roars to life and the tires scream as he peels out of the lot. Rubberneckers in the street have to leap out of the way as Dum Dum floors the accelerator, and V braces herself as she sinks into the seat from the force. Blue and red emergency lights whip past them as they gun it eastbound down Cartwright.

She has no idea where he’s taking her, but she doesn’t care…

She looks at him, at the way the pinks and oranges of the sky blend into a gentle light that clashes with his harsh chrome and red optics, trying like hell to soften a man that can’t be softened. She can see them now, his blunted chin spikes, not as long or sharp as they used to be. The same invisible hand that squeezed her heart when Jackie died grips her again, but this time the pain is sweet.

He did it for her.

Took the chrome plating off his teeth ‘cause she liked his smile, filed his chin spikes ‘cause he was hurting her. Maybe he is embarrassed to want her like he does, maybe he does want to hide it from his gang, but he wants her enough that he’s changed himself for her—multiple times—and if that doesn’t tell her everything she needs to know about where they stand, she’s a fucking fool.

“Carved ‘em up. Fried bone and bled chrome,” Dum Dum says in a voice like grinding metal. “Never seen work like that.”

She licks her lips. “Wanted to make sure our date wasn’t boring.”

“Fuckin’ right. Savage fuckin’ haxan, ghost in the network.” Dum Dum swipes a hand over his mouth then says, “Finally let yourself off the leash. Got a ‘borg all fucked up.”

Confusion flits through her as her pounding heart skips a sickening beat. “You’re not scared of me…”

She says it like a statement, but it’s a question. ‘Cause the irony would be too fuckin’ painful if he was. That after being scared of Maelstrom all her life like any sane person is, the one Maelstrommer she isn’t afraid of, whom she would never hurt, would be afraid of her.

He barks a laugh. “Nah, not scared of ya, princess,” he says, and her relief is so powerful that she almost sags in her seat. “Go ahead. Wanna feel it, would be a fuckin’ honor.”

V swallows the lump in her throat, because she doesn’t know why he says things like that. Why he seems excited by the thought of her quickhacking him to component parts. God knows she’d never consider it an honor to have him tear her apart. It’s a Maelstrom mentality she just can’t understand. She remembers them standing in that alley after Jackie died, the day he came back into her life. Show me whatcha got, he’d said, and she thought he was joking. Don’t wanna hurt ya, she’d teased. Serious as can be, he’d asked, Why not? And she almost didn’t know what to say. Why not? Why would she? He wasn’t hurting her. He was being nice to her. Why would she attack him for that? And why would he welcome it?

V still doesn’t know what to say, except to make him the same promise he always made her.

“Not gonna hurt you,” she says.

He hums deep in his throat and purrs, “Yeah,” like he already knew, has known all along. He glances at her, and every cell in her body stands at attention. “Won’t hurt ya either, princess.”

V smiles, opens her mouth to say something stupid, but Judy’s name springs up on the holo.

“Getting a call,” she tells him, shifting her gaze to the pastel skyline and the skyscrapers bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. She answers, “Hey, Ju—”

“V,” Judy cries, voice wet with years, laced with panic. “Can you come over stat?”

And it’s like slippin’ into an ice bath the way her whole body goes cold at the techie’s tone.

She asks, “Something happen?”

“Just come,” she chokes, sniffles. “Please.”

The call ends.

V takes a shallow breath, skin prickling, hair standing on end. This is about Evelyn, has to be. No other reason Judy would call her.

“That was Judy,” she says. “Something happened. I think it’s bad…” She looks at Dum Dum. “I gotta go, I gotta handle this.”

There’s a heavy pause before he says, “I’ll take ya.”

And then he changes lanes and turns left, rerouting to Charter Street. Gratitude floods her as she casts her gaze out the window, watching the city flash by, anxiety buzzing in her chest. Tries to reassure herself that Evelyn’s fine.

Knows deep down she’s not.

Chapter Text

Dum Dum leans against his car parked in the shadow of Tiny’s apartment building and stares at the light spilling from the entrance. Sun’s dropped below the horizon, the last dregs of orange light quickly fading into purple. Traffic’s filtered to a trickle, and now he barely hears any impatient horns or angry engines. There’s just the breeze of passing cars and the smell of nicotine, smog, and someone makin’ curry. The racket of a TV through an open window and the giggles of neighborhood kids playin’ in the alley trash. A woman—not his princess—starts to leave Tiny’s building. She stops when she sees him, panics, hurries back inside. He flicks the ash off his cigarette, exhales a stream of gray, and stares at that door. Waits for V to need him. He lifts his cigarette to his lips, takes a long drag. Paper sizzles, the cherry bright in the darkness.

Bright like green Kiroshis, glowing with cyberlight, consciousness split.

Can’t stop seein’ it, thinkin’ about it.

Girl was up to no good, dressed down in ‘Strommer colors, stars hot in that pretty head of hers. And then she turned to look at him and—fuck, her eyes. Simultaneously buried in some machine and in the moment with him. Made him hotter than the fuckin’ sun. Pushed her against the wall, kissed her, and it was like a hit of s-keef. Felt nothin’ but her taste dissolvin’ in his bloodstream, purgin’ pain and fear and every sensation but the thrill of her tongue in his mouth. Wanted to pin her up right there, dock her dumb, but they had a job to do first.

Then he went into that alley, stared at the bodies of five Tyger Claws—dead, bloody things with boiled flesh and exploded ware, some still seizin’ from chrome crash—and his cock was harder than steel. Saw the camera in the garage, knew it was her entry point. All that carnage and brutality—she did it with her mind, tucked away in an alley like a ghost.

“Show me what ya can do, princess,” he’d said.

And her violence was beautiful.

The Merciful, that’s what they call ‘em, their kitschy nickname—people with Mercy’s. Ironic, considerin’ there’s nothin’ merciful about what she can do. Did his own research after talkin’ to Gottfrid, and the fucker was right. Corpos snap ‘em up like cheap IPs, fold ‘em into their great machine. Fuckin’ miracle no one found her before now. Girl thought she was less than she was, flew under the radar, but she’s so much deadlier than either of them knew. Under all that flesh and blood, his girl’s a ‘borgbeast. And he felt what all those cult chromers must feel at the feet of the haxans, the thing that commits them to gonk rituals and bakebrain martyrdom.

Devotion.

Pride.

And he is proud—of her, of what she can do—but another kind of pride puffed up his ego. Somethin’ darker, sicker, heady. Pride in himself to be the chosen consort-protector of Night City’s most deadly cyberwitch, and—shit, it’s the kind of bullshit imagery those cult cocksuckers engrave in code and prophesy in chrome, and it makes him a little sick to dip his toes in the delusion for even a second, but—fuck, doesn’t have to be religious to appreciate a killer codefreak.

And he does.

“Snaked the ShortLink through the surveillance system,” she told him. “Wasn’t even hard.”

“I fuckin’ am,” he’d said, and he was.

Dum Dum exhales a stream of smoke, tiltin’ his head toward the darkening sky, desire coursing through his veins.

Wasn’t work they did, nah. Was foreplay.

Had to fight himself every step of the way, ‘cause he wanted to push her down and fuck her right there in the lab. Like a ticking time bomb, and he was about to go off. Those bright green eyes and chrome-crashed splat jobs, the fire and heat—wanted her bad. Couldn’t stop himself once he got her in that alley. Ripped their masks off, put her up against that wall. Bluntin’ his chin spikes was the right move. The way she looked at him, kissed him, clawed at him—he’s not a fuckin’ animal, but for a second… For a second, he was.

For a second, he was worse, ‘cause he didn’t care about the screams or the fire or the sirens, he was gonna fuck her anyway.

Came to his senses quick enough, got her out of there. But his blood’s still burnin’ at the thought of her, of those bright green eyes. Wants to get out of here and finish what they started in that alley.

Dum Dum takes another drag on his cigarette as V finally appears in the doorframe, meandering onto the pavement, searching the darkness. Her gait’s a little off, like she’s in shock. He zooms into her face. Looks pale, upset. Her gaze finds him and she slowly walks over. He takes the last drag on his cigarette and tosses the butt into the shadows. Knows what she’s going to say before she says it.

“Evelyn’s dead.” She swallows. “She killed herself.”

Yeah, ‘course she did. If the doll had any awareness at all, she’d have been in hell. Dum Dum’s only surprised it took this long. Tiny must’ve been watchin’ her like corpos watch their bean counters. Doesn’t say that, though. Says nothin’.

V palms her forehead, pushes her hair back, gazes vacantly into the distance. After a moment, she says, “Will you do somethin’ for me?”

He asks, “Whaddaya need?”

She looks at him, those green eyes glassy with tears. “Just move her body,” she murmurs. “Please.”

Dum Dum pushes off the car in a clear signal to lead the way. He’ll move a body for her, sure, but he’d do anything she asked, kill whoever she needed dead. Does she know that?

V flashes him a brief but grateful smile and turns back to the building. He follows her inside and up the stairs, past a couple druggies lounging on the first landing to Tiny’s place on the second floor. V palms the control panel and the door whizzes open. He immediately sees the doll lyin’ in a tub through the open bathroom door across the hall, blood smeared on the tiles and plastic, and can hear Tiny in another room havin’ a one-sided conversation, hissin’ something about Trauma Team and insurance.

Dum Dum tunes her out and goes into the bathroom, and it’s all shock value. Doll gashed both forearms and turned the place into a slasher flick with splatter shots and dramatic streaks. Made sure to cut long and deep so there was zero chance anyone could take this away from her.

He scoops the doll up and V guides him to the bedroom where towels have been layered on the bed. He lays her down, watches V arrange her arms over her belly, brush her hair away from her face. She bein’ tender or considerate? He knows ‘ganics get funny ‘bout the dead, but it still strikes him as odd. Didn’t think V liked her all that much.

They leave the room and find Tiny crumpled on her couch, fists pressed to her temples, sobbing into her knees.

“Judy,” V says softly.

Tiny looks up, her eyes bloodshot, black streaking down her cheeks. Her lips twitch in a sneer at the sight of him before she looks away, nose wrinkling, eyes leaking. Doesn’t say anything, like she doesn’t wanna speak around him, but Dum Dum doesn’t give a fuck if she’s uncomfortable or not. He’s not leavin’ without his princess.

V asks, “They coming?”

There’s a faint scoff before Tiny mutters, “Yeah, they’re comin’. Be here soon.” A heavy pause, and then she stands. “Told me to leave her on ice until tomorrow. Can you believe the balls?”

Tiny crosses to the bedroom, bare feet pattering on the tiles, and sniffles when she sees the doll’s corpse. She sits down on the bed near her feet, head hung.

V asks, “You need anything?”

“No,” Tiny answers, her voice tight. There’s a wet sob, a sharp inhale, and then, “Gonna put somethin’ on her. Rather she looks like a person.” Another heavy pause. “Give me a hand?”

“Okay,” V says softly. She glances back at him, flashes him an apologetic smile, and then ducks into the bedroom, closes the door.

Dum Dum runs his tongue along his teeth. Fuckin’ ‘ganics… Doll’s dead and fully dressed—why the fuck she need more clothes just to be tossed on the burn pile?

[7:47] Dum Dum:

will be at the car

[7:47] Princess:

I’ll be down soon

He goes back downstairs, lights another cigarette, and crosses the lot to his Javelina. Leans against it and smokes. Ten minutes later, she appears once more and joins him at the car.

“Hey,” she says softly, full of sadness.

All the fire from earlier is gone.

“Hey,” he says, droppin’ his cigarette butt.

She steps closer, rests her hand on his chest, and gently kisses his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers, and then steps back.

Dum Dum doesn’t know why she’s thanking him. Not like he didn’t have ulterior motives.

“Ready?” he asks, and she nods.

Dum Dum pushes off the car and opens the passenger door for her. She smiles soft and small, just for a second, and walks toward him. He digs into his jacket, pulls out his s-keef inhaler, offers it. All she needs is one hit, and that pain is gone. She stares at it for a long moment, then shakes her head.

“I’m okay,” she murmurs, but Dum Dum knows it’s a lie.

She slips into the car and Dum Dum shuts the door, loops to the diver’s side, slides in, starts the engine. Electric guitar, drums, and someone screamin’ buzzes faintly from his speakers. He looks at V. She’s quiet, starin’ vacantly out the window.

Night wasn’t supposed to go down this way. Was gonna take her to the Tanz, offer up a spread of liquor and Lace, fuck her real good, repeatedly. And he wants to, still fuckin’ hard for her, but that look on her face is a full stop. Girl’s not lookin’ for an orgasm, she wants comfort, he thinks. Dum Dum doesn’t know how to give her what she’s lookin’ for, but he fuckin’ wishes he did. Doesn’t know why, just knows what he likes and what he doesn’t, and what he likes is when she’s happy, and he fuckin’ hates it when she’s sad.

Doesn’t even bother scannin’ for fault codes anymore.

Dum Dum peels out onto Charter and starts the drive to the H10. Doesn’t gun it like before, just cruises the narrow streets and sharp turns. Not sure what she wants, but will stay with her as long as she’ll let him, just in case she needs him again. He keeps his optics split between her and the road. Fluorescent street lights pulse in the shadows of the cab like a heartbeat, flashing across her lap, her cheeks, highlighting the tears tracking down her face, the muscle jumping in her jaw, the wrinkle of her chin. She’s mourning, but why?

He asks, “Doll was a choom?”

She quietly sniffles and tries to discreetly wipe away her tears. “No,” she manages, clears her throat, adds, “Wanted to punch that bitch in the face.”

“Then why ya cryin’?”

Frustration flickers over her face and she looks away, like she’s trying to hide it from him. His amplified hearing ware picks up a tiny intake of breath, a soft shuddering exhale, a thick swallow. Hard to believe this soft ‘ganic thing is the same ‘borgbeast from earlier, but he doesn’t hate it. Reminds him of the second time they met, when she braved All Foods for iron after the Fat Rat shot her up. Wanted to do things for her.

Still does.

V says, “Was awful, what happened to her.” She wipes under her chin, mumbles, “Every woman’s worst nightmare…”

Every woman’s worst—shit, she’s not thinkin’ it could happen to her, is she?

Dum Dum tongues a canine. “That’ll never happen to you.”

She huffs. “Got enough chrome in my head to take me out, but who says it’ll kill my awareness? Trey was right, wasn’t he? She knew what happened to her, was reliving it all this time—”

“Not gonna happen to ya.”

She looks at him, frowning. “But if it does, you’ll pull the trigger, right?”

“Nah,” he bites out, “got it all wrong.” ‘Cause she’s not the one gonna catch a bullet. “Anyone who fucks with you dies.”

V turns away, but he catches a few more tears slipping down her cheeks, her lips pursing, chin wrinkling. She swipes at her face, sniffs sharply, but continues to sob softly. He doesn’t know why. Maybe she doesn’t believe him? Could tell her about Dex, wants to, so she understands that he means it. She doesn’t know what he’s done, what he’s gonna keep doing, but it doesn’t really matter. ‘Cause he’s watchin’ her six now. Ain’t no one gonna fuck with her.

And he’ll fuckin’ flatline anyone who tries.

Chapter Text

V stares through bleary eyes at the city lights passing by and tries like hell to stop crying. She doesn’t want to do this in front of him, but her chest is cracking open, grief spilling out like a busted water main, and she can’t plug the leak, can’t hold it in.

It’s not Evelyn’s passing that’s upset her—a depressing end to a tragic story, but she’s seen worse in this city. It’s not even how easily that could’ve been her if she’d made a different choice, how easily it could be her if she’s not careful. No, it’s when she stepped into that bathroom and saw Evelyn lying in all that blood, saw Judy sobbing into her fists, that she was acutely aware of the empty space beside her where Jackie used to stand. He made the bad things bearable, the hardest things doable. And for a moment, she was paralyzed, because she was going to have to do this without him and she had no fucking idea how.

Missing Jackie has been hard—not reading his random messages, not hearing his voice or his laugh, not seeing his face or getting that bear hug. It’s been hard to have an idea or hear a joke or deal with stress and not be able to talk to him about it. And it’s been hard to see restaurants and video games and movie promos that she knew he’d be excited for, that they would’ve experienced together, and know they never will. But tonight…? Tonight, it wasn’t hard, it was fucking impossible. Because tonight, when she was standing in the door, staring at Judy sobbing and Evelyn’s corpse, she didn’t just miss him. She needed him. And it hit her all over again, in an entirely new way—he’s gone, he’s gone forever, she’s on her fucking own, and she has no idea how to do this without him.

V scrapes at her cheeks, under her chin, trying to remove the evidence of her sorrow, to stem this tide of agony. Guilt suffuses her grief, because she doesn’t want to be mourning Jackie, she wants to be grateful Dum Dum was there for her when she needed the help. To be grateful that he’s here with her now and she doesn’t have to be alone. But she feels alone, so fucking alone, and she hates it, it’s not fair to him, but she can’t help it, she needs Jackie…

Needs him to take her home, sit on her couch, and nurse a bottle of tequila like he always did when shit got tough. That’ll never happen to you, chica, he’d say. I won’t let it.

He was her safety net, her safe place, her confidant, the man she could cry in front of without feeling lesser for it. And sure, Dum Dum makes her feel safe. She knows she could probably talk to Misty about anything. And she’s cried in front of Vik plenty without feeling judged. But it’s not the same. With Jackie, there were years of history, of trust, of acceptance.

And it was unconditional.

Oh God, oh fuck, she did it all wrong, didn’t she? It was the wrong fucking move, letting one person be everything she needed, the one person with whom she felt completely at ease. She should’ve known better. This is Night City, nothing is permanent, people die every day. Why the fuck did she never stop to think about that? But FUCK, it was one bullet, one stupid fucking bullet—he’d taken so many more than that—how the fuck could she have seen it coming? You should’ve, her mind screams at her, because it’s Night City, you idiot, people die here.

V sniffles as quietly as she can as more angry tears spill onto her face.

Dum Dum’s metallic rasp fills the cab. “Doll was a choom?”

“No,” she answers, wiping her cheeks, hoping her voice sounds steady when she adds, “Wanted to punch that bitch in the face.”

“Then why ya cryin’?”

She grimaces and turns away. Of course he noticed, but she wishes he hadn’t. She wants him to keep believing she’s strong, that she’s a badass. To always look at her the way he was earlier when she decimated those Tyger Claws.

V sniffles and runs the back of her hand under her chin. Can’t tell him she’s missing Jackie, so she settles on another truth. “Was awful, what happened to her. Every woman’s worst nightmare…”

“That’ll never happen to you,” he says, just like Jackie would’ve.

“But if it does, you’ll pull the trigger, right?”

“Nah, got it all wrong.” His rough voice scrapes down her spine. “Anyone who fucks with you dies.”

A fresh wave of tears rushes out of her. She knows he doesn’t really mean it, can’t mean it, he’s just being sweet, but it makes her happy nonetheless. So happy it hurts and she can’t breathe.

Dum Dum doesn’t say anything else.

She sucks in a deep breath and tilts her head back, desperately trying to stem the tide of tears. She’s going to scare him off if she doesn’t get it together. He signed up to help her kill Tyger Claws and blow stuff up, not babysit her grief. He’s Maelstrom. He gets off on violence and chaos. Her sloppy ‘ganic sorrow no doubt makes him uncomfortable. And just because they’re sleeping together doesn’t mean he wants any kind of emotional entanglements. Shit, even she can’t imagine crying into his hard stretch of synthskin, his heavy arm around her, his metal hand stroking her back. Can’t fathom something soothing slipping out of that machine voice. No, that’s not him—it’ll never be him, he’s not soft, and she doesn’t want him to be. She doesn’t need soft, she needs strong.

And she feels stronger when she’s with him.

V turns her gaze out the passenger window, watches the buildings and colorful pedestrians pass by. The halogens and neons shimmer in her watery gaze. She clears her throat, grits her jaw, and forces her tears back down. Focuses on normalizing her breathing. Wipes the wetness from her face. She doesn’t know if they can salvage this night, but she wants to try. The ache in her soul isn’t as sharp when he’s around.

She breathes in deep, finally calming down, and catches the familiar scent of roasted synbeans from Snapped Synapses Roasters, sees the pink-haired mascot on the Kiroshi ad. They’re at the corner of Ellison and Farrier—

Shit…

He’s taking her home.

Her heart sinks, disappointment dogging her as they ascend the ramp to stay on Ellison and pass the glaring red Fuyutsuki sign she’s driven by a thousand times. Shadows douse the cab as he pulls into the parking garage, parks his car, and cuts the engine. For a moment, they sit in the dark. He doesn’t speak, just looks at her. Like he’s waiting for something to happen. Waiting for her to say something? Or for her to get out of the car? Maybe he’s just being considerate of my emotions, she thinks, and almost rolls her eyes. Or maybe he’s a fucking Maelstrommer and uncomfortable as shit, you gonk.

V licks her lips. “Thanks for your help tonight,” she says, then grimaces and adds, “I said that already. I meant with everything—the gig, Evelyn…”

Saying it out loud is enough to remind her she still needs to update Regina, so she shoots the fixer a message that it’s done. Dum Dum watches her, and the silence echoes between her ears. She should go, she knows she should—he’s done with her, at least for tonight—but she doesn’t want to. Wants to stay with him a little longer.

V groans and rubs her cheeks with her palms. “Guess I’ll never know what Evelyn told the Voodoo Boys,” she murmurs, tilting her head back against the rest to gaze at the ceiling. “But I guess they would’ve come after me by now if they knew.”

“They don’t,” he says, but there’s no way he could know that. Is he just telling her what he thinks she wants to hear? Doesn’t really seem like something he’d do…

A message flashes in the corner of her vision.

[8:32] Regina:

And just like that, no more lab. Nice work, V.

Oh, one last thing - Arati asked me to thank

you, said she’s very grateful. So, thanks.

A large deposit of eddies rolls into her account and V flicks Dum Dum his cut.

His lips twitch into a grin. “That half?”

She frowns. Of course, it is. “Yeah, I wouldn’t cheat y—”

“Nah,” he rasps, and a few thousand is bounced back to her. “It’s yours. Ya did all the heavy liftin’.”

A sour sensation spills from her gut, leaking into her bloodstream. She can’t tell if he’s pitying her or not. Also doesn’t seem like something he’d do, but…

She swallows the lump in her throat and playfully throws out, “Whatever you say.”

And because she doesn’t want him to see how vulnerable she is, how rejected she feels, she leans across the center console, plants her hand on his hard thigh, and kisses him slow and soft in goodnight. He doesn’t reach for her, just returns her kiss with too much restraint. Apprehension pricks her. Is this it? Did she scare him off? She draws back, gaze darting over his face, those unreadable optics, his parted lips, and offers him the most genuine smile she can manage. Pecks his mouth then opens the car door and climbs out. She’s about to turn around and wish him a goodnight, but his door opens, his boots hit the pavement.

Relief and joy collide in her as he turns to look at her. She still can’t read his face, but he shuts his car door in a clear sign he intends to come with her, and so she shuts hers too, her heartbeat quickening. They walk to the elevator together, and she tries not to smile, to let him see how happy she is, how hopeful.

And then the last thing she expects to hear comes out of his mouth.

“Was serious,” Dum Dum says as they enter the cage. “Voodoo Boys don’t know about you.”

She taps the button for her floor. “How do you know?”

“Made some calls.”

…What?

She whips around to face him. “You…what…? You made calls—what does that mean?”

He runs his tongue over his teeth before answering, “Fixer put me in touch with an ex-VDB codefreak, confirmed the Boys sniped the doll. Was like you said, tyin’ loose ends. Wasn’t lookin’ for anyone else.”

The grinding and squeaking of the elevator rattles between them as V stares at him in stunned silence, eyes wide and brow furrowed, mind stumbling over his words. A fixer…? He hired a fixer? To put him in touch with an ex-Voodoo ‘runner—shit, how much cred did he shell out? And it’s confirmed: the gang killed Evelyn, killed her because she was ranyon, they aren’t looking for anyone else. Always suspected it, but now she knows for sure. She’s safe—

“For what it’s worth,” he adds when she doesn’t speak, “the Boys that sniped the doll got ICEd by NetWatch. Everyone’s in a grave now.”

She swallows. “No one’s after me.”

“Nah.”

“How long have you known?”

He gazes at her for a heavy second before answering, “Long.”

Long? But then he’d have had to start looking for answers the moment she told him. Right after Judy showed her that braindance, and she texted him…

She shakes her head, dumbfounded. “And you didn’t tell me?”

He brushes his metal fingers across his shaved nose before admitting, “Didn’t think a pretty merc girl would like a ‘borg boy gettin’ too close.”

Because that’s somehow more personal than fucking? But what she says is, “Then why do it?”

“Told ya,” he says, and his voice is like a blade sliding over a whetstone. “Anyone who fucks with you dies.”

V inhales sharply. He’s not just telling her what he thinks she wants to hear.

He means it.

Shakes her to her core to realize it, that he’ll flatline anyone who comes after her, even a gang as dangerous as the Voodoo Boys. Sure, they aren’t much of a threat compared to the might of Maelstrom, but netrunners are any boostergang’s weakness, and the VDBs are some of the best Night City has to offer. Sniffing around their ops could’ve drawn their ire, could’ve started a gang war, but he did it anyway. Not for her—not to put her mind at ease, to make her feel better—no, he did it so he would know if she was in danger. So he could do something about it. Poured thousands of eddies into her safety all the way back when they were barely friends so he could protect her.

Anyone who fucks with you dies.

That should terrify her, but it doesn’t. Should worry her, at the very least, because someone who doesn’t deserve it might get zeroed, but her anxiety is far away. Never wanted this kind of justice before, might’ve laughed or rolled her eyes if anyone else had said it to her, but coming from him? It sounds good, sounds…

Safe.

Like she used to feel with Jackie, only…different. Jackie was twice her size, a skilled shooter and a mean brawler, and she always knew he’d never leave her behind, that he would fight and die at her side. But they weren’t invincible. She had the bullet in a glass box to prove it. But Dum Dum? He’s more like a wild animal, unpredictable, vicious. She doesn’t understand why he chose to protect her. Doesn’t know if he won’t turn on her one day. But she knows as long as he’s baring those fangs at her enemies, no one can touch her.

No one but him.

Desire hits her like a blow to the head—disorienting, consuming. V closes the distance between them, grabs him by his jacket, and kisses him. He yanks her close, hands squeezing her body, tongue licking into her mouth. In an instant, the fire between them roars to life. Her thigh slides along his, hooking on his hip, and he grasps her tight, holds her against him. Heat fills her like she’s back in that alley outside the glitter lab, flames licking at her insides, consuming the oxygen in her lungs, her blood, suffocating her. She grinds against the thick friction pressed against her clit, desperate to fill that empty ache—she needs him, needs him with an urgency she’s unused to feeling—

The elevator jerks to a stop and the doors creak open.

He abruptly lets her go, lips thinning, teeth flashing in frustration. She stares at him, struggling to catch her breath. It takes her a second to understand, to remember that one painful detail: he doesn’t want anyone to know. She swallows, grasping for composure, and turns toward the exit, practically power-walks through the trash-littered hallways toward her apartment. Dum Dum follows her wordlessly. She palms her door control and slips inside the dark room, spins to face him, ready to continue—

He’s standing outside, just on the other side of the threshold, his mouth tight with restraint. The door starts to slide closed but he stops it with a single hand, forces it back into the wall with an effortless push, and she feels it like an electric shot to her inner thighs. She quickly remote accesses the system, commands it to stay open. Dum Dum leans into the doorframe, backlit by the hallway fluorescents, and those optics seem to glow brighter in the shadow falling over his face.

“You let me in, better be prepared,” he rasps, “‘cause we ain't leavin' this place for days.”

Her heart skips a beat, because he means that too.

She bites her lip, whispers, “Good.”

Dum Dum pushes off the jamb and steps inside as she closes the door, locks it. He shrugs out of his jacket, walks toward her, and her gaze bounces over him, drinking him in, his bare chest, those riding pants sitting low on his hips, the smear of blood on his abdomen. It’s surreal almost, how her mouth waters a little at the sight of a shirtless Dum Dum. Doesn’t even make sense to her. His chrome body shouldn’t get her hot like a ‘ganic man’s would—sexy, sculpted muscles versus exposed armorweave, thick burrowing wires, and grotesquely crafted synthskin—it shouldn’t even compare. But the way those pants sit low on his hips, that thin waist, his lithe but strong shape…

She’s not thinking about any body but his.

He takes a fistful of her hair, metal digits curling against her scalp, and holds her in a firm grip. A little thrill shoots through her, excitement coiling in her belly, wetting her core as he tilts her face up toward his. Those bright red optics draw her in like a moth. She feels the rough silicon padding of his thumb scrape along her bottom lip, down her chin—

“Gonna fuck you raw, princess.”

He kisses her suddenly, kisses her hard. She winces in surprise, grasping his waist, fingers digging into the thick padding of his synthskin. His tongue slides against hers, free hand roving down her back, her ass, pulling her pelvis flush with his. She melts against him, lost in the heat of his mouth—it’s nice, so fucking nice, always thought he was a good kisser, but now? Can’t get enough, doesn’t want to stop. Her nails scrape across his back as she fights his hold to angle her head better, seeking him more desperately—

Dum Dum yanks her head back by her hair—doesn’t hurt, just breaks the kiss—and stares down at her, open-mouthed. Doesn’t know what he sees, what he’s looking for, what thoughts turn behind those soulless optics, but she feels his attention like a spotlight, stripping her bare… And then her back is suddenly against the wall, pinned by his body, trapped between concrete and chrome. She feels the tiniest flash of fear, gone as quickly as it came, and then he kisses her again and all she feels is suffocating desire and liquid heat.

A hand slides under her shirt to palm her breasts, metal digging into meat, and she feels another flash of fear, a shiver of anticipation. She’s been craving this for a week now, but it’s still new, still a little scary. Not entirely used to his raw chrome touching her bare skin, her intimate places. Flesh bumps bloom across her skin, her muscles jump and twitch wherever he touches, and her chest buzzes nervously, but she knows what those hands can do to her, knows she’ll like it, wants it, needs it—

He breaks the kiss, spins her to face the wall, nudges her against it so suddenly that she throws her palms up to catch herself.

“Not takin’ the scenic route,” he growls, unlatching her belt buckle and unzipping her jeans. “Got a ‘borg all fucked up, ya know that?”

“Tell me,” she begs, heart beating so hard, so fast, she can feel it in her throat.

“Savage fuckin’ haxan,” he bites out, then rips her jeans and underwear down to her thighs. Cool air rushes around her core, teasing, taunting. She can feel his cock through his pants, brushing up against her ass as he palms her hips, pulling her against him. “Pretty killer codefreak.”

There’s the sound of his zipper falling—

Her fingers curl against the wall, bracing herself. His cock nudges her pussy, head sinking into her just an inch, and she gasps. Those metal digits dig into her hips, holding her still, and then he thrusts into her, all the way in, and she moans, eyelids fluttering—fuck, he’s so big, so thick, can feel him everywhere.

“Fuck,” Dum Dum chokes out. “Princess—”

He pulls out and slams back in, hits her in a place that makes her cry out.

Dum Dum groans, “Like that?”

“Yes,” she whispers, breathless.

He does it again and again, relentlessly driving into her. The pressure builds quickly and she orgasms before she’s ready, a sharp but short wave of ecstasy that is quickly overtaken by an even stronger lust. He hisses as she clenches around him, but he doesn’t stop, just fucks her fast and hard until she’s screaming, lost in his friction and heat. Her vision pixelates, electronic snow crowding her mind until she can think of nothing, feel nothing but him. Not Jackie, not Evelyn, not even her breakdown in the car—just Dum Dum, those bright red Spiders, the scrape of his voice, the deadly shape of him.

Her mouth opens in a silent scream, mind shattering into a kaleidoscope of color, euphoria racing through her, filling up every corner of her body with prismatic light. For a moment, she can’t see, can’t hear, can barely breathe. She’s underwater, trembling against the wall in rapture, blood rushing in her ears. Hard digits slide over her hips, her ribs, grounding her. Slowly, she surfaces, the snow in her eyes dissipating, the sound of Dum Dum’s ragged exhalations piercing the silence.

He pulls out, taking with him her sense of fullness, of connection, and she misses him immediately. She turns to face him, falling against the wall in exhaustion, chest heaving as she catches her breath, body thrumming with pleasure. He watches her with those optics she can’t read, his lips parted, neither smiling nor frowning. She wishes she knew what he’s thinking, feeling. Is certain her face shows him every one of her emotions, even the ones she’d rather keep to herself.

Dum Dum reaches up and thumbs her chin, angles her face toward his. Kisses her soft and slow, like he’s ready for round two. She smiles against his lips, pushes on his shoulders until he pulls back just an inch.

His breath puffs against her mouth as he rasps, “What?”

“You have blood on you,” she murmurs.

“So?”

She places a tiny kiss to the side of his piercings and asks, “You can get wet, right?”

He draws back further, turns his head toward her bathroom. She takes the opportunity to unbuckle her cyberdeck, kick off her shoes, and shimmy out of her clothes. Dum Dum watches her, never takes his optics off her. She kisses him again, smiles, then swings around, shows him her ass as she sashays to the shower. She hears the thud of his boots rolling across the floor, the rustle of his pants dropping, the tap of metal toes following her.

V punches the water mixer, gasps at the shock of cold. Only takes a few seconds for the water to turn warm. She tips her face toward the spray, feels the salty residue of tears melt away…

Dum Dum’s arms come around her, the limbs of a machine. Thick padding and puckered seams, hard wires and exposed metal joints. Chrome hands slide over her hips, her stomach. His hard torso presses into her shoulder blades, the T of his metal sternum digging into her spine, hoses and armorweave poking the small of her back, his modded cock pressing against her ass.

She smiles and drops her head back onto his shoulder, gives herself over to the terrifying and comforting embrace of a Maelstrom ‘borg.