Chapter Text
Arasaka clears out of NC by the turn of the new year. The fallout from V's solo stunt came down severe and swift; stock in a free-fall plummet as investors abandon the company to the sharks. Branches imploding, directors jumping ship for shinier prospects. A matter of weeks for the entire operation to fold and only a handful of months for the flies to pick apart the remnants of real estate and pass the scraps into the hands of other megacorps biting to be the next top dog.
Zetatech ads loom in the near distance, yellow-neon striking every corner with ghoulish shadows. Biotechnica tightens their hold on the outer circle around the city borders, buying up the sunken corpse of Laguna Bend. Supposedly they'll be rebuilding it into a semi-port, something to rival Zetatech's inherited coastline affair. Rumors of Militech sowing roots in the leftovers of Dogtown's seedy underbelly.
Misty's Esoterica just manages to hold on.
The world spins, the city keeps moving. Another resident, James, takes up in the squeeze space Gary lovingly managed. There are no spiels but he loves to paint wild, brutal murals on handmade canvases built from trash and clothing scraps. Misty says he has a real vision, the man himself insists he is a tried and true psychic. Vik's unconvinced either way but keeps the little sun painting the guy handed him one afternoon downstairs in the shop anyway. It gets him right under the rib, sticks to him when he really looks at it; the little red sliver at the center, at the very heart of all the swirling madness. So—maybe there's something to it.
Time pushes ever onward. He turns fifty-one. New toys dance in the window across the way, goons wipe each other in the streets, kids stumble down the neon, green steps to rattle at Vik's gate. Some become regulars, some he never sees again after the one time loan they swore they'd pay back and doesn't let himself stop to think whether they had managed to live long enough to gather the scratch to.
The more things change...
They don't talk about seventy-seven, nor Jackie so much anymore. Misty wears his jacket still and there's a picture of the big guy on the mantle she'll light an incense for. A little rectangular box of angel cards sits next to an offering bowl just off center. Misty has him pull a card every now and then, the small affirmations and numbers don't compel him, but Misty sees something new every time. Three-three-three is his special lady, has pulled the card now thrice even, to Misty's endless delight. The card in question reads: 333 Look to the future with optimism.
He tries, honest, as realistically as he can.
The last verified communication either he or Misty received from V had been a postcard from Luna for him, no note attached, and a keychain from the gift shop of the Crystal Palace for Misty, some little glass thing that when put up to the light, lit up with a constellation—and those things came a spare few months into seventy-eight. Her personal line had gone offline sometime after the arrival of both items. Found out himself trying to leave another message to top off the rest.
They left things ambiguous on purpose. Unsaid, ultimately, though known to some degree. Trampled the line into nonexistence. Had no qualms about sharing a bed and once that particular dam broke they had found themselves in some proto-domestic show; her toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, preferred milk in the fridge, the silent agreement of which side of the bed belonged to who. But with no guaranteed she'd make it the full estimated six months, and every day closer to an impossible task beginning with a jump off-world, it felt like putting words to rights was...tedious. Not worth what little time left she had. And, selfishly, he didn't care to bring it up so long as he woke to the sight of morning sun cresting her sleep-soft frame, face drool-glued to the pillow, morning breath and crusty eyes. Told himself it was enough.
In any event, he still has her cat. The little guy sleeps curled around his head every night. Took him forever to get used to but now Nibbles' rumbling engine of a purr is his favorite late night soundtrack. Last he checked, which was a long while ago, his biometrics are still keyed into that all glass-and-stone mausoleum alone on that high rise overlooking the city she spent those last few weeks in Night City holed up in, but it doesn't feel right to visit much less stay. Doesn't want to, really, doesn't need to see the dust collect.
There had been an odd one-off package addressed to Lupe that came via hand delivery by way of Padre's boys during that same fall, but none really understood the contents of the thin, blue databank. As a courtesy, the old fixer had a runner take a crack at the thing sure it would be iced up, but it hadn't so much a four digit passcode. Within, a series of short stories, poems, and playlists. Otherwise devoid of any telling information as to where it came from, what it meant, or to what end it served.
Regardless, Guadalupe's belief holds firm: it's a message from V, a flare shot into the night sky meaning she was alive somewhere, would make it back somehow. Whatever she gleaned from those data files had solidified that conviction. Call it a motherly affliction, perhaps. When was never a question for her.
Too much time spent holding his breath, he chooses not to push it.
That year blows by with no other hitch, seasons tumbling over one another, and come winter of seventy-nine, his biggest worries are the cold snap freezing the clinic's water pipes in the morning and the pending hike on property taxes come spring.
Misty's message that she's running behind and to please open up the front too hits his Agent woefully late, pinging by the time he's street-side on Buran thanks to the NCart's miserable lack of reception running through this part of the city underground which, because he has to double-back for his full set of keys (still needed to make a proper copy of the shop's key-shard, still kept pushing it off despite Misty's insistence) meant the the chore took way too long, backing up his morning rotary replacement about an hour. The father in toe with his baseball-superstar-hopeful thirteen year old was none too peachy about the shift in schedule.
His following deck installation falls through at the literal last minute—the thing shorts the second he has it connected to his Medcomp running a standard diagnostics check. He hadn't supplied the piece of junkware but the stiff young corpo meant for the upgrade gave him all teeth when she came up from anesthesia, ended up going back and forth on prices for a fourth gen before he kicked her out of his shop. In a wild turn of events, she paused at the threshold and turned around demanding his number and a coffee. Took him a moment to catch up and shoo her away.
The resulting snowball effect on the rest of his appointments, consultations, and the bi-hourly random walk-in just added the proverbial cherry to a runaway day at the tail-end of a runaway year. Nerves charged up like live wires, Vik flies through the remainder of the day and by the time he catches his first break, it's already dark out.
Misty, ever the saint, brings him salvation in the shape of a greasy take-out bag of their latest shared recent obsession. She sits on her own stool, tucks one leg under the other, picks at her noodles. Asks,
"You write down your thirteen wishes yet?"
He hadn't, no, and didn't intend to. Not the sort of guy that hangs himself up on new year stakes. Much less manifestations. His noncommittal shrug and the grumbling sound he chews around is all he gives in response. Looks down into his stewy mess of udon and synthpork feeling that pinpoint laser of her stare heating up the side of his neck. Vik's lucky she doesn't press further, turns the conversation over to James' latest greatest—
"Eyes?" He asks and she nods sagely, all those choppy blonde layers chaos in motion. Says to him as though it makes any sense at all, "The veil's real thin this time of year. Says it's when They see best."
But as she gathers up her leftovers, she hovers somewhere near his left shoulder. He's tinkering away at his glove, that one perpetually loose screw his favorite little bit when he needs to weave his way out of conversation. Her voice gentle and easy,
"It's okay to hope for things, Viktor."
Clinic officially offline finds him, his biannual-then-biweekly-now nightly cigarette, and a discarded LeLou's loitering on the little steps leading back up into the world. It's quiet in that tight space, Night City feeling far away. The last several hours ring between his ears. An impending pressure headache built from a day keeping his jaw wound tight starting from the base of his neck and ever creeping upwards. For the day's performance he'd give himself a generous seven out of ten, only biting back at someone in his chair a couple of times.
Messages buzz at his Agent stuffed away in a pocket, but he's happy to leave them off for tomorrow. Certain they're from that group at the club he's been meeting up with at least once a week. The guys are all good fun and it's healthy to maintain relationships with people outside his hole in the ground but there's only so many conversations about his regiment he can take. Only so many times he can show them his left hook again and, try as he might, Vik does not find pre-workout blends that stimulating of a conversation topic.
He discards the last bit of his cig and makes to wait out the end of Misty's shift kicking back in that chair she says is for aura cleansing, but he thinks she ought to capitalize on for its sleep-inducing properties. Real wizardly stuff, that chair. She's with someone, at first he considers perhaps one of her own clients running by for a tincture, but Mist's voice reaches that uncertain pitch that tells him he's just in time to intervene. In the doorway of her little shop, three darkly suited men stand shoulder to shoulder. They turn in an eerie cascading effect to watch him as he enters, a silent question in the air as he looks to Misty and she to him, then the men.
Vik squares off his shoulders, and asks, "Help you boys with somethin'?"
It's the middle one that speaks first, his voice airy and sweet:
"Mr. Vektor, we have been attempting to contact you."
Then the one of the right:
"We have been instructed to inform you, as Patient Zero-Zero-Two's designated primary care physician, operations have been successful and you are now cleared for clinical care."
He's still catching up when James' ruddy face peeks in between the space of the men's shoulders, looking distraught. He's shaking his head vigorously, mouth moving a mile a minute. Whatever he's say Vik doesn't catch a lick of it before one of the three men turn to look at him, with whatever he sees effectively spooking James back into his space by the vendit.
The last man makes to step forward then thinks better of himself. Smile broadening, he ventures, "Perhaps, you would be so obliging to come with us?"
It doesn't sound like a choice.
Winter air, crisp and thin, blows in through the open door. Misty's wind chimes sing. The chill creeps its long fingers along the back of his neck raising the little hairs there and somewhere on the edge of his mind he registers the incense she's put on for Jackie tonight. Copal. Misty's eyes on him are wide and unsure, those ghostly pale green especially so rimmed with the charcoal smudge she loves so and wet with fear. He tries a warm smile, feeling absolutely no confidence in it all at.
"Lock up tight, Mist, alright?" He looks at the odd trio of men, all unblinkingly smiling passively back at him, then adds, "And call Pepe and Cynthia to come get ya. Not the sorta night to go walkin' 'round alone."
She doesn't argue with him as he joins them in leaving. Hardly moves at all, just follows him with her eyes.
They shuffle him into an aircraft, two flagging him on each side, the last behind him. He's vaguely reminded of hostage situation or high stakes rescue mission from one those spy movies V loved so much. Teased her endlessly for her love of espionage and intrigue, explaining exactly her prior career and easy lateral slide into edge running. As the shop shrinks away in his window and the craft ascends among the high rises, he clears his throat, finally asks:
"Patient Zero-Zero-Two?"
Nearly jumps out of his skin when a familiar face flickers to existence on the screen in front of him. Delamain, the flat effect of his face an immediate relief. Then confusion.
"Del?"
Delamain Junior greets him cheerfully, "Excelsior, Dr. Vektor! It is good to see you again. Apologies for the abrupt arrival of my employees."
Vik looks to the men who are all happy beams right at him, not a thing to add. He wants to ask employees? But Del continues on:
"Unfortunately, I was having difficulty in my attempts to get ahold of you via your personal device—,"
The one night he ignores the phone,
"—and, well, to put it lightly: your presence is required most immediately."
A beat.
"V is finally awake."
.-.-.-.-.
They touch down on a singularly lit platform in a glome of oily dark. In every direction, there is only pitch black. The ground beneath them lights a thin ghostly white path to a structure that only comes into view as he approaches. Large, rectangular, nondescript. No windows or visible doorways. As they step up the front yawns wide to reveal what he can only assume is a renovated freight elevator. The metal groans under the weight, shifts and shudders with a low moaning, and descends.
Vik doesn't know what he expects at the bottom; perhaps, some science fiction-esque laboratory set up, sleek white walls and faceless robotic doctors administering various futuristic tasks. Perhaps, something with a darker edge even, tangling long tubes of grungy metal, souped up and dangerous looking devices, snapping claws with venomous red flashes lights. Anything extraordinary, even a little alien, really. What greets him instead appears to be any ordinary office space, rows of cubicles, workers at most desks, bland grey carpet, and all.
He's led to a conference room at the end of the hall, the heavy doors swinging open on soundless hinges to a room where, facing away from him in animated conversation (argument, if he remembers the way she stands when she's getting defensive, leaning all weight on her back foot, like she's ready to book it any moment) with the static image of a man's silhouette on a ceiling to floor display, is V.
They walk in as her voice peaks, "You don't get to make decisions—!"
As though seeing over her shoulder, a faceless voice jumps over the rest of what she's saying, the voice chillingly clear and collected on the overhead speakers, announcing, "It seems your escort has arrived," before the display shutters to black as the call disconnects.
V is at a remote panel on a small podium, fingers smashing where there'd be a touch-pad, spitting insults between gritted teeth, telling the display to reconnect. Eventually, as nothing comes from it, she slams her hand down square in the middle with a frustrated sound. The slap reverberates.
Tired and defeated, running a hand through her hair—the same short crop she cuts herself, he notices, angular, the ragged edge of hair skimming at her chin, dark as pitch, just as it was before her random spiral into bottle blonde. No nightmare clinging to her back, just the girl in all her glory. Looking as though she never stepped into Konpeki Plaza. Looking like V. Alive and standing right in front of him. In a smart suit to boot, kitten heels 'n all.
Before she even sees him, she asks, "What the fuck, Del?"
Turns, looks at him, really looks at him and sees him. That singular moment stretching around the world and back again. She looks—unhappy, disbelieving, angry almost. Frozen, like an animal that just realized they've been caught in a trap, the proverbial gate snapping shut at her heels. She looks at his guides, him again. Asks, with more heart this time, "Del, what the fuck?"
-.-.-.-.
He's standing in a makeshift doctor's office. At one point in its life, the room must have served as the employee breakroom judging by the kitchenette turned into prep sink in the corner of the room. Boxes of surgical masks and neoprene gloves untouched on the counter. They, whoever that is, dragged a chair and medcomp in, set him up with the proper sterilizing equipment, and left him to 'settle in'. Those exact words borrowed from one of the Delamain employees.
Evidently, he is no hostage. Number Two (had the time to differentiate the subtleties, or at least thought he parsed them out) had even come back around with pickings of what look to be ancient cafeteria food excavated from cold storage. A tube of apple, a pre-packed sandwich, a neon hued beverage in a clear, unlabelled bottle. Vik thanks him for the hospitality but leaves it all untouched to the side.
They start fussing when he asks if it's alright to update Misty, let her know all is well. All three falling over themselves to assure him that he was well within his abilities to call her at any time, holo her even, or would he like them to fetch Ms. Olszewski a cab? Shockingly accommodating. Miles away from the show they put up mere hours prior. He declines the cab, of course, let the poor girl rest for the night. Misty, forever tapped into some spectral well of knowledge, tells him she knew where he was taken and to please wish "our girl" well on her behalf.
He hears the exact moment V steps up to the door, hesitates, says something to another person in the hall in that tight, nasally tone she puts on when she's peeved. And then she's standing within arms length; the scowl, the pretty freckle near her lip he never got to kiss enough, brows pinched exactly how he remembers.
The breath that escapes him shakes something loose in his gut.
A tightness wends around the quiet pulling at the corners of the room until it's smaller, the electronic buzz of lights overhead taking up all the breathing space. They move around each other like unsure animals, like strangers. It dawns on him that they are exactly that—strangers—though, for her part, V shows no wear from the two years gone by. Hell, she looks better.
She sits on the chair's edge, arms folding over herself, meeting his gaze evenly. Girl always had one helluva poker face.
Vik clears his throat. "You, uh, ready for your physical?"
Her smile is the same too. A little extra quirk on the one side, a singular dimple charmingly on the opposite cheek. "'s that what this is?" Loosens up her arms, leans back regarding him with a curious tilt to her head. That perpetual strand of hair falling in her face.
"How'd ya know I was back in NC, Vik?"
"I didn't—?" His arms cross now, confusion furrowing his brow. "Your pal sent his goons 'round the shop." Leans back against the wall opposite. Sizes her up. That smart suit of hers is a custom job, fits her lines cleanly. Prim. A V from a dawn long since passed. Or, perhaps, the return to a version of herself he simply never knew. Stranger, indeed.
"Said it was important for me to be here. Said you 'finally woke up' 'n I was clear for care." Vik waves a hand around the piecemeal room thrown together to the door leading off to the strange offices beyond. Frowning, feeling every bit of the chess piece as it's beginning to dawn that he's become. Dragged in, unwillingly, to whatever game V's found herself in now, purely by proximity to her unrelenting existence. Isn't sure he wants to play, but damn him if the curiosity isn't burning at him to ask: where the hell have you been?
Realization, a flicker of something, a lapse of—?, something glassy and far away streaking across V's face for just a moment before she fixes it back into that corpo-cool mask. Clean, structured, damn near robotic.
He interrupts before she can deflect a thing, digs down, "No bullshit, V."
Doesn't mean it to come out as harsh as it does, but the questions are stacking up with no answers in toe. "The hell is goin' on?"
The clicking of her teeth, sharp. She turns her shoulders away tucking into herself, drags a hand through her hair then down her face. Pauses there, hand just at the mouth, perfect silver manicure catching the white light overhead. In another time, he would have pushed. He waits. Breathing a long sigh through her nose, V turns back to him and offers a shrug. A shrug.
Says, "I don't know why Del dragged you here, honest. I," here she hesitates, works her jaw left and right.
"I'm doin' alright. Been alright. For a while now."
He chews on that. Really takes her in. She's looking eons healthier than Vik has ever seen her. Got actual meat on her bones now, no more a wretched wisp barely keeping anything down and crumbling right between his hands. Cheeks flush, skin vibrant and warm, a constellations of new freckles dusting across her nose.
"Yeah, okay." He nods, nothing for him to argue against. Quieter than he wants it to be. Catching in his throat, "Big leagues look good on ya, kid."
There's an internal struggle behind her eyes, a line pressing down her lips. V bites the inside of her cheek. "Look, Vik,” she starts—
The door swishes open. A man swallows up the space, clean cut, crisp suit, and the coldest blue optics Vik's even seen. The man doesn't so much as spare him a glance. Zeroes right in on V and Vik can feel the air turn over, a sharp snap as V comes to standing. Back straight and shoulders tight.
"Miss V." The suit says, voice pleasantly chilling, "Your meeting with the beneficiary board is beginning shortly. Please do not delay, as the agenda for tonight is most urgent." And glides away without waiting for a response, down the hall, disappearing into another beige suite.
V has the decency to try to look apologetic, though relief is what he finds when he squints just so. If it stings, well, that's for him to take up with himself. Preferably another time with something strong to nurse that ache.
"Walk you out?" She doesn't wait for him to respond, out the threshold and in the hallway before he opens his mouth.
She leads him through the labyrinth of desk jockeys to a separate, smaller elevator than the one he took before. The ride is short and silent, she's got her eyes everywhere but him. There's a comfort in knowing, at the very least, she still tries to hide from him in the exact same way.
The doors open on a very ordinary parking garage. Delamain cab already waiting on him, engine rumbling and all. She walks him up to the door then hesitates, scuffs her feet, rubs the back of her neck. Faintly, he's reminded of an earlier time not so dissimilar to this. Makes his heart burn.
He weighs a hand on her shoulder. Squeezes briefly. "Missed ya somethin' fierce, girl." She's warm. Real and there.
"Stop by sometime, alright?"
Those pretty eyes on his holding so much more than she'll ever tell him. He takes her in one last time and lets himself feel that wash of relief that she is there, alive and well. He ducks into the cab before she can start her goodbyes. Knows she watches it drive out of the garage and away.
Vik's only mildly surprised the car dumps out into city central. Day is beginning to break between the buildings, his whole night stolen by that whirlwind girl once again. Shaking his head, he watches the city in silent bemusement.
From the front, "Apologies for the obfuscation, Dr. Vektor."
Del, materializing on the screen before him, frowning with concern darkening his brow. It's an astonishingly human expression. He continues:
"I deemed it necessary for V to remember what matters within the waking world. I do hope you don't resent me my concealing the truth."
And adds nothing further. It tells Vik absolutely fuck all about what part he's played, what all is going on, but if it shakes some sense into V, well. That churn in his gut he can examine alongside all the other internal squirming he's fought through tonight.
The cab dispenses him in front of his building without complications. There are no odd men waiting to whisk him away. Sunlight breaks through the window by the time his front door swings open and his boots discarded on the doormat. Nipples is purring and rubbing himself to infinity at his feet. Vik scoops the guy up briefly, rubs behind his ear as he settles himself to catch what few hours he can before starting another day.
He idles in bed, reads all the messages from Delamain he missed. Before turning in, he grabs that little thing of paper Misty gifted him, the pen as well. Tears off a strip and writes away before he can hesitate.
Misty, in all her endless wisdom, always correct. He folds up the paper, he'll place it the ceramic bowl she gave him for the task when he wakes, the little bowl meant to go along with the twelve other wishes he'll need to write now. Feels a little silly, but as he drifts into a dreamless place, he reminds him—
It's okay to hope for things.