Chapter Text
At this hour, the Afterlife was packed, but the soundproof door of the office crushed the electronic music and shouting outside into a low, droning hum. Inside, some old, sappy heartbreak song was playing—no idea who'd changed the channel.
"I swear to fuck, if I ever trust one of your 'brilliant romance schemes' again, I'll let that bastard Johnny pry the chip out of my skull and use it as a pair of dice!"
Vincent's wail sounded especially miserable against the backdrop of the sentimental music.
He rubbed his shoulder, still sore from where Panam had slammed him. The polished, client-friendly smile he usually wore had shattered into pieces.
V lounged on the sofa, nursing a half-empty can of beer, grinning as she watched him suffer. Or rather—to anyone outside this small circle—she was known as "Eleanor Shaw."
The Queen of the Afterlife. In just five years, she'd made her name among the fixers. But right now, she was just a shit-stirring choom watching her partner get chewed out in spectacular fashion.
Not long ago, Panam had kicked the office door open. Before either of them could react, she'd launched into a full-scale verbal thrashing. V, wisely choosing self-preservation, had shrunk back into the sofa, wearing a smile that said, none of this has anything to do with me.
She still got yelled at in the end anyway.
"I told you—just tell her, 'Your bike is as preem as you are.' The success rate isn't high, but it's still above seventeen percent." V spread her hands, her tone steeped in the languid satisfaction of I told you so. Compared to the ice-cold demeanor of the Afterlife Queen, this version of her had a lot more life in it. "You were the one who insisted on adding, 'Wanna take me for a ride and see if I'm even preem-er?'"
"That was literally your Plan B backup!" Vincent spun around, his voice rising. "You said—and I quote—'A measured dose of risky provocation can stimulate Panam's interest!'"
V shrugged and took a sip of beer. "My bad. I overestimated your execution skills and underestimated Panam's definition of the word 'measured.'"
She recalled the way Panam had cursed them both out as "a pair of brainless gonks" and sighed, muttering under her breath, "I wasn't even directly involved. Why'd I get yelled at?"
Then again, when it came to people who could simultaneously reduce the Queen of the Afterlife and the manager of the Afterlife to stunned silence, Panam Palmer was probably the only one in all of Night City.
"She called you 'the shit-stirring bastard hiding behind the scenes!'" Vincent shot back.
"And she called you 'a horny male monkey with a brain full of lubricant.'" V replied calmly.
The two of them stared at each other.
After a long moment—neither knowing who broke first—they both let out low laughter. The tension and embarrassment from that absurd standoff dissolved for the most part. Still rubbing his shoulder, Vincent shuffled over, snatched the beer straight out of V's hand, and took a huge gulp.
"Hey! Get your own damn beer."
Ignoring her completely, Vincent dropped onto the sofa, grumbling, "Fuck. Next time, I'm sending Johnny in. His foul mouth might just be so bad it wraps back around to working."
V grabbed the beer back and rolled her eyes.
Johnny Silverhand, standing in the middle of the Afterlife, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth—the very first words out of his mouth would have Panam drawing iron to put a bullet right in his balls.
Just picturing that scene made V's temple throb.
"Yeah, right. First thing that gonk would do is probably set my goddamn bar on fire."
She said it, but the reality would be even more complicated. The old bastard would light a cigarette first, flash Panam that punchable "I know exactly what kind of woman you are" look, and then say something that would freeze every molecule of air in the room. And then… V pressed the beer can against her face, but even that couldn't make the bulging vein on her temple go down.
"Save it," she said, voice lowered. Whether to Vincent or to herself, she wasn't sure. "This kind of thing, let it run its course. The harder you force it, the uglier the flatline."
The laughter gradually died down.
He dropped the miserable expression. "Down to biz, boss."
V looked at him. This was their unspoken rule. Doors closed, Vincent called her V. Doors open, she was the Afterlife Queen, and he was the Afterlife manager. When to use which—he'd never once gotten it wrong.
Just like her and Jackie, back in the day. Not a rule. Didn't need to be written down or spoken out loud. Because they were brothers who'd been fucked over by life together, pulled each other up, and trusted each other with their lives.
"Just now, Claire said Judy Álvarez commissioned us."
The smile vanished from V's face.
She set the beer can down. Very steady. No sound. There was a watermark ring on the table. She stared at that ring for a long time.
Vincent didn't say anything. He waited—waited for her to be ready. He never rushed her. Hadn't since the day Rogue had handed her over into his care.
She stared at it for a long time. Long enough for that ring to warp, to shift into another shape—into the day she'd woken up five years ago.
Judy got married.
That news had been the first agony she'd received upon waking. It wouldn't be the last.
She'd looked at the unread messages on her holo. Scrolled to that name. Opened it.
Saw the message Judy had sent her. She opened her mouth to say something, but in the end, she just shut down the terminal.
That night, she didn't know why—maybe she'd wanted to look at those messages again, or go to the bathroom, or just couldn't stand lying there anymore. She propped herself up on the edge of the bed and stood. Her legs had barely straightened when they gave out, and she collapsed onto the floor.
The IV needle tore out of the back of her hand. Blood seeped from the tiny hole. She didn't press the call button. Didn't call for anyone. Just lay there, watching that thin thread of blood run down her hand, into the gaps between her fingers, onto the floor, running like a river.
Later, she went back to Judy's apartment. Everything was still there—Judy had only taken the essentials. A thin layer of dust had settled on the counter. The mug still sat on the kitchen windowsill.
She stood there, turning the cup one way, then back the other. The light in the room caught the rim—bright, then dim, then bright again.
She didn't know why she'd bought the place.
Maybe just so no one else could move in.
During that time, she couldn't even handle street punks. The "gift" the New United States had left her—compensation, they called it—a compensation that had fried her nerves like an overloaded circuit board.
Once, two low-level thugs cornered her in an alley and took everything of value on her. She lay by a dumpster, throwing up for a long time afterward. Because she'd tried to fight back. But that damn "gift" wouldn't even let her defend herself.
Then there was the thing with Panam.
At first, she couldn't reach Panam at all. Then came Mitch's message: Stop trying to contact her. She won't answer.
She stayed in the apartment for days. Even a gonk could figure it out. Not a single word left behind. Vanished for two years.
It wasn't until Rogue picked her up off the ground that she learned the truth—it wasn't that Panam didn't want anything to do with her. Panam had run into trouble.
At the time, her body was even weaker than a normal person's. Vincent was still working under Rogue. Dragging a body that felt like it would fall apart at any moment, she'd lain on the floor and mapped out the entire plan.
It had been a colossal gamble. Lose, and it was a flatline. She'd bet herself. And she'd bet Vincent's life too.
But they'd won.
The day Panam was rescued, she stood outside, shoulders wound tight. V stood there. Neither of them said a word.
A long time passed before Panam rushed forward and threw her arms around her, crying and cursing her out at the same time.
V patted her back. That was their version of "long time no see."
And then there was Rogue.
She'd found V next to the dumpsters in the Afterlife's back alley. Rogue looked at her for a moment, then left just one sentence—
"Get up. If you can still walk, follow me."
Rogue's training lasted five years. Not combat training—her body couldn't take that anymore. It was training for something else.
Training until she could negotiate with a smile even while her head was splitting apart. Training to strip expressions off her face. Training to become someone else entirely.
When Rogue left, she called her "Eleanor Shaw." A name they'd chosen together. A name that had nothing to do with V.
After that, she and Vincent just kept busy like that. She felt like that was all there was to life now.
Until that old bastard showed up again.
The day Johnny came back, he kicked the office door open, cigarette in mouth, and the first thing out of his mouth was: "Fuck me, V, you look even more corpo-cunt than an actual corpo cunt now."
She'd nearly smashed the ashtray into his face. Vincent was the one holding her back. Looking at that infuriatingly punchable mug of his, she didn't know what expression she wore. Maybe a smile. Maybe nothing at all.
But a rush of warmth surged up from deep in her chest. Probably because it had been so long—too long, aside from Panam—since anyone had called her by that name.
Panam called her V. Vincent called her V. Johnny called her V. Rogue called her V.
Only in front of these people did the merc who'd died five years ago still live.
Beyond that—there was nothing else.
Until now. Until she heard her name.
V closed her eyes.
She drew a deep breath. The air poured down her throat, forcing back down whatever had been rising in her chest.
When she spoke again, she pushed her voice to the very bottom of her throat. "If it's a business commission or any other kind of job, process it according to protocol. On-site evaluation and handling by you."
Her voice was steady, without a single ripple. Indistinguishable from her usual self. It was an order to Vincent, and a mantra she was reciting to herself.
"Understood, boss."
Vincent nodded. He stood up, walked to the door, and rested his hand on the handle.
From Johnny and the others, he knew about Judy Álvarez. Knew what this person meant to V—and the regret that came with it. But right now, as the Afterlife manager, he had to be professional. Yet as V's brother, he couldn't bear to watch her get hurt again. At the same time, he knew he had no right to make this decision for her.
The door closed.
V stood alone in the office. Since taking over the Afterlife, her influence had risen fast—but it had also buried her past. Every new client, every new deal, was another shovel of dirt.
The surveillance screen glowed in the corner. The feed from the Afterlife entrance looped in the bottom right.
She walked over.
Judy was there, talking to Claire. The security footage was blurry, but V recognized her.
Whether five years ago or now, she was still so striking.
But compared to five years ago, she'd grown more mature, more… but none of that was V's to think about.
In the monitor feed, Judy was still there. Too much stood between them now. The surveillance camera. Five years. Too many things that couldn't be put into words.
There would always be something between them. Glass, screen, time—call it whatever you wanted.
Even knowing what to call it didn't change anything. They were long since on opposite shores.
That spot in her chest was still tightening. Just like the first heartbeat. The first time sleeping side by side. The first date.
The feeling was still there.
It just didn't belong to her anymore.