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He pushes Jackie into the car and tumbles right after him, hasty, yes, but usually much more graceful, a bunch of wiry muscles and barely reinforced bones, the dead weight of the implants minimal, cheap. It’s just very slippery here. Was it raining outside? Is he sweaty after all the running and bullets dodging and roof sliding? He stares at his palm that skimmed so easily against the polished roof of the cab, sending his body inside, and it takes him a stupidly long while to understand, Kiroshi’s doing their best in the dim lights, brain still foggy. We fucked up, it says, on repeat, pulsing, like a catchy synth song in a back-alley club. It’s blood, it says, dry, as if delivering the most obvious, least entertaining daily news. Arasaka’s boss is dead, they fucked up big time and there is blood on his hands. He wasn’t shot. Agile, lucky, walls bursting right next to him. It’s not him, not his. Jackie wheezes at the sharp turn the car makes.
“Fuck, man.” His fingers are dark, dark, crooked on the cloth of his ruined shirt. Looked so prim, so nova in that suit, both rented; they never wear any, not in their field of work. “Fuck…”
V registers his lips moving, but he can’t recognize the voice. It’s not Jackie’s. His Jackie would flash a shit-eating grin, getting comfortable on the luxury seats, and say how they nailed it, just like that, major leagues waiting with a red carpet rolled out and shiny new Caliburns, well, shining, keys already in ignition switches. He was planning to make some repairs at “El Coyote”. Keep it “cojo”, but fix some pipes here, comb through the old wires there… V was planning to pay Viktor off, because it would be the right thing to do. Stay on his white list, so to say. Not that the man would ever put him on the black one though. Either way, he’s not sure if any of them are going to be paid now. Not with that trail of bodies behind, Saburo’s included, and an enormous bill for every broken window. They joked about snitching even a pet iguana, a real one, just minutes ago, about naming it Loco, because that’s what they are. Now all that’s left is a piece of glass that he can feel sticking out as he presses his own shirt to the gash on Jackie’s stomach, the air chill and sticky on his buzzing skin. He’s scared shitless to yank it out.
“V, don’t… It doesn’t matter now– Keep the shard, get those eddies. You deserve it, hermano…”
He’s fading like a failing radio signal caught too far from the city. Startles, when V topples him to get a better pressure angle, to push down as hard as possible, choking down the flow; his nerves, ears, heart, head are ringing. Lights are off, but the grimace on Jackie's face is so clear as if it’s his own.
“Yeah. Yeah, I sure damn do. And you know what? You do, too. So we’re getting paid and we’re getting so pissed your mom won’t even recognize us. And we’re getting out of here. Now. You hear me? We’re going to Vik, and he’ll patch you up. And-and we’ll put a big fat ‘fuck Dex Deshawn’ on this premium Welles-proof glass and charge everyone in Night City to gawk at it. Yeah? Jackie? ”
He squeezes himself into that nonexistent space behind the front seat to lean closer, one soaked hand on another, wide, warm, a tiny stick placed into his unclenched fist.
“Keep it safe, V…”
“Geez, okay, okay, I’m keeping it, see? It’s safe and sound unless someone shoots me in the face. Safe, happy?” It’s not. It runs through his shaking fingers like a coin through the slot of a vending machine, but he can’t reach down and fumble for it on the floor. He’s not a ripper by any means, but he knows, he knows someone has to hold the rag.
“Hey, what’s your– Del, turn left here. You know Vektor’s clinic? Little China? Take us there.”
“My apologies, a premade route can’t be changed.”
The AI’s voice is as effective as a cold shower, and he’s been taking a lot of those; to wake up after a nap too short to count as a proper human sleep, to cool down when his conditioner is busted again, to wash the blood off and down the drain like it never happened. He’ll be taking a lot more.
“Well, fucking cancel it then and route again! I’ll pay!”
“It’s a prepaid trip as well. My duty, sir, is to deliver trustworthy and reliable services to the custome–”
“Fucking reliable indeed to deliver a single living body when they expect two! I bet you promise safety and comfort as well! He’s gushing his guts out all over your fake croc leather! You know what happens if he flatlines?! The second I get the fuck out from your car, you’ll be dealing with the Valentinos. They’ll make your rates plummet straight to the ocean floor and make sure your ‘trustworthy services’ are used only for taking out garbage from Vista, on these very seats. That’s if they don’t dismantle your head office first come morning!”
He never screamed at a car before. Hit the wheel of his worn-out Hella, yes, kicked her tires, cussed at her bills. Never like this though. The face on the front panel is as expressionless as a blob of minty toothpaste that missed the brush and plopped into the sink on the noon of the worst hangover ever that also happened to cost you a liver. Then the monitor goes off.
“Rerouting. Estimated arrival time is eighteen minutes.”
“No! Ignore traffic lights and cut through the backstreets!”
“Ignoring the traffic and road signs contradicts our safety politics.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?! My friend here is dying, you heartless smug cunt! Floor it!!”
There is a weird sound, and between struggling to stay anchored in place and almost making it out from the rear windscreen, he realizes it’s a laugh. A broken, distorted, barely-even-there laugh. His fingers are so disgustingly warm and wet he’d throw up if there was anything inside his stomach except for a single martini he downed at the hotel. The olive was wrapped in golden leaf and tasted like shit.
“Your mom will beat me black and blue. Hunting taxis all around the city… sounds like fun, right? That and us, hiding up Arasaka’s arse, yeah? You’ve a bucket list? Better make one and add it there.”
“V…” V slouches over at the bump on a pavement as they sneak into a smaller street, supposedly not intended for cars. “Cállate.”
“Cállate yourself! I’m moving in back next month and I won’t shut up until you pack your shit and go to Misty once and for all! And you’ll tell her you’re serious, you hear me? Swear on your ARCH. Swear it.”
By the moment they finally get there he’s positive that Jackie can’t even hear his babbling. He’s cold, V’s cold, their clothes dripping with juice, clammy, dense. He fishes for his phone, but can’t find it. A fucking mess.
“Beep until she comes out!”
“Taking into account the relatively late hour, I’d suggest it would be inconsiderable to wake the residents–”
“Just beep, motherfucker!!” He slams the door open. “Misty, we’re outside! Go get Vik! Misty!” He’s unlikely to be heard through the lingering, skull-piercing signal of the city’s most screwed-up taxi, but he must do something.
He’s always been wondering what kind of closing hours “Esoterica” has, if any, because every time he’s around, Misty is up and busy with something; rarely with customers, but she never complains. She emerges from the haze of incenses stuck in the doorway, stops like a droid losing power, steps back in silent shock.
“Misty– tell Vik he’s bleeding out! It’s bad! Red skies kind of bad!”
The awakened prophet stares at them from behind his homely dirty corner. “Fuck off,” V snaps. The guy’s exactly the reason he hates leaving the place all by himself, because he would go on and on about lizards and all kinds of wacky bullshit, following him almost to the main street. No way he’s letting Jackie get out of it so easily. No fucking way. There wasn’t even a blast with camera drones zooming in on their bamboozled faces as they jump off the tower in slow motion. Was it even high enough to reach the leagues, huh? What could be higher, space? Hell if he fucking knows.
“Get lost when we’re out. Leave Watson, find a pressure washer or something, send me the bill. I’ll cover it ASAP. This month flat.”
“I’m genuinely concerned whether it will actually happen this month as there are only three days left to it.”
“Yeah. No. I mean, I’ll try to. Just– just send it in. Can’t be that much.” Even if he’ll have to scoop his priceless Kiroshi out himself with a spoon, trade it on the black market and settle all the debts he’s been swimming in for the last few months. That’s one of the options anyway.
“I take it the understanding with the Valentinos is reached then?”
V looks down at the painfully pale face on the seats, street lights giving it a gentle neon glow, like a mannequin in a showcase.
“If he walks again, then yeah, I guess.”
To the basement he’s carried on the stretchers. Sucks to be the one, V thought back then, watching Sandra Dorsett being taken away by the Trauma. Heard she’s making it through. Good for her. Now there is a thinly painted trace stretched across the entire room, from the gates to the chair. The wound smells like one of those street food carts when Vik sears its walls on the inside.
“This will slow the bleeding, but he lost too much. Needs transfusion.”
“The wha– Take it. ” V reaches to roll his sleeve, but his arms are bare and bloodied, an entanglement of veins, inks, scars. “Take mine. As much as he needs, all of it, I don’t care, just pump it out.”
“What’s your type?”
“Type? I dunno. Red? I’ve no idea, Vik.”
He doesn’t even flinch at the sudden pang of whatever tool is pressed to his skin, each and every of his senses focused on that single spot in the universe which is the opening in Jackie’s side.
“Won’t do, kid.”
“Why?! I’m clean, I checked! Just take a bit, just for now? I’ll fetch you the right one! How much? I’ll find it–!”
“V…”
“Bet Maelstrom have a bathtub of each, and they owe me after that Mili–”
“V, no. Vincent!” Like a slap to his face. V watches him unbuckling his elaborated hand extension. “I’m a universal donor. But I’ll need some help and for you to focus, kid.” A short pat to his shoulder, but a squeeze tenfold harder. “Bring me a chair from the backroom, will you?”
Misty is here, too, when he places it next to the setup with Jackie’s frame, silent and emotionless and wrapped in sensors. He’s a louder sleeper, that asshole, snoring, arms flying spread and even the sturdiest bunk bed shaking with all the tossing half of the night. V keeps insisting it’s the main reason he moved out. It’s a lie. He wanted to have a life, for fuck’s sake, find someone, enjoy independence and privacy, no wet towels on the sofa, no bike tires underneath. Since then the only guest he had over was Jackie himself. And the tires were fun to sit on now that he thinks of it. Misty helps to load a bunch of various injectors; V turns the Holy Rosa face down and watches the needle going in; Vik winces, pushing another one into his own elbow pit.
“You must watch the screens,” he explains, “all the time. See this? If the numbers drop, give him a shot,” he holds up an injector; they all look different and somehow the same. “This line over there. It goes into yellow, you have three minutes. Anything past that can and will kill him, you won’t even notice. Remove the needle, use these two. I’m going to give him a booster now and clean it all up. You’re following, kid?”
“Yea. Yes, one here, two there. Why– What happens to you? Why telling me all that stuff? You know I’m shit with your medical caboodle, right? If it hurts, just use vodka; still hurts, means you’re not using enough–”
A soft cloth brushes him along the ear before landing on the shoulder. He knows it’s Jackie’s, a bright mess of skulls and roses and guns, all on black, could fit three scrawny guys like him.
“He has barely slept since the moment the two of you showed up and said that you’re going to shoot for the moon yesterday. And did you see that little cat outside? Viktor eats even less. He will be exhausted.”
“I might even faint, yes. But don’t worry, I’m good for as long as you’re watching me, kids. Alright?”
“Sure thing. Really, these eyes you gave me? Don’t even need to blink now.”
Vik nods, and as he sits down heavily to get to work, the weight of all those restless nights, empty promises no one’s able to keep, nostalgia for the old times, regrets for the new ones pulling him down, the blood finally rushes through the tube. He saw oils and nitros and whatnot going into the bike just like this so many times in the street nook behind “El Coyote”. Drew a dick with gasoline once and set it on fire; Jackie almost choked on his tongue, hollering, then again, on their way out, when Mama Welles gave V a smack so hard he jumped like an unwanted ricochet during a shoot-out. He can’t crawl back there and look her in the eyes and say that Santa Muerte took her only child, bled him dry until he was white as a bone dried up under the Badlands sun. He can’t. He won’t.
“…V? Will anyone come after you? Are they searching?”
He blinks, eyelids moving while a couple of blankets covers Jackie up to his chin, Misty’s hands as light as a hologram and Vik’s tools already set aside.
“Yeah? I guess so? Maybe? We saw some real impromptu shit up there, they might try– I mean, it’s Arasaka.”
“Right. We need at least four hours, then you gotta find a car and lie low somewhere safe where they won’t track you. Any options?”
“Sure, sure. Uh– a shithole in the wastes, Plan B of sorts.” They’ve been joking it’s their den in case of someone blowing Night City again, because neither can swim well enough or at all. They also might’ve buried a body or two out there, who knows.
“I can go and get your car here,” Misty says. She’s so hopeful he doesn’t know how to explain that in four hours anything can happen and the only thing they might end up needing would be their guns. He’s not sure if Misty has any.
“Yeah, about that… She’s, uh– I kinda parked it in the way of Militech clown trucks before they swarmed ‘All Foods’, you know… So, uh. I’ll just pick something outside. Was quite a killing spree today, one stolen car won’t add much to the list.”
“Or it might attract attention once reported. Risky.” Or it’s just good old Vik not wanting him to hijack any. He’s always considered V to be better than this; quite disappointing it must be then.
“My delivery guy mentioned selling his van, actually? He could be around tonight.”
“Yeah, okay. Never drove a van before. Cool. Thanks, Misty, really.”
He forgets to ask how much. He’d love to think it doesn’t matter now, but oh, it does, and his eddies are just like this blood in front of him, circulating in any system but his own. He gets Vik’s rolling stool, catches up with it halfway and lets it slide smoothly to the men in the center. Vik chuckles. It sounds tired.
“Well, aren’t you a promising young ripper? Not implying anything, but it does pay off just as well, even for assistants, and you don’t even have to leave the room. Of course, there is always a chance someone will come banging on your door at three in the morning, demanding a refund, but it’s rather rare.”
“Yeah… That’s all they’d be doing if I was in charge here. Why– why these numbers freak out?” He’s shedding cold sweat, and the droplets feel as huge as bullet wounds.
“It’s a natural response of a recipient. His body is adjusting, boosting chemical reactions. It should stabilize in a while.” Vik looks at him though the shades, scanning, investigating, eyebrows hidden, so his lips frowning instead. “They got you to, kid. Go clean it, bottle’s on the table.”
“Nah,” he scrubs along the edge of a hole burnt and bloodied on his thigh, absentminded, seeing it for the first time, feeling, too, and wipes the finger on the shirt. “Just scratched. It’s closing already.”
“I must insist, V, as your doctor. Please. Consider it a favor I’m asking for.”
“Ugh. Fine.” He’s quick about it, pouring the antiseptic down the trouser leg where it bites, gnawing, digging into the flesh, the nastiest kind of pain. Pulls the skin together over the meat, fixes it here and there, not caring to change the size of the staples used on Jackie; will do. “Here. Clean and pretty.”
“No, V, it’s horrendous. And will probably scar now.”
“I don’t care about scars. They grow itchy, but… not a big deal.”
“And that’s exactly why you have so many. They don’t get a chance to heal up properly without good care.”
“It’s nothing, Vik, really. They pay you for healing, not me. I’ll put a tattoo over, a boxing glove, neat? A little monkey with gloves, needles and Balisongs and katanas, all kinds of stuff, sticking out from them. Or maybe even give it a bat?”
It’s just a sigh this time, a deep one, enclosed in a single letter of his name. The “while“ lasts for almost two hours. The lights are mostly off in the basement, with a splash of pink on the periphery of his vision, the soda monkey not spunky in the slightest. He could use some sugar though, haven’t eaten in forever, didn’t feel like it and, honestly, still doesn’t. Vik dozes off. Their conversation died out; for each of his words V had a dozen of nonsensical rubbish, too on edge, too riled up, too much of everything, like an incendiary grenade lost in a bag of dynamite, its pin in your hand. Under the blankets he finds Jackie’s. It’s sickly, sticky, strange to the touch. He puts it to his face, closes his eyes and mouths into it:
“Live, choom, fucking make it. Live. ”
He tries, but can’t find the pulse on his wrist and watches it blankly on the screen instead. Yellow. He springs on his feet so fast the stool rolls all the way to the exit. The airships that poured their deadly bullet rain on them were freaking loud; his heart’s in his ears just outbeaten them. How many, he said? Three minutes, two? Which syringe? These two, right. Does the order matter? And both go into the vein? He glances down to find any, but not sure if he can hit them with the needle. He counts seconds. Minute and a half. The entire heist seems to be so unbelievably far now; was it even them? Or maybe he’s still tripping on that toxic mix the sneaky Maelstrom junkie gave him? Two fifteen, and it’s greener than that iguana was if he didn’t dream the creature up. Fucking loco. He’s shaking.
Misty comes by. There’s not much to be said. He wishes he could hug her, but he’s holding Vik upright with his shoulder, the man was practically falling over. Took his glasses off, put into the breast pocket. He stretches his hand out, takes hers; the stench of the drenched trousers gives in to the sweet mess of incenses. He says:
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, V.”
She stays to take over when the last hour of their wait is almost at its end, so that V could go and fetch something for all of them to eat. He’s no idea what to bring. Looks up and down the street, head empty and that cold, tugging feeling swirling in his stomach, as if being watched or simply hungry or maybe just so damn sick of it all. He peers into the shadows, breathing them in shallowly. Alright. Jackie’s alright. Vik is fine. He’s still fucked up, it doesn’t go anywhere, but he can work with this. A bulky piece of shadows starts moving, right at him, and he thinks he’s losing it finally, but also that Dex’s car was black and large and that he’s oh so going to get them, especially with that absolute unit of a driver packed in there, big enough to snap necks with just his fingers. His gun is out the same second the inside of the car glows up with baby blue. Motherfucking– He forces the window down while it’s still going.
“What the fuck are you doing here?! Told you to scatter!” He has to crane his neck to see the bloody screen.
“I only wish to know if my matters with the Valentinos are settled.”
“Have you short-circled? You can’t just park two buildings away and be so fucking chill about it! They’re looking for a talking cab and two gonks it was carrying!”
“I assure you, my cabs are very discreet when I need them to be.” Instead of a smug smile it flashes up the ceiling lights, and all V is seeing are the pristine seats in the back, dry and odorless. He slips out to check the roof. Smooth, not a single scratch. New car. He dives in again. “So, regarding the issue…”
“Oh, for fuck’s– Yeah, yes, dammit, it’s settled, over, we’re done. We didn’t see you, you never met us.”
“Then, I assume, Mr. Welles walked?”
There’s not a single grain of concern in that voice.
“He– No, but he’s gonna. I guess. Patched him up. It’s– yeah. Made it in time.”
The screen seems to brighten up, but it’s just the lights around going off again.
“I’m extremely glad to hear this.”
“Uh, okay? I’ll pass it to the Valentinos, ‘the taxi’s glad, put the guns down’. Will you go now?” He crawls out as the window starts rolling up with his torso still pressing it down. Leans in, not quite, but just enough to be heard. “And, uh… thanks? Sorry I called you a cunt.”
The window stops.
“You also called me a motherfucker, if I remember correctly?”
“Yeah, well. It’s not… not really a curse, is it? So. Don’t think too much into it, okay?” He taps the glossy roof quickly. Awkward. Should never talk to the cars again.
Stocking up at the nearest late-night vendor, he realizes suddenly he still has received neither the bill for cleaning nor the one for bullet holes the Arasaka drones have certainly left on the metal. That thing does car maintenance, right? It wouldn’t drive a perfectly working taxi off the bridge to cover the tracks, would it? He jolts from under the wheels of a normal one, a cheaper option with a tired face behind the windshield, stops on the edge of the road, erratic to answer a phone call with his hands busy. Found it on his jacket, folded on the table, the tiny stained shard lined up on the screen. It’s hanging in his pocket now; he could pick some spare neural slots if Vik lets him and try to check for any bits of code left there, plenty of time to do that in the middle of nowhere. The call is from Misty, and he bolts off to run back, then slows down to a stroll again, heart in his throat and eyes on the van she’s telling him about. The guy barely asks any questions; asks where’s Misty, but shuts up quite quickly watching the transfer. It’s a lot. Seems he’s not paying Viktor off any time soon, is he? A failed investment.
He stops inside the salon to crack open and down a bottle of something fizzy, in one go, blood rushing at the sweet taste. They were all out “Monkeys”, as if intentionally. On the counter there is an unfinished set of tarots, the third one still facing down, left in a hurry, the rest of the deck scattered. The Fool crushed by the Wheel of Fortune. He covers the last card, struggling to turn it over with nails so short. Steps away when the van dude peeks in to ask for a smoke, sweeping the room as he speaks. Jackie would’ve kicked his ass out in no time. His exhausted “hey, hermano ”, its sheer existence has an effect of a mantis blade on the handles of the plastic bag he’s carrying: he’d drop it just the same. He leans over the medical chair, hand jolting when it doesn’t sink through the blankets and Jackie doesn’t crumble into a buzzing swarm of nanites. He’s not sure they buzz though.
“Ready for a little trip, choom?”
Jackie makes an attempt to wave his hand at him.
“Just been to one…”
“Saw anything worth making up a whole story about? Vik had his lights on you, could probably feel them, right? Tunnel with your ones and zeroes flashing by on the other side?”
“Saw Blackhand… Told me: ‘Go solo next time, chico.’”
“Yeah, solo, no shit.”
“No shit…” His chuckle changes into a pained grunt, but when V checks on the wound, it’s better than it could ever be, polished with lasers, dry, bright pink, the staples so accurate they might as well be the natural part of his body. The man behind the masterpiece is lounging on his old sofa, arm over his face, knee leaning on the shabby back with all sorts of stitched cuts and holes on it. Probably been sitting here before the basement itself was even laid out. V crouches, plops on the floor.
“Hey… You’re not flatlining, are you? How is it?”
Vik sighs from underneath his elbow and takes a glance, his glasses back like there’s a built-in magnet inside his nose bridge.
“Dizzy, legs cold, this one’s a bit numb,” he holds up his left hand, fingers waving slowly, with a noticeable effort, albeit not shaky at all like he claims them to be. It’s hard under V’s palms, he feels injection holes catch on his fingertips while he gives it a rub, some massage, not really knowing what he’s doing, just chasing the blood back in place. “Might take a day off if I’m under weather tomorrow, but overall it’s decent, no medical contraindications. As for Jackie, keep him down for a day or two. I know you’ll be out looking for everything that makes the Badlands so bad, but, V, don’t rush.”
“We won’t… If you won’t tell his mom.”
A quiet snort and a pat on his head, ruffling his spiky hair, never in the right place, just like him. He leans to drag the bag closer, and the fleeting caress slips on his shoulder, then off and away.
“Got something here to keep your juice running.”
The golden boxing glove dangles, spinning about it in a voiceless reproach.
“Sodas and candy bars… Geez, kid, don’t tell me that’s what you’re stuffing yourself with.”
“Well, I went for kebabs, but there were only tails left. Kinda chewy, takes a lot to work through them, you know. And these are fast carbs. Shoot them up, boom, ready to go for two more hours.”
Vik hums, picking up a couple of “Sojasils”.
“Maybe even three. After all, I had quite a nap.” He smirks, digging in that nutty “Molotov”; V yanks a random thread out of the seat, smirking too, eyes on anything but his own reflection in the doc’s shades, black polish chipped on his nails where they were clawing feverishly for the fresh magazines in his pockets not so long ago. So much for sneaking undercover and playing spies with the Flathead. He wonders if the official statement released tomorrow will blame Militech, as usual, and their prototypes, packed with suspiciously Maelstrom-looking gear. Maybe he’ll catch the news at some gas station past the border.
Misty’s watching the monitors; an unfinished bag of “Moonchies” on the stool and Jackie snoring in a half-sitting position. The numbers aren’t particularly rad, compared to what V’s used to see whenever he’s stuck in that chair, but they’re high enough to stay like that. With all that blood shared, the jokes, he knows, will shower down on him for weeks at best; Jackie already was determined to never let that credit on Kiroshi pass unnoticed. Something-something about making him free tacos on Tacos Tuesday, the best in the wastes as of now, if they take on that new, totally-worth-it gig he found, qué dices ? And V’s Spanish is nowhere as good to tell him to go climb a tree if he can find any.
“I locked the store. We’ll be heading out soon…” he says and clears his throat. “Did you… Were those heist tarots?” A gentle nod. Misty fiddles with the sleeves of her stretched sweater. “So you… the third card, you didn’t see what’s on it?”
“I couldn’t make myself, V. And couldn’t put them away either.”
“Well… guess they kinda expired, now that the main fool’s here, right?” He gestures vaguely at the chair, at Jackie trying to roll over in his sleep. Shut up, he thinks, shut your trap already, this thought so rare in his brain that it’s almost big enough for its own character arc. He dives quickly, forehead to her shoulder, cheek scraped softly by her spiked collar. It’s a “thank you”, a “sorry, a “see you later”, he doesn’t know. He needs a smoke or two so bad.
The cat is staring at him from a dumpster across the alley, unblinking, and someone starts shooting not so far away, not too persistent. He ignores them all, burning tobacco heavy on his tongue, a hard-to-swallow lump on its root. His knee is dancing to its own fitful rhythm. The gates clunk downstairs, and V startles towards the sound.
“Hey, hey, I’m good, kid, no need–”
He holds Vik under the elbow, watchful for him to climb every step without missing any by accident. Dizzy and all, shit happens. The ashes fall off and glow, fading, on Jackie’s shirt.
“Yeah, good for now, then you stumble, crack your skull open, someone might slip on it. Can’t let this happen. Besides,” he releases the hold once there’s a wall to lean on, “said you’ll be alright while we’re watching. Well. I’m watching.”
“You begin to sound terrifyingly familiar, kid.”
“Well… guess, I’m building myself around the worst traits and habits. You know what they say. Bad habits make you a die hard. Or something like that.”
Vik huffs out a laugh, snatching the offered, half-finished cigarette. Huffs a cough too, his expression almost offended. V shrugs.
“Yeah, they’re… total shit. Clear the mind though.”
“Think I might need a lung replacement now.”
V takes the bud that sways to and fro in front of him as Vik forces the rest of the stinky smoke out, fist covering his mouth.
“I can find you one. I mean it, really. Any part you need for work, just name them. And-and I’ll get those eddies for you, soon, I swear. What you did there–”
“Vincent,” he’s stopped by a grip unexpectedly firm on his arm. “I didn’t do it for profit. I did it for you, kids, you don’t owe me a single cent.”
“But there must be-” He draws the burning smoke in, counting on it to melt that thick lump inside, calm the noise, the pounding, stop his fingers from trembling like he’s finally, utterly losing it. “Must be something I can do, right? Anything? Couldn't prepare without your help, couldn’t save that shard, couldn’t help T, couldn’t– Fuck, I couldn’t even keep it down! Maybe we’d just walk out the same way we entered and he wouldn’t–? Vik, I just sat there hoping that you’d do your magic and fix him. Somehow. But I didn’t even fucking know if we’d get here at all– I didn’t know, I thought–”
He’s tugged into, buried into an embrace, a tight one, palm on his nape, nose running disgustingly wet on the worn blue, turning it black in the darkness of the alley. He digs into it, falls into it, cloth crumpled under his grasping fists. The ugly sound he produces is loud; he can’t make it stop, it’s worse than those cars wailing outside H10 late at night, when someone breaks in or dumps a body on one of them.
“You’re good. You did good, kid. Jackie, Misty, me, we’re okay, kid.”
His fingers sting where the smoldering stub bit them before falling out, and the corner of Vik’s shades is prodding into the side of his head, and he clings to these two sensations to crawl back up, and yields, when the shades are yanked off and the hand, holding them, sets back on his hair. It pours out the way it doesn’t even on the worst mornings and the loneliest evening. Until he’s empty. Until he’s drier than that all-inclusive, residents-only martini. Until Vik’s thumb starts going up and down between his shoulder blades and it’s too much to handle. He leans away, palm squeezing Vik’s shoulder, forearm wiping off the mess off his face quickly.
“Wow. Sorry, I– I’m not really used to the audience.” He pinches his nose bridge and holds to the other shoulder, too, not quite ready to let go yet. From the dark dot of the boxing trinket on the white background of Vik’s top his eyes finally snap up. “That’s… I guess, the first time? When I see you without your trendy rock star glasses. I mean, define ‘see’, these lights are garbage.”
“A rock star, sure,” Vik chuckles, wrinkles showing up in the corners of his eyes.
“You, uh– You look fine. You know, for a man who pumped out a gallon of his own blood.”
“It wasn’t a gallon, V. A pint at best.”
“With or without the foam?”
Vik’s arm mirrors his own suddenly, a comforting weight next to his neck, skin to skin.
“There is actually something you can do for me.”
“Yeah? What is it? No problem, any–” he shuts up at the light clench, like a button that turns off a floating talking taxi head. There must be one in those Delamains for sure, to press it manually, right?
“Sit tight and come back alive, both of you. And you, V… Maybe make up sometime for tomorrow that I’m going to spend in the Glen, explaining to Mama Welles why you kidnapped her son? How does that sound?”
“Yeah.” He keeps nodding to his every word, like his stupid bobblehead doggo on the top panel. Somehow, it survived Militech’s shooting around and through the Hella. “Totally fine, sure can do. I’ll bring beers? And, eh– a tumbleweed? To watch it rolling around, you know, because no way that much of screen-gazing is good for your eyes, right?”
Vik shakes his head.
“You do realize that they don’t roll around on their own?”
“‘Course. I’m joking. Gotcha, doc.”
He steps out and past him to add: “Just beers then?” from the bottom of the stairs and slip into the clinic after a chuckling nod for a “yes”. How the fuck do they move then–
Jackie’s ass is a whole new level of difficulty. He limps and hangs on him like the entire load from a washing machine on the laundry day, every pocket of his jackets exclusively filled with socks or giant trunks. He's weak to walk, but, apparently, still able to stop them both to plant a kiss on the crown of Misty’s head, and she helps to lead him further, completely hidden under his arm. At the dumpster they linger, V’s fault this time. Fuck it, he thinks. The crack under the rusty lid swallows the shard like an overused neural socket. Jackie grunts, sinks lower, heavier.
“It’s what I think it is?”
V looks up at him, pushing back on track though “Esoterica” and out in the street, where the van is waiting, smelling as if the incenses and candles were cooked right inside it.
“We’ll try again, choom. Start over. I know a guy or two. You know some. We’ll manage,” he says. “Remember locust pizza? Think it got any better out there?
“Ahh, maldita sea, I was trying to forget.”
He climbs, not helpful at all when V tries to tug him in under the armpits, and crashes on the makeshift bed in the back of the van, right on the floor for a quicker access. V jumps out.
“Oye… ” He peers at the slouching figure of Jackie Welles, tired, bruised, hurting like hell, but – alive. “Thanks, V,” his shadow says, voice low and serious. Too serious; he could definitely use more sleep on the road. Then there comes a sound. An asshole-ish snort. And suddenly: “Or do you go by Vincent from now on?”
“A toma’ po’ culo, man.” He slams the doors shut, immediately regretting the clanking sound. Zero regrets on the other side though; the muffled voice continues, almost lively:
“Aw, come on, compa, roll those r’s, don’t be shy!”
At sunset they sit in the back together, picking raw locusts from the gas station burgers and watching Night City melting against the skies in the distance, red like the dried blood on their fancy rented pants. They're charged for not returning them by noon.