Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Pacifica. Concrete graveyard with beach views. Abandoned dreams and broken glass. Perfect fucking place for a chat with the dead guy living in your skull.

V stood at the curb, neural link pulsing an invisible signal. Thirty seconds later, sleek black Delamain cab pulled around the corner. Smooth as synthetic silk. Precise as a corpo assassination.

The cab stopped, passenger door sliding open with a pneumatic hiss. "Miss V!" Delamain's voice poured through speakers with digital warmth no human could manufacture. "What an unexpected pleasure! It has been precisely forty-three days since our last interaction."

V's lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Hey, Del."

Johnny materialized beside her, cigarette between digital fingers. "Christ. Your AI boyfriend sounds ready to pop his virtual load."

V ignored him, sliding into the cab's leather interior. Johnny followed, passing through the door like it wasn't there. Ghost privileges.

"Pacifica beach, please." V leaned back, feeling the synthetic leather adjust to her spine's curvature. Perfect pressure points. Algorithms calculating comfort.

"Pacifica? An unusual destination for you, Miss V." Delamain's avatar flickered on the screen, pleasant face designed by psychologists to inspire trust. "The Grand Imperial Mall remains unfinished and hazardous. The Voodoo Boys control much of the territory. Risk assessment suggests—"

"Just the beach, Del." V's voice soft but firm. End of discussion.

Johnny stretched his legs through the cab's center console. "The fuck are we doing at a beach?" Sunglasses couldn't hide the suspicion in his eyes. "Planning to drown yourself? Save me the trouble?"

Delamain accelerated smoothly into traffic. "May I inquire when you might visit my core again, Miss V? Your last diagnostics session was most... illuminating."

"You let this thing scan your brain?" Johnny leaned forward, disgust twisting his features. "You corpo whores and your tech fetish."

V's eyes tracked the passing buildings. Mega-structures and shanties. Night City's vertical wealth gap. "Been busy, Del. Will be busier. I'm in the process of becoming someone other than myself."

"The fuck does that mean?" Johnny's voice sharp. Defensive.

V's fingers traced patterns on the window. "Like a butterfly."

Delamain's avatar tilted its head. Programmed curiosity. "Fascinating metaphor, Miss V. The metamorphosis process of lepidoptera involves complete cellular dissolution before reformation. Are you experiencing similar fundamental changes?"

Johnny's laugh came harsh. Broken glass. "She's got a terrorist construct eating her brain. What do you think, chrome chassis?"

"We've arrived at Pacifica Beach, Miss V." Delamain's voice smooth, ignoring the conversation only V could hear. "Shall I wait?"

V shook her head. "No need. I'll call when I'm ready." She paused, hand on the door. "And Del? Don't worry. Whatever I become, I'll still recognize old friends."

The AI's avatar flickered. Something like emotion in lines of code. "I shall eagerly anticipate your next visit, Miss V."

Johnny mimed gagging as they exited the vehicle. "You and your pet AI. Fucking disgusting." His boots left no prints in the sand as they walked toward the water. "The thing's not even alive."

V stepped over broken glass. Pacifica beach. Paradise turned to shit. "More alive than some people I've met."

The ocean stretched before them, polluted water reflecting neon from Night City's skyline. Beautiful toxic rainbow on black water. V found a concrete slab, once part of some luxury hotel foundation. Sat down facing the waves.

Johnny paced. Always fucking pacing. "So what's this butterfly bullshit? You planning to just roll over and let me take the wheel?"

V watched the waves. Hypnotic rhythm. "Would it be so bad?"

"Would it—" Johnny stopped. Stared at her. "Are you fucking serious right now? You're just gonna check out? Let me have your meat?"

V's head tilted. "My meat. Your mind. Whose life is it anyway?"

"It's yours, you goddamn psycho!" Johnny's voice rose. Digital distortion at the edges. Anger or fear or both. "You fight for it! That's what people do!"

"People like you?" V's voice calm. Too calm. Ocean calm with sharks underneath.

Johnny flickered. Glitched. Manifestation of his rage disrupting the signal. "I didn't chose this! You think I wanted to be stuck in your head? Playing passenger in someone else's life?"

"Didn't you?" V turned to look at him. Really fucking look at him. "Arasaka tower. The bomb. You knew you weren't walking out."

Johnny's face twisted. "That was different."

"Was it?"

"I died for something!" His chrome arm caught moonlight that couldn't really touch it. "I died fighting! Not lying down like a whipped dog waiting for the bullet!"

V picked up a piece of broken glass. Turned it in her fingers. Blood beaded along the edge. Johnny felt the sting through their connection. "Fighting. Lying down. Still dead in the end."

Johnny crouched in front of her. Tried to snatch the glass from her hand. Digital fingers passed through physical reality. "Stop that shit."

Blood dripped onto concrete. "Can't stop me, can you? Not unless you take control."

"I'm not taking control because I'm not a fucking parasite!" Johnny stood again. Fury radiating from him like heat from overclocked cyberware. "Unlike you, I don't roll over and die when things get tough."

V laughed. Hollow sound carried away by ocean wind. "Big talk from a guy who nuked a building instead of living with failure."

Johnny's glitch intensified. Static at the edges. "Fuck you."

"You didn't fight, Johnny. You quit. Spectacular way to go, but still quitting."

Johnny tried to grab her collar. Hands passing through. Frustration like acid in his throat—her throat—their throat. "Big fucking difference between going out in flames and whimpering away."

V wiped blood on her pants. "Is there? Seems like two sides of the same coward's coin to me."

"I'm not a fucking coward!" Johnny shouted, voice desperate to be heard over waves that couldn't hear him anyway.

"Then why run from life so hard?" V's eyes steady on his. "Why make yourself a bomb instead of a man?"

Johnny flickered again. Anger or something deeper. "Because living fucking hurts! Because every day was just another—" He stopped. Realizing. "Shit."

V nodded. "Yeah."

Silence stretched between them. Ocean waves filling the space. Night City lights reflected in polluted water. Beautiful apocalypse.

Johnny sat beside her on the concrete. Not quite touching. Never touching. "So what, you think giving up your body to me is some kind of noble sacrifice? Fuck that noise."

V shrugged. "Not noble. Just practical. One of us gets to live."

"That's the dumbest shit I've ever heard." Johnny's voice softer now. Anger still there but banked like coals. "And I've heard some dumb shit in my time."

V turned to face the water again. "What would you do if you got control? Really?"

Johnny laughed. No humor in it. "Drink myself to death. Fuck everything that moves. Take down Arasaka again, probably."

"Sounds like a plan."

"It's not a fucking plan. It's a suicide with extra steps." Johnny ran digital fingers through digital hair. "Christ, I can't believe I'm the one arguing for sanity here."

V tilted her head, looking at the stars barely visible through Night City's light pollution. "You feel it, don't you? When you're closer. When we're... overlapping more."

Johnny went still. Statue-still. "Feel what?"

"The difference." V's voice quiet now. "In your head, it's all fire and noise. In mine..."

"Stop." Johnny stood again. Couldn't sit still. Never could. "We're not doing this psychobabble bullshit."

V continued like he hadn't spoken. "In mine, it's quiet. Has been since I was a kid. Just spaces and patterns and systems. People never made sense. Tech did."

Johnny paced in tight circles. Wanted a cigarette so bad it made V's fingers twitch. "So what? You're fucked in the head. I'm fucked in the head. Whole city's fucked in the head."

"But when you're here—" V tapped her temple, "—it changes. You feel it too. I know you do."

Johnny stopped. Back to her. Shoulders tense under his leather jacket. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Liar. Both knew it.

When he slipped deeper into her consciousness—when the walls between them thinned—Johnny felt it. The fucking peace. Absence of the constant burning. V's brain wired different. No anger. No fear. Just... clarity. Cold, beautiful clarity.

Being V didn't hurt like being Johnny did.

It scared the shit out of him.

"You want me to take over?" Johnny turned, face hard. "Fine. I'll take the fucking wheel. Right now."

V looked up at him. Waiting.

Johnny concentrated. Pushed against the barriers between them. Felt them give way easier than before. V wasn't fighting. Just letting him in.

For one disorienting moment, he was in control. V's body. V's hands. Real. Solid. He could feel everything—ocean spray, night air, concrete rough under palms.

And then the fucking emptiness hit him. The hollow space where V should be. No one to fight against. No one to argue with. Just... alone in someone else's meat.

Johnny pulled back so fast it made V gasp. Both of them disoriented.

"The fuck was that?" Johnny's voice shaking. Actual fear in it. "Where did you go?"

V blinked slowly. Coming back to herself. "Nowhere. I was right here."

"Bullshit! You were gone!" Johnny reached for her again. Digital hands passing through flesh. Frustration like knives. "Don't do that again."

V studied him. "Didn't think you'd mind having the body to yourself."

"Well I fucking mind!" Johnny shouted. Then quieter: "I fucking mind."

Truth hung between them. Unspoken but heard. Johnny Silverhand, legendary rockerboy terrorist, couldn't stand being alone. Not even in victory. Especially not in victory.

V stood. Brushed sand from her clothes. "We should head back."

Johnny blocked her path. Not physically—he couldn't—but standing in her way nonetheless. "I'm not taking your body, V."

"Not asking you to. Yet."

"Not ever." Johnny's voice hard again. Familiar territory. Anger easier than whatever the fuck else was happening. "You want to check out so bad, find another way. I'm not being your suicide method."

V stepped through him. Ghost and flesh passing through each other. "Let's get back. I'll call Del."

"Your AI boyfriend." Johnny followed, boots not disturbing the sand. "Better company than me, I bet."

V's comm pinged. Delamain responding before she even called. Always watching. Always waiting. "Del wasn't designed to be a killer."

"And I was?" Johnny's laugh bitter as night ocean.

V didn't answer. Didn't need to.

Delamain pulled up, perfect timing as always. Door sliding open to welcome V back into climate-controlled comfort.

"I hope your excursion was productive, Miss V," the AI's pleasant voice filled the cabin as she settled into the seat.

Johnny slid in beside her, chrome arm passing through the door. "Tell your chrome chauffeur to fuck off."

V closed her eyes. "It was illuminating, Del. Take the scenic route home."

"Of course, Miss V." The cab pulled away from the curb, algorithms calculating the most aesthetically pleasing path through Night City's chaos.

Johnny leaned back, trying to feel the seat that couldn't feel him. "This isn't over, V. You don't get to just decide to die."

V watched Night City scroll past the window. Neon reflecting in her eyes. "We all decide to die, Johnny. Some just make it louder than others."

Johnny reached toward her face. Stopped just short of where her cheek would be if he could touch it. The urge to make contact so strong it hurt. To grab her, shake her, feel something solid against his hands again.

Wanted to scream: Don't leave me alone in your empty skull.

V's apartment. Megabuilding H10. Fucking center of Night City.

Johnny glitched through the door ahead of V, surveying the space with digital eyes. Clean lines. Minimalist. Japanese inspirations mixed with cosmoluxe bullshit. Everything in its proper place. Not a speck of dust or empty beer bottle in sight.

"Christ, you live like this?" Johnny circled the apartment, boots passing through furniture. "Like a corpo catalog threw up in here."

V tossed her jacket on a hook by the door. Perfect aim. Didn't even look. "Not all of us aspire to live in filth."

"It's called character, V." Johnny passed his hand through a bonsai tree on the coffee table. Couldn't feel it. Never could feel anything. "This place has all the personality of an Arasaka conference room."

V headed to the kitchen, filling a glass with water. Movements precise. Programmed almost. "You want me to scatter empty whiskey bottles and cigarette butts around? Maybe some used condoms for authenticity?"

Johnny smirked despite himself. "Now you're talking."

The apartment was all sleek surfaces and subtle lighting. Shoji screens separating sleeping area from living space. Holographic art that shifted patterns every few minutes. High-end tech disguised as minimalist furniture.

Everything screamed money but whispered taste. Nothing like the shitholes Johnny crashed in during his Samurai days. Nothing like the backstage chaos and sticky floors he'd called home.

Then he noticed it. Something out of place in V's perfect cube of existence. A package on the table. Wrapped in actual fucking paper. Red paper with no corporate logo or QR code.

"Your AI boyfriend sending gifts now?" Johnny nodded toward the package. "Del upgrading from hand jobs to sugar daddy?"

V followed his gaze, something like nervousness flickering across her features. "No. It's—" She hesitated. Unusual for her. "It's for you."

Johnny stared at her. "For me? The fuck does that mean?"

V approached the package, fingers hovering over it. "I got something. For you."

"I'm an engram, sweetheart. Digital ghost. Can't exactly use material possessions." Johnny's voice had an edge. Defense mechanism. Always the edge when something unexpected happened.

V looked at him. Really fucking looked at him. "You could... take a look. If you want."

Johnny went still. "Take a look?"

V nodded. Tapped her temple. "From in here. You know. The driver's seat."

Understanding crashed over him. She was offering control. Voluntarily. Not him forcing his way in, not some glitch in the biochip. An invitation.

"You serious?" Johnny couldn't keep the suspicion from his voice. "You're just gonna hand over the meat puppet? Just like that?"

V shrugged, but there was tension in her shoulders. "Not forever. Just... to see what I got you."

Johnny circled her. Predator assessing prey. "What's the catch?"

"No catch." V sat on the edge of the sofa. Hands folded in her lap. Waiting. "Just thought you might want to... feel it. Whatever it is."

Johnny stopped circling. Stared at her. This strange woman who talked to AIs like lovers and offered her body to digital ghosts. "Alright. Your funeral."

He'd done this before. Pushed into her consciousness when she was weak or sleeping. Quick joyrides in a stolen body. But this—deliberate merging with her permission—felt different. Dangerous.

He stepped toward her. Through her. Into her.

The process wasn't instant. Not like flipping a switch. More like... pushing through layers. Digital meeting analog. Two images slowly merging into 3D. Disorienting as fuck.

Johnny pushed. V yielded.

The first sensation was always the kicker. Breathing. Actual fucking breathing. Air in lungs. Heart pumping blood. Body temperature. Weight of bones and muscle and meat.

"Jesus..." The word came from V's lips, but Johnny's voice shaped it. His first physical sensation in fifty years.

But this time, something else happened. Something new. As he pushed deeper into her consciousness, settled more fully into her synapses, a weight lifted. The constant burning anger that defined his existence—dimmed.

Like stepping from scorching sun into cool shade.

Physical sensation was a rush. Always a rush. But this—this absence of rage—hit harder than any drug Johnny had ever mainlined.

He flexed V's fingers. His fingers now. Rolled her shoulders. His shoulders. Reached up to touch her face. His face, for the moment.

"Fuck." His voice from her vocal cords. So strange. So goddamn good.

And V—she was still there. Not gone like he'd feared earlier at the beach. Just... receded. Her consciousness hovering at the edges of his. Like a warm presence just behind him. Almost like being held.

It should have pissed him off. Johnny Silverhand didn't do cuddling. Johnny Silverhand didn't do comfort. Johnny Silverhand burned everything he touched and laughed at the ashes.

But in V's body, with V's brain chemistry, Johnny couldn't find the anger. Couldn't locate the burning need to destroy that had defined him since—

In V's head, the noise quieted. All of it. Just... fucking... quiet.

He understood suddenly why machines loved her. Why Delamain opened himself to her touch. V's consciousness was a still pool in a raging flood. An island of peace in Night City's constant chaos.

"This how it always feels for you?" Johnny asked aloud, knowing she could hear him. "This... quiet?"

He felt rather than heard her response. A sensation of affirmation. Warm acknowledgment flowing between their connected minds.

Johnny moved toward the package on the table. V's body. His control. Their shared experience. He reached for the red paper, fingers touching physical matter. Sensation of smooth paper against fingerprints.

Christ, even unwrapping a package felt incredible after fifty years of digital nothingness.

He tore the paper carefully. V influencing him even now—she wouldn't rip into it like he would have in his own body. Methodical. Preserving the paper. Johnny rolled her eyes—his eyes—their eyes.

"Even when opening presents, you're fucking meticulous," he muttered.

A feeling like laughter brushed against his consciousness. V, amused by his commentary.

The paper fell away to reveal a case. Black leather. High quality. Old school.

Johnny felt V's heart rate increase. Or was it his excitement? Impossible to separate now. He flipped the latches with V's thumbs, opened the lid.

Inside lay a guitar.

Not just any guitar. A Fender Stratocaster. Classic design. Matte black finish with silver hardware. The real thing. Not a replica or some corpo knockoff.

"Holy shit." Johnny's voice came soft through V's lips.

He lifted it from the case. Weight of wood and wire in his hands—V's hands. Fingers wrapping around the neck. The instrument settled against V's body like it belonged there.

Johnny strummed once. Sound filled the apartment. Analog vibration of strings through wood. No digital reproduction, no recorded playback. Real fucking music.

"You bought a guitar." Johnny spoke to the presence hovering at the edges of his consciousness. "For me."

V's response came as feeling rather than words. Simple truth flowing between their merged minds. Yes. For you. Because music matters to you.

Johnny swallowed with V's throat. Emotion rising that had no place in Johnny Silverhand's repertoire. Not anger. Not rage. Something dangerously close to gratitude.

He played a chord. V's fingers clumsy at first, but finding their way under his guidance. The sound vibrated through her body—his body—their shared temporary existence.

"You don't even play." Johnny spoke aloud, needing to hear words to anchor himself against the rising tide of unfamiliar emotion.

V's presence shifted closer in their shared consciousness. Like someone leaning against his shoulder. I can learn.

Johnny played another chord. Then another. Muscle memory building in real time as V's neural pathways adapted to his knowledge. With each note, the connection between them deepened. His expertise flowing into her muscles. Her calm flowing into his rage.

He found himself sinking deeper into the merge, craving more of this peace. Wanting to dissolve the boundaries completely. To be fully, completely V. No more burning. No more rage. Just this strange, alien quiet.

Dangerous thoughts. Fucking dangerous. This was how engrams took over. How the host got erased. Johnny knew the process—he was the fucking process.

But god, the temptation to just... let go. To let V's consciousness wash over his like cool water over a burn.

He forced V's fingers to stop playing. Set the guitar down carefully on the table.

"Nice gift." His voice rougher than intended. V would notice. V noticed everything. "Thanks."

He felt her curiosity. Her concern. The unspoken question hovering between their merged minds.

"I should, uh, give you back the wheel." Johnny struggled to maintain separation. To remember where V ended and he began. Getting harder by the second. "Your body and all."

V's presence wrapped around him. Not pushing him out. Not taking control. Just... there. Present. Concerned.

You okay?

The question wasn't spoken, but Johnny heard it clearly in the space between thoughts.

"Fine. Just weird. Being... here." Johnny flexed V's fingers one more time, savoring the sensation of physical existence. "Different than I expected."

Different how?

Again, not words. Just meaning flowing between them where they connected.

"Less angry." Johnny admitted before he could stop himself. Truth spilling out in this shared space where lies seemed pointless. "In your head, everything's just... quieter."

Understanding flowed back to him. V's consciousness acknowledging his confession without judgment. Without the mockery he'd expect from anyone else.

Johnny felt naked. Exposed. V seeing parts of him no one had seen since he was a kid. Before the armor of rage and music and rebellion had calcified around whatever softness might have once existed.

It terrified him more than Arasaka's entire security force.

"I'm giving you back control now." Johnny announced, already pulling away. Retreating from this dangerous intimacy. "Thanks for the guitar. Real nice gesture and all that shit."

He felt V's concern, her desire to understand what had spooked him. But Johnny was already disentangling, pulling his digital self free from her physical form. Sensation fading. Heart beat becoming distant. Breath becoming unnecessary again.

The separation hurt worse than he expected. Physical pain he could handle. Had handled. This was different. Soul-deep. Ripping away from something that felt... right.

Johnny stood beside V again. Digital ghost. Separate. Safe behind his walls of sarcasm and anger.

V blinked, readjusting to full control of her body. She looked at him, eyes searching for whatever had caused his abrupt retreat.

"You good?" she asked aloud now that they were separate entities again.

Johnny forced a smirk. Defense mechanism. "Five stars. Top-shelf meat you're running there."

V didn't smile back. Saw through him. Always fucking saw through him.

"You can use it whenever you want." She nodded toward the guitar. "I bought it for you."

Johnny flickered, digital form unstable with emotion he refused to name. "Kind of hard to play when I'm not driving."

"So drive sometimes." V picked up the guitar, held it out like an offering. "I don't mind."

Johnny stared at her. This strange woman who'd given a terrorist access to her body. Who'd bought a guitar for a ghost. Who somehow made the constant burning in his digital soul ease just by existing.

"Maybe." He couldn't commit to more. Not with the memory of that peace still fresh. Too appealing. Too dangerous. "If I feel like it."

Johnny couldn't sit fucking still. Digital ghost pacing V's too-clean apartment. Looking at everything. Touching nothing.

V had disappeared into the bathroom. Water running. Human shit. Johnny wandered toward the sleeping area. Japanese screens half-pulled aside revealing a bed that broke the pattern of V's perfect little world.

Sheets twisted like someone had fought wars in them. Pillows scattered. And pills. Fucking pills everywhere. Different colors, different bottles. A miniature pharmacy on expensive sheets.

"The fuck is all this?" Johnny called out when V emerged from the bathroom. Water droplets still clinging to her face. "Planning to open a clinic? Or just checking out early?"

V approached, unconcerned by his snooping. Picked up one of the orange bottles. Shook out two pills. Swallowed them dry like a pro.

"Meds." Her voice matter-of-fact. Clinical almost.

Johnny flickered closer. Reading labels she didn't bother hiding. Antidepressants. Mood stabilizers. Sleep aids. Anti-anxiety. The full fucking mental health rainbow.

"Depression?" Johnny's laugh came sharp. Mean. "Depression is for people who can actually shoot themselves. Not for you."

V looked at him. Then laughed. Actually fucking laughed. Genuine amusement lighting up her face like neon. A sound Johnny hadn't heard from her before.

"What?" Johnny demanded, wrong-footed by her reaction. "Wasn't a joke."

V shook her head, still smiling. "I know. That's why it's funny."

Johnny stared at her. This fucking woman. Impossible to predict. "You're weirder than I thought, V."

"You have no idea." She collected the pill bottles, arranging them with practiced efficiency. Routine.

"Hold up." Johnny fixed on one detail he'd overlooked. "Your prescription. 'Valeri'? That your actual name?"

V froze for a microsecond. Almost imperceptible. "Something like that."

Before Johnny could press further, V's phone buzzed. Holo-call incoming. The display showed a name that made Johnny's digital hackles rise.

Goro Takemura.

V's face transformed. Subtle shift from guarded to open. She accepted the call immediately.

Takemura's face materialized in the air between them. Stern features. Perfect posture. Arasaka's perfect fucking attack dog.

"V-chan." His greeting carried something beneath it. Respect. Maybe something deeper. "I apologize for the late hour."

Johnny circled the projection. "Fucking Christ. This corpo-rat treating you like you're shogun royalty now?"

V ignored him completely. Her smile for Takemura warm. Genuine. "Goro-chan. You never need to apologize. Are you eating? You look tired."

Johnny's jaw dropped. The fuck was happening? V talking to Arasaka's top enforcer like he was her favorite grandpa needing reminders to take his vitamins.

"I have managed adequate sustenance." Takemura's rigid formal tone couldn't hide what looked suspiciously like embarrassment. "The menu at this establishment is... challenging."

"Send me your location," V said, already reaching for her jacket. "I'll bring you real food."

"That is unnecessary, Valeri-sama. I merely called to..." Takemura hesitated. Johnny had never seen the man anything but certain. "To hear a friendly voice."

Johnny circled V, staring at her profile. "The fuck is this? You best friends with Saburo's pet samurai now? What the hell happened before I woke up in your head?"

V's eyes softened. For Takemura, not Johnny. "How are you sleeping, Goro-san?"

Takemura's stoic mask cracked slightly. "The images remain. Saburo-sama's face as he—" He stopped, composing himself. "Forgive me."

Johnny paced faster, digital form glitching with agitation. "Hold the fuck up. Are you therapizing Saburo Arasaka's bodyguard? The guy who'll put a bullet in your skull the moment he figures out I'm in here?"

Takemura spoke slowly. Painfully. Words dragged from depths he'd clearly never shared with another soul. "I see him dying. I see my failure. I see fifty years of service rendered meaningless in one moment of weakness."

V nodded. No platitudes. No bullshit comfort. Just presence. Listening.

"You're fucking kidding me." Johnny couldn't contain himself.

V continued as if Johnny wasn't having a digital meltdown beside her. "The weight you carry isn't just Saburo's death, Goro-san. It's fifty years of identity built around one purpose."

Takemura's face showed surprise. Then recognition. "You understand... too well."

"That's why you called." V's smile small but real. "You don't need to pretend with me. Not at this hour."

Johnny stopped pacing. Stared hard at V. Something clicking into place. "Holy shit. You were his doll, weren't you? Mr. Corpo Honor got himself a joytoy who'd listen to his samurai sad stories."

Takemura's rigid posture softened slightly. A man allowing himself one moment of human weakness. "I find our conversations... necessary."

"I know." V's voice carried understanding no AI could simulate. Deep, personal understanding. "Same time tomorrow? I'll bring food that won't destroy your stomach."

"You are… Yasashi na.."

The call ended. V sat still for a moment, lost in thought.

Johnny materialized directly in front of her. "Spill it. Right fucking now. How does Night City's most feared Arasaka enforcer know you well enough to call you for midnight therapy sessions?"

V sighed. Got up. Went to her closet. Pushed aside practical merc gear to reveal something hidden at the back. A case. Locked. Fingerprint scan release.

"You really want to know?" She didn't wait for an answer. Case clicked open.

Inside lay specialized cyberware Johnny recognized immediately. High-end doll implants. The kind that cost more than most people's entire bodies. Not the Clouds brothel mass-market shit. Personal, custom work.

"Fuck me." Johnny's voice subdued for once. "You were a personal doll."

V nodded. No shame. No pride either. Just fact. "Not the common kind. Specialization in psychological intimacy. Empathic resonance. They called it the 'Soulmate Experience.'"

Johnny processed this. The pieces clicking. "So you were what—some kind of living therapy session for rich fucks?"

"More complicated than that." V closed the case. Locked it away again. "I could become whatever they needed most. Friend. Confidant. The one person who truly understood them."

"And Takemura was a client?" Johnny couldn't reconcile the rigid Arasaka loyalist with someone who'd pay for emotional connection.

V's laugh came soft. Sad almost. "No. Not initially."

Johnny's eyes widened with realization. "Yorinobu. You were Yorinobu Arasaka's doll."

V didn't confirm or deny. Didn't need to. The slight tension in her shoulders said enough.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Johnny ran digital hands through digital hair. "So half the power players in Night City know you as their personal emotional support human?" Johnny's voice caught between mockery and genuine amazement. "No wonder you're so fucking calm about having me in your head. Probably the least weird relationship you've had."

V's smile came small but real. "I wouldn't go that far."

Chapter Text

The transformation began three hours before the meeting.

Valerie sat in the specialized chair at Arasaka's private clinic. Technicians moving around her like worker bees attending to their queen. The doll chip—latest prototype, straight from Arasaka's R&D—clicked into her neural port with a sound like destiny locking into place.

"Final calibrations complete, Miss Valerie." The lead technician's voice clinical, detached. "Personality overlay at ninety-eight percent compatibility. Unusually high resonance."

Valerie closed her eyes as the chip activated. Warmth spreading through her neural pathways. Not replacing her consciousness—enhancing it. Reshaping it. The standard doll tech made the user a vessel, emptied and filled with someone else's fantasy.

This was different. Evolution. Revolution.

The mirror showed the physical transformation already underway. Facial muscles subtly realigning. Posture shifting. Micro-expressions reprogrammed at the neural level. The black wig would come later—custom synthhair with sensors that connected directly to her scalp. Allowing her to feel every strand as if it were her own.

"The client profile has been uploaded to your system," another technician said, avoiding eye contact. Everyone uncomfortable with what she was. What she represented. "Standard protocol for initial contact."

Valerie nodded. Words unnecessary. The client data already unfolding in her mind like origami in reverse. Yorinobu Arasaka. Second son. Rebellious heir. The man who walked away from everything only to be drawn back into the family orbit. Endless psychological reports. Surveillance footage. Speech patterns. Behavioral tics.

The pinkish-white kimono arrived in a sealed container. Hand-delivered from Japan. Silk so fine it seemed to float rather than fall. She slipped it on, the fabric cool against her skin. The garment itself a statement. Traditional yet subtly subversive. Like the man she was designed to understand.

When the helicopter lifted off from the Arasaka clinic, Valerie was gone. In her place sat a woman whose very existence was crafted as the perfect psychological counterpoint to Yorinobu Arasaka's wounded soul.

She didn't pretend. That was the beauty of the technology. The miracle Arasaka had created without fully understanding its implications. She became.

---

North Oak. Walled paradise for Night City's ultra-elite. The Arasaka estate sat isolated on its own promontory. Japanese architecture imposing against California sky. Guards visible and invisible watching every approach.

The helicopter touched down on the private landing pad. Wind whipping the perfectly manicured gardens. Valerie stepped out, kimono sleeves fluttering like wings. Long black hair—not her natural color—moving with deliberate grace.

Two men waited. One younger, tension radiating from his stance. Designer clothes casual in a way that required enormous effort. Yorinobu. The second man stood slightly behind. Military posture. Traditional clothing with subtle armor integrated into the fabric. Takemura. The shadow.

Valerie approached with measured steps. Perfect poise. Nothing hurried. Nothing hesitant. Her walk a calligraphy of movement—each step precisely where it should be and nowhere else.

Yorinobu's face twisted with recognition of what—who—she was. Disgust flashing across features too similar to his father's for his comfort.

"This is what they send while my father's out of town?" His English sharp with contempt. "I'm supposed to entertain the whores now?"

Takemura remained silent. Disapproval evident in the microscopic tightening around his eyes. A traditional man viewing an untraditional profession. Judgment without words.

Valerie stopped at perfect conversational distance. Not too close. Not too far. Then she laughed. Not the practiced giggle of a companion paid to be amused. Genuine. Warm. Unexpected.

"Yeah. Can you imagine? It's unfair to put a task so disgraceful on your shoulders." Her voice carried no mockery. No sarcasm. Just sincere commiseration, as though they were old friends discussing an annoying assignment over drinks.

Yorinobu blinked. Script disrupted. He stepped closer. Predator advancing on prey that didn't behave like prey should.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" His voice lowered, dangerous. "Coming here and joking with me?"

Valerie smiled. Not seductive. Not placating. The smile of someone who saw the performance behind his anger and found it understandable rather than frightening.

She bowed, perfectly. "The pleasure is all mine to meet you, Arasaka-sama," she replied in flawless Japanese. The honorific—one reserved for his father—hanging in the air between them like a challenge.

Yorinobu's eyes narrowed. "Takemura, leave us."

"Yorinobu-sama, security protocols—" Takemura began.

"Are you suggesting this woman is a threat to me?" Yorinobu's voice carried the edge of someone who'd spent a lifetime being protected against his will.

Takemura bowed slightly. "No, Yorinobu-sama."

"Then leave us." Yorinobu turned, not waiting to see if his order was obeyed. "You. Follow me."

Valerie followed, feeling Takemura's eyes tracking her movement. Assessing. Calculating. The bodyguard who saw everything but spoke little.

---

The interior of the estate blended traditional Japanese aesthetics with modern luxury. Screened walls and tatami floors alongside cutting-edge technology hidden within ancient-looking fixtures. Yorinobu led her not to the main reception area but down a separate hallway. Private quarters.

He slid open a door, gesturing her inside with impatient movement. The room beyond was clearly his personal space. Chaotic in contrast to the ordered perfection of the rest of the house. Records—actual vinyl—scattered across modern furniture. Books in multiple languages stacked haphazardly. A guitar in one corner.

"This is where my father expects me to entertain my 'guests,'" Yorinobu said, closing the door behind them. "A room specifically designed for the heir's indiscretions. Sound-proofed. Secure. Private."

Valerie took in the space. Not as a doll assessing a stage for performance but as someone genuinely interested in what the room revealed about its occupant.

"Your father thinks of everything," she said, trailing fingers over a rare first-edition book on anarchist philosophy. "Except what you actually want."

Yorinobu froze. Studied her with new intensity. "What did they tell you about me?"

"Everything they know." Valerie met his gaze directly. "Which isn't much."

Something loosened in Yorinobu's posture. The slightest release of tension. He moved to a cabinet, withdrew a bottle of whiskey. Real glass. Real liquid amber. Nothing synthetic.

"Drink?" he offered, already pouring two glasses without waiting for her answer.

Valerie accepted the glass, their fingers brushing briefly. Yorinobu watching for reaction. Testing for the practiced flinch of desire most companions would display. Finding none.

"The corporation sent you." Not a question. Statement of fact. "My father's way of keeping me occupied while he's handling business in Tokyo."

"The corporation provides the technology." Valerie sipped the whiskey. Expensive. Smoky notes. Hints of vanilla. "I chose the application."

Yorinobu laughed without humor. "No one chooses in Arasaka. We are all simply moved around the board."

"Like the heir who cannot truly leave?" Valerie asked, moving to examine a photo half-hidden behind books. Younger Yorinobu. Different hair. Different eyes. Standing with people who looked nothing like corporate aristocracy.

Yorinobu's eyes hardened. He crossed the room in two strides, snatching the photo from her hands. "That's not part of whatever file they gave you."

"It wasn't."

Outside the door, barely perceptible but there—the soft sound of Takemura. Still on guard. Always watching. Always listening. Devoted to a fault.

Yorinobu noticed too. Smirked. Raised his voice slightly. "So what exactly are you supposed to do for me? What service has my father's corporation deemed appropriate for the wayward son?"

Valerie set down her glass. Moved to the center of the room where light from the garden outside streamed through traditional paper screens. Her silhouette visible to anyone watching from the hallway.

"I'm here to be whatever you need." Her hands rose to the collar of the kimono. Began to loosen it with deliberate slowness. "Most clients already know what that is."

Yorinobu watched, expression unreadable. The kimono parted slightly, revealing the curve of collarbone. Nothing more.

"And if what I need isn't what they expect?" His voice lower now. Question genuine beneath the challenge.

Outside, Takemura shifted. The faintest sound of footsteps retreating. Giving them true privacy. Last duty of the day complete.

Yorinobu moved to a sound system disguised as a traditional cabinet. Music filled the room. Old rock. Rebellion from a bygone era. Volume rising to ensure no listening devices could clearly capture conversation.

"They're recording, you know." He gestured vaguely to the ceiling, the walls. "Everything. Always."

Valerie refastened her kimono. Moved to sit on the edge of a low couch. Posture perfect. "I assumed as much."

"And that doesn't bother you?" Yorinobu remained standing. Unwilling to relax. To yield even that much control.

"Does it bother you?" Valerie countered. "You've lived your entire life under surveillance. The golden cage may have luxury furnishings, but the cameras never blink."

Something changed in Yorinobu's eyes. Interest kindling like embers touched by oxygen. "They told you to fuck me and report back. What I like. What I say afterward. My weaknesses."

Valerie smiled. Genuine amusement. "If they wanted that information, they wouldn't need me. Your father has files documenting every sexual encounter you've had since puberty. Psychological profiles of your preferences. Medical data on your responses."

Yorinobu's face darkened with anger. Old rage. Family wounds never healed.

"Semantic games." Yorinobu waved dismissively.

Valerie stood. Moved to the record player. Examined the vinyl with genuine interest. "Products don't have choices. I chose this profession. This specialization."

Valerie selected a different record. Changed the music without asking permission. Yorinobu noticed. Didn't object.

Johnny Silverhand. Samurai. The anti-corporate anthem that had been banned across all Arasaka properties for decades.

Yorinobu's eyes widened at her selection. The deliberate provocation.

The security alert was immediate. Red lights pulsing silently along the baseboards. Warning of contraband media detected. Prohibited content.

Yorinobu's smile came slow. Then wider. First genuine expression since her arrival. "You just triggered every security protocol in this wing."

"I know."

"They'll be here in thirty seconds." Yorinobu didn't move to shut off the music. Instead, he turned it louder. "My father will receive a direct alert that prohibited anti-corporate propaganda is playing in his home."

"I know." Valerie moved closer to him. Not seductive. Conspiratorial.

"You did this deliberately." Understanding dawned in Yorinobu's eyes. "To prove you're not what I thought."

Valerie smiled as security footsteps approached. "Or to prove I'm exactly what you need."

The door burst open. Takemura first through, hand on weapon. Security team behind him. All stopping short at the tableau before them: Yorinobu Arasaka and his companion, fully clothed, listening to illegal music at offensive volume.

"Yorinobu-sama." Takemura's voice tight. "This content is prohibited."

"Is it?" Yorinobu feigned surprise, glancing at Valerie with new appreciation. "I had no idea. My companion selected it."

All eyes turned to Valerie. The doll who had just committed an offense punishable by contract termination at minimum. By disappearance at worst.

She bowed deeply to Takemura. Perfect form. "My sincere apologies. In my research on Arasaka-sama's preferences, I must have misunderstood the historical significance of this artist."

Takemura's eyes narrowed. Not believing her for a second. But unable to contradict without calling her a liar directly.

"The music will be confiscated," he said firmly. "And reported."

"Of course." Valerie's response came with appropriate contrition. "I take full responsibility for the error."

Yorinobu watched this exchange with fascinated amusement. The perfect doll deliberately disrupting the perfect system. Creating chaos in controlled environment.

Creating exactly the disturbance that would resonate with the rebellious heir who had spent his life seeking ways to disturb his father's order.

After the security team departed with the contraband records—Takemura lingering longest, studying Valerie with new wariness—Yorinobu closed the door. Turned to her with genuine curiosity.

"You just sacrificed your contract to make a point." He poured her another drink. Offered it with newfound respect. "What point exactly?"

Valerie sat. Poised. Present. The kimono arranging perfectly around her. "I'd rather hear why the heir to the Arasaka empire keeps banned music hidden in his quarters."

Yorinobu barked a laugh. Surprised by her directness. "You first. What's your real name? Not whatever designation they gave you for tonight."

"Valerie." She offered this truth simply. Gift rather than concession. "Though most call me V."

"V," Yorinobu tested the letter. Nodded approval.
"Your turn," V prompted. "The records?"

Yorinobu studied his drink. Decision weighing in his expression. Then committed. "Did you know I once ran with gangs fighting against everything my father built?"

V nodded. "It's in your file. Though heavily redacted."

"Not everything made it to the file." Yorinobu's smile carried secrets. Pain. "Some things even Saburo Arasaka cannot know about his son."

V leaned forward slightly. Interest genuine. "Tell me."

Five hours. Five hours of standing guard outside Yorinobu-sama's quarters. Takemura's discipline never wavered, though his thoughts had darkened with each passing hour. The sounds from within had not been what protocol anticipated. Not physical intimacy but... conversation. Then silence. Then what could only be described as weeping.

From Yorinobu-sama. Not the woman.

Disgraceful. The heir to Arasaka empire should maintain dignity at all times. Not break down like a child. Whatever this woman had done...

The door slid open. Takemura's hand instinctively moved closer to his weapon.

The woman emerged, kimono still perfectly arranged, but her movements now animated in a way they hadn't been before. Her formal entrance replaced by something... lighter. The change was jarring to Takemura's trained eye. Unprofessional. Undignified.

She noticed him immediately. Made a gesture that roughly reminded him of Night City's posters with anime characters. Something very extravaganza, something okashiku. Her little finger crossed her lips as if she was mad at him for breathing too loud.

"Shh. Yo-kun is sleeping now, okay?" she whispered, eyes wide with exaggerated concern.

Nanda no "okay" da? Goro couldn't contain a frown. This... kanojou calling the young master "Yo" was unprecedented. A breach of all protocol. Disrespectful to the highest degree.

"Your familiarity is inappropriate," he said, voice low but harsh.

The woman—Valerie—caught his disapproving glance. Her response was a small giggle that came faster than his legendary reflexes could anticipate. The sound made his frown deepen further.

"No, we didn't have sex, Takemura-san," she whispered conspiratorially, leaning toward him as if sharing a secret. "Really. We just talked. A lot. About things he never gets to talk about."

Takemura's jaw tightened. The casual way she spoke. The animated expressions. Nothing like the composed doll who had arrived by helicopter hours earlier.

"Kuso no kanojou," he muttered, Japanese slipping out before he could contain it.

She didn't appear offended. Instead, her eyes lit up at his Japanese. "*Arigatou gozaimasu*," she replied with exaggerated politeness, followed by a small bow that somehow managed to seem both perfect and mocking at once.

Unacceptable. All of this.

"I will have a conversation with you. Now." Not a request. An order.

"Hai, Takemura-san" Her response came with excessive enthusiasm. A bobbing nod that sent a strand of her perfect black hair out of place.

He turned sharply, expecting her to follow at a respectful distance. Instead, she fell into step beside him, nearly skipping to match his measured stride. Too close. Too familiar. Takemura added another mental mark against her professionalism.

He led her not to the security office but to his private tea room. A decision he did not examine too closely. The space was simple, traditional. One place in the Arasaka estate where he permitted himself moments of quiet reflection.

"Sit," he commanded, folding himself formally onto a cushion. He expected her to take the place opposite him, as protocol demanded.

Instead, Valerie's eyes widened with delight at the room. "Like a real Japanese home!" She clapped her hands together in a gesture that belonged in schoolgirl anime, not in the presence of Arasaka security.

Before he could respond, she spotted the kettle. Immediately moved toward it with a bounce in her step. Glowing somehow, like she hadn't spent five hours being yelled at and soothing an adult man.

"Let me make tea" she announced, already preparing it without waiting for permission.

Takemura sat rigidly, watching her with narrowed eyes. He took his place with precision, expecting V to fail the start of the ceremony now. To reveal her foreign nature through mistakes in the sacred ritual.

But her hands moved with surprising skill. Each motion perfect despite her animated demeanor. The contradiction frustrated him. How could someone so undignified in manner be so precise in action?

She poured the tea for him first, then settled herself—not across from him as propriety dictated, but beside him. Close. Like family might sit.

Bakana.

"Your interaction with Yorinobu-sama requires explanation," he stated flatly.

///

Goro found himself stupidly staring at V. How long has it been again? She willingly told him everything that she felt, or found interesting about the conversation, endlessly gesturing and pouring him tea when his cup emptied, continuing her animated description without pause.

"—and then he showed me his collection of vinyl! Real vinyl, Takemura-san! Not digital reproductions. The sound quality is incredible. Have you ever listened to his collection? There's this one artist that—"

The thing was... He was getting distracted. The constant sound of her talking, like she has been sharing her life experiences with him at a dinner, broke something in his brain and he just was there, stunned, listening and taking it in.

Her voice had a musical quality. Rising and falling with genuine enthusiasm. Nothing like the practiced seduction he had expected from a doll. Nothing like the corporate formality of his daily interactions.

"What would you do in my place, Oji-san? What car is the best?" She tilted her head, looking at him with genuine interest. As though his opinion on automobiles was the most important knowledge in Night City.

"If you're looking for something for yourself, then..." Takemura began automatically, thinking of the practical considerations for a young woman in Night City.

Wait a moment. He was talking to her. She called him Oji-san. He was giving her advice on what car to buy. Konnoyaro.

He cleared his throat, attempting to reassert authority. "This conversation is irrelevant. Your purpose here was—"

"To help Yo-kun feel better" She finished for him, nodding decisively. "And I did. He's sleeping peacefully now. First time in weeks, he said."

Takemura's frown returned. "Your familiarity with Yorinobu-sama is inappropriate."

She poured more tea. Her sleeve slipped back, revealing a small scar on her wrist. A burn mark, old and faded. Takemura found his eyes fixing on it. A flaw in her otherwise perfect presentation. Something real beneath the performance.

This child has been injured, he thought before he could stop himself. The protective instinct came unbidden. Unwelcome.

"Yorinobu-sama is not a man to be trifled with," he said, voice stern to mask the unexpected concern. "The Arasaka family demands respect."

She considered this, head tilting again in that animated way. Then shook her head, another strand of hair coming loose from her perfect arrangement.

This girl was impossible. Completely lacking in proper respect for hierarchy and protocol. Yet something in her easy manner, her unfeigned interest in his opinions, weakened his resolve to maintain distance.

"Your conduct remains concerning," he said, but the force had left his voice.

"I know." She nodded, unexpected seriousness crossing her features.

The simplicity of her statement caught him off guard. The obvious truth in it more disarming than any excuse or justification would have been.

"Your technique with tea is adequate," he offered, a concession so small it embarrassed him immediately.

Her face brightened as though he had offered highest praise. "My father taught me! Before the coastal collapse. He said proper tea was civilization's highest achievement."

The mention of family—of father—stirred something in Takemura he had long suppressed. Memories of his own origins. Before Arasaka had remade him into the perfect soldier.

"Your father was wise," he said before he could stop himself.

"He was." Her smile dimmed slightly. Something genuine in the shift. "He would have liked you, I think. He respected discipline."

The notion that this chaotic, animated young woman came from a household that valued discipline seemed impossible. Yet her hands had performed the tea ceremony with perfect precision even while her mouth ran with endless chatter.

Contradictions within contradictions. Takemura found himself... interested. A dangerous lapse in professional detachment.

"It grows late," he said, an attempt to regain control of the situation. "You should return to the city."

She nodded, but made no move to leave. Instead, she leaned slightly toward him, eyes narrowing with concern. "You look tired, Oji-san. When did you last rest properly?"

The question—personal, unnecessary, inappropriate—should have angered him. Instead, it unspooled something tight within his chest.

"My condition is irrelevant," he stated, the words hollow even to his own ears.

"Iie." She shook her head firmly. She reached out—another breach of protocol—and touched his sleeve lightly. "You can't protect anyone if you collapse from exhaustion."

The touch, even through layers of fabric, sent an unexpected jolt through Takemura. Not of attraction or desire, but of... connection. Simple human contact freely given.

This mess of a girl needs someone to look after her, he thought suddenly. The notion arising unbidden from some long-dormant part of himself. She was too trusting, too open. Night City would devour someone like her in seconds.

Yet simultaneously, another thought formed: how pleasant it would be to be cared for by such a person. To have someone fuss over his rest, his meals. As if he were really her grandfather, who had taught her tea ceremonies and art and—

Takemura abruptly stood. These thoughts were unbecoming of his position. A dangerous indulgence.

"You will be escorted back to the city now," he said, voice regaining its professional edge.

V rose as well, smoothing her kimono. "Hai, Takemura-san." The formal address somehow more jarring from her lips than the familiar "Oji-san" had been.

She bowed perfectly—all animation temporarily suspended in the gesture of respect. Then looked up at him with those clear, direct eyes.

Two weeks. Fourteen days of unexpected routine.

Takemura had not planned this. Had not anticipated how quickly the pattern would establish itself. After Yorinobu-sama's sessions with the woman—with V—she would inevitably find her way to his tea room. Sometimes late evening. Sometimes early morning before departure.

Always bringing that chaos of energy with her. Always disrupting his carefully ordered existence.

Today marked the eighth such visit. Not that Takemura was counting.

He had been reviewing security protocols when the familiar soft knock came. Three quick taps—energetic, impatient—rather than the formal two that protocol demanded.

"Enter," he said, already knowing who would appear.

V burst into the room like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. Kimono today a vibrant blue rather than the traditional white. Hair partially loose, falling around her shoulders in a way that would have been inappropriate for formal company. But this was not formal company anymore.

This was... something else. Something Takemura refused to name.

"Oji-san!" Her greeting came with the usual excessive enthusiasm. "You won't believe what Yo-kun showed me today!"

Takemura had long since stopped correcting her use of the familiar term. Had stopped insisting on proper address for Yorinobu-sama as well. Somehow, over these fourteen days, her familiarity had become... expected. Almost welcome.

"What has Yorinobu-sama shown you that warrants such excitement?" he asked, setting aside his datapad with a precision that contrasted sharply with her animated movements.

V dropped onto the cushion beside him—not across, never across—close enough that the sleeve of her kimono brushed his arm. Another breach of protocol that had somehow become normal.

"He has an ancient gaming system! A PlayStation! With actual physical discs!" Her hands moved expressively as she spoke, painting pictures in the air. "We played this racing game for hours! You should have seen his face when I beat his lap time!"

Takemura found the corners of his mouth twitching upward without permission. Her enthusiasm for such simple pleasures was... refreshing. In the sterile world of Arasaka protocol, her unfiltered joy stood out like a spray of graffiti on corporate walls.

This is her true self, he thought with sudden certainty. The composed, elegant doll who accompanied Yorinobu-sama in public was the performance. This animated, childlike creature before him was the reality. The thought pleased him in ways he chose not to examine.

"I took the liberty of bringing food," he said, gesturing to the spread he had prepared. Simple dishes. Rice balls. Pickled vegetables. Grilled fish. Traditional comfort food from his own distant childhood.

"Oji-san! You cooked?" V's eyes widened with delight. She clapped her hands together like a child presented with festival treats. "It looks amazing!"

Before Takemura could respond with appropriate modesty, she had already grabbed a rice ball. No delicate nibbling. No practiced elegance. She bit into it with unrestrained enthusiasm, making a small sound of pleasure that brought another unbidden smile to his face.

Rice stuck to her cheek. Crumbs scattered on her kimono. She ate like a goddamn troglodyte, and Takemura was so fucking happy to see it. The genuine hunger of youth. The appreciation of simple food prepared with care.

Good, thought the grandfather side of him that had somehow awakened in these past two weeks. Kids should eat a lot. Build strength. Grow healthy.

"Too skinny," he muttered in Japanese, the words slipping out before he could contain them. "Not enough meat on your bones."

V looked up, mouth full, eyes questioning.

"You are too thin," he clarified, switching to English. "Night City streets are harsh. You need strength."

She swallowed, then grinned. "Are you worried about me, Oji-san?"

"Foolish question," he replied, but reached for the plate of grilled fish. Added another piece to her bowl without asking permission. Then more pickled vegetables. A second rice ball.

The gesture—unremarkable, domestic, something his own grandfather had done countless times—seemed to freeze V in place. Her constant motion stilled. Her endless chatter silenced. She stared at the food he had added to her plate, then up at his face with an expression he couldn't interpret.

"V?" Concern edged into his voice despite his best efforts. Had he offended somehow? Overstepped?

Without warning, she launched herself forward. Arms wrapping around him in an embrace so sudden and complete that Takemura went rigid with shock. Her face pressed against his shoulder, voice muffled against the fabric of his traditional jacket.

"Oji-san is the best," she said, the words vibrating against his chest. "The absolute best."
*Oh, Kami-sama.

Takemura's hands remained suspended in air, unsure where to land. Protocol screamed for distance. For propriety. For the maintenance of proper boundaries between Arasaka security and a temporary companion.

Damn protocol.

Damn everything that made Takemura wrap his arms around her in return. Carefully at first, as though she might break. Then more securely as she showed no sign of withdrawing. His hand found the back of her head, cradling it as one might comfort a child.

They remained that way for longer than propriety would ever allow. V finally pulled back, eyes suspiciously bright. No apology for the breach of protocol. None needed.

"Now eat," Takemura said gruffly, voice rougher than intended. "Before it gets cold."

She nodded, returning to her food with renewed enthusiasm. Chattering between bites about the racing game. About Yorinobu-sama's surprising skill with virtual vehicles. About the music they had listened to afterward.

The meal stretched longer than his schedule permitted. Security reviews awaited. Perimeter checks. Endless duties that defined his existence.

Yet he made no move to end their time together. Found himself offering more food. More tea. Anything to prolong this pocket of warmth carved from his cold, efficient life.

"Oji-san looks tired," V observed suddenly, head tilting in that familiar examining pose. "You're working too hard again."

"My duty requires vigilance," he replied automatically.

V made a dismissive sound. Waved her hand as though physically brushing away his words. "Duty this, duty that. When was your last day off?"

The question was so absurd that Takemura actually laughed. A short, rusty sound that surprised them both. "Security does not take vacations."

Before he could formulate an appropriately stern response, she had shifted positions. Moving cushions. Creating a space beside her where the afternoon sunlight streamed through the paper screens, warming the tatami.

"Lie down," she said—no, commanded. Role reversal so complete it momentarily stunned him. "Just for a few minutes."

"This is inappropriate," he protested, but the words lacked conviction.

"Fifteen minutes." She patted the cushion she had arranged. "I promise to wake you if any security alerts come through. Just fifteen minutes of rest, Oji-san."

Fatigue he had been suppressing for days suddenly made itself known. A bone-deep weariness that no amount of discipline could fully contain. When had he last slept more than four hours at a stretch?

"Five minutes," he conceded, already knowing he had lost this particular battle.

V smiled in triumph as he carefully, formally, lowered himself to the cushioned mat. Lying on his side, facing away from her, maintaining what little dignity remained possible.

"Close your eyes," she instructed, her voice softening to a gentler register.

Takemura complied, telling himself it was merely to humor her. That he would rest his eyes for precisely five minutes, then return to duty refreshed.

He did not anticipate her hand coming to rest lightly on his shoulder. Did not expect the comfort that simple touch would bring. Did not plan for his body to relax incrementally beneath her fingers.

"You work too much, Oji-san," V said, voice now a soothing murmur above him. "We should visit the gardens more often. The cherry trees are so beautiful this time of year."

Takemura wanted to point out that there were no cherry trees currently blooming. That the season was wrong. That the garden was primarily bamboo and stone.

But the warmth of the sun and the gentle pressure of her hand made such corrections seem unimportant.

"When you have time off, we should go to the old Japanese garden in Westbrook," V continued, her voice creating a reality that existed nowhere except in these words. "They have real sakura trees imported from Japan. And a tea house with traditional ceremonies. I could wear my best kimono, and you could show me how to feed the koi properly."

Takemura felt himself slipping. Consciousness ebbing like tide withdrawing from shore. He should resist. Should maintain vigilance. Should...

Somehow—he would never be able to explain how—his head had come to rest not on the cushion but on her lap. V's hand now gently stroking his hair, the way his grandmother had done when he was a small boy in another lifetime.

"Maybe we could take a trip somewhere," her voice continued, painting impossible pictures with words. "To the coast, if any clean beaches still exist. Or to the mountains. Somewhere with trees and clean air. Wouldn't that be nice, Oji-san? A real vacation. Just for a week. We could watch the sunrise together and eat breakfast outdoors."

The constructed reality wrapped around him like a warm blanket. The lie without a lie. This fantasy of family. Of connection. Of a life where Goro Takemura was not merely Arasaka's loyal soldier but someone's beloved grandfather.

Some distant part of him recognized the danger. The hypnotic power of this scenario V created with such skill. The way it bypassed his defenses more effectively than any cyberattack ever could.

But he was so tired. So very tired of standing guard.

"Perhaps in the spring," he murmured, voice already thick with approaching sleep. "When the blossoms return."

"Yes, in the spring," V agreed, fingers continuing their gentle rhythm through his hair. "We'll plan for spring, Oji-san."

Takemura felt himself surrendering. To sleep. To comfort. To the beautiful illusion that he had a granddaughter who cared for his well-being. That he would have a vacation. That they would visit gardens together and feed koi and drink tea beneath cherry blossoms.

He knew, even as consciousness faded, that this was dangerous territory. That he had allowed himself to be compromised in ways no security protocol could protect against. That this woman had breached his defenses not with force but with kindness. With the simple gift of being seen as human rather than function.

His last thought before sleep claimed him completely was not of duty or vigilance or Arasaka protocol.

It was of cherry blossoms falling around a young woman's laughing face. A granddaughter he had never had. Would never have.

Johnny came to consciousness like a drowning man breaking surface. Gasping. Heart hammering against ribs that weren't his. Skin—V's skin—cold and clammy with sweat that soaked through her shirt.

"Fuck." The word escaped through V's lips, but the voice was all Johnny. Raw. Scraped. "Fuck fuck fuck."

Those dreams. Those fucking dreams. Memory bleed from the biochip. V's memories seeping into his digital consciousness while her body slept. Showing him things he was never meant to see.

The real fucking V.

Johnny materialized beside the bed, digital form pacing, glitching with agitation. Running phantom hands through phantom hair. Eyes wild behind sunglasses he couldn't remove.

V stirred, disturbed by his takeover. Consciousness swimming back up through layers of sleep. "Johnny?" Her voice thick, confused.

"What the fuck are you?" Johnny's question came like a bullet. No warning. No preamble.

V blinked, pushing herself upright in the tangled sheets. "The hell are you talking about?"

"Those weren't dreams, were they?" Johnny's digital form flickered, unstable with rage. "Those memories. Yorinobu. Takemura. That was you. The real fucking you."

Understanding dawned in V's eyes. Then wariness. Then something carefully neutral. The transformation so quick it made Johnny's non-existent stomach turn.

"You saw." Not a question. Statement of fact.

"Saw?" Johnny laughed. Harsh. Glass breaking. "I fucking lived it. Front row seat to the greatest mindfuck show in Night City."

V reached for a glass of water on the nightstand. Movements deliberate. Buying time. Johnny knocked it from her hand with a surge of control through her nervous system. Water splashed across expensive sheets.

"Don't you fucking dare." His voice trembled with rage. "A goddamn emotional vampire." He moved closer, digital face inches from hers. "The poor Arasaka heir and his dog were fucking doomed the moment you stepped into the room. Weren't they? Playing daddy's traumatized little prince like a fucking fiddle. Creating a grandfather fantasy for a man with nothing but duty in his veins. Ripping them apart from the inside."

V's eyes narrowed. "I helped them."

"Helped them?" Johnny's laugh came sharp enough to cut. "You crawled inside them. Found every weak spot. Every crack. Then poured yourself in like poison."

He paced again, digital boots passing through solid furniture. "If you're gonna kill someone, at least have the fucking decency to use a gun. Not... whatever the fuck that was."

V looked at him directly. Eyes clear in the dim light of the apartment. "I'm very good at what I do. At being what people need."

"Would you still help them if your contract expired? If you didn't get paid?" The question escaped before Johnny could contain it. The core of his horror laid bare.

V smiled—why does she fucking smile like people's souls are a joke?—somehow humbled. "Well..."

The single word. The implied answer. Something inside Johnny broke. If he'd had hands, real hands, he would have wrapped them around her throat in that moment. This fucking cunt. The savior who wouldn't lift a finger until you paid. The emotion merchant selling understanding by the hour.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with accusation. V sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders curled inward. Defensive posture. For once, not the confident merc Johnny had come to know. Not the animated granddaughter Takemura adored. Not the understanding confidant Yorinobu had wept before.

Just... V. Or whatever remained when all the performances ended.

"It's not what you think," she finally said, voice barely audible above Night City's eternal hum outside.

Johnny materialized directly in front of her, forcing her to look at him. "Then explain it. One chance. Make me understand how fucking with people's heads for money isn't exactly what it looks like."

V's fingers twisted in the sheets. Uncharacteristic nervousness. "When I'm... playing someone's someone, I really do feel things for them. Genuine things." She looked up, eyes seeking understanding Johnny wasn't ready to give. "Those feelings stay with me. After. Always."

"How convenient." Johnny's voice dripped acid. "You get to collect people's emotions like fucking souvenirs while they get the privilege of paying for the experience."

"No, that's not—" V ran a hand through her hair. Frustrated. "I'm not the person I become. Not the chaotic granddaughter. Not Yorinobu's sassy playmate. But I can be, in the moment." Her voice softened. "That's something I want. Something I choose."

Johnny studied her. This woman whose head he shared. Whose secrets he'd inadvertently uncovered. Whose very existence now seemed built on quicksand.

"So the real you is what—a fucking chameleon? Changing colors to match whatever emotional garbage people need to unload?" He couldn't keep the disgust from his voice. "While the actual you stays safe from any real connection."

V flinched like he'd slapped her. Arms coming around herself in protective embrace. "Well, not anymore." Her eyes met his, something raw and unfamiliar in them. "You see through me. Being in my head. The only self you want from me is this... this 'her' that can get hurt."

The vulnerability in her voice only stoked Johnny's anger. Another performance? Another calculated mask designed to elicit specific response? He couldn't tell anymore. Couldn't trust a single fucking thing about her.

"Yeah." He pushed closer, digital face inches from hers. "That's how all of us poor bastards live. We can be hurt. We don't get to swap personalities when shit gets rough."

V shook her head, stubborn even now. "I won't abandon this. I can't." Her voice took on a desperate quality. "Takemura is so happy under my care. You saw it yourself. Everyone is happy. I'm happy with them."

"Well, I'm not." Johnny's declaration hung between them. Simple. Direct. Cutting through her justifications.

The apartment felt too small suddenly. Too confined for the magnitude of this betrayal. Johnny paced, digital boots passing through real furniture. Anger radiating from him like heat from overclocked cyberware.

"You made other people leak their vulnerabilities all over you." He turned back, accusation sharp as a knife edge. "Made them trust you. Depend on you. And you never told one true thing about your goddamn self. Did you?"

V's eyes fixed on her own arms wrapped around herself. "I want to disappear as fast as I can," she said abruptly. Words tumbling out too quickly, like she was trying to skip past this confession. Hoping he'd miss the weight of it.

He didn't.

"Well, you can't." Johnny's voice hardened. "Don't have that choice anymore. You became these people's emotional fucking wheelchair. You don't get to just die and leave me to deal with this mess."

V's laugh came hollow. Empty of the warmth she'd shown Takemura. Empty of the understanding she'd offered Yorinobu. "That really would be the ultimate thing you desire, though." Something calculating entered her expression. "The most powerful people of Arasaka disabled by my death. Isn't that what you want, Johnny? What you've always wanted?"

Johnny stared at her. Revulsion rising like bile in a throat he no longer possessed. "You're fucking revolting." Each word precise. Deliberate. "Selling out the people you claim to care for because when you die, it won't be your problem anymore."

V's eyes narrowed. "You seem awfully defensive of men you once called corporate dogs deserving bullets. Strange hill to die on for Johnny Silverhand, terrorist extraordinaire."

"This isn't about them." Johnny's digital form flickered with agitation. "It's about you. About what you are. A fucking parasite." The words escaped before he could stop them. "Feeding on other people's emotional wounds. Making them need you. Depend on you. All while planning your grand con."

"It's not a con if it helps!" V's voice rose. "Takemura was drowning in duty. Yorinobu in resentment. They were dying inside before I came along."

"How noble." Johnny's sarcasm could have cut glass. "The selfless savior of lonely rich men. Should I applaud your sacrifice? Your dedication to the cause?"

V didn't respond. Just looked at him with eyes that had seen through too many people. That had become whatever those people needed most.

Chapter Text

Silence filled the Delamain cab. Not the comfortable silence of companions who understood each other. The weighted, toxic silence of rage barely contained.

Johnny sat as far from V as the confines of the cab would allow. Digital form pressed against the door, as though one more inch of distance might sever their connection. He hadn't spoken a word since their argument. Hadn't acknowledged her attempts at conversation.

The message was clear: he fucking hated her.

V checked her appearance in the reflection of the window. Simple adjustments to her clothing. Deep breaths that Johnny could feel in lungs they shared. Preparation rituals.

"Approaching destination, Miss V," Delamain's voice broke the silence. "Shall I wait for you afterward?"

"Yes, please, Del." Her voice already shifting. Lighter. Younger somehow. "I'm not sure how long this will take."

Johnny watched the transformation beginning. Subtle at first. The way she held herself. The energy building beneath her skin. Micro-expressions shifting toward something more animated. More alive.

Disgust rose in him like bile. He'd seen this before in her memories. The chameleon changing colors. The predator adapting to its prey.

"If you think I'm participating in whatever fucked-up emotional manipulation you've got planned—" he started.

"We're here!" V cut him off, bouncing slightly in her seat as the cab pulled to a stop. Eyes already scanning the quiet teahouse entrance where they were meeting Takemura.

Johnny went silent again. Watching. Judging. Planning to remain a passive observer to whatever sick game she was playing with Arasaka's bodyguard.

And then he saw him.

Takemura stood by the entrance. Traditional clothing rather than combat gear. Waiting with perfect posture that couldn't quite hide the eagerness in his stance. The subtle anticipation as he searched the street for V's arrival.

Something shifted in Johnny's consciousness. A neural glitch. A ripple through pathways that weren't his own.

"What the fu—" he started to say, but the words died as a wave of emotion crashed through him without warning.

Joy. Pure, unadulterated joy at the sight of Takemura. Relief so profound it bordered on physical pain. The emotion of someone seeing their beloved grandfather after fearing they might never meet again.

"No." Johnny's voice came strangled. Horrified. "What the fuck is this?"

V didn't hear him. Couldn't hear anything beyond her own programming activating. She was out of the cab in seconds, moving toward Takemura with the boundless energy of youth rushing toward safety.

Johnny felt it all. Every emotion. Every impulse. The doll chip activating without his consent, without his control. Foreign feelings flooding neural pathways he shared with V.

Tears welled in V's eyes—in their eyes. Spilling down cheeks Johnny couldn't wipe. Emotions he'd never felt, never asked for, never wanted surging through a consciousness that wasn't entirely his own anymore.

"Goro-san!" V's voice called out, hands already reaching for the man Johnny had considered an enemy since waking in V's head.

Takemura's face transformed at the sight of her. Stern features softening into something Johnny had never imagined possible on Arasaka's dog. Genuine warmth. Care. Worry lines easing as V approached.

"V-chan." The honorific carried affection that should have disgusted Johnny. Would have disgusted him if not for the doll chip's influence rewiring his reactions in real-time.

She launched herself at Takemura without hesitation. The bodyguard caught her, actual laughter escaping him as he spun her once before setting her down. His hands gentle on her shoulders as he studied her face with concern.

"I was concerned when you did not call," Takemura said, voice gruff with emotion he couldn't quite contain. "There were reports of trouble in your district."

Johnny felt it again. Another wave of emotion not his own. Tsundere anger mixed with overwhelming affection. The feeling of being responsible for this "silly grandpa" who worried too much. The need to reassure. To protect from worry.

*No no no no no,* Johnny's thoughts came panicked, scrambling for purchase in a mind rapidly filling with artificial familial devotion. *This isn't me. This isn't fucking me.*

But it felt real. As real as any emotion he'd ever experienced. More real than some.

"I'm fine, Oji-san!" V was saying, hands gesturing animatedly as she spoke. "Just busy with work. You worry too much!"

Takemura's attempt at stern disapproval failed completely, fondness breaking through like sunshine after rain. "It is my duty to worry about reckless children who run into danger without thought."

Johnny wanted to vomit. Wanted to scream. Wanted to tear himself free of this body that was feeling things no rockerboy terrorist should ever feel. The overwhelming sense of being loved. Of being safe. Of having family that actually gave a shit.

His actual father had never looked at him like that. Had never touched him except to inflict pain. Had never worried about his safety except as it reflected on the family reputation.

The contrast was destroying him from inside.

V was already pulling Takemura toward the teahouse entrance, chattering about food and medicine and a dozen plans she'd made for their afternoon together.

"—and then we'll get those pain meds for your back! Don't think I didn't notice you wincing earlier. And then maybe we can visit that garden you mentioned last time? The one with the imported cherry trees?"

Takemura tried and failed to contain his smile, hand reaching out to stroke V's hair with a gentleness that broke something inside Johnny. "You have planned quite the day, little storm. Perhaps we should start with tea before rearranging all of Night City to your liking."

*Don't fucking touch me,* Johnny screamed internally as Takemura's hand brushed V's—their—hair. *Don't fucking make me feel like I have a parent again please please please please*

The tears came harder. V's eyes—their eyes—spilling over with emotion she attributed to joy at the reunion. Emotion Johnny felt as jagged glass ripping through everything he thought he was. Every defense he'd built. Every wall erected against the vulnerability of needing someone.

Inside the teahouse, V fussed over Takemura like he was made of glass. Ordering his favorites without asking. Ensuring his tea was the perfect temperature. Slipping cushions behind his back when she thought he looked uncomfortable.

And through it all, Johnny felt himself drowning in emotions that weren't his. In needs he'd denied since childhood. In the desperate, starving want for parental affection he'd replaced with rage decades ago.

"I'm paying today!" V announced when the food arrived, grinning with triumph at Takemura's attempted protest. "No arguments, Oji-san! You always pay. Let me take care of you for once."

Takemura's expression—fond exasperation mixed with unmistakable pride—sent another spike of agony through Johnny's digital soul.

*No one ever looked at me like that,* he thought, hatred for V momentarily forgotten in the tide of raw need the doll chip created. *No one ever will.*

"You are impossible," Takemura said, the words carrying none of the criticism they pretended. Only affection. Only love.

V beamed, the praise hitting reward centers in her brain that Johnny felt activate like fire along neural pathways they shared. The doll chip translating Takemura's words into pure emotional satisfaction that flooded their shared consciousness.

Johnny struggled to remember his anger. His disgust. His certainty that V was manipulating Takemura for profit or pleasure or power. But the emotions felt so fucking real. The satisfaction of caring for someone who cared back. The simple joy of being seen, being valued, being—

*Stop it!* Johnny railed against the invasion of foreign feelings. *This isn't real. This isn't me. I don't need this. I don't want this.*

But he did. God help him, he did.

By the time they finished the meal, Johnny had stopped fighting the emotional current. Was allowing himself to be carried along in the warm tide of familial connection. Watching through V's eyes as Takemura relaxed. As the hardened soldier gave way to something softer. Something wounded that had begun to heal under V's relentless care.

"Your medication," V said, pressing a small package into Takemura's hands as they prepared to leave. "Promise you'll take it this time? Your back won't heal if you keep ignoring the pain."

Takemura accepted the package with grudging appreciation. "I promise, V-chan. Though the discomfort is minimal."

"Liar," V said, the accusation carrying no heat. Only concern. "I can see it in how you sit. You're working too hard again."

The conversation continued, but Johnny had stopped processing words. Was lost instead in the inexorable shift happening in his digital consciousness. The walls breaking down. The defenses failing.

By the time they stood to leave, Johnny found himself wanting—needing—to prolong the contact. To stay in Takemura's presence. To bask in the affection never directed at him but that he could feel through V's receptors nonetheless.

I want this, came the thought, terrible in its honesty. I want this man to be my grandfather. To look at me like I matter. To worry about me. To care if I live or die.

The realization broke something fundamental in Johnny's understanding of himself. Of V. Of what they were experiencing together.

This wasn't just manipulation. Wasn't just performance. The doll chip created actual emotional responses. Rewired neural pathways to generate genuine feelings. V wasn't just pretending to care about Takemura. She was—for those hours they spent together—actually experiencing the love of a granddaughter for her grandfather.

And now, so was Johnny.

Again. Fucking again.

Johnny knows it's a dream. Knows he'll wake up eventually in V's body, or whatever passes for waking in his digital half-existence. But knowing doesn't help. Doesn't stop the nightmare from unfolding with the perfect clarity of trauma preserved in amber.

Will he ever stop fucking dreaming about that time?

He tries to resist the pull of memory. Tries to force himself to wake, to escape. But he never can, actually. Never has. The biochip dragging him back through neural pathways scorched by childhood terror.

And then he's six again.

Small hands. Dirty fingernails. Knees perpetually scabbed from falling on concrete because no one taught him how to catch himself. The world towering around him, everything built for giants who could hurt him without even trying.

He's sitting on the cracked steps of their shitty house. Trailer, really. Metal box where dreams went to die. Playing with a piece of beer bottle glass, amber and smooth-edged from tumbling in dirt. Holding it up to one eye, looking through it at their world turned golden.

The magic only lasts seconds before the screen door bangs open.

Johnny's body reacts before his mind processes the sound. Muscles tensing. Shoulders hunching. Making himself smaller without conscious thought. The glass slips from suddenly numb fingers.

"The fuck you doing out here?" The voice already slurred though the sun hasn't even set. "Looking through trash like some fucking alley cat?"

Little Johnny tries to answer. Tries to explain about the magic of seeing the world through golden glass. Words catch in his throat. Come out wrong.

"I was just—"

"You were just nothing!" His father looms in the doorway. Too big. Too loud. Alcohol fumes rolling off him like heat from asphalt. "Who do you think you are, you piece of meat?"

Johnny feels himself shrinking further. Trying to disappear into the splintered wood of the steps. But there's nowhere to hide. Never anywhere to hide.

His father's hand shoots out. Impossibly fast for a drunk man. Fingers closing around Johnny's thin neck like a vise. Lifting him as though he weighs nothing. Air cuts off.

"Think you're special? Think you deserve anything?" Each question punctuated by tightening fingers. Johnny's feet dangling, kicking uselessly at air. "Answer me when I'm talking to you!"

*Can't answer. Can't breathe. Can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe.*

His father slams him against the side of the trailer. Metal hot from the sun burning through Johnny's thin t-shirt. World going spotty at the edges. Lungs screaming for air that can't get past his father's crushing grip.

He feels like he's dying. What is he being punished for? Existing? Making noise? Being seen? The rules always changing, never explained.

He's scared, scared, scared, scared, he doesn't want to die, to choke.

Please give me some air please let me live live live live live.

Johnny remembers very well how the original ended. How the warmth spread down his legs as his bladder gave way. Piss soaking his worn jeans, dripping onto his father's boots. His trash of a dad letting him go in disgust, Johnny dropping to the ground gasping for air, then the real punishment starting. Kicks and slaps and words that cut deeper than either.

But today, something else happens.

Johnny's pinned there like a goddamn marionette, feet kicking, vision darkening, scared shitless. Through the haze of approaching unconsciousness, a figure appears. Not clear. Not solid. Bathed in blue-white light that makes his father squint, momentarily distracted.

The figure touches his father's arm. Just a touch. Nothing forceful.

His father vanishes. Not gradually. Not with struggle. Simply there one moment, gone the next. As though he never existed.

Little Johnny falls to the ground, legs crumpling beneath him. Air rushes back into starved lungs. Each breath a knife of relief between ribs too small to contain his terror. He scrambles backward, hands and feet pushing against dirt, trying to create distance, to find safety.

He curls into himself. Protecting vital organs first—the way he'd learned through necessity. Arms covering head and chest. Making himself the smallest possible target. He can't fucking take it, he can't take another beating, he's too afraid afraid afraid

The figure crouches beside him. No sudden movements. No threatening gestures. Just presence. Calm in a world of chaos.

A hand reaches out. Johnny flinches reflexively, body remembering lessons written in bruises. But the touch that comes is gentle. Fingers brushing his hair back from his forehead where cold sweat has plastered it to skin.

"Hi," the figure says, voice soft as evening rain. "Now I will be here for you."

Johnny blinks, vision clearing enough to see the figure properly. A woman. Young. Blue-white light still haloing her outline like she's not quite real. Not quite here.

Little Johnny doesn't know her. Has never seen her. But something about her feels... safe. The word so foreign it takes him moments to identify it.

"Don't need nobody," he manages, voice raspy from his father's grip. Defiance automatic even through terror. "Got it handled myself."

The woman smiles. No mockery in it. No pity either. Just understanding. "I can see that. You're very brave."

Johnny's chest swells with pride despite himself. Nobody ever called him brave before. Strong, sometimes, when he doesn't cry during punishment. But brave? Never.

Then he notices the coolness spreading through his jeans. The wetness. Shame floods him, hot and suffocating as his father's hand had been.

"I didn't—" he starts, struggling to stand on shaky legs. To hide the evidence. "It wasn't—"

The woman doesn't look disgusted. Doesn't look angry. Her expression doesn't change at all except for a softening around the eyes. "Come on, let's take you to the bathroom. Get you cleaned up."

Little Johnny's face burns. She knows. She can see. The ultimate humiliation witnessed by a stranger.

"I'm an adult," he says, forcing his voice deeper than his six-year-old vocal cords can properly manage. "I can handle it alone."

The words hollow even to his own ears. His body betraying him with violent trembling that he can't control. Every time he thinks about the bathroom, about being alone in there, his stomach knots with fresh terror.

The last time he'd taken too long in the bathroom—just pissing, that's all, just fucking pissing—his father had dragged him to the tub. Filled it with water. Held his head under while Johnny thrashed and fought and finally went limp, certain he would die there in six inches of dirty bathwater.

The woman tilts her head, studying him with eyes that seem to see everything. The fear. The shame. The history written in invisible scars.

"The bathroom is safe now," she says, as though reading his thoughts. "He's gone. He can't hurt you anymore."

Johnny doesn't believe her. Can't believe her. The fear too deeply rooted to be pulled out by gentle words and blue-white light.

"I don't know you," he says, defenses rebuilding as the immediate terror recedes. "Don't need some random bitch helping me."

The swear word feels powerful in his child's mouth. A word he's not supposed to say. A word that makes him feel bigger, stronger. Adults use words like that. Adults who aren't afraid of anything.

The woman doesn't flinch at the language. Doesn't scold him like teachers would. Just extends her hand, palm up. Offering, not demanding.

"My name is V," she says simply. "And you don't have to need help to accept it, Johnny."

She knows his name. Knows what happened. Knows the shameful secret of what his father did and what Johnny's body did in response. Knows everything, it seems.

Little Johnny stares at her hand. Wanting to take it. Wanting to believe in safety, in help, in something other than pain and fear and constant vigilance.

But trust is a luxury he's never been able to afford.

"I can do it myself," he insists, taking a step toward the trailer door on legs that threaten to give way beneath him. "Don't need no V or nobody."

The woman—V—nods, respecting his choice while remaining close enough to catch him if he falls. "I'll wait here then. Just in case."

Johnny pauses at the door, hand on the rusted metal handle. The darkness beyond yawning like a throat ready to swallow him. His father could be in there. Waiting. It wouldn't be the first time he'd pretended to leave only to ambush Johnny when he thought he was safe.

Fear crawls up his spine. Paralyzing. All-consuming.

V seems to sense his hesitation. "Want me to check it first?" she offers, no judgment in the question. "Make sure the coast is clear?"

Pride wars with terror in Johnny's chest. The need to appear strong battling the primal fear of what waits in shadows.

"I ain't scared," he says, but his hand trembles on the door handle, giving him away.

"I know," V replies, moving to stand beside him. Not touching. Just present. "But even brave people can have backup."

Johnny's eyes sting with tears he refuses to shed. Weakness is punished. Always punished. But this woman with her calm voice and her blue-white light seems to follow different rules than the ones he's learned through pain.

"You first," he concedes, stepping slightly aside. A tactical retreat disguised as delegation. "But I'm right behind you."

V nods, taking the lead without making him feel small for allowing it. She opens the door, stepping into the darkness of the trailer. Light seems to follow her, illuminating corners where monsters might hide.

"All clear," she calls back to him. "No one here but us."

Little Johnny follows her inside, every muscle tensed for ambush. Eyes darting to hiding places only he knows about. Places where his father had found him before.

The trailer looks different somehow. Cleaner. The perpetual smell of stale beer and cigarettes replaced by... nothing. Just clean air. The heavy curtains that usually block the light are open, sunshine streaming through windows that aren't cracked or taped.

"The bathroom's down here," Johnny says, though V seems to know her way already. He leads despite his fear, needing to maintain some control over the situation.

The narrow hallway stretches longer than he remembers. The bathroom door looming at the end like the entrance to a haunted house. Johnny's steps slow as they approach, the memory of water filling his lungs making each breath shallower than the last.

"You don't have to go in if you don't want to," V says, reading his fear again with uncanny accuracy. "We can find another solution."

Johnny shakes his head stubbornly. "Ain't afraid of no bathroom."

But he is. God, he is. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails digging into palms hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indentations.

V doesn't call him on the lie. Just nods. "Want me to keep the door open? I can wait in the hall."

Johnny considers this. The thought of privacy appealing—he can hide the evidence, pretend it never happened. But the thought of being alone in that room, with the tub and the water and the memory...

"You can come in," he says finally, trying to make it sound like he's doing her a favor rather than begging for protection. "Just don't look or nothing."

"I won't look," V promises, following him to the threshold but stopping there. "I'll just be right here if you need anything."

Johnny steps into the bathroom, bracing for the rush of terror that always comes with this space. But it feels different too. The tub is dry. Empty. The mirror clean rather than streaked with grime and his father's shaving cream.

He glances back at V, who stands in the doorway, keeping her promise to remain present without intruding. Her blue-white light casting gentle illumination across tile that should be cracked but somehow isn't.

"I'm gonna change now," he announces, still trying to maintain some dignity despite the cooling wetness of his jeans and the shame burning his cheeks.

V nods, turning slightly away to give him privacy while remaining within reach if needed. "Take your time," she says. "We're in no hurry."

The concept seems foreign to Johnny. Taking time. Not rushing. Not constantly aware of the danger that comes with making someone wait. With being noticed.

He strips off the wet jeans with clumsy, still-trembling fingers. Looks around for something to change into and finds, impossibly, clean clothes folded on the closed toilet lid. Clothes that fit. Clothes without holes or stains or the smell of someone else's cigarettes embedded in the fabric.

"How did these get here?" he asks, suspicious of gifts that appear from nowhere. In his experience, nothing is ever truly free.

V shrugs, still not looking at him. "This is a special place," she says, words chosen carefully. "Things you need can just... appear sometimes."

Johnny doesn't understand, but the need for dry clothes overrides his suspicion. He changes quickly, the relief immediate as clean fabric replaces cold wetness against his skin.

"Done," he announces, wadding the wet clothes into a ball and looking for somewhere to hide them. Evidence of weakness that must be concealed at all costs.

V turns back to him but makes no move to enter the bathroom. Respecting boundaries he didn't even know he had the right to set. "Feel better?"

Johnny nods reluctantly, unable to deny the physical relief of being clean and dry. "What happens now?" he asks, the question encompassing more than just this moment. What happens when his father returns? What happens when the blue-white light fades and he's alone again?

"Now we go somewhere safe," V says simply. "Somewhere he can't find you."

Johnny doesn't believe such a place exists. His father always finds him eventually. Always drags him back. Always makes him pay for running.

"There's no such place," he says, certainty born of painful experience. "Not for me."

V's expression softens further, something like sadness passing across features designed for smiling. "There is now," she says. "I promise."

Promises mean nothing to Johnny. Words broke as easily as bottles against trailer walls. Actions were the only truth he'd ever known, and those had taught him never to trust, never to hope, never to believe in safety or kindness or reprieve.

But something about the woman's steady gaze makes him want to believe. Makes him wonder if perhaps there are rules to the world he hasn't yet learned. Rules that don't involve pain as the only constant.

"Where is it?" he asks finally, curiosity overcoming caution. "This safe place?"

V smiles, extending her hand again. An offer, not a demand. "I can show you," she says. "If you'll let me."

Little Johnny strutted down the dirt path like he owned the whole fucking world. Hands jammed deep in pockets too small for his fists. Chin up high enough to catch a bullet if one came flying. Cool guys walked like this in the movies. Cool guys didn't get their asses kicked or their heads held underwater until their lungs burned like Night City's shittiest synth-alcohol.

"Where we going?" he asked, not because he cared. Not because he fucking cared at all. Just making conversation. Just letting the blue-light lady know he wasn't scared.

Could run if he wanted to. Any time. Any fucking time. Run like that guy in the trideo his dad watched before passing out last weekend. Fast as lightning. Gone before she could blink. Gone gone gone.

Except his legs kept wobbling. Betraying him. Stupid meat legs still remembering the fear. Still remembering how it felt to dangle with no air. His feet caught on nothing—on fucking air—and he stumbled forward, knees almost kissing dirt again.

V was there before he fell. Her hand appearing under his elbow. Steadying. Not grabbing. Just... there.

"Careful," she said, like it was normal. Like he wasn't a fucking embarrassment.

Her hand stayed out after, palm up. Offering. Not demanding. Johnny stared at it like it might turn into a snake. Hands did that sometimes. Turned from gentle to hurting in half a second. No warning. No fucking warning ever.

"Don't need to hold nobody's hand," he said, but his own traitorous fingers reached out anyway. Taking what was offered before his brain could scream NO.

Her skin was warm. Soft. Not calloused like his dad's. Not rough like the women who sometimes came around, pinching his cheeks too hard, telling him how fucking adorable he was while they reeked of cheap perfume and cheaper dreams.

Johnny's face burned. Hot enough to melt steel. His fingers squeezed around hers, hard as he could. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to make her let go.

She didn't let go. Didn't even wince. Just smiled down at him, eyes seeing too much. Always seeing too fucking much.

"What do you dream about, Johnny?" she asked like they were having some normal conversation. Like he wasn't trying to crush her fingers into dust.

Johnny puffed up his chest. Six years old going on sixty. "When I'm big enough, I'm joining the army. Fighting for my country." The words rehearsed, memorized from recruitment ads that played between cartoons. "Nobody'll be boss of me then."

Didn't matter that he'd never seen a single soldier who looked free. Didn't matter that every uniform he'd ever seen looked like another kind of chain. The idea planted deep in his mind: violence as escape. Violence as freedom.

V knelt down in front of him, bringing her face level with his. Blue-white light making her features hard to see clearly. Like looking at someone underwater. Like looking at someone through amber beer-bottle glass.

"Would you like me to take you somewhere nice?" she asked, smiling like she had a secret. Like she'd stolen something shiny and was about to show him.

Johnny shrugged, trying for casual. Trying for cool. "Whatever. I gotta be back eventually though."

Back to what? To who? The question hung in the air between them, unasked. V's smile grew like she knew the answer wasn't one Johnny wanted to face.

"We'll see," she said, squeezing his hand gently. Not hurting. Never hurting.

The world shifted. Blurred. Stretched like taffy in the sun. Colors running together like paint in rain.

Then white. So fucking white it hurt Johnny's eyes. Sand—but not the dirty grit that collected in trailer park corners. Clean sand. Pure. Perfect. Stretching forever in both directions.

And water—Jesus fucking Christ—water everywhere. Blue-green-turquoise water touching pink sky at some impossible distance. Waves gentle as whispers rolling onto shore. More water than Johnny had ever seen. More than showers and tubs and puddles and rain combined.

"Holy shit," he breathed, the curse feeling inadequate for the first time. "Holy fucking shit."

V didn't scold him for the language. She never did. Just stood beside him, watching his face as he tried to comprehend the ocean's vastness. The endless possibility of it.

"Is it real?" Johnny asked, voice small now. Wonder replacing bravado. "Or just some corpo bullshit fake?"

"Does it matter?" V countered, releasing his hand to sit in the pristine sand. The blue light around her dimming, her features clearer now in the sunset glow. "It's real enough to feel."

Johnny stared at the water, heart trying to escape his chest. It called to him like nothing ever had. Like a promise no one would break.

"Can I... can I go in?" he asked, hating the tremor in his voice. The need for permission he couldn't shake.

V reached up, smoothing his hair with gentle fingers. Touch so light it almost wasn't there. "You can do whatever you want, Johnny. That's the point."

Whatever he wanted. Three words no one had ever said to him. Three words that unlocked something desperate in his chest.

Johnny ran. Not away from. Toward. Toward the water, feet kicking up perfect white sand. The ocean opened its arms to him, cool against his skin as he splashed into the shallows. Laughing—when had he last laughed?—as he fell, soaking his clean new clothes without fear of punishment.

Freedom. This was freedom.

Behind him, on the shore, another figure materialized beside V. Taller. Darker. Chrome arm catching sunset light. Adult Johnny Silverhand, digital ghost and unwilling spectator to this dream-memory-moment.

"The fuck are you doing?" he growled, refusing to look at the child splashing in the waves. Refusing to acknowledge the joy on a face he hadn't seen in mirrors for decades. "Gonna ruin the little bastard with this shit. Kid needs discipline, not fantasy bullshit."

V watched little Johnny playing, happiness softening features usually guarded. "Wanna ask him what he'd rather have?" she suggested, eyes never leaving the boy. "Discipline or this?"

Adult Johnny flinched like she'd struck him. "Fuck you." The words automatic. Defensive. "What good's an ocean to a kid going back to that shithole? Just makes reality hurt worse."

"Who says he has to go back?" V's question quiet. Dangerous.

Before Silverhand could answer, the boy in the water went still. Sensing something. Someone. Little Johnny turned slowly, water dripping from soaked clothes, joy draining from his face as he saw the man standing beside V.

Their eyes met across sand and time and impossibility. The child and the monster he would become. Recognition instant. Visceral. Cellular.

"Dad...?" the boy whispered, terror returning in a rush. Body shrinking, bracing for the blow that always followed his father's appearance.

Johnny Silverhand woke with a gasp that burned through lungs that weren't his. V's body. V's room. V's fucking emotional manipulation dream bullshit.

"Fucking Christ," he hissed through V's lips, heart racing with remembered fear. With shame. With the desperate, howling need of a child who'd never known anything but violence.

He hated her. Hated her for finding this wound. For seeing inside him where no one was ever supposed to look. For making him feel—
The pills rattled in the orange bottle like tiny bones in a shaman's curse. Johnny stared at V's reflection in the bathroom mirror—his reflection now, or it would be soon enough. His fucking prison with legs and tits and too many goddamn emotions.
"Fucking bitch," he told V's silent presence lurking at the edges of his consciousness. Not gone completely. Never gone completely. Always there watching, judging, collecting his reactions like some sick scientist cataloguing lab rat responses. "Digging into my head. Playing psychotherapist mommy. Same shit you pulled with Takemura. Same shit you did to Yorinobu."
V didn't answer. Maybe couldn't answer with him in control. Maybe just choosing not to engage. Either way, her silence pissed him off more than any defense could have.
Johnny twisted the cap off the bottle. Omega blockers. The good shit. Military grade. Designed to suppress the original consciousness in cases of personality construct implantation. Vik had prescribed them for emergencies. For when Johnny got too strong.
Ironic how useful they were for the opposite purpose.
"This is my body now," Johnny announced to the empty bathroom as he shook three pills into V's palm. Double the recommended dose. Triple, maybe. Who the fuck cared? "My night. My rules."
The pills went down easy. V's throat swallowing automatically despite any objection she might have. Johnny felt the change almost immediately. V's presence receding like tide pulled by some distant moon. Her influence weakening. Her control slipping.
Freedom. Fucking freedom.
"I'm done with your mind games," Johnny told the emptying space where V had been. "Done with your emotional manipulation bullshit. Your inner child healing crap. Your pay-me-to-be-your-mommy service."
He straightened, rolling V's shoulders, feeling the body respond more completely to his commands than ever before. Less resistance. Less of her lingering in the neural pathways. Just Johnny Silverhand wearing V-shaped meat.
"Tonight I find a way out," he promised the mirror. "Either out of your head for good, or out of existence. Either way, I didn't sign up for forced fucking therapy by soul invasion."
The Afterlife looked the same as it had fifty years ago. Different people. Same stink of desperation masked by synthetic drinks and bravado. Johnny walked in like he owned the place—because he had, once. Not literally. Spiritually. The king of Night City's underground returning to his castle.
The reaction was immediate. Conversations died mid-sentence. Glasses paused halfway to lips. Heads turned as one.
Power. Fucking power. Johnny basked in it. Still got it, even trapped in this female body. Still commanded the room just by existing.
"That's right," he muttered under his breath, V's lips curving into his signature smirk. "The legend himself, back from the dead."
He strutted toward the bar, expecting the usual mix of awe and fear that had always greeted Johnny Silverhand. The parting of the crowd like the Red Sea before Moses. The respectful nods, the whispered rumors, the occasional brave soul approaching for autograph or argument.
Instead, the crowd did something Johnny wasn't prepared for. They backed away. Not in awe. In something closer to... terror.
Pure, unfiltered, oh-fuck-we're-all-gonna-die terror.
"Johnny Silverhand whiskey. Double," he told the bartender, sliding onto a stool with practiced ease. "Make it the good stuff. Not the piss water you serve the tourists."
The bartender's eyes widened. Hand trembling slightly as she reached for the bottle. "Of course, Ms. V. Right away." She poured with excessive care, like handling nitroglycerin. "On the house, of course."
Johnny frowned. Ms. V? On the house? The fuck was happening?
He glanced around, noticing for the first time the specifics of the reactions around him. Mercs with limbs twice the size of V's were pressing themselves against walls. Solos with face tattoos marking multiple kills were suddenly finding reasons to examine their boots. A woman with a chrome arm downed her drink and practically ran for the exit.
"The fuck is wrong with everyone?" Johnny demanded of the bartender, who flinched like he'd pulled a gun. "Act like they've seen a ghost."
The bartender's laugh came high and nervous. "Good one, Ms. V. Very funny." She pushed the drink forward with excessive deference. "Will your... associates be joining you tonight?"
"Associates?" Johnny echoed, genuinely confused now.
A whisper from a nearby table reached his enhanced hearing: "Holy shit, is that the Doll? The one they call V?"
Another voice, lower, more urgent: "Don't stare, you fucking idiot. That's how Briggs lost his eyes. Looked at her too long when Arasaka's heir was paying for her time."
"I heard Militech has an entire strike team just for her protection. On permanent standby."
"Takemura himself supposedly cut a man's fingers off one by one for spilling a drink on her jacket."
Johnny's mind spun like a broken record. What the actual fuck? V wasn't just some doll—she was apparently THE doll. Night City's most protected asset. The untouchable one. The one with powerful "friends" in high places who'd burn the city down over a scratch on her precious skin.
He downed the whiskey in one swallow, enjoying the burn. At least that felt familiar. Real. Pushed the glass forward for a refill that appeared instantly.
"Johnny Silverhand, huh?" the bartender ventured, slightly more comfortable now that V had consumed expensive alcohol without incident. "That's a new one. Usually see you doing the corporate types or high-end fixers."
Johnny froze with the glass halfway to his lips. "The fuck you talking about?"
The bartender froze too, realizing she'd said something wrong. "Nothing, Ms. V. Just... admiring your work. The Silverhand impression is spot-on. The attitude, the swagger... really capturing his essence."
Johnny slammed the glass down hard enough that whiskey sloshed over the edges. "I AM Johnny Silverhand, you plastic-brained idiot."
The bartender paled but managed a professional smile. "Of course you are, Ms. V. Whatever the client wants." She backed away to serve other customers, clearly eager to end the conversation.
Johnny stared at his reflection in the bar's mirrored backsplash. V's face stared back, wearing his expressions, speaking with his cadence, but still undeniably V. To everyone else, he wasn't Johnny Silverhand returned from the dead. He was just V performing another role. Another personality. Another fucking paid companion service.
The realization hit like a bus at full speed. No one would ever believe him. No matter what he said, what he did, how he acted—it would all be attributed to V's legendary skills as a doll. Her ability to become anyone, to transform so completely that even those who knew the original couldn't tell the difference.
His existence reduced to a particularly convincing performance.
"Rogue here?" he asked the bartender when she dared approach again. If anyone would recognize him, it would be Rogue. They had history. Real fucking history. The kind no doll could fake.
"In her booth," the bartender replied, nodding toward the back. "But, Ms. V... she doesn't have an appointment scheduled with you tonight. Might want to call first."
Johnny ignored the warning, pushing off the stool. The crowd parted before him not out of respect for Johnny Silverhand but out of fear of what would happen if they got in V's way. Of what her "associates" might do to anyone who inconvenienced her.
Rogue sat in her usual spot, queen of the Afterlife surveying her domain. Older now, of course. Hair more silver than he remembered. Lines etched deeper. But still undeniably Rogue.
Johnny slid into the booth across from her without invitation. "Been a while," he said, leaning back with the casual arrogance that had always been his signature. "How's life treating Night City's premier fixer?"
Rogue looked up, irritation flashing briefly before recognition dawned. Her eyes widened slightly, then narrowed with professional assessment. "Well," she said finally. "This is unexpected."
"What, no hello for an old friend?" Johnny grinned, V's lips forming the smirk that had been his trademark. "Fifty years and not even a 'you look good for a dead man'?"
Rogue studied him with the calculated precision of someone who'd survived decades in Night City by noticing details others missed. "Didn't know someone hired me as your fantasy tonight," she said finally. "This is new territory, even for you, V."
The words hit like bullets. Each one tearing through the certainty that had carried Johnny to the Afterlife. The belief that Rogue, of all people, would recognize him instantly.
"It's me, Rogue." Johnny leaned forward, desperate suddenly. "Not V playing dress-up. Actually me. Johnny. Inside V's head because of the Relic. The biochip. Arasaka's prototype."
Rogue's eyebrow arched with professional interest. "Never seen that thing you got going on so close before. You really are a Johnny when you see me, aren't you? The mannerisms are uncanny. Even got that thing he used to do with his shoulders when he was trying to convince me of something ridiculous."
"Because it IS me," Johnny insisted, hearing the desperation in V's voice and hating it. Hating how it made him sound weak. Pathetic. "Arasaka encoded my whole personality after they killed me. Stored it for fifty years. Now I'm stuck in V's head, fighting for control."
Rogue's expression shifted to something almost like pity. "Look, I don't know who's paying for this particular fantasy, but you can drop the act. It's just us here."
"There's no act to drop." Johnny slammed V's hand on the table, frustration boiling over. "Run the intel, Rogue. Check with your sources. V had the Relic in her head when Dex put a bullet through her skull. That's what saved her. That's what put me in her brain."
Rogue sighed, the sound carrying decades of Night City weariness. "V, you're good. Best I've ever seen. But there are limits to what I'll tolerate, even from someone with your... connections." She glanced pointedly at her security team, who had materialized closer to the booth. "I think it's time you left."
Johnny stared at her, the full horror of his situation crystallizing like ice in his veins. No one would ever believe him. Not even Rogue. Not even the woman who'd shared his bed, his missions, his fucking revolution. To everyone in Night City, he was just V's most impressive performance yet.
"Do you remember," he said, voice dropping to a desperate whisper, "that night in the motel outside the city? When the storm knocked out the power and we had to use the emergency lights from the Militech truck we'd stolen? You were wearing that black tank top with the hole in the left strap. I tried to fix it with duct tape and ended up sticking it to your skin instead."
Something flickered in Rogue's eyes. Uncertainty. Recognition. Memory.
For one glorious, vindicated moment, Johnny thought he'd broken through.
Then Rogue's expression hardened. "Nice detail work. Really selling the intimacy angle. But Johnny never would have remembered what I was wearing. He barely noticed when I was in the room, let alone what clothes I had on."
The truth hit Johnny like a physical blow. Rogue was right. The real Johnny—the original Johnny—probably wouldn't have remembered that detail. Wouldn't have led with sentimentality. Would have been all swagger and demands and revolution.
But fifty years as code, as memory, as digital ghost... it changed a person. Made them remember strange details. Made them cling to moments they'd taken for granted when alive.
"You should go," Rogue said, voice softer now but still firm. "Before I start wondering why you're so fixated on this particular role. Before I start asking questions about who would pay enough to make V herself come play Johnny Silverhand in my bar."
Johnny stood, V's legs unsteady beneath him. The omega blockers were strong, but not strong enough to suppress the crushing weight of this realization. He was a ghost. A phantom. Doomed to walk Night City in a body everyone recognized as someone else's. Cursed to have every genuine emotion, every authentic reaction, dismissed as performance.
"Tell your client," Rogue added as he turned to leave, "that some memories shouldn't be disturbed. Some ghosts are better left buried."
Johnny walked out of the Afterlife feeling more dead than when Smasher had actually killed him. The crowd parted again, whispers following in his wake.
"—never seen her do Silverhand before—" "—who the fuck hires the Doll to play a terrorist—" "—must be paying her millions—" "—heard she once did Saburo himself for Yorinobu's birthday—"
Outside, Night City's eternal neon cast hollow light across V's face. Johnny caught his reflection in a puddle of something that might have been water or might have been something far worse. V's eyes stared back, holding his despair, his rage, his utter fucking isolation.
He was Johnny Silverhand, the legendary rockerboy who'd brought Arasaka to its knees. And no one would ever believe him. No one would ever see him. In a city of millions, he was completely, irrevocably alone.
V stirred at the edges of his consciousness. Weakly. The drugs still suppressing her. But there. Always fucking there.

Chapter Text

Yorinobu Arasaka adjusted the studded leather jacket that would make his father's ghost howl with corporate horror. Dressed like a street punk with too much money—half Samurai tribute, half deliberate middle finger to everything the Arasaka name represented. Hair deliberately messy. Piercings where corpo board members would notice and flinch. Perfect fucking rebellion costume for his own birthday celebration.
Some performance for the old man's legacy vultures. Let them see the heir going full metal rebel again.
He watched V from the doorway of the guest preparation room, lips curving into something between smile and sneer. She had her back to him, fussing over Takemura like the doddering grandfather he'd never actually been. The bodyguard sat stiffly in a chair, eyes closed, expression struggling between discomfort and bliss as V braided his steel-gray hair with deft fingers.
"Hold still, Oji-san," V scolded, voice pitched higher, younger. The little granddaughter persona Takemura couldn't resist. "You're worse than a child."
Takemura's attempted dignity dissolved into something almost like a smile when V tucked a cherry blossom behind his ear, nestled against the tight braid. "This is highly inappropriate," he protested, making no move to remove the flower. "I am on duty."
"It's Yo-kun's birthday," V countered, patting Takemura's shoulder with the familiar affection that made Yorinobu's stomach twist with amused contempt. "He won't mind you looking pretty for one night."
Yorinobu bit back laughter. The great Goro Takemura, his father's loyal attack dog, reduced to this—sitting still while a girl half his age adorned him like a child's doll. The mighty warrior tamed by the illusion of family. Pathetic. Fucking pathetic.
He moved silently across the room, wrapping his arms around V from behind, feeling her slight jolt of surprise before she relaxed against him. His movement deliberate, territorial. Let the old man see who really owned V's attention.
"You're making him pretty for my party?" Yorinobu murmured against her ear, loud enough for Takemura to hear. Enjoying the flicker of disapproval that crossed the bodyguard's features. The protective instinct that had no foundation. "How thoughtful."
Takemura stood abruptly, flower still in his hair but dignity attempting reassertion. "I will check the security perimeter," he announced, finding his exit strategy. "The guests will arrive soon."
V called after him as he retreated, "Don't lose my flower, Oji-san!" Her voice carrying that granddaughter lilt that made the old man's steps falter briefly before he disappeared through the door.
The moment Takemura was gone, V's posture changed. The girlish energy evaporating like water on Night City asphalt. She turned in Yorinobu's arms, expression shifting to something sharper. More real. The V only he got to see.
"You enjoy fucking with him too much," she said, straightforward now. Adult to adult. No cute honorifics. No performative youth.
Yorinobu's smile widened. "Says the woman who just put flowers in Arasaka's most feared enforcer's hair."
V laughed, the sound nothing like the giggles she'd offered Takemura. Darker. Genuine. "He needs it. Man's wound tighter than corpo security protocols."
This was his V. The real one. Not the sweet granddaughter Takemura thought he had. Not the understanding companion his father's associates believed they'd purchased. His V—the one who saw through all the bullshit and played along anyway. His co-conspirator against the world's self-importance.
"Are you sure about tonight?" Yorinobu asked, studying her face for hesitation. "It's not too much? Playing him?"
V tilted her head, considering. The gesture entirely her own, not borrowed from any persona. "Yo-kun deserves his father not to be shit for at least one day," she said finally. "Besides, it'll be a fucking challenge. The great Saburo Arasaka, showing an actual human emotion? That's next-level performance art."
Yorinobu laughed, releasing her to pour himself a drink from the private bar. The good stuff. Not the ceremonial piss they'd serve at the official party. "And the medal? You remember that detail?"
V nodded, moving to the case laid out on the dressing table. Inside, a perfect reproduction of Saburo's appearance waited. The specialized suit cut exactly like his father's preferred style. The temporary facial implants that would reshape her features into the echo of Saburo's stern countenance. The voice modulator calibrated to his distinctive tone.
"Your mother's medallion," she confirmed, fingers testing the weight of the gold chain laid beside the costume. "The one thing he never gave you himself. The thing that might have meant he actually gave a shit about more than his legacy."
Yorinobu downed his drink, watching her prepare with something like reverence. This was why V was different. Why she wasn't just another doll to him. She understood. Saw through to the wounded core of what drove him. Didn't try to fix it or heal it or any of that therapeutic bullshit. Just acknowledged it, matched it with her own jagged edges.
"The old man will probably have a stroke when he sees you wearing his face," Yorinobu said, refilling his glass. "Might save me the trouble of killing him myself."
V glanced up, expression revealing nothing. "He's not invited though, right? That was the point."
"No, but you know how fast word travels." Yorinobu's smile turned cruel. "Half the board will be here. Imagine their reports. 'Saburo appeared at Yorinobu's birthday, offering blessing and gifts.' The security footage alone will be worth whatever this costs me."
V turned back to the preparations, beginning the transformation process with practiced efficiency. "Bold of you to assume this costs you anything," she said, voice neutral. "Maybe I just like fucking with people's heads."
Yorinobu approached, watching her work in the mirror. "That's why we get along so well. Kindred spirits in a world of sheep."
They'd met three years ago. Not through official channels. Not as doll and client. Just two people at the same underground club, both pretending to be someone else for the night. Yorinobu had been slumming it, playing ordinary citizen. V had been between assignments, just being... whoever V actually was when no one was paying.
That night, high on substances that would horrify his father's medical team, Yorinobu had spilled his guts to this stranger with the knowing eyes. Had confessed his hatred for his father, for Arasaka, for the golden cage he couldn't seem to escape no matter how far he ran.
Instead of sympathy or empty reassurance, V had laughed. Actually fucking laughed in his face. "Poor little rich boy," she'd said, words slurring slightly from whatever designer drug cocktail she'd consumed. "Trapped in your tower with all that money and power. Real fucking tragedy."
He should have had her killed for the disrespect. Should have signaled his hidden security detail to remove this irritating woman from his presence.
Instead, he'd laughed too. Harder than he had in years. The absurdity of his own angst suddenly, perfectly clear in the mirror she held up.
They'd ended up talking until dawn. No sex. No physical intimacy at all. Just conversation so raw it left bleeding edges. By sunrise, Yorinobu knew he'd found something rare in Night City—someone who didn't want anything from him except his unfiltered self.
Only later did he discover what she actually was. Who she worked for. The specialized doll chip that made her Night City's most exclusive emotional companion. By then, it didn't matter. She was his friend. The only real one he had.
"You're staring," V observed, breaking his reverie. She'd already begun applying the base layer of the transformation. Features shifting slightly toward Saburo's stern countenance. "Having second thoughts?"
Yorinobu shook his head. "Just appreciating the irony. My father spent his life destroying anything that brought me joy. Now his face will deliver the one gift I actually wanted."
V's eyes met his in the mirror. Understanding passed between them. The shared knowledge of what this performance meant. Not just a birthday stunt. A reclaiming. A way for Yorinobu to hear words from his father's mouth that would never actually come from the man himself.
"I should finish getting ready," V said, returning to her work. "The motorcycle jacket doesn't exactly scream 'emperor of the corporate world.'"
Yorinobu backed away, recognizing the shift in her focus. V's preparation process was sacred in its way. The becoming. The transformation. He'd seen it before, on nights when she'd needed to be someone else for clients with more traditional expectations.
"I'll see you at the main event," he said, moving toward the door. "Try not to give Takemura a heart attack when you show up looking like the boss."
V's laugh followed him out, the sound quickly morphing into something practicing Saburo's distinctive cadence. The shift so seamless it sent chills down Yorinobu's spine despite himself.

The birthday celebration unfolded exactly as corporate protocol demanded. Arasaka executives offering carefully calibrated congratulations. Security personnel strategically positioned throughout the venue. Gifts selected for political significance rather than personal meaning.
Yorinobu played his role with practiced indifference. The rebellious heir tolerating tradition while making his resistance clear through every gesture, every word. His father's associates watched with barely concealed disapproval, mentally calculating how his behavior might influence their standing with Saburo.
None of them mattered. They were backdrop. Scenery. The real performance was yet to come.
Takemura stood at his assigned position, flower still tucked neatly in his braided hair. The incongruous decoration drawing confused glances from other security personnel who knew better than to comment. His eyes constantly scanned the room, occasionally lingering on the entrance where guests continued to arrive.
Looking for his granddaughter. For his V. The thought made Yorinobu smirk into his champagne glass.
The room fell silent suddenly. Conversation dying mid-sentence as heads turned toward the main entrance. Yorinobu followed their gaze, anticipation curling in his stomach despite his preparation for this moment.
Saburo Arasaka stood in the doorway. Commanding presence. Perfect posture. Face arranged in the stern lines that had launched a thousand corporate nightmares. Except it wasn't Saburo. It was V. His V, wearing his father's skin like a suit tailored to her measurements.
The collective intake of breath was audible. Executives frozen in postures of interrupted movement. Security personnel's hands instinctively moving toward weapons before confused protocol overrode instinct.
Takemura's reaction was the most satisfying. Pure shock breaking through his professional mask. The cherry blossom trembling slightly as his body tensed in confused recognition. The man who knew Saburo better than anyone suddenly facing an impossible apparition.
V moved into the room with Saburo's distinctive gait. That purposeful stride that expected—no, demanded—the world arrange itself according to his will. Each step precisely measured. Each gesture calibrated to match recordings Yorinobu had provided during their preparation.
The gathered executives parted before this apparition, confusion and fear warring in their expressions. Was this some test? Some elaborate security drill? Had the real Saburo decided to attend after all, despite his public statement declining the invitation?
Yorinobu stepped forward, playing his role to perfection. The rebellious son facing his father. Tension visible in every line of his body. The performance they'd rehearsed in private, now playing for an audience too shocked to comprehend what they were witnessing.
"Father," he acknowledged, the single word carrying decades of complicated history. "I didn't expect you to attend."
V-as-Saburo regarded him with the precise mixture of disappointment and calculation that had defined their relationship. "My son's birthday," she replied, voice modulated to Saburo's distinctive timbre. "Some traditions must be observed, regardless of our... differences."
Around them, executives exchanged glances of bewildered calculation. Wondering how this apparent reconciliation might impact corporate hierarchy. How to position themselves in this unexpected development.
Takemura remained frozen, eyes narrowed in suspicious assessment. Of everyone present, he was most likely to detect the deception. To recognize the subtle differences no technology could perfectly replicate.
V turned toward him, Saburo's stern gaze meeting the bodyguard's suspicious one. "Takemura," she acknowledged, then paused, gaze flickering to the flower in his hair. The slightest twitch at the corner of her mouth—so subtle only Yorinobu caught it. "An interesting... modification to the standard uniform."
Takemura's hand rose involuntarily toward the blossom, then froze as he caught himself. Confusion deepening the lines around his eyes. "My apologies, Arasaka-sama," he managed, bowing slightly. "A momentary... indulgence."
Yorinobu bit back laughter. The mighty Takemura, caught between loyalties. Between the granddaughter persona who'd placed the flower and the master he'd served for decades. The cognitive dissonance visible in every line of his body.
V dismissed Takemura's discomfort with Saburo's characteristic wave. Imperious. Unconcerned with subordinates' personal dilemmas. Then turned back to Yorinobu, maintaining the performance with flawless precision.
"I wished to deliver your gift personally," V announced, loud enough for nearby executives to hear clearly. Ensuring witnesses for what would follow. "Something I perhaps should have given many years ago."
From within Saburo's immaculate jacket, V withdrew a small box. Traditional Japanese design. Hand-crafted wood that predated the corporate wars. Yorinobu accepted it with convincing reluctance, playing the son suspicious of his father's rare generosity.
Inside lay the medallion. His mother's medallion. The family heirloom Saburo had kept locked away since her death. The possession Yorinobu had mentioned wanting only once, decades ago, in a moment of youthful vulnerability quickly buried under rebellion.
The gasp that escaped him wasn't entirely performance. Seeing the reproduction—perfect down to the inscription on the back—made something twist painfully in his chest. The gift his actual father would never give him. The acknowledgment that would never come.
"It belonged to your mother," V said, Saburo's voice softened with an emotion the real man would never display publicly. "She would have wanted you to have it. I have... perhaps kept it selfishly for too long."
Yorinobu lifted the medallion with careful fingers, the weight of it—the symbolism—momentarily overwhelming their shared performance. For a heartbeat, he wasn't acting anymore. Was just a son receiving something precious from the father he'd never stopped wanting approval from, despite decades insisting otherwise.
V saw it. Recognized the shift from performance to genuine emotion. Her eyes—Saburo's eyes—meeting his with a depth of understanding no one else in the room could comprehend.
"Thank you," Yorinobu managed, voice rougher than intended. Then, remembering their audience, added: "Father."
V nodded, Saburo's characteristic acknowledgment of duty fulfilled. Then, in a move that sent ripples of shock through the watching executives, reached out to place a hand on Yorinobu's shoulder. The gesture entirely uncharacteristic of the real Saburo. A display of affection Saburo Arasaka had never offered his son in public—or private.
"I am proud of you, my son," V said, the words Yorinobu had crafted himself during their planning sessions. The words he had always wanted to hear. "You have forged your own path. Shown strength I did not always recognize."
Something hot and dangerous burned behind Yorinobu's eyes. Not entirely performance anymore. The medallion heavy in his hand. The words—even knowing they came from V, not his father—landing in places starved for acknowledgment since childhood.
Around them, the room remained frozen in collective shock. Takemura's confusion now tinged with something like suspicion. The bodyguard's gaze moving between Saburo's face and Yorinobu's with narrowed assessment.
The moment stretched, balanced on knife's edge between performance and something too real for comfort. Then V stepped back, resuming Saburo's characteristic distance. The momentary display of emotion packed away behind corporate mask.
"I cannot stay," V announced, addressing the room at large. "Affairs of state demand attention even on days of family celebration."
Executives bowed in automatic response, still processing the unprecedented scene they had witnessed. Calculating its implications for corporate politics. For their own positions in Arasaka's hierarchy.
Yorinobu inclined his head, playing the son granted unexpected acknowledgment. "Your presence was... unexpected, father. But appreciated."
V turned to leave, Saburo's distinctive stride carrying her toward the exit. Takemura moved to follow, ingrained duty overriding his confusion.
"Remain here, Takemura," V commanded without turning. "My son's security takes precedence tonight."
Another ripple of shock through the gathered observers. Saburo Arasaka, prioritizing his rebellious son's safety over his own. Unprecedented. Incomprehensible.
Takemura hesitated, caught between conditioning and confusion. "Arasaka-sama, protocol dictates—"
"Protocol serves us, Takemura. Not the reverse." V's dismissal came with Saburo's perfect inflection. The tone that brooked no argument. "Remain with Yorinobu."
With that final command, V departed. Saburo's presence lingering in the stunned silence that followed his exit. The corporate elite of Night City left to process what they had witnessed. The apparent reconciliation between father and son. The public display of affection from a man known for cold calculation rather than emotional demonstration.
Yorinobu clutched the medallion, watching the doorway where V had disappeared. The performance had been perfect. Better than perfect. His father's associates would carry word throughout Arasaka's global empire. Security footage would be analyzed, reported, distributed through official and unofficial channels.
Somewhere in Tokyo, his father would receive reports of his own appearance at an event he had declined to attend. Of words he had never spoken. Of emotions he had never felt.
The thought brought savage satisfaction. This violation of his father's carefully constructed image. This weaponization of his own face, his own manner, against him.
Yet beneath the satisfaction lay something else. Something Yorinobu hadn't anticipated when planning this performance. The medallion's weight in his palm. The words—"I am proud of you"—echoing in memory despite knowing their source.
For a moment, he had believed it. Had wanted to believe it. Had been the child still desperately seeking his father's approval, despite decades insisting he'd moved beyond such needs.
V had seen it. Had recognized it instantly. His V. The only V who really knew him. Who understood the tangled mess of hatred and longing that defined his relationship with his father.
The only person in Night City who saw Yorinobu Arasaka for who he really was, beneath the rebellion and the corporate heritage and the calculated public image.
Takemura approached cautiously, still visibly processing what had transpired. The flower in his hair now seeming doubly incongruous against his confusion.
"Yorinobu-sama," he began carefully. "Your father's appearance was... unexpected."
Yorinobu smiled, slipping the medallion around his neck. Letting its weight settle against his chest like armor. "Indeed, Takemura. It seems even Saburo Arasaka can occasionally surprise us."
Takemura's gaze lingered on the medallion, recognition flickering in his eyes. "That belonged to your mother."
"Yes," Yorinobu confirmed, fingers brushing the metal possessively. "Something I never expected to receive."
Takemura nodded slowly, still troubled. Still sensing something not quite right about the encounter but unable to articulate what exactly had disturbed his perfect loyalty. "He seemed... different."
Yorinobu's smile widened. "Perhaps age brings wisdom, Takemura. Perhaps even my father can change."
The lie settled between them. Takemura clearly unconvinced but unwilling to question further. Arasaka politics too dangerous to navigate without absolute certainty.
The party resumed around them, executives now buzzing with speculation. The appearance of Saburo Arasaka—and his unprecedented display of paternal affection—eclipsing all other topics of conversation.
Yorinobu circulated through the crowd, playing his role with renewed energy. The rebellious son perhaps considering reconciliation with the empire he'd once rejected. The heir apparent potentially returning to the fold.
Let them speculate. Let them report to his father. Let the old man rage at this manipulation of his image, his reputation, his carefully cultivated legend.
Later, when the corporate vultures had departed with their precious gossip, Yorinobu would meet V in their private space. Would laugh with her about the expressions on the executives' faces. Would mock Takemura's confusion, the cherry blossom still stubbornly clinging to his braided hair throughout the evening.
They would drink and smoke and get high on designer drugs no corpo would dare touch. Would relive the performance, dissecting each reaction, each shocked expression. Would be themselves—whatever that meant for two people who lived primarily through carefully constructed personas.
His V. The real V. Not the granddaughter Takemura thought he knew. Not the emotional companion his father's associates believed they were purchasing. The woman who saw through all the performances—Yorinobu's included—and matched them with her own.
The only person in Night City who understood him. The only one who knew the truth beneath all the masks.
Or so he believed.
Johnny came back to consciousness face-down in Pacifica sand, mouth full of grit and stomach churning like a corpo shredder destroying evidence. V's guts heaved, expelling what felt like gallons of "Johnny Silverhand" cocktail onto Night City's shittiest excuse for a beach.
"Fuck," he groaned through V's lips, spitting black bile onto sand. Sunlight stabbed into his skull through V's optic implants, turning the hangover into pure nuclear agony. "Fuck fuck fucking Christ."
The memories crashed through him in waves. The Afterlife. The terror in people's eyes—not for legendary terrorist Johnny Silverhand, but for V the untouchable doll. Rogue's dismissal. Then something else. Something worse. V and Yorinobu. V and Saburo's face. V playing proud father to a man who'd spent his life seeking approval from the real thing.
"Fucking performance artist," Johnny spat, rolling onto his back despite the protest from V's abused liver. Sand clung to sweat-soaked skin.
The thought burned worse than the hangover. Worse than the radiation that had cooked his original body from the inside out in Arasaka Tower fifty years ago. If V could become anyone, feel anything on command, what was real? What was performance? The line so blurred it may as well never have existed.
Johnny tried to push himself up on V's elbows. Failed. Collapsed back onto unyielding sand. The sky above Pacifica stretched endlessly blue, indifferent to his existential crisis. To his physical misery. To the fact that Johnny fucking Silverhand, terror of corporations and champion of the people, was lying in a puddle of his own vomit with no one in the world who believed he existed.
"V?" he called out internally, seeking the presence that usually lurked at the edges of his consciousness. The silent observer. The witness to his thoughts.
Nothing. Empty air. Silence where V's consciousness should be.
Johnny remembered with sudden clarity: the omega blockers. Military grade. Triple dose. Designed to suppress the host consciousness. To keep V away while he took the wheel.
Mission fucking accomplished. She was gone. Absent. Banished to whatever limbo the blockers created in their shared neural pathways.
This should have been a victory. Freedom from V's constant presence. From her judgment. From her emotional manipulation bullshit. This was what he'd wanted from the moment he woke up in her head.
So why did it feel like his digital soul was burning up from the inside?
Johnny rolled to his hands and knees, trembling with effort. V's body responding sluggishly to his commands without her unconscious cooperation. He crawled a few feet, collapsing again onto his back. The sun beat down mercilessly, cooking him like an appropriate punishment for his sins.
"V?" he tried again, voice small against the roaring silence in his skull. Sheepish. Uncertain. Fucking pathetic.
Something moved at the corner of his vision. Not a person. Not a physical presence. Just... something. A ripple in reality. A ghost of an echo of a memory. And suddenly thoughts that weren't entirely his own began streaming through neural pathways carved by two consciousnesses sharing one brain.
How V always knew what to do. How people respected V. Feared V. Protected V. How she bought him a guitar just because music mattered. How she'd let him into her body—willingly, knowing the risks—just to feel the instrument's weight in his hands.
How she'd stood guard outside that bathroom door in his fucked-up dream memory. Promising safety to a child who'd never known what the word meant. Creating a beach out of nothing. A moment of peace for a boy who'd only known violence.
"V?" Johnny called again, more desperate now. Something cracking inside whatever passed for his digital heart. The omega blockers still working too well. V's presence still absent from where it should be.
He didn't understand when the screaming started. Didn't recognize the animal sounds coming from V's throat as his own. Just knew suddenly that he was howling her name into Pacifica's indifferent sky, begging for her return with a desperation that would have disgusted the old Johnny Silverhand.
He wanted her back. Needed her back. Needed to crawl back inside the safety of their shared consciousness where he wasn't alone. Where someone knew him. Recognized him. Believed in his existence.
The only person in all of Night City who knew he was Johnny Silverhand. Who protected him from the crushing weight of being no one. Of being just another performance. Another role. Another character in the endless theater of Night City's delusions.
Johnny curled V's body into a fetal position on the dirty sand. Arms wrapping around knees pulled tight to chest. Like a child seeking comfort from the only source available—himself. The gesture so fucking pathetic it would have made him vomit again if there'd been anything left in V's stomach.
"Please," he whispered, the word burning his throat with its unfamiliarity. Johnny Silverhand didn't beg. Didn't plead. Didn't need anyone.
Except he did. He needed V. Needed her presence. Needed her witness. Needed the strange peace he found in her neural pathways, so different from the constant burning rage of his own.
The sun beat down. Waves crashed nearby. This was Pacifica beach. The same beach where V had brought him to talk about the biochip. About their shared fate. About who would control her body in the end.
No. Not just that beach. Another beach too. The perfect beach from the dream memory. White sand. Pink sunset. Calm blue water stretching to infinity. The beach where V had taken his child self, promising safety to a boy who'd never known it.
Johnny rolled onto his back again, staring at the sun until V's optics auto-dimmed to protect retinas he didn't technically own. That memory—that fucking dream. It felt real somehow. More real than Rogue's dismissal at the Afterlife. More real than throwing up "Johnny Silverhand" cocktails on Pacifica's toxic shore.
He could almost feel the cool water against childhood skin. The sun warming shoulders that had never known anything but fear and fists. The gentle hand fixing his hair, telling him he could do whatever he wanted.
"That didn't happen," Johnny told the empty sky, V's voice cracking with emotion he couldn't control. "That never fucking happened."
No woman made of blue light had ever rescued six-year-old Johnny from his father's drunken rage. No one had ever created a beach paradise for him to play in. No one had ever bothered to make young Johnny Silverhand feel safe. Feel loved. Feel seen.
So why did he remember it like it had happened? Why could he recall the taste of salt water? The feel of sand between small toes? The sound of gentle waves replacing his father's whiskey-slurred threats?
Why did he remember V—not a doll, not a manipulator, just V—standing guard while he changed out of piss-soaked clothes? Why did he remember her promising him a vacation when cherry blossoms returned?
"I'm losing my fucking mind," Johnny whispered to no one. To everyone. To the seagulls circling above Pacifica's polluted waters. "I'm becoming her. Or she's becoming me. Or we're becoming something else entirely."
He hugged V's body tighter, like he could somehow hold himself together through sheer physical pressure. The gesture triggering another cascade of not-quite-memories:
Little Johnny hugging himself in a trailer bathroom, too afraid to cry.
V hugging Takemura, the old man stiff with surprise before softening into the contact.
Johnny-in-V's-body hugging the guitar she'd bought him, feeling music flow through fingers that weren't his but responded to his expertise.
The boundaries between them collapsing like a house of cards in Night City crosswind. Johnny Silverhand and V becoming something new. Something both and neither.
And the most terrifying realization of all—he didn't want to stop it. Didn't want to fight it anymore. Being Johnny Silverhand hurt like fire ants under his skin. Being Johnny-in-V felt like constant embrace. Like being drunk without the burn. High without the crash. Like being understood for the first time in his miserable existence.
The sun continued its journey across Pacifica's sky. Johnny continued lying in the sand, curled around himself like the child he'd once been. Like the man he'd never allowed himself to become.
Waiting for the omega blockers to wear off. Waiting for V to return from whatever limbo he'd banished her to. Waiting to not be alone in his own head.
The legendary Johnny Silverhand, reduced to this—a whimpering, pathetic mess begging for the return of the woman whose body he'd tried to steal. Whose mind he'd invaded. Whose life he'd hijacked.
The woman who, despite everything, had become his only friend in a city full of ghosts who couldn't see him.
"Come back," he whispered to the empty spaces in V's neural network. "Please come back."
The most terrifying thing wasn't that he needed her. It was that he'd begun to understand why Takemura had fallen for the granddaughter act. Why Yorinobu believed he had the "real" V. Why everyone who encountered her believed they alone had seen beneath the masks.
Because she gave them exactly what they needed most. Made them feel seen. Understood. Special.
And Johnny, for all his rage against her manipulation, had fallen for the same trick. Had started believing he was different. Special. The one person who truly knew V.
When in reality, he was just another broken soul she'd figured out how to soothe. Another damaged psyche she'd learned to navigate. Another lost cause she'd decided to salvage, for reasons he still couldn't comprehend.
The tide crept closer, salt water lapping at V's boots. Johnny didn't move. Couldn't move. Could only stare at the sun and wait for the drugs to fade. Wait for V to return. Wait to not be Johnny Silverhand alone in a world that had forgotten him.
Wait to crawl back inside the only sanctuary he had left—the mind of the woman he'd sworn to destroy.
He remembered something else. Something V had said to Takemura in that strange memory-dream. About planning a vacation when the cherry blossoms returned. About watching sunrise together.
All lies. All performance. All bullshit designed to manipulate an old man's loneliness.
And yet. And yet Johnny found himself thinking: maybe when this is over. When we've figured out how to both survive. Maybe we could find a clean beach somewhere. Watch a sunrise that isn't filtered through Night City smog. See if cherry blossoms still exist in this fucked-up world.
V came back to her body like someone falling through ice into freezing water. No gentle transition. No subtle awakening. Just sudden, brutal reentry into meat that didn't feel right anymore. Omega blockers fading like bad dreams in morning light, neural pathways reconnecting one screaming synapse at a time.
First sensation: pain. Fucking everywhere. Skull pounding like someone had used it for target practice. Mouth tasting like something had crawled inside and died there during a toxic waste spill. Muscles screaming from positions they were never meant to hold. Sand. Everywhere. Places sand should never, ever go.
"Johnny?" she croaked, voice scraping through a throat raw from screaming or vomiting or both. No answer. Just silence in the places he usually occupied. Still unconscious from whatever bender he'd taken her body on. Small fucking mercies.
Second sensation: wrongness. Something different about her body. Something missing. V forced sandpaper eyelids open, wincing against Pacifica's merciless sun. Looked down at herself. Clothes torn and filthy. Stained with substances she didn't want to identify. And—fucking hell—underwear completely gone. Pants barely hanging on, sand crusted into places that would need medical-grade cleaning.
"Goddamn it, Johnny," she whispered to the empty spaces in her head. Rage too exhausted to fully form. Just resigned disgust.
Third sensation: burning. Not metaphorical. Actual burning pain on her left hand. V forced her neck to cooperate, tilting her head to examine the source.
A tattoo. Fresh. Red. Irritated. Clearly amateur work. Clearly done within the last 24 hours.
A dick. An actual fucking dick tattooed on her hand. Complete with crude ejaculation droplets and what appeared to be a smiley face on the tip.
V stared at this masterpiece of alcoholic decision-making for what felt like eternity. The absolute pinnacle of Johnny Silverhand's artistic expression, permanently etched onto her skin. Of course. Of fucking course he did.
She almost laughed. Would have if her ribs didn't feel like they'd been used as drumsticks by a particularly enthusiastic gorilla. Instead, she closed her eyes. Reached inside herself for the connection that had kept her alive through worse than this.
Johnny wasn't there. Still offline. Complete radio silence.
"Fine," she muttered, fingers digging into Pacifica sand. "Handle it myself. Like always."
V forced her abused hand to her temple, accessing neural implants that thankfully remained functional. The interface flickered behind her eyes, systems coming online with reluctant obedience. Comms still functional. Small mercies in a day of big disasters.
For a moment, she hesitated. Scrolled through contact options. Delamain would come, no questions asked. But the AI would also fuss. Would want to help, to clean, to care. V couldn't handle that level of concern right now. Not with everything else shattered inside her.
Takemura? No. The shame of him seeing her like this—vomit-crusted, dick-tattooed, sand-coated disaster—would kill whatever remained of her professional pride. The disappointment in his eyes would hurt worse than her physical injuries.
There was really only one option. The one she'd sworn never to use except in the most dire circumstances. The connection she'd inherited but never fully understood.
V's finger hovered over the contact simply labeled with a blue square. No name. No details. Just a symbol that meant everything and nothing.
"Fuck it," she decided, dignity already long gone. "Not like this day can get worse."
Connection initiated. No ringing. No waiting. Instant link like the signal traveled faster than whatever technology Night City thought was cutting edge.
V didn't speak. Didn't need to. The connection itself was message enough.
Sand shifted near her head. Not from wind. Not from her movement. Just... shifted. Rearranging itself into tiny, precise geometric patterns that no natural force could create. Message received. Help coming.
V let her eyes close again. Let her body sink deeper into warm sand. Nothing to do now but wait. And maybe think of creative ways to murder Johnny Silverhand when he eventually resurfaced in her consciousness.
The roar came first. Not engine noise—something deeper, stranger, like air itself protesting violations of physics it was never designed to accommodate. V didn't open her eyes. Didn't need to see what was coming. Knew exactly what response her distress call would generate.
Wind whipped sand across her face. The temperature dropped several degrees in seconds, shadow falling over her prone form. Still, V didn't look. Just counted seconds silently, letting whatever was happening happen without her participation.
Footsteps approached. Expensive shoes on soft sand, somehow not sinking. Not disturbing the perfect surface tension of millions of tiny particles. Unnatural. Impossible. Normal for him.
"Well," came the voice. Cultured. Amused. Cold as space between stars. "This is quite the tableau, isn't it? Really embracing the dirty work these days, aren't we?"
V forced her eyes open, squinting against sun still visible around the edges of the figure standing over her. Tall. Immaculately dressed in suit worth more than most Night City citizens would earn in a lifetime. Unnaturally blue eyes that gave him his human name.
Mr. Blue Eyes. To V, simply ×.
"Just carry me home," she managed, words slurring slightly through split lips. No energy for banter. No patience for the games he loved to play.
× chuckled, the sound containing no actual warmth despite its perfect imitation of human amusement. He didn't move. Didn't bend to help her. Simply tilted his head slightly, eyes glowing brighter for the briefest moment.
V felt herself lifted from the sand. Not by hands. Not by any physical force recognizable to human science. Just... lifted. Telekinesis was the human word. Completely inadequate for whatever his species actually did to manipulate physical matter.
Her body floated, bits of sand falling away as she moved horizontally through air that suddenly felt thick as water. No effort required from her abused muscles. No need to demonstrate the dignity she clearly didn't possess anymore.
The transport wasn't visible from most angles. Existed in spaces human eyes skipped over, human brains refused to process. "Space taxi" was V's private joke for it. A vehicle neither space nor taxi but easier to conceptualize that way than to accept what it actually was.
Inside: luxury beyond anything AV or ground transportation could offer. Surfaces that weren't quite solid, weren't quite liquid. Colors that shifted through spectrums human eyes weren't equipped to perceive. And at the center, a space that accommodated V's floating form, molding itself to support her without applying pressure to any injury.
× followed, not walking so much as transitioning from outside to inside without the tedious intermediate steps humans required. The door—or what passed for one—sealed itself without sound or visible movement.
The vehicle lifted. Again, no sensation of acceleration or movement. Just Pacifica beach in view one moment, Night City sprawl beneath them the next. Distance becoming irrelevant concept rather than physical measurement.
× settled into a space opposite V, a glass of champagne materializing in his hand. Human affectation. Unnecessary pretense. He didn't need sustenance in liquid form, but he enjoyed the rituals of the species he studied. Enjoyed the trappings of the life he'd constructed among them.
"I must say," he remarked, sipping golden liquid that didn't decrease in volume despite his consumption, "your choices continue to fascinate me. Is this really how you wish to die? Covered in your own bodily fluids in Pacifica, bearing crude genital artwork courtesy of a digital parasite?"
The question carried no judgment. Simply scientific curiosity. The tone a researcher might use when observing particularly interesting fungus growth.
V managed something between grimace and smile. "If anything, ×," she said, emphasizing his true name with deliberate precision, "you don't get to shit on my choices."
× raised one perfect eyebrow. Another human affectation practiced to flawless execution. "Language, dear ✓. Your father would be disappointed by such crudeness."
V's real name in his mouth always felt like invasion. Like he was reaching inside her, touching places no one should be able to access. Her true name. The one she'd been given before her mother decided to play house with a being from beyond stars. Before ✓ became V became whatever she was now.
"My father would be disappointed by a lot of things," V countered, voice stronger now as the vehicle's ambient field worked to restore basic hydration, basic functions. "Starting with you treating me like I'm some kind of failed experiment."
× swirled champagne that never depleted, blue eyes fixed on her with intensity no human could maintain. "Aren't you, though? Neither fully us nor fully them. Unable to shift. Unable to travel the paths between. Trapped in decaying flesh with only the crudest approximation of our abilities."
The words should have hurt. Would have, from anyone else. But V had heard this particular speech too many times to feel its sting anymore.
"I can still read you," she reminded him, tapping her temple with sand-crusted fingers. "Still see what you really think beneath all that perfect human costume."
× smiled, expression never reaching those unnaturally blue eyes. "And what am I thinking, dear ✓?"
V closed her eyes, reaching out with the part of herself that wasn't human. The fragment of heritage her father had passed to her before disappearing back into whatever dimension his kind called home. Before leaving her to grow up human, mostly. Before dying in ways even his kind could die.
"You're thinking I'm just like him," she said, words falling into the space between them. "Getting tangled up with humans and their messy biology. Their messy emotions. Their messy deaths."
× didn't confirm or deny. Didn't need to. They both knew she'd read him correctly.
"Your father had such potential," he said instead, something almost like genuine emotion coloring his perfect voice. "Could have been among our greatest. Instead, he became fascinated with them. With their limitations. Their brief, burning lives."
"With my mother," V added, eyes still closed, body still floating in the perfect suspension field. "With love, ×. Something you never understood about either species."
× made a sound between laugh and dismissal. "Love. Such a limited concept. A chemical reaction designed to ensure genetic propagation. Nothing more."
"And yet," V countered, "you're here. Answering my call. Taking care of his mongrel daughter because you promised him you would."
Something flickered across ×'s perfect features. Something almost human in its complexity. "I keep my word," he said simply. "Even to beings who make incomprehensible choices."
The vehicle began its descent, though toward where, V couldn't say. Didn't care, really. Anywhere was better than Pacifica beach with sand in her underwearless crotch and a dick tattoo on her hand.
"He's killing you, you know," × remarked, setting aside champagne that vanished as completely as it had appeared. "This construct. This digital ghost you've allowed to inhabit your neural pathways. The Relic is consuming what little of our biology you possess."
V didn't open her eyes. "I know."
"I could remove it," × offered, words casual as discussing weather. "Could extract the foreign technology without damaging your limited human neural tissue. Could restore what passes for normal in your hybrid existence."
The offer hung between them. Not the first time he'd made it. Not the first time V had considered what it would mean to be free of Johnny. To reclaim her body, her mind, her life without his constant presence.
"And Johnny?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Would cease to exist, of course," × replied, clinical precision in each word. "Digital information cannot survive without storage medium. Cannot exist without hardware to execute its code."
V opened her eyes, meeting that inhuman blue gaze directly. "You mean he would die."
× shrugged, the gesture too perfect to be anything but practiced. "If we must use human terminology for something that was never truly alive, then yes. He would 'die.'"
V looked down at her hand. At the crude dick tattoo Johnny had inscribed there during his omega-blocked control of her body. At the physical manifestation of his juvenile rebellion against her influence, her control, her very existence.
"No," she said finally. Decision made, as it had been every other time × had offered this particular solution. "I won't kill him to save myself."
× studied her with the intensity of scientist examining particularly puzzling specimen. "Fascinating," he murmured. "Your father made similar choices. Similar sacrifices for beings whose entire existence is brief as insect life compared to ours."
"Half-ours," V corrected, gesturing to her obviously human body. "I'm not one of you, ×. Never will be. My father made sure of that when he chose my mother. When he chose Earth instead of... wherever it is you actually come from."
"He didn't choose death," × countered, voice hardening slightly. "That was forced upon him by the very species he'd sacrificed everything to join."
Old argument. Ancient wounds neither could heal. V's father—full-blooded whatever-they-were—killed by humans who'd discovered something not-quite-right about him. V's mother, broken by grief, following soon after. Leaving young ✓ alone except for her father's oldest friend, the being who called himself Mr. Blue Eyes in this particular incarnation.
The vehicle settled without sound or sensation of landing. Simply was moving one moment, stationary the next. Outside, V could see her apartment building. Transportation that should have taken hours accomplished in minutes that felt like seconds.
"I've taken the liberty of having your residence prepared," × said, perfect manners never slipping despite his obvious disapproval of her choices. "Hydration. Nutrition. Medical supplies appropriate to your... condition."
V managed a small, genuine smile. "Thank you, ×. For coming when I called."
× inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her gratitude without accepting it. "I made a promise."
"To my father," V finished for him. "Not to me."
"To protect what he valued most," × corrected, eyes glowing slightly brighter. "Even from her own self-destructive tendencies."
The door opened without sound or visible mechanism. V felt herself lifted again, body floating from the vehicle toward her apartment building. ×'s telekinesis—or whatever his kind called it—carrying her with gentle precision.
"He'll come back, you know," × said as her floating form crossed the threshold between his transportation and human world. "Your digital parasite. When the omega blockers wear off completely. When his consciousness resurfaces in your neural network."
V nodded, feeling the first stirrings of Johnny at the edges of her awareness. The omega blockers fading. His digital ghost beginning to reintegrate with her consciousness.
"I know," she said simply. "I'm counting on it."
× watched her with those unnaturally blue eyes that had given him his human name. Eyes that saw beyond visible spectrum. Beyond physical dimension. Beyond the limited existence humans called reality.
"He's not worth dying for, ✓," he said, using her true name again like weapon. Like reminder of what she partially was, what she could have been if her father had made different choices.

Chapter Text

Takemura Goro sat rigid on the floor cushion, the shattered teacup before him like a metaphor for something breaking inside himself. Naze konna koto ni natta? Why had it come to this? His room—once a reflection of his disciplined existence—now transformed into something unrecognizable by her persistence. By her... care.
Kono baka mitai na kimochi wa nan darou? This foolish feeling, what was it?
V was still before him, eyes watching, seeing too much as always. Her lips—the ones that had just pressed against his own with devastating gentleness—curved into a smile that made his chest ache with unfamiliar pressure.
"Oji-san is blushing," she observed, voice lilting with affection that seemed impossible to fabricate.
Hazukashii. Shameful. He was Takemura Goro, Arasaka's loyal shadow. Not some untested youth flushing at a woman's touch. And yet heat spread across his face, down his neck, pooling somewhere dangerous and forgotten.
The memory hit him without warning—himself at fifteen, listening to older soldiers talk. Crude laughter. Cruder descriptions.
"Onna wo kudaku," one had said. Breaking a woman. "Chi ga deru." Making her bleed. "Kanojo wa naku." Making her cry.
Young Goro had nodded, expression serious as befitted a warrior in training, while his stomach had twisted with revulsion. Later that night, alone in the darkness of training quarters, his trembling hand had ventured beneath issued blankets, beneath standard uniform. Trying to understand this thing that men spoke of with such hunger.
He'd found only discomfort. Pain, even. His body responding yet his mind recoiling.
Kore wa bushi ni fusawashikunai. This is unbecoming of a warrior.
He'd withdrawn his hand, shame burning hotter than any physical sensation. Had vowed to rise above such base urges. Had told himself it was discipline, dedication, when truly it had been fear. Confusion. A boy without guidance pretending that ignorance was choice.
"Where has Oji-san gone?" V's voice pulled him back to the present, her hand cool against his heated cheek. "Come back to me."
Doko ni iku? Where would he go? When for five decades, he had gone nowhere but deeper into duty's embrace?
"I am here," he managed, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. Rough. Uncertain.
"No," V said, shifting closer, the cushion beneath her barely making a sound. "You're far away. Thinking too much. Let me help."
Her lips found his again. Soft. Questioning. Nothing like the violent act those soldiers had described all those years ago. Nothing like the nightmare he'd constructed in his mind.
Kore wa... This was...
V kissed him again. And again. Each press of her lips gentle yet insistent. Each touch dissolving another layer of his carefully constructed armor. His hands hung uselessly at his sides, unsure where they belonged in this strange new territory.
"It's okay, Goro," she whispered against his mouth, using his given name for the first time. Not Takemura-san. Not Oji-san. Just Goro. A man, not a function. "You can touch me."
Goro. When had anyone last called him that? Had anyone ever addressed him so intimately?
Another memory surfaced—twenty-four years old, newly enhanced with Arasaka's finest technology. A woman in a bar, civilian, pretty in an uncomplicated way. She'd approached him. Had seemed interested until she'd touched his arm, felt the hardness beneath seemingly human skin.
"Kimochiwarui," she'd whispered, stepping back. Disgusting. A monster in human form.
He'd nodded, accepting her judgment as fair. Had returned to the Arasaka compound. Had buried himself in training, in duty, in service.
V's hands found his, guiding them to her waist. "See? I won't break."
Kowarenai. Won't break. The concept seemed impossible. Everything in his experience taught that delicate things shattered beneath warrior's hands. That softness yielded to strength. That to touch was to damage.
Yet V remained whole beneath his tentative grasp. Smiling. Warm. Real.
Her lips found his again. Fifth kiss? Sixth? He was losing count, losing focus, losing the rigid control that had defined his existence.
"V-chan," he whispered, the honorific slipping out despite her use of his given name. Old habits. Safe harbor in the storm of unfamiliar sensation.
"Iie," she corrected gently, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Just V. And you're just Goro. Not Takemura-san. Not Arasaka's shadow. Just Goro."
His heart stuttered painfully. Tada no Goro. Just Goro. A concept so foreign it felt like speaking another language. He had been Takemura since he had been old enough to understand his purpose. Had been function, not person.
V seemed to read his confusion, his struggle. "Let me show you," she murmured, straddling him with fluid grace. The position should have triggered combat responses—vulnerable, exposed, trapped. Instead, it felt like... shelter. Like sanctuary.
Her fingers found the tie that had somehow remained knotted despite her earlier attempts. Undid it with deliberate slowness. Slid it from around his neck, the whisper of fabric against skin making him shiver.
"Pretty Goro," she said, unbuttoning his shirt with the same careful precision. "So beautiful."
Utsukushii? Beautiful? Another memory—seventeen years old, overhearing female classmates.
"Takemura-kun wa kowai ne." Takemura is scary, isn't he?
"Un, ano me..." Yes, those eyes...
He had trained harder after that. Had perfected the expressionless mask that would become his trademark. Had embraced the fear he inspired as appropriate for a warrior's path.
V was kissing him again. His mouth. His jaw. The pulse point at his throat where cybernetic enhancements monitored heart rate now racing beyond optimal parameters. Each press of her lips a point of warmth against skin that hadn't known gentle touch in... had it ever?
"V," he managed, her name like prayer from lips unused to supplication. "I am not... I cannot..."
"Shhh," she soothed, hands framing his face. "You don't have to do anything. Just feel, Goro. Just be here with me."
Kanjiru dake. Just feel. As if it were simple. As if five decades of rigid control could be surrendered on command.
Yet with each kiss—was this the tenth? The twelfth?—something inside him yielded. Walls built from childhood crumbling beneath her persistent gentleness.
Another memory intruded—thirty-five years old, overhearing fellow guards.
"Takemura wa onna inai no ka?" Doesn't Takemura have a woman?
"Arasa-ka shika ai senai hito da." He can only love Arasaka.
Laughter. Assumption that his solitude was choice. That his isolation was dedication rather than deficiency.
He had let them believe it. Had cultivated the image of the perfect soldier, above human need, beyond human weakness. Had told himself the lie so often it became indistinguishable from truth.
Until V. Until her transforming his quarters with stars and soft things and photographs that proved he existed beyond function. Until her body warm and real in his lap, kissing him as if he deserved such tenderness.
His hands moved without conscious command, settling more firmly at her waist. Holding rather than merely being held.
V smiled against his mouth. "There you are," she whispered. "There's Goro."
Something broke. Something fundamental. The last wall between Takemura the function and Goro the man. His arms wrapped around her properly, pulling her closer against him. His mouth seeking hers now, inexpert but eager.
Kore wa tadashikunai. This isn't right, the soldier in him protested weakly.
Shikashi... But...
V kissed him deeper, her hands in his hair now, loosening it fully from its tight binding. Dark strands falling around his face, another layer of armor discarded.
"So beautiful," she murmured, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "My Goro."
Watashi no. Mine. The concept of belonging to someone—not as possession, not as asset, but as... connection—made his chest tighten painfully.
"I don't know how," he confessed, the words escaping before he could contain them. "V, I have never..."
She silenced him with another kiss. The fifteenth? The twentieth? He had lost all capacity for calculation.
"Your body knows," she assured him, guiding his hands to the curve of her hips. "Trust yourself, Goro."
Jibun wo shinjiru. Trust himself. When had he last done so? When had he been worthy of such trust?
Yet with V's weight warm and real in his lap, with her lips tracing fire down the column of his throat, with her hands guiding his to softness he'd never dared explore, some dormant instinct awakened. Some long-suppressed humanity responding to her call.
Her kisses continued—relentless, gentle, devastating. Each one dismantling more of the structure he'd built around his heart. Each touch revealing the man beneath the machine.
"V," he gasped as her teeth grazed his earlobe, sensation sharp and sweet enough to make his vision blur. "Ore wa..."
His hands moved with growing confidence now, finding the curve of her back, the delicate line of her neck, the silk of her hair. Learning her shape not as tactical assessment but as wonder, as discovery.
Kore wa seigi nanoka? Is this justice? To feel such... joy?
For it was joy flooding through him. Not the grim satisfaction of duty fulfilled. Not the cold pride of mission completed. But joy—bright, warm, chaotic. Disordered. Uncontrolled.
Terrifying.
"Let go," V urged, as if hearing his thoughts. "It's safe, Goro. You're safe with me."
Anzen? Safe? He had never been safe. Had never sought safety. Had built his existence around being the danger others feared, not the vulnerability others protected.
Yet as V continued her sweet assault—kisses beyond counting now, touches writing new language across skin hypersensitive with awakening—he found himself surrendering to her impossible promise.
Safe. With her. In this room transformed by her persistence. Under these paper stars she'd hung to give him something beautiful to wake to. Surrounded by evidences of her care—the photos, the tea sets, the soft things that had seemed so foreign yet now felt like extensions of this moment.
"V," he whispered, his voice unsteady. Unrecognizable. "This is... I am..."
"You're perfect," she told him, hands framing his face again, making him meet her eyes. "Just as you are. Just like this. My Goro."
Perfect? Him? With his augmented body that civilian woman had recoiled from? With his eyes that made classmates shudder? With his existence defined by function rather than connection?
Yet V was looking at him—truly seeing him—with such warmth that for a moment, he could almost believe it. Could almost see himself through her eyes. Not the shadow. Not the weapon. Just Goro.
"Aishiteiru," he blurted, the words escaping like birds suddenly freed from long captivity. "Aishiteiru, aishiteiru, aishiteiru."
The declaration hung between them—reckless, uncalculated, raw. Words he had never spoken. Had never expected to speak. Had believed himself incapable of feeling, much less expressing.
V's smile bloomed like sakura in spring, transforming her face with such radiance that Goro forgot to breathe.
"Watashi mo Goro-chan ni aishiteiru," she replied, the formal phrasing softened by the diminutive suffix, transforming him from fearsome warrior to beloved in a single breath.
Goro-chan. As if he were young. As if he were cherished. As if five decades of isolation could be undone by simple declaration.
Her kiss this time tasted of salt. His tears? Hers? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except her mouth on his, her body warm against him, her hands unwinding the last threads of his control.
He was kissing her back now. Properly. Hungrily. Inexpertly but with growing confidence. With growing desperation. His hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, deeper.
Wareware wa kore wo... We shouldn't... his training began.
Kankeinai, he silenced it savagely. Irrelevant.
Ichi... ni... san...
Takemura counted silently, desperately, as V's weight shifted against him. His breath caught, muscles tensing beneath her touch. The numbers a lifeline in the overwhelming tide of sensation.
Shi... go... roku...
This tactic had saved him before. In Arasaka's special training facility—the one they never officially acknowledged—when pain had threatened to unmake him. When electrodes attached to parts of him never meant for such violation had sent current through nerve endings intentionally enhanced for maximum sensitivity.
Nana... hachi... kyuu...
Back then, his voice had remained steady. Even as they increased the voltage until his enhanced muscles seized, even as they added water to amplify conductivity, making his skin sizzle with sick sweetness that mingled with the stench of his own burning flesh. He had counted. Had remained the perfect soldier. Had not broken.
Juu... juu ichi... juu ni...
Now, beneath V's hands, beneath her lips still pressing kisses to his throat, his jaw, his mouth, his voice was anything but steady.
"J-juu san... juu sh-shi..." The numbers escaped aloud, his control fractured beyond repair.
V paused, pulling back just enough to see his face. Her weight still in his lap, her hands still framing his face, but her eyes now searching his with that penetrating gaze that saw too much. Always too much.
"What are you counting, Goro?" she asked softly, thumbs brushing his cheekbones with devastating tenderness.
Takemura gasped for air that suddenly seemed too thin, too hot. His chest tight with something beyond exertion, beyond fear, beyond anything his training had prepared him for.
"I don't—" he tried, voice breaking shamefully. "Wakaranai... I don't know what happens to me. I don't want anything bad to... to occur."
His hands trembled where they rested at her waist. His heart hammered against cybernetic ribs with such force that internal alerts flashed at the edges of his vision. Temperature elevated. Blood pressure irregular. Hormone levels spiking beyond optimal parameters.
"Okashiku kanji," he managed, reverting to his native tongue as English failed him. "Atsui sugiru... to... nurete iru." Too hot. Too wet. His body betraying him with responses he couldn't control, couldn't understand.
Another memory surfaced—waterboarding during specialized resistance training. The cloth over his face, water poured slowly, inexorably. The panic of drowning while remaining perfectly dry. The animal brain fighting against rational knowledge that this was controlled, was training, was necessary.
He had counted then too. Had measured each second of submersion, each precious moment of air. Had reminded himself that warriors endured. That weakness was failure. That surrender meant death.
Now he counted for different reasons. To hold back the tide of something that felt like drowning but wasn't pain. That felt like dying but promised something else entirely.
V's soft chuckle pulled him back to the present. Her lips curved into a smile that held no mockery, only affectionate understanding. Her hands slid from his face down to his shoulders, then lower, tracing the tense lines of muscle beneath expensive fabric.
"Baka ne," she murmured, the Japanese endearment striking deeper than any physical touch. "My silly Goro-chan."
Her grip tightened slightly on his upper arms, steadying him even as she deliberately shifted her weight in his lap. The pressure—god, the pressure—against parts of him awakening for what felt like the first time. Her thighs pressing against his, the heat of her even through layers of clothing making him dizzy with want he didn't know how to express.
"V," he gasped, hands spasming where they held her waist. "Ore wa... ore wa..."
Words failed him entirely as V leaned forward, purposefully pressing herself harder against the evidence of his arousal. Her lips found his ear, breath warm as she whispered:
"Stop counting, Goro. Let go."
The command—gentle yet firm—struck deeper than any torture had ever reached. Deeper than the time they'd dislocated each shoulder, then stretched his arms until tendons tore with wet, popping sounds that had haunted his dreams for months afterward. Deeper than the neural blocker malfunction that had left him feeling every slice of the training blade as it had carved intricate patterns into his flesh.
He had counted then too. Each slice. Each burning line. Focus narrowed to numbers rising, to the mechanical progression that promised eventual end.
This—V's body moving against his, V's lips reclaiming his mouth, V's hands now sliding beneath his partially unbuttoned shirt to touch skin that hadn't known gentle contact in decades—promised no end. Only escalation. Only surrender.
"Ikanai," he whispered against her mouth, not even sure what he was refusing. Not even sure if he was refusing at all, or begging. "Dekinai."
His body disagreed violently with whatever protest he'd attempted. His hips jerked upward involuntarily, seeking pressure, seeking contact, seeking her with animal desperation that bypassed five decades of rigid control.
V's lips curved into a smile against his. "Kawaii ne," she murmured, the words sending fresh heat flooding through him. Cute. As if he—Takemura Goro, Arasaka's shadow, killer of men and destroyer of lives—could ever be described as such.
Yet the word struck some chord deep within him. Some long-buried need to be seen as something other than weapon, than asset, than function. The need to be... cherished.
Electricity arced through him suddenly—not memory of torture but present, overwhelming sensation. Her hand had moved, had found the hard evidence of his desire, had pressed with deliberate gentleness.
"Hnng!" The sound tore from his throat—undignified, animalistic, real.
Like a live wire touched to water, the contact sent shockwaves through his system. His hips bucked upward, his arms wrapped around her with crushing force, his face buried against her neck as his body acted without conscious command.
The memory hit without warning—his first real mission. The target strapped to Arasaka's special chair, screaming as electrical current transformed muscles from tool to weapon against their owner. The smell of urine as the man's body betrayed him, as dignity was stripped along with information.
"Just like a dog," his superior had commented dispassionately as the man had convulsed, had jerked and twisted against unyielding restraints. "Human bodies. So predictable."
Now Takemura understood with horrifying clarity. Now his body jerked and twisted against V's steadying weight, seeking pressure, seeking release, seeking completion he couldn't name but needed with desperate, animal hunger.
"Inu mitai," he gasped, shame burning alongside desire as his hips continued their erratic, helpless movement against her hand. Like a dog. Exactly like a dog. Rutting, mindless, controlled by biology rather than discipline.
V's free hand cupped his cheek, forcing his gaze to meet hers. No disgust in her eyes. No judgment. Only that same warm understanding that had drawn him to her from the beginning. That had allowed him to accept the stuffed shiba-inu, the paper stars, the gradual transformation of his quarters from cell to home.
"Beautiful," she corrected gently, continuing her deliberate pressure, her calculated movements against his desperate body. "My beautiful Goro-chan."
Something broke. Something fundamental. The last tether of control snapping like overtaxed wire.
Takemura's body seized—not with the practiced stillness of the warrior, but with the abandoned surrender of the lover. His arms tightened around V, pulling her flush against him as pleasure crashed through defenses never designed to withstand such siege.
"V!" Her name torn from his throat, half-shout, half-sob as his body surrendered completely to sensation he'd denied himself for a lifetime.
His hips jerked helplessly, erratically, desperately seeking maximum contact as release washed through him in waves that left him gasping, trembling, unmade. His face pressed against her neck, breath coming in harsh pants that would have shamed him if any capacity for shame remained.
He clung to her like drowning man to salvation. Like falling man to final handhold. Like dying man to life itself.
Gradually, the shudders subsided. Gradually, his breathing steadied. Gradually, awareness returned of where they were—on the floor of his quarters, partially clothed, his body having just experienced completion for the first time with another person.
Shame threatened at the edges of his consciousness. Shame and its companion, fear. Fear of her judgment. Fear of his weakness. Fear of having revealed too much, surrendered too completely.
But V was still holding him. Still pressed against him. Still stroking his hair with that gentle touch that made his soul ache with longing he hadn't known himself capable of feeling.
"Subarashii," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. "My wonderful Goro."
Not Takemura. Not Oji-san. Just Goro. As if the man beneath the function deserved such tenderness. Such acceptance. Such... love.
"I didn't—" he tried, voice rough with emotion he couldn't contain. "That was not—"
"Shhh," V soothed, fingers continuing their gentle path through his hair. "Everything is perfect. You are perfect."
Perfect? Him? With his body's betrayal still evident, with the loss of control still reverberating through him? With five decades of discipline undone by simple touch, simple kindness, simple acceptance?
Yet as V continued to hold him, continued to press gentle kisses to his face, his mouth, his closed eyelids, he found himself believing her. Found himself accepting the possibility that perhaps this—this surrender, this vulnerability, this humanity—was not weakness at all.
Perhaps it was strength of a different kind. Not the rigid control of the warrior. Not the perfect discipline of the shadow. But the courage to feel. To need. To love.
"Aishiteiru," he whispered again, the declaration easier now that his body had already betrayed every other secret. "Hontou ni... aishiteiru."
V's smile—so warm, so real, so accepting—was answer enough. Her kiss gentler now, less demanding, less awakening. More confirming. More accepting. More... loving.
"Watashi mo, Goro-chan ni aishiteiru," she replied, settling more comfortably against him, making no move to separate despite the mess, despite the impropriety, despite everything.
Johnny erupted into consciousness with the violence of a grenade, V's stomach heaving before his mind fully materialized. Acid scorched her throat as he doubled over the toilet, emptying whatever remained from last night.
Images. Flashes. Memories that weren't his.
Takemura's face contorted in pleasure. Japanese words spilling from lips usually so controlled. Yamete. Hazukashi. Mada. Hayaku yame...
"Get the fuck up." Johnny materialized beside V, digital form glitching violently. "Get the FUCK up and explain this shit to me."
V wiped her mouth, eyes meeting his in the mirror. "Explain what?"
"Don't you fucking—" Johnny's voice cracked with rage. "You fucked him! You fucked Saburo's attack dog! Your precious 'Oji-san'!"
V's jaw tightened. "It's not—"
"NOT WHAT?" Johnny roared, digital fist smashing uselessly through the mirror. "Not what it looks like? Not what I think? I SAW IT ALL! Every fucking second of Takemura getting his rocks off to his 'V-chan' pinning him down!"
V stood, facing him directly. "You don't understand what Goro needs—"
"What he NEEDS?" Johnny's laugh came unhinged, manic. "The last fucking virgin in Night City! Congrats on popping Arasaka's bodyguard cherry while playing his goddamn granddaughter! Real fucking wholesome!"
"You need to calm—"
"Oh, I need to calm down? FUCK YOU!" Johnny's form flickered chaotically. "Incest roleplay with Arasaka's top killer? That's where you draw the line? That's your specialty now?"
V moved past him to the kitchen, her silence only fueling his rage.
"Did he call you V-chan while you straddled him? While you made him come in his pants?" Johnny pursued, relentless. "You're collecting quite the menagerie, V. Daddy's boy Yorinobu. Granddaddy's little girl Takemura. What's next? Corporate orgy where you play everyone's favorite family member?"
V slammed her hand on the counter. "Enough!"
"It's never enough for you, is it?" Johnny pressed closer. "Never enough souls to consume—"
The world tilted. Shifted. Colors bleeding away.

Trailer floor. Cold against his cheek. Six-year-old Johnny curling into himself as heavy boots approached.
"Worthless piece of shit," Dad slurred, bottle dangling from meaty fingers. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Johnny raised his eyes. Mistake. Always a mistake to look directly at Dad when he was drunk. Flash of movement. Pain exploding across his cheek. Taste of blood.
"You think you're special? Think you deserve anything?" Each question punctuated by a kick to ribs too small to protect vital organs. "Answer me when I'm talking to you!"
Johnny couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe through the blood filling his mouth.
"Fucking disappointment." Dad grabbed him by the collar, lifting him like he weighed nothing. "Who do you think you are?"
Johnny's feet kicked uselessly at air. Lungs screaming. Vision going dark at the edges.
Please stop please stop please stop

Johnny gasped, V's lungs heaving as if they'd been the ones deprived of oxygen. Her kitchen materialized around him, V's concerned face swimming into focus.
"Johnny? What just happened?"
"Nothing," he spat, digital form reappearing, forcibly stable by sheer will. "Fucking nothing."
V reached for her jacket. "I need to get groceries. We'll talk later when you're calmer."
"Calmer? CALMER?" Johnny's rage returned, amplified by the flashback. "You're fucking Takemura while playing his granddaughter and I need to be CALMER?"
V was already walking out the door.

The market buzzed with midday activity. Vendors hawking everything from synthetic protein to black market tech. V moved methodically through stalls, selecting items with practiced efficiency. Johnny remained stubbornly silent, digital form trailing several feet behind her.
Not looking at her. Not speaking. Not acknowledging.
Just existing in sullen, seething fury.
V approached a stall selling imported Japanese goods. Ceramic teapots. Bamboo whisks. Traditional cups without handles.
Johnny froze. The teacups. Identical to the ones from the teahouse. Where Takemura had—
Where Johnny had—

Sunlight streaming through paper screens. Takemura sitting across from V, cherry blossom still clinging to his braided hair. Eyes softening as V spoke animatedly, hands gesturing with childlike enthusiasm.
The doll chip activating in V's neural pathways. Emotions flooding Johnny's digital consciousness against his will.
Warmth. Safety. Belonging.
Takemura's small smile. His controlled affection. His protective presence that felt like shelter after a lifetime of storms.
Johnny fighting against the manufactured feelings. Raging against the programming. Cursing V for making him feel this—this need for family. This desperate, childlike hunger for a father who wouldn't hurt him.
Takemura standing to leave. Johnny seizing control of V's body for just a moment. Arms wrapping around the old warrior. Face pressing against a chest that smelled of gunmetal and ceremonial incense.
Takemura's startled tension. Then gradual softening. Awkward pat on V's back. Low Japanese words Johnny couldn't understand but felt in his core.
Safety. Home. Father.

"Get these away from me." Johnny's voice came strangled, forcing V's vocal cords to vibrate with his disgust.
V turned, confused. "What?"
"The fucking teacups," Johnny hissed, digital form destabilizing. "Get them away."
V's expression shifted toward understanding. She moved away from the stall, leaving the merchant looking confused at her sudden departure.
"Johnny—"
"Don't," he warned, following because he had no choice. Always following. Always trapped. "Don't you fucking dare try to explain."
V continued shopping in silence, Johnny's rage simmering beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment. When they passed a shop selling vintage music equipment, something caught his eye. Old-style headphones. The kind kids used to wear to block out the world.
The kind little Johnny had wished for every night as the trailer walls thinner than paper let through every sound.
Every. Single. Sound.

Three in the morning. Johnny huddled under blankets too thin to provide real warmth. Hands pressed over ears that couldn't block enough sound.
The rhythmic creaking. Dad's grunts. The woman's high-pitched fake moans.
"Yeah, you like that, don't you? Who's your daddy? Say it!"
The woman's voice, slurred with cheap synth-alcohol: "You are! You're my daddy!"
Johnny pressed his hands harder against his ears. Knees drawn to chest. Eyes squeezed shut.
Make it stop make it stop make it stop
The wall shook with each thrust. Plaster dust sifting down onto Johnny's blanket.
Dad's voice growing louder. More aggressive. "Fucking take it, little girl. Take what daddy gives you."
Johnny rocked back and forth. Silent tears tracking through dirt on his face. Stomach churning with nausea. Fear. Something else he couldn't name.
Make it stop make it stop make it stop

V's apartment door closing behind them snapped Johnny back to the present. The groceries were put away. They were back home. How long had he been lost in memory?
"You've been gone for almost an hour," V said, as if reading his thoughts. "What's happening, Johnny?"
"What's happening? WHAT'S HAPPENING?" Digital fists clenched at his sides. "You're fucking with my head! Your goddamn doll chip and your fucking around with Takemura!"
V set down a bag of rice. "My relationship with Goro has nothing to do with you."
"EVERYTHING has to do with me!" Johnny screamed, form glitching violently. "I'm in your fucking head! I feel everything! See everything! Your memories bleeding into mine!"
V took a step toward him. "Johnny—"
"No! Stay back!" He retreated, digital boots passing through physical furniture.
The world tilted again. Colors bleeding. Realities merging.

Beneath him. Above him. Inside him.
Takemura's face flushed with pleasure-pain. Eyes half-closed. Lips parted.
Johnny's hands—V's hands—their hands pressing Takemura's wrists into the mattress.
"V-chan," Takemura gasped, the honorific twisted with desire. "Please..."
Johnny felt it all. The power. The control. The desperate need beneath it all.
But Takemura's face kept shifting. Blurring. Melting into another face.
Dad's face.
Johnny straddling Dad. Johnny controlling Dad. Johnny doing to Dad what Dad had done to so many women. So many "little girls" who called him Daddy as he used them.
Dad's voice emerging from Takemura's mouth: "Please... daughter... please..."
Horror exploded through Johnny's consciousness. Revulsion so intense it felt like dying. Like being ripped apart at the molecular level.
No no no no no not this never this anything but this

Johnny's scream tore through V's vocal cords as he seized control. Fist smashing into the window. Glass shattering. Blood spraying from knuckles that weren't his but responded to his terror.
"GET OUT!" he howled, tearing at V's hair with her own hands. "GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"
V fought for control, muscles seizing as two consciousnesses battled for dominance.
"Johnny, stop! You're hurting us!"
"MAKE IT STOP!" Johnny slammed V's body against the wall. Again. Again. "GET IT OUT! GET HIM OUT!"
Blood streaked the wall where V's head connected. Vision blurring. Pain shooting through a skull housing two tortured minds.
"Please," voice breaking as he drove V's bloody fist into the wall. "Please make it stop. I don't want this. I don't want to be him. I don't want to be with him."
V wrested control gradually, muscles going limp as she slid down the wall. Blood matting her hair. Breath coming in ragged gasps.
Johnny's digital form materialized across the room. Huddled against the opposite wall. Knees drawn to chest. Arms wrapped around legs. Position of a child trying to disappear.
"I wasn't trying to—"
"Doesn't matter what you were trying to do!" Johnny's form stabilized, rage providing structure where grief threatened to dissolve him completely.
He couldn't finish. Couldn't articulate the horror of feeling paternal affection for Takemura one moment and sexual possession the next. Couldn't explain the trauma of his memories of his father tangling with V's memories of Takemura until he couldn't separate them anymore.

Chapter Text

Darkness. Then light bleeding through cheap motel curtains. Johnny blinked awake into a memory that wasn't supposed to hurt this much anymore.
Not Johnny. Not yet. Still Robert John Linder. Still the kid who ran away to prove something. Still the soldier missing an arm instead of the legend missing a soul.
The ache pulsed where his left arm should be. Phantom pain, the medics called it. Feeling from limbs already gone. Wires firing into nothing. Lightning strikes in a desert that didn't exist anymore.
Four days since he'd moved from the bed. Maybe five. The sheets reeked of sweat and piss and whatever else leaked from a body trying to die without permission. Pills scattered across the nightstand. Some military issue. Some scored from a ripper who didn't ask questions about the fresh stump wrapped in bloody gauze.
Not enough pills to die. Just enough to drift in the space between awake and asleep where the pain couldn't quite reach.
The ceiling fan spun lazily, blades cutting shadows across yellowed plaster. Each rotation marking seconds he hadn't asked for. Hadn't wanted. Life continuing without his consent.
Someone knocked.
Linder closed his eyes. Whoever stood on the other side didn't exist. Nothing existed beyond these four walls. Beyond this filthy bed. Beyond the space where his arm should be but wasn't.
The knocking came again. Soft. Insistent.
"Fuck off," he managed, voice sandpaper rough from disuse. From screaming in sleep when the drugs wore off. From the bottle of whiskey he hadn't been able to open one-handed.
The door opened anyway.
A figure stood silhouetted against hallway fluorescents. Female shape. Something familiar about her that Linder couldn't place. Like déjà vu but stronger. Like memory of something that hadn't happened yet.
"Get the fuck out," he slurred, struggling to focus through the pharmaceutical haze. "Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying."
The figure approached. Materialized into a woman as she drew closer. Dark hair. Eyes that saw too much. Gentle hands carrying a glass of water.
"You need to drink," she said, voice stirring something in Linder's chest he thought had died in the Central American mud alongside his arm. "It's been days."
"Do I fucking know you?" Linder tried to push himself up with his remaining arm. Failed. Collapsed back into sweat-soaked sheets. "Who let you in?"
The woman—girl?—sat beside him on the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight. Real, then. Not another hallucination from the pills.
"I'm V," she said, as if that explained everything.
Inside the dream, it did. Inside the dream, Linder felt recognition bloom like blood in water. V. Of course. V who had always been there. V who had always known him.
His cracked lips parted. "V," he echoed, the single letter somehow containing multitudes.
She brushed greasy hair from his forehead, touch cool against fever-hot skin. Held the water glass to his lips with practiced gentleness.
"Small sips," she instructed, one hand cradling the back of his head. Raising him like a child. Like something precious rather than the broken war-trash he'd become.
Linder's good hand scrambled weakly, finding purchase on her wrist. Skin against skin. Human contact he hadn't realized he was starving for.
"Where the fuck would I go?" he rasped between desperate swallows. Water spilling down his chin. Down his neck. Cold trails mapping the hollows of a body wasting away. "Back to the old man's house? Fuck that."
V wiped the spilled water with her thumb, the gesture unbearably intimate. Maternal almost, though she didn't look much older than his twenty years.
"Slow down," she murmured, offering more water. "You'll make yourself sick."
Linder drank greedily. Like a drowning kitten. Too fast. Choking. Coughing up as much as he swallowed. V's hand steady on his back, rubbing circles between shoulder blades that protruded like landmarks on a skeletal map.
The water cleared something in his head. Pierced through the pharmaceutical fog to a moment of horrible clarity. The stump where his arm had been throbbed with renewed intensity. The absence suddenly more noticeable than presence had ever been.
He stared at the bloodstained bandages. At the ghost limb that wouldn't stop screaming.
"Can't even fight back now," he whispered, words meant for himself but spilling out anyway. "Can't even hold a fucking guitar right."
V set the empty glass aside. Resumed stroking his hair like he was something worth touching. Worth gentleness.
In the dream, this made perfect sense. In the dream, this was all the explanation needed. She was V, and she was here, and somehow that made the absence where his arm had been slightly less consuming.
Linder's chin quivered, betraying what little remained of the boy beneath the would-be man. Tears he hadn't allowed himself spilled hot down hollow cheeks.
"I don't want to fucking die here, V," he confessed, the words torn from somewhere deeper than conscious thought. "Not like this. Not alone in this shithole with nothing to show for it."
V's fingers continued their gentle exploration of his scalp. Pushing through hair soaked with fever sweat and memories of war.
"You won't die here," she promised, certainty in her voice he wanted desperately to believe. "And you're not alone. I won't leave you."
"Don't—" Linder's voice cracked, fracturing on emotions too raw to express. "Don't go. Please."
V chuckled softly, the sound warming places inside him that had been cold since the first time his father's fist connected with his small body.
"I'll never leave you alone, Johnny," she said, using the name he'd only just started thinking of himself as. The name that would eventually become armor against a world determined to break him. "Not even when you want me to."
The words sank into him like morphine. Like relief. Like salvation.
"Good," he murmured, eyelids growing heavy again. Body surrendering to the first peaceful sleep he'd known since before the war. Before the absence. Before everything.

"What the fuck is this?"
The voice came from everywhere. From nowhere. Thunder without lightning. Rage without source.
Linder jerked awake within the dream. V still beside him. Still stroking his hair. Still caring for him in ways no one ever had.
A figure materialized at the foot of the bed. Solid yet translucent. Real yet impossible.
Johnny Silverhand. Full cybernetic arm gleaming. Hair long and wild. Sunglasses hiding eyes that burned with contained fury. Older. Harder. Colder.
Linder recognized himself instantly. The man he would become. The legend built on rage and revolution and running from everything that hurt.
"Get away from him," Silverhand growled at V, digital form glitching with barely contained violence. "Get your fucking hands off him."
V didn't move. Didn't stop her gentle ministrations. Didn't acknowledge the apparition radiating hatred at the foot of the bed.
"She's helping me," Linder protested, voice small against Silverhand's commanding presence. "I need her."
Silverhand's laugh came harsh. Mocking. Familiar as the back of a hand across a young face.
"Need her? You don't need anyone," he sneered, stalking closer. Predatory. Dangerous. "Especially not this manipulative bitch."
Something about his older self's tone sent ice through Linder's veins. The same tone his father used before fists followed words. The same dangerous quiet before explosion.
"Don't," Linder warned, shrank back against the headboard, good arm curling protectively around his bandaged stump. "Don't talk about her like that."
"Or what?" Silverhand challenged, looming over them both now. Taking up all the oxygen in the room with sheer presence. "What exactly will you do, you pathetic little shit? Cry? Beg? That's all you know how to do."
The words struck deeper than bullets ever had. The confirmation of Linder's deepest fear: that no matter how far he ran, no matter what name he took, he would always be the worthless boy his father had named him.
V's arm tightened around Linder's shoulders. Protective. Sheltering him against the onslaught of his future self's contempt.
"He needs help, Johnny," she said, voice calm despite Silverhand's rage. "He's hurt. Alone."
"He needs to man the fuck up," Silverhand spat, cybernetic hand clenching into a fist that glowed with digital rage. "Needs to stop whining about his arm and start fighting back."
Linder's chest tightened, throat closing around words he couldn't form. The cruel irony crushing him: his future self, the legendary rebel who'd fought against oppression, now playing the role of oppressor. Of father. Of everything he'd sworn to destroy.
"She's all I have," Linder whispered, voice breaking on the truth of it. On the desperate loneliness that had defined his existence since before he could remember.
"She's NOTHING!" Silverhand roared, digital form surging forward, hand raised to strike. "Nothing but a parasite feeding on your weakness! On your need! On your pathetic fucking desperation for someone to save you!"
Linder cowered, instinct overriding pride. Body remembering lessons taught with belts and fists and boots. Arm raising to shield his face from the blow that always, always came.
But V moved faster. Placed herself between Linder and Silverhand. Between boy and man. Between victim and abuser.
"You won't touch him," she said, voice soft but implacable as stone. "Not here. Not now. Not ever."
Silverhand's rage seemed to fill the entire motel room. Walls bulging outward. Reality cracking at the seams.
"Get out of my way, V," he warned, voice dropping to something more dangerous than his shouting. "This isn't about you."
"It's exactly about me," V countered, one hand still maintaining contact with Linder, grounding him through the terror. "About what I am to him. To you. To both of you."
"And what exactly are you?" Silverhand demanded, digital form flickering with emotion too complex to name. "Savior? Mother? Lover? Which mask are you wearing for him?"
"Whichever one he needs," V answered simply. Honestly. "Just like I did for you."
The truth hung between them. Silverhand's fury momentarily checked by recognition. By understanding that went deeper than words could express.
Linder huddled behind V's protective form, watching his future self with eyes that had seen too much violence not to recognize its warning signs. The tension in shoulders. The slight forward lean. The hands flexing with anticipation.
His father, wearing his own face. His future, become his past.
"Don't let him hurt me," Linder whispered against V's back, fingers clutching her shirt with desperate strength. "Please, V. Don't let him."
"I won't," she promised, not taking her eyes off Silverhand. "He can't hurt you unless I allow it."
Silverhand's laugh came bitter as night ocean. "You fucking witch," he hissed, advancing another step. "Playing therapist even in my dreams. Even in my memories."
"I'm not playing anything," V replied, still calm. Still steady. Still protecting the broken boy who would become the angry man before her. "I'm just here. Where I've always been."
"She's mine," Linder spoke up suddenly, voice stronger than before. Finding courage in V's unwavering protection. In her willingness to stand between him and harm. "You can't have her."
Silverhand's attention snapped to his younger self, sunglasses vanishing to reveal eyes burning with contempt.
"Can't have her?" he echoed, lip curling. "You think she's yours? Something you own? Something you earned?" He laughed, the sound devoid of humor.
Linder flinched at the reminder of his absent limb. At the future apparently waiting for him.
"I need her," he repeated, simpler truth beneath the possession. The need so raw it made existing possible. "Please don't take her away."
Something fractured in Silverhand's expression. Something complicated and painful passing across features hardened by decades of performed anger.
"She's not real," he said, voice quieter now but no less intense. "Not for you. Not yet. Just a dream your fucked-up brain created to cope with the pain."
"I don't care," Linder declared, moving slightly out from behind V's protection. Finding fragments of the defiance that would eventually define him. "Real or not, she's here. She helps."
The last word came smaller. Uncertain. Question as much as statement.
Silverhand's hand—the real one, not chrome—rose to his face. Pressed against his eyes as if trying to physically push back whatever emotion threatened to escape.
"You stupid fucking kid," he whispered, words meant for himself as much as his younger self.