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NOCTIUM IC INBOX
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TEXT ⧠AUDIO ⧠VIDEO ⧠ACTION
V ⌠CYBERPUNK 2077
RESIDENCE ⌠Chez Eurodyne, Silverhand, Strife & V
GEMBOND ⌠Sapphire
"This is V. 'pparently 'm busy right now so leave a message."
INFO ⧠PERMISSIONS ⧠KINKLIST
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After that, itâs only a matter of waiting. The Relic feels like itâs burning a hole in his pocket, heâs so aware of the damn thing; trying hard not to focus too much on the fact that he used to be housed in that little, killer chip. Praying to whatever god might exist that it isnât too late to slot it back into Vâs head, given how delicate the tech was supposed to be. Howâd he know those wannabe gangoons didnât manhandle the thing into uselessness?
Heâd find out soon enough.
When V arrives, Johnny presents himself like a specter (old habits die hard, after all), just a dusky shadow leaning up against the wall right next to that crusty mattress, a little firefly-light of orange revealing a lit cigarette. It burns a little brighter as he takes a long, considering drag as his only greeting.]
Damn. You look like shit.
[Smoke coils up, up, disappearing into the crossbeams of the high ceiling. Johnny tamps down his concern in favor of stating the obvious; thereâs only so much worry he can lose himself in, his quota long having reached its max. The excess simply turns into resolution. Stubbornness. Cleaving a path to an end goal, and now only V himself possibly stands in the way of fixing this problem.]
And Iâve seen you on some pretty bad days.
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Fight or flight usually kicks in about now, his adrenaline's shot up towards the stars and yet all he's got is stiff limbs and the kind of look that's deer in headlights. ]
The fuckin' message...
[ It's murmured rather than shared, a thought clicked into place, realization swimming uncomfortably into view with the kind of clarity that's unwelcome. There's no way Johnny could just know this is where he'd been holed up. So, the loose end is his device, something he should have known better than to keep on. Definitely a message he knows he shouldn't have responded to. ]
How many times I gotta tell ya... Fuck. Off.
[ His voice is scratchy, not quite the same quality as usual. He sounds tired, on edge, lost and like he's been yelling, or screaming, more than his throat could handle. He's still standing uncomfortably immobile, a rare occurrence for him outside of jobs where he has to be quiet and stay still. Maybe he's waiting for Johnny to do what he came here to do; he's just not sure what that is, but he's damn sure the man doesn't have anything to give him. ]
Told ya not to tail me. Thought I was jokin'? Think I won't put you down?
[ Not that he seems to be following through on that threat. Hard to when he can feel the churning in his stomach, the typhoon of fear whirling uncomfortably in his chest. Maybe the shake in his voice betrays more than he wants to, but he's going to keep on laying down threats as thick and heavy as he can in the hopes the other man will leave him the fuck alone. ]
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[With the state Vâs in, looking like heâs about to jump out of his own skin, he wouldnât doubt it. The guy looks like cornered prey, and though Johnny is here to help, heâs sure his presence is both unwanted and something for the merc to be fearful of in his state. Probably still doesnât trust Johnny as far as he could throw him.
An exhale of smoke, and the cigarette is dropped and stamped out with his boot-heel. The rockerboy straightens, pushing himself off of the wall. No shades today; they remain hooked to the neckline of his shirt.]
Even if I told you that I finally figured out why youâre actinâ like you are. Really never noticed anything missinâ, did you? Wonder if it feels like a chunk of your mindâs run off; no wonder youâre so confused.
Gonna show you, alright? Not pullingâ anything on you.
[He feels the warning is necessary in case V suspects that Johnny, who is now fishing into a pocket, might be pulling a weapon on him. Instead, the slow unearthing of his organic hand reveals a delicate piece of tech cinched between forefinger and thumb: the Relic.]
Look what I found.
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He doesn't go far, just a couple steps back, the need for a healthy distance between them paramount in V's opinion. He might talk a big game, but he's not totally written off that Johnny's hardly a stranger to fights. And the way he feels right now, he's starting to think that maybe he might actually lose going head to head. It's an uncomfortable feeling, the crawling sensation sliding across his skin like thousands of little insect legs.
He holds his breath, heart hammering and pulse skipping like a hyperactive five year old. The chip itself isn't what sets him off; it's the whole picture, like a hand with the chip is superimposed onto a picture that only V can see. The cold sweat is slicker than before, the hot-cold seesaw ramping up to something new.
He hates this, hates everything about it, and finally his fucking survival instinct kicks in. He's backing off the way he came, one hand stretched out behind him as if that's going to help defend him from anybody coming up from behind. But Johnny? Johnny he refuses to take his eyes off, even though it's not really Johnny he's seeing anymore. ]
No. No. I don't- I don't fuckin'... you can't. You can't do this to me. I SAID YOU CAN'T FUCKIN' DO THIS, I DON'T WANNA DIE.
[ The volume of his voice grows steadily louder, steadily harsher, more desperate. ]
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And thereâs that guilt again, riding high, biting sharp. He hates being the reason why Vâs suddenly overcome with fear, hates to see him look at him like that even more than before. (Hates with more fervency the fucking scop-for-brains that did this to him.) He frowns, silent for a moment, but hesitation isnât something he allows to settle into consideration. He canât. This is his only chance of fixing whatâs broken; if it doesnât work, then he really doesnât know what heâll do.
Itâs got to work. Johnny steps forward; he finds himself towing that delicate line of not wanting to spook the merc, versus not wanting him to give him enough space to dart off again. He canât keep up with those damn cyber-enhanced legs. He can barely keep with his cyber-enhanced anything, never mind how able Johnny is on his own.]
Vâ listen to me. Calm down.
[He has a feeling these words might land on deaf ears. Has a feeling his request might as well be laughable, but he has to opt for it first before choosing the potentially even more traumatic route.]
Not gonna hurt you, okay? Need you to come here. Tryinâ to make everything right again, make it normal.
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[ Whatever cyberware V's got on board, it doesn't seem to be kicking in to help him out here. His breath is too fast, heart might clean rip out of his chest with how hard it feels like it's slamming against his ribcage. His arms and legs feel heavy, head feels foggy and muddled. Summoning anger that's only ever been less than a breath away feels impossible, like it's hanging just above his head and he's sinking into quicksand. â]
Don't trust you. That fuckin' chip never brought me anythin' good.
[ The Relic, in V's mind, is only symbolizing suffering and death right now. A tiny thing capable of bringing his life to the most fucked up end. Sweat's sprung up at his temples, slick down the back of his neck and rolling unhindered down his spine. Fuck, he's got to get out of here. He's got to... he's got to go
Johnny's steps against the floor - littered with detritus telling tales of other people who maybe used this place as some kind of bolt hole before - herald the sound of annihilation, of being crushed out beneath one of those boots like a discarded cigarette. The sound of V's life being shortened with every step closer. There's not exactly many places he can go, it just doesn't stop him from trying.
There's barely a sliver of opportunity, but he reaches out for it all the same, a refusal to give up in the face of that chip, or to surrender to the man holding it. He twists on the spot, the rotting wooden frame his shoulder catches cracking in threat. Running's only as fast as his legs will make reality, and right now they feel like lead. ]
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Dammit! V! Fuckinâ listen to me!
[Might as well be talking to air. Vâs running, through the remnants of this old factory, like two men trying to weave past the guts of a long-dead beast. The rockerboy rushes as fast as his legs can take him, with the poignant knowledge of the chip still enclosed in a palm â gotta somehow be delicate with it, even mid-chase. What a joke.
Johnny did a preliminary survery of the place before he decided to perch in one spot and wait for V â he knows the way the merc headed is lined only with boarded up windows and a staircase that leads to an upper storey with too-many holes in its deteriorating floor. The lighting in this place is awful, and itâs even worse up there; last place he wants to play cat and mouse with V, where he might lose him, or one of them might fall through this buildingâs fucking ramshackle ceiling.
He picks up the pace, bootsteps heavy. Any chance he gets, heâs going to take it â reach out for him, tackle him, whatever he can if he can just manage to get close enoughâ]
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Fuck.
He pivots last second, and maybe he feels the brush of a hand close to anchoring to the back of his shirt. Maybe his mind's just ready to take anything as a sign of aggression, of perceived harm. The soles of his boots slip, grate against the rough floor as he flings a hand out to grab the stair rail. If the only way he's got to go is up, that's the way he's going to head.
Taking the stairs two at a time, that fancy cyberware in his legs feels like it's going to seize up any fucking second, like it he even tried to jump further they'd give out completely. But there's nothing like abject terror to convince somebody to do the thing they weren't going to do, and at the last minute he tries launching himself from midway up the stairs to the top, careens into the second to top step and crumples, groaning in pain. Only then does he try turning himself over on to his back, steps digging into his spine, ready to kick his legs and stamp at the man he's assuming is following.
The steps beneath him groan just as loud, the telltale warp and bow nothing but a deeply disconcerting moan of surrender incoming. ]
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Of course the last thing he wanted is the thing that's happening, and Johnny's got no choice but to follow, taking the stairs two at a time as well; every single one groans under his weight in worrisome protest. The deer analogy ceases to apply when V loses all grace and stumbles after an ill-timed leap, and Johnny counts his blessings as it gives him time to draw closer.
Words are wasted now; he doesn't try any of them. In fact, he's more focused on avoiding those lashing kicks else one lands straight across his middle -- no thanks, he's tired of dying via holes put through his middle (like with Smasher; how he remembered it happening; wait, that wasn't how it happened, was it?; no time for that now), and he's twisting out of the way to avoid a heel in his gut. Except V does manage to knock him in the shin instead, bringing him painfully slamming down onto one knee. It puts him right over the merc, though, and Johnny takes advantage of that by trying to pin him across the chest with his metal arm, holding him in place.
(The stairs groan again, displeased.)]
Donât wanna do it like this!
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There's something deeply primal about this, a connectedness to his own mortality, like he's staring up into the jaws of death and all that's present outside of this is darkness. A void where the rest of the world is being snatched from him. Like Johnny's form is blotting out the fucking sun and everything good that comes with it.
The rockerboy might have him pinned at the chest, but it leaves both hands free, and it's not hard to figure out which fist he's going to try smashing into the side of the man's head. It's the one souped up with chrome, harder than fuckin' diamond when he wants it to be.
A punch at this range would spell out bad things for Johnny, but maybe the older man's wise enough to V's next planned move without needing that connection they usually have. Truth is, V's forgotten that Johnny knows him inside out even without the presence of anything else to connect them otherwise. And he's vastly underestimating that kind of intimate knowledge right now. ]
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This would be a real comical sight any other day, clumped together on the stairs like this like a pair of feuding siblings, were it not for the fact that it isn't funny at all. That Johnny's heart wasn't pounding against his ribcage, or the palm enclosed around the chip wasn't already feeling too hyperaware, too clammy with sweat. He's gotta move, take action, because V's not just going to let him get away with this without throwing another close-quarters punch. He can't dodge them all, his luck isn't that kind to him.
Raising himself up with a grimace, teeth a line of clenched white, his fingers are finding purchase on the chip, trying to situate it into position to slot it into the nape of the merc's neck. All the while he pushes down hard with his chrome arm, and while the position might have been the best chance he's had at it so far-
The stairs have had enough. They creak, bow, and eventually something snaps like a spine. The next moment is all dust and splinters and upended pieces of railing as the two men are deposited to the first floor via gravity, spat out like unwanted food.]
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Every single shred of that pings like a rubber band out of his conscious mind as gravity seems like it doesn't exist for the microsecond between V feeling constant pressure at his back and suddenly... not. The way they fall has his back cushioning their landing, and they're probably both equally as lucky that neither of them gets staked by any of that wood. Considering the shape it's in, it'd probably crumble before making any kind of mark at all. So, instead of that, V's got the hard, unforgiving floor instead to soften his own blow. It pushes all the air out of his lungs in one wheezing, compressed gasp.
Quick reaction times desert him. Feels like his brain got rattled around all the same, and there's a terrifying few seconds where he feels like his body doesn't want to do anything at all. He's slow and sluggish, barely able to move between the floor beneath him and Johnny on top of him, but he's trying to reach out all the same, hand trying to find any part of Johnny that he can shove away. ]
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But none of that matters. The chip, his brain supplies uselessly, still got the chip, and he can tell itâs still there pinched between his fingers like his life depended on it. The jostle of the fall is something he pushes aside like it were a physical distraction, and Johnnyâhis motions a bit slower, too, given the jarring change of sceneryâsounds nothing short of frustrated.]
V⌠Vincent, you gonk-for-brains idiotâ just fuckingâŚ
[A tangled mess of limbs, Johnny still somehow manages to press his weight atop him out of pure luck wrought from the fall.]
âstay stillâ
[The knuckles of his hand holding onto the Relic are oozing crimson, scenting the heat between them like copper. He doesnât remember injuring it; must have scraped the skin off against the concrete flooring when they landed.
Doesnât matter.
He doesnât care if itâs a clumsy effort. Doesnât care if the gesture is harried and hurried and almost desperate. All he cares about is sliding the chip back into Vâs chipslot, and he moves to do just that, knowing exactly where it is â guided by memory, as though it was his own body.]
âfor two seconds!
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His temper's dulled by fear, and that fear is harder and harder to react to the longer he has to fight. Fatigue is setting in and if he wasn't otherwise distracted, he might actually be impressed by how much Johnny's given him a run for his money.
Except now he doesn't want to fight for the sake of purging ghosts or remnants of feelings that are free floating in his mind, sharp and prickly, vast and suffocating. He's in pure survival mode, fighting tooth and nail to not lose and end up deader than he means to be.
That last flash of energy materializes in both hands reaching up, fingers aching but outstretched to snag in Johnny's collar. The weight on top of him is substantial enough to make it hard to fight against, but all he needs is one surge, one last stand...
When he tugs at Johnny's clothes to yank him forward, he's already using the opposing weight to try leverage himself up at the same time. He's intending on headbutting the other man hard enough they'll probably both see stars. He just hasn't considered that when his head, shoulders and upper back leave the floor, he's leaving the duo of chipslots in his head wide open. ]
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His forehead collides with the mercâs, and though V is flagging in swiftness and strength, thereâs still something to be said about the force behind it. Itâs enough to blur his vision for a moment, enough to send too sharp a pain snaking through his sinuses, enough to make the room feel like itâs jittering and shifting. Johnny does what any man would do in this situation: lets a curse fly out from his lips, calling V something very colorful and unique; despite his bond with the man, he deserves it after a stunt like that.
And yet despite the pain, Johnnyâs focus has barely been jostled. His hand seeking the almost-underside of Vâs head had never stopped seeking; fingers holding onto the chip still prying about for that empty chipslot. The space that Vâs created between himself and the ground trying to pound their skulls together was more than enough leeway to finally feel the edges of his goal, and with a lingering burst of determination, Johnny finally inserts the troublesome piece of tech where it belongs.
It clicks into place with almost no fanfare for how much effort it had required of him. Johnnyâs breath catches in his throat, head still pounding. This better fucking work. This better fucking work or heâs going to be so goddamn pissed.]
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Everything changes the moment the chip clicks into place, and V's consciousness abruptly shuts down. His vision is nothing but a blank, black screen as he slumps backwards again, every muscle, ligament, and tendon in his body going lax, useless. He's passed out, temporarily powered down and lost. Drifting in nothingness, maybe this was supposed to be his freedom.
Those few seconds of complete shutdown are punctuated by a cursor; it blinks rapidly, urgently, from behind closed eyes, and then the startup routine kicks in. System checks, feedback on the state of his hardware, the state of him. Processes start, networks are reinstated, repaired, made whole again. Code rapidly runs across his horizon. System check, new line. Vital signs, new line. The synaptic accelerator he's got on board fires, adrenaline floods his system. The microprocessor embedded in his body pulses out electricity, a jumpstart for his heart, and eventually he gasps, desperate for air.
The pressure still at the back of his head is momentarily an unknown, and instinct kicks in abruptly, fingers blindly gripping whatever's there. They close around Johnny's wrist, firm but not crushing, and the moment he touches skin he knows who it is without having to open his eyes. He can feel it right down to his core, exactly where he always imagines his soul to be. The simple touch explodes with what he's gotten used to understanding as Synchrony; unhindered, unapologetic, unbroken.
Johnny. ]
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Come on, come onâ
[Just like after Dex, he supplies himself, reaching for some fragment of reassurance based in experience. Gonna be just the same.
It still feels like too long before Vâs body goes from limp to taut in a half-second, his lungs gasping for air. And Johnny feels like his heartâs remembering to beat again now that itâs been given some ray of hope. He sucks in breath, brow furrowed, waiting for some other signs of life, any sign that V is the V he knows, when he gets exactly what he was hoping for.
And itâs utterly overwhelming.
The Synchrony happens like it was hungry, descending upon him not like a tide but like a flood coming to engulf anything it touches. Logically, if Johnny had been given the headspace in this moment to think logically, it could be those severed pieces of his mind overcompensating for having been so neglected for so long. Like someone stretching out a muscle that had been dormant for days. Except every aspect of their connection is slamming into him all at once, a dizzying spell that might as well have disconnected him from reality for a few precious secondsâ Somewhere in there, he feels that increasingly sublime sensation of being whole, or having found a piece of himself that ran off, or tethering up again with the rest of his mind and spirit that V has come to represent. The Ruby beneath his shirt radiates a vibrant red. And Johnny lowers himself until his forehead is pressed into the mercâs chest, as though prostrating himself before an invisible altar.
His chest heaves. Some stubborn part of him is still trying to root him back into reality, and it seems to have some small success when the initial burst of sync, blessedly, slowly recedes.]
Holy shit.
[That seems to sum it up. Christ.]
Guessinâ⌠that means youâre back.
[It takes some effort to lift his head to look at the other man, but Johnny manages through sheer force of will.]
V?
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Hearing Johnny's voice feels weird, like he's spent too long underwater and is only now hearing it again without interference. Or maybe what's closer to the truth is he's been hearing Johnny but not listening. Even now it's hard to fully grasp everything that's happened over the past couple of weeks, and right now V doesn't have the energy to try.
All he's got to show for himself is the way the rise and fall of his chest slowly starts to even out, and his eyes only blink open when he feels the pressure of Johnny's head lift off him. ]
I-- ...yeah. I... think so.
[ His mind is yet to take a step back and look at the damage he's wrought outside of these crumbling walls. Whatever damage he's done to the man on top of him who wouldn't fuck off when he was told to. He's yet to loosen his grip around Johnny's wrist, too. He really doesn't want to. ]
I-- you--
[ Give him a moment, he's still trying to get his head back in some semblance of order... ]
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Finally.
[Heâs tired. Heâs injured, bleeding from the knuckles, smarting with unformed bruises, his lip bleeding a little from the fall, his forehead starting to welt red from the headbutt. And that doesnât account for the paradoxical sensation of reeling from a buzzing, powerful sync.]
Had me worried, asshole. Youâre a real fuckinâ pain, you know that, V?
[Every word might be gruff, but the hard edges are gone. None of it is a real reprimand.]
Donât know if you remember anything that went down, but you didnât even have the common courtesy to make it easy for me.
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That's a deeply-rooted instinctual feeling, one that he doesn't really have to think about. Everything else is still fuzzy around the edges, like he just got a fresh pair of optics installed and they haven't settled yet. Johnny's words, no matter their content, are like a balm all the same. Soothing like he's singing a lullaby, not telling him he's a pain in the ass. â]
...fuck.
[ The foggy cloud lifts, the moments leading to this point sharpening up until he remembers-- ]
Tried to crack your skull with mine...
[ The hand finally does loosen, but rather than drop away it reaches up towards Johnny's face. Thing is, he's not exactly gotten spatial awareness quite right yet. A dusty hand ends up splayed clumsily against Johnny's cheek, almost poking an eye, and the sapphire gem at the top of V's spine tingles. Whether it actually imbues the other man's face with healing is another matter entirely - who knows what is and isn't working right now? ]
...sorry.
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Donât be sorry.
[His own hand comes up to gracelessly swat Vâs away. The synchrony halts with the connection severed.]
You werenât yourself. [He looks down at the merc, face not only marred with burgeoning bruises and blood, but now the grime of a man thatâs been squatting in an abandoned factory for god knows how long. Thanks for that.] But you are gonna be sorry if you try that again. You donât got the manna to spare, and youâre tryinâ to heal? If I went through all this trouble just so you could turn into a rock, I really will kick your ass.
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It's why, after a few minutes of just breathing and staring up at nothing in particular, V groans seemingly without any kind of provocation. That'd be his longer-term memory organizing itself better than it's been for months. Post-Mikoshi, his new apartment, Kerry, the Crystal Palace...
It's not done yet; the Ruby Underground - fear, the house - Kerry, a dark, dirty alley - Dorian, the sting in his knuckles - Vincent. Everything he said to Johnny, every tiny detail clear like it's being illuminated in neon and hung on the side of a building. ]
What the fuck've I done?
[ It's a rhetorical question; he knows what he's done and to who. Creeping in like dark tendrils is the guilt entwined with the memory of being held down in the first place so the chip could be removed from his head without it getting damaged. Being tossed like trash after... ]
Shit. What the fuck have I done?
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Then comes Vâs groan, as though mirroring his dissatisfaction, though the merc definitely has a lot more to be dissatisfied with.]
Hey.
[Frowning, Johnny tosses the pack aside with the rest of the surrounding detritus.]
Nothinâ that you can blame yourself for. [Here comes the guilt, come to swallow V up. He knows without a doubt itâs going to happen, no matter what he says. But heâs going to say it anyway.] When I said you werenât yourself, I meant it. Missing part of your neural network meant parts of your personality were AWOL. You werenât V. Just some incomplete version of you.
Anyone with half a shred of decency, who cares about the hell youâve been through, will understand it. Will forgive you for it. Fuck âem if they donât.
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These memories he's got are the antithesis of who he tries to be, of who he wants to be. They're cold, doused with fear and loathing, and though he's got the context now to understand all the rage and terror he was feeling was a result of getting jumped in the way he did, just because it makes sense doesn't mean he can make peace with it. ]
No, I fuckin'...
[ Confessed more than he thought he meant to, peppered it with some displaced anger at his situation. He struck where his brain'd told him would hurt the worst. ]
Johnny, I don't fuckin' blame ya for any of what happened at home.
[ It'd be like blaming a knife for stabbing him, or a gun for shooting him. Dropping a hand from his head, his optics flick to Johnny next to him so fast it almost makes him feel dizzy. Fingers grip around Johnny's wrist again, the Synchrony kicks in immediately, and though it's overwhelming as fuck all over again, V's aching so much over this he forces himself to speak. ]
Tell me you know that's not how I feel 'bout it, or you.
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âCourse I know thatâs not how you really felt. It wasnât how you really felt when I was still a part of you, and I didnât believe you could have a change of heart just like that.
[This doesnât feel like the time or the place for this conversation, but V seems desperate to drive this point home, and Johnny can only deny his revelation so much. The grasp on him is still shaking.]
Wonât say that what you claimed was technically wrong, though â beinâ the reason you were dying. Why you still are. And I know it isnât my fault, either, but if you tell me Iâm not allowed to feel anything about it, Iâm about to call you a hypocrite, so donât waste your breath.
[His free hand reaches out, resting its weight on Vâs shoulder.]
You gotta rest. Somewhere that isnât a shithole of a factory. You can sort through everything else later.
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