Chapter Text
"Guess we got here first," V sighed, rather stating the obvious than addressing the woman in the white and gold suit in front of her. The place was dark and quiet—it was already obvious Songbird hadn't reached their hideout yet.
"Seems so," Myers agreed, not a trace of disappointment or tension in her voice. She seemed as confident as ever—V had met her an hour, maybe two, ago, but was sure this was her usual self. The woman kept looking around the safe house, but her assault rifle was lowered now. "We'll have to sit tight," she concluded. "Though I assume I'd rather not sit in the dark. Power would be useful. We could also get the radio up and running…" The president was now looking at the merc with a somewhat expectant squint on her barely lit face.
V was already getting used to this look and could even identify three distinct versions of it. The one Myers was using right now simply implied she expected the merc to do her bidding without even having to convey the order outright. Another one, probing, made V wonder whether it was just a trick to make anyone feel like the president could see through them, or if she was truly that good at reading people that she didn't seem to mind giving it away. The third one, usually accompanied by a wry smile, gave V the impression that the woman quietly enjoyed an unsaid joke, and likely at her expense.
The first and the last variants didn't bother her that much—after all, following Myers' orders was part of the gig, and V silently entertained her own share of observations. But each time she saw the probing one, she would inadvertently tense, suspecting that her private thoughts were not that much of a secret to the president, especially when it was immediately followed by a glint of mirth and a restrained smirk.
"What, can't miss our daily dose of fearmongering?" V asked, glancing around as well.
The scarce bluish light filtering into the room through the bare window and balcony was just enough for her kiroshis to see that the place was crammed with shabby shelves and makeshift tables piled with crap of every kind. The dirty mattresses on the floor, clearly used as beds by the apartment's former residents, now served as homes for swarms of hungry insects. At least the unrestricted flow of air made sure there was no unpleasant odor—other than the soot carried in by the damp Dogtown wind from the nearby Space Force One crash. From their window, she could see the orange glow of the fire.
"We need to know the situation on the ground," Myers explained. To V's surprise, the president was already closely examining one of the piles on the table by the window—dirty clothes, as her scanner obligingly informed her. "Oughta change out of this mess. High time."
"Change… Into those filthy, old rags?" V winced in disbelief. It was a reasonable thing to do, but even the thought of putting on those damp, stinky clothes made her skin crawl.
"These filthy old rags won't be smeared all over every TV and terminal screen in the city. Unlike my presidential best," Myers replied grimly, her gaze still inspecting the pile as if already deciding how to make the most of her new Dogtown local look. Of course the woman wouldn't wince. The merc caught the president's wrist midair before she could touch any of it.
"Wait, Rosalind," she said, feeling almost too comfortable switching to a first-name basis with the president, but she suspected the ordeal they had been through would make anyone feel at ease. Myers calmly glanced at her, not even raising an eyebrow and V immediately released her hand, explaining, "Got some spare threads in my pack. Won't land you on 'Glitter and Chrome' cover, sure, but beggars can't be choosers." She shrugged, feeling a bit too comfortable with her tone as well. Though she already knew it would typically amuse Myers rather than irritate her, and, since the woman played along, it was mostly her fault.
"Always prepared, aren't you." That was a statement, not a question, but V chose to respond while fishing for the package at the bottom of her backpack, placed on the table.
"Yep. Dunno exactly what's in there, but it'll be clean at least. Gotta dive into toxic water or look more casual sometimes—not that you'd know what casual is," she muttered.
"You mean, more casual than that dusted-up tac vest of yours that certainly doesn't scream 'merc' to anyone with eyes?" Myers quipped, narrowing her eyes in amusement, and V couldn't help but smirk in response.
"FYI, that's my Dogtown special I picked when Songbird reached out. Back in NC, I rock a much fancier all-black tac vest that certainly doesn't scream 'merc' to anyone with eyes," she followed suit, triumphantly raising the package above her head before placing it in front the woman.
"Well, I'll take it as a compliment you took the time to make yourself presentable for the president of the NUSA," Myers shot back but, within a second, switched to her commanding tone. "Have a look around. I'll join you in a minute." She picked up the package and headed into the nearby room, most likely the bathroom, with all the confidence of a woman who knew she wouldn't be disobeyed.
There were two more rooms in the apartment worth searching for a control panel or a generator, so V moved there, leaving the backpack on the table. In the first one, she found a few more infested mattresses and a writing desk improvised from a large tabletop resting on two neat, wide piles of cardboard. The shape of the desk and its placement by the window, covered by dusty horizontal blinds, somehow reminded her of the Oval Office from the old photos she had seen as a kid. The merc knew better than to share that joke, though. The other room, to her satisfaction, did house a generator. Alas, it also housed Johnny, who had clearly decided it was his time to spill his precious beans.
"Check this, V. Attempted post-modern art," the rockerboy said, standing by a crudely repurposed engine in the corner.
"More like a home-cut generator. Maybe we kick-start it, literally?" she shrugged as she mused.
"Uh-huh," he supported the plan. V jerked the switch a few times, but the generator remained dead.
"Old Thorton engine, pretty run down." She scanned the frame. "Little bit of CHOOH left, too… If the fuel's not degraded, it could actually run. But can't start it. Not without a power source." She glanced around the room.
The massive engine must've been a pain in the ass to get here—cutting into the main electrical circuit seemed like a more rational and lasting option, especially since the elevator was powered up. V doubted that it was Songbird who had turned it on beforehand, as she had guided them one small step at a time. The merc, however, didn't have the time or tools for any serious electrical work now, so the generator would have to do. Besides, it seemed to be in a reasonably good working condition.
"Sure. But seeing as we got a lull in the lead pouring down on us, listen… got a bad vibe about this. You?" V knew it was coming, he wouldn't have shown up just to keep her company during some boring mechanical work.
"You? Bad vibes? Big surprise." She got ready for Johnny to serve all his most obvious observations under his famous paranoia sauce.
"Songbird, S-tier netrunner, promises a panacea, a cure-all, then gets wiped off the map." The construct of Johnny lit up the construct of a cigarette. "Myers, shady politico, got a dagger thrown at her back all the way from Washington. Who by and why? Fuck if we know." A drag. "Oh, plus Kurt Hansen and his fucking SAM launcher. Just preem. Got this hot, itchy feeling in my groin, like someone's not 'fessed up to something." And another one. The rockerboy went silent, waiting for her response.
As always, Johnny didn't trust anyone and couldn't resist voicing his doubts about V sticking her neck out into some shady shitstorm. She, however, kept her cool and stayed levelheaded about the gig. Sure, she was offered a hefty prize for it—her life. But from the start, she hadn't pinned her hopes on this phantom miracle. It all sounded too much like a fairy tale, this last-minute cure from certain death, especially when every other option had led her to a dead end. Besides, the offer hadn't come directly from the president, or even on her behalf—Myers knew nothing about the Relic inside her head or Songbird's exact promise until V collapsed in the elevator. So, getting a cure straight from some netrunner seemed even less plausible. She had no idea by what means the girl—though the merc wasn't fooled by her youthful appearance—planned to make good on her word.
And then there was Songbird's behavior, which put her on guard. Sudden mood swings could be attributed to the high-stress situation, sure, but the manipulation attempt at the expo, where the netrunner contradicted Myers directly into V's ear without the president's knowledge—that seemed either calculated or indicative of some old grievances.
What was even the point of telling V that the Militech compound had been intended for military research? That much was obvious to anyone with half a brain. V didn't expect the president to explain the true purpose of the facility to a merc from Night City she had just met, let alone express any regrets at the cost of her war—that kind of naive sincerity would've gotten Myers killed ages ago, and yet here she was, very much alive. And the last ego dig at her was purely petty—the woman was the fucking prez, ego was part of her job description.
So why had Songbird initially expressed so much dedication and respect to her president, only to start sowing division later? What was her deal, and where did their deal stand after that Chimera blackout? There were plenty of questions V couldn't answer at the moment, so she decided not to even bother. For now, it was simply a gig—exciting, harrowing—but still a gig. And while Myers' company made it much more pleasant than expected, she surmised it was the president who grated on Johnny's nerves the most. They both knew shit about Hansen—it was merely the name of the danger looming over their heads.
"Mean Myers. Sure, seems the smoke-screen type, but no surprise," V finally replied and resumed scanning the bits of equipment in the room. A dead battery cell seemed to be the only thing that needed replacement, and if there was even a crumb of luck left for them today, she would find a spare one around.
"Really? Gonna sit and nod? Come the fuck on, V." The rockerboy tossed the stub to the floor and stomped it out. The construct of ash left no trace on the floor.
"Politico, Johnny, your words. The prez, no less. The hell you expect?" She didn't try to mask her sarcasm. "D'ya think she'd start spilling Washington's dirty little secrets just 'cause I saved her ass?" Myers had a pretty warm disposition for someone of her station, but V suspected that would end the moment she took a step too far.
"The more secrets fester in this cesspit sitch, the bigger the shit 'splosion later," he voiced another warning, and she couldn't help but sigh—quite an excessive reaction for a conversation in her head. Sometimes, she felt Johnny's construct would fare even better in the field of pseudo-deep nonsense than that Swedenborg-Riviera algorithm. "Anyway… Let's get this power sitch sorted," the rockerboy finally gave up. V shooed him back into her mind and headed back to the main room, recalling the rusty Bombus drones she had seen on the small table by the entrance door. Myers still hadn't come out of the bathroom.
Today was a strange day. Just yesterday, the merc hadn't even known what the president looked like—she had only heard her name mentioned in the news from time to time, never caring enough to glance at the screen. NC was a free city, and the only people around who gave a shit about the NUSA were the 6th Street goons. Not the worst gang in town, she always tried her best to leave them breathing during her gigs, but still a bunch of nutjobs.
When Songbird contacted her about this gig, V found herself mildly intrigued. Her habit of running into the higher-ups of the world was somewhat entertaining, and all the shit she was constantly getting into could use some kind of payoff. By then, she had encountered half of the Arasakas. And the would-be mayor of Night City, but that story she preferred not to dwell on—even considering all the weird stuff she had witnessed in her line of work, the guy's fate seemed uniquely disturbing. However, the possibility of meeting the president of the NUSA was enough to humor her, in case the promised cure proved to be a dud.
But the merc wasn't just humored, she was impressed. Tough and commanding, Myers wasn't some helpless paper-pusher that needed protecting but more of a partner—capable in battle and entertaining in conversations. The president looked around fifty, mostly due to her greying hair, though V wondered if she had it dyed that way deliberately to look slightly older and… presidential. Either way, that didn't mean much—in reality, she could be anywhere between fifty and twice that.
That much experience, including an obvious military background, could put V's humble track record to shame. The fact that this woman somehow saw something in her and trusted her judgement was flattering. But it was Myers' willingness to risk her own neck whenever the situation went south that earned her V's respect. The president might have secrets enough to fill Del Coronado Bay up to its brim, but no one could hide their true nature in the heat of battle. When she paused to help the merc up from the floor, fully aware of the giant Militech spider-tank gaining ground right behind them, V felt something very close to admiration. Were Myers a nomad, people would flock to her in droves. A daring, well-spoken, decisive leader who had your back—stories about her would spread across the Badlands in no time. Even Panam could bury the hatchet of her one-sided war against any authority figure—but that might be a reach too far.
Myers being hot wouldn't hurt those stories either. Though, whenever her thoughts inadvertently wandered in that direction, V rushed to rein them back in. Feeling awkward around the president was the last thing she needed. She genuinely enjoyed their established dynamic and distance, but if that probing squint was even half as perceptive as it looked, the woman would figure out the source of that awkwardness in no time and shut her off.
V braced for Johnny's comments, but he was likely too preoccupied with his usual conspiratorial spiral of thinking to notice her momentary slip. Or maybe he mistook her thoughts for his own. She didn't know which would annoy her more: if Johnny simply knew she found Myers hot or if they shared the same opinion. The guy was bad news for any woman, so she didn't want to know his take on the matter at all.
She removed a cylindrical battery from the most promising-looking drone and tentatively checked if the rockerboy was around, "Should do the trick, by my eye." She instantly felt at ease when he failed to respond. With her loot in hand, she approached the closed bathroom door. The merc hadn't investigated it beforehand but doubted there was anything dangerous in there, aside from dirt and mold. Still, she paused to check.
"All good in there?"
"Yes! I know how to change clothes, V!" Now Myers sounded irritated. "Just because I haven't had to for twelve years," she added more calmly. Disposing of her suit must've robbed the president of any illusion that she wasn't in uncharted waters. Either that or having to change in a dark, dirty bathroom the size of a shoebox would do that to you. V could mend only one of those things, so she promptly got back to the generator.
"In ya go." She inserted her find into the battery case, still slightly amused by Myers' sudden outburst. This time, Johnny cared to appear beside her once again.
"Fire it up." His enthusiasm took her by surprise. Whatever had happened to Songbird and the Relic must've driven the rockerboy to search for some ways to lighten his mood.
"Fingers crossed. Here goes…" The battery proved to be working, and a turn of the switch got the generator roaring. Dim lights coming back to life almost blinded her. "And amazeballs!" The merc blinked, giving her kiroshis a second to adjust—staring right at the bulb was not her brightest idea.
The radio in the main room came alive too, though not on the station she would've chosen. The quiet rustling accompanying the music indicated that Myers had finished changing and was now rummaging around the improvised kitchen. V shook the dust off her fingers. She had some bottled water in her backpack, but it was too scarce a resource to spend on washing her hands. Wondering if there was also a way to get the water running, she stepped out of the generator room and blinked again.
It was pretty bizarre to see Myers in plain threads. Denim cargo pants with leather patches and a white shirt made her look more like a nomad than a local, but there must be plenty of nomads around Dogtown—the merc had seen quite a few at the stadium entrance herself. Yet, seeing the president dressed like an ordinary human played a dirty trick on V's subconscious, as Myers simply had her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the top two buttons of her collar undone, and it was enough to make V freeze in her tracks and catch herself staring at the woman like a stupid gonk who had never seen one in her life. Blending in shouldn't be a problem. Her being attracted to the woman definitely was. She managed to divert her eyes a moment before the president glanced her way.
"V, could you… " Myers grunted. "Everything's all right?" She sounded confused, but surely not any more confused than the merc, who was now trying to come up with a reason why she was gawking at some old pipes near the ceiling with undivided attention. The pipes!
"Y-yeah…" That came out almost smoothly. "Gotta check something." She deliberately made herself sound thoughtful and, with that, restored her composure enough to meet Myers' frown—not the special probing squint, and that was already a relief. "Stay put, I'll be back in a minute." She swiftly walked out into the hallway.
"Oh, V…" Johnny's reproach nearly drowned out the creak of the metal door behind her.
"Don't start," she warned him, glancing up at the water pipes leading out of the apartment and disappearing again into the wall right in front of her.
"Y'know, you need to get laid. That Judy girl was all over ya, and you chose to guard her sleep. A strategic mistake, as we see now." His sarcastic ass was thoroughly enjoying her frustration.
"And here I thought you didn't like Judy." There was no point in denying anything—she had been caught red-handed. V scanned the pipes in the wall: no holes, just empty. If there was some kind of pump or a valve, it should be either inside their hideout or completely out of her reach, as the rest of the floor was barred off. At least she welcomed the distraction.
"I didn't, but you liked her well enough." Silverhand's smugness irked her.
"Judy's been through hell these past few weeks." Smugness and a total lack of empathy, especially toward women. A sad case of a veteran cyberpsycho—and the rockerboy would become his most sympathetic self, preaching about how harshly the world had treated the guy. A woman traumatized so severely she folded into herself like a Swiss knife—she must be faking it or just an ungrateful bitch. "Yeah, she was looking for a little comfort, maybe even thought she needed something more. But I am a walking, talking corpse. Didn't wanna be her last straw. Now she's free, and she'll move on. Sometimes, the best thing you can do for the people ya care 'bout is get outta their way. You'd know that too, if you weren't such a narcissistic prick." V got so riled up she caught herself physically poking at the rockerboy as if he were really standing in front of her. She froze for a second, trying to determine whether she'd had enough common sense to at least keep her mouth shut. Her ears seemed not to recall hearing her voice.
"'Kay." Johnny nonchalantly shrugged, and for a brief moment V hoped they were done with the subject. "The whole shady politico stuff aside, I do find Myers hot."
"Fuck you, Johnny!"
Vexed but distracted from her previous thoughts, she stomped back into the apartment, her gaze tracing the pipes. The branching should be easy to find, but that would keep her busy for a little longer. The radio was playing the same song. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Myers already going through another shelf. The president showed no signs of having heard V arguing with herself behind the door, and the merc felt her irritation ease away.
The pipes led her to a nook near the generator room that she had overlooked in the dark. To her utmost satisfaction, the water pump was there—probably the best piece of equipment in this apartment. She turned it on and strolled into the bathroom to check whether her humble efforts had gotten the water running and if nothing was clogging the pipes. The tap sputtered a few times before a growing jet of yellowish water hit the sink.
V glanced at the murky mirror: her own grey eyes on her rather dirty face looked back at her with relief—not Johnny's, as had happened a few times before. She didn't want to see the rockerboy for now. Least of all, in her own stead. The lingering stench of smoke from the nearby crash site made it harder to gauge the quality of the water, but it seemed passable, with only a hint of rust. She washed her hands and face, making sure no dust escaped its fate within the grooves of her titanium exo-jaw, then headed back into the main room.
Myers had already finished her research and placed her findings next to the radio on the kitchen table before taking a seat nearby. She looked perfectly comfortable despite the surroundings. Having to stay in this hole with someone snobbish, like a typical Night City corpo, would've turned V's life into hell, so keeping her eyes to herself was a very minor problem.
"Was that the sound of running water I heard?" The woman leaned back in her chair and tilted her head, visibly impressed.
"Yep," V confirmed, casually looking around the room as if choosing what to repair next. "Found the pump and restarted it. I'm a nomad after all." That sounded way too cocky for her fumbling with a few switches. She decided that puffing up her chest had to go too.
"I thought nomads don't like stereotypes about themselves," Myers smirked. That was a tease, but a very mild one. V would've been harsher with a gonk like herself.
"Only the stupid ones." The merc turned serious, opting out of joking back—maybe that would humble her ass a bit. "The good ones're kinda our bread 'n' butter."
"Guess so," Myers said flatly. V blinked at the change in tone and stepped closer to the table.
Her clothes seemed to fit the president just fine, maybe a size bigger than necessary. They were approximately the same height, but despite her excellent physique, the woman was leaner—she could easily make out the veins and tendons beneath the pale skin of her forearms. Before her eyes could guide her thoughts too far, the merc returned them to Myers' face. The woman slightly raised an eyebrow, as if amused by the pause. If V had to guess in the dim light, she would say Myers' eyes were green. She would also say that the light freckles on the president's face made her look too human and… approachable. Now she almost physically felt the silence stretching on for too long.
"The boots all right? Won't slow us down?" V finally asked. It was the only thing that mattered in practice, she wouldn't ask anything else.
"They'll do, thank you," the woman nodded before switching back to her newfound cheerfulness, remembering her loot. "Look what I found," she gestured toward the table with evident satisfaction edging on happiness. V was surprised she had failed to register the case of beer earlier. The president casually opened a bottle as if they weren't in the middle of a combat zone, with Hansen's goons and drones scouring the slums in desperate search of them, and the merc involuntarily noted that Myers taken off her rings and bracelets. "Whaddaya say? There's more in the fridge. Feel free. You earned it."
"Just earned yourself a vote, Madam President," V declared, her tone more enthusiastic than she felt, hoping to disguise her wandering attention as she fished out a lukewarm bottle from the case. She dropped into the other chair by the table.
"Are you even registered?" Myers asked, her voice a mix of doubt and amusement. They both knew she wasn't. Like most nomads, V didn't even have a SIN.
"Housewarming gift from Songbird, maybe?" she tactically deflected.
"Wouldn't it be wonderful…" the president sighed, but the sudden intrusion of a news report in the radio stream interrupted them. Myers turned up the volume, her full attention fixed on the broadcast.
"And circling back to Night City, speculative chatter continues tonight around the downed passenger craft. NUS representatives claim President Rosalind Myers was aboard when catastrophe struck. City officials have yet to release any statement. However, one all too familiar figure did decide to speak out. Kurt Hansen, the self-proclaimed leader of Dogtown, called a press conference earlier today to offer his take on the situation." The radio crackled, bringing into their room the same hard, raspy voice V had heard on her way to the crash site. Hansen sounded exactly how she would imagine a warlord to sound—bold, arrogant, and harsh, "I'm being framed—isn't it obvious? The NUSA's been out for my blood for years. Now, I'm not without flaws, but another thing I'm not is suicidal. An attempt on the life of the head of the NUSA? What transpired in Dogtown is no trivial matter. I urge you all to consider the true motives behind this… spectacle. The NUSA will take any excuse it can get to send forces into Dogtown. And will they stop there? No. You, good people of Night City, are next in the fucking line. Mark my words."
"Shit. Fuck this." Myers turned off the radio. "Troglodyte's clever, maybe too clever for his own good," she muttered, her face grim.
"Ah, so, Hansen's decided to wave a classic false flag," V weighed in as if she had something new to say to a shark like Myers and finally tasted the beer—it perfectly met her low expectations. "Sow doubt, reap apprehension towards any NUSA attempt to getcha back. Both ends fighting the middle." With all those corpo gigs and Johnny in her head, she was starting to sound like a cynical corporat herself. Myers fiddled with the bottle in her hands as she listened.
"Well, you sure know how to cheer people up…" The president's look was as grave as her tone, but she didn't seem to disagree. "If some mysterious party's out to trigger a war, an attempt on my life's a damn good casus belli."
"All the more reason for us to stay put. Got plenty of mysteries to solve—Songbird, Washington, Hansen," the merc said calmly, returning her bottle to the table. Her take was no more nuanced than this beer, but she was the only one there to help Myers process the information and decide how to act. And beggars can't be choosers.
"To name a few. Agreed," the woman nodded, sounding… grateful. She even managed to relax slightly until the unexpected sound of the elevator opening and movement on their floor tensed her up again. "Hear that? Footsteps."
"Songbird?" V couldn't hide her doubt.
"Maybe… Can't be sure, though," Myers' skepticism mirrored her own. She ducked behind the concrete column near the table and yanked V down with her just before the entrance door creaked open. The merc saw the familiar rifle in the president's hands and was once again impressed by the woman's sharpness and composure. She hadn't even realized the weapon had been stashed nearby.
"'S our lucky day, choomba," V peeked out from behind the table and saw two local gonks entering the room. Those weren't Hansen's goons for sure, but she still couldn't trust any local who might know what they were walking into. "A penthouse with a view of the ci-tay." The yellow-haired intruder hadn't noticed them—he was busy cheering up his choom, a burly, brooding man with a shotgun.
"And lights that work. This doesn't feel right…" His companion was more careful.
"Nutting ever does, wid' you, does it. Fucking killjoy… You want an angle on Hansen's airdrops, you got it." She had no idea what airdrops they were talking about.
"V…" She heard Myers' intense whisper and glanced at her. "We need to eliminate them." Oh, the woman was tough. The merc was definitely no stranger to killing, and just the sight of a Scav or a Raffen Shiv made her trigger finger itch. But those two didn't look like the kind of scum she would flatline without any remorse. Still, she couldn't let them harm the president. V had met enough of their type to know they wouldn't dare to attack, but they would flap their traps to anyone who cared enough to listen.
"Wait. Wanna try talking first." she hesitantly decided to give the trespassers one last chance to walk out of here alive. Myers rolled her eyes in disapproval.
"I hope you know what you're doing," the president agreed at last, instantly springing out of her cover as if V alone couldn't handle the threat. "Weapons, now!" She pointed her assault rifle at the trespassers, her tone offering little room for discussion. With her Malorian drawn, V rushed after Myers, baffled by her recklessness—exposing her face was almost as dangerous as stating her name outright.
"What the fuck?" the chatty gonk was startled too, but for a different reason—for now, their guests were simply stunned by this kind of welcome. The merc quickly stepped between the woman and the intruders, aiming her gun squarely at his face as he was the obvious leader.
"I won't say it again!" the president issued another warning. V sensed Myers' patience growing thin, but at least now she didn't try to move outside her new cover.
"Yo-yo-yo, chill," the yellow-haired gonk attempted de-escalation, picking up on the vibes, "Jus' looking for a place to hole up for the night."
"This one's taken, clearly," Myers stated in her most commanding tone, and the merc got the cue they needed to drive the visitors away before they took a second look.
"Told ya…" The burly one was definitely the smartest of the two, but the leader took advantage of the pause, sneaking another glance behind V, a smug smirk spreading across his face. She nearly groaned at his mistake.
"So I see… This the, uh, presidential suite," he continued cheerfully, unaware that he was already dead—a small-time guy who couldn't grasp the big stakes. With her Sandevistan activated, she registered Myers cursing behind her. One shot per head, and the two bodies, in eerie unison, began to fall slowly through the dense green mist to the ground, her gun reloaded and holstered, as there was nothing left for it to do anymore. Our lucky day, choomba.
V froze, as she usually did when the implant's duration exceeded her needs—she was aware of how unnerving she would look to an outside observer otherwise, flickering around the place. Though, probably, she wouldn't startle the woman. The merc mused what the president's exact military background was, staring in a trance at the falling corpses until a familiar voice broke through the timelessness. The green haze fading away, the world shifted back to normal speed.
"They didn't leave me a choice. Whoever they were," Myers said, steel in her voice.
"Whatcha talking 'bout? I zeroed them, not you," V frowned, disoriented by the abrupt intrusion of the reality into her thoughts.
"Would've done it if I weren't here?" The woman raised an eyebrow, and she reluctantly shrugged instead of replying. "Thought so," Myers concluded, her head held high. Songbird was wrong: the president didn't shy away from accountability, she simply never let it slow her down. V's heart sank a bit. "The bodies… we really should do something. I saw a chute in the hallway." The merc hadn't, and that was the evident gap in experience between them. She grimly nodded and heaved the larger gonk onto her shoulder.
When she came back for the yellow-haired one—the blood had turned his hair brown—Myers was nowhere to be seen, but the sound of running water put V at ease. By the time she was finally done with her grim task, the president emerged from the bathroom, water droplets glistening on her skin.
"Another problem solved. Don't know about you, but I've about had it with today," the woman said, her voice somewhat weary and distant. "Tomorrow will come quickly. I need to rest."
"Here?" V was exasperated. The hideout had lost its last remnants of comfort and now felt like a perfect trap. It was too high to jump out of the windows, and access to the staircase was completely blocked. The only way out was the elevator—the same elevator that would deliver their pursuers here if they found them. "What if more like them show up?"
"That chute's not going anywhere," the president replied coldly. And that was the gap in the nerve.
"You serious?" V frowned at her in disbelief, but Myers paid her little attention, already turning away and heading toward the dirty makeshift beds by the window. She propped her rifle against the wall beside one of the mattresses, and the merc noticed the dark red line on the president's neck. She had completely forgotten about her wound, and Myers wasn't the type to complain. "Wait, Rosalind," the merc called out, and the woman turned to her with a questioning look. V grabbed the chair she had occupied just minutes ago and set it directly under the lightbulb. "Gotta check the cut first."
"It's fine, V. I'll live," Myers tried to protest, but she remained resolute, not stepping away from the chair, her posture full of silent reproach. With a resigned sigh, the president walked back to her. She sat down, hands in her lap, and tilted her head to the left, once again giving the merc full access to her neck.
V approached from behind and leaned in closer to the wound, careful not to block the scarce light. She gingerly ran her fingers along the rough edges of the gash. It wasn't bleeding—the president's combat stim was doing its job—but the skin around it was red and slightly swollen. Myers remained silent.
"Y'know, a simple merc with a piece of glass safely cutting out your tracker… Kinda defeats the whole idea of putting it so close to the artery," V muttered, trying to put the president at ease—and maybe herself too.
"Oh, yeah? And where would you have it placed?" The woman still sounded annoyed, but she could work with that.
"Assuming I really wanted it to stay put? Under a tooth, preferably a molar. Now that woulda been preem," the merc mused.
"Aren't you a monster?" From her angle, V saw the president raise her eyebrows in exaggerated indignation, a tint of laughter coloring her voice. "I'll remember not to let you anywhere near my Security Department."
"Too late for that. Kinda the only detail you got," V smirked, congratulating herself on achieving her goal. From her angle, she could also see light freckles running down the woman's chest under the cover of her shirt, but she was doing her best not to look that way. "Hold still. Oughta fetch a medkit." Having seen her share of wounds, V was almost sure the inflammation was more likely due to excessive damage to the soft tissues rather than an infection. But this close to the head, any infection could lead to a quick death without proper medical help, so sanitizing was mandatory. V placed the kit on the table near the beer case, and within a minute, she stood ready with a gauze ball thoroughly soaked in antiseptic. Myers stayed quiet. "Gonna leave a scar, that. The edges're too rough. A pity the only knife I got on me is neurotoxin."
"Yeah, either a scar or a very nice cut on my dead body," the president muttered grimly in response to the merc's comment, but at least it was a reaction.
"Still, shoulda laid out your options, received your, uh, informed consent," V murmured, lowering herself to one knee, her warm breath raising the hairs on the nape of the woman's neck. "Not gonna open the wound. I'd be outta my depth, and you'd be in lotta pain. A little surface sanitizing should do the trick. Won't hurt too much." Her own hand had caused this wound, but without the adrenaline to steady her nerves, the merc found herself hesitant to inflict more discomfort.
"Oh, come on, I'm not a child," Myers snapped, her irritation creeping back. V began delicately dabbing the gauze ball along the gash. The air smelled sharp and clean.
"How'd you and So Mi meet?" she asked, hoping to distract her once more.
"Well, she broke into my house," the president replied with a soft laugh.
"Sorry, what?" V's hand hovered over the wound.
"By which I mean a Militech data fortress." Myers being a former Militech corpo was certainly unexpected news. The merc took note not to mention the Basilisk heist or the whole Meredith Stout situation. She frowned at the idea: in what context would mentioning that even cross her mind? "We mapped her signal at the very last second," the president continued, oblivious to her thoughts. "They should have flatlined her, but… You don't kill talented teenagers when they do stupid things. You recruit them. Give kids like her a chance to make history." That bit sounded very close to a stump speech if V had ever heard one. She finished cleaning the wound and stood to prepare a dressing. The woman hadn't flinched once.
"D'ya have children?" The sudden and rather personal question surprised the merc herself. Her patient remained silent for a few moments.
"No," Myers finally replied, her tone flat. "Not that I know of," she added, and the wording made V's eyebrows jump. She blinked, trying to comprehend the unsaid part. It wouldn't be too far-fetched to imagine that corporations like Militech had been gathering promising genetic material among their ranks—no need to rely on natural selection to produce the perfect soldier. And those genes could be in high demand.
"Meaning… you wouldn't even know?" V asked when she finally managed to lower her eyebrows to their usual place.
"Please," the president chuckled dryly. "My mother is a retired Militech researcher, and her security detail's thicker than mine. Are we done?" Her voice conveyed her growing restlessness.
"Almost. Bear with me for a little longer," the merc murmured soothingly as she leaned back over the wound to place a gauze pad on the gash. A few seconds later, she secured it in place with bandage stickers, making sure it was neat enough. By tomorrow, there probably wouldn't be a need to do this again—the enhanced regeneration had already kicked in. "All done, you're free to go." Myers straightened her neck, lightly tapping the dressing with her fingertips before standing up.
"Thank you, V," she said seriously before moving back to the window. "Come on." The woman settled comfortably on one of the improvised beds, bending one knee to rest her arm against it while gesturing for V to take the mattress in front of her, her gaze fixed on the window.
The merc hesitated. Staying here for the night was inevitable at this point, but not more than that if she could help it. Unsure if Myers noticed her nod, V began unfastening her tac vest. She wasn't thrilled about being less protected from the dwellers of that mattress, but the vest wouldn't stop the bites and was too stiff to sleep in. At least she still had the leather jacket she wore underneath.
The vest's stiffness had made the merc forget about the cracked rib on her right—a farewell gift from that Chimera robot. She winced a few times as she took it off. By the time she was almost finished, Myers had turned her eyes away from the window to watch the merc instead. Her impassive gaze followed V as she placed the vest near the backpack, turned off the light, and lay down on the mattress beside the president's, trying to find the least painful position on her back. Only now did her exhaustion finally catch up with her—she was utterly spent. Yet Myers looked only slightly tired. How had Songbird described the woman? Unshakable? That she was.
"I think I've had my fill of surprises for one day," Myers said with a wry smile, as if denying the silent allegations. The smile didn't reach her eyes: they weren't cold, they were sad, and V's heart sank a little more. She suddenly realized that the woman's thin shirt offered no protection at all and quickly unzipped her jacket, disregarding the rib.
"Don't be ridiculous," Myers' voice halted her mid-motion, her tone making it clear that insisting would be even more foolish. The merc frowned but complied. "Still nothing from So Mi?"
"Radio silence," V replied, gazing outside at the lights of a few drones flying in the distance.
"She's never gone dark this long. Troubling, to say the least." However troubling the president found this, she sounded calm. The merc recalled the sheer horror she had heard in Songbird's voice and felt an uneasy shiver creeping down her spine.
"Can't wait here forever," she said tentatively, glancing back at Myers. "Place seems safe, but that could change in a flash." She was pretty sure she could take down up to three of Hansen's squads at once, but checking that estimation would put the woman at risk of catching a stray bullet from some stupid gonk's smart gun. And none of that would help the netrunner.
"We need to wait, it's all we can do for now," Myers sighed, looking away. "If she doesn't show, well…" She took a pause. "Then… we'll have one other option to consider. But let's table it till morning. We should get some rest." The woman looked around their room, remaining silent for a few more moments. "Heh. Surreal… All of it," she smirked mirthlessly.
"What's that?" V murmured, her limbs growing heavier. A lot of things that had happened seemed weird. Falling asleep while listening to the president's voice and realizing how much she enjoyed its sound felt surreal too.
"I'd've been home by now. Reading the evening brief, a glass of water and two sleeping pills waiting on the night table." The routine's description didn't seem to inspire the president herself.
"Doesn't sound like you miss it much." The merc was too tired to hold back her obvious doubts. It all felt too mundane, and the image of the woman she had in her mind was anything but. Myers' quiet 'hm' was her only response. The last thing V saw was the same wry smile and the same sad eyes, not looking at her.
"See you in the morning, V."
*****
Rosalind tried curling up on the lumpy mattress, but it offered little comfort. Her muscles felt sore and heavy. Any other day, that would've been enough to lull her to sleep, but now… now her mind was too feverish, sifting through the day's events. Still in the sky above California, she mentally replayed everything she had heard, seen, felt, or even dismissed as irrelevant—from that morning up to the week before. Nothing appeared off: no sudden changes in her detail, no new equipment on board, no reports of suspicious activity on the Hill or at Militech HQ. Everything was perfectly fine until it wasn't.
Whoever had carried out the attack was flawlessly effective, astonishingly secretive, humiliatingly smart, and dangerously close. A major part of her refused to believe she could've overlooked such talent right under her nose. If not for So Mi, she would've been as good as dead. The kid's disappearance was the second-worst outcome, though.
She sighed, something in her train of thought nagging at her, but she needed sleep to restore her sharpness. The president glanced at her merc, blissfully sleeping nearby. Her merc? She frowned at the notion, trying to remember when she had become so possessive. Yet she had. She had her staff, her agents, her office. Her country. And when she said that, it carried a different meaning than it would from the mouth of a common citizen. The girl was definitely hers, from that silly silver rattail down to those dusty boots.
Rosalind Myers considered her acceptance of the illusion of rationality one of her greatest strengths. Fools might think manipulation was about making someone do something. That was mere blackmail—a useful but crude tool for times of need. Making someone feel something was the only way to ensure predictability along the way. Emotions and feelings would always dictate decisions, covertly subverting the reasoning behind them. If you couldn't elicit a strong enough decision, it simply meant you couldn't instill a strong enough feeling. The trick was knowing which feeling to evoke at a given moment. The problem was that most times, emotions and feelings would eagerly impose themselves.
Take the girl, V. She must've accepted the job for pragmatic reasons: getting cured or, at the very least, getting paid. Yet, not once, even after losing contact with So Mi, who had initially promised her the cure, did she ask the president to confirm the deal. Had the girl been able to hide her symptoms longer, she might've never mentioned the Relic killing her. V simply kept sticking to her end of the bargain, undoubtedly rationalizing it once more, probably something along the lines of being entertained by her gig. But that wasn't rational at all. And certainly not professional.
It was no surprise a ticking bomb in the head could skew anyone's priorities. The surprising part was that the girl didn't seem all too concerned with her own survival. The thought made Rosalind frown, stirring the same nagging feeling about this entire situation, but once again it slipped away, refusing to develop into something coherent. At least, she was confident V would continue to demonstrate this willingness to take a bullet for her. And odds were, her merc would survive it too—after all, she had managed to blast a prototype killer robot the size of this room, only to ask if the president was all right.
The irony. To think that her office had spent weeks refuting Arasaka's claims that Militech and the NUSA were behind the unlucky robbers who, to the public's knowledge, had flatlined Saburo—only for one of the supposed perpetrators to end up saving her life. Rosalind had no illusions that she would've made it this far on her own. She was a commander, an effective team player, but not a solo—not in the way life had forced V to become.
And despite nothing in the Konpeki report suggesting it, the girl was smart. Street-savvy or cunning alone could only mask a lack of intelligence for so long, but she understood too much of what was said, a great deal of what wasn't, and intuitively chose the right course of action at every turn. A natural. Not that good at keeping her face straight, though. For Rosalind, reading her was easier than spotting the holo beams above Night City, but she suspected V was aware of that too.
If she could get her that cure and place her in The Citadel or even West Point, the discipline and purpose might cut Myers' most perfect diamond yet. One she would be willing to attract Arasaka's toothless ire for, if they caught wind of it. A uniquely good find on So Mi's behalf. She found herself reflecting on such a distant and irrelevant perspective that it resembled more a pipe dream than a plan. But one couldn't accept the illusion of rationality without accepting its universal application. Would she sacrifice her merc if needed? The answer was a firm 'yes.' Would she rather avoid having to? This time her 'yes' was even firmer.
The president leaned her head against the wall behind her, the shift reminding her of the dressing on her neck. Her stim rendered it an absolute waste of time, yet for some reason, she had still let the girl play nurse. The subject of her musings rolled onto her right side, mumbling something in her sleep. Myers almost laughed at the contrast: how someone so lethal could also be so disarmingly amusing. For a moment, she entertained the thought of lying down next to her warm, sleepy merc and having those arms wrap around her, bringing a false sense of security to lull her to sleep. But only for a moment. Rosalind Myers considered her acceptance of the illusion of rationality one of her greatest strengths, but the feeling wasn't strong enough.