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they still don't quite know what to make of him. a reputation precedes him, of course, any runner worth their salt has heard his name. but as is so often the case, the person on the net is only one piece of the puzzle. but this is personal. such is the reality of the corpo network infesting every corner of the city, where few have not been cut by their tendrils. some more than others. a few years back, v would have been among those who sabotaged corps out of principle. pushed by some youthful drive for chaos and rebellion, chasing the highs of small battles won, to not face their true powerlessness. now it's become deeply personal for them, too.
a small smile appears on their face, warming their features. the synthetic material of their kiroshi optics lacks the expressiveness of organic eyes, and thus cannot sparkle as they could have. pupilless eyes only shift to meet aleksander's. perhaps it is something of johnny, too, shining through. "it'd be my pleasure." leaning back in her chair, val taps her fingers against her thigh. already her mind is spinning circles around all the potential meanings this carries. where to begin, where to end. her time, too, is limited. but if there is even a chance of achieving this, and perhaps learning something about arasaka that could help her in the process, she would try.
it's suicidal, but what have they got left to lose?
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ken flirting: it’s rotten work when it’s you. can i back out yet?
there’s an edge of desperation constantly now. it drives them, keeps them awake until exhaustion takes over, as v pushes their failing body to its limits. the finish line seems farther and farther away the longer they drag themself forward. they thought they knew—what it was to feel constantly on the verge of drowning. they have only now truly learned. @daylighter‘s unyielding determination has become a supportive hand they could not do without.
laughter turns into a coughing fit. it makes her vision flicker, tips the balance of the world for a moment before she catches herself, and with a throbbing headache pulls herself up with the other’s help. johnny grumbles something in the back of her head; she ignores him.
"finally realised i‘m a sinking ship, huh?" a weak smile remains, fighting to stay on their tired face. they give his hand a squeeze before they let go, gripping the railing of the megatower‘s balcony instead. this is, perhaps, where val selfishly digs her heels in. seeking connection, reassurance, companionship, all despite the likelihood that her brain could be another‘s tomorrow, or her body fail under the weight of it all. what is a dying wish but a selfish bid for another‘s pain.
there’s an overwhelming taste of iron on her tongue.
"owe me nothing, ken," they add softly. "'m just glad you’re here."
val‘s phantom liberty experience so far is: has barely slept in about a week, doesn’t trust any of these people, and yet is scrambling for scraps of connection
val looks up from their notepad to find brynn standing by the garden gate. she looks hesitant, an expression they realise they've never seen on her before. it draws her brows in, but her mouth lacks the twist of irritation it so often carried back in thirteen. not at all the stern face on the tv, or under the bunker's flourescents. it's the first time they've seen her since she returned from the hospital.
"no," val replies and turns on the makeshift bench to face their visitor, leaning onto the table with their forearm. the short sleeves of their shirt openly display the fresh scarring. "he's out fishing. he'll be back by seven." it hasn't been long that they've lived here. a bit over a week of fixing up the place and getting used to the outside again. while val struggled to find routine, vincent was quicker to establish his. it gave them halt, too.
brynn tries her best not to look disappointed, but val is no fool. she didn't come here for them, they know that. she nods, presses her lips together, and looks of half a mind to leave it at that. val suppresses a sigh. "want me to tell him to go over to you later?"
"no, that's alright. i'll... come back tomorrow." in the warm sunlight of a late summer afternoon, the emerging, pre-mature grey in brynn's hair blends into the shoddy brown more evenly. she looks older, but decidedly human. it softens the unnatural glint in her eyes that appear at times to reflect light rather than catch it. what remains is an exhaustion val cannot imagine the extents of. the victors' price is a well-kept secret, one they were not privy to until some of them came to thirteen and a few told stories.
but there is something familiar to what she sees in brynn's eyes. perhaps she, too, is slowly falling into the recognition that their life is finally theirs now. only she is still wary, still watchful. not yet quite trusting the peace.
"i'll let him know. he'll be happy to see you." val's eyes soften somewhat. she has never felt for brynn what vincent does. didn't particularly warm to her hawk-like eyes and always preferred the company of her partner once the initial awkwardness passed. whatever first beginnings of new friendship are slowly spinning between the two of them in the garden now, they will take time to grow.
brynn still looks unsure. as if all the power in her body were slightly off-balance. "how is he?"
to their own surprise, val isn't quite sure how to answer that. "glad it's over," is the first thing to cross their lips, without much thought. it feels a little stupid in hindsight—who isn't? a small shake of their head. "i- his hearing's worse, but otherwise ..." their gaze drifts off, mind turning to a collage of moments from the last few weeks. to waking up and seeing the sun in his face, to holding him doubled over with choked sobs, to watching him move with purpose again. "he's settling in, i think. day by day, you know?" val smiles faintly, looking up at brynn again. there is much unsaid. they've all lost people, and carry wounds from way before. she doesn't bring up the engagement. not yet. "you? heard you got hit pretty badly..."
something of the tension in brynn dissipates. "i'm alright. apparently i was out for a week, i don't really remember. not supposed to bend over for a while, but it's healing well." for a moment, she appears pensive, turning over words in her mouth, before they finally come out. her amber eyes feel like they are burning into val, though it's not quite scrutiny. "dradeel mentioned … you'd help to try and shield that … thing in his head."
she bites at her lip. val can't help but wonder if brynn is thinking of a tv still from decades ago. the knife in their hand, staring at a young dradeel kneeling over vincent's body. the brief moment of wordless eye-contact, before he ran and they dropped to the ground to examine vin. they could hardly blame brynn for distrusting them after that.
after a moment's pause, brynn speaks again. her voice has softened to something quiet, catching in her throat. val thinks to see a flash of sorrow in her eyes. "thank you. for that. i wish i could … i just want him to be able to live without people messing with his head."
"yeah." val nods faintly. he is their friend, too, but they cannot imagine what brynn feels, watching him and helpless to stop it. "i can't—promise it'll work. not completely, but i worked on hacking these things a long time in thirteen. i'll do my best for him."
"that's all we could ask for." their eyes lock, deep brown and gold, and they are perhaps for the first time looking at each other as more than sizing the other up. not quite friends yet, but connected by a common care. for dradeel, and for vincent.
the wind picks up, the breeze stirring brynn out of her stasis. "alright, well, i should get going." she pushes herself upright again, holding onto the gate a moment longer before she turns to go.
"see you around, brynn."
val sits a while longer, watching her leave, her movements still slowed by her wounds. even after she has gone, their thoughts linger on brynn, and for the first time they think to have seen the person dradeel has described her to be.
expressions flash across val's face, and vincent could read a couple of them. worry, of course, probably for more than the two of them. the mission has gone positively sideways, and val has always believed in the Mission more than he does—needs it more than he does. possibly why she also looks guilty. perhaps for being injured this time, or for more than that. vincent doesn't bother telling her that she needn't be; they are both beyond absolving each other. still, he reaches for her hand, squeezing it a little...
or he would have, but val's hand is already in the air before his could get there. the simple signs and exaggerated expression communicate their meaning clearly. vincent shakes his head. he makes a hand gesture of his own, quick and sharp.
ambush. split up.
the sign was originally meant only for two. for the two of them specifically, in the arena when they were to split up, for stealth or to create confusion. it will need to suffice now for a much larger group of people scattering under an unexpected attack. still, it riddles vincent with the awareness of how many of their secret signs come in the unit of two.
he turns his head to the flap of the tent, blown half open by the distant blast. through the gap, they see rubble, dust, and combat boots occasionally passing by the tent. he puts a hand on val's shoulder, guides them into the right angle to see a corner of a tent set up with wires and machines.
"avry died." he croaks with a tight voice, but doesn't mince words. avry was their first communication officer. "waylon..." he makes a sign, conveying simultaneously trying, and need more time. it had been an useful one when one of them was anxiously on the lookout while the other hurried to disarm a trap or set up shelter. sometimes both.
vincent looks back at his companion, letting out a deep breath with intention, relaxing the muscles in his shoulders and chest. he draws val in by the back of their neck, pressing his forehead to theirs for the time of two long breaths, until his skin starts to cool and his heart no longer feels ashen. he pulls back, helping them down to their back. "rest." he says, then signs. another simple and familiar gesture, a quick flick of the fingers and turning of the hand, transmitting a range of meanings, added on overtime, overlapping and reinforcing, layer by layer.
i stay watch. let me look out for you. i am here. i won't leave you—
val watches vincent paint the picture. from the shake of his head, to the sharp signs, and the direction he points their gaze in, it becomes clearer what transpired. the knowledge does not lighten the weight that rests on their chest, but it disperses some of the uncertainty. it is too early for mourning; their heart aches nonetheless. they know all too well the guilt of surviving, and are not quite idealist enough to believe that death buys them anything. to know change could not come without loss does not lessen the blow.
but vincent is here and they are alive, for the moment. the fight is not yet done.
when he leans down, his hand cradling the back of her neck to bring their foreheads together, her eyes fall shut again. his breath barely grazes her skin, but the closeness feels like an embrace. bracketing them from the world for a moment, a few seconds to feel the welling grief and collect themselves. too weak to lift her hand to this face, val reaches with her good arm for his wrist, holding onto it. until he pulls back again and she sinks down, exhausted.
his sign moves something in her. it has been long enough now that those signs they created in the arena have lost much of their aftertaste. they have been transformed, expanded, and abstracted. their teacher in thirteen—a small, stern woman—had frowned whenever the pair used their own signs. no one will understand you, she reminded them, yet eventually understood that that was the point. through teaching them the 'proper' way, she had also given them the tools to expand their private language. but between the two, their own words and phrases stuck and evolved. yes, no one else could have understood everything conveyed in that simple sign that makes val's chest feel tight. it is a twenty year-old promise.
with only one hand, val's vocabulary is limited, but what they want to say needs nothing more. the tips of two fingers to their lips, moving outward. thank you. crossed fingers, palm flat to the chest. i love you.
sleep will come unsteadily. haunted by echoes of drugged dreams and real sounds around her, eventually ruptured by reawakening pain as the morphine recedes. but for a few hours, she sleeps even through the cries of other wounded, comforted by the knowledge of vincent close by.
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familiar faces in this city were as easy to come as they were to bury, and heywood was no exception. val’s slipped off - maybe atlanta?, or so pepe had said, and he’d taken that with a nod because going off anywhere never meant they’d come back in one piece, or come back at all. val had left without goodbyes but this was expected — night city wasn’t any bigger on farewells than it was on hello’s. case in point: he stops dead in front of them as if he hadn’t noticed them leave or better, that they hadn’t left at all and this was another tuesday. ❛ that’s my full name, yeah, ❜ and her hand comes down on his shoulder, at which point he rolls his eyes and shoves their other one in acknowledgement. ❛ look at you. too long in the sewers and you start making demands. ❜
she’s different, only in the way people are after a bad break up with night city. shadows under her eyes, head lost in thoughts, slow to spring to her feet. new chrome, he noticed that too, and pursed his lips because disapproval that could wait.
❛ no, here for a birthday party. what else? ❜ pocket fished for the last remaining cigarettes in his care, he offers one to them out of habit before lugging them out of the grey corner by the arm. riot was only a few paces away — and just like that, they’re in stride again. this time when he speaks, it’s in spanish. ❛ was heading out for dino before i saw you. what’s the deal, you back for good? ❜
they can't help but smile. it spills through the cracks of their weary face, and with some imagination even reaches the coating of their optics. night city is home, for better or worse, in all the terrible ways and those that are gently familiar. like the way they greet each other and fall into a rhythm, as if val had never left. they silently appreciate ken's nonchalance, asking only if they're staying—not why they left.
v takes the offered cigarette; a new itch in the back of her mind craves the nicotine much more than she ever had before. so she finds herself giving into it more often of late. she lights up, and johnny seems almost to sigh a breath of relief, flickering briefly into sight at a corner she passes without paying him any mind. neon lights flicker in the dirty puddles of earlier rain. "dunno," they shrug, staring emptily at an ad screen before tearing their eyes away. "i mean. yeah, probably. guess night city wasn't done with me yet." their smile has faded, but a hollow chuckle rasps in their throat.
"dino, huh? been moving up in the world i see," they look up at him with a small grin, "want me to tag along?" v has no doubts he can handle himself. they ask, perhaps, only to have something to do. something to think about that isn't the dread that has made its nest in the pit of her stomach. when nothing but the filter remains, she flicks the cigarette into a puddle. "got a new deck i've been itching to use. and you can tell me what i missed."
@devilsparda playfully steals something from v, initiating a chase. "come and get it, then."
"right, so that's that done," v mumbles with some relief when they see the flashing of the credit transfer on their optics' display. the same small frown they always get when checking their messages appears, minute movements of their pupils enough to flick through texts and find the right one. "should be something by the drop point, he promised me a shard... ah, here." with a victorious smirk, the merc pulls a small datashard out of the machine, where it had been taped to the top of the drop drawer. they lift it up to show dante the true reward for a long and exhausting job. only ... they didn't expect him to snatch it out of their hand and bolt.
"oh, you motherf " but he's gone, fast as the wind, and she can do nothing but chase after him, a curse and a laugh both falling by the wayside as the merc tries not to crash into an ad-screen when turning a corner. she slips in a puddle, has to catch herself on bare palms scraping over concrete, and push herself back into motion.
they run until their lungs are burning, until their legs feel like jelly and their cheeks flushed with life. v catches up to dante in an alley they know is a dead end, and part of them thinks he knew it too when he turned into it. so v takes the long way round, climbing through the empty and stripped-down corridors of the building at the end of the street to drop down behind him and press their pistol under his chin. they have to try and swallow their panting, and the laugh that still bubbles beneath. "give that back, asshole."
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well shit, you look like hell. (cp verse, street kid origins - maybe friends/neighbours from a young age in heywood?)
heywood stays heywood, no matter the new signs or rotating shops. it is, perhaps, at the heart of what v has always loved and hated about night city: it never changes. even in its evolutions there is a method; even in its downfall, it remains static. shifting tides within the same pool, the same circling current, draining, drowning. you learn to swim or you die. and sometimes sometimes the air above water tastes fresher, and the exhaustion deceptively sweet.
the voice announces him, tearing val out of their thoughts to look up and see a familiar face slip into place across from them. golden-haired and gleaming, a figure of their youth appears seemingly out of nowhere. the world from back then is not much different—why then does it feel like a different person's memories, another person's voice rasping out of her when she looks up at him. "kenneth fucking vareck..." but the past and the present overlay again, and a small grin splits her tired face, its shine almost strong enough to hide the shadows under her eyes. val slips into spanish like comfortable, well-worn jacket, and for a moment the warmth of memory chases away the worries they'd only just been poring over. they reach for his shoulder in greeting and can't help but notice how he has barely changed, with no new chrome that they can see.
"still that same gonk mouth on you, huh? think you owe me a drink after that. you here on business?"
vincent feels a strange sensation in his face, then realizing he was grinning. he leans over val, dropping the piece of paper once she has done reading so he could use the hand to brush the hair out of her face. there isn't much that is actually in her face. he just wants to touch her, mostly. to cradle her face in his, her skin against his, even to feel the cold and hot sweat dampening his palm—anything to know, to confirm that she is here. with him.
it hasn't always been easy to be with one another. the years had left them with too much and too little. it wasn't by their choice that they were thrown into life and death when they had barely lived. they didn't know anything about each other except as people fighting to survive the violence of murder and tyranny. it wasn't the best basis for any people to be together, no matter if they cared for each other in earnest.
he knew he pushed people away, grew distant and unresponsive when he didn't know what he was supposed to be feeling. that blank stare and impassive face that the capitol had been so eager to cast as that of a stone cold killer, he knew it wasn't fair for val—least of anyone in panem—to have to face with that. and he knew he had made them. it took too many decades to make it right, and he wishes they had more time before they were in the middle of another arena of life or death. at least this time there might be true reward at the end of it... but none of it would've been worth it if it meant losing val.
he sees them mouthing something, purposeful enough for him to make out the meaning. "'m fine. can't hear but not hurt." 'not hurt' is relative, but nothing he would complain about even if he weren't trying to put val's mind at ease. his own voice sounds distant and muffled in his skull. he has no idea if he's speaking too loud or too quiet.
still, the explosions are loud enough to break through the barrier of his deafness, before he feels the vibration that immediately follows. vincent angles his body before looking over his shoulder at the direction of the blast. not as much as throwing himself over val's body, but enough that he feels better if things start falling. they don't, thankfully. he still waits until the shaking has stopped before turning back to val, recognizing the word on their lips. he reaches down for his canteen and carefully helps val sit up enough to drink from it. "slow..."
in the cradle of his palm, she finds wordless reassurance. val has never truly minded the fact that vincent is a man of few words. the times when it made him feel out of reach were plagued by something deeper inherently entwined with their history. there were times when she couldn't look at him without remembering, when the simple call of her name would rouse a memory because of nothing other than the tone in which he said it. they couldn't but hurt each other with misplaced blame and walls of silence, searching for too much, and lonely even with each other. they‘ve had to dig through things. plunging their hands into the sediments and muddy the waters again, to find what lay beneath. he said it wouldn’t change anything—but it pulled val back from a silent precipice. they haven’t wavered since.
not hurt, vin says, and her own ears still struggle to pick it up, but she nods and squeezes his hand again. not hurt. they can live with no hearing, if they just make it out of this, but she feels a cloud of guilt draw over her. it was chance and luck again that had them survive. by chance and luck they’re here, crowded in a tent heated under the sun, with the smell of burnt flesh, blood, and vomit. nothing’s changed. this is just another arena and the capitol is killing them again, in all the ways tested on children and victors and val didn’t ask him to come but was glad that he did. guess we‘re even, he’d said. but only now they really are, with the shadow of death still looming. it’s not over yet. we still don’t have a choice. an apology lays uselessly on her tongue and has nowhere to go.
moving feels like pushing against their own weight trying to push them down, but with vin's help they manage to lift themself to rest on their good arm and take a few slow sips of water. they have to pace themself and the desire to gulp it all down. and it feels just like the arena again: this crumb of gentleness amidst such immense violence their mind will take years to catch up with the truth of it.
when they sink back down, their thoughts seem to slowly become clearer again. they glance around, trying to see who else is wounded. trying to listen in the murmur and distant roaring for anything to tell them how the fight is going. vin is likely as clueless as they are; they’ve been holed up here together, but if he had a note… then, they remember: the signs they were taught to communicate quietly with one hand while holding a gun in the other. there aren’t many—kept few to ensure they’d be remembered. but as she lifts her good arm to sign group, and then, comms, her eyes form a question she hopes that after twenty years of mastering each other‘s expressions, he can read. how are the others? any news from command?
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