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kharonion · 1 month ago

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📝 batsu suru 罰する

"to punish."

When the past catches up to those damned, their sins will be punished.

Characters: Original Male V (Vikt). Johnny Silverhand. Solomon Reed. Mr. Hands (Wade Bleecker). Rating: Mature. Content Warnings: Character death (temporary). Canon-typical violence. Attempts at forced implantation. Description of injury. Notes: Canon-divergency [Birds with Broken Wings and onward] though in canon timeline.

[ READ ON AO3 ] or below the cut.

This idea hasn’t once settled right. None of it has—not from the very beginning, back in those abandoned subway tunnels, led by one of the best ‘runners in the business through the Relic itself and pummeled by a massive rogue mech unlike anything he’s seen. Being set up as “FIA”, prancing around the Black Sapphire as if he was meant to be there. All of it has stunk… and throughout this whole ordeal, Johnny has made his shared distaste very, very known.

Continues to, even. “You know this isn’t going to end well,” he drawls around the glitching cigarette between his lips. Vikt sighs from somewhere so deep it makes an ache shoot through his ribs, lights a smoke for himself. What choice does he have, truly? He’s backed into a corner—and that corner is Dogtown, sitting here on this lone bench, across from the clinic he has been directed to.

Vikt waits. Knee bouncing and cigarette quickly fizzling away from each long pull of the embers, the fumes filling his lungs. He hates this. Hates the uncertainty, hates the ambience of the buildings creaking around him and the Barghest patrols walking around on watch. A dreary haze blankets the rubble streets, almost a fog, and it somehow cuts right through his jacket, chills him to the core. Tired eyes mindlessly watch the faint ripples of the puddles clogging the holes in the road, almost as if he will find answers somewhere in the water. He knows he won’t.

“Fuckhead probably left you here to wallow, at this rate. Think he’ll show?”

Good question. Guess we will—

“V.” Ah. Speaking of the devil.

“Reed,” Vikt damn near snarls—Behave, Johnny. He nods in greeting, then toward their destination across the street. “After you.”

“V, this is such a bad fuckin’ idea. Watch his ass…”

Vikt’s piercing optics never leave the man. With every step closer, his stomach further knots, the cage of his ribs rattling as his heart beats faster. Any other day, he’d tail it out and figure out an alternative—but when said alternate route is returning into Arasaka’s arms with his tail between his legs, there isn’t much of a choice.

For a ripperdoc in the slogs of this horrific district, the clinic is fairly kempt and orderly. Its owner of few words, a sour-faced woman who simply bows her head to Reed upon his entry—and sizes Vikt up when he follows in. There’s something there, something silent through the two’s gaze that Vikt isn’t privy to.

He isn’t being told something.

The atmosphere is thick with unease, though it doesn’t seem to bother anybody except him; Reed lounges against a nearby wall, talks in that calculating tone—that one to try to push an (unwelcomed) agenda.

“V. So Mi is more important than you realize. Getting her back is the top priority. Should be yours, too. I know you hold… certain reservations about this plan of action, but it is the only sure way to do this.”

Vikt crosses his arms in front of him, piercing optics slowly shifting between the two—who are both looking at him expectantly. “Yes, your fancy tech. And what if it does not work as you intend it to? Have you accounted for the possibility of it getting compromised, made a contingency plan?”

“Unneeded—because it will not happen.” The words snap like taut elastic. A nerve struck.

“Give me a fucking break.” It huffs out as a scoff. His hand twitches against the handle of a throwing knife in the harness snug around his chest. Something is festering in the recesses of his mind, a paranoia that is making his nerves fire. He can hear Johnny snickering from somewhere, egging that fire on.

“Do you not trust me?”

“No. I don’t. There is shit you aren’t spilling, and you seem to think I’m too stupid to realize that. I want to know what it is. Now.”

As expected, Reed doesn’t answer—and it only makes that anger burn hotter. He only sighs, takes a peek at whatever the ripper is messing around with. Until, eventually, those dark eyes look back. Hardened, molded into more of a threat.

“This. Is not negotiable."

It’s now that Vikt can properly see just what he was brought for, just what the plan entails. Bile rises in his throat. A migraine strikes like lightning behind his eyes. Every alarm in his body blares at once, so loud that it nearly takes him to the ground. Whatever the fuck that tech is, it looks extremely horrific—right out of sci-fi horror. A collection of synthetic plates and wires that vaguely resembles a face.

“Like fuck it isn’t,” Vikt snarls.

“Are you willing to let your one bastion of hope slip because of your… misplaced hesitance?”

“Misplaced? Really?” And that marks enough being enough. Vikt can taste the desperation from Reed’s lips, and frankly, this isn’t the sort of game he wants to play. Though he is grasping at straws of solace, Vikt draws a hard line at implants he know fuck all about. Implants that are being kept secret from him, despite him being the guinea pig. Not a fucking chance in hell.

Vikt turns right around with a deep growl of, “Fuck right off.” His fingers flex with a homicidal itch that is increasingly harder and harder to ignore.

But he does. And he makes to walk right back out where he came from—only to be stopped in his tracks by a chokehold so strong he immediately sees stars. Whatever breath he was taking stops in his throat, no longer able to escape, and none able to enter.

“You might be willing… but I’m not.” Hoarse, oozing with venom. Threatening.

His vision blurs, very quickly to the point of disabling. Vikt kicks, struggles, pushing past his weakened state—bastard fucking knew he could overpower you right now. Reed backpedals, dragging him with. Forcing him back to the fucking chair…

No no, fuck no—

“V, if you’re gonna do somethin’, fuckin’ do it. Now.”

With every single iota of strength he can muster, Vikt’s twitchy—eager—hand finally fetches the knife it’s so desperately wanted in its palm. And in an instant, the blade is plunged deep into the arm around his neck; he can feel the push of the bone the steel rams against. The hold loosens with a startled yell. That’s all Vikt needs.

Sure to retrieve his knife on the way, he bolts to the door.

It’s locked. Fuck, the door is locked. He pulls. He pushes. He rams it with his shoulder, kicks it with enough force to make the wall shake. Come on, you piece of shit—

It gives. He runs—and just as that happens, a thundering pop crackles through the thick air, a stinging burn skyrockets up his leg so sharp he stumbles. Shot, just above his knee—that is threatening to buckle underneath him. Sturdy footsteps close in. Whatever instinct of flight molds into fight. That same knife is flipped deftly in his hand, and Vikt turns to instead face his pursuer head on. The millisecond Reed encroaches in his space, the coiled snake strikes. The blade, still fresh with blood, plunges into a shoulder—and Vikt pushes. A bone snaps, a pistol clatters to the ground.

Just as fast as that happens, however, the able hand clamps around Vikt’s throat. Nails dig in, an unyielding grip that makes his vision give and blacken, makes him cough and gasp—or attempt to—in a feeble pursuit of air when it can’t flow.

“Shame, V,” Reed grunts through clenched jaws. There’s anger, pure and yet still controlled. “But I should’ve figured you wouldn’t cooperate—not for long, anyway. Your type never does.” Eyes as dark as the storm clouds creeping through the sky narrow, fingers curl in as an assertion of the power he holds in this moment. Vikt’s face boils hot, his heart struggling even with its cybernetic assistance.

“I knew I recognized you.”

Vikt, able to croak even a little bit of breath, sputters, a mix of saliva and blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. “Wh— What…?”

“Remember when I told you I had tussled with Arasaka before? How I had faced Death itself?” Reed, amazingly, chuckles. Grins. “So… they still call you Reaper, V?”

What… the fuck…?

“Seems you’ve forgotten… but I sure haven’t. Can picture it, clear as if it was yesterday. How you stood there, stoic and straight—like a robot. Casting me in your shadow. Watching with that blank stare, making damn sure I was going to die there at your feet. You… soulless, sword dripping with my blood, simply telling me, ‘They have deemed it so, and it will be done.’”

Reed leans in close, enough for Vikt to feel every scalding word on his sweat-damp skin. “You. You are a monster. Life doesn’t matter to you, never has—and now, I know that hasn’t changed one goddamn bit.”

Sudden agony blinds him, vision flaring white, screams unable to crawl from his throat as blood bubbles up it instead. He peers down. It’s his own knife, buried in his chest to the hilt, puncturing his lung and causing him to start to stagger, to choke on his own viscera with helpless gargles, eyes fluttering as they roll.

“You were expendable from the start; you should know that is the fate of an agent. Luck got you here… but, V, if you ask me… you were already long since dead.”

That’s when it all starts to chop like a slideshow, blotches between darkness and dizzying consciousness. Johnny pleads, frantic; it’s scratchy, echoing in the abyss of his brain as if underwater. Vaguely, Vikt registers being dropped—or perhaps more accurately, tossed—against a brick wall… slumping onto the disgusting ground… throwing up from the horrendous pain that steamrolls him with each attempt to take in air… coughing, choking, gagging, only tasting copper…

…then it fizzles into nothing. A blankness as he lays there on his back, eyes staring without focus into the sky. Stars twinkle bright in a beautiful canvas… the moon cascading its gentle beams across him, and it felt as warm as the sun…

…there’s a cry from somewhere—a desperate “V! V, don’t fuckin’ do it, don’t!”—but maybe it’s simply his fading mind playing tricks…

Rain starts to fall. Pelts his face, soaks him to the bone. On a night like this, it would chill him… but he feels none of it. His body feels lighter and lighter… but also as if his limbs are lead. With straggling attempts at breath, Vikt simply lets the coming storm’s breeze sweep him away into the night.

I’m sorry… I’ve doomed you, too.

——————

Waking up isn’t what he expects, let alone in a place so quiet and… so pleasantly warm. A soft light blankets the room from the holograms on the wall, its glow oddly calming. There’s a hint of woody incense and antiseptic, but even still, the air is fresh, clean. Vastly different from a decrepit nook of this godforsaken place.

He stirs, shivers with the fever coursing through his veins like wildfire. Vikt groans with the jostling, cracks open his eyes. He’s wrapped snugly in a plush blanket, something delicate but warm around his clammy, painful body. The clink of silverware to porcelain rings through the stillness. Footsteps approach, soft on the shag carpet, and Vikt keeps trying to focus his sight. This place… it’s familiar…

“Easy. Don’t pop your stitches. My ripper would not appreciate being called this early in the morning. Again.” It’s calming and smooth, a voice that can only belong to a certain fixer.

“H-Hands…?” It’s scratched, barely there. But even still, there is only kindness in the man’s touch.

“Wade. Just Wade is fine.” He snickers to himself at his own sly humor. With a caring hand, he helps Vikt sit up best his body can handle, nestled in the nook by the sofa’s armrest with a tower of pillows. Vikt gasps through cracked lips, a hand digging into the back cushion of the sofa as he adjusts, the pain nearly putting him back to blackness again. The left side of his body throbs, a hurt that shoots up his neck and only makes his headache worse. Settling makes him sigh—a struggled sound—in relief, though he feels out of breath from that feat alone. The coughs to mitigate it are agonizing and do nothing.

Tea is offered with a soft hum and a nod. Steam dances from the cup’s rim. “Here. This should help with the pain—at least enough to help you rest.”

Vikt bows his head in gratitude. The heat immediately soaks into his quivering palms, envelopes him and warm on his ragged lips with each slow sip. It’s green tea—organically made, even, with fresh leaves and distilled, pure water. It soothes his torn throat, sets easy in his belly as the elixir calms him from the inside out. He lets his head fall back to rest against the pillows, a grateful moan echoes in the mug. When he finishes, he finally asks, “How did you even find me?”

The way Wade responds clearly tells him the man is expecting the question.

“I have been keeping an eye on you—and those federal agents you have been keeping company with. I hope it does not offend that I have done so; this is merely a product of them deciding to use Dogtown as a personal playground. And while my eyes and ears on the ground didn’t catch the entirety of what transpired at that, frankly, shoddy clinic down the road… it was enough for me to take it upon myself to look for you.”

“Suppose I should thank you. Would be rotting away otherwise.”

“Likely.”

Wade returns to his desk, fiddling and fussing with something or another, leaving the two in a mutual silence. It makes way for despondency, for pondering; Vikt picks away at the small speckles of dried crimson stuck in the creases of his hands—blood that might in fact be his own. His mind circles around over and over, always back to the same centerpoint.

Just what in the fuck is he going to do now? He had one lead, one carrot on a stick. And now, it’s gone, too. Unless… he takes the bull by its horns on his own.

“Shut up, that is a stupid fuckin’ idea.”

“Wade?” Vikt pipes up, despite the engram’s attempt at running interference. I have no other fucking choice, Johnny. “I hate to ask anything of you, especially after this whole thing…”

“You have done more than enough for me, Vikt. Permission to ask away.”

“V,” Johnny drawls in warning, but behind that visage of aviators, Vikt knows there isn’t fight in those eyes; Johnny knows they are backed in a corner, that this is a hill he can’t die on.

Vikt grunts, hoarse and defeated. “I need an audience. With one Kurt Hansen.”

The silence that returns is contemplative, broken only by the quiet click of Wade’s cyberfingers on the desktop as he thinks. It wouldn’t surprise him if the request is quickly shoved aside to be forgotten—so it takes Vikt aback when there is instead a nod, although Wade’s eyes still carry some understandable reservation. “I can do my best to make that happen. I trust you wouldn’t waste my time asking such a thing—of this magnitude—if it wasn’t important. How soon?” Already, he’s swiping at the screen of his agent.

“Ideally? As fast as possible.”

Wade hums an affirmative. “I’ll see what I can pull together.” His gaze veers away to land directly on Vikt. There’s a gentle smoothing of his brow, a concern in his frown. “Though I must ask. Do you know exactly what you are getting into with this?”

Vikt can’t lie. “No. But… I don’t have much other option. Not anymore.” Part of him wants to blurt it out, wants to tell one of the only people he trusts just how important this is. It’s all sitting on the tip of his tongue… I’m dying, on a clock, and I have no one else to help me.

His shoulder is gently squeezed. Wade has his agent to his ear, a gentle expression on his face. “Rest, Vikt. I’ll handle it.”

Easier said than done. But, to his credit, Vikt tries, though most of the time he lays there lost in rumination. Reliving those moments before disaster, trying to sort out just what the fuck happened to make shit circle the drain so damn fast. Again, he couldn’t plan for this—a platitude he is brutally accustomed to. So, he begins to outline every possible avenue that this meeting could go, and rest eludes him.

“He said to rest, ya know.” Vikt was waiting for him to pop back… though Johnny’s demeanor is rather soft as he sits on the table nearby, elbows on his bouncing knees and sunglasses in his hands, at the mercy of his fidgets. He’s clearly worried. “Are you sure about this, though, V? Bet you’re tired of being asked, but… I mean, fuck. This might go to shit so damn fast.”

It’s already gone to shit. Vikt pauses his thoughts, bites at a lip between his teeth. Johnny… I’m scared as fuck.

“Nothin’ scares you, stubborn fuck.�� God, he wants to laugh at that. “Don’t give me that shit. This shouldn’t scare ya, either. We’ll figure it out, like we always do.”

You really believe that, or are you just placating to make me feel better?

“Would hope that by now, you know when I’m yankin’ your dick ‘bout shit and when I’m not.” Johnny huffs as if offended—just is missing the exasperated hand on his chest. “You got a plan for if—or, guess when—this gets all fucked?”

No.

“Least you’re honest ‘bout it…” Johnny rubs the bridge of his nose, sighs. Glitches up only to appear sitting right there beside him. Warm brown eyes looking into his own and a gentle grip around Vikt’s hand. “Now, though, do what he says. Need your rest if we’re gonna do this shit.”

“Oh, and one more thing—” he interjects with a smirk in his voice, as Vikt is letting his eyelids close. “Ain’t doomin’ anybody. We’re in this together. Anyway… night night, V.”

#khar.fic #.kintsukuroi: batsu saru #oc: vikt montoya #cyberpunk 2077 #c2077 #cyberpunk 2077 fanfic #phantom liberty #fanfic #welcome to the start of putting Vikt's canon scenes/quests out in the wild.#you will quickly learn it is a lot of canon divergence. oops. :)

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