#even got a fuckin pay raise that was unlikely and impossible as hell to happen and yet somehow it did

[innielove]

i knew things were going way too smooth lately..

[the-darklings]

—𝐭𝐢𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞;

⤫ pairing: johnny silverhand x corp!v(ermillion)

⤫ summary: Usually, they’re a calamity together—destructive and volatile as each other. But right now, just for a second, there is only music and them.

⤫ word count: 2.3k+

⤫ warnings: spoilers for act i & side mission the ballad of buck ravers, third person but can be read as RI ig, swearing, written in one sitting so who knows what the final result is - certainly not me. 

⤫ notes: let me leave my clown shoes outside.

It starts out the way it always does. 

One ring leads to another and she suddenly finds herself running or driving around the Night City with little to no rest, pulling one job after another. The more jobs she closes the more she seems to be in demand.

Good for business. Good for making a name for herself, too, but not so good on her overall being. 

She’s been running. Like a fucking coward. Filing her days with meaningless shit while trying desperately not to think about her ticking clock. About Jackie. 

Guilt gnaws on her bones daily. She should have done more, been better, more careful. Jackie never should have died. It was stupid and blind ambition that drove them both to try and pull this near impossible heist in the first place. Her own reckless drive has blinded her, and now the person closest to her in this fucking city is nothing more than a cold corpse. 

Fuck.

She should have sent him to his family instead. She only wanted to spare them from the grief of having to see Jackie in the state he was in but now Araska has his body and god knows what those assholes might be doing with it. 

And now…

Well she has nothing to lose, does she? She’s already dying, already hunted, her only close friend is dead. She promised to make him proud. Make it to the big leagues or make a league all on her own if that’s what it takes. Bleed this city dry if that’s the price to pay for what she wants. 

Back when she worked for Arasaka she wanted knowledge which led to power. Then she wanted guns and money and a roof over her head. 

Now she wants something more. After coming face to face with her own fragile morality, she has begun to realise how meaningless things like money and power are. Now she wants to surpass that. To become something immortal—something that will outlive her body. Maybe even outlive this city.  

Jackie should have been one of such people. 

“You look like you’re about to shit yourself,” a voice drawls from beside her, a crackle filling the air as a too familiar silhouette of a man appears in her sight. “Or cry.”

“Fuck off.”

V turns away from one Johnny Silverhand because it’s hard to look at him and not be reminded of the fact that she’s slowly dying and the construct only she can see and hear is the one doing the deed.

“This self-pitying bullshit needs to stop,” he says, ignoring her vicious words. “We share a brain, remember? I feel what you feel. It’s downright depressing in your head right now.”   

Her jaw clicks at the reminder. Everyday she wakes up and feels like they’re linked by a bridge—he stands on one side, and she on another. When they come closer, she can feel it—feel him. The overlap is near dizzying, overwhelming, even a little addictive. But it’s always followed by agony because she fights back, tries to shove him away. If not, he will consume her, but she will get him out of her head before that ever happens. 

You share a brain now, Vik had told her only days prior, his eyebrows knitted tight and—albeit subdued—but clear worry in his low voice, senses and memories, even perception. Eventually it will become impossible to tell whose who anymore. 

The worst thing is the fact that he’s right. 

She can feel Silverhand rooted inside her; a constant, a presence that is persistent to a point she knows she’s not alone even if she wishes to be. 

An echo of a being deep inside her.

“Then get the hell out,” she bites back, fighting to keep her temper leashed so she doesn’t burst out at him like she did at the diner. She can still remember the wary stares she received from the diners when she started shouting verbally at a figment only she could perceive in the first place. “I didn’t ask for a parasite to make himself home in my brain.”

Johnny scoffs under his breath, raising a cigarette to his mouth, and she’s nearly overcome with need to remind him that he’s fucking dead, and can’t smoke. That, and the fact that she would prefer him to leave her the fuck alone. 

“You did the job, didn’t ya? You sure you didn’t have this comin’?”

Flipping him off, she storms past him, her jaw clenched to appoint it aches and eyes narrowed. Just her luck not only to get stuck with a human tumour but for the said tumour to be a bastard to boot.  

So much for being buddies. 

Sun has set over Westbrook hours ago yet Chinatown is as busting with life as always. Overflowing with conversations all spoken in different languages, smells, distant gunshots, and people from all walks of life just trying to survive. Even during her years with the Arasaka, she never quite got used to the vastness of the Night City—not even when she was sure she was at the top. The way this city seems to breathe and fester day in and out; a living beast full of dangers and potential is unique. 

Lost in the crowd, it’s almost easy to forget who she is aside from another face in the said crowd. She’s not a merc, not an ex-corp working counterintelligence—she’s not anything. 

Her optics catch sight of several Tiger Claws lingering around the market, and she makes sure to give them a wide berth, especially when she notes the impressive list of their stats. She’s not stupid enough to attack outright when they outclass her—for now—and there are several of them around. With the market this busy the only outcome to that fight would be a bloodbath with police on her ass when that’s the last thing she needs right now. 

Despite that logical part inside her steering her well clear of the gang members the need to blow off some steam bubbles under her skin. An ache starts to form against her temple soon after, making her focus blur around the edges as she wanders from vendor to vendor aimlessly. 

“Hey, V,” a rumble of a voice cuts through her thoughts—and she hates how she can’t quite ignore his voice unlike everyone else—and turns her head in the direction of the call. She had foolishly assumed he was going to give her some peace of mind for tonight at least. “Check this guy out.”

Walking up a dimly lit staircase, she had barely noticed a man sitting on a rickety chair and playing a guitar. Much like her, others walk right past him, ignoring the man altogether. 

Johnny glimmers into sight, squatting in place and oddly intent on observing the old man while he plays.   

She entertains the idea of walking away simply to piss him off. If something is of interest to him, then she wants to ignore it so hard it gets under his nonexistent skin. Petty, perhaps, but ever so satisfying. 

Hearing no reply or receiving much reaction at all, Johnny slants his head her way, nodding once towards the man, “What do you think?”

Squinting, she drags her gaze towards the guitarist, crossing her arms over her chest while she listens. She’s not even sure why she’s bothering but…

The melody is slow, near drowned out by the bustling sounds of the nearby market and chatter of people walking past. 

“He’s...fine?” she offers lamely. “I mean he’s pretty good.”

A slight smirk crosses over Johnny’s mouth—gone in a blink but the focus he places on the man who seems to be unaware of her or the silent second spectator surprises her. 

“Loses tempo more than he keeps it,” he comments, almost absently, and she feels her eyebrows arch in another show of bewilderment. A quiet spells falls over their little nook, and Johnny listens more, thoughts rolling inside his head if his body language is any sign. “Sloppy on the technique but he has feeling in the way he plays. Can’t teach that.”

“If only you didn’t die,” she sighs softly, closing her eyes in mock sympathy. “This could have been you.”

He surprises her again by laughing at that. It’s a deep rumble of a sound, and she can almost feel it echo between them and their mental bridge. “You’re kinda of a bitch. Has anyone told you that before?”

Her teeth flash in the dim orange glow of the neon lights. “And you’re sort of a dick. Anyone tell you that before?” she wonders with a charming, practiced smile. 

He flickers out of sight and she’s about to call it a mental victory but a tickle of electricity kisses across the bare curve of her shoulder and neck, and she shivers when he appears beside her. His arms are crossed as well, and he glances her way briefly.

“Seems to me like we’re two peas in a fuckin’ pot, then,” he points out easily, and shakes his head, seemingly amused by his own words. “I might have tried to kill you a few weeks ago but look at us being chummy, Ver.”

Her throat closes up at that, expression tightening. He notices of course. Or maybe it’s the unease that slices through her mind at the casual way he uses her nickname. 

“What? Am I not allowed to call you that or somethin’?” he wonders curiously, seemingly entertained by her reaction. Asshole. 

“Only my friends call me Ver.”

Jackie was the first. 

That thought makes her swallow painfully, a dull ache clawing against her heart. One would think that years being a corpo would have wiped whatever humanity still lived in her but Jackie’s death had been a stark reminder that she couldn’t be further from the truth if she tried.  

“Why?”

She gives him a flat look. “Because my full name is Vermillion, but people tend to find it a mouthful so…”

“Vermillion,” he repeats, his intonation dry, and she shoots him a quick glare, daring him to make an issue of it. Naturally, his next words don’t surprise her, “That’s a stupid fuckin’ name.”

“Oh, because Johnny Silverhand is so much better.”

She expects him to say something snarky in return, argue maybe, but he only snorts. His metal hand lifts, pushing his aviators down slightly as he glances at her over them.

“You got me there.” 

Usually, they’re a calamity together—destructive and volatile as each other. But right now, just for a second, there is only music and them. Shadows and life of the Night City holding them both suspended in this moment. No arguments or biting comments. No guilt, either. 

A slight smile tugs across her mouth as she continues listening to the man play his downbeat little tune. Her shoulders loosen, drooping slightly and she lets herself breathe for a moment. Just the one. 

“Used to be just like him,” Johnny speaks up suddenly, his voice more subdued, lower, and taps his fingers against the cigarette he’s holding. “But better. Used to play everywhere we could. Garages, bars. Anywhere that would have us, and we always had an audience.”

She hums, offering him a brief glance. “You mean you were actually good?”

She can’t see his eyes in the darkness of the street or through his tinted shades. But despite that, she can still feel his glare and the mental bite of chagrin/irritation/why is she so annoying? and deeper than that a spark of amusement/little shit thinks she’s funny. 

“What’s this?” he muses, his words sarcastic. “A corpo rat that actually has a sense of humour? Colour me surprised.”

“No can do,” she shoots back promptly, fighting back a wider grin. “You’re too dead for that.”

He tsks, throwing his cigarette to the ground and she almost rolls her eyes. “Can’t wait to be out of your damn head, princess.” 

“Can’t wait to be rid of you, either, so the feeling is mutual.”

Their words might be stringent but she can almost taste the faint amusement trickling between them and under that bridge that connects them. 

“There might still be some bootlegs of those old days,” he muses thoughtfully. “People used to record everything back in my day.”

She drags her gaze his way, lips thinning into a firm line, “I’m not becoming a fan, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

“Afraid you’ll hear real music and won’t be able to go back to this modern garbage I hear everywhere?”

There is challenge in his words and she bristles. Maybe this is what she needs. She may not be able to put holes in some Tiger Claws with her sniper rifle but she sure as hell can go on a scavenger hunt and see what she finds. 

Besides, it might help her to understand the man nested inside her mind a little better.

So when an hour later the old, wrinkly vendor asks her why he should give her his oldest, most precious Samurai vinyl, she tells him the truth. 

A twisted truth. 

But truth all the same.

“He’s with me every step I take, every move I make,” she confesses softly, something deep down breathing awake at that admittance. “Johnny’s like my conscience. My eternal, infernal moral compass.”  

She doesn’t miss how the man in question doesn’t appear, doesn’t say anything even after hearing that. She would have figured he would be the first in line to offer her some mocking, snarky comment but there is only silence. 

In fact, she can barely feel him at all. The tether between them is still and quiet. 

And his silence says a lot more than he probably realises. 

.

an: hello. guess whose not dead and kinda back to writing. dunno how much of cp77 you should expect because coa is still my priority but maybe occasional fic for these dumbos is on the cards. oh, and takemura because cdpr are cowards for not giving us that enemies to friends/partners to lovers romance. also I know this isn’t strictly RI and I honestly considered writing it as such but saw...no point? since the premise still would have been the same, so something a little different today ig. 

[erintoknow]

Hurry Home

fallen hero: rebirth fan fiction with Crow and Argent ~2.2k words [ao3]

–––

2 AM in Los Diablos isn’t much different from 6 PM. The haze of streetlights defused into the smog taints the black in sickly yellows, reds, and greens. Crow pulls his arms tight against himself as he wanders down the street. No particular destination in mind. Sail the ship, onward ‘till morning. Normally this is Morrígan’s time to shine. It just makes more sense that way, a witch for the witching hour, when all the specters peer out from underneath their tombstones.

Not tonight, not for a while. Morrígan needs to rest still. Dr. Mortum did a good job keeping the girl out of harm’s way but when you’re dealing with criminals you can’t afford even the pretension of weakness. Morrígan can take it easy until the worst of the bruising fades. She deserves it.

Not like Badb Catha– not like you. Keep your guard up, feelers out. Walking alone, at night, in the closest thing that passes for dark in this sad excuse for a city. There’s a man across the street, that’s been walking the same direction you’ve been for a whole block now. Telepathy assures he doesn’t think of you at all. But–

Sometimes you wonder if you’re suffering bleed-over from Morrígan. She may not have telepathy but she’s always taking count of everyone in sight-range. Assessing probable threats as best she can without the benefit of your talent. But the details that rank her concern… Some part of you, or of her-in-you is screaming the man is a threat. That you should speed up, detour away from him.

But– Crow is a man. Decently tall, more in shape everyday, with his telepathy, Crow shouldn’t have anything to fear from a scrawny twig of a dude. What’s he going to do? Pull a gun on you? Worst case Crow can just reach into the empty head and crush it down like a trash compactor. It wouldn’t even be hard. No training, no discipline–

“Spare a buck, lady?”

A hand on your shoulder pulls you off balance, yanking you sideways towards an alley between buildings. Trained reflex takes over, snapping the offending hand away as you step back and fall into a defensive stance. Adrenaline pumping, mind on full alert and– you squint through the gloom at the unshaven man standing were your telepathy insists there’s nothing and nobody. Strain harder, and catch the faint pop of static.

The man raises both hands up and backs away, back into the shadow. Static or no, how did you miss him? “Woah, easy there.”

“I’m no fuckin’ lady, hey?” Crow spits, narrowing his eyes in contempt. The nerve. The very idea. This guy would piss his pants if he knew he was talking to Macha. She’d bring an armored fist down and crush his head like a ripe grape.

“Yeah, I can uh, I can see that.” The mean looks down on Crow, mouth twitching down at the edges. He shakes his hand and before sliding it into the front pocket of his sweater. “Just looking for help, anything you can spare.”

“Bullshit.” Crow doesn’t relax, little alarm bells ringing in the back of his awareness at least two more minds nearby who are entirely too interested in what’s happening right now. Future trouble? With this guy? Separate? To early to tell. He’s the most dangerous. “How many beggars keep guns in their sweater vests, dumbass?”

The man’s face is full-on frown now. “No need for that, my man.” He’s taller than Crow, not a lot, but enough. How firm is his grip? How quick can he aim? Whatever’s about to happen, Crow should be fine. This guy is nothing that hasn’t been pasted countless times before. It’s just an open question on if Morrígan will need to go fishing for bullets this time.

Crow would, admittedly, prefer that not to be necessary.

“So you feeling charitable tonight?”

Crow rolls his eyes. “You’re not too bright, are ya?” It’s too late in the night for this game. There are places to aimlessly wander, there’s no time to pretend to be held up by a two-bit crook that can’t find the right end of a razor.

Crow snaps to the side, out of the estimated field of fire of whatever gun the man must be holding in his pocket. The sudden movement gets him by surprise. This isn’t part of the script. Yeah, will neither is yanking his arm back 90 degrees in the wrong direction until it makes a gross-ass popping noise. The would-be assailant screams and drops to the ground, a pistol falling out of his hand and scattering into the dark. A revolver? Doesn’t matter, not a factor now. 

Kick the body in the stomach, and he groans. “Fuckin’ idiot.” Crow mutters, shaking his head. Well, they can’t all be Ortega. “Maybe think twice next time ya amadán, ya idiota, ya–”

A crack rings out off the walls and at the same time fire blooms in your leg below the knee. Shot? You’ve been shot? No grazed. Skinsuit under your clothes held up. This time anyway. Gonna be a hell of a bruise. Twist, keep yourself on your feet, feel for who– one of the two you noted as too interested earlier. She’s moving towards, you pissed mad. You fling up your arms, can’t risk another shot. Not until she’s in punching range. Damn your leg. Fuck.

“Get away from him!” She’s on full alert, pistol pointed at you, finger on the trigger. Hands aren’t steady. How much training has she had? “I said get the fuck away from him!”

You keep your hands up, take an agonizing shuffle back. Fight the urge to push up your glasses. “Ya know, back-up don’t mean shit if your on the other end of the block, right?” Reach in there, mind like razor blades. Can you shut it down before she pulls the trigger? Too tense. 

Would the skinsuit hold up? What make is that pistol? You can’t tell in the gloom. She doesn’t know either. Charming. Idiots. Fools. Both of them. Siblings? Cute. ‘Bro’ wanted to try the nice way. Sis’ here knows the real score.

Find the floor, something to smash and bring her down quick.

“–I said empty your fucking pockets!” She jabs the gun in your direction. So much for protecting family. Can’t forget the crime, can we sweetheart?

“Can– can I put my arms down, hey?” Stall for time while you reach in there. This has to be subtle-like or the shock might get her to pull the trigger regardless.

She glares down the sight at you. If she did shoot, could you get Morrígan here in time? Would Morrígan even know where ‘here’ is? You slowly lower one arm. Don’t think about the gun. Pull one pocket inside out. Of course. You weren’t intending to go wandering. Not prepared. Think if you come clean about not having any money on you, the three of you can laugh this off as a hilarious misunderstanding?

No?

Think of another plan then.

Or, consider this: The beat of footsteps and something now way too familiar on the periphery pulls your attention upwards.

As she twirls through the air the phosphor light gets caught in her hair. A tangled mess of reflections, caught however many times before bouncing free? She brings her arm forward, down, pulled in on gravity’s tether and– oh, wait, shit, fuck–

Your leg screams in protest as you dive to the side just in time for Lady Argent to bisect the air between you and ‘Big Sis.’ A shot echoes off the walls blasting your eardrums and you have to clutch at your ears.  “Fuckin’ hell! Are you trying to kill me?”

Argent turns to you, looking none the worse the wear for having dropped from the roof of a three story building. She shakes out her arm like an etch-a-sketch as she takes in the scene. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Holy fuck,” Sis is backing away from the scene, eyes darting between you and Lady Argent.

Argent watches the woman from the corner of her eye. “Street muggers? Not much of a challenge.”

“I had it handled.” You hiss. Now that you’re on the ground the idea of getting up and putting wait on your leg seems impossible. “Had them eating out of my hand.”

Argent tilts her head, looking down at you, paying absolutely no mind to the woman who had just shot at her. “Is that what the bullet hole is for, Catha?”

“Nah, just a graze, hey? Look, it’ll be fine.”

“Your bleeding.” Argent stresses the word. Why does she care? She doesn’t seem to know either. “You’ve been shot Crow.”

“Well, look.” You wince as you pull yourself into a sitting position. “Ya gonna arrest the bitch that did it, hey?”

That gets Argent to shift her focus to the sister, stepping over the still prone body of the first guy. You don’t think he’s actually out of it, if all the internal screaming you’re picking up means anything. Just as good, you guess. 

Argent takes another step forward. The woman drops the gun to her side and books it. So much for family loyalty. You let her drop out of your awareness, her panic is putting you a little too on edge. You’ve got plenty of your own reasons to panic. Such as: Lady Argent wants to chase after the woman, but instead she turns to face you. She’s not impressed.

That’s fair, you concede. You aren’t impressed by you either.

“You need help.” It’s supposed to be a question, but coming out of her mouth it feels like a statement of fact.

You bark back a laugh. Wince as touch your injured leg. You still haven’t actually looked at. It’s not necessary. “You offering a piggyback ride Starshine?”

Her eyes narrow as she stares down at you. “Fuck off.” She tenses, fingers flexing. She wants to move in, can’t make up her mind. “I meant an ambulance.”

You shake your head. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Unlike like some people present, I’ve got bills to pay.” You grit your teeth. The pain a dull throb. As soon as you get back you’ll have to have Morrígan look at it. It’s just bruising, you’re sure. “What are you doing here anyway, hey?”

Argent shifts her stance, mouth wrenched in a tight frown. “What do you think I’m doing Crow, I’m on patrol.” You watch her facial expression, body language. There’s more to it then that, you’re sure. But what, exactly you can’t place. “What are you doing out here.”

You cross your arms. “It’s a free country Starshine.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“My statement is not any less true on accountin’ of the hour.” You shift your position, grit your teeth as you try to get up. “Ah– fuck!” Argent’s hand grabs your arm before you can fall back down. She pulls you to feet with a disturbing ease.

“You need to see a doctor.” She doesn’t let go of your arm.

You scrunch up your face, stare down at the asphalt. “Don’t you have a mugger to chase down?”

“Small fry like that don’t matter.”

“That so…” You take a breath, try to keep your hands from forming fists. “And I do now?” Why won’t she let go?

“I’ll never…” There’s a hesitation in her voice. That’s hardly like the Argent you know. “Ortega will give me hell if I just let you walk off like that.”

Enough is enough. you tug at your arm. She lets go. “What does Julia fucking care?”

Argent doesn’t mince words. “She’s still in love with you.”

Something in your chest twists, you rub at your eyes with one hand, push your glasses back up. “Well, hey, tell her she’s seven years too fucking late for that revelation.” You pull back from her mind, in on yourself. You don’t want to know. Focus on the pain. The pain in your leg. It’s just a dull throb now but that’s real. Your leg is real. Not like her, or this city, or the rest of you. 

“Tell her yourself Crow. I’m not your go between.” She stands still. Doesn’t move after you as you hold yourself up against the wall. 

“Then don’t act like one, hey?” You push off the wall. Test your leg, hurts like a motherfuck but you can do this. It’ll be a long walk, but you’ve done worse. Maybe you’ll jack a car from somewhere to cut down the distance. Or just a taxi?

Argent steps after you, grabs your arm again when you stagger. “If you’re not going to the hospital, then where are going?”

“Where do you think, Starshine?” You snarl, “Fucking home, hey?” She’s close. Too close. Just a skinsuit under clothes can’t protect you. Why is she pretending to care? Does she know? Is this pretense for revenge?

“And where’s home for you, Crow?” You glance up at her, she’s not looking at you. Scanning the area. Empty street. Dogs barking in the distance.

Fuck it. Whatever. If she murders you in your sleep, you can’t say you didn’t have it coming.

You gesture to the left, down the street. “This way. Bit of a walk. Think you can handle it?”

[immanueldid]

1, 12, 13, and 19 for William Mahoney because I dig his robo-eye

>8D *Claps hands together* William “Dozer” Mahoney, Tyrant Siege Terminator

1. Their voice:William is fortunately one of the others I can easily point to an actor from a specific scene and say “THAT ONE.”   William is just THE KURGAN in that scene.  ESPECIALLY the sexual harassment of nuns, but with at least 20 different cusses laced throughout.  He has always been crass, id-ish and while the hypnotherapy and indoctrination worked sort of, it didn’t surpress everything. He still prefers low gothic to high, but tends to sneak in low gothic curses because HE JUST CAN’T STOP.  Its FUN he thinks its FUNNY that NOBODY (*elbow nudges PG13 books and general stick up ass attitude of astartes*) SEEMS TO DO IT because in the slums of the Mordian hives where he was born he was all FUCK SHIT PISS DAMNIT by 8!as long as he was out of ear shot of his mom please do not tell her he called someone shit licker he will absolutely be grounded at that stage in his life

12. Their romantic life:He might have had one bad experience, but he’d had plenty of good ones too.  Mostly serfs that were equally as bored and wanted to see if an Astartes could… you know.  HE WAS HAPPY TO OBLIGE. But do YOU KNOW how HARD IT IS to get a BOOTY CALL on MEDRENGARD?Because Mahoney does. Mahoney really does. His longest dry spell was probably 8000 years or so and a metal hand does not an acceptable substitute make. He has since referred to his voluntary swap of righty a “CATASTROPHIC LACK OF FUCKIN’ FORESIGHT.” But despite his behavior and Mannerism could not bring himself to take one of the legion’s ‘flesh’ up to his quarters against her will.  Seemed like a step too far and WHAT WAS THE POINT if she wasn’t going to enjoy it too.      But he did get out long enough to meet somebody once.And by “meet” I mean he sort of did clonk a techpriestess over the head and drag her back home. He didn’t really realize the adept was a lady at the time, he just needed someone competent he could order around his workshop and bark at.  She’d already replaced much of her face, voice and her breasts so he didn’t catch on for a while.  By then they’d already started becoming friends, once she got over the LOUD and SHOUTING ALL THE TIME thing. But when he did he immediately started hitting on her the only way he knew how, extremely forward and clumsily. Desperate? Yes, but he’d also never worked with women before, not that he really had the chance during the Heresy. It made him patronizing.  The they are inferior and therefor need protecting sort, because he did still like them on an incredibly shallow level.  He didn’t really expect them to be smart because he was the smartest person he knew, he didn’t expect them to be tough because he was the toughest he knew, so on. The humans of the IVth legion had this bad habit of dying really quickly, so Dozer never really had the opportunity to connect with any. BUT HE DID NOW and she was brilliant. Aside from the whole…pet the machine, talk to the machine, the machine wants to smell nice today shit he never let her live that down, but she was easily on par with his peers (on par WITH HIM though he’d never admit it,) and displayed an openness to learn tech the Imperium had lost. She was reluctant but eventually offered the same.  He let her do things the Mechanicum never would.  He let her develop. He let her experiment. They started to bond, and she helped him maintain his arsenal of digital weapons and the Augments of his Cataphractii pattern armor. He tells her things he’s never told anyone, she listens to him.  He says “[He] wanted to be an obliterator. [he] thought it was what [he] was meant for.”  She tells him “[she’s] glad he isn’t.” And suddenly he doesn’t feel so incomplete. What’s happening this is incredible. Physically, it was incredibly one sided. She didn’t have those parts anymore, but he didn’t care. Anything she could offer was enough for him. He returned anything she gave tenfold in saucy bits of code or incredibly precise electrical surges.  It wasn’t conventional, but it was great and he loved it. … He used the L word what the fuck was happening.  It was a standard day, preparing for a campaign. She’s hooking him in to his ancient suit, she has him rev his chain fist to check his new arm, he’s spewing pyrotheum smoke out his exhaust and raring to go. He looks at her, “I’ll be back soon.” She smiles with what she has left, “I know.”  Oh fuck, he realizes, I can’t live without her.  She’s the most incredible person ever… just like me.  This…as with all things, doesn’t end well. In the ‘modern day’ of my story (some 2000~ years later,) William is EXTREMELY open casual advances, but can’t seem to form that kind of emotional attachment to someone else. He’d like to move on. He’s sure she’d want him to move on. But he’s still an Iron Warrior, and their stubbornness is in their genes. 

13. Their embarrassing memory from years ago:

Dozer, unlike Thanos or his pick-n-mix brothers in the warband will openly tell you about his past stupid shit.  Though if you laugh at the wrong point in the story he’ll give you a hell of a glare. His favourite go to, because it irks other marines, is that when he was 10 years old, his uncle had bought him time with a hooker. Its impossible to get into the WHY without explaining the mysterious circumstances about William’s birth.  On Mordian, even back then, there were the aristocratic elite that lived up near the top. More money than they knew what to do with. One such piece of shit, his father, decided that he wanted some insurance for later in life in the form of organ donors.  Cloning was still a big no-no, but sperm donation? To willing surrogates? For a price? That sounded just legal enough.   He didn’t mention of course, that he would be taking the children immediately to prevent little gang-bangers from knocking on his door and demanding money. That he would basically be locking the children in some basement and let them grow up in tubes because they were not people not really.   Dozer’s mom was a ganger. She was top motherfuckin’ dog of a pretty substantial section of lower hive.  She took care of her people, she made sure they had a wage, even if the business was dirty.  But because she wasn’t hording, she needed the cash and she wanted kid and she sure as hell didn’t want to tie down.  She fully expected if she let anyone get that close to her they’d start getting ideas about who was in charge, and ruin the good thing she had going, so she bit the hook. She had the kid, and accepted the pay.  She was going to do right by him. When the noble’s goons came to collect, she really wanted to just blow their heads off but kept her cool, and asked for more time. She was given a week to think about it… that they never actually gave her.  The noble tried to have Dozer stolen. Now she absolutely was going to blow their heads off. She fought them tooth and fucking nail. She kept them out of her fucking territory, her entire gang backed her up, she kept this all a secret from her baby and she started raising her boy.  …Who appeared to be some kind of mutant because he was 5 foot something tall by 8 years old.  And SMART TOO.  Especially with machines. The more tech savy of her gang saw some of the pictures he’d drawn and they were fucking schematics.  (Slight implication that perhaps the genes were not the noble’s to offer, is all this is, Meheheh.) She didn’t think anything of it. She was so damn proud of her mutant Billy that she strong-armed her brother to give him a job in his Decommission business.  It was, essentially, a glorified chop shop…. and also a front for the uncle’s weapon smuggling to other gangs that dozer’s mom didn’t know about.   The goal of businesses like that was to receive a contract with the Imperium to decommission war vehicles, or parts of them that could be recovered, to be recycled.  Because of Dozer’s aptitude for machines (and a particularly messy campaign somewhere in the sector,)that small business  managed to snag such a thing.  A contract to decommission a Tank. It would actually be more money than his small time weapon running.He was the “cool uncle”, of course, that let Dozer cuss and try amnsec and drink coffee and eat chocolate and stay up late to watch dirty movies, and when Dozer got them that contract… Dozer was gifted with a few hours of real life boobs for his 10th birthday.  He was almost 6 feet tall by then, complete with cracking voice and acne with adult muscle structure. He thought he was plenty mature until that day. It was a complete disaster. He was NERVOUS. He didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to do. His hands were shaking.  He might have cried like a bitch afterward.  It was the single most awkward moment of his life and it makes him LAUGH now.

19. Their reaction to betrayal:Its actually really convenient you picked this one, because the example ties in nicely to what I just had to explain.

Dozer’s uncle might have been the ‘Cool Uncle’ but he was a greedy piece of shit.  He let Dozer do all those things because they’re things he would have wanted to do, not out of any real interest in Dozer’s wants.  Dozer thought they were friends, he was incredibly wrong.  His uncle was just happy to be making money.  He absolutely kept running weapons  under the counter and even pieces of the damaged tank. He even went so far as to sell out Dozer to the noble that technically ‘owned’ him.   That was the last mistake he’d make.The noble had contacts, those contacts connected with gangs in surrounding territories. Offered a bounty for each head of the target gang they could provide (Chump change to the noble, of course) and a huge sum for the boy. Alive. Unharmed.  The hive block didn’t do so well, really.  It erupted into an outright war. It was absolutely brutal. Nobody was treated as a civilian and the LAW was content to let them sort themselves out. Mordian’s population problem would be eased if only for a while.  He never found out what happened to his mom, (But it is more likely she went into hiding to try and take the heat off her boy than outright bit the dust.  By the time she would have been able to contact him, he would be in hiding, or off world by then.)It was the same year as the awkward, so Dozer managed two firsts that year.  He got lucky and he killed a man. He stared his uncle in the eyes as he crushed his throat. After he stopped rattling he kept squeezing anyway.  When squeezing hurt his fingers he started punching.  He didn’t stop until he didn’t have the strength to keep going.  Out of the two new experiences,  he preferred killing. And he really liked it actually. It felt ..Powerful. Good. Meat and blood looked good when he was the one causing it.This is when we get into the real meat of his revenge.  For the next four years Dozer gathered up what was left of those loyal to his mom in secret. He told them he had a plan.  He relocated the tank. He modified the tank into an artillery launcher. He built himself an exo-suit.  He abused his uncle’s network for bullets, guns, armor. He launched a fucking 50 man raid on a hive spire, using the tank–backyard-basilisk to blow open the way.  His not quite power armor protected him, got him to where he needed to go.  He fucked shit up. He didn’t have an escape plan. He didn’t want to escape. He wanted to be gunned the fuck down so he didn’t have to live with any of this shit anymore.   Instead, he ended up arrested and interned on a prison ship… For breaching the terms in his contract. Three years later, he would be recruited from that vessel to the Iron Warriors. … Which is actually the thing I’m writing right now.