Ain't often you find yourself a true friend, and even rarer for them to stay true for long. Rule of the street samurai's the same as it's always been: choose death before dishonor, make no compromises, and trust no one. Melodramatic load of horseshit in my oh-so-humble opinion, but the gist is what's important: you make your own way. Fuck anyone who stands against you, and double-fuck anyone tryin' to ride your slipstream to the top behind a chrome-plated smile.
Jackie Welles wasn't that kind. He may have been an over-optimistic hunk of muscle with more bravado than brains, but it served him well right up until he caught a load of shrapnel in the gut. And he never gave up on you, V, never tried to sell you out or sell you short. Fuck if I know why, but can't fault the guy for sticking to his principles. Rare thing in NC, and I know that better'n most.
Ain't much left to do now but pour one out for the Jackster and say, "Te veo pronto, compañero."
It always surprises him how small she is.
Jackie Welles is far from ignorant about his place in the world and the array of skills he uses to smash his way through it. He's one big motherfucker and uses that to his advantage more times than not. On these mean streets, even the most zapped-out streetcorner punk knows that might means right and anything else... well, you're just asking for a lead-clad punch to the back of the skull.
But the woman currently curled up on the ratty, half-stuffed couch is an enigma to him. After all, she's so damn small. It's not that he pairs up small people with weakness. Far from it - his mama is the scariest lady this side of the border and she barely comes up to his armpit. But there's something so fragile about the sleeping woman, a hidden vulnerability that disappears the moment those hazel-blue optic implants open and the merc persona comes roaring back to life. He understands better than anyone else in all Night City that she's nothing to scoff at.
But still, she's so damn small.
The softness of her gentle slumber blends with the muffled squall of music drifting from her headphones. Jackie frowns and reclines in his chair, turning his attention back to a street below that hums with neon in the night. The steady bass thump of a nightclub scene pulses somewhere down the street. A corpo AV passes overhead. The roar of its engines drowns out the nightlife for a long moment. The ebb and flow of foot traffic slows to a crawl this late, but there's still all manner of wandering faces to watch pass him by. There are limping nobodies decked out with second-hand chrome and flashy nightwalkers with their tits and titanium on full display, strutting through the streets like all the shit somehow won't stick to 'em. A few badges make their way past at one point, but their pace is quick and their hands stay glued to their iron. They're on their way out of Northside, no doubt looking for greener pastures where a blue uniform and a brown nose won't get them pegged as a quick and easy thrill kill.
It's another half-hour of red-shifted holograms and ads shrieking down from the sky (All Foods-Milfguard-Nicola - always in that same mind-fuckingly numb order) before he hears movement behind him. A soft sigh and a shuffling of cloth prompts him to twist in his seat - a motion the old chair protests with a scree of rusted metal.
His partner sits up, bleary-eyed and fuzzy. Her slow motions speak of deeper problems than a rough catnap on a piece-of-shit couch, and the heavy bags beneath her eyes are plain to see even in the neon-midnight gloom.
"Jesus, V," he chuckles. "When was the last time you got a solid eight of shut-down?"
She brushes away a falling half-mop of scarlet hair to press a hand to her temple with a groan. The tinny beats of Cartesian Duelists crackle in the air before she shoves her earphones deep into her pockets. Another yawn before she croaks, "How long was I out?"
"No te preocupes por eso." He shrugs and turns his seat back to the street. "Couple hours. I lost track o' time around midnight."
"Jesus," she echoes him. Heavy combat boots hit the ground with a thump. Her voice is thin and strained, exhausted even as she tries to hide behind a facade of professionalism. "Wanna trade out? I'll take watch until morning hits."
"Nah." He shakes off the suggestion. "Street's quiet. Nothin' but nothin' down there. Ghouls, gonks, and trash hunters, mostly. Standard shit for Northside, ya know?"
She hoists herself onto the desk next to his perch and folds one leg over her knee. Sleep-fuzzed optics scrutinize the offshoot alley below. "No sign of our Maelstrom boys?"
His earrings jangle with a quiet tinkle of chrome when he shakes his head. "Nothin'. You think they heard somethin's up? Got spooked?"
"Not much out there than can spook Maelstrom." Another yawn. She reaches across him and snags the sniper rifle leaning up against the wall. He catches the scent of sweat, leather, gun oil, and the faint tang of something citrusy - mango, maybe?
"If they heard we were here," she grunts, "they'd just roll in that much louder."
She detaches the rifle's scope and peers down at the street like an old-timey pirate. Quiet falls into their little hideaway for a few moments and her lips press into a tight, focused line. Jack watches her at work with an approving smirk; only four months back in Night City under her belt and she's already talkin' like an old pro. Atlanta musta been boring as hell in comparison.
"You check in with Bobby?" She jolts him from his distraction. Her eyes do not leave the scope.
"Askin' if I been keepin' the babysitter up to speed?" He dismisses the question with a sweep of his hand. "You know me, V. Not a fan of havin' my hand held. Not my style, no matter how cute the Fixer."
"She'll be disappointed. Asked special for you on this job, you know."
He rolls his eyes. "Dáme un respiro, V. Last thing I need is to be givin' Bobby fuckin' Flood any ideas."
"Aww, and here I thought there was a soft underbelly hiding under all that leather and Valentino bluster." A smirk is audible in her voice.
"You sayin' I've put on some pounds?" He frowns at her, but his dismay is as playful as her words.
"Just sayin' that I'd pass on third helpings of Mama Welles' sopapillas once in a while. If you still want to fit into that jacket come winter, that is."
"Ay," he hisses. "Eso es solo malo, chica."
She laughs then, a clear and bright sound in the dark. "No eras mas mejor."
"Your Spanish still sucks."
"Your teaching sucks," she shoots back. "I get points for trying."
They lapse and let the steady thump of the down-street nightclub take over. Thunder grumbles somewhere off in the distance - whether it's a true-brewed desert storm or offshoot from the EM generators outside the city is anyone's guess. V drops the scope to her lap and peers into the unclear distance. He doubts she's watching the flickering holographic adverts and the droning of the nightly news; she's stuck in one of her moods again and it's not 'cause of the uncomfortable couch.
He nudges her knee with his own, arms crossed over his broad chest. "What's eatin' at you, chica?"
She gives a quick shake of her head. "Nothing."
"Bullshit."
"Jackie," she warns, her piercing gaze warning him not to push. But he's never been one to back down from a challenge and he forges on regardless.
"C'mon," he presses. "Somethin's crawled up your ass, and not in the fun kinda way. Háblame."
The death stare continues for a few moments before the spark of defiance flickers out. She folds her arms and leans against the cracked window. Red-painted fingertips - the same hue as her hair - rub at the curving scales of the serpent tattoo winding across her shoulder and chest. Her top is hiked up a little, showing more of the tat's path along her ribcage.
"Four months," she blurts.
"Eh?"
"Four months to the day." Her face pulls into a tight grimace as if waiting for a blow to fall. "Since I landed back inside city limits."
Ah, so that's the issue. He echoes her usual tactic by defusing the situation with a joke. "If you're expecting an anniversary present, you're shit outta luck."
The joke lands just as he'd predicted: not so much as a twitch. Her mind is far from this dismal little office, her face frozen in the humming heat of the street signs. Her fingers still rub at the tattoo.
He changes tack, following her gaze out to the city where flashing holo-ads promote some new flavor of synthmeat. Watermelon D-light, available now at your nearest All Foods.
"You, ah… you regrettin' it? Missin' your digs back in Atlanta?"
"Sometimes." She shrugs. "But then I remember why I came back west in the first place."
"Care to share?"
"Not particularly."
He locks his gaze on her. "But…"
She shifts. Her face falls back into the midnight gloom. "Don't wanna talk about it."
"Por supuesto."
She isn't as sold as she claims, so he waits. They pretend to listen to the echoing corpo sales pitches booming down from the towers far above them. Jackie shuts his eyes and leans back in his chair. He knows it's pointless to strong-arm her into something she doesn't want to do, and this is clearly a sore spot. Better to let her go at her own pace.
"I fucked up," she blurts, almost too quick to hear. She glances at him, then quickly away again. "Made some gonk decisions. Landed my ass in the Atlanta lockup for the better part of a year. Stabbed in the back, nearly flatlined, and left out for the blues to scoop up. A scapegoat for someone else's shot at the major leagues."
Every word shrinks her more and more, pulling her back behind the high walls she keeps locked in place around her. More of the merc, less of the woman. Jackie frowns, a familiar sense of righteous fury swelling in his broad chest. He doesn't know the whos, hows, or whys, but knows with the conviction of a true Heywood boy that if he ever gets his hands on the fucker who tried to ice his partner, they'll wish they'd fallen into a scav nest instead. Shit, he might dump 'em there anyway after he's done, just for the spiteful kicks.
"Who had the brass-plated balls to try and flatline you?" A dangerous growl is audible in his tone.
"Local rockerboy with a finger on the streets," V replies. She pauses for a moment. Slim implant conduits beneath her optics perfectly dissect the redness warming her cheeks. "Ex-output."
Jackie squirms. "Hijo de puta. I'm sorry, V."
"My own fault," she scoffs.
Her voice is that of a stranger, haunted by sights and memories invisible to a simple ganger like Jackie. Hell, he's never explored more than a few miles outside the city he calls an imperfect home. What does he know of the wider world and the varieties of assholes that inhabit it? He's always known that Night City is where his story begins and ends. But it's something entirely different for V. It seems like a brand of failure, a constant reminder of a life she tried - and failed - to build for herself.
"Was chasin' a dream," she says. Her far-off stare draws up and out onto the street again. "And nothing blinds you quicker than a cute smile and a good line promising to serve that dream up on a chrome-plated platter."
A sigh escapes her lips. "Did my time. Put it all in the past. Hopped the first AV back home. Two years away from Night City and I came running right back. Tail between my legs, I guess."
"If you're chasin' a dream, chica," he softly reminds her, "ya can't do better than Night City. Ain't no shame in comin' back to your roots."
"I dunno," she replies. Folded arms tighten across her chest. "Maybe there's something to that. Still not much comfort, though. I had roots here, once upon a time. Pulled 'em all up to take off south. Burned my bridges, told myself I'd never come back. That Atlanta was everything I was looking for."
She smiles a little, but it's a tight, sad smile. "Now I'm back at square one, worse off'n when I started."
He wonders how many other gonks have the same story. Lookin' for something better, only to get sucked back in.
Another AV rumbles overhead with carriage lights blazing. In the short-lived illumination, Jackie sees his companion's eyes welling with unshed tears. Then the AV passes and throws them back into darkness. Her silhouette rubs her cheeks to erase the evidence of a momentary weakness.
"Shit," she lets out a hollow laugh. "You know how long it's been since I've even heard someone say my fucking name? Never thought I'd actually miss it."
He can't trust himself to say more, at least not right away. Damned if he knows why, but her name has always been a sore spot. He'd known from the moment she introduced herself that she was hiding something. After all, what kinda handle is V anyway? But he's never dared to dig deeper, figuring at first that it was some kind of smuggling code, then realizing later that it was more a matter of trust.
Instead, he strokes his chin and pretends to nod pensively. "Mmm... I guess with a name like Vittoria Vincente Victorino, it's no wonder you miss hearing it on every tongue."
An empty can of Nicola sails at his head and he bats it away with a grin. There's the spark she's been missing. He shoots her a mighty-pleased grin once the can clatters to the floor. She's fighting back a smirk of her own, which just barely breaks through her features before she glances away and goes silent again.
"Let me tell you somethin', V." He leans forward to rest his arms on his knees. "For every starry-eyed fucker tryin' to make it big in this town, there's a stampede tryin' to run from it. Far as I know, you're one of the few who tasted life outside and realized it ain't enough. That ain't livin' with your tail between your legs."
He taps her forehead with a thick, calloused finger. "That's listening to your instincts, muchacha. And that alone'll get you farther than most in this shit hole." He shoots her his most charming grin and spreads his arms. "After all, it led you straight to me! Don't say you don't have good taste."
Her face begins to brighten once more with a telltale sparkle of mischief. "Well, when you put it like that…"
Jackie throws a muscled arm around her slender shoulders. He lowers his voice to a determined snarl as he points to the city streets outside their hideout. "You an' me, chica? We're gonna fuckin' own this town. Just you wait and see."
"I've heard that line before." V smiles and pushes him away with a tiny nod. "But for some reason… shit, for some reason I believe it comin' from your gonk ass. Guess I never learn."
"I'll show ya." Another hearty chuckle. "Stick with me, amiga, and I'll show ya."
A background murmur of advertisements wafts through; the concrete jungle's private lullaby. A cop transport blares by, sirens wailing as they speed through the city's maze of streets in search of some ne'er-do-well shitbucket. It's a few short moments before-
"Valerie."
He blinks and looks down at her. "¿Qué dijo?"
"My name." She's deliberately refusing to meet his gaze. "Valerie."
He processes for a few moments. The word hangs in the air. He can feel the weight of the moment. Hell, he can almost taste its importance. This is no small thing, no easy admittance, and speaks of a level of trust and devotion that, once upon a time, he would've thought impossible for her.
Eventually he shakes his head with a smile and settles back in his chair. "Eh, I liked my version better."
She throws the scope at him now, her laughter filling the small security office. "Fuckin' asshole."
"No one here knows my name. I've realized we're all the same: varied past identities, outcasts in society. Dark and hazy city nights, immersed in the neon lights."
- PYLOT, Lost
Author's Note: The revelation of V's true name is a subtle yet hugely important moment in the game. Blink and you'll miss it, but catch it and you'll never forget.
I wish more of the supporting cast (particularly the romance options) had the opportunity to learn this small, personal, integral part of V's character. So I decided to fix it myself, starting with the one person who was arguably closer to V than anyone else in Night City.