Chapters are referred to song names. I'll leave them at the bottom to give credit.
No Spam, I hate the taste of it.
She was in a black desert of absolute nothingness, V found herself adrift within an eternal void where neither wind whispered nor echo bounced, a purgatorial limbo that seemed to stretch into forever.
Absent were the comforting sounds of reality, the soft patter of rain, the life-giving kiss of sunlight, the harmonious birdcall reduced to mere fragments of joyous memories. The resonant purr of engine roar, human voices mingling in conversation, the distant thunderclap of midnight gunfire – they were the lost sonnets of a city that had once throbbed with ceaseless vitality. All had receded into a nebulous past, slipping like grains of sand through her desperate grasp.
Mikoshi had proven to be a cul-de-sac of her ambitions, an unforgiving digital labyrinth from which there seemed no escape.
Used, discarded, forgotten; she was reduced to less than a scrap of tissue in the grand game of cosmic powers. The tantalizing lure of cheating death, an irresistible siren song that had ensnared her with its alluring melody. It was said that hubris heralded downfall and V had plummeted, never acknowledging the true value of the relationships she fostered. Regardless of their origins — the shimmering high-rises of downtown, the gritty heart of the streets, or the idyllic stretches of the countryside — materiality could never supplant the human bonds she'd cultivated. But they did anyway. In this place of ceaseless twilight, words failed her. Was there anyone still searching? Hope was said to be the last to die, yet V felt it teetering on the edge of oblivion. The passage of time had become a cruel riddle, the only anchor being the distant comfort of Takemura's consolation. But that could have been yesterday, a month? Or it could have been an eternity ago. If this was her moment of awakening, perhaps, it hinted at a glimmer of release.
Her mantra had been a single, desperate plea.
I wanted to live.
But sometimes, the rope of salvation frayed into nothingness. Apologies echoed hollow in her heart. To Judy, to Panam.
You abandoned them; why care now?
Frustration twisted in her, a gnawing fear crawling beneath her skin.
Goddammit Vic, I-I'm scared. I chickened out. Oh god, Johnny, Misty... where are you now?
A shudder rippled through her digital form, a chilling reminder of her continued existence within this realm. She had cheated death, yet survival was a far cry from truly living. In retrospect, placing her faith in Arasaka was a gamble born of desperation.
She should've been audacious, willing to confront mortality with her friends and family by her side. Instead, she was entombed within this bitter, infinite void, subjected to endless torment. Death would have been a mercy. So why stir her from this perpetual slumber? Wait. She could feel a shiver trace the length of her spine, a sensation that hadn't been present for... what felt like aeons. How long had it been?
Longer then you might like.
A tide of guilt swelled within her, recollections of the path that led her here, of the second chance she stole from Johnny, of the ties she strained and eventually severed. Only the steadfast Takemura stayed true, though his visits dwindled with time. At first, all seemed well, then the intervals between his appearances stretched unbearably. Before long, loneliness gnawed at her, her solitary existence deemed a problem by Arasaka. She was put 'on ice,' her consciousness subjected to a deep, digital slumber, roused at random intervals for 'diagnostics.' Her memories were rerun like a broken film reel, a relentless reminder of her existence in this hellish purgatory.
V sensed the shifting tides of her consciousness, the lucidity that heralded another cycle of her cruelly repeated existence. She remained stationary, an unmoving, resignated amidst the intangible nothingness, bracing herself for the impending, merciless drill of the needlessly cruel routine.
In the corner of her vision, a figure materialized, both unfamiliar and yet heartrendingly familiar. "It's alright, V." The voice, unmistakably Jackie's, merely an auditory ghost from her past, both comforting and tormenting. A keening wail escaped her as she collapsed to her knees. "No, no. I don't want to fucking dream again!" Her scream tore through the silence, raw and shattering, the plea of a desperate soul. Tears coursed down her face, unnoticed, unheard, each salty drop a testament to her desolation.
The phantom of Jackie, her spectral tormentor, her beloved friend, moved closer. In a feral act of rebellion, V lashed out with her mantis blades. But Jackie's specter dissipated like smoke, an illusion melting away, the same way it always did. Again, and again, and again.
Exhausted from her futile struggle, V's arms hung limply by her side. She longed for the physical solace of leaning against something, anything. Yet her unyielding surroundings offered no comfort. She crumpled to the ground again, the impact nonexistent in her numbed state. The gnawing pain, hunger, and thirst were vestiges of a long-abandoned corporeal form. Yet, a distinct heaviness pressed against her chest, not a burden of regret, but an unexpected stiffness. Her breathing, normally rhythmic and steady, hitched, a sharp stab of pain interrupting her next inhalation. Her instinctive reaction was to flee, yet there was nowhere to run.
Amid the maelstrom, a soft whisper intruded upon her senses, morphing into an indistinct murmur between a man and a woman. A jarring pain ricocheted in her skull like the sharp impact of a hammer. Desperately, she cradled her temples, yet the pressure did nothing to alleviate the torment. An unseen force held her wrists in an iron grip, her surroundings swirled into a dizzying vortex as she succumbed to oblivion, collapsing to the floor.
A surge of life pulsated through her, her heart pounding a fierce tattoo in her chest. A heartbeat! The realization would have sent her springing upright if not for the restraints that bound her. "Wha-" she started to voice her confusion, but the words evaporated into the ether. Paralyzed and barely able to pry her eyes open against the blinding assault of brightness, she squinted, struggling to decipher the bewildering turn of events. The overwhelming light, seeming almost divine, rendered her environment a blur of incoherent luminosity. "Help," she whimpered, her voice a mere breath in the sterile air. But this time, her tears were born of joy. Anything was preferable to Arasakas seven circles of hell.
"Kto govoril?" A foreign voice queried.
"Chot?"
"Razve ty etogo ne slyshal?"
The exchange echoed in her right ear, but her vision still stubbornly refused to adjust. The voices were distant echoes of the ones she had been hearing, muffled in the same way.
Footfalls followed, coming closer. "Ah, ne tot patsiyent!" A gruff, deep male voice declared. "O, amerikanets?"
Could it be Russian she was hearing?
"Da," the confirmation was unequivocal, "on opredelenno ne nash paren'." The softer voice, tinged with fear, interjected.
The light dimmed as if someone had positioned themselves above her, followed by a thud against what sounded like a plastic surface. "Dazhe ne paren'. Ho-ho, devushka?!" He chuckled for an inexplicable reason. "Perestan' byt' izvrashchentsem!" The woman rebuked him.
V was not one to remain idle in uncertainty. She mustered all of her concentration to summon her mantis blades, yet nothing happened. She wasn't even able to activate her cyberware. A wave of realization swept over her: her memory was clouded, forgetful of her new corporeal form. Her body felt newborn, disconnected. She couldn't feel her legs, she could flutter her eyes, breathe, but that was the extent of her control. As of now, she was a meek, frightened girl.
"O, net. Aleks!"
"Chto teper'?"
The brightness surged again, and she could hear them speak, their voices receding.
"On priblizhayetsya, kamera zasekla yego v koridore dostupa."
"Chert, togda zatknis'!"
There was a flurry of movement, the lights switched off, and the room plunged into an eerie silence, broken only by the ticking of an analogue clock. An abrupt banging on the door echoed through the room. A nasal voice spewed a series of curse words, but V couldn't make out their target. She focused on the ticking of the clock, a soothing reminder that she was no longer confined to the torturous void.
The lights flickered back on, dimly this time. "Dumayesh', on zametil nas?" The woman's voice was quiet. "Otkuda mne znat'?" The man replied, his voice laced with annoyance. Something powered down, and the doors swished open. Were they going to leave her?
There was brief scurrying, "Ladno, davay, poshli," spoke the woman.
V was able to open her eyes without being completely blinded, and she discerned the face of a man staring directly at her. His beard was bushy, his clothes worn and ragged, resembling a vagabond from the street corner rather than the person she would expect to be her savior. How did she get here? Where was 'here'? The questions swirled in her mind, but they would have to wait as she realized why everything seemed muffled. She was encased in some sort of container, her view restricted to a small frost-covered glass window. It didn't last long as the Russian man began depressurizing the container.
"Tolya! Davay uzhe poydem."
"My ne mozhem ostavit' yeye zdes'."
From what she could decipher, the man named Tolya was her unexpected rescuer. With the 'lid' removed, he brandished a knife and began cutting away at the fiber straps that held her captive within her claustrophobic coffin. Starting with the arms, he gently freed her from her restraints. At last, sensation crept back into her fingertips, causing her to experiment with careful, deliberate movements.
A painful groan escaped her lips, "Please—" she coughed up, like there was sand in her throat. "He..." Words stumbled over each other, tripping on her numb tongue.
"Yes, yes, I'm helping." His English was tinged with an accent, the syllables shaped by a foreign tongue.
"Who—" V strained to form the word, each syllable seeming to exhaust her lungs.
Tolya silenced her with a swift motion of his hand. "Hush, girl. We are not exactly welcomed guests here." His voice was stern, but it carried a note of caution that pricked at the edges of her foggy consciousness.
Tolya then focused his attention on the restraints around her neck. He unceremoniously battered an adjacent panel, causing her to flinch. Extending his arm into the exposed cavity, he seemed to tinker with something within her peripheral vision. An ominous electric hum tickled her spine, ratcheting up her anxiety. With a final metallic clink, the collar around her neck loosened and fell away. Tolya tossed it aside like it was meaningless debris. He methodically cut away the straps at her ankles and thighs, each release marking a gradual return of her mobility. Lastly, he detached a handful of medical or monitoring devices from her body. Each unplugging felt like the sting of a needle, a sharp invasion of her numb senses. Without soliciting her agreement, Tolya hoisted her onto his shoulder in a fireman's carry. A part of V yearned to resist, to force herself off and attempt to walk, but the reality of her physical state dampened such ideas. She could still barely summon the strength to speak or fully open her eyes. Resigned to her circumstances, she allowed herself to be hauled away into an unknown destination.
The dizzying passage of surroundings — hallways, the chill of the outside air, the hum of a car ride — was a whirlwind that she could scarcely comprehend. She was just so... unbearably... tired...
The biting chill was her first memory, an all-consuming darkness swirled around her, threaded with merciless, freezing temperatures. It felt eerily similar to her dream-state, enough to send a jolt of panic through her. She bolted upright. Thud. Her forehead slammed into the low ceiling. This was not a dream, she decided, grimacing in pain. Dreams did not inflict such vivid agony. Nor did they feature the distinct sound of a Russian man's raspy laughter.
"Kha, kha, kha! Dobroye utro, devushko!" His voice echoed with jovial cheer, further shattering her illusion of dreaming.
She found herself in a compact cubicle, nestled within a wall cavity – a bunk bed. To her left, a stand held a collection of medicines.
Gingerly touching her forehead, V realized she was burning up. A wave of nauseating sickness washed over her. Feverish. She squinted, attempting to locate the source of the laughter. A bushy-bearded man sat nearby, the same Tolya from earlier. "Privet," he waved at her. His beard obscured most of his grin, but a mischievous glint in his eyes was unmistakable. Tolya reclined under the room's solitary window, sipping on a steaming beverage from a tin mug. His hands were swaddled in rough rags, his body draped in a dark green coat with a fur-lined collar. He wore brown cargo pants, straps crisscrossing over his legs holding various tools, and tall work boots that bore splatters of dried mud. Outside the window, a furious blizzard raged. Visibility was reduced to just a few feet, blurring the rough outlines of other buildings into ghostly apparitions. A flurry of snowflakes whirled in the tempestuous winds. It was no surprise to V that she might have caught a chill being transported in such severe weather.
Glancing down at her attire, V discovered she was in a grey jumpsuit, adorned with cryptic numbers and Japanese writing. Warm packs were fastened around her chest, legs, and behind her neck. "Heat packs," Tolya explained, now looming over her. He placed another tin mug on the stool beside the medicine, "Drink, devushko. Not for taste but health." The contents of the mug were suspiciously yellowish and odorless, not particularly inviting. She managed to force out a shaky, "T-tolya?"
"Ah, no, Ana-to-ly. Tolya for short, only friends."
Anatoly grabbed a pill, broke it in half, and placed it next to the cup. "Take, swallow," he ordered, then resumed his position on the chair.
Mustering her courage, V took the prescribed medicine and attempted to wash it down with a generous gulp of the unsavoury liquid. She was woefully unprepared for the intense wave of disgust that followed. The drink tasted akin to a mouthful of briny seawater, causing her to retch uncontrollably. She barely managed to stifle the urge to vomit. Thankfully, the lingering aftertaste was relatively mild. But what an abhorrent wake-up call that was.
She fervently hoped it was not some eccentric home remedy that he had concocted. "Next to bed, mineral water. Drink if parched. Food tomorrow." With that, Anatoly leaned back onto a pillow, hands interlaced comfortably over his belly, and promptly drifted off to sleep.
Just like that?
She was now confined to this small, carpeted room with bare brick walls – who needed plaster when minimalism was in vogue? Her universe consisted of Anatoly, his chair, the window, a stool, and her bed. There was nothing else. Given her comfortable nest under a slightly thin blanket and the obvious signs of care, V felt reasonably certain that Anatoly intended to help her. She was safe for now, at least until the uncertainties of tomorrow unfolded.
Her sigh echoed in the quiet room, punctuated by the steady rhythm of Anatoly's bearish snores. Searching blindly, V's fingers finally found the water bottle she was looking for, unscrewing the cap with ease. She noted how her strength was returning, albeit slowly. Her limbs were still stiff, moving lethargically, but at least they were obeying her commands. Closing and opening her fists was no longer a problem. But then, a disconcerting thought struck her - whose body was this? She tried to visually assess her skin tone in the dim light, and it seemed to match. There was no mirror in sight to confirm her suspicions. With trembling fingers, she touched her face and sighed in relief when everything felt familiar. But how was it possible? There was no way this was her original body. Yet, she recognized herself, minus the fever and aching limbs. Strangely enough, every piece of cyberware was missing. There wasn't even a scratch or any telltale sign that suggested their removal. She traced the area where the seam between skin and metal used to be. Nothing. Unnaturally smooth skin. Even her... feminine attributes were intact. What made her feel so alien in her own skin then? Was it the missing cyberware, or the fact that she was miles away from home?
Restless, she tossed and turned in her bunk. Her thoughts were a chaotic whirlpool, jumping from one subject to another. Sleep was elusive, and Anatoly's loud snoring didn't help.
Anatoly was surprisingly proficient in English, given his appearances. He carried a concealed weapon, probably for protection, she surmised. But from whom? He hadn't shown any signs of malice so far. Was it foolish to trust this stranger? Her past experiences screamed a resounding 'no'. Yet, there was an underlying sense of uncertainty, a nagging doubt at the back of her mind. She knew better than to trust blindly, having encountered Russians who dealt in organ and cybernetics theft, scavs. However, not everyone was from Night City, she reminded herself. Despite the gnawing mistrust, V felt safer here than she had since entering Mikoshi. Maybe that was all she needed, beggars and all that.
A silent yawn escaped her lips as she curled up comfortably in her bunk. Whatever tomorrow would bring, she would face it when the time came. For now, sleep was her priority. She closed her eyes, letting the rhythmic sound of the blizzard lull her to sleep.
Title: Molchat doma - Kletka / Cell
I've written russkiy only for effect and won't be too recurring (past chapter 3).