Work Text:
lean against the car and listen—
the buzz of the needle piercing
her skin, the heart-shaped sign
swinging its rusted chain. This is
my job—he will change her body
forever, I will love what she becomes.
– Cheryl Dumesnil
In the darkest hour, bathed in moonlight, V’s fingers trace the inside of her right arm.
Black ink contrasts against the soft skin like a neon sign. A tacky set-up of her name and his inside a heart with an arrow that had become more literal than figurative.
At first, she knew it was a prank to rile her. Johnny’s way of asserting that he was in control—even if it was just for a night. To himself or to V, she never found out. The sting of a fresh tattoo was nothing compared to the hurt raging within her the morning after.
V, first among fools. Her trust was the last thing she had that the relic smashed in her head hadn’t actively taking over; and she had given it without a second thought like a bleeding heart. The heartfelt promise exchanged between them in an abandoned hotel room had been on her mind when she had taken that pill. For Johnny, it must have been miles from his mind the moment the burn of tequila had hit his tongue.
In a way, if it weren’t for Johnny, she would have never gotten inked.
For starters, V was indecisive. Unlike cyberware that could easily be changed with the right ripperdoc and the right amount of eddies, or piercings that could be taken out and forgotten, V always saw tattoos as a form of art—that it had to mean something significant.
Realistically, not everyone shared her personal views. Johnny had made the decision easily, even going so far as to jot it on a bar napkin with a lazy smirk minutes before, if memory served her well. She had threatened to get rid of it on multiple occasions. Especially when he was being a particular nuisance. But as the days had passed on, the clock ticking closer to the twelfth hour, she had been less inclined to do so.
Now, it is the only solace she has in the coming months. The only thing from Johnny that was not of the past, but something he had created in 2077. Akin to carving the side of a tree just to say that he had been here in 2077, even if for a moment. Something for her, even if she was now forced to wear jackets to avoid questioning looks.
Despite its original intent, the tattoo’s meaning had grown exponentially during their time together. Johnny Silverhand was—is—an artist. He spat symbolism and saw the world in metaphors. No matter what opinion one had of him (rockerboy, anarchist, terrorist), he was brilliant when it counted.
And this tattoo must have counted. V believed tattoos needed to have meaning before that needle ever touched skin; but Johnny had proved to her that it was possible for people to just get them whenever they wanted, to tack on whatever meaning they pleased.
In her loneliest hour, she tries to recall the distant memory of riding shotgun in her own body. Hearing her own voice meld with Johnny’s as he navigated Night City like he had never left. She hadn’t felt the alcohol settle in his chest or the sting of the needle as Cassius Ryder began working.
"She’ll love it."
V had heard the playfulness in her tone, in his words. She had wondered if the pain of the needle was more pronounced on her skin, or if Johnny was used to the sensation after amassing his own collection. He had rejected the offer of an anesthetic, much to Ryder’s surprise. Mind over matter, she supposed.
V always wondered why Johnny had placed it on her forearm. Surely someone who was aiming for total humiliation would get it in the most obnoxious place—like her hand or the side of her neck. Ryder had mentioned a man getting a tattoo straight across his forehead.
Maybe it was a subconscious decision? Johnny had a plethora of tattoos on his organic arm and against his ribs. Even across his palm.
But if V compared her arm to Johnny’s, if she imagined him being the one to receive it—then he would have chosen a blank canvas. An unintentional act of solidarity? Or was it merely a ghost so caught up in the land of the living that he forgot that it was her arm and not his?
She was probably overthinking it. Johnny was not as close to V as they had been moments before he would be ripped away. It wasn’t like she could ask him now. There hadn’t been enough time for either of them. Wrong city, wrong people.
She would have to live the rest of her short life with this tattoo, but Johnny had been the one to experience getting it. He was the one to bear through the ink being stamped into her skin, needle prodding deep enough to stain her.
Amidst her cool sheets in a bed far too big for one person, V traces the thick outline of the heart on her skin. Was it meant to be his or hers? Another question that would be left unanswered.
She continued her ministrations until her eyelids grew heavy. Darkness wrapping her in a blanket before she finally gave in to sleep.
In the deepest part of the Net, a solitary set of data wanders aimlessly through the darkness. Its crimson outline only stopping for the briefest of moments to trace the crook of its bare arm.