Chapter Text
It's been a few months now, and it's hard to say which reality V would prefer: one where everyone knows he's a spineless coward, worse than a 'saka dog because at least Arasaka gives their dogs treats for good work—or the one he's living in now, where he's just another merc who's been acting strangely. In one version, at least people would understand what's got him so fucked up, and he wouldn’t feel like he was walking around just waiting for the other shoe to drop. But in this version, at least he's still getting jobs.
Dino's got one for him now.
Easy one today, V. Just an escort for Watson Whore while he takes care of some business. Yeah, that Watson Whore. He didn't give many details, but what he's paying? I didn't ask many questions. I figured with the way I hear you've been rubbing shoulders with Us Cracks and fuckin' Samurai, meeting Watson Whore'll just be another day in the life. Detes attached. And word of advice? Drive something nice to pick him up.
It's true that V has never been one to get starstruck. Media is media. He doesn’t care about celebrities as celebrities. Some of them are earnest people who got lost in the glitz and glamor and are trying to claw their way out, sure, but still, it's that person V cares about. Not the fame. Fame never did anything for anybody. S’just stress and heartache and expectations and loneliness.
The meeting place is in a concrete park, specifically a little pass-thru joint that opened a year ago and will probably be gone in another year, ‘cause nothing lasts anymore. The dinner rush is just starting, things are starting to bustle, and V’s lucky to find a parking space before he heads to the joint.
He has to get pretty close before he can pick out Watson Whore among the couple of other customers there. Once you know who you’re looking at, his white-blonde hair and the deep Cupid’s bow of his mouth are unmistakable, but leaning languidly on the service counter, bundled up in a long silver peacoat, no one seems to notice him. His legs, those mile-long legs that the camera always pans slowly up, are hidden under black jeans and he’s wearing pink wedge sneakers instead of tall black boots. No real effort to disguise himself. Just a different outfit. Maybe conspicuous is the new inconspicuous. Kerry would probably say so.
Watson straightens up as V approaches. There’s an untouched basket of fries sitting on the counter beside him.
“Are you V?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m—“
“Where’s your car?” His voice is deeper than it sounds on TV, not so nasal. He’s taller than V thought he would be, too. Wider shoulders. Up close, clothes on, it’s a reminder he’s a living, breathing person, not a cartoon pouting prettily at the camera while he does something horrifying like eat synmeat production waste or pull cyberware out of unclaimed bodies at the city hospital. Someone’s son, letting himself be experimented on and everything short of fucked on-screen by shady rippers because it makes for good TV. It’s funny in a fucked up way, like everything is these days.
V jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Parked it.”
“I’ll fill you in there,” Watson says.
“Never liked small talk anyway,” V says, half-joking.
“Good,” Watson replies. Damn, alright. Maybe V’s not starstruck, but he likes to build at least some rapport with clients. Gives him a good reputation, gets people to spread his name around a little more. But Watson is already walking off, and V has to walk fast to keep up with him. Like a little fucking dog on a leash.
V shortens his stride a bit, lets Watson get ahead of him, makes him stop and turn around ‘cause he doesn’t know which car is V’s. His perfect lips are a little pinched, annoyed. V just eyes him lazily for a second, then points to the car. Still makes him wait to get in til V has reached it and unlocked it. Just a little bit of control.
“So,” V says, once they’re both in the car, “fixer said you didn’t give up much.”
“Ironic, huh?” Watson says flatly. He doesn’t give V a chance to reply. Probably a good idea. “You’re taking me to a meeting with my manager, and you’re going to stand there and look tough while we talk.”
V waits a second. That it? Really needed a merc for that? But he’s not stupid enough to actually ask him that, so instead he says, “Okay. Expecting trouble?”
“My manager, Landry, he’s a real asshole,” Watson says. “He’s not going to like what I have to say.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’m quitting.”
V raises his eyebrows. “Quitting… what? The studio?”
“All of it. No more Watson Whore after this season. I’m out. And you don’t get to pass fucking judgment on me, alright?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Well, whatever you were thinking, stop it. Like I said, I just want you to stand there and look tough. You’ll… encourage Landry to stay in his place.”
“Think he’ll get violent?”
“You never know how a guy will react to his biggest moneymaker pulling the plug,” Watson says, shrugging. “He never liked me. Who knows? Might just snap. You can handle him, though.” He pauses, then adds more seriously, “Just don’t mess him up too bad if you have to mess him up at all. The less drama, the better.”
V shrugs. “Sure. Whatever you say. Gimme the address.”
He gets the ping, and starts the car. Watson feels around his seat until he finds the right lever and shoves back so he can stretch out his award-winning legs. Doesn’t bother asking. Whatever.
“What am I supposed to call you, by the way?” V asks. “Your real name’s not Watson, is it?”
Watson raises an eyebrow at him. “Your real name isn’t V, is it?”
“Fair enough,” says V. He turns on the radio, tunes it to Morro without thinking. It’s a silent drive anyway. Watson folds and unfolds his hands in his lap over and over, staring out the window.
Since most of the show is filmed out in the city, the Watson Whore studio is just a couple of floors in a bigger media building, sharing space with an animation studio and some multi-cam sitcoms. All their logos are listed on the sign outside, and again on a board next to the elevators in the lobby. Everything is modern, clean, cold. Another place that V doesn’t belong. The receptionist eyes him suspiciously while Watson scans his ID.
“We don’t allow firearms on the premises, sir,” the receptionist says. V pulls his jacket aside, looks at his holstered revolver in mock surprise.
“Ah, shit, how’d that get there?” he asks. “Keen eye, choom. I better hang onto it. Don’t want it running off and latching onto another unsuspecting citizen. Someone might get hurt.”
“He’s with me,” Watson says, before the receptionist can respond. “Call security if you want. We’ll be in Landry’s office.”
With that, he turns and strides toward the elevator. V follows him without a second glance at the receptionist.
“It’s complete bullshit,” Watson tells him, as he hits the up button for the elevator. “I know for a fact that just about every intern on my floor brings a gun to work. He just picked you out because you’re new.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” V says with a shrug.
“And don’t do that when we go into Landry’s office. Just be quiet—”
“—and look tough, I got it. Not my first rodeo.”
Watson nods, and the elevator arrives to take them upstairs.
Lafayette Landry is a stocky man in a sequined red shirt and that tall, candy-colored pompadour every media seems to have these days—his is dyed blue. He’s typing furiously on a projected keyboard, needlessly high tech and expensive but silent. He doesn’t look up from his computer screen when Watson and V come in, but he raises his eyebrows. It’s the only part of his face that moves.
“There you are,” he says. “I already updated the schedule, since we’ve already lost almost the whole day waiting for you to show up. The new pitch meeting is at 7 tomorrow morning and I expect you to be there on time.”
Watson’s lip curls.
“Didn’t care enough to call me,” he says, “find out why I’m late?”
“Oh, I’m sure whatever you were doing was more important. I’m sure the crew doesn’t mind waiting around to clock in. Anyway, let’s get this—” He nods at a tablet on his desk, still not taking his eyes off his screen as his fingers fly over the keyboard— “out of the way before we do anything else.”
Watson does not move. Landry finally looks up from his desk. An unauthorized scan alert pops up in V’s feed. He lets it run.
“And who the fuck is this?” Landry asks flatly.
“He’s just here to make sure we both behave,” Watson says. He unceremoniously pushes some baubles aside and sits on the desk. Crosses his legs and peers down at Landry, primly venomous.
“You’re just signing your new contract. Nothing to behave about.” Landry holds out the tablet and a stylus. Watson doesn’t move to take it.
“That’s why I brought him,” he says. “‘Cause I’m not signing that.
Silence. Landry slowly lowers the tablet. His jaw clenches. V crosses his arms.
“We talked about this already, Watson,” Landry says. “You agreed to compromise.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Well, what do you want now?”
V knows that tone. It's not one of negotiation, it's exasperation with a petulant, fickle child. It's irritation that his real work is being interrupted by a spoiled brat. That’s what he thinks of his star.
“Nothing,” Watson says. “I don’t want anything. I’m not renewing my contract.”
“The new season—”
“Just listen to me for once,” Watson snaps. Landry purses his lips. “I said I’m not signing anything. I’m done. January first, I’m out of here.”
“Watson—” Landry starts again, and Watson interrupts him again.
“Save your breath,” he says, and stands up.
V watches Landry’s neatly manicured hand curl into a fist.
“Glad we could keep it civil,” V says, one brow raised. Landry meets his eyes for the first time, an evil little glare, and his hand flattens out on the desk. V can almost hear him counting to a calming five in his head before he gives Watson a tight, empty smile.
“Alright,” he says. And that’s it. There’s a beat of silence, Watson waiting for the end of the sentence. He raises his eyebrows.
“Okay,” he says, with a lilt of disbelief. “Once we wrap up this season—”
Landry shakes his head, raising his voice over Watson, “Oh, no, no. No, you don’t even have to finish the season.” His smile widens, and now there’s meaning in it, a wolfish grin.
“I—” Watson starts, but Landry’s not listening.
“Consider your contract bought out,” he says. He turns his attention back to his computer. Watson just stares.
“What do you mean, bought—”
“Three years with the studio, surely you know the way out,” Landry says. “I’ll let the staff know you’ve dropped the show.”
Watson casts a glance at V, almost furtive. “What about—”
“You can leave on your own, or I can have security escort you and your friend out,” Landry interrupts again. His voice is sharp but his eyes are still on his screen, his smile still plastered on. It makes V want to knock his teeth out.
Watson stands there for another second, then turns towards V. He doesn’t have to say let’s go , it’s all over his face, written in flushed cheeks and a pinched mouth. The door slides open for them. Landry just types and types.
No one speaks to them on the way out. No one even looks at them. Watson doesn’t stop either, and V almost has trouble keeping up with his leggy stride. He waits until they’re in the parking lot again before he says, “Hey!”
Watson keeps walking. V jogs two steps and reaches out, grabs his arm.
“Hey,” he says again, pulling Watson to a stop this time. Watson turns to stare at him, his green eyes big and wet.
“What?” he snaps.
“Everything good?” V asks. Watson yanks his arm away.
“I guess! Fucking Landry,” he says. “I was going to finish filming the season! He didn’t have to be a bitch about it!”
“But that’s it? He just says you’re done, and you’re done?”
“Do you think there should have been more paperwork?”
It’s a genuine question, V realizes after a few seconds of silence.
“I mean, I dunno,” he says. “Don’t you have an exit clause or anything?”
Watson’s mouth works silently for a second before he says, “I don’t know. Don’t remember. I had a legal team that took care of all that.”
“So you’re tellin’ me you don’t know the details of your own contract?”
“Oh, like you read the fine print every time you get a gig,” Watson says venomously, but the effect is lost in his worried expression. He looks back at the building, up towards where Landry’s office window should be. “I guess I just expected more drama from him. Guess you really did help. Were you making faces behind me or something?”
“Just my face,” V says. Watson glances at him, appraising. Then he shakes his head.
“No,” he says, like he’s answering a question. “Maybe he was going to fire me anyway. He’s just mad that I—”
He stops, narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. His lips make a little pinched o, then he mutters, “What the fuck?” Then confusion becomes horror, and V sees the flash of transfer red, almost hidden by the green. “He’s—what the fuck! He’s draining my account!” He starts back toward the building’s front door, and V has to jog again to keep up.
“What?”
“He’s taking all of my fucking money!”
“Pretty sure he can’t just do that,” V says, and even he knows it sounds stupid as soon as the words leave his mouth.
“Well, he just did, and I—”
The door doesn’t slide open, and Watson walks face-first into it. V catches him as he staggers backward.
“Holy shit,” Watson says, as V helps him upright. “Holy fucking shit.”
Bought out , Landry had said, hadn’t he?
Watson bangs on the door, yells a few choice obscenities, but nothing happens. He goes around the side of the building to one of the maintenance entrances, and nothing. V follows, because what else is he going to do? Doesn’t feel right to just leave. Feels like abandoning a drowning dog.
After ten minutes of fruitless circling, shouting, hammering on different doors, and two phone calls that no one answers, Watson sinks into a crouch, burying his face in his hands. V stands awkwardly a couple feet back.
“Hey,” he says after a while, “we should get out of here. Before they send out the drones.”
For a long moment, Watson doesn’t move. Then he lifts his head with a sniffle, glares at the building again, and stands up.
“Fine,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly steady. “I’ll get him tomorrow. Beat him to death with the damn book. I earned that money.” He takes out his phone. “I’ll talk to my legal team—”
He stops, stares at his phone. “No, I won’t,” he says slowly. “They’re with the studio. I’m not.”
He looks at V, and V looks at him.
“I can drive you home,” V offers. Watson looks at the studio building again, then shrugs.
“Fine,” he says. “Might as well.”
They walk back to the car, and Watson sniffles again.
“I’m not gonna judge if you cry,” V says.
“I’m not going to cry,” Watson snaps. “I’m not a child.”
“Damn, okay, forget I said anything. Just tryin’ to be nice.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I paid you to—oh, right. Paying.” He sniffs again, quiet, like he’s trying to hide it. “I paid the fixer already, so he should have your money.”
“Usually how it works.”
Watson taps out a message on his phone, and a minute later, V’s phone lights up with a text from Dino.
Easiest eddies ever, right?
The transfer is pretty fat, but V reads the number without enthusiasm. Feels like stolen money. Lose the construct, gain a soft conscience, huh? Probably one of the worst things he could’ve been saddled with when he left the orbital station. Ruin his career for sure.
“There,” Watson says. “Once you drop me off, that’ll be it.”
“Sure,” V says with a shrug. Eddies are eddies, soft conscience or not. There’s worse things to keep him up at night.
The address is in North Oak, way up in the hills. Not quite neighbors with Kerry, but pretty close. The gate has a tacky W on it.
“Wait here,” Watson says, and gets out of the car. He stands in front of the gate for a second, like he expects it to open for him, but it doesn’t. He goes to a touchpad on the pillar and brings up a number array. Punches in the gate code and waits. V waits. Nothing happens. The gate doesn’t move, and putting the code in again doesn’t change that.
V rolls down the window.
“Locked out?” he calls. Watson doesn’t turn around to look at him, but his head goes back in exasperation. He presses the buttons again. This time, the intercom crackles to life, and a woman's voice barks out.
“ Go away! Landry called, you don’t live here anymore!”
“What—Aura, let me in! This is my house!” Watson shouts.
“ It’s Landry’s house and he was letting you live here. Now he ain’t.”
“He can’t do that!”
Bought out, Landry had said.
“ Sure he can. Learn to read, you dumb bitch. Now get out of here before I activate the security bots!”
“Fuck,” V mutters. He got paid, sure, but he didn’t get paid to get shot at. He’d have worn something different, at least. He watches Watson for a tense moment, hoping he won’t have to get out of the car and drag him away. But Watson turns on his heel and comes stomping back to the car, yanks the door open, slams it behind him.
“Fuck!” He buries his face in his hands, makes a muffled snarling sound. Then he gestures impatiently. “Back up, she doesn’t fuck around with those bots. Back up! Off the property, at least!”
V puts the car in reverse and backs up until they’re clear of the driveway, blocking the road but it’s not like anyone else is coming this way. Watson is twisted in his seat, facing the window. Refusing to look at V.
“Well,” V says at length, “any other ideas?”
Silence. Then, he doesn’t turn to look but he does ask, “Know any decent rippers?”
“Rippers? Yeah, a couple.”
“Take me to one that’s good with implants.”
“Sure. Put your seatbelt on.”