Work Text:
A storm had pissed all over Night City, leaving the streets slick and twitching with neon. V smelled wet asphalt, the electric burn of ozone, the rotten sweetness of soymeat grilling on a street vendor’s rust-patched cart, and something underneath—something synthetic, like the city itself had been sweating in its sleep. The rain doesn’t clean anything here. It just moves the filth around.
V tore through Watson on her ARCH Nazare, engine snarling like a hungry dog, tires hissing as they sliced through puddles streaked with oil and blood and God knows what else.
The job was done. Another gig, another stack of eddies. Some corposhit extraction, in and out, easy money. If you ignored the part where the guy’s eyeball popped out mid-shootout, rolling across the floor like a dropped dumpling. If you ignored the moment when a stray bullet scratched her hip, almost—almost— rupturing the femoral artery. If you ignored how her hands still shook, how the adrenaline high felt thinner these days, stretched like skin ready to tear.
She gunned the throttle. Fast. Faster. Night City blurred, smeared itself into colors and lights that meant nothing, just pulses of electric nerve endings.
She needed to get home. No—Judy’s.
Home?
She wasn’t sure if she had one of those.
The ARCH was an extension of her body, a hot steel animal between her thighs, vibrating, purring. Every pothole rattled her bones. She was still riding the aftershocks of the gig, that raw-nerve buzz of I almost died again and it felt good.
Traffic swarmed around her—AVs hovering, cabs coughing black exhaust, street racers revving like they had something to prove. A MaxTac squad swooped overhead, all chrome and sanctioned violence. Some gonk on a street corner lit up a cigarette with his cybernetic fingertips. Night City, doing its thing, feeding on itself, chewing up mercs like her and spitting them out as legends or corpses.
Rain hit her face. Cold, sharp. Real. Or close enough.
Then static fizzled at the edges of her vision.
"You look like shit."
Johnny.
He was riding pillion, or maybe just riding her brain, glitching in and out like bad TV reception. Cigarette already half-smoked, leather jacket looking more real than it should’ve. Like he belonged here more than she did.
"Real poetic, Silverhand," she muttered, weaving between cars. A traffic drone squawked some bullshit warning. She flipped it off.
"Just saying. You keep running like this, you’ll burn out before the biochip does."
"You’re one to talk."
He grinned, teeth white and sharp. "Yeah, well. Look how I ended up."
She almost laughed. But then something ugly clenched in her chest. The city stretched out ahead of her, endless, and for a second—just a second—she could see herself from the outside. A ghost on a bike. A dead girl moving.
Johnny saw it too. His expression flickered, something like pity crawling into his eyes.
She twisted the throttle.
Faster.
Kabuki rose up ahead, tangled and humming, wires like veins strung between buildings, holoscreens blinking messages in languages she didn’t read. Judy’s block was just past the market, past the vendor stalls where ripperdocs peddled budget cyberware and street kids sold bootleg brain dances full of stolen memories.
V skidded to a stop, boots hitting pavement. The bike’s engine idled, growling under her. Her heart was still hammering.
She killed the engine.
Johnny exhaled smoke, watching her. "This the part where you tell her?"
"Tell her what?"
"That you’re on borrowed time. That you’re running on fumes. That one of these nights, you’ll walk out that door and never come back."
V clenched her jaw.
"You gonna keep pretending this city won’t eat you alive, or do you wanna talk about the fucking corpse-clock?" He grinned. "See you around, hotshot."
And then he was gone.
Just her, the city, and the rain, tapping soft against her skin.
She swallowed down something bitter.
Inside, Judy’s waiting.
Judy’s apartment smelled like cigarettes, warm circuitry, and stale takeout. Dim blue light leaked from the ceiling panels, throwing long shadows across the clutter—half-empty beer bottles, tangled charging cables, an old wetsuit crumpled in the corner like a shed skin. The place felt lived-in, real. More real than V did right now.
She stood in the doorway for a second, rain dripping off her jacket, mind still half on the ride, half stuck in the gig that had just gone down. A chunk of some corpo fuck’s skull was probably still wedged in her boot tread.
Judy, sprawled on the couch, boots up on the table, barely glanced up from her holo. "Took you long enough."
V smirked. "Miss me?"
Judy snorted. "Miss the smell of gunpowder and bad decisions? Every goddamn second."
V toed off her boots and shrugged out of the soaked jacket, tossing it onto the nearest chair. The weight of the day sat heavy on her, muscles humming with that post-gig exhaustion that didn’t feel quite real yet. She hadn’t stopped moving since she gunned it out of that Arasaka compound. Maybe she was afraid to.
Judy set the holo down, stretching like a cat, all sinew and sleep-warm skin. "You eat?"
V shook her head.
Judy rolled her eyes and got up, moving to the kitchenette. "’Course you didn’t."
The food was leftover noodles, microwaved until the edges turned scorching and rubbery. Judy pushed a bowl across the counter, then hopped up onto it herself, sitting cross-legged. V took a bite, not tasting much beyond salt and the vague memory of soy protein.
"You’re pale as a ghost," Judy said.
V grinned around a mouthful of noodles. "Thanks, babe. Real confidence boost."
"Not joking." Judy’s eyes flicked over her face, reading her like a bad poker hand. "You’re running yourself ragged."
V swallowed. She didn’t answer.
Judy tilted her head, voice going softer. "The gig go sideways?"
V thought about the blood, the static fuzzing in at the edges of her vision, the way her hands still felt like they were gripping the throttle, like if she let go she’d fall straight through the floor.
"Nah," she lied. "Smooth as silk."
Judy didn’t push, but she didn’t believe her either.
They ate in silence for a bit, the kind that settled easy between them. Judy lit a cigarette. She exhaled smoke, eyes half-lidded. "Been thinking," she said.
"Yeah?"
"’Bout getting out. Leaving the city."
V huffed a laugh. "That old song?"
"Hey, one day I might mean it."
"One day," V echoed. But they both knew the truth. Nobody left Night City. Not really.
Judy studied her. "What about you?"
V took another bite of noodles, chewing slow.
"Ever think about it?"
V thought about a lot of things.
But the clock was ticking, and she wasn’t sure there was enough time left to dream.
Judy kissed like she was hacking into you, breaking down firewalls, getting past every layer of encryption until she reached something raw and defenseless at the core. V let it happen. Let Judy take her apart. She was too fucking tired to fight it, too wired to stop it.
The cigarette hit the floor, forgotten, crushed under Judy’s boot as she pulled V in by the collar of her shirt, mouths crashing together, teeth knocking. The kiss tasted like smoke, like soy sauce and exhaustion, like something real in a city built on illusions. V bit down on Judy’s bottom lip, not gentle, dragging a low noise from her throat.
Then hands—everywhere. V’s back hit the counter, hipbones digging into the edge, Judy pressed flush against her, warmth seeping through the fabric between them. V’s fingers found skin under Judy’s tank top, traced the curve of her spine, the ridges of old scars, the ink embedded deep in her flesh. She wanted to memorize all of it. Burn it into her hands. Hold onto something real for once.
The smell of sweat, old circuitry, ozone and skin filled the world. Judy’s hands yanked V’s shirt up, dragged it over her head, nails scratching down her ribs. V hissed, pleasure tangled with something mean and desperate.
"You good?" Judy’s voice, breathless.
V nodded, swallowing hard. Words felt useless. She hooked her fingers in Judy’s belt loops, yanked her closer.
Then they were moving, stumbling toward the bed, pulling at clothes, unzipping, unbuckling, peeling each other open like faulty chrome plating. V pushed Judy down, hands braced on either side of her, hair falling into her face, sweat-slick and messy. Judy looked up at her, pupils blown wide, lips swollen, fingers running up V’s arms, over the fresh bruises blooming under her skin like warning signs.
"Fuck, you’re beautiful," Judy murmured.
V laughed, sharp and bitter. "You need your optics checked."
Judy pulled her down by the neck and shut her up with her mouth.
Then heat, pressure, skin on skin, bodies fitting together in a rhythm that felt like falling, like drowning, like nothing else in the world mattered except this. Except her. Except now.
V wanted to disappear into it. To get lost in the way Judy’s hands dragged down her back, fingers pressing into muscle, mapping her out like a city grid. The way her breath hitched when V bit the side of her throat, the way her hips moved like she was trying to fuse them together, to weld herself onto V’s bones and never let go.
She wanted to forget the ticking clock. The fucking biochip. The death sentence burning a hole in her skull.
Judy gasped, shuddered under her, nails biting into V’s shoulders, leaving marks. Proof. Evidence. Like she was trying to make sure V stayed, at least for tonight.
An hour (two? an eternity?) later, they lay tangled together, limbs heavy, skin damp. V’s heart was still hammering, her breath coming in uneven pulls, like her body was trying to hang onto something slipping away.
Judy was warm against her, forehead resting against V’s shoulder. Neither of them spoke for a long time.
Outside, the city kept moving. Sirens. Hovercars. The distant thump of bass from some club down the street.
Judy shifted, pressed a kiss to V’s collarbone, mumbled sleep-drunk into her skin, "You gonna be here in the morning?"
V didn’t answer.
Didn’t trust herself to.
Judy sighed, already half-asleep. Her breathing evened out.
V stared at the ceiling, wide awake.
The heat was already fading. The weight of reality was crawling back in.
She wasn’t sure what scared her more—that she was going to die.
Or that the world would keep turning without her.
V tried to match her breathing, slow herself down, but something inside her wouldn’t settle.
The room felt too quiet. The neon outside the window felt too loud.
She could still feel Judy’s touch, the ghost of it lingering in the raw places. She could still taste her skin, her sweat, her breath, but it was slipping away, like everything else. Like time itself was melting around her.
I should sleep.
But she didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Something was wrong.
She stared at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster, at the way the light from the window bent and flickered, unnatural. The whole room felt wrong, like a bad BD loop, details too sharp in some places, too blurred in others.
Judy’s breath—too even. The hum of the city—too distant. The walls—too far away.
Her own hands—not hers.
She lifted one in front of her face, flexed her fingers. The motion lagged, like bad frame rate. The skin didn’t feel like skin. Felt like—
(What if you’re not really here?)
Her heart slammed once, hard.
The sheets tangled around her legs, twisting like restraints. The whole room pulsed, stretched, contracted. The air thickened.
She wasn’t breathing.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—
Static fizzled at the edges of her vision, creeping in like rot. The air pressure shifted.
And then—
"Panic attack, huh? Ain’t that a bitch."
V whipped her head around.
Johnny again.
Lounging in the chair by the bed, boot propped up on the table, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He watched her, head tilted, mouth pulled into something like amusement, like pity, like something else entirely.
"Guess mortality’s finally kicking in," he said.
"Fuck off."
He took a slow drag. Exhaled smoke into the dim light. "Not exactly optional, is it?"
V clenched her jaw.
"You been running from it all night," he said, voice easy, conversational, like they were shooting the shit over beers instead of talking about her impending death. "The ride, the fuckin', the whole ‘live fast, die young’ routine. But the thing about running, V—"
He leaned forward.
"It don’t mean shit if you’re running in circles."
The air was wrong. The walls were wrong. She was wrong.
She pushed the sheets off, swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her breath was coming too fast, like a piston misfiring. Johnny just watched.
"Judy’s right there," she whispered. "I’m real. This is real."
Johnny didn’t answer. Just tapped his cigarette against the arm of the chair, watching the ash fall.
The city outside buzzed, distant and untouchable.
V pressed a hand against her chest. Felt her own heartbeat. It was there. But it was fast. Too fast.
"I don’t wanna go," she managed to force out.
Johnny’s eyes softened, just a flicker. "Yeah. No one does."
A beat of silence.
Then he smirked, slow and cruel. "The first step is the hardest. After that, you're on a roll."
And just like that, the whole world tilted sideways.
Judy’ breath. In. Out. Rising. Falling. Steady. Constant. Right here.
V pressed a hand against the sheets, against Judy’s bare back, felt the warmth of her, the undeniable presence of life.
But in the next breath—
She wasn’t there.
The bed was empty. The apartment was empty. The world was empty.
Judy’s cigarette butts still lined the edge of the sink. Her wetsuit still hung half-folded over the chair. But the room smelled like absence. Like something had been scraped out of it, hollowed.
V stumbled out of bed, feet bare against the cold floor.
The calendar on the wall had changed. Months. Years. A different world ticking along without her.
She turned—
And there was Judy, standing by the window, older. Paler. Different in ways V couldn’t quite name, like a photo left out in the sun too long, colors faded, edges curling.
Judy was staring out at the city, arms crossed.
V stepped forward. "Jude?"
Judy didn’t turn. Didn’t react.
Just murmured, "I always knew you wouldn’t make it."
The words hit like a gut-punch.
V reached for her—
And her hand passed through empty air.
The world broke apart.
Not all at once. Piece by piece, rewinding, skipping, jumping forward at impossible speeds.
She blinked and—
—Judy was laughing, sprawled on the couch, a beer in her hand, V beside her.
She blinked and—
—Judy was at the bar in Lizzie’s, head bowed, hands clenched around a shot glass, alone.
She blinked and—
—Judy was in the rain, standing over an unmarked grave.
She blinked and—
—Johnny.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her with something unreadable in his expression.
She tried to speak, but her voice wasn’t working.
"Looks like you’re getting it now," he said, voice low.
V opened her mouth—
And stopped.
The walls pixelated. The floor shimmered. She looked down at her hands and—
—They weren’t hands. Not flesh. Not metal. Nothing.
She turned to the window.
And there she was.
Reflected in the glass.
A shape, an outline, a smear of light barely holding itself together. Glitching, stuttering, a human error in the code.
She reached for the glass—her reflection did the same—but the fingers never met.
A cold rush of static slid down her spine.
Johnny exhaled smoke. "Welcome to the afterlife, kid."
V turned to him, hands shaking, teeth clenched.
"I’m not fucking dead."
His smirk was tired, almost sad. "Ain’t you, though?"
Her vision flickered—
The world folded in on itself—
And everything went black.
Nothing.
No sound. No city hum. No breathing. No heartbeat.
Just black.
Then—
A flicker.
A pulse of neon.
And suddenly, V was back.
The bed. The sheets. The cigarette smoke hanging thick in the air. Judy’s warmth against her side, solid, breathing, alive.
She gasped, air scraping down her throat like razors. Her hands dug into the mattress, gripping for something. Her whole body was trembling.
What the fuck was that?
A dream? A glitch? The biochip pulling some next-level mindfuck?
It didn’t matter.
She was here. She was alive.
And if she only had a few weeks left—
Then she was going to live.
Fuck the fear. Fuck the clock. Fuck everything that tried to tell her she wasn’t real.
V exhaled, slow, steadying herself.
Then a slow clap echoed through the room.
"Nice fuckin’ speech," Johnny drawled.
V swallowed hard. "Get the fuck outta here, Johnny."
"Yeah? Bit late for that." He smirked, but his eyes weren’t mocking this time. They were—something else.
Johnny sighed, rubbing his temple like this was exhausting for him. "Hate to break it to you, but…" He flicked the cigarette away, watching it disappear. "You already cashed out, V."
Her blood turned to ice.
"Don’t fuck with me, Johnny."
He just looked at her.
Not laughing. Not teasing. Just watching her understand.
The room pulsed, flickered. A glitch running through the walls, the bed, Judy.
The city outside was the same loop of neon, the same cars passing, the same distant siren. A simulation.
No, no, no, NO.
V shoved the covers off, staggered out of bed, bare feet hitting the floor. The moment she stood up, the whole room wobbled. The floor felt too far away, the ceiling too close, the walls stretching and shrinking like a funhouse mirror.
She spun toward Judy.
She was still sleeping. Still breathing. Too still. Too even.
V reached out.
Her hand went through Judy’s shoulder.
A scream clawed its way up her throat, but it didn’t make it out. Just choked silence, lungs burning, like she wasn’t real enough to even scream.
Johnny was watching, arms crossed. "Took you long enough."
V turned on him, shaking. "No—no, I survived that gig. I fucking rode home."
Johnny’s expression softened, just a flicker. "Nah, V. You thought you did."
She couldn’t breathe.
"You bled out back there. Some gonk put a bullet in your hip, and your body’s still lyin’ on that cold-ass warehouse floor." His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. "The only thing keeping this illusion running is the last flickers of your brain and that busted chip."
V was shaking her head, no, no, no, no—
"But hey," Johnny continued, gesturing around the room, "least your mind gave you a good send-off. One last joyride. One last fuck. Pretty poetic, if you ask me."
The apartment glitched. The walls distorted, Judy flickered out for a second, replaced by empty sheets, then snapped back. The world was breaking apart.
V fell to her knees, gasping.
She pressed her hands against her chest.
Heartbeat. Come on. Please. Beat. Fucking beat.
Nothing.
V blinked.
Morning.
She woke up tangled in the sheets, Judy curled against her, breath warm against her collarbone. The air smelled like cigarettes, sweat, city dust.
Her holo pinged. A new gig.
She sat up, stretched, rolling the stiffness from her neck.
Judy shifted beside her, half-asleep, murmuring something.
V ran a hand through her hair.
The city lived outside. The world kept turning.
She got up. Got dressed.
Walked to the door.
Hand on the handle.
A pause.
A second of hesitation.
Was it real? Was this the illusion?
She inhaled. Exhaled.
Stepped out into the neon.