Work Text:
The desert heat baked the canvas of the big tent, turning the air around the Mackinaw thick and stifling. Panam lay flat on her back in the dirt, her Warhorse parked in the secluded workspace away from the main bustle of the clan. Sweat stung her eyes, pooling in the collar of her jacket and tracking through the fine layer of grit on her cheeks.
She gripped a heavy torque wrench and gave a stubborn suspension bolt a vicious pull. It refused to budge. She cursed, the sound swallowed by the heavy canvas walls. She shifted her grip, ignoring the raw scrape on her palm where she had slipped an hour ago, and pulled again. Her shoulders burned with the effort, and she welcomed it. She needed the physical strain. She needed the ache in her forearms and the sting in her hands to drown out the furious, gnawing anxiety that had kept her awake since the middle of the night.
The memory of the holocall clung to her like the old grease staining her fingers. Deep in the night, her comms had chimed in the absolute dark of her tent. She had answered heavy with sleep, ready to bite his head off for waking her. But the words had died in her throat the second she heard his breathing. He sounded hollowed out.
He cut straight to it, whispering that he didn't know if they were going to see each other again. A cold weight bottomed out her stomach. It lasted a heartbeat before blinding, defensive heat swallowed it whole. He was cutting ties. Packing up his pride and breaking it off in the dark so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye. She told him to fuck off, refusing to let him drop a line like that and run.
Then he clarified. It wasn't a breakup. He told her he had a gig. Something he had to do. She demanded his location, ready to fire up the Warhorse and drag him out of whatever rotting hole he was hiding in. But he cut her off, his voice impossibly tired, and simply said he couldn't wait anymore. That was when she ordered him to take a few deep breaths, get his head straight, and call her back.
She had spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, her pulse hammering in her ears, waiting for the screen to light up. It never did.
Underneath the truck, Panam bared her teeth and slammed the heel of her hand against the side of the wrench. The bolt finally gave with a loud crack. Her knuckles scraped brutally against the rusted metal, tearing the skin, but she barely felt the sting.
Idiot. Stubborn, reckless idiot. He always pulled through whatever mess he walked into, but he always had to bleed for it first. Always carrying the weight alone. Never trusting the family. He was probably sitting in some cramped Watson apartment right now, entirely oblivious to the fact that she was out here losing her mind over his dramatic bullshit. She was going to give him an absolute earful the second he finally picked up his phone. She was going to make him swear to never pull a stunt like that again.
She slid out from under the rig, dragging the heavy wrench with her across the dirt. She pushed herself to her feet, wiping a streak of sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm. An old television hung from a support strut in the corner of the tent, cables snaking down to a portable generator humming faintly in the background. It was tuned to N54 News, left on for the morning weather reports.
Panam walked over to her workbench, tossing the wrench onto the scarred metal and reaching for a dirty rag. The corporate anchor shifted their tone. The practiced, pleasant cadence dropped into something urgent and clipped.
"We return now to our breaking coverage of the unprecedented assault on Arasaka Tower early this morning".
Panam paused, scrubbing the grease from her fingers. She looked up at the cracked screen. Smoke billowed from the upper levels of the massive corporate monolith. Gunships circled the perimeter like angry wasps, their spotlights cutting through the thick gray haze pouring from the shattered glass.
"Security feeds indicate a solitary assailant launched a direct assault on the corporate headquarters," the anchor continued. "The individual was heavily armed and displaying extreme symptoms of cyberpsychosis".
Panam snorted, turning back to the workbench. One guy hitting Arasaka Tower. Bullshit. Night City was full of legends, but nobody was that crazy.
"Corporate defense forces have officially neutralized the threat," the anchor droned on. "The assailant was confirmed deceased at the scene".
She tossed the dirty rag onto the bench, reaching for a clean one. Night City chewed people up every single day. Some poor, chromed-out bastard had just made the news, and Arasaka was spinning it to cover up whatever internal war they were actually fighting.
"NCPD officials, working in conjunction with Arasaka security, have identified the attacker as the prime suspect implicated in the recent assassination of former CEO Saburo Arasaka".
Panam froze. The clean rag hovered inches from her hand. "The individual was a freelance mercenary operating out of Watson...". The air in the tent grew suddenly, impossibly heavy.
"...known in the local underworld simply as V".
The rag slipped from her fingers. It hit the dirt with a soft thud. The world started spinning. The ambient hum of the generator warped, stretching into a thin, high-pitched ring that drilled directly into her temples. The desert wind felt freezing.
It was a mistake. N54 fed on lies. Corps always covered their tracks with convenient scapegoats. V was a reckless, impossible fool who never knew when to walk away from a fight. But he wouldn't do this. Not alone. Not without a plan. Not without asking for help.
But the memory of his voice rushed back, stripping away her denial. He had sounded hollow. Finished. He knew exactly what he was walking into. He hadn't called to cut ties. He had called to say goodbye. And she had told him to fuck off.
A raw, ugly sound tore out of her throat. It was a roar of pure, unfiltered agony, the sound of a trapped animal tearing its own flesh to escape a snare. Panam grabbed the heavy iron wrench from the workbench. Her vision swam with red hot fury. She spun around and swung the iron bar with every ounce of strength she possessed.
The wrench slammed into the armored quarter panel of the truck with a deafening crash. The impact sent a violent shockwave up her arms, vibrating deep into her teeth. Metal dented inward. Paint shattered and rained into the dirt.
She swung again. The wrench crashed into the truck door. The window spiderwebbed with a sickening crunch. She screamed, a jagged, wordless sound that ripped her vocal cords apart. She brought the wrench down on the hood. The metal buckled under her rage.
Why didn't he ask for help? They had the Basilisk. They had rifles. She would have driven the tank straight through the front doors of the tower for him. She would have burned the entire corporate plaza to the ground to get him out. Why did he think he had to do it alone?
She swung the wrench until her shoulders screamed in agony. She swung until her hands went numb. The heavy iron slipped from her slick grip, clattering into the dirt.
The violence died. The sudden silence was deafening. Her lungs burned, starved for air, and the torn skin on her palms throbbed. Standing there in the quiet, the truth hit her cold and absolute. It stripped the last of the adrenaline from her blood, leaving nothing but ruin.
If she had just swallowed her pride. If she had just listened to the absolute despair in his voice instead of getting angry. She could have told him she loved him. She had never gotten to say it.
Her last words to the man who held her heart were delivered in annoyance. She had told him to breathe and hung up the phone.
Her body failed. Knees buckling, Panam collapsed. She didn't try to catch herself. She hit the ground hard, the sharp gravel biting into her shins.
She dragged her hands up into her hair, her fingers curling into tight fists, pulling hard enough to tear the roots. She folded her body entirely in half, pressing her forehead against the dirt. The tears came hot and fast, blinding her. A ragged, choking sob shuddered through her ribs. It felt like someone had driven a jagged blade straight through her lungs and snapped the handle off.
The pain was entirely physical. It radiated from her chest, burning through her veins, hollowing her out from the inside until there was nothing left but the crushing weight of her own regret. He was gone. He had died entirely alone, bleeding out on a cold marble floor, thinking she was angry with him.
She gasped for air, but her lungs refused to expand. She was drowning in the middle of the dry desert. Another sob tore through her, harder than the last, shaking her frame until her teeth rattled.
The noise of her rampage had carried through the canvas walls. The silence of her immediate, suffocating bubble was broken by the frantic crunch of boots hitting the gravel outside the workspace. Footsteps rushed closer, kicking up dust.
Voices shouted her name. Mitch’s tone was pitched high, tight with sudden alarm. Cassidy was yelling something frantic right behind him. Carol’s voice broke, stripped of its usual sharpness, replaced by rising panic. They were closing in fast. They were rushing into the tent, reaching for her. They were her family, coming to pull her out of the wreckage.
But Panam couldn't look up. She kept her face buried against the dirt, her body trembling violently. The clan was surrounding her, their voices desperate and loud, but none of it registered.
The sound was warped, muffled, like she was submerged deep underwater. The desert was gone. The camp was gone. There was only the high-pitched ringing in her ears, the overwhelming weight of the dirt beneath her, and the terrifying reality that she would never hear his voice again.