There was nothing. Only warm, primordial blackness. Her conscience fermented in it, no larger than a single grain of malt. She didn't have to do anything anymore. An inordinate amount of time passed. It was utterly void of struggle. Nothing upon nothing, upon nothing.
I like nothing.
"I know you do, baby… I know." This is one voice we've never heard before, but Wilma had. And it made the hair on her neck stand up.
The room was dimly lit only by B.R.I.C.K's charging station. The mech loomed in the gloom like a desecrated altar, hooked to the wall with a thick web of power cables that pulsed like arteries in a giant, undead heart. Its silhouette was skeletal in places, armoured in others, an abomination pieced together for war, but now resting.
Wilma lay in the fetal position, cradled in the crook of the mech's new left arm. All previous insignia had been scrubbed off the massive mechanical glove along with any traces from its previous owner — someone who no longer had use for it. The arm was too grotesque in scale, and yet she fit against it like a child clutching a fallen titan. It still smelled of cauterised metal and blood.
Her own blood had dried on her face and flaked in the corners of her eyes and lips. She hadn't moved in hours, nor did she intend to. She had found peace in a machine not built for comfort, trying to offer it anyway. And there was a strange beauty to it, this monument to collapse. A girl curled into a weapon's embrace, held by something not born to feel but still managing to carry her weight. A machine of war become cradle.
A fiery streak penetrated Wilma's skull, trying to force her eyes open. It was a sound. A clarion call from hell. Her awakening was rude, bitter, and violent. She rolled towards the source of the sound, forgetting she had been lying in B.R.I.C.K.'s hand. The unpleasant surprise of missing surface underneath caused her to slump headfirst on the floor with no time to brace for the fall. Another unwelcome reminder of her existence was the suffocating pain in her chest, legs, arm, head… everywhere. Bit by bit, she slowly started remembering the events of HeavenMed. A cracked rib, bodies, and so much blood. Then the ripperdoc. Then some ink blotches passing as memories — aimless walks around Night City, people's merging faces, explosions, dancing, tinkering.
She was receiving a call on her network's private comms, and she was more determined to stop the grating sound rather than pick up. She placed a mechanical arm beneath her and forced herself up, but slipped, and her face hit the ground again.
It was still ringing.
"Who the fuck is it?!" She hoarsed, her throat hurting like she'd just swallowed a cactus.
"GRETA." B.R.I.C.K. replied monotonously. His voice was a nightmare of its own and hard to listen to, but it never bothered Wilma. Greta, on the other hand, had a much less pleasant voice. She was Gunner's corpo info-broker in her late twenties, a crewmember, and a pain in the ass.
If I don't pick up, they'll think something is wrong.
Wilma forced herself up and was challenged to stay upright. Her head was swimming and just before it became unbearably annoying to hear another note, she stumbled to the answering machine at the table, pressing the button.
"Fi-i-inally." Greta whined on the other end of the comms.
"What." Wilma bit back, her hand clumsily reaching for the ice pack on the workbench and pressing it down on the cracked rib. She winced inaudibly.
"Oh, nothing! Just calling for a chat, you know? We haven't had the chance to catch up since you nearly died. What's the goss, Jackal is telling everybody you have a new boyfriend? Is his dick big?" She tried to get a rise out of her.
Wilma sighed and prayed, to no god in particular, to give her strength. Before she had the chance to reply, Greta clicked with her tongue.
"What? No foreplay? You're no fun when you're detoxing." In the background, Wilma indignantly swallowed a lump of guilt along with a handful of painkillers. "I liked you better when you were foaming at the mouth and laughing at your oncoming death." She paused greedily, waiting to see if she'd get a reaction.
"Fine, fine," she sighed dramatically. "Come down to Dock Seventeen. We've got one of Gunner's special orders that needs offloading."
Wilma tenderly leaned her bruised back against the column by the workbench, staring up at a rust stain that looked like a bullet hole. "You've got hands. Get Ronan to do it."
"Ronan's busy." There was a clatter of typing on the other end. "And by busy, I mean she said, and I quote, 'If Greta calls, I'm not here.'"
Wilma snorted quietly through her nose, causing her chest to hurt. Her and Ronan were rarely on the same page. "Sounds like she's got the right idea."
"Look, it's not a request," Greta snapped, dropping the artificial sweetness. "Gunner asked for you. You and your boyfriend."
Until now, she had blissfully revelled in Vex's absence. She hadn't seen him since HeavenMed and had no idea where he was now, but the last thing she wanted was to tell everyone she'd lost him. "Why?"
"Ha! So he is your boyfriend!" Greta savoured her victory. "I hate to be the one to break it to you, but everybody has their weight to pull around here." She was enjoying every bit of it, "You think you can just laze in your sewer forever while everybody bends over backwards for the crew?"
"I'm sure you bend over quite often." Wilma was regaining her footing.
"Hilarious." Greta was not amused. "Now be a good girl and get your boney ass to the docks."
"What's the order?"
"That's on a need-to-know basis," she said nastily, with full amusement in her voice. "You know how it is. Big boys and their secrets."
Of course it was restricted. Of course she was smiling. Wilma's stomach turned—not from the comedown, but from the realisation that they still didn't trust her. Though she probably wouldn't trust herself either.
Wilma's tone cooled. "Who else'll be there?"
"Don't know. Don't care. Bye-e-e!" She ended on a singing note.
"Bullshit!" The line cut before Wilma could tell her to go choke on a datashard. Greta knew exactly who would be there, and she was holding it just out of reach, like she always did.
Wilma sat frustrated on the edge of the table when dread began to substitute pain. Last thing she wanted was for Gunner to show up and see through her in an instant. I need to get my shit together.
She staggered toward the bathroom sink, grabbing hold of it with both hands. The basement was veiled in darkness and when Wilma flicked a switch on, the blinding light made her nauseous.
She would have screamed if she could. Her dry eyeballs stared back at the haunting image in the mirror. She did not like what she saw there — and she would never unbecome it. A near-headless cadaver, smashed beyond recognition. Bits of bone barely resembled traces of a skull. The sight pushed into her burning eyes, more instant and more familiar than anything she'd expect. It filled her mind, flushing her from within.
Wilma felt the rise in her stomach. She tried to swallow it down, but it was impossible to keep it in. Her body curled and pushed it out, burst by burst. When the vomiting was done, her throat stung from the stomach acid and her cheeks were wet with tears.
"Fuck…"
Trepidatiously, she looked up again. Thankfully, it wasn't Wu's remains peering at her, but it wasn't a pretty sight either — a pair of exhausted eyes gawked back at Wilma, surrounded by what should have been her face, but it was almost unrecognisable by the dusty layer of dry blood still sticking to it, save for where tears had rolled down. She twisted the faucet's knob and washed the vomit down the drain before splashing cold water on her face.
Clouds were colliding with one another. Rain fell down on the world. The shoulders of Wilma's bomber jacket grew heavy. The cold found its way under her skin. She shivered. The buildings constricted the sky like looming 70-story sarcophagi. A fog was spreading over the opiate and hepatitis B-infested streets, mixing with the vapor that emanated from the sewers.
She walked down to the Nexus, LeBlanc's nightclub. The thing about nightclubs was that you were not supposed to go there during the day, unless you had business. Otherwise, you'd risk stumbling upon a very sorry sight. In the case of Wilma, she was tasked with the business of finding and retrieving Vex, an inconvenience she was not currently equipped to deal with.
Wilma stepped in to see the lowest of the low converging at the tables. Some were passed out, others were half-naked — all leftover byproducts of the nightlife that would be better off hidden in the dark. And she had to be painfully sober during this.
A mix of emotions stirred within her when she spotted Vex, sitting in one of the booths. There was that conflicting emotion again, where she'd hope to find him both dead and alive, unsure which she preferred more.
He was sharing the booth with a walrus of a man, mid-conversation. Wilma picked up on the stranger's French accent. She cringed at the sight — Vex had clearly been drinking and she hated dealing with drunks.
"If I'd known you were auditioning for rock bottom, I'd have brought a camera." She didn't spare the Frenchman a glance, ignoring his obese figure altogether. She propped her boot against the couch and leaned forward. Even though she tried, she couldn't obscure her poor condition entirely. She had changed clothes and taken a bath, but her eyes were still red and puffy, and her walk betrayed fatigue. "See anything interesting in your sweet supple tar of unconscious stupor while you were blacked out?" Her sense of humour was back. "Like maybe where my share of eddies is?"
Gregor cast a hard-nosed look at her from across the room. He seemed like he had had a long shift and wasn't in the mood for more trouble. Wilma winked at him.
"Sober up, we have shit to do." Somehow, she knew it wouldn't be this easy. "And let's skip the exhausting back-and-forth where you say 'no' and I threaten you until you sulkily agree after an array of colourful emotions, 'cause I really don't care."
Of all the women Vex had known carnally -- if you chose to believe him, there were many -- marijuana remained his favorite lover. She was kind, easygoing, and tended to every one of his needs: all she asked for in return was lung cancer and a few burned out brain cells. That was a better price than any joytoy had ever offered him.
Technically, he wasn't supposed to be smoking in here. Also, technically, he'd been kicked out three hours ago right when the doors were closing for the early morning. It was by will of clout and the steady flow of eddies that he'd managed to maintain his perch in the darkest, dreariest, shittiest corner of LeBlanc's bar for the past three days. He'd left twice to bathe himself at the apartment of the kind French fellow who'd made his acquaintance the first night the runner'd spent at LeBlanc's. The booth had been kept empty per request on the first return, courtesy of Vex's working relationship with Mister LeBlanc. The second time, a young couple had been dry humping their way through an endless stream of margheritas right on his favorite side of the booth. Vex vaguely remembered yelling something about 'sinning in the lord's house' and throwing eddies at the two of them until they started screaming too. The Frenchman had shouted something stupid in his funny made-up language and had somehow managed to defuse things. Vex then decided to start throwing the eddie chips at the waitress instead, which seemed effective given they weren't bothered again.
The Frenchman, one Monsieur Grosses-Couilles, had proven to be a very good friend. He'd spotted Vex early that first night when the runner was regaling a small crowd of drunkards with tales of his many heroics. There were many 'oohs and 'ahhs' as he recalled fighting the tentacle monster with his bare hands, and then having extremely hot, controversial sex with the tentacle monster's wife atop the beast's corpse. The Frenchman offered him a drink and a position in his up-and-coming podcasting network. It was very exceptional, risky, bleeding edge, or so Monsieur Grosses-Couilles had said. Intrigued, Vex accepted the offer for a drink, and the party had continued since - only stopping for brief intervals where the two of them would drink or smoke too much and pass out until they'd recovered enough for more.
All in all, a really great week.
"You keep talking about your main bitch," Vex rolled the blunt between his teeth and drank in the earthy flavor as the smoke drifted past his tongue. "I don't really get it."
"Oh, petit homme idiot! Your main bitch iz your main product. She iz your biggest earner, and she iz more zhan zhat. She is your wife, whom you do not love. She is your maid, zhat you do not pay. Elle est la rampe sur laquelle vous posez vos couilles!" Monsieur Grosses-Couilles waved his hands dramatically, the oversized glass bong in his hands clinking unpleasantly against the wall to accentuate his point.
Vex's translator had quit working about a day into his impromptu vacation. That was also around the same time that Nyx had informed him she would be off in the city's net until he was done "frolicking with the detritus of the California", whatever the fuck that meant. Weird.
"I don't really understand ya when ya start spitting latin at me, man."
"Si vous n'étiez pas si charmant et stupide, je vous ferais massacrer, mon ami américain!" The Frenchman was a strange creature to look at, as all of his kind were. Two beady black eyes poked out of a massive, heavily jowled face. His skin was spray-tanned quite poorly, giving him a yellowed look that reminded Vex of jaundice. His gut hung nearly a full foot past his waist, and he was only able to lift his massive girth effectively via the aid of three metal limbs that extended of their own accord from his belt that plodded across the ground like crab legs. He was dressed in a bright pink leather jacket that trailed at his feet, and was trimmed with what he assured Vex was real leopard skin. He wore a monk's bowl cut of gray-blue hair and jewelry that covered nearly every part of his face. It was all gaudy gems, greens, golds, and blues, necklaces and chains that ran to his belly button, and silver earrings that draped across his shoulders. A black pencil moustache quivered across his upper lift each time he talked, and he smelled like a mix of chemicals, heavy perfume, and body odor.
Very trustworthy individual far as Vex was concerned.
"Dude," he passed the blunt over to the Frenchman, who took it and puffed until his face turned red. "Seriously, my talkthing's fucked up."
"Must we speak ze language of ze barbarians?" A new waitress wandered up and glanced at the two of them sheepishly. She dropped two glasses of rum wordlessly on the table, not daring to make eye contact with the newest pieces of furniture that had invited themselves to become part of the bar. "I speak English to communicate with ze monkeys, but you are not a monkey."
Vex reached over and took a long testing sip. It was sharp, bitter, tasted like the way his soul felt. "Як наконт маёй роднай мовы? // How about my mother tongue?"
"None of zhat Polish shhhlll-OP either."
The runner's nose scrunched up with distaste as he acquiesced. "To był język białoruski. To jest język polski. // That was Belarusian. This is Polish."
"Vous parlez oriental comme si j'étais une bête des neiges." Frenchman blubbered in make-believe.
"Как насчет этого, мудак? Русский язык знают все. // How about this, asshole? Everyone knows Russian."
"Cheeki-breeki, slavi-daki, biky sniky micky glicky! Zhat iz what you sound like!" Monsieur Grosses-Couilles shook his head vigorously, spreading ashes and burning weed-bits all across the table. He snorted, then burned down the rest of the blunt, the lit cherry of the roach winking at Vex tauntingly.
"Linguini baguette tu tu de ballisia sackuxx, that's what you sound like!" The runner nearly jumped up from the table with his enthusiasm but caught his legs on the edge with a loud bang. Frenchman jiggled with laughter as Vex spat a string of curses and winced. "And you killed the blunt, ya fuckin' asshole."
"This is correct, I am an asshole, ZE ASSHOLE, and everyone comes running when zhey smell my stink." He looked very proud of that.
"Monsieur Grosses-Couilles," Vex suffered, formally. "That is very gross."
"My line of work is gross! It is in the name! Zhat is why it is pro-fit-able! Americans worship disgusting things."
"Your women don't shave their armpits, I don't wanna hear it."
"You are close-minded, and a fool, but do not worry, I know how to harness your foolishness." Monsieur Grosses-Couilles leaned forward as far as his corpulence let him, which was about two inches. "Your speech earlier about ze tentacle and ze woman and ze communists, zat was captivating. I was enraptured," Frenchman placed a baby-skin smooth hand over his heart. "I zhought to myself, zhat is a man with zhe soul of an actor. I want to make you a star, Monsieur Vex."
Vex waved a dismissive hand as he steadily drained his glass in one long go. Some part of his brain was surprised and somewhat worried about how quickly he was going through the drinks, but it was tiny its influence had long been usurped. "I ain't doing any weird porno brain dance euroshit Frenchman."
Monsieur Grosses-Couilles shook his head again and Vex could hear his cheeks slapping against his teeth. "You misunderstand. I do not want you to star, I want you to narrate! I have zhe most amazing idea: you, a stealth zuit, a brain dance, and a dream. I send you into Mox dens, you zneak around, and you comment on all of zhe many sins you see, like a nature documentary! Night City's dirtiest, raw and uncut!"
"Ya want me to sneak into a brothel and record people having sex?" It frightened Vex how quickly he considered asking for a price.
"We vhil add laugh tracks for zhe fat ones. Tittalating comedy, just like zhat Watson Whore telenovella!" Frenchman was clapping now and jerking his head like a seizing chicken at the waitress whist gesturing with his eyes at the empty rum glasses. "We will make millions, my little monkey!"
"One, that's fuckin' creepy, two, I'm a gorilla. A big one. Get your apes right," Approximately two minutes had passed since Vex had finished his last smoked his last blunt. His hands had nothing to grab, and there was nothing to drink or inhale. The anxiety set in quickly.
"I would get permits! All perfectly legal, you don't need to make a decision right now, we can-"
Whatever Frenchman was saying went unheard as the sound of Vex's own heartbeat overpowered any other. He'd chanced a look toward the door, and a figure he'd hoped not to see again greeted him like a specter. Anxiety melted into silent panic as he felt a nervous shiver creep down his spine. He didn't want to see her, not like this, not at all. She couldn't just stay away for another week? Surely Gunner's boots were due for their hourly spit-shining.
Frenchman noticed when Vex gave him silence for a response and followed the runner's gaze. The beady dots of his eyes grew impossibly smaller as he narrowed them."Zhis is zhe skinny bitch you were crying about?"
Vex felt a vein pulse across his neck as his eyes fired back to Frenchman. "I was not crying."
"Zhere were tears in your eyes, monsieur, simply unshed." Frenchman nodded sagely.
"I've barely slept in three days and we've both been crossfaded that entire time, of course my eyes were glossy." Vex gave them a roll for good measure.
"Vous pleuriez comme une adolescente après avoir découvert que son petit ami est homosexuel. Nonezheless, if zhe is your main bitch, you must work things out."
"Your main bitch ever bash an old granny's brains in 'till she was missing a head?" All the amusement had drained from Vex's face, and he felt terribly sober.
"No, but if zhe did, I would tell her not to do zhat again, and I would forgive her." Frenchman shrugged.
"Why? How?" Vex's brows knit up with incredulity.
"Because she is my main bitch. Zhere are many bitches in zhis world, Monsieur Vex, but main bitches are rarer than diamonds." Another sage nod.
"Diamonds aren't actually rare. They grow them in lab-"
"If I'd known you were auditioning for rock bottom, I'd have brought a camera."
Her voice was heroine and he'd only been clean for three days. It hit his veins like an overdose of 'dorphs. He'd missed it terribly and despised it for the addiction that it was. Her wit was sharp: always an offered challenge, a demand to engage, to keep using. She threw words at him and his heart leapt at the opportunity to spar with her as they usually did, but he could only see the gore-caked bat in her hands when he looked at her. He longed to say something clever to her, something stupid, like "oh hey, it's the grannie grinder" or "look, it's the mamaw masher" but his mouth refused to obey him, and his soul recoiled from her.
He couldn't look away from her though. Exhaustion clung to her like a cloak, and she moved like a corpse that had just crawled its way out of an early grave. The redness around her eyes made him wonder if she was still using. His instincts told him - no, he wanted to hug her, to comfort her, but then he remembered the sound of Wu's bones snapping as it echoed down the hallway.
He let her finish speaking and offered her his silent stare in reply. All the emotions he'd been suppressing crackled just beneath the surface of his unreadable gaze. Guilt, disgust, and betrayal clawed at his consciousness. He wanted to be away from her. He needed to be away from her.
But he didn't want to, and he couldn't.
"The point of the sweet supple tar is that you can't see anything, and your brain gets so gunked up you can't remember anything either, at least until a walking reminder comes wandering in." His voice was a detached thing, cold, felt like it belonged to someone else entirely. "Save me the 'I'm a big strong bitch and I don't need saving' routine, you've played it out past its prime. What do you want?" His cybernetic eye lit bright cerulean as seven thousand eddies were transferred from his account to Wilma's.
Frenchman had quietly observed throughout the exchange and seized upon the opportunity to interject. "Bonjour Mademoiselle, you must be the main bitch I have heard zho much about! I am Monsieur Grosses-Couilles, purveyor of life's beauty and traveler upon the sea of coitus. You have Monsieur Vex in quite zhe vexxing mood, I am afraid. He has been crying about you for three days! Such a colorful expression of life. You would almost think Americans are people!"
"You are so full of shit it's coming out your ears." If looks could kill, Vex would have vaporized Frenchman then.
After the barrage of provocations, Wilma felt compelled to reply with her usual meal of snarky remarks and insults, but the stream of eddies kept her complacent.
"Oh, get over yourself, Kiranova. Are you still upset about it?" She couldn't see what the big deal was. Risks of the job. And if grotesque imagery of your victims was among them, so be it.
Then the fat man called her Vex's main bitch. Did Vex have a crush on her? She didn't like the thought at all, and it made her panic. It was also not helping her he's-not-my-boyfriend case. A dog on a leash, she reminded herself in an attempt to settle her nerves. He's just trying to throw me off, she rationalised.
"Shut up, pig face. Not in a million years." Her nose scrunched up in visible disgust. She dug her hands further into her jacket's pocket and addressed the Frenchman with a whipping glare.
"You are making me uncomfortable," she turned back to Vex. He was in such a pitiful state that it elicited a barebones sympathy Wilma forgot she was capable of. She had also been through a tough week.
"Please, let's just go." She felt miserable saying those words and it showed in her sad eyes. Begging? Really? Her ego judged. "Gunner has menial labour on the menu, for a change."
"And I will not engage in conversation with you in a place where I am not allowed to punch you." She couldn't hide her uneasiness much longer. She nodded at the exit. "If I am called a 'bitch' one more time, I think I might burst into flames," her glare moved on to Monsieur Grosses-Couilles, "or start bashing brains." She had not brought along her baseball bat, and her .45mm Unity would certainly not be enough to take down a tub of lard like him, but she hoped it only made her threat sound more credible.
"Am I still upset about you smashing Wu's skull into a wall after she helped us and I gave her my word that we would help her? No, not at all." Sarcasm tasted better than the rum. "I'm not even bothered with the casual cruelty of it. Your mental health is important to me, and you seemed to enjoy it so much. How could I ever be bitter about that?" He really wished he had a little umbrella in his glass so he could twirl it around condescendingly. Another complaint for the newest waitress.
Frenchman seemed more amused than anything. His merry smile never left his bulbous face, and he snickered like a wheezing pig when WIlma rebuffed him. "Ah, this one has opinions! I am sorry for making zhou uncomfortable, I understand zhere are very few zhat can maintain zheir composure in my presence." He cast a wavy eye over to Vex. "Zhou should not be so nasty, monsieur. Her presence is a peace offering!"
The pleading in Wilma's eyes was new. Vex wasn't sure how to take it - he canted his head at her like a hound seeing a sunrise for the first time. Where there was usually guarded stares and barbed intentions, now he saw only misery, and some part of him wanted to assuage it. He ruminated on that for a moment, not bothering to respond to Wilma for the moment, and decided that he would have to work with her anyway. There was no point in making things more unpleasant than they needed to be.
"Only because you said please," he sighed as he spared his empty glass one last longing look, and decided that he probably didn't need to ask for a to-go cup, much as he wanted to.
"Zhou cannot bash my brains, zhere is nothing up here to smash but goo and beer!" Frenchman bubbled with obnoxious laughter as he pressed a finger to his temple.
Vex shook his head as he stood up from the booth. "I wouldn't tempt her. She'll do it just to verify. See you, Frenchman."
"Zhou have my number Monsieur Vex. We shall do this again sometime!"
He moved purposefully toward the door with Wilma at his side and kept his lips sealed tight. He'd bothered to bathe himself, so he only moderately smelled like booze and drugs. His jacket bore a number of new stains as well as the hoodie underneath, and his pants were pretty wrinkled after being worn for half a week straight without reprieve. His beard too had grown unkempt, long strands curling in every direction of their own accord without his careful maintenance. His eye was red rimmed too, though more from the THC lazing through his veins than outright exhaustion.
The sound of cars honking at each other and people shouting their annoyance with one another greeted them as Vex stepped through the door and crashed into a wall of sobering cold air. The morning was still fresh, and even the detritus of Night City had trouble completely polluting the smell of dew and moisture in the air. He lingered in the doorway, eyes drifting pointlessly down the roads and up the sides of sky scrapers that disappeared into the low hanging fog.
"First, you're not punching me. We're even on domestic assaults right now, let's not tip the scales." He tried to keep his desire to not interact with her from bleeding into his voice, but there was a quiet resentment beneath his jests. "Two, if we have to work together and live together, you're not doing that shit again. I don't care if you were tying up loose ends or whatever the fuck, if I make an agreement on something, you don't go out of your way to break it. You don't just murder some woman because you can. I've been picking my brain to figure out why you did that in the way that you did it, and the only conclusion that makes sense to me is that you liked it. I won't abide by it."
He reached into his coat and produced one of the cigarettes Frenchman had given him. The cherry lit with a quick flick of his lighter. "And three: I don't know what you took, and I don't have the right to tell you not to, but you need to tell me what it was and inform me next time you intend to imbibe. If you overdose I have to know how to help you, and if you're losing your mind, I need to reign you in. I'll judge you for murder, not your habits." He took a short drag and rolled the tobacco stick between his fingers, "You tell me all that, you be honest about it, and I can work with you. Otherwise you can tell Gunner to set my brain on fire, because I'm not compromising my soul for you."
Wilma hung back after crossing the club's door. The rain simmered down into a drizzle. Vex's words wanted to impose restraint on her. Why does everybody wanna tell me what to do?
"I've not been lying to you, Vex." Her voice was quiet and still a little raspy. She was not snappy or argumentative. This may have been their first conversation without her spitting outright hatred. "Why do you keep trying to bargain with me? I will do what I want, however I want. If you're so hellbent on asserting yourself, pull the trigger on your own." She stared at her feet as they walked the streets.
"You keep expecting something from me…" she stressed with a burning resentment, but one that wasn't directed at him. "You're forced to get along with me 'cause you'll die otherwise. How d'you expect me to trust you? The minute your link to my biomon is cut, you'll delta. Not really grounds for building trust."
It was a trepidation that stalked Wilma throughout her whole life. Constancy was a fickle concept to her, and one that had caused much pain. Until now, the only way she knew how to make friends was out of toasters and wires. But making friends was not her forte, if the one-sided contract with Vex even had potential for that. She was so familiar with loneliness that it had dulled its effects on her. So when loneliness knocked on the door just then, she had trouble recognising it at first. All she knew was it made her uncomfortable, small, and a little helpless.
Yet she didn't know how to address it with anything other than trusty hostility.
It was so easy to stare down at her and judge her. She'd told him he was on his high horse, but if she could see into his heart, she'd know he looked down on her from the towers of his castle. It was the same castle that separated him from the rest of the dregs: the killers, dealers, and liars that he rubbed elbows with on the daily since the moment he'd stepped foot in California. He was covered in as much dirt as the rest of them, but he'd sullied himself for the right reasons; he was not one of them, or so he told himself when sleep evaded him and he was forced to sit alone with his thoughts. It was always harder when Nyx was gone.
He continued to stare as the walls she'd built around herself collapsed before his eyes. It was a quiet breaking, bits of brick and mortar collapsing into the dust below with each spoken syllable. For all his resentment, Vex could not help but dare to think that maybe there was a chance Wilma was not the woman he'd seen in HeavenMed. Perhaps that was an aspect, or a reaction, or...
He'd started walking with her without thinking about it. He barely noticed as the steady rainfall drummed across his bare scalp - only the cold registered. "You've been hiding something," he countered. She stared at her feet as they walked to evade his gaze. He stared right at her eyes, almost demanding she meet it. "I asked you what you took at HeavenMed, and you told me it wasn't my place to save you. Then you bashed Wu's brains in." To his credit, he tried to keep the displeasure of recollection from bleeding into his voice. "I know it's barely been a month, but you've never said anything like that before, never done anything like that. Something is going on. You've hid it very well." He realized how much he actually cared about Wilma when he heard the hurt in his own voice. "When it came out there, you scared the shit out of me, and you crossed a line. Made me wonder who you were."
Not that he had a great idea of that anyway. He understood the basics: Gunner's gangoon, tech prodigy, witty and equally nasty depending on her mood. More than that - highly competent, as deadly as she was intelligent, and somewhere beneath all her barbs, a good person. She wouldn't have saved him if it were otherwise that night on the train. He'd thought about that a lot too - she had no idea about Nyx when she'd chosen to save his life. For however fucked the result might have been, it was not her initial choice to see him enslaved. She'd just decided to save him, maybe because she felt she owed him, but she'd done it, and it hadn't been for eddies.
Reconciling that woman with the one that had decapitated Wu had proven impossible.
"I'm trying to bargain with you because I feel like I'm the only one trying to make this work." The rain-drizzle was steady enough to soak him well through his clothes. He felt the cold beginning to seep into his bones, but the steady footfalls as they crossed the quickly emptying streets and the intensity of conversation made it easy to ignore. Most folks were conscious enough to look for shelter when the rain whipped up: Vex welcomed the incredibly rare opportunity for privacy. "We have to work together because of Gunner, but we don't have to hate one another. I don't care if you kill gangoons or other assholes, but I don't like cruelty. There's more than enough of it in the world for us to be adding any of our own. I don't have many lines Wilma, please don't cross the handful I still have. That's all."
He paused then as they came to a crossroads. The intersection was relatively empty of people, and only a few cars were lazing about waiting for the light to flash green. "I don't expect anything from you Wilma, other than basic competence, which you surpass in spades." It was then that he ripped his gaze away from her, and allowed his own defenses to recede, however little. "You know I actually like you most of the time. You're funny, you're intelligent, and we're a good team. I feel great when we're together." Saying such things made him feel incredibly naked, which was doubly unpleasant given the steady staccato of rainfall across his skin. "And I miss you when you're not around." Lightning split the sky as thunder rolled across the skyscrapers. "If I didn't, I would've cut your spine while you were sleeping, stuffed you in a box, strapped a bomb to my chest, and demanded Gunner turn this shit in my brain off or I'd blow up the whole clubhouse. It was a bold plan, stupid maybe, but I woulda' done it."
A heavy sigh escaped his lips. "You could have left me on that train. You didn't know about Nyx, about the money - you did it because you wanted to. Maybe out of some sense of obligation, I dunno, but you did." he took another long drag off his cig, then offered it to Wilma. "I'm gonna get free of this one day." And blow Gunner's brain out immediately after. "That doesn't have to be the end of... whatever this is."
"I took the drug because my other option was to die…?" She raised her brows and looked at him as though it didn't need clarifying. Of course, that didn't mention her stealing it beforehand, but she wasn't about to split hairs. "I'm not hiding anything," Wilma scoffed softly, "You just didn't ask back when it was obvious."
There was no shaking Vex off now. She sighed and relented. "It's not some big mystery. Everyone I knew growing up was on something. My mom used to nod off while heating up soup. Dealers didn't card, and no one really told me not to. Didn't feel like a choice, just felt normal." She decided to keep the details of how amazing Glitter and SynthCoke made her feel to herself, although it was heavily implied in her tone.
When he brought up the cruelty, her jaw stiffened. "I guess I got a little caught up." Her reply was short, hoping that he would leave it there. She didn't feel like talking about it or signing any papers promising she won't do it again. She didn't want to admit she was looking forward to it either.
Wilma stopped with Vex. She froze, unprepared for the mutual vulnerability that came with his words. She didn't take the cigarette, but stared at it like it was an open hand with too many meanings.
"...You shouldn't say stuff like that." Her eyebrows knotted and she took a small step back.
She had not been programmed to accept compliments. She didn't know how to file them away. They weren't threats or orders. They weren't lies, either. Vex had pressed her 'OFF' button and her brain stopped making words for a while. Aside from their uncomfortable predicament of one-sided destruction, Wilma didn't mind Vex as a person, save for his excessive morality. But she never asked herself how she felt about him. Right now, she didn't know.
The pause was starting to get uncomfortably long. She hoped that her eyes would relay some of what she felt, because her emotionally inarticulate nature was not capable of more.
"Stop being so damn stubborn and lean on him!" That familiar voice urged her on, and for a moment it looked as if she was about to do it.
Instead, she took the cigarette. "I liked you better when you were threatening to kill me." It was easier this way.
She took a drag from it without looking away, studying him. A puff of smoke curled from the corner of her lips. "You're getting real sentimental for a guy who threatened to mail my head to Gunner two weeks ago." She bumped his shoulder lightly with hers and kept walking, hiding a small smile. "Besides, if I left you on that train, who else was gonna nag me about morals? I've tried replacing you with a conscience — it didn't take."
@Wilma F. Darcy,F Major "I took the drug because my other option was to die…?" She raised her brows and looked at him as though it didn't need clarifying. Of course, that didn't mention her stealing it beforehand, but she wasn't about to split hairs. "I'm not hiding anything," Wilma scoffed softly, "You just didn't ask back when it was obvious."
Frustration would have bloomed in him had he any to give, but he was at his wits end, utterly exhausted with how things had played out. Her point was solid enough to gauge no further contest, even if he -
"It's not some big mystery. Everyone I knew growing up was on something. My mom used to nod off while heating up soup. Dealers didn't card, and no one really told me not to. Didn't feel like a choice, just felt normal."
His whole face went slack as she provided him the slightest bit of rope. His body visibly relaxed as they lingered on the intersection, as if her words had lifted a great weight he'd been struggling to bear off his shoulders. There was no understanding without context and Vex began to put Wilma together in his head piece by piece. She seemed an endlessly complicated puzzle, and yet he began to comprehend.
He could not condone her actions, but he could understand, forgive.
"...You shouldn't say stuff like that." Her eyebrows knotted and she took a small step back.
She stared at his profferred cigarette like she might find the meaning of life hidden somewhere in the curls of weeping smoke. The moment he'd spoken his piece; his eyes were drawn back to hers and he found them utterly unlike those oceans of murder that had greeted him at HeavenMed. Time seemed to stand still as she stared and stared, and the sensations of the world closed in around him in an entirely different sense. Cars skated by on thin sheets of standing water and a handful of brave fools marched through the steady downpour, and they did not exist. None of it mattered, all of it usually so difficult to tune out, silent. The only things that existed were the streetcorner, Wilma, and their private, rainy little world. It was comfortable - the kind of easy that came with the company of someone you trusted implicitly.
She took the cigarette. "I liked you better when you were threatening to kill me." It was easier this way.
For once, he agreed with her. There was only so much one could say, and if he kept spilling his guts to her, he'd be disemboweled before the hour was out. "Ah, so the spousal abuse thing is just a preference. Everyone's got a type, I suppose." His smile was easy and warm as his chest shook with a quiet chuckle.
She took a drag from the cigarette without looking away, studying him. A puff of smoke curled from the corner of her lips. "You're getting real sentimental for a guy who threatened to mail my head to Gunner two weeks ago." She bumped his shoulder lightly with hers and kept walking, hiding a small smile. "Besides, if I left you on that train, who else was gonna nag me about morals? I've tried replacing you with a conscience — it didn't take."
He snorted and barked a loud laugh that drew the attention of some passerbys. Wilma's point was all too on the mark -- perhaps Nyx had some salt when she prattled on about his wishy-washy nature. "What can I say? Life's short in Night City. Gotta squeeze as much character development into a week as you can around here." He was grinning as he walked with her. It was a fool's smile: utterly content, and more genuine than any drunken grin he'd worn in the past three days. "And if you'd left me behind, I have a feeling sparrow-swallow-no-no... Siren would take my job." He pressed his tongue to the top of his mouth as he snickered. "Or you'd grow one in twenty years, look back at the road of bodies you'd paved for yourself, and wonder if just perhaps you'd saved that handsome young man on the train so many years ago, life could have been different."
He beamed at her, his cheeks red from the laughter and the cold, "Fortunately you made the correct choice, and in doing so, have ensured the purity of your soul. My nagging is an unfortunate side effect, but I'll try to do less of it. Be lying if I told you there'd be zero." He fished in his pocket for another cigarette as they neared a subway entrance. He halted just beneath the overhang and flicked his lighter like the addict that he was until it eventually spouted a tiny flame. "Probably shoulda' asked where we're going. Subway?" He jerked a thumb toward the entrance as he rolled the new cigarette between his teeth. "What suicide mission has Gunner saddled us with today?"
"It's not a gig. You'll be unloading special cargo." Wilma snubbed out the cigarette on the underside of her shoe. She knew Gunner wouldn't put her up to heavy work. "Which means you can't fuck around." She assumed by now, Vex would be able to discern friendly advice from threats. The former was the latter.
"You also gotta drop the flirt act," she said firmly, lest Vex get too comfortable around her. It meant 'I don't like it' and she already dreaded the teasing coming from the crew.
The rain had spared them. The sky was the same dull grey, the asphalt was still dark and wet, with water pooling in puddles. The scale of the docks had always been humbling; massive cargo ships distorted the scale of their surroundings, dwarfing people into ants. Dock Seventeen was a long strip stretching into the waterfront with cargo ships lining it on either side. The fourth ship in line was anchored parallel to the platform as dozens of companies busied themselves with offloading stock from it with dollies and forklifts.
Among them were members of Gunner's crew, wearing neon vests on site — just enough to blend them in with all other dock workers.
Emmet was in the company of another man and a pair of identical twins. Identical not only in the perfect symmetry of their sallow faces, but in mannerism too. Lean and tall like mannequins, both of them lounged against a stack of cargo, arms crossed, left over right, left foot hooked to the base of a crate. It seemed the only difference between them was in the wrinkles of their clothes. The other man appeared deep in conversation with them. He was much more animated in his gesticulation, yet his expression was one of slothlike sanguinity. The look in his brown eyes conjured up an understanding: for him, having command of his time was the most important thing.
"…and so the failure of late-stage capitalism isn't merely systemic," the man was saying to the twins, fingers twirling in slow, loose spirals. "It's spiritual and it demands belief in a progress that eats its young. There's no room for anomaly because the wheel is designed only to move forward."
"Mm," said the left twin, uninterested.
"Forward," the right echoed, with the colourless tone of someone repeating something they barely heard.
"Now you're getting it," the man grinned, his pencil moustache curling upwards. "I'm telling you, the future's post-nation, post-body, post-God—"
"Post-you talkin'," Emmet cut in, having noticed Wilma and Vex's approach. His frown bent into a half-smile with more bark than warmth. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."
Wilma straightened up, trying not to look post-comedown. There were hardly any secrets among the crewmembers so, naturally, everybody was in on her supposed recovery.
"ACT COOL." A totally calm, non-panicky voice blared in her psyche.
"You get Gunner's message late or is this just some daddy-fantasy, Emmet?" She tried to shift the focus. Disrespect always made him tick. The other man chuckled, but the twins remained perfectly motionless.
He squinted at her. "Kid, you're lucky I ain't your father. I'da put you over my knee." He looked over his shoulder, passing her and Vex the same neon vests the rest of them wore. There was no doubt he had a firearm holstered under his.
"Did Greta drag me here for a dick-swinging contest?" Emmet cast her a testy look. Wilma tilted her head, putting on the vest with veiled strain. "Seriously though, why the hell am I here?"
Emmet exhaled through his nose like a bull. "Because these crates are hotter than your attitude 's why. Shit's loaded with stuff that'll turn this dock into a crater if we look at it wrong."
Wilma frowned, stepping closer to inspect one of the matte-black cases. The outer shell was lined with a braided sensor rig blinking in different colours. "I thought you were the demolitions guy."
"I am," Emmet said. "But these here need disarming. Everybody and their grandma is a netrunner these days, so corpos got creative with their locking mechanism. It's pure tech, —no net— just a bunch of different locking sequences. You and I are gonna work together on this one. I cleared a few, but I need an extra pair of hands. Thought you'd be at least a little enthusiastic."
She ran a finger over one of the surface panels. The twins tensed. "So, booby-trapped war loot?"
"Not quite. Mil-spec contraband picked clean from their massive convoys." Emmet gestured casually at the crates, as though they weren't talking about highly volatile explosives. "And now it's ours. If we can make it safe." Wilma countered that thought, rationalising that they probably weren't the only people doing something outrageously illegal at Dock Seventeen.
"No tracking signals?"
"Again, that can be pinged. All they have to go off 's the registration of their serial numbers, but Gunner pulled the right strings—" a terrible flash of Gunner pulling out the entrails of a poor man, "—to make sure they weren't scanned when loaded on the ship."
"...Right." Wilma huffed, trying not to sound tired. "Where is he?"
The other man, known to Wilma as Gustav, had forsaken his attempts to convert the twins to communist ideals and was listening to the conversation. "He is on the ship, probably still wrapping up the deal." He nodded to the towering 1,200-foot-long monstrosity that cast its shadow upon them. Wilma couldn't even fit the scale of it in a single glance.
"And you," Emmet turned to address Vex, pointing a finger at his chest, "Will be keeping your eyes peeled and loading the crates in those vans."
The twins had already rolled their sleeves, moving the crates Emmet had already cleared to the compartment of a delivery van parked nearby.
"No funny—" one started.
"—business." and the other finished, without missing a beat. Even their voices were indistinguishable from one another; if Vex wasn't looking, he'd think only one of them was speaking. Nonetheless, their tone conveyed exactly what it said, only with a hint of devilry. No funny business.
"Flirt act? Dunno what you're talking about Wilma, I'm a terrible actor." Vex replied just the slight bit flirtatiously. Nonetheless, he offered her a brief apologetic smile. "I can't wait. One of my dreams when coming to NC was to be a peon. What more could a man want?" It sounded better than getting shot at on paper, though Vex's inherent addiction to the adrenaline made that far more preferable. He decided he wasn't going to linger on their situation as they trailed down the rain-soaked streets. It seemed that he and Wilma would continue to have a frustratingly complicated relationship for the time being -- at least he could joke with her again. Privately, as the great steel behemoths slowly emerged past the skyscrapers and winding streets, he wondered when the next shoe was going to drop. Would he be fucking up or would Wilma? Seemed impossible for them to find a proper equilibrium beyond the minimum required to stay functioning, and functioning was the operable word there.
What bothered him more than anything was the frazzled nature of his thoughts. Nyx was still off wandering the Net: the only thing left to regulate him was him. And he had all these feelings. Vex's gaze lingered on the garish yellow-orange of the reflective vests worn by the dock workers as he pondered if it was too early to have another drink. He'd imbibed so much that much of the rum was still bubbling through his veins - it'd be another few hours before true sobriety kicked down the doors of his brain and welcomed in a raging hangover.
He shivered at the thought of the knock on the door.
A strange man talking about the great benefits of communism ushered him back into reality. Vex's face twisted into an incredulous grin as he took a halt a few paces behind Wilma, folded his arms behind the small of his back, and listened. It seemed the duo - identicals now that Vex looked at them properly - was more or less ignoring the man. Vex felt inclined to jump in, though he chanced a brief glance at Wilma and decided to hold his tongue, at least for the moment.
Emmet spoke up, and an easy, slightly intoxicated smile crept across Vex's face. "Hey Emmet," he chirped, offering the big man a two-finger salute. The ride in Emmet's would-be-stolen car had endeared him to Vex somewhat. Vex remained there with his easy smile, more than happy to let Wilma do most of the talking for once. The gig, or really the busywork, sounded simple enough. All Wilma's realm -- he was just the window dressing, which suited him just fine. Vex's gaze was drifting idly off into the sea and his hands were moving on their own to light another cigarette when Emmet finally paid attention to him.
"I'm gonna be honest with ya Mister Em, I make for a horrible stooge. I suppose I can try to manage," the nicotine intermingled with tar and tasted oh-so-sweet as a gout of smoke erupted from one of Vex's nostrils. His 'ganic eye darted toward the twins, 'cyber eye lingering on Emmet. "I have never been funny a single day in my entire life. You don't need to worry," his eye shifted toward the other twin. "And neither do you."
He clenched the cigarette deftly between his front teeth and spoke to the group at large with a half-mumble. "M'name's Vex." he nodded toward the twins and communist man respectively. "Ain't had the pleasure. Kinda got an idea bout your gimmick," he gestured toward the twins, then turned to Trotsky reborn. "You more of a Stalinist or a Bukharin guy? This is a very important question."
Without awaiting a response, Vex wandered over to where one of the vests was waiting for him and slipped it on, feeling incredibly stupid the moment his coat was covered in ugly yellow. He glanced back to Captain Commune, a brow lofted, waiting.
The twins nodded at Vex in perfect, unrehearsed unison. However, as soon as he habitually lit up his cigarette, the whole mood shifted, and a wave of tension came down on him. The twins froze in their tracks, Gustav looked disconcerted, Wilma's lips parted in a small gape, and Emmet whirled on the balls of his feet. They were a still frame in the ant nest that was the harbour.
"You best think twice about this, son," Emmet warned with a hand and his eyes darted around apprehensively, hoping no one had picked up on their sudden change in stance. The crates surrounded them, almost as if they were outnumbered. Their carbon casings were reassuring to a point. "We don't know if these crates are leaky, properly pressurised or if the cargo's faulty. Vapours accumulate, flammable gases mix, and you puffin' that shit inches away from a potentially leaky item will result in our cremation. Act professional." He spoke vehemently in a low voice, holding his eyes on Vex. As infinitesimally likely as it were that any of the cargo would ignite, Emmet didn't like taking stupid risks.
The twins continued their haul in tandem steps and Emmet shook his head, trailing off to busy himself with something else. A stack of cleared crates stared expectantly at Vex. Gustav leaned on a barrel beside it, eyes not leaving the delivery vans.
"I don't think the only way to make an omelette is by breaking a few million eggs, if that's what you're asking," mused Gustav, happy to discuss ideals. His polo sweater and beanie made him look like a Dickensian sailor. "Personally, I consider myself a Marxist-pragmatist, but for the sake of your question, I'm leaning towards Bukharin. Are you a comrade too?" He looked Vex up and down before offering a calloused hand, "I'm Gustav. Don't mind Lee and Roy."
Wilma observed the interaction. The way they treated Vex reminded her of her first days with the crew. At the time, she must have been no older than eleven or twelve. She smiled weakly, making the connection that they treated Vex like a child. Her mind wandered while she was drowsily handling the lock of a panel at the workbench — could Vex become part of the crew? She quickly dismissed the thought, gingerly flipping the box onto its side for better access. He probably hates our guts.
"What'chu grinnin' at?" Emmet placed another box next to her, closing the plastic curtain behind him. They were under a canopy adjacent to the shipping containers.
"I'm not." She shrugged. Her head hurt and she longed for more sleep. The conversation with Vex already had drained her — she did not have the strength for disarming locks and talking to Emmet. A toolset protruded from her forearm and a thin lever snaked into the mechanism of the exposed lock. A soft click from the inside told her that she had dismantled it. She was moving on to the next crate, when Emmet piped up.
"We gotta do inventory too." He followed her moves and Wilma was painfully aware of it.
She groaned and took the tablet Emmet was handing her. It felt heavy in her fingers. Normally, Emmet would tell her off for slacking. She chanced a look at him and met his eyes before awkwardly returning to her work.
"Why are you looking at me?" Her voice was slightly on edge.
"I'm not." Emmet mocked her tone from earlier, teasing. He carefully wedged a thumb under some overlapping parts and shimmied in a screwdriver. "The crew's been askin' 'bout you..."
"I'm not exactly hard to find." She reminded herself to stay alert and awake. The fatigue was wrapping around her like a soft blanket.
"He's sniffing… Throw him off the scent!" A greedy voice called over her shoulder.
"He's a full-time job," she nodded in Vex's direction.
Emmet chuckled without looking up, "Yeah, having kids changes things."
"That's it! Seize your escape!" ushered the voice.
"Speaking of…"
"Don't get me started," he sighed deeply. "You never asked me about that stuff, why ask now?"
"'Cause I grew up with Jerome and Damar, what do you mean? Jada too," she sounded somewhat offended, which was preferable to groggy. "They were the only kids around the crew other than me. They made me feel normal and we literally hung out all the time. Then, all of a sudden, you and Rita are divorced, they are gone with her and I am not allowed to see them. I liked Rita too, she was always nice to me and would buy me make-up—"
"Dammit, Darcy." Emmet pulled out the screwdriver and stopped working to face her. "Ever stopped to think this—" he waved his hands around and pointed at the crates, "—ain't a normal environment for a child?"
"I turned out fine!" She tried to raise her voice.
"No, you didn't." He exclaimed at her delusion, leaning both hands on the workbench. "Don't act like you forgot. That day Gunner brought you in, missing an arm? You were already halfway gone. That ain't fine. None of us turned out fine. This lifestyle is not 'fine'." He huffed, then added, "And as much as I hate that my kids ain't with me, no thanks to you and that stunt y'all pulled at the gas station by the way, I'm thankful they don't do the shit you get up to."
"Don't blame your shitty marriage on me!" She couldn't keep up with his tempo, words were coming slower to her. "I've seen you and Rita fight a dozen times. You're kidding yourself if you think that just 'cause they're not here, they are saved from this life. In fact, if they stuck around at least you could keep an eye on them." And I'd still have my friends.
"Enough!" Emmet snapped and his eyes bulged. "You ain't got no right—" He started, then dropped it. He exhaled forcefully and Wilma looked down. There was an uncomfortable pause.
"I just miss them…" she mumbled, moving her attention back to the tablet in her hands. She stirred anxiously, worried they were overheard.
Emmet clenched his jaw. "Me too, kid." He lowered his voice before moving onto the next crate. He poked his head behind the curtain and called after the others, "There's more here."
@Wilma F. Darcy
Truth be told, Vex had only been paying half-attention. He was aware they were working with something that coudl go boom, and his mind certainly made the conneciton that sparking flames made boom things go boom boom, but he'd put it out of his mind. Vex was well used to working solely with Nyx, and neither of them paid much heed to caution. If they were to die in a freak cigarette-bomb-explosion, well that'd just be that. There were far worse ways to go. He'd not bothered to consider other people in the equation, and his brow knit with annoyance as he tried to suppress the momentary flare of guilt that came with that realization. "Just testin' to make sure y'all are paying attention." He asserted as he took one last, long dramatic drag off the cig and flicked it off the dock.
He half expected the ocean to burst into flames.
Then there were the stacked crates, and furthermore, the hangover exhaustion clinging to his muscles. The very concept of physical labor felt like a sin right now, but he had little choice in the matter. Supressing a groan, Vex wandered over and began heaving the crates two-by-two, making a point to hide the strain it placed on him and maintain his easy, debatably stupid smile.
"Right answer," he huffed a quiet, amused little laugh as he looked toward Gustav and ferried the crates. "Me? Nah, I'm not smart enough for politics. My mom was a commissar back in the union though, lifelong believer. She still bitches about the degradations of capitalism and the metaphorical fall of the union. Motherland's more like America every day it seems." She'd always been an opinionated woman. She was of the mind that if the great leaders had simply stayed the course, that they'd retained their total commitment to the death of private ownership and the prospering of the communes, the world would be a very different place.
Always an idealist, his mother.
"My ideal nation state is me at the top, and everyone else doing what I want. World would be way better off, promise you that." He offered Gustav a cheeky grin to inform the new friend that he was full of shit.
He fell quiet then, playing the role of the rundown dock workers surprisingly well as he eavesdropped on Wilma and Emmet. His curiosity could not be sated, though he did roll his eyes when they joked at his expense. "S'pose if I'm a kid you won't be surprised when I start shitting all over the house. I'll remind you of my ineptitude when you ask me to help clean it up." He quipped, though he kept his tongue in chains otherwise.
The conversation grew dour. He swiftly went from simply eavesdropping to feeling like he was intruding on something private and personal, mostly because he was. They all had to work though, and he couldn't escape them if he tried. he was left idly moving crates and simultaneously wishing he could ask questions whilst at the same time feeling like an intruding wretch.
Too many paradoxes today.
He glanced momentarily at the metal ghost hanging from where Wilma's arm should've. His lips twisted with sympathetic displeasure as his eyes darted down to his own carbon imitation. that loss had been his own choice, or at least one he'd made whilst being pressured by every person with a position of authority over him back at Militech. They'd said it would be more efficient, that he'd never reach his full potential if he kept free of the chrome. At thirteen years of age, he'd lacked the sense of self to tell them no. Wasn't sure if he regretted that decision or not.
He meandered over to the new set of crates Emmet had indicated. A dull sigh escaped his lips, and he mumbled a curse under his breath as he hoisted up another set of boxes, though he did make a point to linger near Wilma.
"What happened to your arm anyway?" He asked idly, hesitantly, like he knew he was intruding on something beyond his ken and yet persisted in his curiosity all the same. He paused a moment, gaze darting between Wilma and Emmet, unsure as to who might steal the conversation first.
Gustav pocketed the unshaken hand and listened to Vex. He knew just the thing to say. "There are no non-corrupt systems in the world anyway. And moralism is the most corrupt of them all. The trick is to be corrupt for your people's benefit. People should appreciate it, even. And be reasonably lavish too, because that's your prerogative. You don't want a saintly demeanour on a corrupt motherfucker. That would be a manipulative illusion."
When Vex came under the canopy, Wilma stiffened. "What happened to your arm anyway?" He had asked off-handedly.
"Bugger off, Vex." Wilma almost passed out when she heaved the next crate onto the workbench.
"That how you talk to your child?" Emmet joked and she sneered back.
Lee emerged from behind the curtain like a ghost, hoisting up another crate. "He doesn't know?" He cocked a taunting eyebrow.
"Why would I tell him this?" She grew defensive. There was certainly more force in her work now.
"Well, you've been living together for some time now. Partners should trust each other, no?" Roy added oil to the fire. He breezed past, weaving between the small party forming under the canopy.
Wilma kept her mouth shut and her tools steady, concentrating on the task at hand. She didn't like it when they ganged up against her.
The last straw was Gustav, who meant no malice by his question, asking loudly from his post by the barrel, "Wait, Vex, she didn't tell you that Gunner found her in a—"
"I'll kill you!" A tool was hurled across the space, clanking somewhere outside as Roy ducked out of the way. Lee, despite being out of harm's way, ducked simultaneously too.
"Cut it out!" Emmet hollered.
Wilma flared her nostrils and communicated her intent to maim the twins with her eyes alone. She angrily resorted to obsessively disarming crates and ignoring everybody. The twins snickered uncannily, like they shared a voice. Before slipping out from under the curtain, they met Vex's eyes and nodded towards the truck where they'd tell him more.
@Wilma F. Darcy
Gustav liked to talk just as much as Vex did, it seemed. The runner cocked a brow at little Lenin and offered him a curious smile as he debated on putting out some bait. Political types were always so easy to rile up, and endlessly entertaining once they started getting properly fired up. He was tumbling between different points of attack when Emmet spoke up - it seemed the crew were intent on painting Vex the child.
"She left me in a locked hot car the other day," he muttered absentmindedly as he hoisted another stack of boxes. His cybernetic arm had no trouble - the 'ganic one was coated in a thin sheen of sweat and straining with the weight. "She threatened to paddle me the other day too if I kept giving her lip..." he added with faux sadness. He affixed Wilma with the dramatic pout of an abandoned child, at least until she sent a tool clattering across the dock.
Vex snorted his amusement and opted to hold his tongue for the moment. The gears of entertainment were turning without need for his intervention, it seemed. It was a shame Nyx was off doing whatever the hell it was she was doing, she would've enjoyed this. Suddenly reminded of her absence, Vex reached into the synthetic bits of his brain that usually served as he home. The doors were open, the gates unlocked, and the interior remained miserably empty. He'd have to go looking for her soon enough if she remained intent on brooding in the quiet space of the 'net. For as much Vex spoke to her of her independence, her autonomy only stretched as far as he allowed. Left alone to her own devices too long, she might go rogue, perhaps pick up a string of code that would send her young mind reeling, and then he'd have to really work hard to get her back.
It was a sunk cost situation anyway. After all he'd sacrificed for her, she did not have the right to just cut and run. Not until she was mature enough to handle the world on her own anyway, and even then Netwatch would hunt her down like a dog. No, better to force her home if he had to. As far as he was concerned, she was a teenager that had run away from home, and him being the tolerant parent had allowed her more freedom than he probably should have.
He quietly resolved to go looking for her once they made their way back home -- assuming they managed as much before the day was through.
Worry gave way to curiosity once again as the twins waved him over. Part of him was hesitant to acquiesce: Wilma's issues were her own and if she decided it was worth telling him about her part, she would. The other part was somewhat frustrated with being out of the know, and as much as he might have denied it, Vex loved a bit of good drama.
His shoulders were hunched and his head somewhat low as he meandered conspiratorially over to the twins, making sure to keep one of the smaller crates in his hands to maintain an appearance of work.
"Hey fellas," he was half-whispering, and obnoxiously at that. "I'd just figured Gunner stole her from a zoo or something, if I'm being honest." A quiet laugh followed his warm smile. "What's the deets?"
