Chapter Text
V felt like someone was taking a sledgehammer to her skull.
She groaned and rolled over, burying her face in the pillow, but it didn't help. Memories of last night flashed through her brain like shards of broken glass: the sticky floor of the Afterlife, the hint of approval finally cracking Rogue’sstone-cold face, and Jackie’s deafening laughter.
"To the legends of Night City!"
That toast must have been repeated a hundred times. The air had reeked of cheap cigarettes, sweat, and expensive tequila. They did it. Konpeki Plaza, Yorinobu Arasaka’s penthouse, that damn Relic biochip—they went in like ghosts and came out like the wind. No alarms, no Smasher, just Dexter DeShawn’s fat face grinning from ear to ear and the sweet chime of the credit transfer.
After that, Claire actually put the "Jackie Welles" on the menu. The recipe: Vodka on the rocks, lime juice, ginger beer, and a splash of love. As for V’s drink? She couldn't even remember what was in it, only that it was strong enough to burn a hole through her throat.
The last thing she remembered was Jackie’s massive, bear-paw hands. He had hoisted her wasted ass over his shoulder like a sack of cement, humming an out-of-tune tune as he tossed her onto her apartment bed.
"Dammit..."
V cursed, trying to pry her eyelids open. The shrill ringtone was still blaring, sawing right through her nerves.
She fumbled on the nightstand, her fingers brushing against cold metal. Fighting the splitting headache, she answered the holo-call and blindly grabbed the remote next to her pillow, hitting the curtain switch.
The shutters rose. Blinding noon sunlight instantly pierced the room. Instinctively, V squinted and threw an arm up to shield her eyes.
The holo-image on her retinas gradually cleared. It wasn't Dex, and it wasn't Jackie. It was a faceless figure—or rather, the feed only showed a pair of hands resting on a desk, set against a blurry, shadowed background.
"Who is this?" V’s voice was so raspy it sounded like it had been dragged over sandpaper.
"Good morning, V." The voice was processed, masking the speaker's age, but it carried an unpleasant air of composure. "Or perhaps I should say, good afternoon?"
"Make it quick." V sat up, feeling her stomach churn violently with the movement.
"Impatient. The privilege of youth." The caller chuckled softly. "I am Mr. Hands. A... Fixer serving Pacifica."
V scratched her messy hair, leaning back against the headboard. "Pacifica? That shithole. If you're looking to peddle some garbage cleanup gig, you've got the wrong number."
"Quite the opposite. I'm here to pay my respects to the finest mercs of this generation." Mr. Hands’ fingers tapped a light rhythm on the desktop. "Konpeki Plaza. An absolute work of art. Even right under Arasaka’s nose, you two strolled through like it was your own backyard. The entire Fixer circle of Night City is buzzing about that gig."
V’s lips quirked up involuntarily. Despite the headache, the flattery landed well. She grabbed a half-empty bottle of water from the bedside table and took a massive swig. "Damn straight. Since you know our worth, you should know we don't take small-time gigs anymore."
"Of course. That is why I come with a serious offer."
Mr. Hands stopped tapping. The hands in the projection lifted, extending five fingers.
"I was wondering, are you interested in pushing the limit again? The payout is substantial."
V scoffed, almost dropping the water bottle. "What? Five thousand eddies? Mr. Hands, if that's the number, you can hang up now. I'm about to spend that much just on hangover meds."
"No, V." Hands’ voice took on a playful edge. "Not five thousand. Five figures. And the first digit isn't a one."
V stopped drinking. She set the bottle down, staring at the projected hands.
"I'm listening."
"It's another theft," Hands said. "But I must warn you, this target is trickier than Arasaka, and far more... sensitive."
"Harder than Arasaka?" V raised an eyebrow. The dull ache of the hangover seemed to recede, replaced by a familiar buzz—the prelude to an adrenaline spike. "Don't make me laugh. In this city, apart from Arasaka Tower, what place qualifies as 'hard'?"
"There is one." Mr. Hands paused, his tone turning serious and low. "The FIA."
The room went silent for a few seconds. An AV roared past the window outside, casting a fleeting shadow across the glass.
V blinked. The NUSA Federal Intelligence Agency. President Myers' lapdogs. Spies, special agents, and that Blackwall tech that only existed in dark web urban legends.
"Those are government dogs," V said. "You want us to pluck a hair off Myers' head?"
"I told you, it's a challenge." Mr. Hands interlaced his fingers. "If you pull this off, V, you won't just be legends at the Afterlife. You'll be legends of Night City. What do you say? Do you have the chrome for it?"
V looked at those hands, her mind flashing back to Jackie raising his glass in wild laughter last night.
"Interesting." V licked her cracked lips, revealing a smile full of ambition. "Spit it out. What are we klepping?"
The hands in the holo-projection clapped together softly, twice.
"Straight to the point. That is what I appreciate about you, V."
Mr. Hands' voice remained level, humming like a precision instrument. "This item is something of a paradox. In simple terms, it is merely an encrypted data packet. No heavy lifting required, no vault doors to blow open. The difficulty lies in the fact that it is not housed in a server, but in a person."
"A person?" V stared into the blurry shadow.
"Codename: Songbird," Hands said. "The good news is, this bird has flown into our territory. She was dispatched by the FIA and is currently residing as... an honored guest, at Militech."
V’s eyebrows shot up. Militech and the NUSA government sleeping in the same bed wasn't news, but FIA agents directly stationed at Militech? If that got out, the media screamsheets would run with it for a month.
"Sounds like a milk run." V shifted, crossing her legs on the bed. "So, what's the catch? Don't tell me she's got a whole battalion of bodyguards."
"Worse." Hands paused. "The bad news is, the client refuses to provide a photograph of the target. No biometrics, no detailed dossier. A complete blank slate."
V frowned, wondering if she’d heard him right. "Not even a picture? You expect me to go into Militech HQ and play 'Guess the Agent'? Thousands of people flow through there every day, every single one of them wearing the same damn suit."
"The client is extremely cautious. Or perhaps, paranoid." Hands spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "To quote them directly, mere possession of her photograph is a massive risk in itself. Leaking her face could invite trouble far greater than the theft. So, the only lead you have is the location: Corpo Plaza, the Militech regional office."
The room fell into silence, save for the faint hum of the AC.
V stared at the ceiling. It sounded like a typical suicide run—insufficient intel, vague target, infiltrating the second most secure building in the city. Reason told her to hang up, go back to sleep, and pick up some easy scavenger gigs after the hangover faded.
But that number circled in her mind. Five figures. And not starting with a one.
More importantly, it was the thrill of the unknown. Finding an FIA agent with no face. That was crazier than stealing Yorinobu Arasaka's chip. If Jackie were here, he'd be cracking his knuckles, shouting "major leagues."
The mystery itself was the bait.
"That’s a lot of risk, Hands." V finally spoke, her voice calm. "It's not just putting my neck on the line; it's doing it blindfolded."
"High risk, high reward. That is the rule of the Afterlife, is it not?"
V grabbed the remote and shut the blinds. The room plunged back into darkness, lit only by the ghostly blue glow of the holo-projection.
"Send the contract," V said. "Since the client is so terrified of dying, I'll go see just what kind of monster this Songbirdreally is."
Mr. Hands let out a satisfied chuckle.
"A wise choice. Data transferred. Good luck, V. Don't let our legend burn out too soon."
The call cut. V was left alone in the room with a newly arrived, heavily encrypted file that was almost entirely blank.
After hanging up, V dialed that familiar number.
It rang once before being picked up.
"V! How's it hanging? Sun's shining on your ass yet?" Jackie’s booming voice was full of energy, accompanied by the sound of him chewing something in the background. "I thought you were gonna sleep till tomorrow morning."
"Don't ask. Head's about to explode." V rubbed her temples. "Hands just contacted me. Got a new gig."
"New gig?" The chewing stopped. "We just pulled off the big one, V. We should be soaking up sun on the beach right now. Unless... this gig has some serious juice."
"Serious juice. And serious heat." V dropped two words. "FIA. Militech."
A loud whistle came from the other end of the line—Jackie Welles’ trademark reaction. "Jesus. Now that sounds like my kind of party. What's the payout?"
"Five figures. And not the low end."
"Fuck yeah." Jackie laughed, the sound brimming with excitement. "I knew it. We're moving up, V, we're moving up! I'll ping T-Bug. Meet at the usual spot. We gotta plan this out."
V hung up and forwarded the encrypted packet from Hands to the two of them. Although it contained only a few pitiful lines of text, it was the only lead they had.
She stepped into the bathroom and twisted the tap. Cold water rushed out. She cupped a handful and splashed it onto her face; the icy shock sent a shiver through her, forcibly driving away the lingering sleep and the sluggishness from the booze. She grabbed a towel, rubbed her face roughly, and looked up at the mirror. The face staring back was still a bit pale, but the eyes had sharpened.
Those were hunter's eyes.
That evening, V pushed through the heavy doors of the Afterlife.
The place was filled with the usual thrumming bass and thick, smoky air. But this time, as V walked past the bar, several mercs mid-drink paused and tracked her with their eyes. It was the kind of look reserved for the crew that cracked Konpeki Plaza. V ignored them, heading straight for the exclusive booth in the corner.
Jackie was already there, taking up most of the couch, an untouched drink sitting before him. T-Bug sat opposite him, her posture as upright as if she were praying in church, holding a tablet glowing with soft blue light.
As soon as V sat down, T-Bug didn't even look up. Her optics glowed faintly—the telltale sign of a deep dive.
"This is a joke." T-Bug's voice was cold and crisp, her fingers flying across the tablet. "I just looked at what you sent. Songbird. Militech regional office. Apart from those four words, it's a blank slate. Is Hands taking the piss?"
"If the intel was solid, the payout wouldn't be this high, Bug." Jackie grinned, leaning forward. "Spill it. I know that big brain of yours already found something."
T-Bug finally looked up and slid the tablet to the center of the table. The screen displayed a structural blueprint of Corpo Plaza, marked with a few red dots.
"I can't find out who Songbird is. Militech's internal network is locked down tighter than a drum right now; their ICE is terrifyingly high-level." T-Bug pointed at the screen. "And storming the front door is out of the question. The Militech building has over four thousand employees and an independent security system. Without biometric data, looking for one person inside is like looking for a needle in a haystack. We'd be turned into swiss cheese by their security forces before we ever found this Songbird."
She tapped her finger, zooming the map in until the focus landed on a shop icon at the edge of Corpo Plaza.
"This coffee shop. It's right across the street from the Militech tower. Because their beans are better than the swill in the corpo cafeteria, a huge number of low-to-mid-level employees, and even some execs, make a habit of coming here during breaks."
Jackie frowned, crossing his massive arms. "So what? We sit there sipping espresso all day? Two fresh faces loitering in the lobby for eight hours... any gonk could tell we're staking the place out."
V stared at the icon, rubbing her chin.
"Jackie's right, sitting is too conspicuous." V's eyes flashed with an idea. "But what if we're standing?"
The other two looked at her.
"Get a job there," V continued. "Stand behind the counter, and you become part of the scenery. No one suspects a barista. You get a legitimate reason to look at every customer's payment ID, check their faces, maybe even chat about the weather."
The air froze for a second.
Jackie and T-Bug turned their heads almost simultaneously, locking their gazes dead on V.
"That idea is preem." Jackie grinned, flashing his white teeth. His palm, the size of a fan, slapped V heavily on the shoulder—hard enough to nearly bury her in the sofa cushions. "That's all you, sister."
"Wait, why me?" V tried to shove Jackie's hand away. "This is a team gig."
"Come on, V." Jackie pointed to his own face, laced with cyberware, then flexed a bicep capable of crushing a normal person's skull like a walnut. "Look at me. Does this mug look like it knows how to make a latte? If I stand behind a counter, customers will think we're holding up the register. As for Bug..."
"I don't do uniforms," T-Bug interrupted coldly, offering no further explanation.
V sighed and rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll brew the coffee, and you two can chill in the back."
"Quit whining. Think of the five figures." T-Bug ignored V's complaint. Her optics lit up with a faint blue light again as her fingers tapped rapidly on the tablet. "I'm breaching the cafe's backend system. Give me ten seconds."
V and Jackie leaned in to watch the screen. Data streams cascaded like a waterfall.
"Hah, found it." The corner of T-Bug's mouth lifted in a rare smile. "New entry in the HR database. A girl named Mila, scheduled to start tomorrow morning at 0800."
The cursor on the screen blinked. T-Bug skillfully inputted a command, scrubbing the poor girl's file and overwriting it with V's fake ID data.
"Done. The new hire is you now, V." T-Bug turned the tablet to show V. It already displayed V's holographic ID photo. "No interview on record, straight to work. I have to say, luck is on our side this time."
V sighed, downed the last of her whiskey, and nodded with resignation.
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The next morning, V stood punctually behind the counter of The Gap café.
This was Corpo Plaza, alright. The air didn't carry that familiar chemical tang or the scent of acid rain; instead, it was heavy with the rich, unshakeable aroma of burnt coffee. An old employee had been assigned to train her. He pointed at the massive beast on the counter, gleaming with brass and stainless steel—a retro semi-automatic espresso machine—and started explaining the workflow.
To V's surprise, they used real coffee beans here. In an era where even meat was just synthetic protein, this kind of luxury was practically burning eddies.
"Grind, tamp, pull. Watch the pressure gauge, don't let it redline." The old employee’s voice was mechanical and dry.
V clumsily fiddled with the heavy metal portafilter while scanning the shop out of the corner of her eye.
T-Bug's intel was solid. The foot traffic was heavy, and the vast majority of customers wore Militech badges. They were dressed in tailored ballistic suits, holding datapads, speaking in rapid-fire bursts about stock prices, weapon specs, and border conflicts.
But that was the problem. There were too many of them.
Everyone looked like they came out of the same mold. Cold, elite, and in a hurry. V’s optics scanned the crowd rapidly, but without baseline biometric data, it was like looking for an unmarked character in a sea of code.
This gig was turning out to be harder than kicking down the door with a gun.
"Hey, space cadet."
The old employee’s voice snapped V back to reality. He picked up the two Americanos V had just pulled, took a sip of each, and smacked his lips critically.
"Extraction time was two seconds too long, but the bitterness wakes you up. These corpo-rats like it that way." He set the cup down and wiped his hands. "Looks like you pick it up fast."
He glanced at the line of customers, then at V. "Since you're good, the floor is yours. I'm going to the back to check inventory. Don't call me unless the place is on fire."
Before V could say a word, the man ducked behind the curtain to the back room, leaving V standing alone in front of the massive coffee machine.
V looked at the next customer approaching the counter, tugged helplessly at her loose apron, and took a deep breath.
Although the old timer made it sound easy, this brass monster clearly had a temper.
V felt like she was wrestling a machine that might explode if she looked at it wrong. She barely managed to get the black liquid into the cups, but the quality was tragic—the first shot ran too long, producing a thick, bitter sludge that resembled liquid asphalt; the second suffered from a grind that was too coarse, the water rushing through like a waterfall, resulting in something blander than an Americano that tasted like dishwater.
The Militech employee waiting for his order frowned, tapping his knuckles impatiently on the marble countertop. V gritted her teeth, said nothing, dumped the failed shots into the sink, and started refilling the portafilter.
The entire morning was a disaster.
When the clock finally hit 12:30 and the morning rush receded, V finally caught a break. She set down the milk pitcher, which had grown warm in her hand, wiped the water-stained counter with a rag, and looked up, her gaze piercing through the rising steam to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
That was the moment she saw the color.
A piercing streak of Roland purple.
It was a woman, walking along the concrete pavement outside the shop. Amidst the rushing crowd clad in uniform gray and dark blue ballistic suits, she stood out like an anomaly. She wore a black varsity jacket, hands shoved in her pockets, moving at a leisurely pace.
As if sensing eyes on her, the woman turned her head, her gaze piercing through the glass to shoot a glance in this direction.
Just a single glance.
V’s hand, clutching the rag, froze in mid-air. The roar of the espresso machine, the clinking of cups and saucers, the low murmur of that agent on the phone in the corner—it was as if the power had been cut to all of it in an instant. The world turned into a silent vacuum. That face was imprinted on her retinas, unreasonably clear.
"Hey, how much longer do I have to wait?"
A rude voice burst that bubble like an ice pick.
V snapped back to reality. A man with a fleshy, aggressive face stood before her, tapping the counter impatiently.
"Sorry." V lowered her head, working the machine quickly. "Coming right up."
By the time she’d sent the man on his way and looked out the window again, the street was nothing but a flowing tide of gray. That splash of purple was gone, as if it had never existed.
V frowned, her eyes sweeping the end of the street, but found nothing.
Probably a hallucination from lack of sleep, she thought.
She looked down and twisted the steam knob to purge the wand. White steam hissed out, obscuring her vision. When she shut the valve and the steam dissipated, she turned back to face the counter—
And there she was. That woman.
No chime from the door, no sound of footsteps, not even a shift in the air currents. She had appeared at the counter out of thin air, as if she had been standing there all along, for a century.
V’s breath hitched.
She was too close. V could see the decorative metal cyberware lines beneath her eyes, her full, indifferent lips, and those brown eyes that seemed capable of swallowing the light itself.
Those eyes were quietly fixed on V.
"I'll have a hot Americano. No sugar."
The woman spoke. Her voice had a strange texture to it, yet it was as light as a feather.
V opened her mouth, taking two whole seconds to find her tongue.
"What?"
"I'll have a hot Americano."
The voice came again, possessing a strange magnetism—low, captivating, every syllable enunciated clearly. It wasn't the tone filled with anxiety and calculation so common in this building.
V felt like her vocal cords were tied in a knot. She stared at the woman before her.
She was... something else.
In this Corpo Plaza, in this place where every cubic meter of air reeked of Eurodollars and class anxiety, everyone stuffed themselves into identical bespoke suits and crisp pencil skirts, like a colony of penguins with synchronized breathing.
But she was different.
A black varsity jacket, slightly loose, with natural creases at the cuffs. Dark jeans wrapping long, slender legs. On her feet, a pair of worn canvas sneakers with whitening edges.
She stood there like a glitch in a stream of precise matrix code—jarring, yet so harmonious you couldn't look away.
"What, do you not serve Americanos here?"
The woman tilted her head slightly, a glint of amusement flashing in her dark brown eyes. She seemed to sense V's loss of composure but wasn't offended. Instead, she looked like she had found an interesting new toy.
"We do."
V finally found her voice. She forced herself to turn back to the espresso machine, her fingers brushing the cold metal portafilter, trying to calm her racing heart.
"Of course. Coming right up."
V felt a burning sensation on her back. She mechanically operated the grinder, listening to the noise of beans being crushed, but her mind was filled with the image she had just seen.
V managed the handle, tamping the coffee grounds. She tried to focus like a real barista, rather than a fool who had been mesmerized. She pressed the brew button, and the dark brown liquid streamed thinly into the cup.
This time, at least the color was right.
V carried the cup, walking through the aisle as if she were holding a volatile explosive. She walked to the table in the corner and set the cup down gently.
"Your Americano," she said, trying to make her voice sound like a professional barista. "Enjoy."
The woman didn't look up, just hooked her fingers around the rim of the cup. "Thanks."
V retreated behind the counter. She grabbed a rag and pretended to wipe the surface, but her gaze uncontrollably drifted over the top of the coffee machine, aiming for the corner.
The woman lifted the cup, blew away the steam, and took a sip.
V saw her brow furrow for the briefest of nanoseconds—like a calm surface of water broken by a pebble for an instant—before smoothing out again.
V’s heart sank. Preem. I blew it.
She waited. She waited for the woman to put the cup down, to wave her over, or to simply splash the dark brown liquid onto the floor. But nothing happened. The woman took a second sip, then a third. Her expression remained calm as she watched the flowing crowd outside the window.
V agonized behind the counter for at least five minutes. Finally, she tossed the rag onto the counter and walked over.
"So... how's the coffee?" V ventured, breaking the ice.
The woman turned her head, her brown eyes reflecting V’s awkward silhouette.
"It's fine."
"Really?" V frowned, skepticism leaking into her voice. "I mean... if it tastes like sludge, I can make you a fresh one."
The woman looked at her, a glint of amusement in her eyes at being caught.
"You caught me?"
"I saw you frown." V looked her straight in the eye. "Right after the first sip."
"Sharp eyes," the woman admitted, her fingers gently tracing the warm rim of the cup. "It is... a bit bitter. Over-extracted by a few seconds, probably."
"Sorry." V immediately reached for the cup. "I'll toss it and make another..."
The woman covered the rim with her hand.
"Don't bother," she said. "I'm used to it. Besides..."
She lifted the cup and took another sip, as naturally as if it were water.
"It's actually not bad. At least you put some heart into it."
"How do you know?"
"I can taste it." Her gaze fell on V’s hand, which was still dusted with coffee grounds. "Some coffee comes from a machine assembly line—perfect, but cold. Yours isn't perfect, but I can feel... you were trying your best."
V felt her cheeks heat up. "But it still tastes terrible."
"Just do better next time." Her tone was flat, yet carried a strange, soothing quality. "Everyone has a first time."
She looked up, her gaze lingering on V’s face for a second. "First day on the job?"
"Yeah... is it that obvious?"
"It's the way you look at that espresso machine." The woman smiled—a faint smile, but it thawed the icy air around them. "Like you're staring at a bomb about to go off. Plus, I haven't seen you around before."
V let out a long breath, her shoulders relaxing. "Thanks for... the understanding."
"It's not about that," the woman said. "It's just... I know how hard it is to learn something new."
V looked at the empty cup that could have easily ended up down the drain, a strange emotion welling in her chest.
"Next time..." V said earnestly. "Next time, I'll make you a cup that actually tastes good."
"Deal."
The woman stood up and straightened her black varsity jacket.
"Then I'll come back tomorrow."
V paused. "You're coming back?"
"Sure." The woman looked out at the gray buildings, then turned back, her gaze resting on V again. "It's comfortable here. Besides..."
The corner of her mouth lifted in that barely-there smile again.
"And I want to see your progress."
The woman turned and walked toward the door, taking the coffee with her. Her silhouette was just as it had been when she arrived—in this Corpo Plaza full of rigid lines and drab tones, that splash of black and purple seemed out of place, yet felt like the only real thing there.
The wind chime on the door tinkled softly. The glass door closed, shutting out the street noise.
V stood frozen, still clutching the rag.
She watched the figure disappear into the distance for a long moment before remembering to look down at the register screen. Just a string of meaningless gibberish and a generic anonymous account code.
Right. Anonymous pre-paid card. But that was normal; you could find a dime a dozen of those in this plaza.
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It was late. Inside her apartment in Megabuilding H10, V lay in bed, the room lit only by a dim desk lamp.
A holo-screen projected a ghostly blue glow in mid-air, dense text scrolling across V’s retinas.
"The Golden Rule of Perfect Espresso: 9 bars of pressure, 90-96°C water temp, 25-second extraction..."
"How to identify over-extraction vs. under-extraction: color, flow rate, and crema thickness..."
V had even dug up a digital datapad, taking pages of notes like a student cramming for finals. If Jackie saw this, he’d probably think the chip in her brain had fried—one of Night City’s top mercs, currently studying the impact of grind settings on flavor profiles.
Just then, a comms bubble popped up in the corner of her vision. It was Jackie.
"How's it going, Chica? Smell any big fish today?"
V stared at the text for a moment, her fingers tapping out a reply in the air.
"No leads. Just small fry. Need more time to observe."
Sent. She closed the comms interface.
She lied. Or rather, she withheld the most important part. Right now, her mind was completely occupied by that over-extracted cup of coffee.
"It tasted so bad, yet she finished it."
V muttered to the mottled ceiling.
All day long, her ears had been filled with complaints. Those bespoke-suited corpo-rats would look at her like she was garbage if the coffee was a degree too hot or the foam wasn't micro enough, spewing venomous insults.
This was normal. This was Night City; this was Corpo Plaza. Cold, nitpicky, arrogant.
But that woman didn't.
The woman in the varsity jacket had merely frowned for a second, then drained that failed attempt to the last drop.
"It's actually not bad. At least you put some heart into it."
"I want to see your progress."
That sentence echoed in V’s mind like a spell. In a city full of lies, betrayal, and transactional relationships, someone was actually willing to give a terrible rookie a second chance, simply because they sensed the effort.
V rolled over, burying her face deep into the soft pillow, her arms hugging it tight.
Dammit.
Tomorrow.
V closed her eyes, making a silent vow. Tomorrow, she was going to make a truly good cup of coffee.
Not to get close to a target, not to extract intel, and not for those damn tens of thousands of eddies.
She just... simply didn't want that gentle customer to drink that dishwater ever again.