Another WIP, again?!
I want to share a bit of V and River interactions because I haven't in a while :D
For context : V calls in a favor from Riv, she wants him to investigate on her Arasaka brother, no less...
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The diner they chose is only two streets away from her place. An ordinary dive with checkered floors, wheezing red cushions, and the smell of fried synth-meat and grease that has become sedentary to the place. It's late dinner time, too. The slackers gnaw lazily on cold pizza and bits of hot dog; the night shifters chuck in a last oily bite in a hurry before the long hours of grind start. V isn't hungry– she carefully avoids looking at the mouths that chew and the teeth that masticate synth-chicken bones—quite the opposite. She orders two coffees nonetheless and stares at them steaming on the stained table. She doesn't hope to sleep tonight anyway.
River enters a quarter late and slides into the booth opposite her with a whoosh of leather and a click of chrome.
"So, V. Quick to call in that favor," he starts in an even, relaxed voice that sounds unfamiliar to her.
"Eager to accept."
"I didn't say that."
"You came."
"I don't say no without listening to the full story. Besides, I'm curious." He looks content to be here, assaulting the coffee as soon as he's settled, face open and brow relaxed. A far echo of the stern detective in the NCPD booth she spent eighteen hours awake with.
"Typical detective, then."
"On some days." He dips his head sideways, smiling. "So, what's the matter?"
V touches the coffee for the first time—lukewarm now—takes a sip that she regrets instantly. The taste is one of bland wallpaper; it settles in too fast, and old sweet nausea follows suit.
"Classic. I want intel on someone. Nothing big. Contacts and movements from a certain period of time." V hears her own voice from a distorted place, deep inside—words she intended to be practical, scraping in her throat like metal on corroded metal.
"Classic. Who's our goose?"
"My brother." V doesn't hear herself saying it. It's articulated like a written command, distant from the self, codified, encrypted, devoid of every sense meant for the word.
The silence that follows is heavy but short. River exhales a surprised breath. Night City runs on brothers killing brothers. But no one really gets used to the sound of it, not even an NCPD detective. He stirs his coffee for seconds that stretch, elastic. V looks away through the fogged window. Through a small crack, she sees the street bustles, severed, like two weird stratospheres between realms, dividing and distorting space. The lump in her throat she ignores. She wonders where Jackie is.
"Nothing big..." His mouth bends downward as he shakes his head. "So you're gonna make me probe you for the story, or—" he gestures for her to continue.
"Do you have siblings, Detective?" V snaps abruptly, a question she doesn't plan or intend. He's taken aback, and she sees him relax again before she regrets her lack of tact.
"Actually, I do. A sister. And three nephews," he adds easily, the sadness in his tone she knows is directed at her. The familiar ire, sullen and testy, twirls with the miasmas of nausea in her stomach.
"And you don't try to kill each other?" So she continues, sardonic.
"Actually, not," he replies, lips tighter. The satisfaction of pulling the rug of pity under his feet submerges her in a new wave of nausea.
"I suspect he is the brain behind my termination and, by extension, attempted murder." V returns to the matter at hand, tries to summon her corporate voice, but the disc is old and skipping. It's spat out in a white, crackly whisper.
River drops his gaze to the table, like people do when they pass by funerals of strangers—a silent condolence for filial love.
"You don't need to say anything. I might have done the same, you know," she saves him, or herself. Would she have done the same? She doesn't know. It's a lie she invents on the spot because V hates sympathy and between her and River stand mere weeks of acquaintance. Frail and fragile backbone to hold the weight of intimate family confessions, even made on a professional tone. The nausea contracts her face, acidic, threatening to spill. She shifts in her seat and realizes she's sweating cold under her clothes.
"Is there anything that points out to him? Or is it just guesswork for now?" He's calm, yet she sees the surface of his exterior crack in discomfort. He scrutinizes her in obvious worry; she feels his implant eye pierce her shields.
"Got a raise days after my termination. He's counter-intel at Arasaka."
"Those are scrapes."
"And it's your job to find the main dish."
"A first thread to pull?"
"Look for Brad Bordweski. Biotechnica counter-intel. Anything you can find from six months ago. Anyone he met related to Arasaka. Fabien Laroche—that is our... target—yet I doubt he met him in person. I'll transfer anything I have on the two to you. You have to work with that."
"Could use a runner. But let me guess, fees are high and you're light with an injured partner—"
"Keep him out of it." V's voice rises in a sudden hissed shout as she slams her clammy hand on the table, making the coffee goblets rattle and heads turn their way.
She's aggressive, stance antagonistic at the bare mention of his title. Partner is somewhere in the city, barely recovered. Her fear drops off her in rivulets of sweat; she tastes the salty adrenaline on her lips. River recovers from his stupor and again, he's showing no anger or irritation. He must have seen this same scene so many times it eroded his reactivity.
"Not what you think," he pacifies, maintaining eye contact before carrying on in a professional tone. "But I might need more if you want quick results. More people on it."
"Not him." It's final, and River understands, because he lets it go as quick as he brought it up.
"Does he know?"
"No. It's me and you on this."
River shuffles his weight on the tight diner seat. His jacket squeals on the synth-leather. Discomfort. He can refuse the "job," technically.
"It's something you could do alone. Why come to me? Could save your favor for an actual job. Something you get paid for."
"Don't wanna do it. Want my hands clean of this." She looks straight past him. River understands that she can't.
"What's gonna happen if your suspicions are correct?"
The answer stays hung in the greasy, thick air of the diner. A family of four dumps into the booth next to them, noisy and bubbly. River doesn't hear V's reply. She might just have said nothing at all.
