Oh man, that rush from the Tanaka gig? It fizzled out quicker than a knockoff booster shot leaving you jittery and empty. V was gunning her Quadra through Night City's glowing guts, those neon lights streaking by like electric veins pumping life into the chaos. The 20k eddies Dex had wired her sat fat in her account, but damn, that satisfaction was a ghost—slippery and gone before you could savor it. Arasaka's dark cloud was hanging heavier now, whispers crawling through the street nets about their black-ops squads poking into the fixer scene, hunting the ghost who jacked their precious shard. It made V's skin crawl, that prickly fear mixed with the thrill of being wanted, like she was some prize in their twisted game. She needed more than just her wits and chrome; she craved real backup, meatier jobs, and chooms who wouldn't flip her for a corpo handout. Dex was solid, yeah, but he was just one fat cat in a sea of sharks. No, she hungered for the big leagues, that network of legends who could shield her while she climbed.
That's what dragged her ass to the Afterlife, that legendary dive buried deep in Watson's underbelly like a secret heartbeat of the merc world. The place throbbed with this low, rumbling bass that vibrated right through your bones, mixed with the subtle buzz of implants firing off in the dim haze. Walls were scarred with glowing names of dead edgerunners—digital graves that lit up like warnings or inspirations, depending on your mood. Joytoys were scattered in the corners, their chrome bits glinting under the moody lights, bodies arched just so to catch eyes and creds. Fixers huddled over tables, murmuring deals over shots of actual tequila, the kind that burned real and warm down your throat, not that watery synth crap that left you hollow. V shoved through the heavy door, still rocking that black corset-dress from the gig, the fabric ripped in places from the chaos, clinging to her sweat-damp skin like a lover who wouldn't let go. God, she knew she looked wrecked but hot—those full, heavy breasts of hers rising and falling with every breath, straining the laces like they were begging for release, her narrow waist dipping in before exploding out into those wide, swaying hips that turned every head in the joint. Her ass, that perfect, firm curve, flexed with each step, and her long legs ate up the floor in that predatory strut. She felt the stares boring into her—hungry, jealous, lustful—and it sent a shiver down her spine, that mix of vulnerability and power. In this city, being seen like that? It was like wearing invisible armor, distracting the gonks while you plotted your next move. Her heart pounded a little harder, nerves tingling with the human thrill of walking into the lion's den, but damn, it felt alive.
Claire, the bartender with her no-nonsense vibe and cybered-up arms, spotted her right away and jerked her head over. "V, huh? Rogue's been sniffing around about you. Dex put in a good word—says you're ex-corpo gold with street edge. Booth in the back, don't keep her waiting."
V's Kiroshi optics hummed to life, flashing as they scanned the room for any red flags—hidden threats, shady eyes lingering too long. Her pulse quickened, that old corpo paranoia mixing with the excitement of maybe leveling up. There she was: Rogue Amendiares, the queen bee of fixers, lounging in a dark alcove like she owned the shadows themselves. Silver hair cropped short and sharp, eyes like laser sights that could cut through bullshit. A walking myth, survivor of the Fourth Corporate War, boss of the Afterlife, and the key to unlocking the real power plays. V felt a rush of awe and intimidation, her stomach twisting with that human doubt—am I good enough for this? "Sit," Rogue barked, her voice rough but silky, like gravel wrapped in velvet. "Dex swears you're prime, but I don't deal in table scraps. What's your hook, kid?"
V eased into the booth, crossing those killer legs of hers so the skirt's slit flashed a teasing strip of thigh, smooth and inviting under the low light. She leaned in just a bit, her cleavage deepening with the motion—old habits from the boardrooms, using her body like a subtle hack to soften the edges. God, it made her feel powerful, that warmth spreading through her as she watched Rogue's gaze flicker. "Arasaka schooled me in intel ops, deep hacks, and the art of the honeytrap," V said, her voice low and confident, laced with that modulated purr. "One year on the merc grind, 47 gigs nailed without a hitch. I slip in quiet, extract what I need, and drop bodies only if they force my hand. And yeah, this body? It's my secret weapon—distraction, seduction, whatever the job calls for. Gets 'em every time."
Rogue's mouth twisted into a sly smirk, her cyber eye whirring softly as it roved over V's voluptuous frame, taking in the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, like she was appraising a fine piece of chrome. It sent a little thrill through V, that mix of objectification and respect—human emotions bubbling up, pride laced with a hint of unease. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. I dig the fire. But lone wolves get flatlined fast out here. You need a solid partner to watch your back. Got anyone in your sights?"
Right on cue, like the city itself was scripting this drama, the door banged open, and in swaggered Jackie Welles— this towering hunk of tattooed muscle, six feet of pure Valentino grit, his ink swirling across that broad, ripped chest like a living street art masterpiece. His beard was trimmed sharp, framing that infectious grin that could light up the darkest alley, eyes sparkling with mischief and warmth. "¡Ey, V! Heard you were rubbing elbows with the elite gonks!" His voice boomed like a revved-up Quadra, cutting through the bar noise and pulling laughs from the crowd.
V's heart did a little flip—a genuine glitch in her cool exterior, that rush of old feelings crashing in like a wave. Jackie. Her choom from the Heywood gutters, back when life was simpler, before Arasaka sucked her into their sterile world. They'd been thick as thieves as kids: him jacking rides for the Valentinos, her cracking cams and alarms to keep 'em safe. When her folks shoved her toward the corpo ladder, they'd lost touch, but after her brutal fall from grace, Jackie was the first to hit her up, dragging her into her debut merc run. Burly as hell, loyal to a fault, with arms like steel beams and a heart that could melt chrome—he was the perfect counter to her sleek cunning. And oh, that underlying spark? Always there, simmering—his eyes stealing glances at her curves during long stakeouts, his big-brother protectiveness hiding a deeper hunger that made her pulse race. Seeing him now, it stirred up a cocktail of nostalgia, affection, and that low-burning desire, making her feel vulnerable in the best way.
"Jackie," V breathed, rising to wrap him in a hug that lingered just a second too long. His strong arms pulled her close, hands settling on her waist, fingers brushing the flare of her hips, sending electric tingles through her skin. Her full breasts pressed against his solid chest, soft against hard, and she felt his breath hitch, that human warmth flooding her with a mix of comfort and heat. "What the hell are you doing here, you big oaf?"
"Rogue pinged me. Said she had a hotshot climber needing muscle. Knew it had to be you, chica." He pulled back, but not before his eyes dipped down, tracing her form with that appreciative gleam—lingering on her cleavage, the way her dress hugged her ass—before flicking back up with a wink. It made V's cheeks flush a bit, that playful lust mixing with genuine care. "Been way too long. Let's link up—like the old days, but with fancier toys and bigger stakes."
Rogue gave a curt nod, sealing the deal like it was nothing. "Alright, it's on. First test: Militech's rolling a convoy through the Badlands with prototype smartguns. Hit 'em hard, snag the crate, drop it to my buyer. 30k eddies, split down the middle. Screw this up, and you're back to scraping solos."
V and Jackie swapped grins, that shared excitement buzzing between them like static. Alliance forged, just like that—her heart swelling with hope and a touch of fear, wondering if this was the break she needed or another trap waiting to spring.
The next week melted into this intense blur of planning and reconnection, holed up in Jackie's cozy-cramped pad in Heywood. The place was pure him: walls decked with vibrant Valentino flags fluttering in the AC breeze, holo-posters of epic mercs glowing like idols. V hunkered over her deck at the rickety table, Kiroshi eyes flickering blue as she dove into schematics, mapping convoy routes and weak points with that focused intensity that made her feel in control. Jackie handled the grunt work—scouting on his beast of a bike, the ARCH Nazaré growling through the streets like an angry nomad spirit. Their chatter flowed natural and easy, laced with that old camaraderie: "You still ghost through hacks like a phantom, V?" he'd rib her, leaning in close to watch, his gaze wandering to how her top stretched tight over those ample breasts as she bent forward, the fabric pulling just enough to tease.
"And you still hit like a rampaging cyberpsycho," she'd fire back with a smirk, shoulder-bumping him, feeling the solid warmth of his body against hers. That proximity built tension slow and sweet—shared bites of authentic burritos from his gang connects (a rare treat that made her moan with delight), late-night brainstorms where their knees knocked under the table, her curves accidentally brushing his arm as they geared up. Jackie was a true gent, but V caught those stolen looks: his eyes tracing the hypnotic sway of her hips in her tight tactical pants, the rise and fall of her breasts when she laughed that deep, genuine laugh. It didn't bother her; hell, it fueled her, that mutual attraction adding spice to the grind. But under it all, there was real respect—he saw her as a partner, not just a hot piece, treating her brain and skills with the same awe he gave her body. It warmed her inside, chasing away the loneliness of her merc life, making her feel seen in a way the corps never did.
The heist kicked off at dusk in the Badlands, that vast wasteland where dust storms whipped up like angry spirits under a sky bleeding orange and red. V's nerves were electric, fear knotting her gut as they perched on a ridge, but the adrenaline? It was a high better than Glitter, sharpening everything. They hit the convoy like thunder—V's quickhacks zapping the lead truck's shields, frying systems in a shower of sparks while Jackie leaped down with his new gorilla arms (Rogue's upfront gift), ripping the cargo doors open with a metallic screech that echoed her pounding heart. Bullets zipped like angry hornets, Militech guards pouring out like pissed-off ants, but V moved like liquid fire, mantis blades snapping out with that deadly shink. She danced through the fray, slicing armor and flesh, her body a whirlwind of grace—curves heaving with each breath, breasts bouncing under her top, hips twisting as she dodged lead. Blood sprayed hot on her skin, mixing terror with triumph, that raw human rush of survival. Jackie had her six, his Nue pistol thundering, barking Spanish curses and cheers that bolstered her spirit. They yanked the crate—a humming black beast of tech—and bolted on his bike, V clinging to his back, arms wrapped tight around his waist, her soft breasts molding against his spine, the vibration of the engine thrumming through them both like shared heartbeat.
Wind tore at her hair as they tore ass through the desert, dust choking the air, but the escape high left V breathless, alive in every nerve. Back at the Afterlife, Rogue forked over the eddies with a grudging nod. "Not half bad. You're officially in the club. Bigger fish coming—stack that rep, you two."
Victory pulsed through them like a drug that night, tequila shots burning bright in Jackie's pad. "To fresh starts and old flames," Jackie toasted, glass clinking hers, his eyes locking on—intense, drifting from her face to her crimson lips, down her neck, settling on the deep plunge of her cleavage where her shirt had come undone just a button or two.
V felt it deep in her core—that magnetic pull, hotter now after the danger. The corpo life had been all cold deals and empty power; the streets were visceral, real, stirring needs she'd buried. She set her glass aside, stepping into his space, her voluptuous body inches from his, heat radiating like a promise. "Jackie... we've been circling this forever, haven't we?"
He paused, then his big hand cupped her face, thumb grazing her jaw with surprising tenderness. "Chica, you're pure trouble. But goddammit..."
Their kiss exploded like a frag going off—fierce, desperate, tongues tangling as years of pent-up want poured out. Jackie's hands explored with hungry reverence, sliding down to cup her heavy breasts, thumbs circling nipples that hardened under his touch, sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core. She gasped into his mouth, arching back as he squeezed, feeling the weight and softness that drove him wild. His grip shifted to her waist, pulling her flush, then lower to those wide hips, fingers digging in like he owned them. V melted into it, her body a canvas for his worship—nails scraping his inked back as they stumbled to the bed, clothes shedding in a frenzy. He trailed kisses down her neck, nipping at the pale skin, then lower, burying his face in her cleavage, lips and tongue lavishing attention on her breasts, sucking and teasing until she moaned loud, writhing under him. Her legs parted, wrapping around his waist as he entered her slow at first, then building to a rhythm that rocked the frame—deep, urgent thrusts that filled her completely, her curves bouncing with each move, ass clenching as waves of ecstasy built. It was raw, passionate—a whirlwind affair fueled by adrenaline and unspoken longing, her cries echoing in the dim room as climax hit like a system crash, leaving them shuddering, sweat-slicked and tangled.
In the hazy afterglow, Jackie fired up a smoke, arm draped over her, pulling her close. "This doesn't mess us up, right? Partners through and through."
V smirked, fingers tracing his tattoos, a lazy contentment washing over her mixed with that sly whisper of more to come. "Partners first, always." But deep down, a seed took root—the intoxicating rush of wielding her body not just for survival, but for pure, selfish pleasure. Night City's corruption, creeping in like a subtle virus, promising darker delights ahead.