Waking up in that dingy Heywood apartment of hers,It hit V like a sluggish wave crashing over her, the kind that drags you back from dreams laced with neon and sweat. She yawned wide, stretching out on her rumpled bed, the sheets tangled around her legs like reluctant lovers. Alone this time—no Rogue's warm, scarred body pressed against her, no lingering scent of smoke and leather to stir that casual heat they shared. Just the faint hum of the city outside her window, sirens wailing distant like forgotten echoes, and the dull throb of her Afterlife tattoo on her hip, a reminder of the marks Night City loved to leave. V rubbed her eyes, feeling that human grogginess weigh her down, her voluptuous body shifting under the thin blanket—full breasts rising with a deep breath, narrow waist twisting as she sat up, wide hips settling on the edge of the mattress. God, she felt alive but worn, the echoes of last night's solo high from the Militech gig still buzzing in her veins, mixed with a quiet ache for connection in this sprawl of isolation.
She swung her legs over, bare feet hitting the cold floor with a shiver that ran up her toned thighs. Padding to the kitchenette, V's robe—half-open, teasing glimpses of her pale cleavage and the curve of her ass—swished softly. Coffee was her ritual, that bitter synth-brew that kicked the fog away. She fumbled with the machine, pouring grounds with a yawn that stretched her crimson lips, her long ebony hair tumbling messily over her shoulders. As the pot gurgled to life, filling the air with that acrid aroma, V leaned against the counter, crossing her arms under her heavy breasts, pushing them up unconsciously. Her mind wandered—flashes of Stout's hands on her, the way that fat cock had filled her during those wild nights, intimate and rough, bites on her skin fading but memories hot. But it was over, data snatched clean, and now? Just the quiet before the next storm. She poured a mug, black and steaming, and slumped onto the couch, robe parting to expose more thigh, sipping slow as she rested her head back, eyes closing for a moment of peace in this chaotic life.
The peace shattered like cheap glass when her agent buzzed—Vic's grizzled face popping up in holo, his voice crackling urgent. "V, it's Vic. Got a problem—big one. Misty's gone missin'. My employee, the tarot girl? Maelstrom snatched her up. Word is, it's payback for some fuck-up Jackie pulled on a job a while back. They're plannin' to chrome her out, turn her into one of their cyberpsycho puppets. Shit, V—she's a good kid, doesn't deserve this."
V's heart dropped like a lead weight, coffee mug clattering to the table as she bolted upright, robe slipping open further to bare one breast, but she didn't care—emotions crashing in raw and human. Misty? Sweet, mystical Misty with her cards and kind eyes, V's friend from those early merc days, the one who'd read her fortune and offered quiet wisdom when the world felt like it was chewing her up. "Vic... fuck, when? How sure are you?" V's voice cracked, worry knotting her gut, that protective surge making her chest tight.
"Last night. She didn't show for her shift. Street cams caught Maelstrom vans in Kabuki—her turf. Jackie's mess? Some botched heist where he zeroed a few of their lieutenants. They're vengeful bastards. Help me out, V—you know her too."
V nodded fierce, even though he couldn't see, her free hand clenching into a fist. "I'm on it. Stay put—I'll find her." Call ended, and V moved like a storm—shedding the robe, her naked body a masterpiece of curves and chrome in the mirror: breasts full and swaying as she dressed, waist cinching under her hands, hips flaring wide as she pulled on tight jeans that hugged every inch like a lover's grip, ass filling them out perfectly. Tank top next, black and snug, straining over her ample bosom, nipples perking against the fabric in the chill air. Leather jacket over it, heavy and worn, mantis blades humming faintly in her arms. Heels—strappy and high, clicking with purpose as she strapped on her Malorian to her thigh holster. No time for makeup, just a quick tie of her hair back, optics flashing red with determination. Misty... god, the thought of those chrome-freaks twisting her into a monster? It fueled a fire in V's belly, worry mixing with rage, that human fear for a friend making her hands shake just a bit.
She grabbed her keys, striding out to her Quadra—wait, no, bike today. The ARCH Nazaré roared to life under her, engine thrumming between her thighs like a promise of speed and fury. Wind whipped her hair as she tore through Night City's veins, neon blurring into streaks, her mind racing. Misty—fragile but strong, with that spiritual vibe that grounded V when shit got dark. If Maelstrom hurt her... V's grip tightened on the handles, jeans clinging tight to her legs, jacket flapping as she weaved traffic. The Afterlife loomed soon, that merc haven pulsing with bass even in daylight hours. V parked with a skid, heels clicking sharp on pavement as she pushed through the door, hips swaying out of habit but her face stone-serious, optics scanning for Rogue.
Claire nodded from the bar. "She's in the back. You look like hell's comin'—everything flat?"
V ignored the question, striding past, her tank top hugging her curves, breasts bouncing slightly with urgency. The back booth—Rogue lounged there, silver hair sharp, cyber eye whirring as she looked up with a smirk. "Well, if it ain't my marked beauty. Come for round... what, five? You look ready to ride something fierce." Her voice dripped flirtation, eyes tracing V's form—the way the jeans molded to her ass, the tank straining over her tits—like she was already imagining peeling them off.
But V wasn't in the mood, worry for Misty knotting her throat, that human panic making her voice sharp. "Not now, Rogue. It's urgent—life or death." She slid into the booth, leaning close, ignoring the way Rogue's hand brushed her knee teasingly. "Misty's been grabbed by Maelstrom. Revenge for Jackie's fuck-up on some gig. They're gonna chrome her into a psycho. She's my friend—Vic's too. Cashing in a favor. Dig up everything on that job Jackie botched, and where those freaks might've stashed her."
Rogue's flirt faded fast, her face hardening—respect flickering in her eyes for V's seriousness. "Misty? The tarot chick? Shit, alright. Favors are favors—you've earned a stack." She jacked into her deck, fingers flying, pulling strings in her vast net. V waited, foot tapping, heels clicking softly, her mind whirling with fear—Misty tied up, scared, those Maelstrom gonks leering with their red optics. Hours dragged—coffee brought by Claire, ignored flirty glances from Rogue ("C'mon, a kiss to pass the time?"), V too wrapped in worry to bite. Finally, Rogue unjacked, sliding a shard over. "Jackie's gig was a smash-and-grab on Maelstrom boosters in Pacifica. He flatlined their lieutenant's brother—messy. Hideouts: old factories in the Combat Zone, abandoned but wired for their twisted shit. Modding women, cranking out BDs with 'em as stars. My bet? The Watson steel mill—rusted shell, but humming inside."
V pocketed it, standing quick, jacket swirling. "Thanks. Owe you." Rogue grabbed her wrist, pulling her close for a quick kiss—lips soft but insistent—but V pulled back gentle, eyes distant. "Later. Misty first." Rogue nodded understanding, that casual bond holding without pressure.
Solo it was—V roared out on her bike, wind biting her face, jeans tight against her skin as she pushed the engine hard. Data reviewed en route: Watson factory, derelict on maps but whispers of chrome screams inside. Maelstrom's den for "enhancing" captives, turning them into BD fodder or psychos. V's gut twisted—Misty, with her gentle soul, strapped to some table? Rage fueled her, but fear too, that human dread making her palms sweat on the grips. She parked distant, heels sinking in dirt as she scouted—Kiroshi zooming on the rusted hulks, snipers on towers glinting red.
Sneaking close, shadows her ally, V's body moving stealthy—hips swaying less, ass flexing as she crouched. A van rumbled in, dust kicking up—two Maelstrom gonks hopped out, chrome bulging, optics glowing. They yanked open the back, dragging out a woman: Judy Alvarez, the Mox BD editor, famous for her tech wizardry and fierce spirit. Judy fought wild—kicking, cursing in Spanish, her lithe body bruised and bloodied, tank top torn exposing a shoulder, pants ripped at the knee. "Get your filthy hands off me, you chrome-fucks!" she snarled, but they zapped her with a stun baton, her curves slumping as they hauled her inside. V's eyes widened—Judy too? Kidnapped for their sick games. Worry doubled, but resolve hardened.
Time to act. V unslung her sniper—silenced Tsunami Nekomata, scope locking on the first tower sniper. Breath steady, breasts rising slow under her tank, she squeezed—headshot silent, body crumpling. Second gonk turned—bam, another clean drop, sparks flying from shattered optics. V ghosted forward, heels quiet on gravel, slipping through a side vent—curves brushing metal, heart pounding with intense focus.
Inside: factory guts alive with red lights, Maelstrom chatter echoing. V quickhacked cams—daemon spreading like virus, screens fritzing black. Creeping halls, she overheard: "The tarot bitch's next—strap her for implants. Mox girl's for BDs after." Rage boiled—V spotted Misty through a grate: tied to a chair, gun to her head, next to Judy, both bruised but defiant. Misty's eyes wide with fear, her slender frame shaking, cards scattered on the floor. "Please... I don't want this," Misty whispered, voice breaking. Judy's glare fierce: "You'll pay for this, assholes."
V moved—disabling security panels with hacks, alarms silenced. Then the kills: intense, methodical. First gonk around a corner—mantis blades shinking out, slicing throat in a spray of blood and sparks, his body twitching as she dragged him aside. Second pair chatting—V rolled a flashbang, blinding them; point-blank Malorian shots, suppressed pops dropping them mid-scream, gore splattering her jacket. Hallway patrol: quickhack fried one's brain, him convulsing as V blade-danced the other, carving chrome limbs, blood hot on her skin. Factory echoed with her silent fury—killing every freak, bodies piling, her tank soaked in sweat, breasts heaving with exertion, jeans torn at the knee from a close dodge.
Basement: dim surgical lights, Misty strapped to a table, ripperdoc looming with whirring tools. "Time to chrome you up, witch," he leered, blade descending. V burst in—Malorian barking, headshot exploding his skull in chunks. Misty gasped: "V!" V freed her quick, blades cutting straps, then Judy—both women shaky, Judy clutching a wound on her arm. "You... thanks," Judy breathed, eyes locking on V's with spark—admiration, maybe more, her lithe form leaning close.
Out through chaos—V covering, shooting stragglers, intense firefight in the yard: bullets whizzing, V rolling behind crates, breasts pressed to ground as she sniped, taking down three with precise bursts. Clear—Delamain cab summoned, secure and armored. "Get 'em home safe," V ordered, helping Misty and Judy in. As Judy slid past, her hand brushed V's ass "accidentally," slipping a card into her back pocket. V felt it later—Judy's deets, wink doodled, "Call me." A small smile curved V's lips, pocketing it—Judy, cute with her tech smarts and fire, stirring a bubble of intrigue, maybe romance, that human flutter in her chest.
Bike roaring back to Afterlife, wind cooling her sweat, V thought of Judy—those fierce eyes, curves under torn clothes, resistance turning her on in a weird way. Potential there, hot and new. Inside the bar, V slumped into Rogue's booth, jacket shed, tank clinging damp to her breasts. Rogue slid a drink over: "Look like you wrestled a cyberpsycho. Misty?"
"Safe. Gig done—free of charge." V sipped, exhaustion hitting, but Rogue's presence warmed her. They talked—Rogue praising the rep boost, "You're legends material now"—flirt building: Rogue's hand on V's thigh, fingers tracing higher. "Proud of you, marked one." V leaned in, worry fading to heat—slow makeout starting, lips soft at first, tongues teasing, Rogue's hands groping V's breasts through the tank, squeezing as V moaned soft. Intimate, hot—bites on necks, but gentle, ending with V pulling back, smiling tired.
Night blurred—more drinks, laughs—V passing out on the couch, body spent. Rogue covered her with a blanket, kiss to forehead. "Sleep, firecracker." V's rep soared, but in dreams, Judy winked, promising more temptations in Night City's dark heart.