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How long had it been since she'd been in a boxing gym like this?
Too long, truly.
It smelt like man, in the worst way possible, like old socks and sweaty cheese - the kind that costs more than V used to make in a year, hell, a lifetime. The kind that actually came from an animal. The kind Corpo's probably fucking smeared on each others tits, or something. It smelt like unwashed gym bags and a masculine refusal to wear deodorant.
It smelled like home.
Like pizza in the middle of the ring at two in the morning, her chooms fighting her for the last slice. Like fries and shit ketchup, laughing over how quickly someone went down. Like safety, a warm, dry place to spend the night, a hidey-hole from the NCPD, from her shithole parents, from the troubles of the world.
When had she outgrown it?
The grunts and hollow oomphs of the boxers were the soundtrack to her childhood, and she moved around them fluidly, feeling off kilter without her usual suit.
Naked.
It didn't matter that her netrunning suit was so skin-tight she looked shrink-wrapped; she somehow felt more exposed without it, her sports shorts and loose vest-top a far cry from all that freshly lubed latex.
"V!"
Ah, the reason she'd come. Not the man who shouted her name, he was no one, some Maelstrom lackey who'd left the gang to hang out here, instead - before half his face got replaced by bad chrome, most likely. She'd spared him, months back, after finding him cowering in a bathroom during a mission. No, it was his opponent she'd come to see, who, well, everyone had come to see.
Viktor.
He'd invited her the way men did when they really cared whether you attended, but wanted to look like they didn't - the fake shrug, ticket slid across the counter, the old 'oh, before I forget, it's nothing important but-'
But I'd like you to come.
But I want to look out across the crowd and see you there.
But I'm going to do something that's meaningful, and I want you to be part of it.
The crowds hadn't arrived, not yet - she had maybe ten minutes til the place was so full she wouldn't get a look-see, but his eyes found hers like none of the boxers even existed, like no one did. Like her soul wasn't being pulled from her, neuron by neuron, like she wasn't some sort of mayfly in human form.
"Hey, V."
"Vik."
They didn't need words, never had - their eyes did the talking for them, locking from either side of the ring. His expression softened, just a touch; they flicked down to her sneakers and back up to her blue hair, then settled on her eyes. Glowing, thanks to his careful ministrations, days before, just before he'd offered her the tickets to attend.
She'd known him for years, now - but it felt like a lifetime. Hell, given her trajectory…
Maybe it was.
"You came."
She nodded, leaning up against the ropes. "Course."
His fists were wrapped, cybernetics forgotten and removed in lieu of tape and fabric, no minute movements needed here. Here he would be an artist of a different kind, still painting in blood and bone but through brutality rather than finesse. It thrilled her, if she was honest, the idea of him stepping into a world that was entirely his, but felt a little bit like hers at the same time.
Something shared.
"You bet on me?"
"Course."
He smirked at that, the expression twisting into something leaning towards a smile, dragging his expression down her form once more - assessing. The top was loose but cropped, the shorts sitting on her natural waist but short, the toned stretch of her legs entirely on show. The neon blue was as far removed from her black bodysuit as it could get, but this was casual.
She wasn't here as V, merc, but as V, woman.
Someone she hadn't been for a long time.
He turned away, but she called him back, leaning over the ropes to reach for his necklace, the glove glinting as always in the light from overhead, from her eyes now, too.
She felt ridiculous, so ridiculous, but the action had slid into her mind and she'd gone with it almost immediately. He went still, shock obvious as she steeled herself and pressed her lips to the metal, chaste. Quick. It was back against his chest within moments, resting upon a heart she just knew was beating a rapid rhythm in his chest.
"For luck."
The trip back to the stands felt impossibly long but no time at all, and as she sat on the rickety, scavenged wood bench she could see he was no uncertain boy, staring back after her - he was checking his wrappings, greeting the ref, setting up for something she'd never thought he'd do again.
"Proceeds are going to charity," he'd explained back in his office as he'd rambled, ticket sat on the desk between them like a threat and a promise and an opportunity. "Orphans or something."
Or something, like he wouldn't know exactly what he was fighting for.
Judging by the number of people who filed in, who slipped into the seats beside her, she knew they'd make a serious difference to something. Be it orphans or the impoverished or those in need of free medical care, each of those tickets sold would be a hot meal for one person at least. For one day.
He was a good man.
In another world, another life…
She'd choked down one of those tablets before coming out - wanting to feel for a snapshot moment like maybe she was in that other life, like she wasn't carting around a rocker-boy turned terrorist, one she'd reluctantly found to be a good friend. Funny. Sarcastic and grumpy as all fucking hell, but still… it was hard to hate the guy.
She didn't want his opinion, though - not today. Didn't need his commentary, and in truth, as the bell rang and the fight started, she didn't think of him once. How could she, with this happening in front of her, when Viktor danced rings around his opponent like it was nothing. Like he'd never stopped, like he was born for it. He ducked and bounced and slammed his fist into his opponent with surgical precision, with the kind of natural know-how you couldn't learn, couldn't train.
She couldn't look away. Not from his movements, or the violence, or the way his sweat soaked through his tank top after the third round of this intricate dance. V's mouth felt impossibly dry as she watched him move, ducking and diving out of the way of the other man's fists, moving like he'd never quit, never stopped, like he was a decade younger and ruling the circuit like a legend.
A hit landed here and there, no doubt marring his skin with bruises. Just redness, now, but later they'd bloom like roses, trailing and growing as the blood leaking under the surface of him, mapping each and every hit. What was wrong with her, she wondered, that the idea of it had her heart racing impossibly quickly, her gut aching for more than they could ever have. He was good, too good for her to saddle his heart with the grief of her.
She wanted to rush to him.
His opponent fell, limp and heavy upon the mat, and it took all her energy not to let herself get swept up in the joy of it. In that other life, the one where maybe she'd been scouted, where she'd fought for her dinner instead of stole for it, she'd be down there with him, part of his team as he celebrated, lifting the trophy high, words lost to the roar of the crowd. She wanted to be the one to lift the damp cloth to his brow, to lick the salt from his wounds, to ease his pain as he'd done for her so many times.
She didn't care about their age difference, as she knew he did - guiltily overheard whispers between he and Misty that should never have reached her ears. Didn't care that his hair was starting to fall, that his middle had softened just a touch, that he needed to rest his eyes more and more.
She just wanted them focused on her.
Forever.
She found them, or he found hers; as if he'd heard her thoughts across the cheering masses. She stood alongside the others, keeping her gaze locked with his as she clapped, as she shot him a message she saw flash up in those warm, receptive eyes.
"Well done."
He laughed, she could see it in the shake of his head, the way his eyes scrunched closed, even if the sound was impossible to hear over the roar of the crowd and the blasting music. He clutched at his necklace, bringing it up to his lips and rendering her as winded and hollow as if she'd been the one absorbing those hits.
His team overtook him, breaking the spell, the link between them and she turned on a heel, answering the call that had seemingly been blocked by whatever singled the two out amongst so many.
"V, you free? I've got a job for you!"
Maybe she'd swing by, later, use some of her betting winnings to bring him chow mein - the kind with real meat, the kind you could only get where the rich pricks hung out.
Maybe she'd be brave, or reckless, throw caution to the wind, but now?
She couldn't do it to him. Better to disappoint them both than leave him mourning the loss of her, if she failed. She swung a leg over the back of her bike - Jackie's bike - and revved it. She had a location marked on her nav, and a gun to reclaim.
No rest for the wicked.