Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

August 2080
On a highway in the American Southwest…

“Fuck! No no no no no!” Vaye pounded the steering wheel in frustrated defeat as her old Thorton Butte came to a rolling stop on the side of the highway, eeking out a high-pitched whistling from the engine bay. White smoke billowed from under the truck’s hood to be quickly swept away in the dusty desert air - the only clouds in sight under the blistering late summer sun.

She groaned loudly and hit her head against the seat back. Broken down in Northern Arizona was not how she’d intended to start off the last leg of her trip to Night City. Five days and over twelve hundred miles on the road and fate had decided to hamstring her in the home stretch. Less than a day’s drive from her destination.

“Alright,” she took a deep breath and patted the Butte’s dashboard, “Let’s have a look, Sylvia.”

Vaye’s father had taught her a decent bit about auto mechanics - she knew white smoke was never a good sign. Hopping out, she covered her mouth and nose with her arm before she opened the hood. The sickly sweet vapors of burnt coolant washed over her and she gagged. That charred maple syrup smell was all she needed to know. At best the radiator had boiled over and she was running low on fluid. At worst, the thing was cracked or had blown a gasket. Neither of which she could diagnose here, let alone fix. A quick scan of her optics told her nothing beyond what she already knew and she sighed.

“Fuck!” She kicked the bumper and used the momentum to turn and pace across the road and back. No point in going back the way she’d come - the rinky-dink trading town behind her didn’t have a mechanic or a junkyard to fish for parts in. Pausing on the lane line, she lit a cigarette and took a long drag, holding the smoke behind her teeth when she caught sight of a sun-bleached steel sign a few yards away, nearly obscured by the branches of a mesquite tree.

The symbols marked at the bottom indicated food, lodging, and - it must be her lucky day - auto repair.

Eight miles.

If she used one of her remaining jugs of water to top off the radiator, she could limp the Butte there, assuming this sign wasn’t outdated. A flaking layer of newer paint over the symbols, and a lack of alternatives, convinced her to give it a shot.

Everything was going well until she hit a stretch of climbing switchbacks halfway through and the radiator gave out again. And again. And again. What should have taken no more than fifteen minutes had cost her almost two hours and her last few gallons of water.

Between the heat and the elevation, the Thorton was begging for death by the time Vaye rolled into the little mountain-side town of Jerome, trailing smoke once more. She hobbled her truck into the parking lot of the nearest gas station and shut it down in the largest patch of shade she could find. Heaving a sigh, she gripped the wheel and leaned her forehead against the worn vinyl between her hands. She was exhausted from the heat alone, drenched in sweat and caked in dust, her legs burnt from the second time the radiator had boiled over, and now she didn’t even have a drink of water for herself. At least she had eddies.

A clang of metal on the hood of the truck jolted her to attention and she leaned out the window in an attempt to see through the smoke who had just pried her engine bay open without her consent. All she could make out from the cab was a silver cybernetic hand gripping the top of the open hood.

“Hey!” She hopped out and slammed the door hard enough to rock the chassis, “What the fuck, man!”

The butt of a Marlboro Red was tossed at her feet as she rounded the nose and a bored, gravelly voice said, “Radiator’s fucked for sure.”

“Yeah, no shit-“ Vaye stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of the person digging around inside her precious truck.

The man in front of her was tall, even while leaning over the bumper, bearing his weight on his hips. He was all long limbs and lean muscle beneath sun-kissed skin. Dressed in an oil-stained pair of gray coveralls, unzipped and tied at the waist, to leave his upper body in a threadbare black tank that fit like a second skin. A set of dog tags hanging from his neck clinked against the steel frame as he leaned farther beneath the hood.

She knew she was staring but she couldn’t be assed to stop herself. Maybe this detour wouldn’t be too bad if folks around here looked like that.

Locks of espresso-colored hair were pulled back off his face in a half-pony with the rest falling to his shoulders in loose waves, framing the cut of his stubbled jaw. A pair of red aviators sat atop his head, silver frames catching the sunlight when he shifted for a better angle in the engine bay. His right arm and forehead were smeared with swipes of grease. Still gripping the edge of her hood, his left was a shiny, chrome and steel cybernetic; replaced at the shoulder joint, it looked like an older model prosthetic. Older in that it would probably last two lifetimes before it even needed a rotor replaced, not like the new shit on the markets these days.

Vaye gave herself a mental shake and cleared her throat, planting both hands on her hips to gripe at him, “Hey, yo!” She stood on tiptoe to lean into his line of sight, “You do this to everyone that rolls through? No one ever tell you it’s poor fuckin’ manners to stick your hands in someone’s rig without askin’?”

The stranger straightened and looked her over, amber eyes making a quick sweep from head to toe and back again - settling briefly at the low cut of her shirt before returning to her face. Leaning a hip against her bumper, he lit a fresh cigarette before getting straight to the point, “You want it fuckin’ fixed or not?” He hooked a chrome thumb into the waistband of his coveralls and jerked his chin at the truck, “Ain’t gonna get anywhere with it spewin’ coolant like a corp on squats.”

The casual way he spoke to her was both irritating and disarming, or maybe it was the slight southern accent that threw her - she wasn’t sure. Vaye combed a hand into the shaggy bangs sticking to her forehead, “Obviously, I want it fixed. Not just gonna hand my truck over to the first asshole that pries my hood open though.” She turned to lean through the driver’s window for her Morleys and caught his eyes on her ass while she pulled a cig from the pack. A tiny smirk tugged at his mouth and he made sure she saw him drag his gaze over her bare legs before he looked away.

“Look,” she held the filter between her lips while speaking, “just point me to the auto shop, would ya? Sign down the road said this town’s got one…” she trailed off as her lighter failed, throwing sad little sparks but no fire. “Goddammit. This is not my fuckin-“

A flame hit the tip of her cigarette, catching her off guard. She locked eyes with the dark-haired stranger and hesitated a moment before cupping her hands around the offered light and puffing her smoke to life. “Thanks…”

He returned the lighter to his pocket with a nod and looked her over again - truly sizing her up this time. From the rose-tinted aviators on her nose to the revolver at her hip and the mud on her boots. His gaze swept over the dirt streaked across her forehead and arms and wiped on the faded denim of her shorts, lingering on the splatter of red welts on the tops of her thighs. A film of sweat clung to every inch of exposed skin and soaked through the ribbed cotton of her own tank. It was clear she was exhausted and heat-mad. “Seems like you’re havin’ a helluva day, princess.”

Vaye scowled at the condescending pet name. “Yeah. I am. Should be halfway outta these damn mountains by now.” She sniffed haughtily and returned to her original request, “So where do I get this thing fixed?”

“Right fuckin’ here.” The man in front of her wiped his ‘ganic hand on a pantleg and then held it out to her, “Johnny. At your service.” He winked.

“Johnny?” She hesitated a moment before giving his hand a firm shake. “Call me V.” He matched her grip with calloused fingers and she was pleased to not be stuck in one of the limp-wristed greetings she had received so often while up North.

“Just V? One fuckin’ letter?”

“Just that.” Releasing his hand, her eyes drifted to the worn CHOOH2 sign at the corner of the lot and she cocked a pierced brow, “This is a gas station, choom.”

The mechanic jerked a thumb toward a steel-walled garage set back from the main building, “And the only fuckin’ shop for ‘bout a hundred miles both ways.” He took a drag off his smoke and gave a dry smile, “Take it or leave it, princess.”

Vaye crossed her arms and started tapping the toe of her boot in an impatient rhythm, “Take it. So what’m I looking at.” She flicked the ash from her smoke. “Radiator shit the bed - know it didn’t just overheat - that bastard’s gotta be cracked or clogged.”

Humming in thought, he glanced over his shoulder into the engine bay once more. “Nah, ain’t cracked. Saw you roll in. Ten eddies says you got a blown head gasket, lucky the whole engine didn’t take a shit.”

“Fuck.” This wasn’t going to be an easy fix. She groaned and rubbed the back of her neck, glancing over at him to confirm her suspicions, “Tailpipe was smokin’ too?”

“Huh.” Johnny almost looked impressed, “Not often someone rolls through that actually knows what’s wrong with their wheels.” He patted the still-scalding radiator with his metal hand before sliding his sunglasses on and starting toward the garage, waving her to follow without another word.

His sudden departure caught her off guard and she floundered, “Wha-hey!” One last drag from her smoke and she dropped it, unfinished, to the ground, crushing it beneath her boot as she trailed across the lot after him. He walked with a sway in his step that spoke to a near-cocky confidence and she couldn’t deny - he had her interest. Tearing her eyes away from his waist and broad shoulders, she scanned her surroundings instead.

The entire plot was just over a half acre in size, surrounded by spindly pine trees, low-growing shrubs, and banded sandstone - like everything in the high desert. Even the cracked asphalt had a sepia tinge from decades of red rock crushed underfoot and the area’s intermittent sandstorms.

Closest to the main road was the CHOOH2 building and a measly two fuel pumps. Set back towards the East, the garage was painfully unassuming - the only signage that indicated a mechanic even existed was a wrench-shaped neon sign above the office door. An early model Arch dirt bike was parked on the curb outside the station’s storefront, and, if Vaye squinted, she could see the silhouette of who she assumed was the owner behind the register inside.

The back half of the property was barely visible from the parking lot. She caught glimpses of a few rusted-out cars but the rest was hidden by the main building and an outcrop of pines.

As she approached the garage, her eye was drawn to a weathered Mackinaw pick-up hunched against the side of the building. She didn’t realize she’d come to a stop in front of the vehicle until Johnny whistled from the door to get her attention.

“Yeah, that’s a truck,” he deadpanned.

Vaye couldn’t even be bothered to acknowledge his comment, she was too busy beginning her inspection of the pick-up. Making a pass around the front bumper, she asked, “This’s a Larimore, right? ‘52?” She knew the answer already but, decked out in overlander gear, this vehicle was a little harder to recognize than the one her parents had taken her camping in as a kid.

Leaning a shoulder against the awning, Johnny watched her stand on tiptoe for a better look at the roof rack. “Close. ‘53.” When she started peering through the window, he interrupted her, “You wanna talk biz now or am I wastin’ my goddamn time?”

“Yeah, yeah, comin’.” She spared another glance at the truck before joining him.

Cool air hit her skin the instant she entered the shop and she let out a loud sigh of relief. It had been hours since she’d not been sweating her ass off and the air conditioning felt like heaven.

The mechanic ignored her as he dropped his weight into a threadbare office chair and started flipping through screens on his computer, his chrome hand tapping out a vaguely familiar rhythm on the desk. He grunted when she finally sat down opposite him and then promptly got to business.

“What year’s that Butte?”

Vaye pulled her sunglasses off and hung them from her shirt, “It’s a ‘37.”

“Thought as much.” He lit a cigarette and turned to prop one booted foot on the edge of his desk. “So here’s the deal-“

“I’m fucked?” She leaned back and threaded her fingers behind her head.

Johnny hesitated a fraction of a second before saying, “Depends how long you’re stayin’ in town.”

There was an undertone in his words that sent a bolt of heat down her spine and brought a flush to her cheeks she couldn’t hide. A tiny, victorious smirk pulled one side of his mouth up in response.

Her knee-jerk reaction was to shut him down, but she sweetened the retort with her own coy smile, “Not long…if I can help it.”

He barked out a laugh, “Well that’s too fuckin’ bad, 'cause you’re lookin’ at two or three days for parts if that gasket’s shot. And that’s only assuming nothin’ else’s wrecked in there.”

“How long’s it gonna take you to get in and find out?”

A glance at the wall clock. “Close up in three hours. See what I can do. You ain’t my top priority, princess.” He ground his cigarette out before pulling a tablet from the desk and handing it to her. “Fill this out.”

Vaye snatched the tablet and did as instructed, haggling at the same time, “Got eddies if I can make this a rush job?”

A muscle tensed in his jaw and she could tell she’d hit a nerve. When she returned the tablet, he tossed it carelessly to the side then fixed her with a firm stare.

“Lemme make one thing clear: I don’t get anywhere pushin’ back my local jobs for the occasional broke-down drifter.” The drifter in question opened her mouth only to be immediately cut off. “Doesn’t matter how much scratch you got, or how nice your ass looks in those shorts. Like I said: see what I can do.”

Her expression soured. “Preem.” She held his gaze in silent indignation while pulling out a fresh smoke with her teeth and then stood. “Where’s the nearest hotel? With a bar.”

Unfazed by her attitude, he pointed East, “Ghost City Inn. Couple miles down the road. Bar’s a little ways farther from that.”

Vaye nodded, then tossed the Thorton’s key on his desk and made to leave.

“One more thing.”

Pausing mid-step, she barely caught the object thrown her way before it collided with her nose. “The hell?” It was a Bic.

“Your lighter’s dead, forget already?” Johnny smirked. “I’ll be in touch.”

She scoffed with a smile playing across her lips then tipped the lighter at him and said, “Thanks, grease monkey.” The door slid open and she squinted into the glaring sun before steeling herself against the heat and exiting the office.