Chapter Text
The low, raspy growl of a CHOOH2-powered V8 engine became clearer and clearer as the door opened further. Vincent turned his head sideways and looked at the incoming vehicle, watching it finally begin to slowly roll into the garage with all the impetus of a lazy, old cat beholden to nothing and nobody beyond its whims and desires. The Mustang backed into its empty parking space, idling for a few moments before the engine died down.
When he shut the engine lid of the Testarossa, he sighed, turned around, leaned against the vehicle, and folded his arms while he waited for his wife to exit the Quadra. The telltale sound of the car door latch unhooking told him that the door was about to be opened, and, lo and behold, it swung open gently after but a moment.
Out of the vehicle stepped So Mi, pushing herself up and then bumping the door closed with her butt. She wore her hooded duolayer bomber jacket over her netrunner suit. The bomber proved preferable to her regular choice of attire when the weather turned out to be a bit chilly. Lifting her sunglasses, the former FIA agent turned her attention to her husband and child, and she smiled gently at them.
"Mommy!" the girl exclaimed, immediately running to her mother and clamping onto her leg in a vise-tight hug.
"I missed you, too, honey," she offered, placing her hand to the child's head and scratching her fingers through her hair. When her daughter let go, she took her hand and sauntered over to her husband.
"Hey, handsome," So Mi offered as she approached him. Upon closing enough distance, her lips found their way to his for a brief moment. Vincent did not waste the opportunity, electing to deepen the kiss just enough so that she could taste him. "Wow. Day drinking, are we? In front of our daughter?"
"It's beer. If it were tequila, you'd have a point," he quipped with a shrug.
"Beer has alcohol in it, Vincent," she shot back. He shrugged yet again.
"I'll have three whiskeys and three beers, and we'll see which gets me more drunk, and then we'll figure out if they're the same," Vincent joked, pushing off the car as she drew away from him to return to the Mustang. "Besides, I needed my favorite helper to hold the light for me. Even though she was supposed to be taking a nap."
Jacqueline shrank back as she realized her father was slightly scolding her. The Korean woman opened the trunk and took a few grocery bags in her hands.
"Help me with the groceries, and I'll let it go. And maybe we'll forget she didn't take her nap."
"Hell, I know a good deal when I see it."
She laughed gently, almost silently, and continued to walk inside. Vincent took up the rest of the bags from the trunk before shutting it, following his wife inside their home. He always had a way of entertaining her with the littlest of remarks. In return, she managed to captivate him with every little thing she did. Jacqueline plodded along, never once leaving her mother's side.
"What did you do all day, Mommy?" the girl asked.
"Well, sweetie, I went to work. And then I went grocery shopping," So Mi answered. "What did you and Daddy do today?"
"We watched a movie! And he made me breakfast, too!" Jacqueline exclaimed. That caused So Mi to arch a brow at him.
"Really? What movie?"
"It was really old! And a guy had a red laser sword!"
So Mi gave Vincent an incredulous look.
"Vincent, you showed her Star Wars? Really? She's five," she half-scolded. Her tone didn't convey anger—she didn't want their daughter to see either of them angry at each other—but he knew she was displeased.
"Hey, I was the same age when I saw it. Kids need heroes. Good an' evil, right an' wrong. Besides, I figured she deserved a reward for doin' so well on her reading an' writing an' math this mornin'," he answered.
"She gets to see the next two, and that's it," So Mi demanded.
"Sounds more'n fair to me. What's for dinner?" he asked, knowing full well that he was just as much expected to cook as she was.
Near the parked F1 cars, some furniture had been placed, namely a de Sede river sofa in brown Nappa leather with a small circular table in the center. A small kitchen and bar also took up some space in the lounge with accompanying stools for the counter, allowing Vincent to do his best to be a bartender, serving up snacks and cocktails alike to friends and guests. He and So Mi wanted a lounge area for friends and guests to enjoy. After all, they had both agreed that being gracious guests to their neighbors was extremely important, especially for Jacqueline's growth and development. They wanted their daughter to make friends growing up, especially since they had decided to homeschool her instead of sending her to school in an AV every day, far from home, where they couldn't look after her or keep her safe. New Zealand was safe, and Waiheke Island was even safer than almost everywhere else in the country, but that didn't mean that they, as parents, couldn't have worked to protect their daughter from the kind of lives that they had once led.
Their efforts proved fruitful, too, as Jacqueline scored in the top ninety-fifth percentile across all subjects for a child her age, and everything they had heard from fellow parents proved that she was well-liked and made friends easily. For all of their accomplishments as people—So Mi breaching the Blackwall repeatedly, escaping the FIA, helping to put a stop to an extinctionary conspiracy concocted by a rogue AI, and Vincent robbing Konpeki Plaza, killing Adam Smasher, outwitting the FIA, killing one of the twelve Angels of the Crystal Palace, and more—their greatest accomplishment came in the form of the little girl they had brought into the world.
"Well, if you can believe it," she began, walking into the elevator, "we're having swordfish. Fresh caught, too. I know, shocker. I bet you'll be more than surprised that we're having some wine, too."
"Oh, I get it. It's funny because we're in France, and they make great wine," he replied, very much leaning into the obvious. Vincent did like to sandbag her jokes just a little bit as a way of teasing her.
"It's a wonder the FIA never recruited you when you were a teenager."
"I had too many morals, I was too devastatingly handsome, and I would've told them to go f— Uh… Find someone else."
"Teen angst or a principled stance?"
"Probably both. Dad always said the feds were some nasty pieces of work, just as bad as the gangers on the street, except they carried badges and acted like they were actually good people."
"He must have been smart."
"Smartest person I knew until I met you, at least."
So Mi's lips curled into a smile for herself to enjoy. She did love that he tried his hardest to watch his swearing around their daughter, and she loved even more when she noticed him catching himself. A spy's retirement was what they both asked for together, and it was what they got. Though they had initially planned to move to New Zealand, they settled for France. New Zealand was about as close as it got to the old, pre-Collapse world that once was, but they chose the Côte d'Azur in the end, paying out of their own pocket. They kept the home in New Zealand that was built on the FIA's dime for vacation purposes, of course. Neither France nor New Zealand suffered the same droughts or plagues or other hardships as the rest of the world. Naturally, the latter lacked huge, vast sums of mineral wealth and other resources that other nations had, which meant very little corporate interest and pressure on the island nation.
In truth, they were likely going to retire to New Zealand when his racing career ended. They'd already discussed as much, and she could start her own school there.
"How did the kids do today?" Vincent asked, watching Jacqueline run back to the little mess of toys she had in the living room.
"Well, you know there are a few who have more of a knack for running than the others," So Mi replied, leading him into their open kitchen. She set her bags down on the island, and he joined her, leaning against it with his arms folded.
"Any future Songbirds in the bunch?"
"There's one. She's sharp, too. She also knows her limits, which I suppose means she's not actually very much like I was at her age."
"Rare for a runner."
"Believe me, I know."
So Mi began to put away her share of the groceries while Vincent walked to the sink, turning on the faucet to wet his hands before applying soap and scrubbing thoroughly to get any leftover oil off his RealSkinn synthflesh.
"I'll cook tonight," he offered, moving to stand next to her. Vincent placed his hand atop hers and squeezed it. "Swordfish, parmesan risotto, some charred broccolini. Sound good?"
"Since when did you become a master chef?" So Mi asked. She had only ever seen her husband particularly take a shine to grilling meat—usually beef or pork.
"Never had much of a reason until I ended up with you. I've always been decent enough at it when I had the eddies, but I started really practicin' for you when I had the time," he explained, leaning in to place his lips to hers. Whereas So Mi had been rather brief in their previous kiss, Vincent, implacable as he could be whenever it came to her, made sure to drag it out. His tongue did not press forward and curl inside of her mouth as he so often enjoyed, but he did open his mouth slightly so she could taste him again. Moreover, he did it so he could taste her. "I'll get a good bottle of wine out, make you a nice compound butter for the fish… Y'know, really expand Jack's palate."
"Really puttin' it on thick, huh?" the other retired agent asked. He nodded.
"Yeah. I wanted to spoil you two rotten today. Even got your favorite dessert in the fridge waitin' for you. Went out this morning and bought the ingredients," the taller of the two teased. "Spent a few hours getting it just right for you."
"You made a chocolate gâteau? Really?"
"Mhm. With English cream."
"The ears do work, don't they?"
"Only for you."
"Wait… The Outlaw's still backed in."
Vincent had been caught red-handed. He had opted not to drive a car on the list of approved cars for his morning trip. Granted, that list contained only one car on it—the Outlaw—given that it was so modern that it had proper safety features. In a pinch, his Mustang or Type-66 might have been permissible, but he hadn't used any of those. No, he used a car that probably wouldn't ever make it on the list of approved cars. The look on his face of realizing he'd been caught told his wife all she needed to know.
"What car?" she asked, folding her arms and looking up at him.
"Promise you won't be angry?" he asked. His wife clenched her jaw for a moment, then nodded. "The Huayra—"
"Vincent!" she hissed, both thoroughly upset and extremely surprised.
"You said you wouldn't be angry! For starters, I didn't take her—"
"You left her home alone?!" So Mi almost yelled at him.
"Yeah, I left maybe five minutes after you did. She was still asleep when I got back from the store. Whole time, I was checkin' the cameras through the Holo to make sure she was safe and sound. She knows that I'm watchin' an' knows to not cause any trouble while I'm out," Vincent continued. "Second, did you know she sneaks out of bed at night to come down here an' sit in it an' pretend she's driving? I caught her doin' it last night at like two in the mornin'. She knows how to open up the car doors an' get in 'em an' everything. She got in the CCX, the Bolide, and the Huayra, and she spent like an hour down here. That's why she didn't wanna wake up this mornin'."
Vincent took a breath as he tried to find the words he wanted to speak.
"She's growin' up, and I think she can handle some of the sports cars now, too. I'd love to take her places with me in 'em so she doesn't have to sneak down here to experience them. I figure if I can put her on the Triumph an' do little slow laps with her on the seat in front of me, she can handle either of the Daytonas, or even the Alfa or the Diablo or whatever, goin', at max, seventy with her car seat strapped into it. And, y'know, when she's thirteen or fourteen, if she wants, we can get her in a Neo-FY car."
So Mi sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"You're so lucky I love you," she muttered, and frustratedly so. "Would you really strap a car seat into one of your cars for her?"
"Of course. You know me. I'd never let anything happen to her. I'd get her a little racin' helmet, the gloves, and the little moto suit and boots, too. Besides, if I wanted to impress her, I could just slow down, drop the car down to first gear, an' floor it to fifty. Bet you a hundred eddies she'd clap and scream and cheer if I did that."
"God, I wanna be pissed at you, but I can't."
"Duh. I made your favorite dessert, and I'm the best husband in the world. Can't be mad at either of those."
She leaned in and kissed him once again, this time taking the initiative. So Mi did it because she loved him, but she also wanted to silence him and keep him from talking any further. Her tongue crept forward, then curled slightly as it entered his mouth. While her pink muscle pointed up at the roof of his mouth, his went below hers and invaded her mouth just as hungrily. Vincent's hands took hold of her, insatiable as ever, with one coming to her ass and the other coming to the root of the hair at the back of her head, his fingers weaving through the reddish pink tresses and giving a gentle tug. She let out a moan into his mouth, breath stuttering all the while, causing him to withdraw out of concern for her.
"You okay?" Vincent asked, and she nodded in reply.
"Yeah. Just… Y'know. Every now and then, I just… I guess I'm still not used to the body," So Mi answered, and he nodded in understanding.
"You'll get used to it. Besides, maybe you'll finally understand what it's like when you dig your nails into my back," he teased.
"Oh, shut up."
"Didn't say I'm wrong, did you?"
"I know how much you need these little wins. When I deny you small arguments, it makes you more energetic and focused."
"Are you saying that not feeding into my jabs makes me better at sex?"
"It does require focus and energy."
"Oh, God, now you shut up."
"Never."
The pair laughed in their own ways. His was deep, bassy, and warm. Hers was light, airy, and gentle.
"I know I've said it before, but…" Vincent began, his gaze cast down and to the side for a moment as he thought of how to give form to the feelings and thoughts in his head, "After everything? The lies, the hurt, the betrayal, the joy, the love, all of it? I'd do it all over again for you and her."
So Mi's gaze shifted to the side, observing their daughter for a moment before they returned to his face. Her eyes were often observant, taking in the littlest of details about people. Part of that came with her nature; the other part of that came with the training she'd received from Reed. But right now, her eyes were soft and tender, regarding him as if he'd just informed her of something that made her heart swell and her stomach tighten.
"I know," she whispered back. "And you know I'll always be sorry for what I did."
"You don't have to be. Look at all this—everything we have. There are no happy endings in Night City; the city always wins. But we beat the city. We made it," he insisted. "Nobody owes me any kind of apology when I got luck like that. Sure, shit got messy along the way, and… we both fucked up a couple times. But it was worth it. All of it. Jack was worth all of it."
Vincent quieted her then, his lips meeting hers as they kissed once more. He didn't want to give her room to protest or insist. Perhaps one of these days, So Mi would have finally caught the hint that there was no point in trying to argue or insist against his insistence. Perhaps not. All that mattered to Vincent, for the foreseeable future, was that she was safe, loved, and appreciated. Everything else that had happened to them had simply been necessary to lead up to this moment. All the pain, all the lies, all the betrayal, all the loss, all the heartache—just twists and bends in the road that molded them across their journeys into who they were in the moment. While not particularly religious, Vincent did believe in God. He believed in a higher being that saw him through the worst of times. He believed in a higher being that permitted him to forgive and open his heart up to the one person he loved more than anything. Any suffering endured along the way was simply requisite. After all, as his father had said, hardship was the chisel that allowed a man to mold himself into who he was destined to be.
After their kiss, Vincent raised his brows slightly before he spoke. So Mi knew that to be the signal that he was about to try and angle for something, typically making love or spoiling her.
"Now. How about we get changed, I get started on the cooking, and then, y'know, I put Jack to bed after her bath… And after our bath, I show you all the energy and focus that I saved up?" he asked, cocking his head slightly while he spoke. She rolled her eyes, feigning exasperation, before the smile spreading over her lips betrayed her fondness for the idea.
"I'd like that a lot. I'll even make sure my thong peeks out of my sweats when she's asleep," So Mi teased, then shifting subjects, "But I'd like it even more if you told me that we were ready for that dinner party tomorrow night. Runnin' a little school for netrunners ain't cheap, and we could use the investors."
"We are ready. And be careful. I might have to pin you to the island," Vincent quipped.
"Maybe you will," she quipped right back as she departed to go change in their bedroom upstairs. "But not right now."
"Oh, by the way. Francois and Emmanuelle asked me if we could look after Amelie for the weekend. It'd be good for Jack to have a friend over, right? Sleepover, hanging out, you know."
"It would be good for her."
"Preem. I'll call and let 'em know."
Vincent looked out from his office at the bay, seated at his desk. Well, 'office' was a bit of a stretch—it was more of a stash where he kept all his weapons and equipment and trophies. Johnny's dog tags—whenever he didn't wear them—hung from a small decoration on his desk: the severed robotic arm of Adam Smasher. He supposed, in a way, that it served as both a trophy and an explicit reminder of the simple fact that death could take anyone, even a supposed demigod like Smasher. Johnny's dog tags hung from the crook between the cybernetic thumb and index finger, the warped and damaged metal in the forearm from where Vincent had severed it more than apparent to anyone looking at it. Scratches and scrapes ran across the length of the limb, a single, large, ovoid mark on it being the result of one of the Malorian's bullets grazing it.
Next to that severed robotic arm was another one. He had taken it from Skull. He had also taken the dead Angel's helmet, and it sat on a shelf. Vincent had no qualms with displaying these almost macabre trophies because Jacqueline wasn't allowed in his office unless she really needed him for something. The only people permitted to enter were So Mi, Reed, Alex, and anyone else who might have been aware of his life as a solo before his retirement.
On the other side of the desk sat Padre's old Bible that the former priest had gifted to Vincent, propped up and held shut by two bookends. It was a copy of the Vulgate Bible, its pages golden at the edges and the binding a beautiful, aged leather. It had been passed down as one of the many copies that the parish had used for centuries, and Padre wanted him to have it to keep a source of wisdom with him when he left to start his new life.
When Vincent was dying, and he confided in the former priest, Sebastian Ibarra read to him Matthew 6:25-34, and, for a moment, all the fear disappeared. He carried those words with him through the rest of his exploits, be it meditating in Reconciliation Park with a mysterious monk or cutting Smasher to pieces in front of Arasaka Tower; be it helping the Buddhist monk who had been forcibly augmented or making sure that Tommie got to play sports; be it the Cynosure facility's horrifying secrets or NCX's apocalyptic battle for the soul of a single woman; be it the torture he endured on the factory toroid or the final battle against Skull and Blue Eyes. Wherever Vincent Gallo went, he decided either not to worry or, at the very least, to worry as little as possible.
The blonde smiled slightly at the view, the sun having set some time ago. That didn't change his appreciation of the view in the darkness of the night, the primary source of luminance besides the lights of his home being the light of the Moon itself.
Vincent's eyes wandered to the bookshelves across from him, where he looked at his collection of rare literature, from first edition prints to masterpieces bound in mottled calf with gilt spines. Don Quixote, all of Dostoevsky's works in first editions, Platonis Opera Quae Extant Omnia by Plato, a hardcover first edition of Casino Royale by Ian Fleming, and countless other hardcover first editions of the greats such as Moby Dick, The Odyssey, War and Peace, Hamlet, The Iliad, The Picture of Dorian Grey, The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden, The Count of Monte Cristo, and so many others. Many nights would be spent with him reading Wuthering Heights to So Mi while they sat in the bath together, or whispering to her, from The Brothers Karamazov, "And she tortures me, tortures me with her love. The past was nothing! In the past, it was only that infernal body of hers that tortured me, but now I've taken all her soul into my soul, and through her, I've become a man. Will they marry us? If they don't, I will die of jealousy."
Literature brought him and the love of his life closer together, and it brought him and his daughter closer together as he read to her while she sat in her bed at night. She loved it when he read The Odyssey to her, telling her fantastical stories about the cyclops being deceived by Odysseus, who called himself Nobody, or how Odysseus and his crew escaped the Sirens by plugging their ears with beeswax to avoid hearing their seductive song.
His eyes found their way back to one of his monitors as he watched the auction continue. Vincent had come to develop a tactic of frustrating other bidders by outmatching them slightly at the last moment, the program running on his PC set to autobid as necessary while he relaxed in his chair and drank a glass of scotch. He had two auctions he needed to keep up with, and he had done so throughout the past two days to the best of his ability. The first auction was for the F40 in Rosso Corsa, and the second was for a Dauer 962, stark white with a Martini racing livery. He knew he would win them; it was just a matter of time.
Vincent entered his corresponding bids—€$3,250,000 for the F40 and €$1,250,000 for the 962—and then turned his attention to his other monitor, where his new project had begun.
I have primarily written this for my daughter, Jacqueline, so that, one day, she will have an honest, faithful account of her father's life. I want her to have an unabridged, uncensored, and sincere look into the man I was so that she might compare it to the man she knows.
My life began in Night City, on April 15th, 2050, in Night City Medical Center. My mother was Sofia Gallo, an artist, and my father was Lorenzo Gallo, a corporate accountant for Zetatech. His friends called him Enzo. I was born just as the Time of the Red came to an end. I grew up in Heywood, specifically the Glen. I had a good childhood, not overly wealthy or totally destitute. My mother and father were loving, and their example is what I follow when it comes to being your father, Jacqueline. I'm not perfect. I would never say that I am. But every mistake I ever made led me to your mother and, eventually, you. And I hope that you can see that, while I have a few regrets regarding my own failures, I'd never regret a single thing I ever did that brought me here—to you.
Vincent looked at the small beginnings of what would become his autobiography, rubbing his hand over the stubble of his beard, only to sigh and recline into his seat so he could take another sip of his drink, his thoughts drifting back to his youth.
Many nights had been spent on the cold streets of NC with Jackie when they were only seventeen, some other friends in tow as they raised hell and got up to no good. Two 'tinos, Mai, Vincent, and Jackie—the recipe for some chaos and a good time when he was growing up. He recalled seeing his breath in the air every so often at night during winter, everyone wearing their jackets, coats, and hoodies as they ventured from party to party, enjoying themselves like reckless teenagers with no regard for their own safety or well-being. Vincent recalled one night in particular, flashes of memories running through his mind in sequence.
He remembered the words "Smoke some, drink some, pop one" being played on repeat in a song; he remembered drunkenly rapping while he sat with his friends, reciting lyrics such as, "My mama always told me, 'Put yaself first,' I don't really fall in love with women, man, cause love hurt," while they laughed and jeered and teased one another. Shot after shot, puff after puff, tab after tab, one night would be spent partying, and the next would be spent pulling small favors for Padre with Jackie and the 'tinos.
It all felt so far away, but it also all felt so recent. Vincent felt as if he had lived a thousand lifetimes since then, but also that he'd only lived a few months between then and now. And yet, the woman he adored and the little girl asleep in her bed ate away at the feeling of how recent it all was. Vincent was a man now—a real man. The gold chain with a crucifix he had received from Padre still rested on his chest, and, in a way, he supposed that it signified his first step to manhood. He took responsibility for the safety of a defenseless person next to him, and that was the act of a man. But being a real man? That meant taking responsibility for so much more. That meant creating life and taking responsibility for it—building it up, and nurturing it, too. Vincent supposed he hadn't truly become a man until Jacqueline entered the equation. Flatlining that asshole to protect a girl, forgiving So Mi in an attempt to save her soul and, by proxy, his own, and finally creating something instead of just destroying—these were the steps to becoming a man, with Jacqueline resting at the pinnacle.
"What're you still doin' up?" a familiar voice asked. He soon felt pressure on the back of his chair, and a pair of arms draped down over his chest, his wife's biceps against the sides of his head, with her chin resting atop it.
"Nothing special," he replied.
"Uh huh. That's why you're bidding on more cars," she teased, her gaze then flicking over to his other monitor. "And… writing?"
"Yeah. I uh, I dunno. I figure I wanna write some memoirs," he answered as his wife scanned the screen. "Might take a course on writin' in my free time. Y'know, when I'm not globetrottin' or adorin' you two."
"And you're writing it for Jack?"
"Yeah. I want her to know about my life, So Mi. I want my little girl to grow up, know what kind of man her father was, and I want her to know that… Sure, maybe she won't do the kind of things I did, but she'll be able to be more than she thinks. As her father, I owe her complete honesty. She has a right to judge my past for herself and decide what she thinks of me when she's older."
So Mi fell silent for a moment, but she ultimately placed her lips to the top of her husband's head.
"Promise to tell her a lot about your mom and dad," she whispered.
"Well, I mean, you're gonna have to write some stuff, too. I want her to know what kind of daredevil her mom was as a teenager," Vincent replied with a little laugh. "That way the scrutiny isn't just on me, y'know?"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," the former agent teased. "Besides, you're gonna have to add another name to that first paragraph."
"What d'you…" he began, cocking his head as he looked up at her.
"I missed my period."
"You mean…"
"Just took a test in the bathroom. Positive."
"You're pickin' the name this time."
"Deal. Now come to bed."
Vincent relented, quickly logging out of his computer and powering it down, rising from his chair, and looking at his wife. Everything about her remained as perfect and beautiful as the day he first laid his eyes on her. When he had finished settling his affairs, he let out a brief sigh and stretched.
Until a strange tingle crept up his spine and he heard a familiar voice from a different life say, "Congrats on the kids, V."
The former mercenary turned his head and looked in the direction of the voice, seeing none other than Johnny Silverhand reveal himself from the dark corner of the room. Befuddled and at a loss for words, Vincent blinked and blankly stared in disbelief at the man who had called him by his old nickname, until, after a moment, his expression softened and a slight smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. It had been… years since they last spoke.
And yet, his surprise didn't get the better of him.
"Thanks, Johnny," he replied gently.
"Have a good night, kiddo."
"You too, choom."