Viktor Vektor x Reader

Three

Your clothes were still sticking to your whole body when you finally made it into the abandoned warehouse where the underground fight was to take place.

It was dark, only in the middle of the huge hall had spotlights been set up so that the visitors could see the ring well.

Dust and the remains of milled metal swirled up as you lightly walked to find an empty room.

Your hair felt as if it had been soaked with oil. Probably because the rain that fell from the sky in Night City and the surrounding area was not real rain but high in salt and acid. Just one of the many changes in nature that humankind had created through their stupidity.

Outside these city borders, there weren't even plants. Only desert. You had been to the badlands once to look for a nomad ripper doc. They weren't as experienced as the city ones but a lot cheaper. Some could even be paid with a few bottles of alcohol.

The one you found, however, was not a lucky one. Some patient before you had put a whole magazine into his body and then fled with all the cyberware.

You had to shake yourself at the thought of the bloodbath or breakfast would have come up again.

As you pushed past the crowd with your head down, you didn't miss the opportunity to run a quick scan of your opponent.

It was a woman, a little taller than you, but equipped with many extras. Your scanner wasn't the best, but what you could see looked bad. Reinforced muscle compressors, hands made of chrome and lungs with more capacity.

She was like a walking tank. And she would have more stamina than you. The only advantage you had was that you were probably lighter and could therefore be faster.

"Fuck it.", you shrugged and pushed your way between a group of people to get to the side rooms.

Again you found yourself scanning her. Still no new modifications. Maybe you were lucky and she really wasn't as dangerous as she looked.

She didn't seem to have noticed you yet. That made things easier and she wouldn't think of a plan to exploit your vulnerabilities beforehand. So basically everything about you.

You were just submerged in the crowd when your eyes fell on the people looking for a seat on the other side of the ring.

There were no chairs in the underground fights of Night City. One always had to be ready to run from the police, who often showed up at such illegal events.

Of course, who wouldn't have liked to bet and break up unauthorised fights that sometimes resulted in deaths?

If you had been a cop, you would have done the same. It didn't look like it, but your league generated the second most betting revenue. Only the official heavyweight division in the premier league made more money.

The eddies were just lying on the street.

Your gaze kept wandering.

Sometimes there were fans who showed up at every fight of their favourite. But that was rare here. Most of the spectators were either small investors, fixers looking for new mercenaries to hire and rippers who were happy when someone died so they could buy the chrome cheap.

And of course the people who had come just for the violence. Cold, disgusting, raw violence.

Speaking of which.

In the very back row, where the shadows made it almost impossible to see him, stood a man. Or rather, he was sitting.

With one foot on the floor for support, he had half-settled himself on an old electricity box and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He was perhaps around fifty, maybe a little older or a little younger.

But who could really tell?

Ever since cyberware came into existence, people no longer aged as nature had intended. Some even seemed not to age at all, until one day they simply dropped dead.

But with him, you could clearly see that he had quite a few years behind him. And you didn't think that in a bad way. It was hard to pick out the details of his face from a distance, but you could make out glasses with tinted lenses.

His upper arms were bulging, well toned as if he was still lifting weights. Colourful pictures covered the pale skin of his right arm.

"Tattoos...", you murmured, and for a moment you felt the urge to go over to him to look at them.

Everything about him radiated something calm, almost friendly. Like someone one could meet in the dark without having to be afraid of him.

At the same time, he looked quite broad and was definitely not short. Maybe a little taller than average.

What didn't fit his vibe at all was the blue shirt he wore over a white t-shirt. Blood splatters were all over it, some older and some fresh as if they were from that morning. He had rolled up the sleeves so far that the fabric put his biceps under tension.

"Hm...", lost in thought, you stopped.

Was he one of those who had come for the violence or for the chrome?

Somehow neither suited him. But you didn't have a good sense for people either. Your naive cooperation with Dexter had confirmed that.

Suddenly you were pushed roughly from behind. Your bag slid to the floor, dust swirled up. Torn from your thoughts, your hands jerked upwards, ready to punch someone.

But when you looked at a pair of golden glasses, you froze.

With his eyebrows pressed together and a new cigar in his teeth, Dexter stared down at you.

"What the fuck are you still doing here?", he asked in his usual arrogant, unfriendly tone. "Fight's about to start. Get changed!"

He pushed you in the direction of the doors.

Suppressing an irritated growl, you grabbed your bag and scurried away. But you couldn't help turning your head again and looking for the man in the blue shirt.

He had caught your interest. Or maybe you just liked the way he looked, gentle and human. So different from how Night City was.

But when you arrived at the door, he had disappeared off the face of the earth. Probably he had found a better place to watch you get smashed.