The Champion's Dream

      Right. Left. Dodged.       Like a mantra, these words have long been ingrained in Vik’s mind. His inner voice is whispering all the necessary moves as if he’s not the one choosing them. And his body has memorized them and is rushing along like an impenetrable machine.       By the state of his opponent, Vik understands that the fight has been going on for a while now, but all his mechanisms are surprisingly intact. His arms fly with such precision as if along pre-programmed trajectories. His legs spring on the matte floor like the Grasshoppers. Funny sensations, even more so for a guy with no chrome, Viktor notes to himself fleetingly. But such speed and ease are just in his favor.       Left. Right. Missed.       Yet, nothing dazzles his eyes like when the optics fail. Even with no implants, this feeling is all too familiar to Vik. But now, nothing can distract him from his target. Only the warmth on his split lip and the sweet taste coating his tongue.       That’s odd, Vektor thinks. How come blood suddenly became so pleasantly sweet? It almost reminds him of Leelou Beans. Seems like with the Tropical taste. A fantastic chemical muck. He probably gobbled them up for breakfast or lunch. It’s just that Vik doesn’t really know as the details of this day have been wiped off his memory without a trace.       Right. Left. Block.       The crowd’s howling deafens his ears. Or rather mutes them? With each hit in his head, the howling doesn’t ring nastily, scratching its way to the back of his head. It fills up Vik’s mind with a soothing lightness and even a somewhat pleasant self-confidence. He doesn’t recognize a single voice, and the fiery cheers sound muffled and inaudible. In fact, Vektor doesn’t even understand this language.       But, well, fuck it.       What he does understand is that there are only a few quick and well-aimed punches left for him to win. And he ain't gonna miss such a chance. Not this time.       Travis, Travis... Bruiser Breezie is already exhausted. His eyebrow is split, his lips and nose have turned into a bloody mess. One smart move would be just enough to stop Breezie’s pathetic flapping.       Vik’s left fist rushes towards Travis’ temple. The right one lights up in Breezie’s solar plexus. He doubles over, staggers back, and a heavy final punch reaches his broad chin. In the blink of an eye, the big man flies backward onto the top ropes and backflips over, his unconscious two-hundred-pound body shaking the floor.       Victory.       The crowd instantly explodes into excited cheering. Flashlights flood the winner’s crumpled face, painting it an unhealthy pale color. But is it really dented that bad? After all, Vik doesn’t feel any pain in his body. This time his nose remains in place, and such a pleasant cocktail is bubbling in his blood that he is ready to fight ten more Breezies like that.       And he still sees well. Moreover, with every blink of his eyes, everything around Vik turns brighter and clearer. Here’s the referee holding and lifting Vektor’s hand up, announcing the usual solemn bull and the words so desired by Vik:       “And the winner of the VI Watson Boxing Grand Prix is... Vik-to-o-or Vek-to-o-or!”       Here’s Pete Krawiecki, his manager, screaming with joy, waving a handful of eddies in his chubby fists. There’s also coach Garcia smiling at his ward with tears of pride in his eyes. And here is... V?! What the hell? Is it really V? What’s she doing here?       In an instant, the screams he hears fade away as if absorbed by a vacuum. In a fit of emotion, Vik pushes the annoying referee in the chest and rushes to the ring protections. Hanging over the ropes, with bated breath, he watches V waving at him animatedly from the brutal crowd. Her eyes are sparkling, her smile is radiant, and her top is emblazoned with “Viktor Vektor is the Champion! <3” on her bouncing breasts. Her sharp nipples wink at him through the thin top. Curious, smirks Vektor to that, do they also taste like Leelou Beans? At this moment, he’s no longer sure that the champion’s belt has been the thing he desired most. And it looks like while V’s gaze is fixed on him, she’s reading his thoughts.       The moment when V appears 3 feet from the ring has fully slipped Vik’s eye. Arms outstretched, she’s making her way towards him, ruthlessly pushing aside the bystanders. With a strong jerk, Vik pulls her up, and in just a matter of seconds, she appears to be on top of him, wrapping her legs around his sweaty torso.       “Vik, you won,” V whispers almost into his lips in a joyful yet somehow incredibly shy tone, and the fire in Vektor’s chest flares up even hotter. With her, he feels everything in him go ablaze: his gaze, his heart, and a practically animal desire.       Vik should probably say something now, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t care about no words. All he wants is one thing: to reduce this unbearable half-breath of a gap between him and V.       And he does just that.       All the barriers that he had built between them for so long suddenly lose their meaning and collapse. An amazing feeling of freedom fills Viktor, and he breaks out unstoppable.       His strong lips collide with V’s soft and supple ones. His big hands grab her firm ass, and Vik lowers himself and V onto the mat. He rips open her stupid top, rips off her shorts, and reaches for his own, but he already has nothing on. Well, okay, how convenient. Vik pulls V’s hips to himself and boldly takes what he never dared to consider his own.       This is all his now: this ring, the title, and V. Vik’s drunk on her with greedy sips. To him, V tastes sweeter than the best treats of Night City. He can’t compare the feel of her even with real silk. In reality, she’s like... Nothing more equally delightful comes to Vektor’s mind than their hot flesh, merging perfectly in this lively dance.       He enjoys her satisfied moans and admires her crazy smile. As crazy as his own. After all, what's currently happening is the limit of any of his dreams.       Intoxicated by the vivid sensations of an inexplicable high, Vektor rushes them both to the threshold of blissful release. Playfully, quickly. Too fast.       “Vik!”, V sobs convulsively a second before...       Viktor shudders and jumps up in his creaky chair. A strange warm shivering spreads through his body. Drowsiness overshadows his formerly light mind. Tight jeans press on his crotch uncomfortably. Bit by bit, clear vision returns to the ripper, and he sees an awkward scene in front of him: V, Misty, and Jackie are watching him from the doorstep of his clinic and hysterically giggling like kids.       “Rise and shine, Viky,” V purrs sweetly.       The friendly giggle turns into a wild laugh.       “How long have you been here?”, Vik mutters and lazily turns off the TV, the one that has long since finished playing another boxing match.       “Enough to see this,” Jackie rolls his eyes and, with his tongue hanging out, begins to convulse, imitating the sleeping Vik. “What kinda dream made you twitch like that?”       “The boxing ring,” Vektor answers briefly and crosses his legs awkwardly to hide his obvious boner. He hears derisive tuts and snorts from his friends.       “Wacko,” says Welles in a surprised tone, as if this suddenly became news to him.       “We’ll wait outside, Viky,” Misty smiles at him. She takes away her impatient boyfriend, but he shouts nonetheless:       “Just hurry up, I’m hungry as a coyote!”       Vik nods, his hazy look watching the guys leave. He slowly rises from his chair and plods along to the locker room when a quiet voice behind him, as unusually shy as in his dream, clarifies:       “Vik, did you at least win?”       Viktor stops halfway and turns around. He looks at V silently, involuntarily projecting still-fresh memories onto her. The corners of his lips float into an amusing smile. Such an answer is enough for V. She knows Vik won. And he now knows that one day he’ll make at least some part of his magical dream come true.