My next instalment to "The Fractured Doll", (based on Curette's entry, and features Abby, from _abby's entry for the Fractured Doll Bounty) please remember this world is open for you to add to look to Extending theBurnt Toast as a guide. other stories are here.
It takes weeks for Clairice to recover physically from the loss of her arm.
Amy does most of the initial work, her marine corpsman training keeping the young woman stable through the worst of the shock and pain. But even Amy's considerable skill has limits. The damaged chrome in Clairice's left arm is beyond field medicine, fused and corrupted in ways that speak of corpo experimentation gone wrong.
"We need a real ripperdoc," Amy says one night, sitting with Hawaii in their apartment above the café. "Someone who knows military grade augments. This isn't street chrome."
"The Wellspring," Hawaii says quietly. "They're expensive as hell, but they're the best in the Glen. Former military medtech. They'll know what to do."
The eddies hurt. Amy and Hawaii empty their savings, add what Curette can spare, even ask Vargr who silently transfers funds from accounts he hasn't touched in five years. The street pitches in too, small amounts that add up. Clairice is one of them now. Family.
The Wellspring's clinic is clean, professional, nothing like the back alley ripperdocs that dot Night City. The doctor is a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and hands that move with surgical precision.
"This is military hardware," she says, examining the scans. "Experimental. Whoever did this knew what they were doing, even if they didn't care about the subject."
"Can you remove it?" Hawaii asks, gripping Clairice's remaining hand.
"Most of it. The arm itself, the damaged reflex boosters, the neural interfaces." The doctor pauses. "But there's more. She's got a netrunner backdoor integrated into her brainstem. Corporate control mechanism. I can remove it, but it'll require excising some grey matter. She'll never jack into the Net again."
Clairice, who's been silent through all of this, finally speaks. "Do it."
"Are you sure? Once it's gone—"
"I said do it." Her voice is flat. Dead. "I don't want their shit in my head anymore."
The surgery takes hours. When it's over, most of the chrome is gone. The arm removed and replaced with a basic prosthetic. The backdoor excised, taking with it her ability to ever be a netrunner again. The reflex boosters deactivated.
But one piece remains.
"The Sandevistan," The Wellspring says grimly. "It's fused with her spine. The integration is so complete that I can't tell where the augment ends and her nervous system begins. She must have used it constantly, pushed it beyond any reasonable limit. Removing it now would cause paralysis. Possibly death."
"So she's stuck with it," Amy says.
"She's stuck with it."
Clairice doesn't react. Just stares at the ceiling with empty eyes.
She begins spending her time in The Fractured Doll.
Not performing. Not working. Just existing. She sits in corners, watches the dancers, observes the crowd. Silent. Almost ghostlike. Curette tries to engage her, brings her food, coffee, conversation. The young woman responds minimally, polite but distant.
Hawaii and Amy worry. This is their adoptive daughter, the girl they'd found and saved, now hollow in ways they don't know how to fix.
One evening, about two weeks into Clairice's silent residency at the club, she notices one of the servers more closely. A young woman, maybe twenty, about the same height and build as Clairice. Slender, unassuming, with the most striking feature being her eyes—beautiful, expressive, the kind that seemed to see more than most people.
Red hair fell in soft waves around her face. She wore simple clothes suitable for serving drinks, but when she arrived and left for her shifts, she always wore a distinctive red fur-collared coat. That coat made her immediately recognizable, a signature piece in a city of anonymous faces.
Abby, the other servers called her. She was good at her job—attentive without being intrusive, friendly without being pushy, professional in a way that made patrons feel welcome.
One night, during a slow period, Abby approached Clairice's usual corner table with a drink. "On the house," she said simply, setting it down. Smiled. Not expectant, not pushing for conversation. Just acknowledgment.
Clairice looked at her. Wary. "Why?"
"Because you've been sitting here for hours and haven't ordered anything. Curette's rules—everyone gets at least one drink." Abby's smile was easy, genuine. "I'm Abby, by the way."
"Clairice."
"I know. Amy and Hawaii talk about you sometimes. Their daughter." Abby didn't sit down, didn't impose. Just stood there, comfortable in her own space. "You don't have to drink it if you don't want. I just thought you might like something."
Clairice studied her, looking for the angle, the manipulation, the thing this person wanted from her. There had to be something. Everyone wanted something.
But Abby just smiled again—that same easy, no-pressure smile—and moved on to serve other tables.
It was... strange. Comfortable, in a way Clairice hadn't experienced in a long time.
Over the following nights, Abby would bring Clairice drinks. Sometimes water, sometimes synth juice, once even real coffee that she'd clearly gotten from Amy next door. Never staying long, never pushing for conversation, just existing in the same space without demand.
By the fourth night, Clairice spoke first when Abby brought her usual water. "Why do you keep doing this?"
"Because you seem like you could use a friend," Abby said simply, setting the glass down. "No strings. No expectations. Just someone who shows up."
"You don't know me."
"Not yet. But I'd like to, if you ever want to share. And if you don't, that's okay too." Abby's smile was genuine. "Sometimes just having someone nearby is enough."
Clairice didn't know what to do with that. Kindness without agenda. Presence without pressure.
She didn't trust it. But she didn't push it away either.
Over the following weeks, a pattern emerged. Abby would arrive in her red fur-collared coat, hang it in the back, work her shift serving drinks with quiet efficiency, and always make sure Clairice's corner had attention. Not hovering, not intrusive, just... present.
On her breaks, if the club wasn't too busy, she'd lean against the wall near Clairice's table. Not sitting, not imposing, just existing nearby.
"You're good at your job," Clairice said one night during one of these breaks.
"Thanks. I've been doing it for about six months. Curette's a good boss. Fair. Protective of her staff." Abby glanced around the club. "This place feels different than other venues. Safer."
"It is safer."
"Because of him?" Abby's eyes flicked to the dark corner behind the lattice screen. "The shadow everyone whispers about?"
"Yes."
"And you." Abby looked at Clairice directly. "I've seen you watching. The way you move. You're protecting too, aren't you?"
Clairice tensed. "What makes you say that?"
"Because I recognize someone who's always scanning for threats. Someone who sees the exits, the weak points, the potential dangers." Abby's voice was soft. "Takes one to know one, I guess. I spent time in places where you learned to watch or you didn't survive."
"You're not scared?"
"Of you? No. Of what you can do? Maybe a little. But mostly I'm grateful. This job is the safest I've ever had. That's worth something."
They sat in silence for a moment. Understanding passing between them.
"Your break's almost over," Clairice said.
"Yeah." Abby straightened. "Back to serving drinks. See you later?"
"I'll be here."
Abby smiled. "I know."
Meanwhile, someone else noticed.
Vargr, from his dark corner behind the lattice screen, watched. He saw something in Clairice that the others didn't. Recognition. Mirror image. A cursed toy created by corpos, used up, broken, and left to die. She'd escaped, like him. Changed beyond repair. Angry at a world that had made her into a weapon and then discarded her.
But he also saw Abby. The way the redhead showed up, night after night, asking nothing, offering quiet companionship through her simple presence. The way Clairice, slowly, began to thaw.
They exchange almost no words, Vargr and Clairice. There is no need.
One evening, Clairice simply appears in his space. No knocking. No asking permission. She just sits against the wall opposite him, silent, the Sandevistan's telltale ports visible on her neck.
He doesn't tell her to leave.
"There's a girl," Clairice says eventually. "Abby. Red hair. Beautiful eyes. Serves drinks here."
"I've seen her."
"She just... brings me things. Doesn't want anything. Just smiles and exists."
"That bothers you."
"I don't understand it."
Vargr is quiet for a moment. "Not everyone wants something from you. Some people just see someone worth knowing. Worth being near."
"But I'm broken."
"So am I." His eyes meet hers in the darkness. "Doesn't make us worthless. Just different."
Clairice processes this. "You were made into something too."
"Yes."
"You escaped."
"Yes."
"You're still here."
"Yes." He looks at her. Really looks. "Like you."
They don't speak again that night. But understanding passes between them. Two weapons that refused to be used anymore. Two experiments that chose to survive.
And maybe, just maybe, two people who were learning that broken things could still build connections.
The next night, when Abby brings Clairice her usual drink, Clairice speaks first.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For just... being here."
Abby's smile is warm. "That's what friends do."
"Friends," Clairice tests the word. It feels foreign. Fragile. But not unwelcome.
"If you want," Abby says. No pressure. Just offering.
"I want," Clairice says. And means it.
A week later, Vargr catches a scent while prowling the street's perimeter.
Wrong. Chemical. Predatory. Someone preparing to do harm.
He follows it to an alley three blocks over. A creep in Maelstrom colors, unmarked van idling nearby, watching a group of street kids with the focused attention of a hunter selecting prey.
Vargr moves, silent, deadly—
The flash comes from behind him.
That ghostly afterimage the Sandevistan makes. The telltale sign of someone moving faster than human perception. By the time his brain registers what's happened, the Maelstrom gonk is on the ground, screaming. Both leg servos shredded, sparking, useless.
Vargr spins, scanning. There—Clairice, crouched by the van, nano blade in her remaining hand. The blade gleams with fresh oil and blood.
Their eyes meet. Hers are no longer empty. There's purpose there. Focus. And something else. Hope, maybe. The kind that comes from having reasons to keep fighting.
The Maelstrom gonk is short work after that. Vargr finishes what Clairice started, ensuring the predator won't hunt again. They clean up efficiently, moving the body, wiping evidence, the choreography of two people who understand violence intimately.
When Vargr turns to leave, Clairice is beside him. Nano blade still ready. Watching his back.
Okay.
He jumps onto a wall, claws finding purchase on old AC units, holo signs, endless drainage pipes. Scales upward with practiced ease.
At the top, he pauses. Waits.
Just a moment later, she clambers up. Using augments he hadn't noticed before. Enhanced grip strength in her remaining arm. Reinforced leg servos. Whatever the corpos had done to her went deeper than the obvious chrome.
She grins. First real expression he's seen on her face in weeks. "Race you."
They spend hours chasing each other through the city. Across rooftops, up walls, through maintenance tunnels and forgotten passages. The Sandevistan makes her impossibly fast in short bursts. His werewolf form gives him raw strength and endurance. They're matched in ways that shouldn't work but do.
It's like he's found a sister wolf. A companion that's been changed to no longer fit the world they were born into. One that's seen horrors and come through broken yet committed to something more than survival. Committed to protection. To making sure what happened to them doesn't happen to others.
When they return to Denokami Lane as dawn breaks, they enter The Fractured Doll together. Still silent. Still understanding.
Amy and Hawaii are waiting in the main room, having noticed Clairice's absence.
"Where have you been?" Hawaii asks, worry and relief mixing in her voice.
Clairice doesn't answer immediately. Just looks at Vargr. He nods once.
"Hunting," she says simply.
"Hunting what?" Amy's marine instincts are on alert.
"Things that need hunting." Clairice's voice is stronger now. Purpose where there was emptiness. "Same as him."
Curette emerges from the back. Takes in the scene. The understanding between Vargr and Clairice. The way they stand, two weapons that have chosen their targets.
"She's earned it," Vargr says quietly. His first words to the group in days.
"Earned what?" Hawaii asks.
Curette goes to her dressing room. Returns with folded black fabric. The same kind of tactical clothing Vargr wears when he needs to move through the city. Built for stealth. For violence. For protection.
"The black suit," Curette says, offering it to Clairice. "You're one of us now. One of the shadows that keeps this street safe."
Clairice takes it. Holds it like it's sacred. "I won't let you down."
"We know," Amy says softly. "We've always known."
That night, The Fractured Doll has two guardians. One behind the lattice screen, watching the crowd. One in the deeper shadows, moving between levels, scanning for threats.
When Abby arrives for her shift, red fur-collared coat hung carefully in the back, she finds Clairice different. Still quiet, still herself, but with something new in her eyes. Purpose. Direction.
During her break, Abby leans against the wall near Clairice's usual spot. "You look good. Something changed."
"I found something," Clairice says. "Something worth protecting."
"That's good." Abby's smile is warm, genuine, asking nothing more. "I'm happy for you."
They exist in comfortable silence, watching the club's life flow around them.
When Abby's shift ends hours later, she retrieves her red coat, finds Clairice waiting near the back door.
"Walking you out," Clairice says. Not asking.
"I'd like that." Abby pulls on her coat, the red fur collar distinctive even in the dim lighting. "Actually, I was going to grab coffee at the Burnt Toast before heading home. Amy makes the real stuff for people she likes. Want to join me?"
Clairice hesitates. The invitation is simple. Casual. But it feels significant somehow. A step beyond silent companionship in the club. A step toward something more intentional.
"Okay," she says finally. "Yeah. Coffee sounds good."
They walk the short distance together, Abby's red coat bright against the night, Clairice's black tactical gear making her nearly invisible beside her. The contrast is striking. The server in her signature coat and the shadow in black. The warm smile and the deadly blade.
But somehow, it works.
Amy looks up when they enter, recognizes them both immediately. A smile crosses her face—approval, relief. Her daughter, finally connecting with someone. Finally reaching out.
"Abby. Clairice. Late night?"
"Just finished my shift," Abby says, settling onto a stool. "Thought we'd grab real coffee before calling it a night."
"Coming right up." Amy starts the espresso machine, glancing at Clairice with unmistakable warmth.
They sit in comfortable silence while Amy works, the café quiet at this hour, just them and the sound of the machine and the distant hum of the city outside.
When Amy sets the cups down—real ceramic, real coffee—Abby wraps her hands around hers gratefully. "This is perfect. Thank you."
"Thank you," Clairice echoes, quieter.
"Anytime," Amy says. She retreats to give them space, but stays close enough to keep an eye on her daughter.
Abby takes a sip, sighs contentedly. "I've wanted to ask you for coffee for weeks, but I wasn't sure if you'd want to. You're always so... contained. I didn't want to push."
"I'm not good at this," Clairice admits. "People. Talking. Normal things."
"That's okay. Neither am I, really." Abby's smile is self-deprecating. "I'm better at work, at serving people. That has rules. Structure. Real conversation is harder."
"You're good at it with me."
"Because I'm not trying to be anything but myself. And I'm not expecting you to be anything either." Abby meets her eyes. "I like you, Clairice. As a friend. No agenda. No expectations. Just... I like being around you."
Clairice doesn't know what to say to that. So she just nods. Drinks her coffee. Lets the words settle.
They sit in companionable silence, drinking coffee, existing in the same space without needing to fill it with words.
For the first time in her life, Clairice understands what it means to have someone who just wants her to be okay. No agenda. No manipulation. Just friendship.
A shadow hidden within and without The Fractured Doll. But not alone anymore.
The street doesn't know about her yet. They will, eventually. When they need to. When something threatens what they've built and finds itself facing not just the wolf, but the ghost that moves with him.
Vargr has found his sister wolf.
And Clairice has found reasons to keep fighting. A family that chose her. A purpose that chose her. And a friend with beautiful eyes and red hair who wears a distinctive fur-collared coat and serves drinks with quiet kindness and just smiles and shows up, expecting nothing but offering everything that matters.
The Fractured Shadow had found her home.