Her left shoulder felt like it was on fire. Not just the surface but beneath it—like it was burning from the inside out. V could feel the pain as it arced through her nerves—white hot pain blurred her vision like a nightmarish version of a relic malfunction.
Her arm tensed and then spasmed as the same few images flashed through her mind. The same images that had woken her up in a panic—cold sweat drenching her sheets as pain tore through her arm.
When she closed her eyes she saw a war zone. She felt the humidity clinging to her skin and heard the echo of gunfire off in the distance. Then the gunfire got closer and closer, the hum of an engine grew louder, an explosion and then…nothing.
Then pain. Lots of it.
Snippets of gore-filled memories clawed at the corners of her vision as V took in gulping breaths and clenched her jaw as another wave of phantom pain washed over her.
The memory started again like a video stuck in a loop. She saw flashes of her—of his—blood soaked arm. Blood mixed with mud and the putrid foul smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils. The memory morphed into something else, bright lights and the muffled sound of doctors and their technobabble. She heard—and felt—the saws and drills used to cut away the dead flesh from her—from his—arm as they prepared to install the cybernetic.
V had plenty of experience of being awake during cyberware installation. General anaesthetic was a luxury only the rich could afford. Local anaesthetic was the most common but even then, it wasn’t always used.
V felt the knife as it sliced through her—his—fuck—his—flesh. She felt as the artificial nerves fused with the organic ones. It was excruciating. Her heart pounded against the confines of her chest and the feeling of static filled her vision. She could feel her throat closing up as the pain slowly started to replace itself with a suffocating panic.
“Breathe V. Breathe.” The air beside her cracked with energy as Johnny materialised into existence. His engram form appeared to be glitching–each wave of pain that washed through her causing his form to shift and stutter.
“I–I can’t. ‘S too much…” She gritted out, jaw clenched and nails dug into the firm flesh of her shoulder.
“Need you to okay? Hearts beatin’ too fast and your heads a fuckin riot…”
V looked down at her shaking arm. She pushed back the bloodsoaked images that swam around her mind, “Can feel it…”
“It’s not real, not to you.” Johnny spoke and let his eyes settle on her. V glanced at him and noted the mix of fear and grief written on his face, “Breathe with me…”
She knew full well that he couldn’t breathe—not technically. But that didn’t stop her from timing breaths with his artificial ones. The virulent pain in her shoulder still remained but the hazy effect that crept across her vision began to subside with each shaky breath she took.
“Not a good sign, me feelin’ that….” V murmured, and let her arm fall limp at her side. The pain was still there but somewhat dulled–like a persistent ache under her skin rather than a hellish burning sensation.
Johnny rolled his left shoulder back and rubbed the area where flesh became steel. V swore she could feel that same sensation on her own arm. A gentle and static filled touch that felt heaven sent in comparison to the pain that sparked through her arm.
“It was gonna happen eventually, just didn’t think it’d be that bad…” He paced around her dimly lit apartment as he spoke, a look of pain plastered across his features, “Thought it would just be a bad memory for you, didn’t think you’d be able to feel it.” She heard the tightness in his voice—a sadness and fear behind his words.
“Didn’t want you to see that…” He looked at her, aviators off and eyes painfully full of vulnerability, “Definitely didn’t want you to feel it.”
V rolled her shoulder back and flexed her hand. The pain had slowly subsided and now it had settled into the same dull ache she woke up to every day. In her line of work there was no such thing as a pain free existence. She studied her arm for a moment and traced the still healing scars of her cyberware with her eyes.
“Did this feel like that to you?” V asked and twisted her arm so he could see the scarring.
The rockerboy let his eyes settle on her, “Not as painful. Felt strange though…” He flexed his metal hand and idly shifted his hand as if he was studying the gears and servos that made his arm move.
“Strange?”
“Phantom pains. Get it ‘cause of your eyes as well. Like it's there just…”
“Separate?” She spoke quietly, just loud enough for him to hear.
“Yeah,” He glitched to sit next to her, “Separate but somehow connected.”
V is gone.
Johnny took the body, and V's eyes stare back at him every day.
He watches himself ruin V more and more.
How destructive can he be?
3.8k words - Mind the tags above - Mature
It's cold.
That's the first thing he notices, every swimming thought frozen in the face of the ice cold burn against his skin. Where he lays in the tub of near-frozen water, his hands struggle to pull at the walls behind his back. Every slowed movement comes with a shot of pain throughout his frame, reverberating in his body like a gunshot in the desolate badlands, sound bouncing off whatever had once been there. If there wasn't anyone there to see the gun go off, did it really happen?
Trembling hands grasp at the sleek tiling surrounding the well, fractals of ice forming along the rising hair on his arms. The hands that move him with such clumsy force are not his own, not a hunk of metal that clicked with each movement, hands without the familiar tattoos that covered the damaged skin. It's merely simplistic cyberware that decorates his skin, military grade, yet without the damning corporate logo slapped across it.
His mind runs a mile a minute, threatening to sink itself back into the ice cold water he just pulled himself out of. The chills settle deep into his spine as he pulls himself off the painful ground. A deep ache in his bones never stopped him from running, though the way his heart thrums against his sternum makes him stumble right back down to the wet floor. Pain claims his every breath, every twitch of his fingers.
There was no one to listen to the string of curses that fell from his mouth, in a voice so unlike his own. Alone, and ice cold. If he stays still enough, it will feel like he's back there, inside Mikoshi over again, before everything. Except, this time, he got a goodbye, a hug. The warmth translated through pixels, but, now, he's back to the biting chill of existence. It was cold there, but it's freezing here. There's nowhere to retreat to, no arms to fall into.
If he crawled out of there alone, did he truly make it out?
If there's no witness to his scream, did he ever really say anything?
Is it his own failure he pleads to hide?
What was left of V melted into him, mixed with the broken parts of the rockerboy's psyche. Everything once damaged now had a solid glue of gold surrounding the parts Johnny never would have touched on his own. If one thing wasn't missing, maybe he would've felt whole again, maybe that golden material would have filled the heart-shaped hole in the center of his chest.
Relief should have washed over him the second he opened his eyes, but even days after, held up in a rotting apartment, the feeling never came. Johnny Silverhand could never be so lucky.
Getting away with his life is one thing, a blessing, even.
Losing what he set out to save is another.
The chill never left his skin. Freezing fingertips trace against the sheets beneath him, leaving indents into the fabric. It's anything but soft here, mold nestles into the corners of every room, cold seeps in past the window frames, the shower pelts his skin like hail... Distantly, it reminds him of the same places he'd find himself and Kerry in, fifty-odd years ago—back when they argued over a mattress, only to crash in the same bed every night after each soul sucking gig they performed—the thought only makes him wince at the unread messages he knows sit in his inbox.
He can lay in this bed all he wants, he'll still be pulled back to the very same place. It doesn't matter what drugs are in his system, or how much liquor he downs, he ends up there again. The scene paints itself in front of him, day or night, asleep or wired on whatever he could get his hands on.
Him and V, chest to chest, eyes piercing with a mix of feelings Johnny couldn't put together himself. It burned in his chest, sending flares of pain through him. That's what it was, right? Pain, a certain agony clawing deep in his chest. V made the choice, with a pained tone. The words he says are always lost in the pulses of his own heartbeat in his ears. One of the last things he heard, and Johnny couldn't even read the pixels of his lips to tell exactly what was said.
It's right there, as if he dwells long enough in the replaying scene long enough, it'll finally come to him. The words are right there.
The more he stares out at nothing, the more the memory begins to melt away. He may find himself there day after day, but that doesn't mean it doesn't change each time. Something different every single time, agonizingly so. One time it's a third person view of the entire ordeal, the next the blues and reds of Mikoshi are the wrong shades, and another, it's entirely from V's perspective, just lacking the internal dialogue he would shamelessly beg to hear once more.
What's worse is that he's aware something is different, but not what, until the memory fades and he can't reach back out to grab it. His shaking hands wouldn't do a good job at grasping anything but his pack of cigarettes anyway.
The sheets scratched at his hands long enough, rubbing the tender flesh raw in a way he hadn't felt in years. A sensation he would have welcomed, if he saw his own hands resting on the bed, not the man's he willingly let die for him.
It all really does come back to that. Even one cigarette, one sip of booze… God forbid the sound of a gun firing ran through his head. The sound pierced him just like the bullets that once attempted to shred through him. This time, he'd welcome them with the hope he'd never wake to see his own reflection in the mirror anymore. The man staring back at him was not himself, those delicate eyes didn't belong to him.
Cigarette smoke doesn't soothe him the way it used to. It coats everything he owns, every piece of cloth marked with the stench, not the scent of V anymore. Long ago, it would've been a blessing to smell something other than that ratty apartment and the scent of city smog. Now that he sits with the cigarette resting on his lip, the screams of something missing in his brain ramps up. Each draw of the cigarette makes him gag. Is it on the feelings, or the smoke that he suddenly can't bear to sit in?
Withdrawal burns deep into his bones, more than it ever has before. Himself puking over the toilet with Kerry at his side is nothing like this. The premade meals in the poorly maintained vending machines did nothing to ease the waves of nausea, no pills soothed the ache, it all came back up still. Though, Silverhand can deal hunger clawing at his empty stomach, the deep set sense of wrong, the fatigue that never lets up, the longing… He can't shake that.
How could he ever begin to try?
It's a circle he walks, following his own footsteps each day. Blood trails behind his exhausted frame where the carpet rubbed his feet raw, but he never stopped. It doesn't go away, the pattern indents in him, like the tags he's cursed to carry. It's not his name that deserves to be preserved in the metal, it's V's. Daily, no matter the few outs he attempts to give himself, his hands will come back to those tags and scorch him like flames when those memories replay.
Failure look sat him directly in the face. Jarring, cruel. Johnny Silverhand deserves nothing less, and nothing more. The lives he's taken have never pulled him so deep before, below the surface of rushing waves and screaming agony. The water pulls him under for the sounds of his own pleas to make his ears bleed. They come hand in hand, like he and V should have.
Johnny and V, V and Johnny.
It has a nice ring to it. The words sit on his tongue, leaving it's own brand in his once rambling mouth. The one thing fueled his hatred quickly turned into him gathering the one thing he needed to keep closer than anything. How did bombing a corporation turn into having something so dear to him? How did he lose it so fast? His hands slipped, again, the beading sweat made him lose it all. Saying it wasn't his fault would be a lie. In what world wouldn't it be his fault?
Ash dies on his lips as an uncaring hand pinches the cherry of the cigarette. It doesn't bring relief of any kind, and so the pack goes to the floor. With the same anger he's carried thus far, his hands swipe the items from his side table off to send them tumbling with the cigarettes. Everything clatters to the floor with harsh thuds, or ceramic clinks of gathered ashtrays. Bracelets, lighters, and emptied baggies all scatter across the floor. All Johnny does is kick it out of his path as he walks on unsteady feet to the small balcony door.
There's no reason to clean his mess. No voice to scold him for that behavior, and certainly not one to chuckle at him when he complains. The hours alone go by slow. How long had it been since he crawled out of there? How many days has he let himself rot away? How many would it take to numb everything enough to get a move on? The drugs can only do so much to help before he'd dead to the world, and a failure in the eyes that stare back at him in the reflection of the balcony's tinted plexiglass door. Even he's a mess, V's face is a mess—What has Johnny done to him?
The life that was once bright in V's eyes is now dead, replaced by the angry, sullen look Johnny often appeared with. Those eyes stare right back at him where he pauses in the doorway. His hand traces where his face reflects in the glass, as if he could feel any familiar warmth from tracing V's scarred skin. What as he done to V?
An exasperated sigh leaves him, a shaking hand reaches up and thumbs over the deep bags underneath the reflections eyes. That man isn't Johnny, he won't ever be. That's V's face staring at him, if he leaves his eyes to unfocus, he can pretend he's cupping the other man's face. He can pretend he didn't kill the only thing he truly wanted—fuck, needed—in his life.
It only makes sense that he's still ruining V. The drugs, the alcohol, the sleepless nights… All of it without so much as a supportive hand to lift away the glass, or pull him from the plaguing nightmares that seem to scar him even in his waking hours. If V was just still here, they could rot together.
An honorable death doesn't mean suffering won't follow. V made the choice, and Johnny agreed. Why the hell did he let V walk off like that? He's supposed to fight, that's what they do! That's what Johnny does. He yells, he bloodies his fists, he screams. Why didn't he put an ounce of that into keeping V close? He's a coward, a fucking selfish coward.
A weak, selfish coward.
A useless bastard who can't even break the glass when his fist collides with the panel. How the hell could he just let V walk away? It's almost like Alt, all over again, except there's no chance of happily ever after. There was a goodbye, he watched himself leave through that godforsaken well. No cry for help, and never enough push back. Everything was gone, just as soon as he got it. How could he let someone else leave again? How was it his fault, all over again?
He's a parasite, in V's brain or not. A leech, a pain in the ass no matter who he's with. He's never been ashamed of that, guilt never crawled into his gut like it does now. It never burned like this. Is he selfish, or simply pathetic? Something useless that can't function without a person to steal from, taking every bit of life from them until he's used all he can. From day one, V was a means to an end. Merely something to take from, to harm and berate. Then it all changed, their gaze grew soft in each other's presence. V's mind became a safe haven, a quiet place to retreat to and be held with such delicate warmth.
Now, it's all gone, everything is just as ice cold as when he crawled out of Mikoshi. It's still as cold as the day he lost his partner, that relationship never needed to be established. Not with the comforting words, or deep conversations they pulled each other into at the worst times. Teasing and bickering like they'd been doing this forever… Why did he let that go?
'Love' isn't something he uses lightly, or recklessly. Not when the meaning hits a place in his chest he could never truly articulate. Feelings are delicate things, ones he tosses them around like they're nothing, leaves his battered hands to scoop up what's left of them. Covered in mud, stained and dirty… Those conditions are familiar, minus the lack of his own bloodshed. Rather, it's V's blood. V's hurt. His own failure remains the only constant, his lack of care… He didn't say the word, he never said 'love', but, god, his heart thrummed in his chest whenever V met his eyes. Everything else was on the table for painful jabs, but not his aching heart.
Why didn't he say it? Why are questions all he has left?
Shaking hands pelt the door until a dent is left in the cheap metal. Whatever shouts he hears over his own angry fists fuels the burn in his arms. V's cyberware glistens where the street lights hits his arms, reinforced fists and rage doing a number on the door's panels over and over. It burns. Every hit burns like fire through his bones. Is he angry at himself, or at V? He keeps catching his eyes in the reflection of the plexiglass, V's eyes stare at him.
Why?
Why?
It's only him inside this head, only himself to hear his own pleading. He is alone. All alone. Begging is weak, but it's all he can do as his knees hit where the apartment carpet ends and the balcony's tile starts. Johnny Silverhand is weak. He didn't fight hard enough, not this time, and certainly not well enough. He lost it, he lost V, and now he's losing himself—if he ever had a firm concept of himself between running from place to place, cyberpsychosis and drugs.
The ground hurts his weary bones, but he doesn't let V's synthskin bruise despite the beating he's already dealt, he lets the ache simmer in his hands without more ruthless pounding into the door. He lets every joint in his hands feel even the smallest of aches. The way Johnny deserves, after his failure, after everything. He's a goddamn parasite, leeching off everything his friends—his partner—had. What has he done by walking away like that? Why did he let himself step a single foot into that well? Everything was right there, his everything was right there.
He's been in this position before, hands clawing at chipping paint of a motel door while the rest of his body curled in on itself. Withdrawals, he had said in those weak moments. What is this more than withdrawal from a drug he needed more than life itself? V is a drug with a euphoric high and a deadly crash—at least he was—the remnants can't leave Johnny's system. Fragments of code, memories he leeched from his host that replay as if they're his own… It keeps that buzz while Johnny's dull eyes stare at everything crashing around him. Within him.
No tears leave drip down his cheeks, but they steadily pool in V's sharp eyes. He knows the way they look in those gorgeous brown eyes, a honey color compared to his own. No amount of staring into his own reflection could make up for the fact that it's him in the mirrored image. His hands can't reach out and touch warm skin, brush away the tears before they even come, when everything feels like ice to his shaking hands. There's no more warmth to fall into, just a frozen lake to pull him under and under after the ice cracked beneath his feet.
Once, now long ago, Johnny would've said he didn't make mistakes. Small or large. Deadly or not. Everything was part of a plan, casualties were always accounted for. Mourn later, keep pushing till his goal was met. There isn't a goal here. Hell, making it to the next day isn't a goal. He wouldn't ever make it one, there's no sun at the end of this horizon, not a cord he could write to pour his soul out in the only meaningful way he'd ever been able to. There's nothing here for him, nothing anywhere, but his mind screams to run while his body can't lift itself from it's crumbling position.
His head hands low with ragged breaths, arms weak the more they slide down the door's frame. He won't move from here, not as V's hair falls in his face, or as steps of other residents pelt the floor in the halls. A poor kind of submission, hopeless with broken pleas ready on his tongue to ask for this to end. Several rounds of bullets could splatter his brain matter over the ground, and the last thing he'd think is thank god. A blade could slash his neck and he'd gladly bleed out on the floor. Because that's what Johnny does, right? He bleeds, messy and full of gore.
Unhealthy dependence is something Johnny knows well. From himself, more than anything. He used people until there was nothing left to take, without an ounce of shame. He depended on that, on their resources and sympathy to get him through whatever he needed to push past. There wasn't ever a moment he had to be alone. There was Kerry, Alt, Rogue, Denny, Henry… If he pushed a drug, or a bottle of booze, to any of them, they'd take it. If he pushed himself in their space, they would take him apart and put him back together. With V, it wasn't much different. Except this time, he kept taking and taking even when he didn't want to. He killed without raising a single hand.
Saying it's the relic's fault doesn't soften the constant blows to his constricting chest. It could be reiterated in several ways and the words would never plant themselves in his thick skull. Only his failure lines that space, it grows more vast and far darker every minute he lets himself fall further onto the ground. V, his V, died because of him. Every moment they grew softer towards each other, they took from the other. Johnny watched as V took every ounce of Johnny's anger to the heart, and felt himself grow more vulnerable and delicate with each word V spoke back to him.
They melted into each other. There wasn't a line to distinguish where V ended and Johnny started, they erased that line when they pushed meeting Hanako back by days at a time, just to get a few more moments to themselves. Just V and Johnny.
The way it was supposed to be.
He should've pushed it back, all of this, just to get another minute.
Regret sits heaviest above all the things in his head. The feeling settles itself right in his heart, like a thousand knives to the most sensitive part of his being—he got that ache from V, no doubt—every time he took a breath.
Frigid hands fall into his lap, his head leans just enough into the battered door to hold himself up. The tears in V's eyes only start to fall once he takes a full, shuddering breath. It all weighs on him, from what got him to this point, to what he would've done different.
Nothing could've saved himself or V from the pain. The rippers' tech wasn't good enough, their connections almost got them killed the first time they crossed over the blackwall, he almost killed V himself at the start. Maybe it would've been a wise choice, kill them both without ever having gotten close… Or maybe they should've taken the easy way out, like Vik suggested. Bullets and a gun on that old rooftop. Why did they agree to have to fight?
Doubting himself is uncharacteristic, unfamiliar and, god, it's terrifying. Replaying every bit he can remember is only bound to wind him up until he can't pull in a breath at all. It's getting there, too, with each strangled exhale and pained inhale… It's weak. Crying isn't like him, it's been years. Yet, here, out of all places, is where he decided to break.
It comes as second nature now, to lift his head and see if there's anything to grab just to feel some sort of warmth. Everything is drench in cigarette smoke, V's clothes don't smell like him… Not that he can pull himself up anymore than picking his head up to glance inside.
For a brief, agonizing second, his eyes scan throughout the entire place. Hoping, beyond any knowledge he has, that V will be standing inside, maybe laying on his bed and they could get some kind of happy ending. Their version of 'happy' is just as sick as the rest of the city's, they'd both rot in bed and this could've been a night terror.
It doesn't work like that.
Tears stain his reddening cheeks as his eyes zero in on the gray bed sheets poorly tossed around. V should be here. It should be him laying in that bed, while Johnny sits next to him for every 'relic attack'. This should've been the natural progression of every effect the relic gave V. It should've been the two of them. It should've been him and V on that bed, back in V's place, he should be cradling V's head and wiping away the tears that pour down his own cheeks.
Not pleasant, never for them. Every move would hurt, every soul sucking gig would force Johnny into control to bring V back in one piece. But they would've been together. Johnny would've been there with him until the end, not disappear and leave V in that horrendous place.
Men like them don't get happy endings. They don't get final words and gentle touch. It's all cruel until the very end.
The glint of his Malorian sits in the front of his mind as the light hits where it sits in it's holster by the chair. That's the coward's way out, but he's always been a coward, hasn't he?
Summary: Johnny goes on a bender; a spiral of absolutely terrible decisions that doesn't stop at just him.
A rewrite of the events from Cool Metal Fire- and the fall out that comes from it.
Rating: Mature
The ride from her megabuilding to the Afterlife isn't long enough for V to shake her nerves. From everything she knew, the nerves were illogical. Johnny had just saved her, gotten her somewhere safe, taken care of her when she couldn't for herself. He had opened up to her. Made her a promise. There was no reason to believe that he wouldn't do what he said he was going to. No reason to think that he would take control and run off with her body, like Hellman had warned. And yet, there is some nagging part of her that's reluctant to walk into the bar.
Of course, V pushes it down, forcing her feet to keep moving. To walk down the steps and push through the stragglers in the hallway to get to the bouncer at the front door. The doors hiss open and her feet hesitate to step forward. She ignores the questioning look of the bouncer as she forces herself over the threshold.
Three whole steps into the bar before Johnny appears in front of her. Glitching in, leant against the wall, forcing himself to look casual even though she can feel his excitement bubbling up from within her. It makes her own nervousness worse; puts her on edge. She startles despite herself. Her heart pounding in unearned fear.
"So – you ready?" Johnny asks, retaining his false uncaring air, "Rogue should be here any minute."
V takes a deep breath, forcing herself to steady. "Ok, one more time," she fishes the pill bottle from the pocket of her jacket, "You're just gonna talk to Rogue about Smasher, right? Then you'll hand me the wheel and hop back in the passenger seat."
"That is the plan." A condescending look crosses over his face before it morphs into his usual teasing smirk, "Don't worry, I'll be gentle. You might even enjoy it."
V rolls her eyes. There's no use in questioning him further. Nothing he could say would reassure her anyway. She uncaps the bottle, shaking one of Misty's pills into the palm of her hand. "Ok, I'm ready," she says, staring down at the pseudoendotrizine in her trembling hand. Another deep breath and she brings the pill to her mouth, swallowing it with the lump in her throat.
Almost immediately her vision blurs and her ears ring. Next comes the sickening feeling of the moment leading up to cracking one's skull on pavement; the world feels like it’s moving in slow-motion as the inevitable rushes at her. Of course, the bump never comes. She never actually loses consciousness. Instead, she hangs there in the dreamy in-between, barely aware of where she is and what her body is up to. The body isn’t exactly hers in this moment.
"Bout fuckin' time," she hears her own voice say, fading with the rest of her awareness.
The feeling is nothing like she expects it to be. She thought that she would be put in Johnny's usual place; still able to experience the world around her but unable to change it. Able to feel the same sensations as her body. Able to speak to him like normal, to have her thoughts be known. This isn't like that at all. This is a waking nightmare. Horrifying sleep paralysis; knowing that she is conscious but forced to exist in nothingness. All of the numbness of heroin with none of the euphoric freedom. She wishes the pavement met her, not Johnny.
All she can do is think. Worry. Panic. It isn't until the warm, tingly feeling of drunkenness permeates through her that her thoughts calm down. She wonders if Johnny did that on purpose. If he could feel her freaking out in here and decided to drown her out with a few drinks. Weirdly, she's thankful for it. Able to lose herself in the sensation of intoxication, or rather unable to focus on her worries. Plus it's a comfort to know that the strained connection to her body hasn't been completely cut off.
Or it would have been a comfort if the feeling had remained just drunkenness. Instead the feeling morphs into a floating euphoric headiness that can only come from Rezzin laced tobacco. There's something sharper there as well; the buzzing of adrenaline and other endorphins that she can't quite identify the source of. It only briefly touches her mind that Johnny has gone off the rails, but she – no, he – is too skezzed to care. And she is stuck. Helpless to stop the rising itch in veins that are no longer hers to control. Along for the ride. No, not along for the ride… Locked in the trunk, hearing the muffled sounds of what’s going on outside from the darkness.
There are a few moments where she swears she can almost make sense of what's happening; even beyond the drinks and drugs that have clouded her mind. It's like she can see herself downing shot after shot, take pills out of strangers’ hands, bring a drink to a stripper, land on her knees in front of a toilet. She can vaguely taste the acrid vomit in her mouth before it's all shut out again. Johnny must have taken another something. Chased it with something else that feels like pain. The pain sticks around for a while and flares with an accompanying surge in sobering adrenaline. Even though she can't know what happened, anger boils in her. He was just supposed to talk to Rogue and now V was sure that he had done everything but. She's forced to float with this rage until she wakes up.
V's leant over the side of an unfamiliar bed retching up a terrifying mix of bile, booze, and blood when she comes to. It takes all of her strength to right herself on the bed when it's over. She shields her eyes from the oppressive light with her hand. She aches. Everywhere. Pain thrumming like a heartbeat in every inch of her, inside and out.
"Spit blood first thing every morning?" Rogue's voice somewhere in the room.
V doesn't move. Doesn't open her eyes. Just takes a breath. "Anything else, please."
"Sure," V hears Rogue come closer to the bed. Feels her presence looming above, "First time you walked up, sensed there was something familiar about you."
"Uh huh, blah, blah, Johnny told you." Suddenly she's self-conscious. She lifts her hand an inch, cracks open an eye just enough to let in some of that terrible light. She feels more bile in her throat. "D-did we... uh?" She can't bring herself to ask.
"No. Gonk was too drunk," She retreats from the bedside, moving to stand behind a chair a few feet away, "He called me early morning. 'Course, I thought it was you and I thought 'Cute kid. Too bad she's gone completely whacked.'" A heat rises in V’s face. What if he hadn't had been drunk and high?
V forces her eyes fully open, looking after Rogue as she moves away. The moment of embarrassment cedes to a seething rage. Flushing warmth gives way to trembling anger. "Came to see for yourself, huh? Morbid curiosity?"
Rogue nods. "Mhm. And I found Johnny Silverhand."
"Feels weird... You knowing about Johnny."
"Face is changing, y'know?" She points at V – through her, "Still look like V, but that mean smirk," she scowls, "I'd know it anywhere. How he talks... moves... How he smokes."
"I don't smoke," she hates how weak she sounds.
"I know. Could never confuse you two. So sleep soundly." It feels like Rogue is staring through V, to something behind her.
Silence hangs in the air as they stare at each other a moment. V realizes that Rogue also came here for business. Better get to it. "Smasher – he tell you about him?"
Rogue turns the chair around and sits. "Yes. Didn't know he'd come back to NC. Johnny found some way to get at him."
V makes a questioning noise. It's not like she has any idea what Johnny found out. She catches Rogue's own confused look.
"Jeremiah Grayson. He works for Smasher," she explains, "Johnny got a tip off some stripper. Don't ask me how." She punctuates the statement with an eye roll. "Ebunike. Just that. Still, I'll see what I can do. We're gonna get that son of a bitch."
"Can I help at all?" V asks.
"In your state?" Rogue chuckles. V feels that rage again. "You're useless. Almost." She stands and walks back to the bedside. "I'll buzz you when I learn something." She leans over the bed, looks right through V again. "Unbelievable that bastard's somewhere in your head." Rogue takes a long pause to examine her and V feels the bile in the back of her throat threaten the moment. Finally Rogue pulls away and leaves the room without fanfare.
V groans and pushes herself to sit up, the action deciding the direction of the bile for her as she throws up on the wretched carpet for the second time. Tears sting her eyes as she opens them again. And then there's Johnny, scratching his fucking balls in her face. She wants to yell. To scream out her rage at him and what he had done. But the rage is trapped behind more vomit.
"Oh fuck," Johnny grumbles, he blinks away to lounge on the counter across the room. He refuses to look in her direction.
She spits into the carpet and wipes the bile and blood left on her lips away on her arm. The acidic mixture catches and burns the scrapes and cuts she hadn't noticed she was now sporting. She trembles as she looks down at herself, finally taking stock of the condition he's left her in. The jacket she started the night wearing is gone, nowhere to be seen. She's missing 4 out of 10 nails. 2 snapped at her finger tips. 2 completely missing, blood pooling in her cuticles from being ripped off. 3 on the left, 1 on the right. She's got road rash and bits of broken glass and pavement littered all over her arms. There's a strange bandage wrapped around her right forearm. She reaches to remove it with shaky, bloodied fingers. When the material is pulled away, she is left looking at fresh black ink on pale skin. A juvenile notebook doodle of a tattoo sporting his and her names encircled in a heart. The tears in her eyes spill over. She feels the salt sting a cut high on her cheek. She raises her hand to touch the swollen tender flesh of it. Something in her snaps; the sharp something near her heart grows sharper.
V turns her attention back to him, still sitting there on the counter; one knee nonchalantly raised, cigarette pinched between metal fingers, sunglasses hiding his eyes. "That all you have to say for yourself?"
"Had no idea the pills would lay you out like this," he defends, still staring off into the middle distance instead of meeting her gaze.
V can't stop herself. "Maybe wouldn't be so bad if you hadn't chased 'em down with fuck knows what," she shouts. Her voice wavers, "You tricked me. Just supposed to talk to Rogue."
"Did talk to her," he says, bringing the cigarette up to his lips.
"And the stripper? Black eye? Tattoo?"
He waves her off with a puff of digitized smoke. "All required, man. Had to give Rogue something real, didn't I?"
"Ebunike?" She sneers, "A lead on Grayson supposed to be a lead on Smasher? A lead to a lead – that's real to you?"
"Real enough for Rogue," he taunts. He glitches away from the counter, to lean against the doorframe. "Quit your whinin' and let's delta."
V could spend the rest of the day yelling at him. Could scream herself hoarse about any number of the things he did. But as she looks at the stubborn narcissist standing by the door, she realizes that nothing she could ever say would reach him. Her mind sinks inward as she stands. No more thoughts, just survival. She needs to leave, get home, and recover. She leaves the motel room with a list of things she needs to do. Shower. Eat. Wash her clothes. Remove the rest of her nails. See Vik for an agonist before the cravings get too bad. Go on a hunt for her fucking jacket.
Johnny reappears as she sits down at the world's most convenient bus stop, right at the mouth of the motel's courtyard. "Feeling better now?" He says it with all of the uncaring condescension that should have made V's blood boil. She refuses to give him the satisfaction of any reaction. She just disassociates, staring at the pavement until the bus appears in front of her.
The bus ride is a long one, set to take near an hour to reach her megabuilding's stop. She fills the time by chewing at her nails; painfully working the remaining acrylic away from her nail beds with her teeth. 30 minutes later and the tips of all her fingers are bloodied and raw. The pain gives her something to focus on instead of the burgeoning single-minded urge to get a fix.
5 stops out, the person sat in front of her exits and Johnny appears in their place. He's sat sideways, spread out on the pair of seats, silver arm thrown over the back; breaching her personal space. It registers in her mind as his attempt to reconnect, but she's not ready to be buddy-buddy with him again. Instead, she turns to look out the window, determined to distract herself people-watching passerby's.
2 stops away, the bus comes to a halt outside the No-Tell that V died in. It stays longer than it should have at the stop; traffic holding the vehicle hostage in front of the one place in the city that V has too much history with. She catches a glimpse of an all too obvious dealer lingering just inside the motel's entrance. "Fuck." It's like she can't stop herself. In a blink, she's exiting the bus.
As soon as her shoe touches concrete, Johnny is there, stood defiantly in front of the grated entrance. "Don't," he says, crossing his arms like some ineffectual bouncer, "Stayed away from it last night for a fuckin' reason." It doesn't deter her in the least and she reaches right through him to open the grate. He blinks away in offense. She feels smug pride in the resulting wave of his anger.
The dealer is young, can't be much older than sixteen, and V can't help but see a glimpse of her own past in his gaunt face. She pushes the guilty feeling away, goes through the motions of the transaction, slips him a few of the crumpled and rolled up bills she finds in her pockets, and walks away with a waxy packet of off-white powder.
She places her hand on the bioreader at the unmanned front desk and gets randomly assigned a room number. 204. Fucking poetic. She takes the stairs and ends back up in the room where Dex shot her.
"Terrible place to die," Johnny pipes up, appearing on the couch. His arms crossed, jaw set tight, obviously annoyed at her.
"Don't I know it," V replies, taking the spot next to him. She wastes no time in methodically doling out half of her newly acquired heroin on to the coffee table in front of her, uses some long gone stranger's discarded credichip to rack up a pair of neat lines for herself, and pulls another rolled up eurodollar from her pocket.
"Shit, V," It's like he just realized that she's serious. His eyes are boring into her, watching as she goes through all too practiced procedures, "Not even gonna test it first?" It's cute of him to pretend that he gives a shit about recklessness.
She stops for a moment, leant threateningly over her next big mistake; refuses to look at him, gaze locked blankly ahead of her. "What's the point?" Without another moment's hesitation, she snorts both lines in quick succession, tipping her head back to make sure as much of the powder sticks to her sinuses as possible. The slightly sweet vinegar drip in the back of her throat makes her want to gag; not just from the taste, but also the knowledge that the drug had been obviously cut with something else. She groans and rolls her eyes in annoyance. "Whatever."
V stands up from the couch, opting to relocate to the room's half-made bed. She lays down, sinking in to the mess of pillows and blankets. Her muscles relax and she lets out a deep sigh long before the rush even hits. The mere promise of inevitable freedom enough to clear her mind. Her eyes close and she focuses on her breathing, calming, meditative ins and outs, as her limbs grow heavier and her pain melts away. For the first time since Konpeki, she doesn't hurt. All of her hurt and pain, both physical and emotional, morphs into an all-encompassing tingling warmth.
She spends the next however-long in the in-between of her choosing; somewhere on the spectrum of conscious and unconscious. Her mind empty and uncaring. It's the best she's felt in a long time. Truly free.
Eventually, the tingling turns to itching, the soreness in her joints returns, and nausea settles into her stomach. There's a distinct moment when her brain switches back on; the moment she realizes that she is well and truly fucked.
V forces herself to sit up in the bed with a gagging cough as her lungs attempt to work properly once again. She fights her body's instincts to gasp for air; taking deep, shaky breaths. Demanding more oxygen work its way into her system. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. She manually breathes for what feels like an eternity, narrowly avoiding the threatening blankness in her periphery.
When she's able to focus her eyes again, she finds Johnny sitting in front of her on the bed. He looks fucking pathetic; glassy, wet eyes filled with remorse. She can feel the mixture of his disappointment and pity just below the surface. Right there in the space where the distinction between them gets too thin. And she fucking hates it.
She stands from the bed, and her rejection flips a switch in his mood. Now they're both angry.
V makes her way to the bathroom and is not surprised to find that the mirror she shattered in grief still hadn't been replaced. She refuses to see herself in the broken glass, keeping her eyes on the sleek metal of the sink below it. She turns the faucet on and gathers a handful of water to splash on her tingling, itchy face. As she rights herself and opens her eyes once more, she catches a glimpse of Johnny over her shoulder in her broken reflection. He's got his sunglasses back on and that familiar annoyed expression on his face. She prepares for some kind of lecture.
"Half a goddamn century gone by and yet the dope remains the same."
She can't help the bewildered look that crosses her face and the involuntary chuckle that escapes her throat. She's taken aback by his nonchalance in direct spite of the simmering rage she can feel within both of them. Damn, he must be desperate to get back in her good graces.
She throws him a bone. "Cut to shit and likely to flatline you?"
"The very same." He nods, the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk, and all of the tension flies out of the room.
Half a pill so she could still be aware and he could still play.
And fuck was she glad he agreed.
V half felt herself underneath the buzzing sensation of the pseudoendotrizine that was coursing through her—their—veins. It was a strange feeling. Half conscious and half floating around in her own mind as if she were a buoy in an open sea. Partially tethered to her body under the blinding stage lights and in front of a raucous crowd.
The merc felt the weight of his DeLuze slung over her shoulder and the pang of the strings on the pads of her fingers. She had played a few times in her life, but that had been on a beat up six string she had found in a dumpster behind Padre’s church. This was so much different. This felt different.
She had tried her best to look like a rockerboy—low cut tank top with both of their necklaces slung around her sweat slicked neck. Though she couldn’t see it, she knew her makeup was even more smudged in comparison to when the gig started. She had followed Johnny’s advice and tight lined her eyes and smeared a dark shimmery shadow over her lids.
Just like I used to do, He had smirked.
She felt that same smirk curl onto her lips as the crowd cheered for another song. That same smirk he had given her so many times before—usually after saying something filthy with that southern drawl of his.
The band launched into another song. One she hadn’t heard but knew how to play. Johnny puppeteered her hands and let his words slip past her lips as they screamed into the mic.
She felt his anger as it seeped through her decaying neurons. Rage at the world, at corporations and at their situation. Rage at her—rage at him—rage at them. It’s the best high she had ever had. Drunk on his rage and screaming it all into a mic for the crowd to hear.
She dreamed of something like this when she was younger. Experiencing a concert from the perspective of the stage instead of the crowd. In the crowd, she’s just another face. Another body grinding against a dozen others as the base thumps into her like a heartbeat. But on the stage? On the stage she was everything.
V felt his confidence leach into her with each passing moment he was in control. His arrogance and narcissism are the best drugs she’s ever had—potent and powerful. They make her feel like she’s on top of the world—bulletproof and unstoppable. It was fucking intoxicating how good it felt.
When he strummed the introduction of Never Fade Away she felt a sharp something near her heart. It makes sense—given who he wrote the song about. But it felt more than that—just for a moment. Just for a moment she felt the rawness in her throat as he poured his heart out into the mic. She felt hot tears as they bubbled up in her eyes and streaked through her shimmering eyeshadow.
They made it. Both of them. Fifty feet apart in two hospital beds.
Johnny can't recognize himself, but he can recognize the voice that calls for him.
[AO3] - 2.6k words
Read Below :)
They're a room apart.
It shouldn't be possible, everything said it shouldn't. Lines of code, declining health, and the goddamn relic he was packed into. They shouldn't be a room apart, let alone breathing, in separate bodies, fifty feet apart.
Is it selfish to want to go back to the way it had been….?
Cold, shaking hands hold onto the fabric of the thin, shitty blanket he had been provided in this horribly sleek hospital room. The sterile, white surroundings burn his eyes, every blink he's forcing away tears as he wakes. All he knows are the chills that wrack through him like he was nothing but a useless body on a shelf. Maybe he had been.
Out here, unprotected and painfully real, he can feel every bit of cold, every hit of pain that comes and goes. There's no IV drip by him, nothing hooked up to him for any sort of relief. No, there's nothing to soothe the ache and burn that seems to radiate throughout his entire body. Though, he guesses, he's not supposed to be comfortable here.
His head throbs as he barely barely manages to lift his head off the horrendous mattress. Splotches of red and black paint his vision the more he forces himself up. Maybe it's the haziness, but as each mark in his vision fades and is replaced elsewhere, he can just slightly see the state he's in. Rather, the body.
Cool metal leaves it's mark on his wrist. The wrist of the hand that's supposed to be metal. Through and through, it was supposed to be metal. Wiring here and there, something linking up his mind to the chrome. That's not his hand.
Over the pounding in his head, his thoughts run a mile a minute. And first conclusion he comes to, is that it didn't work. Of course that's the first thought. There's not even a monitor linked up to him to track the way his heart starts to beat out of his chest. It's wrong, everything screams that this reaction is wrong, but that doesn't stop the panic that spreads.
Where is V?
God, if this didn't work, if V was gone- Fuck, fuck, shut up.
If there was one thing his head was good at, it was screaming. Whether it be into a mic, at the people around him, or just at himself, it was always loud. Here, there were no drugs to take to shut it up, either.
When he and V got here, they both knew the chances of failure, and what would happen if they couldn't get the relic out… But, as much as he distrusted this goddamn corporation and it's rats, V trusted it, and Johnny trusted V. How fucked up is that? He followed where V went, like he was the one who wasn't shouting orders just a week ago. He trusted V more than himself, and that fucking said something, even if he'd never admit it. He doesn't succumb to weakness, nor guilt. That's not something Johnny Silverhand does—he can't.
In front of a court of law, he wouldn't let those words fall from his lips. He pleads not guilty to every charge, with a self-centered reason why something happened like that instead. The trail of bodies that followed him are just casualties, people who agreed to fight and die by his side. He can't be held accountable for it when every party signed away their right to breathe by entering Night City's grasp. The city claims souls, from men hopeful to get up the corporate ladder, to people just trying to find a dry place for the night.
He and V aren't so different from that, not when they scrounged for eddies and safety among each other. Two men who just wanted to be something, go out with a bang and never be forgotten, or live in the stars. People written into history books, feared or beloved among the masses. That's all they ever wanted. Insignificance wasn't an option.
Together, somehow, they were going to make it. Johnny thought they were going to make it. Hand in hand, minds intertwined in every way. But they're here, both further and closer than Johnny's mind can grasp.
Fear runs on loop in his mind, several trains running too close to each other and nearly missing each time one sped past on their tracks. It blurs his vision, like a mean high each time his head throbbed again. He doesn't get anxious, he swore by that for the longest time, but the more he sits here, and the colder he feels the metal digging into his wrist, the more it starts to ramp up. There's not another person to share the burden, no one to take it off his shoulders.
It's like ice against his skin, that metal he tugs over and over again. Each movement coming with a sharp ache he so desperately wants to ignore, just like the red splotches throughout his vision. It fucks up his vision beyond the tears threatening to fill his eyes. He can't make out the shining silver in the mess, but he can bend his hand just enough to feel exactly what is is. That takes but a second before he's bruising himself to get out.
Handcuffs secure one wrist to the bed, with the other cuff connected to a post on the railing of the bed. Every pull on the metal makes his skin burn, splitting the sensitive skin where his silver arm is supposed to be. Why? Why? He can pull as much as he wants, the amount of bruising doesn't matter. He's held there for a reason, whatever that may be… At the very least, that has to mean V's somewhere else. Is Johnny a danger to him? Is that why?
As his vision clears of the red and black marks, and his body struggles to do any more push and pull, Johnny lets his head fall back against the mattress. It's a painful kind of weak, restless with a screaming mind and he can do nothing but stare and hope, somewhere in his head that it's okay. He has to hope that V's okay.
It's all flushed away in an instant, however, when V's sharp voice is all that floods his ears. Loud, aggressive, scared. A jumble of words bounce off the walls, and through the wall separating the two of them. Each thing more clear than the last as V grows louder and louder. Incoherent words turn into threats, then simply yelling.
Yelling Johnny's name.
His stomach twists unbearably, bile burning at the walls of his throat the more he hears screaming. V is all he can hear. It's all his ears tune into. Not the shouting by anyone else, not the people attempting to shut V up. It's just V. It's always V.
"Johnny! You fuckin' hear me?!"
He does.
He hears him even if the sounds pelt his brain like hail, even if it hurts like hellfire. V's voice cracks on the harsh words, on Johnny's name, repeated over and over, and over again… If he lets his eyes close, he can imagine he's right there, wiping the tears from V's face—he doesn't have to think to know that his previous host is choking on his own cries. As much as V hid it before, he knows exactly the way his voice conveys everything his face doesn't. Flat and monotone to everyone else, but not to Johnny, never to Johnny. Just a few days in his head taught him every little thing V did.
Is it wrong to wish he was back in there, rather than here?
The shouts would quiet and they'd both be safe wrapped in each other's arms, not so very far. They're alive, goddammit, but Johnny would rather be anywhere else. It's cold here, everything with a terrifying sheen of unfamiliar. Had he told V no, if they turned back around, he wouldn't hearing pleading—begging—for him. It would be okay if they hadn't done all this… Johnny would be safely tucked in V's head, surrounded by warmth, not in this freezing cold, sterile room.
It's cruel. He's cuffed to the bed as if he's some kind of animal, a creature to be frightened by. Maybe he would be if his body would work, if he could just pick himself up or get out a single sound, he'd call for V's name the same way he did for Johnny. The most he can do is pull in strangled breaths that only send more pain throughout his weak frame.
Does V even know he's alive?
Does he know Johnny wants to shout for him too?
Instead, he'd stuck in this bed. Bound with chains and creeping agony. There's nowhere to go, all he can do is listen to sobs for him. Over and over… V doesn't let up, he pushes and pushes like he should. V fights because he's strong, his brain damaged beyond repair and yet he's the one fighting to get to Johnny. It should be the other way around. It should be Johnny screaming until his voice broke, like he did on stage.
If he made a sound, that meant he was alive. Every time he shouted into a microphone, it showed that he was alive. There was blood in his veins and his heart was pulsing in his ears. The crowds were always just as loud as him, filling whatever venue they managed to snag for the night with liveliness, with heat and passion. They were alive.
He doesn't feel that so much now. In the cold, with only V's voice to tell him there's someone there, waiting for him. His skin is cold to the touch, each time his fist tightens with a wave of pain, there's no warmth to the grip. Any passion he had turns into the simple need to get out. Thinking is useless when all of his thoughts revolve around the same few things they had for the last week… V, and finally being out. He has to run somewhere different now, but no amount of tugging at the cuffs release his hand and he's too weak to keep trying.
Johnny Silverhand, reduced to a weak, frail body without so much as a glass of water at his bedside. No one to accompany him when he had woken up, he wasn't there for V, either. These cuffs have to be punishment for something.
The shouting voices go from the room next to his, to the hallway by them. Never once does V falter—Johnny would applaud him for it if he could bring himself to pick up his other hand; all it does is send sharp waves of pain through his muscles—not beyond his voice cracking and the desperate gasps Johnny knows are the cause of the moments V goes silent.
The seal to the door breaks with a hiss of air and a sigh of relief sits at the back of his throat, for just a minute. He uses what of his strength that he has to push himself against the head of the bed and lift himself up, eyes scanning to see who would walk in.
It's not V. Of course not…
Though, he can see the outline of his shoulders—hands grabbing harshly onto him, pulling him back. Everything he can see of V's body says fear, while the slightest view of his face shows anger. Relief was so close, V is right there.
A man in a white medical outfit walked in instead of V, his V. His head spins the more he stays in this upright position, but he grits his teeth and stares out to the person—doctor?—coming to his bedside. Words are quietly muttered to him, but don't make it to Johnny's ears over the yelling. V yells for him. Why can't he just see him? He's ten feet away, why can't V come in?
Really, he should be tracking the man who stands painfully close to him, but all his eyes see is the way V's hands keep reaching to, and slipping from, the door frame. Barely coherent wails falling from the man's lips. What has Johnny done that's so wrong to keep V away like this? He's not dangerous. He can barely hold his head up.
"Johnny!"
God, he wishes he could make a sound. Wide eyes stare to at door, uncaring as a hand squeezes his bruising wrist. V is right there. Make a fucking sound for the love of god- He can't. At the most, his adam's apple bobs in his throat and he only whimpers loud enough for the man next to him to hear, not V.
"Your friend talks a lot…" He can barely make out the words over V's useless shouting. The doctor speaks in a low tone, one Johnny wants to shrink away from. It promises hurt. He knows that kind of gravelly voice well. "Do you know why you're here?" Is this some kind of checkup, or a threat without the gun to his head?
Johnny's eyes never leave the doorway where V keeps trying to push into the room. Adrenaline is a hell of a chemical, how's V even standing when Johnny can't do so much as lift himself up off the mattress the rest of the way. Nodding his head feels like it takes an entire weeks worth of energy.
"Then you know why you can't see him, yes?"
No.
With that, his gaze immediately comes to the man towering over his bedside. Why wouldn't he be able to? His chest tightens with every breath, staring harshly up at the doctor. What has he done this time? Existed? Survived? Their agreement was that he and V would be together when they woke up, if everything went smoothly. He can only imagine whats going through V's head.
"You're a terrorist, Silverhand… Fifty years in Mikoshi wasn't enough for you to forget, right?"
How does it boil down to that? He served his time, while getting his head fucked with and memories erased, even altered to the point of not knowing reality from what his head told him. When he was alive the first time, he had the excuse of The Hand, of cyberpsychosis, for everything he didn't remember. Now, he knows everything isn't the way he remembers at all, from Alt and Rogue. Hell, from Kerry too. Mikoshi isn't an excuse if he can't prove what he did, or didn't do.
He's too weak to fight, but a growl rumbles in his chest the closer the doctor began to lean down to him. His unbound hand pulls up closer to his chest, as if to prepare for a hit he knows could happen. It's clumsy, unsteady, but he holds onto the fabric of the shirt he's dressed in. The same white as everyone else's clothes in this god forsaken place, uncomfortable and borderline painful.
"You aren't leaving here, and you aren't seeing V again."
Johnny wants to slap the bastard's smug look off his face, but all he can do is stare with widened eyes. They can't take V away from him. They can't. After everything, they can't take them away from each other.
"Johnny, c'mon-! Johnny!!"
The sound of something hitting metal is the last thing he hears before silence falls over the room. Clothes shuffle just outside the room, and Johnny can just make out a figure grabbing V by the shirt to sling him over their shoulder. His stomach sinks, bile sits at the back of his mouth…
