Work Text:
Don't sell me a rainbow
Your market's never done shit for me
Don't want a seat at your table
And fuck an invitation to your party
Not gay as in happy, but queer as in fuck you
In June, Night City transforms. Summer melts away the gloom and drives people outside in greater and greater numbers. As the hot, sunny weather lures pedestrians into Lake Park and onto the promenades along the marinas—air pollution be damned—suddenly, there are rainbows everywhere. There are rainbow flags in front of shops and restaurants and bars, rainbow-coloured neon lights, and while the billboards still advertise everything from snacks to guns to sex toys, now they’re all decked out in rainbows too.
‘Was difficult enough to get used to the city lights as it was,’ says V as they step out of a nightclub at one in the morning. He’s got Johnny on one side, arm slung over his shoulder, and Kerry holding his hand on the other. ‘Never gonna get used to all the rainbows . . . Same light pollution, so why even change it just to put it back at the end of the month?’
‘Pride parade’s in a week,’ Kerry observes as they set off down the street in search of a taxi.
Johnny scoffs. ‘Arasaka parade, you mean. Another monument to corporate greed, dressed up in rainbows.’
‘Wait.’ V stops, wide eyes going back and forth between Johnny and Kerry in disbelief. ‘You’re saying Arasaka is the main sponsor for the Night City Pride parade?’
Johnny shrugs. ‘I mean, technically it’s some of its subsidiaries—Kyoran-MediaStorm Entertainment, Kanshiro MicroElectric, All-American Pictures, Krieger Beer . . . But it’s all Arasaka. And they provide security, obviously. What, you didn’t notice last year?’
‘Weren’t here for it last year,’ V reminds him. ‘You guys took me to see the redwoods, remember? For my birthday.’
‘Gotta see ’em before they’re gone,’ Kerry muses, nodding. ‘Was a nice trip, though. Should do it again.’
V frowns. ‘Okay, but . . . do they really think they can save their reputation with a tacky parade, even though they’re literally dropping rocks on Militech now?’
‘It’s just about the money,’ says Johnny, rolling his eyes and shoving both hands into his pockets. V feels the loss of his arm as cool night air takes its place. ‘It’s always money, V. And this war is costing ’em a fortune. Queers buy shit same as everyone else. “We’re friendly! Buy our polymer one-shots to protect yourself from the last vestiges of homophobic violence!” But since everyone else is doin’ the same, they need to step up their game.’
‘Can’t believe that’s even still a thing,’ V says, shaking his head. ‘In 2022 . . .’ He was so sheltered from that kind of thing growing up, with his openly queer uncle and their supportive family. Even coming out as trans hadn’t been a big deal. No one cared when they rejoined the Aldecaldos either; Nomad life has enough challenges without inventing new ones.
‘Not as much as it used to be,’ says Kerry. ‘Not here, anyway. Still happens, though. Knew this chick who . . .’ He trails off, biting his lip. ‘Point is, there’s still plenty of people who think queers should just go away, which is why we still need Pride in the first place. But there’s no substance to it anymore. It used to be a protest, as well as a commemoration for everyone we’ve lost, all the ones who didn’t make it, and a celebration of those who fought for our rights in the past. Now?’ He shakes his head.
Johnny continues for him. ‘Now it’s just rainbow capitalism, bunch of corps lighting up their HQs in Pride colours as if they care, and the idiot masses who fall for it and buy their stupid rainbow-coloured products “available in June only”.’
‘Should organise our own parade,’ says V. ‘A real protest.’
Johnny grins. ‘Well, now I’m listening.’
It takes them a while to find a taxi. When they finally arrive at the East Marina, V asks, ‘Think you can get Bes and Denny on board? So Samurai can play?’
Johnny shrugs. ‘I’m sure I can convince ’em. We need a bass player, though.’
‘What about Tim?’ says Kerry.
Johnny makes a face. ‘Listen, Tim’s not a bad musician, but he’s no rockerboy. Anyone who joins us for this, they have to believe in it, wanna shake things up, for real. That ain’t Tim.’
He never thought he’d miss Henry. He was always a little unstable, and they never got along all that well, but the more they play without him, the more Johnny realises how brilliant he was. But Henry hasn’t played since his accident, and while he’s no longer quite a vegetable, it’s anyone’s guess if he’ll ever play bass again.
They step inside their building. It’s late, but the common area is buzzing with activity. Not unusual, since Silverhand Studios is basically an art collective, with people gathering at all hours to work or talk or brainstorm. Someone’s playing music, and Johnny can smell pot smoke—V has been selling his Kush to their neighbours at a significant discount.
‘Okay,’ says V, ‘so Tim’s out. Know any other decent bass players who do fit the bill?’
‘You’re looking for a bass player?’ says a voice, and they turn to see their neighbour Raf—a long-standing tenant who gets along with everyone. A young woman in her twenties with perpetually messy green hair, she’s coming from the common area, looking about ready to turn in for the night.
‘Yeah,’ says Kerry cheerfully. ‘Just for one gig. We’re gonna interrupt the fake corpo Pride parade with one of our own. Need someone to play bass with us. With Samurai. Know anyone?’
Raf bites her lip. ‘Yeah . . . I mean . . . I play bass.’
Johnny already knew that, now that he thinks about it. He’s seen her jamming in the common area with some of the other tenants. She’s not terrible, as far as he can recall, but still . . . ‘I’m not sure you’re quite what we’re lookin’ for, darlin’.’
V laughs. ‘C’mon, Johnny. At least give her a chance!’
Johnny sighs and rolls his eyes. ‘Fine. Go get your instrument and swing by our place,’ he says. ‘We’ll jam.’
Raf’s eyes widen almost comically. ‘I . . . really? You mean that?’
Kerry laughs. ‘Don’t get too excited. It’s just one gig. And we gotta see if you’re any good first.’
‘I mean, I’m no Henry,’ she says with a shy smile. ‘But whether you want me or not, I want in on this protest. That’s what it is, right?’
‘Definitely,’ says V. ‘Go on, get your bass.’
‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Right now? It’s . . . almost two in the morning.’
‘Yeah, right now.’ V smiles. ‘Better hurry ’fore Johnny changes his mind.’ He takes both Johnny and Kerry by the hand and pulls them upstairs.
Sex was the plan, and Johnny’s both frustrated and annoyed he agreed to this little impromptu audition instead. He’s a little drunk and he’d frankly much rather eat out V while Kerry sucks his dick, but he’s just sabotaged that for himself. Instead, as soon as they’re inside the apartment, he grabs guitars for Kerry and himself. Most of his equipment lives in Kerry’s studio these days, but he keeps two guitar amps around for situations like this, and even finds a small bass one for Raf.
They set up in the living room, moving the couch and the chairs. V settles down in his favourite seat and rolls a joint, watching as they tune their instruments. Raf shows up a couple of minutes later, carrying a headless bass that’s hideously pink but also weirdly cool.
‘You know any of our songs?’ asks Kerry. ‘Or should we jam over a standard or something?’
‘Oh, uh . . .’ She considers. ‘I know Never Fade Away?’
Kerry casts a brief glance at Johnny. ‘Maybe somethin’ else, then,’ he says. ‘Any classic rock tunes in your repertoire?’
‘No, it’s okay,’ says Johnny. ‘We can do Never Fade Away.’
Johnny hardly ever plays that song. He could count the number of times he’s performed it in front of an audience on one hand. He can’t play it without Kerry, could never bring himself to sing it alone. Since Samurai got back together, they’ve never had it as part of their set, only played it a handful of times as an encore. The song still reminds him of all the mistakes he’s made and would rather not dwell on. But lately, some of the anger is fading, as though at least some of those mistakes are slowly being . . . fixed. Things are changing, and for once, they’re improving.
He looks at Kerry, remembers him golden in the light of the setting sun, and rather than filling him with regret, the memory makes him feel . . . content.
When Kerry gives him that ‘are you sure’ look, Johnny finds himself smiling, and his bandmate shrugs and says, ‘Okay, then.’
And they play.
The girl is good. She’s actually really good. Johnny’s tempted to ask her along for their next gig, ditch Tim entirely. Maybe even bring her along on tour, unless Henry gets back on his feet first. Her technique’s pretty rough, but she’s got style and flair and feeling, all of which are so much more important.
Yeah, she’ll do.
Organising the protest is as easy as saying, ‘Let’s fuck up Arasaka,’ and every edgerunner in Night City comes running. The news has spread like a bushfire, Raf and her contacts carrying the torch into artist circles and gay bars, clubs and cornerstores. By the day of the official parade, which is set to run through the City Center and Northside all the way to Westhill, hundreds of people show up at the meeting point in the East Marina, not far from Silverhand Studios. V can hear the noise from the gathering crowds before they’re even out the building. Raf and he stayed up until sunrise to finish the flag he’s carrying—pink and black with a white trans symbol incorporating an anarchist capital A.
‘V!’ Johnny calls as he starts heading out the door. He catches V’s shoulder and pulls him back in. ‘Here, wear this,’ he says, passing V his Samurai leather jacket.
Johnny gifted it to him a few months ago. It’s a nice jacket, but it’s June and sweltering hot, and V is wearing a bulletproof vest under his shirt. ‘Johnny, I’m gonna boil as it is, I really don’t need a jacket.’
‘Yes you do.’ Johnny shoves it at him. ‘Got ballistic fibre in the lining.’
Laughing, V takes the jacket from him. ‘You worried about me, Silverhand?’
‘Nothin’ wrong with a little extra protection,’ says Johnny with a shrug.
V shakes his head and pulls on the jacket. ‘If I die of heat stroke, it’s on you,’ he says before kissing Johnny on the lips. ‘C’mon, we gotta go.’
When they get to the meeting point, V is unsurprised to find Kissy and Roxxi among those gathered. His two fellow mercs are sort of a couple after all, and they show up hand in hand with a women-loving-women flag, only letting go of each other long enough to greet V with hugs and fist-bumps.
He is more surprised to see Rogue, whom he’s never thought to be especially idealistic. ‘Hey,’ he says, greeting her with a smile. ‘Glad you made it!’
‘Seemed like a good cause, if such a thing exists.’ Her smirk makes it look like she doesn’t want to be there, but the twinkle in her eye says otherwise.
‘Rogue!’ Kerry approaches them. ‘Good to see you! Thanks for coming out.’ Then he laughs. ‘Hah, coming out . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, I’m a little excited.’
A hint of something that could almost pass for affection flits across Rogue’s face. She’s much like Johnny that way, always hiding how deeply she really feels for people.
Speaking of which, he suddenly catches sight of the rockerboy in question over Rogue’s shoulder. He looks vaguely alarmed for a second. Though they get along better these days than back when Johnny returned to Night City, there’s too much history there for them to feel completely at ease with each other.
Still, he saunters closer as if nothing’s wrong. ‘We all set?’ he asks, casting a glance at her. ‘Oh. Hey, Rogue,’ he adds, as though he’d only just noticed her.
‘Johnny,’ she says curtly, folding her arms over her chest. Then her stance softens a little bit. Maybe she’s noticed that hint of nervous energy Johnny can never quite hide. ‘Good job putting all this together,’ she says, addressing all three of them, though her eyes never leave Johnny.
Silverhand shrugs. ‘Let’s just see how it goes.’
V is about to reply when he’s interrupted by a familiar voice. ‘So, we doing this or what?’
He turns around to say they’re almost ready to go, then stops, mouth hanging open. For a moment, he thinks his optics have been hacked.
Gone is the signature trenchcoat, replaced by a black leather harness that criss-crosses over a broad, hairy chest. Tight leather pants cling to muscular thighs, and salt-and-pepper cascades in wavy locks down over bare shoulders. Morgan Blackhand has an amused expression on his face as looks around at them all—no doubt the others are also staring—and says, ‘What? This is how we did it in the 80s.’ He waves a placard at them, black text on a white background, that reads STONEWALL WAS A RIOT! Then he vanishes further into the gathered crowd.
Next to V, Kerry swallows audibly. ‘I . . . was not expecting that.’
V shakes his head, letting out a short laugh. ‘Not normally into leather daddies, but . . . woof!’
‘I could pull off that outfit,’ says Johnny.
V laughs again. ‘I’m sure you could. But I like you the way you are.’ He kisses Johnny’s cheek. ‘Okay, you two, get up there.’
They have two floats, both decked out in every Pride flag there is, accented by queer anarchism ones in pink and black. The one in front is set up with a sizeable sound system and Samurai’s backline, Bes, Denny and Raf already set up. The second float is traditional, which is to say full of drag queens.
Kerry and Johnny climb up on the stage, strapping on their guitars.
Johnny steps up to one of the microphones. The crowd immediately begins to cheer and he holds up his silver hand. ‘May I have your attention, please!’ he yells, and the ruckus around them dies down. ‘Thank you all for bein’ here. I could give y’all the big speech about why we’re doin’ this, but we all know why. Corps have hijacked our protest, our celebration, and we’re here to take it back! Fuck Arasaka!’ The crowd goes wild with cheers and whistles.
Kerry grabs the other mic. ‘Now, before we head out, a few safety precautions. Your emergency exit is in whichever direction the riot guards aren’t. Parade will be guarded by Arasaka troops, and while we hope they won’t open fire, you never know with corpos—so keep your irons ready. If for some reason you don’t carry, just get the fuck out if the shit hits the fan. And edgerunners, protect the drag queens! I know some of you ladies can run in those heels, but since I can’t even walk in ’em . . .’ He waits for the laughter to die down before he continues, ‘Just remember, folks: the first Pride was a riot, and so is this. Let’s show ’em who we are! Let’s fuck some shit up!’
‘This is a new song,’ says Johnny, strumming a single power chord. ‘Didn’t write it for Pride . . . but it fits pretty well.’
Denny counts them in and as Kerry starts to sing, the float starts moving.
‘In our willingness to be bought, and in our hunger, hunger to buy. Hear the wish to be oppressed; to at least get to be oppressed in style . . .’
Johnny’s right. It is fitting—a protest against the complacency of the masses and corporate greed. V gets up onto the Samurai float, the climb made more cumbersome by his flag, though he gets a leg-up from a fellow protester. He sits on the edge, and as they leave the Marina, crowds of onlookers start to gather, some following along in their wake.
The protesters chant slogans over Samurai’s pounding bass line. The sound system is cranked to eleven. On the second float, everyone is dancing. And even though this is going to get dangerous, V can’t help but grin.
He looks around, seeing protesters, would-be rioters and people who just want to party milling below, the queens on the float behind him made up like glittering birds in feathers and sequins, a shining, gilded contrast to the colourful punks below.
He wonders what their stories are. How many of the protesters are queer in some way, how many are good allies, and who is just here for the anarchy.
It doesn’t matter; the important thing is they’re here.
In the past few days, V has been educated on matters he’d rather not have to know anything about. How many of these people grew up having to hide who they were? How many have been victims of violence, or still are? How many have lost friends, lovers, family? It’s probably worse for the older ones. Some of the drag queens must be at least fifty. It makes V smile—they’re the real badasses here. Those who went through all that shit and came out the other side still ready to don a wig and a feather boa, making a spectacle of themselves to show the world they cannot and will not be beaten.
The survivors.
Morgan’s up there on that float too, dancing with two queens in matching cyberware and feather boas in pink, white and baby blue. In platform heels, one of them is taller than Morgan, who is by no means a small man. They drape their feather boa around his neck and Morgan leans in to kiss them—full on, with tongue. V laughs. Much as the Solo’s Solo shamelessly flirts with just about everyone, it’s never occurred to him to wonder whether he’s actually queer or just really friendly.
Whichever it is, right now . . . he looks happy.
This. This is the real thing. This is making a difference.
It doesn’t take long before they can hear the corpo parade. Soulless pop tunes no doubt composed by algorithm are blaring from their floats. It’s just like planned; the two parades will meet at the next intersection, forcing them to stop.
It’s like a mouse meeting an elephant—the corpo parade is huge, more than two dozen floats. But whereas their ragtag riot has every Pride flag known to man, the big one is rainbows only. Most of their floats don’t even have people on them—not that there’d be room for any between corporate logos, balloons and holographic mascots.
As they come into earshot, Samurai start playing The World Won’t Stop by Bad Religion and the protesters rush forward, start climbing the Arasaka floats, popping balloons, sabotaging hologram projectors, tearing up the logos. V jumps off the Samurai float to join them, making sure his gun is secure in his pocket.
Over it all, Kerry sings, ‘You've got to quit your little charade and join the freak parade. Now that your road has been paved from conception to your grave . . .’
The frontmost corpo float has a few people on it, some of them vaguely familiar; a newscaster, a minor politician, and V thinks the two women holding hands are a moderately successful pop duo.
Sellouts.
That’s the float he climbs, boosted up by helpful hands below, waving his flag high in the air. ‘Hey, how ya doin’?’ he shouts to the B-list celebrities over the noise of rapid fire punk beats and chanting protesters. ‘Happy Pride!’
That’s when the first shots go off.
Screams rise up from the gathered crowd as the onlookers start to panic, scrambling for cover, and V drops down behind a synth-plywood rainbow, listening for the source. More shots. Sounds like a submachine gun, which suggests the Arasaka guards: they’re carrying the Setsuko-Arasaka “PMS”, while the good guys mostly pack semi-autos at best.
It’s not like he didn’t know this would happen—he knew shit would go down and he’s come prepared, armed and lightly armoured. But there are so many people here, so many civilians. He’d hoped the media presence would make the corpo soldiers hold their fire, that it would at least make them hesitate. But there’s a war on. Arasaka isn’t about to waste their best on a fucking Pride parade, which means these guards are inexperienced and trigger-happy—and that makes them dangerous.
Thankfully, most of the protesters are armed, and many have combat experience of one kind of another. People start shooting back immediately. Following their example, V ducks his head out from behind the rainbow and fires at a guard who’s pointing his SMG into the crowd of protesters.
Samurai are still playing; only when one of the speakers catches a salvo and blows does the music fall silent. V sees Denny, Bes and Raf duck down behind amplifiers and subwoofers. Behind them, on the queen float, Morgan has his gun out. So do a couple of the drag queens, standing tall on sparkling heels while their peers abandon ship, getting the fuck to safety so they can fight another day.
In the chaos, V almost misses the Arasaka guard in full riot gear who’s spotted him and is now taking aim. He catches it at the last minute and realises the hapless pop duo, whose names he still can’t remember, are also right in the soldier’s line of fire.
‘Get down!’ He grabs both girls by the shoulders and pulls them to the floor with him as the guard opens fire, narrowly missing ’Saka’s own VIPs.
Fucking amateur.
Johnny’s got his gun out, firing at every Arasaka uniform he can see. Unlike everyone else, he’s got a smartlink that lets him avoid collateral damage, and thank fuck for that. He glances at Kerry who’s ducked down behind the low railing of the float, his revolver clutched in both hands, knuckles white. He peers over the railing and suddenly yells, ‘Vin!’
Johnny follows his line of sight, sees V pull two women to the ground, a salvo of bullets tearing through the air where he had been standing a second ago.
Fuck!
Looking down, he sees the culprit, and without thinking, he jumps off his makeshift stage, guitar still strapped to his back, and lands on top of the guard who just had the audacity to fire on his V. They go down like a sack of bricks.
Dodging gunfire, he clambers up onto the ’Saka VIP float. He finds V on the ground, one blue-haired, doe-eyed, utterly stunned girl on each side. ‘You okay?’ he shouts over the din, heart in his throat.
V nods.
Thank fuck, he seems unharmed. It calms Johnny’s rage, but only for a moment. Still clutching the Malorian, he shoves the Very Important Asshole in front of him out of the way and grabs the closest microphone.
He shoots his gun into the air, muzzle right next to his face so the mic catches and amplifies the shot. It sounds like a meteor strike over the sound system, the speaker elements probably blown half to shit, and even the corpo guards take cover. The shot causes a feedback screech shrill enough that everyone present has to cover their ears.
There’s a sweet spot between everyone covering their ears and the first people starting to shoot again, and Johnny waits for it. ‘Not a good look, ’Saka!’ he shouts at the right moment. A single gunshot goes off before the street goes eerily silent. ‘Shooting at peaceful protesters? Well, mostly peaceful . . .’ He looks around, sees some of the edgerunners getting back on their feet.
‘Ladies and gentlefolk!’ Johnny continues. ‘You’ve been conned! This? This monstrosity you see before you? This is not a Pride parade! Pride is not something the corporations hand out! It’s for those of us who lived through the AIDS crisis, and all their friends who didn’t. For the ones who have been beaten, broken, murdered, all because of who they are, or who they fuck, or who they love. The ones who have had their lives and identities used and abused for political clout or corporate profit. Even now, they think they can fit us into their neat little boxes, sell us the ideal queer life for a few pretty rainbows, as if that’s something we wanted!’
Somewhere in the crowd, a lone voice yells, ‘Fuck yeah!’ It almost makes Johnny smile. But he’s too furious for that.
Instead, he goes on. ‘Well, we say “no more”! Fuck Arasaka and every other corp!’ He hears more assenting voices and drinks it in, stands taller, speaks louder. ‘You don’t get to be allies just by slapping on some rainbows while doing fuck all in your own countries!’ There are cheers now, rising up from among protesters and onlookers alike. ‘People like us in Japan, can they live and love how they want? Does Arasaka light up its Tokyo HQ in rainbow colours?’ Johnny fires his gun again, away from the microphone this time, aiming for a cluster of balloons. ‘Does Saburo march in a pride parade? How about SovOil? They puttin’ up rainbow flags all over Russia in June?
‘Fuck those who think they can talk the talk and then refuse to walk the walk! Fuck the corpo-cunts who exploit our identities for their quarterly numbers! Fuck those who hang up rainbow flags while they keep funding bigots with their dirty money! And fuck those who think we’ll forget that they’ve been throwing fucking space rocks at each other in their corpo pissing contest, just because they’re shoving rainbows in our faces!’ More cheers, whistles, shouts of approval.
‘We say, “Enough is enough!”’ A collective ‘Yeah!’ rises up to meet him, and he continues, ‘You need to wake up, open your eyes, all of you! This fight, the fight for freedom and equality, is not over! Nobody’s free until everyone is! Queer rights are human rights!’ Johnny raises his fist into the air and repeats, ‘Queer rights are human rights! Queer rights are human rights!’ until the crowd is chanting too. Arasaka soldiers stand around nervously, weapons drawn, but no one’s firing yet.
He looks at V behind him, radiant banner-bearer of anarchy pride. Johnny holds out his hand for him, and there, on a float adorned with rainbow-coloured corporate logos, before the media and thus the world, Johnny pulls V into his arms and kisses him, the trans-anarchy flag waving behind them while a crowd of thousands cheers for them.
‘We gotta delta,’ V says softly, breaking the kiss.
They’ve taken over the corpo parade, and while Night City’s law-abiding citizens applaud the world’s greatest rockerboy, the protesters begin to disperse and the Arasaka guards are getting bolder. They start closing in on the float, weapons raised, but it’s slow going with so many civilians and so much media around. Sirens blare in the middle distance; the NCPD must have finally decided it’s safe to intervene.
Johnny casts a glance at the corpo soldiers making their way toward them. The befuddled VIPs are still on the float with them, however, and the guards seem to have remembered the media and are acting smarter. ‘Yup.’ The two of them back away slowly, holding onto their weapons but neither pointing them at anyone.
Once they’re behind the politician in the rainbow suit, they run down to the other end of the float.
‘Wait!’ calls a high-pitched voice, and they pause for a second to look at the two blue-haired girls from before. ‘You saved our lives,’ one of them says to V. ‘Thank you!’
‘Remember this the next time some corp asks you to act as a mascot,’ Johnny sneers. He recognises them from posters—couple of corporate sellout, would-be popstars. Maybe it’s not their fault. Maybe they’re just indoctrinated slaves to the system, here because their label made a deal they’ve no choice but to comply with. ‘They don’t give a shit about you.’
The second girl nods. ‘Go that way,’ she says, pointing. ‘Fewer guards.’
V smiles at her. ‘Wanna come with?’ he asks, but the two women back away, shaking their heads. Just sheep after all. V gives them both a wave as he and Johnny jump down onto the ground, and before anyone can catch up to them, they disappear into the crowd. People are only too happy to help them flee the scene.
‘I hope Kerry’s okay,’ says V as they round a corner and slip into an alley.
Johnny scoffs. ‘He’s fine! Don’t worry about him.’ He tells himself his pounding heart is just adrenaline, even as he pictures Kerry’s terrified face when he saw the guard fire on V. He grabs his output, pulls him close, kisses him again. ‘He’s fine,’ he repeats.
V nods. ‘We made it,’ he whispers, sounding almost amazed.
‘Yeah.’ Johnny steps back and takes his hand. ‘Let’s go to the Atlantis. Text Kerry to meet us there.’
‘To the men of the hour: Johnny, Kerry, and V!’ Blackhand raises his glass. ‘Here’s to a job well done! And Johnny, that speech was beautiful.’
They’ve gathered at the Atlantis. The whole band is here—including Raf, who’s never been around so many edgerunners before and seems delighted with the whole thing—and so is Rogue, V’s friends Kissy and Roxxi, and several of the others who marched with them today. Kerry’s so full of adrenaline he’s not sure he’s ever felt this high before without the use of actual drugs. He’s slowly starting to come down, though. Next to him, V is holding his hand, a warm, comforting presence that grounds him.
‘Thanks, Daddy,’ says Johnny sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at the leather harness under Morgan’s trenchcoat.
‘Watch it, boy,’ says the Solo’s Solo without missing a beat. ‘Or I may have to tie you up and spank you.’
Kerry laughs at the flushed look of panic that passes over Johnny’s face before he manages to coach it into a relaxed smirk again. ‘Come and get me, Blackhand.’
After the riot, Kerry lost sight of V and Johnny, worrying himself sick for what felt like an eternity—until V’s message told him they were both safe and where to meet them. He and the others had grabbed their instruments, abandoned the float, and made their way to the Atlantis as well.
That was a couple of hours ago, and other protesters have been trickling in ever since.
It’s all over the news. Turns out the reason why there was so much media wasn’t the corpo parade but the fact that Bes had tipped off her contacts at N54 that something big was going to happen. The screen behind the bar is showing an endless stream of Johnny’s speech and the kiss. Kerry would love to say he’s not jealous, that he just wanted to show the world where they can shove their heteronormative monogamy—which he does—but his outputs were up there, kissing, while he huddled behind an amplifier trying not to lose his shit. He’s embarrassed . . . and he would have liked to be with them.
‘In all seriousness, though,’ says Morgan, ‘I lost friends, back then. Good friends. Some of ’em, some . . . they were so young. Barely more than kids.’ His voice is rough and he takes another sip of his drink. ‘And while politicians were scared to do jack for fear of losing voters, those kids were dyin’ of this disease.’ Clearing his throat, he drinks again. ‘Friend of mine, Mandy, was beaten to a pulp at a Pride Parade back in 1993 by a bunch of assholes whose dicks were so tiny they couldn’t cope with the idea of her even having one. And she was one of the lucky ones.’ He drains his glass. ‘At least she lived.’
He calls for more whiskey. ‘I was there, you know,’ he continues, ‘in DC in 2002. And I thought, this is it.’ He looks around, meeting Kerry’s eyes for a second, but he’s the center of everyone’s attention right now. ‘This is one of those pivotal moments in history. Now everything’s gonna change.’ His whiskey arrives and he grabs the glass and takes a deep sip. ‘And it did . . . but it also didn’t.’ Morgan pauses, shakes his head. ‘And here, twenty years later, I find myself wondering what it was all for, what those people died for when this is what’s become of Pride.’
Then he smiles, his mood shifting, and if his eyes were a little glossy earlier, they’re not anymore. Everyone around him is at least twenty years younger and hanging onto his every word. ‘I figured it out today. This is what it was for. You and what you all did today. You did good. All of ya.’
Kerry looks down at V’s hand in his. ‘People got hurt, though,’ he mutters. ‘There was collateral damage. Innocents.’
‘That’s not our fault,’ Johnny says, because what else would he say. He’s on V’s other side. ‘’Saka shot first. We knew things might get violent, but we did the right thing, Ker.’ Reaching across V’s lap, he touches Kerry’s arm, gives it a squeeze. ‘Besides, there are no innocents in Night City.’
He really believes that, doesn’t he? Kerry feels so tired all of a sudden that it takes effort to smile at him. ‘I think I wanna go home.’
V squeezes his hand. ‘Okay. We can leave right away.’
The three of them stand and start making their excuses. While Kerry’s saying goodbye to Rogue, he hears someone tell Johnny, ‘Thank you so much for organising this! What a success!’
Bes raises an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, good job, Johnny,’ she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. She’s the one who brought the media, after all.
‘Piece of cake, Nance,’ says Johnny with a shrug. ‘Organised itself, really.’
Bes looks like she wants to say something, has her mouth open, but Denny laughs and pats her shoulder, and Bes seems to think better of it and just shakes her head.
Kerry can’t be quiet, though. ‘Yeah, ’cause you did so much legwork, Johnny. It’s not like Bes brought the media, V had the idea and spread the word to the edgerunners, and Raf organised the artists.’ He folds his arms and meets Johnny’s eye. ‘’Cause if that were true it would be pretty shitty to take all the credit.’
Johnny frowns at him, looks around at everyone like he’s only just realised riots don’t organise themselves, and says, ‘Well, I mean, I had help.’
It’s a more gracious response than Kerry would have expected even just a year ago. Then V steps in with diplomacy and says, ‘Doesn’t matter who did what. What’s important is the whole thing was a success, right? We got our point across. We struck a blow. Right, Morgan?’
Morgan looks at him and smiles. ‘You sure did, kid.’
They end up going to Kerry’s place rather than Johnny and V’s. It’s quieter here. Silverhand Studios will no doubt be abuzz with excited young artists who attended the protest today or saw it on TV.
Here, it’s quiet. Peaceful.
Kerry opens the balcony doors and steps outside. The sun is just dropping below the horizon, twilight seeping in. Johnny follows, putting his arms around his waist and kissing the back of his neck. Kerry leans into it, covering Johnny’s hands with his own, enjoying his lips on his skin; a moment of comfortable intimacy that gives him the good kind of goosebumps. But then that feeling comes back, that anger and helplessness he felt when the riot broke out, and he shrugs off Johnny’s embrace.
‘You okay, Ker?’ Johnny asks, real concern in his voice now that nobody’s watching.
And Kerry considers lying, because he doesn’t want to have an argument, he’s too exhausted now that the adrenaline has worn off, and even if no one died—that they’ve heard of, anyway—there’s too much blood on his hands. Too much. In the end, though, he says, ‘No. No, Johnny, I’m not okay. All those people? Everyone who got injured, that’s on us!’
‘It’s not,’ Johnny insists. ‘Kerry, you wanted a protest. We all did. You said, this is a riot!’
‘Well, I didn’t think anyone would fire at the fucking crowds!’ Kerry only notices he’s raised his voice when Johnny takes a surprised step back from him.
‘But that’s not on you!’ he argues. ‘None of ours did, far as I’m aware. That was Arasaka!’
‘What’s going on?’ V steps through the open doors with a bottle of Scotch in hand.
Johnny scoffs. ‘Kerry’s got riot guilt.’
‘It’s not—’ Not even sure what he’s trying to say, Kerry cuts himself off, stares at his feet. ‘We just . . . we should have . . .’ He turns his back on them both and leans up against the railing. ‘Fuck, I’m tired,’ he murmurs, closing his eyes. He wants to pass out, sleep for a week, forget the panicked screams and his own terror when that guard pointed his gun at the man he . . . Kerry swallows, tries to dislodge the thought by shaking his head.
‘Ker.’ V steps up to the railing next to him, puts his hand on his arm. ‘None of this is your fault. Or mine, or Johnny’s. Change doesn’t come from sitting pretty, you know that. I don’t like it either, but this is the world we live in and that’s not on us. It’s just . . . life.’ He cups Kerry’s cheek and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s soft and sweet and kind, and reminds him in no uncertain terms that they’re fine. V is here, alive and well. It’s just what Kerry needs right now. But when he holds out the bottle, Kerry just shakes his head.
‘Can we just go to bed?’ he asks.
‘It’s like seven—’ Johnny begins, but V interrupts him with a look.
‘Of course,’ he says, giving Kerry another soft kiss for good measure.
Together, they head upstairs to the bedroom, get undressed and snuggle up in Kerry’s king-size bed. Soon they’re kissing, touching, and they get each other off with hands and mouths until they’re all sated and relaxed and drifting. Kerry’s in the middle; usually it’s V, but they’ve both paid extra attention to him tonight. It warms him, how they just know what he needs, whether it’s sex or affection, or both. Like almost always, V is already asleep, little spoon to Kerry’s bigger one.
Johnny lies behind him, running the fingers of his ’ganic hand slowly up and down Kerry’s arm. Putting his mouth next to his ear, he whispers, ‘’M sorry.’
Kerry can’t help but smile. ‘Johnny Silverhand’s apologising to me? What is the world coming to?’
‘Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,’ Johnny replies, but there’s a strange softness in his voice, one that rarely appears outside moments like these, sated and near sleep. Not with Kerry, anyway—he talks to V like that with increasing regularity. Johnny sighs, his breath warm on the nape of Kerry’s neck. ‘Just . . . you heard what Morgan said. If you won’t listen to us, at least listen to him.’
Kerry nods, pulling Johnny’s hand to his bare hip. He knows they did good. Knows they struck a blow for what’s right. And maybe—once the war is over, once the threat of global annihilation has passed—they’ll find that what they did today has made the world a better place. A safer and kinder place for everyone who’s different, who doesn’t fit in and doesn’t want or need to fit in.
He hopes that’s true. With V cradled in his arms and Johnny pressed up against his back, Kerry falls asleep, dreaming of a brighter future.
