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PART ONE
2007 See you on the dark side of the moon
The hum of fluorescent lights. The crackle of the amps, primed and ready for action. The pulsing heat of the crowd, hundreds of bodies packed together, at least half of them high and the rest drunk on anticipation, edging ever closer towards the coming show.
Kerry hears it all from backstage. It gets his blood pumping, heart racing, little electric surges of excitement and thrill, nerves so tense he thinks he might throw up. This is his favorite feeling. Every fucking time, in the last minutes before they go out there, before he picks up his axe and gets the audience wet and dripping, it's like this, and Kerry can never get enough. He was made for this, he thinks. Fucking born for it, as much as any of the others had been. Maybe more, even.
He leans his forehead against the cold steel of the dressing room door, and lets out the breath he's been holding. Despite the energy—and concoction of drugs, liquor, chemicals—flooding his bloodstream, he needs to be clear headed. Music might come from the heart and soul, but the set list doesn't memorize itself. No room for error. No one in Samurai can afford to be less than perfect.
Except, he thinks, as a solitary guitar string is plucked out of tune behind him, Johnny fucking Silverhand.
With a grimace, Kerry rolls over to face the room. Johnny is on the couch, one boot kicked up on the cushions and his guitar resting in his lap. He looks as calm as ever, a cool goddamn cucumber like he's lounging around for practice and not about to go storm the stage in front of screaming fans. He's so good at pretending to not give a shit, Kerry huffs. It pisses him off, and he can't hold his tongue this time. "The fuck is wrong with you?" he spits out, louder than intended.
Johnny shrugs without bothering to look up. "Lots of shit. Why?"
"You missed that chord. The one just now. Don't tell me you're too stoned to play straight again?"
"Hey," he says, dark eyes flashing in insult. "I wrote the fucking song. I can make up whatever chords I want, it's called improvising. You wouldn't get it."
"The hell I wouldn't. I'm telling you it sucks. Sounds like shit." Kerry watches Johnny set down his guitar, and backs against the door on instinct. "We're on stage in five, get your head in the game already."
"Fuck you, Ker. I invented the game."
"This is pointless. Can't ever fucking talk to you."
"Then why bring it up at all?" Their shared dressing room isn't large, just enough for some mirrors, sofas, a table for snacks and blow. Johnny crosses the distance in a few strides. "Focus on your own shit, let me do my thing. That's what those people out there want. Hear 'em?"
One metallic palm slams into the door next to Kerry's head, chrome knuckles flexing and scratching steel just enough to send ripples of fear up his spine. He steels his eyes, but inside, his chest is tightening to feel Johnny so close.
"...Mu! Rai! Sa! Mu! RAI!"
Over the rhythmic chanting outside, Kerry's own heart thunders in his ears. "They're calling the band. The band , Johnny. Not you."
"Same thing. Samurai is me."
He might laugh if his throat wasn't so dry. "Narcissistic bastard is what you are."
"Damn right. They fucking love it, and so do you."
God, if only he could deny it. If only he could reach out, slap that shit-eating grin clean off Johnny's face, maybe that would stop this tumult swirling in his gut. Instead he swallows, and licks his lips before he can stop himself.
"...No. I hate you."
The way Johnny smirks at him is pure victory. All sharp teeth and darkness in those eyes, and he drops his silver hand to Kerry's crotch. It's fleeting, the touch, just a barely-there brush of smooth, metal fingertips across the front of tight jeans. Maybe it never even happened at all. But it works. Kerry bites back a whine that says he's long since lost this fight.
"Sure you do, Ker. That's why you stay, isn't it? Hate me so much you can't bear to walk away. Right?"
Kerry doesn't answer. Can't answer, because while he’s loathe to admit it, he knows it's a lie. He only wants to hate Johnny. He's never strong enough to actually do it.
Johnny Silverhand plucks his shades from where they hang, dangling above his dogtags from the neckline of his shirt. In silence he slips them on—the caricature complete—and Kerry moves to allow him out of the room.
The time has come, their audience awaits. Yet for all his earlier bravado, Kerry struggles to move his trembling knees. He stumbles out into the hall, past Denny and Nancy already waiting. They cast him identical looks—knowing, sympathetic—before following him out onto the stage. Cheers go up, echoing off the venue walls into a building crescendo, but all Kerry can hear now is the need that still pounds in his ears. All he can see are the bright lights as Johnny, always last to arrive, strides past to snatch the mic. All he can feel , once the tempo strikes up, is the music, deep rumbling bass traveling through his veins, unraveling him piece by piece, until he's finally lost in the sweet release.
2008 Time to Go
Shitshow! Posers! Washed up fucks! Nancy screams at them from somewhere far away. Or maybe she's in the room with them, Kerry honestly can't tell. His senses are fuzzy, everything's coming through in waves. His entire body aches.
At first, he thought Nance was just mad at Henry again for showing up to the venue a complete mess. Henry's always a mess , he wants to tell her. But he can't, he realizes, because right now he's a mess, too. High as a kite, barely dressed on the floor, unable to even form words with his tongue and mouth suddenly made of cotton.
It's not just him, either. Denny is laid out on the couch, head pillowed on her arms, asleep. Henry is…well, he isn't sure where Henry is, but that seems normal. And Johnny—there he is, sitting at the vanity mirrors, the long, solid barrel of his favorite pistol aimed straight at the glass. Kerry wonders, for the briefest of lucid moments, if it’s actually loaded.
"I can't fucking believe this! All of you are such pathetic wastes of my goddamn time!" Something hits the wall to Kerry's left. Looks like an ashtray, maybe, thrown by Nancy in a fit of rage. Ash and cigarette butts explode against the plaster like a gritty snowball, and Kerry smiles to watch the pretty flakes flutter to the floor. "Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull to get this booking? Do you? And the four of you are in here whacked out of your minds on—what the fuck is it this time? Cocaine? Heroin?"
Very unhelpfully, a voice that sounds like Henry's only muffled answers, "Both, prob'ly."
"I quit. I fucking quit, do you hear me, Johnny?!" Nancy is grabbing her purse, pointing a shaking finger at their leader where he continues to glare into the mirror. He doesn't budge. "You guys blow this show, it's no longer my problem. Figure out what to tell Bill yourself. I'm gone."
"Nance, wait, where ya goin'?"
"Rot in Hell, Henry. Samurai can suck it."
The door slams. Kerry suddenly has the urge to laugh, though he isn't sure why. None of this should be funny. Not Nance ditching out or all the drugs they spent the ticket profits on. Least of all not Johnny, who's still sitting at the mirror like he's gonna blow his own brains out in his reflection. Slowly, fighting the chemicals making his balance off, Kerry rolls onto his knees.
"Johnny. Hey. Johnny. "
The wrist holding the gun flicks. For a terrifying moment, that barrel sweeps across the room at each of them in turn, before Johnny slams it down onto the vanity. " What?"
Kerry doesn't realize he's holding his breath. It leaves him in a tempered sigh. "Fuck, man. The fuck's gotten into you?" His head hangs heavy, dark curls spilling into his face and blocking half the view. "You let Nance walk."
Johnny doesn't answer, so after a few stabilizing heartbeats Kerry pushes himself to standing. It's awkward. The room is spinning and his feet feel like they aren't really attached, more like balloons as he floats in a zigzag across the room. He reaches out for Johnny. Tries to catch his arm, but stumbles instead, hitting the wall beside the mirrors as the air leaves his lungs again.
Heat surrounds him almost instantly. He can feel Johnny on his back, those hands—one 'ganic, one metal—on his hips, pulling them back, up, forcing his ass against Johnny's crotch. And Kerry shudders. "F…fuck."
"Let her go. We don't need her. We don't need anyone." God , that voice is like molten honey, equal parts sweet and deadly, threatening to burn right through Kerry's skull. On instinct, he rubs back for more. "We're fucking Samurai , got it? We can do anything."
"Anything?" Kerry repeats, not really caring what Johnny is talking about, only that he keeps talking like this.
" Anything . We could burn this city down, and no one would fuckin' stop us."
It's not the answer so much, but how he says it. The way his fingers dig into Kerry's waist, his weight practically carrying him down, down and under, where he'd go oh so willingly if only Johnny would ever give him the chance. He aches for it, with or without the drugs making him so sensitive to each caress. He's thought about it so many times that his mind can't discern fantasy from reality anymore. Please , he begs in a voiceless prayer. Touch me, fuck me, break me. Johnny, please!
The moment passes. Cruel fingers uncurl from his hips, and Johnny steps away to let Kerry sink to his bare knees on the floor. Tears well up, relief mixed with bitter rejection, but Johnny never even looks back to see them.
"Get your shit together, assholes. Time to go."
Over his shoulder, Kerry watches Henry crawl out from under Denny's prone form, his eyes bloodshot but legs steady enough. He lifts Denny over one shoulder to follow Johnny outside, out where another stage, another crowd, another fucking shitshow is waiting.
For a long moment, Kerry considers giving it all up right there. He could, he knows, just follow Nancy through the front door, out of the club, leave this all behind. Or better yet, he could even grab Johnny's gun off the dresser and end this whole bullshit existence entirely. That's why he left it there, isn't it? To give him a way out? As far as he can tell, it's the only way out now, through the screamsheets. Otherwise, so long as he lives he'll keep crawling back to Samurai, to Johnny's heartless smile and mocking hands, to the misery of this half-fame.
One day, Kerry thinks, wiping his face with the sleeve of his robe, he will be free of this. But that day is not today. No, today they have a concert, and he's got ten minutes to sober up enough to hold his axe.
Numb, he drags his heavy body towards the bathroom to empty his stomach, Johnny's shining silver gun haunting each and every step.
2013 This is not me
Kerry doesn't think he even once asked his name.
Not that it matters, really, because the guy knows him , and that's exactly why they're both here. There's no need for formality, no need to pretend what they're doing is anything more than physical. It's just sex, and sex, Kerry has come to find, is the easiest thing in the world.
The hotel room is mostly dark, the only light coming from the closet-sized bathroom at the back. It spills out over the worn carpet, the off-white wallpaper, the clouded mirror. Over the sparse clothing littering the floor, a trail of evidence leading to the lone bed in the room, where Kerry has his new input spread out on his back against the pillows. He takes a long drag of his cigarette while he admires the view below him. Dark hair, pale skin, almost enough lean muscle…. The eyes are wrong, though. Green, too round, but it's fine. He won't be looking at them much anyway. With a smirk, he flicks the half-smoked butt across the room.
He drags his fingers down the man's bare torso, imagining it broader, scarred. Down to the point where their hips meet, the only barrier between them now his own thong which leaves nothing to the imagination. The man's too-green eyes follow along hungrily. He tries to reach up, to touch where he thinks he's allowed, but Kerry quickly smacks his hands away. "Later," he lies, knowing there won't be a later, there never is.
Instead he pulls the strap of his thong aside by himself. Rubs back, feeling this input's cock hard and ready, throbbing with excitement, anticipation, need. A little small , he sighs, but it'll have to do. His fingers curl around it, guiding it to his opening and fuck , this is his favorite kind of ache. It hurts despite how he prepped himself in the shower. Hurts all the way in, just like he wants it to, and as his ass presses to the input's thighs he finally releases the groan he's been holding in his throat.
"F -uuck. "
The man below says something Kerry doesn't catch. Of course it isn't important anyway, so he tunes out everything except the burning pressure inside him now. So good, almost good enough to believe that he's —
Kerry shakes his head to dispel that thought. Focuses instead on rolling, dragging, grinding his hips, and the rhythm his own body creates with this carnal dance. Like he's back on stage, performing for his fans to the sounds of cheering and jeering, to the pulse of flicking lights and thundering bass, getting harder, harder , and closer to climax.
He's trapped in this frenzy of pleasure when a kick to the hotel door sends it flying open. Johnny Silverhand storms in—at least Kerry thinks it's Johnny, or else he's fantasizing again—to shove him right off the man's lap. Naked, dizzy, Kerry watches the anger blossoming on Johnny's face with fascination. It's beautiful, and very much real.
"Out. Get the fuck out ," he's growling at the man on the bed, who's too stunned to move for a frightening moment. Then his senses return, and he scrambles off it, scooping up what little of his clothes he can manage on his way to the exit.
The door slams shut behind him. Kerry's chest rises and falls with every breath, his bare thighs quaking with exertion and adrenaline, but he doesn't move, doesn't blink, only watches as Johnny rounds on him.
"Who was he?"
"Dunno," Kerry answers honestly, his voice shaking but not from fear.
"Fuck. Fuck , Ker. Every fuckin' time. You think people don't notice? They don't see what you're doing?"
"Why'd you kick him out?"
"I'm fuckin' sick of it! 'Eurodyne and his harem of Silverhand lookalikes.' " Johnny pulls something from his pocket—a scrap of paper, a page torn from a screamsheet—and throws it onto the bed between Kerry's legs. "It's sick. You ' re sick."
"I wasn't finished with him," Kerry insists. He's ignoring the tabloid, ignoring the anger and something else coloring Johnny's face. Ignoring this fight they've had before, because why should he bother to change? "You have Alt. Denny and Henry have each other. Who does that leave, huh? Me. You ever fuckin' think about that?"
"Sure."
"Bullshit, Johnny. You don't care about me." He starts for the edge of the bed, intending to…to what? Shower again? Go chasing after the nameless input, that poor stand-in for the real thing? He doesn't know, and he doesn't have time to make up his mind. A metallic hand grabs his ankle before he can decide.
"I care, I do." Johnny is staring at him—no, at his body, at the bruises and fresh tattoos and the mess between his legs: his cock, still hard; his ass, abused and wet with slick, so recently used yet so terribly unsatisfied. Experimentally, Kerry lowers one knee to the sheets, and swallows at the way Johnny’s eyes follow.
“ Jesus , Ker.”
“Johnny?”
“You fuckin’….” He clears his throat, squeezing his eyes shut against whatever it is he’s thinking in that twisted head of his. “Go clean up. Get dressed.”
“I told you. I wasn’t finished.”
“That’s not my problem.”
This is dangerous. Kerry could cut through the tension with a hot spoon if he wanted, but there’s something different about Johnny this time. Something vulnerable. He still hasn’t moved from the bed, still hasn’t released his leg, and Kerry knows if he pushes, this could go very, very wrong.
“It is your problem. You’re the asshole who threw him out. If I scared off one of your skanky outputs while you were gettin’ your dick wet, I’d make it up to you.”
His meaning is clear, understanding written plainly in the fuming shadows of Johnny's dark eyes. But for good measure, just in case there's an iota of a chance the message isn't getting through, Kerry slides the ball of his foot up the hard length of Johnny's thigh. Up towards the juncture of his hips and even through the thick leather of his pants he can feel the heat, the blood pumping beneath, real and organic and sending pulses like static to fog his brain.
Johnny hesitates for the briefest of moments. Almost as though he's considering the offer, actually, and honestly why wouldn't he? ' A wet hole is a wet hole' sounds like something he'd say, no matter who its attached to. So Johnny claims he doesn't fuck guys, big deal. He's made out with a fair few, let them suck him off even, so that paper-thin excuse was blown to shreds ages ago. No, the problem isn't what equipment Kerry's got between his legs—it's that he's Kerry.
The exact same script plays across Johnny's face at the same time, a bit of uncertainty mixed with the what-ifs and ending in a struggle of willpower to finally, physically pull away.
That hurts more than if Johnny had simply hit him again.
Kerry doesn't care that he's crying, or that his thighs are trembling with the sudden lack of warmth. It's unfair, so unfair, how one man can have this much power over him. Watching Johnny stumble backwards, fingers dragging down his haggard face as the reality of the danger set in. He'd been too close this time, the whites of his eyes seemed to say. Too close to breaking the one rule he has in an otherwise lawless existence, which is to never touch Kerry Eurodyne. Like he somehow knows once he does, once they give in to whatever twisted charade this is meant to be, there'll be no turning back. Two suns orbiting each other, drawn irresistibly towards a spiral that will end in the destruction of the galaxy itself.
But now, here in this cheap motel, naked and heartbroken on the bed, Kerry can only feel the ache of the empty space between.
"Get cleaned up," Johnny says again, louder, less sharp.
"Go to hell."
"Take your shit downstairs. Van leaves in twenty."
"You hear me, Johnny?! Fuck you!"
"Be there, or we leave your ass behind for good."
"Get OUT!"
The door slams shut just as Kerry, reaching for the the nightstand, hurls a half-empty bottle of whiskey at Johnny's head. It barely misses him. Hits the wood instead, shattering and chipping the paint, littering the floor with cheap liquor, broken glass, bitter rage.
He'll regret wasting it later, when he doesn't want to be sober, doesn't want to be stuck in the van looking at Johnny who won't look back at him. He'll regret everything, and yet, as usual, he won't find the words to make it right until it's far too late.
PART TWO
2023 - End of the road
Noises, all too loud, all melding together into a single backdrop of deafening static. Some are familiar: the bass from the speakers down the hall, the fans screaming on the other side of the barricade. The rhythmic thrum, thrum of helicopter blades, spinning in a slow arc somewhere outside. No, that one’s new. So is the way Kerry’s heart’s resonating a war cry through every part of him, urging him to move, to go out there, to stop this. To just do fucking something instead of standing here, panicked and lost, as his world crumbles under the weight of indecision.
“Fuck,” he gasps, breathless as if sinking beneath a rising flood. His eyes are wide, blood racing with booze and adrenaline and nicotine. Outside, the chopper‘s blades pick up speed. “ Fuck! ”
He doesn’t actually remember opening the door. He just turns and suddenly everything is dark—the sky, the rooftop of the Hammer, the shadow where the helicopter is already lifting away—and he looks up to see him . Face pale, shades black as the night, illuminated only by the faint glow of a cigarette he holds pinched between his lips. Kerry takes one stumbling step, then another, thinking he can—what? That he can force the chopper back to the ground by sheer willpower? That if he screams loud enough, loves or hates Johnny hard enough, he’ll jump out, come back? It’s too late for that now. They both know it.
The chopper turns, arcing away from the club towards the eyesore tower at the city’s center, and taking his last view of Johnny with it. Too late.
A lone ember flickers and goes out against the dark sky. Behind it falls a cigarette, caught on the draft from the blades, spinning its way in a slow, chaotic descent to the roof. A last farewell from a man who had never been very good at them.
Numbly, Kerry picks it up. Crumpled, but still lit. He puts it to his lips, and sucks in a lungful of acrid smoke from what’s left of the filter. Holds it there long enough for the heat to set in, to burn at his flesh from the inside out, as if by doing so he can hold one last part of Johnny here with him. At least until his lungs spasm out a cough in protest. By then, the helicopter is long out of sight.
The memory of this night stays with him, haunts him , for years, decades even, the taste of Johnny’s last cigarette as bitter as all the words left unspoken on his tongue.
Later, in the aftermath, the media swarm is as expected as it is unwelcome. You were one of the last people to see him alive. Did you know this was going to happen? What was he like at the end? Could you have done anything to stop him? Kerry flips them all off from the back of his manager’s car, and tells the closest ass-kissing piece of shit to go choke on a whole dick.
But the questions remain. Stains that don’t come off as easily as the Samurai patch on his jacket had. They creep into his skin, crawl over the wires and living tissue inside him until they’re as ever-present as a virus he can’t decrypt. Could you have done anything to stop him? Fuck. He doesn’t know. He’ll never know the answer to that one.
Night City rebuilds, like it always does. A big, fat corporate machine devouring the ashes, the fallen dead, lifting up out of the rotting muck. It reminds Kerry of the war, even though he was too young to pick up a gun back then. But Johnny’d told him enough stories. Scorched earth, charred limbs reaching up out of the flames while drones fired down at anything that moved. Yeah, it was fucked, and so is this . A fucking nuke leveled half the city, and Arasaka’s barely even flinched. How could Johnny have expected to win against a corporate god?
Johnny Silverhand. Robert J. Linder.
Terrorist. Rockerboy.
Lunatic.
Legend.
Kerry doesn’t know who or what to believe anymore. He dives into his music, trying to find a balance between his past and his future, while drinking most of the present into a distant feed of sensations that are barely his own. Days blend together, and weeks and months and even fucking years. Time isn’t real, not when the money is rolling in and his shitty (yeah, he’ll admit it) covers of Samurai songs are still playing nonstop on the radio. Sometimes even he doesn’t feel real, especially not when he looks in the mirror and sees more gold plating than skin, blue eyes instead of brown, grey hairs popping out through the black despite the anti-aging treatments. His fans eat it up, of course, and he does love that they love him.
But in reality, the real Kerry Eurodyne is still standing in the dark, alone on the roof of the Hammer, at the exact moment his heart crumbled and sank like the ground beneath ‘Saka Tower. And while not for a lack of trying, there’s no amount of cyberware or self-medication or bloody corpo money that can undo the damage.
At least Johnny can rest in peace, wherever the bastard is, knowing in the end he managed to completely wipe one thing from the face of the earth.
206– Getting lonely, getting old
With time, all wounds heal.
That's what they say anyway, right? The corpos and the gonks out there who can't see just the kinda shit this world's gone to. It's all so fucking easy for some people, isn't it? They can love, live, break up. Bang some joytoy for revenge or send their ex drunk texts to get over it. For some, it's enough to recover their freedom after a divorce, start over with a life they themselves can choose.
Not Kerry Eurodyne, though. All the fame and fucking money, none of it was worth the bits of soul he'd forfeit in the end. Decades of being on top—only to be reduced to this.
The bottle of bourbon slips from his grip, smashing clean on the poolside deck two floors below. Oops , he thinks, more out of habit than because he gives a shit about the mess. He's got maids and shit for that, assuming he remembered to schedule them this month. Lots of things have gone forgotten lately. Maybe he really is going senile.
From the balcony of his North Oak villa, he stares out at the skyline of Night City. It's fuzzy, swaying a little, but he's pretty sure that's just the alcohol. In a way, though, it makes the city look alive, organic, like the dripping maw of a sprawling beast waiting to consume its prey. Fuck , he laughs darkly. That sounds like something Johnny would've said.
And here he goes spiraling again. Familiar, bitter tears sting unshed at the backs of his eyes, some forty odd years worth of them. No small wonder. Tonight of all nights, on the anniversary of Johnny’s death, his own life feels like it's come crashing down like the rubble of the old Arasaka Tower. It isn't even that Louise has left, because he saw that coming miles away. It isn't even about the kids, who he knows will be better off without him, or the chilling silence of a mansion far too big for one. This hurt, this emptiness, is much deeper, much older than any of the bullshit he's tried to use to fill the void. It's the hurt of a loss he could never come to terms with. A goodbye he never got to say, at least not the way he wanted.
It's about the ghosts and shadows he'll never be able to escape.
"Fuck you," he says aloud this time. The night seems to swallow up his voice as soon as it leaves him, and his bravado with it. "Happy yet, you bastard? Looks like you were right all along. 'Either you go out in a flaming ball of glory, or you end up just like everyone else.' Miserable ," he adds bitterly, and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
No one can hear him. No one is there to answer, which is probably for the best. When he gets like this, when the burden of all his meaningless success comes to weigh down his shoulders, he prefers to be alone in the dark. It's easier this way, he thinks, to say what really needs to be said.
"I miss you, y’know. God , I fuckin' miss you every day. And I hate you for leaving. 'Go your own way, Kerry. You got what it takes, Kerry .' Did you ever think maybe I wanted to make it with you , you asshole? We were a goddamn team. Now look at me. Take a good, hard look!"
He's imagined it so many times, the vision comes to him unsummoned. One second he's alone and half-dressed on his balcony, the next Johnny is standing next to him, a spitting image of the day he died. Dark eyes cold, determined, face set in the hard lines of a man who's taken his fate into his own hands. He grunts, an echo of a memory, and Kerry hears as voice as clearly as if he's really there.
Told you, didn't I? But you had to see it for yourself.
"What the fuck do you mean?" he grumbles to the empty night.
Sold your music, sold your soul. How's it feel getting fucked by the system, knowing you walked in and asked for it?
"You really think I asked for any of this?"
Don't tell me you weren't in it for the money, Ker. We both know you better than that. You bit off more than you could handle, always did. Only thing I think you ever truly needed was me.
"You don't know that."
But you do.
The ghost is gone, just another booze-and-pill induced hallucination carried away by the rancid breeze off the canal. Kerry covers his nose, then his eyes, then buries his entire face in his hands as he leans onto the railing. But you do . The words, and the voice that delivered them, racks him with desperate longing. He's considered it before, following Johnny into the void. He considers it now, looking between his fingers down at the shattered bottle on the pavement, glass spread out like jagged, dead stars in a pool of amber liquor sky. And he wonders if his body would look the same down there, just as broken, just as fractured. A death only as good as its sense of irony.
Kerry huffs out a laugh into the empty air. Those would make good lyrics, actually, for yet another song inspired by his own personal fucking ghost. Maybe one day he really will throw himself off this balcony, and then when they bury him, they can credit Johnny Silverhand on his fucking tombstone, too.
PART THREE
2077 One of my turns
The second he sees the kid, sitting there on his couch with the guitar, he knows . Its not the tune he’s playing—tons of die-hard fans have memorized every Samurai song ever made—but the way he’s playing it. Eyes closed, corners of his mouth tugged down in concentration, fingers flying over the chords like he wrote the damn thing.
And that, Kerry realizes, is because he did .
“Johnny?” The name leaves his lips in the form of a question, but what he’s really asking is, How the fuck is this possible? The shower should've sobered him up, and yet here he his, barefoot in his bathrobe, once again seeing ghosts. "Johnny, that you?"
The kid looks up, a barely perceptible smirk on his lips ( whoo, boy is he cute, but that's a problem for another time) and waves. "Hey, Ker."
"Keep fuckin' playing."
The rest of the night is a bit of a blur. They go upstairs, they drink some beer. He puts on an ancient Samurai concert scroll just for old time’s sake, and somewhere along the way figures he must be tripping balls. What were those uppers he took earlier laced with? He's gonna have a few strong words with his pill guy after all this.
But then, as the booze settles in and a nice buzz builds in the back of his skull, he realizes he isn't actually high at all. This is real. This is happening. Johnny’s been brought back from the dead, or at least the dickhead rockerboy personality part of him he keeps calling an ' engram ', whatever that means. And while his face and body are different (Kerry's been looking at that body, quite a lot actually, so sue him) there's no denying the mannerisms belong to Silverhand and Silverhand alone.
It's going to take some…getting used to.
By the end of the night, they're both drunk, just like back in the good old days. Johnny's reclined on the sofa, boots kicked up, one arm folded over his face to block the bright lights, and it's almost too much. Kerry feels his throat tighten. Fifty years , he thinks, bitterly over the cheers and music blaring from his TV speakers. Fifty years, and he hasn't changed a goddamned bit.
Kerry, though? Kerry's a whole new person, inside and out. New implants, new voice, new eyes. Hell, these aren't even his real freckles, he just got them as a bonus with his platinum upgrade skin package. There's new hurt, too. Loves and losses, plenty of nights he can't remember, too many he does. He's made something of himself, he's his own brand now, not a sidekick to be billed second on a poster. He's Kerry-fucking-Eurodyne, most legendary rockstar of Night City, and that took effort . Who's Johnny Silverhand compared to all he's achieved? Who in all of NUSA even remembers his name?
Johnny—through the cute merc—flashes a gorgeous pair of day-glo kiroshis in his direction and smirks. "I think my time's almost up," he says, as if he can read Kerry's exact train of thoughts. "Kid's asking for his body back. He's V, by the way. Be gentle."
Kerry doesn't know what to say to that—to any of this, honestly, because it's all pretty fucked even for his social circle—so he simply takes another sip of his drink to fill the pause. Thankfully, Johnny's always been happy to listen to the sound of his voice. Even, apparently, when it's not technically his own.
"We're trying to get along, V and I. Play happy roommates, or something like that. So when he wakes up hungover as fuck, make sure you tell him the extra shots of tequila were your idea."
"Uh huh. Right."
"And, uh. Thanks, Ker."
"What for?"
"I don't know, listenin' to me? Not actually shooting me in the face?" He sits up, a little off balance, and massages the bruised bridge of his nose. "V's a good kid. An idiot sometimes, but his heart's in the right place. I promised I'd keep him, uh. Intact."
It's strange, hearing Johnny of all people talk like this. Kerry starts to think maybe he has changed a little, after all. Or maybe he's got this V kid to thank for that. Either way, he finds himself smiling over the rim of his glass, unable to hold it back. "You're lucky I believe in ghosts, then. Never thought that'd come in handy, did you?"
"Superstitious bastard," Johnny smiles back. Then he sighs, and closes his eyes, and goes rigid on the edge of the couch. It's a startling thing to watch. Kerry absently traces the sign of the cross over his chest—y’know, just in case—before standing and closing the distance between himself and the unmoving merc.
"Uhh, hello? Anybody in there?" He snaps his fingers in front of the kid's face. Is this normal? He probably should have asked first so he'd at least know what to expect. If something goes wrong and he ends up with a comatose merc on his conscience….
The kid gasps suddenly, swaying forward, and Kerry nearly shrieks in surprise. "Jesus fuck , kid!"
"O-oh. Uh?" He looks a little disoriented, eyes blinking rapidly in calibration and fingers folding together tight in his lap. Like he doesn't know what to do with them, or it could be nerves. Kerry swallows the lump in his throat long enough to introduce himself.
"...You must be V. Johnny, uh, mentioned this might happen. I'm Kerry."
"Yeah, I know."
"Ah, 'course. I guess, uh, sorry about the nose. Y’know," he grins awkwardly, imitating bringing the butt of a gun down like a hammer. "Can't be too careful about break-ins. Even the good-lookin’ ones."
"Mmh. It's fine. Happens a lot more than you'd think," V answers, the hint of a shy smile curling the corners of his lips and goddamn if that's not just about the cutest thing Kerry's ever seen. Maybe he can work with this.
"You should know you've had a lot to drink. Well, Johnny had a lot to drink, but seein’ as how you two share a liver, you'll be the one sleeping it off. Need a place to crash? I've got this big old mansion and no one to fill it but me."
V follows his meaning down to the hand on his thigh, gentle yet pursuasive all the same. Despite what Johnny said, this kid seems quick on the pick-up. He smiles back up at Kerry, and ah, yeah , he can definitely work with this.
"Sounds great. I've always wanted to spend the night in a rockstar pad."
2078 Shine on you crazy diamond
It's a pretty typical morning for Kerry Eurodyne, which these days means he's got absolutely shit-all to do. He usually wakes up sometime around noon, and shuffles downstairs to the big shower where he falls asleep again for a while under the warm rush of water. Then he might get dressed, or he might not, who cares, and fuck around with some chords in the semblance of writing his next big hit. But mostly he's drinking, smoking, drifting off for well-deserved naps.
This is how most days go at One North Oak Drive, at least when V—his input or his output, depending on the mood—is off on a job. Which is most days, actually, despite all of Kerry's money and the desire to be running his fingers over a hot merc instead of guitar strings all the time. But it is what it is, and what it is works.
For the most part.
The one hitch in their happily-ever-after is, as per fucking usual, Johnny Silverhand. If Kerry thought it was nigh impossible to believe it the first time they'd "met," then living with the ghost of his ex-band mate possessing the body of his current squeeze (okay, he knows it's called an engram and Johnny's not really there, it's a flashbang snapshot of his personality in digital form, but it's still fucking creepy. Plus, "ghost" has a better ring to it, and really pisses Johnny the fuck off, which is fun) is damn near to torture. Kerry never knows when Johnny's lurking around. V says it's pretty constant, though, which means he's there for everything . The sex, the cuddling, the stupid arguments over who left the fridge open, more sex. There's…a lot of sex, okay? But even when Kerry's focused on V, on his voice and his body and the little groans he makes deep in his throat that could make an android cream its circuits, he can't forget that a part of the person he's fucking is also Johnny.
And that does some fucked up shit to his head.
On one hand, it's weird, awkward. Fifty years ago maybe things would've been easier. Kerry could've let his freak flag fly and begged for the delicious torment, gotten off on the idea of Johnny being forced to watch, unable to touch or push him away. But he's different now. He's eighty-fucking-nine years old and that petty shit is beneath him.
Okay, that might be a lie. He's still petty, and sure, there's also a part of him that does get off to the idea of Johnny having a front row seat to the sight of his ass getting eaten 'til he comes. Ironic, considering how Johnny was always so determined in the past not to see him that way. Now, he can't look anywhere else. V won't let him.
But Johnny’s never been an active participant in any of it. Sometimes he’ll come out for a brief furlough, once he and V have established the base rules and Johnny’s learned to ask politely, mostly just to play guitar on the couch, or smoke a whole pack of cigarettes like a man starved. Sometimes he takes V’s bike and cruises around the city for half a day. Kerry figures he must have missed it, in his own fucked up way. That, or he’s a masochist who enjoys seeing just how little of an impact his brief, bright, supernova of a life had on it all in the end.
Today, though. Today’s different.
Kerry opens his eyes to the incessent golden light of mid-morning, and the first thought he has is how pissed he is to be awake before noon. His second thought is that maybe he isn’t all that pissed, because V’s kneeling on the bed beside him, leaning over him with a hint of a smirk on his lips.
“Hey, babe,” Kerry croons, voice like smoke and tinder. It’s neat trick of the syn-cords in his throat, that even first thing in the morning he can make himself sound like rough sex. “You just gonna stare, or you gonna get in here for a close-up?”
“Jesus, Ker. I thought I was bad, but shit. Does that gonk line ever actually work?”
He’s instantly sitting up, flying off the pillows so fast he almost bowls V—Johnny?—right off the bed. “Fuck. Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“ That . I thought you were…. God, it’s fuckin’ creepy when you wear his skin.”
“Yeah, well.” V—Johnny—sits back on his—V’s—calves and shrugs like he’s somehow the victim in all this. “Kid said I could come out to play for a bit. Wanted to ask you to jam with me, hash out some progressions I got floatin’ around in my head. But I can see you’re already busy being a bitch this morning.”
‘Creepy’ doesn’t really capture it, Kerry decides. He looks like V and sounds like V, but the clip of his tone and the constantly bored- slash -disgusted expression he wears are staples of the Silverhand special. He’s also pulled the dogtags V hangs around his neck out from under his crop-top, where they glint in the light and clink together obnoxiously every time he moves. God . For a man who always hated subliminal corpo marketing, he sure knew how to make a brand out of himself.
“Okay, okay, just. Gimme a sec, will ya? I was havin’ a nice dream before you showed up to make it a nightmare.”
“Yeah, so I noticed.” Even without his aviators, the way Johnny tilts his chin down to peer over invisible frames looks really fucking judgmental. “Still poppin’ morning wood at your age? Color me impressed, Ker. All I can get these days are 'chippies.'”
“What—“
“Nevermind, Inside joke. Anyway, you gonna take care of this problem? Or would you prefer V back at the wheel to help? He’s more at home in the sucking-other-gonk’s-dicks department last I checked.”
“Are you seriously asking if I’d prefer to have my input back, or sit here arguing with your dead, self-obsessed, natural disaster of an ass all day? Of course I fuckin’ want V back!”
“Well tough shit.” Johnny rolls his shoulders, popping V’s back in several places to the accompanying sounds of satisfied groans. “I got half a day of freedom, and I’m not giving up a second of it just for you to get your gold-plated rocks off. So, I’ll ask again. Gonna take care of it?”
“ Tch . With you watchin'? Pass.”
“Why? I’ve seen worse.”
“Right, because you’re like a goddamn poltergeist hitching a ride in my boyfriend’s skull.” Despite his reservations, Kerry pushes up onto his elbows until he’s found a more comfortable position. He sinks back, pulling his robe open fully, and isn’t all that surprised when Johnny’s gaze drops to take in the view. “Fuckin’ makes my skin crawl knowing you’re in there, watching.”
“Like you’ve ever minded an audience, Ker.”
The undertone of amusement in Johnny’s voice falters almost imperceptibly as Kerry reaches between his own legs. His fingers slide deftly over the bulge in the front of his favorite black thongs, nails catching on the fabric and tugging it to the side. It feels nice, sure, but suddenly Kerry is far more interested in the way Johnny’s looking at him—really looking , eyes trained and focused above a subtle bob of his throat. Is that need he sees there? Or simply V’s body reacting to temptation even with a stranger at the wheel?
Kerry flicks his tongue out to wet his lips, determined to find out. “An audience? Yeah, I don’t mind a payin’ fucking audience, but you could never afford one of my shows.”
“These the same ‘shows’ you were handin’ out to every gonk with a flashy smile and a ‘ganic dick back in the day? Spreading your legs backstage for half the roadies—“
“While you fucked the other half of ‘em, yeah. Nice try, but slut shaming doesn’t work so well if you’re a slut, too.”
“That right?” A very Johnny-like grin spilts V’s cheeks, eyes narrow and predatory in a way that doesn’t quite suit the merc, but which gets Kerry that much harder beneath his palm. “You keep a runnin' tab on me? For every cunt I fucked, you had to suck some gonk off to even the score? You were so obsessed with me, Ker. Can’t say I don’t miss the attention. It was flattering, in a fucked up way.”
He’s gripping himself now, not tight enough yet to satisfy the urges pulsing in the back of his skull, but a light stroke draws a moan from him anyway. Johnny is still here, still hasn’t turned away from this, and that knowledge alone is driving Kerry insane. Echoes of a memory, of rough hands and sweat in a grimy hotel room, take him back in time. He’s younger, but Johnny…Johnny is the same. Unchanged, as maddeningly perfect as the last day they spoke.
Kerry snatches up the dog tags dangling around Johnny’s neck, and pulls him forward hard. “Then fuckin’ make me feel it again, you bastard.”
V’s lips are familiar, but the kiss is something new for them both. Rough, raw, hungry, no room for soft breaths or gentle touches in between. There’s purpose in the way Johnny kisses him, less foreplay and more inexperienced teen trying to get the job done in a hurry. Or maybe they’ve both been needing this for too long—fifty goddamn years too long—and this is how it feels for the tension to finally snap like a severed lifeline. They plummet, tumbling deeper together, falling too fast to see or care where this leads, or what happens when they hit the ground. Kerry grabs onto Johnny tight, and lets the rush of it take him.
Hands find his hips, his stomach, pulling and pushing, and he rolls up to meet the sweet friction of a firm, famliar body. A distant part of him wonders if V is in the mix somewhere, too, and how he feels about this. He and Johnny have a firm rule about keeping his dick safely in his pants, after all. But it isn’t clear if that rule still applies to Kerry , who is already using his foot to slide V’s leggings down his thighs. Most likely, he’ll just pout about not being invited to join in.
Next time , Kerry promises with a kiss to Johnny’s—V’s—jaw, and moans as his cock is trapped between a sudden rolling of hips.
For all his usual incessant chatter, Johnny doesn’t have much to say right now, it seems. He’s breathless from the kiss, and so hungry for physical touch he can’t keep his hands in any one place. Grabbing, squeezing, nails digging into every inch of lean flesh he can reach, like he can’t decide if he wants to bruise Kerry, fuck him, or just tear him to pieces on the spot. Kerry can’t decide, either, and that sends another bolt of desperate need arcing through him.
“Fuck. Fuck , do that again,” he gasps, as Johnny’s entire hand tightens around a palm-full of ass. It isn’t silver and chrome anymore, but it sure bites like it is. “I’ve got…in the drawer… Y’know what? Fuck it.”
“Yeah?”
“V’s clean.”
“Are you?”
“Go to hell, Silverhand. Again.”
“Mmm. I really missed our chats, Ker.”
Both to shut him up and to buy some time, Kerry drags Johnny’s smirking, gonk mouth down into another kiss. Heat flares between them; feels like his circuits are overloading, his senses overlapping in a dizzying blur of touch and sound and taste, the combination of V’s sweat and Johnny’s throaty growls making it hard to focus. His fingers swipe up a generous amount of precum from the tip of his own leaking cock, bring it between his legs and under Johnny’s weight to open himself. One, two tips in. Good enough , he thinks, impatient, and cleans the rest off on V’s shirt.
The next part, at least, Johnny can handle by himself. He lines up without much prompting, and pins Kerry’s leg open wide on the mattress. Thrusts forward to push against the resistance. A sharp exhale. He groans something in a voice like static, something that sounds suspiciously like a colorful curse, and tries again to force his way past too-tight muscles.
“ Fuuck .”
“S-shit. Johnny, c’mere.”
He shuffles onto his knees. Kerry meets him halfway, taking a moment to worship those taut, hard-earned abs with his mouth before dropping to swallow his cock instead. It’s not his best work, but he’s in a hurry, and the sooner he gets Johnny inside him the better off they’ll both be. After a few messy passes, he sits up on his calves to wipe the corners of his mouth on his sleeve.
Now Johnny’s really eyeing him. Dark, intense. It’s a look that sends shivers up and down the length of Kerry’s spine, a warning just before the pounce comes. He’s turned around, putting up zero resistance as Johnny shoves him towards the headboard and swats his knees apart. A palm comes down to strike his ass where it’s already stinging and red. Again, on the other side for good measure, and Johnny drags his hips back to sink his weight on him, cock hard and ready this time. The tip pushes in, and Kerry arches to take more, faster, impatience edging him towards recklessness.
And god damn , it burns so good! Kerry thinks as he sinks against the headboard, jaw going slack and body pliant. All the years of imagining this, dreaming of this, of having Johnny Silverhand in complete control of his pleasure, and none of it compares to the real deal. The only thing missing between this and his fantasies is Johnny's fist around his throat—
Oh. There it is.
Johnny squeezes, driving hard into him at the same time. Kerry's fingers claw for purchase on mahogany, and he lets out a strangled moan in encouragement. Again that cock hits him hard, deep, blurring his vision, or maybe that's the titanium-reinforced hand on his neck, tightening around his implants. The polycarbonate bends easily, molding under Johnny's unrelenting grip, and Kerry bucks backwards on instinct to break free.
" Fuuck ," he hears Johnny groan, long and low and appreciative. There’s something almost V in that tone, a hint of softness that awakens a different sort of longing deep in Kerry’s chest. He wants to look back, wants to see that familiar face twisted in pleasure and know that they’re both in there. But Johnny holds him fast, pulls him back by the throat to arch against his chest, where he can feel the thundering beat of his heart and the molten heat of his breath.
Like this they form a rhythm, falling into sync as naturally as ever, only the instruments are different now, the stage made only for them. Kerry latches onto Johnny’s arm for balance, his other hand dropping to his cock for a few strokes of relief. Close as he is, he doesn’t want to come yet, not when the pressure inside him is still building past the point of overload.
But it’s hard to hold back when Johnny’s thrusting deeper and deeper into him, caught up in chasing his own pleasure as his breathing turns ragged. The hand on Kerry’s throat tightens again—there’s a creaking as the plastic threatens to snap under the pressure—and that’s the end of his resistance, Kerry’s body shudders as climax rushes over him, cock spurting and leaking over his fist onto the long-since ruined sheets. Over the sound of blood in his ears and his own gasping moans, he barely hears Johnny losing control behind him. A few more rough thrusts, teeth biting down on Kerry’s shoulder just above his tattoo, and Johnny releases inside him, explosive and violent as the man himself.
He’s the first to pull away when they finish. Casually avoiding the various stains on dark sheets, he collapses onto his back on V’s side of the bed, and reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the side table.
Wordlessly, Kerry sinks down face-first into his gaudy-but-heavenly soft pillows. His entire body is still vibrating with energy, electric pulses of residual pleasure drawing a series of satisfied hums and sighs from his lips. He’s smiling when he finally unburies his face and turns to watch Johnny smoke.
“…V hates it when you do that, y’know.”
Johnny scoffs, blowing a puff of grey smoke into the air. It rolls languidly up towards the ceiling, in no hurry to disappate. “Yeah. I know. Don’t see why, though. His rich gonk of an output can front him a new pair of lungs.” Without asking—without needing to—he passes a cig to Kerry, and leans closer long enough to light it for him.
The smoke immediately fills Kerry’s chest and the parts of his brain still full of static, quieting the chaos after a few blessed drags. It takes some effort to turn fully onto his side, but the view is well worth the discomfort. “Mmm, yeah. But I think it’s the principle.”
“The kid’s got too many of those for my tastes.”
Kerry laughs, more a cynical breath pushed through his nose than anything. The smoke is starting to burn his throat, and he’s surprised at how raw it feels. Probably best to get his ripper to look at it, just in case there’s any damage beneath the casing. He’s ripped up the chords before, but usually on stage after a particularly passionate concert, not from fucking his dead best-friend in his cyber-enchanced merc input’s body.
The thought leaves him smirking. His life is pretty damn thrilling sometimes.
“So. You, uh, still up for running those progressions by me?” he asks, after Johnny’s been silent for a while and he’s starting to wonder if he’s still awake, or even still in there.
The harsh laugh he recieves in reply confirms it. “After all that? Nah. Been ages since I got laid 'thought feelin' it through somebody else's circuits,” Johnny says as he waves his cigarette dramatically in the air. “I got a fifty-year nap comin’ on.”
"One and done, huh? Never took Johnny Silverhand for a quitter."
"Fuck you. Doubt you've ever gone dry longer than a week."
"Generous estimate." The way Johnny grins, even on V's lips, has Kerry's chest swelling from more than the cig. "Just admit it. This was good."
"Hm."
"Is that a ' yes' I hear? Or a ' yes, Ker, you were right, I was wrong, I should've fucked you years ago' ?"
" Je sus, you always this insufferable after sex?"
"Only when I'm sober. Lucky you." They fall silent again as Kerry, sliding his hand down over the sheets, curls his fingers together with Johnny's. He's expecting a quip, or maybe to be slapped away. But it never comes. Johnny simply allows it, staring quietly off into the smoke that drifts above them. It occurs to Kerry just how much he's changed, after all.
He squeezes his fingers just a little more around the ones he's holding. "Who d'ya think V's gonna be more pissed at when he wakes up. You, or me?"
"Why would he be pissed?" Johnny asks, in that bored, holier-than-thou way of his. Kerry frowns. "You really don't get it? The kid practically gave me his blessing this morning. Said somethin' about hormones and old flames, and 'knowin' what's best for a couple of geezers.' I wasn't really listening, but I caught the part where he said I could give his junk a test drive."
"That little shit."
"You're the one lettin' him fuck you."
"Guess that's one more thing you two have in common."
Johnny doesn't bother to answer anymore. His cigarette is nearly gone, so he stubs the rest of the butt out in an ashtray on the floor (Kerry keeps meaning to clean up, or at least call the housekeeping back, but he never seems to get around to it). Whe he settles back in the pillows, he's got a pensive look on his face, V's elegant kiroshi's slowly scanning across the ceiling as if reading something there. Then, so softly Kerry almost doesn't hear it at first, he starts to hum.
It's gentle, melodic, a little off-key until Johnny gets the hang of V's vocal chords. But it's beautiful. Kerry's never heard the tune before, and he figures it must be the one Johnny's been working on, a new Silverhand original fifty years in the making.
Careful not to interrupt, Kerry stubs out his own cigarette and settles down against Johnny's side. The melody washes over him, lulls him as his eyes drift closed and his fingers slide idly over bare skin, holding Johnny—V—close and comfortable, the sound of that voice resonating through them both. Familiar, somehow, like this is how it was always meant to be.
Later, when Kerry finally opens his eyes again, it's brighter outside, after noon. The body next to him is the same, just as warm and just as solid, but the eyes watching him are gentler than before. V's smiling.
"Mornin'," the merc says, knowing full well it's past time for that. Kerry yawns in reply, and rolls onto his back, giving V just the right amount of space to sink down into the curve of his arm. "Johnny's wiped out in here." He taps his temple, grinning. "Think this is the quietest he's been since, well, ever."
"Guess I'll take credit for that." Despite the humor in his tone, and what Johnny told him earlier, Kerry still eyes V carefully as he speaks, trying to guage his reaction. "If that's cool."
"Mhmm. 'Bout time you both worked things out. Having him brooding next to our bed all the time was starting to get exhausting."
"Hey." When V glances up, Kerry tightens his arm around him, and leans in to brush their lips together. The gesture lingers for a moment. V kisses him back, fingers gently tracing the gold plating around his throat implants and body pressing close. Kerry can't resist the temptation to drag V's knee up to drape his bare thigh across his waist. "Thanks, babe. Y'know. For givin' us a chance. Johnny and me."
"Stubborn as you two gonks are, someone had to step in." Smiling, V begins to trail a line of warm, wet kisses along Kerry's rough jaw, humming pleasantly at the scratch of his beard until he can suck the gold hoops of his earrings between his lips. Kerry groans, eyes already fluttering closed again. "Besides. Watching my body wreck you like that was pretty fucking hot."
Blue eyes swim with sudden affection. Kerry combs his finger back through V's short, dark hair, tightening at the nape and holding him close as the purposeful kisses resume, this time on his neck. He starts to say something, a quip, suggestive and witty, but V's mouth is already rendering him unable to form words. The merc has a way of doing that, of helping him focus on experiencing the moment instead of trying to grasp it, name it, control it. There's nothing that needs to be said anyway. Their bodies speak for them, all the gratitude and love made physical, lingering touches and kisses that spark like electricity, igniting beneath the skin. Everything is brought to light this way, the shadows banished, just as they'd promised a long time ago on a rooftop in Kerry's recent memories.
In a way, V is everything Johnny is not, all the things Kerry never knew he needed until the day they met. He needs both of them, he realizes now. His past and future twined together in one present, where he can be whole for the first time. The real Kerry Eurodyne. Finally, complete.