Chapter Text
Morning.
Something felt different.
It was one of those mornings: he awoke, activated his scanner to check for anything out of the ordinary, then toddled off to the shower. Familiar UI initialized into view as he checked his messages. Several. Mostly random chatter, which he made a mental note to respond to later. And then one from Kerry:
" Heyyyy, do you wanna come over later? :* "
He thought as he soaped the long stubble on his head that passed for hair. Rinsed, then thought-replied simply: " Of course. I always miss you. <3 " Kerry would like that. It stroked his ego, something V was all too happy to do. Later, maybe he'd stroke something else. As always, the thought sent a thrill through him. But it couldn't last. It was drowned out: he was lost in the sensations of a good, hot shower. As hot as he could stand it, so that the whole of his bathroom was sweating with condensation and his skin turned red and splotchy. He lathered the rest of himself, taking special care around the joints of his cybernetic arms and where they joined into his shoulders. Or rather, quite a lot of him required that special care now. His arms, densely coiled mechanical muscle ending in sharp nails. The sandevistan that lay exposed along his spine. His throat, where a long V joined above his collarbones: the replaced voice-box. And any number of exposed 'ware that sat like a minefield of icebergs poking through his skin. Sometimes, he felt more cybernetic than human. Hard muscle. Hard metal. Hard heart.
He stood far longer than necessary under the scalding hot spray, lifting his face to let it run over him. It was hard to worry about his future water bill. It would be outrageous, but...
"I have no future," he said to no one. His future had died in the back of the Delamain with Jackie. It had died when he woke up in Viktor's clinic. And it had died again with every dead-end lead he'd followed. It felt like it had been years since Konpeki. If only.
The rest happened mechanically: he stepped out of the shower, dried off, shaved, and was brushing his teeth in front of the mirror. He was scarcely aware of any of it until a sharp jolt brought him back to reality. He coughed. The sort of wet, nasty cough that left his throat burning and head spinning. He spat into the sink. There was blood mixed in with the toothpaste and foam. V grimaced.
"It's getting worse..."
Yes, something was different. He just wasn't sure what; he wasn't even sure it bore thinking about right then. So he decided to push it away while he had the first cigarette of his day. The first was always the best.
"You know, you're worse than I was," came Johnny's voice. V turned his head to follow the sound, craning his head to get around his missing right eye. There he was, sitting next to him at the table, slouched and apparently carefree in his vest, with his aviators perched on his forehead. Like him, Johnny had a lit cigarette, except his was between his fingers. V scowled.
"Worse how?" he thought back. The cigarette dangled from his lips now as he cleaned his shotgun, puffing absently.
"Hard to believe, I know." The ghost smiled at him in that knowing way that made his blood boil just a little. "But you actually smoke more than me." He exhaled smoke in V's direction, something the other man felt he could almost taste. That was probably just from his own cigarette, though. "Not that I mind. Nicotine keeps me mellow." His gaze was steady on V as he "spoke." V laughed then. The sound burst out of him, stilling his hands as his shoulders hunched just a little.
"Mellow? You? You're so full of piss and vinegar, I'm surprised your eyes didn't turn fucking yellow." Johnny had the gall to feign offense, clapping a hand to his chest even as he grinned. V's eye crinkled as he looked away from Johnny, shaking his head. The man shrugged, something V felt rather than saw as he turned back to oiling his shotgun. Grime built up so quickly in the damn thing, but that was to be expected from the almost perpetual nature of his work. Every day, Stan came on the radio with the Body Count. It was surprising if the Count was less than 30. Most days were higher. He wondered how many of them were from him. Did anyone report the deaths of gangers or scavs? Or of their victims? His mood darkened. His shotgun, reassembled, sat glittering afore him. A machine of death which shone brightly with pride. Sometimes he felt he and the gun were one and the same. It was an extension of him, just like his cybernetics. The thought brought a smile to his face.
He checked his messages again, then lit another cigarette—the first had burnt to the filter. Time for the second of the day.
Noon.
Blood. Everywhere. He was in the thick of it. Just where he wanted to be. To his left and ahead, Maelstrom screaming bloody murder. To his right, Tyger Claws. He'd been passing through on his way to the next gig—there were always more, especially here in Watson—when gunfire broke out, then bullets peppered his car as he'd come down the street. Just unlucky, really. It looked like the Body Count was about to go up. If anyone reported these, anyway.
V zipped between combatants. His synapses burned white-hot. In front of him, the maelstrom's mouth hung open in shock. She turned to face him in slow-motion, screaming to her friends as she brought her SMG around to face him. Too slow. She found a shotgun pressed against her sternum. Her red optics met his eye. Or something like that. It didn't matter. He squeezed the trigger. Her insides became her outsides. Off-white coolant and blood sprayed from her back as it blew open, flinging chunks across the ground. She gaped at him. This was the final moment of her life, stretching out in front of him. For her, it was over in a split second. For him, it felt far longer. He moved on to the next ganger without a second thought, already reloading as he turned away from her. The next one lost his arm and part of his ribcage. It was just gone. He couldn't help it: he laughed. The giddy sound rose from his gut and bubbled into his mouth as he flung himself around the battlefield, shrugging off bullets. The blood pump implanted in his chest thumped in time with his two hearts, spurring him on. Faster! Faster! More!
Without thinking, he wrapped his arm around the neck of the nearest, hapless goon, letting gunfire speckle their soon to be corpse. He grinned fiercely, baring fanged, gold teeth and sank them into their shoulder. The ganger screamed. Blood filled his mouth. He spat and dropped them, limp, to the ground. His sandevistan ran out, then, and still there were more. In the corner of his vision, the timer ticked down. The minimum safe time until he could use it again. Blood and coolant covered him head to toe, or it felt that way. Not dry enough to be sticky. Wet, soaking into and staining yet another shirt. A problem for later. The problem of now was yet before him. He panted heavily. Sweat dripped down his temples. Grinned breathlessly, spreading his arms wide at the stunned Tyger Claws that remained. Daring them to attack and seal their fate.
Of course, they did. They always did. A few decided it wasn't worth it and ran, and V let them. That was a problem for later too. Everything was a problem for later. He threw himself into Now, breathless and giddy and wide-eyed with delight. Nothing made him feel alive like this did.
When the last of the bodies had hit the ground and the dust had settled, V alone was the last man standing. He stood there panting with exertion, sweating through his shirt where it clung to him like a neglected lover. His hands trembled, legs shook. He shivered. Then straightened and wiped the blood and grime from his face. Then of course, his next cigarette was lit and dangling from his lips. It felt like it happened in slow motion: click, crackle, inhale. This was the worst part. Coming down from the high of combat. Returning to normalcy. It was like falling back into himself. When he was fighting, his body was singing. Now, there was silence beyond his heart beating too-loud in his ears. Well, silent as a place like Night City could be, anyway, but the sounds of the city were so familiar to a street rat like him that he almost didn't notice them anymore. Now, he forced himself to. It was comforting, the way life went on around him. Scarcely, anyone even looked up at the sound of gunfire. Cars passed in the street. Pedestrians filtered back out of alleys where they'd sheltered in the chaos. Nearby, his car rumbled at idle where he'd left it. He stepped over the broken, mangled bodies bleeding out on the concrete without even looking at them as he walked back to his car. It took a while, but his hearts eventually slowed to something resembling a normal rhythm. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. His blood pump implant stilled, sensing it was no longer needed. He heaved a sigh, suddenly tired, and collapsed heavily into his car. Perhaps a little nap was in order. The merc sprawled across both front seats, head thumping dully against the passenger-side window. He let his eye close. Blessed darkness...
"You really shouldn't push yourself so hard for nothing," Johnny drawled.
V's eye fluttered open. There he was, laid across the windshield with its swiss cheese holes and spider-web cracks. The ghost turned to regard him with something approaching worry in his eyes. Although V could hardly see them through the aviators perched precariously low on his nose. He grimaced.
"Oh spare me the lecture, mommy," he groaned. "As if you're one to talk, all the dumb shit you did while you were alive." Here, alone in his car, he spoke openly to the ghost in his head. Sometimes he forgot that he was the only one who could hear Johnny, see him. The image above him glitched, shimmering, then suddenly the rockerboy was in the backseat instead, leaning his arms against the front seats with his chin on his wrists. V got the sensation of heat rolling off him, although he knew that was impossible. He felt the rocker's breath tickle the sensors of his hand where it had fallen against the seat. Again, impossible. He gave the ghost a look: part question, part curiosity. He imagined he could feel the other man, sometimes, when he drew too near. A brush of skin when they sat next to each other. Heat from his body. His breath. His sweat. And sometimes he wondered if he couldn't feel more, if he just thought about it hard enough. What if he could feel him? Strong hands and cold metal pinning him to the bed... The rocker's beard tickling at his throat, or the inside of his thigh. He felt himself flush pink, which forced him to look away from the expectant gaze of his roommate.
"Sure," the ghost was saying, seemingly unaware of the wandering train of V's thoughts. "But that was 50 years ago. If you want to survive long enough to find a cure..." He let the implication hang in the air.
V swallowed on the new lump in his throat. Not even an innocent fantasy helped that. It was like Johnny felt his desire burgeoning and just, squashed it flat. An annoying habit on both sides: him pursuing, Johnny evading. His blood ran hot after a fight like that, and Johnny knew it. Perhaps it was just funny for the old man, seeing someone much younger than him lust after him and yet try to hide it.
"I hate when you're right." The words ground out of him. This reminder of his ticking clock was unwanted. Silently, he sat up in the front seat. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
"I'm always right." In the rearview mirror, Johnny smiled in self satisfaction. There was a long beat. Then: "Anyway, save it for your output. You're not my type." His eyes trailed knowingly over the merc, who felt himself flush in response. Of course he'd noticed. Embarrassing. Of course. They shared a head, after all.
"Right..." V thought about it for a moment as he drove. Not his type..? He'd seen the rocker's memories. The sheer breadth of lovers that the man had taken to his bed, or the counter, or the floor, or really anywhere, was shocking. He'd only caught snippets of it all, but it was enough to have a guess at his type. V's brow crinkled and he smiled in bemusement. "What do you mean, not your type?" He glanced at the backseat via the rearview mirror. "I'm pretty sure your type is anyone with two legs and a pulse." Johnny snorted, but didn't reply. Instead, he turned around in his seat and leaned against the back of the driver's seat, hooking his legs up onto the back dash. It didn't look comfortable. Not at all. But that meant Johnny was done talking, for now. Fair enough. He stubbed out the end of his cigarette into the car's in-dash ashtray, then lit another. Thank god for syn-lungs. Get 'em cleaned out once in a while and they were ready to be abused all over again. Like magic, really.
Night.
V had plenty of time to think on the drive over to Kerry's. The sun was just setting as he pulled into the rockstar's driveway, grit crunching under the tires of his worn out but trusty blue Villefort Deleon. After he killed the engine, he sat for a moment in the strange silence of the cabin. It was so unlike anywhere else, here in North Oak. Up high in the hills, even here in the driveway he looked down upon his home. It always made him wistful, in a strange way. He'd been born down there in the gutter. He expected he'd flatline there too. It felt strange crawling out of the familiar, dirty sprawl and into a rich man's bed...
His output was something of a night owl, which suited him just fine, because he was too. "Morning", to him, was something akin to 10am at the earliest. At this hour, he expected that Kerry was ordering in dinner, half of which would surely end up scattered to the floor among the empty bottles and takeout containers. It was a wonder there was any floor left, by now. Surely someone as rich as him could afford a whole fleet of housekeepers? This had clearly been building up for a while. However, he wasn't of a mind to fix it himself, but rather to complain about it just to annoy his lover. He was picking through the scattered fries and wrinkled, carelessly discarded clothing. He entered without knocking, like usual, scanning across the main floor and listening. Music. Back living room. The sound of a guitar, strummed and plucked aimlessly like a tortured animal. Then happening onto a string of notes the player apparently liked, it finally settled into a rhythm, falling and rising and ending in a series of staccato notes. The sequence of notes rang out again, became a pattern. He tilted his head, listening carefully. Somewhere along the way to Kerry's house, he'd changed from his sodden, stained clothes, into something that was, if not fresh, at least clean and comfortable. He'd even washed his face. Imagine that! It was a bit tricky getting the dried, sticky blood out of his goatee, but ultimately he managed. Thankfully his upper lip was kept clean-shaven, otherwise it might've smarted something awful. He even spritzed on a little bit of cologne for the occasion, just on his neck and collar.
He wandered into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. Just a small one, but he reckoned it'd be enough. It'd help stave off the sleep begging behind his eyelid whenever he closed it long enough. As coffee poured piping hot out of the machine into his waiting cup, he took a long drag of his cigarette, flicked the ashes into an ashtray that he'd brought over from the coffee table, and leaned against the counter. The strong aroma of coffee wafted up to him and he inhaled the scent greedily. Just the smell was enough to wake him up, it felt like. He inhaled deeply, closing his eye. Just enjoyed himself, letting the music from the far room wash over him. But there was an itch. In the back of his mind. In his fingers. He felt tightly coiled, try as he might to relax. His mechanical fingers spasmed. The joints clicked as they turned side-to-side. Twisted. He balled his hands into fists against the counter. Anything to stop the tremors.
The guitar died in the back living room. He braced himself, but didn't open his eye. Instead, he heard Kerry coming. That carefree step tip-tapping, thunk-thunking across the floor.
"Hey, V." He opened his eye, smiling pleasantly. There he was. It was easy falling into the other man's arms. Easy leaning in for a kiss and breathing him in. He smelled something like whiskey and old cigarette smoke and something like spicy aftershave. The concoction had quickly become familiar to him, these last couple weeks. So much so that even as Kerry's lips pulled away from his, he lingered as close as he could, burying his nose in the rocker's neck and humming. "Missed me, huh?" Kerry sounded pleased. V could feel the vibration through his skin. That was comforting too. He sighed against his ear, let his weight press into the other's body. He only hummed lowly. Gave a slight jerk of his head in affirmation.
Kerry chuckled quietly in his ear, wrapping him in a warm embrace. "I missed you too."
Still there was that tension. That itch. He needed to do something. Anything! But he also...didn't want to ruin the moment. So what could he do? His brow knit, even as he drank in Kerry's scent. Maybe...? He licked his lips as he thought. It was worth trying to distract himself. Probably. The feeling would go away, eventually. So... he planted a kiss on Kerry's neck. Then a second at his ear. He felt him still with anticipation. Something twisted inside him. Something was awake inside him, and it was angry. Briefly, he imagined something terrible. Something he clamped down immediately and pushed forcefully from his mind. Instead of... that, he tried to refocus himself. He slipped a hand down to fondle Kerry's ass, giving it a tight squeeze. That had him straightening. Laughing.
"Well hello to you too," Kerry laughed. He released the merc and extricated himself from his grasp. His eyes twinkled with mischief, in that way that brought out the crows feet around his eyes that V loved so much. V followed for a step, then stopped. He felt his cheeks flush with color. Looking Kerry up and down, he quirked a brow in silent question. Wasn't he interested? Kerry caught this, but shrugged. "Maybe later. C'mon, I got us dinner and a movie." He gave him a peck as consolation, then turned away, apparently sure his input would follow.
V stood there uncertainly for a couple long seconds. Okay. Plan failed. What now? It wasn't even like he could ask Johnny for help, since he tended to plug his eyes and ears whenever anything sexual went on. Or anything to do with Kerry. Johnny had told him once that Kerry wanted to fall into the rockerboy's bed, but that he'd turned him down. That wasn't it funny, now Kerry was getting what he wanted after all, in a way? So. Especially anything sexual to do with Kerry, although maybe he just cared more than he wanted to admit? That was usually the case. So... was it worth a try? Maybe he was listening. The old rocker liked to pretend he didn't care about or for V, either.
"Johnny." His thoughts felt too loud as he "spoke". Outwardly, he was preparing his coffee, which had since finished brewing, adding just a bit of sugar and creamer to cut the bitterness but not much else. His hand shook as he added the sugar. It spilled onto the counter. He brushed it to the floor. Felt rather than saw Johnny materialize on his bad side. The side with the missing eye. The eye that Dex took months ago and that Viktor had given him on a promise weeks before that. He craned his head to fit him into view. To make sure he was there. Then he took a big gulp of his coffee, hissing as it burned his tongue.
"What? Afraid you'll hurt him?" V's eye widened in shock. Then he frowned.
"How did you know? Actually, don't answer that. I have a question." He lit another cigarette, taking a deep drag as if it would quell his nerves. Usually did. Usually...
"Alright. Shoot."
"I heard before that you were a bit of a cyberpsycho, back in the day." Johnny opened his mouth to protest, looking irritated, but V ignored him and plowed on. "Let me finish. 'The Hand', right? Your silver arm... I felt your memories. It was like it had a mind of its own. All your hatred, centered there. Is that right?" Johnny was frowning at him now. He had this look like "is this what you brought me here for?" And then it softened into worry. He looked critically at V now, or V imagined he did. As far as he knew, Johnny could only see, only sense, what he himself did. Which meant that Johnny hardly ever saw V's face and only saw his body when the merc looked at it. Perhaps that critical eye was focused inward instead, then. He fancied he could feel a subtle vibration from the Relic, that traitorous machine which had been buried in his head all these long months. Either way, he could feel Johnny's gaze on him. He stiffened under it, straightening his back and smoothing wrinkles from his clothes. An effect which was somewhat mitigated by the fact he was wearing the dead rocker's own pants and boots. He wondered when they had started to feel like his own clothes. When they had started to feel comfortable, like a second skin. He frowned under Johnny's gaze.
"Yeah, The Hand," Johnny said finally. "Cyberware wasn't as advanced back then. We weren't as well equipped to handle it. Now you..." The ghost's eyes trawled over him again. "You're about one loose plug from going nuts. Your hormones are shot and you're driving us into the ground."
That took a second to process. Us? He flashed Johnny an uncertain look.
"You know I'm right." Johnny crossed his arms. V could only bite his tongue. It was just...unsettling to think about. He decided it couldn't be true. Cyberpsycho? Him? Now granted, he'd piled a lot of chrome into his body in recent months, but it had never been a lot at once, which felt like an important distinction. Probably. His lips pressed into a firm line. Viktor would've warned him if he thought it was too much for him. And Viktor wouldn't lie—soften the truth? Perhaps. But lie? No. His ripperdoc wouldn't lie. Johnny scoffed. "Stop being a sullen child. You asked for my opinion. You know I'm right."
"No, I don't know that," he snapped. "It could be something else." Once again, his voice seemed "too loud", although he never actually spoke a word. Johnny grimaced.
"Fine," he spat back. "Ask me for help and then don't listen to me when I know better than your sorry ass. Fuck you." The ghost flipped him the middle finger and then disappeared. Great. That had gone just like he'd wanted... Just great. All the fight slipped from his shoulders and he leaned heavily against the counter. So that's what it was. His mind was going, just like the rest of him. The part of him that he was most in danger of losing to Johnny, and now something else was muscling in too. Only this time, it was his own damned fault, and not some cruel trick of fate. He took a long drag of his cigarette and rubbed tiredly at his face. Now he had two problems. Three, if he counted his pissed off roommate. What a pain in the ass. Looking over the kitchen, he spotted a bottle of O'Dicken whiskey overturned and abandoned nearby. Perfect. A couple hearty glugs of that added to his coffee and maybe he'd sleep peacefully for once. Not like he was going to admit to Johnny that he was sorry, even if the old rockerboy was right. And he would know, given The Hand. He'd lived with it long enough after the Second Central American War. Of course, Johnny probably knew he was sorry anyway. That he was just trying to save face. That he was in denial.
"I can control this," he whispered to himself. Then he took himself and his more-whiskey-than-coffee coffee to the couch, where he fell into Kerry's waiting arms. That was a problem for later. Much later, hopefully.