Chapter Text
“If there's a place that I could be
Then I'd be another memory
Can I be the only hope for you?
Because you're the only hope for me”
The Only Hope for Me is You by My Chemical Romance
When the text message hits his phone, he forgets how to breathe for a moment. The thread that he’d spent the better part of a year in, addressed to a recipient that didn’t actually exist in his contacts, to the entity that’d been fucking with his electronics, to the entity that he hoped – no, stupidly and naively believed – to be Johnny… texted back.
NEW MESSAGE: J
[ miss you too ]
It was in response to the message he had just typed, left unsent, in a thread of growing drafts that should logically reach no one. And yet, there was a reply. Shakily, he picks his phone back up, blinking at the received text message.
TO: J
[ Johnny…? ]
He hits send; the message doesn’t go anywhere because there’s no recipient. Still, he waits with bated breath, but no response ever comes. Swallowing hard, he gets to his feet and paces a few feet away from the couch, trying to control his breathing. His heart is hammering in his chest, nerves damn near shot from the message alone.
Logically, this makes no sense. It shouldn’t even be possible – but then again, everything he experienced over the last three or so years should never have been fucking possible either. And, besides, this was Johnny fucking Silverhand they were talking about. If there was a will, he sure as fuck was going to find a way, especially if it meant getting to V.
Trying to bring sense back to himself, he returns to work, responding to emails and messages from various mercs, netrunners, and clientele. But the rest of the night passes by uneasily, and come morning, he’s a sleep-deprived mess of nerves. It’s barely past ten am when he decides he needs to call Kerry. Being in the North American leg of his tour, their time zones blessedly weren’t too different. It should only be about one pm in Montreal.
Returning to where he dropped his phone on the coffee table the night prior, he picks it up and messages Kerry, asking if they can talk as he paces the length of the penthouse restlessly. His holo rings immediately, and Kerry looks minorly panicked – most likely at the implications of such a text that flew completely over V’s head in his frazzled state of thinking. “Babe, what’s up?”
“Shit, sorry, Ker,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “Bad wording. Not thinking clearly. Fuck, uh…” He trails off and paces over to the veranda doors, throwing them open, hoping some fresh air will help him gather his thoughts. Kerry waits anxiously. “Y’know how there’s always weird shit happening, like… my emails being read, or photos being left open on my phone?”
Nodding slowly, Kerry arches an eyebrow delicately. The anxiety has clearly morphed into apprehension.
Taking a deep breath, V steels his nerves. “This is gonna sound insane, baby, but I… I think it’s Johnny.”
Silence is his only response, before Kerry bows his head and laughs. He laughs hard, too, making V fluster and blush. “Fuck, holy fuck, Vinny.” He pauses to collect himself, and V goes to defend himself, but Kerry holds a hand up. “Hold on, V. Now that you say that it does sound like the sorta shit he’d do. And didn’t you say the other day that the sound system woke you up blasting?”
Feeling the unnerved tension dissipate slightly, V nods as he drifts over to the couch and sinks down into the cushions. “Yea, fuckin’… just like when he’d fuck with my record player and wake me up accidentally.”
The look on Kerry’s face is surprisingly calm once he’s past the laughter. “Is that even possible, though? I thought he was like… locked away, unable to reach us.”
“Yea, it… it might be possible, mean, this is Johnny we’re talkin’ ‘bout. And ‘specially if Alt’s involved. Told you she kept him separate, right, away from whatever grand scheme she’s devising? I never really knew why… kinda figured at first it was ‘cause of me, y’know, the nine months I spent on the net while this body was being created, but… but if he’s still separate…”
Kerry’s calm expression shifts into something minorly more reserved – trepidatious. “What are you implying, Vinny…?”
Swallowing nervously, V shifts his position on the couch, drawing his legs up under himself. “It’s just, if he’s still separate from Alt, then… there has to be some sorta reason, right?”
The apprehensive, contemplative silence from Kerry makes V’s stomach flip nervously. He’s not looking at the fixer, gaze distant, far away. After a long moment, he finally speaks, quietly, nervously: “are you going to save Johnny?”
Taking a shuddery breath, V dips his head. “I sure as fuck hope I can.”
“Fuck,” Kerry breathes, running a hand through his hair. It dislodges an array of glitter that had remained from his performance the night prior. “Fuck.”
Humming his agreement, the fixer tips his head back against the couch. “I don’t know how. Need to have DNA to clone him. And his body’s rotting in a fucking oil field.”
The rocker flinches away when V says that, biting his lip. He remains quiet, mulling over their conversation and the heavy implications. Having Johnny around as a part of V was one thing, but potentially having him back in their lives, for real, for good… It opened up an uncertain nauseating chasm somewhere deep within him. As much as he wanted it, he also feared it. A part of him felt like dropping Johnny back into their lives would be dropping a fucking nuke, metaphorically and literally.
“Ker?” V says softly, drawing Kerry’s attention back to him. “This is all what-ifs and maybes, okay? No matter what happens, you’ve got me. Ride or die forever.”
Relaxing slightly, Kerry smiles. “Yea, I know. We’re married, you’re not fuckin’ get rid of me. One divorce is e-fuckin’-nough.”
V laughs at that, a happy little sound that makes Kerry’s heart trill. “You’re fuckin’ right. I’ll let you go, now, baby. And I’ll keep you updated, okay? I love you, Ker.”
“I love you too, Vinny. Have a good day.”
The line clicks dead, and V lets out a long, slow breath. He had a point, though – without DNA there would be no clone. He highly doubted Arasaka saved any of Johnny’s DNA; his soul was likely enough for them, the body just a… a hollow shell at that point. The thought makes him shudder.
Opening his texts, he clicks back into the thread of drafts. The text he received is gone, but he’s not too surprised about that. He types out another unsent message.
TO: J
[ Hey, spoke with Ker bout you. If this really is you, J, I’m glad. I’m glad you’re still out there. ]
There’s no response, as he expected, so he deposits his phone on his coffee table and gets to his feet. “Need a fuckin’ drink,” he mutters, heading for the kitchen, damned to the early morning hours. Just as he rounds the island to grab a tumbler, the wired-in speakers in the penthouse crackle to life and music blares through them, making him nearly trip over his own two feet in shock. He braces against the counter, breathing hard, eyes wide.
The song that filters through the speakers becomes familiar after a moment. Something from the 2010’s, from a band that was supremely popular back then.
“And if we can't find where we belong
We'll have to make it on our own
Face all the pain and take it on
Because the only hope for me is you, alone”
He stands frozen as the song plays, listening to the lyrics intently. Eventually, he unroots himself from his tense stance and goes about accomplishing his original goal, still listening to the song. Glass of whiskey secured, he makes his way back to the couch, letting it play out. As it ends, another song from the same band starts playing, and a cursory internet search shows that it’s from the same album. Probably just put the album on shuffle then, he supposes.
Sipping at his whiskey and maybe wishing he’d accompanied it with coffee, V grabs his tablet and scrolls through his emails, following-up where need be. He lets the music play, figuring hell, Johnny’d went through all that trouble to get it going anyways. And if he finds himself singing along, and actively adding a few songs to his playlists, well, he’s not gonna bitch about that.
By mid-afternoon, he’s expected at the Afterlife soon, so he runs through the shower and throws some clothes on, still half distracted. He only realizes that when he tries putting his boots on the wrong feet and has to take a second to sit on the edge of his bed and collect his thoughts, head in his hands. He couldn’t let this overwhelm him, for fuck’s sake. He has a job to do.
Once sufficiently dressed, and his boots on the proper feet, he makes his way into the armory and straps up, customary thigh holster loaded with his favorite smart pistol. He pauses at the Samurai jacket hung by the door, brushing a hand against the leather. He rarely wore the damn thing – couldn’t really bring himself to. But tonight…
With a sigh, he shimmies out of the leather jacket he had already donned and pulls on the Samurai one instead. The previous leather jacket gets tossed towards the stairs to be retrieved later and then he’s out the door, down the elevator to his V-Tech so he can drive over to the Afterlife. He had a few appointments arranged, first one being right as the doors opened at four pm. He was set to arrive just before, enough time to get settled in the box.
He finds he’s still distracted, however, when he’s finally pulled into the back parking lot of the club and can’t bring himself to get out, long nails tapping nervously along the steering wheel. The Afterlife, despite moving locations, held so many fucking ghosts – not just for him, but for Johnny, too. Alt, Rogue, Blackhand, Shaitan, a whole slew of everyone who ever worked by his side.
It was no secret that Johnny was a talented merc, if not insanely reckless and selfishly motivated. Music for him had always been an excellent outlet, but his skills lied stronger in edgerunning, especially toward the time of his untimely demise. He fit right in amongst brutal solos and cutting-edge netrunners, despite vicious rockerboy always being his immediate outward persona.
With a heavy sigh, V finally extricates himself from his vehicle. He’s a little later than he’d like to be just because he couldn’t get out of his fucking head, but he’s still settled in the box by the time his four pm shows up. He barely pays attention to the meeting, and it’s obvious that Weyland knows when Garnet drops off an extra-strong whiskey sour to ease his nerves. He’s silently thankful for the both of them.
The rest of the night thankfully goes smoothly, but by the time closing rolls around he’s still sitting silently in the box, nursing his third glass of whiskey. He only startles when Nix sits down next to him, hand out expectantly.
After a brief staring contest that Nix wins simply by raising his eyebrows, V rolls his optics and hands over his phone. There’s an unquelled pit of nerves in his stomach as Nix disappears into the backrooms, like he could have some catastrophic affect.
When the netrunner returns a bit later, V now on his fourth glass of whiskey, he’s wearing a small frown. “Still nothing, V,” he confirms. “Security’s tight.”
“How is that possible?” the fixer grumbles, taking his phone back.
Nix takes a seat next to him, forearms braced on his thighs. “Maybe you should go get checked out?” he says cautiously.
With a groan, V slugs back a mouthful of whiskey before thunking the tumbler onto the table. “It’s not me, I swear. I—I… I got a message back, last night.”
“You what?” the netrunner stresses, eyebrows drawing up.
Nodding, V bites his lip to collect his thoughts. “Y—yea, but obviously… it’s gone.”
The netrunner sits in quiet, contemplative silence for a moment before sighing and shaking his head. “Shit, V. I’m at a loss on this one. No one’s hacking your phone, or the tablet, or anything – and if they are, they’re fucking talented, and that’s scary, V.”
“I know,” V breathes. He picks his whiskey back up and polishes it off. “Thanks, Nix. I should, uh, get going. See you tomorrow.”
Getting to his feet, Nix merely nods before disappearing back into the back rooms. V briefly wonders if the netrunner ever even goes home as he waves his goodbyes to Weyland and Garnet. Once seated in his car, he pulls his phone out, about to shoot Kerry a message when his phone pings.
NEW MESSAGE: J
[ like the song? ]
And then, on cue, the song from earlier starts playing through his car speakers, broadcast from his phone. He can only sit, breathless, for a long while. When he blinks, the message is gone, but the song is still streaming.
“Holy… fuck.”