Chapter Text
Kerry almost turned around the moment the front doors swung open to the synth rock blaring out of the speakers at the Afterlife.
Emmerick shot him a sympathetic look as he paused with one hand still on the metal door. “I know, man. At least you don’t have to listen to it all day.”
“Didn’t know Rogue was a fan.”
“Don’t think she is, but the customers like it.”
“No accounting for taste,” he grumbled, closing his eyes for a second to prepare for the full aural assault. As bad as it was in the entry, it was worse inside, so much so, he bypassed the bar, which was highly unusual for his visits. He always stopped to chat up Claire and down a drink or three to pass the time before his meetups with Rogue. Claire even gave him a confused look as he ignored the shelves of alcohol, forging a direct path to Rogue’s alcove.
It had already been a long fucking day, and being summoned to the Queen’s chambers was just one more irritation to add to the chaos that had followed in his wake since he got up that morning… mid-day… okay, early evening if anyone was feeling generous. But it had been non-stop since he walked out the door, putting out other people’s fires well into the wee hours. All he wanted was to go home, open a bottle, and drink until he fell into a fitful, dreamless sleep.
Weyland greeted him with a nod and a fistbump. “Haven’t seen you around much, Mr. E.”
“Been on a job. And fuck off with the ‘mister’ bullshit, Squama.”
“But it fits, yeah? Mr. E…. because you’re an enigma.”
Kerry snorted and stepped around the smirking mercenary, noting Rogue’s accompanying eyeroll at the play on his name, although she seemed far more amused by the pun than he was. He let gravity pull him down next to her with a grunt, plunked a booted foot on the edge of the low table, and lit up a smoke. He was the only one of her regulars she allowed to get away with what would be considered disrespect from anyone else. From him, it was just their long-time familiarity.
“Kerry. You don’t call. You don’t write. I have jobs for you, you know. Pick of whatever your withered little heart desires.”
“Your jobs got soft and boring, Rogue.” Despite what he told her, her gigs were always interesting and always a challenge. The other fixers wanted him for every big job that came across their tables, but Rogue kept him in reserve for the biggest. They had an odd friendship, developed over years of hard drinking, a lot of blood, mutual loss, and deep respect.
“Maybe I just care whether my favorite merc is going to live through them or not.”
“Aww… I’m your favorite?” It was pure sarcasm, spoken as smoke curled from between his lips and around his face, making him look almost devilish in the flicker of the neon lights.
“No. Just known you longest.”
“There’s the Rogue I love.”
She leaned back, slinging her arm across the back of the sofa. “Do you love anyone anymore, Kerry?”
He almost had to think about the answer. He wore Johnny’s tags and Louise’s ring together on a gold chain around his neck. Sure, he’d loved a couple of times in his life. But now?
“Nope.” Hoping he sounded as nonchalant about it as possible, he leaned forward, crushing out his cigarette. Claire came in with a bottle and two glasses, setting them on the table between them. He snatched the bottle and glanced over the label. “Reserve, huh? Whatever you called me here for must be big if this is the bribe. Stuff is 15k a bottle.”
“Client sent it to me with the up-front pay. Figured I could share. Only the best to butter you up, after all.”
“To get me drunk enough I forget how to tell you no.”
“Hmm. It does work on occasion.”
He snorted again, pulling out the cork and taking a long swig straight from the bottle. It went down smooth, barely a burn, warming everything as it went down. She waited for him to finish his sampler, snatched the bottle from his hand, and poured them both a glass before speaking again.
“I need you to track down who is trying to kill my client.”
Kerry shook his head, "Nuh uh. Told you at least a dozen times I don’t babysit rich assholes.” He assumed it was a rich asshole, because only rich assholes ever needed or wanted a bodyguard.
“It’s not a bodyguard gig. I need you to find out who and why. He has bodyguards…although he’s lost four since this threat started.”
“Then maybe he shouldn’t be such a dick.”
“Like you?”
“Ha ha.” Picking up a glass, he swirled it in his hand, watching the amber liquid rise and fall against the sides. “Serious, though… lost or ‘lost’ his bodyguards?”
“Lost as in dead. That’s how close someone has been to removing him from the mortal coil.”
“How long?”
“Couple of weeks since it started. Whoever’s in for him is serious.”
That made him pause. “One or two unqualified or unprepared mercs, I can see. But four?”
“And before you say that he should learn how to use a gun…client is also a former merc.”
“Shoulda led with that.”
“Thought that might peak your interest.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Yes and no. He wasn’t in the biz long. Was a decent kid, too, but he did a job for a local band, and they found out he could sing. Got drunk with them one night after their job closed, recorded a song with them the next day, and never looked back.”
“So who is he?”
“Your client’s name is V.”
“Fucking prima donna rockerboy V? THAT Vee?? Are you kidding me?”
“So you’re not as completely ignorant of up-and-coming musicians as you pretend to be.”
“Fuck you, Rogue. I quit for a reason. You know that.”
“I do, and I’ll forever think it was a mistake,” she said, adding a smirk against the rim of her glass, “even though you’re my favorite merc.”
“Ha! I knew it.”
“So you’ll take the job.”
“No, but I’ll take a look at the info and let you know how bad it’ll be for your next sucker. Half my usual fee for only the pre-work. Because you’re my favorite fixer.” The haggling over pay was about to start, but they’d been doing this dance for so long, it was more pretense than actual negotiation.
“A quarter,” she countered.
“A third.”
“Deal. Now shut up and drink to the continued health of our client.”
“How about we say we’re drinking to his health, but just get fucked up together like old times.”
“I’m good with that.”
___
Kerry glanced at the address on the side of the building again, drawing a lungful of smoke from the cigarette pinched between his fingers. Of course V had three floors all to himself in the exclusive Corpo Plaza district.
He hated the kid already.
His address, combined with the dossier Rogue had given him, didn’t work in the singer’s favor. A corpo kid, born and raised, quit to go through his rebellious street merc phase, lost his partner, quit that to sing for a band, and had been in and out of rehabs or on and off the front page of the screamsheets in that short couple of years of fame and fortune. Kerry wasn’t familiar with V as a musician, but it was virtually impossible to ignore the diva playboy antics constantly splashed across the news.
The ridiculous amounts of eddies to his name didn't make the singer very sympathetic, either. Hell, Kerry had money. More than he knew what to do with most days: a nice car, top-of-the-line gear, and a private apartment in the Glen. He could afford to be picky about what jobs he took…although he always, always took the jobs Rogue had for him.
This job, though, rubbed him the wrong way for a thousand different reasons. Once upon a time, he might have ended up like the client, an overnight success, trying to kill himself slowly with all the latest designer drugs, entertaining people who didn’t care whether he lived or died. He’d wanted that life at one time… but he’d wanted it with Johnny. After Arasaka Tower fell and Johnny died, he didn’t want much of anything at all except revenge.
He’d gotten what he wanted, although at a steep price.
There was always a price.
Revenge took time to plan, time to put it all together, and in the end, he’d found he had a knack for it. His revenge, other people’s revenge, disputes, contracts to kill. It was like writing a song. Sometimes it was work, sometimes it just flowed, coming together in a symphony of blood.
But this kid was an enigma. A convoluted mess of contradictory stories and rumors.
Too much like him to be comfortable confronting it.
Crushing out his cigarette under his boot, he glanced up at the towering upscale apartments, watching the lights come on one-by-one in the penthouse levels.
“Fuck it. Let's do this.”