Chapter Text
Johnny’s staring out a window, and his eyes aren’t looking back at him in the reflection. It’s the golden Jinguji implants that V never removed, even after getting booted from her corpo job. V had this habit of holding onto expensive things from her old life, not caring if it reflected her current self or not. He always thought it clashed with the tacky, cheap clothing she could now afford, but the way it blended with her hair and cheekbones almost made her look like a cat.
Johnny leans away from the window, hoping it will make the reflection fade— it doesn’t,— and takes one last look at the city. City Center’s holographic billboards roll upwards, AVs circle the outskirts of town, and for once he can’t hear the hum of it all over the bus engine. Nothing has changed, he realizes. Sure, the city looked loads more different than it had in ‘23, but looking at it from the outside in makes him feel small for once. Everything they’d done, everything she’d done, and it barely made a dent in the world. They stormed Arasaka tower together and nothing felt different. He scoffs internally, not knowing why he expected anything better. Another nuke would make an impact, figuratively and literally. A bigger one next time, he thinks, something to turn the entire city into a crater.
“One more reason this city could use another nuke,”
“Is the solution to all your problems just… blowing them up?”
“You bet your ass,”
“Seems counterproductive,”
“Gets the job done, doesn’t it?”
Johnny turns away from the window, examining the other passengers. He thinks that he should’ve told someone about this, Kerry at the very least, but then he’d be barraged by a thousand attempts of people getting him to stay. He’d set out, play some gigs along the road to scrap up some eddies, then move along again. That’s his foolproof plan— just keep moving, not giving himself enough time to find trouble or make it. This would be easier than having to deal with all of her friends, easier than dealing with his own. Easier than the memories tied to every corner of Night City.
“You’re a coward, Silverhand,”
He shakes his head, tapping his foot against the bus floor. The thought of leaving all those people behind without a word— Viktor, Misty, Mama Welles, and a fuckton of other names he couldn’t be bothered to list— makes him queasy and he can’t tell if that’s coming from himself or her. Johnny knows it’s him, as stupid as it feels, and he only knows that because V is gone. Though, it’s never felt like she’s truly gone. Maybe this is what she felt like when he shut up for once and took a metaphorical nap in the back of her mind.
Johnny’s no stranger to grief, and he doesn’t intend to dwell on that at this moment. This is supposed to be a fresh start, a rebirth of sorts. Instead, it feels like he’s dying, again.
“Never known you to walk away from a fight, but now you’re just gonna run away with your tail between your legs?”
Fuckin’ Christ, he thinks as he reaches for the aviators hanging from his shirt. He catches the glint of her eyes in their reflection as he moves to put them on and pauses. Johnny finds himself staring at the glasses for an embarrassing amount of time and thinks he must look crazy, not that it’d phase anyone around here. An obnoxious huff escapes him.
“Guess you win again, kid,” He mumbles before grabbing his single bag and marching off the bus. Stepping back into the sun, he begins to walk in no particular direction before fishing out his phone and hitting Kerry’s contact.
Unsurprisingly, he picks up immediately.
“Johnny,” Kerry regards. He’s the only one that knows the finer details of what went down at Mikoshi, and one of the two who know that V is gone. Panam was the other, because Johnny had felt it cruel to not tell her that she was waiting on someone who’d never come home.
“Hey Ker, can I crash at yours?” It was still weird, hearing his own voice in his head but her voice emitting from his new body.
“Uh… yeah sure, but why?”
“I kinda sold my place,” There’s a pause.
“Oh, okay,” Kerry seems to put the pieces together fast and he’s not surprised. The Silverhand playbook hasn’t changed in fifty years.