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    Summary

    “Who the fuck do you think you are,” Kerry snaps as he throws open the door, “knocking at this time of night—“

    “You greet all your friends like this, Ker, or am I just special like that?”

    Leaning heavily against the doorframe stands Johnny Silverhand. Kerry hasn’t seen Johnny in over a year, and yet he instantly knows it’s him. Johnny has come to him in so many costumes; the buzzed head and faded fatigues in two-thousand eleven, the sand-dusted nomad jacket from twenty-fifteen, the bloodshot eyes of twenty-twenty.

    Johnny, bruised and blood-spattered in an old Samurai leather jacket and smelling of rain and gunpowder is an easy one to recognize; Kerry’s seen this version of him before.

    Language:
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