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Kerry tells himself that if he’d known what they were planning, he would have called V as soon as she sent the message with her address and apartment code. Instead, he calls her the next day and gets her voicemail. It’s not until later, when the Arasaka news starts to come out, that he understands why. He tells himself that he would have talked her out of it, as if he could’ve been louder than Johnny’s voice in her head.
The feelings of helplessness and loss are uncomfortably familiar. At least there’s less regret, this time. Less resentment. There are no new ghosts to outrun, no new shadows hanging over his head. Just a covered car in his driveway that will likely never be driven again, and a drawer in his house with clothes that don’t belong to him that he’ll never get around to clearing out.
It takes Kerry a week to convince himself to drive over to her apartment. He doesn’t know why he bothers, except that V must’ve left him the code for a reason. That night she helped him blow up the van, he’d dropped her off here. Hadn’t come up to her apartment, but he’d seen the building. It could’ve been any one of the anonymous mega buildings in the city, no different from the others.
As soon as the door slides open and he walks in, he’s gotta walk right back out again. Fighting a wave of nostalgia and grief that feels like nausea while he leans over the concrete stairwell and gulps down what barely qualifies as fresh air. Eventually he manages to compose himself again and go in, closing the door behind him this time.
If he didn’t already know better, he could almost believe she just stepped out for a bit. She could come back through the door at any minute, and Johnny would be right behind her. Giving him shit for breaking into her place. “Shit, V,” he mutters to himself, taking the tiny studio in. Except for the distinct lack of men’s clothes, the place is unquestionably V-and-Johnny’s, and not just V’s.
The tech is too modern, but otherwise it looks just like any of the short term places Johnny would live in when he wasn’t crashing with the output of the week. Right down to the half full ashtrays on every flat surface and liquor bottles in various stages of empty. The Samurai jacket she wore everywhere is hung up in the closet, cheap aviators tucked into the inside pocket. Some of it, like the collection of old vinyl and the stack of books and random shards, is definitely V’s. The guitar must have been for Johnny…
He stops, squinting at the guitar where it’s set up on the table that divides the room, clear of the mess. “… oh you mother— yeah, real fuckin’ funny, you two.” Saying it out loud makes him feel better, somehow. That’s his god damn guitar. The one that got stolen and he tried to get back. Maybe she did deserve the small time kleptopunk comment after all. He wonders if keeping it was her idea or Johnny‘s, and then quickly decides it must’ve been his. Still fucking with him, decades later. “Assholes.”
Kerry doesn’t even clean his own house, so he’s not entirely sure how he ends up with a battered box from under her desk filling up with empty bottles while one of her old punk records plays. It was one of Johnny’s favorites, too, and he doesn’t know why he remembers that. There’s something almost healing about picking up the mess, finding the traces of both their lives in the clutter. The empty packs of cigarettes are Johnny’s brand, but V uses cheap disposable lighters when Ker knows he always preferred the metal ones. She’s sentimental enough to keep random trinkets – flyers from events, a coaster from the bar where they played the reunion gig, a couple of printed photos of her with friends. A set of meditation beads hanging by her bed surprises him; she never struck him as the type, but they’re definitely not Johnny’s.
He talks to V as he straightens up. She was easier to talk to than Johnny ever was. It starts with telling her what she missed, mostly the news about Arasaka’s collapse because she’d want to know that she did something. But it quickly turns into telling stories about the old days. About Samurai, about Johnny, about himself. Just like the cleaning, he doesn’t know why he’s doing this either. But when he’s done, he feels a little better.
When he’s finished - the apartment clean and trash piled outside her door, bed made and clutter straightened up - he sits down on her couch and picks her holo up from the table. It unlocks with the same code from the door, and he wonders if she did that to make it easier for someone to pick up the pieces. Like she knew she wasn’t coming back. Despite seeming to know she was at the end of the road and facing down death, there’s no note. No outgoing calls on what must have been her last night. He knows he shouldn’t feel good about her final message being to him… but he does anyway, at least a little. Typical of V – typical of Johnny to not say goodbye properly.
They really were kindred souls. More than that, even. Not two sides of the same coin, or even cast from the same mold. They were an endless loop. A Möbius strip: impossible to say where V ended and Johnny began. There are no happy endings in Night City. No such thing as “fair” here. But for karma or the universe or whatever power is out there to let them find each other - across years and against impossible odds - only to snatch it away… it feels needlessly cruel. V, at least, deserved better.
Ker realizes his face is damp when he shuts her holo off. He doesn’t know when he started crying. But there’s nothing left for him here. He takes her holo, planning to get in touch with her friends at some point because she left that responsibility with him, and after a moment of thought pockets the credit chip that was next to it. She won’t need it any more. The guitar - his guitar - has him debating, but he ultimately leaves it. It’s Johnny’s, now, just like his old guitar is Kerry’s.
One day, probably sooner rather than later, someone will come to clean this place out and rent it to the next gonk. For now, it’s still V and Johnny’s apartment.
“Later, V,” he calls into the empty room, like she’s there to hear it. No goodbyes, not for them. They wouldn’t want it.
Kerry shuts off the lights and locks the door behind him.