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He walked to the door. That was fucking huge, wasn’t it? V walking to the door. He seemed to know it, too—V raised a hand and pressed it against the frame, shoulders moving with a deep breath. V, hospital gown and all, determined ever since the doc had come in and told him he’d be able to go home if he could get up and move on his own. News a few days old yet here he fucking was. Walking to the door.
V turned around and locked eyes with Kerry and the smile he gave—fuck. Kerry felt something in his chest squeeze, almost painful. That smile was triumphant, terrified, questioning. It reached V’s eyes, a different color now that they’d had to turn the tech way down. It spread naturally across the faceplate they were still scared might kill him. It grabbed Kerry and pulled him into his own smile, one drawn earnestly from his gut, one just as triumphant and afraid. He was so, so proud of V. So proud and so fucking in love.
Fuck. He couldn’t do this.
“Easy, V. Nothing to prove here. Take your time.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t know how lonely it gets here.” V focused his eyes on the water pitcher, set on the desk next to the door. Real Water, which V kept siphoning down no matter how much Kerry assured him of the endless supply. Didn’t matter that it wasn’t the desert. Didn’t matter that Kerry had V’s back—that V had his own back, even, legend that he now was, eddies pouring in.
V began repositioning himself to face the pitcher, movements slow and unsure. He had always looked purely ‘ganic but inside he was chromed out more than a fucking Basilisk. They’d had to pull out anything that wouldn’t kill or blind him to lose—each ligament, each muscle, each fucking vein. Each nerve. V’d joked one night that at least he’d never gone for Mr. Studd; it hadn’t been funny. He’d already lost most of his hope of salvaging himself at that point, already made the choice to lose the netrunning, the merc life, all of it to keep pulling air. Had already begged his Mr. Blue Eyes for more. Had already gotten into the habit of crying over the silence in his head.
Kerry had watched V go through all it all. It had been uniquely fucked up.
The edge of the hospital bed was hard under Kerry’s ass. Sunlight caught the water in the pitcher, highlighting V’s face. An AV flew by the window. V put a hand on the desk to stabilize himself and reached the pitcher towards the glass and Kerry—Kerry would just fuck it up. Kerry’s eyes slipped to his message tab, heavy with the evidence. He wasn’t good with mainlines, with kids. He could barely take care of his own gonk ass, let alone someone as precious as V.
>>Disappoint them yourself.
V poured the water into the glass. His shoulders radiated victory as he avoided spilling it. The room started to close in around Kerry—he could hear a regular beep from somewhere, a clatter, the hum of some machine by the bed. There was a rhythm section in the vents, a tin drummer and rattling bassist just out of beat with each other. Fuckers needed to get their shit together.
“…maybe?”
Kerry came back to the planet. V was settling down in the chair Kerry had lived in for nearly two years. “Sorry, V. Run that past me again.”
“Askin’ if you think they’ll let me go home this week, with me being able to move around on my own and all.”
Kerry fucking hoped not. He was already afraid of V crashing out surrounded by doctors—the fuck was he supposed to do if V stopped breathing at home? Trust blindly in TTP?
“Ker?”
What if he fell down the fucking stairs—shit, what if we fell into the pool? What if the new ‘ganic heart stopped working? That was possible, even the doc said that it would only be good for another fifty to sixty years. And the fucking balls on the doctor to look so awkward when Kerry asked if that was when they would come in and get a new one—like Kerry Eurodyne was the fucking gonk for thinking that eighty years was an impossibly tragic natural lifespan—
“Babe?”
“Yeah, yeah sure. I’ll ask them.” Kerry rocked up from the bed, moved to V and gave him a quick kiss—he straightened, even as he felt V’s fingers gently encircle his wrist. V’s hand was warm, a little damp. His fingers were so much stronger than they had been even just a month ago. “Gotta go, V.”
V’s fingers twitched. “Just a little longer, Ker?” He was probably looking at Kerry, probably locking the fuck on, but Kerry didn’t want to see that. He went back to the message tab, to the double barrel attack from early in the morning.
“You good, Ker? You’ve been in orbit all visit.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m nova.”
>>Gave the kids your number. Disappoint them yourself.
Louise.
“Are we good?” V’s fingers twitched; his voice was small.
“Huh?”
>>Just want you to know I fucking hate you. Should never had had kids—better dead than related to you. Only here for mom and Kim. Fuck you and your shitty music.
Ted. Classic. Kerry had read it over and over when it came that morning, a bit of knife twisting before coffee. He tried to send another reply—still blocked.
“I know I’m asking a lot, Ker. Trying to go home already—always needing you here. Still don’t know how to be alone, I guess. With him gone.”
Love ya, Ker. Shit. Kerry banished the voice of Johnny Fucking Silverhand from his head—fucker had never even said that to him. V had.
Kerry pulled from V’s grip, maybe a little rougher than he meant. A look of hurt lightninged across V’s features—physical or emotional, Kerry had to flee before knowing. “Sorry V, gotta delta.”
“Ker—”
“Back later.” And he left. He fucking left because at least he knew how to do that.
“Kerry!”
The door slid closed behind him, cutting him off from his input and leaving him in the cacophony of the main ward. The sounds fucking assaulted him. That was the difference between noise and the experimental—you had to have a plan, even just a micro one, even just that pinch in your boot, the amp snaking up a good vibration to your left nut. It was one thing to be loud and a whole ‘nother to be loud with purpose.
>> Fuck you and your shitty music.
V’s main doctor began making meaningful, ‘let’s discuss next steps’ eyes at Kerry so he put on his sunglasses and got the fuck outta there. He called up a Delamain in the elevator and pulled up his ticket out of it all: a tour contract, two days fresh from the Us Cracks manager, just waiting for the Eurodyne autograph. Europe, Asia. Fucking space. Just music and destination. Maybe he’d visit his kids. Disappoint them himself.
“Shit.” He keyed Capitán Caliente into the Delamain, told it to take the scenic route, and started rereading the contract. The cab swerved to avoid some fucking asshole in the road, registered a warning, and suddenly accelerated. V’s hurt expression ripped through Kerry’s mind. “FUCK!”
“I am so sorry, Mr. Eurodyne. I will—”
“Just shut up.” Kerry closed the file and stared out the window. A tour didn’t mean he was abandoning V. V fucking knew that Kerry had a job—and fuck, if Kerry could put up with V running around getting shot at, going to fucking space to do a near impossible mission, staying out gig after gig week after week even when Kerry called begging for some domestic fucking comfort—yeah, V could deal. Kerry’d only be gone for a few months. Four tops. Maybe six. But V had been under the knife for well almost two years, in and out of medical comas, literally on ice. So often unresponsive no matter how much Kerry wanted to hear his voice. Six to eight months was nothing. They’d call, stay in touch. Have phone sex, send pics. V had loads of chooms that were ride and die for him—he wouldn’t be lonely at all. And by the time Kerry came back, V’d be all healed up. They’d be good to go, nice and simple.
You always fucking run! Louise, tired, brilliant, gorgeous and long over Kerry Eurodyne’s shit, while that same Kerry stood there in kitchen past, trying to remember what the fuck he’d forgotten this time. Every illness, every bad grade, every fight—these are human beings! Your CHILDREN! You don’t even care enough to try!
Kerry closed his eyes. That had been a rough one. Two months pre-filing and the kids had heard. Fucked up thing was that Louise was right.
>> Should never had had kids—better dead than related to you.
Capitán Caliente had its usual buzz going on, some oldies from the 20’s crashing over the system. Good shit about the fucked-up president. Kerry got his usual coffee and sat in his usual spot. He stared at where he and V’d sat that first time, when Kerry’d still been trying to figure out how to draw Johnny back out. He took a sip of coffee and felt the usual guilt.
What, you’ll stick around if I let you suck my dick? Tell you ‘boo fucking hoo, I need you’ or some shit? Really get the story going? The 10’s. Kerry had punched Johnny right in the face for that one, really laid his ass out. Kerry’d even frozen the fucker out for months, nearly a year—before caving back into the band, dropping to his knees in the dressing room, feeling reckless and hopeful.
His phone rang, making him twitch, almost spilling his coffee. Bes. He took it.
“Hey, Bes.”
“Uh huh.” She was in her car, looking annoyed. “Another reunion jam? V out of the hospital?”
“What?”
She gave him that look she had for when she felt self-righteous. “You only ever remember I exist when you need something.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Nance, I’ve been—”
“Bes.”
“Bes, fuck. Sorry.” He took a deep breath. His guru told him that there was nothing wrong with his temper, that he just needed to learn to navigate it. Deep breaths. “I know I’m dogshit, okay? I get it. I’ve been fucking busy with V, the album, everything—fuck. I’m sorry, okay?”
Bes was clearly doing her own anger management thing. She took a final deep breath. “Ok. So, is it V? He good?”
“He’s good.” That fucking smile, that hand against the door frame.
“He coming home soon?”
“Nah. I don’t know. Maybe.” A fucking preem riff exploded over the shop’s speakers—shit. He missed the 20s.
“So, you’re running. Looking for me to help you get out.”
Two different time signatures crashed into each other, fucking like rabbits, the drummer and solo guitar getting further and further away from each other, the bassist reaching, keeping them tied together. At the snapping point the SCREAM—throat tearing shit, slamming all three back together in a chug that made Kerry wanna break shit and fuck at the same time.
“You’re not even listening. Great.” Bes was getting out of her car in some lot.
“I heard you. S’not what I want to talk about.”
“So you’ll just take what I said. Because it’s true.” She shook her head, somehow making it lethal. “V deserves better than this.”
There was a white-hot flash—music silent, blood sour—and he almost dashed his phone to the ground. Just spiked it into a million pieces. He didn’t, and a feeling of regret rolled over him. Coward.
“Bes—” Deep breath. New song. Romantic scop. “Louise gave the kids my number. Ted reached out. Nothing good, I’m blocked now.”
“So what, you want parenting advice? From me?”
“No, no I—” It had made sense to text Bes that morning, moments after getting the messages, half asleep and spiraling. “Just, you have to deal with Dan and—I don’t fucking know. Needed to commiserate I guess.”
She was staring at the screen. Her cybernetics still freaked him out—it was fucked up of him to think so, geared up as he was, but it was like she’d asked for some ripper to turn her stare into a sniper rifle.
“Kerry, look. I could tell you about the heartbreak, the suffering, the rage. Give you the whole rundown, like friends do. But until you start putting some effort in—”
“I am! I’m—”
“—and actually—no, Kerry, you’re not! You’re not putting in shit. You’re back on my couch in the 00’s, crying about how Johnny won’t ever love you, keeping me up for hours with it, then ‘accidentally’ keeping your phone on silent whenever I call you for bail money. I’m too old for this now. I know not to trust you with the important shit.”
The fucking song over the speakers—romantic scop was always the same. No one ever wrote songs about broken friendships. Something like:
I FUCKED UP!
YOU FUCKED UP!
WE ALL FUCKED UP SO WE
HATE!
EACH!
OTH!
ER!
“Fuck, Bes, fine. Fine.”
HATE WHO YOU LOVE! “Am I wrong, Kerry?”
HATE WHO YOU LOVE! “Kerry—I, I guess I didn’t mean to be—just, fuck.”
HATE WHO YOU LOVE! “Kerry, look—it will just take time, okay?”
HATE WHO YOU LOVE AND
DIE!
A!
LONE!
“Yeah, Bes. Yeah. Gotta delta. Sorry for—yeah.”
“Look—”
He hung up. The coffee was empty. The scop had ended. He opened his notes and got his lyrics down. Called a Delamain so he could go home and get the tune going. Ignored the “5” hovering over V’s icon in the message screen.
Johnny had deserved to die alone but instead he had got to be with V. Held closer than either V or Johnny had ever held anyone else. Closer than they’d ever hold Kerry.
He wondered if Johnny had cared for V, really hit choom status, really meant it. Had finally learned how to care, how to show it. He then killed that wonder and changed the Delamain’s destination from the penthouse to the estate. His robots were cruising along; he’d just paid to have their firmware updated, top tier. The inside of the estate was pristine—he hadn’t been there for months. He snagged a fresh tequila bottle and took a swig, chasing it with a cigarette.
>>Just want you to know I fucking hate you.
Maybe he could get Ted to say it out loud for some eddies.
Great sample.
Fucking preem.
He sat down with his guitar, propped a leg up, took a deep breath, and let it have it. The music came easy; he let it take him away. His lights came on; his fingers hurt. A notification popped into his vision, suggesting he eat and hydrate. The song grew, a real soulripper. The inevitable loneliness of it all. The terror. The crescendo falling off into the quiet melody, the breath after the scream. The resurrective procession of hope and rage. Of love and fear.
His phone rang right after it all clicked together—V. Kerry rejected it and instantly felt like shit. His stomach clenched, his eyes teared up and—fuck. This fucking self-destruction of it all, just—fuck. He opened the phone tab to call back, but it rang on its own.
“Hey, V. I’m so sorry—”
“Daddy?”
The world ended. Just full, roaring silence. The painful something happened in Kerry’s chest and his throat locked up. The tears actually dropped, and his exhale went sob-like.
“Daddy? You okay?”
She was what, twelve? Thirteen, now? Her voice was lower. Her holo image showed her perfect little features, all the best ‘ganic parts of him and Louise. She looked…afraid. Unsure.
“Heya, Kimmy. Wow. Hey.”
She smiled, a small one. He was going to fucking lose it. “Hey.”
“Mom gave you my number, huh?”
“Yeah.” She glanced somewhere off screen. “She found out that I was trying to scrape it from the Net.”
“Whoa. You good at that kinda thing?”
“Yeah, I guess.” He’d get her a top-line rig. Three months ‘til her birthday—plenty of time to pull it off. “So, um.”
“Yeah. Yeah, wow. How’s, uh, how’s…life? School, home, hobbies.”
“It’s whatever. Mom and Ted don’t get me. School’s boring. I like being on the Net, I guess.” Her eyes flicked to the side again, head turning with a frown before facing back to the screen.
“They don’t get you?”
“No. Mom keeps babying me and everything I do annoys Ted.”
“That’s just—” being a teenager “—frustrating as hell, huh.”
“It is! It’s—” she looked excited, worked up for a second before reservation dropped back over her features. “How about you? Who’s V.”
It will just take time. Fucking Bes. “Uh, my inpu—uh, right hand man.” That felt weird. “Mainline, maybe.”
She looked annoyed—he’d never seen that look on her before. “I know what an input is. I’m not a child.”
“Yeah, I know. Just figuring it out for myself.”
“You fighting?”
Kerry! The fear in that voice. “Nah. Well, sort of. He’s been sick. Things are tense, that’s all.”
“Oh. Sorry he’s sick.” Her attention went offscreen again.
“Yeah, that’s life…but hey, guess what? Going on tour soon. Will be out your way.”
“Really?” Attention full on him, hope blossoming across her face and fuck—fuck, all over again. He’d do it all over again, just for her. “We’ll see each other?”
“Sure will.”
Suspicion—“for more than a day?”
“How about a week?”
“Really?”
“Yep. These gonks need me. They’ll make a week for me.”
She radiated. “Yes! I can’t wait! When—” A pure rage—so keenly of Kerry’s own expression that it was upending to see it on her—stole over her face. She began yelling offscreen in rapid fire Japanese: I am on the PHONE, older brother! Then call him yourself! He’s my FATHER. You’re wrong! He’s coming here soon! Shut UP! THEN DON’T—
The call muted and Kerry sat in the void. His fucking kids. The human beings that were his children.
She came back a moment later, perfectly composed. That came from Louise—Kerry would never have that bounce-back.
“Sorry. When?”
He fought the urge to smile. “Still nailing out the deets, but it’s looking like September.”
“Preem! Will V come?”
That nauseating wave of guilt. “Nah, kiddo. It’d be too much for him.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “He’s that sick?”
“Yeah.”
“Like, dying?”
Fuck. Fuck. “No, not anymore, Kim. He’s not dying anymore.”
“But aren’t you scared he will if you go away?”
Fucking kids. He took it all back. Shoulda stayed solo. “Kimmy—”
“Just bring him here. We have better healthcare in Tokyo.” A stock phrase picked up from adults—she sounded much older as she said it, superior. “And I want to meet him. Mom says you will never be able to hold down—” Kerry watched the ‘oops oh shit’ play across his daughter’s face. “Whatever, you should bring him!”
Kerry snorted. Said he’d try to bring V. Said he’d tell V she wanted to meet him. Yes, V would love to talk to her about his old netrunning days. V’s favorite color was colors, period. V hated EEZYBEEF and loved lumpia. Yes, they could get a family picture together if that’s what she wanted (it was). Kerry’s head was buzzing. His heart rate notification gave him a ping; the meal reminder popped back up. He told her he needed to delta. Told her he loved her. Told her:
“I’m glad you called, kiddo.”
She beamed. “Me too! Love ya, Daddy.”
Fuck. The estate was too clean, too empty. It was lonely as fuck. He called another Delamain, an AV. Told it to cruise the city while he looked down and decided where to go. The city glowed beneath him, vibrant and mournful in the rain. So much of his life under those lights, nestled within a whole city that knew his name. That knew Johnny’s name, that knew V’s. V, alone in his hospital room, so much of what carried his name now lost.
You don’t even care enough to try!
Kerry drafted and deleted and drafted and deleted and drafted and sent a message to the Us Cracks manager, seeing if they could give him his extra week in Tokyo. Give him the Japanese tour dates. Accommodate someone like V, if he came along. Theoretically.
The answer was lightspeed. Yes, yes, yes. Anything for Kerry Eurodyne. One week—how about two? September such and such through such and such. Would this person need an attending doctor? A special diet, mobility aids? Send along any specific needs and we’ll make sure to—
Kerry closed his eyes, told the Delamain to take him to V. The same doc was around, looking tired. Kerry checked the time; he’d dipped for over nine hours. Shit.
V was in bed, awake. Vik was there; he spared a big ole glare for good ole Kerry. Kerry wondered for the tenth time—that week—whether Vik would punch his lights out, but instead the ripper stood, loomed towards him and said, “outside.” Kerry glanced at V, but his input had turned away.
The door closed them out. The noise started again, that unplanned, unrelenting chaos scop backgrounding their healing hell.
“Kid called me because he was lonely. Said you rejected his calls, ignored his messages.”
That hurt to hear. It always did. “I’ve got him now.”
Vik’s look conveyed the infinite edge of his disbelief. “Shit or get off the can, Kerry Eurodyne. We’re all tired of waiting for you to hurt him the final time.”
And he left Kerry there, a gonk with egg on his face. A nearby nurse was doing a preem job of not looking at him; the doctor had magically disappeared. Kerry took a deep breath and went back into the room. V’s face was still turned towards the window, but the overhead light high-lit the dry tear tracking down his upturned cheek. Was it Johnny’s fault? Or Kerry’s?
It didn’t matter. Either way would take time.
Kerry repositioned the chair—his chair—and sat. He reached up and took V’s hand. He nearly wept with relief when V squeezed his fingers.
“Hey, Ker.” Chest up and down shallow, face still turned away.
“Hey, V. I’m back.”
The IV monitor beeped. The vent was quiet. An AV flew past the window and V cleared his throat. His fingers were dry, relaxed. He shuddered, swallowing hard. His foot moved under the sheet; his head stayed turned towards the window. Kerry reached over with his free hand and traced the scar running across V’s shaved head—one of four. The operating system had been the first to go, cutting V off from netrunning forever.
“I’m scared, V. Real scared. Don’t want you flatlining on me, you know?”
V didn’t say anything—just that shudder, that rapid swallow. A twitch in his fingers.
“Been a coward. Skittish.” The scar was long, traversing a curved path above V’s ear. “Been hurting you, leaving you alone like this.”
A fresh shudder. A sharp breath.
“Can’t lie and say this isn’t too much for me, V. That I won’t try to run sometimes, you know? But I’ll come back, V. I’ll always come back.”
His chest felt raw, open. His head buzzed—the weird position he was in made his right shoulder hurt. He trailed his finger down V’s ear; he squeezed V’s fingers. He tried to comfort himself in these last moments before V told him to delta for good.
But V turned slowly to face him, his eyes reckless, hopeful. Terrified. Kerry leaned in, kissed him deep. Pulled away, lips a breath apart. He was terrified too. He closed his eyes and was just so fucking scared of ruining it all, of missing V like he’d missed Johnny. Of knowing V longer than Johnny, loving him deeper than Johnny, losing him harder than Johnny—and Kerry would lose him. One way or another: the short-life heart, the fragile lungs, the fucking single use liver. V’s insatiable need to do anything that might get him zeroed. Kerry’s running away, coming back again, running away, coming back, over and over and over, stakes always rising.
They were fucked.
But…he’d try, at least. He’d try.
Kerry opened his eyes, held V’s gaze. “Let’s get you home.”