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Sometimes, Johnny imagines what it might’ve been like—meeting V, without the biochip. Without Arasaka, or the malfunctions, or the death. Without all of it.
He imagines somehow (the how isn't important) he’d end up at her old man's shop—the shitty junk one, the one next to the massive garbage piles she used to clamber up as a child. (The sort of stuff that makes his heart stop, when he flits through her memories.) He’d watch her, behind the counter, tinkering with one of those old stereos she loves so much. There's nothing particularly unique about her, no outrageous cyberware, no bio-sculpting, just a soft blur of beige and sand. But there is her expression—the always shifting tumult of emotions. He thinks she doesn't even notice what her face does when she concentrates, the subtle twitches, the furrow of the brow. The rest of the world might as well not exist, when she gets her mind set on a problem. She wouldn't even move at the sound of the door opening. He thinks he'd be fascinated.
And he thinks he’d lean against the counter all suave, ask what time she got off, raise his eyebrows, let the innuendo soak in. And she’d-she’d—
Well, if he was being honest, she wouldn’t even react. Except for maybe the thinning of her mouth. The faint tick in her jaw, as she imagines how fast she could pull iron on him. And she’d stand up and ask him what he wanted, how can I help you today, sir? Do you know what you’re looking for? Condescending. And he would hate it. Would hate her, on impulse. The thought curdles, as he tries to ignore what he knows to be the truth: it is only because of their circumstances that he even gave her a second glance.
His mind, what's left of it, immediately rebels against this: she’s his Valerie, his girl, and fuck, his best fucking friend, of course he would’ve—it's just that he knows she's tactless and contrarian and more often than not drives him crazy. If not for the biochip, if not for Arasaka, if not for the malfunctions, the death—he would've walked away. With a sort of scoff under his breath, nursing his wounded pride.
And she would've let him.
The image shatters as he sort of half-wakes up from a half-sleep he wasn’t really experiencing. The sudden emptiness in his chest makes him panic, his half-corporeal hands scrabbling uselessly at the empty air until they sink into the flesh of her shoulder. It’s only then that the painful hammering of his heart slows slightly. Her pace slows, but doesn’t stop, and he feels her faint surprise.
“You afraid I’m gonna run?” She asks wryly, throwing a glance over her shoulder.
Johnny grumbles something unintelligible as he takes a moment to orient himself. They're strolling down the streets of Kabuki, V's shoulders are squared and she's striding with purpose towards their destination. Right. The fridge. The drop-off. Johnny forces himself to breathe through his nose.
“Your fantasies are weird, Silverhand,” she adds. He grimaces. Of course she saw that. But she's still walking, still entirely focused on their objective, because that's how she gets when she's concentrating. And it's fucking irritating, he hates the silent treatment.
“I don’t like you,” he blurts out. That does stop her in her tracks, and when she finally turns to face him, she is more perplexed than anything else.
“How long did it take you to figure that one out?” she asks. "Was it before or after you tried to kill me?" He doesn’t understand why that hurts, nor does he understand the sudden urge to curl up against her flash of alarm. It’s a tangled mess of her fear and her guilt, and how could she read him so wrong—she hadn’t meant to hurt him—and the problem is he knows that. Has never doubted for one second how she feels about him, how he feels about her. That’s what’s bothering him.
"No. I mean. Shit, V." He runs a hand through his hair, at once feeling jittery and fragile. "I just-the biochip." She cocks her head, brow furrowed in confusion.
"Yeah, what about it?"
"Doesn't it bother you? How you feel? Don't you ever wonder if it's real?"
"Um. Sure, I guess," she crosses her arms, squeezing around herself, making herself small. "But...why does it matter?"
"Why does it matter?" he repeats, aghast. "You don't care that a fucking chip in your brain is brainwashing you?" Her mouth forms that thin line, jaw ticks slightly. Her eyes track him like the sight of a gun.
"I'm more worried about my imminent death, actually," she bites. "Everything else is equally fucked. I haven't had time to put it into categories." Johnny falls silent, teeth grinding with the force he's clenching his jaw. The silent standoff only ends, when she sighs dramatically, and plops herself on the curb. "Look. Johnny. Emotions. Love...it's all just, like, chemicals. Yeah? We're just...machines made of meat. Plenty of people form...attachments when they go through traumatic shit." She scratches at her nose, a nervous tick. "So I figure, if the chip in my brain gives me endorphins whenever I look at you...it's uh, sorta like that."
"It's not, though," he says, suddenly frustrated with her lack of fear. Her lack of anger. He wants her angry. Wants her to resent him. She just smiles sadly.
"I know, hon. But if I sit here agonizing over all the cards stacked against me, I’ll never get up again.”
"I think the chip’s already scrambled your prefrontal cortex real well," he grumbles instead.
“So…” she blinks, slowly. “Whadda you want to do about it? Do you want to…stop hanging out? Want me to stop talkin' to you?” And Johnny feels a sudden rush of affection—no patience for the hypothetical or the metaphysical, his girl. If she can’t throw guns or eddies at a problem, she’s at a loss. And fuck, if it doesn't feel so real. The love that fills every damn limb of his unreal body. The determination to save her, to keep her close, to love her right up until the instant he can't anymore.
“No,” he says finally. “I don’t want to. I’m…just thinkin’.” He feels her relief, more powerful than her frustration.
“Mmkay. Well don’t think too hard. You’re gonna strain yourself, Johnny-boy.” He laughs, the lightness in his chest expanding even as he folds himself down into a blip of code, nestled safely behind her eyes.
Later that night—or possibly early morning, he doesn’t actually sleep—Johnny imagines, again, what it would be like to meet her. Without the relic. He still thinks he’d come on too strong—still thinks she’d rankle and glare like a cornered cat, but this time he imagines he’d be intrigued. Imagines he’d ask again what time she gets off, and she’d roll her eyes and tell him—charmed, despite herself. He imagines trailing after her with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and he’d say something stupid, and she’d look back at him.
And she'd smile, so bright, so suddenly, that he’d be in love. He’d be a goner.
He’s not sure if there’s any truth to it. He makes it true.