Archive of Our Own

I

His story was never going to end with a happy ending. V realized that early enough to get used to it the way you eventually get used to background noise: it’s irritating and oppressive until you stop noticing it. The "Watson Whore" might, someday, get its illogical, syrupy finale where every hero gets handed a slice of happiness, but not V. Still, right up until the very end, he clung — not even to a vague hope, but to the shred of one — that Alt would suddenly write some fucking god-tier code, snap her fingers, and fix him. Or that Johnny, just once, for fuck’s sake, would shut up and listen, not play the hero, not sacrifice himself, leaving V to marinate for another six months, sinking deeper every day into that sticky, clinging pit of despair.

He has Kerry. And Kerry’s presence doesn’t make things easier. Kerry is both an anchor and a fishhook under his ribs: pulling him down and keeping him afloat at the same time. Especially since his concerts at the Crystal Palace started. V has caught himself thinking that maybe they’d both be better off if Kerry never came back to Earth. It’s Kerry’s dream — to be up high in the most literal fucking sense. And from his voice, from the tone during their short calls, from the way he laughs, the way he talks and gossips it’s clear: Kerry is doing well there. Better than here, anyway.

He’s already conquered Night City — so why come back? To drown again in the city’s womb? To drag around a walking corpse who might as well start picking out a niche in the Columbarium? That’s too unrealistic. Too fairytale-like. A few months ago, V might have let himself believe in that kind of bullshit — in miracles, in happy coincidences, in getting stupidly lucky. Kerry, their meeting — yeah, you could call that a gift from fate, if fate even knew how to give anything. But now, when the clock is ticking louder and more obsessively in his head, in his temples, in every nerve and every synapse, — no.

They could have been at the Crystal Palace together. V had no doubt: for Kerry, getting an extra ticket — whether to Europe or the Moon — was just a couple of calls away. And V himself wanted to see Earth from the outside, to imagine it small, distant, alien. He talked to Vik and got another slap in the face from reality: in his condition, going into zero gravity was practically suicide. Lately, even regular AV flights turn V inside out worse than Johnny’s worst benders. He? In space? Not now. The math is stupidly simple: the rockerboy gets the cosmic vistas, and his dying boyfriend gets the ground and the incense.

On the other hand, V's a living legend of the Afterlife now. He can work — he has to work, take gigs, as long as the strength hasn't completely run out, as long as his body obeys him, his hands don't shake too badly, his vision doesn't blur after every chase or fight. Maintain his rep, after all. Pretend that it means something.

What a fucking life. His parents poured tons of eddies into pushing him through Arasaka Academy. He spent years grinding theory, getting used to experimental chrome, busting his ass in counterintel, pulling the rug out from under people, jumping over his own head just to reach the top one day. Worked for his rep. And in the end, he's going to die as a city-famous merc, stealing someone else's glory. V wasn't the one who trashed Arasaka back then. It was Johnny. And Johnny was the one who should have walked out of Mikoshi alive.

That thought won't leave him alone — it comes back, again and again, like a stuck track. If, around Kerry, V tried to keep it together and pretend that what happened didn't bother him much, then in Kerry's absence, his life has started going straight to shit at a much faster pace. The routine questions — "So, rested up?", "How are you feeling?" — piss V off to the point of grinding his teeth, making him want to spit back something venomous like: "What do you think?" But those same questions are also calming in their own way. They let him know that maybe his existence isn't entirely pointless, because there's someone nearby who genuinely gives a fuck.

And when the hour comes — and that "when" stopped being a vague "if" long ago — that person is going to hurt. For his sake, V held back his coughs, hid his bloodied hands behind his back like a naughty kid. Carefully, almost convincingly, he lied: "Vik's new pills are helping, I'm better," "Didn't sleep well, but it's fine, shit heals fast on me." He's just as good at lying as he is at shooting.

But while Kerry isn't around, there's no point in putting on a brave face. There's something of Johnny in this new lifestyle of his, and he really fucking misses Johnny in this shitshow. V knows even without him that he's just feeling sorry for himself and sliding into childish "poor me" mode, but hearing the truth from the outside would be easier. Especially in Johnny's signature delivery: crude, sarcastic, caustic, and honest.

V spends his days tearing around the city, taking gigs by the dozen, selling guns looted from corpses, used to drop by the Aldecaldos to listen to the vets' stories before they left. He's got an obscene amount of eddies in his account, and although he's nowhere near Kerry's wealth, V feels that saturation of means that inevitably catches up with all well-off people. Funny thing is, his parents never complained about having too much money. Guess he's outdone them after all.

By evening, when the sun slides down, V notes in his head that he's got one less day to live — no longer six months, but five-four-three. Sometimes — the status demands it — he crashes the Afterlife to hit the booze with Claire, sometimes he takes the North Oak switchbacks up to Kerry's villa, collects bottles all over the place, and drags himself into the shower to finish off what's left of his health. The same obsessive thoughts inevitably crawl into his head, and he can't get rid of them: Alt left him without a soul. Is he even human anymore? Or is Kerry soon going to be standing over the little grave of some new engram that Alt programmed to perfectly imitate V who died in a landfill from a bullet courtesy of Mr. DeShawn? Once, V heard that people were calling him the Night City anomaly. Now that's a fucking great title, probably doing him even more honor in the eyes of other mercs and fixers. If only he gave a single fuck.

Kerry's villa is the only place he wants to spend the night. V still pays rent for the apartments in the Glen and Corpo Plaza, but doesn't go back to the home of his past self anymore. It's not like he officially moved in with Kerry, either — things with them happened too fast and shamelessly again: Kerry, without saying a word, added him to the security system and announced that V could come over anytime. Not taking him seriously at first, V was shy about staying overnight or showing up at ridiculously late hours, but after quickly getting used to Kerry's frantic, erratic rhythm of life, he got used to the idea that this was his home now, too. He moved some of his stuff over and completely forgot that until recently, he hadn't been living on this paradise hill, but in the very heart of the city.

But without Kerry, the villa still feels different. It's not that it's empty or dead: the chaos reigning all around breathes with its owner's energy all on its own. It's just that without Kerry, V sometimes sees himself as an intruder who's wandered into a space far more refined than he is. Like any creative person, Kerry doesn't feel the world the way an ordinary person does. From the very first day they met, V noticed that Kerry always perceives what's happening to him through the lens of music. He himself is like a wave: alive, fluid, constantly changing, yet incredibly whole. Kerry once said that V, with his stubbornness, reignited the fire of life in him. V didn't agree with him then, and he's not ready to agree now. Because if anyone is keeping the other afloat and stopping them from completely collapsing, it's Kerry. His energy, his honesty, his childlike openness. He's someone you can hold onto.

Everything Kerry touches takes on a piece of his creative madness, absorbs his nerve, his rhythm, and can no longer exist any other way. The air in the villa feels woven from musical tension, taut as a string, humming faintly if you just listen. But it's strongest where Kerry has left himself almost literally — in his collection of guitars.

Waking up long after noon, V lies there for a while without moving, staring at the ceiling, and catches himself with an obsessive urge to look at them again. Is he missing Kerry? Yeah, looks like it. But he doesn't get up right away. Getting up is preceded by the usual ritual: counting how many hours he slept this time. The more time passes, the more he needs sleep. One could call his new lifestyle healthy, if nine hours weren't creeping toward thirteen. At least he still reacts to the alarm blaring.

Getting up is hard. His body really does feel like someone else's, slow, reluctant to obey. His morning routine has become absurdly primitive: pills for headaches, for nausea, immunosuppressants, blockers, vitamins, some scattering of pills Misty sent — V can't even remember which is for what anymore, he just swallows them out of habit, washing them down with water that tastes faintly bitter. His nose bleeds again while he's trying to eat. V grimaces, pinches the bridge of his nose, tilts his head back — and at that same moment, pain slams into his skull like a blunt blow, as if someone inside is dragging a cleaver along the bone with pressure. Even after all that chemical bombardment.

He's got about a dozen unread messages. Even if there's something important among them, V's gaze doesn't catch on them. It slides to the row of guitars. For both Kerry and Johnny, music was something more than just a way to earn money or show off in front of a crowd. V couldn't put it into words properly, but he vaguely understands: for them, it's a language, something deeper, purer, more direct than words. After that concert, when Johnny essentially pushed him out of his own body and completely blocked his view, V felt a sweet trembling in his body for hours afterward, and a vague excitement he couldn't name. It didn't feel like an orgasm after sex, or a drug high — even though V had more than his fill of both, thanks to Johnny. It had a completely different nature, bordering on something otherworldly. Surely Kerry, when he plays — on stage or just for himself, alone — feels something similar. And that thought makes something unpleasant twist inside V: he wants to understand what that feeling is. He wants to experience it himself, just once.

After a moment's hesitation, he reaches for the guitar Johnny played the first time they broke in here, and carefully lifts it off its hook. His fingertips respond with a faint tingling, where his own sensations mix with echoes of someone else's memory. As if something left over from Johnny stirred inside him. Touching the lacquered wood and running his hand over the strings feels criminal to V, and he sees himself as an intruder who's strayed into forbidden territory. In a way, he is: Kerry wouldn't keep all sorts of things here, even that Soviet balalaika he's probably never once touched, for no reason. Although, knowing Kerry…

V wouldn't have been surprised if someone told him that, say, twenty years ago, Kerry put on a big concert on Red Square in front of Cherminin himself — or whoever was in charge back in the fifties? And, of course, he dressed up in something deliberately Russian, flashy, ridiculous, yet somehow perfectly suited to him: red, ornate script, patterns — all of it easily layering itself over memories of his body, of his vocal implants, of the tattoos trailing up his arms like flower stems from shoulders to wrists.

Catching himself on just how vividly he remembers every line of Kerry's body and every detail about him, V grips the guitar tighter and almost limply sinks onto the couch beneath this silent gallery, feeling something painful constrict inside his chest, throwing off his breathing and his heart's rhythm. Again. Old thoughts and feelings surface, that fucking lump rising in his throat that he can neither swallow nor spit out. He'd already made up his mind. Almost right after Kerry left, after riding out the first wave of loneliness and those endless, obsessive messages with their stupid "I miss you :*", V devised a plan for himself. Simple, cold, and the only right one: separation is for the best. While Kerry is up there, among the lights and the people looking up at him, riding a new wave of popularity and inspiration, V needs to quietly, without making a fuss, remove himself from the equation. Not dissolve into the city's maw like some last little bitch, and not ghost him silently — that would be more Johnny's style — but gradually, step by step, reduce his presence: show up at the villa less often, not reply to every message instantly, not stretch night-time conversations into infinity just to have the last word. Let the distance happen naturally, so it's easier for Kerry to let him go. And V himself? Well, he'll manage somehow. Besides, what's the point of worrying about emotional stability or zen when his remaining weeks can be counted on one hand?

V lays the guitar across his lap and runs his hands over his face, massaging his optics. It's a shame he never worked up the courage to ask Johnny for a few music lessons because the phrasing always got stuck somewhere along the way, turning into a pathetic, pitiful mess. "Hey Johnny, I kinda wanna impress Kerry, help me out?" — "Listen Johnny, I'm fucking your best friend. Teach me to play so he'll like it" — "Johnny, buddy, help me make the most talented, successful, fucking awesome, funny, and creative musician of our time fall in love with me." No doubt Johnny heard every single one of those pathetic attempts to formulate a request without him ever saying them out loud, but somehow, they'd silently established a fair rule: no commenting on each other's thoughts unless they were properly voiced.

And now what? Open the Net, watch some shitty video tutorials, pausing every time the player changes finger positions on the fretboard? That's way too fucking complicated for a creative endeavor. Without fully understanding why he felt so drawn to the guitars, V is sure of one thing: this was the movement he'd been looking for, or at least something like it. A rush of inspiration? A creative spark?

Somewhat awkwardly, V takes the guitar in his hands, closes his eyes, and tries to play something. The first thing that comes to mind is Kerry's improvisation from the yacht. That simple, calm rhythm, so out of place in Night City's insane speed played in V's head for a long time, and even now surfaces clearly enough for him to hum under his breath, but the moment he involves his hands, it all falls apart. His fingers won't obey — they snag on the strings, slip, producing nothing but a pitiful, brittle jumble of sounds instead of music. He frowns, tries again, more carefully this time — no use. Maybe the guitar's out of tune? He could tweak the strings, but Kerry would kill him if he came back and found that V had finished the thing off while trying to fix it.

Kerry — even in the darkness behind closed eyes, slowly unfurling its petals, a sunflower blossom. Among the memories of him that V sifts through again and again like rosary beads, the ones he inherited from Johnny are unquestionably the most vivid — someone else's memories, yet somehow painfully personal. It's fascinating, down to a physical tremor, to compare that Kerry — fragile, repressed, always looking over his shoulder at Silverhand — with the Kerry of now, in whom the old has been melted down into something more whole, more confident and louder. He's a person in whom, in some inexplicable way, coexist a stubborn, naive dreamer who believes in music as salvation, and a star who knows his worth perfectly well and isn't shy about showing it off.

There's something unnatural about it — there's too much energy in Kerry for a man who's waded through rivers of shit and didn't break under them. The life force in him hasn't just not faded — it's grown stronger, as if every fall he's been through only added fuel to the fire burning inside him. And even more amazing is watching how his manias and reckless impulses give way to a state of spiritual peace. Blow up a van full of Us Cracks' equipment just because, fuck it, he can — and then sit in some run-down, cockroach-infested dive, wrapping his hands around a paper coffee cup and chatting about the weather. Watch the sunset from the deck of a yacht, breathing in the warm air of freedom — and a few minutes later, without batting an eye, smash it to pieces, burn it, and send it to the bottom.

Living with him constantly is way more fun. V, usually modest in his messaging, has picked up Kerry's love for using homemade emojis — a holdover from the latter's youth. It's impossible to stay reserved when you're communicating with such an emotional fountain. Now it feels completely natural to answer the question "Where are you?" by sending a selfie with a bunch of dead Tyger Claws mercs in the background captioned "Take a guess :D", or to strike a pose with a katana in the style of Nude with sword.

And the number of photos they've taken together is crazy. V sometimes scrolls through them without really looking, and he adores every single one, even the simplest, most mundane ones. In matching outfits, after swapping clothes, before sex, after, and in between. Kerry lining his eyes after a shower. V spearing burgers on his mantis blades. Kerry on stage, caught from the VIP booth. V in his old Arasaka suit with a mournful expression in front of Johnny's makeshift grave. Both of them on the rusty, screeching roller coaster in Pacifica. And many, many, many more shots, just like any happy couple would have.

II

Opening his eyes, V doesn't immediately realize why he's seeing the world at an angle, but when he feels the blanket on him and hears Kerry's purring voice somewhere nearby, he barely holds back a tired exhale. Did he really pass out without noticing? How much time has passed, he wonders? Grabbing his head with one hand, V sits up carefully, trying to avoid getting dizzy. It's already evening outside the panoramic windows, but was Kerry supposed to arrive today? Just the thought that he might have slept for over twenty-four hours sends a cold sweat through V, triggering a short, electric spasm in his body. He remembers how much he slept before the Arasaka raid and how fucking awful he felt afterward. If he's right, if this isn't a coincidence but a pattern, he might not even make it to the deadline Alt gave him.

— Fuck... — V mutters under his breath, pushing his disheveled hair back.

— You're awake? — comes from above. Kerry always speaks with a lazy drawl when he's trying to hide his worry. V looks up, and a quick kiss lands on his forehead, bringing with it the scent of expensive cologne and something cosmically sterile.

— Ker! — a brief smile flashes across V's lips. Before he can stop himself, he lurches forward and throws his arms around Kerry's neck, pulling him into a hug.

— Whoa, whoa, looks like someone went completely feral without me, — Kerry replies with a smirk, sounding a bit taken aback. His arms lock around V's back and pull him closer, holding him there. — I see you've taken up music while I was gone?

— Something like that.

— Yeah? Wrote any hits?

V silently shakes his head and pulls back. He thinks he might have come up with a vague riff, inspired by thoughts of Kerry, but in his current state, any recent memory could just as easily have been a dream.

— Uh... how long ago did you get back? — V asks carefully.

— Not too long. Like four hours ago? Or wait, let me count, — Kerry pauses, theatrically counting on his fingers, but eventually just waves his hand lazily and shrugs. — Yeah, something like that. I walk in, and there you are, sprawled out. Neck okay?

— A little stiff, — V exhales and opens his messages, checking to see if the city fell apart while he was unconscious.

Turns out Kerry had been writing to him. V scrolls through the messages diagonally, and with each line he reads, something inside him goes unpleasantly cold. Kerry had been complaining at length about everyone — from his new manager to the lighting tech, about how fucking sick of them all he was, and that the audience at the Crystal Palace was so stupid, playing for them was like casting pearls before swine, so sticking around and finishing the concerts was something he "couldn't give a flying fuck about." Nothing critical, of course, but what bothers V is something else: a one-sided conversation that went on for several days in a row, and he didn't notice a thing.

— Sorry I didn't greet you properly, — V mutters, closing the holo. — You know, with fanfare, a red carpet, bouquets of roses. I promise to make up for it.

— Don't worry about it, — Kerry stretches catlike and flops down on the couch next to V, patting the spot beside him. — C'mere.

V instantly settles next to him, half-lying down, and a second later he feels Kerry's fingers — heavy with rings — tangle in his hair, rhythmically sifting through the strands. The motion is almost hypnotic.

— Holy shit, — Kerry draws out in surprise. — What's this we've got here?

— Where? — V asks, lazily opening one eye.

— Right here, — Kerry pulls on a strand, bringing it closer to the light. And even like that, V can't see a thing. — Your roots are showing.

— And?

— And... I think this is the first time I've seen your natural color.

— Congratulations on the historic occasion, — V says dryly.

— It suits you. Kind of a shame you hide it, — Kerry buries his fingers in V's hair again, continuing to sift through it. — Don't dye it again.

— We'll see, — V answers evasively.

— Sure… But being ignored on a cosmic scale? That actually stings.

— Yeah, that was shitty of me.

— That's not the point, — Kerry frowns slightly, as if searching for words — which, for him, is rare. — I mean... Look, I know you're busy, and you've got gigs up to your eyeballs. But you usually answer pretty fast, or call, or whatever. And this time — nothing. I know it sounds stupid, but I started thinking that you... you know, like... bailed, or...

— I get it, — V cuts him off, lifting his head to give him a kiss, then lowering it back down just as quickly. The scent of forest dampness and that electric freshness that always clings to Kerry hits him again, overwhelming.

He missed it so much. Not just Kerry himself, but their ridiculous existence together, the silliness, the bickering, the sudden late-night escapades, that unassuming, almost accidental lightness that appeared the moment they were near each other. And just the thought that his approaching death would tear all of this out by the roots hits V like a wave.

Jackie knew how to cheer him up too. The things they got up to over their many years of rock-solid friendship. The day V got into Arasaka and Jackie got into the Valentinos remained in his memory as one big blur: fragments of laughter, shouting, music, faces that wouldn't form a coherent picture, inevitably followed by a forty-minute lecture from Mamá Welles when they stumbled into Jackie's place, dead drunk and barely able to stand. And yet, for all their vividness and simple joy, those memories couldn't compare to the chaotic, crazy whirlwind of capers that Kerry dragged V into.

First, V was sort-of-officially introduced to the public and bestowed with the honorary title of boyfriend in front of thousands of fans, but that fame stayed within Kerry's fan bubble for a while, bubbling away on the periphery. Then people started piecing together facts, names, rumors. V the merc gradually merged in people's minds with "Eurodyne's new input," the gossip mill kicked into gear, and the attention, rare and amusing at first, started getting a little fucking annoying. Kerry, as if he'd been waiting for exactly that, gifted him a baggy black jacket, tinted glasses, and a stupid baseball cap, dubbed the whole getup "professional camouflage," and declared that from then on, they were required to go out in public exclusively wearing that outfit. V didn't object, even though the very idea that he had to pretend to be some street junkie just to keep a low profile struck him as absurd.

But something actually came out of Kerry's disguise idea: out of boredom, V started digging around on the Net, applied his netrunner skills and a few old Arasaka scripts, bypassed a couple of blockers, picked some strangers' passwords, cracked dead accounts, and created a few fake profiles. From those accounts, he started editing Kerry's biography on official sites, posting the most unhinged comments under concert recordings, shitposting and arguing on forums, publishing fabricated photos — in other words, stirring up a ruckus and, to the sound of Kerry's childlike, ringing laughter, watching a sea of fake information and scandals spread across the internet. The schemes he came up with back then were as good as the early seasons of the Little Big Corporates.

If V is truly afraid of anything, it's not pain or death itself — what terrifies him is losing all of this, everything that's bundled up into one person: Kerry. Strange, but before, when it seemed like he had maybe two weeks left at most, when he gulped down pills before every trip out so he wouldn't collapse somewhere in the middle of the street, when Johnny would demonstratively sneer at every sign of weakness, and the solution kept slipping through his fingers time after time — back then, he perceived the approaching end more abstractly. V was sure he'd weasel his way out. Find a loophole, cheat the system, outsmart everyone, including death itself, and get back to a normal life, whatever that looked like.

But now V feels the full pressure of inexorable decay, the crude cleaver hanging over his head. He is going to die. Not "maybe," not "if he's unlucky" — just die. And along with him, everything that now seems important will vanish. Kerry with all his tantrums, emotional outbursts, ridiculous ideas; their conversations, photographs, touches; the very feeling of attachment — all of it will be zeroed out. All that will remain of Vincent is a slowly decaying shell.

Dying is terrifying because, despite everything, V wants to live. He wants to wake up before Kerry and wake him up, knowing that Kerry will grumble and throw pillows at him. He wants, alternatively, to sneak downstairs when a fixer calls, so he doesn't disturb Kerry lazing in bed. He wants to hear him cursing after interviews, rolling his eyes at the same stupid questions. He wants to know all about Johnny's romantic exploits at the peak of Samurai's fame and what Kerry thinks about it all. He wants to buy coffee at Capitán Caliente, go surfing, hide under the same blanket, binge-watch some run-of-the-mill series, and comment on it until he's hoarse. He wants to sit on Misty's roof and watch the night sky, inventing new constellations. He wants to introduce Kerry to Mamá Welles — to see how they react to each other and get something like a blessing. More than ever before, even more than on that terrifying day of his own "rebirth", V wants to live. He doesn't want to stop at twenty-three. He wants to at least make it to thirty. Because if that fucking Saburo Arasaka lived to a hundred and fifty, why the hell should he die so unfairly young?

Drowning for a moment in the destructive whirlwind of thoughts that accompanies everyone who despairs of finding salvation, V doesn't notice the helpless sob that escapes his lips. The hand in his hair freezes. Kerry catches his face and lifts it, forcing him to look up. Just his luck — his eyes start to water, and V looks away in shame.

— What's wrong?

— Nothing, I was just thinking, — V says. Kerry pierces him with a distrustful look. — I swear, it's from happiness.

— Sure, sure, — Kerry drawls, but surprisingly, he doesn't push. Then he suddenly snaps his fingers, grasping at a thought. — Oh, listen, I almost forgot! It completely slipped my mind. Last week at this afterparty, I ran into this weird guy. And he — you won't fucking believe it — claims he knows how to fix your problem. For real! At first, I had no idea what he was on about and figured he was on synth-coke or something. Plus, his eyes are fucking weird — unreal blue, like they're glowing from the inside... Anyway, this guy knows a shit ton about you. I almost got the feeling he knows you better than I do, which, you gotta admit, is already insulting, — Kerry tries to lighten the mood, but quickly gives up. — Like I said, he's absolutely sure he can help you. Only, he says, you'll have to work for him a bit. He didn't give a number, but left an email, can you believe it? An email! Anyway, I don't know, it could be total bullshit, but... what if it's not?

— Yeah. Send me his contact.

V tries to force out a convincingly hopeful smile, but sometimes he's a pretty shitty actor. The way Kerry described that shady client's appearance and their supposedly long-standing acquaintance with V makes his blood run cold. His mind jumps to the conspiracy theory he dug up while working for the Peralezes. If they're connected — and his gut is whispering that they are — then he's right back at the same old crossroads in new packaging: either keep dying, or agree to yet another deal with God knows who and gamble away the little he has left. A lottery where the prize is life, and the price is God knows what. If V liked playing those kinds of games, he'd have gone to Hanako a long time ago, bowed politely, and agreed to whatever she offered.

— Okay, — Kerry's voice brings him back. — You're going to stop pretending everything's fine and tell me what's wrong.

— Nothing.

— Sorry, but quit fucking with my head. I'm not blind or deaf yet.

— If you say so... I appreciate you caring. I really do. And I know you want to help me. I'm just not sure it's possible anymore, — V begins slowly, carefully choosing his words. — I mean, what kind of cure could there possibly be if even Alt couldn't save me?

— Fuck, V! — Kerry straightens up sharply, shedding his lazy relaxation. — That bitch didn't help because it was more convenient for her to leave Johnny in control of the body!

— What difference does it make? Sometimes you have to know when to pull back. I'm tired of fighting and pushing forward every single day, — he looks up at Kerry with clouded eyes. — I'm so fucking sick of everyone using me. They all see me as a convenient fucking tool, someone who'll definitely take the bait if they wave the promise of a "cure" in front of his nose. One after another. They promise, they swear, they act like saviors, and then they throw up their hands and say, "Looks like we overestimated ourselves." Remember when you told me about the shadows, on the roof of the Dark Matter? I get you now. There are a dozen powerful people around, and every single one of them supposedly knows how to save me, but it's all just bullshit, — V exhales shortly. — What the fuck do I need fame and connections for, if all my attempts to change things keep ending up the same way? I'm running in circles, stepping on the same rake over and over, and every time I hope they won't snap back in my face.

— Oh, really? You? Want to give up? That's fucking hilarious, I'm dying of laughter. First you pull me out of the absolute shitter, and now you're planning some graceful exit?

— I'm not going to spend whatever days I have left dancing on someone else's leash. You're the one who told me about life's loops and moving from one level to the next. That's what I'm going to do. And I want to spend whatever time I have left with you.

Kerry doesn't answer right away, and that in itself is an alarming sign because usually his words outrun his thoughts. He looks at V intently, almost motionless.

— So you're subtly, very politely suggesting that I should just accept your death in advance. So I don't get too used to you, is that it? — V opens his mouth to object, but Kerry doesn't let him get a word in. — No, wait, let me finish. You think I haven't noticed how you've been acting lately? If you've decided to bury yourself alive ahead of time — that's your right, of course. But I'm not going to sit next to you and watch you walk off into the sunset all beautifully and, like, consciously.

— I'm not trying to... — V starts, but his voice comes out raspy. He has to clear his throat, look away. Beneath all the layers of fatigue, fear, and stubbornness constricting his chest, V feels a painful flutter that catches his breath. Kerry's words latch onto the places he'd been carefully avoiding. — I'm not trying to get rid of you.

— That's sure as hell what it looks like.

— I know, but... I wanted it to be easier for you.

— Easier? Seriously? — Kerry leans back, runs his hands through his hair, ruffling it, and laughs shortly. — Jesus, V... Do you even hear yourself? I don't know what you've got planned, but it's not going to be easier for me — not if you write to me once a day instead of ten times, not if you stop sleeping here, not if you start playing the fucking stoic who's accepted everything and made peace with it. The only way it gets "easier" for me is if you survive.

— I understand. But I'm sick to death of the idea that my whole life has to be about chasing a cure that might not even exist, or racing after some phantom way out.

— Nice fucking quotes from a motivational podcast. Except you're not, shit, on some yoga retreat.

— Listen... — V says quietly. — I really didn't want you to think I'm just waiting for the right moment to ditch you.

— I think you're being an idiot. That's different, — Kerry snorts, without his former sharpness.

V can't help but smile faintly.

— Well, thanks.

— Next time, just talk to me normally. Without all that… — Kerry waves his hand vaguely, — …philosophical shit.

— I'll try.

Kerry looks at V for another moment, then, without a word, rests his chin on top of V's head. It's a bit clumsy, but his hold stays firm.

— Can you promise me you'll at least think about what I said? And if there's even the slightest chance — any chance, no matter how fucking insane — you won't just ignore it? We'll decide together whether it's worth it or not. You're not in this alone.

— Okay, — V nods, without thinking. Right now, he's ready to promise Kerry anything — even if he ends up regretting it the next day.

By the time they reach the bed, Kerry falls asleep almost instantly, as if flipped by a switch. A minute ago, he was mumbling something, lazily tracing his fingers along V's shoulder, but soon his breathing evened out, grew heavier, and turned into a peaceful, slightly raspy snore. V lies still, his face buried in Kerry's neck, counting breaths — first Kerry's, then his own; loses count, and starts over. It's so quiet and peaceful. As if the conversation, and all that heaviness that descended on him over the evening, stayed outside their luxurious shelter, pushed out by domestic calm. V would consider himself lucky to close his eyes and pass out the way Kerry does. But he can't.

Bad thoughts don't burst in, don't crash down like an avalanche, but seep through the cracks in his consciousness like water. Then comes a chain reaction of images. V exhales, trying not to move. Beneath his cheek, Kerry's chest rises and falls steadily, and for a brief moment it seems that if he just focuses on his surroundings — the warmth, the rhythm, the living person next to him — everything else could be drowned out. But that doesn't work either.

His mind is operating with painful clarity. V runs through the options, as he's done dozens of times before, but without the familiar anger and stubbornness. If the offer from the man with the blue eyes is connected to what he got into with the Peralezes, then this isn't just another gig. He himself was almost rewritten like a line of code back then — and that was, at its core, just an unlucky coincidence, not some conspiracy of Night City's shadow government.

A cure. V smirks. The same old bait, and he wants to bite again because the alternative is to lie down and quietly wait for his brain to finally turn into mush. Before, the helplessness and repetition at least made him angry. V carefully pulls his arm out from under Kerry and rolls onto his back. The ceiling disappears into the darkness; faint reflections of the city drift across the windows, occasionally catching the edge of a piece of furniture. V lies like that for a few seconds, then slowly lowers his hand to his neck, as if trying to feel Relic socket in his head.

— So what the fuck do I do? — he asks in a whisper, obeying the stupid habit of talking to himself.

There's no answer, of course, only two options, and both are familiar to the point of disgust. The first: do nothing. Live as long as he can. Don't fight. Stay here, with Kerry, squeeze everything possible out of the time he has left, and simply leave. People used to get cancer and die just like him. So maybe that's normal? The second: write to that bastard and put himself on the line again. And maybe not just himself.

V closes his eyes, trying to focus on something else, but the images only grow sharper. Kerry laughing, throwing his head back. Kerry sitting next to him, forehead pressed against V's shoulder, saying nothing. Kerry staying here. Without him. His chest constricts so sharply that V involuntarily holds his breath. When he's gone, Kerry's living, sincere, noisy life will sooner or later continue its usual course. It will change, transform, move forward, and V will remain behind, eventually dissolving among the faded memories, leaving behind nothing memorable.

V turns his head to the side and looks at Kerry. Even in the darkness, the familiar outlines are visible: his disheveled platinum hair, the curved line of his nose and its upturned tip, his slightly parted lips. V reaches out and unconsciously touches Kerry's hand, tracing his fingers over the tanned skin, memorizing, as if he could carry some of this living warmth with him into the afterlife, if such a thing exists. Kerry stirs faintly, mumbles something unintelligible, and without waking up, reaches for him, wrapping an arm across V's chest.

III

Despite Kerry's persistent, sometimes almost desperate pleas, V never quite brings himself to contact this "Mr. Blue Eyes," as he calls himself. Tormented by doubt, he reaches out to everyone he can — first and foremost Regina — trying to dig up more information, but it's no use: the client covers his tracks well. V tries digging on his own, but finds no loopholes. The job they want to hand him is serious, risky, and no doubt dirty. Taking it on would probably be the most selfish thing he's ever done. Besides, his and Jackie's failure at Konpeki Plaza made all too clear the price of rash decisions and plans that weren't thought through in advance. Kerry, of course, doesn't approve of his choice and unleashes a destructive-scale scandal.

— Are you out of your fucking mind? — his voice trembles with rage. — They're offering you a chance, and you're saying, "No thanks, I'd rather die"?

— It's not a chance, — V says tiredly and hops onto the kitchen counter.

— I don't give a shit what you call it! — Kerry spins around, grabs a glass from the table, and hurls it at the wall with all his strength.

The glass shatters into splinters with a dry, sharp crash. At that moment, a completely inappropriate, almost masochistic thought surfaces in V's head: if that glass had been aimed at him, would he have dodged in time? Would his reflexes still work like before, or would his body have failed him? He automatically tracks the trajectory of the shards, estimates the distance and immediately realizes how fucking stupid this all is. Kerry doesn't give him a chance to test the theory, and that's probably for the best. The second glass hits the floor with a much duller sound.

The scandal, however, burns out as quickly as it started — Kerry has always been reasonably quick to cool down. Once he's calmed down, he promises to cancel all his upcoming concerts and tours and to make V's life "unbearably beautiful." And, strangely enough, he keeps his word.

They decide to go to the Philippines, Kerry's home turf. The question of transport comes up: V honestly admits that a long flight might be too much for him, so Kerry suggests a plan that reeks of old-fashioned romance — drive part of the way, then switch to a liner.

As they leave Night City, for the first time in a long while, V awakens a feeling: not exactly freedom, but an inner release from a tight, crushing grip. The city falls behind them, its lights dimming and dissolving over the horizon, and with them, the constant noise in his head recedes. Neither as a child nor as an adult had V ever traveled outside Night City. His whole life, he'd spent in that concrete hive, and now, before him, stretches what seems like boundless space. Roads stretch forward for kilometers; rare gas stations emerge from nowhere and disappear just as quickly into the dust; and outside the windows unfold landscapes V had only ever seen in old recordings: scorched, war-ravaged patches of land where something might have once grown, and beside them — endless fields.

Taking advantage of the disguise — which made no sense out here; in the middle of nowhere, no one would ever recognize them anyway — Kerry buys some vegetables from a farmer and offers V a taste. He takes the proffered tomato, looks at it like an artifact from a bygone era, and cautiously takes a bite. He immediately grimaces, almost spitting out the juicy flesh. The taste hits him hard, as if someone cranked his sensory settings to maximum. Sourness, sweetness, something elusive — all at once, all together, and his receptors, used to synthetics, can't handle it. Kerry laughs loud and unashamedly, managing through his tears to snap a picture of V's twisted expression.

Soon, the ocean opens up before him. First, V is hit by the smell: salty, wet, seeping into his lungs and washing out all the city smog — and then the sight itself: an endless, horizon-stretching expanse, alive, moving, nothing like the murky sludge lapping at the shores of Pacifica. And the air here is different — light, strangely pure. For the first few hours, V breathes too often and too deeply, as if he can't get enough, and the excess oxygen starts to make him dizzy. The sand beneath his feet is almost white, soft, and when the water first touches his skin in a lazy wave, V freezes in place. Cool and clean, it doesn't burn, doesn't sting, and certainly doesn't glow with radiation. It envelops him, pulls at him, and his tense muscles slowly begin to relax.

Birds soar across the cloudless high sky, birds that Kerry calls seagulls. Wow. Earlier, back in America, V had managed to see a few crows, some sparrows, and even an eagle.

Filipino cuisine drives him crazy. Sinigang has a ringing sourness to it, and even though V has had a squeamish dislike for real fish since childhood, the mango and tomatoes smooth out the flavor, making it moderately pleasant. Lechon kawali fills him up instantly in a way the fattiest, most nutritious hot dog never could. And then there's kakanin. When he hears the name of that dessert, V can't help but let out a stupid snicker. Kerry, he's sure, has heard plenty of similarly lame coke jokes before, but he still backs V up with a graceful remark: "A classic in its finest form — blows your mind and gets you addicted."

The heat here settles on his shoulders like a heavy hand. Even in the evening, the air remains thick, saturated with salt and moisture. It feels like you're not breathing air but something more viscous, almost tangible. At first, V is annoyed that his hair sticks to his forehead and won't dry properly, and that his muscles feel like they're working on overdrive. After a few days, however, he gets used to it. Or rather, he stops fighting it.

For their place to stay, Kerry chooses an authentic wooden house practically right by the water. When there are no clouds in the sky, the sun rises aggressively fast, and about an hour after dawn, sleeping any longer becomes unbearable. On one of those days, V wakes up to an empty bed and a faint, rhythmic sound coming from outside. Still half-asleep, he steps out onto the veranda, squinting against the light, and doesn't immediately register what he's seeing: Kerry is standing barefoot on the sand, in a stretched-out t-shirt and shorts, guitar in hand, playing his heart out. V leans against the doorframe and silently watches this idyllic scene until Kerry hits a wrong note, bends down to a notebook lying open on the sand, and scribbles something in it with a pencil. V finds this habit of his — writing everything important down on paper first — strangely endearing.

— I thought you wanted to sleep in, — V says.

— Changed my mind, — Kerry tosses back. — What got you up? I figured you'd be out until noon.

— Changed my mind too, you could say, — V steps down from the veranda, buries his feet in the velvety sand, and stops next to him. — Something new again?

— Nothing special. Trying to nail the music for your song. I've had the lyrics down for a while, but the melody just won't come.

— Play it again.

V is ready to bet that Kerry will refuse — out of principle, out of habit, for any number of reasons, but he loses that bet to himself, because Kerry obediently starts from the beginning. The music flows unevenly, faltering in places, but there's something honest and calming about its sound.

— Well? — Kerry looks at V with feigned nonchalance. — Shit?

— Nah. It's fine.

— Fine, — Kerry mimics him. — Fucking stellar review.

— Okay, okay, honestly, it sounds incredible. I just didn't want to overpraise you and give you a big head, — V weasels his way out and earns a kiss for his wit.

Later, closer to noon, when the heat becomes truly unbearable, they go into the water. V wades in carefully, just like the first time, checking to see if it's all some kind of illusion. Kerry runs into the sea, disappears beneath the rippling surface, and surfaces a few meters farther out.

— Hurry up, slowpoke!

— Fuck you, — V says without any real heat, and wades in deeper.

Once he's gotten used to the water temperature, he dives under too. For a brief moment, sound, light, and the sensation of his own body all disappear. All that's left is muffled pressure and absolute silence. V surfaces abruptly, greedily inhaling a lungful of air, and feels his heartbeat not beneath his ribs but somewhere in his throat. He's alive. A completely naive thought comes to him: what if they stayed here on the islands? Didn't go back, didn't think about the diagnosis anymore? Why couldn't the local nature have a beneficial effect on his health and delay the end? Alpine air works for some people, doesn't it?

His pensive silence earns him a face full of spray.

— Ker! — V grimaces, wiping his eyes and spitting out the salty water that got into his mouth.

— Lighten up, will you?

— Why you... — V doesn't finish the sentence and retaliates in kind, declaring a war that stretches all the way to an endless, crimson sunset.

In the evening, they sit on the veranda. Somewhere in the distance, voices drift over, music, a dog barking — a peaceful life going on nearby, one that has nothing to do with them. Kerry smokes, leaning back in his chair, lazily tapping ashes into an empty tin can.

— You know, — he says suddenly, not looking at V, — I came here once to just say fuck it all and give up. Thought I'd stay, play in some local bars, drink cheap beer, and not give a damn.

— What stopped you?

— A feeling that someday a guy would be born in Night City who'd actually understand me, and I wouldn't be able to stay away from him. And look — it came true.

V turns away, elbows on his knees, and hides his face in his hands. Everything inside him is completely exposed, right on the surface, and Kerry, seeing his embarrassment, is probably laughing to himself at how flustered this love-struck kid is, this boy who doesn't know how to handle his own feelings. Exhaling, V awkwardly shuffles closer and rests his head on Kerry's shoulder. The cigarette burns down to nothing in the tin. Kerry turns, lifts his hand to touch V's face — runs his thumb along his cheek and stops at the corner of his lips.

— You do realize I'm not joking, right?

— So, am I living up to your expectations? Pretty high bar, you know, — V wrinkles his nose, looking away, but doesn't pull back. — I seem to recall you telling Johnny I looked like a small-time kleptopunk from the Afterlife.

— Like anything I said back then counts. That was... Look, what, you think I took some kind of basic training course? Like "How to Keep the Only Person Who Actually Matters to You"?

— With your track record, I wouldn't be surprised, — V smiles despite himself.

— If anything, my track record shows I usually just fuck everything up, — Kerry shrugs. — So relax. We're on even ground.

IV

They have never been, and never will be, on even ground — that's simply impossible. This immutable truth becomes especially clear to V when Kerry suggests, in his words, "dropping by" Tokyo on the way back to see his kids and ex-wife. Their house turns out not to be ostentatious, which V had subconsciously expected, but quite lived-in and simple, though certainly not cheap. The door is opened by a woman — Louise. V catches a quick, appraising look from her, a mix of surprise and hostility, but before she has a chance to say anything about him, the children appear in the doorway. Ted bursts out first, nearly crashing into Kerry, and hangs on his neck. Kim comes a little later, stops at a small distance, and looks shyly toward the doorway. V had seen these two in photos, but in person, they look even more like Kerry than he remembered. Not just in their features — that part's obvious — but in their expressions, their gaze, their postures, the way they carry themselves.

— And who's this? — Ted peels himself off his father and stares at V without a hint of embarrassment.

Kerry hesitates, searching for the most diplomatic phrasing, and chooses the path of least resistance — explain nothing.

— This is... — he clears his throat. — This is V. He's with me.

— A bodyguard? Cool! — Ted clarifies with lively interest.

Until the evening, V finds himself at the mercy of two little bosses, and not even an hour passes before Kerry gets into a fight with Louise. V tries not to listen to the snippets of their argument, though he suspects he may have partly been its catalyst.

— …do you really think this is okay? Just showing up out of nowhere? — Louise's voice grows louder, and it becomes impossible not to hear.

— I gave you a heads-up, — Kerry cuts in.

— You texted an hour before you got here. That's not a heads-up.

There's a pause. Short, but tight as a drawn string.

— I just wanted to spend some time with them, — Kerry's voice rises too. — Is that a crime now?

— With them? — Louise laughs mirthlessly. — Or with him?

— Don't start.

— Don't start what? You bring a stranger into my children's home, you don't explain who he is, and you expect me to keep quiet because...

The kids' faces sour from the shouting too, so V suggests they do something together while there's free time. Ted claps his hands, zips away in a whirlwind, and returns carrying three pairs of VR goggles.

— You can play, right? — he asks, holding out a pair to V.

— Depends on what.

— Big Trouble in Heywood!

— Oh, I'm a champion, — V laughs.

A minute later, they're inside cyberspace, overflowing with vicious gangsters desperate to cause trouble for Night City's finest police force. V takes the role of the cover man, moving ahead on half-bent legs, following old patterns, and almost forgets that there are kids with him. Ted fights chaotically, charging forward, shooting at anything, and despite his complete lack of tactics, somehow survives. Kim, unlike her brother, moves more cautiously. She stays to the side, covers him, sometimes precisely picking off targets that V doesn't spot first. When, after two hours, they finally tumble back into reality, Ted is literally glowing with excitement.

— You're so cool! Like really cool! Can we play again?

— Later, — Kim cuts in with unexpected firmness. — First, I want to show you something.

She grabs V's hand and pulls him from the street into the house. One after another, they pass through the living room, the kitchen, a series of narrow hallways, and finally end up at Kim's room. The mess there is living a full, thriving life. Scattered things, some notes, clothes, tech — all of it mixed together, but beneath the chaos, there's its own logic and a familiar signature. Blood will out, indeed.

— Sorry, — Kim mutters, hurriedly sweeping something off the bed.

— No worries, I've seen worse, — V replies, looking around. He moves closer to the desk, where an unlocked tablet lies, and peers at the screen. It looks like some kind of draft. — What's this?

— I write sometimes. I want to be a singer when I grow up, like dad, — Kim explains shyly. — Don't tell him, okay?

— No problem, — V promises, drawing a finger across his lips like zipping them shut. He scans the song lyrics on the tablet and gives a warm, amused smile. The content is childlike — or maybe girlish is the better word? But at the same time, it's written honestly and from the heart — that much is obvious right away. And as Johnny used to say, the most important things in music are the truth of the performer's feelings and a pinch of talent. — Can I ask why? I mean, you're basically following in his footsteps. You'd think you'd want to show off.

— He'd start butting in right away: correcting me, giving advice. And that's it. It wouldn't be mine anymore. I don't mind if he finds out later! — Kim adds. — But first, I want to figure out for myself whether I'm any good or not.

— You are good, — V says after a short pause. — Well, if my opinion matters to you.

— Listen. Do you... Can you play something? Or sing? I mean, you're with my dad…

Impeccable logic. V thinks for a moment. A fragment surfaces in his mind — that same vague riff he'd been trying to catch back at the villa. A random, uneven melody that, despite its unremarkable nature, won't leave his memory.

— Got a guitar?

Kim nods eagerly and shoves an instrument into his hands — not the newest, with a worn body, but clearly well-loved. V sits on the edge of the bed and runs his fingers over the strings, listening to their sound. He twists the tuning pegs, checks the tuning. V plays quietly, at half volume, so the mistakes won't be so obvious. He picks through the strings in sequence, catches the chords, trying to shape the melody into something better. Here, in someone else's room, among someone else's things and someone else's life, the music comes easier than it did in Night City — yet another surprising effect of running away from the city. Kim sits on the floor across from him, tucking her legs under herself, and listens without interrupting.

After a short while, the music trails off as if by itself. V lowers his hand, runs his thumb over the strings, and raises a questioning look at his listener. Kim doesn't answer right away, like she's digesting what she heard.

— What's it about?

— Bad timing, — V half-smiles. — And about how sometimes you find something important too late.

The day drags on unhurriedly. V chats with the kids a bit more; Ted manages to extract a promise from him to "play again sometime"; Kim says little but doesn't let go of his hand. During dinner, Kerry and Louise declare a shaky truce. Afterwards, Louise notes that Kerry is welcome to spend the night if he wants, but she delivers the invitation in such an unfriendly tone that it makes you want to wash yourself off, and Kerry quickly declines. Besides, V, apparently, isn't included in the package of welcome guests.

By the car, Kerry lingers, pulls out cigarettes, and lights up nervously.

— The kids liked you, — he says, blowing smoke to the side.

— Likewise. They're cool, — V huffs.

— Sometimes I have no fucking clue what to do with them.

— You're doing fine. Ted and Kim adore you, Ker. I can see that. Are you worried Louise will turn them against you?

— Honestly? I fucking am.

— Don't be, — V snatches the cigarette from Kerry's fingers and tosses it aside. Leaning against the car hood, he pulls Kerry into a slow, mind-numbing kiss.

Kerry freezes for a moment — not from surprise, but as if from how easily and precisely V hits the right spot — and responds immediately, without his usual games or performative bravado. His fingers latch onto the collar of V's jacket, crumple the fabric, pull him closer. Though, really, where else is there to go? The metal of the hood is cold beneath his palms, damp from the evening moisture. A sensation that contrasts sharply with the heat spreading like a bright stream under his skin.

— Stop overthinking it, — V says insistently. — Do you really think you can be erased from someone's life that easily?

— I think a lot of things, and half of them are bullshit, — Kerry replies. — But thanks for trying to talk me out of it.

— Then shall we delta? — V says, opening the car door.

Nighttime Tokyo begins with a long, relentlessly straight highway, flashes of light, and black emptiness on both sides of the road. V leans back in his seat, watching the reflections of headlights slide across the window, and rubs his eyes. The adrenaline that settled in his body after that brief burst of emotion fades, leaving behind a light lethargy and a dragging fatigue. His chest feels looser. The sparse lights grow denser, brighter, higher — and then, ahead, a whole expanse of light expands. Neon pours from building facades, trickles down the glass of skyscrapers, fractures into hundreds of shades — cold blues, toxic pinks, acid greens. Massive holographic panels flicker with advertisements; the faces on them change so fast you can't catch them with your eyes. And even at this late hour, people flow through the narrow streets in streams.

Overcoming the drowsiness creeping up on him, V moves closer to the window. His gaze catches on details: the reflections of signs in the wet asphalt, thin lines of rain streaks on shop windows, old temples hiding in the embrace of skyscrapers that disappear into the grayish clouds. There's none of the crude, crushing aggression he's used to in Night City, and the noise here rolls in layers, much softer than back in America.

— Like it? — Kerry tosses out, not taking his eyes off the road.

Yes, he likes it. The car turns off the wide highway onto a narrower street, and the space around them grows denser, more intimate. Signs hang almost over the road itself; light hits his eyes, reflects in the window; one shade of translucent lines layers over another. V feels a cautious curiosity mixed with a dormant, not-yet-fully-awakened euphoria.

V

Despite Kerry's promises to drop everything, the very next day after returning to Night City, the studio is clamoring to see him. After his manager's call, Kerry indifferently tosses his phone onto the couch, but V convinces him that spending one day — hell, even a week — on obligations isn't a crime. Being the center of Kerry's attention is pleasant and flattering, but at the same time awkward — as if he's some incapacitated old man requiring constant supervision, or worse, a protégé with special privileges. The trip showed V, as nothing else could, how humiliating it is to be a burden to other people. The whole journey was conceived for his sake alone; his preferences and desires came first for Kerry, so it feels like he was the only one of the two who actually got any rest.

He should be angry at himself, because despite knowing that Kerry is exhausting himself trying to brighten his life, V never once stopped him or said what was screaming to get out of his skull: "You don't have to flutter around me. I'm not about to die right this second." But for some reason, he's angry at Kerry: the very person who should probably start getting used to the idea of living without V, not tying them even tighter together. It doesn't make things easier for V either — a naive hope is rekindling that everything will be fine, that he'll travel the world with Kerry many more times, that he'll check off every item on that ancient list: plant a tree, build a house and if not raise a son, then at least take part in raising Ted and Kim, even if only as their dad's cool friend; transit from merc to fixer, or who knows, maybe even dare to try his hand at creativity — according to Kerry, he has musical fingers and a good ear. But Night City greets V with disappointing news: Japanese scientists have cured multiple sclerosis; Regina boasts that most of the cyberpsychos he saved are recovering, and V remembers: there's no place for him among the lucky ones who've beaten a fatal illness.

Contacting Padre, V takes a gig from him to upload a virus into the computer of yet another 6th Street gang leader. He pulls it off quickly and flawlessly, and after getting a hefty bonus, heads to Dicky Twister to celebrate success with a toast. Fuck knows why that place, of all places: the stupid beat pisses him off, the slick, glitter-smeared dancers' fluid movements don't do anything for him, and the annoying joytoys hanging on his arms only fuel his irritation. V knocks back a few shots of bitter liqueur and wearily drops his head into his hands, leaning on the bar. What a fucking asshole he is. Sitting here, wasting money on shitty booze like some bottom-feeding drunk, instead of going home and plugging into a normal human life.

It's probably quiet there. Kerry either came back from the studio already and is sprawled on the couch, staring at the TV — or the opposite: still yelling at the sound tech or arguing with the producer. And then he'll come home, tired, pissed off, but he'll still ask how V's day went. He'll say that, what with V being gone for so long, this week's been insane, everyone wants a piece of him, but it was cool to get a break from the chaos. And V will have to stay quiet again.

V lifts his head, squinting at the murky light of the neon lamps blurring before his eyes. The music pounds at his temples, laughter grates on his ears, someone shouts over the track. All that cascade of sound melds into one viscous mess. For some people, this kind of atmosphere probably helps them forget and dissolve into the jumble of strangers' voices, but V only feels more keenly how out of place he is here.

— Hey, pretty boy, — someone's hand lands confidently on his shoulder.

V turns his head and looks blankly at the guy who's pressed up close to him. On his generally pretty face shines a soulless, practiced smile.

— Not now, — V says.

— Aw, come on, — the guy insists. — Relax. I can see you need it.

— I said — not now, — V repeats, harsher this time, shaking the stranger's hand off.

The joytoon rolls his eyes, snorts, and fucks off, disappearing into the crowd of identical mannequins. V watches him go, then drops his head back onto the bar. He takes another gulp, swallows the tasteless liquid, and turns on his holo. The screen flashes, lighting up his face with cold light. Nothing but spam in his unread messages — nothing important. The lack of messages from Kerry stings. Stupid. He's the one who pushed Kerry to go work, and now he's sitting here waiting for him to text or call or somehow remind V of his existence.

Every time before he leaves, Kerry looks at him as if apologizing for existing outside the villa's four walls. How can V answer anything other than: "Forget it, one day won't make a difference"? As if V knows how many days he has left. And come to think of it, how many? A week? A month? A little more? In the Philippines and Japan, he didn't want to ruin his mood by counting, and since coming back, he still hasn't gone to Vik's for a checkup — even though he promised to drop by right away; they haven't seen each other in ages anyway. V smiles silently and knocks back the rest of his drink. The bartender gives him a sideways look and silently sets down another shot — on the house.

Before meeting Kerry, V never had the habit of calling things by their real names — especially if those things concerned himself. Anything that could be simplified, he simplified; anything that could be devalued, he devalued in advance, so he wouldn't have to figure out where his controlled territory ended and something like attachment began. Sex existed in his life — frequently, regularly, sometimes excessively — but rarely moved beyond function. V learned this at Arasaka. No one ever said outright that the body could be currency, but the subtext was there in every assignment that required making contact, getting a target to like you, securing private access. V quickly learned the rules of the game: sympathy is a resource, attention is leverage, and desire is a weakness that's convenient to exploit. Sometimes a conversation the right look, the right tone was enough. Sometimes — not.

When he stopped dividing his contacts into "business" and "personal", since the boundary between them was rapidly erasing, life got simpler. Sex became just another part of his routine, like calibrating his weapons or checking his implants: necessary, but devoid of meaning beyond its basic function. The less you think, the better you perform your task.

There were nights when V came home with other people's teeth marks on his skin and couldn't remember who exactly had left them there. There were morning conversations where V suddenly realized with absolute clarity that he was mechanically repeating the right words without putting a single gram of meaning into them. There were also times when, while someone else's fingers slid over his body, he was thinking about his career, about the next gig, about how much more he had to do to move up. And it all worked: V was valued, trusted, promoted, given more access and authority. He watched doors open for him that remained closed to others, and the price didn't seem high.

Over time, sex finally turned into a habit devoid of content. A way to relieve stress, complete a task, kill time — anything to unwind. It stood on the same line as sleep and food, except it was less regular and came with far more questionable results since racing and fistfights were just as effective at blowing off steam or pent-up aggression.

The usual rhythm of his life was disrupted by Johnny: the presence of another consciousness in his head killed any concept of personal space. Every touch, every movement of his body was half-shared, half-stolen. Sometimes V would catch another gaze on him — an internal one — and then he'd want either to stop everything, or to go all the way just to spite Silverhand. Most often, he chose the former, which soon dulled his desire. What remained was habit — going to a bar, having a drink, letting someone get close, and then pushing them away at the last moment. Or saying yes, then realizing a few minutes later that it was a mistake, and abruptly breaking off contact, leaving the new acquaintance bewildered. He didn't need his body and he didn't need touch — as it turned out later, V needed something else entirely.

Without touching the fresh shot, he transfers more than enough eddies to the bartender for what he drank and gets to his feet. The night-time Night City blinks its emergency signal. V breathes in deeper, trying to order his thoughts. He needs to get home, urgently. The word "home" no longer triggers the same revulsion. V turns on his holo again, hesitates, staring at Kerry's pinned name in his contact list, and decides to call. The dial tones drag on longer than he'd like, but finally, the line connects.

— V? Why are you calling? — Kerry's face on the screen lights up with a radiant smile.

— Wanted to ask if you need anything from the store. Olives, maybe? Or popcorn? I can stop by on the way, — V offers. He's moved a little way from the club so Kerry won't accidentally read the sign over his shoulder.

— Nah, I think we're good, — Kerry answers thoughtfully. — You gonna be home soon?

— Forty minutes tops.

— Fuckin' sweet! Then get ready — you're not gonna believe it when you get back!

Kerry hangs up, keeping the suspense alive. A soft warmth spreads through V's body. Deciding that driving himself after drinking wouldn't be wise, V calls Delamain and asks him to haul ass to North Oak as fast as possible. As the car approaches the hill where the windows of the villa flicker with pale electric light, V can't take his eyes off the window, anticipating — what? A party in his honor? That would be just like Kerry.

But as the taxi begins its ascent up the winding road, the sweet anticipation gives way to a dull discomfort. V feels nauseous. Pressing a palm to his forehead, he takes a series of deep breaths, steadying his heartbeat. He drank too much, he's overtired, he ran around all day, last night he couldn't sleep again — so this is the inevitable result. V cracks the window open. Cool air trails through the cabin, but it only helps a little.

The car pulls up softly next to Kerry's "Guinevere". V feels as if the inertia that's kept him afloat for the last few minutes dies along with the engine. The space outside the window is shifted, like a poorly calibrated projection: the villa's lights blur, stretching into thin, trembling strands, like burnt-out neon tubes, while the dark silhouettes of the trees sway out of sync. V blinks, trying to restore focus, but the image only comes back together for a fleeting, elusive moment.

— We have arrived at our destination, — reports the AI's dispassionately level voice.

— Yeah... — V replies, his voice muffled. His ears feel stuffed with cotton, and he's not sure if he's even speaking out loud. — Thanks, Del...

His hand reaches for the door handle with noticeable delay: first comes the thought, then the intention, and only after a long pause — the movement. He has to push against the door. It opens, a cooling wind hits his face with full force, and for a moment, V lets himself believe that the freshness will drive the murky thickness out of his head, before the ground suddenly shifts beneath his feet, forcing him to grab onto the taxi for support. His heart skips beats. The red-hot hammer slams against his skull again. A low, pressing hum builds in his ears, drowning out all other sounds.

For a split second, something extraneous flashes before his eyes — neon reflections V shouldn't be seeing, silhouettes that don't fit into reality — and layered over them, the sickeningly familiar crackle of interference. His optical implants are going haywire, superimposing one image over another: the pristine, sterile villa breaks apart, and through it, fragmented, dirty, jagged frames emerge, chaotic, devoid of logic or sequence.

Only a few steps separate him from the front door. V throws his full weight against it, barely controlling his movements. His fingers slide across the surface, fumbling for the handle on the second — third? — try. The door gives way, and V stumbles inside, falling through the open passage. His knees buckle, and he barely manages to throw his hands out in front of him to avoid smashing his face on the floor. He tries to breathe evenly, but his lungs feel filled with stones. After the next surge of interference, the edges of the world dissolve into an impenetrable blackness. The cold of the floor beneath his palms feels distant, as if he's touching it through a layer of thick fabric. Someone's blurred voice reaches him from tens of kilometers away.

With effort, V lifts his heavy head. Kerry blurs before him, multiplies. After a few agonizing seconds, the shattered image clumsily glues itself back together. Instead of words, a bitter stream of bloody clots rips from V's mouth, followed by a painful fit of coughing that knocks the last crumbs of oxygen from his chest. The blood burns his throat, leaving behind a sickly-sweet taste. The cough tears him apart from the inside, each spasm echoing with sharp pain deep beneath his ribs. Kerry's hands grab his shoulders, hold him steady, keep him from tipping over.

Hot liquid drips down his chin, spotting the carpet. Kerry springs into action, disappears from view, and returns immediately — with some kind of towel, it seems — pressing it to V's face, wiping away the blood. V catches fragments of phrases, shifting intonations, the tension in the fingers digging into his skin, but the meaning of Kerry's words slips away, falling apart into pieces. Time flows strangely: minutes stretch and sag. V slowly raises his hand. It moves sluggishly, clumsily, as if pushing through thick jelly. His fingers find Kerry's wrist and grip it tightly enough to feel his pulse. Which of the two is he trying to calm down? Thinking is unbearably hard. Someone pulls at him, but his legs won't move — they just drag across the floor, stumbling on the edges of the steps. Something soft ends up beneath his back. A couch? A bed? The flickering red streaks cloud his vision so completely that V loses all sense of space.

Consciousness returns alongside a pain that overrides all other physical sensations. From the cosmic depths where neither time nor being exists, V is pulled by a dim, blurry, unpleasantly pulsating light seeping through his closed eyelids. Air moves through his chest, catching on some invisible obstruction. His throat is raw, as if torn from the inside, and the metallic taste still lingers in his mouth. V swallows with effort — his parched muscles reluctantly obey — and pries open his burning eyelids. The blurry patches gradually take on wavering outlines, slowly assembling into a trembling picture. V shifts his gaze, and Kerry's silhouette comes into his field of vision. He's sitting very close, leaning forward slightly, staring at V so intently that it's unsettling. When their eyes meet, Kerry flinches.

— V?

— Ker...

V is seized by another broken fit of coughing, grimacing through clenched teeth. His chest convulses, each spasm sending pain radiating from his throat to his lungs. Kerry instantly moves closer, reaches for V's neck to check his pulse. His touch burns. Keeping eyes open is overwhelmingly difficult.

— I'm fine.

— Yeah? — Kerry peers sharply into his face and removes his hand from V's neck. On his palm and fingertips, V notices the brownish stains of his own blood. — Then I guess we have very different ideas of fine. And I'm afraid to imagine what you call problems.

V finds neither the strength nor the desire to argue, to prove that compared to how he broke down before the Arasaka Tower raid, today's episode is innocent and harmless. Inside himself, he discovers emptiness. Aside from pain, fatigue, and indifferent acceptance, nothing remains. Gathering his strength, V carefully moves his fingers, testing his neural response. Sluggish, but his reflexes are working — that's something. The next step would be to run a self-diagnostic, check whether his heart is glitching… But even without Trauma Team's notifications, V can imagine how many errors and critical readings he'd see. He pushes himself up on his elbows, sitting upright, leaning back against the row of pillows stacked behind him.

— I couldn't figure out how to surprise you.

— You... — Kerry jerks his hand sharply, as if about to give him a well-deserved slap. But instead, he wearily drags it down his own face, pinching the bridge of his nose. — Fuck... Tell me honestly: have you always been this much of an idiot, or is that Johnny's influence?

— That's me, — V answers succinctly. And he should probably add something, apologize or explain himself differently, but no words would help here. From under his collar, V fishes out the chain of his pendant and pulls it out, rolling it between his fingers. With noticeable difficulty, he takes it off his neck and holds it out to Kerry. — Take it.

— Why?

— Misty gave it to me. A keepsake of Jackie for luck. I don't think it'll serve me much longer. I know you don't wear stuff like this, but... let it stay with you, — V explains, stopping at the edge that separates a civilized conversation from a tearful confession of love. Genuine feelings need neither proof nor argumentation. When Kerry puts on the pendant, V smiles. — Looks like I'm sorted. So, what did you prepare?

— A romantic candlelit dinner, — Kerry says after a pause. Through the strain in his voice, familiar notes of decadent bravado seep through, and V's smile widens. — I asked Ariel to cook up all kinds of fancy shit you like, set the table in the living room. Haven't eaten his food in like a hundred years.

— Wow, — V smirks, before biting his lip and tilting his head back. — Kerry Eurodyne went all out on a date, and I fucking spectacularly ruined it.

— V, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me and this planet, for that matter. And none of this is your fault. Definitely not this, — Kerry takes V's hand in his and laces their fingers together. — No self-flagellation, okay?

— But the dinner's ruined, — V notes, looking down at their joined hands. As much as he doesn't want to kill the romance, he can't shake the feeling that he's not feeling the touch completely.

— The fuck it is, — Kerry snorts. — Ariel had just started cooking when you got back, so our mountain of food is still waiting. What if I bring it up here? And when you're feeling better, we'll do it properly.

— No, no, I'll make it down there myself. I'm fucking starving.

The words sound far more upbeat than V actually feels. Even he can hear the false lift in his voice against the backdrop of inner emptiness. Kerry looks at him intently — an expression mixing irritation, worry, and a painful tenderness. V lets go of his hand and presses his palms into the mattress. His limbs are still responding with a slight delay, but they're no longer out of sync with his brain's signals. V carefully leans forward and swings his legs onto the floor. His balance wavers briefly, but he manages to grab the edge of the table and squeeze until his knuckles go white. Kerry's hand, ready to catch him at any moment, settles on his waist.

They walk slowly. Far too slowly by the standards of the old V, who could have sprinted down this corridor in a couple of seconds and, thanks to titanium bones and reinforced tendons, vaulted over the railing down to the first floor, bypassing the stairs entirely. Now, every step is felt separately: shifting weight from one leg to the other, tension in the muscles, a brief wave of dizziness that comes and goes. V tries not to look around — unnecessary movement might shake the image loose again. When they get close to the staircase, Kerry covers V's eyes with the palm of his free hand, promising a surprise.

The long banquet table is indeed set. Not in the style of corporate receptions that V has attended, but completely, utterly homey. Real candles, their flames flickering unevenly at the slightest breath of air. An obscene number of empty plates, each with a folded napkin beneath it. A warm, rich smell of food hitting his nostrils with overwhelming force. The last time V saw anything like this was at Christmas dinners — once a family tradition, an occasion to gather together.

Despite the abundance of empty seats, V is drawn to two in the middle of the table. On one hand, from there he can reach almost any dish. On the other, they offer a panoramic view of the ever-awake Night City. The sandstorm that had been battering the city for some time has died down, and now Night City glimmers through the clouds of orange dust like a ghost. Mesmerized by the sight, V barely eats: the hunger that briefly flared in his stomach faded after three bites of cutlet. Kerry, uncharacteristically, says nothing, and V might think he's bored to death, if Kerry hadn't rubbed V's left palm raw.

Involuntarily, V returns to that night when he last had control over his own fate. Could he have chosen differently back then? Called Hanako and hoped for help from Arasaka's scientists because the people who created the biochip might have handled him more skillfully than Alt. Turned to Panam and, at the risk of the entire Aldecaldo clan, at least ended the fight on his own terms, without Johnny's involvement, without Rogue's death. Or, finally, taken the simplest and hardest step — put a bullet in his own head, dragging no one else into his problems. No. Suicide would have blown Kerry's mind too. But the other two options? If V were sure that they'd lead him to the same place he's at today, if he'd known that Kerry would always be there, would never abandon him, and if in every possible reality, he could step into death's embrace leaning on Kerry's support, then he would have tried. But if the ticket to a long future means losing any of this, V doesn't want it.

The city outside the window fractures into layers of light. Individual buildings tear through the shimmering glare of advertisements, merging into a pulsing glow. Somewhere out there, in The Glen, Kabuki, Heywood, Japantown, life continues: deals are made, shootouts and gang wars break out, tiny victories and colossal failures are forged every moment. It feels strange to know that he'll never go back there again.

— Ker, — V calls, tearing his gaze from the window and shifting it to Kerry's face, illuminated by streams of candlelight.

— Mm?

— Thank you.

V leans closer to him and, as if afraid of something, touches his lips to the corners of Kerry's mouth with gentle care. There's no rush, but somehow, he wants to absorb all the sensations he's ever felt in one go. Without breaking the kiss, V shifts onto Kerry's lap and wraps his legs around the legs of the chair. Kerry stops him, almost as if he can't quite believe that V is reaching for him on his own, not because he lost his balance. And then he responds. His hands settle on V's back, losing their former delicate precision. His fingers slide over the fabric of V's shirt, crumpling it.

V meets his involvement, but he runs out of steam faster. His breathing hitches, his chest aches. He pulls away, embarrassed, to catch his breath. Kerry's lips immediately find his again, not letting the distance that appeared between them linger for long. His movements are effortless, while every step V takes costs him a frustrating amount of effort.

— Hey, — V says, resting his head on Kerry's shoulder. — What if we went somewhere else?

— Like where?

— Florida? You said you have a house there. Or... I don't know, anywhere. You're a world-famous celebrity, you must know the best places.

— Yeah, well. Get yourself back to normal first.

— Consider me alive and well already, — V lies. For the last time in his life.