The unity of opposites

“Goddamn it, V,” the engram hisses, “you dumbass, where the hell are you going, you bastard?” “Shut it, Johnny,” the merc snaps back, “I don’t have time for your shit right now!” “You never have time for me or my advice,” the rocker doesn’t let up, materializing next to V behind cover. “I told you, dammit, this was a shitty idea!” V shoots the terrorist’s construct a scathing look before and peeks out from behind the container he’s forced to hide behind. He’d planned to quietly take out this gang and finally collect some hard-earned eddies from the NCPD, but another crew rolled in, and, as usual, everything went to shit. “Wonder what these assholes are fighting over?” V muses in his head, knowing he’ll be heard. “You give a fuck?” the ghost retorts. “Seems like you should be more worried about keeping your ass in one piece.” “What, when you’re doing such a bang-up job worrying about it for me?” V almost laughs out loud at the utterly baffled look on Silverhand’s face. “Are all you corpo types such reckless idiots with zero sense of self-preservation?” the rocker drawls, mock-sweet. “Nah, I’m just special like that.” V doesn’t keep the banter going. He spots a gap in the chaos of the brawling gang members and locks his scanner onto the power system. It’s a risky move, one that’ll fry his processor if he’s not careful, but he’s out of ideas to get out of this mess. “Hm, not a bad plan, actually,” Johnny chimes in before V can even pitch it to him. “Just don’t catch a stray bullet in the process.” “Which part of ‘don’t catch a bullet’ didn’t you get?” Johnny’s pissed, V can tell by the way the engram glitches out in a shower of pixels with every move. “How the hell was I supposed to know one of those bastards had thermal optics?”  V barely made it out of the abandoned warehouse and is now leaning against a fence on the adjacent lot, waiting for Delamain. His hands clutch a nasty wound in his side. Seems like the bullet went clean through. Right on cue, a familiar pain shoots through his temple port, and V groans through gritted teeth. The interface fritzes with pixels, and warnings about software glitches flash before his eyes. “V?” Johnny’s voice crackles with static, but there’s real worry in it. “Hey, kid, stay with me!” V wants to say he’s fine, but his vision darkens, nausea hits, and all he can manage is a groan as he slides down the wall onto Night City’s cold asphalt. “V!” The engram’s panicked look is the last thing V sees before blacking out. “Goddamn it, you fucking idiot!” Johnny slams a fist into the ground, and only when the pain hits—real, unexpected pain—does he realize he’s somehow got control of the body. “Well, shit…” Taking over, Silverhand finally gets why V checked out. The pain from the gunshot is brutal, but it’s the least of their problems. The chip’s working overtime, hell-bent on wiping out what it sees as a “malignant tumor”—V’s own consciousness. The kid’s nervous system is shot, and he probably can’t even remember the last time he slept. Johnny’s partly to blame for that. The last couple of days, they (well, V) have been running around Night City like a hamster on a wheel. Lots of hustle, zero payoff. No new info on the chip, their main goal, and it doesn’t help that basic needs like food and water take a backseat. Sure, eddies aren’t an issue—hard to step into any alley in this cursed city without tripping over some thug with a bounty blinking over their head, courtesy of the NCPD. But finding time to stop and eat? Good luck. V, ex-corpo that he is, doesn’t bother thinking about it: no time, no food. So, the bullet in his side was just the final note in this symphony of self-destruction. Delamain pulls up right in front of the sprawled-out body, popping the door open like a polite invitation. Johnny drags their shared meat-sack off the asphalt and hauls it to the car with what little pride he’s got left. He collapses into the cab less gracefully, barely managing to faceplant into the leather seats and pull his legs in. “I recommend administering a stimulant, sir,” the AI’s polished voice suggests, and the glovebox pops open with meds inside. Johnny takes the advice, but his battle-hardened ears catch the unusual formality from the cabbie. As the stimulant kicks in, he starts the conversation. “Since when am I ‘sir,’ Del?” “My apologies, Mr. Silverhand, but I cannot address someone I barely know so casually.” Johnny freezes, staring at Delamain’s image on the screen, not even blinking for a solid minute. “How’d you know?” he finally asks, leaning back against the seat. “V is a polite young man who greets me even in critical condition,” the AI replies matter-of-factly, and Johnny lets out a genuine laugh for the first time in ages. “Dr. Vector has been informed of our arrival.” “And that V’s out cold?” “No, but it won’t take him long to figure out who’s in front of him.” “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Johnny snorts, wounded pride flaring as he glares at the cabbie’s image. “I’ve been in this kid’s head for weeks. I’ve seen damn near all his memories, felt everything he feels.” “That doesn’t mean you know him.” The simple truth of it hits Johnny like a brick. He goes still, staring into the void like it might cough up answers for all the questions tearing him apart. Like it’s to blame for everything wrong with Night City and their messed-up little symbiosis. Johnny Silverhand, whatever people say about him, isn’t a complete bastard. At least, he hopes not. Sure, he’s rough, selfish, maybe a bit full of himself, but he knows what honor and care mean. He’s observant enough to see V’s his polar opposite. People don’t love V for the charisma or untouchable swagger Johnny used to flaunt. They love him for his suicidal openness to the world. When V loses it, he’s smashing knuckles against walls. When he laughs, it’s until his stomach cramps. When he mourns, it cuts so deep even a hardened terrorist like Johnny feels it in his core. Silverhand still can’t wrap his head around how this kid worked for Arasaka for years and didn’t lose himself. But one thing’s clear: V’s the most alive person Johnny’s ever known. And Delamain, a damn AI cabbie, is right—Johnny doesn’t know him at all. No surprise that even a glorified taxi can spot the impostor in this body in under a minute. For a second, Johnny wants to coward out and tell Del to reroute to another ripperdoc. He’d never admit it, but he’s ashamed to face Viktor Vector. You don’t need to be V to see how the doc feels about the kid. At first, Johnny thought it was romantic, but after catching a few of their conversations, he realized it’s something deeper—almost spiritual. Like family that shouldn’t exist in a hellhole like Night City. Viktor and V are like father and son. Endless repairs, implants on credit, V’s quiet care in hunting down new anticonvulsants for the doc, friendly hangouts over a surprisingly decent bottle of whiskey (V nearly died getting it) while watching fights (V’s no fan, but he’s happy to chill with the old man)—all tucked away in the vault of memories. Yeah, Johnny’s ashamed. Because he’s the one killing V right now. Not on purpose, but that doesn’t make it feel any less shitty. This kid, who—whether he meant to or not—saved Johnny from Arasaka’s clutches and made him feel alive again, is dying because of him. “We’ve arrived,” Delamain announces, opening the door where Viktor’s already pacing nervously. “Come on, kid,” the ripper says, offering a hand to help Johnny out of the car, his sharp eyes scanning V’s body for damage. “Why’re you always in such a rush to die?” “No clue, doc,” Johnny snorts, then hisses as the wound reminds him it’s there. “Sometimes I’m shocked I made it this far with my luck. Catch a stray bullet one day, pick up a terrorist rocker’s engram in my head the next.” Viktor doesn’t reply, just gives V’s eyes a weird look that makes Johnny twitch, realizing the doc’s already clocked him. “Is it *that* obvious?” Johnny grumbles as Viktor helps him into the chair. “What gave me away? Breathing wrong? Head tilted at the wrong angle?” Vik stays quiet, and now Johnny’s really uneasy. The ripper’s gaze is cold, piercing, though his hands stitch up the hole in V’s body with care. Because it’s still V’s body. If Johnny were in his own, Viktor wouldn’t even bother looking at him—he’d kick him out without blinking. “Did he catch the bullet, or did you drag his body into this mess?” Viktor finally asks, sharp as a blade, as he finishes the stitches. “He’s pretty good at finding trouble for his own fine ass,” Johnny retorts. Viktor’s stare is ice, but he doesn’t jab Johnny with the needle, though his tight lips say he wants to. His gaze is heavy, thoughtful, exhausted—not from work or clients, but from fear for V. Fear that one day the kid won’t make it to him in time and will bleed out in some alley like a stray dog. Somewhere in those blue eyes, there’s a flicker of gratitude—for not letting V bleed out and for coming to him, not some street quack. The silence between them is thick, tense. They lock eyes, glaring, until V’s face—under Johnny’s control—shows genuine regret. Viktor’s surprised, softens, and finishes the job less stiffly. As Johnny moves to hop off the chair, Viktor’s heavy hand keeps him pinned. “Where do you think you’re going?” the ripper asks, weary but firm. “Dragging our boy’s carcass back to his apartment, popping some pills in him, and tucking him in.” Viktor rolls his eyes, rubs his nose bridge, and looks at Johnny like he’s dealing with a kid who still needs a booster seat. Finally, he fights down the urge to smack him and sighs. “When’s the last time he ate? Is there even food in that apartment, or just booze?” “Don’t worry, pops,” V’s face splits into a saccharine grin, making Viktor flinch and stare into his eyes like he’s trying to spook Johnny’s soul. “Kid won’t croak before the deadline you gave us. And I’ll make damn sure he doesn’t kick it after, either.” Viktor’s face twists into something unreadable—either the light’s hiding his expression behind those glasses, or the doc’s pulling some high-tech voodoo. He stares Johnny down for a moment, then closes the distance fast, grabbing his elbow and leaning in so close their noses almost touch. “What’s with the sudden good guy act, Silverhand?” Viktor growls, calm but threatening. “Last I checked, you nearly cracked the kid’s skull open the second you landed in his body. Now you’re playing knight in shining armor, trying to convince me you give a shit. That you’ll save him when it’s time to choose.” “Because I do give a shit, and I’ll sacrifice myself to keep that dumbass alive!” Johnny snaps back, leaning in to press his forehead against Viktor’s glasses. “Why the hell should I believe you?” “You don’t owe me shit, Viktor! Just like I don’t owe you!” “But you owe V!” “And I’ll pay him back!” Johnny yanks free, jumps off the chair, and steps away, breathing hard. He fumbles in V’s jacket pockets for the cigarette case of a doll who bit it a few days ago. “You think I enjoy screwing up his life? Feeling that damn chip burn out his brain with every agonizing second? If I had my way, I’d make him breathe those blockers just to buy him a little more time! But that idiot doesn’t give a fuck about anyone! He skips the pills because he’s itching to flatline!” “You don’t know jack about him!” “Oh, don’t I?” Johnny lunges forward, dropping the cigarette case, and grabs Viktor by the collar, shaking him. “I’m in his head! Sure, I might not know him like you do, not as a person, because I haven’t shot the shit with him face-to-face. But I’ve lived his memories in his skin! I felt his best friend’s blood on my hands, sobbed over his body, felt him die! I’m in his skull, and I know how shitty it’s been for him since he woke up on that landfill and every damn hour since. You think this moron’s running around the city to save his own ass?” “What the hell are you talking about?” “The truth, Viktor! He doesn’t want to live. He thinks he’s already done. This idiot’s planning to throw himself on the grenade for me!” Viktor chokes, looking like he aged fifteen years in a second. His lips tighten, fists clench, and he hits Johnny with the saddest look the rocker’s seen in decades. His face freezes, wrinkles carving deep from furrowed brows, like he’s trying to outdo the late “emperor” Saburo. “Listen, old man,” Johnny says calmly, picking up the cigarette case and lighting up. “You’re right, I don’t know V like you do. And yeah, you all can tell I’m a knockoff in his body from a glance because we’re like night and day, fucking yin and yang. But there’s one thing we’ve got in common. Don’t ask me how, but we’re both ready to die to save the other.” --- Delamain, like he knew, waits in the parking lot and swings the door open as Johnny steps out of Misty’s Esoterica, loaded with a fresh batch of pills and a couple of sandwiches with, holy shit, real tomatoes. After that stunt, Johnny’s half-ready to believe in tarot magic—how the hell that mysterious chick grew an agricultural artifact in Night City’s smog-choked hellscape is a cosmic mystery. Sprawling unceremoniously across the back seat (Del’s probably gonna need to scrub blood out of the upholstery before the next fare), Johnny, as the current pilot of this body, rips open the food wrapper before the car even moves and tears into his dinner like a feral dog. Only when the body instinctively swallows without bothering to chew does Johnny realize how long V’s gone without eating. He’s itching to slap the kid for being so reckless, but beating the shit out of himself is a bridge too far (that one time with V’s head and the window doesn’t count). That’ll wait for better days—if they ever come. The ride to Megabuilding 10 is quiet. Delamain keeps a stoic silence, and Johnny swears he catches a glint of contempt in the AI’s blue eyes, but after a moment, he chalks it up to crumbs on the seat (the blood doesn’t faze Del; he knows what city he settled in). After parting ways with Delamain, Johnny heads up to the apartment in a damn near perfect mood: stomach’s not glued to his spine for once, the painkillers are keeping the body from screaming, and even the chip seems to be napping, waiting for V to clock back in. That thought sours the vibe, but Johnny brushes it off like an annoying fly. As long as he’s driving, V gets a breather. The apartment’s surprisingly cool. Johnny flips on the radio, catching a guitar solo. It’s his own damn song, and he smirks, grabbing a bottle off the table. Mineral water. Pricey, judging by the label. No clue what it’s doing here, but he takes a swig. When’s the last time he drank something non-alcoholic? A mystery wrapped in darkness. The body hums happily at the hydration, and Johnny finally feels alive, despite the blood-and-dust-soaked clothes. Running a hand through V’s short, spiky hair, he’s not even surprised at the dust falling out. He shakes his head, grumbling, and heads for the shower, shedding clothes along the way. Reality hits in front of the mirror when he sees V’s worn-out face instead of his own. Johnny’s floored by how thin the line between them is, how easy it is to forget he’s just a parasite in this body. A parasite, eating V alive from the inside. Bile rises in his throat. Johnny splashes water on his face, takes a gulp from the sink, hoping he won’t regret it later. Cold water drips from his lashes and chin onto V’s broad chest, sliding down. He tries not to track the drops, but after a second of moral wrestling, he tells his conscience to fuck off (like he always has) and takes a good look at V’s naked body. Johnny already knew V was good-looking and built. The first was obvious to anyone with eyes, the second a given for his line of work. You don’t get fat in Night City unless you’re Dexter DeShawn or born with a silver spoon up your ass. V’s neither, and lately, he’s lean to the point of gaunt. Big muscles stretch thin, pale skin, collarbones jutting out, ribs countable without effort. V looks like a walking “ready for the coffin” poster, and Johnny hates it. He remembers V from the memories he’s lived—strong, agile, *alive*. Even now, V could slip into any guarded spot, swipe the boss’s underwear, and slip out without the roaches noticing. But he’s stopped being careful, sometimes charging head-on against whole gangs. His electromagnetic pistol shots don’t kill—Johnny could count V’s deliberate kills on one hand. But each day, V sinks deeper into his personal hell, one with a one-way ticket to the crematorium. Johnny’s hand drifts to V’s cheek, fingertips brushing the skin. Faint stubble pricks his fingers, and he gives in, cupping V’s neck, thumb stroking the jawline. His other hand slides to the chest, tracing the tempting curve of collarbones before he can stop himself. Johnny takes a deep breath, meeting his own gaze in the mirror—except it’s V’s white implants with red scanner sectors staring back. He never wondered why V picked such odd eyes, but now they feel like a personal punishment. Even under Johnny’s control, V looks helpless, in need of care. His brain refuses to see the reflection as his own body. How could it? V’s bigger—taller by a couple inches, broader in the shoulders. And despite that, Johnny wants to protect him like he’s the rarest treasure. When did this start? Johnny doesn’t know. All he’s sure of is that he lied to V back at Pistis Sophia when he said the kid wasn’t his type. That day, when V thanked him sincerely for his help, said he’d take a bullet for Johnny in a fight, the rocker felt needed for the first time in years. The soul-eating loneliness faded, replaced by regret that he could only be there as an engram. Looking at the scarred chest glinting with dog tags, Johnny makes a deal with his conscience. He slides V’s pants off, hands grazing the merc’s thighs, savoring the soft skin. His eyes lock on V’s cock, and after a split-second hesitation, he wraps his living hand around it. The silver one braces against the sink, but Johnny’s not tripping on Misty’s pills anymore. The mirror just shows V. “Oh yeah, Vince, we could jerk each other off, but after this, I ain’t letting you go near a Joytoy on Jig-Jig Street.” A test stroke up and down, and Johnny’s pleased to feel arousal stirring low in V’s gut. A flush creeps up V’s cheeks and neck, and Johnny barely stops himself from biting that lip. He’s hyper-aware he’s in someone else’s body, but the pleasure’s real, and with V looking like this in his memories, Johnny knows he’ll never see those lips the same way again. A few minutes of careful strokes, and V’s cock is hard, fitting in Johnny’s hand almost as well as a favorite pistol. Who’s he kidding? He’d love to pin the kid to a wall, make him moan Johnny’s name into his lips until an orgasm rips the air from his lungs. Those damn lips. It took all Johnny’s self-control when V tried kissing that washed-up detective. To River’s credit, he pushed V away. Seeing V like a kicked puppy was brutal, but better than knowing—and feeling—some guy banging his boy while Johnny’s been half-dead for fifty years. Johnny bites V’s lip anyway, groaning low as he locks eyes with V’s reflection. The kid looks like a high-end doll from Clouds: wild eyes, flush across his cheeks, neck, and chest, plump lower lip caught in teeth, ragged breathing. The moan echoes in V’s voice, and it’s the final straw for Johnny’s restraint. He’d give his silver arm to hear that moan with V conscious—preferably under Johnny’s hands. Johnny stops holding back, rocking V’s hips in time with his hand. His thumb wipes a bead of precum from the tip, smearing it around. V’s slender fingers grip tighter, and Johnny’s other hand drifts to V’s throat, tracing the jaw and Adam’s apple. After another stroke, he slips two fingers into V’s mouth and nearly loses it at the sight. He’s not so sure anymore that Arasaka didn’t have a line of suits chasing V’s ass back when he worked there. But Johnny knows V never slept with those corpo pricks. He’s seen the memories—V’s had few guys in his bed, always topping. So what would it be like to bend this proud bastard, pin him to the sink counter, and fuck him senseless? Right now, V’s body is Johnny’s to command. It’s as sweet as it is bitter. Johnny wants V to fight back, to vie for control, to growl into a kiss like he does when he catches a stray bullet. He wants those eyes sparking with life. He wants to sink into those lips, bite V’s shoulder until it bleeds, feel V’s hands on *his* body, grind against him, drink his gasps and moans. Johnny wants V so bad—wants to *be* with him—that he’d crawl out of the grave and blow up Arasaka Tower again to keep him safe. He’d dig up anyone to make sure Vincent, this open, loyal kid chewed up and spat out by Night City, gets to live. Johnny nips V’s fingers, squeezes his eyes shut until white spots dance, strokes V’s cock faster, almost bouncing in place to chase the high, curls his toes, and finally comes with a guttural, filthy moan. Cum stains his hand and the sink, a few drops hitting the floor. Johnny presses his forehead to the mirror, breathing hard. “Fuck,” he rasps. Forcing himself not to look at the mirror, Johnny steps into the shower. Hot water washes away the blood, dust, and cum, like nothing happened. He runs his hands gently over V’s body, scrubbing stubborn spots, his head buzzing with white noise like the chip fried the processor and cut him off from the world. Probably for the best. They both need this. V, to finally rest. Johnny, to process his feelings and make peace with them. V’s shower gel smells like the ocean, and Johnny would burn the world down to take the kid to the sea—somewhere free of corps, gangs, fixers, bars, cars, joytoys, gigs. Just them, the sound and scent of waves, and stars, stars, stars. Out of the shower, Johnny cleans up his mess. Tosses the ruined shirt, shoves the rest into the wash. The machine hums to life as he digs through the closet for clean clothes. Among a pile of dress shirts and slacks (seriously, V, you’re a merc—why so much stiff corpo gear?), he finds an ancient Samurai tee. No energy left to be surprised, he pulls it on with clean underwear. The mineral water bottle catches his eye again, and he chugs it, washing down omega-blockers Viktor handed him on the way out. He dials down the radio, closes the blinds to hide the cracked window, and slips into bed, burying his nose in the pillow. V’s scent fills his lungs, and Johnny grips the fabric with his teeth, fingers brushing the dog tags around V’s neck. He falls asleep to his own fifty-year-old wails from the radio, never mentioning the hot, traitorous tear that slips from his eye, leaving a wet streak down V’s cheek.