#🎟 // cyberpunk 2077

[fabricated-misslieness]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: johnny silverhand x gn V

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: johnny shouldn't love them the way he does

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 553

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: swearing, perhaps poor characterization i don't know

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: inspo Can be read as platonic or romantic

Johnny Silverhand, a world of ice.

He had passion, great passion for what he fought for. He had great passion for women, for the groupies and girls who loved to have his arm slung around their shoulders. He had great passion for his music and his guitars, a great passion for his gun. He had a great passion for his hate of corpos, his hate of Arasaka.

A world of ice.

But what he didn't have passion for, he was nothing to, he was icy cold. Kerry, often in his old age, pushing 100, likes to speak about what a cold asshole he is, no compassion for the shit he hated. His only passion was the hate, a sailor's tongue, he had, spitting his insults.

A world of ice.

It's blue. The holo-TV above him jitters with different ads—he'd have to crane his head to look at it. That's good, he would think. He would, because he's not bored like he always is, buried in consciousness of his Samurai.

A world of ice.

He's strumming the chords of a guitar sprouted from his Samurai's memories, or were they his? The line between the two bled nowadays.

A world of ice.

It's a new thing, that he's strumming, wasn't around in the 2020's. An Us Cracks song he might've picked up during the whole Kerry fiasco, something the almost-centenarian would hate him for. And yet he's playing it like he's played it a million times.

A world of ice.

He's not sitting straight, his leg's on the table, and if he could feel his body and the world around him–the projection of him–he'd feel the ache in his back, and the sticky leather of the couch.

A world of ice.

He, him and his Samurai, is bathed in blue light. LED's are behind him, a bright thing. The holo-TV and the coffee table he's got his boot on and the neon arrow sign by the door, all blue, just like ice, with the exception of the circling red of the donut, or life-saver floaty, beside him. That red light shines on his Samurai.

A world of ice.

He's special. Trillions of people in the world, and Johnny's half sure most of them would've gone crazy with the rockerboy in their head, and entirely sure that none of them would've convinced the rockerboy to take a backseat role; none of them except V.

A world of ice.

He should've hated him. Kerry knows he would've. And yet there's this passion—it burns in his chest, just the same way as sickness does, it makes him feel weak.

A world of ice.

It did make him sick, at first. This warmth, what was it, care? Fuck, he hates it.

A world of ice.

It's really hard to admit.

A world in ice age, the sun shines bright, shining down harshly on tousled dirt; the trees have long since lost their leaves, they cannot cast a shadow on the ground anymore, protect the earth from the harshness of sun.

But ice cracks, and snow eventually thaws, and here's his Samurai, standing in front of it all, the only living thing that has survived the passion of Johnny's hate, and he looks like a God.

A world of cracking ice.

He loves his Samurai, he really does.