Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

No Remorse - Metallica

They wage wars for oil and sport. 

Johnny didn’t realize that until the war was done. Well- a part of him always knew, for it had been sung by all of the rock stars he had adored in his teens. They all warned him what war was about, but he didn’t listen until it was too late. In the 00s, when he was in high school, he’d spend the walk from home to class through run-down texas suburbia listening to wiser men screech about black-eyed generals, war pigs, and black masses. He’d stroll about with his head in the clouds dreaming about eagle screeches and blazing automatics. That was back when he was just Robert. He’d trudge up through the parking lot in his poser boots and bump fists with other rockers- then brag about patches and bitchin’ retro bumper stickers from the 80s. They’d all laugh, and they’d clap him on the back and call him Rob, Bob, Burt, or whatever the hell Johnny decided to go by that week. 

He enlisted in the army at 18 because he thought it would be cool. He was just a kid, groomed by comic books and action flicks about broad-shouldered army men and their big ass guns and massive cocks. He was lulled into that life by circumstance and poor media literacy, a viral epidemic of the class he was born into. 

When he was thrown into war it got real. The first man he saw die was a decade older than him, and a few hours before they had been talking about home. The man was always talking about his kids, about the family he wanted to go home to so badly. He was shot down so quickly Johnny couldn’t scream. He sure as shit wouldn’t scream now, screaming was for cloud dwelling kids. He barely remembered the second death he saw- it might’ve been a young woman, and he knew their blood was so red it wouldn’t scrub out of his skin. In a few days time the count got so high he stopped keeping track. Death after death after death- but Johnny kept on running and shooting and… 

It felt unfair, that was what it felt like. He didn’t like using that word- unfair- it implied entitlement. Johnny deserved to die, didn’t he? Then he’d get his spectacular comic book ending filled with blazing guns and fat explosions like a GI-Joe comic or a Metallica cover. He remembered thinking he was going to die when the canon caught him. 

He was tagged during a turning point in the war, when tensions were rising on the US side and half the soldiers were deserting. Johnny didn’t even know who got him, but he knew at some point he awoke surrounded by dust and smoke, and when he turned his head the sand was black with his blood. Maybe that was the moment he realized just what war was about. 

Johnny didn’t put it into words until he was sent back home; packaged up, prettied up, with a shiny new silver arm to show everyone that he was the NUSA’s brand new pretty little bitch. He remembered standing in his childhood bedroom and staring at the full length, crooked mirror by his closet. His face was still beaten and stitched, so fresh from wartimes it looked like he had fucking teleported. He was shirtless, his too-big band tee crumpled in his flesh hand as he stared. The Arasaka Logo lasered into the metal of his right pec glared right back at him, like the eyes of the Satan he had been taught to fear. He had been beaten, burned, and branded like abused cattle. Oil and sport, that was all it was. Governments and corporations in petty arguments over land, throwing dumb kids around in the desert to see how they squirmed under pressure. 

He could see it clearly- the President on a corporate leash, howling and hollering, wondering out loud how long a teenage Texan can live without a limb of major arteries? How long can the skinny one live staring up at the sun? How many people can he watch die until he starts begging for it, too? How many gods is this kid gonna pray to? How many gods until he wonders if there was ever any god at all?

The worst part about war was the bloodshed, but the second worst part was how meaningless it all was. There was something so innately horrifying about being just a number- just an ID string or a tiny name on a sparkly plaque in 50 years. He wasn’t even in the war that long, but it was enough to make him never want to be ‘another number’ again. When he came home his parents had made a dinner that tasted like nothing on his tongue. He remembered being unable to hold the fork properly in his metal hand- something that only filled him with greater shame. His mother asked him why he wasn’t talking to them- why he wasn’t regaling them with stories of war and how wonderfully the NUSA had treated him… All he could do was glare at the dying, orange nasturtium flowers that were propped up in the middle of the table. 

That night Johnny packed his shit for Night City, not because he saw a future in it, but because staring at the walls of his childhood home was really making him consider decorating them with his brains. It took him over 20 buses and a train pass until he could see the brilliant lights of the Californian city swallow him in his little passenger train car. He was dumped out in Watson, backpack heavy and heart hammering with adrenaline. 

For the next month he lived fucking rough. He lived dirty, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a couple bucks for motel rooms. He stitched his clothes together again and again and again- tearing scraps from old jackets, socks, jeans, and boots. He smelled like shit and he felt like shit, but his brain was alive. Johnny spent his days slogging through the slums of Night City looking for fights, and he got them! Men twice his age would pummel him like a sagging ragdoll, and after a few weeks he started to pummel them right back… Fights made him feel like he was at war again, but he’d never have to feel sand in his wounds or stare up at the burning sun. Here, he could punch and kick and spit teeth and blood with the abandon of a kid who had already met death a dozen times. 

Night City was the best thing to ever happen to Johnny, it brought him new life. Robert John Linder was a square motherfucker with mud for brains, Johnny Silverhand was a motherfucking god. He scoured back alleys for illegal fights and took motel lovers and drank like a sailor- like a greek god. But, every morning, he’d awake and pound back a painkiller and glare out the window toward the city skyline. Johnny would stare up at the crown of Corpo Plaza, up at the neon lights and the glowing red demon that was Arasaka… Night City was his Elysium, his Valhalla, and he wanted to see it burn to ashes. 

—

The van rattled, and Johnny could hear their equipment jostle behind them as they raced down the desert highway back toward NC. Johnny flinched and glared up at the rearview decoration. Kerry’s pair of fuzzy dice jostled and bounced with the lane change, like two maidens in distress. Johnny just grumbled, steeled further into his seat.

“You gonna keep grumbling like a prissy bitch, or are you gonna use your words?” Kerry twitched the wheel a little too abruptly as he glanced in the sideview. He tapped his fingers on the wheel and his dozen rings clicked and glittered in the highway lights.

“You drive like shit.” Johnny spat. “Urgh, and could we stop somewhere? Need a cig.” 

“Jesus, princess,” Kerry scoffed and just continued driving. “And I thought I was the pussy? Can’t handle a little jostle?” He giggled and twitched the wheel a little to make his point. Johnny flinched at the sudden movement and groaned. He clawed at the arm of his seat and seethed. He needed a fucking cig, yesterday. 

“Just- there’s a rest stop,” Johnny jabbed his finger out at a sign before the next exit. “If you don’t stop there I’m gonna bash your head into the dash, pretty boy.” 

“So scary,” Kerry rolled his eyes and promptly jerked into the exit lane. Finally, they pulled onto a slower section of road surrounded by desert. Once they slowed, Johnny could finally let himself breathe. He rolled down the window of the van and pulled out a cig to light, then gasped in as much smoke as his shit lungs could take.

He sighed deeply and then leaned his head back against the headrest. The cigarette hung loose in his metallic hand as he looked at the flat horizon. Johnny had met Kerry only half a year ago at some point during his rampage through the illegal fight network in the NC slums. Kerry noticed the band shirt he was wearing, and they became friends over food at a shitty waffle place on the edge of town. They were starting a band together, half out of boredom and half because Kerry insisted on it. Johnny still remembered when he first played for Kerry, and Ker started punching him in the ‘ganic arm begging to start a band. Why not? It paid.

Their rattly old van pulled toward the rest stop. “I’m stoppin’, but not because you asked, pare, ” Kerry pulled into the empty parking lot and stopped the van crooked in one of the lots. “Gotta check on my baby,” With that, he promptly unbuckled his seat belt and shuffled into the back of the van to check on the equipment.

“Ain’t your guitar in a case?” Johnny mumbled. Cig smoke burst from his lips and hung around the car roof like clouds. 

“It’s a cheap ass case,” Kerry explained as he clicked it open.

They sat like that for a few minutes. Johnny had taken to staring at the flickering vending machine beside the out-of-order women’s bathroom. He took another drag from his cigarette and tried to see if he could blow rings with it (no dice). He glanced in the rear view to see Kerry examining his glittery, battered up axe. 

“Any plans this weekend?” Johnny asked dumbly. Road trips really brought men to desperations like talking about the weather and weekend plans. That was worse than war.

“Date with a guy,” Kerry plucked one of the strings and sighed deeply. “He’s cute, J,” Johnny promptly made a retching sound and tried to blow smoke in Kerry’s direction. Kerry just laughed. “Oh, oh, so you can rave ‘bout all the chicks you fuck but I can’t talk about boys with my guys? ”

“‘Cause I don’t give a shit about the chicks I fuck,” Johnny explained, exasperated. “You give a shit, it’s weird. Gross.” 

“You gotta learn tolerance, J, you sound like my mother,” Kerry clicked the case shut and returned to the driver’s seat. He hung back for a little longer, sitting at an angle to face Johnny.

“I know a lot about your mother,” Johnny leaned back and took another drag. “Got real comfy last night,” 

“J, if you suddenly had cash to fly to fucking Manila  to fuck my Ma, I don’t think I’d give much of a shit.” Kerry reached over to nudge Johnny’s knee. “Now bum me a cig before I decide to start driving again.” Johnny flinched at the idea and promptly passed his dear friend a fresh cigarette.

They’d named their band Samurai, for some reason. Nancy Hartley, their keyboardist, had drilled on and on with a book in her hand about the meaning of the name and how it was both ironic, mocking, but deeply meaningful to all of their core values. The historical samurai were willing to die for their cause, even if it was immoral or wrong- pushed by commitment and blind loyalty. They would become modern Samurai, working to fight against the corporate enemy until their dying breath. That was how Nance explained it, anyway. Johnny and Kerry just smiled and nodded because it sounded sick. They’d been playing as a band semi-officially for a couple months now. It started as a little pipe dream that Johnny agreed to just to get Ker off his ass. Nancy joined a few weeks later in a bar, and Henry and Denny joined on a favor from Nancy. Now they were getting gigs out of NC and playing fucking shows. Real shows, with people watching and greenrooms and shitty booze. For a while it had just been warehouses, or 5 minutes in a park before pigs showed up. 

Kerry leaned his head far back and breathed for a moment. It was kind of hard to believe where they were right now, two best friends who met in an alley, suddenly sitting in a van sharing a smoke while they drove to another venue in Night City. 

“J,” Kerry muttered. Johnny stared at Kerry’s lashes and rounded cheeks, only able to get glances at his deep brown eyes. “I’m really happy.” 

“...” Johnny bit back a sigh and leaned against the window, averting his gaze from Kerry. He wouldn’t ever admit it, but he didn’t feel the same. “... Think you know what it feels like? Is this it, for you? Your peak?” 

“I dunno,” Kerry just shrugged. “I don’t really know what’s gonna happen in the next few years, but right now I’m really happy. You mean a lot to me.” 

“...” Johnny’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t respond back- what would he say? Would he wish Kerry the same? The idea made his stomach churn with tension and misplaced anger. ‘You mean a lot to me’, how was he supposed to respond to that? Ditto? Johnny didn’t give a shit about anyone. He couldn’t- trying to give a shit felt worse than a cannon shell to the arm. 

“...” Kerry adjusted in his seat quietly, waiting for Johnny to respond with more than a glare at the horizon.

“... that’s fucking gay ,” Johnny seethed. The softness of the moment was torn away, and Johnny was fucking relieved. Kerry just rolled his eyes and put out his cig.

“You gotta get that bisexuality in check, pare, ” Kerry unhooked his keys from his belt loop to the sound of Johnny’s scoffs at the accusation. “No macho straight bitch is this wound up over sounding gay, especially in those tight pants.” 

Johnny clenched his metal fingers for a moment in anger, then tossed his cig out of the open window. “Whatever. Fuck off, I’ll drive.” Kerry just shrugged, and they both got out of their seats to switch places. Johnny nestled into the driver’s seat, and Kerry lounged in the passenger’s seat, far away from the wheel as he fucking should be. 

They pulled out from the rest stop and reentered the freeway at a smooth 80, a godsend after a couple hours of jostling and jerky lane changes. Kerry thankfully turned on the radio so they wouldn’t have to navigate more sappy conversations- they could just sing along to whatever garbage was on. Kerry would make fun of Johnny for knowing the words, and normalcy was restored… 

Night City towered and fell over them as they drove through it, toward their little apartment complex in Heywood… Johnny could breathe behind the wheel, at least for a bit. He did care about Kerry, deep down. But the day he’d admit that, he’d probably be too dead to say it to Ker’s face.