#p:jericho

J.P. didn't quite know where he was waking up. He looked around trying his hardest to make his eyes focus. He brought his hand up to his face to feel the ventilator tube. Not again he thought. As he was thinking and focusing he registered a head resting on his bed close to his other hand. He finally recognized the blond hair as his brother's. Moving his hand to touch Jericho's shoulder his hand trembled.

Ever since his emergency surgery J.P. had been feeling increasingly unnormal. He hadn't told anyone as of yet but the more that time passed by he knew it wasn't going anyway. J.P. waited until his brother had gotten home from his shift at work also knowing he would have his schoolwork to do later. He slowly made his way to Jericho's room,knocking on the door before entering. "Jer,c-can we talk please?" He said halfway in the door hoping he wasn't disturbing him.

He – doesn’t normally do this.

Albeit, that could apply to most things in his life at the current moment. Doesn’t usually befriend others, certainly doesn’t fall in love, doesn’t let the outside world (bright, loud, unpredictable) sink its claws in more than absolutely necessary. While some intellectuals may attempt to reframe isolation as a gift when it is a difficulty at times, treat it as the removal of impurities from truth and knowledge, Matteo, despite his intelligence, tends far more to the side of practicality. He knows that his aversion to that brightness, his tendency to become overwhelmed with sight and sound, his unorthodox background, is a weakness. He has compensated it for as much as he can, he improves every day, and he certainly has skills that are extraordinary in their own way, and counts himself lucky for those in return.

 However, he also knows his weaknesses – knows that this caution, this tending towards the counting of minutia, is less simply the ‘way he does things’ and more resultant of fear. He has never had the opportunity to fail without consequence, and although he has learned some – very hard lessons – those same hard lessons have singed him. It does trouble him – the loud, the bright, the teeming mass of people, all with their expressions, emotions, independent lives as colorful as his own and unknown – each the protagonist of their own story. He’s an illiterate trapped in a library, learning to read a language that isn’t his own, and the young man, still technically in his adolescence, finds himself like a child again.

His guns are real – and games of cops and robbers end with blood in the streets, and his enemies are not neighborhood bullies that can be befriended or overwhelmed with heartwarming teamwork. He doesn’t trust in the underdog – he doesn’t much trust in anything outside a handful of people and his own ability to innovate and adapt. As frightening as this world is – he is patient, and although many may not see it in that quiet, stolid stillness, he is in his own way, quite brave. Matteo – so easily overlooked, forever in the shadows unless he must step forward, his reputation a mix of misunderstanding for things he cannot change, and a measure of self-imposed truth for his own protection. 

Forever the face of logic, forever the soft words of cautious reminder or clipped, steady action – the boy-man with those steady, unreadable eyes that often intimidated without even meaning, simply because they were more subtly expressive than expected. It is easy to forget that he is just as human as everyone else, and is prone also to youthful mistakes. It is one thing to be very clever, and another to be wise. He’s still learning, he’s still simply trying to survive in a dangerous position with the waves and the stakes growing ever higher – and if he knew the person in question that he is hoping to contact, he might have been able to draw certain comparisons. Both live by the death of others – not out of passion, or ambition, but simply (mainly) for the fact of survival.

There is no tech embedded beneath his skin. All that he has is his mind and his choices, and his ability to adapt – and perhaps, it is this idea of overcoming fear that he has asked – for the first time – for a serious measure of help. He doesn’t think he can kill this corporate snitch on his own, and is worried that he is beginning to be seen –for the first time in his life, if not in physical body than in name. When he originally started to understand the safety in a reputation, he didn’t realize the restrictions that such things would bring. Some men – Marcello, being one of them – didn’t seem to care if certain actions were traced back directly, but Matteo, naturally cautious – was hesitant in building too much of an aggressive reputation. It was one thing to be – feared – and another to be feared to the extent that common sense dictated removal, that boldness overcame terror. This particular corporate snitch was just enough known that it was better if his ‘removal’ wasn’t directly traced back to the Mafia, but implications were allowed to stand. Matteo couldn’t afford to be caught at a crime scene if something went wrong.

It’s that reason that he contacts – him. He doesn’t know much about him except for what he’s heard. He knows Dion knows him, and that he has helped him once, but he’s not asking for any favor and does not intend to bring that connection up. What he is after is a job – simple, clean. He’s dependable with payment and respectful to those who are competent, and he does believe that he is – competent, believes the sources enough to cautiously gamble. It is perhaps this new found edging out into the world that drives him to ask him if he’d meet discreetly in person, which might make him feel a little more secure. Offers up a small café in a quiet corner, already has a neat package of information ready in the form of a self-encrypting drive and a laptop out of his backpack. Although Matteo hasn’t heard back if he’ll agree to meet in person, he hopes he will, and he shows up in case. Already had ordered a milkshake and is tucked into a neat corner.

And Matteo – doesn’t look as though he belongs in the Mafia, at least as stereotypically portrayed in the media. He’s not wearing the slim dark suits he wears for work, and instead has chosen things that are a bit more comforting – perhaps subconsciously attempting to set himself more at ease – soft hoodie over T-shirt, slightly worn jeans. With his outfit and the obvious pallor of his skin, he’s indistinguishable from many teenagers who stay up quite a bit past their bedtime, and he looks younger than he is, focusing into the bright florescent lighting of the place and mentally coping with the background thrum of chatter.

In his mind, there lingers a single number – unlucky to some, and while his life may consist of ‘reading’ a language that is not his own, he is quite decent at sums. He hopes that this number does not turn up unlucky for him. He hopes that it goes well, and in his own strange way, he’d like to meet him, if he can. If not – well, he supposes technology exists for a reason.

And - he doesn’t look brave, slouched a little, blinking into the bright light of this alien world, but he is doing his best.  He is – trying.

Sometimes, patience is all one can have. 

  There hadn’t been time to stop and think. So any lingering thoughts that his brother had imposed on him dissipated in favour of survival. There wasn’t time to brood whilst on the run. That came much later after Dex had forced life into the archaic deserted warehouse that he would be calling home until the time came to move on. That would inevitably would. There was only so long that he could jack a net connection from the nearby crack den of young incapacitated fixers without them noticing, that and no matter how careful he was the netcops were heavy these days.

  They were infinitely more of a threat than the presence on the streets, he could duck and avoid those without issue. They wouldn’t string an association between the panther and a young man reliant on a myriad of tubes poking from his scruffy backpack. The two were distinctly different, certainly in Dex’s mind, the former was strong and the latter was weak—his strength did not exist within this realm and he did not shy from this.

  He was tempered, his passion and determination not tempered but…set aside for the time being. Netgear sprawling out in its usual form of organized chaos in a small corner of the warehouse but for the most part it was untouched. He had dipped in eventually to send out brief messages to a few select people to inform them of his new whereabouts, how to reach him but no inkling as to what he’d done—that he was responsible. That would come later, if asked or poignantly if he slipped into that dark part of his mind. The haze that was filled with nothing but guilt, a heavy notion that weighed his shoulders down as if they were being physically held down.

  There is no expectation on his behalf that his messages were to be followed up with any kind of visit and at least initially he doesn’t want to be greeted with anyone but his own solitude. It’s only some hours later that he sits himself back within that mess of heavy braided wires snaking around him that he sends another, just one this time. The panther ident buzzes into his mind, a fuzz of static and then a split second later he’s thrown into the harsh, bright three dimensional reality that you can touch but not belong to. He’s not concerned with chasing up any of the jobs that’ve come piling in, he opens up that old trusted link and sends a single line message. Tapped out onto his cyberdeck as any hopes that his mic would pick up his strained muffled voice is futile.

  OUTGOING MESSAGE: Can we speak? I need your advice.

  He follows it up with a second, to clarify that this wasn’t a matter he wanted to broach through disjointed messages.

   OUTGOING MESSAGE: You have my new address.

  Sent it over earlier to 13 along with a select few others, it is difficult to gain the netrunners trust and even more troublesome to keep it for long. He’s the two extremes melded into one, the extreme pessimist that will dig and see why his trust might be misplaced. An extreme optimist in terms of his belief that there was a chance to build a better world, to some it would sound as if he’s preaching about a utopia. In reality all he wants is democracy. Unfortunately, he possess about as much calm and control as a jack in the box that’s been wound up all the way. It’s only a matter of time before he pops.

  Dex recoils but not all that far, the ventilator he’s attached to is portable, small enough that he can cram it into a backpack and light enough that it doesn’t break his back in the process. But that doesn’t mean he particularly enjoys lugging it about. For the most part he’s detained to a small area of the warehouse that he’s proclaimed as his own. Comforts minimal. If not abandoned altogether. He’d made a makeshift bed out of the blankets he’d shoved into his bag, wore two layers of hoodies that didn’t quite fit him any longer, hung off his body as if they belonged to someone broader and a little fuller.

  He sits there, huddled amidst the chaos of blankets and wires to wait. Sensors plugged into either side of his head, he could not waste an extra sense. Not there was so much on the line. There is no expectation that the police would bust the warehouse, not unless they pulled something out of their ass—or someone turned him in. But it’s not as if he can run if they do. There is is no harm in being alert and he doesn’t have the suit to support him like last time, there’d be no holes in the wall today.

He ran.

For perhaps the first time in his life – had always stood his ground, even with fear pounding through his veins, even beaten and bloodied, he had swayed on his feet or fallen in his traces, but he had never run. Heartbeat pounded violently, lungs aching with each breath – freezing over – metallic in his mouth, he runs with a deep upwelling of self loathing dragging him down, down, down, but it was not yet heavy enough to stop his feet, to stop his feet until he was panting and shaking, sweat-soaking the too-large shirt, running until he was stumbling and uneven, feet tipping on asphalt.

He coughed, hard and wet in his chest, adrenaline still violently jarring through him, one forearm pressed to the wall and his forehead pressed against it, shivering and blinking away the sweat that ran into his eyes, his gaze haunted and hunted, dark with misery in a pale face. He seemed a shadow of his former self, or perhaps more accurately, did not seem like his former self at all. He was all tension and half-aggressive nervousness, waiting for something to come around the corner, waiting to hear the sirens. Body slid to ground, head resting against the bricks of the building behind him, when none came. Forcing oxygen back into depleted body, head raising only with some damned, distant notion that Dion was still back there and that he had left him – had no way of reaching him.  Rough, snarled expletives left his mouth – another rarity, helpless and caught – not wanting to undo everything that Dion had done, but also not able to deal with the hot, heavy guilt that had settled deep in his stomach, propelling him upwards.

Even exhausted, he launched to his feet, restless as a captive tiger, all dangerous, caged energy that dissipated only at the loud sound – the unmistakable sound, and he had never heard one up close, but he knew enough from the war movies he favored the general idea of what one sounded like.

A bomb. Far enough that he wasn’t caught in the shockwaves, but not far enough that he couldn’t hear broken car sirens, the screams of the wounded, faint, but audible. Not far enough that he wasn’t frozen in sudden horror, eyes wide and lips parted and everything condensing into that single, horrific moment – ears ringing and sight blurred.

His name dropped from his lips in a whisper – a gasp, razor-sharp and cold as ice water sinking into his belly, and oh God, he couldn’t – breathe.

“Dion.”

He ran.

He ran towards the screams, not thinking, not seeing, not focusing. He ran with all the vicious impetus of an animal protecting one of it’s own, aching muscle ignored, thought and logic ignored, savagely focused on one aim – one destination – until his body gave out and he stumbled. Heavy, and to one knee, resounding pain in a white flash bringing him back to himself, panting, dazed. With gritted teeth, he was pulling himself up to his feet again when the loud beep resonated from his backpack.

Fuck.

He was beyond eloquence, shell-shocked, the sterile efficiency of the words on that little white screen – held in shaking, unreliable hands. Green eyes scanned it with one shoulder resting against the side of a building he didn’t know, trembling, mouthing the words over and over to himself like a goddamn first grader, searing the sight of them into unbelieving eyes.

have you got somewhere safe? i’m nearly home but i’ve got to move so i’ll find you soon

Trembling fingers typed unevenly, managing a useless---

Safe, I

“FUCK!”

---before the white screen blinked out, spurring a whole new round of expletives, dissolving into him just shrinking into himself, sinking down again, face in his hands, mind blank save for this new piece of information – this piece of information that doesn’t quite erase the sounds of the shouts and screaming.

Ohgodohgodohgod

This time, he didn’t run. He didn’t have any idea where to go, or how far, and it took him a long time to just pull himself into the alleyway, heart pounding in his chest. Every instinct screamed at him to try to help, that whispered through his mind every possible, terrifying conjecture, but as the horror died down, he understood also that the chances of his escape would be zero if he returned. He’d be likely implicated in whatever the hell that bomb had been, and quite possibly shot on sight. He wouldn’t be able to help a goddamn soul if he was left bleeding on the pavement.

With his body pressed in, somewhere in Night City, between a wall and dumpster, he put his hands over his ears, and he closed his eyes.

He stayed that way until morning.

When he got back to the only place he could think of to go, it was a minefield of empty weapons cases, stacked and visible and frightening. It was another jolt of adrenaline even to a body that was exhausted, a whisper of another name and a prayer. It was searching with shaking hands for any clue as to where he had gone, the terror of another potential loss sinking deep into his bones, but searched he did – unevenly and with tears biting at his eyes, from the heart stopping uncertainty of not knowing where he was, or where he had gone, or what he had done – or what had been done to him.

After some time, slowed by panic, he stumbled upon the piece of paper – an address in the basement written in Jericho’s meticulous handwriting.

Without having any better idea – no way to contact him, no other way to find him, and no resources except for the borrowed clothes on his back, he made his way there on foot. It luckily wasn’t far, just an ugly set of apartment buildings, dark, and dank and unwelcoming, but he was still trembling when he climbed the stairs, the piece of paper held in his fist so damn tight that his knuckles had whitened.

His mouth was dry as he opened the door, saw his back, and saw that there was something, someone else in the room, a gleam of steel –

And he knew he wasn’t supposed to use his name outside of their time together, but he never thought he’d see him again – never wanted to see him like this, his voice grit rough and a little aching, but harsher than he thought possible.

“Jericho.”

Firm. Steely. Even wavering on his feet in borrowed clothes, even though he couldn’t keep his hands steady, there was again that hard, solid, savagery in him – focused on what he was doing, and putting any happiness at reunion out of his mind. 

“What the hell is this?”

His gaze burned and froze, and with the grief etched into his features, the light from the door pointing behind him like an accusatory finger, he was righteousness personified, ferocious, and unstoppable.

“You put him down. You hearing me, 13?”

Another low, even series of words, harsh in his throat.

“I ain’t saying it again.”

  Time had blurred on faster than he’d realized, the little green light on the inside of his wrist had blinked its way to orange to red faster than he’d been hoping for. Initially he’d been determined not to let this defeat him, carried on as normal, but in the process just wore himself down faster. Hours blurred into days, his only contact and his only semblance of normality was through his sister’s occasional visits. They were infrequent, or his recollection of them was spotty at best, he’d just nodded wearily at her whenever she came by, allowed her to fuss without complaint. It was easier and consumed far less of his quickly depleting energy.

  He hasn’t moved far in the past few days, wires still tangled around him, a mixture between the thick heavy braided cables that he used to ‘running and the lighter ones. The latter were still hooked up to him, a needle protruding from his arm, taped securely so he can’t pull it out. It’s just about keeping him alive, a quicker alternative to having a tube installed again, although he still has the small rounded scar on his stomach. The faded memories of being hooked up to an external machine for eating.

  Shifts in the bed, enough that he can roll onto his back, his mind constantly drifting between responsive and unconscious. Too tired to put any concentrated effort into sitting up, functioning as anything more than a horizontal being, it takes a lot to beat him down, stubborn as a bull. Mask pressed over his face, misting up with each ragged exhale, there’s a faint shred of regret that he didn’t seek out help. This could’ve been avoided.

  His mods expired only a few weeks prior, he’d had time to figure out a way to lengthen his immunisation, to keep himself protected and on his feet. But he’d been far too caught up in the incoming fight that looking after himself had become his last priority, it almost always was in the end, his first would always be his family. His friends. Never himself.

  In this moment of drifting peace there is an overwhelming sensation that he’s forgotten something, that he had something outstanding still yet to do—

  The payment.

  He was supposed to send across the other half of 13’s money, for the hit. That as far as he was aware had gone smoothly, hadn’t checked in online for more than a week, his sister hadn’t made any quiet complaints of the stalker so he assumed it had. This was 13 after all. A harsh gurgled groan left his lips, muffled by the mask, as he made an attempt to sit up. Managed to lift himself up off the bed enough to try and grapple for his cyberdeck, missed it by a few inches. He’d taken the small black ports, and the visor that went with them, out after he’d collapsed. Easily frustrated and made anxious by the walls closing in on him.

  Had never been aware before just how small his apartment was, enough room for a bed, a small bathroom and faux-kitchen with nothing but a small electric oven. Not that he ever used said kitchen, even when he was eating normally it was all self-heated food or those dreaded bulked out milkshakes.

  A noise cut through the haze of his mind, it was sharp and loud enough that he nearly jumped. Collapsed back into the sheets he curled up in on himself, back to the door, assumed that it was Athena, because who else would it be, and so aligned himself in the ‘do not disturb’ arrangement. It was an unspoken agreement that had formed years earlier between them, if Dion fell ill and wanted to be left alone, it was his signal without having to verbalize it.

  The door wasn’t locked, so he wasn’t surprised when it clicked open without resistance. In a last minute change of heart, he lifted a weakened hand, knocked the mask just enough off his face to call out to his visitor.

  “What day is it?”

  He hadn’t shifted back onto his back, shivered a little at the rush of cold air against his bare skin, the treatment vest that helped to clear his lungs was abandoned by his feet. Didn’t have the energy or willpower to sit up never mind put it on.