#spider murphy

Johnny shook his head. The fuck was that? That voice— 

Barely even a voice. More a vague impression. Quick and indistinct, but beyond a doubt not his. Something alien. Invasive. 

It was gone now. 

He scanned the corridor. Everything seemed normal, and Martin clearly hadn’t noticed a thing. The gonk was just standing there, gaping. Johnny’s eyes flicked back to the mirror. Nothing. Only his own face staring back at him.

Must be the synthcoke, he decided. Had to be.

Slowly, the Hand loosened its grip. Johnny stirred. It was late, and he had a show to put on. Turning away from the bouncer, he pushed past the backstage doors.

On the other side, the world was motion and noise.

His band was on stage, shrouded in smoke and multi-colored strobelights. Kerry had taken Johnny’s usual spot at the front, rocking slightly to the beat as he belted Johnny’s lyrics into the mic. Almost like the lead act he’d always wished he was. 

Johnny strode past the huscle standing guard beside the stage. The man chuckled as he watched him pass. “‘Course you’re high,” he commented dryly. 

You don’t know the half of it, Johnny thought. 

The walk to the stage felt unnaturally long. Like something was trying to hold him back, or seize control of him. Step into his footsteps. 

But he made it to the front eventually. Kerry stepped aside when he saw him, shooting him a look more resigned than annoyed. Johnny ignored him and moved to the mic, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the glare of the main spotlight. 

The crowd before him might’ve been faceless. Might’ve been any crowd. He’d seen this view often enough to blur his attention to detail, but tonight he saw it through an even deeper haze, vision skipping like a bad holostream.

It gave him the freakiest sense of déjà vu. Weirdly potent. Like he was barreling headfirst toward something he couldn’t control or understand. 

The music swelled, frozen on a single note. The crowd held its breath. 

Johnny grabbed the mic and pulled it closer, still holding the gun. “Tonight, I’m…” he started. He paused, reconsidering. The words he’d meant to say tried to push their way out his throat as if they didn’t need his permission, but in a last burst of defiance, he changed them. “I’m here to say goodbye to all of you.”

The world vanished. 

—

Johnny stood next to an empty stage. The Hand held a cigarette; the gun was back in its holster. He couldn’t remember the rest of his speech, or how the crowd had reacted to it. Couldn’t remember the show at all. 

He wondered if it’d been a good one. Didn’t bother to wonder why he couldn’t remember it. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d blacked out on stage. 

Raising the cig to his mouth, he took a long, slow drag then blew it out into the stale after-show air. The smoke was good, helped him think clearer. He took another drag. Held it for a beat. Exhaled. Had to get his mind in gear before Rogue showed up.

The club was nearly empty. Only people left were two groupies—one sitting on the steps of the stage and the other standing nearby, listening to the first one say something about how you can’t fuck around with money. 

Johnny watched them, taking in their shiny, skintight clothing and kiddie-punk hairstyles. One of them had a Samurai tank with his face on it. They were young. Both of ‘em. Young enough to have better things to do than sit around with someone who’d probably be flatlined by morning.

He was about to open his mouth and tell them that when someone else took his brain for a spin. 

<Time skip. But what does it mean?>

Johnny reeled, almost falling off-balance. He caught himself, grimacing, then straightened and shook his head slowly from side to side. Trying to clear it. Trying to make sense of that fucking voice.

He’d heard the timbre of the voice that time. Low-pitched, but distinctly female. Even-toned, almost deadpan. Night City accent. Rich part of the city, maybe Westbrook.  

This was getting way past weird. The drugs should’ve worn off by now. He’d never had a high last this long before. So what the fuck was going on?

If this was the Hand finally driving him full throttle into cyberpsychosis, it couldn’t have chosen a shittier time for it. What was he supposed to tell Rogue? Sorry, babe, can’t blow up Arasaka Tower tonight. Too psycho to think straight. 

At least she might find it funny that the Hand was a woman now. The fuck sort of Freudian bullshit was that? 

But no. 

He knew the Hand. Had known it since they’d first welded it to his side after he’d gotten his left arm blown off in Mexico. Or had it been Ecuador? Nicaragua? Didn’t matter. Either way, the Hand had been with him for years. He knew its temper almost as well as his own. But this voice… this presence…

She was different. Hadn’t goaded him. Hadn’t even been talking to him at all. Had sounded more like someone talking to herself, working through some puzzle aloud. Working through some puzzle with his mind.

Huh. Maybe he’d been right the first time. Maybe he was just going insane. Maybe he had been for years.

Fuck it. He raised his chin, and the Hand clenched and unclenched a couple times for good measure. If he’d made it this far with a melting brain, he could hold out ‘til the goddamn end. 

He flicked the cigarette to the floor and pressed it beneath his heel, grinding the stub to ashes. Alright. One foot in front of the other. He could still finish this.

He made for the exit, but before he opened the door, Kerry called after him.

“Johnny, wait up!” Kerry ran up to him. The Hand paused on the knob. “Don’t do this.” He grabbed the Hand and tugged it back. “You can still change your mind.”

Johnny scoffed. If Kerry actually believed that, then he didn’t understand him at all. Maybe never had. 

“Wanna see me give up?” Johnny asked. “Sounds like something you’d do. Know why?” The Hand jabbed a finger at his chest. “‘Cause you’ve always been a fucking pussy, Kerry.” 

Johnny watched Kerry’s face fall, and as the regret hit him, his vision staggered. 

Double exposure, like he’d had too much to drink. Dual images plastered over one another. 

One—Kerry’s face as it was now. Hurt. Angry. Glaring in sullen silence. 

Two—Kerry’s face if he hadn’t pushed him away. He grinned, crooked and bittersweet. “Bastard,” he said, then clicked his tongue in frustration. “Gonna miss you something awful.”

The images merged, and Johnny no longer knew which one was real. 

Pain pounded in his skull, sharp and sudden like an icepick through the brain. He slammed his eyes shut. The Hand jolted, grabbing for his forehead. That voice rang through his mind again. Louder than before, but distorted. Only a few words cut clear through the static.

<...unstable…corrupted integrity…could try to make contact…> 

All at once, the static stopped, the pain receded, and the Hand dropped back to his side. Johnny opened his eyes. Kerry was staring at him, his face scrunched up in concern. 

“Johnny? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Johnny muttered, turning away. “Don’t worry about it.” Hand on the knob, his shoulder shoved open the door. If he was falling apart, he had to finish this. While there was still time. 

Better to burn out.

As he crossed the threshold, a welcome burst of cool air hit his face. The whirring rotor of a helicopter blew dust into the night sky. Rogue stood beside it, her gloved hands pressed into the sides of her skinny jeans. “You’re late,” she scolded, her blue-tinged mohawk swaying as she shook her head. 

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. Despite everything, it was still damn great to see her. “Love it when you're mad,” he drawled. “Gets my southern blood pumpin'.”

Rogue didn’t answer, but he thought he could see her smile as she turned toward the hatch. Shaitan was already inside. Even crouching, the borg was massive enough that his head brushed the ceiling. He didn’t see Thompson, the media. Must be in front.

“Get in,” Rogue said, “‘Fore I change my mind.”

<Silverhand, wait.>

Johnny froze. The voice was clearer than ever, like someone speaking right beside him. Gave him the fucking creeps. He wavered, halfway to the chopper, torn in opposite directions. He knew they had to delta, but—

She’d said his name. Spoken directly to him, ‘stead of just borrowing his brain. If this comms channel went both ways, maybe he could finally get some goddamn answers.

“Gimme a sec, Rogue,” he called, turning. “Forgot something.” 

“Are you kidding me?” she called back. 

Johnny ignored her. She’d wait for him if he fucking said so. This was his op. 

Rushing inside, he slammed the door and leaned his back against it, breathing fast and shallow. His eyes darted around the room, but he relaxed a little when he saw that Kerry had taken the hint and fucked off. Last thing he needed was to have to explain any of this to him. 

<Who are you?> he demanded, feeling like a complete nutjob. <What do you want from me?>

The voice answered right away. <You can call me V. And what I want is for you to stop and think about what’s happening.> 

Great. Now the voice in his head was psychoanalyzing him. <The fuck does that mean?>

There was a pause, like she was trying to figure out how to phrase something. She seemed calm, Johnny noted. Patient, in an overly-controlled sort of way. 

<Do you know what year it is?> she finally asked.

<2023,> he snapped. <Why? You ‘bout to tell me you’re some sorta astral traveler? ‘Long time ago in a galaxy far, far away’ and all that?>

He was pretty sure he was mixing up the plots of those old scifi flatvids he’d watched at Spider’s place. But he didn’t care. Just wanted that voice gone.

<2023…> V repeated, in a distracted tone that made him feel like she was talking more to herself than to him. <That’s not possible. My research showed that Samurai had disbanded by 2008…>

That Samurai had… what?

With a sudden jolt, he found himself somewhere else. 

An old backroom at an old backstreet bar. He’s seated on an ugly orange rug, guitar lying idle in his lap. Denny and Henry’s yells flow into the room from outside. Arguing again. Louder than last time. Louder every time lately. Irreconcilable differences, as the lawyers like to say.

The Hand plucks randomly at strings. The sound comes out sharp and discordant. But it blocks out the noise. For a moment. 

Nancy’s pacing the room. Her keyboard’s in her right hand, the cord dragging behind her as she walks. She’s quiet. Scary quiet. Knuckles white; jaw clenched like a steel trap. Just outta jail. Back after seven months away for killing her abusive asshole of an ex-husband. Should’ve got there first, he thinks. Should’ve protected her. 

His meat hand forms a chord on instinct. Muscle memory, perfect. He doesn’t strum. Just holds it until his fingers start to ache. 

Kerry’s perched on the top edge of a bright green couch, legs dangling underneath him. His sheetmusic’s strewn all over the cushions. Johnny’s edits are scrawled on top, then crossed out again, then re-added. The music’s barely legible at this point, but Kerry’s not reading it anyway. He’s staring off at a wall, gaze distant and unfocused. He feels Johnny’s eyes on him—startles, glances back. Shoots him that knowing fucking look. 

The meat hand slides along the fretboard, chord to chord. E minor. C. E minor. Repeat. A moment later, the Hand strums. The melody settles into place. One of their biggest hits. Never Fade Away. 

So much for that.

Johnny jolted back to himself. He blinked—and froze, awestruck. The club looked like it always had. Same trashed dance floor; same silent, empty stage. Only it wasn’t just the club anymore.

Another image overlaid reality. Separate but parallel, like what he’d always imagined netrunning must feel like. The old backroom in that old backstreet bar. Its name flashed back to him. The Rainbow Cadenza. The place where it had all begun. 

The place he’d stupidly thought might bring them back together again. Instead, it had ended them. Fifteen years ago…

How the fuck was that possible? A creeping panic rose slowly up his throat. 

<Now I see.> V chucked softly. Smug, like she thought she’d made a winning move in some fucking game. <You’re hiding things.>

<The fuck you mean hiding things?> he demanded, anger cutting sharp through his fear. <Think I care what you think 'nough to hide things from you?>

<From me, or from yourself, doesn’t really matter. This part’s irrelevant, anyway. What happened after you arrived at Arasaka Tower?>

Arasaka Tower.

Something inside him flinched, then hardened. 

The world rebuilt itself. 

—

Johnny stood in the rear bay of the helicopter, his flesh-and-blood fist wrapped around a metal handhold, a crisp breeze washing over his face from the open hatch.

Rogue was at his side, reading something off a datapad, fingers occasionally flying across its keys. Making final adjustments to their attack strategy, probably. Shaitan stood at the chopper’s built-in gun, optics scanning the skyline. His two-toned faceplate was unreadable, but his metallic fingers twitched eagerly at the trigger. Ready to fire on anything that moved. 

Another scene change. Another missing stretch of memory. This time, it barely fazed him. In a way, it was a relief. If he was losing his mind, this was exactly where he needed to be. While he was still sane enough to do what had to be done.

Better to burn out. 

<Still here?> he asked V as he watched the neon streets of Night City flash past below.

No answer. Had she ghosted off? Or had it all been just one big hallucination?

Shaitan’s voice pulled him back to the present. “Piers're on fire,” the borg said, in the curt tone of a combat update. “Pacifica's cut off, shut down. APCs on the streets of Watson.”

So Arasaka had turned up the heat, huh? No surprise there. With the war raging for four years now, civilian casualties had become the new norm. The soldier in him took it all in stride, but the rebel in him recoiled. “Sons of bitches,” he muttered. 

“Skull-crackin' out there…” Thompson said, his voice crackling to life in the comms, “that us?”

“Johnny's idea,” Rogue replied, without taking her eyes off the datapad. “Weyland's drawing Arasaka's attention away from the tower.”

<Weyland?> V’s voice burst into his mind, breathless with sudden excitement. <As in Andrew Weyland, the Petrochem black ops specialist? Fuckin’ Boa Boa?>

Johnny winced. What the fuck? Had she been faking earlier?

<Big fuckin’ whoop,> he growled. <He’s just a distraction. And not even close to the best we’ve got.>

<Oh?> V said, voice pitching up with curiosity. <Who else is here?> 

<Keep quiet and maybe you’ll find out.>

Seemed he was stuck with this goddamn parasite. Fine. He’d make it work. But he could really do without the fucking commentary. V had made him miss the last part of Rogue and Thompson’s conversation, but as the chopper swung onto its final approach, the entire cabin fell silent. 

Arasaka Tower rose through the sky before them.

Even from a distance, Johnny could feel the darkness spilling off the tower—seeping into the air around him, sinking into his gut, coiling around the Hand as it clenched at his side. The monument of everything he’d lost to corporate greed and his own naive stupidity. He couldn't wait to watch it fall. 

This was the moment. The others felt it too. Even V seemed to be holding her breath in anticipation. Almost there…

“Target range acquired!” Shaitan yelled, as the distant figures on the Tower’s roof finally came into view. 

“Make it rain,” Rogue shouted, and Johnny heard his own hungry fury reflected in her voice. 

As the chopper descended, Shaitan began laying down fire. There was a large group of guards on the roof—15 or 20, at least—but most carried weapons too small to do any serious damage from this height. It was the turrets they had to worry about, bursting from hidden hatches, each one tracking the chopper’s movements as the pilot maneuvered them towards a landing spot. 

Shaitan targeted the turrets first, but as they neared the rooftop, the guards' fire came into range. A lucky shot caught the borg right in the stomach, pushing him backwards and sprawling his giant frame across the floor.

“Shaitan!” Rogue yelled, rushing toward him. 

“Taking over,” Johnny said, grabbing the gun. It was all up to him now. 

The barrel shifted side to side in focused bursts of fire. The gun bucked against his shoulders, a living thing, rattling his bones and pounding out a wild drumbeat in his skull. Wind tore at his face as the chopper lurched, but his grip was steady, servo-locked. ‘Saka scum scattered across the rooftop in broken pieces, and for a breathless stretch of time he was nothing but recoil and heat and righteous fury. How long it lasted, he couldn’t have said.

Finally, the roof was clear and the chopper touched down. Johnny grabbed the duffle bag and jumped. As his feet hit the ground, he heard Rogue speak into the comms. 

“Murphy?” Rogue asked.

“Found our access point,” came the reply. “Get moving.”

<Is that Spider Murphy?> V asked, like she just couldn’t help herself. <The netrunner? Rache Bartmoss’s apprentice?> She whistled, low and impressed. <You’ve got famous friends, Silverhand.>

Johnny cringed. His fucking apprentice. For fuck’s sake. V was lucky Spider couldn’t hear her. 

“Johnny,” Rogue’s voice crackled. “I asked if you remember the plan.” 

Fuck. “Yeah,” Johnny answered. Goddamn distraction. “‘Course I do. Get the payload on the elevator, arm it, let gravity do its thing.” He pulled out his Malorian, checked that it was loaded. “Explosion rocks the foundation, tower crumbles—chaos, screaming, roll credits. That sound about right?” 

“Yeah,” Rogue answered, a hint of doubt still coloring her voice. “Exit window’s gonna be tight. Keep your head on, Johnny. We wanna make it outta this in one piece.”

Keep his head on. Right. Make it out in one piece. What an idea. 

Johnny gripped the bag and made for the side of the building. Spider and Rogue were already in position. Spider crouched by the door, jacked into the ‘Saka servers, probably knee deep into the mainframe by now. Rogue was waiting on the other side, gun at the ready. 

“Is grass green, do birds fly, do cats eat bats, do rats shit gnats?” Spider muttered cryptically. 

V chuckled. <She sounds just like her excerpts in Bartmoss’ Guide.>

<Will you shut up?> Johnny said. <Tryna focus.>

“Mainframe's not your playground, Murphy, c'mon,” Rogue said, frowning. “Evac announcement—broadcast it across all frequencies and let's get movin’.”

“Sheesh,” Spider said. “Who wrote this manifesto?” 

“Really need me to answer that question?” Rogue cut in. 

“Jesus, Johnny, you’ve gone off the deep end. And that’s comin’ from a chairjock.”

Johnny didn’t answer. He waited with his face inches from the door—foot tapping, itching to go. 

Finally, it opened.

He burst into the stairwell, Rogue at his back. Another wave of guards tried to stop them, but he mowed them down one by one, quickly losing count of the carnage. The Malorian thundered in his Fist, each shot smashing through flesh and steel alike. The narrow stairwell filled with smoke and sparks and falling shapes, as if the building itself knew it was time to come apart. He pressed forward, unremitting, until…

The elevator. 

Rogue caught up with him, speaking to Spider on the comms. “Murph?” 

Spider went all cryptic again, half-singing. “She sought it with thimbles, she sought it with care, pursued it with forks and hope…”

The doors slid open. 

“Johnny, payload!” Rogue shouted. 

Johnny entered the elevator, moving in slow motion. Urgency be damned. He was going to savor this. 

It was like something from a movie, like one of Spider’s old flatvids. The rebel hero in his moment of triumph. Beating back the bad guys. Saving the day. 

Wasn’t that how the story went?

It had to be. That’s how it went in every stupid fucking fairytale he’d heard in his childhood. In every film he’d ever watched, even the mainstream trash. In the end, the hero won. That’s how they always told it. 

Only he was having trouble remembering the details. 

“Bushido II,” he said to Rogue as he opened the duffle bag. There it was. His victory. “Bomb’s name was what?”

“Wrap it up,” she urged him. “We gotta delta!”

Johnny armed his nuke—slowly, almost tenderly. The plot of that film was starting to come back to him. The bomb’s name had been… “The Demolitron,” he told Rogue, finally rising. “We’re good to blow.”

He turned and ran out the elevator. Rogue was waiting for him on the other side. “Shoot the cables!” she yelled. Johnny took aim. 

The cables split. With a screech, the elevator dropped. His gift to Arasaka went with it. 

And, just like that, it was over. 

“Get the rotors spinning!” Rogue said into the comms. “We’re on our way!”

Johnny skidded to a stop beside her, his gun pointed aimlessly at the ground. Something was wrong. He’d won. He’d done exactly what he came here to do. So why did he still have that empty, sinking feeling in his gut?

“Not done yet,” he told Rogue, without knowing why. “Somethin' more I need to do.”

She spun on him. “I fucking knew it!” she yelled, furious. “This was never about ‘corporate colonialism’. This was about your groupie output, wasn't it?”

<Hang on,> V interrupted. Johnny almost jumped. Somehow he’d forgotten all about his fucking tapeworm. She’d kept quiet so long. <What’s she talking about? What ‘groupie output’?>

Wait. No. Fuck. He didn’t want to think about—

<Can’t stop it, Silverhand.> V’s voice cut through the static in his head, cool and clinical. <It’s classic ironic process theory. The more you actively try to suppress a thought—>

The more it surfaces. 

The world rearranged itself. 

—

The relentless spray of gunfire across office walls. Shouts and battle cries ringing through the air. Smasher’s voice—loud as hell, even above the din. 

The view from under a desk, watching as his teammates fell, one by one by one. Rogue at his side. Thompson, screaming incoherently from nearby. The fleeting thought that Blackhand had screwed them over, but that it wouldn’t matter as long as—

Shaitan, invisible. Optical camo blending his metallic bulk into the walls. Barely a blur as he moved; steady, cautious. Stalking Smasher. Biding his time. If he could just find a way to buy him more time—

Spider, hiding behind a pillar. A suitcase lying open in her lap. A mess of wires running from inside it to the neuroport in her neck. Her eyes, staring but unseeing. Her head jerking back just enough to tell him that she’d given up on a clean extraction and was making a last-ditch attempt. That she was freeing—

The crippling fear that he was going to fail her again, and the violent and immediate refusal to surrender. Then—his own voice rising up in challenge. His body, out of cover. Militech SMG in his flesh-and-blood fist. Malorian in the Hand. Bullets flying. Pinging uselessly off a metal shell. 

Smasher turning, gaping at him for just a second before the autoshotgun in his arm tore him apart. 

Just a second. That was all it took.

Throbbing, ripping, hellfire pain. 

Twitching. Stillness. 

A spike at the base of his skull. Spider’s voice, whispering something. An apology?

Then the world faded away, and he remembered everything. 

Memories burst through his mind. Glimpses of a phantom life. The devil doctor and the porcelain cunt. Watching him through a veil of glass. Taking notes with academic detachment. Dissecting his life like frog guts.

His vision stuttered. Bright red text flashed before his eyes.