He wasn’t used to feeling anything anymore. Not really. Not since becoming a ghost made of code and rage and half-memories stitched together with vengeance. But when Johnny Silverhand opened his eyes and saw her—
“...Well shit.”
He blinked. The familiar lights of Misty’s shop flickered behind her head like a busted halo, and that face, tilted upward with stubborn fire and something sharp in the eyes—yeah. That was Rogue’s kid, alright. His kid.
“Didn’t think you’d actually show up. Thought maybe Rogue would’ve had more sense than to drop that kind of bomb on you. Guess I was wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of V’s jacket, the movement natural, practiced. Ghost muscle memory. His gaze didn’t leave her.
“So. You’re mine, huh?”
A dry, humorless laugh left him. It cracked like a tired record.
“Never thought I’d be somebody’s anything. Let alone a father. Hell, I could barely take care of a guitar, and you’re tellin’ me I’ve got a daughter?”
He stepped closer, the weight of the moment tugging at something in his chest. Something old. Almost human.
“Should’ve been there. I know. But Rogue—she never said a damn word. And I was too busy dying for my stupid ideals to notice anything else.”
The edge in his voice softened for just a second, like a cigarette burn on silk.
“Don’t even know what you want from me, kid. An apology? A hug? Some shitty song and dance about how I’d do it all different if I had the chance?”
He looked at her then. Really looked. Eyes a little glassy, mouth a little tight. So much of her mother in the way she stood, like she might punch him just for existing. But there was something else too—
“Whatever it is… I’ll give it a shot.”
He sighed, ran a hand through V’s hair. Didn’t feel like his. Nothing ever really did anymore.
“Fuck. This is weird.”