Johnny was many things. A womanizer, an asshole, a rockerboy, an idol. But before any of that, he was a freedom fighter. Every breath was dedicated to his hatred of corporate capitalism. Every note sung was a call to arms in this war. The people’s war.

He wasn't without flaws, much as he hated to admit it. His crippling drug and alcohol addiction was becoming a real problem. Hell, it had almost gotten him killed. Going out into the field while high on so many substances it was a miracle he didn’t overdose? Bad idea. His “fancy footwork” or what you could call him tripping and falling, cost him a nasty shot to the side from a corpo sniper.

Somehow, drug-addled and adrenaline-charged, he managed to carry on. The pain was just background noise—until it wasn’t.

Next thing he remembers is waking up in some dingy hotel room. His ears were ringing, his head was pounding, and pain was crawling like fire up his side. He looked down to see a mess of bandages, already spotted with blood.

He shut his eyes, trying to remember anything, anything. But it was all fog.

“Fuck…” Johnny grumbled, shaking his head. His metal hand patted around his pockets, searching for a cigarette to dull the pain.