A cocktail of narcissism with egocentrism invigorates and heals better than any rebound. Blind rage and glory fuck in the brain more than any black dope, cyberpsychics and maelstrom envy.

Endless trials of everything worth a little more than shit only add fuel to this endless headlong forward movement. Silverhand lived in such a way that even the grave literally did not stop him. Nothing can fix something that's so messed up. It would seem.

And then you happened. And the confidence that survived even death did not survive the dying you. Flew, screeching with brakes on last breath into the wall, smeared into an even, snotty mess and could not have been molded back into something minimally viable even in the operating rooms of Arasaka.

Johnny thought there was nothing worse than losing himself in Mikoshi. He was as sure of this as he clearly knew that the earth was spherical. And then he was shoved into someone else's head and there were fucking options.

Johnny died anew every time poor you seemed to vomit your insides onto the asphalt due to the hard work of the biochip. Silverhand was dying when you was rushing under bullets, not wanting to waste time on silent crawling. He died every time you fell asleep, because each time could be the last and dying in advance was easier than hoping.

Silverhand stubbornly forced himself to believe in their agreement, but how to ignore his own — other people's thoughts clearly saying that he was twirling these persuasions. You — reckless, selfless child of the streets. Honest, kind to the contrary, definitely plans to choose someone else's life instead of his own.

And there's nothing Johnny can do about it.

"I'll get us both out," Says you, and knows, feels, that will get Johnny Silverhand out of the next world at the cost of soul.

"You have to get yourself out first, moron," Johnny replies, and feels a huge catch in all this.