A young man came to the Afterlife Bar today.
A young man who did not look all that young.
He looked young in appearance: lean and wiry, with sharp lines, even the fresh stubble along his cheeks carrying a raw, vigorous edge.
But he did not seem young because of his manner—the old-fashioned air that seeped from his bones, or rather, the thoroughly steeped maturity that forcibly overshadowed the youth his body displayed.
If anyone asked Afterlife bouncer Emerick for his impression of this young man, one person would probably come to mind immediately.
Someone who had been dead for a long time.
Johnny Silverhand.
It was no wonder he thought that way. Whether in clothing or styling, the man before him looked remarkably like the famous rocker and legend. The only differences were that he lacked Johnny Silverhand's iconic silver arm, and his face did not match Silverhand's age.
If Emerick had to guess at the relationship between this young man and Silverhand, he might wonder whether the man was some descendant Silverhand had left behind.
The product of some fleeting affair—a descendant even Johnny Silverhand himself might not have known about.
Or perhaps he was simply a fan who loved Silverhand so much that he had altered his own face to resemble him, like that Silverhand fanatic Emerick had heard of, Johnny Silverhand Impersonator.
Though if that were the case, this fan was somewhat unqualified. After all, he had neither gotten himself a silver-arm shell for a jacket nor gone so fanatical as to cut off his arm and replace it with a silver one.
If the young man entering the Afterlife could have known what Emerick was thinking at that moment, he would definitely have shot the Afterlife bouncer—whom he already knew under another identity—a look.
His