moved to @katabvsis

this  is  a  blog  for SIMON  ‘ROYCE’  RANDALL,  from  CYBERPUNK  2077  universe.  this  blog  is  low  activity,  though  i  am  a  big  lurker.  penned  by  TETRA.​ strictly 18+

      The Totentanz.       Vaas doesn’t realize this is where he’s chasing the dorphhead thief into until he’s shoving past the elevator’s chromed bouncer into a hot venue filled to capacity with raging patrons and blaring thrash metal. Maybe the bouncer suspects he’s here to crack skulls, because Vaas hears a mechanized voice behind him demand he stop. But he doesn’t. He’s pulling his gaze across the people of the venue.

      A flash of red strobes hits the crowd and illuminates the dorphhead just long enough for Vaas to spot him again. Then he’s marching forward. The heavy bass and vicious guitar riffs fill the cyberpsycho’s chest and feeds into his anger and galvanizes his nerves, it keeps his jaw clenched tight and his red eyes wild with fury. There really is no honor among thieves, is there? That motherfucker is gonna pay with his life for trying to boost his Harley. Any other Los Piratas cruiser and maybe Vaas would have let it go – but his bike? nonono, UN-FUCKING-ACCEPTABLE. He promises himself he’s gonna liberate the fetid cheese from between the little prick’s ears, SPLATTER it across this venue’s dance floor.

      The Los Piratas president weaves between sweating bodies and dodges wayward limbs, hipchecked by the occasional wasted patron, but his gaze remains ever locked on the dorphhead. The kid is throwing worried glances back at his pursuer as he squeezes through the crowd. Vaas’ blood boils. His mantis blades start to unfurl from his arms but two pairs of hands slap the separating realskin back into place to prevent the blades from protracting. what the fuck? Vaas’ gaze trails up the hands to meet the freakish faceplates of two bouncers. Then the Maelstromers have him around the biceps. Wait, why him?? Vaas jerks back against their arms; his vicious protests are swallowed by the thumping music. The Los Piratas president is by most accounts not a big man so it’s with ease that the two Maelstromers can lift him and muscle him out of the crowd. Nor a flurry of kicks or a lobbing of threats is enough to stop his detainers from dragging him up a metal staircase and over to their boss. Vaas is thrown to the ground. He curses and squints up at the large, imposing man.

      ‘ who  the  fuck  do  you  think  you  are ?, ’ the man demands.

      Vaas doesn’t wait for his pulse to allow for calmer intakes before he speaks, “those shitty optical implants on your – face work, right? huh? can you – fucking perceive me? who the fuck do you THINK i am?” The words are hissed between breaths. He attempts to rise to his feet but a harsh boot on his back keeps him on the ground in front of the (presumed) Maelstrom leader. Fucking humiliating.

      ‘Los Piratas,’ the chromed ganger behind Vaas reads from the patchwork on the back of his motorcycle jacket (butchering the pronunciation, of course.) Vaas gnashes his teeth. Fucking Maelstromers.

      “you have a rat kleptoid somewhere in your club,” he offers, like these criminals will even care. The dorphhead is right at home, surely. “you really want his sticky fingers poking around your shit?”

his  focus  is  not  fully  on  the  man  thrown  at  his  feet  until  the  insults  towards  his  chrome  reaches  his  ears,  past  the  music  blasting  in  the  totentanz.  optics  twitch  in  a  wave,  their  red  glare  settling  itself  on  the  other’s  face  to  encounter  eyes  of  the  same  color,  a  piss  poor  attempt  at  improving  his  meat  self,  but  too  weak  to  transcend  past  the  inferior  options  flesh  offered,  sticking  to  simulating  real,  inferior  eyes,  and  he  dared  talk  this  way  as  if  he  knew  anything  about  chrome ?  the  cocktail  of  drugs  that  courses  through  royce’s  system  is  not  strong  enough  to  keep  him  calm,  in  fact,  it  might  just  be  contributing  towards  him  getting  more  pissed  off.

royce’s  jaws  tighten,  teeth  grinding  into  each  other.  this  fucker  was  NOTHING,  and  a  quick  scan  of  his  body  confirms  this,  barely  any  cyberware  and  yet  he  allowed  himself  to  talk  like  this ?  to  HIM ?  the  only  semblance  of  guideline  the  totentanz  ever  had  was  to  acknowledge  that  despite  the  vague  neutrality  of  the  club,  the  maelstrom  were  still  the  ones  in  charge  and  thus,  had  to  be  respected.  it  seemed  like  a  reminder  was  due.  royce’s  hand  was  reaching  for  his  handgun  when  the  namedrop  of  los  piratas  stopped  him  in  his  movement.  a  head  tilt,  and  the  man  turned  machine  was  scanning  the  smaller  one  once  more,  pulling  any  files  he  could  find  about  him,  deaf  to  whatever  the  other  was  trying  to  tell  him.  something  about  a  thief,  who  fucking  cared ?

telling  faces  apart  was  becoming  harder  and  harder,  nothing  but  an  empty  canvas  to  improve  upon,  but  he  knew  these  wild  eyes  had  felt  familiar.  he  had  seen  them  before,  through  others  eyes,  through  messy,  bloody  XBDs,  though  this  time  royce  felt  none  of  these  feelings  that  he  found  so  addicting  to  feel  through  others,  none  of  the  terror,  the  dread  and  apprehension  he  had  felt  this  glare  cause.  honestly  he  felt  a  little  disappointed  in  the  man  on  the  ground  before  him,  somehow  he  had  expected...  more.