* 𝘐𝘕𝘍𝘐𝘓𝘛𝘙𝘈𝘛𝘌

𝐇𝐄𝐘. this is a pinned post with some important information. thanks in advance for reading!

FIRST AND FOREMOST, this is a roleplay blog for an oc  ( CHARLEMAGNE NARCISSE )  of mike pondsmith’s and CDPR’s cyberpunk 2077. this blog is independent, selective, and mutuals only. also 18+ only. anyone found following me that’s below this age will be blocked. simple as that!

as for me: hey, you can call me oddity! he/him pronouns. twenty-four at the time of writing this. i live in the westmost side of australia and hence, my timezone will be GMT+8. other active cbp2077 rp blogs you can find me on are: @demurs (oc);  @perplexed (oc);  @melds (oc);  @managerial (oc). i have more than this, but these are the ones i have the most muse for!

warm. had it been? he didn’t know if it was him or the temperature control–either minutes or hours had passed, and the environment downstairs had swelled to sweltering before he had even fully realized. the light bite of the cold night air chills the fine layer of sweat across him into a clammy blanket, but kerry hardly realizes. 

“what?” you okay? he doesn’t think so. kerry draws his tongue along his lower lip and glances from charlemagne’s concerned expression to the cocktail held in his hand, and he realizes: he’s parched, cotton-mouthed. 

charlemagne’s question doesn’t receive an answer directly–beyond, of course, the assumption that can be made that he isn’t okay–but kerry does point to charlemagne’s drink. “your drink. give it to me.” it’s worded as if it could be question, but it’s less that and more a hard ask.

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓... didn’t sound quite like a question. no, it sounded more like a demand if anything. charlemagne could feel that smile of his slipping away again; it desperately struggled to cling onto his lips and the resulting expression looked like something suspended between awkward and crestfallen.

“um, this is my drink, though — i paid for it and ...” 

oh, who was he kidding? this was kerry eurodyne. imagine being the person to deny kerry a drink? couldn’t be him. 

charlie? who the fuck is charlie? eyes flicker with a familiar blue brilliance, but the scan gives–nothing. no information. nc resident, it says, like that’s any help. charlie. must be one of the bar-goers from down below. did charlie arrive before him, after? kerry supposes it doesn’t matter. the thought’s about as fleeting as they come, either way. 

“charlie?” repeated, so he can get a grasp on it. as well as he could, anyway. the rocker shifts beneath his vest and sits up as well as he can, mistrustful gaze looking over charlemagne in assessment as his hands flex and expand from fists to open-palmed. person looks…spooked, well as he can tell. because of who he is? the situation? something else? is he—is he with nadine?

“fuck, did–” a deep breath, shuddering, as he slumps back into the booth again. balcony feels like it’s spinning and he’s going to go flying off with it any minute. “did nadine send you? couldn’t find me herself? oooh, she fuckin’ knew.” 

𝐍𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐄? who... who is nadine?

his smile faded. a look of confusion wafted over in its place. the more his gaze raked over kerry’s entirety, the more it sounded  —  looked like kerry was having a bad trip of some kind. he’d seen it happen again and again in pacifica; people quaking, their eyes flickering about, perspiration glinting in the faint light of the evening...

“ stress  levels  and  heart  rate  abnormally  high” ?  no  shit,  king  doesn’t  need  any  kind  of  chrome  to  know  that,  not  right  now.  not  when  his  head  is  still  spinning  from  the  adrenaline  ( or  was  it  from  the  solid  punch  he  received  right  on  the  jaw ? ),  from  the  absolute  terror  that  had  taken  over  just  moments  ago.  to  think  if  it  wasn’t  from  the  pure  selflessness  of  a  near  stranger  they  might  be  in  an  ice  tub,  ready  to  have  anything  of  value  torn  out  of  them  and  end  up  looking  just  like  a  gutted  fish… 

the  corpo  couldn’t  think  too  much  about  it  without  the  thought  making  him  sick  to  his  stomach,  a  hand  pressed  against  his  eyes  for  a  moment.  breathe.

when  his  hand  slips  down,  he’s  looking  up  at  the  much  more  imposing  man,  with  full  knowledge  that  if  their  roles  had  been  reversed,  king  would  have  walked  away  with  the  indifference  that  any  long  term  night  city  resident  possessed.  his  gaze  lowers  a  moment  to  linger  on  the  shard  he  had  ripped  out  of  his  neuroport —  fucking  signal  jammer.  it  fell  to  the  ground  after  one  last  hateful  glare.

❛ sure  felt  like  it  to  me. ❜  thanking  the  man  doesn’t  even  cross  his  mind,  the  concept  so  alien  in  a  place  such  a  night  city.  ❛ what  do  you  want ?  eddies ? ❜

𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 strayed away from the other’s, mulling over his next course of action. they’d scuttled away from the scene, as did the perpetrators  —  the latter shouting and hollering, desperately striving to distract from the fact that they absconded to nurse their hurt egos. now somewhere secluded, charlemagne paced from side-to-side, anxiety spurring his heart aflutter.

then came the comment. eddies. that was what ran this city, wasn’t it? couldn’t do anything selfless without an ulterior motive. he’d only been here for a short duration and he’d come to learn that each time he reached out, he’d have his hand slapped away or, at the very least, eyed with prolific mistrust. 

“eddies?” he echoed, halting. his brows knitted ever so slightly, large hands trying to wave down the suggestion. “n-no, i don’t want eddies. i just ... couldn’t, y’know?” a small smile, however cautious, flitted across his lips. “i couldn’t just ... let you be taken away, knowing they’d probably gut you like a fish.”

fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. nadine–what’d nadine give him? this’ll give you a nice, mellow high, she said with her familiar smile, got it just for you, make the rest of the night sail by like a dream. he knows nadine–nadine is die-hard and dependable, nadine wouldn’t fuck him over, but this isn’t mellow, it isn’t nice, and this sure isn’t sailing. 

down below, close to a dozen people are looking for kerry, the entourage he came here with. he knows they must be because he left without word or warning, stumbling up the spiral stairs on legs that felt like stilts stacked too high, in search of…he didn’t know what. quiet, a corner to curl up in? something like that. he found it, too, in the form of a corner booth on the balcony, table kicked away from the seat for room in a space that felt too tight but that hadn’t been tight at all, tucked under his leather vest like it’s a shield. 

breathe. breathe. breathebreathebreathe. repeated, racing, it’s the only word kerry can think of to keep him tethered to the spot as his heart rushes like a racecar, painful and too fast. his palms are slick, the tremors of his body fit enough to give aftershocks a run for their eddies, and–

and who’s that?

wide blue eyes dart around before they settle on charlemagne, and from surprise, if nothing else, his response spills out ran together, “whothefuckareyou?”

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄 stiffened, marbleised. even his smile was frozen in place. the voice, no matter how garbled the words were, was unmistakable. and when married with his choice of attire? well, charlemagne felt stupid for not recognising him straight-up.

kerry eurodyne. out of everyone it could’ve been, it was kerry fucking eurodyne.

his feet moved of their own accord, anxiety plucking the tendons like a harp and forcing him to take a step back. it took actual, conscious willpower for him to not stumble out and away. he kept a wary distance, no matter how kind his intentions were.

𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐒 really weren’t Charlemagne’s scene. Most were wrought with a chaos so thick it was suffocating, clogging his lungs with fear married precarity. Indeed, there were only select few bars nestled amid the heart of the city which fit his criteria  —  sparsely-populated, down to earth and, most importantly, serene. This was one of them.

Two drinks in and warmth bloomed across his body, balmy petals unfurling until heat nestled deep in the pit of his gut. It was a pleasant feeling  —  or, would’ve been, if not for the fact that whoever was working on the floor decided that they’d crank up the air-conditioning way up. It felt like fire was tapdancing upon his entirety, caught heavy betwixt skin and cloth, threatening perspiration to stipple the corner of his temple. To be fair, it was cold out, but Charlemagne had dressed for the occasion.

Guh. No. This wouldn’t do. In a split second decision, he plucked his cocktail from the counter and beelined for the swirling stairs. His ascent was swift and he further homed in on the large, dual-doored exit to the balcony. Nudging them open with a thick, bulbous shoulder, he was quick to realise that he wasn’t the only one here.

A man tucked in the corner, cloaked in something which struck him as familiar but not familiar enough to warrant query. Charlemagne leaned against the railing, immediately comforted by the zephyr that rolled cool, thin against his cheek. 

Gingerly, his gaze swivelled onto the individual some feet away from him.

He was... shaking. Like a thin, honeyed leaf against the cold, cutting wind. Why was he out here? Surely if he was cold, he’d fare better inside. Concern bobbled to the forefront of his mind. 

one of my longest standing ocs........... eros 🥺🥺 i’m heavily considering giving him a cyberpunk blog