#3dgerunner

Piper snorts too, oxblood lips curling into a smile along the rim of her glass, amber liquid glinting in the light as the melting ice clinks. The edges of her eyes crinkle slightly, a sign of genuine amusement as V tries to double back on what was said.

And then Piper's glass is empty, that bitter, sour mixture making the back of her head feel just a little bit warmer than before.

"Might as well be." Piper answers. "I've been in N.C. for, shit, uh... fourteen- no, wait, fifteen years now? Lived in Heywood for a bit, but mostly hang around Watson these days. So, yes, I do come here often."

A wink punctuates the sentence, the hand she has resting on her thigh beginning to tap along to the rhythm that pulses through the floor, up the chair, and into her body.

he didn't feel like explaining much more than that, but he does have the courtesy to flash his maxtac badge... never mind that it was legally required for him to do so whenever he was asked such questions while on the job.

the operator eyes the woman strangely until she's had just enough time to gleam the badge before tucking it back inside his vest. ❝ i'd just not muttering to yourself like i saw you did earlier around folk like me, ❞ he offers with vague amusement. ❝ i'll just pretend you're high off your rockers right now. ❞

In honor of SPOTIFY WRAPPED,  send me a number 1-100 and I’ll write you a starter based on the song.

"Guess I got it all wrong, all along, my fault." Framed at first as a confession, tenseness bleeds from every aspect of his hunch form, curled against the table's edge. It's not often that someone employed by a substantial corpo in Night City lived for long enough to see the effects of their failure (success?) play out in real time, let alone talk back to him, providing feedback if needed.

And yet, here he sat, rather serendipitously, no more than a few arm's lengths away from the same damned soul that had to live with its effects. How this encounter ever came to be... he wasn't certain. What could be admitted to instead, though was how he hadn't expected to encounter the merc so far east, miles from any glimpse of Night City's tallest buildings or projected advertisements. It almost felt like she was a ghost, sent to haunt him relentlessly.

" I imagine this — " me, the real me " is not what you expected. " Her tone was polite, casual, as if they had met before, and in a way they had but not in person, not face to face and not without her trying to keep everything about herself so close to her chest she might as well have presented the other a whole other identity and voice and it would have been almost exactly the same. Part of her would have PREFERRED to keep it this way, to keep everyone knew at an arm's length, to remain an unknown, hide behind her codename, abstracts, an appearance that was long a relic of the past, of better times. Hansen, however, had forced her hand. She could not wait for the day he finally reached the END of his rope, could only hope to live long enough to see it. And that was where her new friend would come in.

     ❝ huh, don't see a lot'ta teenybopper shit for sale. gotta hand it to 'er, shopkeep's got standards. decked the place out nicely too. ❞

     an eclectic mix of vintage and contemporary albums adorned the spread of  ' time machine ', magnifying passing curiosity into perusal of the miscellaneous display pieces. molten neon encased the alters to night city's esteemed artists in modern reverence and beckoned the eye, a temptation to all living patrons and the engram himself as its curated selection was appraised; although it hadn't been expressly spotlighted, the barefaced bias towards samurai's discography and that of its frontrunners wasn't subtle in its presentation either.

"You ever think this was all on purpose?"

She sits on the cement of a barrier, the edge of an over-rise overlooking the badlands and Night City just beyond. It stares back at them, eldritch in is existence, two towers of holo-ads stretching up to disappear into the sky in an eternal scroll like the tentacles of some unholy beast.

The air smells like sand, like the final dregs of sunlight that sinks low on the horizon.

"This," she waves a hand vaguely, arm outstretched, to the trash, "just, all of this. The city. The corporations. Just all of it. Like, maybe that's the whole point, right? Like, the system is working as intended."

Send me a “ 🔥 “ for an unpopular opinion.

I don't know if this is unpopular but it's been on my mind so here we go.

I think the RPC needs to understand how easy it is to get into a death spiral if we aren't careful. We are the community, each and every one of us. If this community lives or dies, thrives or falls dormant, it's on our shoulders.

Small things matter! Liking headcanon posts, sending memes, commenting thoughts, all of these things add fuel to the RPC. It inspires people to write more, create more, and reach out more. Openness begets more openness.

And I get that it's scary. I get that you can be nervous. And I get that your own muse waxes and wanes -- and maybe you don't have more mental room for threads!

But there's always time to make other people feel seen, to welcome new rpers and new blogs into the circle.

Dogtown was no place for a normie like Svetlana, and it was made glaringly apparent by the staccato of gunfire and the bloom of said guns firing at one another from across the street. The Jersey barriers that lined the pocked, rough street sometimes spat debris where bullets struck, but from several stories above in an abandoned room of the unfinished Akebono Hotel, it was like watching a thrilling diorama unfold that the mechanic was engrossed in.

If because being blindsided in Dogtown meant certain death, regardless at what the cause of the outburst of violence was.

At the faint creak of the room's door swinging open, the brunette almost dove behind a moldy, tattered easy chair reflexively, but relaxed when she realized exactly who it was.