#neur0cursed

Eris and V had been texting. Nothing much, just little exchanges here and there, but V was growing to like her. V knew it was a flaw of his, but he trusted easily. He, unfortunately, had trouble separating out liking from trusting, unlike just about everyone else in Night City. Hell, he didn't even need to like someone to trust them. He and Placide had gotten along like oil and water and he still trusted the fucking Voodoo Boys, for some reason. But, V liked Eris. So he wanted to trust her.

He asked to meet up so he could talk to her about sensitive information. V picked the place: the Cherry Blossom Market. He felt comfortable there, he had good memories there. He blended into the background easily there, at during the day, when it wasn't particularly crowded. At night, when the nightlife came alive, maybe he didn't fit in so well.

But it was the middle of the day at the ramen joint that used to be the Rainbow Cadenza, the noon sun rising high above the market and warming V's skin. It was a chilly day, and V was grateful for the bomber jacket he always wore cutting some of the wind, but it was nice to be outside. V had been spending days upon days inside, jacked into the Net, researching nonstop, planning, plotting, hoping, wishing for his scheme to be possible, following every last thread he could until he could maybe, possibly braid them together into some semblance of a plan. And a plan was what he finally had.

V didn't care if it killed him. He was going to bring Johnny back first.

...But it was going to require some help. V was willing to call in every favor he had to make this happen. V kept information about it close to his chest, but...

Well. He liked Eris. He wanted to trust her.

The chaos had passed, but the tension clung to them like a second skin. Dust motes drifted lazily through the cracked window, neon from a distant sign casting intermittent pink and blue streaks across the ruined apartment walls. The aftermath of the fight still hung in the air — burnt circuitry, blood, adrenaline. Takemura had been silent since they ducked in. Watching. Processing. And something else...

He had seen it — felt it — clear as day — when her gun was shot clean out of her grip. The unfounded — unknown fear that stirred in the back of his mind and pooled at his gut as all he could do was watch during the heat of battle. The slight stagger, the hesitation in her stance when forced into melee. She had fought hard, had fought well, but he’d seen the misalignment in her weight, the inefficiency in her movement. How could he not? It had nearly cost her everything.

And him — by extension.

The samurai turned to face her, tension in his shoulders — not from battle. It was a quiet resolve. He approached her finally with purposeful steps, until he stood close enough that the warmth of his body could be felt even in the cool night air. His voice, when it came, was deep, low — steady but threaded with something softer than usual.

❝Eris-san,❞ he spoke her name with honor. She earned it.

Takemura then paused, tasting her name on his tongue. Her name alone seemed to carry some weight...

❝You are not the same fighter you are a netrunner. When disarmed, you must not hesitate. Your opponent will not.❞

He lifted a gloved hand toward her, then paused mid-air, just inches from touching. Silvery optics met hers — searching, asking, waiting for permission in that brief span of silence. Only when she gave it — whether with a look, a nod, or the absence of recoil — did he let his hand move forward and make contact.

He circled behind her, his touch following, not harsh, not clinical, but exacting — like he knew the shape of a better stance by heart and was coaxing her into it, piece by piece. Cool fingers found her wrist first, turning it gently, then slid up to her elbow, lifting it just enough to square her arm. His palm brushed along her upper arm skillfully, slow and deliberate, guiding the tension to where it belonged — control, not panic.

Then, stepping a little closer, he placed his hand lightly on her shoulder, fingers brushing her collarbone as he pressed it back into alignment. The contact lingered — longer than necessary — but he did not waver. Not outwardly.

❝There is power in stillness,❞ he murmured, voice low enough — close enough — to be felt against skin. ❝But only if you are the one choosing when to move.❞

Hand trailed up her throat lightly only to grab her jaw with the same grace he would the finest piece of Nihonga. His fingers flexed, straightening her head, lifting it to align lens perfectly centered.

Once it was to his liking was when he allowed his hand to slip down next to the curve of her waist, stopping just above her hipbone. The pads of his fingers found her structure, applying slight pressure, angling her lower half until her balance felt different — solid. His fingers brushed against the pvc of her suit, not lecherous, but undeniably intimate in how much of her he had now touched in silence.

He stood close enough for her to feel the measured breath he took through his nose, for the quiet sound of his voice to settle against her jaw. ❝Here. Strong foundation.❞ He stated, flattening his hand against her hip.

❝Better,❞ he murmured in observation, taking her in as if she were his very own creation. ❝More rooted. You must be harder to move. As immovable as your will.❞

And then, as though abruptly reminded of where he was — of who he was — Takemura stepped back. The sudden loss of warmth was as noticeable as the heat had been. But he had no time to dwell on that now.

The samurai's posture reset, arms falling to his sides briefly before he shifted into his own stance: precise, strong, grounded.

❝Now.❞

He lifted his hands, beckoning her.

on a younger man ( or, perhaps, a lesser man ) the expression which found itself playing out across trace's features could very well have come across as that of someone having been shell-shocked by the entire experience. the club itself a little too much all at once for someone who had once again grown used to the open road in recent years, and far more lively ( not to mention more friendly ) than the 'club' experience he had grown up around.

for muses that are getting to know each other

Wind brushes the thick leather of Takemura’s coat, tugging at the collar as he sits rigidly beside Eris, his gaze fixed on the shimmering filth of Night City below. The skyline pulses like a wound that never heals — holo-ads flicker, flying cars streak by and sirens wail somewhere in the belly of the beast. He does not move immediately. Silence stretches between them like a drawn blade, thickening the air more than the pollution already had.

❝Do I like it?❞ A repetition of her question as if to taste the words. Foul.

A humorless chuckle slips out — not mocking Eris, but the question itself, as though it were a joke told by fate.

❝This city,❞ he begins, voice like gravel rubbed smooth, ❝is a theater of contradictions. Beauty and decay. Freedom and chaos. Honor...” — his jaw tightens at the thought — ❝and betrayal.❞

He finally turns to look at her, his cyberoptics faintly reflecting the skyline's neon haze.

❝I do not like it, no.❞ A pause, as if to gauge her expression. Then softer, ❝But I understand it.❞

His gaze returns to the streets below.

❝In Japan everything has its place. Tradition defines us. But here? This city devours tradition. Buries it in chrome and smoke. It makes me… uneasy. And yet, I remain.❞

Goro shifts slightly, his gloved fingers tightening at his side.

❝Because here, the truth is raw. Nothing is hidden behind ceremony or politeness. Only the strong survive. The rest become footnotes.❞

Dark brows arch, silver eyes scanning an environment of what he could only consider to be an animal pen. Then quietly - more personal, ❝Saburo-sama saw that too... That is why he built so much here.❞

He looks back at her now, his eyes searching for an answer unspoken, ❝and you, Eris? Do you like it here?❞

"Hey now." V held his hands up to show he wasn't a threat. "I come in peace. I've always gotten along with Mr. Hands... We don't have to start off on a bad foot."

He ran his hand through his hair, wishing he were a little less visibly off. Get it together, V. He was dying, but not every stranger on the street needed to know that.

"I'm here for biz, don't worry. I set up this meeting for a reason. Word on the street is that you know more about the AIs beyond the Blackwall than anybody else."

Artificial Intelligences were a bit of a pet topic of V's. He still drove around Delamain Junior and used Skippy's empty shell; he had sympathy for AIs even before he'd been Soulkilled. But now V was an AI himself, just like Johnny, and he was still dying. Alt had said there was nothing he could do. He was going to die no matter what.

He'd told himself he'd given up hope, that there was no point in fighting death anymore... But still, he found himself digging into every bit of information he could find on AIs and the Blackwall. Maybe a part of him still clung to impossible hope, despite everything. Maybe it was that he knew Johnny wouldn't have wanted him to give up. Maybe he just didn't know how to give up.

He didn't have high hopes. But he had to follow every lead he could. He owed it to Johnny--or himself, or whatever amalgamation of the two of them he ended up being when all was said and done.

@neur0cursed continued from x.

Victor Kingston rarely if ever found himself on this side of night city unless it was for a job under Arasaka's orders. He's moving slowly, running the index finger of a gloved hand across the length of a desk and rubs both index and thumb together with an expression of boredom. He cant seek out this help from a netrunner through Arasaka, not when they believe the man he's looking for died in an explosion years ago.

Eyes scan the room, not to judge the interior or it's cleanliness, but out of habbit in case something goes awry. He finally comes to a stop, sliding his right hand inside the lapel of his dress coat and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, tapping them upside down over the palm of his hand until one drops out. He's listening to the woman, taking in every word as she explains the complexities of her extensive knowledge and he presumes he's in the correct location. He's found the only person with the truest knowledge who could possibly be capable of locating the ghost he was searching for.

Victor places the butt of the cigarette between his lips, lighting the end with the lighter he retrieved from the pocket of his slacks and inhales with a soft 'hmm.' in a partial response to her question. "I'm looking for a dead man." He finally speaks through a cloud of smoke and takes another step towards her. "...I heard you're the only one with the skills to find him."

company .   silently  sit  with  my  muse  to  comfort  them. ⛦ @neur0cursed

It had been an ingenious system — one that wouldn't be suspect. When needing to drop off of pick up shards, what better place to do practice discretion than where the dead lie? And so far it had worked out.

However, the issue that cropped up was navigation. Normally he had no issues working his way through the labyrinth of metal memorials. This time he had tried to forge a shortcut back to the exit inhaste. That had been a mistake. Because not only had he gotten turned around, Kae had stumbled upon a sight that caused him not just to momentarily pause, but completely stop.

There on one of the Columbarium niches was his name — his actual given name and not the alias he paraded. Hirose Kaede. A tomb for a boy that should be long dead. He reached out tracing the digital kanji several times. Where he should have felt nothing more than numbness, an overwhelming amount of emotions bubbled up; ones he wasn't use to feeling in such a long stint of time.

It's like shards of glass in his heart (if it even still exists). Twisting and stabbing. There's only one person that would do such a thing. That fact only adds salt to the wound.

He senses her presence before catching a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. "Sorry. Got distracted. Didn't expect ro find the name of...an old friend." Kae murmurs as she quietly sits beside him. And like that they stay. There's no further explanation, no questions nor complaints.

his laugh was low, quite frayed at the edges, more smoke than sound ⸻ it seemed that sarcasm worn thin by blood loss and whiskey but still alive enough to slit. the cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, and every single drag punctuated the ache that burned down his shoulder. it was healing, in its own morbid way. there was no wince when the alcohol hit, albeit it seared white-hot across the torn flesh. instead, he tipped his chin up toward the dying light, jaw tightening only to release into what could be his characteristic smirk. ❝ meaty shoulder? i would say be careful with that kind of talk. ❞ vocals were laced with pebbles. ❝ sounds less like medical observation, more like an appraisal. next thing i know, you will be writing me up like some slab of chrome-fitted prime cut. shame i left my price tag at home. ❞