#piperafterdark

@piperafterdark continued from here.

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The Purified's head turned to the vampire, his eyes glowing uncannily in the dark of the alley they'd walked in.

Valdor disliked working with these-- people, he supposed he could call them, but his friend and lord was someone who always hoped to try to redeem the vampires, so Valdor, inevitably, had to bring himself to do the same despite his own feelings. One of them, it seemed, was Piper. Vampire woman. He chewed his tongue-- and didn't catch any joke that she might have attempted to make.

" I cannot feel. " Was Constantin's rather deadpan reply, glancing back to her as he adjusted his long coat. " I have certainly... attempted karaoke, though I do not think you would wish for me to join you for that. But I cannot feel emotion. That is what I wish to communicate with you. "

LOCATION: REPUBLIC & VINE, magazine kiosk. late night, weather clear and humid, heavy traffic, a guitar player busking nearby with a friend at his side. SCENARIO: having just purchased a pack of cigarettes and a newspaper, rogue found herself gazing across the street, the familiarity of a neon sign found there catching her eye.

time stops for no one ── it was a fact which rogue had been forced to become well acquainted with, having long ago stopped trying to fight it ; there were certain ways, however, in which it would still sneak up on her, SLAPPING HER IN THE FACE at the most inopportune of moments.

"Doesn't this just...make you all warm on the inside?" He's been in Night City for ten hours, down from the Federal Republic of Canada, and he is pointing at an alley trash fire. In his defense, whoever set it is technically cleaning up the streets. If you ignore the toxic fumes, anyway.

Mox warned her about his puns. Said they were worse than Claudio's. He wasn't kidding.

@piperafterdark asks: you're going to get sick if you keep going like this. °☠*:·゚ 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃

Katsuo doesn’t answer her right away. He just exhales quietly through his nose, hand coming up to press against his temple like he can physically hold the pressure in place. The headache is still there; dull, constant, pulsing just behind his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, eyes half-lidded as he looks at Piper, something softer sitting behind his usual composure.

“…I know,” he says finally, voice lower than usual, not defensive, just tired. There’s no bite to it, no dismissal. Just acknowledgment. His gaze drifts briefly, like he’s measuring something internally, before settling back on her. “It’s not… unintentional.”

He lets out a small, humorless breath, glancing toward where Taro had been earlier, the bird’s sharp, irritated mimicry still echoing in his head. “Even he’s started correcting me,” he adds, quieter, almost to himself. There’s something faintly amused there, but it doesn’t last. His hand drops from his temple, fingers flexing once like he’s testing his own control again.

“It’s just…” he pauses, searching for the right phrasing, not because he doesn’t know, but because saying it out loud makes it more real. “If I stop every time something starts to strain, I don’t find where the limit actually is.” His eyes narrow slightly, not at her, but at the thought. “And if I don’t know that, I can’t control it.”

he hadn't expected the place to be packed this late into the night, it was why he had arrived later than when he was normally known to. he only planned for a drink or two and had hoped to invite piper out for some plans he had in mind afterwards. but those plans seemed more and more fleeting the rowdier the crowd had gotten watching the american football game.

his impatience and agitation was clear in his posture as he sat waiting for her shift to be over, not because of the wait. never 'cuz of that. instead it was the two baboons sitting right next to him that were screaming at each other when they weren't screaming at the flatscreen above the bar. occasionally he would see the brown spray of their spit land on his bicep. simon would trade glances with piper through the holes of his mask before sighing deeply and cracking his knuckles beneath his crossed arms.

he showed no reaction, not even a flinch when one of them slammed the other's face on the bar. he could always feel a brawl coming when the smell of testosterone was just as PUNGENT as the piss right outside the doors.

some more men joined into the tussle, most likely one of their mates. and still simon didn't react until he feels something shatter on the back of his shoulder, glass piercing through even the thick layers of his clothing. a second later his elbow meets someone's nose and a dozen WOAHS and cheers emanate from the surrounding crowd——excited to see that it was the familiar masked regular that now stood on his feet, gripping the stool he had just been sitting on moments ago by one of it's legs.

Three years since David was first powered on: the year of our lord, 2077 AD. In the early days of his lifetime, his ability to maintain consciousness for longer than a day or two was regrettably low. A prototype -- the first of his kind, the fully synthetic man -- he warranted a heavy degree of troubleshooting and bugfixing to have him in an appropriate state for the showroom floor. Peter Weyland, while no Saburo Arasaka, had still managed to carve a place for himself in the corporate sphere, securing supply contracts with both Araska and Militech, despite their conflicted history.

Perhaps that was why he was such a visionary. Perhaps that's why by 2092, his company would be reaching its fingers into the upper echelons of corporate domination, happy to stab anyone in the back and tell any lie to secure a deal.

THIS WEEK ONLY IN NIGHT CITY! WEYLAND INDUSTRIES TECHNOLOGICAL CONFERENCE, LOCATED AT KONPEKI PLAZA. BUY YOUR TICKETS BEFORE THEY SELL OUT. FORMAL ATTIRE MANDATORY.

On the Night City waterfront, Weyland Industries had parked their countless vessels along the polluted shoreline, surrounding the hotel like an onslaught. Outside the building, humans in shimmering, golden synthetic bodies busied themselves by readying for the upcoming event, all clad in their matching hotel uniforms.

David stood with his back to the suite in which he'd been stored, facing the grand window that overlooked the line of wave-breakers that stood between Konpeki and the rest of the ocean like some kind of firewall. He had grown accustomed to the luxuries afforded to his father -- at least in the sense that he shared in them by being present in the same room. David never ate gourmet meals or slept in goose-down beds. But he did enjoy a bit of Wagner on the audio system while alone. And he was very often alone, since arriving in Night City. Outside his door, armed guards awaited instruction from their employer. But behind his door, thoroughly alone, he was to be kept secret from the world until his grand unveiling.

Alongside countless cybernetic advancements made in the last few years by his creator, in 24 hours, David would be placed on the showroom floor, to be gawked at by the curious masses while he entertained them with conversation and pleasantries.

And of all the prizes at the affair, his price-tag promised to the most expensive.

By far.

cont. — @piperafterdark

Teetering the borders of street light, precisely away from the gradient warmlight haze of fluorescent bulbs, a man stood within the secret alcoves of this drudgery. Darkness performed favors in obscuring his shadowed form away from the whims of this pallid full moon. And, only out of bland courtesy he tosses his own cigarette away, crushed beneath thickly rubbered heel.

Cotton sateen rustles, trading the papery noise of polyester lining for actual paper: American minted green && a proprietary prepaid Visa for ' good will '.

" Naturally, " Alaric's graveled voice steels against the soft chirp of busy crickets and darting moths plucking the lamp overhead.

Without wasting either of their time, he tosses the clip of all payment up on a barrel drum somewhere between them, the metal asserting its value in both count and clanging weight as it echoes between shipment crates.

He's taking a fucking day off.

His phone has been ringing off the hook, most of the fixers he works with know he takes every Saturday off to fuck off and do whatever he wants, mostly meaning he just causes trouble around the Glen for the fun of it. Usually this meant things that ranged from full on gang attacks with his Maelstrom meat-eating boyfriend to making people's phones explode with a hacker friend. Today though?

Today he's gonna paint.

Face covered by a mask, he sets down a toolbox with several custom compartments all holding one thing: spray paint. He never asks permission, if someone wants to commission him then they have to seek him out. Not this time. He's considered what to do on this giant empty canvas on the side of a local bar for a while, se4ttling on a whole design in his head- a figure, a faceless head, jarring white skin, and bright, impossibly blue eyes. It came to him in a dream.

After all, there's no way information could be downloaded inside of him to gently nudge him in this direction, right?

What he doesn't know is said boyfriend has tagged Iros with a reputation and a bit of a smell- If he wanted to stay isolated as a merc he should have stopped being around one of the most detested groups of people in the city.

Oopsie! Sex is too good.

Worth it.