a wavering, circling motion

𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

[adrotans]

⎡ 𝐀𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐒 ⎦ ...  a low maintenance writing blog for a duo of original characters delving into loss,  faith,  and acceptance.  cyberpunk / urban fantasy focused. 

[scipunk]

Ghost in the Shell (1995)

[araexec]

Katsuo doesn’t look up when Taehee speaks. His focus remains fixed on the document in front of him, fingers scrolling, pausing, highlighting; each motion deliberate, efficient. The faint glow of the screen reflects in his eyes, steady and unbroken. “It’s not contradictory,” he says after a moment, voice even. “You’re assuming passion is inconsistent. It isn’t.” A brief pause as he flags a clause, tagging it for revision. “It’s the only thing that sustains consistency.”

He leans back slightly; not to rest, but to adjust; rolling tension out of one shoulder before continuing. “Responsibility, guilt, shame… those are reactive. They depend on failure, or the fear of it.” His gaze flicks briefly toward another screen, cross-referencing. “Passion is proactive. It doesn’t wait for consequence. It creates momentum before it’s needed.” There’s no defensiveness in his tone. Just quiet certainty.

A few keystrokes, then another pause.

“…And yes,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “it’s selfish.” His expression doesn’t change. “But that’s not a flaw. Not in this environment.” The cursor blinks steadily as he reviews a subsection, isolating language designed to obscure liability. “If anything, it’s required.”

At the mention of shame, his hand stills for just a fraction of a second before continuing. “Are you speaking from experience?” he asks, tone unchanged, but the question lands cleanly: direct, not probing, just… placed. He doesn’t press it further. If Taehee answers, he’ll listen. If not, it doesn’t matter.

Siu’s interjection earns no visible reaction, but Katsuo answers anyway, voice quieter now, more distant; like the words are being pulled from somewhere else while his hands keep working. “No,” he says. “It wasn’t.” Another clause flagged. Another note added. “It wasn’t what I imagined.”

He exhales lightly through his nose, eyes narrowing just slightly as he reviews a more buried section—there. Hidden, but not well enough. He marks it, isolates it, begins restructuring the argument around it. “…It was raw,” he continues. “Unfiltered. No structure. No guarantees.” A faint pause. “No safety.”

The fatigue hits him then, not all at once, but enough. A subtle dip in precision, a fraction slower between inputs. Without comment, he reaches into the desk, retrieves the inhaler, and uses it with practiced efficiency. No hesitation. No acknowledgment. Just necessity. A breath in, steady. Then he sets it aside, posture resetting as if nothing had happened.

“Useful,” he adds finally, almost absently, as he resumes full pace. “But not sustainable.”

[adrotans]

The pursuit of perfection is often substituted to one of excellence after some time spent with failure. The truth when it comes to existence, their lives, is like the stars in the night sky -- beautiful but cold. Those shining dots have been there long before their existence and remain long after they're gone; thousands of years history and progress, and none of it worth acknowledgement from the heavens. The galaxy sheds no tears for the weak, nor laments the tragic fate. It's forever bright and always moving inexorably forward.

The ones who avoid the truth are not qualified to study it. Taehee knows his limitations, perception narrowed down to a routine most would consider unnervingly monotonous if not inhumane. Still, this line of thought begets the question: What is the truth?

"Passion is not a limitless resource. To be passionate equally requires a fuel source and it's often fickle, and it may always be quenched. At current, you must look at the world and your role in it and feel inspired, Tanaka-ssi." Ah, the merits that come with youthful vigour; it's no small wonder so many people wish to remain perpetually ageless, trying to outpace time itself. "I've learned that it's best if you stay true to your skills and discipline. Even the kindest and most brilliant of souls will find themselves ostracized should they be deemed ill-fit for society's progress. You needn't experience it personally to learn such lessons."

A parched throat is the immediate consequence of this conversation. After adding in final notes to the case file, Taehee rises slowly, suit fabric barely rustling -- each movement economical, depicting an anxious awareness of how he occupies any space. His steps eventually stop by the far wall, near the specimen of snakes and vipers coiled up in their vivariums, and right next to the large window overlooking most of the city. A view that he often replaces with projections of other places, images of places and times no longer accessible. Siu, picking up on his mood, operates the window panels with a flicker of colours; the scenery turns tranquil, lush-green and natural. A recording salvaged from the depths of the net where humans dare not venture.

At a touch, the sleek panel on the wall slides open to reveal a tea set. The kettle set over the blue-flame burner, cups prepared and the black tea leaves measured out in precise grams. Bergamot and bold notes filter into the air, the aroma of a welcome trespasser in the otherwise sterile room. "Raw. Unfiltered. One could say the same about passion and it's lack of sustainability," he adds, something almost humorous in the tone. Well, no point in the needling at the topic further. Returning to the desk, Taehee sets out one cup for his guest before indulging in the taste. "Forgive me, it was not the intention to insult your zeal. You've some fortitude in you to continue as you are after events in the past. The case with Martinez, in particular."

Spine straight, he leans back slightly -- gaze remaining on Katsuo's hands as they fly over the keyboard. Every stroke made with utter confidence, words planned out before they grace the screen by scarred digits. A sharp mind that carves its vessel into a suitable tool. "Have you heard of Pythagoreanism? Thousands of years before our time, they believed numbers explained existence. It would've been impossible to predict how our technology developed from their perspective, but they were logical with their theory on numerology. Even our souls can be condensed to quantifiable data." Taehee's musings take on a livelier tone, reminiscent of all the other times he's debated philosophy with the AI. For a moment, he forgets their company.

Siu interjects, voice flatly mechanical on purpose: "You have a meeting with secretary Ping in 15 minutes, Mr Ji." Its attention, palpable by the glint of the cameras in the room, shifts toward Katsuo like a microscope inspecting a specimen. "Query: Is there safety anywhere?" Its being cheeky with such questions, now. It almost seems... entertained.

[piperafterdark]

"Oh ha. ha." She intones when he opens that little holographic timer up.

But then she's immediately getting to work. Getting the door open without breaking the glass isn't as hard as people tend to think it is, so that's no problem. It's not like she has her old tools with her, but she's got a knife and audacity and those two things tend to get her pretty far.

Now is no different.

The car comes to life and Piper can't help but peak at the timer when it does. Well, damn, guess she's a little rusty. Maybe it's for the better.

Means she's putting that past behind her.

"Wouldn't you like to know, copper." A nod of her head to get in goes with her words as she settles into the driver seat. She buckles up, turns the radio to something not god-awful, and pulls out once Kenshin has the door shut.

And it's only after they're on the road, swerving to avoid this, that, and the other, that Piper bothers to talk again. They'll be on the highway soon, and shooting out to the badlands after that.

"I was a merc for nearly a decade believe it or not." She says. "It's no big secret, really. You know how it goes, yeah? Girl moves to the big city to chase her dreams, girl runs out of money, girl steals a car to eat, and then discovers she's really good at that kind of work."

And she knows the next question, because it's always the next question.

"I quit when my last job went bad. Got my fiance killed. That was five years ago."

[adrotans]

Her entirety's like a runaway thought. Frequent segues when it comes to how she acts, the core of her lost and gone, often distant. Completely out of reach even in a crowded bar surrounded by miasma-thick conversation. Glimpses of apprehension that's more than just professional courtesy. Kenshin settles easier into the seat, attentive of her profile as she is on the road ahead.

See? "Wanted that off yer chest, huh."

Now who's the punk! He grins, one arm hanging out the rolled down window -- the wind battering them at high speeds. In the rear view, Arasaka tower continues to glitter bright, ran on emergency power and shining like a lighthouse during a storm. He's sure the city center's overcrowded by now, people no different than moths to a flame, and wouldn't be surprised if the overzealous security adds to the death count before the end of the night.

"Makes a guy wonder if the fiance give ya anythin' worthwhile besides a rock to kick around." Prodding at her proverbial guts with a spoon, he squints and glances out the window. "Make a turn here, decent spot over that hill." Something of an overlook built out of trash, a heap of eroded metal and shattered concrete. There's chatter on the radio about rebooting the power stations, life ground to a halt as NC's bones jut as dark silhouettes against the sky.

He gets out first, sitting on the hood of the klepped car. "Job go bad enough for people to hold a grudge," he states; playful, knowing, and probing all at once. The memory of the incident behind the bar all those weeks ago comes to mind. An eyebrow raised, his fingers tap out a metallic tune -- feeling the engine start to cool. "Lemme ask ya somethin'... Think yer odds are better out here? Ain't like ya came to NC for the peace and quiet."

To the point, a car's been on their tail. Headlights off, all sneaky while following the tire tracks up the rough-shod road.

[neongrime]

“Asshole, call me a swoowin’ damsel again I’ll leave you blue-balled and stranded in the fuckin’ desert.” Empty threats. He’s almost purring, happy to let himself be dragged to the cracked earth, still warm from the afternoon’s sun.

It’s never been like this before between them. He’s never been like this, not that he can remember. It feels like the kind of people they could have been if they gave themselves and each other the chance. Even when he was younger he always had his hackles up, always hesitating to reach for a touch that wasn’t wrapped in violence like a fistful of barbed wire. Just drunkenly leaning on each other’s shoulder, but even that more times than not ended in a scrabble, wrestling on the floor missing half their punches. 

Now he looks for that restlessness in him, but it’s overpowered by some deeper rooted ache he can’t bring himself to put into words. The bigger fear of losing Ke once more, to give him something else the world can use to beat him with. 

It wasn’t long ago Ke had asked him in not so many words if he wanted to run away with him. Now he asks him again. It still feels just as stupid and impossible as before, wishful thinking

 Positively delusional. And yet he can’t find it in himself to refuse him a second time. Even if it’s pure denial, ill advised even. 

Give me a fuckin’ break.

Shut up, Johnny.

He sinks deeper into Ke’s closeness if possible, willing the rocker boy away. They aren’t soft men, either in the metaphorical or literal sense. Too much chrome between the two of them combined. But they know better than anyone how to still find the tender spots, claw at them. He looks for those now with expert hands, deeply familiarized with the territory. 

“Okay,” he finally says, sitting back up astride him, hands resting on his chest, a still surreal domesticity to the gesture. Comfortable. Casually intimate. “If you wanna go, we go.” There’s not a hint of hesitation to his voice, no sugar-coated bullshit. His face is only half lit by the fire, optics glowing in the dark, but his expression is still visibly dead-serious. “There’s still Mikoshi, y’know. Could work.” It’s less negotiating than placing their cards on the table. What they don’t usually talk about but probably should. “Johnny thinks it’ll work.” He rolls his eyes at the immediate bite back that ‘thinks’ gets.

Laugh all you want. I’m the one who’s gonna have to put down your little side piece when it goes back to feral. You’ll be dead, shithead.

[adrotans]

A second type of gravity pulls at his limbs, coaxing at devastating proximity like no other. Dirt, sun-baked earth pours into his lungs with each inhale, underscored by metal and familiar musk as he lays there, nose tucked against Sami's skin -- it gives off the same rush of a fine white line, too. Even better in his opinion since the heart-pulse against his teeth can't be recreated with anything else, each thump of its violent tempo reverberating deep in his bones.

"Ended pretty badly for him the last time he thought of somethin' that would work." Response dripped with derision, picked out from his teeth like ligaments, Ke stares up with a pointed look. Could swear the long-irrelevant rock star was flipping him off from inside Sami's brain. His hands rest over his partner's hips, fingers toying with the belt loops and tracing the skin 'neath the hem. Still, some part of him can't hate Johnny for his choices; not many get the luxury of choosing how they go out in this city. Worth some respect, that ego.

How most die is usually long, painful, and excruciatingly boring -- being sucked dry of hope. People slowly suffocated under pressure. He's seen it happen hundreds of times and personally made sure to snuff out the light in some of their eyes, too. Last thing he wants, selfishly, is to watch that happen to Sami. Watch him waste away by the hour while trying to give both of them false hope of a happily ever after. As fuckin' if that would happen. Not in their lifetime, anyhow.

Better to kill Sami himself if it ever comes down to it. Bite down on parts of him not molested by that brain parasite, swallowing each morsel for safekeeping.

A squeeze, near bruising, and he continues, "Don't gotta hesitate on my account. It's your life. Do what you gotta." Kenshin might not remember much of his past -- his actual life -- before his brain decided to reject reality, some details lost to time, most others deliberately forgotten and discarded; the remains buried so deep, they'd be nothing but more than calcified husks, pressurized and meaningless, should he even manage to retrieve them from the murk of his soul. In spite of all that, he doesn't remember the sincerity of affection and fondness for someone being this excruciating.

"Want me to make ya promise to come back alive? Act all heartbroken? The way I see it, the time we've spent was miracle enough as is. Rather spit in fate's eye 'fore kickin' it for good." Get me? Here for a good time, not a long one!

[adrotans]

❛   tender .   kiss  my  muse  on  the  [ cheek ] / @neongrime

Trajectory sound, motions unbound; the route of her limbs depicts a clear picture, one it observes come to fruition in elegant arcs as the proximity between them shrinks, then disappears alongside propriety. The quiet in the air turns static-lined, notes of the city waltzing by in petrol and smoke, tinted by shimmery dusk beyond the windows. A blank-eyed stare, form unbearably inflexible and its head cants at a slight angle to view her approach -- analyzing the hue of those lips. Mauve, a range falling between #673147 and #7f3358, complimentary to her skin tone on an appearance level. Pure aesthetic, a shot of immeasurable worth, captured in a fleeting moment as the overhead, emergency-hummed red highlights her features.

Odd, for it to fixate on it. Even more illogical for it to allow the gesture to play out to its end as Bleu's host acts tame and demure, a quirk present to her lips as the pressure lingers for seconds longer on its left facial plate. ( She, it uses it more when it noticed a higher, slight 3.72% preference toward those nouns on this day, measured by her reactions. It fluctuates, it noticed, like it does with most humans at times. As Taehee sometimes wakes and wants not the black tea he's had for weeks and requests something entirely different. Or when Arièl decides to enact chameleon traits to suit the environment. Or when Bleu sends it nonsensical data to shift through in the spirit of collaboration. )

A strange sensation overtakes it. It does the equivalent of preening, pinging Bleu in a polite manner of inquiry / curiosity. "Gratitude or affection? Which one costs more when it comes to your attentions, I wonder." Its aware of the bold lipstick imprint on its cheek. It leaves it there while taking out a napkin, the embroidered silk instantly dyed a dark, dark red as Siu wipes the blood from her hands, methodical about the details. "You needn't resort to such gestures to convey your approval. Unless it is wholly your desire to do so. I would have no qualms to voice." It displays a practiced smile -- its becoming better at conveying the emotion, facial composition less rigid.

[adrotans]

// he don't bite.

[adrotans]

While he has reservations and general difficulty around being genuine, when he does act honestly / from the heart, it's hard to construe his smile as anything but truthful about his affections. That he does enjoy someone's presence in his life and is grateful.

[weltenwellen]

Adonis, tr. by Khaled Mattawa, Selected Poems

[neongrime]

He looks tired but calm as he looks down at Ke, hand resting on his cheek, thumb following the pattern of a still reddened bite. There’s a small victory to that, finding a patch of flesh to sink his teeth in, a place to leave his mark, the chrome always more unwilling to be conquered.

Almost as if on cue the image of Ke on his lap blurs, his features glitching in and out of focus like corrupted data, swimming in a confusing ocean of other nights, other fires. Just for a moment Sami’s eyes seem to blink through someone else’s gaze. Something unquantifiable yet so crushingly absolute, the change is like night and day. Just for an instant, there is nothing of Sami in those eyes, except the knowledge of who that was, what he meant to these two people left behind. 

“Hangin’ in there,” he says, because he’s been practicing not to lie as an immediate reaction. Not entirely sure if it’s him or Johnny who grabs the beer, chugging it down to wash off the feeling of lines getting blurred beyond repair.  “Still hanging in there,” he repeats, almost like a prayer. Leaning down to chase the taste of bitter beer from Ke’s mouth. That too, like a prayer, if he knew any. A promise then. The one they made to each other, hogtying one another to this damned struggle against their own bodies trying to kick them out. “I’ll crack your head any day, hot stuff. Y’know that,” he grins into the kiss, sounding more like himself.

Typical Sami, unwilling to let a serious thought settle for long. It’s almost heartening to hear it, for once. Like it might just keep him from acknowledging his own death. That would be too serious by its very own definition. Can’t have that.

[adrotans]

Trained to the habit, he bites. Pulls at Sami's lower lip with his teeth and drinks him in with equal, unabated hunger -- the smell of labdanum lingering 'neath the desert's hot ache, the familiar metal of chrome and surgical wounds healing. Those words, anchored with truth, sink right into Kenshin's chest, into the cavity where a mechanical heart cycles his blood at a regular, unbroken pace. His heart hadn't skipped a beat in many years, but it doesn't stop the whirling feeling from shaking up his composure into something more subdued after the aching subsides; body somehow used to the switches, no longer taking each instance someone else bleeds through Sami's countenance as a threat.

It's hard not to notice when it happens. Harder still to do nothing about it. Even worse to accept it.

"Not just my head," he mutters back, the consciously modulated control oddly smooth and soothing. A beat, the pause stretching without expectations, and then Kenshin drags Sami to the same level as him, tussling on the ground until their bodies are arranged the way he wants. "Hey, pretty thing." Fingers grab at Sami's jaw, brushing over scars and piercings alike. And like the first time he's had this revelation, Kenshin takes in the purposeful vulnerability of it all; trust laid out between them, tangled and knotted like wires. He could, theoretically, do anything to Sami right now. Leave new scars. Cajole and tug and ask for every ounce of his attention with the reasoning that they're due for their deathbeds soon. And maybe Sami's equally aware of it, too eager to indulge him these days, belly up and smile besotted.

Too eager for any distractions.

The look the other guy gives him tends to be equal parts perplexed and irritated. Sometimes downright sad, but he has no interest in understanding what a damned mind parasite feels about the whole situation. ( He's said as much before, inflicting a concussion while the blood loss pooled down their throats. Didn't apologize about it either before dragging out another fight with the actual owner of the body of his partner. )

A moment of being close, even if they never will be again in the near future, of allowing himself to feel the intimate proximity. The press of their bodies is akin to a knife wound sewn up, streaming blood stemmed and slowed, heart still beating. Steady. Alone but not. "Y'keep hangin' onto me. Can pretend you're swoonin' and damsel like." He snorts with the words, placing a kiss at the throat, teeth dragging and voice reverberating with a hum. "Much as I like taggin' along with yer friends, think we can find our own way, mm?" Nomads tended to be nosy, and Kenshin acted more Shiv than most outcasts -- never quite endearing himself to their flock like Sami did.

[araexec]

Katsuo didn’t immediately answer Taehee’s question. The faint chime of the incoming transfer echoed softly through his neural link as the data package slammed into his system: layer after layer of reports, filings, transaction histories, satellite logistics, and legal correspondences stacking like a digital mountain in front of him. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. A job meant for a small team, condensed into a single silent expectation. He didn’t protest. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, fingers already moving as the first filters began sorting through the sea of information.

“Understood,” Katsuo said simply, voice calm despite the weight of the assignment. Windows began populating across his interface as he isolated keywords and flagged references to Petrochem’s shell companies. If Taehee expected hesitation or complaint, he gave none. For Katsuo, the message behind the task was clear enough. This wasn’t just work; it was a test. Every keystroke another quiet measurement of whether the prodigal son of Satoru Tanaka could still function inside Arasaka’s machine without leaning on his father’s shadow.

As the minutes passed, the silence between them thickened with the soft rhythm of typing. Katsuo’s eyes scanned through financial routes that twisted across continents, corporate fronts layered like lacquer over something far less legal. He could already see the shape of the case forming. Petrochem’s fingerprints were never obvious, but the patterns were familiar to anyone who had lived long enough in Night City’s underbelly. “Your question,” he said after a while, not looking up from the display. “About my rules.”

He paused only briefly, dragging another data set into a comparison window. “I think they are,” he admitted quietly. “The ones I kept, anyway.” His tone carried neither defensiveness nor certainty, just honesty. “Passion’s the reason I walked away from Arasaka once. It’s also the reason I came back.” A faint breath escaped him, more thoughtful than tired. “So maybe the rules that survived… are the ones that didn’t break when they collided with the real world.”

Another alert flickered across his interface, highlighting a cluster of Petrochem logistics hidden behind agricultural transport contracts. Katsuo flagged the section and continued working, but his attention drifted briefly toward the mention of Siu. Toward the system that Taehee spoke about with such careful distance. “I’ll forward anything relevant,” he said evenly.

After a moment, he added, quieter, almost to himself as his fingers resumed their steady rhythm across the console. “Though I have a feeling Siu and I might end up having more conversations than you planned.” The words weren’t mocking, just curious. Because something about the way Taehee had said it will respond lingered in Katsuo’s mind like a wrong note in an otherwise perfect composition. And Katsuo had learned long ago that when something in Night City felt slightly off… it usually meant there was far more beneath the surface.

[adrotans]

Once swallowed by the Abyss, he now missed their company. Yesterday, one of the snakes in his collection perished; its long hexagonal pattern weaved around its body like a code for creation, curled up cold within the ideal-calibrated enclosure. Yet, no matter the precision of care, nothing could deny the fact of death. Taehee held it in his hands, tracing the scales one last time, and wondered whether he should entertain this metaphor for a moment longer than necessary. Were he more reckless, then perhaps he would've gone through with the urge to prick his thumb against one of the fangs -- and watch the blood bead and skin slowly darken.

Instead, he disposed of the body, and ordered another cloned specimen to keep the number of snakes in his room at a suitable count. Nine. A Kaprekar number.

The air cycles at regular intervals. For the time being, the analog watch on his wrist is the only audible noise, almost organic. As he is right now, shoulders upright and spine woven with monumental responsibility, he works diligently and avoids any wandering, unproductive thoughts. Skin unmarred, uninjured. Image pristine as the Ji family allows. On a relevant note, he's not the only one with an appearance to carefully maintain.

The computer screens, turned dark from a meager minute of inactivity, reflects his muddied visage, the features blurred on the matte surface. His attention diverts toward Katsuo, two minutes after his response. A slower reaction, weighing the words with due consideration rather than simply hearing it all without listening. Ultimately, a slow smile crept across Taehee’s face. It was neither warm, nor cold -- it held no temperature at all, utterly indifferent to all it beheld. But, there was interest in it. "It's clear it's not only your rules that broke during the sabbatical." Like himself, Taehee considers Katsuo's position in life to be with the company. Blood and reputation staked on it.

And like himself, Taehee cannot help but he curious whether Katsuo is truly satisfied with that outcome.

"A machine only responds as its code dictates. Exchange whatever you wish with it." The same delicate dismissal, his eyes returned to dissecting further legal documents, filled to the brim with jargon to make the case seem indecipherable; fallacies, herrings, and slopes slippery enough for one to break their necks on should they traverse it without proper preparation. The usual affair. He asks Siu to summarize the handful of cases to find commonalities, and turns over Katsuo's presence in his mind -- slotting certain behaviors into the appropriate rows, no different than the strategy used for solving puzzle cubes. "Isn't it contradictory for passion to be your reason both times? I expected responsibility, or perhaps guilt. Shame is another effective tool, though most wield it with clumsy intent."

Siu apparently finds the conversation amusing as it uploads the summarized notes into his work space. It also updates him on Katsuo's progress with the files -- a pace that would be impressive were he not raised with Arasaka's exacting standards. "The real world." An odd way to phrase it. "Was it as you imagined it?"

[cxrvidteeth]

antigone

[3dgerunner]

❛ I feel like I should know more about you than I do. ❜ / from ke!

PROMPTS ABOUT DIFFERENT STAGES OF A RELATIONSHIP. / @adrotans

Such an innocent admission to catch V off-guard, but it's the last thing she would expect Kenshin to say to her. If it would even make it to the list.

"I never said you can't ask," she offers eventually, when her face muscles relax and she stops regarding the other with furrowed brows. It's too late to mask the confusion now, with the way her tone lost its sharp edge for those few moments, but she reaches for an excuse to cover her face at least physically as she moves to push loose strands of her hair behind her ear. Covered-uncovered, but it buys her a few precious seconds to think what the hell is she supposed to say next.

She draws a blank.

"But... why?"

[adrotans]

There are barbs on the question, too sharp to swallow, too true to ignore. He chews on it a long while, the texture of it elastic as tripe -- the inner linings of someone's organs where everything's tender and laid bare, trembling awful erratic as his claws maul into them. See, contrary to his station, his nature as an expendable unit to clear out the city's shame ( the unwanted, discarded people that have expended all their use ) Kenshin's observant. Not quite a slave to his impulses, but rather an intimately ardent lover of indulgence; unraveling someone to the core just to see their thoughts turn as honest as their gutted bodies. And see, again, use those eyes! There's something off about V recently. A tick-tock-tick when the usual is a hiccuped tick-tick-tick whenever they catch up now and then.

His head tilts, keeping her features in full view. "Just a feelin'. Ever lose time here and there? It's somethin' of a trend these days," he says, drawl effused that grating rumble, every word edged with gnawing intent. "Selective memory ain't what it's cracked up to be, take it from me." A dramatic sigh as his form settles across, picking up the photo frame on her desk. Friends or family? When's the last time she called any of them? "Can't forget a smell though. Humor me, describe a scent you'd bottle up if ya could. Talkin' real nostalgia here."

[neongrime]

Q: “Wasn't there just a little part of you that wanted to crack my head open?” @adrotans

Boots pleasantly toasting near the fire that keeps the night desert chill at bay, Sami stretches like some satiated and lazy big cat. Reinforced tendons nearly creaking with tension, EMP threading peeking from under his crop-top at the base of molded pectorals some ripper doc carved long ago. No smooth, polished gold like most people but that bare metal of his older chrome, bad scarring pulling at the seams under the strain of new muscle. He’s had the eddies to polish it for some time, but Sami’s vanity, however loud and blatant, always danced to its own tune. Scars and chrome, piercings and ink, all in their own erratic display.

“Little?” he snorts mid-stretch, ruining the magnetic appeal of the gesture to slump back on the dirty couch. “Shit, I gotta remind myself not to bash your brains out most days,” his easy grin appears, quick and sly. “But nah, you’d like it too much.”

[adrotans]

The self; a never-ending river that will inevitably consume all. Bulk leaned against Sami, head at rest on a sturdy shoulder, tilted up to view the smog-choked heavens dotted with satellite-migratory constellations rather than any stars, the night's feeling could be summed in a single feeling. Warmth. The late hour proves languid, hazy at the edges from the smoke and whatever (questionable) drug cocktail they mixed up, scavenged from a band of cheeky Raffen stalking about -- tasted fucking foul as it looked, but it did the job beautifully. Kenshin takes another swig of the lukewarm beer, still adjusting to half / most his chrome being useless. It's slow work, building yourself up again; probably wouldn't be worth the effort in any other situation.

"Actin' like ya don't like it either. Like yer heartbeat don't skip a beat 'cause ya find it fuck-ing charmin'," he says with his usual ruminant, salivating gravity, words and affect dripping with the rough-edged violence routine to people like them. Still, some of it's dulled, the usual grandstanding absent as he shifts, adjusts, and lays his head on Sami's lap next. Now that's a better view! His eyes drag over the chrome lines, obvious with appreciative weight. "Head alright tonight?" Is the pain somewhere between wanting to saw off the top of the skull to a pounding migraine? One to ten. "Finish mine off too, yeah?" Said half-empty beer bottle makes its way to Sami's hand, passed off with the same ease of everything shared, so damn casually, between them these days. The routine's become downright ghastly at this point.

[adrotans]

[piperafterdark]

The question about her dream crime goes unanswered save for the side eye and purse of her lips she gives. Like she'd tell him. Shit's getting bad in just a few minutes of darkness, but it isn't until he pitches getting out of the city that a thought comes to her. And it's not a good one.

If this is what chaos the general population is getting up to, just how bad is it going to get once the gangoons get their asses in gear? She wouldn't put it past Maelstrom to take this moment to really raise some hell. All the more reason for her to follow his guidance.

"Like I need a blackout to commit my ultimate crime." Like she wouldn't just do it when she wanted to. "But you have a point. We should probably-"

Gunshots behind them.

"-delta. Shit, my bike is back at H10. Don't suppose you'd be opposed to us procuring a set of wheels during this highly dangerous emergency?" Asked as she stares blatantly at one of the cars parked on the side street, alone and sleeping -- for the moment.

"Used to be real good at klepping cars, you know." She muses. "Could get mid tier models started and on the street in less than twenty seconds."

[adrotans]

"Morally, yer real unquestionable, ain'tcha?" He keeps up the grin, practically skipping behind Piper, hands in his pockets. Thrown into the fiery furnace of life at a young age, very little, if any fear resides in his system -- unwanted traits scoured clean, deemed fit for his role between all the cogs. Humming 'neath his breath, people watching as they turn corners, his companion cannot deny he's enjoying the roiling panic that's quickly boiling over as the red-blue sirens replace the harsh fluorescence of the city. "Itchin' for a stage instead of a blackout, seems like."

Picking out a car that's got enough fuel, some Colby model customized with glitter and fucking hand-painted racing stripes, he leans against the passenger side door. Brings up his wrist to start a holographic watch, aiming an expectant look at her before starting the timer. "Still good at it, yeah? C'mon, before ya get yer head blown off."

Maybe it takes more than twenty seconds, he's not really keeping track of it while scanning the streets. Much fun as it was to see her guts bleeding out, it'll be an embarrassment to his skills to let it happen again. There's more bodies piling up, more people with the same idea as them scrambling to find a ride. More screams, too. Every noise starts blending into cacophony as the emergency channels repeat the same meaningless message. Stay calm.

"Kleppin' and bar slinging 's the logical career path for most street punks. C'mon, gotta tell me how high you were aimin' with those handy skills ya keep showin' off with." Call it curiosity. Hard to resist peeling at the covers of a good story to see how many layers exist and how bruise-tender it really is at the center.

[piperafterdark]

"Hey!"

Her poor dumpling. In retaliation she goes for one of his and shoves it in her mouth before she can think twice about what flavor it might be. Whatever it is, it's good, because it's justice. And munching on the pan fried bit of whatever-the-fuck she watches people as they start to glow.

From limbs, to eyes, to phones, and even one guy with those useless holographic umbrellas light up the place like mutated fireflies.

"My money's on some gonk crashing a car into a generator. Honestly I'm more surprised this hasn't happened sooner." And then there's that big eye roll of hers as he leans in with that all too dangerous grin of his.

"Such a princess. But... we probably should get off the streets, yeah?" She scratches her cheek as she considers it. "People go nuts when shit like this happens. Metro will be down. People locked out of their homes. It'll be like, oh, shit, what was the name of that movie. The one where they legalized crime for a day? Shitty premise, by the way. Like you legalize crime and the best thing people can think to do is kill each other? Lame. What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Let's delta."

She pops her last dumpling into her mouth and tosses the little paper boat into the nearest bin. Already people are moving like wasps who caught the warning pheromone. Confusion giving way into panic.

"You want me to hold your hand? Since you're so scared."

[adrotans]

"Sounds like yer wantin' the poor denizens to suffer on the reg from blackouts. Real cruel of ya, lady. Never knew ye'd be so heartless." Tsk tsk! Whether from training or the natural inclination toward the dark, Kenshin looks downright peachy as more folk scramble about; commerce ground to a halt, all electric-enforced laws thrown out the window like Piper mused, the clever girl that's all-too-keen on survival. Dozen-time-shot, twice shy and all that. "What's yer dream crime if everything gets a green light? Got me curious 'bout yer immoral side now."

Still, remaining dumplings set to be savoured rather than scarfed down, his figure follows her momentum, lurking a step behind as they move past panicked clusters. There's already a four-car pile up at the nearest intersection -- the traffic lights gone dark. The shrill crescendo of sirens break through the cacophony of people laying on their horns while shouting as pedestrians who didn't survive the crosswalk gauntlet lay bleeding.

Kenshin, finally finished with his food ( add littering to the long list of his sins ) reaches out and curves an arm around her shoulders, stooping slightly. "Might wanna get out the city for this one. Unless yer gonna use this chance to commit yer ultimate crime." Prickly bastard, he shoves aside some bodies stumbling their way before steering them toward the side streets. Call his actions insurance toward keeping his new favourite watering hole running smooth -- decent bartenders who can sell swill at a mark-up are a hard find these days.