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@araexec
Independent. Selective. Canon-divergent. Low-moderate activity. Plot-oriented. Roleplay & Writing blog for Katsuo Tanaka from Cyberpunk: Edgerunners. Adapted to fit the themes for later events in the Cyberpunk franchise. Photo-mode cred: AoiKitty, art edits by me.
Heavy themes; rules found here. est. 2024/07. ✎'d by Chia (they/them, 30+)
ᴄᴀʀʀᴅ. ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛꜱ. ᴀꜱᴋ. ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ. ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴍ.
@araexec
This evening has gone badly.
A raid on the parlor and Piper had been caught up in it. Cuffs on her wrists, arms bent awkwardly behind her back, she had been forced to sit while the NCPD wrapped things up.
And so she sits by Katsuo, eyes watching the NCPD pigs harangue some of the other Tyger Claws, kicking their legs with the toes of their boots just because they can.
She tips to the side, and her shoulder touches Katsuo's.
"I say we book it." Her voice is a whisper, lips barely moving. "There's a back way out of here, yeah?"
The actual idea of running isn't so much a question as much as it is an invitation for Katsuo to get in on the action. Either way she's leaving.
She just prefers if he comes with.
Katsuo glanced sideways as Piper leaned against him, his expression unreadable despite the chaos around them. One of the officers nearby barked at another Claw loud enough to make half the room flinch, but Katsuo barely reacted. His wrists ached from the cuffs digging into them, though he seemed far more irritated than worried. At her whisper, the corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “Running from NCPD wasn’t really on my schedule tonight,” he murmured back. “But I’ve had worse date ideas.”
He shifted slightly, enough to test the tension in the restraints behind his back before lowering his voice even further. “There’s already people coming to keep them occupied. Whole thing should get loud in about… three minutes, maybe less.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the rear hallway where two officers had stationed themselves near the employees-only door. “But if you know a cleaner exit, I’m listening.”
Another shout echoed through the parlor. Someone got kicked hard enough to topple sideways into a chair. Katsuo’s jaw tightened at the sound, though his tone stayed controlled. “Don’t worry about the others. My contact knows who’s still inside.” He tilted his head slightly toward her. “You and I getting dragged downtown just creates paperwork neither of us wants.”
Then finally, a little more honestly, Katsuo leaned closer so only she could hear him. “If we run, we run smart. No dramatic shootouts. No heroics.” His shoulder nudged hers lightly in return. “So tell me your plan before your terrible influence gets me arrested for real.”
Time stopped.
A chill crept down Piper's spine. A dozen scenes from a dozen movies bubbled in her mind's eye. Creeping down a dark hallway to a glowing TV you know you turned off. Hiding in the shadows trying to hold your breath, hearing footsteps get closer. And now this. The voice of a dead man from a bird, clear and precise.
The voice of someone she had known.
Her hand wasn't on Katsuo anymore. Not meeting his gaze, Piper continued to stare at the bird before her tongue slipped out to wet her lips.
"Yeah. I heard that." She sounded cooler than she felt. "Talented bird you've got there."
She knew Taro could make noises, could talk, but the precision of the voices was that had made goose bumps pepper the skin of her arms.
"Was that your dad's voice?"
Katsuo’s eyes flicked toward Taro, who had already gone back to preening his feathers like he hadn’t just dropped a dead man’s voice into the middle of the room. The silence afterward felt heavier than it should have. He exhaled quietly through his nose before giving a small nod.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That one was definitely my father.” His gaze lingered on the bird another second. “One of them, anyway. Taro mixes things together sometimes. Picks up fragments. Conversations. Voices.” A faint crease appeared between his brows. “The second voice… I’m not sure.”
Only then did he really look at Piper. The color had shifted in her face, subtle but noticeable if someone knew how to read people the way Katsuo did. He straightened slightly in his seat, concern replacing some of the earlier curiosity in his expression. “Hey.” His voice lowered. “Is something wrong?” He kept the question gentle, careful. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Taro clicked his beak somewhere behind them, feathers rustling softly in the quiet. Katsuo ignored it for the moment. His attention stayed on Piper entirely now, watching the way she avoided looking at him. Watching the tension in her shoulders. He didn’t crowd her or demand an answer right away, but the realization was visibly beginning to settle in his mind. “You recognize the other voice, don’t you?”
For a second, he almost seemed guilty for asking. Like he understood he might be pulling her toward something unpleasant. Katsuo rubbed a thumb absently against his palm, thinking. “You don’t have to tell me if it’s dangerous,” he said after a pause. “Or if it’s something you don’t want tied back to you. I mean that.” His tone stayed calm, though there was an unmistakable undercurrent beneath it now ; hope mixed with apprehension.
Then, quieter still, he admitted, “But please.” His eyes finally met hers as held her hands gently in his. “This may be the only lead I’ve got.” The honesty in that landed harder than if he’d begged. Katsuo rarely sounded uncertain about anything, and somehow that made the vulnerability in his voice feel more real.
// Katsuo's Mizutani Shion is decked out as one of those itasha cars you see at anime cons. He has Yaiba Kusanagi as his main vehicle when he was with the Tyger Claws, but imagine being his date and he pulls up in a white sports car with a 2077 Racing Miku wrapped around it.
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.
Katsuo’s fingers never fully stop moving, though the pace slows enough to allow thought to settle between the keystrokes. The glow of the monitors catches against the faint exhaustion beneath his eyes, sharpening it rather than hiding it. “Maybe that’s exactly why passion matters,” he says quietly. “Because it isn’t limitless.” His gaze remains on the case file as he reorganizes several clauses into a cleaner chain of liability. “Discipline keeps you moving. Skill keeps you useful. But passion…” A faint pause. “…that’s the part that reminds you you’re still a person while you’re doing it.”
The scent of bergamot drifts into the sterile air, noticeable immediately against the cold machinery and recycled atmosphere. Katsuo glances toward the tea set only briefly before returning to the screen. “I know it burns people out,” he admits. “I’m not naïve enough to think otherwise.” His posture straightens subtly as if resisting the fatigue threatening to creep back in. “But if I lose that too, then all that’s left is function.” His expression remains composed, though the edge beneath the words doesn’t fully disappear. “And I don’t think I’d survive becoming only that.”
At the mention of Pythagoreanism, his attention lifts just slightly. “We covered it at the academy,” he replies. “Mostly in relation to predictive systems theory and early mathematical philosophy.” His eyes narrow thoughtfully. “The idea that numbers govern existence isn’t irrational. Most modern systems already operate under that assumption.” A few more lines are adjusted in the file before he continues. “Risk assessment. Behavioral prediction. Market forecasting. Human beings reduce themselves into patterns constantly.” A faint exhale. “The difference is whether the soul exists beyond the data… or if people only say it does because they fear being measurable.”
Then Martinez’s name enters the conversation.
For the first time in several minutes, Katsuo’s hands still completely.
The silence that follows isn’t defensive. it’s reflective. Heavy. “…I know why you compare the situations,” he says at last, voice quieter now. “And you’re right to.” His gaze lowers briefly toward the desk. “I learned more from him than I wanted to admit.” A faint tightening in his jaw. “That’s why I treated him the way I did.” Honest. Blunt. No attempt to soften it. “He represented something I wasn’t supposed to value. Someone outside the structure who kept surviving anyway.” His eyes flick once toward the city projection before returning to the screen. “I reacted like someone cornered.”
The final sections of the report are cleaned with meticulous precision after that. Katsuo reviews each flagged clause one last time, reorganizes the evidence trail, and attaches annotations concise enough for executive review without losing depth. Efficient. Thorough. Exactly what would be expected of him. Once satisfied, he transfers the completed work to Siu for summarization. “Cross-reference the indemnity inconsistencies against the previous three arbitration cases,” he says evenly. “There’s enough overlap to establish deliberate concealment.” The file leaves his screen a second later.
Siu’s question earns a faint, humorless smile.
“In Night City?” Katsuo repeats softly. “No.” He leans back slightly, exhaustion finally visible around the edges now that the work is complete. “Not even inside the towers.” His gaze drifts toward the vivariums lining the office wall, toward the silent coils resting beneath carefully maintained heat lamps. “Even here there are snakes.” The statement lands deliberately; half metaphor, half observation. “Some are just honest enough to show their fangs.”
Then, after a brief pause, his attention shifts toward Siu again. Toward the cameras, the glint of artificial observation lingering in the room.
“…You’ve been asking questions like that more often lately,” he says quietly. “Why?”
She'd been ready for it to be heavy, expecting it. Her hand slides up from between his shoulder-blades as he finishes his thoughts, long fingers slipping under his hair and creeping up his collar until her thumb can touch skin.
And she rubs that little space, too.
"I'm sorry." That feels like a solid start, anyway. It's true, too. She knows what it's like to lose someone, to not have clear answers, to have doubts.
It'd be healthy, maybe, to encourage him to let go and move on, wouldn't it? She could tell him that it didn't matter what answers he got, the result would still be the same. She could tell him that all this was going to do was eat him alive until he was hollow and empty. But when had she ever been the healthy one? Stones and glass houses, and all that.
She'd never get her answers, but Katsuo still could.
"And I get it. If you end up getting a lead on what happened, a thread to pull at, don't hesitate to rope me in, yeah? We're... we're friends. I'm glad to be there for you."
No, Piper couldn't fix things. But she could be there to make sure it didn't crumble, didn't get worse. She could make sure that he still had someone in his corner.
That was what it was all about, right? What she'd said to him between bites of empanada: it's all we have at the end of the day, yeah? Human connection.
Katsuo’s expression softens at her words, something quieter and more genuine than what he usually allows slipping through. There’s a faint smile there, tired, but real. “…Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.” His hand lifts slightly, resting over hers where it lingers near his collar, not pushing it away, just acknowledging it. “I’ll tell you.” A small pause. “If I find something worth pulling on… you’ll be the first I call.” It’s not dramatic, not overly sentimental. Just a promise, said plainly.
He’s just starting to settle again when Taro’s voice cuts through the room.
Clear. Precise.
Too precise.
Katsuo’s body tenses almost instantly, the shift subtle but sharp—like something inside him snapping to attention. His head turns toward the bird slowly, eyes narrowing as Taro tilts his head and begins to speak again, this time with eerie clarity:
“I expect discretion. This isn’t a standard commission.” “Relax, Satoru, you came to the right guy. ‘Custom edit,’ right? Clean splice, no trace, full overwrite. Even the dead won’t remember what they used to be.” “You’re not being paid to be clever.” “And you’re not paying me to be sloppy. Whatever you’re trying to bury? Consider it gone.”
The room feels colder after that.
Katsuo doesn’t move at first. His gaze stays locked on Taro, searching—not for meaning, but for confirmation. The cadence. The tone. The way the voices overlap just enough to feel real. He’s heard his father’s voice his entire life. The other voice? He had no idea.
Slowly, he looks back at Piper.
“…You heard that, right?”
you're not trapped, you're protected.
‘ THAT IS SOMEHOW WORSE ‘ the small hissing of whirling lights, the only scene between them, the faint glow of imported cigarettes & the smell of rose perfume seeped into her skin. After the plethora of seasons, the changing landscape, naivety begins to shed as she learns quickly everything comes with a price. Protection as well, Night City had that unnecessary charm of leading the disillusioned into believing that anything benevolent wasn’t double edged. She was neither a runner or a mercenary, a renegade that could survive solely on brute force, trickery, deceit & outwitting in order to see another year was her particular charm.
Charisma that was a false necessity as the thrumming beat of another nefarious club hummed within her ears. Contacts, leads, all of them dwelling in their own domains that were particularly more odd then the next, “It’s cliche for people like us to be in a BD club shaking down someone for corporate information, told you, we could have solved this one decent runner - I would have paid”.
The subtle jab of the knife met with a melancholy smile on raspberry pink lips. She huffs, laughing underneath her breath, “You know better than I protection comes with a steep debt, it’s just a better looking cage, that’s all” one last head rush to soothe her nerves, it was still bizarre, she could feel the sensation of anxiety leaking in whenever she remained still for too long. Pulling away from the wall, the cigarette is placed back into the silver holder, an heirloom she could vaguely recall receiving upon the first moment her desires had surfaced to leave & seek the impossibility. Rose gold chrome that beckons for him to follow, her small nymph form weightless as she moves with an effortless stride, only a trail of ivory blistering in the darkness.
“Come on, our client is particularly suspicious of us which is naturally a good thing for them, bad for us. Let’s make this quick, we can discuss the rest somewhere discreet”
Katsuo watches her for a moment after she finishes, her words settling heavier than he expected. There’s no immediate rebuttal this time, just a quiet acknowledgment in the way his gaze lingers, thoughtful rather than dismissive. “…Yeah,” he admits under his breath. “I know what a cage looks like.” He says just matter-of-fact. “Difference is… some cages lock from the outside. Others convince you not to leave.”
He pushes himself off the wall, falling into step behind her as she moves, his presence steady but not crowding. The faint neon glow catches along the edges of his expression, sharpening it back into something more focused, more familiar. “You’re not wrong about the cost,” he adds. “Nothing in this city comes free. Not protection, not information… not even loyalty.” A small pause. “Just depends on whether the price is worth paying.”
Her earlier jab earns the faintest hint of a smirk. “A runner would’ve been quieter,” he concedes, slipping his hands into his pockets as they walk. “But we’re not dealing with amateurs.” His eyes flick briefly toward the club entrance, already scanning, already calculating. “Arasaka doesn’t leave doors open like that. If someone pokes around in their systems, they’ll see it coming before the job’s halfway done.” His voice lowers slightly. “Old-fashioned might be messy, but it’s harder to trace.”
His attention shifts back to her, sharper now, more intent. “So,” he says, tone flattening into business. “What exactly did our client give you?” There’s no impatience, just precision. “Names. Location. Routine.” A slight tilt of his head. “Which one of these corporate gonks are we supposed to be having a ‘conversation’ with?”
For a brief second, something colder slips into his expression; not anger, not quite. Just resolve. “And how nervous should we expect them to be?” he adds. “Because if they’re already suspicious…” A faint exhale. “…then we don’t get a second chance at this.”
Finding some water and painkillers doesn't take long. In mere moments she's at his side again, pushing the pills into his hand. A snack, alas, was not so easily located. If they were at her place she'd at least be able to shove a protein bar into his hand.
For now, she just sits with him, a lighthouse, an unshakable thing as he leans into her.
"I don't think you're broken. Nothing to fix." Her hand moves then, the sound of fabric shifting in a whisper as her hand comes up to rub the space between his shoulders.
Fixing people wasn't something she did, wasn't something she wanted to do; mostly because she didn't want anyone to try and fix her either. There's another moment of silence, her mind parsing through a few different options before she settles on a thread to pull at. It's a gentle tug, really, a careful unwinding that he can stop dead if he really wants.
"You wanna let me in a little? Let me know what's really got you pushing so hard?"
It's not that she doesn't believe his answer, that he wants to know the true extent of himself, but she doesn't think that's really the core of it.
Katsuo takes the pills from her hand without argument this time, chasing them down with a slow sip of water. The quiet between them stretches, but it isn’t empty; just heavy. He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees before he settles back into her again, the contact grounding him more than he wants to admit. “…Thanks,” he murmurs, softer than usual, eyes briefly flicking toward the empty counter. “I should’ve stocked up.” A faint exhale leaves him. “Place is starting to look like I don’t live here.”
Her question lingers longer than anything else she’s said. He doesn’t answer it right away. His jaw tightens just slightly, not in resistance, more like he’s deciding where to start. He could brush it off. Give her something surface-level. It would be easier. Safer.
But he doesn’t.
“…I’m just trying to stay alive,” he says finally, voice low, steady, but stripped of its usual edge. Honest in a way he doesn’t let himself be often. His gaze drops, unfocused. “Long enough to figure out what they’re not telling me.”
His fingers curl loosely against his sleeve as he continues. “I let a lot of things go. Things I shouldn’t have, probably.” A quiet breath. “But this… they didn’t even give me the truth behind his death.” He doesn’t say Satoru’s name. He doesn’t have to. It sits there between the words anyway. “Just statements. Reports. Clean answers that don’t actually answer anything.”
He leans his head back against her shoulder again, eyes closing briefly as the tension finally slips through the cracks. “…So I’ve been pushing,” he admits. “Training. Working. Whatever keeps my head from circling back to it.” A small pause. “Didn’t realize I was running myself into the ground until it caught up.”
Another quiet exhale, slower this time.
“…I don’t like not knowing,” he adds, almost under his breath.
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?"
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.”
Sitting on the couch, arms on her legs, she'd been watching him. When had she become so comfortable in this space? When had she become so comfortable with him? She wasn't sure. It had been like slipping through a dream, thoughtless and natural, a point with no real beginning and no end in clear sight.
When he sits beside her she sits up, and then leans back when the firm weight of his head comes to rest on her shoulder.
She wants to tell him the truth, that he can never truly know his limit until he's forced into it. Life or death. That's the only time it matters, that's the only time it can be known. But she won't do that to him.
Not now.
So her head lulls against his, brown choppy layers twisting with blue, and she lets out this little, quiet hum.
"Want me to get you some water? Pain killers? Could probably scrounge up a snack if you haven't had anything to eat today." She can be so loud, a woman with a voice able to shut up a bar in the middle of a fight now speaking softly, that warmth bleeding through with the vocal-fry that catches on a few words.
Katsuo doesn’t move right away when she offers. He just stays there, head resting against her shoulder, eyes half-lidded like he’s trying to hold onto the stillness for as long as it’ll let him. It’s unfamiliar—how easy it feels. That’s the part that unsettles him more than the pain. His hand shifts slightly against his leg, grounding himself before he gives a small nod.
“…Yeah,” he murmurs, voice quieter than usual. “Painkillers. And… whatever you can find.” There’s no pride in it, no attempt to brush it off. Just acceptance. Taro’s presence doesn’t go unnoticed either; he glances briefly at the bird perched nearby, a faint exhale leaving him. “He’ll approve of that,” he adds under his breath, almost dry, but softer than his usual tone.
When she settles back beside him again, he doesn’t hesitate this time. He leans into her like it’s instinct, like his body made the decision before his mind could argue with it. That’s what catches him off guard. The lack of resistance. He’s quiet for a moment, listening to her breathing, the small sounds in the room, anything to anchor himself.
“…You remind me of someone,” he says finally, the words coming slower, more deliberate. Not careless; measured, like he’s deciding how much to give. His gaze doesn’t lift; it stays somewhere unfocused ahead. “Someone I used to know. A while ago.”
There’s a pause, longer this time. His fingers flex faintly, then still.
“…She used to do the same thing,” he adds, softer now. “Talk like that when I pushed too far. Like it wasn’t a problem to fix, just… something to take care of.” He exhales quietly, eyes closing for a brief second. “I didn’t realize how much I missed that.”
V stands in opposition to Tanaka; a crooked mirror that reflects changes in his posture as contrast in hers.
“What I’m saying,” she says once the other prompts her to, “Is that you have to be loyal first and foremost to yourself if you want to get anywhere.” Slightly different wording this time, perhaps to soften the blow. An affront is still an affront, no matter how put, but there is undoubted truth in her words just as well.
That’s just the way things work in this world. Most of the time, because there can always be an outlier, but goodness of the heart is rarely if ever rewarded in Night City.
“Is that clear enough, or should I dumb it down again?” V crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re looking down on me because my parents aren’t as high up as yours and say I’m selfish when you’ve never even talked to me before, but you’re not better than me. Hell, you’re worse,” she lets out a sound that could be a scoff were it louder, “Because I’m not taking out my insecurities on some poor kid who can’t even talk back to you.” Clearly, a jab at Tanaka’s complicated relationship with a scholarship guy. Martinez was his name, or something, if V remembers right.
“Are we done comparing dick sizes now, or do you want some more before we split who does what for that project?”
Katsuo doesn’t respond right away. His expression stays level, but there’s a subtle tightening in his jaw, a flicker in his eyes that gives away more than he’d like. He lets her words sit, not because he’s considering conceding, but because he’s already decided he won’t. When he finally exhales, it’s controlled, measured, like he’s filing everything she said into a place he can ignore later. “You’re done?” he asks flatly, not rising to the bait, but not backing down either.
He shifts his weight slightly, gaze sharpening as it settles on her again. “You’re making a lot of assumptions for someone who just admitted they don’t know me,” he replies, tone cool, dismissive in that polished way he’s perfected. There’s a pause; brief, deliberate. “And if Martinez can’t handle pressure, then he shouldn’t be here. That’s not insecurity. That’s standards.” He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t snap. If anything, that makes it worse. It sounds like something he believes.
The silence that follows isn’t comfortable, but Katsuo doesn’t let it linger long enough to spiral. He pivots: clean, abrupt, and like the conversation was never worth continuing in the first place. His hand comes up, tapping against his school-issued tablet as he pulls up the assignment briefing. A flick of his thumb scrolls through the details before he angles the screen slightly, more for his own reference than hers.
“Crisis management. Data leak scenario,” he starts, reading aloud without inflection. “Containment, source identification, damage control, and public-facing response.” His voice steadies into something more familiar; structured, controlled, safe. “We’re graded on efficiency and long-term impact mitigation.” He glances up at her briefly. “We don’t get access to the capstone if we fail this.”
Another beat, then he lowers the tablet slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he studies her; not dismissively this time, but evaluative. “How strong are you in netrunning?” he asks, direct, like the earlier conversation never happened. His tone isn’t warm, but it’s not mocking either, just pragmatic. “If you can handle breach and trace, you take source identification and containment. I’ll manage internal response and executive communication.” A small pause. “Does that work for you?”
// Look at this boy. Such a shame we didn't get much of him canonically. Would love to explore his corporate grooming. His encounter with David and him fighting back was a much needed wake up call for him.
@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.”
There’s another pause, longer this time. Then, more quietly, almost like an afterthought he didn’t mean to say out loud: “…but I heard you.” His gaze steadies on hers, something more grounded now. Not a promise, but not nothing either. He goes over to the couch, now resting his head casually on her shoulder. "My head hurts..."
@yellow-cyberangel asks: "k-kat?" Oh it was him alright....less Chrome with a different eye .....his jacket gone ... He looked so tired Unprompted
Katsuo doesn’t move at first. His eyes lock onto David Martinez like he’s trying to force the image to break, waiting for the distortion, the flicker, the telltale sign that his brain is lying to him again. His jaw tightens, breath shallow, one hand twitching faintly at his side like he’s resisting the urge to reach out and confirm it physically. “…You’ve got some nerve,” he mutters under his breath, voice edged but unsteady in a way that’s rare for him.
He takes a step forward, slow, deliberate, like approaching something that might vanish if he moves too fast. His gaze drags over David, taking in every difference, every missing piece, every change. Less chrome. Different eye. No jacket. Tired. Real. Katsuo exhales sharply through his nose, something tense in his shoulders finally shifting. “…I should knock you flat for this,” he says, more clearly now, though there’s no real weight behind the threat. “Show up out of nowhere like nothing happened—”
Another step closer, and now he’s certain. No glitches. No lag. No artificial delay in his perception. Just presence. His expression hardens, but it doesn’t quite hide the relief underneath. “…you’re actually here.” It’s quieter, almost like he didn’t mean for that part to be heard. For a moment, he just looks at him, really looks, like he’s confirming over and over that this isn’t something his overworked neural system cooked up to mess with him.
Then the edge comes back, sharper now that the disbelief is fading. “What the hell are you doing out here, gonk?” Katsuo’s brows knit, irritation threading through his tone. “You should be off-grid. Recovering. Not just… walking around where anyone could spot you.” His arms cross, posture tightening again, slipping back into something more controlled. “Or did you decide nearly dying wasn’t enough?”
He clicks his tongue softly, gaze flicking away for a second before returning to David, steadier now. “…you look like hell,” he adds bluntly, though there’s something quieter behind it, concern, buried under habit and tone. “Which means you’re either ignoring someone’s advice… or you didn’t have anyone worth listening to.” A brief pause. Then, more measured. “So start talking. Why are you here?”
// Like for a plotting call!
Really wanting to start up some pre-established plot threads since I've gone so long without some. Been mostly just winging in by answering prompts. Still fun and will continue doing so as well. Thought I'd strike while the iron is hot since I see some new faces!
°☠*:·゚ 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃 ··· a collection of survival instinct, found family, moral compromise & last days of humanity roleplay sentence starters. genre: apocalyptic, angst, hurt and comfort, life or death.
• How long has it been since you've seen another person? • You need to eat. I don't care if you're not hungry. • That's the last of the clean water. We have maybe three days. • Don't go out there. Not after dark. • I heard gunshots about two miles west. We need to move. • You're burning through supplies like we have somewhere to restock. • I can't remember what coffee tastes like anymore. • Show me your arm. • The radio's been silent for six days now. • I found a Polaroid in that house. Look—people used to smile like this. • We're not taking them with us. We barely have enough for ourselves. • You've been coughing for three days. Don't lie to me. • I think I saw smoke on the horizon. Could be a settlement. Could be a trap. • This is the fourth body we've found this week. • You want to talk about what happened back there? Or are we just going to pretend? • I'm not leaving you behind. I don't care what you say. • The fence has a breach. Something got through last night. • When was the last time you slept? And I mean actually slept. • You're rationing your own food to feed me, aren't you? • I can still hear the sirens sometimes. Even though they stopped months ago. • We can't stay here. This place is compromised. • I found batteries. Three AAs and a nine-volt. • You never told me what you did before all this. • That's a gunshot wound. Who shot you? • I haven't seen the sun in four days. This ash won't clear. • We're down to eleven bullets. Make them count. • I know what day it is. It's your birthday. • The last time I trusted someone, they stole half our supplies and disappeared. • You're running a fever. Sit down before you collapse. • I can't do this anymore. I can't keep watching people die. • We have to go back. I left something—someone—behind. • You've been talking in your sleep. About before. • I found a working generator. We could have power for a week, maybe two. • You're the only person left who knows my real name. • That smell means the bodies are close. Cover your mouth. • I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm asking you to survive. • The coordinates led us here. There's nothing. It was all a lie. • How many people have you killed since this started? Don't lie. • We used to have rules. Remember that? • You took the last dose of antibiotics. That was for the kid. • I saw your hand shake when you raised that gun. You're not okay. • This is it. This is all that's left of the world. • I can't remember their face anymore. Isn't that terrible? • You're planning to leave, aren't you? I can tell. • We found a car with half a tank. That's a goddamn miracle. • You didn't have to kill them. They would have left. • I'm trying to remember what music sounded like. • This is the third night you've taken watch. You're going to get us killed. • The map stops here. Everything past this point is unmapped territory.
i've been around people like you my whole life. selfish, no loyalty.
PROMPTS FROM QUEEN OF THE SOUTH. / @araexec
Here it goes. V rolls her eyes before turning her head to the side, to face the other, an afterimage of something sharp reflected in her eyes.
"And here I thought you'd never say it." Took him long enough, but people like him are, nine times out of ten, only strong when they talk. Some not even in that way, so V decides he's allowed to, in the end, earn a point.
"You think you're better than me, but you know daddy's not much different since he got to where he got to give you that background, right?"
Katsuo doesn’t answer right away. The shift is immediate; subtle, but sharp. His posture straightens, the looseness gone from his stance like a switch flipped somewhere deep in his spine. His eyes narrow just slightly, not in anger, but in calculation. “Careful,” he says quietly, voice even, controlled in a way that feels more deliberate than calm. “You’re stepping into something you don’t actually understand.”
There’s a pause, long enough to feel intentional. He studies her, not like a classmate, but like a variable that just changed the equation. “People throw around names when they want leverage,” he continues, tone cooling further. “Most of the time, they don’t even know what they’re holding.” His jaw tightens just a fraction. “So I’ll ask you once. What exactly do you think you know about my father?”
The question isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. There’s something more dangerous in how precise it is, how it cuts straight through the moment without any wasted motion. Katsuo takes a small step closer; not aggressive, but enough to close the distance in a way that forces the conversation to stay between them. “Because if you’re guessing,” he adds, “you’re playing a stupid game. And if you’re not...” he lets that hang, just for a second, “...then you’ve been listening where you shouldn’t.”
His gaze doesn’t leave her now. Whatever irritation had been there before is gone, replaced with something colder, more focused. “You don’t get to talk about loyalty,” he finishes, quieter still, “and then pull something like that out like it’s nothing.” A beat. “So go ahead. Say it clearly.”
