last night when i walked into your house i noticed that the couch had moved, and i wanted to ask you about it, but you were talking so when you finished I opened up my mouth and you called me out for being bad at listening.
braindances; a semi-private, independent collection of muses from cd projekt red's cyberpunk 2077.
under construction.
scrolled by kiwi / 25 / they & them.
๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ > v / more soon
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ > i haven't indie rp'd in a hot second, so pls be patient with me as i get my bearings! some important notes:
please be 21+ if we are writing together
i love to plot (in fact, i prefer it!), so i'd love to chat ooc before we write together. my discord is available upon request!
regular roleplay things: i won't godmod and i ask you don't either, let's assume best intentions in each other, and let's have a great time! i'm here bc i love this universe so much and i'm so excited to play in it with folks!
v was born and raised in heywood in the so-called "city of dreams," caught between corpo sprawl and gang turf. her mother, camila, worked double shifts as a nurse in a valentinos-controlled clinic, patching up everyone from junkies to shot-up gangoons. her father was never in the pictureโjust a ghost in a faded photograph, rumored to have run guns for 6th street before disappearing in a corpo black-bag job. v grew up hearing conflicting stories about him: hero, traitor, deadbeat, martyr.
by the time v was ten, she'd learned to crack locks, boost cars, and talk fast enough to slip a blade into someoneโs pocket without them realizing they were bleeding. heywood raises hustlers. v didnโt get a childhood, she got a crash course in survival. her friends were street vendors, tech-heads, and kids whose lives could end over the wrong color or a careless glance. the valentinos were family, too, in a twisted wayโolder cousins who would laugh with you one minute and leave you bleeding out the next if you crossed them.
camila died when v was seventeen: overworked, underpaid, and caught in the crossfire of a botched arms deal outside the clinic. v watched her bleed out in a gutter, powerless and furious. that was the day v stopped believing in any kind of justice, legal or streetbound.
first kill
it happened three months later.
the manโs name was rafe, a petty fixer with ties to the tyger claws. he ran a shakedown operation in kabuki and had a reputation for targeting young punks fresh to the game. he came for v, trying to recruit her for a courier job that was actually a setup: data mule with a hidden tracker, meant to lead arasaka to a rival.
v figured it out too late. by the time she'd been cornered in a filthy alley near the docks, rafe was already reaching for his iron. v didnโt hesitate. she'd lifted a pistol earlier that day from a ripperdocโs stash, and used it with sloppy aim and shaking hands. but one round clipped rafeโs throat and he dropped like dead meat.
it wasnโt cinematic. no glory. just blood, coughing, and panic.
v stared at the body for a long time. then she took the credchip, wiped the gun on her pants, and disappeared into the rain.
leaving to atlanta
the kill brought heat. the tyger claws were sniffing around, and the valentinos (who didnโt like rogue elements) were losing their patience. v needed out. sebastian "padre" ibarra, a fixer with one foot in the church and another in the street, arranged a way out. a few favors called in, and suddenly v was on a freight convoy to atlanta, a city run more by old-money families and ex-military corps than gangs.
atlanta was different. the violence wasnโt in the open; it wore suits and signed contracts. v spent a few years there running boosted rides, smuggling black market cyberware, and moonlighting as muscle for local merc crews. it was quieter work, but colderโno loyalty, just contracts. every gig ended in a double-cross or a body bag. v started to feel like a ghost in someone elseโs city.
she changed, grew harder, meaner, but was never able to feel rooted.
then a message came through the old heywood net:
๐ตโ๐ฆโ๐ฉโ๐ทโ๐ชโ ๐ผโ๐ฆโ๐ณโ๐นโ๐ธโ ๐นโ๐ดโ ๐ธโ๐ชโ๐ชโ ๐พโ๐ดโ๐บโ. ๐นโ๐ญโ๐ชโ๐ทโ๐ชโ'๐ธโ ๐ผโ๐ดโ๐ทโ๐ฐโ ๐ญโ๐ชโ๐ทโ๐ชโ. ๐ธโ๐ดโ๐ฒโ๐ชโ๐นโ๐ญโ๐ฎโ๐ณโ๐ฌโ ๐ทโ๐ชโ๐ฆโ๐ฑโ. ๐จโ๐ดโ๐ฒโ๐ชโ ๐ญโ๐ดโ๐ฒโ๐ชโ.
returning to night city
v came back on a stolen cargo av, landing in the outskirts of santo domingo just before dawn. the city hadn't changed. if anything, it had rotted further. corpo towers still stabbed the skyline, the lights still glowed sickly over the smog, and the streets still whispered blood. but v had changed. she wasn't a kid anymore. she knew how to shoot, steal, lie, and kill with precision.
back in heywood, she reconnected with pepe, who offered her a gig as a welcome home gift: helping him settle a debt he owed. it wasnโt glamorous, but it was familiar. home turf. she was tasked with jacking a car, chrome and steel, pure nc muscle. v cracked a grin when she saw it.
night city had chewed up their past and spit out a killer. but now, v was backโolder, smarter, hungrier. and this time, she wasn't looking to survive.
she was looking to rise.
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