TO REBUILD AND THEN

TO TEAR IT DOWN AGAIN. Isola Affiliated.

[cityburns]

CONTENT WARNING! Johnny as a person is easily irritable and stubborn. He engages in a lot of substance abuse and also resorts to manipulation and violence when he doesn't get his way. I will tag all that I can, but be noted this may be present in interactions very often. I will always ask mun permission where it's necessary.

#CITYBURNS: He's fucked in the head, the world's fucked in the head, and you're fucked in the head because my fucked up head is inside it. Guess if you wanna save the world, that's the first step; get fucked in the head.

NOTE: Johnny uses he/it/they pronouns. Generally defaults to he/him.

Isola Radiale affiliated Johnny Silverhand as seen in Cyberpunk 2077. Loathed by Kriss (he/him)

Indies can refer to my multimuse, @exigencism.

 CANON DOUBLE INFO ✧ PERMANENT STARTER CALL ✧ LORE ✧ MEMES

RULES -> APP -> STATS ⤵

CURRENT STARS: 220

RANKINGS

Newcomer [oct 5, 2024] Dwarf [nov 5, 2024] Subgiant (link to a page that lists out threads and their word counts) [date achieved]Giant (link to page that lists out threads and their word counts + events participated in)  [date recieved]Hypergiant (link to page that lists out events) [date recieved]

HOUSING

CONDO 411

RETAINED

Threat-detector Optics; allows Johnny to detect nearby threats. They are outlined in his vision with red and can be tracked through walls. BB Gun & android body

MUN

Hi there! I’m ( Kriss he/him ), a transmasc Muslim Malaysian. I’m 21 and do art full time. 

[cityburns]

RANK UP! Dwarf -> Subgiant ( nov 19, 2024 )

Congrats, Johnny! You’ve met all the requirements for Subgiant rank! As a reward, you’ll be able to use Nanite Reconstruction to heal minor to moderate wounds to your vessel using nanites. You'll also be given one Malorian Arm pistol and a skateboard. Keep reaching for the stars!

"Oh, fuck yeah!" He missed that beautiful sound, of his sweet baby firing.

[viladlind]

oh, scratch certainly knows how to play fetch. one of his favourite pastimes at camp, whether that's with the people left behind or when the rest of the party returns from whatever gruesome battle they just went through. his squeaky ball hadn't come with them, but a stick is good enough— fiyero spent a decent amount of time just throwing a variety of bones back and forth for him. he immediately turns to chase after it, barking excitedly, picking it up and returning it quickly enough. only that he doesn't let go at first. he makes johnny fight for the stick, tail wagging behind him, growling a little in play.

   it takes a while for fiyero to convince bark to stop his current project. the tiefling stands by the hole in the ground for a few minutes, talking to the owlbear as though he was a child being chided. that's not too terribly far from the truth. with each day that they spend in this city, fiyero grows more and more aware of the fact that bark isn't exactly suited to a life spent indoors, and that he needs a lot more attention than he did previously. their life at camp was, honestly, a good solution. outdoors, constantly travelling, always somebody around to look after him. now fiyero's mostly taking care of the pets alone, and he sometimes finds himself overwhelmed with that. like right now, trying to give an argument for why bark can't be destroying this particular tree as he sees fit.

   but eventually, fiyero and bark walk back to the other two. they're still playing fetch and that's very cute to see. now that fiyero can actually give him more of his attention, he realizes that the man looks like a bit of a grouch. dressed in all black, dark glasses, the metal arm ... yet he's talking to scratch like anybody would when faced with an adorable dog. he waves, grinning wide. ' thank you so much. i see the two of you made fast friends already, huh? ' gesturing at himself, then at the owlbear trying to hide behind his legs (which does not work, because bark is wider than both of fiyero's legs combined), he introduces them. ' i'm fiyero, this is bark. it's good to meet you! '

[cityburns]

It's probably the most fun he's ever had since he died. Even though he could absolutely snatch the stick back so easily, Johnny pretends to be a little weak for once.

( it's oddly familiar, fighting for the stick; makes him think of Texas for some odd reason )

By the time he's tossed the stick again, Fiyero has returned, and Scratch dutifully retrieves the stick in record time. Johnny likes an eager little dog ( maybe it was why he liked Kerry so damn much, aside from the fact that the kid is an obvious natural at the job ). That little . . . owl-bear-looking beast is a bit odd looking but, hey, this guy is probably loaded up to the wazoo with all sorts of fucked up mods ( it's kind of obvious already, isn't it, with the elaborate horns, the pink skin, the jewelry; shit like that probably costs a fortune ). Still, Johnny can play nice, 'specially if whatever it's playing nice with is as goddamn adorable as that little guy trying to hide itself so pathetically behind his owner's legs. "Hm. Fiyero."

Johnny would reach his silver hand out, if he had an ounce more decency than he does now ( which is saying a lot, because he's gained quite a bit after having met V and accidentally saving her life ). But instead, he uses that hand to point a thumb at his chest, prideful ( shit-eating ) grin on his face. His dogtags clink with the movement. "Johnny Silverhand. You wouldn't know shit about me in this world, but I'm kind of a big deal."

( massive ego, like a bird showing off feathers; it's all the excitement from earlier needing a place to go )

"What sorta eddies do you sit on to be able to afford a dog?" A genuine question, because even he remembers what kind of costs having any sort of pet from 2020-onwards would incur. "And a . . . whatever-the-hell that is."

He gestures a metal finger towards the owlbear, eyebrow raised. It's a weird creature, but not totally impossible by 2077's standards. Some sort of designer pet. He remembers when those used to be pitched around his time . . .

[cityburns]

"Never say I don't do shit for people."

[silverhandstudio]

In the days of the Renaissance, artists could get together to discuss their work, free from the pressures of business and the influence of those in power. Today, the mega-corps dictate what the masses see; they control and twist the work of the artist until it suits their overlord mentality: banal and sterile. Now’s your chance to interface the New Renaissance and join a revolutionary artist’s community. I’ve bought a warehouse in the Golden Ward and converted it into a low rent, low profile loft for you, the visionary of the Edge. Whether you’re a realtext writer, violence painter, rocker, or virtual image creator, my plan is to promote the general welfare of talent; to make sure their talent can grow and develop free from the menace of little minds and Corporate control. You can do whatever you want in your loft. Paint it black, erect monuments to your gods, hang from the rafters, and sing like a loon. Hold concerts and poetry readings and orgies. It doesn’t matter to me. Just don’t wreck the room for the next artist who will use it; that’s a ‘facer kind of attitude. Remember; the future belongs to the minds that are free. Don’t have it done to you. Be the actor, not the audience. Johnny Silverhand

ABOUT / STAFF + OPEN POSITIONS

[cityburns]

THE GRAND AND SUDDEN OPENING OF SILVERHAND STUDIOS

"Tonight, I want to share with you all something I've been working on." Johnny is standing in front of a warehouse. He's amassed a small crowd, some familiar faces and others curios passersby. "Today is my birthday. Bet none of you posers knew that. But when I'm supposed to be getting gifts, I thought I'd give one to the community."

Its guitar hangs heavy on its shoulder, a quiet beat when the crowd would usually be noisy. They're waiting with bated breath; it's rare for Silverhand to take a moment to speak properly, like a one-on-one. Is it possible that it, too, is a little nervous to announce this? ( feels familiar, like déjà vu, like he's seen these faces decades before, like he's been on a stage like this before ).

"Corpos have long breathed down our necks, stifling our creativity until we produce low-level meaningless slop. I come from a time and a place where art, more than ever, seems rarer by the second. Real art. Stuff made my real people, untouched by the influence of greed and money." A heavy swallow. "We've been at war. We are at war. With the people that want to take what's most important to you: your mind. Don't let them."

He turns to the doors of the warehouse, kicking them open to reveal its insides. "This place? I've bought out a low-rent warehouse for the artists of the future to come together and make the shit they wanna make most in a place where no greedy hands can touch it. This here? Is Silverhand Studios. You can thank me later."

What's happening? Johnny has opened up Silverhand Studios, a warehouse with studio spaces for rent to help the artists of the future create their art when they would otherwise not have the means to. You can rent instruments and materials, buy them at discounts, and host shows here. Or do literally whatever else you want, so long as you keep the spaces usable for the next renter.

Where is it? It's located in the Golden Ward, and seems somewhat isolated. The warehouse was formerly used for general storage, but it's been repurposed for Silverhand Studios. It's not the prettiest thing just yet, but hey, it's usable. And it's got plenty of artistic amenities available.

Is he hiring? Silverhand Studios is offering minimum wage with a variety of open positions available.

I want to write with Silverhand Studios as a setting! Awesome! Do whatever you want. But if your muse decides to break something, Silverhand might want a word ( or a few ) with them. If you do decide to use the space, please feel free to tag me or let me know some other way. It would be awesome to see :)

[cityburns]

[[ HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SILVERHAND ( in my timezone ) so I'm gonna launch his business later in the day and ... yeah :) it's gonna be funnnnn but not for him ]]

[impinged]

You... take what they offer you. You won't... use it. Not as intended anyway. You just kind of... stick it in your mouth, mimicking his actions with it the best you can. You have no interest in actually lighting it, but it does occupy your mouth and possibly lets you get away with being quiet as he speaks.

Home? It said home, right? Missing home? That's what they asked you. You have to think for a moment. Instinctively, you first think of Dormont. It is not home, not to you, it was just the last place you've slept (hundred upon hundreds of times, at that) and where you were before... here. But it is not home. You do not miss it like one would miss home. Or, at least, you don't think so.

Home. You ran away once. You... did not return. You don't think so anyway. Suddenly, your whole body tenses up. You didn't want to run away. You were going to go straight back. You did, didn't you? You just rowed your boat out just like the ones out there on the ocean. Your single eye glances toward the water. It fixates on the horizon line. How far out did you go? Just far enough for it to disappear past that line, right...?

Did you ever row back . . . ...... . . . ?

How can you miss home if you don't remember it? You can't even. Picture it. When you close your eye there's nothing. Not even a single trace. Not even a flash of memory. And yet here, on the beach, it's all so familiar. The sand in your hands, it's slowly been shaped into something that you do not know but something deeper within you does. Just for a moment. Long enough to stare down at it and feel... something... before it's replaced by the sensation of your head practically splitting in two. The cigarette falls from your mouth and lands atop the mound of sand you've shaped. How wasteful.

You realize you haven't been breathing right this whole time. Heaving. Labored breaths. Sharp inhales. Your voice catching in your throat as you try to spit out an answer. Be normal, Siffrin. Answer him.

It's too bright to see, for just a moment. A split second of searing pain so that you forget that you were even remembering. A familiar taste on your tongue. Your mind resets. What... What were you doing? Oh, you dropped something. You should pick it up. Answer him.

Sand has crept its way into your glove, roughly sliding against your skin. You blink, coming back into focus. Oh. You crushed the sandcastle. That's okay. It didn't mean anything to you anyway . . . Answer him.

"It... It's just been a while since I've been to the beach." Your voice is shaky, but it has returned to you, so that's good! "It's alright, I guess. The sand here is different though." You do not remember how so.

[cityburns]

A strange part of him sees it, sees himself in this kid. Like that means anything. Like that makes him think. Like he's anything more than the chopped up memories of a man he used to be ( or never really was ). Johnny is terrified to look, terrified to face this kid with his own two eyes, even with the shades on. Because he knows that, when he looks, he's gonna see himself reflected, some sad and scared little whelp in a world it barely understands, some floundering little mess, too young to hold a gun in his hands. Little Robbie, that name he shed like snakeskin, Robert J. Linder, that little fifteen-year-old with a heart of gold.

That kid in the trenches, watching his best friend take an explosion for him.

( he can't even remember the name, if you could even call it a memory )

He keeps that gaze focused on the sun. Watching it rise, like from a fire, raise itself in the sky slowly. What was he like as a kid? He can't remember much. Because he was never a kid. He just thinks he was, because he's not Johnny Silverhand. He's something else entirely. He's a product of the system that he ( Silverhand ) could only bend to the whims of. His glasses come off, smoke in the air, and he watches that sun. Like it's the ceiling fan in the Pistis Sophia, like he's laying in bed wondering for the tenth time that day ( what am I gonna eat, what do I do, who am I, what am I, what the fuck is going on ).

Spirale fucking sucks. He's not sure if being an engram is better or worse.

He offers Siffrin a noncommittal hum, barely even listening. Was the kid talking? Who knows. Silverhand sure as hell doesn't. It just watches distantly, shades in the sand, smoking away the thoughts. But that's never worked, has it? All it does is wash away the stink of the city ( of Spirale, of Night City, of his hotel room ). "The sand in Pacifica ain't any better," he says, like it means anything. "Fucking trash everywhere."

Always been like that since 2010. Still is like that in 2077. Probably still like that now, whenever the fuck this is.

The silence stretches so far. Almost suffocates him with it. Silverhand isn't known for being quiet in any sort of way. Not in his actions, not in his words, always causing a scene or making an entrance ( iron in hand, gripping the mic so hard that the venue is considering asking for compensation for it, screaming so loud he's sure he might ruin it this time ). But that's the thing, isn't it? He's not Silverhand. He never was. Just a copy. A copy of a copy. Lines of data on a little USB stick, slowly killing his one and only friend in over fifty years. Boo-hoo, shed some tears for Silverhand! The worst motherfucker to have ever lived.

( and died ).

He shifts uncomfortably in the sand, sifting a hand through the sand before grabbing hold of what's probably a washed up shell. Then he chucks it, hard as he can, into the water. All it does is wash up again on the shore. Exactly what he does, isn't it?

Johnny stands, flicking the butt of his cigarette towards the small mound of sand. He wipes sand off his pants as he reaches for his sunglasses. "Let's delta outta here, kid, huh? This brooding shit is doing nothing for us."

[allhesaid-deactivated20250918]

woah .. hot singer with an attitude that's following everything he says .. will slings open the doors of his wardrobe and scans the hanging clothes, searching for something that catches his eye and follows its ( albeit vague ) description.

" somethin' cool, huh? " will scratches at his stubble and leans into the closet, pulling out a black tank top that's short enough to still reveal an inch or two above and under the belly button even when worn. he throws it over to johnny on the bed, then holds up two more garments. " pants or skirt, pretty boy? "

[cityburns]

It kind of reminds them of the dressing rooms backstage. Or, at least, the moments before a show. Sitting comfy in front of the mirror, before throwing on some body spray and combing his hair with his fingers. Nah, this here is a lot more complex. This is gonna involve, like, foundation and shit. He thinks ( he hopes ). Johnny doesn't even hesitate when the shirt is thrown at him ( it's so reminiscent of the stuff he used to wear on stage ).

"Dealer's choice," he says confidently. He won't admit it, but he does like Will's sense of style ( and he trusts it but, again, would never say that out loud ). It's going to pretend that the compliment doesn't do anything ( and that his face doesn't feel hot, or that his heart starts beating a little bit, and-- is this what it's like to have a bit of a revelation? ) "What do you think makes me look better?"

[allhesaid-deactivated20250918]

an overly loud gasp, " you? oh, my! and you're so shy about it too .. "

his hands clasp together. " why, come on! sit, sit! what do you like, huh? leather? what type of colors? "

[cityburns]

He'd roll his eyes if he didn't have a little more pride than that. So instead, he sits, like the damn sheep that he is.

"Uhhh... I dunno. Leather sounds good." He offers a noncommittal shrug. "Make me cool." ( or pretty; it isn't picky )

[allhesaid-deactivated20250918]

" who feels like getting a bit of a makeover? i finally have enough clothes to fill up my wardrobe, so it's the perfect time to dress someone else up! "

[cityburns]

Quietly raises his hand.

[givemeameme-blog]

Please tell me your favorite things about my portrayal/muse?

Anon is acceptable.

[startshxtwithme]

Ask my muse questions about characters you’ve seen them interact with.

[bitemedotmp3]

Is this cool, or is it... really lame? The dial in Uzi's mind goes back and forth, and she can't decide if the washed-up, rocker-past-his-prime look is really anything to her. Most of her rock idols have hair that covers one eye and sing about the hardships of youth, but when part of your code comes from your lame dad, you can't help but inherit at least a little of his musical taste. Maybe a guy like this doesn't sing about his first breakup (or does he?) but he might sing about how society sucks and capitalism screwed him over.

But whether he's cool or not, she's definitely not impressed. "So... Is that no, or a you don't know? Or do you have another answer that's not a t-shirt slogan?"

Uzi rolls her eyes. "Get real. If you really were no one, you wouldn't be trying to get attention on a street corner. You'd just be in whatever apartment they stuck you in with the lights out. But if you prefer to just sulk out on the street, be my guest." And she would know that he's bad at that, because she's great at being moody in public places.

The idea of human music was starting to interest her, but nothing in life is ever easy, and even less so on this island. "Whatever. I got it recorded anyway, I guess." Uzi taps the side of her head; pretty straightforward to go through her memory files and pull it out if she wants to. "And before you say something about ad revenue, I'm not gonna upload it anywhere. Especially if you're just some nobody."

There's no reason to stick around, but she watches, just for a few more moments, as the man packs his things away. Something about his arm catches her eye; she's never known humans to modify themselves like that. Did he do it to be better at guitar, or maybe he wrote a grungy song about losing it in a car accident? A better question is, does she really care?

[cityburns]

"I don't really give a shit," he says, flicking his cigarette butt in her direction-- it misses, which is intentional, but a twisted half-portion of him wishes it struck her dead-center. When has Silverhand ever 'gave a shit'? Alt would tell anyone gladly that he never did ( oughtta join the wired wacko's on the street--fuck she had to say that for? ), and whatever, he's cool with that image now ( a lie, buried so deep in him you could mistaken it for truth ). His back is turned, but he's intent on winning whatever-the-fuck this back and forth is.

"Do whatever the fuck you want with it." ( just a fuckin' nobody. remember when he used to want to be one of those? driving so far off into the Badlands with a couple of wayward nomads, all they had left to show for his presence was a myth sullying the name of a damn good song ). "I'm not doing this for jack shit," ( a lie ) "just need enough dust for the week. If you want to follow me around like a lost puppy, be my guest. Just know that this one bites."

Johnny faces her again, and he can't help but see a little bit of himself in her, like he's a shriveled-up grandpa realizing he's all washed up ( and he can't help feeling that way; he's been old news since 2023 ). "Ad revenue is just another way for corpos to steal what's most valuable from you: your time. You're never gonna get that shit back. Some advice? Go do something real. Paint some shitty flowers or make some shitty music." Silverhand for another cigarette, sucking in the nicotine until it's halfway burnt already.

"Doesn't even matter if nobody sees it. Just make it. Sure as hell beats recording some washed up rockerboy on the street." But boy, doesn't it sound great? To be in the limelight again, everyone chanting his name, everyone watching the stage, enraptured by him and his anger? "Why'd you record it anyways? Like it so much that you wanna hear it on loop? Guarantee you that you'd like Eurodyne's stuff more. He's still kicking. Bastard's eighty-something and still rocks to this day. He's got a cover of Chippin' In that fucks harder than this one-man band."

[kleinstar]

" Um. "

No comment. He could lie and call it charming but nope, can't do that. Something tells him he won't be upset anyhow. Seemed like the least of his problems right now, really.

And now he's become a convenient target, Eiden can't help but grimacing a bit. He's done his share of fooling around with drunk guys, drunk and sober, variety of good an bad experiences. This dude doesn't seem like a great time right now and he'd rather not make the latter list grow.

" Yeah, uh, sorry, no offense but I'm kind of not feeling very enticed by the offer? " he then sighs, he's not even close but he can still smell him and honestly even that alone's enough.

" ...I can make sure you get to your doorstep though? Is it close? "

He looks like he could use help there?

[cityburns]

Silverhand gives him a petulant look under the sunglasses, but it can't really argue with that. It's gotten a bit more self aware since waking up in V's head, it knows it's being a bit of a dickhead, but c'mon. Did it really look that bad?

( if given the chance to look in a mirror, the answer would be a resounding yes, and whatever made you think you had a damn chance? )

But Eiden was at the very least willing to bring him home, in a manner of speaking, so Johnny figured it was still a win anyways ( and who's to say Eiden won't change his mind later-- although that possibility was lowering by the minute ). Johnny displays a shit-eating grin. "Preem. 'Snot too far."

Without saying much else, Johnny starts walking, clearly unsteady on his feet, stumbling with every step. If the journey was intended to be short, it certainly wouldn't be at this pace.

[archiveoccultacarne]

@cityburns Play With Fire

"Such a beautiful thing isn't it? How dangerous it is to the likes of those who are weakened to it." Sebastian smiles rather fondly at the flames in front of him.

"I've always liked to play with fire. Even as a child, I remember never being afraid." He was lucky he didn't share that weakness with the weaker vampires around him. He scoffs at the thought and then fully turns to face his companion for the night.

[cityburns]

Johnny can't remember so much of his time as a kid. But he sure as hell remembers fire, hot and burning, all different kinds of it. Fire, from the bottom of 'Saka tower, when he'd blown it to fucking bits. Fire, on the battlefield, scorched bodies of his comrades. Fire, in his loins, when Kerry brought him to that stripper bar that one time. Fire, in his rage, burning his friends when they got too close. Fire burns in Silverhand, like it's catching on the fucking trees in a forest, and god knows it'll never stop burning.

"Played plenty with fire," he states absently, continuing to strum a tune on his guitar, not sparing a glance towards Sebastian. "You play with fire, you best hope not to get burned-- or whatever the fuck the saying is." The small fire crackles, embers floating into the night sky. It's not often Silerhand finds a gentle reprieve like this, the cool wind blowing past.

[crownmemes]

Roadkill Sentences

(Sentences from Roadkill (2020). Adjust phrasing where needed)

"You're on good form. Mind you, we need to be on good form every day."

"I don't remember begging being part of my job description."

"Do you remember the name of every woman you've slept with?"

"I'm not going to have this conversation, least of all with someone I don't even know."

"There are no victories in politics. You just avoid setbacks."

"I'm not going to turn on the lights. It would suggest a level of confidence I don't have."

"Don't you think your first priority is to restore order?"

"I'm glad you have time in your rich and interesting life to come and see me!"

"I don't care about your views! What do you think this is? Question time?"

"What is it about you? A death wish?"

"Every time you start becoming acceptable, you start making trouble again!"

"I don't want to upset you, but I did want to ask you a question…"

"Do you know what I'd like? For once in our lives, to meet outside this apartment."

"We need to deal with this before it gets out of hand."

"Have you read any classic literature?"

"Justice is not a notion. It's a department of state - and a badly run one, at that!"

"What's the one thing you and I have learnt? You can get away with anything if you just brazen it out!"

"You're a terrible judge of character."

"I'm doing it my way and I don't care!"

"I don't know what you're up to, but whatever it is, you have my loving support."

"I don't presume to know everything about your life. Why do you think you can guess at mine?"

"You know what? I don't like this spooky thing where you always know what people did!"

"This is inedible!"

"Are you on a personal mission to destroy me?"

"Do I have any value to you except as a liar?"

"I've come to think that vagueness is a kind of crime."

"You reach a point where the only thing you can do is just keep moving forward. That's all there is."

"Prime Ministers don't fall because they're incompetent; they fall when they're caught out in outright lies."

"Well, this is not something I'd planned. How did you find me?"

"I don't give a damn who the Prime Minister is as long as they let me get on with my work."

"You do this properly or not at all."

"I was appalling. I apologise."

"Usually, you can't get enough publicity - you and the limelight are in some kind of permanent romance! Now, for the first time in years, you've fallen silent!"