NIGHT CITY ALIENS

YOU DON'T WANT TO HURT ME. indie.  selective if i should fall don't let them wake me up. if i should fall ... don't let them cut me up. with knives so dull they cut you up to wear you out, out, out, out they cut you up to bring you down, down, down with knives so dull! ( le destroy. )

[edgeran]

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█ 𝚊 indie, private, & selective 𝐃𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐙 of cyberpunk: edgerunners - 2077. minors/personals (non-roleplayers), dni. black-american adult. in college. low activity by default.

affiliates: @spectredge (lucy)

graphics credit: halo coms/ezekiel.

𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙿𝙾 : meat and metal, mind and machine, a devouring city, the currency of flesh, dreaming in neon and dying in the gutter, the slow erosion of sanity, humanity corroding around the blind, romance is a battlefield, survival is not living, the disposable generation, the weight of an unfulfilled legacy, love in the wake of death, the god of the new age bleeds oil, the ghosts in the circuitry, built to burn out, a ouroboros system.

𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙼𝙴𝚂: 𝚄𝙻𝚃𝚁𝙰𝚅𝙸𝙾𝙻𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴, 𝙽𝚂𝙵𝚆, 𝙳𝚁𝚄𝙶 𝙰𝙱𝚄𝚂𝙴, 𝙰𝙳𝙳𝙸𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽, 𝚄𝙽𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻 𝙼𝙴𝙳𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻 𝙿𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙲𝙴𝚂, 𝙿𝚂𝚈𝙲𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙾𝙶𝚈, 𝙳𝙸𝚂𝙲𝚁𝙸𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽, 𝙲𝙾𝚁𝚁𝚄𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽, 𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈 𝙷𝙾𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁, 𝙳𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙾𝙿𝙸𝙰𝙽 𝚂𝙾𝙲𝙸𝙴𝚃𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙴𝚂, 𝙴𝚇𝙿𝙻𝙾𝙸𝚃𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽, 𝚂𝚄𝙸𝙲𝙸𝙳𝙴, 𝙿𝙾𝙻𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻, 𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙼, 𝙴𝚇𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙰𝙻𝙸𝚂𝙼, 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁-𝙲𝚁𝙾𝚂𝚂𝙴𝙳 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂, 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚃𝙾, 𝙶𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙾𝙻𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙲𝚂, 𝙵𝙾𝙻𝙺𝙻𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝚅𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙾𝚄𝚂 𝙲𝚄𝙻𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙴𝚂.

world-building is comprised of elements from the following:

the matrix, blade runner, ghost in the shell, elysium, altered carbon, akira, terminator, outside the wire, mad max, crank, tetsuo: the iron man, the substance, electric state, etc.

RULES / DISCLAIMER BELOW.

creative choices: in the last couple of years, I've peeped people jackin' my hcs, writing, alternative face claims for the same muses (very specific choices, i might add, because i like being in my own lane and i don't care to look like everyone else). it's high-key corny, especially when some of the same mutuals sit on my blog. this happened one too many times, but all i can say is ya'll need to develop your individuality and stop the nonsense.

mutuality "contract": if we're mutuals, great! do not attempt to force me to write with one of your muses, oc or canon, if you're a multi-muse blog. if i choose to interact with a particular muse(s) you have, it is not because your other muses are necessarily uninteresting; it just means you have a muse that holds my attention and i want to direct my energy with.

drama: i just want to point this one thing out: it is very obvious when people send themselves anon hate. tactics like that, just to garner attention? just rile people up and set off a domino effect and now everyone in the fandom is responding to vitriol that you send yourself? i despise it. i do have "ooc" tag filtered, but to know that you're setting yourself and people up when they should be enjoying the hobby aggravates me, and I'll unfollow you. if it is organic anon hate.. well, i can't tell you how to run your blog, but my suggestion is to delete it and move on?

black muses: in the past, i've been biased against non-black writers writing black muses, because of the lack of respect that gets shown toward their characterization, and it was an old rule of mine, that i will not follow a sole black muse blog [if it's multi, then i would prefer to interact with the non-black muses.], if the writers weren't black themselves. i still have those biases, but i will take my chances on people if the portrayals seems promising. it's a case-by-case basis, i'm not interested in delving in any further than that.

update 3/10: real talk, there's two things specific things that's been irritating to me. 1) ya'll need to look into what colorism is. 2) the fetishization of black muses be killing me. i'm tired of weird ass portrayals on here. all shade, because the community is very small, so there's no need to really ask me who. ya'll know who. get it together.

my general rule of thumb: you are the master curators of your own safe space. do what thou wilt. if the aforementioned themes aren’t to your liking, I am not the writer for you. if you cannot stand the thought of being unable to tone police a thirty-year-old man, i will never be the ideal writing partner for you. if low-activity blogs do not suit your preferences, please feel free to block me.

i have no personal issues with anyone, so do not inquire about me to a mutual or personally contact me regarding what you may perceive as '"beef". the only beef i have is with people who perpetuate what i already established above.

many of us say this until we're blue in the face, but yes, all i care about is writing and creating connections with great writers.

ooc interactions: discord is available, but i am a slow responder at times. i'm hesitant on this as of recently because people show weird energy, but we'll see.

[saucyy-salamander]

I love them sm

[edgeran]

nobody likes the haunting of words. words the dead had said. words that shouldn’t have come. words that never did.

funny — if nobody likes it, then why do we keep buildin’ our own graveyards outta unfinished sentences? why do we line ‘em up neat in our heads, like headstones we visit when we can’t sleep. replayin’ what was said. what wasn’t. what almost made it past the teeth. like if we keep standin’ there long enough, maybe one of ‘em’ll answer back.

david's mind was racing faster than the speed of light, it felt like, and he couldn't keep up.

he's sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. hands clasped loose, but tight enough to turn his human knuckles white against his light brown skin. the apartment’s quiet. uncomfortably quiet. the city noise muted behind reinforced glass. the hum of the fridge louder than it should be.

“ i wasn't jealous. ” it comes out flat. his eyes keeps to the floor. there's a faint scuff mark near the coffee table, something from weeks ago.he focuses on that instead of her. he'd like to look at her, because he likes looking at her. but then there are times where he doesn't.

his jaw shifts sharply, almost as if it wanted to come off the hinges. “ not about pilar. not about that. i know what that was. you explained it before. i remember. he tends to cross lines. you handled it. simple. ”

he hated how defensive he was coming off. it made him feel small, and he knew it was irrational. he had to get this straight, before it away at any more of his self-respect. he exhales through his nose, peeved by the nature of the conversation, albeit she wasn't the cause for him feeling like that.

“ just.... sometimes i get stuck in my head. see somethin' and my brain runs it somewhere it ain't suppose to go. ” it's not about pilar. it never was.

@spectredge | unprompted.

[edgeran]

“ do you think there's a happy ending for folks like us, luce?… or were we just born wrong… wrong city… wrong—yunno? ” david keeps his eyes on the sky when he says it. a listless watcher of the neon bleeding across the low clouds like bad rendering. AVs drift overhead, red tracking lights blinking slow, like a slow, dramatic prologue to a horror flick. somewhere below, a siren warps through the murky alleyways, probably nearly crushing a vagrant or a trick receiving timed services from a joytoy, swallowed by obnoxious bass and distant gunfire.

david wets his tongue quickly with the flat soda he was holding. he swallows once, and released a sigh. “ i mean... don't gotta tell you none that you don't already know. this place chews through people like rabid strays through scop dogs. everybody's runnin' some hustle, tryin' not to flatline before twenty-seven. ”

his fingers tap lightly against his bulky thigh. hs chrome knuckles faintly ticked, micro-servos correcting pressure he didn't consciosuly apply.

“ we wake up, we grind, we mod, we bleed. we do it for the eddies. the freedom. your moon. whatever keeps our brain from fryin' to shit. ” he finally glances at her then.

“ we're only here once, right? ain't like we were made immortal. not just the hurt. not just playin' survival games tryin' to keep up with corpos who don't even know we exist. ” the wind bows against gloria's jacket, tugging at the old fabric and pushing the faint smell of her perfume across his nostrils. the sensation nearly brought tears to his modified brown optics.

suddenly, he feels like he let the words hang too long. this was too honest of a conversation. he felt like he was asking too much. like he was hoping out loud, and if he were, that'd be more dangerous than any chrome he's slotted. or that's the kind of thinking his mind resigned to.

his throat works. he clears it as he crushes the can of soda in his palm, letting it fall to his side. then, he rose the same palm to the nape of his neck. “ erhm. never mind. dumb question. ”

he looks away again, like the skyline can absorb what she shouldn't have to.

@spectredge | unprompted.

[mcflymemes]

PROMPTS FROM SINNERS *  assorted dialogue from the 2025 film, adjust as necessary

i want you to promise right now.

i think that was the best day of my life.

was it like that for you?

you keep dancing with the devil... one day he's gonna follow you home.

drop the guitar, [name].

jump on the work. don't let the work jump on you.

if you don't mind, i'm gonna be late.

i've been working all week.

who are you, babe?

so tell me about chicago.

that's why we came back home.

figure we might as well deal with the devil we know.

don't move.

fuck that. it's gotta be tonight.

look at that sky.

you big enough to take me now, huh?

you keep your eyes open for anybody staring too long.

i'm gonna need you to come sit in this truck right here.

what can i do for you?

i'm trying to help you.

i was doing better before you shot me in the ass.

why are you paying for this?

how fast does this thing drive?

i can show you better than i can tell you.

i seen you somewhere before.

maybe i'll see you tonight.

don't look at her.

you know, i waited for you.

i am your way out.

there's some weird shit going on out here.

i'm married, by the way.

you told me you loved me.

i told you to stay the fuck away from me, too, but i guess you didn't hear that part, huh?

keep your voice down now.

remember falling asleep with your head on my chest, leaving in the middle of the night without a fucking word?

i drank it.

need you to give us a moment.

i'm gonna need you to show some respect.

i don't want your money.

you wanna make me say it?

i thought i could trust them, but they trying to kill me.

just don't let them hurt me no more.

have you seen anyone recently?

i don't think you should be here.

you making any money with that thing?

they hurt you?

so you'll kill for me.

why can't you just say that?

somebody take me in your arms tonight.

you're beautiful. i just want to taste you.

i think you're in the wrong place.

we'll be on our way.

you better enjoy the rest of the night.

i wish in my heart that we'd have met sooner.

we got us a problem.

best thing about me is you.

where the hell you been at?

i'm supposed to walk back?

can i at least get my money?

open up this door. let me outta here.

we're gonna find a way out of this, i promise.

you telling the truth?

they feel the same.

everything's gonna be all right now.

i'll see you soon.

sorry i couldn't keep you safe.

we are connected, you and i, to everything.

[toshootfirst-a]

Send a 👫and I’ll write four headcanons I have about our muse’s relationship

[notmorbid]

daredevil: season 1 [1/2].

dialogue prompts from the first season of marvel's daredevil.

this would be easier if you'd tell me what you've done.

i'm asking forgiveness for what i'm about to do.

what exactly are you going to do?

it's half past 'get the hell up'.

we're supposed to be enemies.

so what, you're just a couple of good samaritans?

you've never done this before?

maybe we can help each other.

it's hard to meet people in the city.

i don't know what happened. it wasn't me.

do you have somewhere you can stay tonight?

do you know who's trying to kill you?

i cannot have anybody else die because of me.

i'll work for free.

not a word to anybody. not even your mom.

don't get blood on your shirt.

i should have you in my corner.

you're supposed to be doing your homework.

sometimes, even when you get knocked down, you can still win.

it ain't how you hit the mat, it's how you get up.

i dug myself in too deep and i can't climb out.

your shit's not gonna unpack itself.

big fan of the not thinking.

i'm the lucky girl who pulled you out of the garbage.

your outfit kind of sucks, by the way.

the less you know about me, the better.

this is my night off. i'm really not looking for some guy to die on my couch.

convince me it's worth it.

you make life difficult for bad men?

have you seen or heard anything unusual?

you could do so much better, love.

i was starting to worry you might be in love with me.

you gaze at me lovingly when you think i'm not looking.

i can't get the blood out of the carpet.

i don't see the city anymore. all i see are its dark corners.

this is way past what i signed up for.

i know you're afraid, but you can't give in to the fear.

i know you're scared, but i'm here to help you.

i make a heck of a latte, if you're interested.

there are no rules. not anymore.

some fights will just get you bloody.

do you do walk-ins?

am i right in assuming this isn't your first rodeo?

the truth doesn't sell papers. not anymore.

are you worried about me?

you don't understand how lucky you are.

that's either very romantic or very sad.

i don't think they use fax machines anymore.

don't turn around. that's how you get caught.

you didn't grow up here, did you?

time and distance afford a certain clarity.

it hurts, doesn't it? being in pain? being afraid?

don't underestimate what people in power will do to stay there.

i never thought i'd put anyone else at risk.

tell me it was worth it.

feel my heart. what is it telling you?

you cook for every girl you bring home?

you were really something, back in the day.

i don't like to be in public.

i don't like to be questioned, but you can ask me anything.

by my side is the safest place that you could ever be.

i wish i knew you back then.

i have dug myself another hole, haven't i?

i don't speak asshole.

it's not as easy as it looks in the movies, you know.

the world's a shitty place. you can quote me.

i still got a few good stories in me.

this is not how ___ die. this is not how it happens.

you've played the hero enough for one day.

you've been asking about me. i thought it was time we spoke.

life is not a fairy tale. not everyone deserves a happy ending.

you're a child playing at being a hero.

general rule: guys who wear masks have something to hide, and it usually ain't good.

if we don't get a chance to talk again, you take care of yourself.

[edgeran]

059. List several phrases your character is fond of uttering. Where did they pick them up?

060. What is your character’s attitude toward education and learning?

059. "it's time to chrome the fuck up."

the powerlessness at the lost of his mother, and the helplessness of the predatory streets, and corporate world, david chose to put his life on the line and be strong enough. if all it takes a little bit of flesh (in his case, a lot) to have secure his place in the world and to take care of the people he needs to, he'd gladly give it all up.

"still breathin', ain't i? don't you believe in me?"

sarcastic optimism. he likes to pretend he's not running on fumes. he doesn't like to acknowledge. it's half of what his mom used to say when rent was late and her back was hurting her more than usual. and a callback to what lucy said to him.

"fuckin' chooms."

it can either mean he's annoyed, tired, barely holding back the rage he has bottled up, or it can mean affection, depending on his tone. street language made out of love, frustration, and survival

060. david's a sponge for information. he attended a prodigious school and was an A+ student across all of his courses. assimilating into the system was the martinez way of survival. so learning tech, systems, tactics, neuro-architecture—he devoured these subjects like lunch food.

everything else he learned is instinct and fieldwork. bloody. fast. efficient. he carries that scholarly itch—between wanting to know more, and feeling like he couldn't survive for too long in a formal academic setting. he didn't fit in. his classmates looked down on him because of his background and he didn't make friends there.

but most of all, he didn't want to rise up in the corporate world. it made his mom happy, so he went along with it, but he was suffering from feeling like an outsider. and when she died, it was easy to see how school and getting it by playing the "straight-and-arrow" won't keep the city from eating alive. so he got his the fast way.

@araexec

[edgeran]

From the character dev q's:

039. What do they think is the worst thing that can be done to a person? 051. If they knew they would die tomorrow, what would they do today? 065. Is your character better at leading or following? Which do they prefer? 079. How easy is it for them to read the emotions of others?

@spectredge

039. to make them lose their memory. to become a construct [ if he was aware of the soul-killer program, he would not be down for it. ] killing someone is one evil, but hollowing them? scraping out the meat and bones, extracting the soul and amalgamating that with the machine that strips them of their will, purpose, past, rage, until all that's left is compliance dressed up in a neat corporate bow is a chilling thought. it's not even death. it's becoming a tool without the capacity to rebel back. another silence in a city full of ghosts and societal disconnect in the age of evolving technology.

051. they'd want to feel everything one last time. throw down until a couple of jaws broke in his fists, leaving a few shards of shattered teeth in his mechanical knuckles. unfreeze the last meal his mom made and drink a bottle of water (he long stopped drinking alcohol to blend in withthe older edgerunners after maine, dorio, and pilar's death) or flat soda.

he'd probably polish off rebecca's shotguns and sort out her belongings and see what he could past down to a new crew member, if one had joined his at the time.

with lucy, he'd hold her, if she let him. wouldn't say anything poetic because that's just not his style and he was never one for flowery words. he'd leave gloria's jacket to her and write something for his crew like, " i didn't waste what you all gave me. appreciate it, chooms. " in reference to the family unit and purpose.

065. although david assumes maine's role in the crew, becoming the defacto leader, he doesn't lead in the traditional sense. he carries. he doesn't bark orders—he'd be the one bleeding first. the first on the field, the face, the tank, the shield, carrying all the agro. people follow that. they trust what doesn't flinch under the pressure of danger.

but in his heart of hearts, he'd rather follow—if the cause is right. if the leader bleeds honest, and the goal isn't just bloodshed for the sake of it. but most of time, he ends up at the front anyway, not because he wants to be.... but because no one else is built like him—a guy designed to take the hits.

079. too easy, sometimes. that's part of the problem. because he can be aloof, or if he's well in-tuned with the moment, he can read 'em like static-coded braindances. he sees the guilt behind fake smiles, the fear behind twitchy fingers. maine was former military and taught david some signs to look out for. but his own trauma filters his perception.

he can tell when someone's in pain, but he naturally assumes they won't want his help. he may make it worse if he's close to that person and believe they just want personal space and create what he thinks is a respectable distance between them, if they don't say nothing.

but yeah, he can read the room sometimes. but trusting what he sees and knowing what to do with it is too different beasts. that's where the static gets loud and he disengages.

[edgeran]

017. When does your character think that violence is justified or deserved?

as a merc, a job is a job. if it demands violence. on a personal note, when it speaks for the dead. yes.

violence is the language of his grief. he was never taught to suppress it. when he was younger, he used to get into bloody brawls.

one turned straight-up frightening for one kid that beat the hell out of david, which resulted in david laughing maniacally when the kid broke his hand over david's face. he laughed for a whole hour straight, which made the people in the neighborhood think he was crazy, but some of them reassured david, telling him he was special and he'd go on to perform great things in his life.

when violence comes, it comes. he's seen justice fail time and time again. violence is a product of the system's failure, so due to his proximity to it, seeing nothing but body bags and bullshit pr, what he does in the streets is what he have to do to ensure the security of him and his gang

but there's another part of this answer: sometimes, violence is the only thing that makes him feel real. and he hates when it slips out of his control, because of senseless murder, i.e., making the next kid parentless and potentially turning them into him.

but he doesn't stop it. he doesn't know how. he answers the call for extreme violence when the ghosts won't stay dead unless their killers are left bleeding and destroyed, and when david runs out of other ways to keep breathing.

@d3adagain

[edgeran]

084. Describe your character in one word.

cathexis.

because david, much to his detriment, invests plenty of his emotional energy into people and their ideas (dreams). because of his environment, and the tragedy that befallen him with the violent loss of his mother, it's survival-wired attachment. his identity is poured into those who helped shape him, and their goals and ideals for him tether him to his own humanity in a world purposed to sever that.

if he stopped fighting for his family's dreams (gloria, marine, etc), it'll be as though he stopped being himself.

i can break this down a little further with the three main parties in his life.

lucy. she is his sanctuary, his anchor. her dreams of going to the moon become his mouth outta hell. it's not that desperation that attaches him to her but with definition. if she believes there's something better outside of night city, then he subconsciously programs himself into becoming someone worth more than nc has designed for him. with the death of maine and his mother, his selfhood is invested entirely into her. this is why he loses an ounce of his humanity when their communication becomes increasingly complicated. it was his humanity, his humans connections, that made him unique and helped him stay mentally afloat for as long as he did.

gloria. she was his mother. his reason he existed. his reason. his grief, he never had a chance to properly grieve him. it calcified into fuel when her underworld entanglements came barreling into his home. cathexis means she's not just a memory for david—she’s a cause. his entire body, his mods, his choices.... in school.. in the streets.. on the ripperdoc's slab... they all orbit that loss. that trauma became him.

the edgerunners = a family of ghosts. he loved them. they were his mother's only other attachments. their deaths don't just haunt him, they have residency inside him. every fight he engages in, every detour he takes into the fighter's pits after he enhances himself with maine's gorilla arms, he carries the edgerunners with him. his rage in the streets is personal. he's not just avenging them. he inherited them.

so yeah, cathexis is devoting oneself in the shape of identity. moving on, half-feel, David doesn't know none of that. he commits to it wholeheartedly. sometimes it's violent. it's what makes him powerful, but it's also what's killing him. it's difficult for him to detach. he only knows how to be the burning bright star for what he loves. even if it leaves nothing of him behind. and i mean nothing. not an ash, not even an atom.

@roguecmd

[bergwerkderbilder]

Night City gifs

[edgeran]

EMOTIONS / FEELINGS

emotionally wired like a battlefield: overloaded, repressed, then rupturing. all alarmingly violent. when david breaks, it’s never clean—it’s collateral.

haunted by grief reloaded through chrome. never processed his mother’s death—he just converted it into purpose and bottled rage.

guilty for surviving maine, rebecca, gloria. guilty for still wanting something soft in a city that punishes softness.

lives in the emotional aftershock of intimacy. doesn't know how to rest inside peace, only beside it. longs for connection.

tender at his core, but it shows up as loyalty that gets him hurt. again. again. again.

afraid of outliving everyone he loves. more afraid of what he becomes if he doesn’t.

sharp-edged vulnerability: doesn’t ask to be held, but bleeds in plain sight and pretends he meant to with a shaky grin.

finds clarity in chaos, and comfort in people who don’t flinch when he’s not quite human. it oddly ground him.

COLORS

Rust-Tarnished Gold (#bfa53f): broken brilliance. worn honor though he's not a soldier. a relic of who he wanted to be, burnished by early death.

Neon Red (#ff0033): rage at rest. temporary. the maddening glow behind his optic lens. a warning that never goes off in time.

Gunmetal Blue (#2f3e46): grief disguised as resolve. the color of rainy asphalt and sleepless nights.

Mercury Chrome (#d4d4d4): synthetic survival. what’s left when the flesh fails and the mission doesn’t.

Oil-Slick Black (#0a0a0a): where the guilt lives and festers as mold. yet it's where he feels safest. where he forgets he’s still human. even if it hurts to breathe.

SCENTS

liniment, gun oil, and rain-slick asphalt. body still warm from the gym or participating in underground fighting rings hosted by the animals. boyhood trauma still fresh and flowing through the veins.

chrome overheating under combat stress. smells like a machine dying slow in the dark—burnt wires, fried nerves, ready unleash a fire that'll burn just itself or everyone in proximity.

her scent in his hoodie. sakura shampoo and ghost perfume. he never washes it. not really. it triggers some of the sweetest memories his brain hasn't erased.

blood on rubber. combat sweat, diesel stench, wet concrete. the ring stinks of memory more than violence.

sweet rot. the scent of scav leftovers: pork gone too long. stays in his throat. he dreams it.

hospital antiseptic & back-alley ozone. the ripperdoc blend. trauma clinging to steel tools and cold hands.

smoke off rooftops. that half-second stillness before the living city starts up again.

CLOTHING

jackets with torn seams and faded logos. blood washed out, trauma stitched in. sometimes it is better to keep a shirt off.

boots scuffed to high hell. hardly worth the polish. memory lives in the tread.

his mother’s old work ID folded in a hidden pocket. can’t wear her love, but he carries the proof a woman like her ever existed.

simple tanks and hoodies. nothing that screams “edgerunner.” he already screams enough.

tactical gloves modified with knuckle caps. not for fashion—for forgetting what softness feels like.

one piece of lucy’s jewelry in his stash. untouched. not stolen. sacred.

OBJECTS

a chrome crucifix that isn’t religious—it's sentimental. heavy with the idea of sacrifice.

a pair of cracked kiroshi optics he keeps from maine. one still flickers faintly when handled.

an empty blood pack with a ripped label: used during a back-alley surgery, kept out of superstition.

a black-and-white photo of gloria, blurred from sweat. folds sharp from constant handling.

lucy’s moon sketch, rendered into a fragment of permanent ink along his ribs. a promise etched too late.

VICES / BAD HABITS

fights to feel things. kills to silence the parts that feel too much.

craves control, fears what he’ll become when he gets it.

pulls away from softness like it’s a lie. but lingers like it might be a promise.

doesn’t sleep unless his body crashes. runs until the wiring glitches and the guilt shuts down.

pushes people away when he needs them most. doesn't know how to properly communicate his feelings.

hyper-fixates on past mistakes. replays them in his memory like corrupted braindances.

can’t stop performing martyrdom. even when nobody’s watching.

BODY LANGUAGE

moves like someone who’s already been hit—just braced to take it again until his body wears down.

sometimes forgets how loud his chrome is. the sound of synthetic joints gives him away.

touches his own scars absentmindedly. not shame, not pride—just remembering. phantom feelings of lost flesh.

gives nods instead of words. doesn’t like how his voice sounds when he’s hurting.

tilts his head when trying to stay human in conversation. doesn’t always work.

rarely blinks. partly habit, partly cyberware, partly fear of missing something. never could articulate it.

leans closer than necessary when listening. doesn’t know how else to say i’m still here.

AESTHETICS

rooftop shadows lit by failing neon. rain hits the chrome like prayers unanswered.

crushed chrome wares and the meat it was attached to under a bloodied boot. another fight he didn’t start, but needed to finish.

arms trembling post-sandevistan use, jaw clenched, trying to look normal.

bed still made on one side. her spot untouched. he doesn’t lay there unless he’s dreaming.

bathroom mirror cracked—because he didn’t recognize himself last time.

streetlights flickering like faulty memories. every one another face he couldn’t save.

gloves still stained red even after three washes. he doesn’t care anymore. or does he? difficult to recall... feelings.

tagged by: no one. old meme i stole from me self.

tagging: @spectredge @mythdoomed @5urvive @escapedartgeek @hcdgepcdge (for rebecca) @rockerb0y @rebelichor @the27percent @monmuses @s0s0ur @jewelstole @sparklymuses @duplikcte @volegne @mkoshi @metropolist @gnpwder @helldwells @warplanet @revelres @roguecmd @darkdevour @faerie--macabre @halfdent @woodcries @pompedia @thuganomxcs

[edgeran]

@araexec liked for lyrical sc.

" more yet to come. we trained for this. worse yet come. "

[escapedartgeek]

it's a warning, a pretty clear one. perhaps z shouldn't be surprised that such reminders are necessary. given the environment, the times, the willingness of so many to cut into others just to extend their own existences that much more.

it's aggravating, frustrating - and they were just trying to find ways through beyond it despite everything.

zora gives a small nod. "i won't let them cut you up.. i'll do whatever it takes for that to be the case." they've had to fuck up a few people to defend those that they respected before and they're not above doing so again.

[edgeran]

it was good to hear that, but david doesn't answer immediately. he couldn't.

his jaw’s clenched tighter than militech’s vaults, molars grinding—chrome frame buzzing under flesh, hydraulics dark whisperings with twitchy imprecision. it’s like his fucking limbs don’t trust stillness anymore—like anything that isn’t moving must be dead. there's an inkling of violence computed as the default code and someone forgot to patch the override.

david vision flares like wildfire for half a second—not from any external light sources. it's the deathly internal spiking. the phantom burns. old traumas translating through overheating synapses. luckily, he blinks it off.

that's being too generous. he was barely able to do that.

the ripper doc's clinic is just ahead. not too far. but his hands... they twitch. curling and uncurling, slow, then fast. then, it slows again, like a car with a conscious that packs so much horsepower and flaunts it speed, but suddenly decides to cool down at the curve. or a system fed too much data to parse—spinning its wheels until it resets on instinct alone.

that's what it was. he's trying to reset. trying to stay present.

    ❝ s-sorry, z. ❞ david panted, though the half-assed apology sounded like it was limping on a broken leg. ❝ s-sometimes i feel like the chrome reachin' out. like it's hungry or somethin'... sometimes... i think i am too. ❞

his light-brown optics dim sightly, recalibrating on zora's face. bringing the distorted pixels back to the image of flesh. he sees the devotion in them. that tempered rage that says i'll kill if i have to—but only if it's for the right reasons. it's comforting, more than he's able to say.

    ❝ i believe you. ❞ he breathes, static-wrapped. and he does. that much hasn't been lost in translation with the loose wirings in his psyche.

david's movements are slow. ragged. not unusual in a city bloated with undesirables and their lingering ailments—those slow, glitching bodies that make the polished civilians avert their gaze.

but to those who cares, or to those that has a profession that allows them to identify what's what, it's obvious: david is barely holding it together. but he is holding. and that matters.

    ❝ i just need to make it inside. let the doc do his thing. ride this out. then… then we talk... also, got-gotta enough eddies for ya too.. 'n case you wanna get some chrome too. ❞

@escapedartgeek

[edgeran]

@dreamrcven liked for lyrical sc.

" this is our calling, we're not falling. "

[edgeran]

@escapedartgeek liked for lyrical sc.

" if I should fall, don't let them cut me up. "