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@lowchromecowboy
Nomad's Land
This is an independent, literate RP blog for Bronson 'V' Maverick, a Cyberpunk 2077 OC. Not strictly a V, can easily play in other verse sandboxes.
Written by Marzo, 28, she/her.
About - Rules - Verses
Multi-para / literate threads.
Past or present tense to match my partners.
Dark/mature themes possible, tagged appropriately.
Open starters are always open for pick up
smoke break @lowchromecowboy
It tasted like Chicago. Which was to say, it tasted like bad memories and worse decisions, the underside of a shoe that'd seen too much ash. Even Piper coughed, had to hit the side of her fist against her chest.
"Fuck. Really clears the sinus- what?"
The burning behind her eyes, the sensation of tears that wanted to come but would never see the light of day was momentarily dulled by Bronson's request. Her brows lifted before they narrowed.
"Choom, you serious? Fuck, alright. But if you hurl I'm going to be pissed." With a tip of her hand, his glass filled once more. Her own glass disappeared from the counter, put aside for a quick wash later. "Guy I knew once said it tasted like grapefruit, can you believe it? Always thought he was just fucking with me."
"Do you really hate me that much?" Johnny said through gritted teeth.
No, Bronson didn't actually hate Johnny that much. Most of the time, anyway; in fact there were days where he thought he genuinely liked Johnny. He couldn't shake the similarities to Vince. Some days that made Bronson like him--when the weight of Jackie and Vince in combination weighed so heavy on him he would take even a cheap facsimile of a dead friend to ease the burden--but some days it made Bronson hate him. Moments where he looked at something Johnny said, or did, and made that little voice in the back of his go: fuck, Vince would have done that. And you wouldn't have called him a crazy, angry bastard because he was Vince.
But then some days Johnny was just really, really fucking annoying.
Bronson gulped down another shot in lieu of answering him. He shook his head like a wet dog, slapping the bar top again.
"No hurling, I'm sure I've had worse. Grapefruit my ass."
Bronson grimaced and wiped it off on the back of his hand. "...honestly, weird as it sounds, sometimes I think it's good to endure something shitty. Something small and shitty," he said. "Kind of a reminder that you're alive. If nothing but good shit happens to you, kind of makes you question if you are not dreaming."
△ what would you consider to be the biggest mistake you've ever made in life?
"Oh that's a fucking ten, you bitch," Bronson says.
He takes his sweet time answering, taking out a cigarette first, holding it up to his face and taking a few tries for it to light.
"You know it's funny," he finally says, "it's hard to give an answer because it changes pretty frequently. Sometimes I think it was leaving Night City the first time, then I think it was the best thing I ever did. Sometimes I think it was coming back, then I think there was really no choice but to end up here again. I think it was leaving the Bakkers, but then something reminds me of why I left and I think, well, fuck them."
He watches the smoke leave his mouth, contemplating it as it curls up into the air.
"...but I guess the one thing I never stop regretting is getting in a car with Dexter Deshaun," he finally settled on.
△ tell us about your first kiss!
"Eh. I guess that's a five," he says. "Pretty much everyone's first kiss is awkward.
"I was...seventeen? Eighteen? My clan got hired to move some cargo for Zetatech, route planned out, was supposed to be a lowkey op that took a few days because we were supposed to keep it nice and quiet. They sent some of their own to help guard it. One of the guards is a woman. She's cute. Also definitely way too old for me, but young enough that she wasn't jaded by working for a corp yet. My best friend is a little older than me, tries to chat her up, gets turned down flat."
He laughs a little to himself at the memory, shaking his head.
"Anyway, I'm laughing at him, and he tells me 'then you fucking try and see how much luck you have.' So I ask him what I'll get if I can do it. Except I lean in real close and tell her that my friend made a bet with me that I would have worse luck talking to her than he did. Said I'd split the eddies with her. So she leaned down and gave me a quick peck on the lips, just like that."
He wiped his hands.
"Honestly it's real fucking appropo, isn't it? Even something like that, you can bribe a corpo into it."
Send me a △ and ask a really invasive question aimed at my character
They’ll have to:
Rate on a scale of 1-10 how much they don’t want to answer that question.
Answer that question.
Piper didn't know how soon he may be taking her up on that offer. Bronson leaned back with his good arm slung on the back of the chair, and raised an eyebrow. This didn't seem like the sort of thing a bartender would do if they wanted tips.
Eh.
He was dying soon anyway.
"Doesn't seem like something a bartender would say, but sure, what the hell," Bronson answered. "But given the sort of alcohol nomads must resort to at times when supplies are low, I just warn you I have a high tolerance for this sort of thing."
Try me.
"Yeah but it's something your friend would say." She countered.
From under the counter she grabbed the bottle she was looking for. It didn't look special, it wasn't green or contained in a funny shape. There was no worm or scorpion at the bottom, just crystalline clear amber liquid, and it would have been easy to mistake it for whisky savor the label.
Jeppson's Malort Liqueur.
She cracked the top off and poured two glasses, the scent was subtle, like old wet wood maybe -- or cigarettes in an alleyway after a bad ska show.
"It's terrible." She lifted her glass for a cheers. "But a rite of passage where I grew up."
Bronson narrowed his eyes, grabbing his glass and taking a sniff. It smelled truly, truly awful. Like mold and old cigarettes.
"I don't like this, V." Bronson rolled his eyes. Johnny was sitting on the stool next to him now, leaning in and taking his own sniff. "Smells like shit."
"Oh fuck off," he answered. "You probably drank hand sanitizer when you couldn't get your hands on real liquor, what do you know?"
"So what's that say if even I don't want to drink this?" Johnny answered. "You really that desperate for pussy?"
Bronson held up the glass. "To proving ourselves in Night City."
He drank.
He almost spit.
"Holy fuck!" Johnny coughed. He banned the counter. "Tastes like going down on a joytoy with chlamidya!"
Bronson pressed his fist against the table and swallowed in one hard gulp. "I do not want to think about how you know something that specific," he said with a grimace. "But keep annoying me and you're getting more."
"V I swear to God, I would rather get fucked in the ass by Adam Smasher's chromed up fist than drink that piss--"
"Gimme another," Bronson grunted, tapping the glass on the counter.
Bronson looked at his free hand, flexing his fingers. "Yeah," he agreed, "the itch."
He didn't exactly get that sort of itch, but he got other itches. The itch to get on Jackie's bike and just drive until he ran out of gas, for one. Dying out in nomad's land seemed like a good way to go. If the leads he was chasing didn't pan out, Bronson had resolved that would be what he'd do. Just drive. Die out somewhere where you could still see the stars at night. Laying on his back.
"Sometimes it's the routine gigs that are more dangerous," he said. "You think it's a simple job, done it a million times, then--boom. Shotgun to the back of the skull. Makes you careless. If I called you into something, I would make sure it's one that demands your attention."
"Well, how about this, you promise to only call me for the best fucking job, and I promise to show up ready to rock and roll. Until then," she finished wrapping up his arm and gave his hand a little pat, "I think we agreed to shots."
The medical pack was cleaned up and shoved back under the bar. She stole a glance about, eyes tracking faces, people, and when she was sure her other bartender was keeping the peace, she grabbed two shot glasses. Her hand was about to grab the bottle of halfway decent tequila when she paused.
She glanced up at Bronson, one hand braced on the bar, and a look of what could only be described as a woman who just had a certifiably bad idea cross through her mind.
"Hey... you wanna drink something really fucking gross?"
Oh.
That sounded like a dare.
Piper didn't know how soon he may be taking her up on that offer. Bronson leaned back with his good arm slung on the back of the chair, and raised an eyebrow. This didn't seem like the sort of thing a bartender would do if they wanted tips.
Eh.
He was dying soon anyway.
"Doesn't seem like something a bartender would say, but sure, what the hell," Bronson answered. "But given the sort of alcohol nomads must resort to at times when supplies are low, I just warn you I have a high tolerance for this sort of thing."
Try me.
"Smart." Props for that. Mox tips his head back, eyes flicking up towards a rooftop. "Up there. Noticed them jump a gap, still trailing you. Not one of mine," he adds. The butt of the smoke is dropped, crushed beneath a bootheel. Sharp blue eyes finally land on Bronson. He's about the oldest 40 year old possible, face weathered with signs of pain, of hard living, of a refusal to smooth over those signs of aging as is the custom around here.
It's not that he doesn't have the Eddies, either. It's that he's damn proud of exactly who, and what, he is.
"I won't get involved, you don't want to me to. But something tells me it might be wise for you to keep me around for a few moments, at least." Who would be stupid enough to gun for Jon-fucking-Moxley in this neighborhood?
Plenty of people, actually...but he's going to hold his own anyway, leaning on reputation as much as he does brass balls. Make them that scared of you, you've already won half the battle.
Bronson's eyes narrowed and he took an even better look at the guy. Built like a brick shithouse. If he wanted to kick Bronson's ass there was probably not a lot of say he would get in the matter. Still his eyes flicked up half a second to the shadow of a man on the roof, and he cursed softly to himself.
"I see you smoke, choom," Bronson said. "Name's V. I can think of about five different gangs that have reason to want me dead and potentially three corporations depending on if they figured out I was involved or not. Typical merc work. Trying to figure out why someone is following me seems like it will be more trouble than just waiting for them to try and kill me, deal with it then."
Bronson was younger than this man, but he shared a similar hard-life expression. Age kept the wrinkles from being as deeply set, but his resting face being an intense grimace around a cigarette didn't help matters.
"I got more if you want to step inside a bar for a bit," he suggested. "If I'm really being followed they'll come into the bar and I can decide what to do about it."
And maybe figure out why this guy had the aura that he was the top dog in this place.
It's Sunday and you know what that means
Bronson Pinup Day under the cut!
"You do what you gotta do."
A simple answer, in response to his comment about guts. Like everything else in life, it hadn't even felt like a choice in the moment. She had done what needed to be done because there was no other choice. Dying, going softly into that good night, wasn't an option.
Pressure on the arm, held with a firm but tender touch and a lot of clean gauze gets the bleeding to stop. That done, the blood gets wiped down and a small tube of super glue finds its way into her hand next. The poor man's stitches.
"I'd consider it. Just- I don't know, don't want to get in too deep again, you know? Big jobs are big trouble, not worth it. But," she huffs, "...you know I'd be lying if I said I didn't get that itch sometimes, you know? That tingle in your fingers."
Bronson looked at his free hand, flexing his fingers. "Yeah," he agreed, "the itch."
He didn't exactly get that sort of itch, but he got other itches. The itch to get on Jackie's bike and just drive until he ran out of gas, for one. Dying out in nomad's land seemed like a good way to go. If the leads he was chasing didn't pan out, Bronson had resolved that would be what he'd do. Just drive. Die out somewhere where you could still see the stars at night. Laying on his back.
"Sometimes it's the routine gigs that are more dangerous," he said. "You think it's a simple job, done it a million times, then--boom. Shotgun to the back of the skull. Makes you careless. If I called you into something, I would make sure it's one that demands your attention."
Nothing like a photo to celebrate your first 1st place finish in a Night City Race.
For the purposes of this blog Bronson has no canon romance but MAN even though I know Claire isn't romancable it is hard to decide who he's gonna choose between her and Panam.
“I have a feeling we’re about to become acquainted whether we like it or not.” / from iara!
Bronson's eye was popping out of his skull. Unfortunately for him, this was extremely literal.
He knew this wasn't Vik's fault. The man was the best of the best as far as ripperdocs went. No, this was a result of his own shitty ass intolerance to chrome biting him in the ass. That was the problem with optics though: once you got them, you didn't have 'ganic eyes anymore. It was a matter of just making the shit work, now.
Vik was out. Bronson was sure if he called Vik he'd drop everything for him, but Vik deserved a day off. They'd both been through hell the last few weeks. So Bronson asked around with one simple question: who was a good ripperdoc near Watson?
Hence him showing up at this clinic with his eyeball falling out of his head. He frowned.
"No shit," he grunted, then sighed. "...sorry. As you can guess I am in a bit of a mood. Do you uh...I hear you take walk-ins. That true? Name's V and I can transfer the eddies immediately."
Another roll of her eyes, but Piper went about undoing the bandages all the same. Long, delicate fingers worked diligently and with a certain level of familiarity. Oh sure, Piper wasn't a doctor, but she'd cleaned enough wounds that this was within her wheelhouse.
Didn't even grimace at the sight of the cuts.
"Worst I ever got on a gig?" She asked. "Shit, let's see... car accident. We finished the job, drove off, and immediately got Maelstrom on our heels. It was raining, and we lost control of the car. Rolled. I blacked out for like, I don't know, ten seconds? Came to upside down and dragged myself out of the car - my mainline too - and came out guns blazing. Just," she paused in her repair to lift her hands, mimicking an SMG, "right into those fucking chrome heads. Didn't realize it until the high of the moment was over, but I ended up with a break in my spine. Wild what adrenaline will do to you."
Bronson stared at Piper while she spoke and was preoccupied with his arm, and holy shit. There were moments like now where Bronson was reminded of two things. One, that in spite of himself he still found Piper very, very attractive; and two, he hated himself for having such a thing for women that had at least a healthy dash of insanity. This was precisely why Bronson had made himself behave when it came to her, not that she'd probably say yes to another round with him anyway.
He gave a low whistle. "Damn, choom, that takes guts," he said. He bit the inside of his cheek, then said, "ever thought about making some eddies for old times' sake? I wouldn't mind sharing the cut on the job or two. I, uh...not trying to drag you out of retirement, mind, but you know what they say. If you're the kind of person to get into that line of work the itch never leaves, not really."
I have been informed by my friend that Sunday is for NSFW.
Therefore for my own amusement Sunday is now officially Bronson Pinups Day
NSFW photomode under the cut:
"Animals?" Her brows lifted. "Damn, choom, you're lucky it's only that bad."
Getting thrown through a glass table could have gone real south real fast if his luck had been any worse. Green eyes flit down to his bandaged arm again and she pushes back from the bar.
"Bandages first. Shots second."
Three steps to the left and one knee pop from crouching down later Piper returns with the first aid box. It lands heavily on the counter by him and she pops it open with her thumbs.
"Ugh, I can't believe you're making me be the responsible one right now. Not cool." She holds her hand out, fingers open and closing in a grabby motion. "Come on, hand it over."
Bronson didn't like being tended to. At least not by a woman his own age. Mama Welles would fuss when Jackie and Bronson showed back up at the Coyote with all manner of scrapes and bruises, but she was a mother, she was allowed to do that. If it was anyone but Piper, he might have even refused. But he liked this bar and he didn't want to make it awkward by being a dick to the bartender.
"Fine, but that shot better be bourbon," he grumbled, holding his arm out for her. As she started the work of patching him up, Bronson pressed his good hand against his thigh, trying to think of how to make conversation.
"You used to do your fair share of jobs, right?" He asked. "What's the worst injury you ever got on a gig?"
