thedravanianhorde

[thedravanianhorde]

At least she's got a sense of humor. Kepler can respect a good laugh - hell, before they died out, some animals used to cackle incessantly in order to ring the dinner bell, to signify a good meal. The Maelstrom operates the same and so does every other packless Raffen, so when this little corpo runaway calls him ugly, he can't help the similarly ugly snort that comes from him. She's funny. Wonder if she'll be funny being traded for 250k.

There's no small part of him that thinks this could go badly. This woman might scramble him and leave him dryheaving in the back of his own off-roader; she might turn his optics useless forever, turn his fists into something closer to cotton than steel. She really might make him all but 'ganic again, but Kepler can't help himself. A glutton for money, a glutton for punishment, but mostly—

WHAT DOES IT MATTER? HERE TODAY, DEAD TOMORROW, GO BIG OR GO HOME, CHOOM!

"I think I wanna talk to your sup," Kepler's grin cracks across his face like lightning, disappears just as quickly, "What a shitty exchange policy."

![SANDEVISTAN CHARGED]!

Kepler watches her with all seven eyes, all working in tandem to provide something closer to a panoramic view of what's in front of him. Something's up her sleeve for sure, but Kepler can't quite figure out what just yet. That's a horrible flank strategy, if that's what she's up to, but he's also willing to let this play out exactly the way it's going. It's been weeks, and the initial pickup went scarily well. No shakedowns, no odd looks, just snatch and go. Easy. Boring.

She's not so boring, though. This is almost fun. Who cracks first? Who moves first, who invites the punishment? Who's a bigger glutton for pain? Kepler pushes all his chips to the center.

He is.

"Well," the bigger of them sighs, holding one hand out as he slowly - visibly - draws his duffel bag forward, "If this is how you wanna play it, alright. Sleep well, and have a good night."

That first hit on a full charge never fails to make the head spin. Somewhere between a Lace hit and an orgasm, the chemical cocktail the Sandevistan pushes through Kepler can only be compared to a first kiss, to a painkiller given intravenously. It feels good, some undisclosed mix of dopamine, oxytocin, prolactin when the chrome crackles on cooldown. Kepler takes the hit like a pro, physical and through the lungs—

—and leaves only a mild dust-devil in his wake, grinding the old locust corpses below to their final stage of decomposition. Nothingness.

The duffel is gone and so is the lockbox, but that doesn't mean Kepler's safe from getting fucked over. If every other fight he's been in has been distanced by choice, this is distance and stealth by need. Despite Kepler's jokes before, despite an unwavering confidence that he could do this one handed, he is no longer Militech's showdog. If he's hacked, it will hurt. If he's hacked, there's a nonzero shot he'll need to ring fuckin' Kenshin, and that's a nonoption. This girl might be a shortstacked corpo runaway, but to call her weak is outright incorrect. Her hardware says otherwise. This drop says otherwise.

When he comes to a rest, it's on the second floor balcony of a burnt-out building now directly across from the runner. How fast can he assemble his favorite rifle? Let's find out.

Against the dead quiet of the wasteland, his voice is like iron nails scrapping along steel. It makes her skin crawl, her muscles tense. Cringeworthy in an unsettling way.

"It isn't worth having to deal with your ugly ass." Comes the venomous snap back; rapid and sharp like the bite of a snake. If she were a diamondback, she would have already started giving a rattling warning.

"You think I'm stupid? That I don't know you'd splatter my brains in the blink of an eye, customer service and gentlemanly behavior be damned?" Optics flicker to his hand twitching and itching for the steel that rests within reach. That they agree on. There's nothing within their surroundings that she can manipulate to her advantage. But him? All it would take is one quick hack. She could fry his cortex, paralyze certain limbs, make him go blind. He could take hold of the beloved pistol and — BANG!

It occurs to her that in their game of Simon Says, he only made mentions of not going near her car. He never specified outside of that. The question is, does she make a mad dash out into that sandswept ghost town or try and play mind games?

Better yet, why should she back down to him?! A reckless, hubris fueled train of thought to say the least.

One step, then two are taken with bits of gravel crunching under her soles. Not towards her vehicle. Quite the opposite actually. More to the side and his vicinity. "You want customer service? Fine. How about this. Kiss my ass, eat a bag of dicks, and have a good night." The last sentence is spoken with a sickeningly faux sweetness. The follow up is a rather vulgar hand gesture.

It's certainly not the behavior one expects from a woman of her cultural background. Obnoxious. Crude. Definitely not delicate as a flower — always seen and heard. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

[thedravanianhorde]

[thedravanianhorde]

Kepler normally isn't so distractable. Normally, he would've noticed that tongue piercing ages ago and thought nothing of it. So why now is he convinced this is the first he's seeing of it, and why now is that bothering him? Like he should've noticed it earlier, and far before it was being run up the underside of his gun? It's irritating. No, it's actually more than irritating, it's mildly infuriating. Kepler squeezes the grip harder, palm compressors working to stabilize the hold.

The gun doesn't shake, his hands don't tremble, but something in Kepler snaps. He's not sure if it's the relaxed state of Kenshin's shoulders or if it's the sir he tacks on at the end, taken as a taunt more than anything, but looking down at him is murder. Looking down at him like this, watching Kenshin work over iron like he's all-too-familiar with the action—fuck him. Really and truly, send him to Hell and never let him out. Kenshin knows what he's doing, time-passing activity or no.

So when he snaps, that iron comes clean out of the other man's mouth, and the magazine's edge meets Kenshin's browbone.

Kepler hits Kenshin hard, hard like he means it, hard like a similar taunt. Hard like foreplay, hard like please, hard like more. Kepler's never been quite this unsure of his own wanting, and part of him is reminded that Kenshin is still younger than him. Then again, it's not like he's ruining something pure. Kenshin's not a flowering virgin, plain and simple. Can you ruin something you first found in the bottom of a flooded-out oil tanker? Kepler doesn't think so. He doesn't think so, so when Kenshin recoils from the hit, Kepler takes it upon himself to manhandle him further.

This bed is... A choice to do this on, to be sure. God knows how many other people have had this same idea. Luckily though, neither of them are here on romantic getaway, and luckily, there's nothing that money can't buy can't be cured. Bad ideas be damned, Kenshin is hauled up by the back of his neck and tossed onto his back before he can say hey wait. Kepler looms over him like a bad habit, knees on either side of Kenshin's hips.

"Lean up," it's an order, metal fingers already going for his own belt, "You did all the work ruining that deal and my mood, you're gonna do all the work to fix the latter. Open."

On his knees. It could be a disadvantage. Most times, it is. However he's not one to beg even in such a position; it's a place to drag out imbalance, both a provocation and promise for more to come should they continue with this little number. C'mon, the exit's only a trigger away. GONNA PULL IT OR NOT? And already, long before the expected ache to twinge through his knees, Kepler's folding like an overworked corpo near a Boost stash. The bastard groans like Kenshin's got his tongue on him! Hook, line, here's the sinker: Kenshin leans back a breath, opening his mouth wide to run a pierced tongue from the trigger to tip, tasting the steel, remnants of oil. A brazen attitude mixed with the need to tear a man's pulse with his razored teeth.

"Sure is more interestin' than hearin' ya bitch." There's worse ways to kill time. Brow quirking, he stares up at Kepler and the wildfire-pattern of his scars and the still blazing inferno at the center of it all. It's a look aimed to strip him down to the core -- Kenshin obliges by making the bullseye even bigger. "No offense, sir." Full offense meant.

Dust, grime. A layer of ash settles around the room, the mildew scent tinged with a sickly-sweet taste of loneliness. Now that's easy, being lonely in a world like this. Easier than getting on your knees; all someone has to do is keep upright, keep closed off as a closed-casket funeral, and soon enough the result will envelop everything, every second and minute while a voice in your head says it's fine.

Head tilting, the regular motion seeming to represent a silent question, Kenshin makes a show of moving his hands. Nice and slow. Sets one palm after the other on the other's knees, squeezing lightly at the coiled muscles. Which reflex will win out? The one to kick or the one to spread them wide open? "Gonna make me do all the work as usual?"

[thedravanianhorde]

//sometimes responding with kepler feels like im sitting behind him punching him repeatedly and yelling "STAY AWAY FROM HER!!!!!!!!!!!! GET A JOB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

[thedravanianhorde]

Kepler's heart jumps into his throat.

Does this gonk have a fucking deathwish? Is all that blunt-force trauma starting to corrode his processors, is he mentally fucking challenged? Fuck's sake, why is he getting under the skin like this, lighting Kepler's nerves up like a MaxDoc dose shot clean through an artery? Kenshin is not a dull knife he twists inside himself, but rather a serrated blade that eases him open with a false tenderness. The burn only comes after the incision.

He leans into the barrel of the .45 Kepler holds steady to his head, and Kenshin once again looks strange in the dying light. Strange. Boyish, again, but not quite. That isn't, and never will be, a way to describe him. The changing shadows on grimy, bloody walls change the shape of the other's face, turning him into all corners and scars, rough edges and striking optics. Yet still, he looks like every other chewed up piece of meat in those dropships, and at the same time, had they never known each other - Kepler might underestimate him. Kepler might assume him a wannabe psycho, a gonk bottom-rung merc, a has-been and never-will-be.

His opinion is, of course, not at all swayed by the way he eases Kepler's fucking gun into his mouth, between his teeth.

The groan that leaves him is involuntary, a sound he'd deny making. A low, raw hum at the back of the throat, raspy and cut-off, he doesn't bother moving his hands. He does, of course, rest his finger flat over the trigger guard. The safety is off. It could only take a brush.

"Is this how I shut you up?" A mumble into the tense space between them, "Just give you somethin' better to do with that tongue?"

There's a hint of said tongue on the underside of the barrel. A shiver runs up Kepler's Sandy, technicolor pleasure, and the sun glints off of Kenshin's gauges, his cyberware. How strange to be stuck in this moment, how strange to want to take him to the lower floors of Totentanz.

Kepler volleys Kenshin's overly-assured, toothy grin. "You're fuckin' easy."

The man with the crooked smile bares his teeth, the angle of it sharp and jagged as a bear trap. It's one of Kenshin's favourite tools to use out on the field -- what's old is new, low tech enough to be missed by most scanners. Give it a few days in those abandoned shit holes, and there's usually blood, torn limbs, and sometimes, if he's real lucky, someone still breathing and squirming in pain. And all too aware of the danger, the promise of bone snapping, he toys with the pressure plate of Kepler's temper. Memories conditioned by pain, and there! There's that look.

Hazy light glints off the silver ring hanging from that lower lip moments before something better shines into view.

Worse than an Animal. Squad mates muttered that often, thinking themselves out of hearing range whenever Kenshin strolled back into HQ to file reports with a pep in his step. Was it the blood? Or the state of his eyes that proved whatever treatment plan corporate lab coats put him through never could flush out everything wrong in him. He'd stop by Kepler's desk, glancing at piles of datapads next to holograph pictures of him and his wife, all plastic smiles. Livin' the great American dream there, pal? Looking more dead on his feet lately. Long hours, longer nights, but even then Kenshin would stop by, insistent like clockwork, and ask for a few matches on the training mats. Patrol, sometimes, if the chatter on the radio was extra lively that week.

Metallic creak. The bed frame groans. Right. He's here, not there. Not anywhere else. THE WORLD BURNS. IT'S BEEN BURNING. TIGHTNESS IN THE LUNGS, BREATHE IN DEEP. Pistol to temple, didn't a corpo say AE0L-10150 is religion for the masses? Here's another sickness for the body: lead poisoning.

The safety clicks.

Kenshin angles his head to press against the barrel. Make it leave an indent in his skin. "Should do it through the mouth... Less of a mess, y'know?" Unnerving eye contact as he shifts, hand squeezing over Kepler's trigger-ready hold to drag the barrel lower; it scrapes against the gold cyberware, leaves tiny little scratches that'll buff out if he cared enough. Then, with a sharper exhale, the remnants of laughter to grate against the other's voice, he opens his mouth and coaxes the barrel inside. All loving, teeth glimmering as the end bruises his softer palette.

[thedravanianhorde]

Touchy, touchy like a grenade with a loose pin. Kepler sniffs, indignant. He takes another long drag, the exhale reflecting his present laziness, and the silence more deeply permeates the air the longer he refuses to move.

Do the dead stay buried? It's a pointless question. Night City and its surrounding hostile wasteland are forever shifting, graves uplifted out of the dunes and bones ground into concrete foundations for greater expansion. It doesn't really matter if the dead stay buried, but in Kepler's experience, they tend not to. Not here, not in these parts anyway - the city, the asphalt and surrounding dunes, they won't let you flatline. Dying within certain bounds backwardly assures your survival, which means that at a certain point, one corpse crosses paths with another.

This, however, cannot stand. For example; two cars meet going seventy-five miles per hour. Notably, they do not simply phase through each other.

"Get my optics checked, but you're the one that's fucking deaf," Kepler's head cocks to the side, the reinforced case dropped to the dusty ground underfoot, "Deal's off."

A steeltoed boot comes to rest atop the case. Behind the runner, the shitbox she pulled up in; he could chase her, in theory. Theory, because that's a waste of gas and Kepler's already running low, but the idea sends a thrill up his Sandevistan nonetheless. Pop a tire, chase her through the burnt-out buildings? Maybe, but he'd have to pop her quick. Attitude like that implies the existence of sharp mantis blades, and the equipment in question implies ownership of a cyberdeck - two things to ruin a day. Two things to, potentially ruin a week.

...Eh. It's 250k on the line, and if it isn't this that kills him, it will be something else.

"I don't like painting roads with the innards of girls," Kepler explains around another mouthful of smoke, "So I'm going to be a gentleman, and I'm gonna warn you once. You take another step back toward that car you came in with, and you'll get delivered back home in the bed of mine."

He'll pop the tires with a shot if he has to. For now, why not get comfortable? Why not get to know each other? "Either way, you're a shit actress. I'm not giving you jack shit, and you're not leaving until we've worked on our customer service skills together. So let's do that, huh?"

Kepler's iron burns hot in its holster, a tight grip on the thigh. "How much is this worth to you? Clock's ticking, Minako."

@thedravanianhorde ⛧ cont.

Truly she had planned to be civil if only because this was a favor for a friend. It's no biggie. Just need you to pick it up for me and get it shipped down here to New Orleans, Damien had said, I'll spot you a chunk of sweet moolah ontop funds required for the deal. No sweat, yeah? But oh, goddamn what a turn this encounter has taken.

Minako Hirose. The name — her name — makes her blood run cold and her intestines flip flop. How does he know?

HOW DOES HE KNOW !?

He mentions her mother and of course! Mother dearest every so often puts out a PSA still in search of her. I just miss my daughter, she'll sob with crocodile tears. Mina knows better. If anything Etsuko laments the loss of another, more personal, lab rat not a child. And if she recalls it couldn't have been more than a week ago she caught a glimpse of an outdated photo of her blasted on wavelengths once more. There hadn't been a significant amount of worry because her appearance had shifted somewhat both naturally from blossoming age and synthetically due to cyberware, dyed streaks of hair and more traditional body mods. Echoes of the old visage lingered no doubt, yet remixed just enough she had thought no recognition would be easily pinpointed. That and there had been the assumption no one would give a shit enough to pay attention to those stupid bulletins. Evidently she's very wrong.

If she remembers correctly the current generous bounty reward placed upon her is 250k. Not a price tag to scoff at. That amount while a drop in the bucket to many corpocunts is more than the majority of people below the ivory towers would ever see in their lives.

"I think you need to get your sight checked or invest in some better optics. Because you sure as shit don't know what you're talking about." V (not Minako) replies with a scoff. Never does she let her sight off the chromed cockroach. Borged up fucker looks like he belongs with Maelstrom (gross). Hand rests on her hip just above where her iron is holstered. She scoped the area before arrival on the off chance things went sour.

The pump station long abandoned with the two of them being the only living organisms to haunt it. As far as she knows. There hadn't been signs of others lurking in the deep shadows; that doesn't mean it's completely off the table. This was a bad idea — all of it; coming alone, the designated meetup location, the time...

Already the adrenaline has started getting warmed up ready to flow through her veins. The flickering of the sad, lone light, exacerbates her mounting anxiety. There's the thought of just make a break for the clunker that is her car. Just drive away and forget the exchange. One foot unconsciously moves backwards as if poised to go with that idea.

"Look, let's just get this over with. Put the case midway between us and I'll toss you the cash that's owed. But don't get fucking near me."

[thedravanianhorde]

Kenshin, he's... Infuriating, really, an itch under the skin like nicotine withdrawal. Maddening, agitating, a real and genuine itch Kepler just can't get to no matter how deep he scratches. He's scratching himself bloody now. He just can't get to it, it's almost beneath the muscle at this point, edging painful. He can feel the other man's tendons and wires flex beneath his skin, testing the hold but it won't break, no. It stays tense, and Kepler squeezes once in warning as Kenshin bends over.

There's a curve his jaw follows, perfectly measured for the cyberware that makes up the lower half. Expensive teeth inside sharp cheeks, sharp eyes, something wrong at the very back of them. Kepler doesn't remember his own face anymore, but he thinks he recongnizes the look as the other whispers - boyish - wanna know a secret? Would he like to know, wouldn't he like to learn something new? Kepler doesn't want to know. He doesn't want Kenshin to keep running his mouth.

Kenshin running his mouth so flagrantly means his lips are moving, and that means Kepler can't take his eyes off his teeth. His teeth. They're - good, they're expensive, Kepler wants to hold them in his hands. Rip them out one at a time, keep him from talking as much as he does, run a thumb over his tongue in between. Cut that out too, maybe, if only to listen to the sound he makes while choking; if only to see the look on his face when the knife comes out. Kenshin keeps talking - Kepler wants his tongue. What his mind flashes on, however, is purely a result of adrenaline. It can be nothing else.

Remember?

—ON THE GROUND SHOW ME YOUR HANDS BACK UP LIEUTENANT I SAID BACK UP AND PUT YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM FUCK HE'S GONE HE JUST DISAPPEARED GET A VISUAL—

Remember?

Mark. Don't be a pain in my ass. Come here, boy.

Remember?

I missed you today, baby.

Kepler's vision tunes clear again, optics whirring quietly as Kenshin comes back into focus. The hollow of his throat would take a knife well, just between all the thin gaps in the chrome. A slow slide-in, a work-up to a crime of passion. Kenshin would take it well, such a good sport, damn near a doll on the mat for demonstration. Remember? The boys, the ones on Kepler's squad. Kenshin says he should be angry and, frankly, he's inclined to agree. He should be angry. Stupid that he's not; stupid they're here, like this.

He... Sighs, Kenshin, and Kepler wants to hurt him. It's a light one, a give-in sigh as he relaxes into the hold. Kepler wants to hurt him. Thank God, because he's given the fucking chance. Stupid motherfucker starts it.

The knee to the chest knocks the wind out of him with a ragged gasp, the physical instigation catching Kepler off-guard. Fool him once. The second punch is a little more expected, and Kepler handles Kenshin like the rowdy fucking brat he is - iron is pulled, a slight twist of the hip to make it an easier grab. The barrel presses to the other's skull before that fist can connect, and Kepler whistles out low and slow.

"I'll blow your brains out otherwise," he whispers, the metal in his voice painfully audible, hard on the ears, "You should try drawing it out a little. Makes the end more satisfying."

Amidst the spread of graffiti on the walls, numbers clash against each other. What year is it again? According to the drip-smear behind Kepler's head, it's 2061 all over again. According to his skyline-broken memories, it's a few more years yet before the man's resignation painted the news outlets red with urgency. BREAKING NEWS! STOCK PRICES LOWER BECAUSE OF A MINOR INCIDENT AT THE CITY SQUARE. UPDATES ABOUT THE LATEST CELEBRITY SCANDAL NEXT! STAY TUNED. STAY TUNED AND KEEP LISTENING. STOP THINKING FOR YOURSELF. And according to the evidence, the spread pattern of dried blood, someone blew off their head here, in that very spot on the bed, some years ago. Intent, intense, Kenshin watches anger splotch up Kepler's features; it's an emotion that sets into the posture first, then the voice, and lastly the eyes. Even before the Maelstrom headgear, there seemed to be a need to keep his gaze hidden -- glasses and helmets, physical barriers against the soul's indecency to glow brighter than the neon signs. That's the thing about people, they really do light up when they're doing something they enjoy. Even if those eyes are the same hue of a sniper's red dot, honed precisely over the chest -- or it's precisely because of that Kenshin grins, all teeth. All the worst traits inherent to a man bored of life's daily grind.

"Y'wanna know a secret?" Tendons flex 'neath Kepler's crushing grip. It's not a hold meant to subdue. Lost your touch there, LT? Spine bowed, pulled lower, closer, he glances at the horizontal scar across Kepler's throat. "Feels like I'm expected to be angry at ya for what ya did to the boys back then." Worst list of casualties MaxTac's seen in years. There's a grudge born from that time, one Kenshin fails to hold any interest in despite knowing those dead men better than most. "Remember? Bet ya catch glimpses here and there. Maybe if I was there back then, ya would have scar to really remember me by." His other hand comes up. Fingers brush against the failed garrote, nail picking at the edges. Whoever did the cut should've gone a few centimeters lower. Bled him dry like like something for the slaughter. He'd look good hung up from chains, hooks in his shoulders.

Engine roar in the distance, muted by their breathing. Water droplets gather and fall in second-long intervals from the broken pipes. "Should know better than to ask questions like that. Y'know ain't nothin' connected right up in here." Who else licks the dripping, hot viscera off their superior's face after blowing someone's guts out with a shotgun? It's 2069. Winter. Or is it 2071? Who the fuck cares anymore! "Sure sure..." The conversation filters through one ear and out the other as he stares at Kepler. As he recalls reaching the scene during clean up, hours after upper management sent out the notice about a rogue agent.

If he were sane, he would've called it in a long, long time ago. FOLLOW PROTOCOL OR DIE! What's the point? He sighs, body seeming to relax and lean into it a bit more. Time to turn that frown inside out. "Why ya still holdin' back?" A murmur, each word brushed against the side of that thick skull before his weight shifts, knee smashing against the other's chest, pushing pushing and pushing to get Kepler on his back. The frame won't last at this rate. Already his free hand's winding up for a follow up strike, fist aimed directly at his face.

[thedravanianhorde]

//one of these days i'll write this out, but something that never fails to get me going about helene and kepler is how they were set up.

it was absolutely down to the minute after weeks of tailing him. several people in an enclosed area all working in tandem to make sure she just... trips into him, really make it believable. and she acts her HEART out. papers flying, poor overloaded corpo-assistant all frazzled. of course he feels terrible. she's barely half his size, glasses all skewed. god.

[thedravanianhorde]

Does he have better places to--?

What an asshole. Worse than those beatcops in Dogtown that let that junkie eat a kilo, tried to cut it out, and dissolved it in coagulating corpseblood on accident. He can't be serious. Kenshin's a gonk motherfucker at the best of times, but this really steals the pinãta from the b-day boy. This really cracks Kepler's chrome, that who-gives-a-fuck attitude grating. This is a problem, goddammit. These guys could have them pinned here for hours, maybe a day if they're determined. At best, this will be boring. At worst, this will open up their current wounds and make some new ones.

Not that Kenshin gives a shit, considering he's over here reminiscing about some wasp's nest they cleared in days gone by. Tùzǐ, he says, rabbit - Triads, must be. If he thinks, and he does think about it, Kepler can remember... Really, he can remember almost nothing from those seventy-two, seventy-four hours. Or, he can remember almost nothing at first, because the longer he stares up at Kenshin the more his face looks odd. Funny. Like the lighting in here is wrong, like these quarters should be longer - tighter. Like they're missing gear.

A knife thrown so close to the face it nearly grazes the ear. Dropping to a kneeling position to fire, steady, stable, a full mag into a hostile at close range. The dust settles. Trying to fucking kill me, operator? No, sir, you just forgot to check yer six.

"For the record," Kepler growls, looking up with an expression of absolute disdain, "You are currently fucking me out of tuning a Militech drone. Royce is gonna be pissed, and I'm gonna have to tell him to eat lead. Or maybe I'll make you do it, since your bigass mouth put me here. Maybe it'll get me out of here, too."

A chokehold, an animalistic scream, Kepler's voice not yet like nails embedded in the trachea. Hold him still, hold him still, it's only fair we ask some questions. No, no, reading of rights is for those boys on the street - look at me - we don't do that, hear? No, we don't do that, just answer some questions for me. Hold him tighter. Tighter. I wanna hear his chrome start flexing.

Give it 'til sundown, he says, and follows it up with something Kepler hasn't heard in a long time.

LT, Kenshin calls him, and Kepler can feel his patience beginning to splinter at the tension point. He's quick, a heavy hand snatching up the other man's wrist and holding it there, grip tight. He uses it to yank him in a little closer, optics whirring as they bring Kenshin's face into crystal clarity. Close enough to see the texture of his skin, the hexcoded colors on those Kiroshis. Not boyish, but the look in his eye certainly is. What a fuckin' nuisance.

"I don't know if you've got all your wires connected, all that soft updated, but this is not some old training module, operator. We stick our heads out the door in the next few hours, we get bolted to the back of those ATVs and dragged down to the city limit. Not on my agenda today."

Kepler holds Kenshin a little tighter, pulls him a little closer. "Should I remind you how much that fuckin' package is worth?"

At ease, soldier! Body leaning near the window, glimpsing at the dozen-cleaved world beyond the blinds, most yellowed by the desert sun and decades of filth, Kenshin keeps a head count; the odds aren't that bad, but the disadvantage of bright daylight burning down on them for several more hours is too much of a hassle to account for when it comes to culling the raiders down. Work smarter, not harder -- and he's a creature conditioned for those dark, labyrinthine places, hallways and buildings buried 'neath the newer layers of the city, progress not unlike slapping a fresh coat of paint over a cracked foundation to hide the clear, stark decay taking place. Places much like this, where the chlorine lingers as faint as the aftertaste of ab-synth, enveloped by the staler air. Black mycelium pulsate from the upper corners, crawling down with all the leisure deserving of something that outlasted the last half-century of tenants cycling in and out; it will outlast them, too. He wonders if the spores inhaled from being in this room will one day bloom in his lungs. Fat chance considering the chemical cocktail flowing rampant within his veins, but it makes for a nice picture.

With that pleasant thought in mind, he ambles over to the other occupant, heavy steps crushing ampules, coming to a stop a step outside those spread knees. Hands in his pockets, the spilled, drying blood blending with the dark cargo pants, Kenshin grins, head tilted -- eyes bright, unrepentant of the mess they're in. Kepler considers it a fuck-up, ever the spoilsport about these things. Still, Kepler looks good. The fluorescent light cuts his body like a chisel, casting him as nothing but sharp parts to cut yourself against. " Y'got better places to be? Don't this remind of ya of the tùzǐ case?" A single squad against a whole Triad hellbent on protecting their cyber-manic heir. Took near three whole fucking nights to finish up; the memory bordering on fond when it comes to those early years. "Give it till sundown."

The ridged sole of one boot hook against the frame, brushing against the outside of Kepler's right thigh with the motion. "Untwist yer panties, LT. Ain't like the package is in risk." A reinforced case of something experimental and expensive hastily concealed in a foxhole. Kill a few dozen Raffens, deliver the cargo. Boom. Easy. Kenshin leans more of his weight down, aware of the other's rotten mood. ( There's no worse place than Marcus' chem-addled mind, a type of terrain that's preferred by the thing bred to existence by violence. ) Exhale breathy, reminiscent of sardonic laughter, he draws one hand out. Taps a finger against his chin as if in deep thought. "Don't tell me yer mad 'bout the room service." cont. / @thedravanianhorde

[thedravanianhorde]

𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 : a small-town diner where the neon sign is flickering at the edge of the parking light. it's near empty and the air is heavy of grease and old coffee. / @neuroslayyer for Val!

Who does this girl think she is?

Well - okay. She might be older, but that doesn't mean she gets dibs on that merc name. Come on, existing in Night City is hard enough - and sure, maybe nobody has a unique identity here or whatever, but-- but--! I mean, come on, her name is literally V! It's insane, too, because it really is just V! V, damnit, what if her name's like... Sarah? That would be so fuckin' gonk it's unreal. Come on, what did that guy mean by ya shouldn't rip off other mercs?

Rip off? Rip off? Motherfucker, I'm the original! Right? By the sound of it, apparently not. By the sound of it, this V has been here a hell of a lot longer than she has. Go figure, nomads never get the easy path - always the ones that need lower tire pressure, four-wheel-drive and a sureheaded driver. Fuck. V buries her face in her hands, sighing hard. What's she supposed to go by? People can't call her... Well. Whatever. Maybe she'll pick something stupid, like fuckin'. Manslaughter, or Third Degree Murder. Whatever. What a joke.

Maybe, though, this girl should probably get cut some slack. It's not like she's not an insanely cool netrunner with a group V could only dream of joining or anything. Dream of, because after doing a little digging of her own, apparently this other V is head of a group she's loved since she left her mentor's iron grip. Apparently, this girl is the one and only NEUROSLAYYER. Yeah. Rock on. Not like she didn't make an ass out of herself to that skezzball hacks dealer or anything, looking like a total biter.

This diner sucks. It's loud, it's shitty, and it's not clearing her head like V thought it would. No amount of hitchhiking out to the edge of the city will fix this predicament, and no anount of synthcoff will cure this thought-trap. V's an idiot; sue her. This whole on-your-own shtick is a lot harder than it looks, okay? Not only that, but her name's literally taken in the merc scene by fuckin' actual NEUROSLAYYER. The world's full of funny jokes, but this punchline blows.

Maybe, though, it doesn't have to.

Having seen her work nearly firsthand, V knows this girl knows her way around corpo subnets. If that's the case... If that's the case, she might know something about the man who's thumb she was under for years, and who's thumb he was under. That name, that fucking woman he rambled about, Helene; V wouldn't go for this, she's sure. She's a legendary glitter-covered corpo-killer, a hackmaker, she's not running a fuckin' charity here. If she's not running a charity, though, she won't mind if V runs herself into the ground.

The gears are turning; the ICE is melting. The numbers are starting to lock into place. She might have access to a lot of things. If V can play up the fan angle, or even just get a convo in, she really might have a shot at knowing how it all came to what it did.

Laptop out of an old, old duffel bag, section D1. Personal link connected and screen shifted away from the average diner. Time to throw some rocks at some windows.

[[ @neuroslayyer ]]: Hey

[[ ?? ]]: Two V's pressed real close together makes a whole new letter. No-Tell Motel. Be there or be a fuckin ▢

[thedravanianhorde]

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 : hotel by the sea side - the wallpaper is peeling, the pool needs to be cleaned and the lights flicker. / ke and kep

Shithole. That's a word for it.

Shithole, and both of them are bleeding. It smells like chlorine so badly it burns what's left of Kepler's nose, the insides raw enough from overuse. The chemical smell sticks to the back of his throat; almost postnasal drip, clean synthcoke. Not quite. Too metallic, too much salt - sweat-salt, biohazard. You couldn't convince a laced-out joytoy to drop panties here, let alone get a decent sleep, let alone take care of a wound without infecting it.

Luckily, the two men holed up in this hostel are shy of invincible.

Outside, ATVs and bikes circle. Far, sometimes close, but mostly out in the dust craters of the Flats do the Raffens seem to focus their search efforts. Good, then, they were successfully thrown off. All that's left to do now is not bleed to death and not fall asleep. An easy enough task for a pair of bloodhungry chrome junkies. They'll survive until the rats and roaches get bored.

The inside of this room has the poolwater's murky reflection coming through a crack in the titanium door, slightly ajar from the brute force used to open and close it. The room itself is filthy, but Kepler is no stranger to this kind of filth. Used airhypos, incomplete decks of cards and old wrappers litter the room, empty inhalers on every surface. Kepler's duffel is in the corner of the room, unopened. The bedframe acts as the back of a chair for the man himself at present.

"They'll look for hours," Kepler murmurs, more growl than anything, inconvenient, "we may as well get fucking comfortable. Well done, you fucking gonk."

A long, crackling draw of a near-empty nicotine tank. The exhale is bitter and long. "Cannot fucking believe you."

[thedravanianhorde]

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 : a deserted gas station - pumps dry and covered in vines, a single flickering light and an empty parking lot. / @neuroslayyer for Kepler

How funny; too funny. Let's play a game, what's more valuable? The payload in the back of Kepler's Thorton, or the netrunner that's come to take it off his hands?

The back flatbed of the four-wheeler is open and Kepler sits leaned against it, nicotine in hand. Beside him on the bed is a decently sized steel box, locked by combo and by biometric. Not his problem, not his code to crack. He didn't drive goddamn near to the Nevada border to open something for some techie nobodies, no, that's their job to figure out. His only job now is collecting eddies from the woman who wanted the damn thing to begin with.

What's in it, just wondering, deepdive port? No, she's no total chairjock, and it may not even be her equipment. Shards? Maybe, is it hardware? Could be. Kepler's not wholly sure he gives a fuck what's in the lockbox anymore, because staring at the woman that's come to get it is making him reconsider giving it up at all. She's familiar, this runner, haha. Too funny, like he thought, what a happy coincidence. Days out in the wasteland skirmishing, surviving and scavenging has wasted Kepler's gas, his money and his energy. He can make it back to Night City by the skin of his teeth, if he plays fair.

If he doesn't, he could make it back comfortably, and leave even more so.

It's dark, but Kepler's vision tunes to relevant light exposure. All seven sets of optics work in tandem, clicking and whirring slightly as they adjust to their surroundings. The single streetlight at the corner of the abandoned station does its very best to remain a part of the power grid, but even its failing to remain stable. This is a bad place to be after dark for most, oh yes, a veritable playground for Wraiths and Raffens, but not for Kepler. Maybe for this runner, though.

"I don't normally see dead girls picking up Militech scraps," Kepler hums, a mouth full of smoke, "I don't think I like this deal anymore."

A voice like gargled steel through a bad call. "How much would I make dropping you off, I wonder, Minako Hirose. Your mother - isn't it? - seems to miss you enough."

[thedravanianhorde]

//IM FREEEEEEEEE WORST EXPERIENCE OF MY FUCKING LIFE

[thedravanianhorde]

//my day off tomorrow cannot come soon enough i have starters and replies to write. this work week has been so hellish oh my god. i gotta let my freak flag fly over here

[thedravanianhorde]

//@adrotans