Time sure does fly. I had a lot of fun with this whilst it was going, so thanks! I just got invited to a Cyberpunk Red TT so I think I'll reuse my character here for that. He'll get more use yet, lol.
Sad Ogo
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Mac opened tired eyes to dim light shining in through his bedroom windows blinds. His fingers instinctively grasped for the comforting grip of his Overture poking out underneath the pillow next to him, but found nothing. His eyes went wide as he jumped out of bed, quickly looking to his nightstand. His M-10AF Lexington wasn’t where it should be either.
Grabbing up the kukri somewhat hidden between the bed and the nightstand he crept to his bedroom door, heart pounding and thoughts racing. As quickly and quietly as he could he made his way through the hallway and down the stairs, clearing rooms as he went. Finally reaching the living room, he laid eyes on Ash reassembling the components of his Overture.
She, apparently sensing his presence, looked up at him. Shock much the same as he’d felt a minute earlier crossed her face. She glanced downwards at his torso, and then even lower, eyes going wider than even before for a second before the pistol dropped onto the table and she leaned back deep into the chair and convulsed with fits of laughter. Mac, unamused, looked down at his nakedness, face going a shade or two more scarlet as realisation hit him. He placed the kukri down on the table and picked up a sofa cushion, covering what he could.
“I… I guess you could call that a pistol.” Ash managed to blurt out through persistent laughter. “A Derringer, perhaps?” She continued, holding her stomach.
“You took my guns!” Mac spoke indignantly, his brow furrowing.
Ash through some sheer force of will managed to get her laughter under control. She sat up straight, giving her an unusually regal look and quickly cleared her throat.
“I did… But as you can see, I was cleaning them. I’m truly… truly sorry for the panic.”
“Well, uhm… thanks. I’m sorry for my reaction. Don’t much like being without my guns, ya know how it is.”
Her lips seemed almost pursed and her eyes were still shining with humour, but she nodded quickly to show her understanding. Slowly, she picked up the heavy revolver she’d dropped and rotated it in her hand, looking at it curiously.
“What?”
“Nothin’. Nothin’... Just. Overcompensating much?” She said the words rapidly, barely managing to get them out before she burst to laughing again.
Mac sighed heavily, lobbing the pillow at her and retreating back upstairs.
—
An hour later Mac was back, fully clothed this time and relaxing on the sofa. Ash’s legs were stretched out across his lap as she filed her fingernails, looking at them in the same way she’d looked at his revolver earlier, only a lot less mocking.
Mac’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, startling them both with its loud reverberations. Holding Ash’s legs so as not to rudely toss them off himself, he leaned forward and picked it up, silently reading the message that came through.
“Huh. A beautiful woman gave me her real number… That’s a first.” He smirked. “Got a meeting tonight at Afterlife.”
Ash simply raised an eyebrow, her expression otherwise unreadable. “It really is the city of dreams.”
“Thanks for cleaning my guns, annwyl. Judging from how we met, I’ll probably need them if I work for this lady.”
“In this city, you’d want them clean if you were going to do laundry.” Ash smiled as Mac chuckled.
“True enough.”
—
Later that night Mac was driving through the city, well on his way to Afterlife. It struck him that for him it was simply a club, at least tonight. Many others wouldn’t see another morning in this city however, their destination a far more literal interpretation of the word. An intrusive thought claimed that they were the lucky ones.
He hated driving through the city. The towering buildings and innumerable vehicles were suffocating. He felt closed in. There weren’t nearly enough places to escape to with assholes and psychopaths looking for a victim in most of the holes you actually could run down. If that wasn’t enough it felt like you were always being watched or listened to, not to mention the trash lining the sides of the more impoverished streets, which was a majority of them. Fuckin’ repulsive place.
Finally he reached the club, pulling his truck up not too far from a dumpster outside. Checking his weapons one more time, he stepped out of his vehicle and headed for the club's stairs. A descent. Fitting, he thought.
He wasn’t thirty seconds into the building when a bloke a head taller and considerably wider than him blocked his path.
“Hello. I’m Mac Kieran Iceni, here to-”
“I know. You don’t have an inconspicuous face or accent… Head down to the crypt, if Eddie ain’t there, she will be soon.”
Mac nodded politely as the man moved aside, walking briskly past him. He smiled at the cute bartender, but not wanting to ruin his intent to arrive early, didn’t stop. The place was as he’d heard. An old morgue. Filled to the brim with folk that looked considerably like him, only most of them dressed themselves with far more style.
Plenty of gang tattoos on display too, unsurprisingly. Banger to merc was probably one of the most common job switch ups in the city. He found his way easy enough, soon descending yet another set of stairs and heading through what he hoped was the final door. He wasn’t disappointed.
He’d seen enough makeshift command centres in his subservience to the British government to immediately recognise what he was looking at. Not a bad setup at all. Plenty of space and even the autopsy tables had been repurposed for better use. Leaning against one, he waited.
Smirking, he took out his phone and messaged “Arrived safe. <3” to Ash, stifling a chuckle as he imagined her baffled and hopefully exasperated face as she read it.
Mac drove through the streets of Rancho Coronado, one hand on the steering wheel of his Thornton, the other on the grip of the auto-pistol resting on his thigh. No part of Night City could accurately be described as safe, but this area was especially treacherous, even more so lately with the war between 6th Street and the Valentinos getting hotter every day. The war was part of the reason Mac had chosen to base himself deep within R.C for now. He figured if he kept his work to the city; mostly in Valentino and Maelstrom turf, it would be a lot less likely for loose ends and bullets to find their way into his home if home was where bangers belonging to the aforementioned groups couldn’t go without a serious fight.
Typically he didn’t much give a fuck about people with grudges trying to end him. It was a part of the merc life best accepted quickly and if they were going to try, best to get it done ASAP whilst he actually remembered what they wanted him dead for and whilst he was still quick on the trigger. He’d seen way too many poor bastards in prison get iced by some distant figure from their past who’s girl they’d fucked, cousin they’d killed or even people they’d just bullied a little too much as a youngen. Folk had long memories, short tempers and easy access to weaponry. All of which culminated in a historic high for revenge killings. That was just his typical standard though. Sometimes, like now, circumstances changed and he vastly preferred his hideout not to be fucked with.
He continued driving deeper into 6th Street turf, driving up a hill and into a neighborhood that was closed in by a dam. The further up the hill he got, the better the weaponry the bangers on the corners and on the rooftops seemed to be holding. He was now within one of the most defensible 6th Street territories in R.C. On corners and down alleys burnt out cars littered the place, with the occasional still burning vehicle lighting up the area. Illuminating the fact that every wall, roof, road and even the dam itself was covered with gang tags.
Finally he reached his destination and pulled into a driveway. Before him lay a 21st century style suburban house. Not the biggest nor nicest of abodes, but pretty damn far from the worst. He tucked his handgun back into its holster and picked up the plastic bag on his passenger side seat before stepping out of his vehicle to the sound of a high pitched whistle coming from the nearby corner. He’d been staying in the area long enough now to know 6th Street code by ear. The whistle he’d just heard indicated that he was a known entity in the area. Had he not been he knew he’d be ducking bullets in a few seconds, if not before he’d even gotten out of his truck. Wasn’t unlike these military-esq fucks to have snipers stationed on rooftops, ready to headshot any encroaching faction they deemed hostile.
With a brief yet almost friendly nod to the lookout posted on the corner on the opposite side of the street he turned around and walked into what currently passed as his home, the door hissing open to welcome him. He found pretty much the same scene he’d left a few hours earlier, except the young woman he’d left sleeping on the sofa was now laying awake.
“Not your blood, I hope?” She asked as if already knowing the answer, an English accent much the same as Mac’s clear in her words.
“Not this time, no.” He replied tiredly, moving to the sofa. She moved her legs, allowing him to sit.
He placed the plastic bag from the truck in her lap. “Got you a burger and fries from some hole in the wall joint in Watson. Let me know if it’s any good, I’m still trying to track down a decent meal in this shithole of a city.”
She stood from the sofa, momentarily placing the bag down on the coffee table before stretching, her arms going wide as she moved her hips from left to right to also straighten out her legs. Mac’s eyes fixated on the small of her back for a second or so longer than he was comfortable with, he pointedly tore them away as he felt them drifting lower, staring at whatever nonsense was on the T.V instead. He awkwardly scratched at his shadow of a mustache as his conscience criticized him, grateful when she picked up the bag and headed to the kitchen.
“With an endorsement like that, I’m sure it’ll be the best thing I’ve eaten in yonks.” She spoke dryly.
Returning not a minute later with a bowl of water and a roll of paper towels she seated herself back opposite him. “Let me see your face.”
He sighed but did as she asked, shifting enough that they were face to face. It felt off, weird and somehow almost wrong to appreciate her physically, but he couldn’t deny that she was beautiful.
He looked into steely gray eyes that were somehow warmer and more expressive than his own brown ones. Eyes that had seen and experienced so much of the same pain he had, but somehow hadn’t lost their warmth. He flinched as the warm, wet paper towel in her hand brushed against his cheek, softly at first, then with a little more effort. He almost chuckled as he watched her bite her lip, her expression becoming one of concentration.
“Are you proud of what you did in the P.L?”
“Fuck no!” Mac grimaced, pulling back slightly. Somewhat shocked at the suddenness of the question.
“What’s with the face ink then? You’re a merc, if you haven’t made enough to have them removed many times over, you should consider a career change… I wasn’t going to say anything, but they’re kinda ruining your only asset.” She spoke with a soft, disarming smirk. He raised his eyebrows in return, huffing and shaking his head slowly.
“What’s the point? Removing them won’t change anything I did. You don’t remove a scar and conveniently forget what hurt you in the first place. It’s still there, visible or not. Part of what makes you, you.” He replied, trying to keep frustration from his voice.
“I think you’re ignoring a lot of the psychology at play there, darling. Looking into the mirror every day and not immediately seeing a reminder of something you’re ashamed of would definitely have a positive impact on your general mental well-being.” She spoke whilst continuing to wipe blood off his cheeks.
He huffed again, this time slightly amused, the expression on his lips becoming less severe.
“Call it a moral decision then… I made a choice, many choices actually. I chose to do things every part of me knew were wrong, but for reasons I can live with. Be happy with even. I would make the same choices today in a heartbeat but that doesn’t mean they weren’t immoral, and I don’t get to just wipe them off and pretend I’m not the man who made them.”
She continued cleaning the blood streaks off his face, warm water spilling down his cheeks. “Fair enough…” She said, matter of factly. “But I forgive you. Mac Sean and Michael forgive you. Nic Alys is damn near eternally grateful… You’re her hero. Only person left to forgive the choices you made for us is you.”
“I’ll forgive myself when I forget myself.” He quoted.
“Your da was a prick. You couldn’t take after him if you tried, so don’t.” The warmth left her voice for the first time.
“Sorry.” He spoke, nodding apologetically. “For what it’s worth, your new face addition didn’t ruin anything… You’re still the prettiest girl I ever saw in the isles.” He smiled at her, his face as close as he could get to charming, which wasn’t close.
She laughed hard, letting her ball of paper towel drop into the bowl of water. “Fuckin’ please. Just cause ol’ lady Nuala isn’t here to grandmother us, doesn’t mean you have to take up the role for her.”
Mac laughed with her, laying his now clean face back and letting out a refreshingly deep breath.
“You going to tell me what happened to your face?”
“Maybe…” She said simply.
“The cunt who did it. They breathing?” He asked.
She once again started laughing, almost as hard as she was previously. “The fuck you think?”
Amazing face-claim editing done by Hellion.
Just a friendly reminder:
The CS format in this thread differs in terms of info asked for from the one found in Wraith's personal thread.
I shall edit my CS to reflect this. xD
Amazing face-claim editing done by Hellion.
Can I create a character not from the N.U.S.A? I've already read up on his home country and made sure my idea fits what lore there is.
I am very interested. Provided I'm able to think up a compelling enough character I should have a sheet to submit by the end of the week.
Cian Flynn - Ebos
When Cian was a teenager first setting out on the blood-splattered road he walked, simply thinking about the hurt he was about to cause, even the night before laying in bed, was enough to get a horrid sickly feeling in his stomach. It would get so bad he’d think he was about to vomit and would have to sit up in bed all night, his thoughts running a thousand miles an hour going through every possible scenario, making sleep a distant dream.
After his first murder he’d gone home, went up to the bedroom he’d shared with Violet, Sean, Michael and Sophie for all his life and sat down on the floor, his back against the hard metal frame of one of the bunk beds. He wasn’t sure what time he’d gotten in that night but when Sophie woke up for school the next morning he was still sitting there, eyes wide and staring at blood stains on the wall. Blood that had come from his hands two weeks previously, when he’d taken the rage and sorrow of Michael’s death out on the inanimate.
Sophie had insisted on staying home from school that day. She made him soup and forced him to watch early morning cartoons with her, such ones that had been his favorite before he’d grown older and too hard and stupid to appreciate the time spent cuddeled up with his younger siblings. Sophie was only a few years younger than him but she felt so incredibly tiny and delicate nestled under his arm. He looked down at her with a gentle smile on his face and apologized for not doing this with her in recent times. She in return beamed up at him, adding a trace amount of sarcasm to her voice as she said he was forgiven and that he was still probably one of the best big brothers in London.
For some reason the thought flashed across his mind of the boy he’d murdered the previous night being in the exact same scenario, with his adoring little sibling staring up at him. The gentleness of his smile must have vanished because next Sophie asked if he was okay, her voice soft and worried. The last thing in the entirety of the universe he would do was allow this little angel to witness the mental break of yet another parental figure. With substantial effort he swallowed down the lump in his throat, hardened his threatening to water eyes and slowly nodded, playfully squeezing her cheek as he killed a part of himself.
—
Cian knew himself well enough to know he had a tendency to get somewhat melancholic before he had to kill. A shadow of the little good he once had in him, he reckoned. Shaking his head free of old memories he focused on switching the ammo blocks on his weapons. His rifle, shotgun and pistol would all benefit from armor-piercing ability in this fight. Finally looking up, he ignored the small arms fire on the shuttle and addressed the small combat squad.
“Standard Cerberus units favor heavy armor and typical small unit squad tactics. Do what you can to panic them and break up dug in clusters and they’ll be much less effective… That means biotics, grenades and anything unconventional you can do effectively without too much risk. If you’re a sharp shot, kill what assault captains and centurions you see first. That’ll fuck up unit cohesion and impede their ability to advance… Otherwise, same as any other fight. Stick to cover and don’t get too cocky. These pricks tend to be good shots.”
Cian stowed his shotgun on his back and his pistol on his hip, keeping his rifle in his arms as they lowered down to the landing zone. It was time to see if this rag tag group had any fire in them or if this would be another bloodbath where he’d barely get out with his own ass.
The shuttle door slid open and he was quickly out after the others, his M-96 Mattock already barking off rounds and sending slugs into the faceplates of a CENTURION and an engineer as he moved into the first bit of cover he saw. He quickly removed a grenade from his belt and lobbed it across to a small squad of enemies. Popping up as they scattered away from it he continued to move up, shooting another soldier twice in the chest and once in the head before the grenade detonated and sent the others flying. He shot those still alive, squirming on the ground before once again ducking into cover.
Not far to his right the Turian and Quarian were busying themselves fucking shit up in the best possible way. They weren’t exactly perfectly synchronized and strategic like most professional units, but no one could deny the effect their unorthodox methods were having on the enemy force. At one point Cian raised up to blast a mech and watched as the Quarian, Roxy took it out in close quarters melee. The sight was such that he had to remind himself to duck back into cover before he got shot. The Turian's style reminded Cian a lot of his own, which for someone as sure of his own abilities and competence as he'd become over the years was a pretty high complement.
The surprises didn’t stop there either. Even as he watched he couldn’t quite believe for a few seconds that the somewhat willowy looking doctor was such a powerful biotic, even mouthing the words “What the fuck.” as the shuttle slid forward.
Not one to waste such an opportunity, Cian burst out of cover and ran along behind the sliding shuttle, using its large frame as cover as he snapped out and shot retreating or semi-crushed enemies and mechs, stopping to duck as it crashed through the hallway and finally came to a stop. He slowly came to a stand, scanning for movement ahead. It seemed for now though that everything was still, at least on the LZ and the hallway.
“That was some good thinking, doc. We grunts generally don’t train to dodge shuttles… Very unconventional, very effective.” Cian complimented, struggling to keep himself from chuckling at such an unexpected end to this part of the fight.
“Let’s all keep up this speed and aggression and maybe we’ll make it out of here with a minute or two to spare…” Cian looked ahead through the hallway and into the dome. “Looks a lot less narrow in there, but the same rules apply. Cover each other with cross-fire, biotics, whatever you’ve got. We’re kicking ass, let’s keep to this standard.”
Cian Flynn - SSV-Intervention
Following the tedium of boarding, Cian had quickly and quietly made his way to the crew quarters. He was intent on grabbing a bunk and stowing what little personal belongings and clothing he still possessed. He’d already had his weapons and armour sent down to the armoury, excluding his pistol which he greatly preferred never to leave his side. Not so long ago being assigned to a new ship was quite the exciting, if not nerve-racking prospect for him. He would take the time to see and explore everything he could as soon as he was able, especially in regards to the armoury and kitchen. Quality guns and good grub were of utmost importance to a soldier's fitness after all. Having now been on quite the number of ships in his relatively short time in the Navy had blunted his excitement considerably though and these days he was satisfied to simply learn the ship as he saw it.
Slowly taking in the crew quarters from the doorway he had to admit that these were among the nicest he’d seen during his time in the service, not that the usual Alliance standard was very high. Still though, improvement was just that. Soldiers like him took what they could get. He glanced around a second more before quickly picking a bunk in the back left corner of the room and heading for it. Opening up the closest locker to the bunk he removed his already folded clothes from his bag and placed them inside, along with several novels, a pack of cookies, a bag of beef jerky and finally a holo-photo showing an angry looking woman with a scarred face and purple hair. The corner of Cian’s mouth twitched slightly upward as he placed the latter down and the motion caused its display to light up. He stared into the unflinching, angry eyes that matched his own as an uncommon feeling of warmth filled his chest. Someone more practiced in human emotion would have identified the feeling as a sort of gratitude, perhaps towards the person in the photo, or perhaps even to the universe itself for allowing her to still exist. Likely both.
Cian closed the locker and took a seat on the bottom bunk next to it, slowly stretching his arms out and massaging the aching muscles in them one by one. It was at that moment that the intercoms kicked on and the voice of their captain; one Ka-Sirin Aemoani came over them. Cian subconsciously lifted his left eyebrow as he listened to what in her own words was a forced speech, but at its conclusion he had to admit he’d heard plenty worse in his time. There were no small number of soldiers out there with buckets of bravado, a want for authority and the desire to give speeches expressing such but who didn’t quite have the charisma to pull them off so just seemed awkward and unqualified. Opposed to them she was at least concise, seemingly humble and to the point.
The redheaded man stood, cracked his neck and headed out the door, thinking all the while about what the kitchen might have high in calories and protein to aid his aching arms and stomach.
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