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theorememes2025-11-03 08:07 am
TDM #1, arc 1.0: we drift like worried fire
BUFF
Bonded of The Sorrowweld will find that the NPCs are especially friendly to them this month. Seriously, they just keep trying to give you things. It might get annoying.
DEBUFF
For those who are bonded to Tarnished Az-Mehet, you keep seeing shadows out of the corner of your eye on every screen in the ship, even your datapad. Something is lurking.
At first, you feel a pull. In which direction, you do not know. When a portal of shimmering black and glittering stars appears in front of you, it only seems natural to step into it. On the journey, it is as if you see everything: ancient galaxies wheeling through space, cultures born and growing and leaving their planets, lights creeping over landmasses and them winking out all at once. You see the hungry arm of a black hole, an enigmatic smile under a mirrored mask, a fist clenched tight around an endless sword. Fangs shining in starlight, bandaged feet that have traveled so many miles and still remain sturdy, and code shattering under titanium will.
And then your feet touch solid ground again, and what you have seen is suddenly hard to recall, the merest of glimpses springing to mind when you try to think back.
All you know is that you witnessed something enormous, something you probably shouldn't have seen.
As you struggle to refocus your gaze, all you see for a long moment is white. White walls, white floor. Narrow white cots lined up against a wall, screens blinking above them in tones of soothing aqua and mint. You are in a medbay — a highly advanced one, given the lack of bulky machinery — but perhaps the most eye-catching thing about the room is a long window showing endless black and twinkling stars outside.
Before you can give voice to any thoughts, a small robot flutters toward you, and perches on the back of a chair. "Hello, Wayfarer!" the birdform chirps cheerfully. "I imagine you must have many questions; allow me to enlighten you! You have fallen victim to a quantum accident and have been pulled to another universe, but the Ascendants, in their generosity, intercepted your signal and brought you here so that you did not wind up in empty space. You are aboard the Theorem of the Astral Rose; our mission is to explore uncharted space and search for the Song!"
They pause, thinking, their little blue eye aglow, and then brighten.
"Oh! Introductions are in order! I am Starling's Lament in Flight, but you may call me Starling's Lament. I am one of the Hosts of this exploration vessel; we will do everything we can to ensure a safe voyage for you. Unfortunately, at this moment, we cannot send you home. The Ascendants have indicated that their search for the Song may play some key role in doing so." They whistle a merry tune. "Please enjoy your stay!"
When you manage to get your wits about you -- it's a bumpy ride between universes! -- you start to leave the medbay. Starling's Lament has indicated that you are free to explore the ship, and nowhere is off limits to you. As you leave the cool white tones of the medbay behind, a hallway stretches out in front of you. Both sides are transparent, offering a view into the long dark of space beyond. However, unlike deep space, there is currently quite a lot to see.
On the left lays the broad curve of a planet, lush green landmass and white clouds skidding across its surface. Its star is just sinking behind it, lighting up the very edge of its atmosphere in tones of engine-burn orange and ozone blue, as long shadows cast by enormous space elevators creep across the landmasses. Its most eye-catching feature, however, are the hexagonal structures webbed across its surface, connected by fine corridors with all the geometric precision of woven spider's silk. You can just barely see the tiny dots of spaceships flowing around them, docking, embarking, shuttling between them.
"That is the Redline Trading Post." You hear a tiny whisper, and look up to see another robot — a beetleform, this time, with a shiny dotted shell — watching you curiously from its place on the ceiling. In fact, there are a number of other Hosts doing the exact same thing; a snakeform coiled around a barrier rail, a catform with bright yellow eyes peeking around the corner, a chirping droneform hovering some distance down the hallway. They're all fascinated by you. "But we will be departing soon. You will not get to taste the Galactic Snowball Nova-Cream, the shining culinary jewel of Redline. Sorry. I hear it is very tasty."
You look to your right, away from the planet and the Redline post, to gaze out into the depths of space. In the distance, there is a nebula, its gasses lit up in shades of coral pink and deep purple. It is pockmarked with stars both young and old, newborn stellar entities cradled in the depths of its life-making dust. Set against the dark of space, it is a flower in bloom.
It's beautiful, except—
The longer you look at it, the more something nags at the corner of your mind. A memory glances across your thoughts, unbidden. Something you hoped for, maybe; or something you fear. Whatever the memory, as you gaze at the nebula, a small piece of it curls, shaping in response to your memory. It is your face, reflected perfectly. Smiling, or howling in anger, or weeping.
Eventually, the nebula will go back to normal. But for now, it reflects the fears and triumphs of the new Wayfarers, a mirror held up in the darkness of space.
Once you make it into the bulk of the ship, the Hosts inform you that as they have just restocked all essential supplies, they will be throwing a party in your honor, and they hope you will sample the food.
Maybe you're incredibly dubious about this. Maybe you're starving after your long journey. Either way, you find yourself in the mess hall. It's less like a traditional mess hall and more like a park full of food trucks with seating in the middle. The food trucks are bright and eye-catching, Hosts serving huge heaps of food from their interiors, as their signs advertise everything from Earthen Ancient Egyptian food (As Close As We Can Reconstruct It!) to Raxalar Black Stew (New and Improved: Now Free Of Grit!).
Real grass is underfoot, and the picnic-style seating in the middle appears to be real wood. The lighting is a myriad; whimsical string lights strung between the trucks, floating globe lights playfully dancing like fireflies, and the luminescence of a dogform's patterns and a droneform's enormous eyes and a flyform's glittering trail. The Hosts are clearly excited.
And if the food happens to have... some kind of effect?
Well, the Hosts say, that's only to be expected! The attention of an Edict may, for a nano-second, turn toward the start of this voyage, and that's bound to make anything go a little wonky. Also, they've used some ingredients from the local system, and it's only customary there to share some thoughts and ideas and memories when you eat together. How else can you properly get to know each other?
This may or may not look appealing to you depending on your sensibilities, but it does smell incredible. Soft, savory red meat paired with the fragrant, earthy scent of the vegetable. The Red Buffalo is perfectly seared, and if you poke them cautiously, you'll find the spikes are entirely edible, as long as you chew well enough. If Wayfarers eat this, they will find themselves sharing a memory with the nearest person, a vision of the last time they were truly happy.
It seems the Hosts aren't quite sure of the appropriate alcohol content of substances, as this will burn all the way down, chased by a cool, sparkly feeling all the way down one's esophagus. It tastes of sweetly sour plums, and a potential hangover tomorrow morning. Wayfarers that imbibe this alcohol beverage will start overhearing the thoughts of those around them, as if they are perfectly in tune with everyone.
Ah, a perfectly homey looking meal, sweet and savory, gently steaming. These are a must-try for any Wayfarer with a sweet tooth, proudly boasting of the agricultural and apiary skill of a nearby alien culture. The buns are perfectly fluffy, the spiced honey is warming. What's not to love? After eating this, Wayfarers will find themselves and the nearest person sharing a vision of themselves as they might have been had they gone down the worst possible path in their life.
This isn't the Cherry Cola! you may or may not be familiar with, but it's interesting that whatever alien came up with this came up with the same Earth word. Or maybe the Hosts got it from Earth? Either way, it's fizzy, it's sparkly, it makes you feel like you're floating on rainbow bubbles. Upon drinking this, imbibers will telepathically project outward a vision of the most beautiful thing they've ever seen.
Dear god. What is it? Who came up with this? Who is even brave enough to try this? It certainly… has a taste. It… has an appearance. Whether either of these things are good is in the eye of the beholder. Wayfarers adventurous enough to put this in their mouths (or other eating appendages) will find themselves uncontrollably speaking aloud of the thing they long for the most.
Eventually, it comes time to launch.
The Hosts are a blur of activity, some of them packing up more delicate equipment in case of errant gravity waves during initial propulsion, some of them herding the Wayfarers into a seating area reserved specifically for the safety of its occupants during launch, deceleration, and rare turbulence. You are informed that engine flare will be so bright it will rival a star for the next twenty-five hours of engine start-up burn, but you will only need to stay strapped in for half an hour or so.
As the Theorem's enormous engines start cycling, the entire ship seems to hum in melodic song. And after everybody is strapped in, that's when the intensity starts. Gravity seems to want to push everything toward the stern, and Wayfarers are pressed hard against their seats with the inertia. After half an hour, the Hosts cheerily announce that everybody is free to get up and move around — but you might want to stay near a window, as they will be doing a low dive through the nearby planet's second moon's atmosphere, and it will be quite the sight.
Soon enough, the moon becomes visible. It is of unbroken crimson red, though subtle shifting in its surface lets you guess that it's water rather than earth. And then, as the Theorem rolls gently to the side, the view in the windows nearly perfectly split between moon and space, that's when you see them, swimming through the atmosphere.
To call them fish would be inaccurate — they are not in an ocean, or any body of water — and yet, that will be the word that springs to mind for most Wayfarers. Some of them are sleek and small, schooling in packs of shimmering white and ochre. Others are long and pointed, appendages pointed backward to exude a bright pink gas that propels them forward and which trails after them like oil slicks in the air. The locals call them x'enuda, the Hosts tell you, a combination of words that mean to fly and cunning prey.
They swim closer, swarming outside of the window. Some of them swim through, phasing through the shielding and windows alike, to dance gently in the interior of the Theorem, darting to and fro. If any Wayfarers find themselves curious enough to reach out and touch these creatures, they will find themselves similarly phased, capable of passing through matter for the next few minutes before the shared electrical field wears off and returns them to normal corporality. The external shield will catch you if you phase right through the ship's floor, but you may need to swim back up. Others may find themselves suddenly craving company, as if the x'enuda's instinct to remain safe in a school is catching.
"All Wayfarers, please report to the docking bay!"
As you filter into the enormous cavern that makes up the docking bay of the Theorem, you see rows of smaller spacecraft. Some of them are sleek and light, like they'd be as free as a feather during aerial combat, while others are bulky and spacious. Many of them have designs in alien languages on them, or bizarre looking mascots, seemingly for good luck. As the occasional screen informs you, you are free to claim any one of the ships as your own, but first, Starling's Lament would very much like to give a presentation.
Past the rows of ships lays an expansive opening in the side of the Theorem, many stories high and wide, a shimmering forcefield the only thing between you and space. Beyond it, you can see the quickly fading shape of the planet and moons you left behind as the Theorem continues acceleration. It is in front of this that Starling's Lament has set up a large hologram of a star map.
As they start to explain once everyone is gathered, the map currently shows the region of space you are in. It is an enormous quadrant of multiple galaxies, some pinwheeled in shape, some circuler or tube-like. A line arcs across it, heading into what is clearly less-explored space, beyond the area colorfully marked as Alliance territory. Eventually, that line stops at a star, which then magnifies to reveal a six planet system, the second planet from the star circled.
This is your first objective: designation Epsilon-355.
There are many stories of which planets the Last Pilgrim has set foot upon, and yet, nobody has ever verified any of them. This, the Ascendants claim, is the closest match they have found for one of those planets in a scrap of story: a land of golden sand and shimmering glass, where pilgrimages track their way across the Golden Barrens desert. The planet is small and unassuming in the hologram, and the details next to it are scarce: relatively normal gravity, breathable atmosphere. More details will become available as the Theorem gets close enough for in-depth scans.
If there any notes of the Song to be found, they may yet be found in the Last Pilgrim's footprints.
Presentation nearly over, Starling's Lament directs you a series of tables that have neatly assembled packages of gear. Once you have picked your Division, you are welcome to claim the technological tools of its trade. You can also look at the spaceships available to claim, or even just watch out the docking bay door as you leave the planet behind and head deeper into space.
Welcome to the mission, Wayfarer.
no subject
Yeah, Vincent knows this song and dance too. Picks up his crushed cigarette box, stuffs it back into his pocket. Littering at the hangar? Not on his watch.
The catharsis of beating his greatest enemy single-handed (literally) and the return of Johnny have left him too emotionally drained to rise to juvenile bait. Couple of months before all this? That Vincent would've been all over it. So, in some strange sense, he sympathizes. Knows this behavior is a smokescreen. To what remains to be seen. ]
Came with me. But me and my— [ Partner isn't wrong in the strictest definition of the word, but the double entrendre? Better not. ] —friend smoked them all.
Won't be long 'fore Johnny finds a source. Nothin' as banal as logistics has ever kept him from indulging in whatever his poison of choice is for the day.
no subject
[A little dry when he says it, like he doesn't really care, but an obvious part of him was hoping this guy would instigate a fist-fight even more than he was wishing that box wasn't empty. It's the tension under his skin, pinching in all the wrong places.]
You and your friend, [emphasis on the word just to match the guy, because come on—] Right. Sounds like you two got it figured out, then. Guess I better introduce myself to Johnny.
[He knows how to behave himself if it gets him what he wants, which in this case, is a way to take the edge off. Maybe this 'Johnny' wants that as much as him. Poison does it just as well.]
New or old friends?
no subject
Friend. [ Yeah, Vincent knows exactly what it sounds like. But doesn't want to speak it out loud for a simple reason—it's not the truth yet. ] Old, I suppose. [ What does sharing a soul with someone else qualify as, time-wise? Like the mountains and oceans. Immeasurable. ]
no subject
Obviously, the offer surprises him. So does the sudden bravado, put in such a way that there's less ego than fact in it, at least from this man's point of view. A belief in ability is something that's seen like talent in the Alliance — so long as you back it up. If Cain doubted it any less, if he saw some crack in the foundation, he might call it out as a bluff and demand the fight right here on open ground.]
Don't think I've ever been asked for it properly.
[His gaze travels, down over the other man's body, an assessing look that he didn't bother to spare from up above.]
You look half-robot yourself. You and your old friend come from this place? The ship?
no subject
The surest way to win a fight is not to fight at all.
The second best is ending it as soon as possible.
The third best is incredible, overwhelming violence. ]
More, according to my OS. [ Which is inaccessible at the moment. But perhaps that's a blessing in disguise. Berserk, like pain editors, has a tendency to push users into riskier and riskier battles, nasty little shinigami embedded in your skull.
Now that's a name for a ship. Shinigami. ] No, we come from Earth, California to be precise. [ Vincent isn't going to dwell on the fact there might be multiple Earths, he already has a mild headache. ] We were in Night City before, well... [ He gestures towards their surroundings. ] Just got done with a fight so ain't too eager to pick 'nother one, especially when I don't have all the detes. All of my cyberwear gettin' softlocked ain't endearing me to the powers that be either.
I'll play along 'cause I want answers. I know desperation when I see it. [ But, most importantly, Johnny's here. He owes them for that, at least. ] Could use the vacation too. [ Might be helpful, take the heat off them both after Mikoshi. ]
no subject
Tech greater than anything he's seen. It reminds him of those genetically-modified navigators he's come across before, only at a new extreme. But what catches him last is the emphasis of we, and the uncomfortable stone it sinks into his gut, that he is alone and this man isn't. Stupid, truthfully, since it wouldn't even matter if Abel was here too. In fact it's a good thing he isn't, if it means he escaped.]
You said a month's worth of cigarettes if I beat you. Kinda hard to turn that down.
[Cain moves away now, agilely climbing the side of the slender ship to close the cockpit's hatch where he's left his things, ensuring he's got the door secured before he drops back down.]
I'm hungry. Gonna get something to eat — come if you want. [Affected disinterest, another specialty.] You talk weird. What's your name, anyway?
no subject
Sees it now though, but won't say a thing. Knows it wouldn't do any good.
Used to be the same way. ] Cigs are king when it comes to barterin' and enticin'. [ Back home people would rather go without food than nicotine. The fortunate can just afford new lungs anyways, so burning the midnight oil is of no consequence to them.
The unfortunate are too fucking tired from their twenty hour shifts to give a fuck about cancer. Many welcome it.
Paranoid or just thorough? Vincent doubts people will bother to steal each other's belongings. There's probably cameras all over the hangar. ] We're all gonna talk weird by the time this is done. People, their words and their ways, all blends when they're forced to work together. [ Affected disinterest, yet clearly wants to be followed. Lonely, no doubt. ] V. Just V. [ He'll be open about most things, but not that.
Then again, if Johnny's here, it's only a matter of time before people figure out what the V stands for. ] You?
no subject
No way am I gonna start saying shit like choom or detes, but nice try.
[The sentiment isn't necessarily unwarranted, but it is uncomfortable. He doesn't like the idea at all. Blending with other worlds, other people — if it really is true, and the universe is far larger than even the Federated Alliance could fathom in their singular focus on the defeat and annihilation of the Colterons — doesn't it mean they'll lose themselves in the blur? He won't let that happen. He'll do this as long as he has to, but then he's gone.]
Cain. [It's not like he is in any place to judge, but curiosity still bites.] V stand for anything, or are you just trying to be cute?
no subject
Isn't afraid of death, change. New people, new ways—lives for it. Always has. The novel, the rebels, that which and those who go against the status quo. Consequences of being born at and living in the margins. Ni de aquí, ni de allá. ]
Ah, like the guy in the Bible. [ The first murderer. What a name. But, if Vincent were asked—and he knows he won't be—he'd agree it's fitting. Nominative determinism is a bitch. ] It does stand for somethin'. If you figure it out I'll throw in somethin' else. [ Faustian bargain. Be so easy to accept the legal version of his name instead of the English form. Johnny might let it slip, too excited by their reunion he forgets he'd rather not be Vincent to anyone else.
But that isn't playing fair. And nomad techies should reward resourcefulness. ] Ain't Biblical like yours, can tell you that much.
no subject
[There's a twitch of a look sideways, a hesitation in his face like he might correct V's assignment — religion's not really much of a thing to his people in that sense, and he didn't pick the name anyway. But that is saying too much, too soon, if ever. So he keeps walking.]
Somethin' else? Now I wanna know. [With the prickliness of first introductions out of the way, Cain's a little calmer, as companionable as he might be with another fighter who has proved they can sling back against an insult or barb, even if it might have been better as a fist.] What else do you think I'd want in a place where they just gave me a free ship and a free gun? Even the food's pretty good.
[His gaze slides over V again, lingering longer on the metal-seeming arms and hands. He's more than curious, now that he's looking; he bets it hurts to get hit by one of those.]
no subject
"If you can give something – or be seen giving something – without losing anything? Do it. Chooms will love you for it. Your enemies will be confused by it. Your chooms will think you good where you're only practical. Your enemies will think you soft where you're strong. Defeated where you're one step closer to winning." ]
Dunno. You tell me.
[ It did hurt. Probably still does. But the potential for gore is gone. Ripping people's limbs out of their sockets, breaking their skulls with a single punch... He'd be a maniac if he admitted he misses it.
So Vincent tells himself he'll miss how much easier they'd make his job as a mechanic. ] Lost my arms in a salvage job. Ripped right outta their sockets.
But you know... [ It isn't a dramatic pause — a particular ship catches his eyes, watches it taxi with the delight of a child on a field trip, giddy despite crossing his arms, forearms flexed. The metallic brackets atop each knuckle — no, forming the knuckles themselves — glint in the light. ] Pain wasn't the worse part. It was how broken I felt afterwards, like I didn't exist in my own body. Taught me to never take it for granted again.
That's how I got started in this fightin' business. 'Fore that it was just childish shit — beatin' bullies, assertin' myself as top dog. But after I got my first set of these [ Flexes his right bicep obnoxiously. ] I chose to take it seriously. 'Cause if you're gonna walk around with two weapons attached to your body? Better fuckin' know how to use them.
That's why, if people want to pick a fight, rather they tell me.
no subject
Fuck.
At least he doesn't have to think about it much longer, distracted by impromptu story time. His gaze becomes aware of itself enough that he stops staring, but not before he gets a full look at those shiny metal knuckles. Also, bicep flexing? He's only human.]
Cool. So moral of the story, you punch me with one of those, you're gonna take off my jaw. [Cain chews the words out, annoyed and not really sure why. Maybe a little because it feels like a lecture, but it's not completely that.] You said you're from Earth? ... California?
[How bad is the pain of losing limbs in such a traumatic way? Worse than a bullet wound, at least.]
What's it like?
no subject
Kind of sickening how much he used to rely on his chrome to read other people. The Zen Master was right about the disconnect.
Vincent turns, faces Cain, watching, listening impassively to that annoyance. Arms stretched now, under that previously flexed bicep, lies another clue — a tattoo that'd look rather trashy if it wasn't for its crisp, even lines. The shading too.
Lot of effort for ink that's meant to look like some silly scribble drawn in a love-struck teenager's diary. ] Could've ripped it right off your skull 'fore whatever it is the people here did to my chrome. [ Maybe that's exactly why they did it — want him to prove he isn't a loose cannon despite having more in common with one, chemical composition wise. Could melt enough metal out of his titanium-dipped skeleton to forge one. ] It's desert. Sparse vegetation, infrequent but heavy rain. Sun-baked earth, tons of dust, more lizards and snakes than people. Red and browns with the occasional splash of green. Sandstorms.
[ He inhales. ] Road smells like nothin' else though. Ancient asphalt, soaked in so much oil, blood, sweat and tears it smells different from the one in Night City. That place's pure desperation, everywhere. But hope too, the way you only find in miserable places.
[ Te vas, amor
Si así lo quieres, ¿qué le voy a hacer?
Tu vanidad no te deja entender
Que en la pobreza se sabe querer
Jackie wouldn't stop playing that song because Mamá Welles loved it.
Seemed fated then too to stay at the house of a woman who shared his mother's name, with her son showing him the ropes. And they too became Vincent's family, same way nomads adopt people via proximity, absorb them into their ways.
A sharp stabbing pain courses through his chest. ] Was home. 'Til it wasn't.
no subject
Maybe he should've asked for the fight. It might have made him feel better. Or at least he'd be so bruised and bloodied he wouldn't have to think about what happened before the lights went out.
Cain ignores it, focusing instead on the description of a place he's never seen and likely never will. He'll have to ask what the hell chrome is some other time.]
Not really how I pictured it.
[What do lizards look like again? The desert, though — and duststorms — those he knows, even if it's different. Of course it's different. Home is cold, not sun-baked; no vegetation. No animals.]
What happened, did you leave? [He knows he's getting nosy, but he doesn't really care as he stops just outside the hangar doors to pull the datapad out of his pocket. The ship they're on is so huge and he hasn't memorized the layout yet, so he needs to check the interactive map — plus, it helps to busy his hands with something.] You trying to go back? 'Cause it seems like we're gonna be here for a while.
no subject
He surmises it's must be the tattoo itself — it is tacky. But how do you explain that it was actually Johnny who got that tattoo (without permission) while wearing his body (with permission)?
His fault, really. Should've known Johnny would go on a bender of sex, drugs and chromatic rock after being cooped up in his consciousness for weeks.
Can't keep the fondness out of his tone, however. ] Yeah, should've gotten it covered up. [ But he won't. Not now, or ever. ]
Was greener once, way the elder nomads sing 'bout it. But like everything else it was ruined by greed and war. [ Austerity has its own beauty. Most don't see it that way. Suits Vincent just fine — always loved the unloved.
Vincent doesn't bother with the map. Wants to navigate this place through his own experiences first, relish the joy of spontaneity. Buys himself some time staring at the massive hangar doors as he mulls over Cain's question.
Being discreet isn't the same as lying. There's also Johnny to consider — does he want them to remain tight-lipped about their adventures back home, their magnum opus against Arasaka? Or, in typical Silverhand swagger, he doesn't give a shit?
Might as well keep it short. Words can't be taken back. Doesn't want to explain too much either. Sounds like a bother. ] Johnny and I did somethin' we can't take back. Was the right thing to do, a long time comin' too — but a whole lotta people are gonna be pissed.
Best we disappear for a while, for both our sakes and our friends. This impromptu vacation's a blessing. [ Miracle too. They're together again.
The fight against capitalism can wait for a bit. ] So no, I ain't tryin' to go back.
no subject
Guess it is.
[A blessing. It's all he can think to say, since the fondness and camaraderie evident in V's voice continues to chafe up against his own sore spots, though he knows it's nothing personal. Couldn't be, since this guy doesn't know a thing about him. He's still curious, of course, what that big something is they can't take back — but he doesn't get any nosier for the time being. Not his business.]
So where is he right now? Johnny. The way you talk, figure you guys would be attached at the hip.
no subject
Thoughts drift to the gutter at the mention of Johnny right after thinking about his mouth. Takes Vincent a couple of seconds to come back up, berate himself for mirroring his other half there, if only for a second. That truly was the worst part of sharing a consciousness with the rockerboy — Johnny was ridiculously horny.
Thank God for meditation.
Attached at the hip. That wrings a snort out of Vincent. ] You have no idea how close you are. He's somewhere 'round — said he wanted to check the place for himself. Stretch out his legs. [ His literal legs. No longer trapped inside his skull, Vincent imagines it must feel incredible to be able to walk, talk, interact with his environment and other people, after months of being trapped inside him. Complete freedom.
Which means Johnny will probably act out. Long as he doesn't crash a car while fondling a joytoy again, Vincent will consider it a victory. ] What, you wanna meet him? [ No jealousy to that statement, only genuinely curiosity. Johnny is arresting, regardless if no one here knows he's the world's most famous musician back home.
Actually, that's probably a good thing. Develop healthier relationships not based on sex, drugs and idolization. ] Probably at the bar. Double so if they play live music.
not the anti horny spray...
The bar?
[Of course it would catch his notice, though the remainder of V's words take a second to steep. About the last thing he wants to do right now is hang out with a (presumably?) happy couple, given how he left his own universe — reality — whatever-the-fuck freshly dumped, but if this guy really is a good hookup for cigarettes... Ugh, maybe he'll just try to catch Johnny on his own. Three's a crowd.]
I'll find him later. [... on second thought, if The Paper Lantern is where Johnny's hanging out, he'll redirect back to the mess hall. No hard feelings, though it doesn't seem like V is paying that much attention to their path.] Who's gonna be playing the music? Animal robots?
They never touched in canon they're gonna be so annoying I'm so sorry
The only unnatural part here is Johnny existing externally. Unsurprisingly, he's suffering from a mild form of separation anxiety now that his brain tumor sprouted legs.
Best get that under control ASAP by not chasing after Johnny all over the ship like a lovesick puppy. Man needs his personal space, reacquaint himself with spatial awareness. ] Doesn't matter — if he doesn't like the music he's gonna walk up to the stage, take their electric guitar, say somethin' like, [ Impressive imitation of someone who sounds cheekier than himself: ] "I'm Johnny Silverhand and this is actually music," and out play the shit outta whatever boring lounge music they had going on.
So yeah. [ Vincent chews on the toothpick some more, passing it from one end of his mouth to the other, gesture rodent-like. ] Best we go somewhere else if you don't want to chance it.
they deserve it tbh
'Silverhand' sounds fake as hell. Guess it's a good name for a performer, though.
[He turns at the next corner, starting to see signs for the mess hall, which means his navigation was on track. That's good.]
How'd you even meet?
no subject
[ Blinks owlishly. Fuck, how does he begin to explain that? So I fucked up a major gig, got the closest thing I've ever had to a brother killed, slotted an experimental data shard into my skull and here's Johnny! Who was taking over my consciousness, killing me slowly, like an inoperable brain tumor.
Sounds fake even to Vincent's ears. ] Saved my life after a gig I fucked up royally. Hated his ass at first, but we were forced to work together. Asshole grew on me like cancer. [ Snorts. ] Took a bunch of work — lots of close calls, pissin' off a bunch of important people including a government — but we helped each other take down our common enemy in the end.
And here we are now. [ Enemies to lovers. God, they're a cliche. ] Which is impressive since the first night we met he told me to 'stick some iron in my mouth and pull the trigger.' [ Chuckles this time. Funny in hindsight, not so much in the moment. Terrifying, actually.
But that's Johnny in a nutshell — terrifying yet compelling. ]
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It's hard to know what to say. His abdomen aches a little, and he braces his arm around it, annoyed by phantom pain when he's not injured anymore.]
Here you are now.
[He sounds distracted, though he plays it off as a way to start focusing on his surroundings as they enter the mess hall. Brightly lit food stands compete for attention.]
What do you think of it? Being these so-called "Wayfarers" or whatever.
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So he takes this silence from Cain, particularly after that repetition that, to him, sounds like a platitude.
Right. Stop talking about Johnny. No one likes hearing someone gush about their boyfriend like a besotted teenager. ]
Don't really give a fuck. [ He admits, incapable of not matching the energy he's sensing. ] 'Fore all the bullshit? Was a nomad. Born, lived, almost died on the road daily. Didn't sleep in a bed 'til I was in my twenties. So... [ Chews on the toothpick until it splinters under his teeth. Picks it out of his mouth as clearly as he can, then shoves the little pieces into his pocket. ] Far as I'm concerned, they're callin' me the same thing I've been called my whole life — nomad.
Can see how it might piss some people off though.
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I don't like being in the dark.
[A vulnerable statement, however it might sound pretty universal given the circumstances.]
Epsilon-355 — that's the planet, right? But we don't know what to expect when we get there. Could be suicide.