All underneath my skin there is a violence // Cyberpunk 2077; Edgerunners

[Nomad]

. . . b r e a c h i n g . . .
>>> CYBERPUNK 2077 // WAKE UP, SAMURAI

‘Come touch me like I’m an ordinary man,
Have a look in my eyes.
Underneath my skin there is a violence,
It’s got a gun in its hand.’​

I’m Nomad: an early thirties, trans & queer (he/him), wasteland-wandering gunslinger, who happens to write on the side, when not engaging in chaos goblin shenanigans. Characters are my speciality; I love to worm my way into their grey-matter, and feed on all the turbulent trauma that makes ‘em tick—-and sometimes explode. Angst and heart-wrenching tragedies: when I write, I like to feel it like a shotgun slug taken to the gut.

Currently, I’m craving a story set in the Cyberpunk universe: 2077 and/or Edgerunners. Preferably with OCs.

There’s one character I’m biting at the bit to portray. Ren Volsung: a former Arasaka assassin, burned and on the hunt for those who betrayed him, bordering the edge of cyberpsychosis.

A more in-depth look at his character here:

Spoiler: RONIN//REVENANT

./ / Basic. Info.
Name: Ren Volsung.
Age: 32.
Birthdate: August 8.
Gender: Male.
Ethnicity: Japanese/Danish.
Sexuality: Pansexual.

./ / Appearance.
Hair Color: Black.
Eye Color: Dark Grey.
Height: 6’1”.
Build: Lean Muscle / Athletic.
Notable Scarring:

• Metal throat exposed from the reclamation of Arasaka implants.
• Scar over left brow.
• Slash across right side of jaw.

Notable Cyberware:

• Higurashi 20-13 Mantis Blades
• Kiroshi “The Oracle” Optics (with Infra-Red Vision)
• Militech “Apogee” Sandevistan
• Optical Camo
• Reinforced Tendons
• Olfactory Boost & Amplified Hearing
• Biomonitor
• Pain Editor
• Internal Agent
• Enhanced Antibodies
• Grafted Muscle and Bone Lace
• Synthetic Lungs
• Experimental Arasaka Magnetic Field Generators — On Palms

./ / Known Affiliations & Associations

• Former Arasaka Shinobi/ Assassin. Employed under Sato, Yuriko — Dept Head at NC HQ.
• Son of high-ranking Tyger Claws boss, Miyamoto, Jiro — alleged partnership with Arasaka.
• Fixer Okada, Wakako’s grandson, who was reported “lost to Arasaka”.
• Mother’s whereabouts—Volsung, Valerie—currently unknown. Former tattoo artist, known for working with gangs.

./ / History
Ren’s story begins with the sins of his father: Miyamoto, Jiro — a high-ranking Tyger Claw, and the second son of Westbrook’s Okada, Wakako. Always jealous of his older brother, Jiro plotted to steal the mantle by reaching out to Arasaka. A deal was struck: Jiro would do the corporation’s dirty work, while he gained the necessary resources required to enact his machinations.

Ren — a bastard, whose mother, Valerie Volsung, was Jiro’s favorite mistress — was presented to Arasaka by his father to be a hostage: insurance of Jiro’s cooperation and obedience to Arasaka. Jiro, ever scheming, expected his son to be his spy, relying on the bonds of blood.

A young Ren was educated, his combat capabilities honed; like a finely crafted sword, he was forged into a deadly weapon, ready to be wielded by his makers. Whatever webs his father hoped to spin through his son were burned away by Arasaka’s indoctrination—only reinforced further when Ren piqued the interest of a high-ranking executive.

Sato, Yuriko. She ‘sponsored’ Ren, taking him under her wing, molding him to be her personal assassin—and paramour. So infatuated with the luxury of corpo life and the manipulation masquerading as intimacy, he never thought to bite the hand feeding him, even if he was a wolf on a leash.

Until he was betrayed and burned.

Sato, ever climbing the corpo ladder formed of bodies she left in her wake, made a gamble to erase a rival, and when her carefully-laid plan ruptured into a dance of flames, she set her pet up to take the fall. Sent to assassinate this rival, Ren instead stumbled into a trap, and was left for dead after a vicious, violent struggle. The triggerman happened to be his own father.

It was greed that saved Ren. A ripperdoc, with the vulture-like tendency to scavenge corpses for “used” cyberware, happened upon the disgraced samurai, and hauled him in the back of a van. Running through his system, his relation to the fixer of Westbrook was discovered, and the ripperdoc played a different hand.

Wakako paid to have Ren patched up, his corpo cyberware jailbroke: not out of familial fondness, but because he was useful. Her son was a problem, and becoming more beholden to Arasaka interests with each breath he drew; Ren was a solution, one easily discarded, with how closely he tethered on the edge of his sanity.

By every law of the universe, Ren should have been dead. Fury from the depths of hell, and a thirst for vengeance, fueled his body to recovery. In the aftermath, he became a mercenary, and now works to burn Arasaka into nothing but ash, with two names at the top of his hitlist: Sato, Yuriko & Miyamoto, Jiro.

His backstory sets up a nice tale of revenge against his father and former Arasaka “handler”; however, I would welcome other plot directions, and champion building stories around characters. Tell me who you want to play, and we can brainstorm scenarios together.

Oh, I suppose you want to know a bit more about me, yeah?

<<. . .i n f o . . .>>

• LGBT+ Inclusive! Ren is a pan male, and I’ll pair ‘im against anyone. I can write side characters of any gender.
• Your gender does not matter to me.
• Third-person, past-tense.
• Multi-paragraph to novella. Quality > quantity. Would appreciate a partner who is okay with up-and-down word counts; sometimes a scene calls for a flood of description, sometimes dialogue only needs two paragraphs.
• My muse can be sporadic, and I appreciate a patient partner. Sometimes I have the drive for multiple posts a week, sometimes I can only do one. In return, I’ll never pressure you for a post.
• Communication is key: any concerns, feel free to bring ‘em up. I never mind editing a post if needed, or redirecting our plot.
• I will portray a small zoo of side characters, because I enjoy making the world feel vibrant and alive.
• Concerning NSFW content: I’m mainly here to write a great story, but I can enjoy the occasional spicy scene, with proper build-up, and if it makes sense in our story. I can also fade-to-black.
• No notable triggers or sensitive topics; please let me know yours, and I’ll respect them.

And before I go, here’s a writing sample from Ren’s POV. Give you a taste of my prose and the character.

<<. . . w r i t i n g sample. . .>>

Spoiler: Ren Sample

.//Volsung, Ren. Clouds. 01:01.

Bone shined through taut skin pulled tight against clenched knuckles. Underneath dim lighting, red ran down fingers like rain, dripping crimson rivulets down the sink’s bowl. The rustic scent brought back memories better left drowning beneath the surface.

A woman’s pleading.
Ringing in his ear from a missed bullet.
Smell of charcoal lingering.
The feel of piano keys pressing into his face, and sight of crimson painting the keys.
He could taste copper on his tongue.

Like a mirage, the flickering pictures faded into the back of his mind, and the hazing image of the bathroom drifted back into hesitant focus. Bad omen to slip this deep into a job, but truth be told, Ren had been running on pure, hatred-fueled adrenaline for months now. He just had to hold out for a little longer.

Grey eyes flickered over the reflection staring back at him — a ghost stained on glass, stranger with each passing day — before focusing on cleaning the blood from his hands. The action was stabilizing. Ritualized. Like a prayer uttered by a sinner in church, only to be heard by the demons in the rafters.

Then he was moving.

He prowled with the grace of a tiger. Each step of his silver-toed boots silent, yet defined. Dressed in a leather blazer and slacks, accented by a maroon button-down emblazoned with visages of oni and hannya, his klepted VIP access token was almost an accessory instead of necessity; he looked not only like he belonged, but with his aura, like he commanded. No one asked questions as he climbed stairs, heading deeper into the club.

Music thrummed beneath his soles, the smell of smoke and sex heavy in the atmosphere. Neon lights lazily illuminated an otherwise darkside bar. An old caress, Ren slid into a stool and flashed a smile — a practiced expression all-to-reliant on the thrill of the hunt— to the bartender. Whiskey, on the rocks. The drink was lifted, barely touched, as he made note of cameras, guard patterns, patrons, and waited.

Practiced patience. If he had it his way, he would enter the lair of Miyamoto, Jiro with only his katana, saya discarded in defiance, and spill so much blood that the locals would be telling ghost stories for decades. But for all of his boast of the old ways, his father was a coward — careful, but ruled by fear, nonetheless. Ren found fear to be useless; whether from denial of existence of that boy in his buried memories, or instilled by the woman who wanted the perfect weapon, it didn’t matter. The result was the same. He would be his father’s personal devil, the shadow dogging his, the vengeful spirit, and nothing would stay his hand — the most dangerous enemy is the one with nothing left to lose.

To think — in those early, useless years of his existence, all he wanted was Miyamoto’s attention. To be part of the family. Anything more than the dirty little secret, brought out of the closet only when it was convenient to do so.

Even by Wakako. Obaasan.

Ren lit a cigarette to pass the time, and couldn’t help the twitch of his lips around it.

Perhaps he should feel more…reluctant at falling back into this role, allowing himself to be used, but pride came secondary to this—-

His fingers absently traced the scar on his cheek, partially hidden beneath close-trimmed scruff: left from the blade used to take his life. The last gift his father ever gave him; that same guardless tanto was hidden against the small of his back.

—-instinctual drive for retribution.

Ash crawled at the end of his cigarette, little specs of orange embers eating away at paper and tobacco. He took one last drag, extinguished the cigarette into his whiskey, and slipped away with his opening.

The last stretch was the VIP room of a doll known as Arsen. Unlucky fool was one of Miyamoto’s favorites, which made him the perfect, last piece to prop upon the chessboard. A spy to learn his father’s routines, so he could be corned when alone, and blood repaid with blood.

A heartbeat was spent before the tinted door in silent reflection: a pregnant pause before dipping into the next movement of the composition. Yet when Ren slipped inside, the conductor was abruptly shot, and the orchestra stopped playing.

Blood painted the walls in a macabre artwork, and pooled around his new boots. In the back of his mind, he wondered how long it was going to take to scrub them clean, while his eyes followed the red dripping road to the decapitated suit, and his…would have been spy.

Ren furrowed his brow, before lifting one in question, and clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth, like he was reprimanding a child who had scribbled the walls with crayon.

“You’re quite the bad omen, nogitsune.” His voice was level, traced only with annoyance, not panic. His eyes were kept on this Arsen, observing and deciphering, as he rolled up the sleeves of his jacket and shirt.

Planned or impulse? Judgement — and anger at this abrupt, savage destruction of his chessboard — could be struck later; the clock was ticking.

Hit me up on the holo is interested! And thanks for reading.