brutus
๐ฌ๐๐จ๐ซ๐๐ก๐๐ ๐๐ฒ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ง
Fashionably late to this party.
Hey there, I'm Brutus. I finally took the nose-dive into Cyberpunk 2077, and boy, am i in love with the world and its lore. So here I am, either searching to write a story based on the world or loosely inspired by it. I'm not horribly interested in Canon, but I will consider it an option. I'd love to explore original characters, given that I am simply a sucker for OCs.
So, here are some tidbits about me:
- I'm a chill transmasc boyo living in Texas. I am an illustrator, animator, and retired EMT. I love music, too, but I'm better at listening to it than creating it.
- I am 31, so I prefer my partners to be 21+. I won't write with anyone younger than twenty. That's just my personal preference.
- I enjoy angst, hurt/comfort, and heavier topics. Anything sensitive in nature must be written respectfully. I don't have any notable triggers.
- Romance is SO up my alley, rn. Slow-burn or not, I'm diggity-down.
- I love diversity! I am also very inclusive of the LGBTQIA+ community, being part of it myself. Suffice it to say, no bigotry is tolerated here.
- I am a multi-para, dedicated writer with a deep passion for the craft and for continually growing in my skillset. I like quality over quantity, but I'll admit, I do prefer my writing pals to also be multi-para to some extent.
I haven't finished the game yet, but I know all the endings vaguely. Regardless, please be gentle regarding any spoilers!~ I'm pretty well-acquainted with the setting and lore of the world.
- Down with corps. Eat the rich.
- Now, onward to the fun stuff:
ใword-bank:
Dystopic grief, heartbreak, bitter & unresolved feelings, fading friendships, rivalry, toxicity (not romanticized, please), addiction, neurodivergence, caught in the corps' games, touching upon cyber psychosis, down and out mercs, tension, resolution, death, grief, road trip, two souls escaping together, adversity, survival/surviving, life after death, red string of fate, soulmates, crime, noire, slow-burn, gritty and dark, mystery, thriller, exploration of the human psyche, revenge, moralistic complexity, phobias, gangs versus gangs, a corpo-rat and a nomad, cults, sexuality and coming to embrace it, mending, exes, ex-best friends, mountainous struggles, resolutions, immortality, a vast contrast in lifestyles.
ใprompts:
"I gave up on you a long time ago."
"I want my life back."
"Can we start over?"
"I... I am barely holding on."
"God, here- just hold my hand."
"Leave."
"I'm not like any of you..."
"Do you ever shut up?"
"We have a problem."
"I'm trying to save you."
"Given your history, I should've known better."
"The truth hurts, doesn't it?"
"I never said that I loved you."
"You should have been here earlier."
"You ruined everything."
"Close your eyes. You don't have to see this."
"You're hurt? Why are you always hurt?"
"The further we walked, the surer we became that we were not on the same path anymore."
ใfandom specific pairings:
A corpo who is unaware they're to be disposed of, and the unlucky merc sent to dig them out of trouble.
Long-time Nomad who is fresh to the city and a retired ripperdoc who more than knows their fair share around.
Two opposing mercs must work on a gig together or die trying.
A merc with nothing to lose and a wearied fixer with skeletons in their closet.
Two corpos decide to ditch the lifestyle... somehow.
Arasaka worker x Militech worker.
Betrayer of Araska x Arasaka Loyalist.
A citizen is caught in a gang's feud against a merc.
One muse rescues another from a scav-den.
A reclusive netrunner and a merc upstart.
NCPD undercover officer infiltrating a network of mercs with an eye on their netrunner.
ใnon-fandom specific things:
I was going to list stuff, but hop on to my primary thread HERE to find some inspiration for a setting similar to cyberpunk 2077 but not bound by its canonical lore and made by our own whims and fancies.
ใwriting sample:
It took a titanic hurricane of events so to thrust him toward this precipice. Then, a grievous plummet to the bottom. The fucking bottom of it all.
Anxiety had no claim over him, yet his leg bounced, rhythmic even, and his fingers quivered. A pining for a cigarette rang within him, and he needed to fill the yawning hollow that hungered with an overwhelming urgencyโwhat fun.
Overall, Elias looked as though he had gone through the motions of withdrawal, a cruel and turbulent sea he swam across to get here in a bus down a rock-ribbed road to his supposed salvation.
As if.
Eli snorted as he ran his fingers through his unruly ebony locks, glancing at the partial reflection of his visage captured in a smudged and dirtied window. The glint of his icy blue eyes held a weariness, and he realized fatigue was eating away at him, leaving his body cumbersome.
Once, he had been here. Not at Desert Rose, no, but snared within the rehabilitation system. Akin to a dog chasing its tail, he sought something but had nothing to show for it in an ever-grating cycle. Spinning in circles was all he was doing. Such an impassible fragment of his reality did not slip from his cognizance.
Unable to alter the ruinous and convoluted path he had ambled down nor undo what cataclysmic events had transpired, it seemed that straying from where he was going was no longer possible. Locked and anchored, that was what he was.
Nothing about it enthused Elias. Long had he had come down from the heights of inebriation, but at least he was away from her, although division cut him in two. The split anguished him more than he would admit.
Evelyn.
If he spoke the name, it rolled sweet as warm honey off his tongue, a curse yet one so divine it sickened him.
Long had the two entertained a relationship seeping utter toxicity. Eveโs venom pulsed through his veins, and he savored it. Not only had he become addicted to many substances, content to continue trying to fill the vacuum inside him, but he had also stumbled into vicious codependency with Eve herself.
Of course, she often left him high and dry, but it did not assuage his unwavering allure to her.
A fraction of him abhorred her and the dance she captured him in, but it never got him far.
At least here, Elias could disentangle himself from the webs she had weaved, stifling him and drawing him back to lapping at the waters of addiction and indulgence.
With a heaved sigh, Elias opted not to ponder too much about her lest he go down a deep, murky rabbit hole. For miles, it seemed he stared at a vast sea of nothingness, which reminded him of the unsatiated hunger of his disease. The chills that wracked him would make it so he would never dare forget.
Despite a propensity to engage and spark conversation, Elias remained hushed and inward during the dull drive.
To brood over all the seeds sowed, sprouting into sheer horridness soon after, became a shitty default state. Awareness of those around him dissipated as the wrenching grasp of guilt tightened around his throat.
The bus halted, and he jolted, awakened and keen.
Beyond the clothes on his back, Eli brought only a tattered backpack and a sketchbook. The cover of the hardback book was closed by twine, and he deemed he would never give anyone a chance to open it.
The frayed sketchbook had a sentimental value to it, and it roused a bristled protectiveness in him, so when herded out of the bus in a row, he clenched it close to his chest.
Now, they huddled before four individuals, each introduced by the operationโs owner.
However, for Elias, it went in one ear and out the other as he instead focused upon the motley crew composed of the other addicts sentenced to confinement here until they hit some point of progression.
Two of the guys looked worse for wear, and, with frigidity, he disregarded the other lot. Not out of a want to not foster potential relationships but because of the listlessness encompassing him.
To ferret about and prod would be for some time in the future. There was not much value in feigning a cheery disposition, and Elias did not fret over refusing to entertain the others for now.
Most looked as though they did not desire to make connections, and neither did he. Yet, he caught the faint smile of a beguiling woman with honeyed-hued locks, and Elias returned it, albeit forced. Was he curious? Perhaps.
When the introductions had halted and Andrea King gave firm instructions, Eli followed along, playing the game expected of him.
The first stop was the bulletin board, where he would discern which numbered room belonged to him.
Eight.
Home, right?
Another hefty sigh escaped Eli. After dallying, scouring through the list of names scrawled next to numbers ranging from one to ten, Eli headed upstairs.
Since he had lingered, a few of his fellow inmates were already in the hall, allowing him to catch an exchange between a man dressed with notable extravagance and one of the men in shoddy shape. They contrasted, except one had a palpable peevishness, which showed as he lashed out, spitting vitriol.
โSomeone piss in your cheerios?โ
Voice laden with revulsion, Elias hissed as he passed, jotting down a mental note that this guy was an asshole.
Regardless, he continued until he reached room eight, twisting the doorknob and stepping inside. Not even taking in the roomโs span, Elias sat on the bed, head in his palms.
So, here he was again, at a refresh, but did he want it?
Well, he supposed he would see.
Anxiety had no claim over him, yet his leg bounced, rhythmic even, and his fingers quivered. A pining for a cigarette rang within him, and he needed to fill the yawning hollow that hungered with an overwhelming urgencyโwhat fun.
Overall, Elias looked as though he had gone through the motions of withdrawal, a cruel and turbulent sea he swam across to get here in a bus down a rock-ribbed road to his supposed salvation.
As if.
Eli snorted as he ran his fingers through his unruly ebony locks, glancing at the partial reflection of his visage captured in a smudged and dirtied window. The glint of his icy blue eyes held a weariness, and he realized fatigue was eating away at him, leaving his body cumbersome.
Once, he had been here. Not at Desert Rose, no, but snared within the rehabilitation system. Akin to a dog chasing its tail, he sought something but had nothing to show for it in an ever-grating cycle. Spinning in circles was all he was doing. Such an impassible fragment of his reality did not slip from his cognizance.
Unable to alter the ruinous and convoluted path he had ambled down nor undo what cataclysmic events had transpired, it seemed that straying from where he was going was no longer possible. Locked and anchored, that was what he was.
Nothing about it enthused Elias. Long had he had come down from the heights of inebriation, but at least he was away from her, although division cut him in two. The split anguished him more than he would admit.
Evelyn.
If he spoke the name, it rolled sweet as warm honey off his tongue, a curse yet one so divine it sickened him.
Long had the two entertained a relationship seeping utter toxicity. Eveโs venom pulsed through his veins, and he savored it. Not only had he become addicted to many substances, content to continue trying to fill the vacuum inside him, but he had also stumbled into vicious codependency with Eve herself.
Of course, she often left him high and dry, but it did not assuage his unwavering allure to her.
A fraction of him abhorred her and the dance she captured him in, but it never got him far.
At least here, Elias could disentangle himself from the webs she had weaved, stifling him and drawing him back to lapping at the waters of addiction and indulgence.
With a heaved sigh, Elias opted not to ponder too much about her lest he go down a deep, murky rabbit hole. For miles, it seemed he stared at a vast sea of nothingness, which reminded him of the unsatiated hunger of his disease. The chills that wracked him would make it so he would never dare forget.
Despite a propensity to engage and spark conversation, Elias remained hushed and inward during the dull drive.
To brood over all the seeds sowed, sprouting into sheer horridness soon after, became a shitty default state. Awareness of those around him dissipated as the wrenching grasp of guilt tightened around his throat.
The bus halted, and he jolted, awakened and keen.
Beyond the clothes on his back, Eli brought only a tattered backpack and a sketchbook. The cover of the hardback book was closed by twine, and he deemed he would never give anyone a chance to open it.
The frayed sketchbook had a sentimental value to it, and it roused a bristled protectiveness in him, so when herded out of the bus in a row, he clenched it close to his chest.
Now, they huddled before four individuals, each introduced by the operationโs owner.
However, for Elias, it went in one ear and out the other as he instead focused upon the motley crew composed of the other addicts sentenced to confinement here until they hit some point of progression.
Two of the guys looked worse for wear, and, with frigidity, he disregarded the other lot. Not out of a want to not foster potential relationships but because of the listlessness encompassing him.
To ferret about and prod would be for some time in the future. There was not much value in feigning a cheery disposition, and Elias did not fret over refusing to entertain the others for now.
Most looked as though they did not desire to make connections, and neither did he. Yet, he caught the faint smile of a beguiling woman with honeyed-hued locks, and Elias returned it, albeit forced. Was he curious? Perhaps.
When the introductions had halted and Andrea King gave firm instructions, Eli followed along, playing the game expected of him.
The first stop was the bulletin board, where he would discern which numbered room belonged to him.
Eight.
Home, right?
Another hefty sigh escaped Eli. After dallying, scouring through the list of names scrawled next to numbers ranging from one to ten, Eli headed upstairs.
Since he had lingered, a few of his fellow inmates were already in the hall, allowing him to catch an exchange between a man dressed with notable extravagance and one of the men in shoddy shape. They contrasted, except one had a palpable peevishness, which showed as he lashed out, spitting vitriol.
โSomeone piss in your cheerios?โ
Voice laden with revulsion, Elias hissed as he passed, jotting down a mental note that this guy was an asshole.
Regardless, he continued until he reached room eight, twisting the doorknob and stepping inside. Not even taking in the roomโs span, Elias sat on the bed, head in his palms.
So, here he was again, at a refresh, but did he want it?
Well, he supposed he would see.
Feel free to DM me or comment here should I have snared your interest.
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