darkvoiids

[darkvoiids]

               𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐎’𝐒   𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄   𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒   𝐎𝐍   𝐇𝐈𝐌   𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐇𝐀𝐙𝐄   𝐎𝐅   𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄   𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓   𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒   𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌   𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑   𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒,   the   strong   scent   of   tobacco   and   wet   asphalt   filling   the   space   between   them.   The   tip   of   Kenji’s   boot   flirts   with   Cesco’s   foot,   the   question   his   companion   poses   giving   rise   to   a   sense   of   danger,   but   it’s   subdued   and   sits   at   the   pit   of   Kenji’s   stomach,   like   pleasure   does.   A   purse   of   his   lips,   a   quirk   in   the   corner,   and   a   glint   in   his   eyes—   he   chooses   them   so   handsome   and   smart,   so   violent   and   cruel;   may   they   ever   rip   his   chest   open,   he   hopes   it’s   in   bed, caught  in   a   vulnerable   position,   surprised.

But   not   here.

       ❛❛ Oh,   Cesco,   whisper   threats   into   my   ear   when   you’re   gonna   do   it,   I   like   them   more   that   way, ❜❜   He   rolls   his   eyes   but   gets   closer   as   if   he   means   to   be   threatened   again,   and   wants   to   be   in   the   right   position    this    time.    ❛❛ Ask   me   again   if   there   will   be   a   problem, ❜❜    He’s   turned   sideways,   leaned   against   the   building,   looking   at   Cesco   through   drunk   and   lidded   eyes;   a   determined   desire   to   play in their depths.

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: closed for @darkvoiids ♡ 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: outside a bar. 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄: late at night.

𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝. cigarette ash is scattered on the concrete, slightly wet from a recent burst of rain and he turns his gaze to the dead hand soldier. neutral ground, it’s not a common thing for the terrors to walk a path without a fight within it but alas you can’t burn down other enemies without fuel being provided by others. there’s so many steps to war and not all scream violence and for blood to spill. slow moving chess pieces with guns hidden under the board, it adds a kick to the electricity in cesco’s veins. ❝ i’ve heard from a few dead birdies some concerning things about you. ❞ slight colour of intrigue and humour in those cold eyes. his head tilts in curiosity, another drag from his cigarette before he lets the smoke go through his nostrils. a con artist wears many facades, it’d be a shame if an alliance fell through because one of them broke. ❝ we have nothing to worry about, do we? ❞

[darkvoiids]

               𝐈𝐓   𝐖𝐀𝐒   𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄   𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓   𝐋𝐄𝐃   𝐇𝐈𝐌   𝐓𝐎   𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑   𝐈𝐅   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒   𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄   𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆,   but   here   he   is,   walking   down   a   dimly   lit   street   where   he   hears   laughter   and   shattering   glass.   A   group   of   children   is   making   quick   work   of   the   bus   stop—   one   smashes   the   LED   panel   with   a   baseball   bat,   and   another   kicks   in   one   of   the   glass   panes   before   the   whole   lot   runs   off   in   a   rumble   of   shouted   profanities.   Kenji   sighs   in   disillusion–   the   reality   of   walking   to   the   casino   seems   to   be   dawning,   but   he   hasn’t   a   clue   about   the   liberties   the   youth   took   to   ruin   government   property;   their   fashion   is   too   shameless   for   the   sort   of   street,   though   he   supposes   they   aren’t   too   far   into   the   city,   so   perhaps   there’s   more   oversight   here. 

       He   sees   a   figure approach   the   bus   stop   and   feels   a   flicker   of   hope—   has   he   found   a   wayward   kindred   soul ?   But   that   dream   comes   to   a   rude   halt   when   the   stranger   finishes   what   the   group   of   hooligans   started.   Kenji   watches,   stunned,   as   the   last   glass   pane   is   kicked   down.   He   doesn’t   know   what   possesses   him   also   to   approach,   but   the   oddly   friendly   reception   he   receives   warms   him   a   little;   Kenji   nods. 

       ❛❛ Is   it ? ❜❜    He   quirks   a   brow,   examining   the   wrecked   property,   and  raises   his   foot   to   get   the   last   bit   of   glass.   He   stumbles   a  bit   when   the   sense   of   his   folly   compels   him   to   realize   the   absurd   situation,   and   he   quickly   wipes   off   any   glass   that   sticks   to   his   shoe.   He   clears   his   throat   and   looks   at   the   stranger,   unable   to   untie   the   lace   of  discomfort   around   his   tone.   ❛❛ Well,��  sure,   I   guess, ❜❜   Kenji   stumbles   here   too,   ❛❛ I   guess   that   was   alright.   Say,   are   any   of   the   buses  running ? ❜❜   He   asks   with   a   frown,   then   adds,   ❛❛ Do   you   know   what   the   fuck   is   going   on   today ? ❜❜

CLOSED STARTER for @darkvoiids ft. a muse of your choosing ;) location ; NYC STREETS

The world was burning and it was glorious. Veer could not imagine a better way for chaos to reign over New York City but chaos created and brought about by Snake Den. The perfect plan. However, they still didn’t plan on participating, they still didn’t attempt to pluck the fruits of their labour, but instead ensured they were well away from the actual violence. An onlooker in the streets of the city they’d made their home, a voyeur. 

Though being a voyeur would mean that they never got to participate, and they certainly participated. They licked their lip as they watched a few kids make work of a bus stop. It was beautiful to see the youngsters having a great time. When they moved on, Veer couldn’t help kicking in the last remaining window, because it needed to be done, and chuckling as he did. He turned to another stranger, perhaps another voyeur, and smiled. “It’s very satisfying, would you like to give it a go too?”

[darkvoiids]

              𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐎’𝐒   𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋   𝐀𝐓   𝐇𝐈𝐒   𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐑   𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐒   𝐀   𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑   𝐎𝐅   𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃,   something   amusing   on   a   channel   that   has   been   showing   static   all   night.   John   feels   at   home   with   the   impatient   words   and   the   deranged   look   of   a   man   forced   to   show   grace   to   his   enemies,   for   that man finds comfort within him,   too,   but   he has   long   found   a   favorable   hiding   spot.   John   would   not   recognize   himself   among   the   sheep   if   he   were still in the wastelands;   his   countenance   is   much   older   in   expression   and   decision–   it   looks   prudent   and   retains   no   marks   of   former   degradation.   A   half-civilized   ferocity   lurks   yet   in   the   depressed   brows   and   eyes   full   of   fire,   but   it   is   subdued,   and   his   manner   is   devoid   of   roughness,   enveloped   instead   by   decorum. 

       ❛❛ There  is  something   to   be   learned   from   their   avarice   and   ignorance, ❜❜    John   offers   with   a   smile,   consoling   Arturo’s   resentment   at   the   position   he   was   put   in   tonight.   ❛❛ A   city   burning   below   while   they   merrymake   up   in   their   tower,   among   other   wealthy   and   powerful.   If   anything,   we   can   be   grateful   for   their   willful   lack   of   good   conscience   and   sense—   it   grants   us   opportunity. ❜❜

John   places   a   hand   on   Arturo’s   shoulder   and   leans   closer;   they’d   look   like   two   businessmen   locked   in   a   transaction   to   any onlooker.    ❛❛ But   take comfort,   Arturo,   in knowing that   they   might   mouth   off,   drink,   and   laugh,   but   they   know   they’re   trapped.   There   is   hell   on   the   streets   and   they   won’t   go   down,   they’re   too   afraid.   Seize   that   fear   and   keep   them   occupied,   in   a   few   more   hours   we   will   have   the   information   we   need   to   take  down   these   corporate   clowns. ❜❜

                          @darkvoiids

LOCATION: stoneage party, the night of the purge. FOR: father john ledger.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐇𝐒 believe that it was he who should join the flood of the stoneage fools? to socialize, to fraternize? he was thankful that john was at his side -- for the very second that any of the guests looked at him the wrong way, said the wrong thing, he may not have been able to help himself from destroying everything. the smile he has plastered on immediately drops when he is in the company of the one person in the room that feels like a safe place to land -- someone whom he can trust, someone whom he deeply respects. while those within stoneage's clutches may have the rest of the world fooled that they are deserving, normal people -- they are leeches. festering along the flesh of those just trying to live, those who simply wish to be human.

" i don't know how you do it. " he mutters to john in private, eyes turning to his fellow pariah after he speaks. " listen to people. for a room full of the richest and smartest people in new york city... i lose brain cells every time someone in this room opens their mouth. "

[darkvoiids]

* ◟ : 〔 GEMMA ARTERTON , CIS WOMAN + SHE / HER 〕 BURNADINE LEIGH , some say you’re a THIRTY EIGHT YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both LOYAL and RUTHLESS, one can’t help but think of WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE by POWERMAN 5000 when you walk by. are you still a BLADE RUNNER for STONEAGE INDUSTRIES, even with your reputation as THE HUNTER? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and THE MEANS TO THE END, THE ARGUMENT SCOFFED AT, THE ULTERIOR MOTIVE; THE RUBY IN THE STORIES, THE POEMS, THE RED LIPS, THE SHOCK OF CRIMSON IN A HANDSHAKE; A CAT'S INSCRUTABLE STARE, THE EYES ON AN ANGEL'S WINGS, GIVEN FOR GREAT DISCERNMENT, AND THE SUBSEQUENT TERROR OF THE ONE THAT BEHOLDS, although we can’t help but think of RIZA HAWKEYE ( FMA:B ) + LEVI ACKERMAN ( ATTACK ON TITAN ) + NATASHA ROMANOFF ( MARVEL ) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

— NAVIGATION.

[darkvoiids]

              𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍   and   Kenji   means   to   drive   one   away   with   a   shrug   and   then   walking   away,   but   he’s   stopped   when   he   turns   to   look   and   beholds   the   most   stunning   face   he’s   seen   in   the   day’s   hours.   He   blinks—   slowly,   as   that’s   the   speed   at   which   his   mind   works   after   an   entire   day   of   fooling   everyone   around   him—   and   observes   the   eyes   opposing   his.   They   are   dove’s   eyes—   angel’s;   the   solidarity   with   which   he   receives   the   question   turns   out   to   be   enormous. 

       ❛❛ That’s   been   my   experience,   yeah, ❜❜    He   offers   a   small,   polite   smile,   not   yet   large   enough   to   reveal   his   shark’s   teeth.    ❛❛ Is   there   something   you   need   help   with ? ❜❜

sunglasses   pushed   into   her   blonde   hair   replace   headband   she's   often   spotted   in,   long   legs   covered   by   tight   denim   material   as   she   waits   on   the   train.   dancer   has   lived   a   life   full   of   private   chauffeurs   and   too   expensive   for   no   reason   uber   trips,   the   subway   is   supposed   to   represent   a   new   chapter   ⸺   if   only   she   could   work   it.   "   so   times   square   station   can   get   you   almost   everywhere   in   this   city,   right   ?   "

[   💌   starter   for   @darkvoiids   at   some   subway   station   ]

[darkvoiids]

               𝐁𝐎’𝐒   𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍   𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒   𝐀   𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒   𝐈𝐍   𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍   𝐀𝐍𝐃   𝐇𝐄   𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒   𝐓𝐎𝐎   𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐀𝐆𝐄   𝐈𝐒.   He   glances   at   the   box   as   if   attempting   to   see   through   it,   blinking   as   if   he   will   be   able   to   the   next   time   he   looks   at   it—    ❛❛ Oh,   my   robes… ❜❜    John   trails   off,   distracted,   and   uses   his   freed   hand   to   feel   around   his   black   garbs   until   he   chances   upon   the   hole   in   the   fabric   he   discovered   in   the   morning.    The   memories   return   to   him   all   at   once,   in   an   onslaught   of   comfort   to   be   himself   once   more,   and   he   feels   glad,   for   he’s   certain   when   he   speaks   up   again.    ❛❛ Knitting   tools—   they’re   knitting   tools.   I   mean   to   mend   my   robes   with   them. ❜❜

He   is   quick   to   move   on   then,   for   he   detests   to   linger   once   the   lacuna   of   memory   loss   is   filled,   and   he   hopes   no   one   notices.   ❛❛ If   your   clothes   are   in   need   of   the   same,   let   me   have   them   for   a   day   or   two,   they’ll   be   as   good   as   new   when   I   return   them. ❜❜

       It’s   a   dark   spring   evening;   the   clouds   appear   inclined   to   thunder,   and   John   thinks   they   better   find   shelter   before   the   approaching   rain   is   certain   to   drench   them.   He   finally   spares   a   glance   around,   looking   for   the   nearest   place   to   duck   into,   and   observes   that   they   seem   to   be   alone.  

       ❛❛ Now,   Bo, ❜❜    John   comes   to   a   stop   and   smiles;   he   means   not   to   alarm   them,   at   any   rate.    ❛❛ Where   should   I   drop   you   off ? ❜❜     ( When   are   you   safe   to   be   alone ? )    ❛❛ How   far   is   appropriate   enough ? ❜❜    ( What   perils   does   the   degree   of   your   crime invite ? )

As quickly as Bo became the shy version of themself who could get stuff done among the hungry wolves of New York City, he slipped back into his own skin. They’d lived in the Wastelands for such a long time, having other people tell them what to do, where to go, which direction to take, that seeking directions was natural. But they had the Neon Pariahs, and they had a goal, a very clear directive that they could fill in for themself. The glint of mischief returned along with the feeling of straightening their back and letting their keen eyes study the fellow Pariah. 

Bo considered every member of their little troupe as family. And those they connected with and took along as further additions to the pack. They didn’t consider themself a valuable piece however, and for too long had their survival been based on how well others could defend them from the talons of those in the city, that now they could actually return the favour. 

With John they felt younger, smaller, protected. But they also felt like they were in the company of a true believer, of someone who would also fight head and nails for their goal. The steadying hand on their shoulder was accepted, perhaps even leaned into. He understood instantly what the other’s intent was, and while not able to voice the gratefulness, they took the package without question. Their mind was a construct of wires and code and patterns, but in John’s company they felt human. 

“Gladly,” they said in response, pulling their voice level down a few notches, as they fought their beating heart. The adrenaline was welcome, but in the other’s company, they could forget the fight or flight response. “What’s in here?” they asked. “Are you starting a new project?” Their eyes shot back up as they studied John’s features. It was the only thing that kept them from looking over their shoulder. Even though they knew it would take a few minutes more before their code had run its course and anything would happen. They were called the Worm for a reason: their footprint might be small, but they could have dangerous consequences.

[darkvoiids]

               𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐃   𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑   𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒   𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑   𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒   𝐈𝐍,   Kenji   notes   it   with   a   mild   look,   satisfied   for   getting   this   far   along.   He   is   learned   well   enough   in   cards,   but   he   would   be   wise   to   admit   that   luck   has   been   leading   his   fate   tonight. 

       ❛❛ Nearly ? ❜❜    With   a   delicate   brush   of   his   eyelashes,   he   holds   the   stranger’s   odd   gaze;   the   mechanical   eye   still   whirls,   but   Kenji   can   learn   to   live   with   it.    ❛❛ Not   tempting   enough   for   you? ❜❜

       The   mention   of   a   flush   dampens   Kenji’s   confidence,   but   he   is   attentive   not   to   let   it   show.   He   looks   at   his   hand—   a   straight—   and   wonders   how   such   thin   cards   can   feel   so   heavy   in   his   hand.   He   regrets   that   he   spoke,   for   there   can   be   no   good   rationale   behind   allowing   his   opponent   to   humiliate   him   further.   Kenji’s   lips   are   half   asunder,   as   if   he   means   to   say   more,   and   he   draws   in   a   breath;   but   it   escapes   in   a   sigh   instead   of   a   sentence.

       After   some   moments   of   reflection,   he   reveals   his   deck   before   another   bid   can   be   made.

       Kenji   stretches   like   a   lazy   feline,   blinking   at   the   table   with   dissolving   interest.    He   finally   groans   in   defeat   and   frustration,   then   settles   back   into   his   chair.   Whatever   scandalous   declarations   made   next   are   a   testament   to   the   amount   of   alcohol   consumed   tonight,   as   well   as   the   urge   to   pursue   his   thoughts   of   recklessness,   for   now   that   he’s   got   a   start   on   them,   he   feels   he   ought   to   keep   going   while   there’s   still   the   matter   of   his   decency   left   to   lose.   With   no   regard   for   the   rest   sitting   at   the   table,   Kenji   throws   his   offer   out   with   all   bait   and   no   hook.   ❛❛ I’m   flushed   elsewhere   if   you’re   still   looking   for   something   to   hold. ❜❜

pakorn's throat scorches a hoarse laugh, only visible by the way in which his lips also curl in a sneer. there would be virtually nothing in this life that made him blush. much less casual banter over the table. these things, exchanged underneath the notion of adrenaline, often lacked when it was taken elsewhere. not to mention the — whiskey consumed.

his eye clicks, zooms on the playing cards held in kenji's hand, on the little smile on his expression. imprints them into digital code that doesn't forget easily.

"if that's what you're into." pakorn never professes to be anything eloquent. the way his smoke, mechanical-laden voice courses through the world is no different. ( he is what is so painfully different. ) "i can hold your hand to make you feel better. give you a lil' kiss on the forehead." the devil's wink makes pakorn's smirk easy. poker is, after all, mostly about the rapport — and then about the wagers.

"korn." he gives the shortened version of his name. the less intimate one. "you look like you are feeling yourself, kenji. nearly made that triple." another player tosses his cards into the muck, leaving pakorn and kenji with their hands. the optic pupil blacks out, then returns to pakorn's usual, lighter-brown coloured iris. "you think you got a flush in that hand of yours? no wonder i wanna hold it. that's hot."

[darkvoiids]

             𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐈   𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒   𝐈𝐃𝐋𝐄   𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓   𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐄𝐒,    lighting   a   cigarette   and   pretending   to   be   occupied   watching   the   ends   of   the   alley.   His   eyes   flit   to   and   fro   but   stop   midway   when   the   man’s   grunts   of   exertion   are   cut   off   by   a   resounding   thud,   and   upon   blinking,   Kenji   discovers   Sian   standing   over   the   body   with   a   chilling   lack   of   disturbance   to   her   countenance.   Kenji,   for   his   part,   glances   to   discern   whether   the   man   is   breathing,   and   seeing   his   chest   move,   takes   a   long   drag   of   his   cigarette   to   taper   his   disturbance.   Six   years   for   the   shock   of   her   transformation   to   wane,   but   he’s   still   harrowed   with   residual   jolts. 

       With   the   poor   thing   subdued   on   the   ground,   Sian   turns   to   Kenji   like   a   cat   leaving   a   mouse   half   killed,   or   a   bird   half   eaten.   He   kicks   himself   off   the   wall,   watching   her   with   a   scowl.   Where   she   got   the   idea   that   the   man   was   after   him,   he   could   not   tell.    She   has   her   private   manner   of   interpreting   the   attack,   and   Kenji   doesn’t   feel   inclined   to   intercept   her   inner   demons;   it   has   long   since   proven   effective   to   go   without   question.   Still,   it’s   worth   confirming.   He   looks   at   the   man   as   if   he   had   hurt   himself   by   accident   and   nobody   was   to   blame,   and   feeling   no   impulse   to   sympathize   with   him,   he   flicks   his   cigarette   at   his   still   body   before   departing   the   alleyway.    No   one   at   Dead   Hand   has   reason   to   be   tipped   off   about   their   secret   meetings,   and   if   they   caught   word,   they   would   do   more   than   send   spies. 

       ❛❛ Oh,   fuck   off. ❜❜    He   cuts   in,   ❛❛ You   jumped   at   his   neck   before   I   could   even   tell   you   the   bastard   was   following   us. ❜❜    If   he’s   a   ❛ lil   piggie ❜,   Kenji   thinks   peevishly,   she’s   a   dog   afflicted   with   rabies.    At   her   question,       he   shrugs,   unaware   of   Beom   Seok’s   shifts   at   the   bar,   and   repeats   something   from   their   childhood–   ❛❛ You   can   take   mine, ❜❜    He   places   his   hand   on  her  head  and  teases her   hair,   ❛❛ For   being   a   good   little   doggie ! ❜❜ 

       Kenji   throws   the   door   open,   dragging her inside.

cherry bomb.

nearby the Space Karaoke Bar & Lounge  ;  ━━━━  K-town, New York. for @darkvoiids // 𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐀 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐈.

YOUR HEART IS DRENCHED FROM THE THRILL : just how you need it to be, 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐄 ━━━━ bad luck is being delivered personally, by yours truly!

❝  would  ya  look  at  that? ❞     Sian  rouses  herself  from  the  oncoming  onslaught  of  a  ham-hocked  punch  spiraling  for  her  temple.   【 he's gonna hit you. he's gonna hit you! he'sgonnahityou! 】 the auditory hallucinations scream, like a swarming crescendo in differing voices & tones. She's ready though ;  stopping  it  with  an  open palm,   pushing it  back  to  send  the  attacker  stumbling  over  his  own  heels,   backwards.    The  peel  of  her  gritty  smile  is  a trademark for her,   the epinephrin working as her own personal fix.    She  steps  after  to  hurl  the final  blow,   staunching  the  flow  of  battle  long  enough  to  straighten  to  standing.      ❝   i've  still  got  it  after  all.   ❞  

Pausing to rearrange her blazer,  she walks over to Kenji  so  that  she’s  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  her  bestest  pal.    ❝  ━━━━  we gotta toughen you up, lil' piggie. i can't always be here to fight all of your battles. ❞    Sian's  grin  slices  wide,   lollipop stem hanging & crimping  along  with  the  pinch  of  her  brow. They both know she happily does so for him at the best & worst of times.  But then:    ❝  or maybe they came for me? ❞ The tilting of her head creates a stark contrast to the BEAST who had been scrapping just moments before ; it's an innocence that comes out every so often, not feigned.

( you don't bother to mask any of your emotions like you once did in the past ; with a brain as chemically imbalanced as your own, you find it to be more of a bother than it's worth )     

The thought, like most she decides, isn't that deep. There are never too many enemies to go around in her opinion. & 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐌 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 AND 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄!

All but already forgotten, a moment later Sian  throws  a  pointing  index  finger  around  the  corner  to  where  she  can  hear  the  telltale  sounds of their favorite karaoke spot nearby — their initial destination before the ( surprise! ) scuffle. ❝  you think Beom Seok's gonna be there tonight? he's the only one who lets me have two umbrellas. ❞ Only if she behaved!

[darkvoiids]

                            — 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧.

                                                written by luca for lawlessfm.

    【       𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐣𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫.    /    𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡. /    𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐢.     】

[darkvoiids]

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 — @ofcruelheart.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐔𝐒,   as well as the liveliest pleasure he has known,   lies in music.   Formerly he used to ask his late wife,   beloved in life and memory,   to sing for him.   She would hum carols and hymns,   a lilting voice like that of a songbird,   expert in consolation though untrained in technique.   Of past decades following the longest period of separation from her yet,   he has not found a voice to rival her gentle melody,   perhaps because he loves her too much,   and nothing exceeds love in its purity,   even when one is not so expert a singer.   However,   recent trips to the opera house revealed on its stage a wonderful surprise—   no, something more than surprise seized him— a deep conviction that this was not common, nor at all like the pathos generally possessed by vocalists,   for it was not natural at all.   Deaw held in their synthetic vocal cords a voice wild, melancholy, and elevating;   but for all of its beauty,   it was empty of substance, worthy only of repulsion. 

It took hours to reconcile himself to this discovery,   and days to persuade himself into action.  He knew that a mind like Deaw’s, molded with a grand artistic gift, could not be without some spark of honorable charity,   hence it ensued that John sent an invitation with a plead for Deaw to sing hymns at the church, which the replicant accepted not long after it was dispatched. 

The agreed-upon date arrives,   for in the letter’s contents John included the offer to show Deaw around the church,   insisting that it’s not much besides a pleasure to walk in a small,   yet natural garden,   where they might discuss the hymns of the evening. 

John���s cane adds a third thud to every footstep as he ambles to the church’s doors,   where Deaw’s slim silhouette waits for him.   John ought not to show his curiosity too obviously,   for his vitriol could slip through what cracks would form in his regard.   Instead,   he plasters a kind and warm smile on his face,   extends out an arm for a hand-shake—

❛❛ —Deaw,   Father John.   Allow me firsthand to thank you for agreeing to this meeting,   and to welcome you to St. Anthony of Padua. ❜❜   He retreats his hand,   his fingers sheltering themselves beneath his robes,   repelled from the contact.  ❛❛ Please, come in.   I feared this day could not come soon enough,   and I’ve been eager with anticipation to show you the church.   It’s not much but,   well,   there is a stage for hymns and a more than willing audience. ❜❜

[darkvoiids]

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄,   a heedless approach to decisions, and overall drunkenness.   Kenji glances with a joyful countenance at his opponent across the poker table,   observing with some deliberation the cards upon the felt and no doubt repeating Kenji’s bid with an air of amusement himself; or perhaps caution,   but amused caution nonetheless.   Kenji makes note of the particular eye— a replicant, is it— and wonders what advantages cybernetics enhance in a game of poker. 

Well, it does not matter.   He lines his pockets otherwise;   to gamble is to seek thrill and nothing more. 

❛❛ Are you flirting with me ? ❜❜   Kenji says,   a smile with a pleasant dimple on each red cheek and a devil's wink to accentuate the proposal.   ❛❛ What I’m sure of is that this table is in dire need of some heat and, well— ❜❜   In his drunken foolishness, he makes a vague motion toward himself and then reaches for his glass, which is already half-empty, and empties it some more. 

❛❛ —Kenji, ❜❜ he begins, in the interval of swallowing one mouthful of whiskey and taking another— ❛❛ It is a joy and a pleasure to make your acquaintance tonight. ❜❜ With his pledge and drink raised in reverence to the replicant, he tilts its final drops into his mouth.

open starter ›› loading . . . pakorn "korn" natharuetai.

location ›› the old world casino. ( will you bet. watch. annoy. )

in the midst of this noise, he is only a man. or, well, something close to it. in his renewed days as this wrong version of himself, pakorn reaps what he sows on the poker table more often than anywhere else. and what he sows: victories. giving a free thrill-ride to anybody who dares to take on the something-masculine-shaped, a man placed slightly to the left of himself. how much you wanna put down? so many tried to sweep the stakes with all their chips, giving him double. his brain ticking at a thousand miles per hour to keep up with the chase. hair slicked back, one eye with no patch to cover it, ticking red and zooming-black as he analyses those sitting down at his table. here, the noise drowns out what un-makes him: the tick-tick of the wires, the augmentations slapped against him to keep him running.

"double or nothing." his voice, heavy and cigarette-laden. his expression, unchanging from its set jaw. ( are you sure you can make him feel the thrill. ) he could be talking to anybody, with how he never makes eye contact. focused solely on counting every card in his hand, its metal fibres twitching, steel knuckles twisting to flip their faces to his own. then — he does glance up. "you sure about that?" ( his fellow hanging men hear this tone often. that false questioning. you're never sure about that. )

[darkvoiids]

𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄,  a package of sewing tools tucked below his arm while the other steadies his cane with each step forward.   Suddenly,   John jumps in shock,  widens his eyes,   and stares at the brute who ran around the street corner and nearly collided with him.   Recognition dawns quickly,   a shaky sigh follows,   and John regains the genteel composure he lost for a moment.   This is no brute !   Why,   the panting figure before him is in the great possession of a truly marvelous mind,   full of circuits and math,   which John wouldn’t deem worth chastising if Bo were not so accelerated all the time.  

❛❛ Bo !   My,   what velocity ! ❜❜   The old man chuckles,   a kind and sincere response to the apologies falling from the young one’s hurried regret,   and he places a steadying hand on their shoulder.   He is,   through his initial reproach,   familiar with Bo’s behavior,   and he is aware that they must be running from some sort of crime committed,   as is their habit to do.   John conducts himself immediately,   offering Bo a haven in his company.   

❛❛ –Come,   walk with me. ❜❜   He turns them in the opposite direction,   not daring to dart his eyes,   for undue caution may draw suspicion to anyone who could be following.    ❛❛ And may I express the hope that you will help with what I’m carrying. ❜❜   John lifts the package toward Bo,  giving it to them with a private,   knowing look.

OPEN STARTER from Boudhayan Pandey - member of the Neon Pariahs location RANDOM CITY STREETS

Boudhayan always planned to be inconspicuous, either by walking along with the crowds, or by sticking to the shadows. He’d learnt to hide, the friends he’d made when coming to NYC had taught him. Taught him how to act normally, how to be a city dweller and not a wastelander, how to blend in.

A skill he needed, because while he was as much a coder as a hacker, the latter earned him the most money. And he followed a set of rules when it came to the practice: 1) proximity to power, the closer they could be to the source, the better. 2) don’t take chances, always go in with a plan and a back up plan. 3) never take too long, best to get out within a set time frame. 4) make as few chances as possible, don’t leave a trace. 5) absolutely don’t have a signature method, switch it up.

Bo closed their small 9-inch notebook, and shot down the street, mission accomplished. They planned to get out of there as quickly as possible. Heart beating in their chest as the adrenaline started to work, this would never get old.

They rounded the corner and almost collided with someone. “Sorry, excuse me,” they uttered quickly, slipping into the shy persona that worked so well with people.

[darkvoiids]

               𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄,   proud leather shoes gracing the asphalt in enterprising resolve,   but meet with an abrupt interruption when his left foot kicks something straight ahead.   A question is raised just then,   along with Kenji’s eyebrows,   and he looks at the struggling man and then glances at the object he all but launched to discover a large potato,   rolling sadly into the gutter. 

       ❛❛  Oh,  ❜❜    A huff, a soft humph surrounded by frowning lips.    ❛❛  No,   it’s too far away now.   I’m going in that trajectory,   see,  ❜❜    Kenji points a finger ninety degrees left,   but he bends down to pick up a fallen cucumber which he shoves into the man’s crumpled paper bag with a shocking lack of restraint.    ❛❛  It would be inefficient for me to go out of my way.   On the other hand,  you seem inclined toward inefficiency. ❜❜

He could have yielded his amends and picked up the potato,   but this mistake he never endeavored to rectify.   He discusses the demerits so neighborly,   in a spirit so rational,   that any may be persuaded to agree with him.   As for the man missing out on his potato,   though,   his regard remains to be seen,   and Kenji’s concern is on the edge of impatience. 

       ❛❛  Well met,   enjoy your–  ❜❜    gutter potato,    ❛❛  –yeah.  ❜❜

status: open — outside some grocery store idk

Hands full with an assortment of paper bags, Marcellus finds himself in the midst of a sporadic juggling act. All for the sake of a single smoke. Naturally, it would’ve made sense to put the bags down first. Yet the underlying itch for nicotine had eaten away most of his patience. And, well, he's always had a knack for making small things more complicated than need be.

A small, triumphant grunt leaves him when he finally bests the challenge. Cigarette now stuck between the lips, he cranes his head towards the lighter. Tilt too far and some items fling themselves from crinkled paper bag confines onto the parking lot. “Shit.” Cigarette temporarily forgotten, he happens to see someone in his periphery.

“Could you get that, please?” Marcellus asks, still hunching at an awkward angle but polite despite how annoying this all was.

[darkvoiids]

*     ◟    :    〔   kentaro sakaguchi ,      cis man    +   he/him    〕  kenji nakamura,      some say you’re a  thirty year old  lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both  charismatic  and  hedonistic,  one can’t help but think of  nausea  by   jeff rosenstock  when you walk by.    are you still a    soldier  at    dead hand,     even with your reputation as the opportunist?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and    a lazy upward gaze, a slap upside the head, the lonely creature of contradiction; hung on the family tree, dangling as you question why the saying goes 'the apple doesn't fall far from the tree', where else would it fall? you are the fallen fruit, premature and always in some kind of need,    although we can’t help but think of dennis reynolds (it's always sunny in philadelphia), richie (the bear) and hasegawa taizo (gintama)    whenever we see you down these rainy streets.      (      luca  ,      25  ,      she/they  ,   mdt  .     )

— NAVIGATION.

[darkvoiids]

*     ◟    :    〔   jeff bridges  ,      cis man    +   he/him    〕      john ledger ,      some say you’re a  seventy    one year old     lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both  methodical  and vindictive,  one can’t help but think of  take me home  ,      country roads  by   john denver  when you walk by.    are you still    the sheep, priest  at    the neon pariahs, catholic church     even with your reputation as the sheep?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and    the family at the table, faint conversation in the kitchen, the hearth before the otherness came. succumbing– all of your love gone up in a storm, left alone in the golden mist. the strategy of the ancient hunt tucked under your left arm, the cross held in your right; the lamb that looks into your eyes before the slaughter.     although we can’t help but think of helmut zemo (MCU), rick deckard (blade runner), father daniel flynn (bad times at the el royale)    whenever we see you down these rainy streets.      (      luca  ,      25  ,      she/they  ,     mdt   .     )

— NAVIGATION.

[darkvoiids]

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