#lawlessintro

[acoldmyst]

* ◟ : 〔 PATHY DEJESUS, CIS WOMAN + SHE / HER 〕 YARA RHODES , some say you’re a FORTY FOUR YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both AMBITIOUS and SELF - SERVING, one can’t help but think of YOU SHOULD SEE ME IN A CROWN by BILLIE EILISH when you walk by. are you still the OWNER for GRAVITY NIGHTCLUB, even with your reputation as THE INTANGIBLE? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and A GLASS OF RED WINE WITH A DARK LIP STAIN ON THE RIM; A HAND WITH IMPECCABLY MANICURED, SHARP NAILS, HELD OUT TO CLOSE BUSINESS; CROSSED LEGS ON A BUSINESS CHAIR, ADORNED BY SHARP HEELS AND A CLOSED OFF POSTURE, although we can’t help but think of RACHEL DUNCAN ( ORPHAN BLACK ) + EMMA FROST ( MARVEL COMICS ) + ALANNA MITSOPOLIS ( MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE ) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

i. STATS

full name: yara cristina rhodes

pronouns/gender identity: she/her, cisfemale

sexuality: she/her, cisfemale

birth date: august 2nd

occupation: owner at gravity nightclub; formerly director of publicity at dahl co. (until 2028) and stoneage industries. (until 2035)

star sign: leo sun, scorpio rising

affiliation: to all, and to none.

ii. BIOGRAPHY

ׂ╰┈➤ a study in genetics.

if yara rhodes has inherited anything from her parents, it really doesn't go beyond appearances. daddy's curly hair, mommy's beautiful dark eyes, and the personality of the devil incarnate from a young age. leonardo and beatriz rhodes are good people, as selfless as they come, who both let go of high paying careers in order to dedicate their lives to public service. alas, the do-gooder gene certainly skipped a generation when it came to yara, and that much has been clear from childhood.

ׂ╰┈➤ lessons in patience.

they didn't know what to do with her. she was too smart, too questioning, and too objective. beatriz even had it in her to try a child psychologist, who had to inform her that it wasn't a sin for yara to not be a carbon copy of her parents. this didn't do much for the family's relationship, pushing yara to plan ahead for several years, until she could leave the house as soon as she was 18.

yara has been a free woman since. they've barely have any contact, her parents still unable to look at the woman she has become. since then, it's been one long game of chess after the other; patience to grow under competitive and unfair work environments, to make the right connections, to learn and to grow in more ways than one, all so that she could reach the point in which she now stands.

ׂ╰┈➤ the spider web.

after years of work weaving her silk all throughout new york city, yara rests on her laurels, contemplating the fruits of her hard labour. she's the glue holding several enterprises together, the chain sustaining unimaginable deals, all the while expanding her nightclub franchise, and hopefully her influence, to different cities. there's now a new, albeit smaller location of gravity at las vegas, but new york city is still the beating heart of her operation.

anyone who's anyone in the big apple know the name of yara rhodes, and of the gravity nightclub. but what happens behind close doors is a well-guarded secret, in both cases. gaining access to those, though not an impossible task, is a remarkably difficult one, so you better start playing your cards right.

iii. WANTED CONNECTIONS

— associates, in any and all of the organizations or even unaffiliated;

— people who work under her in gravity, both at the club itself and at management;

— former coworkers from dahl co. and stoneage industries;

— former and current lovers?? lol

— i'm open to all suggestions!

[suprnvas]

          *     ◟    :    〔   yu    jimin  ,      cis    woman    +   she    /    her    〕      SIMI    YU    (    S1-MI    Y13.0    ) ,      some say you’re a    TWENTY    FIVE    YEAR    OLD  lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both  SLICK  and  DOMINATING,  one can’t help but think of  STARGIRL    INTERLUDE   by   THE    WEEKND  when you walk by.    are you still a    REPLICANT   /     SOCIAL    MEDIA    INFLUENCER  at    STONEAGE   INDUSTRIES,     even with your reputation as the  MILLION    DOLLAR    BABY?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and    CATCHING   THE   FIRST   INFLECTION   OF   A   LIE   IN    SOMEONE'S    TONE    AND    THE    SINKING    FEELING    OF    UNCERTAINTY    THAT    FOLLOWS,    THE    INESCAPABLE    PRESSURE   OF    NEVER    LETTING    A    GOLDEN    SMILE    FALTER,    AND    A    BRIGHT    SPOTLIGHT    THAT    SEEMS    TO    FOLLOW    YOU    EVERYWHERE    YOU   GO    EVEN    WHEN    YOU'RE    DESPERATE    FOR    ANONYMITY,    although we can’t help but think of    ASHLEY    O    (    BLACK    MIRROR    ),    JOCELYN    (    THE    IDOL    ),    AVA    (    EX    MACHINA    ) whenever we see you down these rainy streets. 

BIOGRAPHY.

        development   of   S1 - Mi   Y13.0   initially   began   during   the   year   2020,    as   celebrity   culture   was   plagued   with   trainwreck   after   trainwreck.   too   often,   celebrities   and   the   elite   found   themselves   embroiled   in   scandals,   and   it   was   time   for   a   change.   there   was   once   a   time   where   celebrities   were   seen   as   role   models,   as    someone   that   pre   teens   and   teenagers   alike   often   fawned   over,   ripping   their   favorites   from   magazines   and   pasting   their   pictures   all   over   the   walls.   celebrity   culture   significantly   deminishes   in   the   early   2020s,   and   it's   within   the   walls   of   stoneage   industries   that   it   is   decided   to   make   a   massive   change.

        for   years,   S1 - Mi    Y13.0   is   merely   an   idea.   what   are   the   qualities   of   a   celebrity   that   people   actually   like?   her   development   begins   with   research,   years   of   it,   before   the   replicant   is   brought   to   life.   she   is   designed   with   relatability   in   mind,   and   the   announcement   of   such   a   replicant   from   stoneage   is   one   for   the   history   books.   surprisingly,   in   2038—   almost   twenty   years   after   development   began,   S1 - Mi   Y13.0   makes   her   debut   as   the   new   face   of   a   popular   alcoholic   beverage   brand. 

       the   replicant,   known   as   simi   yu   as   opposed   to   her   serial   number,   has   a   positive   reception.   of   course,   there   are   those   against   the   idea   of   replicants   taking   over   the   entertainment   industry,   but   she   has   become   a   staple   within   two   short   years.   her   face   is   all   over   the   city,   on   cell   phone   screens,   and   one   of   the   most   recognizable.   at   all   times,   simi   is   surrounded   by   those   responsible   with   ensuring   that   she   is   well   taken   care   of.   they   all   watch   her   every   move,   wanting   to   make   sure   that   she   doesn't   do   anything   out   of   turn,   but   their   efforts   are   slowly   becoming   in   vain.  

HEADCANONS.

simi   is   the   first   of   her   kind,   and   is   designed   to   be   "   the   perfect   celebrity   ".   she   is   programmed   to   give   the   best   answers   in   interviews,   to   always   appear   in   a   good   mood,   and   to   be   as   pleasant   as   possible.   it   is   rare   to   see   simi   lose   her   cool   in   front   of   the   camera.

she   is   becoming   sentient.   initially,   she   was   programmed   to   not   experience   any   emotions   outside   of   pleasantness   /   happiness,   but   there   is   an   undetected   glitch   in   her   code   which   is   changing   her   perception   on   the   world   around   her.   the   glitch   was   initially   noticed   during   an   interview,   when   simi   unexpectedly   began   crying   despite   the   smile   on   her   face.

the   people   surrounding   her,   employees   of   stoneage   (   and   npcs   lol   ),   do   not   have   her   best   interest   at   heart.   as   she   is   becoming   sentient,   their   actions   are   becoming   known   to   her—   they   have   been   using   simi,   often   taking   her   earnings   for   themselves   and   putting   her   through   unnecessary   tweaks   to   her   system.   in   short,   they   do   not   have   her   best   interest   at   heart.

as   simi   becomes   sentient,   she   is   starting   to   see   that   not   everyone   likes   the   presence   of   replicants.   she   often   uses   her   intelligence   to   better   understand   who,   or   rather   what,   she   is   while   also   battling   with   whether   or   not   she   wants   to   continue   her   life   in   from   of   the   camera.

[s1lents]

* ◟ : 〔 MEGAN FOX , CIS WOMAN + SHE / HER 〕 JESSICA DAIR , some say you’re a FORTY YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both MOTHERLY and SELF - DEPRECATING, one can’t help but think of EUPHORIA by KENDRICK LAMAR when you walk by. are you still the OWNER, RETIRED ASSASSIN for THE BORDERLINE HOTEL, even with your reputation as THE MOM - FRIEND? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and A ROOM IN YOUR HOME YOU NO LONGER GO INTO , FALSE PROMISES , AND EXPENSIVE WINE, although we can’t help but think of THE BRIDE ( KILL BILL ) + JEAN GREY ( X-MEN ) + TIFFANY VALENTINE ( CHUCKY ) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

your childhood was filled with the mundane . a nuclear household , the white picket fence — a childhood straight out of a goddamn john hughes movie . . . minus getting home aloned . they expected the absolute best of their kids : the best schools , the best grades . forget free summers , they were going to be spent with extracurricular activities & annual fourth of july trip to see your grandparents .

things would shift by the time college rolled around . spotted on the bench of your university , the man that would become the father of your son would sit next to you . he was older , definitely didn't belong on campus . he's intrigued by how fast you were able to solve the daily crossword . two weeks later , you were somewhere in washington , dc pointing a sniper in the face of a supreme court judge . maybe trips to the shooting range with your father did come in handy .

but now , here you were in some dingy motel ; a used pregnancy test sitting on the floor nearest the door . a pistol equipped with a silencer staring down your opponent . you've been doing this shit for ten years . . . there was bound to be enemies made ; people who wanted you dead . you beg the person in front of you to let you go — to spare you for the sake of your baby . they peer at the test strip , leaving you to your devices before a quick , seedy " congratulations " slips from their lips .

you're determined to get out of the life , even going as far as to murder the father of your son . . . the man who got you into this for that very reason . unbeknownst to you , he leaves you something behind & it wasn't just your son . . . welcome to the borderline hotel .

[dogbleed]

                   AMARA  CAMUS                CALLSIGN:  CICADA.

basics.

given  name.     amara  camus. callsign.     cicada,   loud  only  in  the  summer. nickname.     none,   if  you  value  your  life. label.     the  bonesaw. age.     thirty-one   (   december  28,   2008   ). place  of  birth.     portland,   maine. gender  identity.     cis  woman   (   she   +   her   ). orientation.     bisexual   (   woman  lean   ). occupation.     cia  operations  officer  for  the  government.     former  sniper  class  special  operative  for  ██████  ███. moral  alignment.     neutral  evil. character  inspiration.     carmilla  of  styria   (   castlevania   ),   widowmaker   /   amélie  lacroix   (   overwatch   ),   samara  morgan   (   the  ring   ),   helga  sinclair   (   atlantis:   the  lost  empire   ),   delilah   (   the  bible   ),   amma  crellin   (   sharp  objects   ),   lalo  salamanca   (   better  call  saul   ),   logan  roy   (   succession   ),   susie  bannion   (   suspiria   ).

background.

your  story  begins  at  the  bottom  of  a  stairway.     long  before  she  watches  your  first  breath,   under  a  whining  streetlamp  where  she  chases  fireflies  into  softer  shadows.     there,   in  the  delicate  poise  of  an  un-taught  child’s  back.     how  she  warms  her  bone  marrow  with  the  sweat  in  her  palms,   rather  than  the  blood  soaking  her  muscles.     putty  in  her  own  hands.     glimpses  of  you,   curtained  by  the  smoothed  brick  of  your  mother’s  first  home.     the  orphanage:   where  your  choices  encumber  someone  else  before  they  round  back  to  you.     a  french  woman  adopts  your  mother,   and  another  gaunt  daughter.     they  grow  into  calling  each  other  sister.     in  these  new  habits,   their  mother’s  friends  take  to  squeezing  your  mother’s  cheek.     that’s  the  pretty  one,   they  would  say.     her  sister  grows  into  being  called  clever.     your  mother  dies  before  you  reach  a  year  old,   the  bare  bones  of  a  human,   and  you  will  never  learn  to  ask  for  a  dead  woman’s  picture.

the  clever  one,   then,   inherits  a  pretty  one.     all  the  hushed  baby-lips,   without  the  stretch  marks.     mine,   she  dotes,   my  child.     her  belly  is  still  ripe  from  childbearing;   its  kicks  are  still  unimportant.     a  clever  daughter,   growing  there,   to  match  this  pretty  one.     somewhere  in  you,   there  is  a  memory  that’s  not  quite  a  memory.     buttered  fingers  knead  into  your  doughy  neck.     your  lovely,   lovely  aunt  who  coos  as  you  cry  and  cry.     tears  glass  those  eyes,   even  now,   when  she  whispers  to  you  with  her  hands  bracketing  your  nape.     for  every  plum-dressed  sunday,   thick-lashed  and  clean,   you  will  remember  the  outskirts  of  your  cousins’  posse.     how  any  other  in  the  room  would  treasure  your  fresh  face,   shying  away  from  a  pinch  on  your  cherry  blossom  cheeks.     for  this  face  is  your  mother’s,   and  such  pain  wore  her  to  an  early  grave.     the  wrinkling  shadows,   still,   settle  into  your  siblings’  grins.     you  watch  them.     that  is  all  you  can  do.

in  your  isolation,   you  listen  for  your  aunt’s  silent  cues.     how  she  won’t  respond  to  mother,   no  matter  how  hard  her  children  tug  at  heart-strings  that  don’t  connect.     she  ties  those  loosened  cords  to  a  chair,   maybe,   and  returns  to  nurse  a  cold  cup  of  tea.     your  cousins  try  to  teeth  on  mama   ––   a  screeching  baby,   instead  of  a  mewling  one   ––   to  melt  a  name  down  their  throats,   and  into  their  fat  hearts.     a  name  that  only  they  may  speak.     your  name  is  so  dear,   they  want  to  say,   that  i  would  not  sully  you  by  saying  it.     to  your  aunt,   an  adulation.     to  her  children,   a  birthright.     you  are  the  one  to  see  beyond  this.     to  forget  that  she  could  be  called  mother.     her  ears  prickle,   only,   when  you  say  her  name.     helena.     quiet  like  gnats  suspended  in  the  wrong  light.     but  mother,   they  insist,   mother.     the  delicacy  of  her  smile  is  relentless.     it  curves  into  her  lowered  chin.     they  will  think  that  gaze  is  for  them;   this  time,   that  name  will  be  yours  to  speak.     and  then,   she  begins  the  quote  with  a  clicked  tongue.     almost  breathless  when  she  says,   i  wish  you  wouldn’t  call  me  that.     your  cousins  have  none  of  the  will  to  reach  for  her  hand.     regardless  of  their  mother’s  wants.     your  aunt-mother  holds  your  hand  in  the  crook  of  her  elbow.     they  watch  you.     that  is  all  they  can  do.

hedged  by  the  dark,   her  dry  hand  would  cup  your  cheek.     she  is  pale,   silver  from  a  moon’s  kiss,   and  the  shadows  drip  crimson  from  her  open  mouth.     you  know  your  lips  curls  in  the  same  way.     a  daughter,   and  her  mother’s  mouth.     this  one  wasn’t  yours  to  inherit.     and  yet,   it  is  yours  all  the  same.     the  maw  possesses  no  end  nor  beginning.     only  blood,   that  you  do  not  share.     silken  promises  between  a  child  gorged  on  love,   and  a  mother  looking  a  new  fate  in  its  brown  eyes.     a  pretty  face  unmade  into  a  clever  thing.     there  are  enemies  everywhere  mon  ange,   she  will  spew,   we  are  all  that  matters.     you  were  made  to  exclude.     to  inhale  ease,   and  exhale  dread.     this  is  how  one  grows  into  a  soldier.     secluded  to  a  daughter’s  curse:   your  mother’s  life-long  blood-thirst.     the  child  of  a  fraught  house  doesn’t  realise  its  loss,   even  after  one  calls  it  a  bug’s  name.     cicada.     your  rhythm  is  for  you  alone.     heard  only  under  sunlight;   your  hum  prickles  the  rays  like  flickering  stars.     the  old  hymn  in  your  heart.     i  see,   i  want,   i  eat.

it  is  an  odd  lament,   then,   to  coalesce  with   ‘   them   ’   as  your  mother’s  daughter.     you  are  part  of  them.     there  is  no  more  you,   for  there  is  no  more  i.     they  share  your  mud-gouged  gaze.     pull  at  the  hardened  roots  of  your  pedestal.     their  nails  will  find  your  weak  ribs,   and  the  chewy  sinews  of  your  neck.     you  already  found  theirs.     held  and  holding.     what  else  could  you  want?     this  story  still  has  one  ending.     with  your  mother’s  fist  at  your  scruff.     at  the  base  of  a  cave,   far  deeper  than  six  feet  under.     cold  like  a  broken  skin.     the  reedy  bones  of  a  squashed  bug.     one  of  them  betrays  you,   and  you  don’t  want  your  mother.     not  at  the  end  of  your  earth’s  time.     you  don’t  come  back  wrong;   you  were  always  wrong.     a  fluttering  atrocity:   regal  in  your  lack  of  mercy.     half-god  like  a  roach,   living  long  after  humanity.     a  glutton  for  their  own  entrails.     people  are  easier  when  they  thrum  quietly.     amara  camus  knows  this.     she  sips  life’s  nectar,   and  grows  a  new  set  of  ribs.     the  sun  will  clutch  its  eclipse;   she  will  be  quiet.

[bitteur]

*     ◟    :    〔   cillian murphy  ,      cis man    +   he/him    〕      JEAN-PAUL   ‘   JP   ‘    CONSTANTINE ,      some say you’re a    FOURTY-EIGHT  lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both  BEGUILLING  and  DECEITFUL,  one can’t help but think of  SUPERMASSIVE BLACK HOLE   by   MUSE  when you walk by.    are you still a    BOSS  at    WHITE    WRAITHS,     even with your reputation as the   GOD   EMPEROR?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and    TO DEVOUR THE DIVINE IS TO BECOME ONE WITH THE GODS   ;   THE DIVINITY WITHIN YOU IS A GLUTTON   -   THE BEAST WITHIN CAN DRINK ‘TILL IT’S SICK BUT IT WILL NEVER TRULY BE SATISFIED,   LORD HAVE MERCY FOR ANYONE WHO STANDS IN YOUR WAY   -   FOR YOU ARE NOT MERCIFUL,   NOR ARE YOU KIND   ;   AND YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN AFRAID TO MAKE EVERYONE WISH YOU WERE,   IF THE DEVIL LOVES DETAILS   -   GODLINESS FLOATS IN THE VAGUE   ;   A GROTESQUE CURSE IN HAVING YOUR OWN EVILS BE YOUR ONLY SALVATION,    although we can’t help but think of TYWIN   LANNISTER   (   GAME   OF   THRONES   ),    PAUL   ATREIDES   (   DUNE   ),   CORIOLANUS   SNOW   (   THG   FRANCHISE   )    whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

TW : cult activity, drug use + parental abuse mention

FULL   NAME.   jean-paul   ‘   jp   ’   constantine. GENDER.   cisman. PRONOUNS.   he/him/his. NATIONALITY.   french-american. AGE   +   D.O.B.   fourty8   +   nov   13th,   1992. LABEL.   the   god   emperor. OCCUPATION.    boss   of   the   white   wraiths   /   a   study   in anti bible thumping + what happens when you let a sexc man keep winning !

HEIGHT.    183   cms,   6’. WEIGHT.     80   kg,   176   pounds. HAIR   COLOR.       black,   raven-like   ...   angel   of   death   made   flesh. EYE   COLOR.   ice   blue,   reminiscent   of   an   arctic   chill. SKIN   TONE.    pale,   ghostly   ...   desperate   need   of   some   sun. ORIENTATION.       pansexual,   greyromantic. TATTOOS.    one   @   forearm,   one   @   side. PIERCINGS.     both   earlobes   ,   studs RELIGION.       cult   évadé,   now   atheist   ...   dabbled   in   self-practicing   satanism BUILD.       mesomorph,   forged   battle-trained   finesse. SCENT.       wafts   of   smoke   from   clove   cigarettes       +       ash   &&.   rubble SKARS.       healed   cut   across   his   right   eyebrow. LANGUAGES.       native   french,   fluent   in   english. EDUCATION.       no   known   formal   education. ALIGNMENT.       neutral   evil. MENTAL DISABILITIES. c-ptsd &&. antisocial personality disorder - moderate ; both undiagnosed VOICE.       controlled,   levelled   +   low   in   its   use   of   intricate   syllables,   carefully   crafted   words   with   hidden   agendas.   heavily   accented   in   his   mother   tongue   of   french. DRESSING.    formal,   crisp   white   button-up   shirts   often   cuffed   to   his   elbows   -   almost   a   competent   professional   but   not   quite   yet.   fingers   always   adorned   with   silver   rings   +   somehow   always   bloodied.

as   wayward   prophets   preached   the   name   of   the   false   gods,       your   family   followed   suit   to   seek   enlightenment   in   the   face   of   an   unknown   power       -        one   much   bigger   than   what   could   be   imagined   by   a   starving   family   living   just   outside   the   outskirts   of   marseille.       you   were   the   youngest   out   of   the   four       ;        the   accident,       runt   of   the   litter.        often   forgotten,        casted   aside   in   favour   of   your   older,       much   stronger   brothers.       your   bones   break   the   easiest,        but   never   your   resolve.   bending   your   back   under   the   scalding   summer   sun   to   seek   penance   under   your   parents’   unforgiving   hands.       god   will   only   forgive   those   who   earn   their   forgiveness,       afterall.       it   was   only   a   little   later   in   life   where   you   finally   started   to   learn   more   about   the   world   outside   of   the   commune   your   family   now   calls   home       ...        tales   of   a   world   of   possibilities,       where   you   can   start   anew.       broken   boy   reborn   into   a   man   of   newborn   faith       -       now   you   finally   understand   what   is   meant   by   enlightenment       ;       there   is   no   truer   god   than   yourself.

you   ran   west,       as   far   as   you   could   go,       taking   whatever   jobs   you   could   until   you   landed   yourself   a   one-way   ticket   to   new   york   city.       dirt,       and   grime   were   nothing   short   of   familiar       :       you   build   your   way   up   through   bronx's   underground   boxing   rings   as   a   fighter       -       long   gone   was   the   boy   born   of   bird   bone,       now   forged   of   stone-cold   steel.       every   scar   is   a   reminder   of   what   it   took   for   you   to   get   here,       and   you   wore   it   with   an   unwavering   pride   that   could   topple   great   empires       -       you've   seen   many   come,       and   go   before   you       …       but   you   were   the   only   one   who   managed   to   rise.       a   tale   of   fate,       sacrifice,       and   unrelenting   faith       ;       there   could   never   be   a   faith   that   is   more   holy   than   the   one   you   held   of   your   own   brand   of   strife-ridden   divinity.

cunning   as   you   are   cruel       +       cold   as   you   are   callous       :        nothing   truly   shocks   you   anymore.   the   unwelcomed   plunge   of   a   blade,       ringing   shot   of   a   gun,       desperate   plea   of   one   begging   for   another   chance   at   a   second   breath       ...       someone's   worst   day   becomes   your   everyday.       you   indulge   yourself   in   every   vice   you   can   find       :       blood,       bodies,       and   benders       ...       you   have   become   your   own   personal   devil.       you   know   many   but   trust   a   fair   few,        only   allowing   for   a   certain   handful   to   be   welcomed   into   your   inner   circle       -       you   never   believed   in   keeping   your   friends   close,       and   your   enemies   closer       ...        not   when   the   latter   far   out   number   the   former.       there   has   been   a   hit   out   for   your   head   for   as   long   as   you   can   remember,       but   you've   paid   no   mind   to   the   infamy   that   drenches   itself   through   every   rolled   syllable   as   they   utter   your   name.

afterall       :       there's   no   one   that   can   touch   god.

[anhedcnias]

*     ◟    :    〔   rory culkin  ,      nonbinary    +   he/they    〕       belial (b-lal5-4.7)  or billy ,      some say you’re a    thirty3 year old  lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both  attentive  and  reticent,  one can’t help but think of  is it really you   by   loathe  when you walk by.    are you still a    concert violinist at the opera house   /     blade runner at stoneage industries,     even with your reputation as the  reluctant warrior?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and   memories injected into artificial veins,  sharing secrets through  gritted teeth  in the name of duty,  an  arm  taken  -  an  arm  given:  an  exchange  for  new  baselines and strings,    although we can’t help but think of data  (star trek: the next generation)  edward scissorhands  ( tim burton’s edward scissorhands)  the giant  ( the iron giant )     whenever we see you down these rainy streets.     

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

ALL THREADS

ALL STARTERS

ALL MEME DAY PROMPTS

CHARACTER STUDY

AESTHETICS & VISAGE

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

general aesthetics. neo-noir sonatas & cinematic resilience meets urban serenity “A silent resolve speaks louder than the loudest gunfire.” scent of serene floral lavenders with a touch of metallic musk and electronic currents of clean fabricated air. reluctant warrior. harboring a strong reluctance or unwillingness to engage in violence driven by personal values, past traumas, and a general preference for peace parallells. data (star trek: the next generation) edward scissorhands ( tim burton’s edward scissorhands) the giant ( the iron giant ) here is his pinterest here is a playlist

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒

full name. belial {𝐁-𝐋𝐀𝐋𝟓-𝟒.𝟕} or billy

current age. thirty three

date of birth. june 29th

place of birth. new york

nationality. american

ethnicity. american

hair color. brown

eye color. blue eyes

height. 5′ 6″

occupation. concert violinist and blade runner

known languages. english

𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 & 𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒

hobbies. violin practice and mastery, blade crafting and maintenance, cybernetic enhancement research, exploring neo-noir literature, chess as a mental exercise, silent meditation and reflection, marksmanship, holofilm appreciation, urban exploration, occasional poetry composition, botanical indoor gardening, codebreaking challenges

habits. daily violin practice, regular fitness routine, mindful meditation, blade maintenance rituals, cybernetic arm calibration, tendency to bottled emotions, overly cautious, night owl habits, cybernetic dependency, reluctance to delegate, excessive perfectionism, occasional distrust, silent observance, careful blade inspection, eloquent silence, selective disclosure

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

THROUGH THE EYES OF AGENT 𝐁-𝐋𝐀𝐋𝟓-𝟒.𝟕, A BLADE RUNNER FOR STONEAGE INDUSTRIES

𝙾𝙵𝙵𝙸𝙲𝙴𝚁 𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽. 𝙻𝙴𝚃’𝚂 𝙱𝙴𝙶𝙸𝙽. 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝚈? 𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙱𝙰𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴.

— a blood black nothingness began to spin

a tall white fountain. a blood black nothingness. a system of cells. interlinked. within cells interlinked. within cells interlinked. within cells interlinked. within one stem. and dreadfully distinct. against the dark. a tall white fountain played.

𝙻𝙴𝚃'𝚂 𝙼𝙾𝚅𝙴 𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙾 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼. 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙸𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈. system. 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙳𝙾𝙴𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼? system. 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷���𝚁𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝚈𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙸𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃𝚂 𝚃𝙾 𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙸𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼? system. 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙴𝚃 𝙿𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙴 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼? system. 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙲𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝙰 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼? system. 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚂𝙴𝙲𝚄𝚁𝙸𝚃��� 𝙸𝙽 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼? system. 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙰 𝚂𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚂 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼?

system.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "SYSTEM" ….your memory is hazy, like a scene from an old noir film playing in the recesses of your mind. the details are shrouded in a fog of uncertainty, each moment bleeding into the next. you find yourself in a dimly lit bar, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the pungent aroma of cheap whiskey. the ambiance is a strange amalgamation of comfort and disquiet, familiar yet unsettling… }

𝚆𝙴'𝚁𝙴 𝙶𝙾𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙾 𝙼𝙾𝚅𝙴 𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙾 𝙲𝙴𝙻𝙻𝚂. 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙿𝚄𝚃 𝚃𝙾𝙶𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙰𝚃 𝙰 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴. cells. 𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙱𝙸𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙼. cells. 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙳? cells. 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙳 𝙼𝚄𝙲𝙷 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝙴𝙻𝙻? cells. 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝙸𝙽 𝙰𝙽 𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃𝙸𝚃𝚄𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽? cells. 𝙳𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙺𝙴𝙴𝙿 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙸𝙽 𝙰 𝙲𝙴𝙻𝙻? cells. 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄'𝚁𝙴 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙳𝚄𝚃𝙸𝙴𝚂 𝙳𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙺𝙴𝙴𝙿 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙸𝙽 𝙰 𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴 𝙱𝙾𝚇?

cells.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "CELLS" …the clinking of glasses and murmured conversations form a backdrop of fragmented thoughts. it's a symphony of disjointed memories, each sound resonating with a sense of déjà vu that sends shivers down your spine. you scan the room, your eyes struggling to adjust to the low light, but nothing seems to anchor you. you’ve never seen this bartender before—their face is a blur of indistinct features, as if they were conjured from someone else’s recollections. their movements are fluid, almost mechanical, as they serve drinks with practiced efficiency. you attempt to catch their eye, but their gaze never meets yours, slipping past you like a ghost in the crowded room… }

𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙺𝙴𝙳. 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝙵 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴? interlinked. 𝙳𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝚃𝙴𝙰𝙲𝙷 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝚃𝙾 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙾 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁? interlinked. 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙺𝙴𝙳? interlinked. 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙼 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙺𝙴𝙳? interlinked. 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙻𝙴𝙵𝚃 𝙰 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙼? interlinked. 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙻𝙳 𝙸𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙰𝚁𝙼𝚂? interlinked. 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙳𝙾𝙶? interlinked. 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴'𝚂 𝙰 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶? interlinked. 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙽𝙴𝙲𝚃 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂? interlinked. 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙷𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙽𝚂 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙺𝙰𝙶𝙴 𝙸𝚂 𝙱𝚁𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽? interlinked. 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙻𝙴𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙱𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙺? 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙱𝚄𝚈 𝙰 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴?

within cells interlinked.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "INTERLINKED" …there’s a spot on the wall where you expect to find a familiar mark or a poster that could ground you, but there’s nothing. the wall is bare, unremarkable in every way, yet it holds a significance you can’t quite grasp. it's as though the bar is a stage, and the set is incomplete, missing the details that would make it real. you don’t recognize this side of town. the streets outside the bar are cloaked in shadows, the neon signs flickering with an eerie glow. it's a place that exists on the periphery of your consciousness, a liminal space between reality and fiction… }

𝚆𝙷𝚈 𝙳𝙾𝙽'𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙰𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴𝚂.

within cells interlinked. within cells interlinked. within cells interlinked.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "WITHIN CELLS INTERLINKED" …an explosion. the initial blast is a blinding flash of light, and the concussive force rattles your very core. the sounds of free fall silence the mind, an all-encompassing roar that drowns out any coherent thought. deafening. the kind of silence that presses against your ears and makes your head throb with pressure. you glance towards the front of the helicopter, but the cockpit is a twisted wreck, the controls sparking uselessly. the seat where the captain once sat is empty, a gaping void that amplifies your sense of isolation…}

𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙾 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙾 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽? 𝙷𝙰𝚂 𝙰𝙽𝚈𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺𝙴𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙰 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼? 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙾 𝚃𝙾 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙾 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽? 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙻𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙰𝙵𝙴𝚂𝚃? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃?

within.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "WITHIN." …there are no safety vests. panic seizes your chest as you realize there's no emergency protocol to follow, no life-saving equipment to cling to. the smell of smoke fills your nostrils, acrid and suffocating. it burns your throat and lungs, each breath a struggle against the toxic fumes. the smoke swirls around you, a dark cloud that obscures your vision and adds to the disorientation. velocity pulls you from the sky. the helicopter spins uncontrollably, a whirlwind of metal and fire hurtling toward the ground. the sensation of free fall is stomach-churning, a relentless pull that makes it impossible to find your bearings. you’re without a parachute. the realization hits you like a second impact. there's nothing to slow your descent, nothing to cushion the impending collision with the earth. desperation claws at your mind, but there's no escape, no way out of this plummeting deathtrap. you can’t feel your right arm.. }

𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼. 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙿𝙸𝙲𝙺 𝙰𝚂𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙶𝚄𝚂 𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼𝚂? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚂 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙴𝙻𝚂𝙴? 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙾𝚄𝚁𝙲𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝙰 𝚁𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚁? 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽'𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝚁𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰 𝙵𝙻𝙾𝚆𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙾 𝙰 𝙶𝙸𝚁𝙻? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙺 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴? 𝙸𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙰 𝚂𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙶 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴'𝚂 𝙻𝙴𝙶𝚂? 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙶𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳? 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝙸𝙽 𝙰 𝙻𝙴𝙶𝙰𝙻 𝙱𝙰𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴?

stem. within one stem.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "STEM.", "WITHIN ONE STEM." …your muscles recall a hobby. a sacred escape from the world, a passion that once breathed life into your very existence. your sinews, attuned to the subtle nuances of your craft, transport sensitivities to the manuscript paper with an almost instinctual precision. seated at your worn wooden desk, the dim light of a single lamp casts a warm glow over the blank sheets before you. the silence of the room is punctuated only by the soft rustle of the paper and the steady rhythm of your breath. each stroke of the pen is deliberate, every note carefully considered and placed. as the ink flows, a melody begins to take shape, weaving itself into existence with a life of its own. your mind, usually burdened with the weight of uncertainty and existential questions, is now singularly focused on the music. it's as if the act of creation itself is a form of therapy, a way to process and channel the emotions that lie dormant within you. the melody evolves, intertwining with harmonies and rhythms that reflect the complexity of your inner world. there's a vulnerability in this act, an unspoken truth laid bare on the page. it's a dialogue between you and the music, a conversation that requires no words yet speaks volumes… }

𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙵𝚄𝙻𝙻𝚈. 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙰𝙽 𝙾𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙰𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙴𝙳 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳? 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃 𝚃𝙾 𝙻𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙷 𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚄𝚁𝚈? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙻𝙴𝙳 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙺 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝚂𝚆𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝚃𝙾 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂?

dreadfully.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "DREADFULLY." …each lamenting note echoes through the dimly lit concert hall with a haunting beauty that captures the attention of every soul present. the soft glow of the stage lights casts long shadows, creating an intimate atmosphere where every sound feels magnified. you stand on the stage, fingers dancing across the strings with practiced precision. each movement is a testament to countless hours of dedication and passion. the bow you wield is your weapon of choice, an extension of your very being, drawing out emotions that words alone could never convey. violin strings wail against rich red velvet curtains. you pour your soul into the performance, expressing the deepest parts of yourself through the medium of sound—longing and sorrow flourish, signaling the end of the orchestration. as the final note fades away, there is a moment of silence before the audience erupts. applause. the sound is thunderous, a wave of appreciation and admiration crashing over you. you feel unworthy. you feel seen and heard. you feel connected. ugly… }

𝙳𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙲𝚃. 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝙶𝙾𝙾𝙳 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙴𝚈𝙴𝚂? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙸𝙲𝚄𝙻𝙰𝚁 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚈? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚂𝙴𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚂 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈 𝙴𝙻𝚂𝙴? 𝚆𝙷𝙾 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙰𝙳𝙼𝙸𝚁𝙴 𝙼𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙻𝙳? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙼𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝚂𝙷𝙰𝙼𝙴𝙵𝚄𝙻 𝙼𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃?

distinct. dreadfully distinct.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "DREADFULLY." , "DISTINCT." …the air is thick with the scent of oil and machinery, mingling with the faint antiseptic tang that permeates the hospital. the sound of spinning gears and whirring engines fills the air. you’re lying on a cart, being swiftly wheeled down a stark, sterile hallway. the thin, paper-like blankets barely cover the equally thin mattress beneath you, offering little comfort against the cold, hard reality of the metal gurney. your body, aching and battered, sinks into the metal cell of the cart, each bump and jolt sending ripples of pain through your consciousness. the sensation is disorienting, as if the very essence of your being is being rattled loose. the wheels of the cart glide over the smooth, marble-white floors, the sound a soft, rhythmic accompaniment to the chaos within your mind. the lights overhead are blinding, their harsh fluorescence cutting through the haze of your vision, turning the world into a series of disjointed, fragmented images. you try to focus, to make sense of your surroundings, but everything feels distant and surreal, as if you’re trapped in a nightmarish dream from which you cannot wake. the blinding lights pull at your attention, and you find yourself compelled to follow them. there’s a strange comfort in their brightness, a promise of clarity amidst the fog of your pain and confusion… }

𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺. 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙰𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙸𝙳 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙸𝙳𝙴 𝚄𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝙰 𝙱𝙴𝙳? 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙺𝙴𝙴𝙿 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙸𝙽 𝙰 𝙳𝚁𝙰𝚆𝙴𝚁 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙱𝚄𝙸𝙻𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚈𝙾𝚄? 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺 𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃𝚂? 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙶𝚁𝙰𝙼 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺 𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃𝚂? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙺 𝙸𝚃'𝚂 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴 𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝙵 𝙲𝙾𝚁𝚁𝚄𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚂𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺 𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃𝚂? 𝙼𝙰𝚈𝙱𝙴 𝙸𝚃'𝚂 𝙰 𝚂𝙿𝙾𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚁𝚄𝚂𝚃 𝙾𝚁 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶?𝚆𝙷𝙾'𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺𝙴𝚂𝚃 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙶𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚂 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙸𝙻𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝚃𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃? 𝚆𝙷𝙾 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙴𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼?

dark.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "DARK" …your life was spared not by fate, but by the calculated decision of those who deemed you too valuable to lose. as a renowned violinist, your agents and the executives of your music company orchestrated your survival following the crash. driven by their need to preserve their investment, they replaced your shattered arm with a bionic one, a marvel of technology that far surpassed mere human capabilities. in doing so, they transformed you from a musician into something more—a blade runner, a hunter of rogue replicants. your second chance at life came with strings attached; you were now their creation, bound by duty to train, hunt, and eliminate defective replicants. this new purpose, thrust upon you in exchange for your survival, melded your former identity with a relentless new mission, intertwining your music with the echoes of synthetic lives… }

𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺. 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝙵 𝙿𝙾𝚆𝙴𝚁 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙺 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙸𝚂 𝚂𝚄𝙲𝙷 𝙰 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝚂 𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙻? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙺 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝚃𝙴𝙲𝚃 𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺? 𝚆𝙷𝚈 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚂𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂 𝙷𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝙵𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚈 𝙾𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙽𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃? 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙰𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙰𝚆 𝙰 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁���𝚈 𝚂𝙺𝚈? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙾𝙾𝙽?

against the dark.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "DREADFULLY." , "AGAINST THE DARK." …you’re surrounded by rows of cold, metallic cells. each cell contains a synthetic figure, their faces obscured by shadows, their bodies motionless and silent. each one serves as a reminder of the fragility and defiance of synthetic life. you can't shake the feeling of being watched. the eyes of the figures in the cells seem to follow your every move, their silent gaze filled with an unspoken longing. one figure stands out from the rest—a young woman with eyes that seem to pierce through the darkness. there is a profound sadness in her gaze, a silent plea for help that tugs at your heartstrings. the boundaries between hunter and hunted blur, leaving only the stark reality of existence in a world where every glance carries the weight of unspoken stories and unrealized dreams…}

𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽. 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝚁𝙴𝚅𝙸 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽 𝙸𝙽 𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙴? 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽 𝙸𝙽 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙾𝙻𝙽 𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁? 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙳?𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰𝙽 𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙰𝚂𝙼? 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳?

fountain.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "FOUNTAIN." …you stand in the rain-soaked streets of new york city. the neon lights cast an otherworldly glow on the pavement, reflecting the city's relentless energy. emptiness gnaws at your insides. nearby, a group of people laugh and chat, their voices blending into a cacophony of sound. you’re on the outside looking in. as the rain continues to fall, your shadow blurs into the pavement… }

𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽. 𝙸𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙿𝚄𝚁𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚃𝙴? 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙰 𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙰𝙿𝙷𝙾𝚁? 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽 𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻? 𝙰 𝚃𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝙳. 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝙰 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙵��𝚁𝙴, 𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙷, 𝙰𝙸𝚁 𝙾𝚁 𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚁? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚂𝙺𝙸𝙿𝙿𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚁?

a tall white fountain.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "A TALL WHITE FOUNTAIN." ...as the rain continues to fall, your shadow blurs into the pavement. }

𝚆𝙴'𝚁𝙴 𝙳𝙾𝙽𝙴. 𝙱𝙸𝙻𝙻, 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝙿𝙸𝙲𝙺 𝚄𝙿 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙱𝙾𝙽𝚄𝚂.

𝐕𝐈. 𝐓𝐋𝐃𝐑;

An explosion shatters his reality as a helicopter crash plunges him into chaos and darkness, his right arm gone. Yet, memories of his passion for music bring him solace, the melodies he creates offering a refuge from the turmoil. Saved from death, his life is now bound to a new purpose as a blade runner, hunting rogue replicants. Surrounded by synthetic figures in cold cells, he feels a haunting connection to their silent longing to be free. In the rain-soaked streets of New York City, he stands, an outsider amidst the vibrant chaos, grappling with his existence as stoneage's passive yet reluctant warrior.

[pcril]

* ◟ : 〔 LEWIS TAN, CIS MAN + HE / HIM 〕 ZHONG JIEGOU , some say you’re a THIRTY SEVEN YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both INTUITIVE and BULL - HEADED, one can’t help but think of VENGEANCE by COLDRAIN when you walk by. are you still the HITMAN for THE HANGING MAN, even with your reputation as THE OUROBOROS? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and REMORSE SEVERED BY ONE'S OWN HAND, FEELING THE WARMTH OF AN INFERNO BUT NOT THE PAIN, SINS OF GENERATIONS PAST STILL SEEK PENANCE, although we can’t help but think of SENSHI ( DUNGEON MESHI ) + CHARLES SUN ( THE BROTHERS SUN ) + CASSIAN ( JOHN WICK ) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

ENTER THE OUROBOROS.

You’ve overstayed your initial timeframe on these grounds. Every nook and cranny’s been memorized. Yet you still walk the streets as a stranger. The concept of settling in is always within reach, but you’ve long forgotten what having a home means. Though some broken part of you will always long for it. So you tell yourself you don’t mind the constant rain as compromise. When in reality you’ve always fucking hated it. The memories it digs up stings worse than broken glass underfoot. But you carry on. Keep your head held high, shoulders back, spine straight just like you’ve been taught.

PUBLICLY KNOWN FACTS:

Name: Zhong JieGou

Appearance: TBA but does have a face scar from corner of mouth to cheek & one in the middle of his left hand.

( tw — child endangerment, murder )

Does anyone really know who their parents are?

It's a question that Jie never thought twice about growing up. He'd always been told he was the apple to their eye. Their miracle child, the embodiment of their love. And he was. Throughout his childhood, his father was a modest man that built his morals and teachings based on the hard truths of the world; mainly faults and redemption. Whereas his mother was perfect in just about every way as a successful realtor, loving wife and mother. Everything was fine — normal until he turned eleven.

The sudden, horrendous murder of his aunt sent his mother over the edge. She became unstable at a rapid rate; long nights out, hardly social, a husk of her former self. Even worse when the murder didn't remain at large — law enforcement hardly kept vivid interest until the case went cold. Jie and his father tried everything they could to console her to the best of their abilities, but she was cast further than they could reach.

Everything started to crack when his mother stumbled home covered in blood. No one was given a moment's notice before she robbed Jie of his father's life; knife driven deep into the throat twice and left to bleed out on the floor. He wasn't given the option to run for help, or reason with his own mother for the horrors that unfolded around him. All he was given was the same greeting that his father received and was swiped at with a blade. Straight through the left hand, raised in self-defense and fear. Unlike his father, he fared better with his instincts and managed to evade a fatal blow. Still, the knife carved into the right side of his face; just next to the corner of his mouth and up to the meat of his cheek.

They struggled for several minutes on end. Jie pleaded in pain while his mother remained unreachable — convinced that it was better if her own family died at her hands instead of the cruel world they lived in. Then there was a slight break of clarity of what she was doing. She remained over Jie, her own son, knife poised to drive a blade into a vital point. It was in that moment of opportunity that Jie fought back. He bit the very hand that had fed him all his life and fought to survive.

The altercation ended with both parents deceased and himself very much alive. He had his mother's knife grasped in shaky hands. They didn't stop shaking until he realized that — no, he really didn't know his parents. Not his father, and definitely not his mother.

Hell, maybe even himself.

Life after that incident was different. Jie almost followed his mother's descent into numb madness. Yet the support of his grandparents and new friend fished him back out; unknowingly helped him keep a level head as he figured out what the hell he truly was. Though terribly difficult, he worked towards some semblance of a normal life. Yet misfortune laughed in his face once more when he reached seventeen.

The sudden disappearance of his best friend uprooted him completely. The circumstances had been too clean, too random — too everything wrong. Yet the local police couldn't see that. They couldn't see past the fact that his friend was a full-grown adult with a rough past. They didn't do much of anything besides the bare minimum; just like they had with his aunt's murder.

It hadn't felt like a coincidence to him from the very beginning. Two horrible occurrences within his very young life didn't just happen under the pretense of random misfortune. He didn't accept it — couldn't accept it, and his disbelief ended up being right.

The body of his best friend turned up years later — dismembered and almost beyond recognition. All faith he had in law enforcement was buried along with the discovery. No one was there to help level his drowned thoughts. No one was there to tell him to try and move on — continue to live life to the fullest. No one was there to stop him from taking matters into his own hands as he finetuned his skillset. Eventually marketing himself as a hit for hire.

WHAT'S BURIED UNDERNEATH .

HISTORY BEING WRITTEN .

TBA.

[ofhurricanes]

*     ◟    :    〔   sen mitsuji  ,      cis man    +   he/him    〕      YAMATO ISHINO ,      some say you’re a    THIRTY-SIX YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both  RATIONAL  and  SMUG,  one can’t help but think of  COLOSSUS   by   IDLES  when you walk by.    are you still a    BOSS FOR THE HANGING MAN / OWNER OF EL ANHELO,     even with your reputation as THE ARES?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and    TRYING TO GET RID OF BLOOD STAINS FROM YOUR EXPENSIVE SUIT; CONSTANTLY CHEWING ON YOUR BOTTOM LIP UNTIL IT BLEEDS RED AND RAW; BOWING YOUR HEAD IN LOYALTY; IN SEARCH OF POWER,    although we can’t help but think of SHUN KENZAKI ( ORIGIN ), VINCENZO CASSANO ( VINCENZO ), RUST COHLE ( TRUE DETECTIVE) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.   

_____________________________________

Trigger warning: parental death, assassination, blood, death.

I.

You think you remember, but you don’t. 

Your life in Tokyo is a distant memory; it’s cloudy and vague, and yet you still tell your sister stories about your parents as if they’ve been written in your diary – they’re not lies, but not all of them are fully truthful, too. 

You know your mom was an artist – there’s a painting of you two saved, brought with you to New York – and you know your father could make the best monjayaki; you’ve stopped searching for the savour you last tasted more than twenty years ago. And that’s what you tell her about; you tell her about trips to the sea, late night tales, and breakfast in the sun. How you’d get scolded for not finishing homework in time, how you’ve been waiting for your mom to get back from the hospital and bring your little sister home. 

It’s all joyful, until it isn’t – this one night will haunt you until you hear the call of your grave. You don’t see it, but you hear it; and thus you stay in your room, holding Emiko, until help arrives. The days following it become a blur – you come back to yourself when your feet touch the American land. They told you it’d be safer if you lived there. 

II.

You’ll find out later that your father was a foster child of a Yakuza boss, who tried his best to distance himself from the clan and lead a normal life – of course, it could never happen. It was not for him to decide. It’s a miracle you two stayed alive, but you never think this way – there’s too much pain, too much guilt. 

You grow up with your sister and your relatives, your aunt and uncle who recently moved to the States themselves. For two people, who could never have their own children, it was both a diabolical blessing and a divine curse: it was always pleasant to hear children laugh in their cramped house, but counting every penny was never easy.

Life seemed good for you, though. Good enough, at least. You never understood why it suddenly got better too. One more thing you’ll find out later – the name of Hanging Man and one of its higher-ups, who stepped in to help.

III.

Some nights are worse than others, forcing you to wake up drenched in cold sweat – here he was, stuck in their apartment in Tokyo, alone with his sister, waiting for their parents to come, having a horrible internal feeling that something is wrong. Again and again. 

Maybe that’s why you’d savour any attention you’d get. 

Maybe that’s why you’d get to sit in a police car more than a few times as blood was spilling out of your nose. Hot-headed and reckless, you couldn’t even count how many times you've gotten into fights.

You weren’t stupid, though. Witty, sharp and always happy to finish your homework – you were kind of a mystery for everyone, including the best of your friends. But every move of yours is calculated. You know what you want, and for that you need both the brain and the fist – you’d never mention it, though. You’re aware your intention would seem immature at best, and deranged at worst. 

You try to join the clan as soon as you finish high school, but you’re left disappointed – they see you as a kid. And you are, you are just a kid – even if you’re not happy about it.

IV.

When she offers you to move together – start a new life – you’ve already graduated and started your new life in New York. Life of power, loyalty, and found family. You promise your sister you’ll visit, you’ll visit often, you just can’t leave. You can’t. 

You know it hurts her. It hurts you too – but you have plans, ideas, ambitions: either climb up the Hanging Man ladder, or work together with Akira and rule the city. 

Soon, you’ll have to choose. You don’t know it yet, but it’ll have severe consequences in the future.

You should’ve gone with Emiko.

V.

You’re destined to lose everyone in your life.

You meet her when you’re much younger – too young to understand the risks of your relationship. It just burns, it’s a fire that devours you both just like you devour each other. For the first time, you’re happy – you think you’re losing your mind when you start thinking about dropping your job for her. You could do something else, you could. It’s not too late. 

You don’t get a chance to make that step – you’re ambushed, and the blood that dries on your hands is the only reminder of her for the next eight years. 

You can’t remember the funeral – and once again, it’s a cloudy blur, one that will take a clearer shape only in nightmares. You'll look for her too, with a delusional hope that she is, in fact, alive – only to be left with no clues at all. 

VI.

You’re destined to lose or are you destined to get it all back?

[bclletragedie]

*     ◟    :    〔   monica bellucci  ,      cisfemale    +   she/her    〕     𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀 ,      some say you’re a  fifty-six year old  lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both  charming and  short-tempered,  one can’t help but think of  breakin�� dishes by   rhianna  when you walk by.    are you still a   underboss   /    socialite  at    the hanging man,     even with your reputation as the tigress?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and   all the money in the world at one’s fingertips, smokey eyeshadow and smudged lipstick to give that effortless look, cigarettes in alleyways,    although we can’t help but think of catwoman (batman universe), villanelle (killing eve), veronica sawyer (heathers)    whenever we see you down these rainy streets.      (      mel  ,      23  ,      any pronouns  ,   est   +    none .     )

𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 . . .

𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒.

name: helene ophelia coppola. nicknames/alias: none, and make no attempt to give her one.

faceclaim: monica bellucci.

age: fifty-six. gender: cisfemale. sexuality: pansexual. date/place of birth: november 23rd / florence, italy. currently: queens, nyc.

positive traits: charming, negative traits: short-tempered, vengeful, astrological sign: scorpio. archetype: the femme fatale.

𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘 . . .

[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.

[devilsons]

TO DO: BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS ME

PERSONAL DETAILS

NAME... archibald adams

NICKNAMES / OTHER NOTABLE... leech, archie, canis, bloodhound, hanging man's cannon fodder, fucked up little freak ( by enemies and friends alike )

PRONOUNS... he / him / his

AGE... twenty-eight

BIRTHDAY... july 2nd

STAR SIGN... cancer

SEXUALITY... bisexual / greyromantic

ALIGNMENT... chaotic neutral

PERSONALITY TYPE... enfp-t, the campaigner

ENNEAGRAM... type six, the loyalist

FAMILY... diane adams ( mother ), douglas redacted ( father, estranged / possibly deceased )

INFLUENCES... tyler durden ( fight club ), jesse pinkman ( breaking bad ), the priest ( fleabag ), denji ( chainsaw man ), stu macher ( scream ), luke crain ( the haunting of hill house ), b-rabbit ( 8 mile ), steve-o ( real person but essential to his makeup, also jackass )

SUBSTANCE

a turbulent jester; wicked smile, swinging switchblade, obedient dog. he thrashes wildly between carefully collected chaos and teetering over into the deep end. substance abuse paired with bipolar disorder make him hard to gauge and even harder to communicate with. he is one of two things at all times; trapped somewhere between mischievously playing the fool and a poorly restrained bloodhound, snarling and drooling, red ichor spilled wet between fangs.

APPEARANCE DETAILS

HAIR... kept short, dyed a yellowish blonde often with grown out dark brown roots

EYES... deep brown, almost black, swallow light whole

BUILD... lean and lanky but packed with power, akin to a stray dog.

HEIGHT... 6'3"

NOTABLE MARKS... heavily tattooed from the neck down, arms and hands peppered with small scars. heavier scarring on his back and torso in long slashes, bullet hole in his right shoulder. foul play. always bringing a knife to a gun fight.

USUAL COUNTENANCE... grey / purple tinted under eye bags, prone to a bloody nose, sallow skin, surprisingly pretty straight, white smile

BIOGRAPHY( tw : // drug abuse, drug use, violence, neglect )

he was unleashed into a single bedroom apartment in queens; dingy furniture and a smoke screen, walls stained yellow and black, the air toxic in the form of mold and second-hand inhalation. he was just a child, his mother passing her sickness onto him and a father he'd never met, a name he'd never heard. he were raised on ruthlessness, survival, and necessity. he was never the most important thing to his poor mother, her illness always drawing her attention to other places, but even still, she’d always loved him. he wasn’t given the right to an easy life, primarily taking care of himself since he'd learned to walk and talk, and then by age ten taking care of their mother too at times. in the early years of his life he was a prodigy, infatuated with math and science and all things technology. the rise of the android had scarcely begun in those days, and he had no way of telling the technological advancements the city would soon make, or the dangers that would come with it. but this wouldn’t happen for years, by the time the first android walks among the city without the repulsion of the uncanny valley he would have long abandoned such passions, blood stained under his fingernails as he disguises himself as a goon.

first, he was a boy. thick-framed glasses and baggy clothes, a wide, child-like stare hardened into stone long before it began to soften once again. by fifteen he’d drawn blood for the first time with intention and brutality, a street scuffle between children verging on adulthood, the endless abyss between life forms, the open wound of youth taking over the rage of hormones; stand tall, defend what is yours. he walked away with shaking hands and hurried breath, footsteps pounding as he ran from the scene. it was just one slice of skin, a thin trickle of blood, not his first sight of its smear but the beginning of a new era. it took time before he grew a taste for violence, the initial promise of it making him sick, then in turn making him cold. he lost the passions he had, the innocence, for a time, becoming a machine built only for waking to see the next day. it took time to learn how to cope with this lifestyle, picked off the streets to run petty work by seventeen, no longer a boy but not yet a man; drops, pick ups, simple work ( illegal work ) to make the money to feed himself and his mother, to clean her off the floor a couple times a week. frailty turned into muscle and hardened stature, fear turned to mirth, mirth turned to humor.

soon small jobs became a full initiation, then they put a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. it was around this time he fell victim to the family habits, the drugs helping the mix of violence and hilarity, stoking it’s flames, creating a new persona out of the ashes of his history. he was a wild card; he was the one sent to do the things nobody else wanted to do, a butcher with a complete detachment from humanity, delivered with a fools wide grin and a quip readied at the back of his tongue. the hanging man destroyed him, but gave him a purpose, a twisted found family with the bitter nickname slipping past everyone’s lips, one he’d gained from days gone of pickpocketing and sucking the blood, so to speak, from businessmen and gangsters, “leech.” he embodied this, if nothing else to feel a sense of purpose, to feel needed. he was at best a glorified henchman, but his immense loyalty and perfectly grey morality made him essential, irreplaceable. he would do anything they asked between bouts of debauchery and recklessness, detriment balanced perfectly with chaos, unbridled destruction.

now he stays in his own apartment after having taken ownership of the bad monkey bar, visiting his mother every so often if only to check her pulse. he spends days outside of business indulging in drugs, alcohol, and other means of hedonism, his phone always close by. he’s most often found in clubs and bars, shrouded in smoke with an easy posture and a wide smile, bruised knuckles holding a drink in one and a cigarette in the other. don’t be nervous, his bark as loud as his bite is lethal, remains usually silent; a trained doberman with its tongue lolling out of its mouth, head cocked and lips pulled back in the image of a grin; only dangerous when his owner dangles a treat and says ‘devastate.’  

pinterest  playlist

[s1lents]

* ◟ : 〔 ZENDAYA COLEMAN, CIS WOMAN + SHE / HER 〕 PEACH VERCIO , some say you’re a TWENTY SEVEN YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both ALLURING and UNRELIABLE, one can’t help but think of DIRTY TRIP by AIR when you walk by. are you still a REPLICANT for STONEAGE INDUSTRIES, even with your reputation as THE PICTURE PERFECT? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and KNOWING SMILES , THE URGE FOR SOMETHING MORE , THAT SLIGHT TWINGE ONE GETS WHEN THEY'RE UP TO NO GOOD, although we can’t help but think of NORTH ( DETROIT BECOME HUMAN ) + DAPHNE BLAKE ( SCOOBY DOO ) + HOLLY GOLIGHTLY ( BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S ) whenever we see you down these rainy street

you awaken . a small smile etched upon your face — glossy skin turning into a porous texture as a light is shined in your face . false memories are implanted into your brain . . . a brain made up of what feels like a mix of rubber & glass . each eyelash is placed upon the lid of your eye ; the one of a kind creation god himself wouldn't be able to think up . your iris is changed from nothing to a beautiful brown . . . perfect for photos . each muscle meticulously added — they're going to love her .

but the memories are wiped . from throwing a tennis ball to standing in front of a camera — being told to pose , your dancing around with a faceless figure on his tip toes ; a large smile on the face of someone who looks like you . . . but isn't you . a bout in the olympic qualifiers that never existed was replaced with a false runway show . she's going to be perfect . the it girl , the picture perfect .

the place each strand of hair in your head ; the perfect length that can be transformed at will . you're coded to be sweet , to be perfect . . . yet have an aura of the girl that every woman in america sees as the pinnacle of grace & elegance .

but you need a name . . . one memorable enough , yet whimsical enough . . .

" your name is peach . " a couple of blinks & a smile .

you stare at your makers , standing in the center of a brightly lit room .

" my name is peach . "

[tendrflesh]

*     ◟    :    〔  derek luh   ,     demi-man    +   they/he    〕    otis gao ,      some say you’re a  twenty-nine  lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both responsible and  foolish,  one can’t help but think of  got shocked  by  wednesday  when you walk by.    are you still a   blade runner  at  stoneage industries   even with your reputation as the achilles heel?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and   dark circles under eyes, frayed hems on slightly too long pants, damp hair in the morning.    although we can’t help but think of carl grimes (the walking dead), landry clarke (friday night lights), joseph cooper (inerstellar).   whenever we see you down these rainy streets. ’

BASICS

NAME: otis carlson gao NICKNAMES: oti JOB: bladerunner, stoneage industries BIRTHDAY: march 10 ZODIAC: pisces sun SEXUALITY: pansexual  GENDER: demi-man, they/he RELIGION: none THREE POSITIVE TRAITS: responsible, trusting, empathetic, loyal THREE NEGATIVE TRAITS: foolish, obedient, distraught ENNEAGRAM: 6w5 MYERS-BRIGGS: isfj AESTHETIC: dark circles under eyes, frayed hems on slightly too long pants, damp hair in the morning CHARACTER INSPO: carl grimes (the walking dead), landry clarke (friday night lights), joseph cooper (inerstellar) LIKES: DISLIKES:

pinterest | playlist

WANTED CONNECTIONS

twin sister (london thur)

flings

ex

sibling type relationship

someone who makes them question everything

someone who wants to manipulate him

current connections

dealer: bash owens

siblings type: rafferty o'shea, raven kowalski

nerds: silas clarke

enemy/grude: frankie levin

FAST FACTS

otis has been a blade runner for over six years now

he's very good at his job - yet there is something poking at him

curious, wanting stability but knows there can be more

has a strong moral code, but can be persuaded if you adhere to that code

protective instinct

shy and unassuming at first

secret drug addiction that few know about

frankie killed his aunt & uncle and has been holding a grudge against her for years now - he's not quite vengeful but he's almost there

more to come...

[bitteur]

*     ◟    :    〔   archie renaux  ,      trans man    +   he/him    〕      AZRIEL    WREN ,      some say you’re a    TWENTY-SIX  lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both  STEADFAST  and  RECKLESS,  one can’t help but think of  KILL V. MAIM   by   GRIMES  when you walk by.    are you still a    DEVIL ROLE   /     REPLICANT   at    SNAKE DEN   /   STONEAGE   INDUSTRIES,     even with your reputation as the  KING   SLAYER?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and    A DREAM OF MASSACRES    ;   GARDEN OF BLACK AND RED AGONIES CASCADED UPON BY A DYING STAR   -    MADNESS WAS ALWAYS FATED TO BECOME YOU   ;   MOON-DRUNK   &   HAUNTED   &   PIERCED SOUL,   A HEAD THAT IS BLOODIED YET UNBOWED   ;   FURIOUSLY TEMPT ME WITH THE ACHING RELEASE OF DEATH,   YOU BECKON   -   AND YET,   NO ONE HAS DARED TO ANSWER,   DUPLICANT WEANED ON POISON FINDING HOME IN THE PROFANE    ;    YOU SUBMIT TO THE WOLVES AND FEED THEM YOUR HEART   -   A REBIRTH CARVED FROM BLOOD AND BONE,    although we can’t help but think of DAEMON   TARGARYEN   (   HOUSE   OF   THE   DRAGON   ),   JINX   (   ARCANE   ),   WADE   WILSON    (    MARVEL   COMICS   )    whenever we see you down these rainy streets.  TW : abuse, human experimentation

FULL   NAME.   azriel   cael   wren. GENDER.   transman. PRONOUNS.   he/him/his. NATIONALITY.   american. AGE   +   D.O.B.   twenty6  +   september   6th,   unknown. LABEL.   the   king   slayer. OCCUPATION.    devil   of   the   snake   den   /   replicant of stoneage industries / a   study   in just when you thought you hit rock bottom ... you want to fuck a blonde guy !

HEIGHT.    185   cms,   6’1. WEIGHT.     87 kgs  ,  191 pounds HAIR   COLOR.       light blonde   ;   pales under the moonlight,   slivers of platinum weaved in between   -   never forgets his bleach + tone. EYE   COLOR.   dark brown   -   almost black  ;   full of untold secrets you’d rather not know if you want to maintain your sanity. SKIN   TONE.     sun-kissed   ;   a reminder that he would always rather be outside than locked in ... trauma womp womp. ORIENTATION.       bisexual,   demiromantic. TATTOOS.    left arm   ,    right arm   ,   back   ,   legs. PIERCINGS.     eyebrow  (   right   ),   lip ring   (   left   )   +   tongue. RELIGION.       supposedly   still a hindu ( a lie, shocker ). BUILD.       mesomorph,   ironically-enough   has great posture. SCENT.       immortelle + palm tree + bergamot  + amber   :   summer stretched across unforgiving sandstorms SKARS.       top   surgery scar, a diagonal cut starting from his left forehead -  cutting straight through his eyebrow ... across his cheek   (   never truly healed   )   +   never-ending array of cuts &&. bruises . LANGUAGES.       native   english,   fluent   in   hindi. EDUCATION.       no   known   formal   education. ALIGNMENT.       chaotic   evil. MENTAL DISABILITIES. c-ptsd &&. borderline personality disorder ( impulsive ) - high ; both undiagnosed VOICE.       low,  scratchy + words often drawled out as if he's eternally mocking every word you say. DRESSING.    what do you get when you cross an e-boy with someone who really needs to wash the blood stains off his docs ?

you   don't   remember   much   of   where,       how,       let   alone   why   you   were   born       ….    rather,       made.       earliest   waking   memory   consisted   off   making   out   a   few   words   that   had   been   uttered   to   you   so   many   times.       other   duplicants   got   lullabies   and   bedtime   stories,       you   got.    “       the   failed   pet   project,       worst   thing   to   come   out   of   stoneage,        waste   of   resources,       and   a   complete       +     utter   lost   cause,       ”.       the   earliest   waking   moment   of   your   life   confined   in   off-white   walls   where   the   air-conditioned   constraints   felt   like   it   would   never   end.       all   you   wanted   to   do   was   to   feel   the   sun   on   your   skin       -       bird   bones   and   alabaster   flesh   weren’t   meant   to   thrive   under   the   lights   of   operation   rooms   and   labs.       you   were   supposed   to   be   an   imitation   of   the   closest   thing   to   a   human   computer,       and   stealth   assassin       …       a   supposed       ‘       perfected   concotion   of   brawns   and   brains       '       manufactured   for   greatness   in   a   world   of   unbridled   chaos.       the   one   who   could   topple   world   governments,       and   whatever   comes   after.       the   one   who   could   bring   forth   a   new   world   order.       project   status       ?       well       …

desperation   came   quick   as   the   winters   grew   harsher,       and   colder.       synapse   triggers   became   electric   shocks   up   the   spine,       and   your   brain   toyed   upon   by   one   curious   mind   after   the   other    -       you   were   a   puzzle   that   must   be   solved,       and   perfected.       yes,       your   intellect   shown   through,       and   yet       …       there   was   a   brazenness   within   you   that   wasn't   anticipated.       you   bit   as   hard   as   you   barked,       and   evaded   authority   every   chance   you   yet.       your   brain   ran   faster   than   any   manufactured   intellegence,       but   your   brain   was   fractured       -       nightmares   blur   into   reality,       and   you   couldn't   tell   facts   from   fabrications   of   your   own   tortured   mind.       they   ran   every   test   through   your   body   up   to   the   limits   of   mortality,        and,       one   faithful   day,       it   was   as   if   your   mind   was   triggered   into   survival   mode.       a   massacre.      you   didn't   remember   much   of   that   day,       but   you   know   this   much    ….    you’ve   unlocked   pandora’s   box.       twelve   dead   men   lie   beneath   your   feet   just   from   your   hands,       hands   eternally   tainted   in   prophecised   viscera.       you   finally   came   into   your   own    :       you   finally   became   who   you   were   supposed   to   be.       humanity   at   the   expense   of   greatness       -       a   man-made   monster   frankensteined   for   the   penultimate   of   all   things   chaos.

you   found   your   true   home   amongst   the   ranks   of   the   snake   den       :       where   you   embody   the   balance   between   mortality       +       immortality,       greatness       +       madness,       heaven       +       hell.       the   devil   was   once   an   angel,       too,       and   you   were   once   just   a   boy       …       until   they   created   something,       someone,        greater   than   intended       ….    one   who   couldn't   be   leashed,       and   spat   back   any   attempts   of   control.       while   you   may   not   sound   like   the   brightest,       utterences   riddled   in   curses,       and   drawled   syllables       ….    your   brilliance   in   destruction   breeds   revolution,       and   who   doesn't   love   a   little   anarchy       ?       heavy   the   head   that   wears   the   crown   of   thorns,       and   you   followed   the   faith   of   all   of   god's   most   disgraced       -       you   fall,       tattered   wings   encasing   your   frame   as   you   become   one   with   your   true   faith.       hell's   gates   open   as   they   welcom   you       :       welcome   home,       lucifer. 

[anhedcnias]

*     ◟    :    〔   mackenyu arata  ,      cisgender man    +   he/him    〕bitto   mori ,      some say you’re a  twenty-eight   year   old  lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both  unsentimental  and  insouciant,  one can’t help but think of  code   mistake   by   corpse  when you walk by.    are you still a    motorcycle mechanic at  lower eastside choppers motorcycle shop & assassin for the dead hand,     even with your reputation as the bitter aftertaste?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and    chance   occurrences   of   slicked   back   hair from a switchblade comb,   fever   dreams   of   ceaseless   running   into   scraped   knees   and   coming   to   with   bloody knuckles,  a   ferric   heart   beating   stubbornly   and   hard as   iron,    although we can’t help but think of dallas winston ( the outsiders ), john bender ( the breakfast club ), kenickie murdoch ( grease )     whenever we see you down these rainy streets. 

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

ALL THREADS

ALL STARTERS

ALL MEME DAY PROMPTS

CHARACTER STUDY

AESTHETICS & VISAGE

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

general aesthetics. cyberpunk & crust punk meets biker “The most terrifying thing is to accept oneself completely.” the scent of. playful cardamom and leather musk as it exudes an initial air of arrogance bitter aftertaste. the lingering emotions left behind after a particular event or decision that create a sense of regret, sorrow, or disappointment. parallells. dallas winston ( the outsiders ), john bender ( the breakfast club ), kenickie murdoch ( grease ) here is his pinterest here is a playlist 

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒

full name.  bitto mori - call him bit

current age.  twenty eight

date of birth.  december 2

place of birth.  new york

nationality.  japanese american

ethnicity. japanese

hair color. jet black

eye color. brown

height.  5′ 10″

occupation. motorcycle mechanic

known languages. english & japanese

𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 & 𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒

hobbies. working with his hands, collecting weapons- knives and firearms, paintball, shooting ranges, camera photography (anything with a scope) drinking, shooting video games, tinkering with old bikes, fixing/restoring pinball machines, motorcycling, boxing, shadow boxing, and lifting.

habits. not minding his own business, having youngest child syndrome, holding onto over-worn clothes and not letting go of possessions, speaking over people or disregarding their opinions if he doesn’t agree with them, complains a lot, pessimistic, atheistic, and skeptical of people who smile too much, smokes a lot, falls asleep with the television on,  skipping meals (on accident) and spends most of his time in his work garage.

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

THROUGH THE EYES OF A LEGACY MEMBER OF THE DEAD HAND, YOUR FATHER

the dominion of your name leaves an indelible mark on those who cross your path. your fealty transcends all other allegiances, as you genuflect before the sovereign, destined to shield him at every conceivable opportunity. as a legacy member, you epitomize the embodiment of what every leader aspires to have—a paragon of loyalty and unswerving dedication. the vast and profound shadow cast by your influence extends across the tainted realm, serving as an inspiration to those beneath you in the ranks. your loyalty is not a one-sided covenant; it reciprocates, fostering an unbreakable bond with those who stand steadfastly at your side. in the intricate dance of alliances, you comprehend the sanctity of blood, a visceral understanding that transcends mere kinship. pound by pound, blood for blood, the familial bond is sacrosanct, and you are cognizant of the irreplaceable importance of family ties. the extent of your commitment is epitomized in your willingness to sacrifice, symbolized by an unwavering devotion to your chosen brother—the kingpin whose dominion is intertwined with the very ichor coursing through your veins. for him, you wield the cudgel against competitors, and your commitment goes beyond words; you are prepared to spill your own blood in defense of his legacy. your dominion is characterized by a mastery of control and an unwavering allegiance that transcends the commonplace. renowned for your astute stratagems and strategic brilliance, you navigate the labyrinth of the underworld with a demeanor as cold as it is calculating. in the realm of execution, you stand as the grim reaper—an arbiter of destinies. together, an indomitable force, nothing stands impervious to your collective prowess. upon this earthly plane, you assume the stature of deities, wielding power that eclipses the mortal realm. you are unstoppable, you and your ward.

THROUGH THE EYES OF A CONCUBINE, YOUR MOTHER

existence as a concubine metamorphoses into an intricately nuanced balancing act. you, a woman caught in a web of allegiances, find yourself delineated by a shroud of secrecy and the surrendering ache of love. your affairs become a rich wine that tastes of both peril and longing, where survival is paramount and anything you see or hear must not be repeated outside of THE DEAD HAND. love, a sentiment that defied the foreboding aura surrounding him, had taken root within the chambers of your soul. your tale unfolds not amidst the clamor of power but in the muted cadence of quiet moments, where the silent tenacity you exude resonates with an underboss. your love affair was a scandal, as your womb bore the secret fruit of a son. your journey takes an unanticipated turn, obscured by the veils of secrecy that cloak your maternal voyage. the ephemeral joy of childbirth becomes a juxtaposition against the backdrop of the clandestine world you inhabit—a world that unwittingly traps you in its embrace. the echoes of maternal lullabies and the tender moments of nurturing life exist in perpetual fear. despite your valiant efforts to save the life of your child, the inexorable hand of fate intervenes, shattering the semblance of control you sought. captured and coerced, you find yourself compelled to relinquish your son into the clutches of THE DEAD HAND. the rationale presented to you is cloaked in the deceptive guise of being “for the best.” the indelible imprint of that haunting memory still rocks your core. the face of the father of your child, a lodestar in the labyrinth of your heart, betrayed you in the highest form. he took your son, and you would never see either of them again. the memories, tinged with both despair and an incongruous love, form an indomitable echo—a spectral reminder of a heart-wrenching choice that reverberates through the corridors of time.

THROUGH THE EYES OF MASARU, YOUR SON

your temper tantrums, though less frequent, remind your mother of your father. but you are not THE DEAD HAND—that is not your destiny, or so you’ve been told. at the tender age of three, you inhabit a world vast and intricate, with comprehension eluding your grasp. unbeknownst to you, you stand on the cusp of a burgeoning existence, shouldering the weight of your father’s name, much as he did at your tender age. the intricacies of your journey will unfurl in the interplay between tradition and individuality, a delicate dance that will soon unfold at the fork in the road—a narrative that will evolve with the passage of time. in your innocence, you remain blissfully oblivious to the inevitable complexities that await. your father, seen only on weekends and occasional holidays, assumes the role of a seemingly good parent. the secrets he harbors are adeptly concealed from your discerning gaze, and the intricacies of the clandestine world in which he treads remain veiled from your understanding. despite the fact that you can only stack 10 toy blocks, the looming expectation upon your miniature shoulders is that you will eventually transform into a soldier embroiled in a conflict wholly unrelated to your youthful comprehension. the expectation to pick sides in a war you know nothing of is an unfair burden laid upon you by your parents. as you traverse this uncharted path, the choices you make will transcend the contours of your individual journey, extending to shape not only your legacy but also those that follow. the road ahead is fraught with challenges and the decisions yet to come. the unfolding chapters of your existence, painted with the brushstrokes of loyalty and ambition, herald a narrative that will define the course of your life and the lives intertwined with your own.

THROUGH THE EYES OF BITTO MORI, AN ASSASSIN FOR THE DEAD HAND

your odyssey commenced as a stubborn foot soldier within the clandestine ranks of the dead hand, a misfit amidst the shadows, a tempest of defiance and arrogance. you were a veritable mischief, a cocksure renegade whose insolence earned more than a few bruises in lieu of the lessons intended to mend your lack of decorum and etiquette. your mentors, seasoned purveyors of death, viewed your audacious demeanor as a glaring weakness, doubting whether you'd ever rise beyond the rank of a mere foot soldier. you were notorious for your disdain of authority, an insubordinate force that made collaboration a test of endurance rather than a display of synergy. yet, amidst the cacophony of your flaws, there burned a fervent passion for violence that commanded respect. it was an undeniable truth, witnessed in the chilling precision with which you dispatched your targets. behind the facade of your shit-eating grin lay a meticulous dedication to honing your craft, a commitment that eventually earned you begrudging acceptance within the ranks. you learned the invaluable lesson of restraint, channeling your rebellious spirit into mastering an arsenal of weaponry and refining techniques with unparalleled sophistication. through rigorous discipline and relentless determination, you silenced the doubts that once shrouded your potential. under the stringent tutelage of your mentors, you metamorphosed, shedding the veneer of impudence to reveal a warrior tempered by experience and wisdom. each mission became a testament to your newfound patience and strategic acumen, as you penetrated fortified strongholds, eliminated high-profile targets, and meticulously erased all traces of your presence. you embraced the intricacies of strategy, understanding that the path to success was paved with meticulous planning and unwavering focus. with each successful operation, you carved a path towards self-respect and recognition within the ranks, no longer a liability but a formidable asset to the dead hand's ambitions. your mettle faces its ultimate test amidst the labyrinthine alleys and clandestine dens of soho. through calculated maneuvering, you bolstered the dead hand's influence, fortifying THE LOWER EASTSIDE CHOPPERS and orchestrating covert operations with surgical precision. each ambush, each strike, bears a testament to your growth and newfound maturity. yet, amidst the crescendo of power and dominion, a weight of a different nature burdens you—the mantle of fatherhood. now, amidst the shadows of your past, there exists something precious to lose, a tether to humanity amidst the abyss of violence. with each mission undertaken, the specter of jeopardy looms larger, a reminder of the delicate balance between duty and familial responsibility.

𝐓𝐋𝐃𝐑; 

The story unfolds through the perspectives of key characters in Bit’s Life:

Through the Eyes of a LEGACY MEMBER of the DEAD HAND, Your Father: Viewed through the lens of a legacy member of the Dead Hand, your father epitomizes unwavering loyalty and dedication to the sovereign. His commitment reciprocates, cultivating an unbreakable bond with those who stand beside him. Through the Eyes of a Concubine, Your Mother: Within the intricate web of allegiances and secrecy, your mother, a concubine, experiences a nuanced existence. Her clandestine love affair results in the birth of a son, BIT, leading to unforeseen twists and sacrifices. Through the Eyes of Masaru, Your Son: Inhabiting a world of complexities at the tender age of three, Masaru, your son, remains oblivious to the clandestine realm enveloping his father. Unaware of the shadows that surround him, he unwittingly bears the weight of a legacy. Through the Eyes of Bit Mori, an ASSASSIN for THE DEAD HAND: Overcoming arrogance and insubordination, Bit wields unparalleled skill, navigating a treacherous landscape while balancing the ruthless demands of his profession with the weight of fatherhood.

[pcril]

* ◟ : 〔 DEV PATEL, CIS MAN + HE / HIM 〕 RAYAAN IYER , some say you’re a THIRTY FOUR YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both RESILIENT and RASH, one can’t help but think of CANVAS by AVRALIZE when you walk by. are you still the SOLDIER ( THE BASILISK ), JANITOR for THE TERRORS, STONEAGE INDUSTRIES, even with your reputation as THE BASILISK? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and BLINDLY FOLLOWING ONE'S CHOSEN BEACON, MEMORIES AKIN TO A TALL SMOKESTACK BLEEDING OUT GHOSTS, TIRED OF SUFFERING BUT NOT KNOWING WHO ONE IS WITHOUT IT, although we can’t help but think of MARCILLE ( DUNGEON MESHI ) + CANE ( JOHN WICK ) + KID ( MONKEY MAN ) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

ENTER THE BASILISK.

The tumultuous downpour's all white noise at this point. It's one of the few things that remain steady. Unchanged. If only it's as cleansing as the poets say. Routine continues to be a challenge you're not completely familiar with just yet. But you still try, little by little. Deal with the moments of paralysis in a better, though still difficult, way. Blend in with society where it smells less of dust coated cordite and more of vibrancy.

PUBLICLY KNOWN FACTS:

Name: Rayaan Iyer

Appearance: One word summary — inconspicuous. From apparel to expression, Rayaan keeps himself to the more minimalistic side. Nothing too loud or in-your-face with his speech or mannerisms. Simply cordial, calm, mostly collected. Tends to dress in a more monochromatic scale. Says he's not allergic to color, but they often exhaust his eyes.

The concept of family ( of a healthy, functioning one ) had never taken root early on in his childhood. A loving yet ill mother and an expectant but rage triggered father lined everything in eggshells at home. As influential and powerful as his father was, he wanted Rayaan to be nothing less than of the same standing. Like-minded in greed and politics, never wavering despite the circumstances, charming enough to weave his way into the right field, and obedient. Always obedient.

An accident reaped the life of a peer – seemingly by his own hands. Truthfully, the details of it had morphed into a conglomerated mess, and only the raw emotions stuck out crystal clear. Horror, guilt, and shame. And instead of being fought for, of being offered compassion or even a shred of love, all he was met with was disdain from his own father.

Rayaan became a stain on the family name. Single-handedly ruined that hard earned reputation.

The case built against him fell through the cracks with what little evidence there was. Nothing outstanding or suspicious had been found in regards to the deceased. Yet even then, he’d been cast from his parents. Word of mouth travels fast, quicker than wildfire but just as life devastating. So, he was sent away. Told to live with an old family friend that had shown the smallest scrap of sympathy for the boy. Other than a letter or text from his mother once every few blue moons, Rayaan was fully estranged from then on out.

High school hardly held any glitz or glamor. Hormones were horrible, rumors that lacked truths festered, and he still hadn’t found a solid connection at ‘home’. Friends were few and far between – a measly handful that he always held at arm’s length; still too plagued by the deeds of recent past. And yet, as the fates would have it, he still managed to find some semblance of a best friend within another.

Graduation couldn’t have happened sooner – even if his plans past school fell rather short. With no family to help, no concrete passion for any career path, he let himself get swallowed by recruitment. At least then he could tread along with the only person that seemed to give a damn about him. The only pillar of light in the midst of ever creeping darkness.

The years spent in the military blurred with one another. Body and spirit were broken, reformed, enhanced – made his strength concrete and wits razor-sharp. Through all trials and tribulations, he stayed consistent by his best friend's side. There to support him, to be supported himself, until everything was severed in one fell swoop.

Instinct had him cover his partner under fire, and it resulted in two gunshots to the abdomen. Not one, but two surgeries were required – both of which came horrendously close to the line of fatality. Yet somehow, by some miracle, Rayaan managed to fully stabilize after a long while. By the time he woke and began to gather his bearings, his worst fear had taken wind. His partner hadn’t been safe and well, but rather the opposite with a medical emergency himself. Thankfully, the both of them survived the horrors of war. Scarred both of skin and mind, but very much alive.

Once healed enough, Rayaan was medically discharge from service; once again left at the whims of the future’s unknowing. But not all was lost in the gloom. His partner was still there, ready to help shoulder the torment and work through acclimation back into society. Except.. the latter never really happened. The trauma echoed far too loudly, too persistently, to settle into a regular nine to five. Not to mention that their financial needs were more than just tight.

WHAT'S BURIED UNDERNEATH .

HISTORY BEING WRITTEN .

The solution to restlessness and shortage of money alike was presented in the form of a call. An acquaintance of years past caught wind of their unemployment and offered them a job. At first it was supposed to be a one time thing. But one became two, two became three, three became four.. Eventually it became obvious that neither of them had the strength to walk away. Working in a gritty, uniform order was the oil that kept his body’s machine running. So he stayed. Fully integrated into The Terrors. Rayaan's loyalty continues to through – even if he carries additional stress from a more recent part time gig.