ofcruelheart - Tumblr blog

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @rhapsodiq / siwoo & atlas / stoneage

"Siwoo?" His heart plummets to his stomach, the flash drive in his pocket feeling like an anchor.

He had parted ways with Dae-yoon only moments before at the sight of security, the contents of the database clinging to the edges of his mind like gauze caught in the branches of a tree. He hadn't been able to fully absorb Siwoo's entry, but the glimpses had been enough to ignite his fury, to set his blood boiling. He should raze this entire place to the ground, but there would be time enough for that later, after he had redistributed this trove of secrets to those who deserved to know, to hold it in their hands.

But the sight of the very person he'd been thinking of halts him in his tracks. Siwoo, now grown, full and realized, no longer missing—his heart swells, and a lump forms in his throat that refuses to dissipate. Yet, they had been slain all the same. Stolen, and reshaped.

"Fuck, it's you, isn't it? Dae-yoon had told me you were... alive," the word feels foreign on his tongue. "But to find you here, at Stoneage. My God, I spent so long thinking we would never find you, Siwoo."

[ofcruelheart]

An odd, grotesque sense of satisfaction intertwines with horror at the sight of Theory's utter shock, witnessing them amidst the carnage. To observe a man so often unflappable, so meticulously curated and controlled, to see the artifice slip feels like being offered jam during a famine - like indulgence. But the horror remains, and they can't help but recoil at the rise in his voice.

"Of course not. I didn't think to... I came straight from the opera house once everyone was safe." They swallow, blinking blearily. "I was so worried when I couldn't find you in the house; I feared you might have ventured out into that... that hell. I was so afraid."

But then Theory's concern registers—the fear of more discovering this laboratory, the bodies strewn about—and their voice steadies, the tremble in their jaw hardening into silver-slit resolve. They rise and stride past the discarded gun, the bodies, so easily forgotten yet certain to be etched in memory when darkness falls. A slim hand lifts, grabs the hem of Theory's shirt, clinging to it as if it is the only thing keeping them from sinking.

"Who are these people, Theory? Did you - did you hurt them?" They shut their eyes with the effort of insinuating such a kind and familiar person would be capable of such cruelty—but the same instinct, or reflex, that had clouded them with satisfaction earlier sings a dirge of knowing. That this is not the first time Theory has harbored corpses here. That despite their pleas and hopes for a simple misunderstanding, the truth will be grotesque and terrible, further entwining the dust and data that bind them. They dread it, they are afraid, but they cannot hate it.

the basement is not small, but fills with the sickly potent scent of ammonia, green soap, nitrile rubber; earthen exhale of mahogany, paper, leather. a hospital and a study carefully spliced into one vibrant organism, a home for the mind and hands that itch for motion, evolution at every sacrifice. and it, along with the rest of the city-skirting property, had been shut off from the rest of new york's warring metabolism. he'd afforded his mother advanced knowledge of the snake den's intentions, and she'd established a more than adequate system of defenses.

spoiled by one titanium latch, unhooked from its roost, the thin sound of metal tapping on metal as the night wind patiently swells, recedes.

panic returning to his usually capable lungs, theo pushes through the breached fence and approaches the door. the door that not only exposes the creeping, poisonous tendrils of his well-concealed monstrosity, but his mother to its consequences. an unpracticed hand curls around the grip of his gun, holding it to his side as he moves. nudges the door open. in the doorway — ! whips the barrel up, pointed into the mouth of the basement, entering with false precision. hears, sees them at the same time, drawing his violent attention, instinct securing his finger over the trigger. but ... no.

the gun drops as quickly as his stomach. mouth can't seem to wrap around the words to justify the three cacophonous beating hearts that fill the space between them. his recovery is slow, incomplete. " you're not supposed to be down here, " he starts, the taste of iron thick on the back of his tongue. moving forward, gauging deaw's posture and expression. but all he sees his the horror; it thins pride into near guilt, blood into water, and just as useless. " is there anyone else? " he asks, jaw tight, but does not wait for a response. suddenly much closer, more urgent, so easily confused with violence. " did you bring anyone with you? "

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @gravefed / aranya & azusa / godfather house of blues

Days have passed since she last stepped out of Pakorn Natharuetai's apartment, and she's been dreading this moment, despite her efforts to avoid it. Uncertainty gnaws at her—whether Aranya had seen her, followed her in, or if her presence here was merely a coincidence. There's no escaping now. Departure is not an option after their eyes have met. She's never been one to flee, anyway; the only time she did, it was not by choice but by exile.

Detaching herself from her actions is easier when they are dictated by Akira; defying a master is no simple feat, especially one who emerges from a dismemberment with undiminished pride despite the loss of an arm. Yet, Aranya is a woman with whom empathy comes naturally. Azusa had thought her remarkably restrained, stopping at just one limb.

Still, Azusa struggles to meet Aranya's eyes, instead, speaking over her glass.

"You know whose orders they were. Did you really think he would accept what you did and consider the matter settled?" She scoffs. "Before you say anything, I get it. Okay? Don't blame you for what you did. If there's anything that can make us brutal, it's love."

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @acridtongue / eunha & janus / executioners hq

In a corner of headquarters, a space devoid of other executioners yet brimming with the palpable, anxious energy that permeates the air, Janus finds Eunha. It's evident that the enforcer is pulsing with a frenetic energy, perhaps slightly more intense than Janus's own, though he would not presume the difference to be vast. With this awareness, he tempers his own anxiety, strangely, finding an uncanny lightness and fullness in his chest from witnessing the enforcer's determination to proceed with the plan. Despite the shadows of the night, he harbors hope.

"Eunha." He offers a strained semblance of a smile, briefly clasping Eunha's forearm. His movements feel awkward, disjointed, his jaw aching from clenching. Yet, he can't help but regard Eunha with a sense of wonder. "I believe you've made quite an impression on those still wavering. You were... impressive."

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @gildcdglory / juliana & janus / executioners hq, as the city burns around them

"Juliana." Janus endeavors to compose his unrest into a facade of calm as he takes his position beside her, a deep sigh burgeoning in his chest, yet restrained from release. Her hesitation, though palpable, is not entirely incomprehensible; the night is fraught with fear. It's easy to feel overwhelmed, to sense that the forces conspiring to immobilize them loom larger than those in their favor—after all, determination and momentum are ethereal, while the threats of ruin tied to their actions are all too concrete.

"Speak to me. What is it that you're feeling?"

[ofcruelheart]

Her shuddering, nervous energy is palpable, a tremor that seems to ripple through the air and find a home in Janus, manifesting in the restless bounce of his foot, in the anxious scrape of his nail against another. Logically, there is nothing for him to fret over, yet he has pledged to assist Vere in her singular, unyielding quest—a pursuit constant in its concept yet elusive in their grasp. The weight of potential failure, of not uncovering anything of substance, presses upon him like a personal failing.

He furrows his brow at Vere's uncharacteristic vulnerability, a disquieting prickling at his nerves. He feels undeserving, unworthy to witness her stripped of her usual composure and artifice.

"It's nothing, Vere. Truly, the least I can do, given our collaboration. Please," he stumbles momentarily over his words, offering her a pleading look. "I can't bear the thought of raising your hopes if I've come up short. Forgive me if that's the case. But I assure you, I've had everyone on alert, watching for anyone matching the description—I know I have. Been looking, that is."

status: closed — @ofcruelheart

Anticipation sits just at the fingers tips. Taps against the inner lining of her pockets, her phone, her rings.. anything she can get her hands on, really. Vere knows how evident the nervous tick can be to the trained eye, but she can’t help it.

Not when it comes to this.

The shuffle of files and glossy photos seem to echo twice as loud in her head. It hardly stirs the air around them, but her prickled senses stay hype focused regardless. “Um, before we start— I just want to thank you again for taking the time and effort for doing this.” Her features remain open and soft, but there’s a raw edge now. Genuine vulnerability sits just beneath the surface and she can’t bring herself to reel it in.

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @retrbution / theory & deaw / the wilder estate, private lab

'Come here. You'll be safe.' They heed the call, though hours have passed since the message first arrived.

The scent of injury is potent here, a sharp contrast to the conflagration they left behind, where fire painted the night sky with its searing tendrils. Here, it is a chill, surgical atmosphere, a stark departure from the inferno.

Bodies lie around, freshly wounded, limp yet stitched, still breathing, suggesting some form of mending. Yet the cold air of the lab and the disregard for the comfort of these living cadavers hint at a different intent: preservation over healing.

They reach out tentatively, hands coated in ash now smeared with blood, fearful of dislodging some vital instrument, of halting the fragile thread of life. Their heart and ears pound with an erratic rhythm, echoing the harrowing realization that someone deeply entwined with their being could be capable of such dreadful acts, of inflicting irreversible damage.

Behind them, the door opens, casting a beam of moonlight that envelops them, a halo or perhaps a searchlight. It illuminates their dark, bewildered eyes, their mouth agape, holding a tumultuous mix of relief, bewilderment, and horror between their teeth.

"You're alive," they breathe. "What have you done?"

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @ofhurricanes / atlas & dae-yoon / atlas' apartment

Their hastened departure from Stoneage carried the weight of cosmic burdens. Surely, if the library of Babel were to be rebuilt, this is what holding its blueprints must feel like.

Yet, Atlas does not linger in the glow of victory, not when Dae-yoon's condition demands attention, his burdens perhaps rivaling only Siwoo's. He senses the Wolf's simmering rage, the fury that possesses rather than empowers him. Upon reaching Atlas' apartment, a high-rise strategically close to their focal points, he swiftly secures the flash drive on his counter - visible, but momentarily set aside, and then turns to grasp Dae-yoon by the shoulders.

"I know you're ready to set the world aflame. But pause, Dae-yoon, take a breath. Will you?"

[ofcruelheart]

Minoru has always been able to assuage her in all of her moods and temperaments. Perhaps he's always been naturally adept at it; perhaps it's simply his presence that mollifies her so. His hand on her cheek has the line of her jaw softening just a touch, but it's only when he reassures her it's someone else's does the entire line of her shoulders fall, and she slumps slightly in his arms, pressing her face closer to his palm. When she speaks, she's lapsed back into the less cumbersome Japanese. "Don't... ever fucking frighten me like that again." Her eyes flutter open once more as she grasps the full weight of his words.

"Because of what he did to Yamato? I can't say I don't understand her." She knows her words are safe, held close between them, and every other part of her. Should anyone dare to target Minoru in such a manner, she doubts anything could tame the tempest that would drive her through the city in vengeance.

Her brow furrows, and then, as if suddenly aware, her gaze returns to Minoru, to his deep breaths, his weariness. She closes her eyes as he presses his forehead to hers, her arms encircling his waist, drawing them both slowly to the floor in a gentle collapse. "Then you won't leave, will you?" Her voice, muffled against his neck. She inhales his scent. "What are they even squabbling about? Are we about to go through hell without even knowing why?"

As quickly as she rises from the water, she strides towards him, her footsteps leaving puddles behind her. Minoru can't suppress a deep breath as he glances down at his clothes. It is as if he gains a new awareness of himself. As if he hadn't registered the blood staining his clothes - his skin underneath. His weary eyes finally meet hers, dark and wild. It takes no time for his hand to cup her cheek in an attempt to soothe, stroking her cheek with his thumb. She is warm against the chill of the rest of her apartment. He would carry the same fervor had she come home to him covered in blood, but he still hates to see her in distress. "It's Akira's." Minoru swallows, and his other hand finds hers on his chest, clasping over them, as much for his comfort as much as her own. He struggles and fails to sound reassuring. "...I found him," like he had found him once before…had saved him as he had once before, and it had been his fault then, as he felt it was now.

"He's alive, but Aranya, she..." Minoru's voice falters as he draws a long breath, unable to untangle the string of words in his head into something more palatable. He rests his forehead against Azusa's, blinking his eyes shut, trying to reign his thoughts and feelings back in. His heartbeat pounds through both hands. "I'm sorry," he murmurs after a pause. He glances between her eyes and lips, his gaze softening slightly - and briefly- He grapples with what to say next; his lips purse and part, searching for the right words. "I needed to see you." He finally manages, though it hadn't been what he'd meant to say, his chest feels lighter, as though a weight had been lifted from it.

[ofcruelheart]

The unexpected touch of the handkerchief startles them; their gaze lifts, unblinking, through damp lashes at him, as if they've been both chastised and caressed. The gesture, needless in the rain yet imbued with a kindness so profound, teeters on the edge of chivalrous and suspicious, a dance between malice and sincerity. It is gentle, and even the most sly wolf in sheep's clothing can't help but show teeth, so they choose to believe it is the latter. The handkerchief is soaked when it is offered to them, but they take it, fingers brushing with his through and beneath the cloth.

Clasping the cloth, they speak, "It's your memory, isn't it?" The words emerge not as a question but as a revelation, an innate knowing awakened in this moment; a tapestry of disjointed fragments, too beautiful and aimless to be woven into a coherent narrative. "The waterlogged flowers in..." Their brows knit, reaching for something elusive, a memory so fragile it threatens to slip away. "In Athens. The way the rain falls there... and the sudden cessation. The daffodils, never given a chance to dry, to catch their breath."

The confession flows like a tide, a rush of insight. They smile, giving form to these half-formed thoughts, these precious morsels of unanchored memories.

"You can, if you'd like. Look me over. But will the answer be so simple? What are you hoping to find? Perhaps..." They consider even just this one glimpse of Theory they'd uncovered, unburied within their recesses. How it might have meant so much or so little to him to bury it within a replicant - how it evaded all attempts at reconfiguration and obliteration.

If it was significant, perhaps they'd refused to let it go, clutching it close even in unconciousness. If it was nothing, perhaps they still clung to it all the same, perhaps understanding that all memory, regardless of weight or utility, could not be discarded. "Perhaps you didn't get to pick or choose. But maybe I was able to... somehow."

The notion seems absurd, even to them, with their propensity for dreaming.

"Why were you in Georgia?"

" i was starved. but i've since learned to feed myself, " he replies thoughtfully, unsure if he means the mathematics that course through him like oxygen or the rich, warm blood he cleans from himself more and more frequently. gaze passing to deaw's hands, lingering briefly. remade into a more dutiful, productive thing. how much blood is on their hands?

this is where the pit of the anger lies. the curiosity, yes, and the disbelief rooted by a confusion of known science sifting like sand between his fingers. the last time he had held sand was as a child. nine years old, maybe. had he imbued deaw with that memory? one whose hands have only held sand because the intricate cipher of his mind says he has. and that is sufficient. here is this strangely beautiful amalgamation of mathematics and artistry, tasked with the destruction of their own kind, and they dare to be gentle. kind. surrendering. the product still somehow partially composed of his mind, and it doesn't bother resembling him at all.

he isn't fond of the chaos theory, but it seems to be awfully fond of him. call it a smiling cruelty: here, see what you may have been had your atoms collected differently.

theory observes the increasingly aware, decreasingly lithe deaw grapple with the implications. cigarette falling away. cheeks pink and glistening with a delicate, perfectly correct combination of tears and rain, as though each had been tapped out by a painter's gentle hand. the romance withdraws a monogrammed handkerchief from theory's breast pocket, stepping forward to touch the folded edge under their lash line. useless in this weather, but as universally necessary as spreading a band-aid over a child's bruise. he's remained stoic throughout: cataloguing potential loopholes in the replicant restructuring process, interrupted by the moth-eaten memories he scarcely recalls sacrificing. a very inefficient thought process made evident along his increasingly tight brow. handkerchief lowered, he offers it to them to take.

barely hears deaw's voice over his own internal hum. slowly, backtracking through his thought process, " production error. flawed code. chaos. .. it may have been intentional. there's no way to know without looking over your system. " floral rotting. theory blinks through his vague inattention, finding himself equally baffled by the question of what and why. a long moment passes. those memories, kept safe in his laboratory, do not come to him here. " just as you say. flowers rotting. the rain .. roots .. " he shakes his head, jaw clenching against the failure. " reconstruction isn't like moving house. you don't get to pick what you bring with you and what you don't. not .. usually. "

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @acridtongue / barom & valla / cuts of paradise

If there exists a visage eternally etched in the deepest recesses of her mind, it is that of Barom. Here, an engraving springs back to life as she emerges from behind the curtains, her gaze alighting upon her once-advocate as gently as soft snow upon a gravestone. Has she missed the familiarity they once shared, the wisdom imparted? Undoubtedly. Does she harbor any regrets regarding the past's unfolding? Never. Souls would confide their regrets to her as readily as their sins.

"It's been some time, Barom." Her curiosity manifests in an unwavering stare. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

[ofcruelheart]

The slow, unfolding curve of a smile, as vulpine and enigmatic as the lands that birthed her. They remain much as she remembers—coarse, straightforward, brusque—yet they possess the same undeniable charm, whether in spite of or because of their rough edges.

Still, it's difficult to discern if Jade feels any faint tinge or pang of remembrance; their outward appearance offers no obvious signs, and Valla resists furrowing her brows. She's unsure if she's relieved or disappointed. She scarcely recalls whether she had been just as adamant that Jade forget her, or if some greater vulnerability had afflicted her during the procedure. Best not to dwell. The results are what matter here.

"Then what is recommended?" The bartender does bring her her wine, but she slides it to the side for now, leveling her gaze upon Jade. "Thou comes here to... what? Drown thy sorrows? To celebrate? Forget?" She blinks, slowly. "What drink pairs well?"

There was a certain longing that draped over Jade's existence. It began to eat away at them from a young age--- back when they were young and did nothing but watch as parents chose others over them. That longing brushed along their surface as they aged, trailing them like a shadow. For the longest time, they didn't know what to call their shadow. It wasn't until recently that they realized what they longed for was nothing more than to feel numb--- to erase the emotions that burdened their shoulders for years.

Perhaps that's why they acted how they did. The fighting, drinking, and meaningless hookups were all ways to divert their attention away from their emotions and toward a less intense field. It was self-destruction in its purest form, but they'd loath to admit that out loud.

They let out a scoff at VALLA PARADISO's order, body shifting to better examine the stranger. At least, they thought she was a stranger, but a lingering feeling in the back of their mind felt otherwise. Still, they shrugged off the feeling. Better to ignore it than unearth hidden skeletons. ❝This isn't a wine bar, princess.❞ They commented, head tilting as that familiar feeling gnawed at them once again. ❝Why don't you order a real drink?❞

[ofcruelheart]

He'd been mourning, yes. Perhaps, in a distant dream, he had envisioned a life where his actions did not inflict undeserved pain upon the unwilling, where his hands would tenderly plant seeds instead of delving into flesh and blood. But reality finds his fingers expertly navigating sinew and crimson, extracting a microchip with a haunting familiarity—he holds it between his index finger and thumb, silently pleading for it to transform into an alstroemeria seed.

Enveloped in sorrow, his reverie is shattered by a voice behind him. His shoulders tense, and he turns to face his second memory-maker, a figure adept at rectifying deviance. "Shall I thank you, then?" Deaw murmurs, hastily brushing away tears from his cheeks. "What brings you here, anyway?"

CLOSED FOR: @ofcruelheart: deaw!

deaw had been absent a hair too long for barom not to notice. their search was not something born of worry, but curiosity. where had the little weed flower sprouted this time? barom wouldn't admit to his tendency to track those they tinkered with, but situations such as these made it all the more necessary. there deaw crouches over the rigid replicant corpse ; hands and wrists dirtied by the sinew. barom spares a moment to observe the scenery, how deaw wallows and digs. a shadow they emerge, soles of their shoes finally emitting a soft thrum. " are you trying to pray for them or what? you should be moving on already. you're lucky it's me who came across you first. "

[ofcruelheart]

He recalls the tumult, the searing agony of prey in their final throes of resistance, as they so often do. Yet, their efforts are mostly futile—they fail to perceive the deliberate fragility, the crafted delicacy, that makes up the bladerunner's design. Unaware, too, are they of the matching softness beneath, unintended though it may be, but of little concern to them as he delivers the fatal blow through tears.

Awakening with a start, tears carve dual paths down his cheeks, like twin rivers coursing through snow-clad banks, until he recognizes his surroundings. He is within a sanctuary, a haven he frequents, whether by choice or necessity. Relief washes over him gently, as if a blanket were being tucked beneath his chin. How he dreaded awakening in Stoneage, battered and weeping—better to not furnish them with two reasons for a second glance. The pain is sharp, yet bearable, knowing it will soon dissipate, that he is in capable, caring hands. He meets Yoshi's gaze, the other's words gradually coalescing as the din in his ears subsides.

"Yoshi," he rasps, a faint smile curling his lips, brimming with relief. "You've found me again, haven't you? I hope I haven't been overly burdensome." To lift, to carry, to heal. "Oh, I'm so relieved you did. Does it look grave?"

closed starter ›› @ofcruelheart

featuring ›› deaw ahn.

location ›› yoshi's garage, forced-closed.

he enters the replicated parts of himself with ease. becomes that shard of glass, that impenetrable fortress as he squints through his magnifying spectacles at the sheer mess left behind. somehow, he managed to drag deaw back here, mangled parts and all, gnashing his teeth until the sweat laden itself upon his brow, until he became little more than his glower, more than his threat to bite whomever crossed their path. now, the adrenaline fades into a rush through their ears; yoshi stares at their face, waiting for any sign of life. ( it's the dead things, the dead things he's used to holding. there are so many dead things. ) clicks and shifts in deaw's temples alert yoshi to the fact that there is still something in there. how much, how little, that remains to be seen until they regain consciousness. until then, yoshi turns his attention to the injury in their ribcage. he pauses. he huffs. he retrieves the forceps from the counter. his eyes strafe towards daew's face. back to the matter at hand.

"fucking gods above." if he was that kind of person, he would cross himself. instead, he talks to himself because he is the only god he knows in this place. perhaps it will be the sound of his which draws them from their injured reverie. "if this is hurting you and you can't tell me, i'm not going to be very happy." toneless, though. because he is focused. he is that other side of him. ( some might even ask: when have you ever been truly happy. ) "c'mon now, daew. the light's over here." it is as many words as he can muster before he is driven back into focused silence. metal against metal.

[ofcruelheart]

How it pleases Deaw to be here, beneath the quelling moon, in a garden with tea, with her. How it pains him to hear of her speak of her definition of love, marred and streaked as it is with watching it dangled it in front of her, or withheld altogether. Such a lovely, witty, gentle woman—he had been delighted when it was she who approached him backstage, thought her kind and full of meaningful things to say. He wishes to hear all of them, forever, even if they speak of the pain she has been dealt. Especially those.

He smiles, fluttering and parted, as if to let slip the flowers from which the tea had been brewed, when she takes his hands. "How cruel of him to say. Love is senseless, isn't it? No rhyme as to when it strikes, or where, or why. If love begins with remorse, everyone would be doing terrible things to one another, just so they can apologize for it."

It is only when she asks, that the smile falters, and he searches in the recesses of his mind—for a memory—his, or someone else's, of free-falling, of clutching his chest to keep his heart from spilling out, offered at the dais too soon. But there is none.

"I don't think I've had one yet." He frowns, perplexed. "But I feel like I must have - there's so many things to love in a single person, I feel as if it must happen every day. Or maybe I'm designed to feel love differently. Worse." He lifts his dark gaze, perhaps hopeful, fingertips skirting the hem of her sleeve. "Was yours Ford? I can see how it could be."

`　　　CLOSED　　▸　　deaw ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎/‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎@ofcruelheart　.

indira leans back in the garden chair and brings flowered china, scalding tea to her mouth. she's unflinching. " someone told me that love begins with remorse. my father, or a therapist. he held my hands — " and she tips forward, cup and saucer clattering to the table top as she gathers deaw's hands between her own. holds them together, the skin of a pomegranate around seeds like teeth. wide-eyed, velvety gaze focuses on their's, " and said you must apologize. your — oh, it was my father, then. he said you must apologize. your mother is not a woman who loves senselessly. earn it. or something to that effect. " releasing his hands and waving one of her own in bored submission. it's a cavalier submission that could only be made to this tangled, mangled heart before her; how easily ache finds ache, electricity balancing between them until the threshold of homeostasis is met. want, dissatisfaction barely register beneath sensitive flesh when she has them so close.

but in the brief silence, novelty occurs to her. something she'd never asked this heart she's treasured for so, so long. " who was your first love, deaw? you must have had one. "

[ofcruelheart]

'...if I didn’t know any better I would say you’re the devil.'

"You wouldn't be the first," he replies, his voice carrying a tone of mild equanimity, devoid of pride or regret, untouched by amusement or provocation. He has been labeled both far better and far worse; he finds contentment in occupying the middle ground, elevating his fellow executioners while denouncing those they oppose. His gaze is drawn to the finger grazing the contours of the tattoo, and his eyes narrow.

The Leviathan is unmistakable, as are The Terrors, with their burgeoning power and influence. But perhaps the most intriguing aspect of their agenda is their apparent aim to annihilate all rival gangs. Janus harbors no illusions about the gangs being a scourge upon the city, sustained far too long by those in authority to dodge repercussions and capture. Indeed, he is no stranger to allying with the lesser of two evils to vanquish a more formidable and numerous foe. The lingering question, however, is what fate awaits the solitary hydra head once the others are severed? Does it flounder, or does it absorb the strength of its fallen brethren?

"Negroni, please," he requests, nodding at the bartender with a glance that eventually fixes on the stranger. "You're accustomed to fraternizing with devils, I presume?"

Was she born in a slaughterhouse?     Some sort of red beginning that pulled from her that string of fate     —     wrapping it neatly around her tongue until she garbled.       If she swallowed wasps when she was younger,     she now can hear them buzzing inside her.     They sting all organs.    They are incapable of feeling anything other than anger    —    rage that sedates the panic,    the claustrophobia of limit.     Like their owner,    their mother,     that rib cage that split open and birthed them.      How the crowd parts for her,     that pariah in her own right.     Skin aflame and scalped.     Left to soak in that saltwater until she became something larger.    Something devoted to that infernal ambition for notoriety.       Head angles slightly at the approach,    Niko regards him with a mild disinterest     —    observes while the trickling of music fades in and out of focus along her eardrums.      Does he not feel how thin the ice is underfoot?     How cruel that monster could be beneath the ice?     She begins to melt,    a fantastic rehearsal of a low chuckle    —    eyes remaining dark and shiftless.          “So concerned about my soul    [ … ]    if I didn’t know any better I would say you’re the devil.”      This is a tricky response,    she hardly expects a returned sentiment.     She is half-teasing here,    half-morbid.    A stoic nature that is crawling with charisma,    dedicated with practiced resolve      —    astute.       She takes a seat at the bar,    thigh crossed atop her other,    ink on the bare skin seemingly shadowed by the dim lighting.      She leans forward,    fingertip only slightly grazing the trim of her dress where it parts to reveal the tattoo.      “I would hate to see you sloppy.     A wine,    please    [ … ]    Chilean.”     The smile widens,     cheeks aglow as she aims her attention towards the approaching bartender.     A subtle order,      “And something for yourself.     I don’t drink alone.” 

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @deif1ed / deaw & pa / the opera house

"Excuse me—rehearsals are not open to the public."

The reverie is broken, the veil lifted, if only for a moment, only for Deaw to realize the director is speaking to the very figure that had snagged his gaze the moment they'd snuck into the hall and ducked into one of the rear seats, their gaze meeting and searing with his. A figure resplendent with cybernetics and tattoos dark as the night, as much smooth machine as flesh, it is a wonder that it took this long for the director to take notice.

Yet, she does now, and, without fully understanding his own impulse, he finds himself intervening.

"I'm so sorry, I-," he easily slips on a sheepish smile. "I should have told you earlier, ma'am. There's been so much violent crime lately and we've been letting out in the evenings lately that... Ah, they're someone I've enlisted to ensure my safe passage home." He omits the fact that it is he, more than any, especially among replicants, who should be feared in the shadowy embrace of the night.