a wisp of breath.

if you're still feeling dead, join me? i feel so dead that it is a wonder i am still breathing.

[ofhurricanes]

 𝐨𝐟𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐬  :      dependent  multimuse  roleplay  blog  for lawlessfm ( jo, she / her | twenty-six | gmt+2 )

— 𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐨 𝐲𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐨, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬 | 𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺, 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺, 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳, 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 — 𝐬ø𝐫𝐞𝐧 '𝐫𝐞𝐧' 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐤𝐢𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐮𝐬 | 𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺, 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺, 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳, 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 — 𝐫𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐚 | 𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺, 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺, 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳, 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵

[angelprompts]

random character headcanons, vol i   ♡   happy developing ᵔᴗᵔ

teddy bear — does your muse have any treasured possessions? what makes it so special?

scratched cd — what genre of music does your muse hate? if someone happens to turn on that genre, will they tolerate it or leave the room?

dried paint brush — how creative is your muse? do they create anything with said creativity or are they considered 'wasted potential'?

playground equipment — what's a childhood memory, whether it's liked or not, that stands out to your muse? why does it stand out among the rest?

candy bracelet — does your muse prefer chocolate, hard candy or chewy candy? do they even like sweets at all?

broken record player — what regrets does your muse have? if they could go back and change that event / the past in general, would they?

ball pit — what does your muse do for fun?

orange creamsicle — what's a topic your muse could talk about for hours? is there a reason this particular topic means so much to them?

hopscotch — does your muse like to work out? if not, how else do they move their body from day to day?

flimsy fairy wings — did your muse used to celebrate / dress up for halloween as a child? if yes, what's a costume they remember wearing (and did they pick out or did their parents)?

instant messenger — if it's not already taken, what is your muse's go-to username?

[sagamemes]

crucial muse development questions.   send a number in my inbox to find out more about my character as a person  ( because often, the most important things about character development have nothing to do with their shoe size or netflix queue ).

what would completely break your character?

what was the best thing in your character’s life?

what was the worst thing in your character’s life?

what seemingly insignificant memories stuck with your character?

does your character work so they can support their hobbies or use their hobbies as a way of filling up the time they aren’t working?

what is your character reluctant to tell people?

how does your character feel about sex?

how many friends does your character have?

how many friends does your character want?

what would your character make a scene in public about?

for what would your character give their life?

what are your character’s major flaws?

what does your character pretend or try to care about?

how does the image your character tries to project differ from the image they actually project?

what is your character afraid of?

[hawkaye]

[baltharino]

DEXTER | 1x05 "Love American Style"

[gravefed]

@ofhurricanes , riya s.

Yes,   a hunter of a different type lingers inside him.    Some sort of mildly bloodthirsty thing with a stomach that has no bottom.     The failure of a brother.     The dull blade of a knife as it greets your bare skin in the dark.       But she,    the looming tempest that works alongside those lightweight reproductions,   is something worse.     Like too many women crammed in one body.      This chameleon has been to Stoneage Industries many times before.    Drawn by information,   endless interrogations,   brutal conspiracies    —    an intelligence officer’s dream of dreams.      Riya,   unfortunately,    seems watertight.    A safe that has no code.     Still,    he arrives with that casual air of arrogance.    Finn checks in with the receptionist,   waits in the lounge area like some kind of first time agent without any sense of backbone.    Spineless.    Wriggling with desire to show his quality.       Finally,    he stands at her entrance,     hand not extended    —   they’re acquainted enough now.       “Ever tired of these visits?      Should shut down the whole operation    [  … ]     save us both some time.” 

[ofhurricanes]

“Thank  you.  Let  him  in  —  I’ll  come  out  in  a  second,”  a  deep  sigh  follows  her  words;  it’s  a  slick  dance  they’ve  practiced  before:  he’ll  ask,  she’ll  answer,  he’ll  smell  of  arrogance,  and  she’ll  mirror  him  —  only  then,  he’ll  leave.  Disappointed,  once  again;  there’s  no  way  she’ll  give  him  more  than  needed.  They’re  here  to  bother  her;  bother  all  of  them  —  and  yes,  of  course  she's  tired.  By  now,  she's  ready  to  find  a  way  to  make  these  visits  stop.  “Finn  Fox.  Great  to  see  you  too,”  and  there  it  is.  A  smile.  So  bright,  yet  so  superficial.  She  lets  him,  gestures  to  the  seat  at  her  table  —  she’ll  take  her  personal  position  at  the  other  side  of  it.  He  should  be  reminded  he’s  just  a  guest.  “Shut  down?  Talk  to  Haneul  about  that,  I’m  sure  he’ll  be  delighted  to  close  his  business  down,”  she  laughs  as  her  fingers  run  through  her  hair.  “We’re  just  doing  our  job,  Finn.  Just  like  you,”  a  shrug.  “I’m  sure  there  are  many  things  you’d  like  to  do  better.  Many  criminals  to  catch.  But  here  we  are.  Coffee?”  She’s  about  to  call  her  assistant  to  bring  them  both  something  warm  to  drink.  “So,  tell  me.  What  brings  you  here  this  time?” 

[hirxeth]

The Royal Tenenbaums (2001) dir. Wes Anderson

[ofhurricanes]

— with wittaya (@sikarius) | the headquarters of red eye, wherever it is 

He’d  like  to  think  it’s  more  than  quid  pro  quo –  a  friendship,  perhaps.  You  don’t  find  a  lot  of  those  in  this  gorgeous  establishment;  you’re  either  a hunter  or  prey  –  you’re  either  a competition  or  a complete  fucking zero.  It  means  expectations  had  to  be  forgotten:  there’s  no  warmth  to  be  found;  no  courtesy.  You  can  and  will  be  loyal  only  to  your  own  grave  –  and  your  own  hand  the  destroyer; yes,  it  will  become  the  end  of  you  too.  It’s  the  only  matter  that’s  clear  to  him,  and  he’s  unsure  of  the  moment  he  first  learned  this  –  maybe  he’s  alway  been  carrying  it  inside  his  mind. 

And  yet  still,  he’d  like  to  call  this  a  friendship;  something  that  never  happened  before  inside  these  walls  before – he  helps  you,  you  help  him;  it’s  a  fantastic  concept  that  should’ve  been  introduced  to  him  and  other  professionals  of  the  craft  earlier.  It’s  too  individualistic,  being  an  assassin  – not  that  it  should  be  a  team  work;  but  sometimes  other  points  of  view  can  surely  be  appreciated. 

“You’ve  been  well?”  A  short  one  with  a  quick  nod  –  the  signature  of  Søren.  Never  been  much  of  a  yapper,  and  yet  now  he’d  like  to  share  some  thoughts  and  ideas.  The  microchip  has  been  feeling  a  little  too  heavy;  the  clouds  in  his  mind  –  scarce.  He’s  beginning  to  see  a  little  too  much;  more  than  he  should  and  more  than  he’d  like  to.  Still,  the  tongue  is  the  heaviest  of  them  all.  “What  you’ve  been  up  to  –  or  is  that  a  top  secret?”  Cigarette  between  his  fingers,  he’s  searching  for  a  lighter  in  his  pockets.  “I’ve  been  a  little  too  bored.  No  tasks.  So  I  do  need  entertainment  –  or  a  puzzle  to  help  you  solve.” 

[ofhurricanes]

[anhedcnias]

・   ✦   ・𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐃𝐂𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐒 /   *    (  closed starter  for @ofhurricanes)

The meeting table, a massive slab of polished mahogany, dominated the room. It had a rich, dark finish that gleamed under the low lights, its surface marred by the faint scars of countless tense negotiations and heated discussions. The grain of the wood was one of resilience and endurance, much like the individuals gathered around it. The table had borne witness to the shifting tides of power, absorbing the weight of secret alliances and broken oaths. It was meant to be revered given its history.

He had already silenced a couple of DEAD HAND soldiers in the common areas, commanding them to "SHUT THE FUCK UP" about their visitors. One thing was certain about old habits: they died hard or left imprints of smut and mire along the walls, staining perfection. He would know—he was one of those blights on society, owning terrible manners and igniting a room with jokes. Respect was a hard lesson Bit had to learn, and it took more than a couple of years for him to finally gain that understanding. He'd spent so many of his earlier days fucking around, wasting time, antagonizing those he ought not to have fucked with, only for it to come back and bite him in the ass.

Now that the meeting was over,Bit sat for a moment, taking in the scene, before finally bowing his head to one of those with whom he'd fucked around and found out. A black bandana typically covered the slit in his throat—a mark imprinted upon him out of wrath and his own discord. Instead of rising to former Bit's inane audacities, the small talk began. "You look well, Yamato." The words hung in the air, an olive branch extended across the polished expanse of mahogany, a silent acknowledgment of old pacts being honored.

[ofhurricanes]

There’s  comicality  he’s  finding  in  these  meetings;  there’s  something  ironic  and  wry  in  this  unexpected  point  he  ended  up  reaching   –  he  can’t  help  but  think  that  this  is  exactly  what  he  once  dreamed  about  with  someone  who  previously  ruled  everyone  now  sitting  around  the  table.  And  yet  it  could  only  come  to  life  once  the  life  of  his  ended   –  once  they  reached  the  peak;  once  they  smelled  each  other’s  blood  and  tasted  their  own. 

It’s  still,  indeed,  difficult  –  for  all  of  them,  especially  the  guardians  of  the  territory  he’s  only  a  visitor  of.  For  some  of  them,  he’s  an  unwelcome  presence,  and  he  might  never  leave  this  position  –  he’s  a  threat;  he’s  a  destroyer;  he’s  never  to  be  trusted.  And  thus  whenever  he  hears  another  ‘shut  the  fuck  up’  uttered,  it’s  hard  for  him  to  keep  his  smirk  a  secret  –  the  voice  is  familiar.  He’s  heard  this  voice  in  situations  he’d  rather  forget  –  he’s  not  one  to  practise  the   methods  of  an  iron  fist,  after  all;  he’s  an  admirer  of  other  ways  and  tactics. 

But  there’s  history  between  them,  some  of  it  –  written  on  Bit’s  neck  by  his  own  hand  and  blade.  He  cannot  deny  it;  he  never  would  –  in  fact,  he’s  unsure  if  he  regrets  it.  Being  strict,  it  seemed,  could  sometimes  work  in  his  favour.  A  bow  to  a  bow,  but  it’s  not  too  long,  not  too  low  –  the  usual  response,  and  yet  still  a  sign  of  well-earned  respect.  The  audacity  he  was  first  greeted  by  left  an  impression  on  him  nonetheless.  “Thank  you,  Bitto.  You  too,”  he  smiles  and  gestures  towards  his  own  neck.  “Did  it  heal  well?  There’s  something  you  can  use  to  make  the  scar  less  noticeable  –  let  me  know  if  you  need  it.” 

[ofhurricanes]

— with belial (@anhedcnias) | the hq of stoneage industries

Two  cups  of  coffee  in  her  hands  –  she’s  walking  with  determination  in  her  step,  but  there’s  nothing  unusual  in  the  sound  of  Louboutin  heels  click-clacking  against  the  marble  floor;  this  sound  is  here  to  stay,  just  like  her  –  she’ll  walk  these  corridors  until  the  walls  crack  and  fall.  Nothing  too  strange  in  two  cups  of  coffee  either  –  familiar  time,  familiar  place,  people  nodding  to  her  as  a  way  to  greet  her  already  know  where  she’s  headed;  there  was  a  reminder  in  her  calendar  of  a  catch-up  that  was  happening  every  Tuesday,  too.  The  reminder  wasn’t  exactly  needed  –  but  it  was  pleasant  to  see  when  she’d  next  see  Belial.

There’s  been  rumours  going  around:  there  must  have  been  something  –  something  strange  –  she’s  done  to  make  them  such  a  fierce  blade  runner;  there  must’ve  been  a  secret  code  written , it must be the  reason  why  they're  so  close  to  each  other.  She’d  laugh  at  this  –  they’re  colleagues,  you  know.  Great  friends.  Nothing  is  and  should  be  wrong  with  that  —  of  course,  no  one  could  object  to  it.  She  was,  indeed,  right.  And  it  wasn’t  for  everyone  to  know  what  was  happening  on  the  screen  of  her  computer.

“Belial,”  she  smiles  as  she  hands  them  a  cup,  taking  a  seat  right  in  front  of  them  in  this  nearly  surgically  bright  and  clean   meeting  room.  Note:  the  next  time  they  see  each  other  should  happen  somewhere  cosier.  “How  have  you  been?  Feels  like  we  haven’t  met  in  ages,”  it’s  been  three  weeks,  actually.  Life’s  been  busy  for  both  of  them.  “I  think  you  mentioned  there’s  something  I  can  help  you  with?”   

[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?

[ofhurricanes]

*     ◟    :    〔   earth vangwithayakul  ,      cis man    +   he/him    〕      SØREN ‘REN’ WATTANAVEKIN,      some say you’re a    THIRTY-ONE YEAR OLD      lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both  OBSERVANT  and  MORBID,  one can’t help but think of  EXPERIENCE  by  LUDOVICO EINAUDI  when you walk by.    are you still an    ACTIVE ASSASSIN FOR THE RED EYE   /    GENERAL SURGEON,     even with your reputation as THE PROMETHEUS?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and   STARING AT THE DARK CIRCLES UNDER YOUR EYES EVERY MORNING; STARING INTO THE EYES OF BOTH HADES AND GAIA; CLEANING BLOOD OFF YOUR HANDS EVERY SINGLE DAY; IN SEARCH OF MEANING,    although we can’t help but think of DEXTER MORGAN (DEXTER), SHUNTARO CHISHIYA (ALICE IN BORDERLAND), JOO YEO-JEONG (THE GLORY)    whenever we see you down these rainy streets.     

_____________________________________

Trigger warning: child abandonment, assassination, quite detailed description of death, blood.

I.

The first memory you can recall is the experience of how the cold can lick your bones & gnaw at your skin. It’s how you gasp for air, only for it to freeze your lungs — you’re not older than a year, and the falling snow starts to become a little too heavy for you to lift your fingers. That’s when you close your eyes, exhausted and hopeless. 

It all comes back to you in your dreams from time to time. Sometimes, you’re unsure if it really happened, or if it’s always been just a nightmare to follow you everywhere you go. You must’ve been too little to be aware of this one fateful night in the street, but you’ve heard many stories & you do celebrate your birthday in January — that’s when they found you & brought you back to life after countless nights of fever and rivers of medicine; it surely was a battle. They said it was the first sign you’d be a fierce fighter too. 

After that, there's darkness.

II.

Nunavut is, in fact, quite different to the place you spent the first eleven years of your life — but you don't exactly remember it.. To you, it's all the same — you just know you don't mind the cold. You appreciate the food they give, you appreciate the smiles you receive.

You can't remember how you ended up here, but you never question it. You never question why they speak your language either; you don't wonder why others don't, and why you're forced to learn another one. It feels natural. It has to be, right? It's probably the school they (who even are they? who were you talking to? you knew someone else?) were telling you about.

You're content.

III.

“You’re not good enough,” they said, and you felt a tear roll down your cheek. Just like everyone else, you go through the training – no questions asked. That's why you're here. And you’d never even dare to ask – you like it. It keeps you occupied, it makes you feel valuable – even in setbacks, you’d be happy to spend hours at the training ground, going through one task over & over again. But these words felt, indeed, like a failure: not as good as everyone else, you might as well go back to the streets you came here from. 

You soon learn they’re not thinking about letting you go; they see something completely different in you: you’re calculated. Methodical. Meticulous. And while combat fighting might not be the perfect path to choose, there’s another place for you – clinical precision and a detached emotional distance. The greatest weapons you can wield. 

IV.

One more memory to keep you at night and confuse you in your drowsy state: your first kill. It was the first and, simultaneously, the last one to leave some spots of blood on the wooden floor. It wasn’t as clean as you wanted it to be, and you were scolding yourself in your mind and as you watched life leave their eyes.

You leave little room for error: even after they take their last breath, you still take a moment to check their pulse, assess the severity of their injury; you check the clock and make sure when’s the right time to leave – you’ve already planned this, and it means you must close the door behind you in twenty seconds. And you do, as well as lose the jacket of the hotel concierge.

No one ever thinks to suspect you, to think of you as a murderer — you’re a reputable surgeon, why would they think that? All of you, who work at this hospital — you’re all a bit strange, especially surgeons. Your talent and smile disguises everything.

V.

The other side of you requires meticulous planning as well — it’s as if you purposefully chose the life of never ending checklists & preparations. After your first surgery, you stare at your hands, painted in red – you feel your colleagues touching your shoulders, congratulating you, but you’re focused on the blood, slowly dripping between your fingers. 

One of them – takes lives, another – brings them back to Earth. Every day, they both go through the same routine with some exceptions, because you always wanted to save people. Are these, who die because of your touch, considered human if they’re the destroyers of peace? It’s a thought you bring with you to bed, and, every night, it sleeps on the pillow next to you. 

_____________________________________

Headcanons:

Left in the streets of Copenhagen in the middle of winter, he was found by a couple of passers-by. For the first eleven years of his life, he lived in an orphanage, until he was noticed and taken by the Red Eye. He would always consider them his parental figures and he'd never remember his time in the orphanage ever again.

He decided he’d become a doctor when he was fourteen, and would spend hours studying after he was done with training. Since his overseer noticed his talents and interests, his studious nature was being encouraged and, in a way, became a part of his training. 

Yes, he’s not as good at weaponry and combat as others in the Red Eye, but he’s still highly trained, skilled, & deadly – especially compared to an average person. However, when it comes to his assassination techniques, it requires meticulous planning & surveillance. He uses his medical knowledge to get his targets killed in a way it’d seem to be a natural death — a heart attack or a stroke. Never leaves blood behind him. If needed, he can use his other skills too, but he never had to.  Not yet, at least. 

Has his own code of ethics and tries to target individuals whom he believes deserve punishment for their own crimes & actions. A bit of moral ambiguity, of course. Especially knowing it’s not always ‘the bad guys’ the Red Eye is going against. Call it brainwashing, if you will.

A survivor since childhood, to this day he’s still all about survival. Yet he's recently started to grapple with the ethical implications of his actions, especially when there’s someone he’s already saved that has to be his next target.

Approaches his work with a sense of professionalism – both in the hospital as well as when it comes to the Red Eye matters. 

Sleeps way too little :’) Catch him roaming the streets of New York at night. 

Wanted connections:

His overseer. Up until now, Ren was a model Red Eye member. Obedient to a t. However, something's happening (is his chip broken?) - he's began raising questions. Well, he's not raising them out loud, not yet, but he might look different, and his overseer is probably not happy about it.

Someone who’s coming after him. Many reasons for it, one of them being that perhaps Ren assassinated a member of their gang. I’d love this to be an antagonistic dynamic. 

Colleagues at the hospital. Obviously, they don't know about his involvement with the Red Eye – but does he seem odd to them because of his reluctance to speak about his childhood & youth? Is his mysterious and secretive nature quite weird to them? Possibly. Or maybe they’re fascinated? Maybe they don’t care? Lots of possibilities, I think! 

Other Red Eye. Are they close? Are they rivals? Do they annoy each other? Did they grow up together? Once again, lots of ideas! 

Friends, enemies, ex lovers, etc — anything and everything! Let’s plot!

[ofhurricanes]

*     ◟    :    〔   sobhita dhulipala  ,      cis woman    +   she/her    〕      RIYA SHARMA ,      some say you’re a    THIRTY-TWO YEAR OLD  lost soul among the neon lights.      known for being both  CHARMING    and  OBSESSIVE   ,  one can’t help but think of  DUSK   by   CHELSEA WOLFE  when you walk by.    are you still a   HITMAN FOR THE OLD MAFIA HOUSE / LEAD CODER FOR STONEAGE INDUSTRIES,     even with your reputation as THE MEDUSA?     i think we’ll be seeing more of you and    SCRIBBLING ON WHITE SHEETS OF PAPER UNTIL INK RUNS OUT; TREATING WOUNDS ON YOUR HEELS CAUSED BY YOUR FICE INCH HEELS; A SMELL OF STRONG COFFEE AND EVEN STRONGER CIGARETTES; IN SEARCH OF RECOGNITION & SELF-ACCEPTANCE,    although we can’t help but think of YE WENJIE (THREE BODY PROBLEM), THEODORA CRAIN (THE HAUNTING OF THE HILL HOUSE), VICTORINE LAFOURCADE (THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER)    whenever we see you down these rainy streets. 

_____________________________________

Trigger warning: abuse, eating disorder mention, blood, parental death, murder, cancer. 

How do you become God? 

For your mother, it was control. Showered with attention, you were unsure if your mother loved or envied you — every kiss on a cheek she gave you, it reeked of hatred, as if you were here to deprive her of her youth, to feed on it and steal it; and yet every time your nose bled or your forehead burned with fire, you’d feel such tenderness you never experienced before. Soon, you learn the name of every physician in the local hospital, and you spend more time there than in your warm bedroom; you’re constantly surrounded by white walls instead, gripping your mother’s hand. 

Your mother, too, knew every doctor — and she was beaming every time you’d spend days or weeks in a sterile ward, her words full of saccharine promises and warm refuge. You wouldn’t eat what wasn’t allowed, and you’d gladly juggle between dozens of orange-coloured plastic bottles. You’re a master at accommodating it. And every night you pray it’d never end.

How do you lose faith? 

For you, it’s the loss of your father. You’re naïve enough to forget that everything ends, and you unknowingly utter your last prayer on the eve of your father’s passing. Cancer. You weren’t aware – none of you. While you were drinking countless pills and pretending to eat, he’d devour steaks and conceal his pain with bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon. Which, by the way, seemed disgusting to you; at least until the moment you found out he was counting his days. Celebrating them. 

It left a mark on you, of course it did; but it also bruised the relationship between you and your mother. She sees you slipping away, and you, with sharp scissors in your hands, try to cut off this invisible threat she’s been weaving for years now. 

You leave immediately after the funeral. She tries to call you, and sheds many tears, but you’re already in New York — with little to no money in your pockets, you find a place you share with six other people. That’s the first time you hear the name of Damon Stone. For the first time in your life, you feel what others would call inspiration. You hope to meet him at least once in your lifetime. 

How do you repent for your sins? 

For you, it’s how you crawl on your knees. You’re not begging. You’re trying to survive in these cold, unwelcoming streets: born with a silver spoon in your mouth and used to the caring touch of your parents, you’re not accustomed to fighting for yourself. But you learn quickly, and the newly established circle of acquaintances are eager to help you. 

You crawl, because you know that in a few years you won’t be able to notice the scars on your delicate skin anymore — because you have a goal with the name of Stoneage Industries. They could help you — and you could help others. You know it. But you also know your path must start with education, that’s why you save every penny, and use every admirer for your own financial gain — you’re not interested in their vows anyway.

So how do you become God? For you, it’s intelligence, power & the thrill of it all. The first time you feel the strength at your fingertips is when you pull the trigger of your gun, and you feel warm, sticky, metallic smell on your skin. You don't care, it's just a job — but the adrenaline (and the money) makes you come back for more.

Either way, it’s a long and steady climb until you reach the seat you’re in, and it’s not without losses and proverbial, and literal, blood of the others.

You’re content, and even happier whenever you see another replicant leave the premises of Stoneage — what a miracle it is, to see them laugh and cry, to feel their skin and be unable to tell if they came from the womb or the lab. 

What a beautiful sight — the creation of life don't forget you create it because of the loss of the others 

_____________________________________

Headcanons:

She was born in Bangalore, India, but her parents moved to the US when she was six years old. 

As you can probably guess, Riya definitely has a bit of a god complex.

God complex was what pushed her to earn money by working for the Old Mafia House, too. She didn't notice when and how she stopped being an associate and became their hitman. She's not very loyal, to be fair. But she'll do what she's asked to do.

Her mother had Munchausen by proxy, consequently Riya seemed rather sickly as a child and suffered from numerous eating disorders. Still hates eating in front of others, even though she did get better when she moved away from her mother. 

Absolutely fascinated and infatuated with the concept of replicants and replicants themselves. For her, it’s an absolutely scientific miracle and she sees nothing wrong with creating someone who’s ‘more human than humans’.

Working on her PhD at the moment. 

Wanted connections:

Someone who helped her to join the Stoneage. She might’ve been a top student and had money saved from her work with Old Mafia Houe, but it wasn’t exactly easy to get a job there — someone would’ve helped her. Was it a romantic partner, or just a very good friend? Perhaps she ditched them afterwards and they despise her now? Or perhaps they are using & manipulating her now? Would love it to be a complex dynamic and I see many ways this could develop and go. 

A replicant who hates her. Perhaps she wronged them, perhaps it’s just a mere fact she was a part of them becoming a replicant. 

Friends, she met when she first got to New York. It would’ve been the six people she lived with when she came to the city — it could’ve been only a month they shared their apartment for, yet they’re still in touch as they went through so much together. 

Colleagues. She’s a perfectionist, so it’s not easy to work with her. 

People from the Old Mafia House. Maybe they're not exactly trusting her and feel that she may not be the most loyal. Maybe they're pushing her to get more involved in their business.

Friends, enemies, ex lovers, etc — anything and everything! Let’s plot!

[filmgifs]

MONKEY MAN (2024) dir. Dev Patel

[ofhurricanes]

[larmoyante]

“In a sense, I’m the one who ruined me: I did it myself.”

— Haruki Murakami, 1Q84