#6-37

[amidalc]

“ They don’t advertise for killers in the newspaper. “

BLADE RUNNER STARTERS » ACCEPTING 

@6-37 

                         A   KILLER   ???             WAS THAT HOW HE SAW HIMSELF   ???            suddenly her head was struck by a whirlwind of questions,        curiosity   &&   confusion both etched on the expression of her face   ——   which if padmé saw in a reflection,        she’d think of as rather   BIZARRE   in truth.           yet his words strike a nerve,        && appearances is the last thing she’s thinking of. 

                         “   no they prefer   CREATING   them these days,       don’t they   ???   “              there is a hint of irritation in her voice   ——   not at him per sey,       not really,        mainly the lapd,       the establishment   ——   society.              weren’t they   ALL   VICTIMS   in the end after all ???             or was she wallowing in self-pity for even considering the notion as a fact   ???          

                         “   ——   &&   besides most people don’t think of blade runners as killers,        because to most their actions don’t equate to murder.   “            the more she spoke,        the more   BITTER   she sounds   &&   it translates on her face too.           no longer is she able to keep a facade,       wear a mask.            “   to murder is to end the life of a living being,        yet we are not beings to them   ——   ONLY   OBJECTS.   “

[dclldroid-blog]

@6-37 liked for a starter​

it is in human nature to forget something once something prettier appears. the shiny new replicants, the shiny new duplexes that surround the skeleton of j.f sebastian’s very own hovel. metaphorically (roy taught her this world) pris is coated in dust. many of j.f’s inventions died long ago, but pris commemorates them. they hang from the ceiling with her dolls (porcelain, plastic, bloody, moldy), drowned in faint neon hues. roy’s there, too. her very best friend. her brother. her very first love. j.f said it wasn’t lonely here; she understood this now.

she is seated within the comradery of dangling limbs and books (she knew roy wanted her to keep reading, he said so himself when she held his skull to her ear) gnawing fitfully on her thumb. she knew he had arrived from the moment she’d heard ‘home again, home again, jiggity jig. good evening j.f !” as bear always chimes (kaiser long gone). pris doesn’t move as the intruder enters; he’s young, she’s older. she gets to decide the rules. “took you guys an awful long time, huh,” she comments across the expanse of the room, “it’s funny, the others run so far away, i bet. here i am, right under your nose,” pris proclaims smugly, like a child with the very best comeback. she stands, finally, “how does it feel, killing your ancestors?” she ponders aloud. she doesn’t like the new ones. her and roy and zhora and leon were a family. zhora taught her how to put on lipstick and leon told her funny jokes. they didn’t hunt each other, hurt each other. they just wanted to live. was that so much to want?

[t-eilean-blog]

     the   days   past   with   naught   but   a   ruffled   feather  ,      every   uncharted   second   of   unmeasured   hour   passed   over   slow .     the   days   blurred   together  ,     becoming   a   constant .      perhaps   that   was   the   truest   consequence   of   lonesomeness .     it   was   the   unbroken   silence .     but   she   is   bordered   by   the   creatures   that   call   this   forest   home  ,     `&   they   were   what   gave   her   company .      but   when   the   abnormal   occurred  ,     it   was   like   stumbling   over   a   root   ‘pon   a   flat   gravel   path .     `&   THERE   HE   WAS .     an   abnormal   man   in   abnormal   garb  ,     a   stranger   within   the   depths   of   the   forest  ,     a   stranger   who   had   slipped   in   unnoticed .

      SHARP   WORDS   AND   EDGED   TONGUE  ,     her   eyes   narrow   in   pits   of   darkness .     onyx   `&   charcoal .     she   calls   to   him   across   the   distance  ,      and   in   the   underbrush   there   sounds   wild   growls .     ’     ciamar   a   fhuair   thu   an   seo  !?      ‘          @6-37