#by-aria

[anoffering]

@by-aria sent: people are overrated.

they certainly were. they were different and more rude than she remembered, but thankfully, her kind were just as loyal as they were before she slept. “ i thought so too. i'm not sure if i still do. i've been awake for years now, but it's still so... different. ” a world that was so much more advanced than the one she left behind, yet the people were still so predictable. “ i'd like it if we stayed together. if you're okay with that. ”

[revnants]

❝ Do you want to be alone? ❞ @by-aria -- (Erica, RE: Isaac)

It's an answer that wavers on his tongue, instinctively wired to seek safety in isolation despite THE GNAWING CREATURE INSIDE that yearns for his pack. ❝ I don't know. ❞ he lands on an offering of unexpected honesty, too worn to keep up the figment of the boy with a vicious bite — ALL THE MORE LIKELY TO CUT HIMSELF ON SHARPENED ENDS, than to inflict any real damage on those closest to him when they get caught in his teeth.

❝ Do you? ❞ his hesitant gaze finds stability in the sudden flutter of curiosity that's wormed its way inside. like him, she's hard to read -- an amalgam of contradictory signals that indicate (COME CLOSER) but also [I BITE] it's a conflict he relates to. the discomfort of a fawn that finds it has become the wolf. 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 & 𝚒 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚠 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎. he's always been as grateful as he is resentful for the "gift" of the bite. it's easy to revel in a newfound strength, BUT THERE REMAINS A REFUSAL TO REPEAT INHERITED CYCLES OF VIOLENCE.

i. I AM NOT MY FATHER, so why do I catch his outline crowding mine, sometimes?

The same reason he dreams of scratched metal and avoids tight spaces -- there's an infectious, lingering quality to THE KIND OF TORMENT that was instilled behind closed doors in their home — it's the vicious echo of a memory, a self-invented phantom of the mind.

[litlecricket]

deep down, buried in the stygian corners of emma’s heart, she knows cate is telling the truth.  of course she didn’t ask for any of this.  who the hell would?  andre’s death, her own almost-death [courtesy of people she once would’ve trusted with her life], the world flipping on humans as fast as humans would flip on supes the moment the balance teeters even a millimeter. [history forever chews on its own tail and pretends it’s a new form of evolution.]  and now, here they are: locked up  /  separated  /  contained inside elmira.  once again for her, marie, and jordan. as cate’s voice ricochets off the sterile walls, it manages to burrow under emma’s skin.  she sits in her transparent cell  —  her own personalized fish bowl, with all the time in the world to think about how none of this was predictable. and even while knowing cate didn't ask for any of this, it doesn’t make her any less of an enemy in the blonde’s eyes.  forgiveness isn’t a muscle she’s ever learned to stretch.  [and once an enemy, always an enemy, and fuck you forever!]

her lips flatten into a straight line as emma cranes her neck over her shoulder, staring daggers through the glass at @by-aria locked up across the way.      ‘guess what, weird barbie! none of us fucking asked for this!’      the scoff that follows is bitter and dry, her eyes rolling skyward for extra flair.      ‘but yet here we all are, again, with these goddamn collars around our necks, locked up inside fucking elmira  —  again.  because of you!’      because of their rescue attempt for her. ‘so, excuse me if i don't feel too apologetic for you.’

[litlecricket]

‘uh, absolutely not?  if i choke you out, who the fuck is gonna choke me out afterwards?’      the question is tossed out lightly and rhetorically  —  meant to pull a snort or twitch of amusement from her best friend.  but the silence that follows is heavier than emma anticipated, enough to make her gulp.  this is serious; way more serious than her half-assed attempt at levity can crack through.  project odessa  —  the file now attached to marie, full of everything that has either detonated her life in an instant or crowned her as a god.  the jury is still determining the verdict.  [and it’s far too soon to start carving halos.] 

exhaling long and slow, emma sinks back against the crappy twin bed inside their dorm.  even sprawled out, she keeps her eyes on @by-aria, watching every expression like it might give her an inkling as to what marie’s actually thinking.      ‘i mean, look at this way: remember when professor brink was expelling you and was all like, it’s not about the glory kiddo but it's about the sacrifice?’      she mockingly tunes her voice to the deep, egotistical timbre professor brinkerhoff’s voice would rumble in while alive. [at least in the youtube ted talk videos she'd previously watched of him.]      ‘kinda seems like you’re getting the last laugh now at least  …  was that too far?’

[aratsaka]

“ got a question for you, jules. ” he looks up from his phone at @by-aria, eyebrow raised as he decides if he wants to proceed with his question. of course he does. “ d'you ever miss 'saka? like, the lifestyle. i don't miss the constant fear that someone's gonna put a bullet in my dome, but i miss my fancy apartment and car. ”

[aratsaka]

MESSAGE FROM @by-aria: i wasn't talking about my cut, i was talking about my pride.

he hates that part of him still fears her parents. he despises it, actually. six months later, and the thought of crossing juliette king or anyone else in her family makes his stomach churn. not because he's scared of her, but the thought of mei xing sending her goons to his office to rough him up or intimidate him still sends shivers down his spine. he doesn't even work for arasaka anymore. he's not even sure juliette talks to her anymore. and yet...

“ if you're doing mercenary work for your pride, you might as well go back to arasaka. ” as if he wouldn't do the same in a second. he also likes living, though, so he knows returning simply isn't an option. “ you should care about your cut. your cut means you keep living another day, choom. ” mack shakes his head, arms crossed over his chest. “ bad gig's a bad gig. let's go get a drink and forget about it. on you, since you apparently don't care about your cut. ”