#exvitask

[kittybeisel-blog]

KIT GLADIUS BEISEL, THE VERY VERY TIRED BOY. ( matrix universe )

They ripped out your wings before you had the chance to ever fly.

The Bible of older times never spoke of how the Devil was once an angel, of how he once worshipped at the altar of sanctity and praised all that was holy the same way his fellow soldiers did. No one remembers that Satan had once been called Lucifer

No one ever remembers that the Devil was not born, but made.

The same way you were not born for bloodshed, it found you all the same. 

The first thing you remember about childhood is your mother’s eyes, the ones that looked down on you, the ones who saw with horror what happened to restless, reckless hearts when they are left alone, the one who saw how having a heart forged from oil and metal turned you into a machine, a weapon, a legend. It never mattered that your kingdom was comprised of dirty streets or that the altar you worshipped at was at the end of a deserted alley way--you turned Hell into your own kingdom, turned trembling fists into something lethal, no longer a boy but a weapon walking. The chains poverty had wrapped around your ankles bound you to the desolation of a forgotten neighborhood, but what does it matter that the consequences of your birth are such when you have no need to leave? When you’re eighteen, barely on the cusp of adulthood, and already a breathing legend because of what you do with your fists under the dark of the moon? When you’ve spent your life toeing the line between saint and sinner, the shackles of an undeserved punishment barely register. 

They recruit you first in the dead of night. The Rebellion, they call themselves when the shadow finds you after the ring has emptied and all have gone, leaving you alone with the taste of blood in your mouth and holiness weighed between your shoulders. They ripped out your wings, but all that is holy cannot stay. 

You’re still just a boy, and it’s easy enough to remember every time you had to go hungry, every time you clenched your jaw because your mother came home with a bruise on her cheek (courtesy of her Corporate Boss). You’re still just a boy, eighteen and barely on the cusp of adulthood, but the shadow doesn’t treat you like a child. Your life has been a never-ending series of being regulated and relegated, of being made smaller than you know you deserve to be, and being called a “beneficial addition” is the first taste of freedom you’ve ever encountered, the first taste of a life beyond the shackles the corporations had chained you with, the shackles you’d almost forgotten about.   

You’re eighteen, barely on the cusp of adulthood, but it’s that boyishness that allows you to convince yourself of one very important idea: you were born for this. 

After all, you remember God, but more importantly you remember the angel that turned his back to him. You remember God, but it is not the Almighty that you spent your life drawn to. An untainted halo, gold and glowing, was never what you wanted. In this world, if the corporations were supposed to be your God, you destined yourself to be the one who brought Him to his knees, the one strong enough to challenge the unchallengeable. With the Rebellion painting wings on your shoulder blades, you could be the one who would teach the world what it meant to be both monster and saint. 

You’re a man now, and somewhere you lost your fire.

You think maybe that you lost it somewhere between the flames and forgeries, as though the bullets burned it out of you and every time you pretended to be anyone other than yourself (you do this all the time) you forgot what it tasted like to feel passion. 

As though a life dedicated to The Cause had stripped you of yourself. 

They gave you a starship to replace your wings, but all that glitters is not gold. 

Your loyalty to the cause knew no bounds, but for all your charms, even among the people who are meant to be deemed “yours,” you are a creature too filled with darkness to truly belong, a very tired boy turned into a very tired man. Too much sinner to be welcomed among the ranks of the revolution, too much a saint to ever be welcomed back into a life under the corporations, you crafted your own bloodied halo and turned the inferno in your heart towards your palms.

A weapon is a man, a man is a weapon.

Consider this: is it better to live a sinner or die a saint?

The truth is, you’re far too much a glutton to retrain yourself to one, too eager to make people taste the same ash and soot staining your throat and too eager to make yourself the legend the legend your rulers have become. You make people forget, more often than not, that the same hands tracing constellations into the skin of their back have also had the opportunity to play out Mozart Requiem on men’s vocal cords, that the mouth whispering sweet Spanish nothings has also crushed men’s spirits with a single turn of phrase. 

You make them forget, but you remember everything.

And sometimes the taste of that violence enchants, sings your name like larks in the cold dew of an early morning.

They ripped out your wings. They forgot you had claws.  

[cvairo-blog]

Task 002 (ii) — Character Development AU — coming home. 

Her foot comes down, and she thinks nothing of it. Barely audible is the click of a panel being pressed and the mechanical hum of a rebel-made landmine stirring to life. The explosion comes like an egg being hatched; all around her columns of sand heat into glass that slice up and against her, her bones snap, but the flames — this yellow heated yolk — licks the muscle from her skin and leaves her burning. 

This time, Cairo is not accorded the privilege of forgetting. 

She remembers being pulled from the flames and being stripped of her smoldering clothes. She remembers someone’s fists coming together in a knot against her chest, and a mouth, and wishing she would just die instead. How much easier that would have been! But no. Cairo caught enough breath to cough a spray of blood, and through no fault of her own, she lived. 

Though she herself was strewn across the field, all pieces of meat like a horrible butchery, everything was sewn back into place accordingly. Her doctors quipped she was more stitches than soldier, and Cairo tried to smile at that. She really did. A representative from the Corporation gave her a stack of papers, of which her signature would consent to her total transformation into a Synthetic. (Though the Corporation had the authority to convert deceased soldiers, permission was required when available.) Cairo looked at it. Truthfully, she may have considered it, but ultimately she declined. There was something about the fact that her body was still alive, alive and breathing and doggedly refusing to give up on her despite having been shattered over and over again. There was something about stitches. Stitches instead, any day. 

She returned home in bandages and a wheelchair to her parents' familiar warmth. Tea was brewing in the kitchen, just as she remembered. Too, as she remembered, was her mother’s genuine affection, and father’s smart geniality. They remained patient throughout the hard process of purging the military from her bones, which revealed itself clearly in her broken body, and less-so in her insomnia and horrible trembling. But with time came progress. Eventually, Cairo’s terrors began to abandon her, and she regained function in her limbs. Walking would always hurt, even with the aid of a cane, but she could maneuver well enough, and this was an accomplishment. As her functionality improved, so did her craving for the atavistic things that made her young heart flutter. Now, Cairo pulls her mother’s old books from the shelves and blows the dust from their pages. Now she reads them. Now she rests. 

[pyrecoren]

PYRE COREN, STRATEGIC ASSISANT TO ORION VOIX. 

There exists a fairytale world in which the Voix corporation rose your family up instead of casting them down, promoting your father to the top tier of executives rather firing him. Instead of growing up in the Crest, surrounded by pain and poverty, you were raised in Harbor, flourishing with wealth, receiving the best everything money could buy--home, education, gadgets, and more. Though your father never was a great man, in this world he never became a monster; he was everything you strived to impress, to inspire, to become. And your mother, the voice responsible for teaching you right from wrong, was dulled in a world that blasted the greatness of the corporations--in a world where she too found herself exploring the question of if money could buy true happiness. As your father worked alongside the Voix patriarch, he pushed you to spend time with his children, and bonding with one in particular felt easy, like home (”Lucky for us,” your father would say, “They’re the one going to take it all over.”). Now, you’re their right hand man, and you dedicate your life to helping Orion Voix run a corporation that flourishes due to the suffering of millions. In this world, the morality of your actions has never been a question you’ve thought--or been allowed--to ask. But, you’ve always been a follower, craving orders without a need for explanation. Some things just never change. 

[ervtreiaarchive-blog]

INNOCENCE DID NOT DIE, IT WAS CONQUERED.

Your parents never perish so Eretreia is never born, forged from fire, sweat and tears. ELIANA REYES remains, and she is nothing but ordinary, the child of two miners in a end-of-the-galaxy planet. Lost, forgotten, oblivious. Nothing ever happens so your heart grows and grows, pushing against your ribcage harder and harder until you can’t breath anymore, the air from the desert suffocating your lungs, the fading colour of your parent’s eyes like a knife. There must be more, you, the dreamer, always musing. I need to find it.

Instead of surrendering to a corporate life or spitting in its hand like others, you hold on tight to their giving hand and you take, you take and you take. They see it in your eyes, the drive, the want: to do more, to be more. For nothing to stop you. They see a soldier before they see a human being, an investment before a child, an opportunity before a daughter – so they approach your mother with a grin and a pat on the back, the words “serving”, “an honor”, “free education” spilling from their mouths like honey. Oh, they know. When you’re stranded on a desert for too long, a single drop of water is enough to make you drop to your knees and worship. All hail the corporations, all hail Korbitron.

Not you, not exactly. You are an obedient child so when your parents send you away from the Mines with tears on their eyes, you clench your jaw and you wave them goodbye, fighting the tears but leaving a promise: you will return, you will save them. And you do, they tell you, over and over again, with every e-letter that arrives: We are proud of you. So you make sure they remain proud.

You find your place amongst the stars, fifteen feet above the ground, mighty behind a ship’s wheel. The best damn pilot in the Confederation, they say. You never prove them wrong.

[orionthayer-blog]

ORION VOIX ; CEO OF VOIX CORPORATION, SYNTHETIC & GOD.

Power corrupts. You are more monster than human. There’s a metal heart in your chest and a titanium arm at your side. You use it to choke the life out of Wrotham - and wear a bloody smile as you do, your soul tainted black. Dwelling in a gilded palace fit for worship, your Kingdom is built on the backs of the masses - and they hiss and curse you for it down beneath. Like Father like child they whisper. You laugh when you hear that. Oh no, you hiss, voiced laced with pride, I’m far worse. Somewhere, in the underbelly of Crest, there’s a rebellion that puts a target on your back. You dismiss them and their mission with a casual waft of the hand - immortals never die and neither will I. After all, you intend to rule forever - and there’s no one who can stand in the way of your crown.

[alyxwen]

Visit Original Link

here u go folks.

[kalliawexler-blog]

what if the worst thing that ever happened to you, never happened at all?

[nyenashastri-blog]

                                                                      “if my mother had lived”

She was her father’s daughter but she’d inherited her mother’s black anger. It burned through her sometimes like a chemical fire, brief and devastating and utterly unstoppable.

You cannot miss what you have not known. She never has felt the piece that is missing from her life; Shyann, matriarch of the Shastri hoard. How could she know what her life would be like with her mother in it? She never will know her mother's warmth would have spread through her as a child, it's tendrils blossoming in her like a flower in the morning light. That to have such a warmth in the home would have melted the cold regime her father had to lead in order to raise five children on his own. She never will know her mother would have taught her to first walk before starting to run.To not only think but care how her words impacted those around her. To be thoughtful. To be kind. She never will know her mother would have taught her the power of unconditional love in a family, rather than the rigid loyalty her father instilled. To never feel the pressure to be a fierce little girl because there can be strength in softness as well. She will never know the unbounded pride that would have shone in her mother's eyes at every choice she made in life, whether or not her father agreed with them. She will never know the girl she could have been. How could she when her mother died so soon after she came to be?