[ ... ]

ARCHIVED.

[toprey]

ARCHIVED.

[toprey]

this blog is now an archive! all plotlines and dynamics will be continued over at religun.

[pinkman-arc]

“i’m not ready. i’m sorry.” — @religun as mari dai.

it’s late. despite the moonlit canopy draped over him, jesse is wide awake. he’s been awake for hours, sweating bullets. subsisting on cigarettes, unanswered voicemails, and the bilious tang of fear. when mari leaves, the world condenses to their driveway. the shadowplay of passing cars. the mournful caw of ravens. her absence has a shape. a corporeal dimension. it hooks its legs around jesse’s waist. presses its pallid cheek against the jut of his shoulder blade. hangs off him like a raincoat, sodden with something wine-dark, something metallic— when mari leaves, the world stops making sense. becomes irrelevant.

the faint purr of an engine alerts jesse to her arrival. he lunges forward at full throttle, practically crashing into the car. “hey, mari— hey, ‘s okay. you’re okay.” not great, but okay. criss-crossed by a filigree of scars, but alive. mari’s apology is strained, almost anticipatory, as if she can predict how he’ll react. (how he’ll shrug on the mantle of a dutiful disciple, dropping to his knees in supplication: you can’t keep doing this, or please don’t go, or i’ll do anything you want, i’ll give you anything you want, i swear—) jesse chokes back some semblance of a protest. extends his hand to help her up. “c’mon. let’s go home.” 

[toprey]

when the killing stops, the memories wash in. tide pools. bloodbaths. knee-deep flooding, rinsing her mouth out with ichor. the nights are the worst of it. voids. pits. wide, ailing amounts of abyss that gnaw at her bones. they're a chew-toy for ghosts. dead bodies climbing out from the gutter. eating them alive, until all that's left is carcass. the survival is ugly. her absence is mourned. out in the wasteland, a wild underbelly of a city, she collects bodies. feeds her hurt. severs off already-phantom limbs, and tries to find her way back home. (what is home, if not a place to run from? what is present, if not a doorway to the past? these motions, these cycles, these heart-flush instincts— they serve a purpose. don't they, still?) jesse doesn't understand. counterpoint: she doesn't want him to. these depths of wounds, these flashes of before; it's better left foreign. better forgotten, than known.

the engine dies with a final breath. mari swings open the car door, and rasps out apologies. (i'm not ready, i never was, i wish i could, i don't know how—) jesse assures her. she wishes he wouldn't. "i'm trying." she swallows a pit lodged in the back of their throat. blinks away a blur that signifies shame. "i'm sorry." the repetition feels like memory, too. something dead, trying to be alive, and winning a battle mari's forgotten how to fight. she inhales, but takes his hand. "i'll try a — again tomorrow."

[offsrail]

The small packet of pills look like candy; hundreds and thousands just waiting to be poured into a wanting mouth, clinging to her swollen tongue in powdery desperation. they’re his — merciful, sweet saint. he’s left them out, no doubt to tease, to watch effy squirm in her half drunken state. they glow amongst the grime of saint’s basement, beautifully garish. a siren’s call.

Effy is a shadow upon the wall, present only in the dingy recesses. Mari is there too — they’re always there. Faceless darknesses that twist & contort and leave behind a sickening feeling in the soft spot of your heart. Effy doesn’t breathe. She gazes at the pouch, then glances at Mari. @religun

[toprey]

she's a fly in the wall of an infested house. rot and grime, dirt and girls— mari finds her settings more like this than not, these days. it's a rapture. a capturing. an encapsulated cell, that she padlocks herself into. she wouldn't want to be anywhere else. she doesn't know where else she deserves to go. in here, with saint and effy and drugs, drugs, drugs, she can lose who she was. pretend she can be anyone else. mimicking wayward souls to fit in ... breaking windows to still see out.

maybe effy reminds her of a simpler time. maybe she reminds mari of nothing at all. maybe there's no use in speculating, when all that can exist is those pretty little pills, and the girl who wants 'em. a hand swipes them from the table, (better to be forgiven later than to ask for permission now,) and lifts them to the light. a glance to the other, and an eyebrow raises. a silent question: you want it?

[toprey]

I USED TO BE KIND. * (IT DIDN'T LAST LONG.) ... marissa 'mari' dai, as created and written by koi. ESTABLISHED 2013, REVAMPED 2025 — a crime-based original character, flexible to other verses / alternative portrayals. trigger heavy. religious themes will be present and untagged. twenty-one+.

[rydalkeener]

DIPPED IN CYANIDE , lethal to the touch , he turns the scrap of paper over in his hand [handled with the care of a loaded gun ... after all , rydal thinks , is that not what this is ?] studies it : etched numbers jagged as bared teeth , crooked as her grin . it pulses like a blazing metal pulled fresh from the forge , a glint and gleam like that in her eyes ( A SHOCK OF RECOGNITION ) the click , the pivot , the vertigo of two trajectories colliding ; the sudden separation between the dreary eight - point - two billion from the few / as others blur and consolidate into a mass of anonymity , she stands prominent [in his journal, he decided, he would use the word luminous].

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈 𝐃𝐀𝐈 【 @religun 】 : 〝 it's my business card . in case you need some help or you wanna share some secret hidden evidence . 〞

FOLDED ONCE , TWICE tucked away in his pocket like contraband with a quiet reverence . in truth , the slip could vanish and it would not matter , for its shape was indeed branded into marrow . a scrap of paper is a number is a promise that is not a paper , not a number nor promise , but fate . yes , it was Adventure , rydal was sure of it . cigarette's length balanced between knuckles leans briefly towards the night , then to his mouth , 〝 and if i wanted to talk tonight ? 〞

[toprey]

trickery and thievery, illusions and the profane, the two have been dancing with the devil for longer than she'd care to admit. more closely than she'd care to remember. and recently, more delicately — more softly — than before. what was once a game of robber vs robber, now has become a tango. a waltz. a mirroring of each other's moves, until they navigate almost fluidly. smooth step to side step, names, places, faces and numbers later ... mari's finally bites a bullet she's been meaning to fire. has given up the thought that she could run from where she can't hide. acceptance, she thinks, is an apropos term; but it's something she's finding hard to swallow, even now.

gone is the mask of anonymity. here, the claim is loud as can be: no more catch-me-if-you-can's, no more mystery and mystique, just me, me, me, and all you can handle of it ... if he can, that is. if he wants. if he'll even try, because as thieves and beggars, as criminals with worse affairs, mari doesn't expect much— after the adrenaline fades, after the fantasy clears, he'll scurry off to the next chapter before she can bat an eye. (fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, you'll never fool anyone again.) the score will even somehow. the end is always near. for now, mari steals the cigarette out from his lips, and smiles around the filter. better to enjoy it while it lasts. "then you better have something interesting to say."

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐁.   (   a collection of violence & injury - based action prompts. adjust phrasing / reverse roles as desired. mature themes ahead. absolutely do not use these for non-con.   )

[ 01. ] sender takes receiver down to the ground during a fight. [ 02. ] sender leaves scratches / bruises on receiver's body. [ 03. ] sender cruelly applies pressure to receiver's [ wound / bruise ]. [ 04. ] sender lightly trails a sharp knife across receiver's cheek. [ 05. ] sender wraps a hand around receiver's neck & cuts off their oxygen. [ 06. ] after a long - winded chase, sender finally corners receiver. [ 07. ] sender holds a knife to receiver's throat, blade nicking their skin. [ 08. ] sender pushes receiver into a wall & pins them there. [ 09. ] sender has poisoned receiver's [ drink / food ]. [ 10. ] sender aims a loaded gun at receiver, cocking the hammer. [ 11. ] sender suddenly throws a punch at receiver during a confrontation. [ 12. ] sender hurls an item across the room at receiver's head. [ 13. ] sender forcefully pushes receiver's head underwater. [ 14. ] sender unexpectedly arrives at receiver's home covered in blood & bruises. [ 15. ] sender pleads for receiver to help them with hiding a body. [ 16. ] sender is knocked out during a fight, & wakes up in receiver's home. [ 17. ] sender gently dabs the blood from receiver's face with a wet cloth. [ 18. ] sender crafts a tourniquet from their own clothes to stop receiver's bleeding. [ 19. ] after severely wounding receiver, sender approaches them menacingly. [ 20. ] sender takes receiver by the throat & lifts them off the floor. [ 21. ] sender licks receiver's blood from their fingers. [ 22. ] sender viciously bites receiver during a struggle. [ 23. ] sender draws receiver's blood for the first time. [ 24 ] sender grabs receiver's hair, forcing their bloodied face up to look at them. [ 25. ] sender straddles receiver to pin them to the floor.

[ 26. ] receiver wakes up tied to a chair, sender standing before them. [ 27. ] sender threatens receiver with torture in order to extract information. [ 28. ] sender is severely injured & receiver must dial an emergency number. [ 29. ] sender, bleeding through their bandages, faints in front of receiver. [ 30. ] sender goes to strike receiver with a [ blunt object ]. [ 31. ] finally in position, sender can't make themself kill receiver. [ 32. ] sender intentionally breaks one of receiver's bones to demobilize them. [ 33. ] sender deprives receiver of sustenance for an extended period of time. [ 34. ] sender slaps receiver across the face in a moment of anger. [ 35. ] through [ coercion / force ] sender makes receiver kneel before them. [ 36. ] sender prepares to make the killing blow upon receiver. [ 37. ] sender jumps in front of a strike meant for receiver. [ 37. ] after a third party threatens receiver, sender takes revenge & attacks them. [ 38. ] sender has taken a third party prisoner as an offering to receiver. [ 39. ] sender, in a frenzy, hunts receiver through the vast dark wilderness. [ 40. ] receiver is trapped in a maze-like structure with sender hunting them down. [ 41. ] sender draws receiver a hot bath to soothe their wounds. [ 42. ] sender begs receiver not to succumb to their injuries. [ 43. ] sender harshly takes receiver by the chin, forcing eye contact. [ 44. ] sender is in the hospital, severely injured, & receiver just got the news. [ 45. ] sender is the first person receiver sees after returning to consciousness.

[offsrail]

in her face dies a cool fall, blooms a dead winter. a constant state of decay; despite the pills, the therapy, the come on eff, we're here for you, anytime alright? fuck off. she knows how much they love to see her skin peeling, petals of purple and onyx blossoming beneath sunken eyes. if effy's out the picture, they can breathe. they don’t have to worry about her lingering over them like a plague. “ don't be fucking stupid. ” her tone is a disgustingly sour, an acid laced tongue. hypocritical disgust forms her features as she studies mari, the room / the scene of their crime. she separates herself mentally from it, and she feels lighter already, cleaner. better.

“ I don’t exactly plan to live my life sitting about in my own filth .” Pointed, as if she’s leagues above, as if her whole life is outlined in gold. She raises herself up, delicately, and pulls off her sweat soaked shirt, grimacing at the smell.

[toprey]

mari is plenty of things. privileged. rich. unemployed, in a sense of permanency — or, in a sense of illegality, — but not stupid. as such, the comment rolls off her shoulders with ease. no sour-tang of a snap seems to elicit a reaction, no matter how much disgust laces through. mari's had her days of blood-stained sheets, of wound-washed wrinkles, of hands dirtying and cleaning and dirtying again. she's done her time. she's paid her dues. the income is nothing less than retribution: recollections on fees paid from lost years. the mirror mari decides to line with powder is cleaned with a finger. put to her gums, and numbing the rest out. mindless, careless, the nonchalant flippancy of a girl gone wrong. whatever. she deserves this.

an observer of a scene, a wasted ribcage in a horror show— the setting is abysmal. the players are grim. it's dirt and dust and dangerous habits on coping tongues; mari glances at the other. takes in the decay of their lives. "you can live in your own filth and be employed. i j — just choose to be the opposite." a smirk crawls across the contours of her face. "point in case? i already showered. 4 a.m habits, baby—" a soft laugh as she discards the mirror beside her. "and i'm still going."

[offsrail]

what fucking day is it? her head is pounding something egregious, and she can’t think, can’t barely even keep her eyes open. there's still a low murmur of bass resounding off the walls, boom boom boom  — and she's almost there again, alone & swaying [ the lights flicker so sweetly on her face, a neon outlined peace that keeps her gone for a while ]. but she's not alone. on the other side of the floor, another victim of a night out, skull aching in the exact same spots. effy manages to sit up, restraining the urge to gag. “ fuck.” and this is when a wheel turns, hair unsticking from the corners of her mouth, soaked in a foul drool. “ fuck. interview. .... today. ” staccato, her voice laden heavily with fatigue and whiskey-soaked stupor. here then there, in and out, the little ghost that she is. never quite real. @religun

[toprey]

days, weeks, hours or minutes into the thrum of the bass / the howl of the speakers, she still hasn't slept. eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. her cheeks gaunt and skeleton-like. the parties welcome her. praise her. no— worship her in neon lights and nightlife cheers ... mimicking welcome mats, to illusion the memory of home. effy's a constant. or at least, a consistent. some ghastly image of a girl, mirroring the same steps mari does. hand in hand, step by step, tooth by tooth: they're rotten. aching. sore to the touch and trembling, but the bass thrums on. the chorus of addicts sing. mari shores up another line, and effy awakes from a slumber.

"better get up, then." she shows no sympathy, no understanding, little care. a rolled up bill smooths between her fingers, and she sniffs up, up, and away. pupils dilate, and mari scrunches her nose. tilts her head back. swallows the sour drip of chemicals, and then glances at the other. "or sk — skip it. employment's a fuckin' joke, anyway."

[toprey]

something to be said about how mari does heinous, violent, terrifying levels of shit (especially when she’s in a hired gun / less vigilante-esque verse) but yet, across the board, remains to be someone who ends up being able to get people out of nigh inescapable situations. it’s this through-line in more than one plot that i have: where there’s a character in a circumstance they seemingly are doomed to, but because mari is 1) more empathetic than she can seem and loyal / devoted to wild degrees, and 2) literally batshit insane with the lengths she will go to, they end up getting out. and it’s almost this subversion of who she’s believed herself to be / what she believes she’s capable of. in those circumstances, she typically believes that her only option is violence, that she cannot live a life worth anything outside of violence, and that her greatest strength is killing. however, in these storylines, mari ends up proving that her greatest strength is her love. her compassion. her empathy. her moral compass, that refuses to accept certain things — despite her accepting certain fates for herself. and in turn, those characters always end up being crucial individuals to developing mari to a softer person. a more tender person. a person who remembers that she, too, was once kind. that she can be kind again, and this time it doesn’t have to hurt

[unerror]

i don't flinch. and i don't say the thing i want to say on instinct, which is good progress for me. what i wanted to say: it's probably bad if i sound like your brother.

that's what i don't say. i'm not even a very good brother. i mean, fuck, look at me. darlene spent most of her life taking care of me, and—yes, fine, negative self-talk, whatever. this one's hard, okay? i could list a whole lot of reasons why. i don't need to. you were there for most of it. i guess it's better than if mari was talking to sam and said that. then i'd be really fucking worried.

then she keeps going. i have to blink a few times.

"oh. well. i also kind of stare at screens at my job. but i don't know if you'd call me 'content'. just… you know, paying for health insurance, and whatever. semi-consistent pay. i freelance, too, which might be a different situation." i shrug helplessly. tone of i'm never going to be able to afford a house, which is just that kind of thing that everyone vaguely around my age or younger understands.

i smile slightly. not a lot. smiling too wide always feels like i'm about to lie, even when i'm not.

i should talk to krista about that, i think.

"i guess we agree that you should only do what you like, then."

compromise. or something.

mr. robot, finally pacing around to stand next to mari and watch her for a moment. huh. do you really think the person you saw in group therapy today is going to like the idea of compromise?

fuck off, man. i'm trying.

[toprey]

sometimes i realize how much of a not-adult i am.

mark handles all the shit i don't have the capacity for. insurance, co-pays, the things that come in the mail with my name and sound like nonsense. it's weird, i guess. being an adult who's not really an adult, but just some traumatized kid that still depends on her brother to make it through the day.

that's what the therapy's for though, right? or something like that.

i shrug a little, and drag from the cigarette again. the way elliot talks about shit makes me feel like he's more self-sufficient than most therapy-goers are. it's a little uncomfortable, in the way that it's a reflection, and seeing where i don't add up always provokes some kind of response.

i quiet for a moment, watching the cigarette's ash flutter down to the ground. i stomp it out with my boot, and then shrug again.

"does anyone really l — like anything?" it's a bitter mumble. a hard turn from where i was before, and something that a psychiatrist might call a mood swing. whatever. this whole thing's a bunch of rat-race bullshit, anyway, and i don't need to think about it any more than i already do.

"i mean, really like anything. m — most people just tolerate shit." i scuff my boot against the concrete, and shove my now-free hands into my pockets. i stare at a spot on the pavement. "the shit people actually like to do doesn't even pay."

[toprey]

mara tastes like the back end of a bottle, but mari doesn't want to stop drinking. that's the thing about nights like this: where mara comes back alone / where she comes back lonely, clinging halfway onto mari's shirt until the seam opens its ready-made mouth just like she does. just like she's been taught to. (mari proves what she's good for, when mara lets her. when she crawls up the side of mari's thighs, when she slides up and into her lap, when she crooks her canted smile and tells her — no, promises her — that she's just as good as mari needs to be.) sometimes, it's too much. sometimes, it's just enough. sometimes, plenty times, too many times, it's the only thing that helps. the one relief she needs. like medicine, like therapy, like remedies bottled in the breathy-moan inside a bedroom— it aches. and predictably, mari comes back for more.

MARA BANKS [@childactress] : "that look in your eyes. you're visualizing how you'd kill me right now."

mari's had her days of visualizing plenty, but it's been a while since anything turned violent. these days, it's all sweat and skin and slick webbed across her fingers. these days, it's all 'right there' and 'good girl' and 'oh my god, fuck, please.' these days, it's not love, more of lust, and something close to friendship. a fantasy of necessity, of need, of desire— a fantasy of importance. an imagery of value. "yeah. it's all b — blood and guts up here." mari says, as wry as the smile that follows. her tone's flat, but her hands wander, and weave their way beneath fishnet. "you should see my google history. it's way worse than you think."

[unerror]

i really don't like group therapy out here very much. i think a lot of people go to these things so that they feel less lonely in the shit that happened to them. i don't really feel like i need to do that. i could look up statistics if i wanted to feel less lonely, you know? i don't need to hear about other people's experiences, or how everyone else is fucked up. or maybe that's just me being kind of callous. even when sam and mr. robot are quiet, they're still parts of me.

mr. robot tilts his head back behind mari, resting against the wall, and exhales smoke like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

he probably would. he hates group therapy days. sometimes he goes missing for most of them, just a murmur and not much else.

i don't think he even wants to co-front for this, and he generally likes when people are assholes. calls it honest.

"it probably is." i don't disagree. i don't even really smile, even though i think most people would. she's not smiling either, so i'm trying to mirror that as best as i can.

i shrug helplessly then. "kind of. i used to." i liked pentesting more. okay. i liked the idea of pentesting, and i hated cubicles and the nine to five. so—i'm being honest. "i like parts of my job, but not all of it. it's bearable."

i like being left on my own to write code. i hate being on zoom calls, but freelancing is better for me overall. give and take.

"i think that's better than doing what you love as a job, honestly."

[toprey]

elliot doesn't smile much.

truthfully, neither do a lot of these weirdo-fucks in therapy, but that's the kicker, isn't it? everybody who shows up to one of these things shouldn't be smiling, and if they do, maybe they need to be a level higher, anyway. the real crazies get locked up for that kind of shit.

hence: i don't smile much, either.

although, it's easier to get away with things with mark when i smile. my pseudo-happiness adds up to a lot for him, now. probably because of— well, because of before, but that's not anything i need to think about while this close to therapeutic spaces.

i drag from the cigarette, and watch the embers burn away at the tobacco.

"you sound like my brother." it's not a compliment, by the way. more of just a true statement. mark comes back to his not-shit-apartment, throws off his work-face, and shows up at my shit-apartment to talk about how he loves one part of his job ... hates the rest. i'd roll my eyes then, and i roll my eyes now.

"he spends h — his day staring at fucking screens, and yet is supposedly content as long as he gets his stupid little breaks and paid vacation time. i think—" the cigarette lifts to my lips, billows out smoke, and my gaze flickers over to elliot. "—if you do what you love for a living, y — you're either delusional, or unemployed." my hand points at myself, emphasizing.

"take it from someone who's both."

[offsrail]

[ a horseman of apocalypse; pestilence leads with a mouldy taste in the mouth, a continual decay. come, come, come with me. bare your teeth so that I may pluck them out and tongue the gory hole that’s left behind. taut is the skin that hides her rotting bones, and you can see the blue-green of her veins, almost luminous. almost ethereal. almost nauseating. ]

the door is opened, and the first breath of fresh air hits like an orgasm— paints an eerily empty smile on her face. her eyes flutter closed; breathing in the sweetness of the sugary air, then breathing out her sickly spores. it lasts but a moment, this beautifully still scene. effy looks almost kind in the dying light of the sun. her face is so wonderfully ... innocent. no trace of spoil, a fresh fruit begging to be picked. a canvas awaiting its eager artist. and then it’s gone. her eyes open —— predatory blue, and she continues on as if the whole sequence was a hallucination. no pause is taken in her step, no look thrown behind to ensure she’s being followed. it’s not egotistical to assume. not when it’s just pure fact.

mouth parts, pink tongue sliding slick to lubricate her lips. “ they said i’m reformed—” words spoken to a viridescent audience, carried high high up & then lost in the wind. “ you know, the people who make up shit. ” thrilling callback: effy proves she can go off-book !

[toprey]

the crowd parts: a sea of sardines, floundering for their place in the masses. mari walks, singed feet on sullen waters, through the gaps that remain. a god, or a girl; a girl, or guilt, (somewhere in the distance, a rotting body calls her name,) even strangers know to stay away. pry only with their questioning eyes. indexing her rib-worn torso for a price, a cost, a toll to pay— ... what makes a dead thing, dead? what makes her any more alive? is it this breath, these fumes, a step-by-step introduction; this ache, their pain, one gorged appetite of blood? or is it her, all bent-wings and fluttering gasps, born to appeal only as a dream? reveries on reveries, the smoke conceals what her past cannot.

mari wraps herself in mystery. sheaths god / guilt / girl in a mask. inhales, exhales, flicks the remainder of a cigarette out into dirt; the faint sun sparkles against the jagged edge of her scars. (the other may look innocent, but mari's forever marred.) she hasn't looked kind since she was sixteen. has lived in a thicket of lies since she became an adult. the world has left its marks, and no fresh-set of terrain can change that.

reformed, the other says, and mari's lips twist to a dip of sour. what a thought. the look dissipates as quickly as it came, turned to blank states and burned remains, and her stare flickers across details disclosed in the outdoors. (dirty shorts, smeared liner. days without rest, dug in by the stubborn of her heels.) a stranger is a former is a reminder, and mari suspects that something past will turn present, in time. "sounds like a bunch of bullshit." it isn't unkind, just truth. a crooked smile cants, and a hand spins a spare lighter once more. "i believe it."

[offsrail]

she’s left high & dry, with nothing but the phantom taste of earthy tobacco. the stolen cigarette doesn't bother her much, she never buys them herself anyway. they turn up whenever she desires, like offerings to the high priestess— infused with a sweaty desperation & doomed hope she inhales all the same. no, it's the act itself that's different. staring into the all consuming void that is effy's eyes and teasing. it's fun, it's new, and it twitches the corners of her mouth upward. “ cool. ” patronizing? appreciative? she relents to a wry smile all the same, halfway between both.

there's a small bag that rests between the soft of her breast and fraying bra, one she's nicked from whatever idiot decided to blab about how he's got the goods. she'd given him a vodka soaked tongue to appease, and slipped it away while he sat in a dazed stupor. now, it's just something to hold on to— a solution, a problem, a bargaining chip. she's not seventeen anymore, yet everyone seems to act the fucking same. easy, malleable pieces of play-dough. effy can't learn her lesson if no one wants to teach!

she stands, maybe too fast, her body dangerously teetering. it's too loud, too annoying. they keep coming up to whisper how big their cocks are in her ear, and it's old & boring and she wants to play with this new ... thing. she hasn't made up her mind yet, but she still motions with a tilt of the head towards the back door. “ bored? ”

[toprey]

she's always been something like this. a shapeless entity, a phantom-flashed image, the raw skin of a fantasy gone wrong. girls like her are an abyss. full of: trap doors and hidden hallways / bottom hatches, exit-sign repertoire / a contradiction, a contraption, an attraction ... blaring siren-songs out the whispers of their warning. (come close, come close, get away.) so, the cigarette's a message, not a metaphor; a truth, and somehow a lie. it's an in between, a middle-man, an offer cloaked in presumptuous decree— the sides of a stranger's mouth quirks, and mari thinks one thing, and one thing alone: i see you.

girls like them are always found in places like this. dirtied couches with prettied faces, cigarette stains and soft-shelled hums. they're found stealing, not wanting, always playing, yet somehow degrading— morphing, over time, like fallen butterflies in forgotten graves. resurrected by proxy of who-they-ought-to-be. who-they-could-have-been. those-they'll-never-become. invented nightly, and dead by dawn.

but then again, maybe she's wrong. "sure." mari drawls, and lifts up through a half-drunk stupor. tugs the side of her jeans until they sit pretty on the cusp of her hip. a fresh scar peeks out from the beneath of fabric, angry and red and still somehow aching, before a cigarette-paired hand tugs the rim of her shirt down. mari's chin tilts to a lazy nod. "lead the way."

[offsrail]

it fucking stinks. perspiration clings to the baboons that howl at a flash of her panties, mixing in with their mandated 15th spray of Lynx Africa— a horrid assault on both nostril and nervous system. she doesn’t care much for breathing anyways; so she sits in the corner of the quietest room, head swaying ever so slightly, holding her breath as she counts 1, 2, 3, …. 9, 8 ( ? ) and she has to start over from the beginning. everything is muted: the cackles, the snorts & coughs. her ears are clogged. [ wow, mind if I chat with you? you’re like. incredible. holy fuck. I just had to come over and tell you that. You know I ———— ] 1, 2, 3 ….

a new piece of the puzzle. jagged edges that don’t quite fit and she can’t fucking tell if this was supposed to be part of the original puzzle or if tony’s been messing about and switching everything around ( it’s always been his game anyway. he wins, effy bites her lip until it bleeds, he holds a tissue against her bruised skin. ) she stares, but not with any discernible emotion. she's not searching for anything in the other's expression; in her clothing, in the way she sinks into the crack of the couch like a spider. here then gone. it's how it always is, so what fucking difference does it make for her to speak?

" ............................. " hm. effy slides a cigarette out from the back of unwashed denim shorts, plucks it between her peeling, grey tinted lips. she leans forward, over the coffee table, expectant. she has her own lighter— obviously. she just wants to see something.

[toprey]

words aren't the only way to read a room. plenty of days, too many days, days that are passed and painful all the same, mari stayed silent. quietly ingesting the expressions of all around. listening, but not speaking, until she was able to hear even the smallest of pins drop. living in a house like a crime scene will do that to you. make you vigilant, or drive you insane. make you smarter, but dig you deeper. make you faster, but at a cost. even now, even here, with all the rumbling of a speaker and the shout of strangers in the distance, there's information to be gleaned. understanding to be extracted. secrets to hear ... and plenty more to hide.

mari knows something about that. "mm." a quiet noise hums at the edge of her mouth, perks the corner of her smile up further. if she were a few years younger, she might not see it: the expectant gesture, the blank-eyed gaze, the quiet and silence and everything before it— maybe she's projecting. maybe she's not. or, maybe she's drunk, and none of this fucking matters.

the lighter clicks in the base of her hand. flips around, smooth, as she tilts her head. a moment of contemplation, and then it extends out to the other's request: sparking to life, and crackling down on the inhale. (1, 2 and—) as soon as it sparks, it's stolen away. stuck between mari's smirk of a mouth. tilts, slight, as a chuckle exhales smoke. "thanks."

[unerror]

C://users/ [ @religun ]: i'm a bastard, but only professionally.

"okay," i say, and even that syllable sounds awkward.

me and mari haven't really talked. i mean, we've talked in the quiet sideways way you talk to someone when you're inpatient. mostly we each kept to ourselves, and drew. so that was something. but group therapy out in the world isn't like that. there's an expectation that you'll talk, even if i spend most of it shaking my head. krista doesn't like that. she keeps encouraging me to talk, but i personally think there's some things that are too fucking weird or fucked up to say even in a setting with other fucked up people.

what i've been paying attention to, though, is how different things have been with mari. in inpatient we were quiet, like i said. i think it took me a week to even get her name, but that might've also been me ignoring most of what other people were saying. now she's not that. she's—abrasive, i guess? i don't mean that in a shitty way. she just changed a lot. and it hasn't been that long. and i know it's wrong to armchair diagnose, or whatever.

don't fucking start this. mr. robot's leaning against the wall behind mari, head tilted up towards the sky like he'd rather be anywhere else, hands in his pockets. if he were really there it'd look like all three of us were on a smoke break. do not tell me you're this lonely. jesus christ. we can get you to a bar and get you laid if you're so desperate for connection that you're about to ask some random woman if she has a dissociative disorder.

okay. one: i'm not going to ask that.

two: i'm not that lonely.

three: it's just that she might have one. i mean, you don't go inpatient for nothing, right?

i blink at her. trying to be here and not there. "i know at least one person like that." trying to not keep looking at mr. robot. "i mean. people say that if you do what you love you'll never work a day in your life or whatever the fuck."

i don't actually believe that. i think that's pretty obvious.

[toprey]

the smartest way to survive any circumstance is to play the game you're given.

play it well enough, and you'll win without the other party knowing you played to begin with. play it badly, and you're back where you started. example number one? inpatient.

those shit-for-brains nurses wouldn't know left from right even if i guided them. the psychiatrists might as well have been on drugs themselves. i smiled when i was supposed to smile, participated just as i was supposed to participate, and shared the bare minimum to any ass-for-mouth idiot that needed my vulnerability for currency.

aka, i won.

group therapy's different. the rules are different. every minute is a brownie-point contest based on how much you can fill the air, so— example number two? be a participating member of the bullshit, and group will go a whole lot quicker ... or, that's the running theory.

"that's a bunch of bullshit, you know." my fingers twitch around the filter of my cigarette slightly, and ash flutters to the floor. i drag, exhale, and then lean against the wall. "being a bastard professionally t — takes a lot of effort. really, i should be getting paid more for being a bastard less, but—" i'm just spewing random shit, at this point. elliot seems like the kind of guy who will let me, even if it's utter nonsense. (which — hint? it is.) "the world works in m — mysterious ways."

i shrug, kicking my boot out against the concrete. it scuffs, and i turn my gaze back to him.

"you d — do what you love for a living, or what?"