KISSING ANARCHY!

independent, highly selective, canon-divergent multi-muse writing blog! specializing in hard science fiction, horror, world-building, and action/adventure. hosting characters from dead by daylight, dc comics, overwatch, mass effect, and more ! rated mature. read rules before following or interacting.

   rules. 🧠 roster. ☄️ script. 🫀  plots. 🌏

crossover friendly. multi-muse friendly. duplicates friendly. OC friendly. mutuals only. time zone is UTC+10 (like australia). low activity (mostly weekends). all canon characters are primarily based on personal interpretations/portrayal expounding on canon details and worldbuilding/headcanons but ultimately set in a separate composite universe. primarily canon-divergent. storied by moony; black pasifika 🇵🇼/🇲🇵. 34 (🔞). neurodivergent. they/them, enby, AROMANTIC/ASEXUAL. 

MAINS: @ujima/ @txepivaeyk/ @coolreborn/ @darkcreole, @falsedk1ng, @handspike, @goatmasks💖

the hilton tokyo hotel hosts twenty-eight rooms dedicated especially for events. the largest conference room is 3,588 square feet. this realm of luxury would come to host hino incorporate's latest technology: a revolutionary crystalline product that would revolutionize quantum mechanics and offer greater opportunities for tachyon interfaces, sub-dimensional pockets between space-time, and fractal manipulation.  

to most people, the tech looks like magic. hardly any of tonight's sponsors are entirely sure what they are investing in, except that it provides existing technology a greater range of operating beyond the dogmatic sciences of the material world. 

she wears a pink, flowing, puffy-sleeved dress; the material shines like metal, like rose-gold in the twinkling lights of the event hall. it is not something usagi is entirely used to, but the weight of the dress on her body is familiar, an ancient memory that feels more like a possession. 

she bites her lip, worrying, worrying. of course, she was invited. but at what cost? did her presence here mean she was condoning hino rei's ambitions? destiny's intentions? 

she turns, unable to stare at the extravagance of the place, the silvery trimmings and the grand crystal chandelier hanging above her. 

usagi knows she is clumsy. but the way she bumps into them is sharp, sudden. a drink spills, staining the hem of her dress. 

jake is not asleep. he rolls over onto his side, eyes closed, brows furrowed. bracing himself for the suffering of this realm, even when there is no immediate danger to acknowledge. he tries not to make it obvious; his constant vigilance, his high-functioning paranoia. he is never quite out of those trials. the body remembers. the body keeps score.

"are you asleep," @handspike asks.

jake is not asleep. no. he is not sure he can, now. but resting was enough. through rest, not sleep, he can recharge his body for the next grueling arena of running and dying. maybe he might even escape.

"i'm not," he grouses, blinking into the darkness of the woods. the campfire is still burning, casting shadows and shades of light across their bodies. he can see reggie, as his eyesight adjusts. the shadowy outline of her body. she is a tiny sliver of a thing, compared to the largeness of the killers that chase them.

he sits up. alert.

the night is a dimly glowing world of neon ads and florescent lights, a poisonous electric-white light spilling in from the other side of the diner's counter, the order hole that allows a lone cook to peer out of it, annoyed or tired or both. he enters the diner with the cold breeze that blooms through the doors. hears the jingle of a bell as they open. frank keeps the doors open with his boot, as he watches @wellfell glide past him.

he opted for a tootsy pop, the candy hanging off of his mouth. trying to quit cigarettes. trying to seem nicer, smell nicer, for her.

he watches her choose their booth. the sway of her hips. the sheen of her dark, dark hair.

"fuck me," he mutters, a hiss under his breath, carding his finger through his hair. he joins her as she takes her seat, shuffling into the plush, plastic seating. "why you always walkin' around like you own the place, huh?"

he leans backward, against the backrest of the seat. puts an arm over the top of it, getting comfortable.

"we're supposed to keep a low profile, not make every man go into heat within a fuckin' ten mile radius."

the capital city of illium boasts a decadent nightlife, asari philanthropists pooling their resources together for an unforgettable night at THE METEOR GALA, a yearly event that gathered the highest officials of asari politics, asari military, and turian military hierarchy. the gala was set in the ballroom of the tallest building in the economic district, a spiraling skyscraper that allowed a clear, perfect view of the stars above them.

the windows to the ballroom lead into a yawning balcony that spanned the circle of the spire. the walls were gilded, shimmering with shades of sunflower yellow and gold. crystals adorned the decorative themes, mirroring the shine of the night sky.

nihlus holds a glass flute. turian champagne. absentmindedly swirling its contents in his hand as he observed the crowd.

he feels like his face is bare. like he is out of his element. in spite of the decorum that @laesarus had drilled into his cognitive programming, it felt more like a performance, and less like a real state of mind.

he eyes the asari that stares at him from across the room, adorned in an electric-green dress with an open back, pretending she is still talking to her salarian husband. glancing at him. smiling at him.

he sighs. wonders if she was worth the diplomatic incident.

but his eyes wander elsewhere. ignores her entirely. searches for saren.

he finds him. a silver sword in the midst of the gold. a sleek, towering figure dressed in the traditional turian robes. black and grey. accentuating his natural physicality and strength.

he admires his mentor. he envies him. saren does not look out of place, in the throng of other military officers. captains. generals. huntresses. but only nihlus can recognize the set in saren's jaw, the mark of annoyance that the turian male is clearly internalizing for the sake of etiquette.

he is as annoyed with the party as nihlus is.

nihlus approaches him. his aura is a smile, welcoming saren into a more familiar atmosphere. their friendship was useful for such occasions. their partnership was a boon for the sociopolitical niceties that they could not entirely relate to, as soldiers. as warriors.

"i'm sorry," nihlus intervenes, addressing the group of people saren had attracted. "but i must speak with your man of the hour, immediately. SPECTRE business."

saren excuses himself with the same solemness as if this was not all a lie, an excuse to leave the growing throng of people who fawned over the infamous SPECTRE.

they escape into the balcony, the wind blowing slow and heavy over them as nihlus inhaled, spilled the rest of his champagne over the balustrade. watches it shimmer as it falls from the impossible height of the building.

nihlus laughs at him, soft and carried over the breeze. "that was exciting, hm?"