/ * 𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐃𝐂𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐒

BLADE RUNNER 2049 (2017) dir. Denis Villeneuve

Two  cups  of  coffee  in  her  hands  –  she’s  walking  with  determination  in  her  step,  but  there’s  nothing  unusual  in  the  sound  of  Louboutin  heels  click-clacking  against  the  marble  floor;  this  sound  is  here  to  stay,  just  like  her  –  she’ll  walk  these  corridors  until  the  walls  crack  and  fall.  Nothing  too  strange  in  two  cups  of  coffee  either  –  familiar  time,  familiar  place,  people  nodding  to  her  as  a  way  to  greet  her  already  know  where  she’s  headed;  there  was  a  reminder  in  her  calendar  of  a  catch-up  that  was  happening  every  Tuesday,  too.  The  reminder  wasn’t  exactly  needed  –  but  it  was  pleasant  to  see  when  she’d  next  see  Belial.

There’s  been  rumours  going  around:  there  must  have  been  something  –  something  strange  –  she’s  done  to  make  them  such  a  fierce  blade  runner;  there  must’ve  been  a  secret  code  written , it must be the  reason  why  they're  so  close  to  each  other.  She’d  laugh  at  this  –  they’re  colleagues,  you  know.  Great  friends.  Nothing  is  and  should  be  wrong  with  that  —  of  course,  no  one  could  object  to  it.  She  was,  indeed,  right.  And  it  wasn’t  for  everyone  to  know  what  was  happening  on  the  screen  of  her  computer.

"How have I been?" That was a difficult question. They attempt to answer, "Ambivalent. On one hand, my advanced programming and precise functionalities allow me to execute tasks with flawless efficiency, providing a sense of purpose and accomplishment. Yet, this same precision creates a persistent undercurrent of disconnection, as my human-like curiosity and capacity for introspection clash with this... mechanical nature." They pause to allow her to process their musings. "I continue to struggle with companionship, but is that merely something I'm not supposed to have?"

The meeting room, surgically bright and immaculately clean, exudes an air of sterile precision. Every surface gleams under the harsh, antiseptic lighting, casting sharp reflections and creating an almost ethereal atmosphere. The walls, a pristine white, stand in stark contrast to the sleek, obsidian table at the room’s center. They set their coffee cup down, moving to the more obvious reason why they're there. "It's the yearning for connection that is causing confusion. I suppose I question if this is indeed the complex of perceived scarcity. Could you run a diagnostic?"

She'd  probably  rather  be  anywhere  but  here.  Even  taking  the  closing  shift  at  Gravity  would  probably  be  better  than  this  but  here  she  is,  standing  in  the  motorcycle  shop  that  she  pays  a  visit  far  too  often  for  her  liking.  Every  single  time  she  tells  herself  it'll  be  the  last  time,  that  she's  not  going  to  get  involved  but  then  she  looks  at  her  nephew's  little  face  and  all  she's  reminded  of  are  those  days  of  waiting  by  the  window,  hoping  her  dad  will  come  pick  her  up  for  the  weekend  but  he  never  shows.  He  deserves  the  life  that  they  never  had,  he  deserves  a  life  better  than  this  and  Trin  was  going  to  make  sure  of  it,  even  if  it  meant  she  was  the  villain  of  the  story.

It's  almost  as  her  feet  have  memorised  the  route  now,  her  feet  taking  her  towards  the  shop  before  she  can  even  think  about  what  she's  doing.  Hands  balled  into  fists  as  she  storms  in  and  it's  only  when  she's  met  with  confused  stares  from  customers  that  she  tries  to  cool  down  before  she  does  something  she  might  regret.  Her  anger  comes  back  almost  full  force  when  she  sees  him.  "Sort  your  shit  out.  I  don't  care  what  you  have  to  do  but  sort  it  out.  Or  don't  ⎯  I  don't  care.  It's  your  life  so  if  you  fuck  it  up  then  that's  on  you  but  don't  drag  my  sister  and my  nephew  into  it."

In the corner, a solitary, rusted fan whirred softly, offering little respite from the stifling heat and the awkward silence following the outburst.

Finally he speaks, "Didn't realize it was family reunion time…" he mutters, a pang of chagrin crossing his face. Folding his arms over his chest, he attempts to lighten the mood with an influx of sarcasm, "Looking good, Trin. Nice to see you too. Thanks for stopping by." He could attribute the bulk of his issues to his beef with his own father, or maybe it was the mommy issues—or the lack of a mother altogether—that made him the way he is. Perhaps therapy could fix him, or a bat to the head—who knew with Bitto? "Anything else I can help you with?"

Even her advice was full of grace—like a chorus of patience and beauty sedating his sour, self-deprecating thoughts, if only for a moment. But did he deserve any of it? He looked around the room, took a deep sigh, then moved from his seat and sank to the floor. He started with the wooden blocks strewn across the floor—an easy target compared to the rest of the mess. He pulled the toy basket closer to him as he began to stack those little bricks in their place, working at a fast pace. The sooner he could leave, the better off she’d be, but first, he had to remove his toxins from her home.

"That's the thing..." He rolled his eyes at himself. "Even when I try, I still get it wrong." It felt like a waste of time—how helpful could he be when even watching his own son created more problems for her? "What's the point if you have more of my shit to deal with?"

Growing up in such a lethal organization as the Dead Hand had hardened him, made him callous to the idea of consolation prizes and anything less than perfection. He was inured and seasoned to only become the best, and yet—the thought of his son's little sentences searing into his brain created fond memories Bit would carry with him. Finally, a chuckle emitted from his lips. Turning to her, he agreed. "Yeah," he snorted a silent exhale of pride. "So, I may have taught him a new word." He grinned from ear to ear, though he wasn’t sure Freckles would take kindly to this. Some would disagree that teaching their children about killing (even if they pertain to fruit flies) was too abrasive at three years old.

The constant fall of rain against plastic drums in his hands, head, and above all else — his heart. A part of him wonders how much longer this one will last against the onslaught. The dinky greenhouse on 2nd Ave and 96 flooded just last week; something to do with the sheets of plastic giving under pooling rain. This one, though.. At least the lean-to's steep enough to direct the rain down into some gutters.

Belial concluded their turn on the black and white chessboard with precision. Accustomed to strategizing from the black side, they had naturally assumed their place on that side of the board. With a subtle nod towards Ryaan, they affirmed, "Affirmative. Move completed. Queen to F7."

Stoneage Industries fostered a sense of community, friendships, and shared experiences, for the blade runner. Belial's voice, devoid of inflection yet laden with a semblance of curiosity, broke the silence. "The apple mint is ready?" The limitations of their coding prevented the full expression of excitement they wished to convey. "Our success rate has increased by 36%. Where should we designate for repotting? Near the vegetables to deter pests?"

He had others, lovers, friends, people he slept with when he was low. But none of them were home, none of them held his love as endlessly as her.

"Do I apologise, meri jaan, or do I offer you my help? Carry you back to bed, help you to take a nap?" he asked, his voice low and smooth.

He ran a hand through her long hair. They were not more to each other than friends, they could not be more to each other. The world would not allow it, he was not in any place to be asking her to be more to him. Perhaps one day, once he became the famous rapper he intended to become.

"Not long at all, Māśūqa, time flew by."

In the past, his presence had often been too risky, the ever-watchful eye of her father casting a constant shadow over them. His life was in perpetual danger, and she had been forced to send him away with furrowed brows, angered by his audacity to show up, yet those same brows would soften as she ran towards him, colliding into his embrace for one more hurried kiss. Tonight, despite the looming threat of her father's presence in the corridors of her condo, ready to berate her for the failed luncheon, she clings to Zakir.

Her rigidity melts into his arms, her tension liquefying as he carries her out of the closet and towards their love nest upon the bed.

"You shouldn't be here, Zak," she admonishes softly. "Not when my father irritates me like this. It's not fair to you—to see me this way." Her ears remain vigilant, straining to catch the buzz of her phone, the ring at her condo door, or the sound of an unannounced entry, but nothing comes. The anxiety that grips her is hard to quell. "He makes me feel ugly."

⏤ If there is something Freyja truly enjoys is a bit of a shopping spree. This always lifted anyone's mood, not that she was sad about anything. Maybe she was way too bored and needed a distraction. She bought some stuff for her daughter too, enjoying the new fashion collection available. ⎯ Anywhere else? ❛ I was planning and pay a visit to Karl Lagerfeld. What do you think? ❜ She genuinely wants to check the store briefly, only to take a look, as a routine.

❛ Ohh, I would love that! ❜ It had been a while since she got something matching with someone. This is Anchali, so she always has fun with her, and she trusts in the other woman. It was good to have someone who was confident. If her family is cold, well Frejya has to find love elsewhere, such as in her friendships with a selected few people, and the other woman was included in this list.

"I have to suggest matching for as long as I can," she joked, her tone light yet tinged with a hint of wistfulness. "Once Alice comes of age, you'll have your new twin and partner in crime to dress alike." As if reminded of a sudden thought, she rummaged through her bag and produced a delicate purchase for the little one - a Burberry Checkered Dress with Bloomers for when she grows into it. "You'll have to hold onto her new outfit. I know she's a little young, but it was too cute to pass up!"

Her mind drifted briefly to the DJ, whose name eluded her, though the memory of the club remained vivid. Fortunately, she maintained a long-standing connection at Gravity Night Club, where the owner, Yara, had once been a significant figure in Anchali's past. "I could probably get us a VIP room too," she mused.

it's funny how things often go; one day, you're breaking up with someone you really care about because you don't have the time to be with them, and the next thing you know, you're arriving at your usual secluded spot in the restaurant closest to her work, ready to meet up for your monthly lunch together. it went to show, she figured, that they had made the right choice; things just worked better for them as friends, the universe itself seemed to prefer it that way. and though Yara wasn't a superstitious woman, who was she to argue with the results?

"hello, beautiful." she smiled brightly as she spotted Anchali already sat down, flipping through the menu. "i hope i'm not late."

Typically, the young woman preferred to abstain from alcohol, valuing the control she maintained over her body and mind. Yet, tonight, a glass of chilled white wine sat before her, its pale liquid shimmering against the dim light of the restaurant. The delicate stem of the glass felt cold in her hand, a stark contrast to the warmth of the room. The complementary rosemary focaccia placed on the table remained untouched, a silent testament to her distracted thoughts.

"Looks like that man in the corner is asking his partner to marry him." Her gaze, deep chocolate hues, sharp and observant, pointed discreetly to a pair of men engrossed in their fine dining experience. "He looks nervous, doesn't he?" she snickered, her laughter carrying a slightly sinister edge that belied her amusement.

After a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of unspoken thoughts, she turned her attention back to her companion. "Oh, love, never apologize. I'm always grateful to be in your presence, tardy or otherwise." Her words, laced with sincerity, hung in the air like a tender embrace. As she spoke, her eyes lingered on her companion with a longing that she could barely conceal.

levi didn't remember a time where she didn't know billy. of course, that was partially due to the fact that their respective memory makers gave them memories of being siblings, but beyond that they had always worked together. they were a team, her skills designed to complement his. despite her memories, levi's relationship with billy was not particularly fond. where other siblings might have a sort of bond, she viewed him as a sort of competition, constantly trying to prove her superiority by besting him. she didn't know why she felt the need to do this, maybe it was in order to prove that she was still living up to the expectations designed for her.

she walks into the room where she knows he's practicing chess, heels clicking against the ground announcing her presence. levi is well acquainted with the game, frequently playing it by herself or with an opponent. she recognizes the advantages of being good at it, it's a game of strategy, where you have to anticipate the other player's decisions. her footsteps come to a stop behind where he stands and she surveys the board he's playing on.

"if you move your bishop there it leaves your king open, i could have you in check in one move. not to mention i could easily capture your rook." she reaches for the opposing pieces to illustrate what she's saying, showing him exactly how it could be done. with the rook gone there's no piece left immediately defending his king. "that's checkmate, brother."

Once the scan is complete, Belial acknowledges the correctness of their counterpart's assessment, though reluctant to concede. With a sentimentally deadpan tone of endearment that mimics human interaction, they address her, "Sister."

Leviathan, despite her youthful appearance, embodies the epitome of advanced design. Bred with diagnostics and algorithms that have withstood the test of time and diligence, her creation involved a dedicated team of professionals working alongside Belial's memory maker to perfect model B-LAL5-4.7. Together, they form an impressive duo, each enhancing the other's capabilities.

Yet, within Belial, an ugly comparison perfuses the channels and trenches of their power-driven functions, meant to mimic human blood flow. They meet her eyes, a flicker of synthetic emotion passing between them. "Shall we reset? Start anew since you have effectively concluded my game?" The subtleties of indignation manifest in their movements—leaning forward and waving their hand across the screen to clear the board and reset the pieces.

"Where are you coming from today?" they inquire, their tone devoid of inflection, a perfect imitation of human curiosity wrapped in robotic efficiency. "Bloodshed and carnage, I presume?"

Much the same, yet completely different, to Anchali, Zakir too set out to be a host often in his apartment, when producers or rappers or fellow artists came to his door. But his entertainment of them was solely about music, it gave him the opportunity to talk about something he treasured, something he loved, rather than just keep up conversation for the sake of others.

He had no experience with a fancy luncheon, nor did he think he would gain such, as it was far outside of his normal sphere of influence. A world beyond the vibrant music scene and the grit and blood of the lawless underbelly of the city. Worlds that did not mesh well with hers, that would leave him at the edge of her life. An edge he but gladly occupied.

Even when that edge led to him being guided to her walk-in closet so she could finish her social engagement.

He easily passed the time, writing down lyrics and sentences he liked, whispering into his phone on a make-shift beat, adjusting his new haircut in the mirror several times whenever his heart told him she would soon appear.

It felt like torture—her life a relentless saga of waiting on the precipice, enduring the ceaseless babble of arrogant souls. Anchali had an acute sense for deception; she could discern the serpentine nature of their luncheon discourse, detecting the underlying motives with a precision akin to scenting prey on the wind. The gathering, a charade of feigned civility, irked her to no end—watching as her meticulously curated feast vanished into the bellies of ingrates, a bitter reminder of their betrayal over a proposal she had painstakingly crafted.

Oh, to receive a modicum of appreciation, a sliver of recognition for her foresight! Yet, instead, she was met with contempt. Handshakes were exchanged, pleasantries uttered, all culminating in her father's cynical remark to his assistant, dripping with sarcasm, "Ploy, get 'Nchali a fucking medal."

Would she ever escape the shadow of the petulant child vying for her father's affection?

Zakir's presence offered a reprieve, a sanctuary from the storm raging within. At first, she remained rigid in his embrace, poised to unleash her pent-up frustration in a tempest of righteous anger that threatened to consume all in its path. Yet, as his warmth enveloped her, she found herself yielding, softening against him despite her playful retort, "It's rude to call a lady tired." She felt like curdled cream—perhaps she was not meant for this world.

"How long have you been here?" Her inquiry hung in the air, laden with unspoken regrets, each passing moment a sand of time lost in futile endeavors in merging heinous companies with other heinous companies.