GOD IS WATCHING:

hey there! thank you so much ❤️ i also won’t lie, i forget i have an amy blog 99% of the time lmao ~ i kinda made that blog off a whim and it was pretty fun for the short amount of time i was on there; but in the future, maybe i’ll come back??? i love amy so much and she kinda lives rent free in my head; i’ve just gotta be in the right mindset to write her, just like i’ve gotta be with sienna skdjfaka. 

@legiate​

If  anyone  were  to  ask  him   –  not that anyone cares enough, they have their own problems to worry about – Ben would not say the thing he hates most about wandering the wasteland is the dry, arid days. In fact, the thing he hates are the nights, where the temperature drops so rapidly that he immediately misses the warmth of the sun beating down on his cheeks. Where the day offers visibility, the nights cloak everything in a darkness that gives creatures of the wasteland the opportunity to hunt. Ben has always been clever enough to find shelter by nightfall and this particular night is no different.   The fire that had been burning brightly earlier has now dwindled to burning embers, barely lighting up the room as he lays on his back, staring up into the darkness at nothing in particular. Sleep is a rare thing for him, always on high alert and never really able to let himself rest. Which he is thankful for as he hears a rustling noise, joined by what he swears are footsteps approaching. Slowly enough to not draw attention to himself, he’s reaching out for his pistol tucked away by his side and without realising, Ben holds his breath. When the footsteps stop, he draws his head up to peek across the room of the derelict house he has holed himself up in for the night. While hoping he still has the element of surprise, Ben jumps to his feet with almost complete silence and raises his gun in the stranger’s direction, clicking off the safety.  “It ain’t right touchin’ what ain’t yours. Put it down and nobody has to get hurt.” 

𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺, 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙴𝚂 𝙲𝚁𝙰𝚆𝙻 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝙾𝙳𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙺𝚂.      they hunt for their prey,   awaiting for the proper moment to strike their  meal.      she’d spotted the flames earlier in the night,   waiting   &   watching from a distance,   patiently waiting for the time to wander from the sand dune she’d been holed up by.      the moon rose,   the sun sinking under the horizon   —   time moved quick in the mojave.      she’d occupied her time by cleaning her gun,   twirling it once she was done,   anything to pass the time awaiting for the spotlight to land upon her;   she  always  found ways to keep herself entertained.      when the moon was fully lit   &   risen the top of the stygian sky,   she  made  her  move.

no time was wasted as she made her way into the abandoned house,   a golden penumbra casted across the living room.      a ruined couch   &   ripped floral wallpaper enveloped her   —   centuries ago,   this offered  solace  to whomever the owner was;   it made her gag,   wanting to gore the entire place   &   leave it in an inferno.     (it wasn’t out of the picture  yet  either.)      every step is taken softly,   watching every movement she made with her boots;   stealth   &   luck had never been her strong suit.      a glance is taken in every available room,   anything looking of  importance  getting a quick survey   &   stash in the backpack residing on her back.       the only room left was the bedroom   —   what was once a beacon of light through a window had been dwindled down to darkness,   a sign of slumber.       the door opens quietly,   her head taking a quick peek in as she spots  him.      whoever had claimed the house for the evening   —   the standard  go  fuck  yourself  to anyone else roaming throughout the wasteland in the night.

she walks in,   an attempt to make her footsteps minuscule failing as she spots an end table.     on top,   a bottle of jet resides,   fingers move to pick it up.     within seconds,   she hears the safety of a gun click   &   words entering her ears.       fuck.      her head   &   body cranes around,   her grasp remaining around the bottle,   her gaze meeting the male’s gaze.

❝      that’s  cute.      ya’ know,   ya’  probably  shouldn’t leave yer shit out for everybody to see.     ❞      lips flicker upwards in a shit-eating grin,   brows wiggling.      calloused digits raise the ampule,   waving it in the air momentarily before tossing it back on the table.       ❝      got any to  spare?      not gonna’ leave a girl hangin’,   right?     ❞      a pause,   head leveling itself,   the grin still playing itself across her features.     

𝚅𝙸𝚃𝚄𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝙰𝚃𝚃𝙰𝙲𝙺𝚂 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝙾𝚁𝚃𝙷𝙳𝙾𝚇.      her tongue is similar to the way a cobra slithers,   spewing  venom  with every bite taken.       she gorges herself,   filling her stomach until it swells,   molding its contents into a cradle of bones   &   broken hearts.       there’s a graveyard in front of her teeth,   every tombstone a  victim  of her path.      (he is no exception.      he will become one within  due  time.)      when his words fill her ears,   an orchestra of minacious laughter spill from her lips.      her foot tucks itself into the sand they’re currently trekking in,   body halting itself directly in front of him.     a brow is arched,   head leveling with his as she gazes at him;   a hunter surveying its prey,   looking for the best place to sink her teeth   &   yank until he comes crumbling down into her arms.       there’s a fire inside her belly,   a lion yawning   &   stretching,   awaiting for the proper moment to strike.        𝙸𝚃𝚂 𝚁𝙾𝙰𝚁 𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳 𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙸𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴 𝙸𝚂  𝙽𝙾𝚆.

the room is brown but pale,   limned in golden casing,   the  signature  of the mojave.    underneath the soot rotting the walls,   you can see a faint wallpaper beginning to tear itself off.    bones   &   blood splatters decorate the concrete floors   ;   it’s the gasoline that keeps the wasteland running   —   death,   torture,   &   volatile individuals.    a  shallow  yet  operational  way  of  life.    rays of sunlight cascade through battered hung curtains,   dust particles floating through the air.    years ago,   your skin would’ve prickled at this sight,   chills running themselves down the gristle of your spin.    nowadays,   your skin is filthy,   varnished in the blood of so many others you’ve encountered over your travels   —   if you hadn’t washed your body,   you’re sure you wouldn’t be able to decipher  whose  blood  was  whose.    this world is predictably grim,   synonymous to the expression that’s claimed its residence across your features,   so  yeah   —   this was a  real  fucking  creep  show.

you pull your hunting rifle off your back,   sinking the butt of it against your shoulder before you step further inside the house.    ❝    tell me ‘bout it.    ❞    you  almost  feel  bad  for  the  poor  bastards.    teeth sink themselves into your bottom lip as you kneel,   fingers ghosting themselves over the decaying bones of those from the old world.    if these walls could talk,   you wonder how they would describe the bombs that sent the world into a frenzy,   leaving it in an inferno of flames.    would they tell you about the screams from their sun - cracked lips,   or the way the blasts had engulfed these people.    or maybe,   they hadn’t been here as long as you thought   —   maybe  you  were  completely  off  base.    you swallow thickly,   nostrils flaring as you exhale deeply,   urgency beginning to boil rapidly throughout your veins.

the earth is dying.    all tendon,   no tender   —   the acid rain has fallen more than once,   breaking its way through skin into a form of genocide.    god will never grow out of bordering on the bite between wrath   &   mercy   ;   he’s only gotten worse since those have fallen from the sky.    they’ve filled the gap this world had,   dangling an olive branch between the pathway of war versus harmony.    you could’ve cared less about either option,   until all had broken in the world.    the heda was dead,   the kongeda was falling apart,   a new sadgeda was on the horizon.    like a shawl,   the desert had always enfolded you,   now the mild light of a  dull   &   mourning  city does.    polis.    here you were,   nearly extinct,   laughing in the face of  the  saboteur.    ❝    cut the shit,   kid.    i can see right through it.    ❞    never  bullshit  a  bullshitter.    her with flaxen hair,   the one  as  a  concept  should be wanheda,   the  commander  of  death.    gore,   wrath,   &   slaughter to her name   —   she’s just a child stuffed into a pyrrhic vindicated body.    it  was  laughable.

your jaw unhinges,   head tilting itself to the side.    a girl made of splinters pretending to be as hard as shrapnel,   a catacomb chasing after her with every footstep.    had circumstances been different,   you may have even felt  apologetic  for her.    the universe is weighed upon her shoulders,   anarchy beginning to  wretch  across the ruins of an old world.    you stand your ground,   a twitch of your lips metamorphosing into a coy smirk.    ❝    ya’ don’t care if i  live  or  die.    ya’ only care ‘bout yer people.    ❞    can you blame her?    no.    somewhere,   beneath your monstrous eyes,   you feel a profound peace.    maybe you’re coming to terms with your death sentence.    that’s what this is,   your  existence  on  earth   —   a  righteous  death  sentence.    

@legiate ASKED ,   ❛ 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖. ❜

            𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐎 , 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐀𝐂𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐃.    fingers hold wine glass close to his nose , a subtle sniff taken before a drink follows.   the others words from his right cause hannibal’s brows to quirk after the glass is sat down.   a moment is taken to consider her words , a slight grin pressing against his lips.   eyes train on the  “pork loin”  he’d prepared for them that night , knife cutting into it before fork stabs meat to bring it close to his mouth before he 𝚂𝚃𝙾𝙿𝚂      arm rests above the dinner table ,  head && eyes now turning to look at sienna for the first time since her statement.       ;          ❝  many people do.  ❞     he mused ,     ❝  people are much easier to manipulate && deceive when i look the way i do.  they see my profession,  my success ,  && my manners with ease.  it makes them more comforted in thinking i’m not a threat to them.  ❞    clearly that was a lie , one of the biggest ,   because of what he does . . what he eats is what  most would consider    𝖙𝖆𝖇𝖔𝖔.      ❝  i can’t assume it’s the same for you , sienna?  ❞    a genuine question , but a light stab at her.     ❝  people like us don’t come along very often.  i might not . . particularly like you at times , but it’s nice to have someone with similar interest with whom i can . . share our acquired taste in food.  ❞     now , once he’s done speaking ,  the delicately cooked slice of  “pork”  is brought into his mouth.   eyes close to savor the taste━all of the flavors clashing together so elegantly like he can almost taste the exact diet of his prey.  they were never easy to catch ,  but hannibal made do without much hassle━he enjoyed the hunt ,  but he enjoyed savoring them far more.      ❝  those who underestimate me do not far very well.  ❞      the food on their plate evidence enough !

JESSE LEADS THE STRANGER a little deeper into the house, past a living room with a red Navajo rug centered between two wooden benches that look handmade, but it’s hard to tell from a distance. The fireplace in the living room flickers softly, dying down, and Jesse throws two more logs in to compensate. Past the living room is the kitchen with a round wooden table big enough for four people, but only set for two. 

     “Make yourself at home.” 

He opens a cabinet and gets out two mugs, pouring them both a cup and bringing them to the table, leaving and returning again with cream and sugar. He sits across from the stranger, and suddenly his scars seem to come alive in the warm firelight, moving of their own volition, like they have a mind of their own. A simple trick of the light, but it makes him look almost sinister in a way, and almost docile in another. 

     “So. What did you need to talk to me about?” 

He already knows, or, at least, he can make a pretty good guess; his mind is racing behind his calm exterior, his palms sweating, his heart racing. He’s trying to think of an excuse. A dead twin? No birth certificate on file. A mistake? Genes don’t make mistakes. 

That means now he has a witness. He remembers something Mike had told him long ago, before they’d robbed a train. 

There are two kinds of heists: those who get away with it, and those who leave witnesses.

     “Sounds kinda important.”

you follow him throughout the house   &   into the kitchen,   hues glancing around as you walk.    the house is nice,   bearing a  slight  resemblance to your childhood home back in arizona.    once you reach the table,   your purse is set on the seat besides you,   hands resting themselves against the wooden top as you sit down.    ❝    ya’ got a nice home.    ❞    it’s your way of getting the  small  talk  out of the way as he pours your coffee into a mug.    a quick  thank  you  is mumbled as he brings it to the table,   hands clasping around the cup,   the rim brought to your lips.

once he’s sat across from you,   you suppose this is the moment your heart should begin thumping   ;   it’s the moment you’ve been dreading   &   yet,   you still feel nothing but  perplexity.    your calm exterior has become a permanent fixture,   features remaining stilled as you place the mug back on the table,   gaze directed onto him.    your posture straightens in the chair,   a deep breath being inhaled through your nostrils.   

❝    i ain’t gonna’  sugar  coat  this.    that lab up in anchorage,   the one you had a surgery at?    they couldn’t find yer name in their database with yer DNA   —   it makes sense ‘cause you don’t live there,   so they sent it back to us   ;   somehow,   i managed to get my hands on it.    i couldn’t find anything ‘bout ya’ at  our  database,   though.    i ended up runnin’ it in the national database   —   jacob mckinley didn’t pop up as a match,   some guy named  jesse  pinkman  did.    ❞

when the words depart from your mouth,   you decide to no longer sit upright,   your back beginning to lean itself against the back of the chair.    your heartbeat remains stable as your arms move to cross themselves tightly over your chest.    ❝    i was hopin’ to find something indicating ya’ might’a changed ya’ name,   maybe  something funky in the system,   maybe even a lab tech not doing their job right?    well,   i didn’t find shit,   so i’m here now.    ❞    your lips are now pressed together,   brows raising as your shoulders are raised in a complacent shrug.

this made me laugh because am i really that obvious with hating my own oc? lmfaooo if i am, wow, that’s probably not a great look but oh well ~ sienna deserves it. 

honestly, the first thought that came to my mind was her bravery. sienna, as an individual, is extremely brave whether it comes to actions or just speaking her mind. she does actions first and thinks about them later. she hardly ever hesitates either, which i find quite sexy of her. other than actions though, she’s very opinionated and headstrong with her beliefs/thoughts. she doesn’t back down when she believes she’s in the right, which gets her into a lot of disagreements + bad situations. (does that mean she’s always in the right? absolutely not. more often than not, she’s in the wrong.) but she’ll believe she’s right until proven otherwise, and if she was wrong, if you’re lucky and aren’t a dumbass ~ you might just get an apology from her. 

on the more sinister aspect of her character, i love her manipulation skills. she’s not very charismatic by any means, but she’s good at wearing masks/facades. she can wear the mask of whoever she needs to be in that moment ~ whether it’s the courier, the raider, the murderer, the big bad, or even the victim if need be. (or if we’re discussing modern verses, she can be the doctor, the civilian, the woman that’ll have you killed, etc etc.) she’s not manipulative in the way of getting information, because frankly, she’s not good at that. she’s too blunt to be manipulative to gain information. but she’s manipulative in regards to her image. she’s an actress, she plays the part of whoever she needs to be, and she does it well. the mask will come off when she wants it to come off, not when anyone else decides.