EPIPHANY.

      “…ridiculous…”

      “I don’t know where you came from; how they found you, but your skills are pretty impressive, kid.”

     ❛ you sound a little surprised.

       Oh yeah? You some kind of programmer?  ❜

     ❛ kind of. what i do is a little more complicated.

              A kid like you shouldn’t be play with that. It’s not a toy. ❜

     “ you were the one who got in my way. “

     “ Rrgh – hey, watch it! “     

    -— PROCESSING …

USER: ᴜɴɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ. //

     magnitude and burlap weights, blood-drawn fuses and heightened streams; path the pathways to irradiation, for no one else will. his contortion is plagued with irritation and something else that can’t quite be named;

a war drum, glorified death, the musk of blood: they all crafted his blackened heart — yet he proclaims himself holy, holy, holy. wicked obsession & an infestation of known sin ( LUST, WRATH, & JEALOUSY ): there’s something sultry about his slow movements, the rise and fall of a shirt, fingers lazily grazing the bottom of a holographic seat. 

            ❛ you’re early. 

cat’s purr, velvety voice. a small rise of an eyebrow, he abruptly leans forward, arms settling onto the table. the chatter of the restaurant melts into breathless silence, a pause. 

           ❛ how was your `meeting`?

     refined porcelain and crystalline lashes beaded with muted drops of resolution (they signal his fated heart, be it he reaches his conclusion or otherwise); littered with grotesque cruelty and frozen hearts for recompense, this is an area for those destined to thrive. imposing and smearing his torment all over twilight glint, his contortion glazed, there’s a muted thrum when he begins to tap his fingers against the surface of the table.

            ❛ -— shitty.

     liquid calamity laced with venom, every sharp syllable sauntering through solid lips -- how crisp his facade must be if he doesn’t sound remotely calloused.

ah, i’m so glad you asked nonners !! reterice lives in a world where the sypherian government basically controls every aspect of his life (and of course, the other members of his society). the oia (operations and intelligence association) is a group that exists primarily for the destruction of the government and its system.

     -— PROCESSING …

USER: ᴜɴɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ. //

     inky tresses bound by splintered glints of ivory, he slants the torrents of corrupting tyranny almost as though his life depends on it; technically, it does.

      -— PROCESSING …

USER: ᴜɴɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ. //

     a savior, YES — but not for the mending of their tattered ruins, for you see, that isn’t part of his agenda. always painted by purpose, skinned and wrought; it thrives in the tomb of his slaughtered compassion.

       And she SMILES, the sickly little thing.  She shouldn’t smile at cruelty but he’s just playing the role SO WELL that she cannot help it.  He talks like Jesse and stands like Jesse and looks at her { almost! } like Jesse.  It’s like he’s back from the g r a v e !!  So she hates him and she loves him already.                         POOR GIRL.                                        “’M Riley,” she continues on, unhindered by his cruelty and rudeness.  She never was faint of heart – but oh, she is EAGER to impress.  “D’y’ need somebody killed?”

     oh, tainted omens and paralyzed tragedy, how you pave the way for future scars and embellished transgressions. it’s almost inconceivable. the cruelty sours her heart, drains the color and drinks up her sorrow; it fails to lament, to offer regards on the promises of desolation — after all, why would it cater to her resolution ?

            ❛ not at the moment.

       -— PROCESSING …

USER: ᴜɴɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ. //

     offers clarity when it’s a necessity, but otherwise he’s as boundless as a slighted crow;

            ❛ you give too much.