#warsk

maybe this is wishful thinking.

well, it definitely is. the void isn’t going to fill itself, it seems, so he relents. fiddling with possibilities. the axing thought is schemed around a plan that has been a constant incisor. the creed has classified it under file delta: an operation pushed down under, almost to the backburner considering the fact that the project is subordinative. this is almost obsolete. he’s brushed over the shadows a few times, it feels. the target has always been elusive, the mutation telltale. this time, he’s determined to not loose the knot, knowing that within the second he’s in the presence of the target, he will have to lock the standpoint.

one year, three months, two days. he believes the man has ever been in his perimeters at least twice. always managed to slip, at least both times. it is almost shameful. he is not used to having failures clattering behind his gritted teeth. this is the trophy for himself, sculpted via psyche so stubborn he doesn’t know how to bend.

this is almost purposeless. it is not like the creed still cares; the case has been dropped weeks ago, the loose mutant serving none in their chalice. enhanced speed — of course, there is no need for such deviance within their rank. the abundance of the mutation has been infesting the creed just fine. but this, this feels personal. and he knows that this mark is around, in seoul. the clandestine reports on sightings of the mutation have been caught on his radar.

tonight, he’s putting an end to this restlessness. first, narrows down his options, which proves to be another latticework entirely. the target is, of course, faster than he can ever be… but it proves as such considering the absence of face. he believes that the information is retained, detained. there’s something that the creed is hiding from him, but isn’t that another routine? some of the leads given sometimes are counterfeits, too. he’s always been placed in a test. again, again.

again.

he puts on his jacket, snatching the essentials. vacating the edifice, he heads straight to his first point suspected. calculated the cardinal points of the man’s probable locations; he believes the latent motives of someone escaping another organization, they shouldn’t fall far from somewhere indistinct. and to hide, being nondescript… the target is good, but idris would like to believe he’s better. he’s faced mutants like the target prior. many, many of them. he senses their shadows before they sense his presence, so by that measure, he’s about thirteen steps ahead of them.

except when the place is crowded, the shadows merge. it grants both of them anonymity, sure, and he’s certain that if the target is already made aware of the creed coveting his head, the target wouldn’t be that… reckless. or so idris believes. he might have miscalculated the man’s intelligence.

one. that’s the name. almost ironic, considering the singularity of the target’s presence. he’s tempted to scoff, mind approximating the latitude, longitude, now. in the core of this black market set underground, the buzzing place is a location intricate to track. he is somehow guided by instincts. there is no radar, just this visceral lead that carries him to this point. and that’s when he spots the target’s back.

it fits the description of the target once briefed. the creed refused any further investigation, but upon pedantic observation of what has been given, idris is able to discern other features. not exactly standing out, the man is bargaining something with a woman behind a stall. a communication device, perhaps.

there are eyes on him, then on one. he feels somehow distinguished. furrowing his eyebrows, the peculiar feelings rise. the hair on the nape of his neck stands, reminding him that this close, the target resembles his own from the back… almost. he’s seen his own reflection through the mirrors in the training chamber too many times, to the vortex of confusion. it feels surreal. he can feel the influx of unease, but he lets the shadow underneath the target tangle itself surreptitiously around the man’s ankle. tendrils of black that secure, fastening the man so that he is cut off any escape possibilities.

the woman behind the stall notices him prior to the target. she looks startled, and when the target turns his head to determine the source of tacit shock, that’s when idris realizes as to why.

they’re a dichotomy. one’s face is his own.

he has never felt so stripped all of a sudden. nowadays, nothing can really catch him off guard, but this one certainly does. his mouth agape, but he doesn’t loosen the furtive attempts to keep the man anchored to his own shadow. he schools his expression to that of feigned normality, and smiles. “oh, here you are,” he says with tints of unhinged familiarity. his rapid heartbeat betrays him, sure, but he’s always been an exquisite actor. “i’ve been looking for you everywhere. thought i lost you in this market—“ he hums, head tilted as he casts a look at one, then the woman. “are you done?”

a dream in a dream. to be exponentially honest, baring himself piece by piece, he has to concede to his own lament over taking juwon in for the feelings still harbored. by far, the feelings have been the most overwhelming, threatening to spill out of his mouth. it’s feral, barbaric, all the intents that speak in syllables he cannot decipher. call it love, call it lust. whichever— he doesn’t care about the difference. not anymore. and feels naked every single fucking time after juwon is tethered to uriel’s subconscious, watching as the feelings had prior to all this, prior to juwon’s leaving, unfold before juwon’s eyes. it’s like witnessing some carcinogenic metastasis after being told, a long time ago, that it would be nothing if not benign. he’s dying with each reminder that he has to restrain in every mission: juwon, exiting the scene to never come back. juwon, vacating the stage to never look back.

and tonight, the creed lets him dive into juwon’s mind. the vessel is reversed, and uriel is nervous. not because of his architecture, no. he’s doing just fine with his job. it’s more about the fact that he’ll be able to confirm that juwon has never been in love with him anymore since that damned day. tonight, all his thoughts, they will all be a reality, transformed. he can no longer indulge in the what-ifs when the facts are checked. how can he retain the lies told every time he looks at the reflection in the mirror, telling himself that this, too, shall pass? an old saying retained from a religion long-forgotten, he still bleeds each time, the verse nothing more than a facade of void. nullified, this is nothing if not the aperture of self-preservation acts. he’s just lying, lying to himself until he grows too weak to come up with new excuses. the what-ifs wither at the base of his skull as long as he enters the chamber, now, with the man that has fallen for their tricks.

the mind is a trap.

as much as he wants to concern himself with juwon’s ability to perform it, he’s more caught up in the story rimming its edges. typically, they would be unreachable for the subject, in this case the victim. however, uriel has dreamwalked for long, long enough to tilt the balance, seeking weaknesses in others’ heads without being noticed, and he’s certain that juwon is aware of this. this is a test. juwon’s first extraction by himself, with uriel to watch his back. he is a plan b, tonight, so he can afford walking on a tightrope that would bring him across, towards the subconscious that buries the memories of them. they did not speak during the trip, the tinges of bitterness still outlining uriel’s choice of words whenever he’s around juwon, sometimes inscribed in sarcasm uncalled for.

i was i had more accounts to like this on

random symbol starters 

10. send 🔥 for your muse to set the kitchen on fire

“juwon--!” the barking of her puppy echoes in the kitchen as she smells smoke rising to the ceiling. the smoke alarm starts to go off, hyejung spots the fire in the pan that was left unattended for a few moments. she didn’t know because she went off to the use the restroom. her eyes widen, her place could become ashes if she didn’t make a move. she grumbles angrily at herself for wasting time, running over to the corner to grab her fire extinguisher. thing is, she didn’t really know how to use it.

“fuck. m’nineteen an’ my dumbass doesn’t know how t’operate this--” she looks at the side, reading the directions quickly before executing the actions she was supposed to, according to the labels. it works this time, the foam now spraying into the pan and the fire being set out once the foam touches the metal. there’s a sigh of relief before she looks over at the other, furrowing her eyebrows and pointing at the mess she’s created.

on another end of another earth, miyoung watches as her village falls into death’s hands.

the ground, pounded for weeks by explosive shells that reduced every living thing to a hollow corpse and torched at the by 3000° centigrade fires, has been losing itself to destruction in pieces, a yard a day, when the sacred mountain in miyoung’s village finally loses its footing. gravity sweeps the silty topsoil like a rug out from sistine chapels, city walls, broken families, lives, and sends them all hurtling into the sea, followed by almost all of the mountain, itself. within ten minutes, almost all is destroyed, almost all is calm, almost all is over.

but when it comes to massacres, the word almost will never be enough. to the sentinels, a wicked species born and bred with war in their blood and selfishness rooted firmly in their bones’ marrow, the word almost is something to be shamed and mocked. the word almost is a synonym for mercy, a sin sentinels are punishable by death for showing. and so they remain at the outskirts of the village, watching with hawkeyes for potential escapees and together with miyoung’s people, wait for the impeding storm to crush the village’s ancient heart.

for somewhere on the sea floor, the sentinels’ man-made tremors had nudged awake a beast of energy. it trots at first beneath the water’s surface, then rises slowly like a shelf of pearly foam out of the water, and though it starts at home amongst the other waves, its speed and swelling quickly isolate it once more. alone in its prison of sky and velocity, the wave grows steely and vengeful, letting the wind beat it into an iron cliff of froth and spray.

once air’s pupil, now its guide, the towering swell of seawater gathers a storm behind it, which crackles over the wave’s roar as both race towards the horizon; and there rises a distant glint of silver and glass that grows to a metropolis. the village’s usual crackling and screaming and echoing is replaced by a chaotic din as the fleeing sit trapped in gridlock, helpless, hysterical. full of those too poor to run, the slums beyond the core lay in wait, unnaturally still, the silence thick with nervous tension that is broken only by the remaining survivors’ desperate prayers.

when the tsunami comes at last, it does not discriminate: it steals the lives of the children and the elderly, of the brave and the cowardly, of the innocent and the sinners, swallowing them all whole as it rips through the village. in one swift, smooth ripple, every building is ripped from its foundations, every vehicle lifted and flicked aside like a matchstick car, and every civilian such a speck in the thunderous destruction that even as two million die, no one hears the sound. and so this world is quiet again.

@warsk​ a response to this.

Even in his psychedelic state, tripping on colors, sounds, and unable to focus — he’s able to register Juwon. Juwon who keeps multiplying and each new copy look at Wade as if he’s someone they want to forget. 

(I won’t let that happen.)

Wade keeps talking, most of what falls from his mouth are random words with absolutely no correlation to one another. His language is broken thrown out in stuttered patterns after rough intakes of breath to accompany rough exhale of breaths. “I think… I think some fucker tried to — I was poisoned.” Wade manages with a heaving chest. 

And he probably was, most likely by something that he drank, by someone in plain sight who managed to slip under his radar. The poison is slow traveling, made to shut down a normal person’s blood flow by reversing it but it has a different effect than intended when Wade’s body fights against it.

He keeps talking to reassure himself that he is alive, continues to talk because his eyes are unfocused and he can’t feel the tips of his fingers but he mainly talks to make sure Juwon is still there. He isn’t afraid— but this is the closest he’s felt to fear since he left weapon x. 

“You can sleep now, you said. You said that. I had a dream where you said that. Thanks for saying that. You weren’t supposed to.” Wade keeps repeating this yet he doesn’t know where the words come from, if they’re even his. Regardless he’s unable to communicate what he actually wants to say but he keeps talking, repeating the same nonsense.

(Why do you want to forget.) 

(Let’s not talk about it, let’s just not talk.)

One the edges of his vision he can see Sori’s fingers, electric green, playing that damn music on a multicolored spiral of piano keys. He can see his eyes as he plays the climax of one of his pieces as red and intense as the music echos in his ears morphing with the theme song of some children’s show he used to watch as a kid. 

The whistling is driving him crazy, the fact he’s not feeling grounded despite thinking of Sori is making him grind his teeth together, thoughts going between murderous and angry to shaky to helpless. 

He grabs the nearest thing that is stable. He grabs Juwon by the wrists, holding on too tight, shaking, creating bruises from his grip as he still refuses to say how much it hurts because he won’t give anyone that satisfaction so he keeps talking until the poison filters out and his body heals itself.

@warsk