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› # VI0LENS ▒ a   character   dissection   of   lawlessfm's   WITTAYA   ‘ WIT ’   NATHARUETAI + FRANCESCA BYRNE ⸺  the   disgraced   soldier & the false replicant.

WITTAYA thirty2 underground fighter [ info / pinterest ]

wit   had   never   been   inside   his   apartment.   now,   knowing   the   reason   why,   it   seemed   so   obvious.   he   and   yamato   had   often   gone   out   for   coffee,   or   dinner.   or   yamato   would   crash   in   his   apartment,   helping   wit   nurse   a   hangover.   there   was   always   an   excuse   for   why   he   couldn't   come   in,   and   it   was   not   because   his   sister   may   or   may   not   be   behind   the   door.   

he   was   coming   close   to   forgiving   aranya.   it   annoyed   him,   but   the   joy   of   seeing   her   made   the   betrayal   not   hurt   so   much.   yamato,   unfortunately,   didn't   have   this   same   effect.   wit   cried   to   him.   he   paddled   through   a   rushing   river   of   grief   in   front   of   the   man,   as   he   lied   to   his   face.   wit   clinched   his   fist   again   in   the   darkness.

of   course,   he   knew   what   happened.   he   imagined   what   yamato   would   look   like,   weak   and   covered   in   bruises,   and   it   brought   a   sick   sort   of   comfort.   maybe   they   broke   his   nose   just   so,   so   it   would   always   look   a   little   crooked   no   matter   how   many   years   pass.   it   felt   right.   a   hammurabian   punishment.   but   he   didn't   have   to   come   all   this   way   to   punish   him.

yamato   ishino   was   his   brother,   now   more   so   than   ever,   and   no   matter   what   retribution   he   dreamed   of,   he   was worried   for   him.   he   spent   just   as   many   years   grieving   for   aranya   as   he   had   admiring   yamato.   on   dark,   dark   nights   he   was   more   grateful   for   him   than   anything   else   in   his   life.   he   was   angry,   yes.   but   was   also   loved,   and   both   of   those   feelings   mattered.

what   was   that   saying?   it's   only   a   gambling   problem   if   you   lose.   since   the   fire   at   stoneage   that   killed   one   francesca,   the   other   just   can't   keep   out   of   trouble.   she's   supposed   to   be   laying   low.   the   pretender   is   a   snake   in   the   grass,   not   the   girl   wearing   designer   on   8th   street.   

it   became   a   problem   when   she   felt   a   weapon   on   her   flank.   she   nearly   gasped,   her   human   proclivities   kicking   in,   but   she   snapped   her   mouth   shut.   cameras   were   everything   in   new   york.   it's   why   muggings   like   this   became   a   lot   more   ...   interesting.   her   would   -   be   robber   was   wearing   a   neon   mask,   and   it   projected   many   faces   back   at   her,   many   voices   demanded   her   purse.   

"   i   don't   carry   physical   money.   "   strange   that   stoneage   had   a   training   class   for   this   situation.   or,   just   sad,   actually.   "   i   am   a   replicant   commissioned   for   use   by   stoneage   industries.   "   but   the   faceless   man   stiffened.   he   was   saying   something   she   didn't   quite   hear,   but   she   knew   her   approach   wasn't   working.   "   please.   "   her   voice   was   higher   than   it   was   meant   to   be,   and   she   flinched   at   herself.   francesca   knew   she   was   afraid   by   the   shaking   of   her   pale   fingertips   in   the   moonlight,   but   she   didn't   know   that   she   was   so   riled   she   would   break   character.

tw suicidal ideation

dark   water.   even   though   he   hated   small   spaces,   he   was   never   a   precipice   guy.   the   call   of   the   void   was   nearly   universal,   but   wasn't   one   of   stand   on   the   edge   of   skyscraper.   he   was,   however,   known   to   spiral   into   the   rush   of   waves.   

the   ocean   heeled   him   like   a   dog,   a   siren's   voice   calling   him   out   onto   the   deck.   as   he   leaned   over   the   side,   his   breathing   deepened   from   the   panicked   shallow   gasps   he   was   taking   inside.   wit   had   learned   a   lot   tonight,   had   experienced   a   lot   more.   they   surrounded   him   in   the   void,   stuck   him   on   a   boat   in   the   middle   of   it.   

but   he   had   a   lot   to   live   for,   he   thought   bitterly.   nothing   nice   and   lovely,   like   his   friends   or   family,   but   things   to   live   for   anyways.   "   if   you   were   gonna   jump,   i   called   dibs.   "   wit's   voice   was   light,   but   he   was   still   gripping   the   railing   like   a   life   preserver.   

sometimes   she   almost   felt   like   the   damned   robot   she   pretended   to   be.   computing.   can't   say   this.   must   stand   this   way.   programmed   was   the   word.   when   she   saw   a   familiar   face,   she   instantly   approached.   humanishly,   she   smiled.

then   francesca   remembered   that   she   wasn't   the   same   girl   she   was   on   a   playground   in   new   york.   she   was   the   replication,   the   begrieved   twin   creation.   the   whole   world   knew   francesca   byrne   was   dead.   and   knew   the   frankenmodel   in   her   louboutin's   was   the   one   left   standing.   she   couldn't   approach   a   friendly   face   in   the   hazed   - out   crowd   of   a   party,   that   was   utterly   human.

so   she   backpedaled, ripped   her   hand   away   from   where   it   was   hovering   over   his   shoulder   and   pushed   past   him.   "   excuse   me,   sir.   "   was   all   that   left   her   mouth.   but   there   wasn't   much   room   to   go.   and   a   conga   -   line   of   partygoers   had   her   awkwardly   stuck   right   in   the   middle   of   her   mistake.

*   ◟   :   〔   suki   waterhouse   ,   cis   woman   +   she   /   her   〕   FRANCESCA   BYRNE   ,   some   say   you’re   a   TWENTY9   YEAR   OLD   lost   soul   among   the   neon   lights.   known   for   being   both   CUNNING   and   ARROGANT,   one   can’t   help   but   think   of   BRUTUS   by   THE   BUTTRESS   when   you   walk   by.   are   you   still   a   REPLICANT   at   STONEAGE   INDUSTRIES,   even   with   your   reputation   as   the   MODERN   DAY   CAIN?   i   think   we’ll   be   seeing   more   of   you   and   FORCING   YOURSELF   TO   STAND   STILL,   EYES   TARGETING   THROUGH   LASHES,   A   LIE   AS   A   CLIFF   EDGE,   although   we   can’t   help   but   think   of   MARCUS   JUNIUS   BRUTUS,   KING   CLAUDIUS,   DON   DRAPER   whenever   we   see   you   down   these   rainy   streets.      

*   ◟   :   〔   nattawin   wattanagitiphat   ,   cis   man   +   he   /   him   〕   WITTAYA   ‘   WIT   ’   NATHARUETAI   ,   some   say   you’re   a   THIRTY 2   YEAR   OLD   lost   soul   among   the   neon   lights.   known   for   being   both   LOYAL   and   GULLIBLE,   one   can’t   help   but   think   of   HARD   SOMETIMES   by   RUEL   when   you   walk   by.   are   you   still   an   UNDERGROUND   FIGHTER   at   RALPH’S   BOXING   GYM,   even   with   your   reputation   as   the   DISHONORED?   i   think   we’ll   be   seeing   more   of   you   and   CREASED   WHITE   BUTTON   DOWNS   WITH   RIPS   IN   THE   SEAMS,   LEAVING   NO   SKIN   UNBRUISED,   THE   THING   HOLDING   YOU   UNDERWATER   UNTIL   YOU   BEG,   although   we   can’t   help   but   think   of   FRANK   CASTLE,   SIMON   RILEY,   TYLER   DURDEN   whenever   we   see   you   down   these   rainy   streets.