wasp / d1 / cb (fin)
Mar 1, 2018 15:25:55 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Mar 1, 2018 15:25:55 GMT -5
Wasp.
TW: VAGUE MENTIONS OF A C-SECTION PREGNANCY AND DEATH.
I didn't choose the assassin life, it chose me.
The day dawns with clawing through petticoats and dark boots that fit each other like a perfect gradient of color. For work's operational standards, it's mandatory to wear black everyday. In time, these garments and hues become a front for us to hide our true colors behind. We become a sea of monochromaticity.
A wayward son. Bastard. Killer incarnate. Bastard. I never had a permanent name. Refused to be tied down by a word for eternity. A junkie stumbled upon realization in the morning sun—and left a demented girl forever. She succumbed to the betrayal of it all. I was a C-section.
(She wanted to name me Ruth Cadbury.)
But, ‘wasp’ is a title close to the heart. They told me I destroy stealthily—through paralytic agents and my body and fizzling beverages and false intimacy—and doesn’t halt until the last, pained gurgle of a foe. Like a wasp.
‘The Graveyard Project’. A sanctuary for lost youth. Hive of femme fatales and raven boys whose looks can kill. Mercenaries for hire. They pay, give a name, and we take care of it. We work in pairs. My partner—heap of dirtied blonde threads, crooked nose, crimsoned brims, glow in his mouth and so much more. He goes by Hornet. I think we were assigned for the insect-dynamic.
I may, or may not, try to trace outlines of his chiseled countenance whenever he’s distracted. I want to be a distraction to him. A phenomenon he has to gaze at. Maybe a solar eclipse. I’ll steal the sun away for that sun-kissed expanse of skin. (—I’ll do anything.)
On a second thought, I did choose the assassin life.
TW: VAGUE MENTIONS OF A C-SECTION PREGNANCY AND DEATH.
I didn't choose the assassin life, it chose me.
The day dawns with clawing through petticoats and dark boots that fit each other like a perfect gradient of color. For work's operational standards, it's mandatory to wear black everyday. In time, these garments and hues become a front for us to hide our true colors behind. We become a sea of monochromaticity.
A wayward son. Bastard. Killer incarnate. Bastard. I never had a permanent name. Refused to be tied down by a word for eternity. A junkie stumbled upon realization in the morning sun—and left a demented girl forever. She succumbed to the betrayal of it all. I was a C-section.
(She wanted to name me Ruth Cadbury.)
But, ‘wasp’ is a title close to the heart. They told me I destroy stealthily—through paralytic agents and my body and fizzling beverages and false intimacy—and doesn’t halt until the last, pained gurgle of a foe. Like a wasp.
‘The Graveyard Project’. A sanctuary for lost youth. Hive of femme fatales and raven boys whose looks can kill. Mercenaries for hire. They pay, give a name, and we take care of it. We work in pairs. My partner—heap of dirtied blonde threads, crooked nose, crimsoned brims, glow in his mouth and so much more. He goes by Hornet. I think we were assigned for the insect-dynamic.
I may, or may not, try to trace outlines of his chiseled countenance whenever he’s distracted. I want to be a distraction to him. A phenomenon he has to gaze at. Maybe a solar eclipse. I’ll steal the sun away for that sun-kissed expanse of skin. (—I’ll do anything.)
On a second thought, I did choose the assassin life.
