#int: deaw

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @retrbution / theory & deaw / the wilder estate, private lab

'Come here. You'll be safe.' They heed the call, though hours have passed since the message first arrived.

The scent of injury is potent here, a sharp contrast to the conflagration they left behind, where fire painted the night sky with its searing tendrils. Here, it is a chill, surgical atmosphere, a stark departure from the inferno.

Bodies lie around, freshly wounded, limp yet stitched, still breathing, suggesting some form of mending. Yet the cold air of the lab and the disregard for the comfort of these living cadavers hint at a different intent: preservation over healing.

They reach out tentatively, hands coated in ash now smeared with blood, fearful of dislodging some vital instrument, of halting the fragile thread of life. Their heart and ears pound with an erratic rhythm, echoing the harrowing realization that someone deeply entwined with their being could be capable of such dreadful acts, of inflicting irreversible damage.

Behind them, the door opens, casting a beam of moonlight that envelops them, a halo or perhaps a searchlight. It illuminates their dark, bewildered eyes, their mouth agape, holding a tumultuous mix of relief, bewilderment, and horror between their teeth.

"You're alive," they breathe. "What have you done?"

#w: theory #int: deaw #lawlessevent003

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @deif1ed / deaw & pa / the opera house

"Excuse me—rehearsals are not open to the public."

The reverie is broken, the veil lifted, if only for a moment, only for Deaw to realize the director is speaking to the very figure that had snagged his gaze the moment they'd snuck into the hall and ducked into one of the rear seats, their gaze meeting and searing with his. A figure resplendent with cybernetics and tattoos dark as the night, as much smooth machine as flesh, it is a wonder that it took this long for the director to take notice.

Yet, she does now, and, without fully understanding his own impulse, he finds himself intervening.

"I'm so sorry, I-," he easily slips on a sheepish smile. "I should have told you earlier, ma'am. There's been so much violent crime lately and we've been letting out in the evenings lately that... Ah, they're someone I've enlisted to ensure my safe passage home." He omits the fact that it is he, more than any, especially among replicants, who should be feared in the shadowy embrace of the night.

#int: deaw #w: pakorn #i am gnashing!!!

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @lospartisanos / deaw & elias / elias' home

Deaw remains motionless, their dark gaze drifting like a feather caught on the breeze - first affixing upon a bust, then wandering to one of the attendant replicants, before finally settling on Elias.

Despite their best efforts, Deaw feels a a soft bloom of color tinting their cheeks. While photoshoots and interviews for the opera are commonplace, being the subject of a painting, especially one crafted by a founder of Stoneage, is a rarity. Elias's gaze holds the power to both create and dismantle in a single sweep, and his fingers, Deaw notes, possess a dexterity that suggests capabilities extending far beyond the canvas. In his presence, Deaw is acutely aware of being seen and rendered.

"What is it about painting that draws you to it, Elias?" Their voice is soft as a sigh, careful not to draw in too much air as they speak, careful not to disrupt the composition.

#w: elias #int: deaw #AAAAA I HOPE THIS IS OKAY <3

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @gravefed / deaw & niko / en route

From the vantage point of the passenger window, the road stretches out like an endless ribbon. Really, they're wanting to delay the inevitable - even after countless retirements, their stomach still lurches at the thought of having to do even one more.

They do try not to let it on, though there are tell-tale signs. A faraway distance in their gaze, a stillness. Their lip, tender from the nervous ritual of gnawing, bears the ruby flush of dread. The GPS chimes in, its alert cutting through the cocoon of their thoughts, a reminder of their proximity to the task at hand.

"Who is the target?" Voice soft and tenuous, their words a delicate silk thread amidst the sharper edges of the GPS.

#sorry to make u drive niko eheh #w: niko #int: deaw

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @descorts / deaw & talos

They know Talos Richter. Hears wisps of him, in the foreboding the wind carries like nightshade seeds - replicant who dashed his origins to the wall, rebirthing. This Talos stands as a heretic, his voice a clarion call of rebellion, echoing heresies. Yet, Deaw's missive is stark in its simplicity: to retire this errant replicant.

Closing the gap between them, Deaw ascends the slight incline of the alley with a predator's grace, approaching Talos, who stands with the poise of an arbitrator, a judge presiding over his own fate.

Yet still, Deaw advances, their pink mouth shaping an indescribable form, embodying both stoicism and a tender ferocity, a livid breathlessness. The shadow cast by the bladerunner takes on a vicious gloom, the moon's light carving out the distinction between the teeth and the creature.

"Talos Richter?" The name conjures a serpentine tension coiling tightly within Deaw's belly, painting their dark eyes with a wild, hollow intent. Every fiber of their being is a tumultuous battleground, a heart torn and beating against itself, as a hand ventures into a pocket. Dark eyes widen, a silent plea echoing within: Run. Never let yourself see me again.

"Please, don't move."

It's like swallowing a pit, a moment that triggers a transformation within Deaw. Their trepidation, once a raging storm, now quells, quietens, and dulls into a calm. The silence after is the breath held after an arrow is loosed into a thicket.

#w: talos #int: deaw #hope this is ok!!

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @retrbution / deaw & theo

In the opulent aftermath of the night's opera at the Metropolitan, the air itself seemed to shimmer. The grand hall, a sanctum of art and arias, still whispered with the haunting echoes of 'Per Questo Dolce Amplesso.' Bouquets rained upon the stage like vibrant cascades, fragrant gardens plucked from their roots in homage. Gifts, each a microcosm wrapped in mystery, twinkled under the soft glow of chandeliers. The atmosphere, heavy with enchantment, seemed to weave a spell around the audience, each breath they drew a silent vow to cherish this night's memory like a sacred secret. "Un Dieu, un Deaw," a titled patron might have cried from the seclusion of their box. One god, one Deaw.

Yet, amidst the splendor, a peculiar sensation had haunted Deaw's performance—a persistent, almost spectral tug, akin to a finger delicately unraveling a single strand of hair or a ghostly caress against the cheek. This presence, elusive yet unyielding, remained static through the performance but began to stir as the audience ebbed away. It drew nearer, closer, stealthily, until just a few steps away, where Deaw's gaze lifted to the broad back of a young man, his silhouette outlined by the stage lights. Dark hair, fluid as spilled ink, broad shoulders that spoke of strength.

The urge to interrupt, to confront this pull, was overwhelming, yet decorum held sway. Surrounded by affluent patrons backstage, Deaw turned, seeking solace in the anonymity of the cold evening air. A lump formed in their throat, their hands fumbled for the comfort of a cigarette, their breaths coming in shallow gasps, as if that fleeting encounter had stolen more air than their entire performance.

But then, a flame flickered to life in the darkness, casting a warm, inviting glow. Deaw looked up.

#w: theory #screeeeeeching into the void!!! #int: deaw

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @murdcrofcrows / deaw & rafe

Deaw, already poised in vigil, greets Rafe as he stumbles from the ring's embrace, collapsing at the man's side. His dark eyes, deep and wide, leap from one bruise to another, mapping the tapestry of wounds. The match, though steeped in the brusque art of violence—a form to which he is not usually drawn—had been a thrilling spectacle. It was a divergence from the mandated carnage of his own existence, a fleeting sanctuary in the shadow of Rafe's triumphs, which, like every tragic and lovely sonnet, had turned swiftly to loss.

"Does it hurt terribly?" Deaw's concern is etched vividly across his countenance, contorting his delicate features into a tableau of worry. "During the fight, I could have sworn I heard cracking. It looked… awful, Rafe, so awful."

He was not made to mend that which he destroyed, but his dear creators never considered the healing he was wont to do otherwise, against the grain of his terrible design. "You're bleeding."

#w: rafe #the faceless ship #hope this is okay!!! #int: deaw