#this t h i n g only consumes the flesh‚ the blood‚ the bones‚ the light‚ and the sweet sugary syrup | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

h0lygh0stlings · 2 years

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Enjoy this mega-dump on my Max and Gus thoughts because I'm dying rn💀✌🏻

There's something about Max Arciniega as a character, as a whole that I love soso S O much honestly and i don't know what it is. There is so much to him, and so much about him yet he's the character who everyone knows n o t h I n g about, and barely has any screentime. He's on screen and next to Gus in one scene, and that has been enough for years for the fandom as a whole to flesh him out more, and to talk more about him. I absolutely love everything the Breaking Bad fandom has put towards Max as a character, and I'm so glad everyone not only appreciates him more but appreciates Gus more. He is s o alive for a character that is beyond dead, and in a way that's exactly how Max is, and how he's used during and throughout the series. He's a symbol of revenge, not just Gus' but revenge in general, and he's a symbol of love [in some ways.] Devotion. There is such an amount of, well--everything that goes into him, and makes him such a character. Maximino truly, and all in all was everything Gus wasn't, and in the end he loved Gus.

The cartel took that away. If it weren't for Max, its honestly the truth that Gustavo wouldn't be where he is now, that everything wouldn't be where it all is now; both during Breaking Bad a n d Better Call Saul ss of current. Walt,,and Jesse? They're simply there and a part of a bigger, much larger plan that he's determined to do everything, and anything to accomplish, for Max. He is the reason why Gus the way he is, and in some ways, the reason why Gustavo dies. His death is the reason for everything, also. The reason for so many deaths, so much chaos. It gave Gus a motive, and in a way took away the last human bits of him that were left. I say that very loosely, because as true as it is I mean mainly the last bits of him that remained when he was with Max. The difference in his smile, t h a t photo etc. There is n o way in the end that Max would've supported Gus' revenge and all he did to get to that point, and there's also no way in the end that, anything done differently, would've changed what happened or how Gus ended up.

With Max dead, he basically became a rabid animal. A monster, consumed by agony and once again, Devotion. If you think Gus is greedy, or a psychopath even-- you're beyond wrong, and not seeing the point of him as a character. In a way-- it's haunting, just as it is tragic, with the reason behind his death at the end of the series/season and his udmost fatal being love-- and all his love for Max. Through blood and bone, thick and thin, and throughout god knows how many pounds of methamphetamine, everything he did for Max was out of love, and for the sake of making sure the Salamancas didn't harm or kill anyone without purpose ever again. No more normalized cruelty, that could ever lead to another 'Max', another tragedy happening ever again.

#breaking bad #Better call saul #Gustavo fring #Max Arciniega #gusmax #[Zoey's Ramblings]#[ABSOLUTELY IN SHAMBLES U GUYS i love Max and Gus so much #[Need more appreciation for them in this fandom p l e a s e #[includes the photo of Gus and Max bc they're so cute lmao #[Also y e s. This totally exploded from within me after watching Nacho's death last Monday. Mega thoughts atm.. .

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lepussolum · 4 years

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Word Prompts: Drabbles & Headcanons ━ closed. ☽ ━ Anonymous: ❝ Fury ❞

𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍 whose noble intentions were foolishly executed to result in the monster he had now succumbed to. Again. Again, the voice echoed across those vacant chambers with each collapse of his fragile frame ⦓ crumpled like a lifeless DOLL⦔. Pain drew spasms through his muscles ━ a twitching heap of flesh and bone upon the white tiled floor. Sweat mingled with fresh crimson in a smear across ashen skin to massacre the youth’s flawless features. BLOOD seeped into his eyes to obscure already impaired vision in a wash of scarlet. The wound upon his forehead remained achingly fresh, hardly given the chance to heal before simply being torn apart once more. No potion would be spared for his sake, not a shred of MERCY shown for the intent was to scar.

❝Again, Number Seven. ❞

Leather-clad fingers clawed against the unrelenting stone in an effort to scrounge up some lingering scrap of strength. Limbs quivering like a newly born fawn, the child shifted to his hands and knees ━ a feat in and of itself given the battered condition of his body. Bruises littered his flesh beneath a shroud of impenetrable black and bones threatened to break with the slightest exertion. Head bowed in an almost PENITENT prostration, he fought to catch his ragged breath despite how his lung throbbed in protest. Tresses of finest sapphire clung to his features or stood in disarray, a fair few stained vermilion. A steady drip tarnished those pristine floors with spatters of red. In the CHAOS of battle, the bandages which usually encompassed his brow fell slack. The wrappings slipped like a ruby snake to pool along the ground, reeking of bitter metallic. No longer able to serve their purpose, he cast the stained linen aside with a weak swipe of a trembling hand. Exposed to the open air, the jagged gash marring his complexion stung enough to bring tears to those molten hues.

No ━ he would not cry. He could not cry. Merely a reflex, a physical response and nothing more.

❝ Stalling, are we? Then shall I take it that you admit defeat? How disappointing. ❞

Not yet. Again. Again. Again! Not while he still drew breath would FAILURE be considered an option. Regardless of pain or the ever-encompassing v o i d which violated every corner in this bastardization of an existence he now clung to . . . he would fight. He would SURVIVE. Teeth clenched, his sights narrowed through the flow of blood and fog which threatened to consume his consciousness. The air around him shuddered with the arrival of newly summoned opponents, their blade-like wings reviving a torrent of wind to circulate about the room. In his peripherals, the honed points of well over a dozen lances could be seen aimed in his direction. Distorted screeches pierced the silence, emitted from the horde of draconic beasts which hovered above.

❝ To think the Superior had such high expectations of one so young...Such a waste. ❞

A laugh would have been appropriate, were there any humor to be had. The voice dripped with unbridled FEALTY ━ loyal to a fault to the will of the master. Damn the individual who sought to defect. Only one rule remained true among their number: to defy the SUPERIOR OF THE IN-BETWEEN was to welcome elimination. Thus, like loyal soldiers they graciously received their orders without question and executed them as commanded. A life ⦓ if one could even call it so ⦔ of servitude in exchange for . . . he knew not. A CHILD need not be informed of the finer details among adults. No, all that was tasked of him was to control the beast which had taken solace inside him. A feral, bloodthirsty creature ━ the carnivore craved release upon the hunting grounds.

Fear should have overwhelmed his frail body at the mere thought. Yet he felt...nothing. N o t h i n g at all.

Another deafening chorus of roars were unleashed into the air to cause the very ground to tremble and nearly cast him back to the stone floor. The winged beasts yearned for the signal, affirmation of their handler to FEAST upon the child. Dwindling adrenaline reserves barely kept the boy in the waking world, arm nearly dead weight as he raised an outstretched palm before him. Strength had long since abandoned his muscles, chest heaving with effort. What fueled him to keep fighting ━ was it spite? Or something more PRIMAL? Sparks of pale blue light flickered about his his extended digits, a mere flurry of light at first before blossoming into a luminous wave of pure MOONLIGHT. Like wildfire, the radiance devoured his proffered limb to consume his person in an untamed aura. Weakened and beaten though he may be, the child swallowed back his pain ━ all sense of INNOCENCE discarded.

❝ ...Not done.... ❞ Blood which had trailed too far to his lips was spat to the ground with biting words, ❝ N-not yet.... ❞

A banshee-like shriek ━ crazed and starved for battle ━ drowned out the cries of the dragoons as though little more than WHISPERS. Chilling steel settled within his grasp, now akin to a familiar friend. Within the shifting lunar glow a massive claymore took form. The blade extended to a length which exceeded that of its wielder, as though to shame his master for his incompetence in combat. Jagged edges honed to a LETHAL edge glinted on either side of the weapon while a head of uniform spikes adorned the tip. Yet it was not the physical design which held the claymore’s most fatal feature, but the mental impact. Raw POWER coursed through every nerve of his body in search of a weak point in what little control remained. Every hair stood on end like the hackles of a starved welp as the possession began to overwhelm him once more. It was not terror ⦓ however justified ⦔ which drew a moan from the boy, but sheer PAIN as his mind was robbed from him. The wails of the blade sawed slowly into his consciousness to sever his connection to reality. Somewhere within the howl reverberating within his skull, he could have sworn he heard LAUGHTER.

❝ Oh? Have you not had enough? ❞

Silence fell within the room, the overseer waiting with bated breath as the youth fell still as stone. A WAR raged internal; a desperate fight for dominance between wielder and weapon. Exhausted and at his limit, the boy had little hope to wrestle control from the monster. Reality seemed to drift further from his grasp with each passing moment as the beast sank its fangs further into his mind. Was there truly no other choice but to relinquish authority to this fiend? For sake of SURVIVAL, the answer was obvious. Not only for himself, but the only remnant which remained of his previous life and their shared purpose. Survive and find her by any means necessary.

And so he willingly succumbed the DARKNESS.

A crown of azure THORNS slowly raised to meet the enemy. Distorted features drew fresh blood from the gaping sigil drawn taut, yet the pain no longer registered. Fangs bared in a snarl of defiance as the claymore’s head was burrowed into the ivory stony with unnatural force. Not a boy, but a WOLF ━ starved and savage ━ sought new prey with pool of luminous gold. Spitting, a guttural growl rendered from a raw throat as that broken body was hoisted to stand.

Naive child, no longer. All that which remained was the DEMONIAC.

#*･ ‧͙ ☾ ᵛᵉʳᵇᵃ ᵛᵒˡᵃⁿᵗ ˢᶜʳᶦᵖᵗᵃ ᵐᵃⁿᵉⁿᵗ. — ᵈʳᵃᵇᵇˡᵉˢ ☽ ‧͙ ･*#*･ ‧͙ ☾ ˢᵃᵖᵉʳᵉ ᵃᵘᵈᵉ. — ᵃⁿˢʷᵉʳˢ ☽ ‧͙ ･*#//hi this was painful to write and i am gonna sue anubis for damages #//''anonymous'' my ass #//also i am like half asleep so this may be a little halfassed towards the end #//okay 5am bedtime

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jettremy · 6 years

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11 for cas!

( * seven minutes in heaven . )

➥ ( 11. ) needy, hungry kiss.

WHEN YOU LOSE EVERYTHING & all at once, it’s laborious & nearly impossible to escape a mindset so disturbing, jaundiced & detrimental. you morph into an ominous, dark thundercloud, spreading your electrifying negativity like a virus via air particles. those whom you haven’t pushed away yet, you’re poisoning with your blackened blood that’s being paradoxically pumped by the sheer N O T H I N G N E S S between your rotting lungs. you inject your venom into their pristine flesh with every graze of your lips & teeth against their body while hidden beneath thin sheets. all of your friends you’ve abandoned, determining that you’ve acquired a peculiar taste for the menacing touch of self-hatred, the strangling embrace of solitude & the deadly kiss of depression, a taste none of them would understand. you resort to numerous unfit lovers whom you throw away when they fail to make you feel ANYTHING, even if it’s repulsion. you’ve become erratically violent towards your own skin & bones, mutilating & scorching not only your own costume but the world around you as well —— seeing something consumed by flames is comforting & calming, makes you feel as if the destroyed object might sense a sliver of what your insides are going through constantly, or at least when they’re not numbed by the substances that will steal your life away prematurely. all of it jeremy has tasted on his tongue, felt on his skin. all it took was a single summer for him to lose two of the most substantial people of his life and for everything to turn to shit. so far, he’s been through three notable phases & all of them could be linked to a particular love interest of his.

CASSIUS HWANG —— the happiest version of jeremy. back then, everything was normal &, most importantly, easy & painless. he often dreams of the life he used to have & is desperate to experience it all over again.

RHEE TAEMIN —— the worst version of him, one that he wants to erase from his own memory. one that he’s ashamed of, one that he despises with every single cell of his lanky body. occasionally he’s tempted to fall back into his old ways, but, thankfully, he’s regained enough strength to pull himself up every single time & escape his old vices’ vicious claws.

KERRY HIMURA —— the newest version of the artistic male, one that’s yet to be fully explored because he’s stuck healing & finding himself all over again. it’s as if he’s walking on thin ice, deathly afraid of potentially relapsing to his second phase, when all he wants to do is be who he was while dating cas. he masks his true sensitivity with jokes, too busy teasing people to form DEEP, emotional connections with them.

EXTREMELY INFREQUENT ARE THE INSTANCES when the four of them find themselves in the same room, when all of jeremy’s emotions and old selves come crashing together, his various identities colliding and threatening to D E M O L I S H anything and anyone, guilty or innocent, that’s in their way with an overwhelming, disastrous force. he’s on edge whilst appearing to be comfortable on cassius’ sofa, his feelings confusing the living fuck out of him as his wild eyes try to take in everything that’s going on around him. the only indicator that he might be feeling UNEASY is his left leg which is mercilessly bouncing, though, if you know jeremy, you know that’s one of his many, many annoying habits that he can’t seem to shake off. on days when it’s just too hard to breathe, jeremy skips out on these cutesy get-togethers and exchanges them for a night of spray painting and liquor abuse. however, today’s too special for him to ghost on his friends, both in an unexpected, unannounced manner & with a fake excuse. a long time ago, this date used to be one of the most I M P O R T A N T ones to him —— CAS’ BIRTHDAY. days before it, jeremy would prepare gifts for his then boyfriend, little drawings and paintings, he’d rehears playing his favourite songs on his old, beat-up & sticker-covered acoustic guitar, even when he wasn’t the biggest fan of said tunes. he’d treat him like a king on that day, perhaps only a smidge more than he normally would on any other —— he always made sure that cassius was feeling good and was treated properly. whilst recalling some of their joint memories that he holds very dear, like piercing cas’ nose and inking up his skin ( a sign of TRUST in jeremy’s eyes ), or having him lovingly hold remy’s hand when a piercer stuck a needle through his privates, his often red-rimmed, black oak bark orbs are tirelessly following the birthday boy who’s dressed up so nicely. even jeremy found it in him to put on a proper outfit for this occasion —— a dark rose gold silk dress shirt embellished with onyx embroidery on its collar & the very ends of its sleeves ( dae did make him laugh previously by saying it looked like a delicious, mouth-watering raspberry adorn with the sun’s breathtaking golden glow ) paired with tight charcoal jeans that beautifully show that he never skips leg day at the gym. they carry his characteristic edge & rebellion, since they’re tastefully ripped. when he talked to the blond, they might have told him that the fashion major of the group would surely find him attractive in this outfit, which might have caused him to smile secretly. his stomach was tied in knots at the thought of kerry’s reaction & impression of his garments which he assumed she’d keep to herself. chimlin did surprise him with her obnoxious ‘ OMG LEE, YOU CLEANED UP NICELY ’ which earned her a scoff from jeremy who stated that he had a good fashion sense, but that he preferred his cozy, oversized sweatshirts. though, surely everyone would argue that tight-fitted shirts like this one, which show off his lean waist & broad shoulders, suit him far better.

THEY’RE ALL SUPPOSED TO BE pregaming before going out to celebrate cassius’ birthday, but the architect has done his fair share of prepregaming all alone in his bedroom before kerry, bless her heart, came to notify him that it was time for them to leave & go to the mansion next door. though he was, at first, buzzing around the little brunette, complimenting her new hairdo & expressing that he could never in his life decide whether it fits her better than blonde locks or not, once he stepped into his ex’s house, it all stopped abruptly. the two men from his past aggressively dragged his thoughts & feelings away from kerry, mostly because seeing them in the same room always reminds him of how defeating it feels to hurt or be hurt by another person. he realises how badly he’d burn her if she came too close, how she’d get swallowed by his endless darkness if she peeked into his heart —— HE’D DESTROY HER. she doesn’t deserve that. thankfully, he’s not in the limelight tonight, resulting into no one noticing how mopey he’s become whilst sitting on this damned overpriced sofa and gulping some fancy-ass, well-aged whiskey. he’s not sure exactly whose idea was it to engage in many different drinking games, but he sure does pick up on chimlin trying to persuade them to play seven nights in heaven —— sure that childish bitch would propose that, a lover of all things dramatic & secretive. he witnesses her hand the empty whiskey bottle to the peach-haired man, encouraging him to give it a spin. it unsettles the tattoo artist who immediately recalls his ex-boyfriend crawling out of a closet with a blossoming bruise on his neck, made by no other than han yeseul. he’s well aware of the fact that he doesn’t get to be J E A L O U S, mostly because that night he got marked up by kerry and, yes, he fucking liked it, but it still made him feel uncomfortable, tightened his chest significantly. he knows that during these past three years cas must have dated, loved, screwed who knows how many people —— it’s something inevitable —— but the thought of him loving someone else shatters his whole being, mostly because he hasn’t been able to have true feelings for anyone ever since they parted ways. perhaps because he didn’t get proper closure.

HE’S ITCHING FOR A CIGARETTE, a glorious death stick that would ease his nerves while the bottle’s spinning on the floor, making him queasy as he thinks about all the possible outcomes of this situation. he knows that cas doesn’t mind that he smokes, but this happens to be junhyuk’s house as well & he has no fucking clue how the writer feels about having one lit in his home. this is why jeremy ends up anxiously drumming his tattooed, slender fingers on his knees instead. he could deal with cas going into that stupid closet with dae, jaewon, jaesung, dylan and kerry. everyone else ? it’s a strong no from him, considering that yeseul, rin and chim could do who the fuck knows what with him, jun is obviously into him, and … having taemin & cas in a small closet together ? a war would happen and there’d be only ONE survivor ——- yes, he’s the one to blame for that as well. his lids shield his eyes from the bottle, protecting them from what’s about to happen & his head falls back —— he’s not even tipsy at this point which SHOULDN’T come as a surprise to anyone since he’s quite experienced in this domain, his body used to all sorts of opiates that it’s begun to welcome them as if they’re a normal part of his system. having tuned everyone out for a mere second as he braces himself for the worst, he suddenly senses a shove to his ribs —— he’s being elbowed by none other than daehyun for a reason still unknown to the older male. as soon as his chestnuts are revealed, they’re faced with the opening of the glass bottle, which is pointing at him, & numerous sets of eyes boring into him —— F U C K. act cool. act fucking cool. this ? this is the last thing he thought would happen. jeremy forces out an exasperated sigh and theatrically reacts as if he’s done with their childish bullshit when in reality his heart’s shaking in terror in its cavity, like a leaf repeatedly hit with light wind. he pushes himself up & off the elegant piece of furniture casually, his body moving unhurriedly, and refuses to allow anyone to see how solicitous he is about what’s in his and cassius’ near future.

JEREMY’S MASK FALLS AS SOON AS the door closes behind him & he’s all alone with his former lover. his beaming smile lights up the darkness of the tight place they’ve been shoved in, his whole expression indicating that he’s nothing but amused & sated. he reminds himself not to lean back & hit the wood in order to prevent the others from being suspicious of what they’re doing. ❛ oh me, oh my … all alone with the birthday boy ? me ? how did i get so lucky ? ❜ it occurs to him that he has no idea what cas is feeling towards him at this point, or if he has any feelings left for him after all this time. hell, he has no clue what the fuck his own mutilated, bleeding heart wants. still, he takes a courageous step forward, carefully presses the older against the closet wall and snakes his arms around his neck. it feels delightful doing it to someone else for once. although his go to type are petite girls & boys alike ( exhibit a, KERRY —– exhibit b, TAEMIN ), he’s always loved his and cassius’ height difference, basked in feeling small for the first time in his life in the taller man’s arms, adored how he could feel like a protectee rather than a protector, even though cas is much softer & sweeter than jeremy is. it’s good not to get neck & back cramps from leaning down so much, even more amazing having to look up in order to see his handsome features. ❛ this must be the best present you’ve gotten thus far, but the night is full of surprises, cassie. ❜ a whisper taunts cas’ earlobe, along with a set of incisors that graze it dangerously. his desire leads him to the jawline he’s explored many, many times ( much like every other spot of the radio host’s body ), his naturally pouty lips planting kisses on their path to jeremy’s final goal. a pair of nostalgic, desperate hands caresses cas’ sides and then goes all the way down to POSSESSIVELY cup the curve of his back, squeezing hard enough to make their hips clash together, and perhaps earn a gasp. ❛ do you still have that little tattoo i gave you down there ? ❜ of course it couldn’t have disappeared on its own, like cas did from jeremy’s life, and the younger truly doubts cas would go through all that pain just to get it removed, but he needs to ask, his question making his smirking lips brush against the other’s —— he doesn’t cave in just yet, though, he waits for the answer to his teasing. in a pointless attempt to bring his F R I E N D closer, he rests one of his hand on the back of the taller’s neck, and with a hard grip on his thigh, brings his leg up and around his own waist, pressing cas into the wall. immediately after connecting their mouths for the first time after three years, jeremy has to pull back to catch a breath because the overwhelming, much needed contact sucked all the air out of him with its intensity. like a starved animal, he eyes the other’s parted, glossy lips ravenously, along with his somewhat hooded soul windows, & his irresistible expression pushes jeremy into a lip-lock that promises to provoke a spontaneous combustion. his blood vessels are boiling, body shaking as his tongue licks between cas’ precious pillowy softness, tugging on his bottom pinkness afterwards. using his exceptional upper body strength, he picks cas up for a few seconds, just enough for him to crouch and sit on the floor with cas on his lap because ... why exactly would he be standing if he can be comfortable on the ground while sharing needy kisses with the birthday boy ? jeremy slowly dials down on the desperateness, savouring the moment while he can. he pulls away, his hands going up to the other’s face. he brushes his knuckles against his cheek which leads him to gently cradling both of them and tracing cas’ adorable dimple with his thumb. ❛ happy birthday, cas. ❜ he whispers softly, pressing their lips together in a fond, lingering peck. his eyes are shut, his brain going back to the texts they exchanged the other day, when cas asked him whether he was still in love with him. this, this very moment is when jeremy’s insides start PAINING HIM UNBEARABLY.

#i'm sorry #this boy is a mess #and i love the fact that he overthinks yet comes off as a thoughtless idiot ??#( cas. )#riotvcn #( meme: done. )

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machinakrp · 4 years

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>> OPEN KIM TAEOH’S FILE …

:// AGE — 27 :// OCCUPATION — mechanic :// CLASS — elysium native

>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …

:// MODIFICATIONS —

ARMS /

cybernetic arm: as a reckless teenager with a hoverbike, an accident left him with a severely shattered arm. things seemed to be healing decently, but an unfortunate byproduct of being broke and in elysium with little access to beneficial healthcare meant a serious staph infection took root and required eventual amputation. thereafter, he had his basic prosthesis replaced with a custom built (by himself) prosthetic of a more cybernetic nature. it is, however, not particularly subtle. he didn’t have the money or the expertise to manufacture any synthetic skin. instead, his arm is fully mechanical in nature, and it’s not exactly shiny chrome. he’s installed a customized shoulder socket allowing him to remove it for easier repairs, but the process is painful - both for attaching and removal - and it obviously leaves him in a precarious position.

magnetic systems: prior to losing his arm, taeoh was a street magician who used sleight of hand and a magnetic node built into his arm to manipulate metal objects, seeming to make them fly. he used this, additionally, to pickpocket from the crowds that gathered to watch his performances. after replacing his arm, he traded out the uncouth system for a more sophisticated set up, though the magnetic system in his human hand is wired only to the hand, the robotic arm has a broader range of output, though still lowgrade enough to avoid hurting sensitive equipment.

EYES /

protective covers: a retractable second eyelid designed to protect against gasses, particulates, fire/heat, and other potential damage that comes with this job as a glorified mechanic. it’s mostly geared towards being a replacement for very unsexy and clunky safety goggles, allowing him a greater peripheral vision range and more flexibility.

vision magnification: a simple enhancement to his optical range, this allows him to trigger a zoom effect, effective in close range. while he can’t zoom in on distant details binocular style, he’s able to magnify things that are in front of him, allowing him to more easily and accurately work with minute machinery.

retinal display: this retinal display doesn’t only focus on pure communications, though of course that’s a component of it. he’s also worked with adept programmers to write in a capability to sense and suggest the appropriate tools for specific problems he’s looking at, as well as an ability to quickly call up troubleshooting data or suggestions.

>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …

tw. injury, hospitalization

the anatomy of a boy begins with

B O N E S.

the lattice work that supports the flesh, his story begins piecemeal but whole. a mother with wide eyes turned outward, skyward, away. there’s a distance in her that he never quite breaches, a gap between them that he can never close. she hangs faded maps on their walls and dreams in stories of places none of them are allowed to go. she pets his head and calls him by a twist of his name. they christen him taeoh but she twists the knife in her own gut each time she presses tongue to teeth to stress the counterpart name, theo, theo. some relic of a place she can’t go, a world closed off to them. it sounds all but the same, but she insists on scrawling it on the tags of his clothes and in the margins of his birth certificate as theo, each pen stroke carrying her dreams of eiffel towers and hover cars drifting over top the river seine at sunset.

his bones are made of dreams - his mother’s forgotten daydreams and his father’s desperate optimism. if skin could wear away his father’s fingertips would protrude shining and white from the tops of his fingers. maintenance in a city like elysium is brute work. he’s covered in oil and bone tired at the end of exhaustive shifts but it’s “honest work, theo, and you should learn to appreciate that.”

what good is being honest, in elysium?

the anatomy of a boy is layered in

M U S C L E.

as he grows, he knots together the best pieces of his parents, cherry picking useful attributes with calculating eyes, to make himself into something. like pinocchio he feels set apart from the world. a strange slant to his vision. he tinkers with his father’s old tool box, fusses with old radios and tunes into frequencies he shouldn’t be able to access.

he hears stories from worlds away and his mother never resists the chance to tell him they weren’t meant to be here, trapped in this sick city, destined to be consumed by the rot of it. it had all been an accident. an accident, in fact, of her own birth. her parents had been visiting family, infant daughter in tow, when the borders had closed and their nomadic life had come to an abrupt end alongside it. it’s nostalgia passed down with guilt, his mother’s frustration at having been the sacrificial lamb to her parents’ distress, their desire to escape exhausting their good will and finances in those early years of isolation. he’s born into hand-me-down guilt in a hand-me-down house with hand-me-down expectations layered onto his shoulders, and he resents the lot of it.

maybe that’s when the escapism begins, really. he’s a child with a light heart and quick feet, scrambles down side streets and shimmies down drain pipes. his parents get used to him “running away” and returning days later scuffed and dirty but mostly fine, all in one piece.

the anatomy of a boy is controlled in the

B R A I N.

taeoh is one of the few to attend school on the regular, even when he’s skipping out on his home life. that doesn’t stop his fascination with machinery, doesn’t keep him from finding an old motorbike and fixing it up. its a painstaking, oil staining process that leaves him with more ruined pairs of jeans than anything else in his closet, smells like petrol. he races through the streets, winding between the seemingly perpetually gridlocked traffic and skidding through narrow alleyways. curses follow in his wake as he takes corners a bit too quickly, banks a little bit hard.

he lives for the moments he can feel the wind in his hair, the ghost of a sky that barely peeks through between the cracks of looming buildings. he builds his own freedom and constructs his own stories. he takes his work from the purely mechanical to the artistic. found and salvaged sculpture plenty of peers are happy to denounce as garbage, but taeoh thinks in the frame of salvation, elevation.

it’s the cycle that takes him out in the end, barrelling down a tunnel, repurposed subway tracks, his characteristic adrenaline chasing grinds to an abrupt and screaming halt. what remains of his left arm is a mangled and shattered thing, a mash of blood and splintered bone, tangling sinew on the concrete floor.

the stain remains, long long after they cart him to a hospital he can’t afford.

the anatomy of a boy is replaced by

G E A R S.

it takes them two months to decide to amputate the arm, in the wake of an infection that renders him delirious and feverish, racing through his blood stream and eating at his heart. it’s the fault of the hospital in the first place, a botched and bungled effort, underfunded and low staffed and the sanitization protocols are clearly not up to par, but it’s not like taeoh can pay for better. h e can’t even pay for this.

he’s left with pins and needles and a sense of absence, a strange echo of a limb that once was. he’s a man who works with his hands, works with his body, and he goes home to a room full of bits and bobs he can’t build with in the same way, elements he can’t sculpt how he’s used too. everything becomes a bit more daunting, a little bit harder, and taeoh wonders what it was all for, what the point is to grind his way back up from the bottom one armed. it’s a bitter depression that tangles around him, thorns driving into his heart.

it takes months, before his father dumps a box of parts onto his bed and gruffly informs him it’s time to stop fucking wallowing and live his life.

in the end, it takes him six months, but he does it. makes an arm. it’s a labor of love and necessity and it’s not one that allows for much luxury. he’s relearning himself just as much as he’s learning to create, to apply his mechanical knowledge to the biological.

the result isn’t beautiful, but it is functional and customized. it’s removable, with a socket build into his shoulder so he can take it off for ease of repair, or to sleep without being completely miserable. it’s a very mechanical construction, bared metal and the clink clank of machinery sliding back and forth when he moves. cracking his knuckles has become a symphony of metal now. there is no shining chrome here, no paint, no synthetic skin. just mechanics on display.

he loves it.

the anatomy of a boy is driven by the

H E A R T.

even now, out on his own in the world, half man and half mechanized, with more than enough money to cover up his arm in something more palatable, more aesthetic, taeoh clings to the click clack clang of his first arm. there have been many iterations since then and many improvements, maybe additions, but the look has never changed. still raw, more machine than augmentation.

his work is careful and creative but it’s never the groundbreaking and pioneering effort from more polished figures in the industry. he’ll hack it, he’ll crack it, he’ll redesign and customize it, but first time installations are out of his wheelhouse - except, of course, on himself. he’s happy to be a bit creative in that respect, to modify and adjust himself to his fullest limits - as much as is possible of course. he is a mechanic, a handyman, an artist. he’s still that bright eyed boy chasing highs in oil stained jeans, climbing on hastily rigged scaffolding to complete a piece.

he turns his arm into a performance of it’s own, a range of magnetization in hands and arm becoming the catalyst to apparent magic, a call back to his child hood attempts of gaining pocket money through sleight of hand, a street performer with a penchant for “magic” tricks in a world where real magic exists. the magnetic fields now give him a chance to up the moves to performance piece level, a range that endlessly entertains him, though his friends might be well sick of it.

he’s an analogue creature in a digital world, negotiating the bounds of mechanic and artist, man and machine, takes on the in-between the worlds notation his mother had scrawled so often and leaves it on his work, engraves it in steel and iron, carves out his place in a world that seems to have no room for him. theo.

#neobio #neoicarus #neo kim jongin

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