``WILLOW & DEAD

[elizabeth sirena hughes]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i583.photobucket.com/albums/ss279/legendskseeker/fk5qwnjpg.png); padding: 30px; border: #5a1236 solid 30px; ] Follow her, lie in the willow and dead OUTFIT: HERE. TAGGED: liven<3 --- WAKE UP. SHOWER. TAKE OUT SILVER. GO TO WORK AT MUSEUM. Eat yogurt for lunch while doing research. Come home from work. Do dishes. Make food. Do laundry. Take out Silver. Check Kale's ingredients are stored correctly. Scold Kale that they are not. Roll eyes as Widow comes in and calls her a bitch. Tea break. Distribute laundry. Put pillow under Kale's head after he passes out on the stairs. Brush teeth. Go to bed. Wake up. Shower. Repeat, some nights of course finding time in between being called a bitch and her tea break to spend time with Riley and Tate, baby sitting if his brother's can't be there for him. Weekends were pretty much the same. This stream was her life, 24/7 lately. She was always busy and doing something and she never complained because at the end of the day she needed to deal with all the crap. You know, except for maybe the Widow part but Widow was not exactly someone who made nice even when she appreciated you. She was the type to say she loathed you instead of hated you because loathe sounded closer to love. She had been particularly bad lately. Liz had noticed Widow was getting sharper and staying out later or over at one of her men's places more often. She seemed desperate to stay away from the house and when she was in it, it was always in passing with some bitchy comment before going straight to her own room. Orion really kept to himself but honestly, he was the only one who might help her in taking care of the place. Donny was usually out or in his own electronic world. Kale was usually the one who needed the most supervision so he didn't blow up the place. Liz had her hand's full lately and was not getting a lot of sleep because as soon as she laid her head down on her bed, her mind ran wild. She would see a mixture of everything she had to do the next day. She would see memories of Darren Jr and trying to shake him out of death. She would see herself coming home from work to find them all dead after Kale's giant bucket of battery acid blew. She would see Donny getting carted off to jail. She would see Widow dead in a ditch half naked somewhere because she became so reckless. An issue Liz would have to deal with eventually. She knew Widow well and she knew that it was when Widow's life became intolerable that Widow went from being annoying to an out right nightmare. The girl was in nightmare mode. But worst of all, Liz would be bored. It was hard to believe since she was always so busy and always so exhausted but, it didn't matter. She was so bored and antsy. She would sometime just day dream of some of the fun she had with her siblings, cousins and the other families kids just running around Chicago. When they wanted something they took it. When they wanted to do something, they did it. There was a rush and a feeling of freedom you got from crime, no matter the level. Except J-walking, sorry, that will never be the rush criminal activity needs to be. Drag racing, illegal gambling games. theft, dealing, all of it had a certain thrill. Liz didn't want to be that person she had been anymore but lately she just... nevermind, it shouldn't be said. Liz would also worry about Riley and Tate being around Ekaterina Novikova. Or Kat as she seemed to go by. She was a girl Riley was dating, which of course was enough for Liz to dislike her although more a gut reaction, Liz wasn't quite ready to say why that bothered her so much. But Liz had never really met the girl. The way Riley described her she seemed rather boring. But of course, Liz being a bit of the lioness with the people she cared about, she had Donny use his magic fingers of his to scour the world. He was the one who found out her full name for Liz and told her what she was allegedly involved with. And what did he find? Seemed like Riley unwittingly got himself involved with a Russian psychopath. The bitch got crazier and crazier the more Donny dug up. Did Liz tell Riley? No. Should she have? Maybe but honestly, either Kat was trying to change and then who was Liz to judge. Or she was using him as a cover or something. It's not like Riley was a dealer or anything. He was related to the Italians, but too distantly for the Russians to care much, plus if it was a cut they wanted, Kat would have already killed him, which she might do if he finds out and confronts her stupidly. She was a dangerous woman and so far, it seemed like Riley just had to ride it out but that didn't mean Liz wouldn't make sure he stayed safe. Fuck like she killed her brother, heir of Sirens known for being a sadist, to save Riley's life just so he could get himself killed because he wanted to get laid by a pretty blonde. Fuck that. So Liz did what she could to keep tabs on her electronically through Donny. By the way, did I mention how much she loved having an endless resource of information like Donny? God he could find anything and do anything, she loved it. But Liz had never seen Kat in person so that was what Liz wanted to do, but quietly. Personally, Liz didn't like the Russians that much, but she did not hate them as she was probably supposed to. Mostly because of what she had been told by the Italians she had been friends with back in the day. Plus, the Italians felt it necessary to hire Kale to hit the restaurant in order to kill a number. From what she knew and from what Donny had dug up, the Russians were pretty brutal but who wasn't? Let's not be hypocrites here. At the end of the day, there were few members of any nationalized crime syndicate that honestly cared about anyone but their own ambitions and would do anything. The rivalries were petty to Liz, even when she still worked for the Sirens. The only person she really didn't like associated with the Russians was this Kat woman, and that was only because she decided to fuck with the wrong wide eyed innocent. Liz raised her cigarette up to her lips and took a long last hit before flicking it aside as she exhaled. She was leaning against the side of some building, remaining in the shadows across the street from the Inferno, which was Russian territory mostly. There she was. Liz looked Kat up and down as she exited a car and walked into the Hotel/casino. She didn't seem that much of anything but then again, Liz was used to a different style of criminal. The Siren's were at their core a street gang, not a mafia. She was used to ebonic accents, racial diversity, a lot of puffy chests, leather jackets and tight cheap clothes, motor cycles and stolen cars. Of course, stolen cars was definitely Orion's department. Liz took a step back about to leave. It stains on the way I'd rather leave it behind

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TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY TAKIDA

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[atticus mikael svenenström]

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[/size]THERE WERE RULES <sub>or times like these. completely serious. professionally documented, printed and laminated on company-grade paper by the valkyrie hospital. it had been taped up on the inside of his medicine cabinet's door the day he had been released. he had attempted to take it down, but everyone frowned at the empty shell of atticus mikail. not yet, agent. all for the best, sven. every stern word and reassuring shoulder-squeeze were met with the same snarl. so the rules remained, all to shut them up. and while atticus svenenström did not follow their rules, the facade continued a sell-out show every night if he played along. it was okay. he quite easily forgot that piece of paper duct taped to his eyelids existed. he was planning to whitewash the insides of every cupboard and cabinet in his apartment. it would blend nicely, don't you think? this was what agent atticus svenenström sven mikkelson discussed with himself as his mind pressed 'play' to display the finger-shaking doctors telling him how he should think and what he should feel. pause before any negative self-talk continues; assess any feelings; clear mind and recite your positivity notes; call doctor immediately if darkness hovers. season that with medical terminology and marinate it in bullshit, and you could quietly easily recite every rule on that piece of paper. atticus did. and then he flushed it deep into his oesophagus, choosing to name the four seasons in every language he knew next. those were the real rules. distract your mind with meaningless fiction until the world comes back into focus.

his reflection cleared. the black spots dissipated and atticus svenenström was, once again, avoiding looking at this ugly monster in the eye. crisis averted. if he chose to remind himself of that ridiculous rulebook hovering behind him, he should be dialling the number for christopher moore, professional brain scammer, quicker than his phone allowed. if the good doctor was continuing his tirade help for society, he would then flip the card over and contact some sort of emergency hotline because, really, he had issues and it was something he needed to talk about. there was a footnote on his file, atticus had seen, preparing the doctor to drop anything had the troubled fbi agent decided to reach out. it worked! we made progress! whatever. he snarled at the reflection, cursing softly, as he opened the demonic medicine cabinet. the first thing to come fluttering out of the box of dreams was the card in question. stupid. one flash from his eyes, and atticus slammed it onto the counter, drowning it in the blood that really shouldn't be there, staining the otherwise lovely granite tile. recite this, doctor. while his mind had complete control once again, his body seemed to be having some trouble co-operating. one shake of his hand, and the entire contents of the second shelf were on his bathroom counter. pathetic. orange bottles filled with chalky white pills he only sometimes took exploded across and into the sink. another curse. there were no rules for this, so he decided to pretend it never happened. today's pills, the poppy-red and nap time grey ones, had been washed down with boiling water hours previous. the white ones he ignored wouldn't get hurt, only scared, being outside of their nests for this long. maybe they would melt and he could forget they ever existed. that would work.

hah. found it. his steely eyes easily looked over the pill-popping mess he just made, sifted through the droplets of blood and finding the spot on the grey granite where the razor had fallen. it blended in nicely, a lovely mixture of flat and shine. the lady at the store had confirmed it would hide everything. she was right. a sick gleam in his eyes, sven (atticus?_ he didn't know which role he was playing right now) picked up the gleaming razor blade, watching it as the cruel lights danced off its reflection. it was a new one, because he'd been unaccustomed and it slipped into his flesh a little too deeply. cue the red-stained mess. not that he really cared. the culprit had been located and detained. and university had taught atticus svenenström that was a job well done. and undercover university taught sven mikkelson that was a good point to stop, wait for farther instruction. he had never been given much responsibility in life, when these sorts of problems arose. so, doctor, captain, verrentenikov: what happens now? he almost wanted to ask that, but he was sick, not crazy. crazy people talk to themselves. and sick people who like to be sick don't talk to anybody. several days into freedom (isolation?), and he was forgetting how he had managed to survive in that bleached-out hospital ward where you're fed day-old pasta and forced to talk to people who don't get paid enough to pretend to care. the human body adapts when it's desperate to survive, i suppose. it was obvious his did, or he wouldn't have failed in the first place. so, for the time being, sven had let his body win the war. it wanted to stay alive, so he wasn't going to try to kill it. if he did, he would have no issues in finding a happy place with this new drugstore razor. the one he was holding, glinting above the white haze and red puddle, was strictly for educational, even experimental, purposes. sven tilted his head to the side, pressing his thumb lightly against the blade. small cut. see? he learned something - press harder for results, but don't experiment so dangerously next time.

the pain was quickly setting in. he had been too distracted to peel the thick white bandage from his left wrist, so he had pierced the blade as far as he could manage, unsure of when it would meet flesh. when he'd seen the white stained with red, the disturbing euphoria set in, as the ghosts whispered out of his body. and then the relief. quickly followed by the physical reaction because he'd cut too deeply and his body wanted to collapse on itself. that's when the mess had been made. then it's giving your brain time to breath and regain control. and here is the last part of the cycle: the regret. the pain. the fact he had just cut himself not once, but four times, all on tender, raw skin. sven gritted his teeth as feeling spread throughout his body once again. now he remembered. he remembered everything, actually. that was what he was attempting to put a stop to. but he knew he'd been reaching for the peroxide when his hand shook again. the pills may have made a mess, and the blood could stain his countertop. fine. whatever. shit happens. but you can't make a mess on yourself and leave it there, agent svenenström. no. that is just disgusting. scolding himself quietly, the troubled agent unwrapped the mangled gauze from his wrist, momentarily flipped his stomach at just how deeply he'd etched himself, and reached for the bottle again. pouring the chemicals onto the gaping wounds until they fell numb, he was carefully rewrapping his wrist when his phone vibrated from down on the floor. when had he been down there? huh. atticus furrowed his eyebrows, tightened the bandage, and reached down for his blackberry.

"follow-up." it was a text message, devoid of any meaning or emotion. not even a question mark. it was a demand. stanislav verrentenikov rarely spoke with him. if anything, it was best when the mysterious sven mikkelson remained ignored. that meant he was fulfilling his role nicely. the fellow who atticus svenenström had made disappear in order to seize his role in life had played it invisible, too. adopt a ridiculous accent and put a silly spin on his own name, and he fit into this russian bratva seamlessly. as long as he followed silly demands like this, he could wander about freely. the agency left him alone because he was playing a dangerous part and, really, the less connected he was, the better. it was going to kill him one day. not today, because stanislav wanted something and atticus knew his body didn't want to grow empty, not now. too bad.

it was part of his routine now, cleaning up a self-inflected wound. his subconscious cemented it so he grew insecure if he forgot to check his body for any sort of damage. when a typical day is entered having to follow the clues of how you ended up somewhere - and what you took to get there - the need for healthy justification is better off forgotten. so, here we are, with sven mikkelson pocketing his dinged-up cellphone and looking back in the mirror, watching patiently as the monster shrunk back into a skin-colored human. life was calling and he had the starring role. the pull-induced haze that had been polluting his mind for much of the day disappeared in an instant. all he did was accidentally hurt himself. everyone does it. flip of a switch, and he forgot why he'd driven the razor blade into his wrist in the first place. it wasn't the last whispers of that man, out to make atticus feel as horrible as he had right before he died. no. it wasn't his mother reminding him that she taught him the right way to deal with pain when it all became too much. and no, it wasn't even his sick wish to show doctor christopher moore that he had not, in fact, fixed the svenenström fellow. it was nothing. he simply brushed all of the chalky pills into the toilet, scrubbed his counter cleaned and threw the paper towel into the bowl as well, and flushed the red-and-white patriotism down to the sewers. dishevel his hair farther because he liked it that way. put his leather cuff on his right wrist, and then get mad because it should go on the left, to cover the newest bandage, but it can't because it always goes on the right and it would be bad if he disturbed that. but, really, he always hurt his right side. maybe he was feeling rebellious today, so he decided on the left. no, it wasn't because he was so drunk off of the bad voices that the first bit of physical pain made them shut up. truthfully, he hadn't ben paying any sort of attention to what he'd been doing until the blade pierced his skin and he finally felt something. oh well. who cared. it was following-up on something he didn't really care about. no one cared anymore.

sliding his sunglasses over his empty eyes, atticus slammed the door to his apartment behind him. he ignored the protests of the sweet old lady next door because he didn't have any time to apologize. he'd buy her a flower or something tomorrow and she would forget all about it, invite him over for oatmeal and peaches. she always did that. the thought kept him entertained until he reached the inferno hotel and casino, local russian headquarters. everyone knew that. too bad he didn't have any interesting business there, because the bar was always a nice reward. his target was across the street, doing what he assumed she thought was stealth work. elizabeth hughes, rumoured connections to the siren street gang. the closest known allies with kale barker, who was a filing cabinet in his own right. he hadn't been giving much time to research the apparent psychopath, only to familiar himself with kale's fondness with explosives. normally, who would care? sven had been around this bratva long enough to know they only things worth caring about were the ones who interfered with business. the fact the italians were around presented no issue, staz had told him. it was what they had done by waging this silly war. he knew as well as anyone about the explosion at the chinese wok. the cuts were still healing on his face. the bandage offered a nice excuse, so everyone did their job and would shut the fuck up. regardless, staz himself had taken a personal interest in his bratva's well-being. he had lost some close associates that evening. sven was supposed to be there. was he a close associate? i guess that would be something he should let the agency know. oh well. he also offered the giovannis little credit. privately, agent svenenström found them to be as intimidating as the verrentenikovs. but that would be remaining personal. angelface giovanni is not sharp enough to do this alone, staz had said. they were sloppy enough to let the world know the siren gang was a close ally. and boom, who is connected with them and happens to be some sort of explosives addict? "follow-up" meant confirming this before making another move. let's not be too messy here, he'd been told. don't want the authorities finding out.

but that was a long way down the line. every russian crime-related business had been slowed. he was being cautious, everyone was. the fact their headquarters was well-known was no issue. it was keeping it a simple rumour that was the latest focus. stanislav wanted his bratva to run seamlessly. and if he meant taking a little extra time, that would be fine. which is exactly why sven was approaching the loosest connection to kale, instead of threatening to shoot a giovanni himself. it was boring, to be completely honest. he almost didn't care. the pain pounding from his wrist up to his ears, his walk was little more than casual as he approached this elizabeth hughes. if she thought she was crafty, he was a damn well genius. the same bored expression crossing his colourless face, sven mikkelson eyed the girl. she looked like a gangster out of the movies. it was almost amusing. "a downright cunt, ekaterina is." the filthy words felt foreign on his tongue. he followed liz's eyeshot to the departing back of kat. he'd worked with the icy russian on several occasions. the connection between her important to stanislav, to her ridiculous use of that turner fellow, and his daughter, made the connection to liz hughes easy. "you people need to learn the power of private. do you want to tell all about that little explosion last week, or are we going to have to have a conversation with her about that turner? i heard he has a pretty daughter." he rattled off a bland script, throwing in overthetop flair of threat because he had nothing else. it was stupid. he was stupid. it knew that. he knew that. oh well. pushing his sunglasses up onto his forehead, sven stopped next to liz, head titled to the side, his eyes half-watching her, and half-watching the side of the street, where he didn't actually care what was happening.

there was a rulebook for this, right?</sub>[/blockquote][/blockquote]

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TAGGED, liven' it up <3
LENGTH, 2500 words.
ATTIRE, hurr.
NOTES, wtf, length.
CREDITS, format to me. gif to tumblr.
lyrics to placebo - "ask for answers"

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[elizabeth sirena hughes]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i583.photobucket.com/albums/ss279/legendskseeker/fk5qwnjpg.png); padding: 30px; border: #5a1236 solid 30px; ] Follow her, lie in the willow and dead OUTFIT: HERE. TAGGED: liven<3 --- LIZ HAD BEEN IN SOME REALLY DARK PLACES BEFORE but she could honestly say she had never been in this bored limbo before, never the less a bored limbo in which she was worried all the time as well. It was a strange place for the girl to be. She blamed it on trying to take care of everyone. Liz had very few people left in her life and she would snap if she lost anyone else, especially when she could have stopped it somehow. She had killed and let too many people go. She finished with it. It was interesting though, of all the people she lost, she never seemed to think much about her mother. Her mother died giving birth to her. From Liz knew her mom was a good girl with a bad boy fetish, but Liz was never really curious like a lot Siren kids without moms were, or anyone without a mom. She never asked her father questions about her, not even as a kid. Daddy Hughes seduced her mom, Maria, and took advantage of her innocent views. He skipped protection of course. And nine months later she supposedly died giving birth to Liz. She never wondered about her mother, and she never seemed to question it because the truth was, growing up, her family was so huge, I mean she had twelve siblings for sucks sake and an infinite amount of cousins running around added to the Richardson and Davis kids and then the kids around Chicago... she just didn't care. There was too much to see, too many people around to feel that loss that most people would feel. Liz had aunts as female role models... sort of. Her aunts were not exactly role model types but you get the point. The thing was, why she even cared to see Kat's face was because Riley was one of the last good people she had on her side. What they were to each other had always been a point of solid confusion to the two but if it wasn't clear five years ago it was more than clear now, that they cared about each other and the well being of the other person. They had a strange sort of chemistry, slept together when drunk once, he kissed her at a masquerade for some unexplained reason. And when Kenny was murdered in a gang war, it was RIley's apartment she went to in order to process. He was always kind to her but Liz is a complicated person. She avoided him most of the time. Her anger over the death of her brother nearly drove her mad. She never accepted the idea that he was just a casualty. She ended up doing some dirty deeds that she will forever feel guilty about before she learned it was her eldest brother, Darren who killed Kenneth Hughes. Liz tried to "borrow" her friends car. Hotwiring it when none other than Riley saw her. He got into the car, and refused to leave her be. Angry and not thinking straight, she just said fuck it and ended up driving to LA with RIley in the car. She forced him to promise her to leave her there. The truth was, Liz wasn't planning on living through that night. She didn't have anything to live for anyways now that her only real brother was dead. But while Darren was attacking her, Riley didn't do as he promised and he intervened. The poor guy was almost killed that night, but was saved when Liz, without thinking, grabbed Darren's own gun and shot him. Her guilt from that night drove her mad. She almost got Riley killed, traumatized him for life probably. To make matters worse, her father put a hit out on her head. Which was what led to Isabel's death. Which led to Liz attempting suicide which had once again been thwarted by Riley pulling her back off the edge. And then she disappeared on him without explanation for the next five years, unknowingly leaving him to think she had died. And yet he let her back into his life without so much as a blink. Probably not that intelligent a move since he now had a child to take care of, but still. Liz owed him a lot and she would be damned if she let some prissy blonde russian psycho bitch hurt them. But if all Kat was doing was using Riley as a cover, if she just had to deal with something and move on, if she wasn't planning to actually hurt him, he was safer not knowing and not trying to confront or expose her. But really, what the hell was with Riley's taste in women? Sarai was nice but other than that girl Addison was a bitch who chose her family's approval over him. And then Coco... sorta. And now a psychopath who killed her own family because she was ordered to. Honestly, Liz could not judge too harshly, she understood more than most that people were capable of many things when brainwashed into loyalty, but at the same time, Liz was never a killer. Had never been, never wanted to. She was a bit too independent for blind obedience, which she was thankful for. And while it caused her an endless amount of issues, she was thankful she at least had a moral compass, an idea of right and wrong. She just wanted Riley to be with someone who could both make him happy and more importantly, keep him safe. Although, out of respect she should probably stop looking at Riley like a gazelle chillin' with the lions at a barbecue. Liz turned to leave only to find a man acting like a creeper behind. Thankfully he didn't have his penis out otherwise she might have cut it off before looking at his face and realizing who he was. Sven... not that she really knew anything about him. But Donny's recon work skimmed through a lot of faces and names, this man was one. She also saw faces of some lackies and of course she had already known about Staz, although she had never had the pleasure of meeting the man. Damn she loved have a super hacker in the house. She groaned and rolled her eyes, "Really? you have to be a shadow dancer? Why can't you Russians just say hello like normal human beings?" She asked a tad annoyed. She shrugged, "But yeah, sure, you know her better than I do." She added in reference to him calling Kat a cunt. If forced to make decision right now, Liz would have to agree. "you people need to learn the power of private. do you want to tell all about that little explosion last week, or are we going to have to have a conversation with her about that turner? i heard he has a pretty daughter." Liz just stared at the man as he spoke. He was kinda hot. Kind of a douche too it seemed. He 'heard' he has a pretty daughter? Seriously? who actually talks like that? Liz thought a little amused despite the threat. She wasn't exactly easily intimidated. She rolled her eyes, "Yeah yeah yeah, evil smirk, shifty eyes, threats all around, can we just get to point?" It stains on the way I'd rather leave it behind

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TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY TAKIDA

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[atticus mikael svenenström]

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[/size]IT DID NOT <sub>need to be stated, thought, or assumed, that atticus svenenström was suspended between worlds. he was hovering somewhere between the living and the dead, the whole and the broken. he felt like a white noise. there, but not quite; present, but oddly removed. he was lost in a haze of smoke with no compass, no map. not even a damn gps. atticus had lost his sense of direction long ago. he was simply that - here. he awoke in an dark fog, and wandered around blindly. he never bothered to put his hands in front of him, eager to feel something, discover some sense of placement. the broken swede would merely stumble down the cloudy path until his legs collapsed under him and he rested until it was time to continue on. atticus svenenström did not know where he was, did not know where he was going. there was no desire to join the living. and the dead never reached out to him. it was blatantly obvious that he was trapped. but, really, he was becoming more and more comfortable with remaining trapped.

it would drive anyone else to eventual madness. the human mind cannot function properly when the body desperately wishes to live, but the brain itself wants to die. did you know that? he did. doctor christopher moore, professional life ruiner, explained this to him several times a week. atticus was not going to get healthy and live a real life until he accepted the past, his flaws, and everything else. accept it and dwell in mud. live a bullshit existence and die a happy, happy death. the mere illusion drove another razor blade into his flesh. regardless, here he was, suspended between worlds. a suspension that would, as we all know, would break anyone else and force them into a paralyzing psychosis. it took a special breed to prepare for this. atticus had been anticipating this disillusioned emptiness, unknowingly, since he was ten years old. sixteen years is a long time to lay in waiting. his body could very well cling to life. and his mind could very well want to die. but in combination with a disturbing patience, you have a hovering, translucent silhouette. he did not want to accept the past, his flaws, and everything else. he wanted to accept this. a smokey smile, empty eyes, a dark numbness. when he looked in the mirror, the monster staring back at him, with the same smile and eyes, distorted into something with poison-tipped fangs and a forked tongue. he accepted that, too. doctor christopher moore was correct in one thing - it was all about acceptance, balance. he balanced a fanged monster and a smiling corpse quite well. he was trapped. he accepted this. so, maybe, he had been driven to madness, too.

he was mad. he had to be mad. that was the only way anyone could rationally evaluate atticus svenenström's situation. no sane human being would be so content wandering an endless path with no map, no compass. no direction of any kind. and atticus svenenström was barely alive. he danced with monsters and flirted with unicorns. he was lost in a world of imagination and he was making no effort to escape. who needs direction? a map? his gps could barely guide him from his apartment to the walmart down the street. sad to say, he was completely aware. atticus knew how far gone he was. the level of lucidity when dancing with monsters and flirting with unicorns was astounding. of course he was acquainted with reality, the knowledge of this insanity. so maybe he was mad. he'd been okay, a little lost, when he could never make the decision as whether to live or die. he could be helped, a team of well-equipped physicians determined to bring him brain chemistry back into balance. there had been a dim level of hope then. his therapist parole office had smiled in the beginning, making warm promises of recovery and health. they faded. he frowned now, only making weak affirmations of "balanced medication" and "acceptable workability". christopher moore had followed his own rules - the ones he would never admit he had - he had accepted atticus as mad. a functioning psychotic. one who danced with monsters and flirted with unicorns, yes, but also one who knew he was dancing with monsters and flirting with unicorns. it must be an upsetting position to be in. atticus firmly believed this man was in this profession to help people (and to feed his disgusting greed). and to have someone so beyond help, other than the odd word to force him to maintain composure, must be disconcerting. so what else was there?

nothing. there was nothing left. atticus was suspended between worlds. he had no desire to navigate his way back to a solid reality. but he was disturbingly aware of his misguided living. he saw a therapist who wanted to help him, but also accepted that atticus could probably never be helped. not really. but he also broke all the rules of recovery. this was all about balance and acceptance. so he was wandering the darkness with a mad sort of alterness, breaking his body at every opportunity. but he was balanced. sort of. right now. that was all this was. people needed to stop thinking he could be helped, that he even wanted it. he was sick, and he liked being sick. this was his life, and he had nothing left until the day his mind was finally crowned victor, with a taunting glint in his eye and a wicked smile, right before his final breath.

it was nice, playing this role. living this life he should never be permitted to return to. sven mikkelson was just as trouble as atticus svenenström, everyone in the dirty criminal underworld probably knew that. but there was no doctor, with a sad optimism, with every desire to see him fill with fire. there were no appointments, no schedules, no laminated papers with detailed rules for times like these. as long as he did as he was told, crossed each task off the list with an unsharpened pencil, no one cared. no one bothered him, either. he was invisible, a meaningless chess piece with steely eyes and an impatient scoff. and, standing here on the street, atticus got the distinct feeling elizabeth hughes approached the world with an allied mindset. to the real atticus svenenström, it was a certain sort of peeve. when the monster unfurled its claws and thrashed against its bone cage, he overreacted to everything. how did someone act with such effortless ease? but he played along, eyeing her almost boredly. he acted slowly, cautiously. this was all some sort of wild chase that he had low optimism this would be any more than a waste of his time. chewing on his tongue lazily, he merely shrugged at her words. it was a script, a ridiculous demand to overreact to everything. that was one form he found ridiculous. just don't tell anyone that. he watched her roll her eyes, something of an amused gleam dancing in her eyes. yeah, yeah, yeah, evil smirk, shifty eyes, threats all around, can we just get to the point?"

the point? what point? the thoughts of balance and acceptance, oddly, were nearly as effective as his blush-colored pills. the ones he took when his body required a certain numbness. he didn't even care anymore. pulling a rather crumpled package of cigarette from his jean's pocket, eyes still trained across the street, atticus remained silent as he quickly lit the damp cancer stick. he rarely smoked. he liked having mint-scented breath and white teeth, thank you. but he also rarely did anything more than pull out teeth and ignore helpless begging. exhaling a cloud of dark smoke, resting the cigarette between two of his left fingers, he finally looked over to her. "the russian script is something of an art. i hate art." mimicking her casual demeanour, the awkwardness banging through his veins, atticus responded with a mere shrug. "just don't bothering lying to me." he tilted his head to the side, lifting the cigarette to his lips, he left it there. "everyone and their incestual daughter knows about your connection to the siren street gang. they also know the italians are helpless when executing anything more than dinner parties. they didn't blow that restaurant up by themselves." he raised his eyebrows, bringing the cancer stick back down to his fingers. "and they also know the two are allied. i just want to know how they were involved." he added another bored shrug. he was mad, alright. but he was playing a role, too.</sub>[/blockquote][/blockquote]

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TAGGED, liven' it up <3
LENGTH, 1461 words.
ATTIRE, hurr.
NOTES, wtf, length.
CREDITS, format to me. gif to tumblr.
lyrics to placebo - "ask for answers"

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[elizabeth sirena hughes]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i583.photobucket.com/albums/ss279/legendskseeker/fk5qwnjpg.png); padding: 30px; border: #5a1236 solid 30px; ] Follow her, lie in the willow and dead OUTFIT: HERE. TAGGED: liven<3 --- WHY WAS SHE EVEN HERE? RILEY WAS AN ADULT. SHOULDN'T HE BE able to do this stuff on his own? She felt like she had ruined his life. Technically she was not responsible for whatever might and will happen with this whole Russian bitch deal but at the same time, Liz felt responsible for turning the boys luck around. He had a good life and since meeting her, he had almost been killed, witnessed a killing, got an underage girl pregnant, had to pull Liz off the edge of a cliff, both literally and figuratively, had the mother of his child disappear on them and now? Oh yeah, he was dating sociopath who butchered her family because her boss asked her too. Wonderful. It all started with him meeting her though. Fuck bad luck being able to rub off. Liz knew she hadn't had it the worst in the world, after all, she lost Kenny and Isabel but she gained new family in Orion, Donny and despite all odds, Widow. Other good things? . . . . . . . . . . . She had good physical health, although she does have some suicidal tendencies looking back at the three times she attempted in the past five and a half years. So maybe that was more of a neutral point. OH! She had Silver, only the best damn dog the world has ever known. And she had made a way to put herself through college. How she achieved it she'll never know. She's not homeless, has been at random points, mostly from running away, but she's not now... She lives in a place where showering at LEAST every other day is most customary, that's a nice thing. But despite these nice things, it would be a lie to say that compared to the average American 23 year old, Liz had been handed a bit of a raw deal. No mother, Father who wants her dead, dead older brother, other older brother who was obsessed with her and raped her when she was younger whom she had to kill mostly out of self defense of Riley(of course), a dead friend who was practically a sister, clinical depression, but worst of all, was being raised to believe that all of that, all of this, was normal, was okay. Ignoring that her father ignored the attacks because of tradition and playing powers involved, she forgave him for years for telling her to suck it up when she was just a kid and her older brother who was like 20 some years older attacked her. It was not normal or okay but she had once believed it was, especially since the people she spoke to, Donny for example, lived life in a very similar manner. Donny's father left him for dead and actually made a joke about Donny's death as he jogged away from his son. If Kale hadn't gone back for him, Donny would not be here now. His dad thought it was funny, everyone ignored it. Why? It was to be expected. For the Sirens, family meant loyalty only to the heads of the families, blind obedience, with little to no reparation. At least the Russians were paid well from the looks of that hotel. Liz raised an eyebrow at the man as he spoke, "the russian script is something of an art. i hate art." Liz just looked at him almost blankly but with a judgemental eyebrow up. She kind of wanted to punch him for the casual tone added to the same classic villain script he was reciting. She took a deep breath through her nose, "So as a Ruskie, you get a script? Must make your job easier, you know not thinking for yourself. Tell me, how brainwashed are all of you?" Liz asked rhetorically, using the term from the cold war for Russian. She honestly didn't care if it was a half assed derogatory term that was used during the war. Liz saluted him mockingly as he told her not to lie to him. "everyone and their incestual daughter knows about your connection to the siren street gang. they also know the italians are helpless when executing anything more than dinner parties... - ....and they also know the two are allied. i just want to know how they were involved." Liz nodded, "See that's what I'm talking about, the phrase is 'everyone and their mom,' its not supposed to get creepy." Liz contorted back in an annoyed tone. "But whatever." She added, dismissing the issue of dramatic vocabulary choice differences. She looked around at the street before turning back towards Sven, "Tell ya what pal, I will happily tell you anything you want to know, especially since, everyone and their mom knows that my ties with Sirens aren't exactly golden. BUT, if I'm going to listen to you, I'm gonna need a drink." It stains on the way I'd rather leave it behind

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TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY TAKIDA

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[atticus mikael svenenström]

,

[/size]DID YOU KNOW <sub>people on suicide watch can rarely explain why they wanted to kill themselves? atticus svenenström did. no one else seemed to believe that. the only others who nodded knowingly the rare times he decided to speak the truth were other people on the floor. the ones in flat-colored clothing that was supposed to be blue, because blue makes depressed people happy. despite what the parchment pieces of paper in doctor christopher moor's office, on the painted walls in a calming olive, claimed, he did not know what went on in atticus' mind. you studied for a long time, read a lot of books, so we are going to award you with a piece of paper with a golden stamp (and upgrade from the star), a distinguished "doctor" you can sign papers with, and a ridiculous salary. good job! he earned a few points because he cared. atticus knew his doctor hankered helplessly. but to understand a mind like his required a lot of work. too much pain. too many nights spent shivering, starving your brain of everything worth living for. that is what you do. you withdraw from society and discourage your mind from life. you refrain from smiling interaction and the warmth of family and the touch of a woman and eating ice cream and and and. there were all of the offerings of this life. and he disallowed all of them. you renounce your title of addition to society. you simply exist. then it becomes unbearable. you hit a wall, or want to contribute again, or someone tells you it's not worth it, you're not worth the consequence. and then it is an act of impulse. you forget you're a ghost, just for a second. you listen to the bad voices and feel the poison, so you decide to disappear forever. you want to say goodbye. some survive, most do not. but when you have to explain why, because trying to kill yourself requires a lot of analyzation and pills, you can never find the words.

"why" is all they want. but they don't want the truth, not really. if they did, atticus would have no issues spilling the acid sitting on his tongue. if he spoke the truth to doctor christopher moore, he would paralyze the man. the good doctor, bless his soul, would be disturbed. everyone who knows the lies reality is disturbed. this much sickness cannot breath the same air as i. no individual could be content existing in this empty shell. so you feed them the half-truth. a scratch on the surface, a few words to make them furrow their eyebrows. they make a few notes, prescribe a few pills. this if fixable. the truly deranged, ruined human beings succeeded in dying. they all knew that, secretly. no one wanted to admit it, but it was the only truth alive and pure in the halls of the hospital. atticus would blink through the tension in the room. smile politely, allow doctor christopher moore to pry into his brain. the closer you dance to the truth, the simpler it is to entangle yourself in a sticky web of darkness. lies, the untruth. "why" is the never-ending question. but they don't want to be scared. you play their game so you can answer that yourself. it isn't "why".

step into a tanning bed for a day or three. feel the heat until it bubbles and flays your skin to the ground. and then stop, drop and roll in a puddle of tar, sprinkled with course salt. wrap yourself in a silk cloth, black velvet, as long as it is weaved with barbed wire. present yourself as perfect. smile with a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes, but no one is paying enough attention to really notice. wear the mask they designed for you because it makes them happy. for every word they say, every action they exercise, tighten the barbed wire. approach a bed of rusted nails and walk on it with your bare feet. only after you've tangoed across a field of broken glass. never flinch, because they don't want you to. don't let your wounds heal. let them fester with a scab, darkened with the blood lurking beneath, that they can rip off whenever they want. they want to throw you down into an abyss polluted with truth and lies and promises and broken commitments, but they don't want you to cry. they want you to thank them. they designed a steel-eyed mask for you and you were it with pride. no one bothers to check underneath, because it's sanitized and not seeping all over the hardwood floors. it leaks into your brain over time. the words and actions become your own. and everytime the voices are mean, you dive into a pool of tar and course salt. you want to drown in it. and then you drink and starve and cut and fuck because it numbs you. for awhile. it lets you play their game easier. you can like like this. it works. sort of. but after awhile, you poison yourself and rip off the scab so you bleed all over the place and fail at fixing yourself. there is no medicine powerful enough to fix you. you might use it, because it numbs you even more. but by that time you are so far gone, you starve and drink and cut and fuck because you know nothing else. but it makes wearing their steel-eyed mask easier anyway.

the question isn't "why?".

it's "why not?"

that was why atticus did not want to kill himself. not completely, maybe not even a little. he stared in the mirror and realized the truth. and then he weakened and collapsed and drove the razor just a little bit too deep. but he survived. his body wanted to live, even if his mind did not. it won. then his mind woke up, kicked the door and realized that he still had a game to play. his suicide attempt was simply a "miss a turn" card. but the dice were in his hand and it was expected that he take his turn. he was frozen because he didn't know if he wanted to throw the dice. i think he did. but he never knew for sure. doctor christopher moore made sure of that. but then everytime his brain began to awake, unaccustomed to the light, he punished it. he starved and drank and cut and fucked so it would go back to sleep. it hurt to much when it was conscious. he was better when his body was hovering at ten percent, flirting with shutting down, but never quite doing it. but he couldn't tell anyone that. the only other people who saw the emptiness in his eyes understood. they wouldn't tell anyone, either. they wouldn't even speak of it. that was the promise. he fed the doctors a few truths, even real ones from time to time, in order to keep his brain asleep. if you flick a light on in your eyes, no one bothers to pay attention to anything else. it made them happy. part of him liked making people happy. doctor christopher moore would feel defeated if his most complicated patient killed himself. maybe even if he tried again. he would feel like a failure if he saw the fresh bandages on atticus' wrists. all he wanted to know was the truth, "why". he didn't have the heart to reject all of that effort, people who honestly believed he could be helped. the only person who did not deserve that was atticus himself. so you starve and drink and cut and fuck to forget that too.

he knew the answer, but he couldn't tell anyone. he didn't want to. perhaps so he could continue his empty existence; maybe because he had no wish to upset them. it was another "why" question he didn't have the strength to try to answer. he knew the answer to one question, and that was why he didn't want to kill himself. the rest would take time.

when he looked at elizabeth hughes, he saw a familiar emptiness. a dead one. the kind that the people who had lived in the hospital for far too long had. healed, but not really. healthy, but still a little bit sick. that was as close to "better" as anyone could get. it was enough for the world because they wore their steel-eyed mask willingly, with little desire to numb themselves. that, he didn't understand. but he didn't have to understand elizabeth hughes. he had to question her, copy her mannerisms, play the role as effortlessly as she did. she had answered "why" a long time ago. maybe he was just a little bit jealous. he pushed his sunglasses into his messy hair as she referenced the cold war. wow, so clever. so very original. his mask cracked a little. this was getting difficult. "pity i'm swedish." he spoke simply, shifting his gaze across the street again. "no need to spiteful. your opinion is well noted." he smiled at her, the kind of smile that flared anger in his eyes. he wrapped his barbed wire tighter around his throat. collapse on himself and he would be a weakling, a failure. a wasted existence he would never be content with. atticus svenenström liked to consider himself balanced, thank you very much. "…it's not supposed to get creepy." he smiled again as she rambled on. "try not to judge based on vocabulary. culture and all." he was getting offtrack. he wanted to forget why he was here in the first place. he was bored. bored and agitated because he was given such a pathetic assignment. the emotion was not supposed to be leaking into his words. fuck. as she mentioned alcohol and agreeing and something else, he merely shrugged again and slipped his sunglasses back over his eyes. she offset him, made him feel useless and stupid. and he didn't know it. he didn't like it.

without another word, he didn't bother to look across the street as he walked through it. screw traffic. paying no attention to whether she was following him or not, atticus weaved through the crowds with too much, down half a block and toward a bar he preferred. it was not the inferno hotel and casino. he could be less of a lie here. blinking in the air conditioned doorway, he held it open for her impatiently. "hey, mike, vodka-diet for me. put this lovely lady's on my tab as well, once she decides to enter this lovely establishment and order." he smiled again, raising his eyebrows as he gripped the door knob, and motioned into the bar again.</sub>[/blockquote][/blockquote]

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TAGGED, liven' it up <3
LENGTH, 1795 words.
ATTIRE, hurr.
NOTES, i really don't like this post.
CREDITS, format to me. gif to tumblr.
lyrics to placebo - "ask for answers"

[/blockquote]

[elizabeth sirena hughes]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i583.photobucket.com/albums/ss279/legendskseeker/fk5qwnjpg.png); padding: 30px; border: #5a1236 solid 30px; ] Follow her, lie in the willow and dead OUTFIT: HERE. TAGGED: liven<3 --- LATELY her role at the Siren house was to be a fucking baby sitter. Kale was... Kale. Widow was Widow but even worse, she was a zeno-psychopath version of Widow. Moodier and bitchier than ever without any explanation. Orion was a godsend but he was at work most of the time. In all honesty, Liz was simply tired about worrying about everyone else. What happened to fun Liz? Oh right, she died when she killed her brother... or maybe she died with Kenny? Or maybe it wasn't until Isabel? Or maybe... fuck, she needed death to stop following her around. Liz had been in some dark places before, but but she could honestly say she had never been in this bored limbo before, never the less a bored limbo in which she was worried all the time as well. It was a strange place for the girl to be. She blamed it on trying to take care of everyone. Liz had very few people left in her life and she would snap if she lost anyone else, especially when she could have stopped it somehow. She had killed and let too many people go. She finished with it. It was interesting though, of all the people she lost, she never seemed to think much about her mother. Her mother died giving birth to her. From Liz knew her mom was a good girl with a bad boy fetish, but Liz was never really curious like a lot Siren kids without moms were, or anyone without a mom. She never asked her father questions about her, not even as a kid. Daddy Hughes seduced her mom, Maria, and took advantage of her innocent views. He skipped protection of course. And nine months later she supposedly died giving birth to Liz. She never wondered about her mother, and she never seemed to question it because the truth was, growing up, her family was so huge, I mean she had twelve siblings for sucks sake and an infinite amount of cousins running around added to the Richardson and Davis kids and then the kids around Chicago... she just didn't care. There was too much to see, too many people around to feel that loss that most people would feel. Liz had aunts as female role models... sort of. Her aunts were not exactly role model types but you get the point. No, that loss was a strange one not to feel but Donny, Orion, Riley and even Widow. She couldn't handle any of them being hurt. She told herself that that was the reason she, in true paranoid fashion, had her trusty lucky hacker Donny investigate Kat. Learning the truth had made her sick to her stomach. She never understood why Riley kept getting fucked over with the women he picked. Kat probably being the queen bitch on the block, everything in Liz's gut wanted to run and tell the man she cared about that his new girlfriend was who she was but as much as it killed her to admit it, he might be safer not knowing and just playing it through. Which was why Liz had decided not to tell him. If she was using him and he found out and confronted her? It just wasn't right. It could put him in more danger. So she didn't. It was why she had come to Inferno. It was why she had come to the russians. Why she had been in the perfect location to run into this new man? The man did seem rather interesting. A mixture of the tortured soul, the sarcastic ass hole and oddly enough the boy scout. He seemed broken beyond repair but he struck her as someone who wanted to emulate evil as opposed to actually being pure evil, like the rest of the fucking russians. Don't misunderstand, Liz would never trust the guy, it was more, she was not as afraid of him as she would be if she had been approached by some of the other Russians she had seen around but at the end of the day, this man could be a brilliant actor. He could be just like Kat, willing to kill her entire family because the big bad boss decided to snap his fingers. It was sick. Liz killed one brother in self defense and nearly committed suicide from the guilt. It was soul crushing for her. Her dad put out a hit on her name, after all darren was the first born. But guilt was tearing her apart so when her other brother, Orion showed up to kill her, she wasn't even going to fight it. To her surprise, he didn't have the heart. He refused and together, them, Donny and Isabel faked her death. Soon their niece Widow, Darren's daughter arrived, she pretended to want to black mail liz but it was found out she was only scared and unhappy and needed a reason they would let her stay. Liz told no one RIley was there. Not even when her guilt pushed her to Confess to the FBI agent Tony Giovanni. But they couldn't do anything, no body was found and by the sounds of it, it was self defense, she still didn't tell anyone about riley. It was all about protecting him, it was always about protecting him... God she was pathetic. "try not to judge based on vocabulary. culture and all." Liz raised an eyebrow at the brunette boy and scoffed, "Bullshit!" She exclaimed, "Don't try to throw all that relativistic crap at me, you know just as well as I if the first thing I said back to you was 'woah bro, chill' you would have judged me differently." She replied with slight amusement in her tone, her voice mimicking a surfer during the demonstration. It was true though. People who speak ebonics or cockney because of their vocabulary and pronunciations are judged as unintelligent or under-educated. It's not fact, but the judgement's existence was. People who speak with an Oxford accent and dress smartly are judged as intelligent, wealthy, classy, again not always true. Liz had a thick midwestern accent that clearly turned a bit street as she got snarky or pissed off, her clothes added to the manner in which she spoke screamed inner city white girl. She knew that. She embraced that. But she nodded as they decided to go for a drink, which oddly made that sound like much more of a pick up than it was supposed to. She walked into the bar and scrunched her nose up slightly as he ordered a vodka diet. She hated anything diet. She shook her head slightly and nodded up to the bartender. "Snake bite with yukon, thrown onto the rocks, thanks." She said to the bartender. Snake bite was her favorite shot, but she found out a long time ago, ask them to put it on rocks for ya, you end up getting a sippable drink, that was incredibly strong and they give you more actual drink but you still only pay for it as a shot. She looked over at the man and shrugged, "So Swedish-Ruskie, how did that work out for ya Sven?" She asked, emphasizing his name a bit, just so he knew she knew his name without being told just like he knew her's. Fair ground and all. It stains on the way I'd rather leave it behind

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TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY TAKIDA

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