gunner azarova / d9 / (fin)

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. Graphics 3,094 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Apr 25, 2024 20:49:16 GMT -5	gunner azarova / d9 / (fin) Jul 1, 2019 13:29:46 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 1, 2019 13:29:46 GMT -5 *g u n n e r a z a r o v a* district nine eighteen sharpshooter ultra-violence
	Last Edit: Jul 3, 2019 12:23:51 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. 堕落天使

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. Graphics 3,094 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Apr 25, 2024 20:49:16 GMT -5	gunner azarova / d9 / (fin) Jul 1, 2019 13:56:48 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 1, 2019 13:56:48 GMT -5 Never has there been a boy so ravenous for death; never has there been a boy with such calloused hands.
	Last Edit: Jul 1, 2019 13:57:33 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. 堕落天使

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
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last seen Apr 25, 2024 20:49:16 GMT -5

gunner azarova / d9 / (fin) Jul 2, 2019 13:48:04 GMT -5

Quote

Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 2, 2019 13:48:04 GMT -5

bite my tongue, bide my time
wearing a warning sign
wait 'til the world is mine

He grew from the rot.

No, Gunner corrected himself, not grew, but born. He was born of the rot, with knife-like claws, jagged shrapnel for teeth, and a thirst. He had bite and he had strangers' blood across his mouth to prove it, tasting of coins. He had violence and he had the bruises across his knuckles to prove it, each one purple and aswirl like a forgotten galaxy. All things feral howled within him, a song of teeth and bone, and forever asked to tear the world apart.

The first thing Gunner's tongue ever tasted was dirt and dust, not the warmth of a mother's milk. From time to time, that rancid taste of dirt would arise in the cavern of his mouth, prompting him to wonder whether the taste had returned or if he had simply grown familiar with it. And, ever since he was young, dirt and dust were all he knew. They caked the windowsills of his first, rundown orphanage. He remembered the dawns he would spend, watching the first sunbeams seeping in through the scratched glass to light up the dancing particles of dust. He remembered watching them settle on the sills, like gold dust, and scattered across the room and for a few seconds, a young Gunner thought of himself as regal, a king draped in gold. Then, he would look around the room, see the worn, flat mattress on dirty floorboards, smell the rot and the decay, taste the dirt and the dust on his tongue, and feel his delusions of grandeur dissolve into hopelessness.

He stopped envisaging himself as king weeks later. Gunner Azarova was a rotten thing, cheeks streaked with dirt and lungs swollen with dirt. That was all he was destined to be, a wayward son, and no one could outrun their destiny. He took his lies and his delusions by their necks, and wrung them to death. He was no king, he thought, and then repeated that thought over and over in his head, letting it ricochet about. Instead of royal rings, Gunner wore silver brass knuckles. His regal robes were either tattered rags, or heavy leather jackets gifted to him by the crime gangs he maneuvered in and out of. His scepter was his fist and he ruled with it, mercilessly, a symbol of violence rather than sovereignty. The diadem resting atop his head was nothing but a circlet of bones, each one belonging to his foes. If he were to be a king, he would make himself a tyrant, determined to force the world down to its knees before him.

The name Gunner Azarova was a mere batch code, an alias, something kindred to a name etched upon an iron leash that hung from a canine's neck. It was something ephemeral that belonged to an equally ephemeral thing. When Gunner was given to the orphanage, by a person they refused to describe due to confidentiality issues, they gave him no name, no identity. He had to sought out his own name and make his bones. One gang leader suggested the name Gunner, basing it on the incredible prowess he learnt he had with guns. It was no surprise that a boy littered with bullet-holes could create them in other things with haunting precision. Guns, whenever they were in Gunner's hands, became the deadliest vipers and the fiercest beasts. And, he loved the entire process of shooting a pistol, from pulling the sensitive trigger to the exploding gunpowder that clung to his cheeks like graphite flecks. Whenever there was a gun in Gunner's hand, he was the reaper himself, a black death, a dark scythe raised for harvest. His favorite ones were stolen from a rich merchant's home, twin revolvers with gold accents etched onto the grips and a bronze housing that would warm up, as if it were breathing, whenever a bullet was shot.

Gunner Azarova was a name that was more than a simple assemblage of words. It was an incantation, a rite, a warning sign. It was synonymous with hazard and antonymous with peace. Every time his name left the cavern of someone's mouth, they shivered beforehand or warded off an invisible evil.

He was twelve when they stumbled upon his young silhouette in the bleeding alleyway, with a writhing body fallen near the altar of his feet. Gunner would never forget the reports—child strangles pickpocket—and he would never stop being thankful for that single ordeal for thrusting him into the dark grid of crime, into the path lit only by macabre shadows and cruel moonlight. It granted him the recognition he needed to become Gunner Azarova, to become the rotten thing he was destined to be.

Everything about Gunner Azarova soon became prominent to every gang member and every thug or crook in the district, passed on from one tongue to another through loose talks and abridged stories. His hair, wiry and as dark as burned coal, was rumored to always smell like gunpowder and so did the rest of him. They were callouses on his fingertips, each one the undeniable mark of a sharpshooter, and when his hand was shaken, they said it felt akin to sandpaper, the skin covering it coarse and abrasive. A boy he partnered with for a bounty case said his eyes resembled perilous storms, always shifting hues, alive, dangerous. He called him a storm too, electric-blue lightning in his veins, thunder snarling within his heartbeat. Gunner laughed at his oval face before colliding it with his own, mouth opening over the other’s smaller one.

He tasted as most boys in Nine did, which was like rust and barbed wires.

“No, not a storm,” a new boy said, his butterfly knife tracing lazy circles upon your chiseled collarbones, “you’re an inferno, always burning.” Gunner laughed at him too, tendrils of gaseous nicotine escaping from his ajar lips like miniature ghosts. He leaned in to kiss him, sharp mouth over sharp mouth, and this time, the one thing he can taste is the smoke dancing within his mouth. “Yeah,” the boy’s cheeks rose in a grin, “you taste like something that had been burnt to a crisp.”

Gunner envisaged himself as the lone carcass of a house, with its guts so badly burned out that the lone remnants were embers, burned, and ashes, sifting. The metaphor made sense.

“I am something that had been burnt to a crisp,” he said, making the fiery end of his cigarette spark with a slow intake of breath.

The new boy brought himself closer to his side and guided Gunner’s calloused fingertips into his brown threads. He combed through them once, and then rose to his two feet, his scarred back given to the other. “There was poison in the drink I gave you earlier,” Gunner said, curtly, letting his cigarette fall to the wooden floorboards. He crushed it with the strong heel of his dark boots before everything could catch fire, but it felt as if the whole room was already on fire, burning as a funeral pyre would. “Pay Mr. Salvatore his loan back and get the antidote,” he fished out the gun tucked discreetly into his boot, a brown-accented pistol that was more makeshift than machine but just as deadly. He turned the barrel of the gun towards the boy’s beautiful countenance and hoped the other was too stricken with surprise to see him wince.

“Or, die.”

As did every single shot that burst from his pistols reverberate on itself in the rotting hollows of his forsaken heart, so did this one.

you should see me in a crown
i'm gonna run this nothing town
watch me make 'em bow

lyrics: billie eilish — see me in a crown

Last Edit: Jul 3, 2019 12:26:04 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

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gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. Graphics 3,094 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Apr 25, 2024 20:49:16 GMT -5	gunner azarova / d9 / (fin) Jul 3, 2019 12:23:43 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 3, 2019 12:23:43 GMT -5 fin fin fin ! ripred_bot
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gunner azarova / d9 / (fin) Jul 4, 2019 14:23:18 GMT -5

Quote

Post by gamemaker 🍒 maryn hale on Jul 4, 2019 14:23:18 GMT -5

" All things feral howled within him,
a song of teeth and bone,
and forever asked to tear the world apart. "

decay is the most powerful thing;
the world and all of its creatures are rotting together

and gunner is the prince of it;
he is a ghost that refuses to let his body go
— these scars are his

& I hope he haunts me