#gyataborn

[drtyydiana]

it’s 1984.  

this place feels nothing like home—in a way that makes her feel like she has no business being here,  like an outsider lingering on the fringes.  she does not feel like herself.  it’s unwelcoming,  and she expects nothing more,  nothing less in a city slowly eating itself like an ourboros.  in between the stumbling zombies down the fractured sidewalks—there’s nothing behind their eyes but desperation,  the white banners hosted on windows stating that “the police are watching this crack block,”  and unfamiliar faces on every single corner,  catcalling and whistlings—she keeps a razor-sharped pocketknife in her pocket and a can of mace in the other.  but she knows her mother did not have her best interest in mind.   diana was tired of it,  didn’t want to be around it.  she recalls telling her moms,  and her papi,  she wanted out.  her father agreed with the promise that after one more year of selling out of her school’s work program to the white kids of the 1%,  then she’ll be free.  her mother said nothing.  then the raids started.  

papi had gotten locked up almost 6 months ago,  a few days before her eighteenth birthday.  the dea knocked down the door to their apartment complex—carrying him out in shackles and handcuffs with rapid curses falling from his mouth in his first language.  the feds did not pay to repair the damage.  they didn’t find anything in their residence.  but that didn’t matter—they had been watching them all for a while,  enough to build a solid foundation for a case.  she recalls monet turning to her—you stay here,  you work.  if you have no intention to help fix what your father fucked up,  you leave.  she left.  her school behind—thousands of dollars of tuition and credit hours,  inches from her second year as a political science,  pre-law student.  her brothers behind.   

sending diana away to live with one of her mother’s cousins,  michelle,  had been a decision that her father had no say in.  the nonsense belief that if she kept her head down over here,  she’ll be fine.  the family was sought after back home,  from the feds,  from folks her parents screwed over.  to her mother,  she was the easiest target.   she was young,  but she wasn’t naive,  and hurling her across the country wouldn’t solve the gapping wound,  the fissure in their family left back home.  cousin michelle married a trini man,  daniel.  they had no children,  but an older pitbull that had seen better days and a small two-bedroom apartment in imperial courts.  she took the bedroom facing the courtyard. 

kept her window sealed shut and curtains closed like the room was her private cell.  didn’t spare one glance at the men gathered around,  always playing music,  always dealing under the street lights in the center.  occasionally,  she’ll see maurice skating by,  obnoxiously loud, on top of the roof.  her sleep is persistently broken by someone’s baby crying in the apartment next to hers and a couple fighting to the left,  the sound of fists and a cry for help that she ignores as she turns over in bed. 

michelle worked as a nurse,  mostly night shifts—picking up hours in the day doing extra work with the hiv patients at the local clinic,  and daniel spent most of the days,  including weekends,  away working as a welder in long beach.  she never saw much of either of them and intended to keep it that way.  monet periodically sent money down for the married couple as a business testament,  but diana didn't see much of it,  just enough to keep her alive in this hellscape that served as no alternative to what she was forced to leave behind.  maybe it was intentional.  perhaps,  she wanted her dead without having to pull the trigger herself.  it sounded so akin to the behaviors of that woman.  but hypotheticals did nothing for her,  and she didn’t waste her time dwelling on the psychosis of her mother.  

she spent the bulk of her time studying,  gathering pamphlets for local community colleges to apply to—she had no intention of staying here longer than needed; as soon as she could apply,  get away… she would and ignoring everyone,  everything around her.  but she was not oblivious.  every inch of this forsaken country was infected.  there was no escaping,  that drug made them blind and craving more,  more.  the corner boys were easily replaceable if they were struck down by a bullet or even their own blind stupidity.  always so stupid.  she could hear her moms criticize their stupidity.  the rest of her time was spent working her part-time job at the corner store—small,  owned by a couple of vietnamese,  and not too far from where she lived.   the fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in a sickening,  crusty yellow glow.  the rows of candy and chip bags and a sign that says “no minors” over the cigarette case slightly obscure her vision.  hours spent ringing up ungrateful customers,  throwing shit into bags—mostly 40s,  cheap wines, and newports,  and praying that today isn’t one of the unfortunate days someone decided to hit the place up for the fifty dollars in the cash register.  a quick fix for them in exchange for a bullet in her head.  she leans over the counter,  flipping through a la times newspaper,  scanning the front and back articles.  gliding her pink nails across the page. 

each story was the same,  crossfires,  the spread of disease,  the spread of violence,  and president reagan’s inaction with the disease and overaction with drug enforcement.  the bell rings, signifying someone is entering the store,  followed by music blasting from someone’s boombox.  she doesn’t bother looking up,  grinds her teeth,  and flips the page harder.  she has 30 minutes left on her shift—it ain’t worth it.  ‘ i ain’t need to fuckin’ hear myself think,  anyway .’  sarcasm tumbling behind her words.

@gyataborn

[drtyydiana]

she grabs the container of hair grease out of the bathroom medicine cabinet—the strongest hold she could find, picking up a comb on her way to the living room. an air of determination behind her actions. ‘  it's time to tame that mane, lee.  ’

@gyataborn

[drtyydiana]

#ONLYGRL        an independent and selective roleplay blog for  DIANA TEJADA   from POWER BOOK TWO: GHOST

───── depicted themes and warnings. organized crime, depictions of abuse, drug trafficking, murder, gun violence, racketeering, loyalty, misogyny, prison industrial complex, fallen legacies, manipulation, gangs, law enforcement corruption, racial tension, and discrimination, the complication of mother and daughter relationships. heavily plot-based and with significant periods of low to medium activity; she/her, 25+, black, central standard time. alias, venus. iconless. AFFILIATED WITH GYATABORN

                             ¹DOSSIER, ²PINTEREST, & ³PLAYLIST RULES BELOW

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ONE. my name is venus. my pronouns are she/her. i’m of legal age / 31. central standard time. mun=/=muse, that typical statement.

TWO. (FOLLOWING) mutuals only. 18+. PERSONALS DO NOT REBLOG MY HEADCANONS OR CONTENT.

― this muse is quite plot-heavily and this blog will reflect that. i personally prefer character development and my level of selectivity will reflect that. i will mostly follow those who post role-play content, head-canons, etc. i’m here to write. i’m opened to following canons and ocs. i will love on them all. i love ocs so much.

― i would love to write with everyone immediately, but that’s also not very logical. i’m a professor and administrator in university (oh that’s so weird to say). i will probably be slow at time, but i will WRITE with you. shoot me a message and we can cook something up. mains get priority as far as replies and edits go. guilt-trips don’t work on me. i really don’t care about your drama or other people’s drama if i don’t like something, i unfollow or block. if its something completely horrifying, i’ll probably report it to tumblr if it violates their terms of services. i participate in block culture. simple as that. and that goes both ways. if you don’t like what i post, unfollow please. make yourself comfortable.

THREE. (ETIQUETTE) follow all the basic rules of roleplaying: no godmodding, metagaming, etc. my asks are always opened. if you think my characterization or portrayal is inaccurate, then that’s you

TL;DR FOR BIO: power is some black ass media. so i know most of ya'll don't even know what it is. yall don't even be rping with black chars like that in general. but she's easily transferable to a multitude of medias, mcu -- esp luke cage, daredevil, punisher, as her char is based in nyc, breaking bad, etc.

she's the youngest tejada child in power book 2 ghost and the only girl, hence my url. her family is deep in the drug dealing business. her father was released from prison after doing a long stint. her family is currently, season 3, under surveillance by NYPD and the feds. she actively participates and utilizes her cover as a college student to help the family business. her mother is a terrible person, verbally and mentally abusive/controlling. and very very manipulative. manipulated diana into getting a cop murdered for looking too close into their crimes. her brothers collectively have a host of bodies and too many enemies. she wants out from everything and her father was willing to let her step away. however, her mother orchestrated the murder of her father for two reasons, 1) so she can take over. 2) revenge for her father accidentally killing her mother's secret son.

her family has a series of beefs and ongoing war disputes with the russians. in her main verse, she's unaware that her mother killed her father. but this will be updated if she canonically figures out as the season progress. i will update this info accordingly.

she's of african american and puerto rican descent.