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immabethehero · 3 years

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Henrik but he’s Baymax

Hey so! A little while ago on a discord server, I suddenly came up with the idea of Henrik as Baymax, and this story spawned from it. Should I make more content for it, I’ll call it Henrik Healthcare Provider.

CW: Death mention, food mention, self-neglect and slight starvation, coma mention, hospital mention

@leobashi I know you were excited about this!

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Chase lies in bed, his arms wrapped around a pillow as he stares blankly at the wall. The curtains are closed, only bits of sunshine peeking through. A plate of cold, untouched food sits on his desk. He can’t remember how long it’s been since he last slept or moved. He sighs and closes his eyes. Maybe this time he won’t get nightmares.

Someone knocks on the door. Chase keeps his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. He hears someone open the door. A waft of eggs, bacon and hashbrowns fills the stuffy room.

“Morning, Chase,” a voice whispers. It’s Marvin bringing him food today. Chase wills him to put the food down and leave.

He hears steps and the plate being set down, but instead of closing the door, he hears footsteps coming toward him, and then a weight beside him on the bed. A hand gently strokes his hair.

“You should come down soon. The others miss seeing you,” Marvin says. “Sleep well, Chase. I hope you feel better soon.” The weight disappears and Chase hears the door close.

Chase groans and sits up, his body aching from lying still for too long. He supposes he should get outside his room soon. It’s what Jack would want him to do.

Chase’s stomach drops and his eyes water as soon as the thought enters his head. He misses Jack so much. His roommate, his rock, his best friend. It has been two weeks since the fire that had rendered Jack unconscious when he ran in to save their robotics professor. The building had exploded in flames, and while Jack was rescued by firefighters and immediately rushed to the hospital, their professor was not so lucky. Jack now resides in the hospital, bandages covering nasty burn wounds, and a breathing tube up his nose. Chase visits whenever he can, saying hello and catching him up on life, before leaving to lie in bed until the next time he could see him.

Chase slowly stands up and stumbles over to his wardrobe. He opens it and begins rummaging through for clean pants to wear. He grabs a pair of navy jeans and slams the drawer on his finger.

“OW!” Chase yelps, yanking his finger out and holding it close. He groans in pain, holding his finger.

Suddenly, he hears a beeping sound from behind him and the sound of something stirring to life. He turns around and gasps as two ice blue eyes stare back at him.

“Who are you?!” Chase demands, his voice hoarse from disuse.

A figure steps out from the dark shadows of the room, the sunlight peeking out from behind the blinds shining on a human body.

Chase makes out a man with soft brown hair, a light blue shirt and khakis underneath a white doctor’s coat. The man observes Chase with a friendly expression on his face. A very small pair of glasses sits on his nose. They look more like two connected dots. The man lifts his hand robotically and waves.

“Hello, I am Henrik, your personal healthcare companion,” he says. His voice is soft with a German accent.

“Henrik! I didn’t know you were still active,” Chase says, shocked. He had almost forgotten Jack bringing home his creepy, life-sized robot doctor. Jack had worked for a whole 6 months on the robot, fitting him up with over 1000 healthcare protocols and procedures. At the cry of “ow”, the robot awakens.

“I heard a sound of distress. What seems to be the trouble?” Henrik asks, tilting his head.

“I just pinched my finger, I’ll be alright,” Chase says, shrugging.

Henrik blinks and his glasses project a screen in the air. Ten faces appear, each with a number. “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?”

“Zero? I’m fine, it’s already gone,” Chase says. “You can go back to sleep now.”

Henrik leans over to inspect the wound. “Does it hurt when I touch it?” he asks as he lifts his hand up.

“Please do not touch me,” Chase snaps, stepping back. Henrik ignores him, stepping closer to see his finger. Chase stumbles and falls backwards into the space between the wardrobe and the wall.

Henrik stares down at him, expression still neutral. “You have fallen.”

“You think?” Chase scoffs. He grabs a shelf to pull himself up, only for the shelf to break and trinkets to slide down on him. All the while, Henrik asks,

“On a scale of-”

“OW!”

“On a scale of-”

“AGH!”

“On a scale of-”

“Eugh!”

“On a scale of on-”

A particularly heavy trophy lands on Chase’s tenders. He emits a high pitched cry.

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?”

“Zero,” Chase squeaks, holding his sore tenders.

Henrik pulls Chase out of the rubble and hugs him tightly. “It is alright to cry. Crying is a natural response to pain.”

Chase pulls himself out of Henrik’s grip. “I’m not crying!”

“I will scan you for injuries,” Henrik says.

“Don’t scan me,” Chase orders.

Henrik blinks. “Scan complete.”

“Unbelievable.”

“You have sustained no injuries, but you lack necessary nutrients in your body. Have you eaten today?”

“Yes,” Chase snaps. Right on cue, his stomach growls. He sighs.

Henrik does not react in the slightest. Marvin or Jameson would have shaken their heads, Jackie and Jack would have immediately run off to grab Chase a snack. Instead, Henrik looks around the room, before taking notice of the food on Chase’s desk. He walks over and bends down.

“Someone has left you some food. You should eat,” Henrik finally says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have not eaten in a while, you must do so before you faint from hunger and dizziness. I will warm up your food.” Henrik rubs his hands together and hovers them over the food. Chase stares incredulously. He didn’t know Henrik could do that.

“Uh, it’s alright, I’ve already had enough.”

“Your diet and nutrient history says otherwise.”

“Smartass.”

“Your food is warm now. Enjoy your meal.” Henrik stands up and backs up to let Chase sit down and eat. Chase refuses to move.

“You must eat, Chase. It is not healthy to neglect your stomach and diet. You will not feel well and any task you put your mind to will be finished inadequately.”

Chase sighs and sits down, taking the fork and stabbing his omelette with it, then shoving it in his mouth. He glares at Henrik. “Happy?”

“Are you happy?” Henrik shoots back, face neutral as always.

Marvin would have stormed out in frustration by now, Jackie would have left to let him cool down. Jameson would have sat down to read, staying only to make sure Chase finished his meal, a look of annoyance on his face. In the months that Chase has seen the robot awake, Henrik has never shown any emotion. He never told Jack, but it unnerves him to no end.

“No? Yes? I don’t know,” Chase says.

“How does the food taste?” Henrik asks.

“It’s alright,” Chase says, moving on to the bacon. “You want some?”

“I am a robot. I cannot eat,” Henrik reminds him. Henrik smiles for the first time. Chase relaxes a little. Maybe he does have emotions.

“Right, sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you,” Chase says.

“I am a robot. I cannot be offended,” Henrik says.

Chase can’t help but laugh. It startles him a little. He hasn’t laughed in a while. Henrik tilts his head in confusion. His expression only makes Chase laugh more.

The door suddenly swings open and Jackie, Marvin and Jameson all run in.

“We heard a bang, are you alright?” Jameson signs, worried. Chase nods, still laughing.

“Oh, you’re smiling again, Chase. I haven’t seen you smile in such a long time,” Marvin remarks.

Jackie observes Henrik, who gives him a quick look and says, “I sense your temperature is higher than normal. Are you feeling well?”

“Absolutely…” Jackie responds, only half-paying attention. “Chase, who is this?”

“Henrik, Jack’s robot that he’s been working on. He’s a robotic nurse.”

“I am equipped with over 1000 healthcare procedures and protocols. Jack made me in the hopes of helping people access quicker healthcare,” Henrik explains.

“He looks amazing!” Jameson exclaims. “It’s amazing what mankind can do with technology!”

Henrik watches as Jameson lifts his arm up to examine him. “Your neurotransmitter levels indicate that you are happy.”

“I am!” Jameson says. “Wait, how does he know sign language?”

“Jack programmed me to understand up to 100 languages, including BSL, your current language,” Henrik says.

“Amazing! Imagine how many people Henrik can help!” Jameson cries in delight, clapping his hands.

“How did he get in your room? I thought he was back at the workshop,” Marvin says.

“Jack brought him home because they needed space,” Chase says. “Our own garage was filled with my own project, so I let him take my room for the meantime.”

“Where is Jack?” Henrik suddenly asks. “He is usually with me when I am awake.”

The atmosphere in the room immediately sullens. Chase sighs and rubs a hand over his face.

“He’s... in the hospital,” he says.

“Is he alright? When will he return?” Henrik asks.

“When he wakes up. He’s in a coma.”

“Oh.” Henrik’s face remains neutral. Chase scowls at the robot’s lack of emotion.

“Yeah.”

“I am sorry to hear that. But with patience and enough healing, I am sure he will awaken,” Henrik says.

“That’s what the doctors keep telling us,” Marvin says, hugging himself.

Henrik walks over to the computer and puts his hand on it. His glasses project a screen and images fly by.

“What are you doing?” Jackie asks.

“I am downloading information on comas and its effects on both patients and family members of patients,” Henrik says. “Information dictates that visiting the patient regularly can help improve the probability of the patient waking up.”

“I know that,” Chase says. “I’ve been doing that all week.”

“Physical and verbal reassurance can help loved ones cope with the current state of the patient,” Henrik continues. He crosses over to Chase and hugs him, the movement stiff but welcoming. Chase awkwardly leans into the hug.

“Everything will be alright. There, there,” Henrik soothes, patting his head. Chase chuckles.

“Thanks, Henrik. It’s appreciated.”

Henrik nods and pulls away. “If there is anything else you need, I will be nearby. But for now, I cannot deactivate until you say you are satisfied with your care.”

“Already? You just woke up,” Jackie protests.

“I do not see a reason for me to be here at the very moment. I am simply taking up space.”

Jackie’s heart sinks a little for the robot. Even though Henrik meant it in very different circumstances, Jackie can’t help being reminded of the thousand times his human friends have said that. He gently grabs the robot’s arm.

“Why don’t you stay out a little longer? We’d love to give you a tour of the house,” he suggests.

Chase raises an eyebrow. “We?”

“Will that help improve your mental state?” Henrik asks.

“Maybe?” Jackie says. The other shrug.

Henrik blinks. “Alright then. Lead the way.”

Jackie walks out, Marvin and Jameson following behind him. Henrik begins to exit, but hesitates when he sees Chase remain where he is.

“Are you not coming?” Henrik asks.

“I think I’ll pass. I’ve seen the house before.”

“Some exercise and fresh air will improve your health, both physically and mentally.”

“You don’t give up easily, do you?”

“Come outside, Chase. Today’s weather is a high of 20 degrees with sunshine. You might enjoy it.”

Chase sighs and stands up, taking the plate with him. “Coming.”

Henrik smiles once more. “Good.”

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#apparently i can write #writing #immabethehero #writersofjack #writers of jack #dr. schneeplestein #chase brody #jacksepticeye #big hero 6 #henrik healthcare provider

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bunnyhanasong · 5 years

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Lost and Found

Main ship: pharmercy

Side ships: n/a

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, reunion

Synopsis: Dr. Angela Ziegler has spent years focusing solely on her work and saving lives. When a familiar face comes to her in the worst way imagined, the level-headed doctor is left battling logic and emotion in a way she never wished to experience.

Note: This is a short story that I wrote for my creative writing course last semester that I have edited to contain Pharah and Mercy as opposed to my original characters I submitted it with. As I was writing it, I noticed how much inspiration I had taken from Pharmercy with the doctorxsoldier trope, so I thought I would edit it and post as a fan fic since I'm rather fond of it and got a very good mark on it. So, Mr. O if you're reading this; yes this short story was basically gay Overwatch fan fiction lmao. For now this is just a oneshot, though I have thought about expanding the story in the future. Feedback, comments, and suggestions for future pieces in this universe are very much appreciated and will motivate me to write again for this!

Content warnings: canon typical violence, medical talk, military talk, PTSD, traumatic injuries, takes place in a hospital

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Incoming trauma, IED blast with three major casualties; one DOA, two in critical condition.

Angela groaned as her pager beeped angrily at her, the words highlighting the screen causing her to shoot up from her bunk. The on-call room was dark and there were at least two other pagers beeping away, trying to get their owners up to meet the trauma. The bottom bunk she had been occupying for less than 45 minutes, though not exactly the pinnacle of comfort, was warm and inviting in that moment. Still, she pushed herself up and made to leave, trying to pull her blonde hair into a haphazard bun as she followed the other doctors out into the hallway.

The doctor and nurse in front of Angela were chattering in what she knew was Arabic, though her minimal knowledge in the language rendered eavesdropping nearly impossible. Angela was from Switzerland originally, so she only spoke German and English, the latter being thanks to school. She had chosen to learn English throughout high school and university, which came in handy since that was the tongue she spoke predominantly here. She was the head doctor of a Swiss medical aid team, sent to a military base outside of Cairo, Egypt to help their short-staffed trauma centre. None of her team knew Arabic, save for a few phrases, so they were relying on each other and their English knowledge to get them through the mission. As the head doctor and the most fluent English speaker, Angela was the one who received the most information from the Military doctors.

“Dr. Ziegler,” an accented voice brought Angela’s attention to the nurses’ station across the trauma bay. She made her way to the nurse who had said her name, a kind, stout Egyptian woman by the name of Salma. She had been the friendliest nurse by far and welcomed the Swiss doctors warmly. Coming to stand by the triage desk, Angela asked the nurse for more information on what had occurred.

“Our military had sent a team to patrol a territory not far from the base where reports had been made of criminal activity. I guess they stepped too close to unmapped land, an IED mine went off before anyone could react. We lost one immediately, the other two are on the bus in critical condition; ETA 10 minutes.”

Angela nodded along with her words, feeling her stomach sink at the fact that they lost a patient already. She shook off the thought though, no sense in getting emotional now; she would just need to focus on keeping the remaining two alive. She had already seen her fair share of explosion aftermath in her two weeks on base already, which was a terrifying wake up call for the woman. Still, as a doctor she had learned quickly that one must separate feelings from work, otherwise the emotional impact of the job would have put her out of commission years ago. She kept this in mind as she left the nurses’ station, passing a group of Egyptian staff barking orders in Arabic and making her way to a familiar redheaded woman.

“Ange!” the younger doctor greeted Angela in German with a sign of relief, “We have no idea where to even start with this. Do you have any more information on the trauma?”

Amelia Schmidt, 35-year-old and a cardio surgeon by trade, though here she had switched from daily open heart surgeries to more frequent traumas and millions of sutures. She had been Angela’s closest friend since they started working at the same hospital almost about eight years prior. She was certainly a spunky person, always ready to jump into action and meet the problem head on. Being in Egypt was changing that for Amelia though, she felt very out of her element and was finding herself relying on Angela a lot more than usual. The language barrier was certainly difficult, not to mention the culture shock, and Amelia finally felt the overwhelming weight of her profession full force. Still, she never lost her spirit and still kept Angela and the others optimistic, her jovial attitude making nightshifts and long days a bit more bearable.

“Two casualties incoming, both soldiers. Landmine went off and they must have got the front of the blast. Jump in where you can and keep an eye on the younger doctors with us in case translation becomes a problem. If you need help with Arabic, let Salma know like always.”

Amelia nodded at her friend’s words, “Okay.”

Angela didn’t have time to ask her friend how things had been while she had taken a short nap, because the doors to the trauma bay crashed open. There was a lot of shouting in multiple languages as Dr. Ziegler tried to direct her staff in German while the local doctors did the same in their language. She ran up to the medic pushing a gurney, asking in her heavily accented English what they were looking at.

The paramedic looked slightly confused but thankfully answered the blonde woman in English after a moment’s pause, “Private Ahmed Abassi, age 23. GCS 8, responds to pressure but currently nonverbal and only semi-conscious. He was thrown by the explosion and has a suspected rib fracture and shoulder dislocation. Abdomen seems stiff, we assume some internal bleeding but could not get a portable ultrasound in the field.”

Angela nodded as they wheeled into a trauma room, stopping so she could pull on a pair of gloves. She worked with the nurses who had come to help, doing a secondary scan of the patient’s body. She identified some shrapnel that caused superficial wounds but her main concern was the distention of his abdomen and the apparent pain response the young soldier had to it. He was barely conscious but groaned in pain as she palpated the area, apologizing to him gently in Arabic as she continued to check his chest and torso for injuries. Though her words were jumbled and she stuttered more than she liked, Angela still made sure to speak to her patient calmly through her exam, just in case he was more aware than they thought. She asked a nurse to get the portable ultrasound and x-ray so they could check for internal injuries, which was her greatest concern in that moment. As she was monitoring his vitals and reassessing his condition on the coma scale chart, one of her younger doctors ran into the room.

“Dr. Ziegler,” the young man asked in a slightly overwhelmed tone, “Dr. Khan is asking for your help in trauma one.”

Angela nodded and turned to a nurse she knew spoke English, “I will be back to check on Private Abassi in a bit, please get those blood tests and the type-and-cross orders ASAP.”

She followed the resident out into the hall and found Dr. Khan standing outside the trauma room in question. The Egyptian doctor was the head trauma surgeon there and was very no-nonsense. She was tall and slightly intimidating, years of military training apparent in her posture and demeanour. Still, she had been friendly and helpful to the visiting doctors, which Angela was thankful for. She didn’t even have a chance to ask what was wrong before the other woman spoke in a terse voice.

“Female in her early thirties. She is awake and noncompliant. Traumatic trans-radial amputation and other assumed injuries we cannot diagnose due to her adamance to leave. She needs to be examined and we need to operate but we first need to assess her mental state.”

Angela was a bit taken aback by the sudden information dump, “And you need me because...?”

“Your friend said you worked in psychology before switching to surgery, yes?”

Ah, so she wanted a psych consult. Angela had done a minor is psychology and worked as a psychiatrist for a couple years before deciding she much rather preferred the surgical side of her profession. It had been years since she had done a proper psych consult, but her knowledge of the workup and proper patient care had not escaped her.

“I did. Do you need me to do a workup now? Shouldn’t her physical injuries take priority?”

Dr. Khan shook her head, “We have reasons to believe this is a Post-Traumatic Stress attack. She took the biggest force of the explosion; witnesses say she threw herself towards it to protect her younger soldiers. She is a security chief, so we know she has seen a lot of battle already, and was held captive by enemy forces for a fortnight last year.”

“And unknown people touching her while she is in shock may cause her to become violent or prone to self-injury,” Angela concluded, nodding. She gestured for the trauma surgeon to take her to see the patient, following behind her into the room. It had been a while since she had done a proper psych evaluation, but she was hopeful that this would be simple and not include any communication barriers.

There was a large amount of hospital personnel in the room, surrounding a figure clad in a tattered military uniform. There was a group of nurses trying to dress the soldier’s arm, which had been amputated, probably by shrapnel, just below the elbow. That needed to be assessed and closed properly, but surgery was not an option until a proper workup was done. To do a workup though, they first needed to calm the patient so she would be compliant; which was already proving to be an issue. The soldier was thrashing in the nurses’ hold, trying to escape their grasp and the IV in her remaining arm.

Jumping into action, Angela waved away two security personnel who were trying to restraint the soldier’s wrist and ankles, “You are only making this worse by restraining her. Please refrain from touching the patient.”

Making her way towards the bed, she glanced back at Doctor Khan, “Patient name?”

She looked down at the patient and didn’t even hear Khan’s response. It wasn’t necessary; she new exactly who this was. If her name badge on her uniform, somehow still intact, wasn’t identifiable enough, the eye of Horus tattoo under her right eye gave away her identity. The patient’s terrified dark eyes met hers and Angela knew that there was recognition under the layers of shock and drug-induced haze.

“F-fareeha?” Angela murmured, shocked, and took a seat in the chair pulled up beside the hospital bed. She had already tuned out all the background noise of the room, focusing completely on the woman in front of her. She was trying very hard to separate emotions from the situation, but now that she knew who the patient was it was becoming increasingly difficult. Still, she had a job to do and that was the priority in this moment.

Returning her focus to the task at hand, Angela spoke softly to the injured soldier in front of her. She had obviously recognized the blonde doctor by now and was staring at her in confusion, as if she could not understand why Angela was in front of her. The way she looked at her was reassuring though, since she seemed responsive despite her injuries and apparent blood loss. Angela took a glance at the monitor for a moment to check her vitals, saw her heart rate and blood pressure were concerningly high, and took a moment to attempt to soothe the patient’s nerves.

“Fareeha, I need you to stay still, okay?” Angela tried again to reassume her doctor tone as she spoke to the soldier, “You need to let us take care of you. Take a deep breath for me, alright?”

The Egyptian woman tried to speak but she was having trouble, whether that be due to focusing issues or her pain. The other hospital staff were speaking loudly and it was clearly distracting the patient. She was trying to even her breathing like Angela asked, but too deep of an inhale caused her breathing to hitch and her whole body to flinch, which made her assume she had sustained some broken ribs. Fareeha fumbled around on the bed until she caught Angela’s hand with her remaining one, looking up at the doctor with tear-filled eyes. The blonde didn’t pull her hand away, sensing that she needed comfort in this moment, and just hushed her gently.

“Focus on me, alright? Can you understand me?” she had been speaking English the whole time, since she knew Fareeha knew it as well. It was easier than attempting to speak her rusty Arabic, which probably wouldn’t be understandable anyway considering how much her voice wavered. After a pause, Fareeha nodded shakily, wincing as her body disagreed with the movement.

“Good, stay still,” Angela was still holding her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, “You’re safe, Fareeha. You had an accident out in the field but we’re going to get you through this.”

Angela was trying her best to stay calm herself, speaking softly and keeping the patient’s focus on her. She knew she was letting her emotions get the better of her but she couldn’t help it. Not when Fareeha had such a tight grip on her hand and her eyes held so many questions and so much pain. Still, she knew the most important thing was to keep Fareeha distracted so her heart rate stayed down, wanting to avoid any more panic. She could see the nurses still trying to staunch the flow of blood from Fareeha’s amputation, silently praying that the patient stayed unaware of that aspect of her injury for the time being.

“M-my… my t-team?” the soldier’s voice was raspy and she spoke through gritted teeth but to Angela it was a relief to hear, “Are… t-they o…okay?”

That question made Angela hesitate, glancing back anxiously at Dr. Khan. She didn’t know how to respond to that, since she was not aware of how Ahmed’s condition was faring and did not even know the name of the soldier who had been killed by the blast. Fareeha squeezed her hand, trying to catch her attention again, and Angela sighed. Of course it was just like Fareeha to only care about her team when faced with life threatening injuries herself, ever the selfless hero she was.

“Private Abassi is in surgery right now, Chief Amari,” Khan supplied quickly, “Your other members are either back at base or in the waiting room.”

Angela did not want to lie to Fareeha but knew they could not tell her the truth about the deceased. It would not be fair to distress her like that, not now, and it would certainly ruin things after they had finally gotten her calm. The doctor just nodded along with the attending surgeon’s words, making eye contact with Fareeha.

“Fareeha, you need surgery,” though the extent of her injuries was not yet known, it was obvious she would need to be anesthetized to have her traumatic amputation corrected and cleaned up. She was unsure if the patient had even registered that she was missing her hand and forearm, most likely due to shock or the concern for her team she seemed to hold over her own health.

“Surgery?”

Angela hummed in affirmation, frowning at the way the younger woman sounded so confused, “Can you let the other doctors look you over? I promise you are safe; we just need to make sure you’re not bleeding internally or have any fractures we missed.”

It took a little more coaxing and Angela promising to stay right beside her before the younger woman agreed. The Swiss doctor held her hand the whole time, spoke to her gently in English and broken Arabic, hoping to calm her nerves. The doctor’s shaky attempt at speaking her mother tongue made Fareeha smile despite her pain, a familiar and warm sight that soothed Angela’s own anxieties. When Doctor Khan confirmed that Fareeha had suffered major bruising and a few rib fractures, as well as a concussion, she ordered some scans to make sure there was no bleeding or injury they had missed.

The other staff members were still bustling around, ordering scans and cleaning up the space. Angela had stepped away to speak to the attending doctor, explaining how she knew Fareeha and what steps they had to take now. The soldier in question was slumped back into the uncomfortable neck brace she was stuck in, still trying to crane her neck to see the only familiar face she knew in the room.

“Angie?”

The nickname Angela had not been called in years made her jump, sure Amelia called her “Ange” sometimes but that was different. There was a mixture of fondness and fear in Fareeha’s voice as she called out to the blonde doctor, who had been speaking to Khan in a hushed tone across the room. Turning her attention back to the patient who called for her, Fareeha’s dark eyes searching for reassurance before the unfamiliar nurses wheeled her to the operating theatre.

Angela walked back to her side, not even thinking as she reached out to brush matted dark hair off Fareeha’s face, “You’ll be alright, Fareehali.”

The affectionate nickname surprised the younger woman, “W-will you be here… when it’s d-done?”

Angela nodded, “Of course. I promise.” The fear and uncertainty was clear on her face and it broke Angela’s heart, seeing this strong soldier so scared. She held onto Fareeha’s hand for a little longer, promising her that the surgery would be over before she knew it and Fareeha was in good hands.

When she was reassured that there would be a familiar face there when she woke up, the solider let the staff members wheel her down the hallway. Angela was left in the hall by herself, dumbfounded by the situation she had just been thrown into. She went back to the trauma bay in a daze, worry eating away at her stomach as she slouched heavily against a wall.

“Ange?” Amelia’s cheerful voice drew her out of her thoughts, “You okay?”

Angela shrugged, already feeling the dull ache of a migraine throbbing in her skull, “Patient’s gone to surgery.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow, “You’re not operating? You have privileges here and usually you never pass up the chance to operate.”

The older woman had taken a seat in a chair, her head falling into her hands as she felt her body weighed down with the emotions she had tried to fight off. She stayed quiet for a moment as she tried to collect herself, feeling her friend’s concerned stare drilling into her. Angela didn’t raise her head to look at Amelia and her reply was muffled.

“Can’t operate. Not on her.”

“Who?”

Angela sighed, “The security chief with the traumatic amputation. She’s… uh… she’s my ex-girlfriend.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The first thing Fareeha was aware of when she woke up was the scent of disinfectant, which was so strong it felt like a hit to the face. The second thing she noticed was that her left arm was numb, and a quick glance down explained why. Her elbow was wrapped in a tight layer of bandages, but the rest of her lower arm was gone, an empty space on the bed where it should be. She recalled one of the nurses mentioning something about a traumatic amputation, but it had disappeared from her mind in a haze of adrenaline and pain medication. She was not too sure about much that had happened in the trauma room, to be honest; everything fuzzy with the weight of anesthetic. Now, though, the reality was hitting her; she was missing her left arm and might never fight again.

She felt a weight on her other arm and turned her head, much too fast which made her wince, and saw a familiar figure beside her. Angela Ziegler was there in all her glory, slumped over in a visitor’s chair that had been pulled as close to the bed as possible. She was fast asleep, her hand clutching tightly to Fareeha’s remaining one as if she would disappear if Angela let go. She was still clad in her beige scrubs, her rumpled white coat having been discarded over the back of the chair, and her hair was a mess, tumbling over her shoulders as if it had fallen from its haphazard knot. Despite her clear exhaustion and disheveled state, Fareeha would never be over how beautiful the Swiss woman was, and she felt her heart clench painfully as she remembered how bittersweet this reunion was.

Their breakup was not exactly a bad one; there had not been any ill feelings or fights. It was mostly a mutual decision out of necessity rather than falling out of love. Fareeha had been an exchange student in Switzerland back in her second year of University. She soon met Angela, a quiet and calculated med student well on her way to her degree. They quickly became friends and improved their English together as a means of communication. Like so many cliché love stories, their friendship grew closer until it was more than that. They dated for a while, Fareeha staying in Switzerland longer than her exchange had been for, and they were happy. Thing were good and Angela even made solid plans to visit her girlfriend the next summer in Egypt when she undoubtably would have to go home.

When Fareeha went back to Egypt, they made long distance work for a while and it was still okay. It was when the Egyptian woman told her girlfriend she would be joining the army that Angela knew things wouldn’t work out, not then anyway. They were too far apart and she needed to focus on her career, Fareeha’s military service would leave her plagued by fear for her partner’s safety and distract her from the hospital. Fareeha proposed a break, understanding Angela’s point of view but knew the older woman would never stop her from doing what she wanted. Angela had let her go without a fight and they parted ways, though there had been many tears on both sides and a long skype call of apologies and regrets.

They had stayed in touch at first, friendly and civil, but soon grew apart. Mostly due to Fareeha’s training and deployments, which prohibited her from using her phone often. Eventually their correspondence lulled until it stopped all together. It had been maybe three years since they last spoke by then and Fareeha was completely overwhelmed by the doctor’s presence. The fact that she was here though, since she must she have had work to be doing, was reassuring. It made her feel safe to have Angela here, especially since her mind threatened to swallow her in a whirlwind of memories and trauma. Though it didn’t stop the panic completely, Angela being there was enough to keep her from falling deep into her head in that moment.

The effects of the anesthetic were wearing off, though she still felt groggy from the IV of what she assumed was morphine. She certainly wasn’t complaining about the drugs though, since she knew her pain would have been almost blinding without the steady flow of pain relief into her bloodstream. Now that her head was clearer, Fareeha tried her hardest to distract herself from the overwhelming numbness she felt on her left side. She felt as though maybe the fact that she had had a traumatic amputation hadn’t sunk in completely beforehand, but now that the pain was breaking through her hazy mind, she felt the panic over the topic rising.

Thinking about it only made it worse, Fareeha noted, but she couldn’t stop herself. Left in the silent and bland hospital room to her own devices, her head was filled with memories from the accident as they all flooded back. The yell of shock that left her friend Noor as she realized too late that she stepped on an unmarked mine. The way she had thrown herself to grab her friend but had been too late to stop the damage. The force of the explosion that sent them all flying backwards. It all came back in a rush, overwhelming her beyond belief.

Her head was aching, she had a concussion if she remembered correctly, and she just wanted to go back to sleep. Sleep would surely bring nightmares now, though, and the solider was not sure how much more panic she could handle at that point. Fareeha tried to focus her mind on Angela instead, observing her sleeping form languidly in an attempt to keep herself calm. She gave the doctor’s hand a gentle squeeze, more as reassurance for herself than anything, and it caused the other woman to stir.

“Fareehali?” the nickname was mumbled and tired, followed by a string of words in German that Fareeha was unable to place properly. It had been too long since she head or spoke in Swiss-German, her third language, and she was too out of it to recognize what the doctor said. Hearing her voice was reassuring though, even though the sleepily mumbled words pricked at her heart more than she would like to admit; mind flooded with memories of their past. This time she wasn’t waking up in their shared bed next to the beautiful doctor, who was too tired to speak in anything but her mother tongue but still greeted Fareeha good morning with gentle kisses and a strong hug. This time she was injured and in the hospital, Angela was her doctor and they had been broken up for over half a decade. Thing were bittersweet, she sighed to herself, and this was certainly not how she imagined their reunion.

“Hi, Angie,” Fareeha replied as the blonde lifted her head, her grip on the other woman’s hand not faltering for a moment. It took a little while for Angela to wake up properly, her unruly hair sticking to sleep-flushed cheeks as she lifted her free hand to rub at her eye. After a moment though, she seemed to jump back into doctor mode.

“How’s your pain?” she questioned, glancing over at the machine beside the bed to check Fareeha’s vital signs. Fareeha couldn’t help but smile weakly at the focused look on her face, thinking she looked downright adorable when she was fussing over her like this. Perhaps an inappropriate thought for a soldier being treated for traumatic injuries, Fareeha would just blame her gay brain winning over logic for that though.

Fareeha shrugged weakly, “Can’t feel my arm,” she nodded pointedly to the bandaged stump that was propped up on a pillow as if it wasn’t obvious. She tilted her head back into the pillows and winced a little, “Head hurts.”

Angela frowned at that, reaching up to absentmindedly smooth her messy dark hair down, “I’m sorry, Fareeha.”

“Nothing anyone could do.”

“you… threw yourself in front of the explosion?”

Fareeha flinched but nodded all the same, “Not my finest idea. It seemed like the right thing to do though; I had to protect those kids. Dumbasses, the lot of them, but at the end of the day they’re good soldiers.”

Angela shook her head, “You could have died, Fareeha.”

“I could die any day, Angie. That’s how this line of work goes.”

“But…” Angela’s eyes were full of pain as she stared at her, “I can’t lose you… not again, Fareehali.”

That confession had Fareeha pausing, taken aback by the statement. It had been three years since they last spoke, six since they broke up, yet by that admission it sounded like Angela hadn’t let her go completely. Maybe she had not let Angela go either, still, that was a loaded statement and the solider was unsure of how to reply.

“Angela…” Fareeha spoke gently, though her tone was guarded, “It’s been so long.”

The blonde scoffed, blue eyes holding a challenging edge to their stare, “And? That doesn’t mean anything… I miss you, Fareeha. When I saw you in the trauma bay earlier, it was like my worst fear being realized before my eyes. If you had died down there or in surgery, I don’t know if I could have handled it.”

The Egyptian woman felt her heart sink as tears welled in Angela’s eyes. She hated seeing her in pain, hated that she couldn’t fix it immediately. The older woman had always been so strong, so calculated and sure of herself, so to see her now close to tears and almost shaking; it made Fareeha want to cry as well.

“I’m sorry,” Fareeha’s voice was barely above a whisper, “I didn’t want to leave you… I didn’t want to scare you like this.”

“I know…” Angela mumbled, hiding behind her curtain of blonde hair. She laughed at her own emotional behaviour and swiped at the tears on her cheeks, “This is so unprofessional of me.”

“Angie… how long have you been in Egypt?”

Angela looked at her with a sheepish smile, “Two weeks. We’re here for a couple months, unless something severe happens.”

Fareeha nodded, “Did you… think about contacting me?”

“I did, actually,” Angela laughed a little, “I contacted your mother. I wasn’t sure if you still had the same phone number so I found Ana though the trauma centre’s records, she works here sometimes, yeah?”

“Not as often as she used to but yeah. I haven’t talked to her in a while to be honest.”

“Fareeha!” Angela shook her head, “Call your mother for once, dumbass. She misses you.”

“I know”

The doctor sighed and observed her for a moment, “I… miss you.”

“Angie,” Fareeha sighed, watching her with pain in her eyes.

“I do.”

“I know” Fareeha said again, “I miss you too.”

Angela was holding onto her hand again, silent tears streaking down her cheeks. Fareeha tugged on her hand until she took the hint, slouching down so the soldier could wrap her arm around her. Angela melted against her strong body, trying to be careful and avoid straining her injuries. It felt safe like this, something neither woman had felt properly in years; the familiarity and warmth that came with the desperate embrace. This was the comfort both had missed so dearly, something the doctor had let go of out of fear of the unknown. Yet here they were six years later, the only reassurance they found from the unknown being in each other’s arms.

“Promise me,” Angela mumbled into her shoulder, “That you won’t scare me like this again. I can’t lose you, not after all this.”

“Angela, you couldn’t handle the distance last time…”

“I don’t care,” the Swiss woman wore her stress and exhaustion on her face as she lifted her head, “I’ll do whatever it takes this time. I’ll stay here if I have to, transfer all my work here. I can’t leave you, Fareeha, certainly not like this.”

“I-” Fareeha took a shaky breath, “You mean that?”

“Whatever it takes,” Angela’s tone was serious and firm, a sure nod punctuating her tearful words. Fareeha knew she wasn’t lying and she knew from experience that Angela never broke her promises. She also knew that the blonde was the most stubborn, head-strong woman she had the pleasure of meeting.

“Okay.”

“O-okay?”

“I promise,” Fareeha concluded as she held tightly onto the woman who had truthfully never stopped being the object of her affection, “I won’t leave you again.”

That admission made Angela burst into tears again, holding tightly to the younger woman as her whole body shook with a mixture of relief and emotion. Fareeha just held her as best she could, pressing a cautious kiss to the Swiss woman’s forehead, apologizing so quietly it was almost inaudible. It was an apology for a lot of things, leaving her; scaring her; not being there to protect and love Angela for all those years. Angela just scoffed and told her to shut up, returning her affection with a gentle kiss on the lips that held six years of pain, regret, and love.

Even though the future was terrifying and their reunion was as bittersweet as reunions go, none of that seemed to matter in that moment. All that mattered was the promise of safety and comfort they had found in each other all those years ago, a promise that felt stronger than any war, IED, or distance that threatened to separate them again.

#i finally have time to write again i need to write the next chap of foolish girl #overwatch #angela ziegler #mercy #fareeha amari #pharah #pharmercy #overwatch fanfic #pharmercy fan fiction #overwatch fan fiction #my fics #ptsd tw #military tw #hospital tw #amputation tw

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romancingromanoff · 5 years

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Bring Her Home (Part 2/3) *Endgame Spoilers*

Part One here//Part Three

Hours went by and the two of you sat in silence. Eventually, Clint was the one to break it as you stared off into space and tried to conceive names for the various colors or purple and pink that lit the atmosphere of Vormir.

“We talked about Budapest,” he said, though not specifically to you. And why would he want to talk to you? The last words you had said to him had been extremely vulgar and disgustingly vivid; you wouldn’t want to speak to yourself either. But whether he was talking to the ghosts of his past, some higher power or mysterious being, you weren’t sure. A part of you, however, knew that he wanted you to listen.

“God, there were countless times I didn’t think I’d get out of that city alive. But I never doubted that she would. She was just too stubborn to die,” he releases what remains of a laugh he wish he could’ve made before- one he could’ve shared with her. “Back then she had a lot of favors to return, or, at least that’s how she always saw it... it was like she was living just to pay off a debt, and I... I just wanted to show her that that wasn’t true... that she could do good, not just as an agent but as a friend, you know? Because she deserved to know how much she was worth just on her own.”

Your eyes water and the droplets pool out slowly without a change in your expression. It’s just blank as you stare off because you’re too absorbed with taking in each and every word as it is. However they come, you have to receive them with an empty slate of a sorts... one just dedicated to this moment- this story.

“And then you came into her life,” he turns to you and he’s just smiling. When you finally face him, his expression breaks your face and you allow the heat to pool in your cheeks and you allow yourself to feel as he feels. “You came into our lives and we were the goddamn Avengers. We were her family and she loved us. She loved you.”

A smile passes on your face through a sniffle and out of the corner of your eye you watch his hand creep towards yours and open, asking for yours. And you can’t believe how amazing it feels to place your hand in his and just hang onto him as the both of you cry softly- for the good memories of her smiling and just allowing herself to feel for the first time in her life.

Vormir is cold, yet a heat pulses outward from its center the same way the soul stone warms your hand, but in strange way like you know it’s feeding off of something else. Appropriate enough, there’s no life on the planet, but its beauty still renders you speechless. Watching the skies shift in light and color is like listening to the sound of a violin, which you know is just sound waves penetrating the drum in your ear, but each note also has life breathed into it by the player and is therefore the closest thing you can get to nonorganic life.

The climb is numbing and though you can’t feel it anymore, your hand never lets go of Clint’s the entire time. He’s pulling you up step by step; leading you along the path he once took as a different person, but he’s also just as blind as you are. None of you have any idea what to expect or know what to hope for as the light from a nearby sun shines just above your line of vision, forcing you to keep looking down.

“You have what has been taken,” and distinctively German accented voice speaks amidst the wavering winds and pierces your ears. “But the payment cannot be returned.” The Red Skull is as ominous as his words are vague, but you don’t have the hunger to feed off of this man as you thought you would. You’re too tired.

“We know that,” you speak the truth. “But we don’t want the soul stone... we just want her body to take back with us, Christmas Future, so if you could ever so kindly show us where we put this thing and find her then we’ll be on our way out.”

With the turn of his body he reveals the path straight towards the edge of the summit. And this is where it happened. Clint squeezes your hand and you look at him now knowing what emotions will be on his face, but his meets yours with only a look of determination and he reminds you of what you must do. The two of you walk hand-in-hand, closer to the point of no return and in your other palm the soul stone is almost burning itself into your flesh. Finally, you reach the edge. It’s too far down and too far dark to see the bottom, but you both know what lies there. Looking at Clint one last time, he gives you a nod of assurance. You have to be the one to do this, but you’re also not alone.

You release the soul stone and watch it drop hundreds if not thousands of feet down to its bottomless home and the heat of it doesn’t leave your hand immediately. It lingers just as the two of you hang on to the faint yellow light falling below you, trying to make out a sign of anything at all coming up to meet you.

She floats up from the darkness ever so lightly and you’re holding your breath all the while. “I can’t do this, I can’t do this,” you say trying to back away from the edge, but Clint’s feet are firmly rooted and his grip only tightens on your hand.

“No,” he tells you. “The last time I was here she slipped through my fingers. I’m not letting you go too.”

All you can do then is nod as she finally comes into fully view and her body is dropped gently at your feet. The first thing you notice is that her eyes are wide open, but death hasn’t glazed over them like in the many other faces you’ve seen kissed by it. She looks strangely at peace; as if she’s merely lying on the ground looking up at the stars that dance above you all.

Clint only lets go of your hand then, as you fall to your knees and give in to all of the emotions washing over the edge and drowning you at first contact. Shaking, your hands cup her face gently as you don’t want to hurt her. And under your touch between the remaining heat of the soul stone and from holding Clint’s hand, her skin feels warm. It’s as if she could still have a pulse and that realization has the tears falling from your eyes so quickly that they don’t even wet your face anymore. They fall randomly across her body as you press your forehead against hers and sobbing becomes instinct to you and you have to remind yourself to breath.

Clint rests his hand on your back to comfort you and he allows you to take all the time you need just staring at her, feeling her body for broken bones you know you can’t mend but still want to fix. Surprisingly, her body is mostly in tact. The only sign of injury is a small crack in the back of her skull which is covered in blood already dried up in her hair; it matches her color almost perfectly and you continue to cry as you run her braid through your hand. She let it grow out since you last saw her but see that she never dyed over or cut the blonde. Five years and she could never let go of the hair you ran your hands through the last time you saw her while you were in mid battle in Wakanda.

“I’ll be fine,” you had told her before pulling her into a passionate kiss. The wound in your abdomen was pooling with blood, but you had dealt with worse before. A Wakandan soldier had insisted on taking you back to the capital to repair it, but you refused to leave until you saw your girlfriend and let her know that you’d be okay. “Go kick his ass,” you had breathed against her lips. With every kiss with Natasha, you always knew there was a chance that it would be your last but the probability of that being the reality never seemed that high to you. You supposed that you had always been too optimistic with those numbers.

You cry for what feels like hours and eventually your legs fall asleep beneath you. After you are able to catch your breath and stabilize yourself you remember that Clint is there and move over a bit to allow him to mourn as well. His face definitely shows signs of crying but he’s much more composed than you are and slowly lowers himself down to wipe some stray strands of hair from Natasha’s forehead before gently closing her eyes.

Both of you discuss how much she hated pickles. You talk about how she always said Valentine’s Day was stupid but secretly loved it. And you remember how sensitive this one spot on her side was that you both took advantage of tickling at the risk of her knocking you out. It’s the little things and nothing in particular that you talk about which brings smiles back to your faces.

“She would’ve loved this place had we been here under any other circumstances,” you both finally take the opportunity to look at the planet before you which spreads for miles towards the direction of a nearby purple sun. “If we were here together,” you look back down talking to Nat. “I would’ve said that this view was ‘out of this world’ and then you would’ve made fun of me for being saying something so stupid.”

“And even though you always insisted that my corny jokes were unbearable, every once in a while when I was feeling particularly down you would always tell me one. If you were here then you would say something like, ‘it’s a beautiful view’ and I’d agree and then you’d say, ‘that wasn’t what I was talking about’ like I was the only person in existence that ever mattered... and I would believe you too.”

“She loved you,” Clint reaffirms. “She was so in love with you that at times in the beginning I could see the physical fear in her eyes because she loved you so much. She didn’t know how to deal with it; ‘Wasn’t trained for it’ she said... so she was afraid she didn’t know how to love you properly or even if you could really love her back.”

“Loving her has been the greatest privilege of my life,” you whisper and Clint pulls you into chest, where you willingly rest your tired head and release a long held breath. “I’m so sorry for what I said to you.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. The only thing you’re guilty of is loving Nat for everything that she was... everything that she is to you- to us. And I can’t thank you enough for that.”

Closing your eyes you wrap your arms around him and the two of you hold onto each other as tight as you can at the edge of the world. Eventually, you both pull away and you look at Clint with determination in your face.

“Let’s bring her home.”

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zaryanovaspeaks · 5 years

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@mercyspeaks

15&16

//I somehow deleted your question, but the answer has already been written, so here it is, sorry! :'D

Oh, dear... I guess now I will be torturing you with my long tales, but I really couldn’t answer these questions briefly - they caused so many different memories! It seems, I turn into a grandmother who loves to chat about everything, you just ask her about it, hehe.

15. Have you ever done something you know is wrong but enjoyed it?

Oh, haha, I don't remember me telling someone, but there was a moment in my youth when I was just starting to make my first sports achievements and was not too well-known – and I even was kind of arrogant. Then something like underground arm wrestling was spread. It was really popular with a certain circle of people. Strongmen from other countries came to us, having heard about local "buffaloes". It was divided into several leagues, depending on the level of physical strength of a person. People fought very fiercely for the championship and for the high places in the leagues. Because it naturally brought tremendous honor, it was for money and for, hm, all sorts of other valuable things, so the excitement of the participants sometimes crossed the permissible boundaries. But they were underground fights, as I said, so the organizers didn't care what happened after the unsuccessful battle with someone - only the stakes were important. Sometimes the really strong participants with whom I was familiar didn't return to the league due to... injuries received after the victory from other rivals.

Well, this is the preface. My "sin" in that I watched these battles for a long time was only a faceless observer, I evaluated each of the participants, their habits, limit of forces. It was quite easy for me to do this, considering how much workout I endured and endure to this day. I was even a little proud that I could read them so easily. I learned by heart all the tricks of each participant. And at the moment when there was an opportunity, I, having called myself by a different name, entered the lower league. And thanks to my observations, and, of course, my superior strength, I smashed my opponents with one movement. Whenever I reached the top of the next league, I'd crush the best of the best without much effort. I was even considered omnic for a while because of this, huh.

Of course, they tried to quietly “brush me off”, like other outstanding winners before, but is it worth saying that they couldn't even seriously hurt me.

I ruined the fate and pride of people who were considered the strongest, with one hand movement, without batting an eye. Some of them left our underground fights forever, unable to recover after a defeat. Then hot blood boiled in me, I triumphed, reveling in the defeats of the best. Now I understand that my participation in these battles wasn't too correct, not to mention *what* I did with the opponents.

And I smashed them one by one, climbing to the top. While not faced with a new, obviously unearthly man. He spoke with a clear German accent, and was twice as big as any other fighter. I could argue that he was more than twice my age. And he was the first to temper my ardor. After the first defeat, I was simply broken - before him no one even managed to reject my hand. After that, because of our fame with him, the observers were very unhappy and demanded a rematch. The organizers, seeing the size of the bets, couldn't even think about refusal. And soon we faced again. That time I was able to hold my hand for a long time, but I still lost. He was a worthy adversary, but he couldn't afford it. But instead of becoming sworn enemies, we became good friends because of our common athletic interests, haha.

But in less than a couple of weeks, he suddenly left without saying a word to me, and I never saw him again. Later, I learned that he was called to the debt home. But spending time with such a great opponent was really nice...

16. Have you ever enjoyed hurting someone?

I rarely recall the case, because it happened a long time ago, but... It seems that this story will be longer than I'd like, because this question cannot be answered in two words. Sorry, honey, huh.

Once we went to the front with a detachment of fighters. In this detachment, we all knew each other for a long time, but among them was one man, with whom we... were incredibly friendly since our early years. He, like me, lost many relatives because of the war (he only had an older sister), and went to the front as well, where we met again years later. We made a great team. All our joint tasks were carried out cleanly and harmoniously, and it seemed that nothing existed that could have caused our quarrel. We were ready to substitute under enemy fire for the sake of protecting each other, and even there were cases when we did it - and still remained alive.

Sometimes, when more people were needed, we performed tasks in the squad. It happened at that time.

The task was difficult, but the two of us, as some of the most experienced fighters, were, of course, assigned to it, along with a small detachment of elite fighters who were almost as powerful as us. Having previously discovered the location of the enemy and their number by intelligence, despite the danger, as always, we were confident of success. It was not blind overconfidence, but something taken for granted.

We moved to the task. Breaking through the enemies to the control point of capture, I caught a glimpse that in addition to omnics, there were a lot of male soldiers, but they never really bothered me.

And suddenly it turned out that the scouts had miscalculated - we were fooled. The necessary point was on the other side, and we fell into the enemy trap. And while I and my partner, standing back to back, were fighting off omnics arriving from all sides, the enemy soldiers managed to take a winning position for themselves - and just awful for the two of us. I began to understand that we were specially lured to the open space in order to sort out without the intervention of our detachment, from which we were cut off.

Standing back to back, we were struggling with our last forces from the remaining omnics. But in their place came an uncountable number of soldiers who surrounded us with a dense wall. Our armor was smashed to pieces, and would hardly be protected from the next powerful bullet.

And at some point we understood, at the same time and without words - only one of us can get out of here alive. Each of us was willing to sacrifice ourselves for the sake of the other.

But then we touched our backs, and then... oh, forgive me, Angela, give me a minute.

*sigh*

For a long time I didn't remember that day. It turned out to be harder than I thought.

Then I heard his low voice. (It seems that he laughed a little, or maybe it’s just my imagination.): "Don't even think about it. You won't die here, Sergeant Zaryanova."

And I didn't have time to take a step to push my partner away and close him from enemy fire, as I felt myself literally thrown aside - and the next second a wave of shots rang out.

For a while my eyes went dark; blood gushed from somewhere on my forehead, and I couldn't see anything. Only heard his fierce, almost insane cries, and a flurry of shots. Whose shots were those - him or his enemies... I didn’t know for sure. I don't know how much time has passed. But when I was able to stand up and rub my eyes, I saw him lying on the ground. I remember how everything inside me broke at that moment. I thought I was dead. I remembered my childhood and the beginning of that fateful war. And they took away my loved one again.

“He flinged a little, but we quickly laid him down” - grinning, one of the soldiers said (he looked like one of the main ones), and put the dirty boot on his face - “Now you’ll go after him, girl.” However, after this desperate attack for the sake of my (huh) salvation, the ranks of the enemy soldiers noticeably thinned out - of the twenty barely a dozen were alive, and five could stand on their feet. And I stood and looked at my partner, on whose belly a bloody dark spot spread, and as the ground around him slowly turned red.

Only then he was already dead. I saw... no, I felt it, as soon as I got up on my feets. Some kind of hole appeared inside me, as if a whole piece had been torn out of my heart, and it was impossible to fill that void.

But as soon as I heard what came out of that soldier’s dirty, filthy mouth, something inside me cracked.

This is almost all I remember before... that happened after. I only remember how the blood flooded my eyes, I remember men's heart-rending screams, pleading, some furious dark force inside me... and the feeling of the crunch of other people's bones under my fingers. Some kind of ominous triumph mixed with genuine childish joy swept over me. I grabbed anyone who would fall under the arm, without restraining my strength, forgetting about the concept of "humanity." It seems that I twisted the neck of someone... I remember how someone shot, but probably didn't hit - I didn't feel pain.

I was terrified. Even now, remembering this, I can't help but shiver. At that moment everything was foggy, and I don't remember what exactly I did with those soldiers. But you better not see it.

It’s better if no one see.

When I woke up from this bloody nightmare - I knelt in front of the cooled body of my partner, who gave for me the most precious thing he had - his life. The one whom I had to defend died because of me.

From the defender of the people I turned into their cruel executioner.

And whatever my uncontrollable revenge was - there was no point in it from the very beginning. Everything was useless.

After that, I woke up in the hospital. I was casually informed that a specially prepared detachment arrived at the place of that ambush in order to carry off the bodies of the enemy soldiers... piece by piece.

And despite the fact that later I couldn't think of that day with anything but horror, devastation and grief, I still distinctly remember with a shudder that childish delight that devoured me when my fingers closed on someone's thin neck, when I felt how someone's blood was streaming down my arms.

And I still see it in my nightmares.

#mercyspeaks #ask a big woman #long Zarya's post

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captainofthetidesbreath · 7 years

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Myself, @izzyovercoffee, and @thesummerstorms realized a while back that Traviss’ Mando’a dictionary doesn’t have a word for bridge. Izzy and Rev have discussed composing a word a bit. (See these: post one, and two, and three, and four.)

The part where I blame other people

Because I feel like I have to document how I got to this somehow.

Last week, @thefreelancerdivision said on one of the bridge posts (number four) that Mandalorians are like space!Germans, in which everything in their language is a complicated form of an animal, bird in the Mandalorian case. Izzyovercoffee then said that, to Mandalorians, everything is birds, brains, knives, and spicy. (See here.) Izzyovercoffee then, jokingly, put forward a word for bridge coming from the word bird. (See this post.)

Seeing izzyovercoffee mentioned that everything was also knives, I thought, “The funniest thing would be bridge coming from the word knife because that’s pretty weird.”

But, I remembered that a bridge made of a sword was an actual Thing That Happened™ in an Arthurian legend.

The Arthurian context

I don’t really intend for this to be a post about medieval literature, but I have to talk a little bit about Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart (or if you want to be fancy French: Lancelot, le Chevalier de la Charrette). It follows Lancelot, of Arthurian fame, on his mission to rescue his kidnapped love Queen Guinevere, who has been taken to the kingdom of Gorre.

To enter Gorre, one must cross a strait using the safer water-bridge or the fatal sword-bridge. Lancelot chooses the latter. As the name suggests, it is a bridge composed of a single sword sharper than a scythe and as long as two lances. At the bank in Gorre, two lions are tied to a rock near the bridge, ready to eat any who make it across.

His companions, noting the numerous dangers, plead he reconsider. However, Lancelot has faith and confidence that the Christian God will protect him, and, perhaps more importantly, he is so committed in his love and loyalty to Guinevere he would rather die than turn back now.

He removes the armor from his hands and feet, so that he may better hold onto the sword and not slip, and crawls across the sword. It cuts him deeply, but he perseveres and eventually makes it to the other side. Once there, he remembers the lions he saw, but now he sees none; they were only an enchantment.

Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart is a story about a test of Lancelot’s love and loyalty for Guinevere and his struggles to balance his duties as a knight bound by chivalric values and his responsibilities as a lover bound by the expectations of courtly love. I was once told this episode with the sword-bridge is in part about, well, balance. To balance between roles, to balance between values, to balance between virtues. (The Aristotelian view on virtue. Too much of a good thing, as they say.) Additionally, if my understanding is correct, medieval enchantments caused no real effects but worked so long as they were believed.

What’s this got to do with Mandalorians?

It’s a figurative story about a warrior powering through intense physical suffering to prove their ideological mettle. If that doesn’t strike one as at least vaguely Mandalorian in some part, then, I don’t know....

Genuinely, Mandalorian culture has a recurring theme of struggle, specifically struggle as a means to growth. The struggle is physical, emotional, mental, spiritual, any shade applicable, but it stands to reason that if this concept is so prevalent in Mandalorian culture, it must also feature in their stories. An episode similar to Lancelot crossing the sword-bridge would not seem out of place in their mythos.

Mandalorians, also, seem keen on balance. Arasuum and Kad Ha’rangir fight their war, locked in a battle between stagnation and destruction. However, while one must destroy to make room for new growth, too much is ruinous; while one must stand still to reflect and grow, too much is stagnation. The finer points of this are probably best left to another post, but the point is: one needs to keep both impulses in check and find the balance between them.

As far as the enchantment goes, I’m sure Mandalorians could appreciate the idea of overcoming the limitations one puts on oneself. Not only does one have to overcome the physical obstacles, one must also overcome one’s fears and doubts and insecurities. Strength requires that one do this too.

I’ll probably write another post on this later to better explain it in finer detail.

All that aside, it’s a story about a guy who almost maims himself on a bridge made out of a sword to prove his intense dedication to his values. That’s very Mandalorian. They’d definitely have a story like that. It seems like a thing they’d find very relatable.

A word for bridge

Finally, to the point of the post. I put forward a word for bridge that derives from this story:

do’kad: doslanir (to cross, to intersect) + kad (sword), crossing on a sword, a sword that crosses [over a river]

to’kad: to (joining, connection) + kad, a connection [between two banks] created by a sword

The difference between d and t might be negligible or non-existent depending on accent. Or, the etymology may similarly differ based on dialect.

Now, I don’t think this is a word for a physical, literal bridge. It’s a word used for figurative bridges and crossings, especially those that represent a great trial or crisis that tests one’s resolve, mettle, and commitment. The crossroads from which one must choose a path. The threshold from beyond which one cannot return. The transition between stages in life or planes of existence. Those kinds of crossings.

I’ll leave it for some other word to describe the mundane bridges.

ETA: Like this one: to’vheh, or even do’vheh. (See my short post on it.)

tl;dr

I propose a Mando’a word for a figurative bridge: do’kad or to’kad. It derives from the word sword (kad) because of a real-world Arthurian myth in which Lancelot must cross a bridge made of a sword. A story about a warrior struggling to balance between two sets of stringent values in his life, and having to face a physical suffering to prove their ideological mettle, seems like it would be one Mandalorians would have an analogue for in their own mythos. So, a word for those figurative crossings involving a test.

#Mando'a #Mandalorians #Gena's Mando'a #long post for ts #this is so fucking long #I had to explain all that to justify why the fuck i'm deriving bridge from sword

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prfm-uk · 7 years

Text

Get to Know Me Uncomfortably Well (Filled Out)

@southeastasyano wanted me to completely fill out these 100 questions and a bonus one, and an anonymous asker wanted me to answer just a few. So here ya go! Go on and stalk me, young ones.

For the questions below the cut, I tag: @southeastasyano, @fukigen-na-boy, @prfm-au, @prfm-us, @housekinoame, @cosmog-explorer, @jenmarii, @chrism-sol, @p-r-f-m, @securitylucy, @a-chan-san and @jeffhardys!

What is your middle name? I never use it on my passports or regularly, but I do have a middle name. But I don’t wanna say it >///<

How old are you? I am currently 17 years old!

When is your birthday? June 24th!

What is your zodiac sign? Cancer (yes, I’m that mentally unstable b*tch)

What is your favorite color? Green all the f*cking way!!

What’s your lucky number? 3

Do you have any pets? I had two fish, but they died when I was 11 :’(

Where are you from? While I was born in London, United Kingdom, my family originates from Sri Lanka

How tall are you? I am 6 foot 1 inch.

What shoe size are you? I am only UK size 7.

How many pairs of shoes do you own? I own only five pairs of shoes.

What was your last dream about? It was a dream in which my best friend committed suicide... Yeah, it was grim, and was more of a nightmare :(

What talents do you have? I am pretty good when it comes to learning foreign languages, and I play piano maybe kinda semi-decently well? I can also do that thing where I can show the red bit inside my eyes, and I can fit my whole fist in my mouth.

Are you psychic in any way? Ask @prfm-us

Favourite song? ‘New Americana’ by Halsey or ‘I Know Places’ by Taylor Swift or ‘Warm Blood’ by Carly Rae Jepsen...

Favourite movie? It would have to be ‘The Emoji Movie’

Who would be your ideal partner? James Wright <3 Well, he is my bf so, um, yay?

Do you want children? Yup, I’d love to see my kid go through life and me be like “ha, I remember when I went through that shizz”

Do you want a church wedding? Well, I’m a Buddhist and I don’t know how they do weddings, so I guess I’d be fine with a civil ceremony of sorts..?

Are you religious? Not at all, and I’m not really sad about it either.

Have you ever been to the hospital? So many f*cking times, honestly. Some weren’t as bad, whereas there is one in particular that will always be my worst ever day alive.

Have you ever got in trouble with the law? Nope, I’m pretty submissive with the law, I’m too scared of punishment haha

Have you ever met any celebrities? When I was in primary school, I was chosen to go meet the Queen and that was pretty cool. We gave her like this bouquet of flowers and she didn’t seem very appreciative. (Just kidding, I love you, Lizzie)

Baths or showers? I prefer baths, but I always have showers because otherwise I might never come out.

What colour socks are you wearing? I’m wearing black socks which say “Thursday” in green font. And yes, it is Thursday where I am, my OCD is too much.

Have you ever been famous? Well, Kyary tweeted my video once and I f*cking YELLED, but no, I’m pretty irrelevant!

Would you like to be a big celebrity? No haha, I wouldn’t be able to handle that much attention to be honest.

What type of music do you like? Electropop, I guess is what it is. I also like modern 80s pop (does that make sense) and also EDM.

Have you ever been skinny dipping? No, haha, I think that just isn’t a very common thing in Britain.

How many pillows do you sleep with? Just one, under my head.

What position do you usually sleep in? I sleep like a fetus does in the womb. Enjoy that mental image.

How big is your house? 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms. Not amazing, but my family is somewhat well-off.

What do you typically have for breakfast? Basic cereal, generally.

Have you ever fired a gun? Yup, I spent a short while in my school’s combined cadet force before deciding that it wasn’t for me.

Have you ever tried archery? No, I think I have terrible hand-eye co-ordination anyway haha

Favorite clean word? If you mean normal, random word, then my favourite is kumquat.

Favorite swear word? My favourite swear word on it’s own is c*nt because I love how it rolls off the tongue, it just sounds like pure spite. In an insult, definitely f*cknut or f*cktard is a common resort for me.

What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep? 4 days, powered by a coffee each day. And I wasn’t even tired, people basically forced me to have coffee.

Do you have any scars? I have one on my leg from a surgery where they put a metal screw in my hip to make sure that it grew straight (well I didn’t turn out straight, but my leg did). Also, I still have a few old ones on my thighs and wrists...

Have you ever had a secret admirer? Ahahahahahaha, as if anyone would go to that effort over someone like me.

Are you a good liar? If I do say so myself, yes, I am. Or was I lying there?!?!?!?!

Are you a good judge of character? Ask @prfm-us

Can you do any other accents other than your own? I can do an LA valley accent..?

Do you have a strong accent? I have a strong British accent, and then I have a semi-strong Essex accent layered on top, so words like “fam” and “lit” just sneak their way into my speech.

What is your favourite accent? Canadian and Australian are my favs!!

What is your personality type? Unstable, but caring..? <3

What is your most expensive piece of clothing? I have a £45 tie that someone gave me as a bday gift. Yes, I don’t get spending tons on clothes...

Can you curl your tongue? I can do it into a U shape and that weird W shape thingy.

Are you an innie or an outie? Innie. Is this really helpful information to you?

Left or right handed? Right handed!

Are you scared of spiders? DON’T GET ME STARTED. I get terrified of the world’s smalliest spiders and I will legit scream and chuck my phone across the room and everyone else will just be confused.

Favorite food? Profiteroles..?

Favorite foreign food? Um, maybe, poutine? Tim Horton’s? Basically I love Canada.

Are you a clean or messy person? Clean, always clean. I cannot function in a messy environment.

Most used phrase? “I put the SAD in Social Anxiety Disorder”. Yes, I am too real sometimes.

Most used word? Well, it’s probably “the”, “a” or “lopsided”

How long does it take for you to get ready? Literally around ten minutes.

Do you have much of an ego? I mean, I don’t have a shred of self-confidence, so no..?

Do you suck or bite lollipops? I don’t know what this shows about my gay self, but I suck... yeah.

Do you talk to yourself? When I’m intensely lonely or need to calm myself down.

Do you sing to yourself? All the time. I cannot listen to any music without dancing and/or singing to it.

Are you a good singer? Hell no!

Biggest fear? Losing those who are closest to me. Oh, and f*cking spiders.

Are you a gossip? Nope, I guess i’m just not in that circle.

Best dramatic movie you’ve seen? I can’t name the best I’ve ever watched, but I recently watched a British-made film called “I, Daniel Blake” and I really liked it.

Do you like long or short hair? Short hair.

Can you name all 50 states of America? No, I’m British.

Favourite school subject? German or Physics!

Extrovert or Introvert? Introvert 100%

Have you ever been scuba diving? Yup, I’ve been in Sri Lanka

What makes you nervous? The dark and silence.

Are you scared of the dark? Oh, I just accidentally answered that. Yes, I am.

Do you correct people when they make mistakes? Only when it’s appropriate, I don’t want to bother people!

Are you ticklish? VERY ticklish! If you touch my neck, I’ll be on the floor in a few seconds.

Have you ever started a rumour? No haha I’d get baited out so quickly.

Have you ever been in a position of authority? I was an editor for my school newspaper? I mean, it wasn’t that thrilling at all

Have you ever drank underage? In the UK, the legal drinking age is 18, I’m 17, and although I’ve never gotten hammered or drunk vodka and stuff like that, I have had very light alcohol for the taste!

Have you ever done drugs? God no, and I intend never to!

Who was your first real crush? Ugh, it seems so immature when I see it now, but there was this cute guy called Josh in my class who kept paying so much attention to me, so I asked him out, and he was like “How’d you know I was gay? Oh, and I’m not interested”. Yeah, I cried that night haha

How many piercings do you have? None!

Can you roll your ‘R’s? I can <3

How fast can you type? Around 75 words-per-minute (I used an online typing test just now!)

How fast can you run? I think I run pretty slow! In school, I was just average, in the middle, but I’m not going to be winning any fun-runs :P

What colour is your hair? Jet black, but any other colour would look out out place on my brown skin :D

What colour are your eyes? A relatively dark brown, but they are still visibly brown in the sun.

What are you allergic to? Nothing, as far as I know :)

Do you keep a journal? I keep a kinda mood tracking thingamajig through an app called ‘Pacifica’. It’s great for anyone tackling stress or any mental disorders such as depression, anxiety, bipolar, etc. But other than that, I don’t keep a journal as such, no.

What do your parents do? My father is a physiotherapist, and my mother is a fraud investigator; she works for the government to find people who are illegally claiming benefits.

Do you like your age? No, because it’s too ‘in the middle’! If I was below the age of 14, I’d be able to relax and be pretty carefree, and if I was above the age of, say 25, I wouldn’t be studying random crap that will never come up in the future and will actually be doing worthwhile things. Instead, I’m 17 and I need to study stuff that won’t come up even in my degree, and it’s almost impossible to find motivation right now.

What makes you angry? People making mistakes when I literally warned them not to; they were just that f*cking ignorant.

Do you like your own name? Some people know, but no, I don’t like my name. I feel like it just sounds a weird, so whenever I tell someone my name, I always include some disclaimer like ‘Oh, it’s a weird Asian name’.

Have you already thought of baby names, and if so what are they? Nope, I haven’t thought of any! I mean, unless I name my kids Dan and Phil...

Do you want a boy a girl for a child? Call me sexist, but I want a boy!

What are you strengths? I can fit my whole fist in my mouth, and I’m pretty good at languages.

What are your weaknesses? I’m quite sensitive and sometimes I get carried away with jokes.

How did you get your name? Well, my parents called over some kinda psychic name-giver as soon as I was born, and they’d use my star sign, read my palm and use God knows whatever info they could make up, and then name me based on it. That gave me ‘Yasath’, which I’m pretty sure means ‘treasure’ or something.

Were your ancestors royalty? No, but they were pretty high up in government jobs :]

Do you have any scars? That’s Question 39, so just refer back to that :3

Colour of your bedspread? It is white and brown. Hey, it’s like me! Sorry, bad joke.

Colour of your room? It has generic, textured cream (I think) wallpaper.

Does it ever get better? I like to think so, and it’s usually the only shred of hope I have left. But if you think it will never get better, then it won’t ever get better, because you won’t let it get better! So yeah, just have that small light at the end of the tunnel in mind whenever you’re starting to lose hope in yourself <3

Jeeeeeeez, that was long! I hope someone enjoyed that at least haha

#me #random facts #stalk #tag #filled out #prfmuk tags #sorry it's so long!#that's what she said

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torontohypnotherapist · 6 years

Photo

MAY 29 — GEORGE GURDJIEFF QUOTES

IT IS THE TIME FACTOR THAT POINTS TO TYPE

How then shall we begin? Perhaps by classifying our body according to typical muscular, visceral or cerebral dominance habitually manifested by it. Are we predominantly practical, emotional or intellectual?

Each of the types has its opposite manifestations. Positive muscular dominant is physically active and energetic, negative is physically lazy. Emotionally positive means optimistic, negative — pessimistic. Positive intellectual is the constructive criticizer, the one who as a rule finds himself in agreement with proposed statements, the negative is the destructive critic. Sometimes we exhibit characteristics of all three, but the question is which system guides the mechanism 'usually'.

To ascertain the answer, the examination of no temporary or present period will suffice. It is only how the organism tends habitually to act over long periods that counts, for 'it is the time factor that points to type.' To this end we must review our life, not introspectively, but by the ordinary exercise of 'pictorial memory', dividing it for convenience into such phases as infancy, childhood, school, married days, etc. etc. This process will take up considerable time and during it we shall inevitably have some light thrown upon the two kinds of our present characteristics: those resulting from environment (socially acquired attributes) and those resulting from heredity — our "essence" — (those which our bodies would have tended to possess in any environment).

~ Kathryn Hulme "Conversations With Gurdjieff" ...

WHEN YOU HELP TYPING LADY, YOU HELP ME

Novelist Fritz Peters reminiscing about his boyhood with Mr. Gurdjieff...

I N THE NATURAL course of events, since Mr. Gurdjieff was engaged in writing books, it was necessary for him to employ a typist. He did not set about this in any ordinary manner, but he employed, with great fanfare, a young German woman he had discovered somewhere in his travels. For several days before her arrival we heard about her. Elaborate preparations were made for her coming, including finding the proper room for her, the acquisition of a typewriter, arrangements for suitable working space, and so on. Gurdjieff praised her attributes to all of us, told us how lucky he had been to find this perfect person "for my purposes", and we awaited her arrival with great anticipation.

When she did arrive, she was introduced to all of us, a dinner was served in her honour, and the process was very festive—she was given what we called the "loyal treatment", and she responded to it whole-heartedly, taking herself as seriously as Gurdjieff seemed to take her. It turned out that her major, magnificent accomplishment was that she could type, as Gurdjieff repeatedly told us in complete amazement, "without even looking at key on typewriter."

No secretary or typist has, I feel sure, ever been accorded such treatment because of her ability to use the touch system. As if to prove to us all that this ability actually existed, the young woman installed herself at a table on the terrace, in full view of all of us as we came and went to and from work, and remained there — typing merrily — all summer long, except on rainy days. The clicking of her typewriter resounded in all of our ears.

My first contact with her, and in fairness to her I must admit to a strong anti-German prejudice, having grown up on stories of German atrocities during World War I, was one evening when I was doing my own washing in the courtyard in back of the house after work. She did not know me, except by sight, and, assuming that I was French, tailed to me from a window overlooking the courtyard, asking me in heavily accented French where she could obtain what she called some "Savon Lux"; she managed to convey to me that she needed this to wash her stockings. I said, in English, which I knew she understood and spoke much better than French, that I assumed she could buy it at the local ipicerie about half a mile distant. Her response was to toss some coins down to me and to tell me that she would appreciate my getting her some at once.

I picked up the money, went up the stairs and handed it to her. I said that I thought I should explain to her that there were no errand boys at the Prieure and that no one had, so far, told me that she was any exception to the general rule that everyone did their own personal work, which included personal shopping. She said, with a "charming" smile, that she was sure that no one would have any objections to my performing this errand for her since she was, as perhaps I did not yet realize, engaged on very important work for Mr. Gurdjieff. I explained that I, too, was engaged on similar work; that I took care of him and his rooms and did my own errands as well.

She seemed amazed, and after a moment's reflection said that she would straighten out the matter with Mr. Gurdjieff —that there must be some misunderstanding, at least on my part, concerning her function at the school. I did not have to wait very long for further developments. A "coffee summons" came from his room only a few minutes later. When I arrived at his room with the coffee, the typist, as I had expected was sitting with him. I served the coffee and then Mr. Gurdjieff turned to me with one of his "winning" smiles: "You know this lady?" he asked.

I said that, yes, I knew her.

He then said that she had spoken to him and that he understood that she had asked me to perform an errand for her and that I had refused. I said that it was true and that, besides, everyone else performed their own errands.

He agreed that this was so, but said that he had not had time to instruct her about everything and that he would appreciate it very much if, on this one occasion and as a favour to him, because she was very important to him, I would be kind enough to do what she asked. I was baffled and even angry, but I said, of course, that I would. She handed me the money and I went to the store and bought her soap. I assumed that, however I might feel, he had good reason for asking me to do the errand for her and decided that the incident was closed. Perhaps she was actually "special" in some way that I had not realised; Gurdjieff, at least, appeared to think she was.

I was furious, however, when after I had given her the soap and her change, she gave me a tip end said that she was sure that I now realized that she had been right in the first place, and that she hoped Mr. Gurdjieff's action had made it clear to me. I smouldered, but managed to hold my tongue. I also managed not to mention it to Mr. Gurdjieff when I saw him, but I continued to smoulder.

Several days later, on a weekend, a number of guests arrived. Gurdjieff welcomed them at his usual little table near the lawns, in front of the terrace where the typist was at work. I brought coffee for all of them and served it. He indicated with a gesture, that I was not to leave, and then proceeded to tell the assembled guests that he could hardly wait to show them his new marvels, his two wonderful new acquisitions: an electric icebox and a "touch typist". He then told me to lead the way to the pantry where the new refrigerator had been installed, and the guests were properly mystified upon being shown an ordinary model Frigidaire which, as Gurdjieff put it, "all by self can make ice", even, "without my help"—a true product of the genius of the western world. This inspection completed, we all went back to the terrace to inspect the second marvel who, also "without my help and even without looking at keys", was able to type his book. The typist stood up to greet him but Gurdjieff, without introducing her, told her to sit down. Then, at his command, she typed "without even looking at keys" but gazing triumphantly off into space.

Gurdjieff stood among his guests, basing at her with unbounded admiration, speaking of her as another product of the "genius" of the western world. I was, actually, fascinated by the ability to use the touch system on a typewriter and my own interest and admiration were unfeigned. Gurdjieff, suddenly, looked in my direction and smiled an enormous, broad smile, as if we shared some huge joke together, and then told me to collect the coffee cups.

It was not until much later that evening, in his room, that he referred to the typist once more. He spoke first of the "electric icebox"—"only have to put in plug and instantly box make noise of humming and begin produce ice." He smiled at me again, conspiratorially. "Is so with German lady. I like plug—I tell type, and she also begin make noise and produce not ice, but book. Wonderful American invention."

I almost liked her then, and would have been happy to do her errands from that time on. I could not refrain from saying so, and Gurdjieff nodded at me, looking pleased. "When you help typing lady, you help me, like giving oil to machine which keep working; this wonderful thing."

~ Fritz Peters "Boyhood With Gurdjieff" ...

IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO DO THIS ALL AT ONCE

Questioner: [A man asserts he cannot work well, can do nothing to his satisfaction, is, troubled by conscience.]

Gurdjieff: It is impossible to do this all at once, one must search. Begin with a small thing. When you wake, remember consciously to put on left sock first, instead of the right one, remembering yourself. Wash the left first, not the one you are in habit of washing. Make a program. Always, either a fly or something else will appear to prevent you from carrying out this program. But even if there is a fire, do what I tell you. Then when you go out into the street, instead of looking into the window on the left at the blonde who interests you, look toward the window on the right at the brunette. And so on. If you do not succeed in trying this, do not speak of it any more. If you do this, you can ask your question again, and I will reply and explain a thousand more details.

~ George Gurdjieff "Paris/Wartime Meetings" ...

THE SAME THINGS ARE IN A CHILD AND IN A GROWN-UP MAN

“The only difference between a child and a grown-up man is in the mind. All the weaknesses are there, beginning with hunger, with sensitivity, with naivete; there is no difference. The same things are in a child and in a grown-up man: love, hate, everything. Functions are the same, receptivity is the same, equally they react, equally they are given to imaginary fears. In short there is no difference. The only difference is in the mind; we have more material, more logic than a child. Now again as an example: A. looked at me and called me a fool. I lost my temper and went for him. A child does the same. But a grown-up man, who will be just as angry, will not hit him; he will restrain himself. For if he does hit him, the police will come and he is afraid of what other people will think; they will say: "What an uncontrolled man!" Or I refrain for fear he will run away from me tomorrow, and I need him for my work. In short, there are thousands of thoughts that may stop me or fail to stop me. But still these thoughts will be there.

“A child has no logic, no material, and because of that his mind is only function. His mind will not stop to think—with him it will be "it thinks," but this "it thinks" will be colored with hate, which means identification.

“There are no definite degrees between children and adults. Length of life does not mean maturity. A man may live to a hundred and yet remain a child; he may grow tall and be a child all the same, if we mean by a "child" one who has no independent logic in his mind. A man can be called "grown-up" only from the moment his mind has acquired this quality. So, from this point of view, it can be said that the Institute is only for grown-up people. Only a grown-up person can derive any profit from it. A boy or a girl of eight can be grown-up, and a man of sixty can be a child. The Institute cannot make people grown-up, they have to be grown-up before they come to the Institute. Those who are in the Institute must be grown-up, and by this I mean grown-up not in their essence but in their mind.”

~ George Gurdjieff “Views From the Real World”

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rhuemis · 6 years

Note

13. Introduce your current party.

hoo boy so we got:

-Scales

-Rhys

-Jeckyl

-Isiah

imma put the lengthy descriptions under a read more aha

Scales ((I dont think Scales even has a surname lmfao)):

-Warlock but insists that hes the party medic

-A white dragonborn that was born without scales due to a birth defect who has more than a few screws lose, calls himself a ‘doctor’ and we cant quite tell whether thats the truth or not

-Grew up in a brothel and now travels with the party to gain ‘medical knowledge’ whatever that means

-Has dissected the corpse of a literal god, harvests organs from whatever we kill and puts them all into bottles and then offers to transplant them into you if you get even remotely injured

-Is already mildly possessed but then ate some of the tentacles from a weird squid god for fun and then got DOUBLE possessed and tentacles shot out of his mouth and we had to drag him to a temple

-Something burst out of his chest one morning and now its his familiar. We were all stood at the door to his room like ‘This is Scales, this could just be part of his morning routine for all we know.’

- Speaks with a heavy German accent which makes anything Scales does like 4000 times better

-Isiah has literally promised his corpse to Scales

- Despite his quirks is protective of his party and deserves a pat on the snoot every so often

Rhys Lignius

- Half-elf sorcerer that currently has more levels in warlock than sorcerer

- hes the mom friend of the group and is a pretty serious guy, hes the one who gets shit done but not before he monologues so hard that the rest of us party members say ‘oh fuck no im not listening to Rhys’ spiel again’

-Came from a very important family and is very proud of his Latian heritage, doesnt let you forget that hes a big fuckin deal lmao hes on a mission to do something in relation to his father but hes not quite spilled on exactly what yet, hes just trying to get to some ancient ruins

- Is so much of an actual loser that whenever he casts Prestidigitation he clicks his fingers and the whole party has started doing it back at him jokingly

-Despite being a square we all love him and hes probably the most reliable in the group. Lawful Good™.

-Flavours my bacon.

-Is the metaphorical designated driver of the party, cleans up after us shit monkeys.

-Is physically around 22 years old but might as well be 55 years old.

Jeckyl Corvus:

- Newest party member, a half-elf rogue that keeps getting cockblocked from actually stealing anything

-Wrote a really intense anonymous love letter to my character and slid it under his room door at a tavern a few years before the campaign started after watching him perform and recognises Isiah but Isiah doesnt realise it was him who wrote the letter yet

-Spent some time in gay baby jail for being part of a group of thieves that got bamboozled by a rich and powerful family and was abandoned by the people he thought of as family.

-Wanted to be a tailor in the years before his taste for adventuring kicked him in the nards. He ended leaving his family to go and explore but this decision ultimately ended up with his family being stripped of everything they had so now hes plagued by The Guilt™. Wants to eventually save/steal enough money to get his family back on it’s feet again.

-Rugged and handsome but the most important thing you need to know about Jeckyl is that he keeps a pet mouse in his pocket named Rupert and that one day Jeckyl wants to fucking transmute him into an owl or some shit because he just cannot be satisfied huh. ‘Oh Rupert was my only friend whilst I was living on the streets blah blah blah’ yeah sure tell that to his face whilst you go fuckin Fullmetal Alchemist on his ass. Love Rupert for the contents of his character, not his form smh.

-Acts suave and cool but loses all of that composure when it comes to Isiah. Would probably commit sepukku if Isiah died.

-Has a lot of knives, which Scales finds ‘respectable’.

-First combat fuckin crits the fish plant man that had Isiah grappled 15ft underwater out of sheer gay panic. RIP Shape of Water fish man, you’ll be sorely missed.

Isiah Vakalyn:

-My character so you know hes....really something. Half-elf bard.

-Comes from a weirdly strict family who were actually fucking cultists and were ((and probably still are)) planning on sacrificing him to a demon or some shit but Isiah didnt even notice this shit and still has no idea. He thought everybody was taught Infernal and that families were just like that. His family told him to become a bard and he obeyed. They told him study and he obeyed. They limited his interaction to the outside world and he only really started thinking for himself after he made his first proper friend who then also later fucked him over real bad.

-Ran away from home after being cucked by his “only friend” into maybe murdering her dad we dunno if he died or not but I sure did stab him a lot. She lied and told him she was being abused by her dad and Isiah saw red and agreed to her murder plot only to be abandoned midway through. He also pickpocketed for her for like a year beforehand bc she said she was poor. She was very not poor. Bring on the subsequent trust issues.

-Is a bard but hates getting attention so he wears a black rabbit mask when he performs in front anything that isnt a small crowd. He found that mask in his house so you know thats gonna be some spooky cult shit.

- Is only 5′4 and is very conscious of it. Luckily the party is very understanding and calls him ‘the halfling’ or ‘the midget’ lovingly to watch him implode.

-Once accidentally stole a dwarven baby. Named it Isiah jr.

-Has a pet eel named Illius who is the most fuckin talented eel you’ll ever find. He glows! He talks! He beats your ass at card games! Translates languages! We found him behind a door that was sealed by magic and was only opened after Isiah played the music notes on the map we found. Those notes were an exert of a song by the most famous of all bards, Rickus Astelyus. Lo and behold behind the door was a huge tanks with a heckin good boy inside and Isiah adopted him IMMEDIATELY. Loves bacon bits and scritches.

-Received an anonymous love letter a few years back that gives him major anxiety and literally avoids the city he got it from. RIP Jeckyl youre gonna have to talk to him about that, Isiah is oblivious and has no idea lmao.

- Loves to eat bacon and recently bought out the bacon from the local tavern. Feeds some to Illius because its what he deserves. He’s also currently carrying a fuckton of bread, cheese, jam, and flour. Food is practically his way of diplomacy as he gives some to whoever he meets. It’s almost like his way of nervous self-defence. When tentacles shot out of Scale’s mouth Isiah just started shovelling bread into the tentacles and Scales woke up feeling incredibly full lmao.

-Has also in his inventory: a gay erotica book, a romance novel in a language he cant read, a rainbow slinkie, a magic mood ring that gives him poison resistance, 6 wolf teeth, a wolf leg bone, some gems, 4 days worth of rations on top of all the food he already has, a violin, a flute, and a fancy lute that he found in Illius’ chamber.

-Hes just nervous but loud mouthed and contradicts himself a lot. Anxious and eccentric. Says that hes just a bard and wasnt meant for any kind of greater scheme but the universe has other plans.

-Was once dabbed at by the god of entertainment, Apollon. ((Apollon is the only god Isiah really cares about lmao)).

and despite him not being in the party anymore im gonna give honorary mention to my favourite skyrim-glitch-of-a-barbarian, Florys:

-Was the character of a guy who played with us for one session. At the beginning of the next session he was on webcam with us all and we were about to start playing when suddenly his camera cut out and he went offline and weve literally not seen from him since. He’s not been online in over a month now. Some common theories in our group is that hes off fighting ISIS or got arrested for weed right there and then.

-Due to this weird player disappearance our DM, Benjamin, had to take control of Florys whilst we looked for a new party member. In the session that the player disappeared from we didnt know if he was gonna come back or not so Benjamin had Florys suddenly contract a horrific stomach bug and was just in the tavern toilet presumably making a fuckin hole in the floor with the noise it apparently made lmfao Isiah actually had to try and play music over the top of Florys’ shitfest at one point and only just managed to drown the sound out. But as time went by days were eventually passing in the campaign and the player still hadnt come back so poor Florys was not having a great time in the bathroom for several DAYS.

-Eventually the DM realised that this player was not gonna come back and that the party was short on a tank so he started piloting Florys for a while to accompany us on our quest ((and miraculously recovering from his terrifying stomach illness)) but hed forgotten how the player said Florys was so just was making shit up on the fly. I specifically remember the original player of Florys saying ‘Oh Florys isn’t like those stereotypical dumb barbarians’ which is why I lost my shit when the Florys being piloted by the DM turned around and said ‘What the fuck is a triangle?’ ... Florys is practically brain-damaged at this point, I think it might be the DMs retribution for the player disappearing lmao

-Threw all of his hand axes into a river during one fight and then into a cieling the next, which provoked Isiah to jokingly call out: ‘Oh, Florys! You’re so handsome and cool!’ which Florys with his last 2 braincells took seriously. The handsome and cool line became an on-running meme and gets used whenever any of us fucks up lmao

-For some reason grew rlly attached to a piano he found in Illius’ chamber and carried it around with him out of two parts stubborness two parts piano LUST.

-We ended up using him as a mule to carry all of our heavy shit bc he’d just do it and he literally wouldn’t think anything of it.

-We found a giant birds nest and Florys for some reason picked it up and carried it away and got fucking kidnapped by a giant bird so now hes literally just in fucking sky somewhere sat in a birds nest and being flown around which is wild bc we expected the DM to just kill Florys but instead hes just in the fucking sky where he belongs. Like legit hes just sat in there. Hes just in the sky. Godspeed.

HEAVES I could write so much more but this is already incredibly lengthy so here take it

also @redthebattler idk if any of this would be interesting to you lmao

#dnd ask #Anonymous

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