#I want to change my name and run away. the latter reaction is decreasing I will admit.

[icterid-rubus]

Man having a crush makes the brain cells ridiculous.

[scripttorture]

One of the central characters in a fantasy story I'm writing has torture as part of her backstory. She was captured by an evil race, and one individual in particular put her through a "training" regime designed to turn her into a useful/trustworthy slave. Specifically the goals of the training were:

- destroy her sense of self / agency

- overwrite her ingrained response of healing herself when injured (she has magical healing powers)

- an affectionate or worshipful disposition towards her captors

- immediate obedience to any command

I feel like both physical and psychological torture / mental conditioning are probably appropriate, though I'm leaning away from including sexual abuse. I honestly don't know much about torture at all and the only things that come to mind as producing a result similar to what I'm looking for are the Game of Thrones torture sequence and the use of obdience collars in the Codex Alera book series. The latter is very interesting to me because it is a magical device that inflicts pain in reaction to disobedience but also inflicts pleasure to reward obedience.

I guess I'm just wondering if you have any advice for what kinds of methods would be good to include in a process designed to produce obedience, rather than torture for its own sake or to extract information, as well as if there are any common pitfalls I should try to avoid in writing about such a thing.

The training itself won't be in the book, but I need to be familiar with it for backstory purposes because later in the story this character encounters her torturer again, and is subjected to some further abuse before she finally overcomes her fear and kills him.

Alright well I’m going to be straight up with you: the scenario you’ve presented is a very common torture apologist trope. It’s incredibly unrealistic. And it’s unrealistic in ways that support torture by claiming it can be ‘useful’.

 Which probably means that you’re new to the blog and haven’t heard me give this talk before. That’s OK, we all learn sometime and it’s not my intention to shame you for the fact you’re not as obsessed with this stuff as I am or couldn’t afford to shell out for the books.

 Torture does not produce obedience. The best evidence we have right now suggests it encourages active resistance.

 If you got a lot of your inspiration from Game of Thrones then frankly I’m not surprised you came up with apologia. The torture in that series is incredibly badly handled. And a big part of the point of running this blog is that most people are getting their information on torture from shows like that. Which happens because the research is inaccessible and hasn’t been popularised the way fictional tropes (sometimes fictional tropes literally started by torturers) have been popularised.

 The important thing is what you choose to do now.

 I’m going to break down the problems here and make some suggestions for what you could do instead.

 Firstly: there is no torture or abuse that will guarantee obedience. Pain does not make people meek or compliant or willing to follow commands.

 Torture survivors are not broken.

 They are not ‘controlled’ by their torturers and the suggestion that they are is used in the real world to bar real survivors from treatment. It is also used to bar them from entering safe countries and to argue that they shouldn’t be allowed visas or passports.

 The best statistics we have for any sort of compliance under torture come from analysis of historical French data where torture was used to try and force confessions (something we know torture can sometimes do).

 The ‘success’ rate averaged at 10%. Under torture 90% of people will not comply long enough to sign their name.

 Secondly: torture does not and can not ‘make’ a victim feel ‘worshipful’ towards their torturer. The suggestion is kind of like asking if someone can tap dance immediately after removing the bones from their legs.

 Torturers have no control over a victim’s emotions. They have no control over their symptoms. They have no control over their beliefs.

 And there is no such thing as a torture that can change someone’s mind in a way torturers can control.

 Once again, this fictional trope is used by politicians and the media to justify marginalising real torture survivors.

 I have read hundreds, possibly thousands, of accounts from torture survivors. I’ve read historic and modern accounts. I’ve read accounts from all sort of people from all over the globe. I have never seen a survivor say anything positive about their torturers. I have never seen anything close to toleration.

 A lot of survivors are blisteringly angry at their torturers. A lot of them feel overwhelming levels of spite and some report literally putting themselves at risk of death in order to spite their torturers. And yes, a lot of them are afraid too. None of these emotions are mutually exclusive.

 Affection is impossible. We are not wired that way.

 Thirdly: I understand that ‘evil races’ are a long standing fantasy trope but it would be remiss of me if I didn’t mention the racism inherent in that idea. That some people are ‘born bad’.

 I’d strongly suggest you look up the Black, Indian and First Nations people that I know are on this site critiquing these kinds of fantasy tropes. Because they will be able to explain it better then I can.

 Fourthly: the term ‘psychological torture’ is a pretty common dog whistle for torture apologia.

 Most of the time tortures that people dub ‘psychological’ are things with real, physical effects that lead to lasting injury and death. They just don’t tend to leave obvious external scars. I use Rejali’s term ‘clean torture’ for these techniques. Researchers distinguish them from scarring tortures because they are harder to detect and prove in court.

 The majority of survivors today will have experienced clean torture. They will have no obvious physical scars. But they will still be disabled. They’re ‘just’ less likely to see any form of justice for it.

 Fifthly: torture is a terrible training method because it decreases a person’s ability to learn.

 Torture causes memory problems. It also often causes lasting physical injuries that make performing basic tasks more difficult. And it causes a lot of serious psychological problems which make performing basic tasks more difficult.

 A trained person who was never tortured will always out perform someone whose training involved torture.

 I probably sound quite angry here.

 I write fantasy and I also write about torture a lot. But I can’t imagine that it’s just flavour for a fantasy world or some artefact of the past. Torture is a real, present threat in the country that I grew up in. If I was to return now I could, literally, be tortured and executed.

 If you want to include torture in your world, in your story then you are committing to telling someone else’s story. You are representing an incredibly marginalised group of people and you are presenting that representation to a third group, one that has never had contact with real torture survivors.

 Are you comfortable with the idea of telling your peers that survivors are still controlled by ‘the enemy’? That they’re passive? That they don’t have the capacity to make their own decisions?

 Are you comfortable knowing that the popularity of this message keeps millions of genocide survivors in refugee camps, blocked from citizenship, aid and safety?

 I understand feeling attached to a story and a character. And I understand that this information is hard to find. Hell I’m probably going to end up with the only English copy of one of the pivotal textbooks because I’m shelling out to get it translated.

 You say you want to write a torture survivor. With respect I don’t think you know what a torture survivor looks like.

 I think the most helpful, and kindest, thing I can do here is describe what torture does to people. Because I can’t tell you whether that’s something you want to write. I could try and rebuild this scenario for you (and if you decide you’re interested in that after reading all of this and all the links then I suggest looking through the blog tags for ICURE, torture as training, Black Widow and Overwatch.) But I think you need to decide whether you actually want to write a torture survivor first.

 Here’s a post on the most common torture apologia tropes.

 Here’s the post on the types of memory problems torture commonly causes. I strongly recommend picking at least one.

 Remember that this would never go away. Improvement and recovery in torture survivors means learning to live with symptoms. The symptoms themselves are permanent.

 It’s a hundred different alarms set up on their phone to try and make up for the forgetfulness that makes them miss appointments. It’s the little bottle of perfume in their pocket to bring themselves back to reality when they get intrusive memories at work.

 Here’s a post on the other common symptoms.

 You want something in the range of 3-5 of those, though more are likely if your character is held for years. Each of them should be severe. Every single symptom should have a large, negative, impact on the character’s daily life.

 Do you know anyone with chronic pain? It warps their world. Work can become impossible. Basic household tasks like getting dressed, cooking, cleaning the dishes are done through gritted teeth or not at all. Hobbies and ‘fun’ activities dwindle as they struggle to find a way to do them that doesn’t hurt. Interaction with other people, even loved ones, can easily become barbed.

 Because the pain makes everything more difficult. It means everything takes more energy, more effort. Which means that things fall by the wayside, whether that’s by a pile of mouldering dishes in the sink or snapping at a child. It means tears and the social judgement that follows them. It means the world narrowing as it gets harder to go out.

 Do you see what I mean? Every part of life.

 That’s an example for one symptom. You need to work out at least four. Then figure out how they interact. Then figure out what the character can do to make her life better.

 With chronic pain that can mean painkillers but it’s always more then that. It’s re-learning how to do things; how to put on trousers without aggravating the bad knee, how to sew with one hand. It means learning to cut down on what they do and it means learning a new sort of flexibility; accepting that there are days when the pain is too much.

 It can mean having the same conversation about disability over and over again. With family, with friends, with colleagues. ‘I can’t do that.’ ‘I can do that sometimes but not always.’ ‘That will hurt me.’ ‘I can’t use that chair.’ ‘I can’t get my arms that high above my shoulders.’ ‘I need help with this.’

 And that sometimes means learning a kind of patience that is really barely held back rage. Or perhaps I’m projecting a little with this last one.

 If you’ve never met a torture survivor, if you’ve never looked at a survivor’s work, then all this is difficult. You’re trying to imagine something from first principals with nothing to fall back on.

 So let’s bring some survivors into the discussion here. Some reality.

 Who’s listened to Fela? How about Bobi Wine?

 Fela Kuti was the father of modern Afro beats music. He was tortured multiple times and during one attack, which destroyed his home, his mother was murdered by the military. When he got out of jail Fela marched her funeral procession past the biggest barracks in Nigeria’s biggest city. He wrote two songs about this attack and he doubled down on his opposition to the military government.

 Fela’s music started causing riots.

 You can read what I have to say about him here. You can listen to his music on youtube.

 Here’s an interview with Bobi Wine, which was conducted shortly after he was tortured in Uganda. He talked about how he was determined to go back and continue fighting. Which he did. He even ran against the president.

 I’ve also got a short piece on Searle who was a cartoonist captured by the Japanese during World War 2. His drawings of what happened in To the Kwai and Back are worth seeing. Especially if you want to write atrocities on this scale. They will show you the scale and how to focus on the small, human elements despite that overwhelming scale.

 Alleg’s The Question is pretty much a must, it’s one of the most thorough accounts from the Franco-Algerian war.

 Monroe’s A Darkling Plain is also a must, it’s a series of interviews with survivors of various different conflicts and atrocities. Some are torture survivors. Some are not. It is essential reading because it shows the variety in survivors as well as giving a sense of their lives beyond the symptoms.

 Finally Amnesty International has literally hundreds of interviews and studies available for free online.

 The most important decision for any story with regards to torture is whether it should be there at all.

 So much of this topic is intimidating and so much of it is difficult to write. Not just in the ‘oh this is horribly effecting’ sense but in the ‘I have twelve things to juggle in this simple scene’ sense.

 Ask yourself what torture adds to this character and this story. What does this backstory actually give this character?

 Because if the point is to have her vulnerable and then ultimately triumphing violently over her attackers I don’t think you want a torture scenario. You could get the same thing from a bad guy trying to drug her and having the kidnapping fail when she fights him off, clumsy but effective nonetheless.

 And she could still come out of something like that traumatised.

 Right now I really don’t see this adding anything but torture apologia to your story.

 Handling torture well in a story means accepting that it can’t be the same story without it. It means watching the characters and narrative warp under the weight of it. It means lasting effects, for all the characters and for the world itself.

 I believe you are capable of writing that if you want to, pet. But this ain’t it.

Edit: I’m having trouble seeing the beginning of the answer here. Can anyone let me know if there are formatting issues again please? The first word in the htmal is ‘Alright’ but what I’m seeing on tumblr starts 8 paragraphs in.

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Disclaimer

[ma9l]

Opinion Series: Instagram and It’s Effects on Depression

1st audience: Influencers

Source 1: Why Social Comparison on Instagram Matters ://ezproxy.uvu.edu/login?url=http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=edsgao&AN=edsgcl.586241540

Source 2: Why Instagram is the Worst Social Media for Mental Health https://time.com/4793331/instagram-social-media-mental-health/

Source 3: An Instagram With No 'Likes' Could Have A Big Impact On Mental Health. https://www.huffpost.com/entry/instagram-hiding-likes-mental-health_l_5cd092d3e4b0548b735e50bc?guccounter=1.

YOU ARE HUMAN TOO

How do you do it? How do you always look happy and put together? I would dare say that it’s definitely not an easy task trying to appear like your life is perfect and that nothing is wrong, when in reality you are human just like the rest of us. You have your own struggles that you face, but you can’t bear the thought of losing followers and so you fake a smile to present a pleasing image for the world. What really goes on behind the scenes of Instagram? I’m sure what people see online is not the real you-at least not entirely…

INFLUENCER OR ROLE MODEL?

You are the role models of the future. Teenagers adore you so much so that they want to be like you, which is great and all, but not when it leads to feelings of depression and insecurity. “Research has shown that people compare themselves with those they perceive as having positive characteristics (upward social comparison) out of a desire to become more like their comparison targets” (Hwnag) This kind of practice can bring about feelings of depression because they are constantly feeling inferior and are aiming for an unrealistic goal.

MAINTAINING THE IDEAL

The pressure is ever heightened for you to maintain an ideal status. The atmosphere is very competitive. You sponsor products that you don’t actually use, get lip injections that you don’t even need, and for what? The money? There is a common phrase that states the following: “money can’t buy happiness.” Maybe it can temporarily, but pretty soon, it loses its value. Similar to how you receive positive reactions from followers, which at first is exciting and makes you feel good, but then you realize they have no idea who you are. What if that was taken away from you? What if you couldn’t see how many people liked your posts? Well, a test run was performed in Canada to see how the experience for Instagram users changed by taking away the visibility of likes. A participant named Sarah Roberts said this: “Personally, I love not seeing the like count. It feels a bit weird to say, but I’ve stopped comparing myself to bigger accounts. I’ve also been more personal with the things I actually like versus what everyone else is liking. This feels like more of what Instagram should be rather than an advertisement of ourselves on our page.” From your point of view, as an influencer, I would guess this wouldn’t have the same effect on you. In fact, it would probably reap a lot of havoc with in you to not see how your followers are responding because you wouldn’t know how well your posts were doing and most importantly, wouldn’t be able to tell if they were being influenced at all when that is the sole purpose of your account. Something interesting to keep in mind in regards to the comparison aspect of your followers relation to your account, is that studies have been done comparing those who follow strangers and those who don’t and compared how it affects them mentally. It turns out that “People using Instagram or other SNS to keep in touch solely with people they know personally are not at risk for negative consequences… However, following strangers may lead to or reinforce already existing negative feelings about the self by triggering negative social comparisons.” (Lup) 

2nd audience: Utah Moms

Source 1: “Can Your Instagram Photos Reveal You’re Depressed?” https://www.nbcnews.com/better/health/can-your-instagram-photos-reveal-you-re-depressed-ncna794041

Source 2: “Does Social Media Cause Depression?” https://childmind.org/article/is-social-media-use-causing-depression/

Source 3: “Why Instagram is the Worst Social Media for Mental Health”

https://time.com/4793331/instagram-social-media-mental-health/

EVALUATE USAGE

Utah mothers of teens: does your child own their own smartphone? Do they have personal social media accounts? Are you aware of what they do online? What about how much time they spend scrolling? These are just a few basic questions that may be helpful to consider when you’re wondering why your teen is acting “off”. Sure, you can blame it on the hormones or claim that they are just “going through a phase”, but are there other factors that come into play? Certainly! A lot of parents monitor their children’s phone usage, but a fair amount do not. Because so many teenagers are glued to their phones most of the time, and pay more attention to their devices than anything else in this technology driven world, some parents may feel like their relationship with their kids is being hindered. The phone is a distraction, and an interference that can create a gap between a teenager and the amount of face to face interaction they engage in with others. They may seem distant or hard to reach. They may seem irritable or annoyed when asked simple questions. This could very well be because of the negative strain they’re receiving from an endless array of information across social media-more specifically, from Instagram. Did you know, that Instagram ranked the highest in social media platforms that contribute to anxiety and depression? Right up there with Facebook and Snapchat. (Macmillan) Instagram tends to pressure individuals to meet a certain standard or obtain a particular ideal which adds more stress to the lives of teens who are already bombarded with stressors like school, friends, work, etc. 

HOW TO HELP

In the NBC article “Can Your Instagram Photos Reveal That You’re Depressed” it talks about a computer program in the works that is able to spot depressed people just by scanning their Instagram photos. This could be helpful for parents like you if your child isn’t very open about his/her life. You shouldn’t rely on it to give you an accurate diagnosis, but if their posts are looking dark, it could be a sign that something is up. The article suggests you bring it up by saying something like: “I noticed you’re not eating and not going out as much. You’re spending hours on the screen in your bed, you seem really tired — like you’re not sleeping well — and you have a lot of dark pictures on your Instagram.”....... Then ask your child, “Have you noticed that, too? Do you feel any different?” This way you aren’t necessarily accusing them, you are just stating the facts and checking in. A couple other tips are advised in the article “Does Social Media Cause Depression”. Try the following: focus on balance, turn off notifications, set a good example, teach mindfulness, and enforce phone free time before sleep.

UTAH

Obviously in Utah there is a unique dynamic with the large majority belonging to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Now, whether or not you fall into that category, you probably still agree with me when I say there is a distinct standard for how people parent in our state and it entirely revolves around the family. Your family means everything to you. I can’t even imagine, being a mother and having all the concerns and worries that you do for your children, hoping that they don’t get screwed up or lead astray. That is a heavy burden to bear. Finding the balance between being too strict and too carefree is tough! So while keeping an eye on your children and their social media use may be another stressor for you, let me reassure you by saying “you are doing better than you think you are!”

3rd audience: “The student”

Source 1: No More FOMO: Limiting Social Media Decreases Loneliness and Depression.” Journal of Social & Clinical Psychology http://web.b.ebscohost.com.ezproxy.uvu.edu/ehost/detail/detail?vid=0&sid=acf0bc8f-62a2-42ca-a54c-5fb0eabe7791%40pdc-v-sessmgr05&bdata=#AN=133426611&db=pbh

Source 2: Instagram: Friend or Foe? The Application’s Association with Psychological Well-Being. http://web.b.ebscohost.com.ezproxy.uvu.edu/ehost/detail/detail?vid=0&sid=cd3ba391-56c3-46b9-97d5-383a27d2d6fa%40pdc-v-sessmgr02&bdata=#AN=2019-53246-004&db=psyh

Source 3: Is Social Media Hurting Your Mental Health? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Czg_9C7gw0o

ARE YOU “LIKED”?

How does it feel when your phone buzzes, notifying you that your latest Instagram post just got 50 more likes? Do you feel the gratification and approval from your peers? Do you feel important and liked? What about when you post something and it doesn’t do as well as you hoped? Do you immediately take it down because it’s embarrassing or do you shrug it off and say “My next post will be better!”? Either way, most people your age are trying to find themselves and fit in so what you post tends to be influenced by your peers. You care about what they think because you don’t want to ruin your reputation. Am I right? Some of the most common mental illnesses these days are depression and anxiety, especially among youth. A lot of studies have been done in order to confirm or deny whether the hypothesis that social media plays a role in our overall well being is true or not. 

INSTA ON THE COLLEGE CAMPUS

“The Center for Collegiate Mental Health found that the top three diagnoses on University campuses are anxiety, depression and stress. Numerous studies from the US, Canada, the UK, you name it, have linked this high social media use with these high levels of anxiety and depression.” (Parnell) I don’t know about you, but as a college student, I can relate with this. Even though we are all on our own journey to success, a lot of us tend to worry about how we are doing compared to others even though they are taking an entirely different route that is not even relevant to us at all and then end up feeling sorry for ourselves because we see how much good is happening in their lives and how much they are achieving by viewing their social media posts. Why do we do that? They have nothing to do with us, nor do their feeds depict real life. They could have failed an exam just yesterday, but never posted about it so you had no idea and then turned around and posted about passing one the next day which is all you saw. It’s all about sharing the highlights and the positive moments in life online so people will like you and think you’re cool.

HOW MANY USERS?

“As of March of 2018,... 71% of young adults used Instagram” (Hunt) I would consider young adults to be between the ages of 18-30, so your typical college student. The numbers may be slightly off due to the slight advance in time to today, but roughly 70 percent of young adults use Instagram. That is a pretty good majority. With this high of a number, it wouldn’t be surprising for at least some of the app’s users to face problems with it.

INSTAGRAM ANXIETY

In a scholarly article titled “Instagram: Friend or Foe”, it uses the phrase “Instagram Anxiety” to describe how one might feel in their online engagement with the app. “Instagram anxiety was associated with both depression and anxiety. This specific form of anxiety refers to feeling anxiety symptoms about specific processes involved in using the application. It may also be that users who feel anxious about posting pictures or receiving feedback may also tend to feel more anxious in general.” Anxiety and depression go hand in hand. You may not be diagnosed with either illness, but you have probably still experienced some of their symptoms-especially if you use social media often. I know I have. Now, we are all imperfect and all make mistakes so it’s no wonder we beat ourselves up about not having the ideal Instagram account like so and so does, but we have our agency and we can choose to use it more wisely. “Is social media hurting your mental health? The answer is: it doesn’t have to.” (Parnell)

[fireontherun]

Where there's smoke

Julia: {When you're constantly on the run, you don't have the luxury of ever being comfortable. You don't always know the date, or how long you'll have in the place you're at. Circumstances can change on a dime, and if you decide to ignore a bad feeling you get, well, that could blow right up in your face. Its been five years since I escaped the last time and while I hope I can stay ahead of their end game, I never let myself forget what being in their hands was like. To them, I wasn't a human, I was an experiment. Hurt me until I went up in flames. If they could find a way to control my fire, they could control me. And worst case scenario, I would become a walking weapon that would be sold to the highest bidder. Five years ago, I threw a wrench in their plans by escaping compliments of a industrial fire I orchestrated, that burned so hot everyone and everything in the facility was reduced to ash. Standing in a dirty alley, I could hear the guards pleading to leave, plain as day, even if it was just a painful memory, years and miles away. A spark caught on the tips of my fingers and I quickly extinguished it, casting a glance around to be sure that no one had witnessed that. Discovering I was different could and had led to my capture before. No one could be trusted. I learned that lesson the hard way, and had a couple scars on my back as a permanent painful reminder. I blew out a deep breath and sunk deeper in the shadows and froze in place, my eyes watching as the stranger I had identified as a potential risk. He passed my hiding spot and my fear escalated. Fuck. He was definitely military. I made out at least three weapons, and I was sure there were more that I couldn't identify placement of. I counted in my head to thirty before slowly and stealthily moving from my location to follow my identified target. I would have to be even more careful with this follow since he was clearly not a civilian. I needed to know if he was here looking for me, or just passing through. I hoped the latter, because given the physique of that guy, it would not be a fun fight if push came to shove. I followed his moves for several minutes, stopping far enough behind he shouldn't have any suspicions, at least I hoped. Finally l, my pursuit paid off, my mouth formed a smile as I saw him enter a motel room with a key card.} Gotcha. {I whispered happily to myself, memorizing the room number and planning on going back later to search his room for intel. Nodding once and moving swiftly away from the man I'd been stalking and his hotel room feeling pretty pleased with myself.} Gabe: We'd fucked up in Kandahar. Uncle Sam sure as fuck wasn't gonna let us forget that; but a court-martial? Fuck if I was gonna let some paper pushing bureaucrat sign my death warrant. Seventeen months on the LAM, and I'd decided bounty hunting was the way to go. This project Juliet-6 the US government had its panties in a wad over looked to be my ticket outta "deadman walking" territory: track and locate the package, detain, neutralize if necessary. Seemed easy enough, but the days turned into weeks, weeks into months with still no leads, no sign of a populous-neutralizing weapon. Until an accident at a dispensary in Colorado caught my attention. How does the cause of a fire remain undetermined...in a place that deals pot? Fast forward over a few minor details to now, and the target, the sexy little arms courier who's only crime appears to be fucking the wrong guy--Yep, she's falling nicely into my trap. She thinks she's tailing me, but she's really tailing my decoy to the truckers' motel off the interstate. I slip out of the adjoining room, waiting for the opportunity to corner her, and when I do, her first clue is the sound of my gun cocking into her back. "Don't move. Just tell me where you've got the weapon stashed. Nobody needs to get hurt here, Sweetheart." Julia: {I thought I was clear. I thought everything would be fine, I could get in and get out and vanish into thin air like I had done a hundred times before. Until I felt a gun at my back and I knew I had made a mistake. Stiffening instantly, as I worked through all the angles how to get out of this without a bullethole, preferably. Turning my head to stare up at him. He was even bigger up close. And the intensity of his stare did not send a flush of warmth through me. Really not the time, Jul.} I think you've got the wrong girl, but if you're nice to me, /maybe/ I'll not make you sing soprano for a few weeks. {I turn around real slow, my eyes locked on his gun hand, ready to run if needs be, but hoping I can use my intellect to get out of this one unscathed. I still wasn't sure what all he knew so how much I could bluff, was still up in the air at the moment.} Gabe: "Make /me/ sing soprano? That's funny. You see, last I checked; I was the one with the gun, chica." Okay, so she's /really/ fucking sexy up close. And feisty to boot. "Don't. Move." I hold the gun on her, get her up against the wall, and give her a quick pat-down with the other. "You're not packing? Look, what's your name? Do you know where your boyfriend's keeping it? Is it at the club? Can you take me to him?" Or maybe I'll start slower and see if she can keep up. "What is /your name/?" Julia: "His hand never so much as wavered, and a rock steady gun hand was really bad news for me. I started to lick my lips nervously as my back pressed against the wall behind me. Think Jul. Your hands lingered a fraction of a second between my thighs in that pat down of yours and my body had a very visceral reaction. My gaze narrowing on your face. Trying not to absorb the details of your face as a woman would, because I don't really have time for...wait. Boyfriend? What boyfriend? My ears perked up as I thought on that one. The way you asked my name, would have made me laugh if it hadn't included a gun still pointing at me.} Just how bad do you want to know what's in my head, Ace? {I lean towards you, dropping my voice into an intentionally sensuous tone.} Do I get to pat you down now, or do you want to search me again? You know, in case you missed something... Gabe: Wait? Did she just? Is she? Is she /hitting/ on me? Some guys might get distracted from the mission at hand, but not me. I won't let this chick throw me off the hunt, especially if that's what her handlers want. A honeypot like her? Yep, she's designed for distraction. "Call me Jupiter. Or Jupe. Not Ace. Not Bud, Buddy, Mack, or Bub. And I didn't miss anything; trust me." I want answers. I want freedom from the land of the free. I realign my sights down her center mast, growing impatient. "Tell me what I need to know. I know you know about Juliet-6, so we either talk here or we talk someplace quiet; and you won't like someplace quiet, baby girl." I listen for movement around me, nostrils flaring, expecting an ambush. "Is Juliet-6 at the club? Is it at The Qube?" Julia: {And just like that, this whole dance we were doing escalated into red flag territory. Juliet-6? A code name I hadn't heard in years, but thanks to the number branded on my hip, I'd never forget it. I'm staring icily at you now, the gun ignored. He knows my designation, knows I'm supposed to be a weapon, but...doesn't know I am Juliet-6? Interesting, and I'm at a loss as to how exactly to play this, when you hand me my out with gold ribbon.} Alright, /Jupiter/. You can call me Angel. Let's not get messy with our real names. I don't have a boyfriend, but if you wanted to ask me out, you'd be in my panties by now if you didn't bring the gun. {I glance around, conspiratorially, leaning so far into you, pushing my chest against your gun hand, my breath tickles your face, speaking softly so you really have to pay attention to my mouth.} We can't talk about this here. Sitting ducks, you know? You want Juliet-6, take me to the club. {My lips curve into a sultry smile, while inwardly I'm ecstatic. Clubs equal lots of distractions and I only need one to get away from you. I don't know what lies you've been fed about Juliet-6, about /me/, but something is definitely rotten in Denmark.} Gabe: "Oh yeah?" I can't help but smirk, giving my imagination the thirty-second latitude to explore what that might be like if she were telling the truth. Which she's not. "🎶Just call me angel of the morning, Angel..." I scoff at her chosen nickname, whistling the rest as I grab her by the arm, jamming the gun up into her side. "How do you know my name isn't really Jupiter? Maybe my mom went through an astrology phase." She's no angel; that's for damn sure. Still, what she's got going on under those clothes makes a man appreciate sin. "C'mon. The club's not far. But you /know/ that." Julia: {You've got a sense of humor. Great. I was about to roll my eyes, when you moved your placement of that annoying gun, and a little bit too heavy handed as it digs into my side. I bruise easy, so that's going to leave a mark. My unease is growing at just how determined you are at completing whatever your assignment is. What happens if you find out that I'm what you're looking for? With a quiet smile, still hoping against a rapidly decreasing hope, that I can somehow use my physical attributes to tempt you into letting me go, or distracting you for long enough that I get the same result. Slipping my legs apart as I curl my hand around the gun in your hand, my shirt revealing just enough of my cleavage to say "come and get me". I'll be compliant for the time being simply because I don't have any other choice.} Right, Angels always hang out in clubs. You want me to go willingly, lose the over compensation hand piece for your dick. Gabe: Does she really think she's gonna pull the old James Bond love em and leave em, get em outta the way shit on me. It's like the analogies in grammar school; squirrel:shiny object :: men:breasts. "Ooh. Hitting me where it hurts, Ang. But, uh...in order to be overcompensating, you've gotta be packing something smaller than the beretta M9; you know what I'm saying?" Okay, so /maybe/ I tuck the gun into the pocket of my hoodie, but I'm not loosening my grip on her arm just so she can--ShitPiss! A patrol car rolls by, sending me ducking into the nearest doorway, pulling my hood up over my head and half my face. "Keep walking." Sooner we get inside'll be better. Sooner I get through this, too... Julia: {I stare silently at you as you're...bragging about your dick...well then. I'm not going to be picturing what you're packing in those pants of yours. No. Walking? Okay. Pretending I didn't notice that awkward effort to hide from the patrol car that just passed.Hmm. Wonder what that's about. Tucking that away for later, I keep moving toward the club. I'm not sure why you think I would be here. Well, why Juliet-6 would be here. I didn't make a habit of...oh shit. Halfway to the bar I see two familiar faces. High level employees of the same "Doc" that was behind the experiments I endured for most of my life. They're at my two o'clock and you're at my six. I...have less than ten seconds before those monkeys see me. I spin, breaking free of your hold on my arm, and dive in. If I don't blend in now, I'll be strapped to a table in half an hour. It could be worse, at least you're not bad looking. My last thought before kissing you? If it doesn't work, my hand is closer to your gun.} Gabe: "Aw, naw. C'mon--What're you?" What the...fuck? I don't even have time to act. My hand reacts, bringing the gun, pocket and all, up into her chest, before it's calmed the hell back down by her pouty caramel lips. It's just a kiss, right? A damn fucking good kiss, but still just a kiss. Our lips snarl, struggling against each other in this fucked up little power play we got going. "Just can't keep your hands off me; can ya, baby girl?" My eyes scan the room for the real reason she's getting so friendly. Something's wrong here. Julia: {I blink up at you, my fingers touching my mouth, still feeling the force of yours. That, was possibly the worst thing I could have done is the last thought I had before I heard a voice that haunted my nightmares, my expression of terror unable to be hidden before I grab your arm and pulling you hard to come with me. At the resistance, I looked over my shoulder hoping they weren't close enough to grab at me, pleading you with my gaze.} Please, I'll explain outside. Just. Not. Here. Please. Gabe: Maintaining a periphery, my eyes settle back on her face, trying to get a good read. She's surprised even herself with that kiss. Or maybe she just didn't expect it to be that good? Okay, that was more than a flicker of fear of being caught in possession; more than the fear of my gun, which, surprisingly, she didn't show. A healthy fear of firearms is a respect for their power. And she? She's desperate to get out of here. Like, mortally desperate. My arm winds around her, pulling her within whisper range. We could pass for a couple of handsy lovers if there were trust here. "The weapon." I mutter, eyeing the men over her shoulder. It's gotta be close, but we're surrounded. I pull her by the waist, cutting through the crowd to the fire door. "Hold up." Spotting the pull station for the fire alarm "Just like high school." I give the handle a tug, and alarms blaring, sprinklers soaking, we make our exit with the crowd. "We've gotta get off the street." Julia: {That was just too close. I'm telling myself that's why I'm so rattled, it doesn't have anything to do with the taste of you lingering on my lips. They. Almost. Caught. Me. I'm probably shaking, as I run from the club with you, as soon as I'm in the fresh air, all exit routes I had preplanned rush into my memory and I'm leading you up one street and down another stopping outside an abandoned building, picking the locks, pushing you inside, and following right behind. I rest my forehead on the inside of the door, trying to stop trembling before I face you again. A slow breath in and out before turning around.} You almost got me killed, Jupiter. Angels aren't cats, I don't have nine lives, you asshole. Gabe: I'm watching her very carefully as she catches her breath. Me? I'm fine. I almost feel sorry for her. Until she opens that mouth. Kitty's got claws, alright. "How's that? Hey! HEY! You wanna rewind a sec? I just saved your ass back there! You had one job: point me in the direction of the motherfuckin' weapon! Huh? Cuz I don't think it's in...Dale's boot bonanza here!" I kick a box across the warehouse, sending a plume of dust flying. "I sure as hell don't see it! Where is it?" I fly up on her like any other enemy combatant in interrogation, pinning her to the door by her throat before I really realize what I'm doing. "WHERE. IS. IT? People will DIE! Do you get that?!" Slowly, I come to. My look softens to an icy stare and I remove my hand, blocking her against the door with my body. "Give me something. Please." Julia: {I wince as my back hits the door, your hand on my throat, squeezing the air from my windpipe. I'm clawing angry slashes at your hands and arms trying to get the vise-like hold off, a ton of memories of this happening before, so many times before, flooding my head. Nearly falling when at last I'm let go. At least my throat is released. You are still very much pinning me, this time it's with the massive form that is you. I'm gasping to regain the air I couldn't get moments before. After several long tense moments, I try to speak, my voice coming out a little on the hoarse side but getting louder with each word I say.} You want Juliet-6? You don't even know what she is. She isn't a weapon. She's a /person/. {I pause to take another deep breath, staring sorrowfully at you.} Gabe: "Person? You mean?" I stare at her as understanding breaks over my features. /She's/ the bargaining chip I've been hunting for over the past seventeen months? She's the key to freedom? "I've gotta take you in. I mean--" She looks so damned sad. Then there's the fear that clouded her eyes before. My freedom would mean her imprisonment. Which was different when /she/ was just an object, a gun or a bomb or something. "I'm sorry. Let me think. I need to think." I push off and take a step back, holding my hands up. "How? How are /you/ a weapon? Hm?" Wouldn't be the first time I'd been lied to in the name of progress, aka conquering the world. I rub my thumb and forefinger down my mouth, scratching at the scruff on my chin. "There's more to you than meets the eye, baby girl." Julia: {Filled with fear as I hear those dreaded words from your lips. No. Did I /really/ just run from the club to get handed right back to the very same men we left behind? Is this for real? I unzip my pants, pulling down on the waistband to show you the tattooed~~number six low on my right hipbone.} Identity can be confirmed by a specific scanner. Which I'm sure you don't have. {Moving to put my clothes back in order and continuing to stare you down. My body isn't reacting to him continuing to call me baby girl. Well, maybe it is, the damn traitor.} I don't want to be a weapon, why do you think I've been running? You can't turn me in. Please. Don't. Gabe: I'm a mix of flailing arms and averted eyes as she starts unzipping her pants. "Whoa whoa whoa-ho! What're you?" To show me the brand: courtesy of the US Government. After her little show and tell, I keep my eyes glued to the place that was just naked, still stuck on the lacy...whatever those were. Thong? G-string? Angel make you drool somethin' somethin'? "Yuh huh." I clear my throat and try to remember what we were talking about. Don't turn her in; right. I shake my head. "Yeah, but if I don't, /I/ can't/ stop/ running. Do you get that?" Of course she understands running. Who knows how long she's been isolated? What is she? And why is she so dangerous? "Are you a threat? I mean, who's to say I can trust you?" There's a shuffle and a can rolling outside, and by instinct I pull her away from the door, my finger to my mouth. Julia: {I wondered why your gaze was still glued to below my waist, and I glanced down, blushing when I realized my lace panties were still sort of visible. Closing my eyes against your words, hating what you were saying. Great. Your life or mine? Well I guess I'm back to being a human lab rat. That's. Just. Great.} You're asking how /you/ know if you can trust /me/? I'm not the one holding a missile over someone else's head. I already know what you're going to do, so just go ahead, return me to them. I don't know why you think I would tell you anything, when nothing I say will make a difference. All I am is a get out of jail free card, I'm not even a /person/ to you. {My voice is tinged with resignation when you grab me, causing me to stumble against you, feeling the heat of your so very muscular form right through your clothes. My eyes drift to your mouth and remember the way you kissed me back in the club. A frisson of heat spears through me, pooling wetness between my legs as my gaze rises to meet yours in heated silence.} Gabe: Will this chick ever shut up? Backing her against another wall, my hand clamps over her mouth, and I wait, listening for movement. "Shhh..." I take a peek through the dirty panes of a busted window. It must've been the wind or something. Nothing here smells /off/ to me. Taking my hand down, our eyes connect. Her words stung us both, cutting deep. "You have my word, Ang: I won't turn you in." I don't think I could live with myself. But that scene back at Qube? The frisk? Those, I could stand repeating. Her body is just too fucking close to mine not to feel nostalgic. Or riled up. Closer. Closer. Hands on either side of her, I move in for the kill--I mean kiss; well-past suffocating and buried hard between her lips. Julia: {I'm just...did he say he wouldn't turn me in? The words rattled in my head, but made no sense. Why would you say that? Either you're better at this game than I first thought, or...you're serious. My eyes narrow as I study you, forgetting everything the moment your face changes. Your arms boxing me in between the wall and you and the way you're looking at me as if you're suddenly hungry nearly makes me whimper out loud. The rough way you kiss me, as if my mouth holds all the secrets you've most wanted, makes me burn. My hands move upwards to rest on your chest as I half heartedly attempt to fight against your mouth's utter possession of mine, before the intensity simply tears my defense down, one swirl of your tongue against mine at a time. This is...bad. But oh so damn good and I don't want to stop. My thighs part ways and I slide one in between yours, wondering if this has your brain as much mush as mine.} Gabe: This is the one time the din of all the chaos inside my brain dies down, focusing on one determined cause. My lips wrestle with hers until we both need to breathe; and even then, I'm nipping at hers for more. Where she grinds, a rock hard bulge grows between her thighs. I can't help but wonder if that line about getting into her panties was true or not, so I discard the gun. And the jacket, the shirt, etc. With one fell swoop, I hoist her legs around my waist, pinning her between the wall and a sudden onslaught of half-starved kisses. I grind up into her, already on fire, itching to feel those wet, lacy thingamajigs. This is crazy! I know it's crazy! "I...want you." Julia: {By the time our mouths /finally/ separate, my lips are swollen from having been so thoroughly kissed, and I'm having trouble breathing your gloriously hard dick is rubbing me in all the right ways, and I know my panties...and my cunt for that matter, has got to be drenched. All reasonable thought has left my brain, all I can think about is how warm my skin is, and that painful ache that will only be relieved with you finding your way inside me. Nodding at your words, even as I whisper} I /need/ you. {My fingers fumble at the fastenings on your pants and mine...trying and failing to multitask, even as I return my mouth to yours seeking more of the way your lips and tongue can make me feel.} Gabe: My lips roll up into hers, smooth as butter, giving her a preview of what's to come, only less gruff. "Here, let me--" Keeping her in position with my hips, her legs already wrapped around me, I do away with the jeans, letting them drop to my ankles as I tear open her fly, ripping through the soaked panties underneath. Her scent fills the air right before I /spear/ her to the wall, burying my cock balls-deep inside her. And that's when the rougher fuck starts, slow and solid like a fist, raising her along the cracked plaster. This isn't the "oh baby" kind of sex, either. Neither one of us is really saying much. There's a lot of heavy breathing, and some whimpers, but it's all in the eyes. Our eyes are locked...and there's no going back. But the faster I buck, the more she bounces, tensing my spine. Julia: {Gasping when you drive into me, feeling like I might split in two. I didn't even get to admire what you'd been packing, but from the tiny twinge of pain as my cunt stretches around your cock, that was one very large package. Definitely wasn't overcompensating for /anything/. My body feels like it's on fire at the way you're relentlessly pounding into me. The friction on my insides with every stroke, creating a tempest of a storm inside me as the pleasure steadily and swiftly increases. Suddenly with one shift of my hips, the change in position stabbing right against my /instant/ orgasm button in /just/ the right way, and my head falls back, my climax overwhelming me, and moaning loud and long.} Fuck! Gabe: I've never had an encounter /quite/ like this before. Every time she bobs on my shaft it's like having white lightning shooting through my limbs. Her orgasm? Mind fucking blown; like nothing I've ever experienced. Her pussy becomes a vise on my dick and I think I can see literal sparks fly. Like, bulbs exploding around me kind of sparks. I might get distracted if it weren't for the moaning sex goddess writhing at the end of my cock, forcing me to empty my load. "Hoooly. Holy shit." My hips slow to a rolling stop as I collapse, and lean into her, trying to process what just happened. "This was--We should--We can't stay here." I kiss her temple, letting her feet touch the floor. I don't even know her real name. I just fucked a mark. And I don't even know her name. Back up go my jeans. Julia: {The kiss to my temple caught me more off guard than the way my body initially reacted to yours. I let myself lean against the wall while I refasten my jeans, my legs feel a bit shaky, and who knows where my panties went after they got ripped. My voice breaks the silence} Julia. {I shrug slightly, meeting your eyes as I head to the exit.} My name is Julia. Do you have a planned evac, or is this my show? {I swing the door open, and step out into the fresher air watching you only two steps behind me when I feel a sharp sting on my neck my fingers reach up to rub the pain away, and I feel the end of a tranq dart. Glancing over at you and I see that you are sporting an identical dart protruding from your shoulder. Shit. My eyes and body feeling heavy as I hit the ground, claimed by the darkness.}