#Loss of Identity
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lostwhump · 3 months ago
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@whumptober | Day #18: "Loss of Identity" Captain America: The First Avenger (2011); Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014); Captain America: Civil War (2016)
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crazy-dane-art · 3 months ago
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It's easier to hide the hurt than to examine it
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hyacinthdoll1315 · 5 months ago
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Separate
CW // identity loss, purposeful forgetting. imprisonment, forced back to a past.
A doll sits on a bed in a small room, it's legs pulled to its chest as it reads a book.
The sound of cold winds brush at the windowsill, locked and covered with iron bars. The yellow-white haze of the overhead light buzzes faintly as it reaches over the room, and the book the doll holds is left with dust smatterings and marks of fingers.
The words on the pages grow blurry as the doll holds back tears and exhaustion. If its witch were here, she would tell it to lie down as it hummed a melody to sleep. But its witch is not here. an unknown home and unfamiliar room far from its witches embrace.
"It will be safe here," the girl had said, "we'll be far from that evil witches clutches." Did she not know? Her witch was kind, there was no reason to leave its witch.
The girl had said she was her friend named Samantha. An old friend, from before being a doll. She said she wanted to save the doll, help her remember the past. That was not what It had wanted though.
It did not know Samantha. It did not know the person this woman kept speaking of. It did remember some of its past, before being a doll, but it had not wanted to.
Its witch removed most of those memories for it when it asked. and had kept it safe ever since. It did not remember much, but it did remember when it became a doll.
It had met the witch some time before, and had gotten to know her. It had been very sad for a long time, and one day, it had asked.
It asked to be a doll, and the witch said no. It then begged, and the witch still said no. On the third time though, the doll had prostrated itself upon the ground, tears in its eyes and agony in its heart, and staring in its witches eyes, the doll pleaded to be her doll.
Only then, did the witch say yes.
Time had passed. The doll cared for its witch, and the witch cared for her doll, and the doll was happy to be in its witches care. It was happy to be a doll.
And eventually it asked to forget its past. To forget of its pain, forget the sadness, forget being Human, or a friend, or a person. To be freed of its old name, and to exist as a doll and only a doll. And eventually, the witch complied.
And yet, the past has come back.
stuck in an old room, The girl, Samantha said it was the dolls room, but it knew it was wrong. Samantha was wrong.
Perhaps she simply wanted her friend back, or whoever it was before. but it had never wanted that, it wanted to be with its witch.
But a doll is just property isn't it?
Standing up from the bed and placing the book on worn and dusty blankets, the doll knock on the door of it's confinement, seeking to get the crying girls attention.
"Miss, shall this doll clean the house?"
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my-autism-adhd-blog · 1 year ago
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The Difficult Parts of Being Autistic That I Don’t Talk About Enough…
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Neurodivergent_lou
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kybercrystals94 · 3 months ago
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Fine
Read here on Ao3!
Whumptober 2024 - Day 18 - Prompt: Loss of Identity
Rated: T | Words: 511
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Fives and Echo. 
Echo and Fives. 
Now, it’s just Echo. 
Echo. 
Echo.
Echo. 
“Echo,” Rex says, sitting down next to him, “How are you doing?” 
Awful, terrible. Everything hurts, soul deep to the surface of my skin. Even my missing limbs ache, and they aren’t even here anymore. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense…
“Better,” Echo says. He smiles, because if he doesn’t he’ll cry. He holds up his arms, the sleeves of the shirt he borrowed from the big clone – Wrecker? – far too long and drooping at the ends. “Although, I feel like a cadet in these.” 
Rex chuckles. “We’ll be able to find you something with a better fit once we’re back to the base.” 
It’s supposed to make him feel better. He knows it is. He knows. He knows. But the thought of trying to find something that will fit him, the way he is now instead of the way he was…there’s no comfort in it. He’s lost the muscle mass he’d gained, and gained cold metal where he lost his limbs. 
No, he has to change the subject before he spirals to depths he won’t be able to climb out of. 
Echo glances at Wrecker, snoring loudly in a crash seat across from the pull down cot he’s sitting on (they had tried to get him to lay down, to rest, but closing his eyes is the last thing he wants to do, the glare of ones and zeroes still seared to the inside of his eyelids). “Tell me about them. What’s their story?” 
Rex follows his eyeline. “Clone Force 99? I don’t know much about them myself. Cody called them in. As capable as they are insane, that lot.” 
“I assure you, insanity has nothing to do with it,” Tech says, coming into the hold, eyes trained on his data pad. “To properly answer your question, Echo, we are an elite squad of clones developed to have desirable mutations. Therefore, we are uniquely qualified for high risk missions given our advanced skill set.”
Rex sighs. “That’s exactly what I was going to say,” he mutters to Echo.
“Liar,” Echo murmurs back. 
The attempt to lighten the mood almost works, and Echo pretends it does. Because, if he pretends long enough, that he’s fine, that everything will be fine, he’ll start to believe it. Because this is his new reality. A world separated by then and now, connected by a bridge long since burned that he can’t cross back over. And he will be fine. He isn’t dead. 
Fives is dead. 
Rex didn’t have to tell him, Echo didn’t have to ask. 
But Echo will be fine. He’s already decided. 
What’s two missing legs and an arm? What’s internal organs replaced and spliced with cybernetics? What’s a brother lost forever, his last word to you, your own name? 
Rex bumps him with his shoulder, and Echo bumps him back. 
“I’ll be fine,” he says, voice so soft it is almost just an exhale, answering the unspoken, reiterated question. 
But what if I’m not?
END
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moonlight0934 · 2 months ago
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Joker Junior, Your Unreliable Narrator
Joker paces in front of Tim, who is unclear on what’s happening. 
“Oh, Junior.” 
Is he talking to me? That’s not my name, is it? I thought it was Tim. 
“Junior, Junior, Junior, you’re such a naughty little boy. Why did you break Daddy’s restraints?” 
Tim looks at where Joker is pointing. Joker is wearing a disapproving look as he directs Tim’s attention to a metal table with broken straps. 
“I did that?” Tim asks, his voice sounding off. Almost like it’s not supposed to sound that way. 
I sound so serious. I think I just need to lighten up a bit. 
Tim giggles. 
“I don’t know. I don’t remember doing that, but I’m sorry.” 
“Aw, it’s ok, Junior.” 
“My name isn’t Junior.” 
Joker’s eyes narrow, and some part of Tim knows that something is about to happen. That something is wrong. He ignores it though as he does with most of his fleeting thoughts. He can’t seem to grasp anything for more than a few seconds. 
“Do you mean that your name is Joker? You were named after your dad, so you’re Junior, and I’m Senior. Do you understand, or do you need more of your meds to help you understand?” 
“I think I understand, but I thought my name was Tim.” 
“Tim?” Joker sneers, his face twisting. 
Tim cocks his head to the side. 
“Is someone else Tim? Do I know him?” 
“I think you’re confused, Junior. I’ll get your meds, and then you can take a nap while Mommy makes dinner.” 
“Mom doesn’t like to cook?” 
Tim finds himself thinking of a woman with light brown hair, and blue eyes. 
“Of course your mother likes to cook. She loves to cook.” 
Tim finds himself nodding along though he’s not sure what he’s agreeing with. Joker walks to another table, and grabs a syringe. 
Man, I don’t like shots. 
Joker walks back over, and Tim flinches when Joker reaches for his arm. Joker slaps him across the face, knocking him to the ground. Then he roughly grabs Tim’s arm, and jams the needle into Tim’s skin. Tim feels everything float away quickly after that. 
Junior wakes up slowly. His head feels funny, and nothing really makes sense. 
Where are Mommy and Daddy? I don’t feel good. 
He sits up, realizing that he’s on the bed that’s nestled in the corner. Normally he sleeps on the table, and the bed is reserved for Mommy and Daddy. 
It must not be sleeping time. I’m so glad that they trust me to nap by myself without tying me down. 
Junior stands up, his legs feeling a little weak, but he pushes through it. 
I want to find Mommy. 
There’s a blonde woman in his head with white face makeup and wild eyes that gives him a soft smile. He wanders over to the door, it’s locked. So, he sits down on the floor to wait for his mommy to come back. However, it doesn’t take long for him to get bored. Junior jumps to his feet, then begins racing around, trying to find something to do. 
He finds some spare materials that are lying around, and then throws himself back down to work. He loses track of time quickly, for once not even wondering where the information that his brain is giving him came from. Joker and Harley come in after a while, and they both stop at the sight in front of them. 
“Daddy, Mommy, hi. I made something for you,” Junior says, jumping to his feet. 
He runs over, and holds out the makeshift bomb he just made. 
“Aw, Junior, you made us a bomb? That’s so nice, sweetie. Can you believe that we missed his first bomb?” Harley asks, elbowing Joker. 
“No, I can’t. That’s very thoughtful of you. We’re going to use this tonight.” He puts it to the side. “Now, Mommy and I made dinner together. Can we trust you to behave if we go eat dinner in a different room?” 
I haven’t been in any other rooms. Yes, this is awesome! 
“Of course you can, Daddy. I promise I won’t do anything you don’t give me permission to.” 
Harley smiles widely at Joker, then back at Junior. 
“Well, I’m glad that you’re having such a good day, baby. Daddy was worried, but your memory seems to be improving. You remember who you are, and who we are, right?” 
“Yep, I’m JJ, and you guys are my parents. My only parents.” 
I feel like I’ve heard this before, but why would I have any other parents? That’s so stupid. 
“Good. That’s my good little JJ.” 
Junior nods enthusiastically. 
“I think this means that he can get his hair done awake tomorrow night,” Joker says, sounding happy. 
Junior laughs, and the noise sounds just right to his ears. He doesn’t sound serious anymore. 
Well, I don’t need to be serious around my Mommy and Daddy. 
Harley takes Junior’s hand, and they walk out of the door. Junior’s eyes dart around, taking in everything even though it’s just a hallway. The hallway is crumbling concrete just like everything else, but Junior still takes everything in like it’s a castle. Joker opens up a door which leads to a very bright dining room. There’s a table that has a green table cloth, and the room itself is decorated for a party. 
“Woah, Daddy, this is so much color. The table looks like your hair.” 
Junior laughs again, but this time Joker joins in. 
Wow, I sound so much like my Daddy. That is so cool. Wait, do I want to sound like him? 
Junior turns back to Harley. 
“Thank you guys for making dinner.” 
“Any time, Pumpkin.” 
Harley sits him down on the left hand side of the head of the table. The plates are just paper plates, but Junior’s has a cute design drawn on it. 
“I drew that for you.” 
“Thank you, Mommy.” 
Harley beams at Junior, and he grins back. They end up talking about how exactly Junior put the bomb together over dinner. Eventually Harley takes Junior back to his room while Joker goes to get ready for their plans for the night. Harley tucks Junior into the actual bed. 
“We won’t be back tonight, but I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you, sugar.” 
Junior nods. “Thank you for loving me, Mommy.” 
Harley beams at him as she walks back out. Junior can hear her tell Joker, “I can barely bear to be away from him. I love him so much, and he’s turning out so well.” 
Junior smiles, letting his eyes fall closed. 
Tim wakes up wondering where he is. He’s alone, but there’s loud laughter coming closer to him. 
Wait, who is Tim? Oh, well it probably shouldn’t concern me. 
Junior stretches with a yawn. Joker and Harley walk in, holding hands. 
“How are you feeling today, Junior? Do you need more meds?” 
Junior shakes his head. “No, Daddy. I know exactly who I am, and what my life is like. I don’t need anything.” 
“Ok, well, that’s wonderful. You’re going to be helping Daddy put together a few toys for our nemesis. Do you know who that is?” 
“Batman, right?” 
“That’s right. Good job, Junior. Now tell your mother that you love her, and give her a hug before we get started.” 
“Good morning, Mommy. I love you,” Junior says, running over to hug Harley. 
She hugs him tightly before tilting his face up. “Can I do his makeup before you get started?” 
“Of course you can. I’ll get everything set up.” 
Junior follows Harley to the bathroom, and she starts putting makeup on his face. Tim wonders briefly why he trusts Harley Quinn to touch his face, but the thought is gone almost as soon as it shows up. 
“Are you alright, Junior? You looked apprehensive for a second.” 
Well that’s a big word for such a dumb bitch. 
“I’m fine, Mommy. Thank you for doing my makeup and making me look pretty.” 
“Aw, it’s no problem, baby.” 
Harley kisses the top of Junior’s head, then takes his hand to walk him back to the other room. 
Joker looks up when they walk in. “You look good, sonny boy.” 
Junior smiles at the compliment. “Thank you.” 
Stuff is scattered across the table, and Junior cocks his head. 
“This is for more bombs, right? Bigger ones, or lots of smaller ones. These are much better materials than the ones I had yesterday.” 
Joker nods. “I didn’t realize that you knew quite that much about bombs, but since you do, you can help me. Only with supervision of course.” 
They sit making bombs, Junior laughing at all of Joker’s stupid jokes. They spend almost the entire day making bombs. 
“Ok, you’re going to get a shower, and then we’re going to redye your hair,” Joker says after dinner. 
“Ok, do you guys need any help cleaning up?” 
Joker shakes his head. “No, your mother and I have that down. Just go.” 
Junior goes back to his room, grabs more clothes, and heads to the bathroom to shower. He finds himself tracing the scars across his abdomen after taking his shirt off. Joker comes to the bathroom a few minutes after Junior finishes his shower. 
“Are you done, son?” 
“Yes, Daddy. I’m done.” 
Joker walks in to find Junior with his arms folded tightly across his stomach. “Are you alright?” 
“Yes, but…” 
Harley steps into the doorway as well. 
“Why am I ugly?” Junior asks, his brow furrowed. 
“You’re not ugly, sugar. Why would you ask that?” 
Junior moves his arms to show off his scars. “I have a lot of ugly spots.” 
“Those aren’t ugly. They’re proof that you’re a good person. That you’ve fought off the people in the world that have tried to put you in a box. People that have tried to make you like everyone else. That you’ve fought against people like Batman who try to ruin everything good about you.” 
Junior looks down. “Ok, if you’re sure.” 
“I am. Now, let’s get your hair dyed.” 
It’s not a long process since it’s mostly just touching up his roots, but Junior feels happier when he sees that there’s no black roots poking out from between the green. 
“This is better,” Junior says with a nod. 
Joker and Harley put Junior to bed before heading out together. Junior is about to drift off when he hears Joker start talking again. 
“He’s turning out well, huh? This boy is going to be my ultimate revenge against Batman.” 
“Yeah, he’s turning out well. Our little Joker Junior,” Harley says happily. 
Junior wonders for a second what Joker means by revenge, but he doesn’t dwell on it too long. He lets himself drift off to sleep instead.
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thomothysdoodles · 3 months ago
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i consider this a part two of day 10
18: REVENGE
Unreliable Narrator | Loss of Identity | “I see what's mine and take it.” (Panic! at the Disco, Emperor's New Clothes)
+ alternative prompt: shivers
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withdrawingramen · 9 months ago
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cw: implied long-term captivity & torture, loss of identity post captivity, change in the world view
whumpee always thought that in the entirety of the fucked up world, there was some good. someone will sympathize, someone would stand up against wrong, and communities inherently stick with each other, and they'd be a part of the world in some way or the other. but within the duration of all their torture and after being taken out of whumper's grasp, this belief starts to feel more and more alien.
more so when they recall how whumper laughed in their face as they begged to be let go, how whumper's fingers curled in their hair as their half-conscious figure failed to stay awake, and through all the delirium and pain they'd hear every single day; "nobody's coming for you. you'll leave only once i'm bored."
more so when they stare at their clothes churning in the washing machine, when the random stranger in the local laundry noticed them struggling and helped turn the machine on, wondering how such a mundane task required assistance. or when seemingly kind wishes for recovery seem to be forced, attempts at common courtesy disguised as concern. and when they realize they can't remember how to even cook their own favorite recipes anymore, let alone eat without throwing up, or remember how to change the wheels of their bike they cherished so much, or how the tune of that one song went, what their loved ones liked, or how it felt to be a person, they lose a part of themselves they didn't realize they'd been clinging on to.
nothing felt like theirs to choose. whumpee was nothing but remnants of pain, an unfeeling being made of ideals thrust upon them. and it didn't seem to bother those around them. their neighbour down the street still went to work, the university student next door would still blast loud music deep into the night, and whumper would still linger in their head.
and as whumpee gazes at the reflection of their pale, bruised and marred skin in front of the mirror of some random shop, the harsh realization of it all dawns upon them that they were nobody right now, and they didn't know if they even existed before it all. they were nobody without pain. it didn't matter to them, it didn't matter to anyone else. they knew nothing about what it was to be free anymore, and oh, oh does the world truly move on around them regardless
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siblingshuffle · 3 months ago
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Day 12: Regret.
This is a snippet of Sibling Shuffle’s version of Spiritus Ex Machina!
And the theme is regret!
This isn’t very happy. I mean, we’re talking about a mother who was so scared of losing her child that she technically killed her herself and is now confronting that choice. Of course it is.
It’s also a little longer than normal, so be forewarned! ————————
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“Speaking of robot girls,” Dr. Light mentioned, “Blues has been very excited to see Tempo again. Did you bring her with you?”
Dr. LaLinde froze, the mirth melting from her expression “…Right… of course…” she murmured, averting eye contact as she turned around. After a moment, she led a girl who appeared to be around Blues’s age to the group, seeming more melancholic than before. “…Quake Woman,” she addressed the girl, “You remember Dr. Light and Blues…”
‘Quake Woman?’ Roll wondered. The girl was clearly a Robot Master, yes - Roll’s sensors didn’t give any indication that she was organic whatsoever - but Blues and Dr. Light had been referring to her by the name “Tempo”.
“Yes. Hello,” Tempo-- Quake Woman-- whichever, waved. The movement was strangely stiff, with no discernible emotion behind it. 
“Why’s she calling you your Robot Master name?” Blues asked, smiling confusedly as he waved back. “You’re not working right now, are you?”
“I am not. However, ‘Quake Woman’ is my name. I am a geological surveyor robot,” Quake Woman responded. Her voice was… strange. It lacked inflection, but it sounded as though it had been designed with a range of emotions in mind. In fact, now that she thought of it, Roll hadn’t noticed her making any obvious facial expressions, either…
Blues nodded slowly, his expression faltering as though unsure of himself. He shook it off so quickly, however, that Roll had to wonder if she had imagined it, “Uh, okay…? I’d like you to meet my little sister, Roll. Roll, meet Tem— Quake Woman, my best friend.”
“Hi!” Roll grinned, extending a hand to shake. “Blues told me a lot about you!”
Quake Woman took her hand, but, looking at Blues, said, “Your statement is illogical.”
Roll blinked, tilting her head and staring at the girl. “…What do you mean?”
“Blues referred to you as his ‘sister,’” Quake Woman responded matter-of-factly. “That statement is illogical. Robots cannot have familial relations.”
Blues stared at Quake Woman, baffled. “What…?” He asked, glancing over at Dr. LaLinde as though expecting answers from her. “...Dr. LaLinde?”
Dr. LaLinde didn’t look at him.
“…Quake Woman…required some adjustments. She’s fine.”
“…What kind of ‘adjustments’?” demanded Blues, his voice low and apprehensive as he studied Dr. LaLinde’s expression, his eyes searching for something that he couldn’t seem to find.
Dr. LaLinde swallowed, biting her lower lip. Her voice was tight when she next spoke. “…I…I’ll…let you get reacquainted.”
With that, she stepped away into the crowd. Roll’s gaze followed her, noticing how stiff her posture was. And with how abruptly she had left… something was definitely wrong.
Dr. Light placed a hand on Blues’ shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” he told him before running after her.
Blues just stared numbly in the direction the two roboticists had disappeared to. Hesitantly, Roll reached out her hand to him, but Blues withdrew, pulling his scarf up to his cheeks and turning around sharply. Before Roll could stop him, he slipped away into the crowd in the opposite direction, leaving Roll and Quake Woman alone.
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“Noele, wait,” Dr. Light called out, catching her by the arm before she could lose him. She stopped but didn’t turn to face him. “What’s going on? Tempo - and you, as well- are acting strangely,” Dr. Light eventually asked, a mix of concern and confusion coloring his expression.
Dr. LaLinde still didn't turn to face him. “…You have a lot of people you should catch up with, and there’s not a lot of time to do it before you have to be onstage for the debate,” she said, her voice tight.
Dr. Light nodded. “You’re right, but that can wait,” he insisted. “Something’s going on with you.”
Dr. LaLinde took a shaky breath. When she turned towards him, her eyes were more tired and sad than he’d ever seen them before.
“You know that you can talk to me, right? Any time that you need me, I’m here for you,” he offered gently, taking her hands in his. His eyes were filled with a warmth that could melt the sturdiest of defenses - a familiar, understanding, comforting warmth, but one that burned if Dr. LaLinde tried to look directly into.
Dr. LaLinde extricated hands from Dr. Light’s.
“Thomas, I know you mean well, but…” she shook her head. “…nothing is wrong.”
“…You’re sure?” Dr. Light asked, his voice soft. He knew Dr. LaLinde was brilliant, the dark circles under her eyes made him wonder how much sleep she had been losing as of late.
Dr. LaLinde inhaled sharply, but nodded, though her eyes remained downcast. “I’ll see you at the debate, Tom.”
Dr. Light watched her leave again, a sense of helplessness, concern, and worry pressing down on him.
Dr. Light couldn’t help but reflect on the LaLindes he had known before - the vibrant, happy family that only nominally resembled the lifeless one he’d just met. It seemed impossible to reconcile the two, yet he knew they were one in the same.
Dr. Light sighed deeply, his hand combing through his beard, his mind racing with questions and concerns. The loudest question of all, though, was this: what happened to the LaLinde’s?
————————————————————————
Story Notes:
My autocorrect tried to call this segment “Sorry Notes” and I think that’s kinda fitting lol
I know you guys know what happened, and furthermore that Dr. LaLinde had sympathetic reasons. However. No one else does at this point on the timeline. All they know is that Dr. LaLinde seems sadder than normal and Tempo isn’t emoting at all. And it’s freaking Blues TF out—
Dr. LaLinde mostly keeps her reasoning to herself because of grief & guilt & regret (as well as the narrative reason of “it makes for a better story if we don’t learn her reasoning until the timing it took canonically”)
DISCLAIMER: Dr. LaLinde is a very compelling character to me! I like that she’s a flawed parent trying her best! In fact, I like all of the LaLinde’s! They’re awesome characters and fantastic foils that I could go on for hours analyzing if I had the time! That aside, though, Dr. LaLinde is a foil to Dr. Light just as much as Tempo is to the Light kids. They’re both parents who care deeply about their kids and would do anything to protect them. The thing is, Dr. LaLinde took it too far by removing the possibility for Tempo to feel anything at all, pain included, and ended up hurting herself and others in the process.
This is a snippet from before any of the Healing Journey character arc starts - she misses her Tempo, yes, but she can’t really bring herself to admit that she was wrong quite yet. Surely it’s better that she removed the part that was her child but kept the part that was a tool. Surely then it would hurt less. Surely it’s better to feel nothing than to feel pain. She must be doing the right thing. She doesn’t know what she’d do if she were not.
Can you imagine having to re-introduce your newly-emotionless child to your child’s former best friend though. Can you imagine that.
I didn’t write it in here (because it would end up turning into a whole novelization of the Sibling Shuffle version if the first comic in this arc by that point), but Blues is so distracted that he ends up knocking over Kalinka and meeting the Cossacks in a way that is similar to the original story, just with the Cossacks not getting to catch up with Dr. Light quite yet.
Everyone ends up present for the debate, with Roll meeting Kalinka when they sit next to each other. Blues ends up storming out of the lecture hall after connecting a couple dots, and from there the Emerald Spears attack.
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Art Notes:
Reference: Tempo’s introductory panel.
Someone pointed out that her eyes half-lidded “made her look high” so I just didn’t make her eyes shiny instead. This is a serious emotional scene lol
Lowered the color saturation & brightness slightly to play more into the mood
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psychologeek · 2 months ago
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Whumptober #18+Alt 7
Alt 7: No-Holds-Barred Beatdown
No. 18: REVENGE | Unreliable Narrator | Loss of Identity | “I see what's mine and take it.” (Panic! at the Disco, Emperor's New Clothes)
~
"He should have stopped after the last one got himself killed!" Screams the crime lord and takes the shot.
"What are you talking about?" Robin asks and dodges the bullet. 
(He can't hold much longer.)
"No. More. Dead. Robins." The deep growl echoes in the dark building like bullets.
Not to be confused with the actual bullets Tim is currently avoiding. He thinks Dick would love that punchline. Or not, actually. He's always weird about Robin and near-death-experience. Quite hypocritical, if you ask Tim. But no one ask him, so he keeps his mouth shut.
"Dude," he hides behind the kitchen aisle and tries to de-escalate  the situation.  "Do you really think Batman made me do anything?"
The man doesn't reply.
From his hiding place, Tim can see him approach.
"What happened to the 'no more dead Robins', you said before?"
But it's his last resort, and they both know that. 
(He takes a moment to wonder who will find his body. He hopes it won't be Bruce.
He shouldn't face another broken Robin.)
Red Hood raises his hand, and Tim prepares himself for the strike. 
(It doesn't hit.)
Instead, there's an electronic beep as Hood takes off his helmet.
"Don't talk to me about dead Robins, Replacement," says Jason Todd with glowing green eyes. "You know nothing about it."
And Tim-
Tim.exe just. Stops working for a little while. (Because it's robin it's Robin it's ROBIN.)
"Still believe that Batman is coming for you, Robin?"
And his hand is on Tim's neck. Slowly cutting his air supply
"It's not- Batman," the child whispers in his last breath.
The hand around his neck loosen up a little. "Oh yeah? Than what was it? Do just you make a habit of wearing the skin of the dead?"
(This close, Tim can smell something acidic and sweet in his killer's breath. Like rotten cucumbers and expired syrup. It makes him feel sick.)
"GNU," he says. "I- I believed in you, Robin."
(Like it? I have more mini-fics Whumptober index | And full size fics on ao3. )
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howifeltabouthim · 11 months ago
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He doesn't love me anymore, she mourned, and she became filled with a gut-wrenching terror. For she had grown to depend on his love, and she was firmly convinced that without it she would vaporize, and nothing would be left of her at all.
Anna Biller, from Bluebeard's Castle
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callaeidae3 · 3 months ago
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Whumptober2024 Day 18: Loss of identity
"Ev’ryone [leaves]…y-you should, too."
"Even if someone was pursuing us, I wouldn’t leave you.... Just because your case is over, or will be soon, doesn’t mean that I’m going to just leave."
"Why?"
"Because you're more than just a case file."
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howlsofbloodhounds · 6 months ago
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Thinking about the possibilities and all the interactions between Killer and Something New!Papyrus, about how strange it’d be to be physically there with your brother and yet he is hardly actually there. His body is there, sure, but it is as changed as his SOUL, as his mind and his personality and his identity.
Sometimes you see brief glimpses of your brother, of the Sans you know, looking back at you from a single blazing eye light inside a pair of lifeless, empty eyes. The vague familiar shape of a SOUL unnaturally outside his body, the glinting white.
Sans is looking at you from behind someone else’s eyes, but then you say or do something and suddenly your brother is gone as if he was never there. A mere ghost, a trick of the eye, as this new version of Sans—Killer, his name is Killer, a name Sans wouldn’t have chosen—pulls away from you and any reminders of who he was.
The one who calls you “bro” but says it in such an empty, callous way that it’s clear that you are no brother to him—that the word doesn’t mean a thing to him. That maybe he doesn’t even remember what it feels like to have a brother, a family.
And then you’re left with nothing but memories to comb over, trying to figure out when exactly you watched the life bleed out of your brother and never noticed until it was far too late to prevent someone else from being born from his dust and parade around in his corpse.
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across-violet-skies · 3 months ago
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Day 18: loss of identity | Whumpee– Wild | Addt'l– Warriors, Wind, Legend, the Champions
Wild was nothing.
TWs– self-deprecation, unreliable narrator
Whump Rating– 3/10
I missed a few days!!! working to catch up on them <3
preview under the cut!!
“Ah, you wouldn’t get it,” Warriors dismissed, waving a hand. “Only us soldiers understand!” He snickered, elbowing Wild with a wiggle of his brows. “Right, Champ?”
Wild did not, in fact, understand. But… he was supposed to be a soldier, right? So… shouldn’t he get it?
He forced a smile, nodding. Warriors laughed heartily, clapping him on the back. The force of it threw Wild off balance, but he quickly centered himself.
Even if he didn’t understand, his agreement made Warriors happy, and that was more important. It was fine, probably.
-> read the rest on ao3!!
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samwpmarleau · 1 month ago
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fic: phantom limb
whumptober day 18: loss of identity masterlist: tumblr, ao3 To now be alone again, he should feel relieved and happy. Instead, he feels lost. He keeps expecting the Rider’s voice to pop into his head, or for his face to melt into a flaming skull, yet there’s nothing. Endless nothing. part 1
It’s an uncomfortable irony that at the moment, Robbie feels much like he did when first he took in Ghost Rider. Like neither his body nor his mind are his own, like his strings have been cut. Six years — plus too many more to count in the vaguery of other dimensions — he’d shared himself with another. To now be alone again, he should feel relieved and happy.
Instead, he feels lost. He keeps expecting the Rider’s voice to pop into his head, or for his face to melt off into a flaming skull, yet there’s nothing. Endless nothing. Despite all the creaks and groans of the Zephyr, the occasional clatter and chatter of its residents, everything is so quiet. He can hear himself think.
It’s disturbing.
It certainly doesn’t help that no one seems to know what to do with him. While he no longer gets peered at with apprehension, there’s still a lingering blanket over everything of, Why is this guy here?
Everyone on board has a role. Everyone except him. He eats their food, breathes their air, traverses their halls, yet has nothing to contribute. His one asset, the thing that had made him remarkable, is gone.
Well, kid, it doesn’t have to be.
The intrusive thought that sounds like the Rider but isn’t has been persistent. Robbie can feel his powers coursing through his veins like before, ready to burst from his fingertips. A pressure cooker with no off switch. He yearns to use them. Torture or tortillas, he doesn’t really care which.
But he can’t. He won’t. Because if he does, the voice in his head that sounds like the Rider will be the Rider. The spirit, wherever it resides currently, will know where he is, what he’s doing, who he’s with. What he’s using the powers for. Ever watchful, ever cruel.
While it’s been two weeks since the Rider visited him in his dreams, he keeps expecting another one. A reminder, perhaps, of his limitations, or the Rider changed his mind and any moment will walk through a portal, cackling. It’s its own kind of prison.
Though, even prisons have their bright spots. Light cutting through the darkness. So too does his, as hard as it is sometimes to remember.
“Hey,” says Daisy, stopping by his bunk, “we’re coming up on our next planet pretty soon. You can come with, if you want.”
Still caught in his melancholy, he answers too-snappishly, “And do what?”
Dissatisfaction shows on Daisy’s face at his tone, but she doesn’t take him to task for it. Yet. Robbie doubts he’s got much leeway left. “We can find you something to do.”
They can find him something, he reflects sourly. They have to think, because he’s functionally useless. Hell, he’d probably need a suit just like everyone else. A few weeks ago, he’d have been able to walk on any planet unaided, breathable air or no. Now? Now, he’s frustratingly human.
“No,” he says flatly, “you go ahead. I’ve got more reading to do anyway. Lots has happened since I left.”
Daisy looks very much like she’d like to say something terse, but refrains. “Okay, well … see you in about eight hours then. Happy reading.”
Happy is not the word he’d use to describe the last five years, according to the internet.
“Be safe,” he tells her.
“This ain’t my first rodeo,” Daisy laughs. “I’ll be fine.”
“Still.”
Daisy nods in placation, then leaves. The darkness returns; his few moments of rec time are over.
———
It’s nine hours, seven minutes until she, Kora, and the others get back. He’s counted. A very long nine hours, seven minutes. He does manage to actually read, not that it’s very uplifting. Chaos and pain and economic collapse and widespread destitution and war is what he’s missed. Some good things here and there, but mostly shit across the board. Half the population resurrecting all at once has, somehow, made things even worse, or so says Yo-Yo, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s boots on the ground.
That, at least, had been a nice distraction. It’s felt like forever since he’s had the chance to speak Spanish. To do so with Yo-Yo had felt familiar in a way he didn’t expect. The agent’s brief shit-talking of some new recruits had even drawn out a laugh from him.
“Let Daisy know we’ve got some specifics,” Yo-Yo had signed off. “Sorry, but it’s —”
“Classified.”
“Sí. Hablamos después, Burning Man.”
“Adiós.”
That’d been an hour ago, though, so in the meantime he’s had to return to waiting. Daisy’s timetable estimation had come and gone, making the waiting even worse. Had something happened?
He contemplates going to the cockpit to crack open a flight manual to keep himself occupied — for all his skills, piloting a spy agency aircraft is not among them, may as well learn something new — when there’s the sound of a buzzer heralding the cargo bay opening. Robbie resists the urge to scamper across the plane like an overeager puppy. He may be absent a demon, but his dignity is still intact. He leisurely walks in the direction of the cargo bay, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. He reaches his destination as the intrepid agents are removing their suits with the casualness of having done this a thousand times before.
“Everything go okay?” Robbie asks. He tries very hard not to notice how the strap of her undershirt has slipped down her shoulder.
“As good as it usually does. Not much life on this one either.”
Kora lets out a snort. “ ‘Not much life,’ she says. We nearly got eaten.”
“You what?”
“We did not nearly get eaten,” Daisy chides. She steps out of her suit and boots in favor of some more reasonable footwear. “There were these gremlin-looking things. I’m not sure what they were, we got some footage for testing. They’ve got some sharp teeth.”
Robbie gives her a once-over, searching for signs of mauling. “You got bit?”
“No, there were just a lot of them that came out of nowhere all at once. We had Fitz-Simmons’s alien repellent goo that scared them off, it was fine.”
“Alien repellent goo?” God, he’s going to be playing catchup forever at this rate.
“Yeah, it’s pretty sick. I’ll show you later, I gotta shower and eat first.” As Daisy begins to toss her gear into a canister for decontamination, she throws him a glance over her shoulder. “So, what’d you get up to?”
“Internet searches, mostly. Yo-Yo called, she said she has some mission-related things to tell you. She didn’t say any more than that.”
“Well, yeah,” Daisy says with a grin, “you’re just a civilian. You don’t get to know the fun stuff.”
A civilian. The word is an uncomfortable fit. He can barely remember what it was to be just a civilian. No more enhanced than an average guy walking down the street. Or, maybe more accurately, an average guy with a drug problem. An itch that he desperately wants to scratch but can’t because of the consequences. At the thought, his powers heat to a simmer, begging to be allowed to boil over.
You can use them a little, says the Rider-voice in his head. What’s the harm in that?
Robbie digs his nails into his palms.
Coward.
He startles when he feels Daisy squeeze his shoulder. “Hey, you okay? You kind of spaced out for a sec.”
Great. Just great.
He lies, “I’m good. Sorry.”
“If you’re sick or something, Kora can help with that.”
“Quit pimping out my powers,” Kora gripes. She takes one of the parachute packs off the wall to thwack her sister with it.
Daisy rolls her eyes. “Fine. Robbie, you can ask Kora for help if you need it.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Daisy’s not totally wrong,” Kora says. “You get one freebie, then after that you’ve got to have something to trade.”
Robbie glances down at Kora’s hands, recalling what Daisy had told him. How Kora had been able to bring her back from the brink of death, good as new. How she’d been able to heal dozens more over the years, ranging from a colicky Francisco Mackenzie to Sousa’s broken arm to Agent Piper hemorrhaging after taking a shot to the gut. Those were all physical injuries, though. What’s wrong with him, he doubts it’s within her scope. And even if it is, how’s he supposed to ask without sounding pathetic? All the problems in the multiverse and his is simply being unable to use his powers. Others have it worse. He needs to suck it up is what he needs to do.
“Thanks,” he says to Kora, “I’ll … keep that in mind.”
She gives him a warm smile, then flounces off with a tablet full of their planetary research.
“You sure you’re okay?” Daisy asks. “With the whole …” She mimes her head exploding.
“’Course. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’ll not worry about you when you give me something not to worry about.”
“I thought you had stuff to do.”
Daisy glowers at him. “I do. But don’t think that means you’re off the hook, Reyes.”
Before he can formulate either a comeback or diversion, or something to at least give him the last word, she heads off towards the showers, leaving him in silence.
Well, not silence exactly. The Rider-voice has plenty left to say.
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tildeathiwillwrite · 3 months ago
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Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow
Whumptober Day 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK | Search Party | Panic Attack | "If only we could hold on.”
Whumptober Day 2: TRUST ISSUES | Amusement Park | Role Reversal | “You got away with the crime while the knife's in my back.”
Whumptober Day 9: OBSESSION | Broken Window | Bruises | “Frame me up on the wall, just to keep me out of trouble.”
Whumptober Day 18: REVENGE | Unreliable Narrator | Loss of Identity | “I see what's mine and take it.”
Whumptober Prompts List | Masterpost
Bad Things Happen Bingo: Tranquilizer Dart
Fandom: Original Work
Words: 4000
Tag List: @badthingshappenbingo @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion
@scaewolf @the-ellia-west
CW: 2nd person POV, running, attempted escape, tranquilizer dart, failed escape, amnesisa, noncon drugging, carewhumper, deception, panic, knife, needles, blood, threats, broken glass, drowning, bad ending
A/N: It's only day 1 and I'm already combining prompts like the madwoman I am. This is based on a dream I had at the beginning of September, and believe me when I say all four of these days PLUS the BTHB all apply.
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You are running for your life.
You hear shouts some distance behind you as you sprint through the woods, hands held protectively in front of your face as pine branches whip past you, striking any exposed skin with a harsh sting. You can only hope that the branches that slow you down also slow down your pursuers, and you seem to be right, the shouts are getting quieter.
You had a good head start, you think. Before you started running, things were kind of a blur. But that’s why you had to run. Right?
It doesn’t matter. You’re running for your life, your bare feet pounding against the pine-needle-covered ground, enduring torture from the branches you push through. Your calf muscles are beginning to ache, and you have stitches on both sides, but you keep running.
Running is better than being caught. You’re not sure why that is, but you know that with absolute certainty. And that certainty is what keeps you running.
So you run.
And run.
And run.
And—
You burst free from the thicket of pines into some sort of clearing covered in dead, dry branches, perhaps from a storm long ago. Glancing up, you glimpse the sky through the gap in the trees, and hope swells within you. No longer hindered by the trees you just forced yourself through, you put on more speed, dodging around the graveyard of branches.
Pain erupts in your thigh.
You stumble, looking down to find a feathered dart sticking out of your leg. Not daring to glance back, you yank it out and keep running, nearly to the far side of the clearing.
But the damage has already been done.
The world blurs before your eyes, and the ground seems to vanish beneath your feet. You crash to the ground, pain tearing through your hands, arms, and back.
You landed on one of the dead branches. The delicate twigs must be sharper than you realized. Lethargically, you raise one of your hands to your face, but the world is still too blurred—or your eyes are still too unfocused—to make out anything but a vague red splotch among the brown and gray and green. Your hand falls.
Dead pine needles crunch as someone approaches. You try to turn your head, but it doesn’t move. A shadow falls over you, and you barely see a dark silhouette at the edge of your vision.
No.
Someone’s hands appear, supporting your neck and legs.
No.
The hands lift you up, away from the branch, away from the ground.
“Nonono….” you mumble, trying to move, trying to get away.
You do not move. You do not get away.
“It’s okay, I got you,” a voice says.
You do not recognize the voice.
“You’re safe now.”
You are not safe.
“You must be so tired from all that running.”
The voice speaks the truth.
“Rest now. I’ll keep you safe.”
You can’t rest.
But your traitorous body thinks otherwise. Your eyelids slide closed, and the entire world spins around you as the voice begins to carry you away. You don’t know where.
You don’t want to go with them.
But as the drug contained in the dart pulls you under, you find you don’t have the energy to care anymore.
----------
“...how far…”
“No… last time….”
“...thicket…?”
“Ha! That didn’t… a bit….”
----------
You open your eyes, and you are not alone.
You lay on your back in the softest bed you ever recall sleeping in, a plush pillow beneath your head and a warm blanket over your body. The ceiling is dark paneled wood, and the walls are decorated with faded wallpaper patterned with flowers.
An armchair has been pulled up next to your bed, and a man sits in it, reading a book whose title you cannot make out. He glances up as you turn your head, and smiles.
“Hello,” he says gently, “how are you feeling?”
You stare at him for a moment, thinking. Now that your attention is drawn to it, you are aware of bandages wrapped around your hands and forearms. You raise your hands, feeling a strange sense of deja vu, but nothing about them seems out of the ordinary aside from the white cloth wrapped around your palms. Flexing your fingers causes a slight twinge of discomfort, not quite pain but not nothing, either.
“What happened?” You try to ask, but your voice catches. You clear your throat and try again.
“You had quite the fall in the woods,” the man explains, closing his book and setting it on the nightstand beside your bed. A cup of clear liquid sits next to it, and he hands it to you. “Here, drink.”
When you hesitate, he smiles patiently. “It’s just water.”
The water has a faint metallic aftertaste, but that’s not unusual. You think. Perhaps it’s well water.
“You can call me Theron,” the man says as you sip at the water. “I found you semiconscious in the woods near my house. Your arms and hands were pretty scratched up, and I thought you just had a mild concussion until you passed out and wouldn’t wake up.”
“Oh…” you mumble, frowning. You don’t remember any of that. You remember… uh… that… you remember running. And falling. But now you’re not sure.
“What’s your name?”
You open your mouth to answer confidently, but the words die on your lips as you realize that no, you don’t know your own name. Your hands begin to tremble, and Theron quickly takes the cup from you and sets it back on the nightstand. “I…” you stammer, “I’m sorry… I don’t remember… I don’t….”
“Hey,” Theron says gently, taking your hands in his own, “that’s okay. I’m sure it’ll come back to you soon. I don’t suppose you know why you were in the woods?”
“I…” you begin hesitantly, now half-convinced that the blurry memories of running and falling might just have been dreams, “I think… I think I was running. And I tripped… I think. But no… I don’t know why I was running.”
“I’m sure you had a reason,” Theron encourages, “just give it time, you’re still healing. You’re probably hungry, so how about we get some food from the kitchen? Do you feel up to coming with me?”
You think for a moment, gauging how well your body would react to standing up and walking. You're not dizzy or anything, maybe a little light-headed, but considering what Theron said it made sense. Your hands and arms with their aching sort of discomfort, but otherwise you think you feel okay. "I think so."
Theron nods and rises from his chair, holding out a hand to you. You push back the blankets covering you to discover that you're wearing clothes that are comfortable but don't seem like the kind of thing you'd typically wear. Soft, flowing garments of a muted green color. As Theron helps you to your feet, you can't help but think that while the clothes are comfortable, something about them feels slightly off to you.
"Is everything all right?"
You realize your confusion mixed with a vague sense of disgust must be showing on your face. "Yeah," you lie, "just a little light-headed. I'm okay now."
An emotion quickly crosses his face, gone so quickly you don't have time to place it. But he immediately accepts your explanation, leading you to the door. "Let me know if you need to rest. The kitchen isn't far."
"Okay."
Theron opens the door and moves out into the hallway, and your breath catches in your throat, along with the realization that this isn't simply a house. It is a full-on manor. The carpet on the floors is a deep burgundy, and while the walls are simple dark wooden panels, they are adorned with paintings and lined with small tables with sculptures and decorative china and lamps resting upon them. Massive windows allow natural light to illuminate the hallway, revealing a thick forest beyond the walls of the manor.
The two of you are also not the only ones in the manor. You pass by three people on the way to the kitchen, two men and one woman, all dressed in uniforms colored in black and green. They all nod to you and Theron in greeting as they pass.
"My household staff," Theron explains, noticing the way you stare. "It's a lot of work for one person to run a place this size."
"How many are there?" You ask softly, wondering if the latest passerby is still in earshot.
"No more than twenty, usually. On special occasions I hire temporary staff. Things like parties, renovations, or hunts."
You tilt your head curiously. "'Hunts'?"
"Yes. I own an extensive amount of land, roughly several square miles. I host hunts in the autumn and winter for a number of seasoned huntsmen. They're the most chaotic of the events I host, with many guests and the usual fast pace of a hunt, but I enjoy them immensely."
You contemplate his words as you enter a room that appears to be a dining room, with a heavy table in the center lined with chairs. A simple white tablecloth covers it, with a lace runner down the center. A chandelier provides the illumination, lighting the room with a warm vaguely yellow light cast from the electric bulbs. Theron leads the way past the table into a swinging door opposite the door you came in through, entering into the kitchen proper.
The kitchen is devoid of activity, dark and completely deserted. Theron flicks a light switch, and a single row of overhead lights snap to life, leaving the rest of the kitchen in darkness. The lights show a few countertops, one with a sink, several cabinets, a row of metal refrigerators, one of many stoves, and a plain table in the corner laden with a tea tray, near a door that you guess leads to a pantry. A kettle rests on the stove you can see.
Theron ushers you to one of the chairs around the small table and pulls it out for you to sit. You obey, still mulling over his earlier explanations. What was I doing on his land, if he owns 'several square miles' of it? Was I one of his hunters? If so, shouldn't he know my name?
You realize you still don't fully believe his story about a fall. Perhaps it's just the lack of headache, but something about it, something about everything rubs you the wrong way.
"How long was I unconscious?"
Theron pauses as he fills the kettle with water. He frowns in thought for a moment. "Most of the day," he finally says, turning off the faucet. He places the kettle on one of the stove burners and turns it on with a click. "Roughly sixteen hours. I found you yesterday, sometime in the evening, when I was out on a walk to clear my head before the sun went down. It's now mid-afternoon."
You nod hesitantly. That same uneasiness still curls in the pit of your stomach, almost taking away your appetite.
"We're lucky I found you when I did," he continues, crossing the kitchen and opening the nearby door. You spy rows of well-stocked shelves inside. Indeed a pantry. "We're currently in the off-season for hunting, but who knows what sorts of creatures might wander about the grounds?"
He returns with a covered basket. Setting it on the table, he returns to the stove and removes the tea kettle, steam now rising from its spout, and brings it over to the table, putting it next to the basket. Finally, he ducks back into the pantry and returns with a few small jars carefully stacked in his hands. The jars all appear to contain the exact same dried leaves.
"All right," Theron says, pulling out the chair opposite you and sitting down, "take your pick. I grabbed white tea, green tea, and herbal tea."
You slowly nod, as if you had any way of knowing which jars held which tea. Do you even like tea? After a long moment, you point to the one on the right. Theron smiles and takes it, unscrewing the top and scooping the contents into the teapot with a little teaspoon. He doesn't clarify which is which, and you don't ask.
"How are you feeling?" He asks gently, setting aside the jars of tea. "You look overwhelmed."
"A little bit," you admit, tracing a finger along the wood grain on the table. "It's just... it's a lot... and I just woke up... and I still don't remember anything...."
Theron hums in sympathy. "I can't claim to understand, but I'll do my best to make you comfortable. Just let me know what you need, okay?"
You smile uneasily. His words were intended to put you at ease, but they somehow have the opposite effect. You simply nod, unsure of how to even articulate the sense of wrongness about all this.
Theron doesn't press you any further, instead pouring tea into two small cups. A light, almost floral scent rose from the orange-colored liquid along with the steam. Perhaps you had chosen herbal? You didn't know what white tea was supposed to look like, but green tea you assumed was supposed to be, well, green. Theron pushes one of the cups towards you and removes the cloth cover from the basket, revealing an assortment of rolls and pastries.
You grab one covered in a yellow glaze and bite into it. The glaze is sweet, balanced by an almost plain flavor from the pastry. You almost expect the taste to invoke a memory, but it does not. The tea is almost too hot to taste, but you taste enough to cement that you have chosen herbal tea.
Silence settles over the kitchen as you eat, Theron nibbling at a poppyseed muffin. Your earlier apprehension and fear seem to evaporate by the time you finish the pastry and the cup of tea. You consider taking another roll, but somehow find your eyes glazing over.
"You okay?" Theron asks quietly.
You blink up at him and almost nod, but instead, you shake your head. "My head," you say in a whisper.
He pushes back his chair and stands, holding a hand out to help you up as well. Your vision tunnels as he pulls you upright. "Here," he says softly, "I'll take you back to your room so you can rest, and I'll come back when it's time for dinner. If you're feeling up to it, you can eat in the dining room. If not, I'll bring it to your room. Sounds good?"
Anything involving rest sounds good. You nod and smile, although somehow, you feel this isn't right. But the feeling quickly evaporates like the morning mist in sunlight.
----------
It is late at night. You slowly drift fully awake, alone in your room, and for a few moments, everything is peaceful. You are numb, and comfortable, and happy.
The peace vanishes. And everything off crashes down upon you like a tidal wave of anxiety.
You bolt into a sitting position, hands pressed against your temples as the pieces fall into place. You had fallen, yes, but not out of a tree. Theron had found you, yes, but he had not rescued you. He had retrieved you.
You were trying to escape.
You need to get out of here.
Panic racing through you like lightning strikes, you throw off your covers and get out of bed, crossing the room to the door. Your hand is on the door handle when your logical mind catches up with you. What if Theron sees you? What if one of the staff sees you?
The kitchen isn't far, you think. Your memories of the past few days are such a murky, blurry mess you aren't certain how long you've been here. But you think you can get to the kitchen, get a knife or some other weapon. And then find a way out. A door, or breaking a window would suffice. As long as you could run and get away and stay away, this time.
Your heart beats like a drum in your chest, but you force yourself to pause and listen for movement outside in the hallway. Silence. Everyone is asleep. Should be asleep. Just like you should be.
You still aren't sure how you had been so docile this whole time. It seemed like every time a rebellious thought occurred, a thought of escape, it had simply vanished. Until now.
Which was why you needed to get out of here fast. Before the soothing, dreamy, terrifying calm settled back over you like a smothering blanket.
You turn the door handle slowly. It clicks softly, but in the quiet of the night, it might as well have been as loud as thunder. You freeze, handle still partly turned, and listen again. Still nothing. And it had better stay that way.
The door is silent as you ease it open. Another thing you had noticed but somehow never registered. None of the doors creaked or squeaked, the hinges were always kept well-oiled and straightened. Was that a preference, or protocol?
It doesn't matter.
Silence envelopes the hallway. You tread carefully, bare feet padding on the soft carpet, marveling at just how dark the manor can get. Every shadow that could hide a potential threat also hides you. The moonlight shining through the windows is the only thing lighting your path, filtered through dark gray clouds.
You stare out the window. You have been here before, in this very spot, staring at this very sight. Adrenaline floods through you at the thought, and you shake your head and move on. Kitchen. Quickly.
The dining room is pitch black, but the light from the hallway is just enough to show a path to the opposite door. As you pass the dining table, you are struck by a hazy memory of dining there with Theron. The memory is clouded like the night sky, and you move on before you can dwell too much on it, flicking on the kitchen light and dashing to the knife block.
Your hand closes around the largest one, but before you can pull it out, someone speaks.
"Well..." Theron says casually as he seems to melt out from the shadows, twirling a slim object in his fingers, "I was wondering when you'd wake back up."
You yank the knife out of the block and point it at him. "Stay back!"
He regards you with an amused expression. "I must admit, you are quite the predictable prize. You always come here for a weapon. You always choose the same chef's knife. And you always pause at that one window. I'm sure you've noticed the familiarity, correct?"
You back away. "Enough with your damned games! I'm leaving."
Theron steps forward. The light gleams off the object in his hands. A syringe filled with a clear fluid. "You like to say that too. I must say, this repetition is getting boring. I might have to move on to more interesting prey."
He lunges, closing the distance between you so quickly you almost don't notice. He drives the syringe into your shoulder and pushes the plunger.
No! I will not succumb!
You duck backward, bringing the hand with the knife around and slashing it across Theron's chest. It tears through his shirt and cuts into his flesh, spattering blood on the ground. He staggers, staring at the blood in shock. Without thinking, you slam the knife handle into his skull, sending him to the floor.
Theron groans and tries to rise. A grim satisfaction settles over you as you yank the syringe out of your shoulder and cast it aside. Your head's already swimming, but you won't give in. Can't give in.
You flee back through the dining room. The nearest window does not open, but it, like Theron's skull, is no match for the handle of your stolen knife. You strike the glass with all your strength, and it takes three before the window breaks.
One. The impact jars your entire arm, and small cracks begin to form on the surface of the glass.
Two. The cracks spiderweb across the window.
Three. The glass shatters into a hundred thousand shards, scattering across the lavish carpet and the ground outside the manor in a cascade. The knife slips out of your hand, but you don't bother to retrieve it, scrambling through the opening and hitting the ground outside with a thud. Glass digs into the soles of your feet, but you don't hesitate before breaking into a sprint.
Keep running.
Just keep running.
You try to go north, but after a few moments, you are struck with such an intense deja vu that you recoil and veer east instead.
----------
You are running for your life.
You hear shouts some distance behind you as you sprint through the woods, hands held protectively in front of your face as pine branches whip past you, striking any exposed skin with a harsh sting. You can only hope that the branches that slow you down also slow down your pursuers, and you seem to be right, the shouts are getting quieter.
You had a good head start, you think. Before you started running, things were kind of a blur. But that’s why you had to run. Right?
It doesn’t matter. You’re running for your life, your bare feet pounding against the pine-needle-covered ground, enduring torture from the branches you push through. Your calf muscles are beginning to ache, your bare feet throb and sting, and you have stitches on both sides, but you keep running.
Running is better than being caught. You’re not sure why that is, but you know that with absolute certainty. And that certainty is what keeps you running.
So you run.
And run.
And run.
And—
The forest abruptly ends at the shore of a fast-moving river, the water churning so violently you can’t make out how deep it is. You pause at the bank, bouncing on your toes in panicked impatience as you try to gauge how wide the river is. If you can swim that far.
Drowning is better than getting caught.
You splash into the water, the riverbed at such a steep incline that you fall forward, immediately forced to swim. The river battles you at every stroke, and you are tired, your limbs ache from running, and after only moments of swimming, you know you will not make it across.
You’re not sure why, but you are not frightened by this realization.
You are halfway across the river when complete exhaustion settles over you, making your limbs feel as if their bones are made out of solid stone and your flesh heavier than titanium. Your body stills, and you sink beneath the surface of the water, allowing its currents to pull you far, far away. Your lungs burn, not wanting to release the precious air you have left.
The world darkens around you, and you feel at peace.
Air re-enters your lungs, harsh in its vitality. You gasp, coughing and choking, expelling water with each spasm. Rough hands slam against your back, forcing the liquid out.
No.
The hands turn you over, supporting your head. Sharp pain stings your neck, and you gasp in brief recognition before your thoughts begin to muddle.
No.
The hands lift you up, away from the river, away from the ground.
“Nonono….” you mumble, trying to move, trying to get away.
Your body twitches, but you do not move. You do not get away.
“It’s okay, I got you,” a voice says.
You do not recognize the voice.
“You’re safe now.”
You are not safe.
“You must be so tired from all that running.”
The voice speaks the truth.
“Rest now. I’ll keep you safe.”
You can’t rest.
But your traitorous body thinks otherwise. Your eyelids slide closed, and the entire world spins around you as the voice begins to carry you away. You don’t know where.
You don’t want to go with them.
But as exhaustion pulls you under, you find you don’t have the energy to care anymore.
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