#a person with depression wouldn't wear something as a symbol of pride what the fuck is going on

[satoriberry]

i will actually click my heels if i finish this 4-day fast

[border-spam]

Leech Lord: Worries

Tyreen - Troy

Always. Constantly, inescapably, Troy.

He's smouldered in the back of her mind as long as she can remember, like a fever. She couldn't not worry about her twin, even as a child it was impossible to block out the cold tightness in her belly that would rise whenever they were apart for any length of time.

She couldn't play alone for an hour without a pang of concern, was he ok? He'd been in bed days... was there something he'd like out here she could bring for him? Maybe Mom would let them play rock soldiers on the mattress if she found some good ones, ones with the little shiny flecks he liked.

The gnawing bite when he'd set out to hunt and she'd be left home with Pop, when keeping him and dad fed was a real problem even without Mom around anymore, the fear that one day he wouldn't come back. He got tired so easy, he only had one hand to grip rock-faces with, he was stubborn... and the concern he'd not forgive her when she'd lash out with words she didn't really want to say after he'd return each time, lost as to how else she could vent how scared for him she'd been.

He nearly died within a week of hitting Pandora. A week.

She didn't like being far from him after, what if his heart started playing up again, what if he fell? What if he was having a weak spell and she wasn't around to pulse energy into his bones with a gentle squeeze of his cold hand in hers. What if he was pushing himself too hard while she was off-world, what if he wasn't sleeping so he could get that stupid stream recording finished for upload, he never listened! She couldn't trust him to stay safe, so she worried.

Always.

That never changed, but what she worried about did over time.

The fear turned sour - less a concern he was overworking and more he was slacking off. He'd not been meeting deadlines recently and she knew it was because he was getting lazy... what if he was whispering behind her back while she was touching base with Maliwan, plotting with his backstabbing Saints to usurp power to his own parasitical throne?

What if he was turning on her? What if he didn't love her the way she loved him anymore, what if he didn't care about their crusade, their holy right? What if he didn't believe she would reach the glory the universe owed her?

...What if he started saying no.

She worries about her twin constantly, and what would happen if he knew how important he really was.

Troy - his "Meds"

(tw: drug use)

The battered little tin is always in a pocket on his left.

Doesn't matter if he's in sweat-stained rags as he grapples with JK's vanguard in the barrack's arena, or full gold and silk regalia at an off world banquet, it's there, rattling quietly, just a hand's reach away if needed.

And when he needs it, he needs it.

The contents are an unorganised medley of chems. He doesn't plan or measure, that's the realm of addicts after all, and he ain't one regardless of what he's scared the people who know him might think. These are tools, not dependencies.

It's stocked with pressed pills and powder sachets stamped with bandit symbols based on instinct, how he's been feeling lately. What he's afraid will rise from the darkness.

The idea of not having it, not being able to run trembling fingers over the pitted surface as he hides the shake by slipping a hand into his coat when he's feeling off, is terrifying. It hadn't been that many years ago when the dented little box mostly contained painkillers and antibiotics, but that shifted over time. Now its purpose feels more sinister than holding back the waves of illness Pandora would throw at him. Now, the drugs help keep him him.

Mood stabilisers, anti depressants, tranquilisers. Hallucinogenic spore powder pressed into the God King's palm by a Bandit high priest with a bone carved mask and reverence in their touch. High quality Blow from that club he trashed in Promethea... The good shit, always clean, always sourced. He's a King - shady deals in alleyways are beneath what he's sweated blood to craft himself into.

Each hits different, clouds his brain and blow his pupils in unique sensations, and he knows his custom assortment by heart. Knows exactly which to snort in a private stall when he feels a rage that's not him creep up his spine in sponsor negotiations. Knows what pill to discretely pop under his tongue to calm the shakes that snake through his ribs on offworld trips, when the corporate suits around him have their bullshit begin to be drowned out by waves of hissing terror clutching at his guts.

"Anxiety", his specialist had said.

Bullshit.

He knows anxious. He knows anger. He knows fear... This is something else.

The drugs haze it away, uncoil the tendrils of something that's not Troy from his mind. Dull the link. Blur his sight and slow his heart - it's enough.

He hates that tin, but the worry of forgetting it one day keeps his hand slipping into that left pocket like a nervous tic, over and over and over.

The contents are probably killing him, but it doesn't matter, least it's his choice. Only Troy controls Troy.

Only he decides what act he plays.

There's no such fucking thing as ghosts.

Seifa - How she looks

It's a constant worry in the back of her mind when in public, that she's going to be outed. That the aesthetic she wears as Ur-Machina, or her sultry little trade-shark persona will fall apart and she'll be left a laughing stock.

The Sei she shows the world is a carefully curated version and that's how she's known.

That mask is how people recognise her character, it can't slip or it could mean people will see her for what she actually is, and THAT ain't acceptable in the slightest. Nuh-uh. She's been pretending to be someone of importance far too long now to let the reality of what a useless piece of junk she is be noticed.

She doesn't give a shit if it comes across as being vain, that's fine! That's easy to work with, part of the persona. Let them think the side glances at her reflection whenever she passes something shiny are outta pride, all she has to do is throw a quick smirk in and it's totally believable that she's checking herself out, not looking for mistakes.

Is her hair ok, does her foundation look rough? Jacket pulled up weird? Nah she's fine - good, check her skin next pass though cause she's feeling nervous and sweating off makeup doesn't do wonders when you're trying to come across as in control. Suck in the goddamn gut. Ass out, cock a hip - power stance. There we go.

She stresses ABOUT stressing about how much she worries.

Maybe it's not actually normal? She has no basis for comparison so can't be sure - this is how things have always been. This is how she survived, by knowing exactly how she needed to look to shift an outcome to her favor or broadcast a confidence that wasn't entirely real.

Keeps a sharp eye on friends, rivals, people she's interested by to see how they manage - does anyone else does this? Is it just her struggling so badly to keep a persona intact that other people don't even have to give a second thought to? She thinks it is... and that just makes her worry about it falling apart even more.

Sei isn't sure if who she is is the makeup and confidence she wears to match an outfit, or the person she is underneath when she's alone. Or, used to be when she was alone anyway, nowadays it's... nicer. Years together and slow steps they may not have noticed her tentatively making have helped her come to grips with how her friends seem to see her the same either way. She doesn't have to be groomed, dressed well, they see Seifa even if she's not sure she is.

Ven doesn't act differently if her hair is done or not, same way he's still Ven if he's in a coiffed updo or messy locks - she's still Sei to him if she's fully styled or looks like a Rakk nest, and it helped.

JK doesn't alter how they treat her regardless of a face of makeup or not, same Sei, same deep chuckled jokes from them or gentle wisdom on long night talks, it doesn't matter what face she's wearing, just like the mask they use has never changed who it belongs to for her.

Troy speaks to her with the exact same close respect or gentle mockery when she's in full ritual gear as when she's just standing in old socks and loose pajama pants she should have tossed years ago. She's not sure he even sees a difference really, or if what she is to him is something that's visual at all. Maybe she's an idea, or a presence. Maybe what Seifa is to him is what he feels when he sits close enough to accidentally brush against her side.

How he looks at her never shifts - it's her he's seeing, and she matters to him regardless of what role she's playing.

It's helped, having friends. Knowing they see her as what she is and not an act, but it's not changed the constant nervousness that goes hand in hand with acting in public as Saint Ur-Machina, or Seifa A'rosk.

Little steps... little steps.