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scripttorture · 4 years ago

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Hello! I have a few questions related to your most recent post and the definition of torture. You said:

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

According to everything else I have seen on your blog, this makes sense - the mental and physical trauma from being tortured have lasting effects which make certain tasks more difficult.

However, this seems to juxtapose certain tropes I've seen in US military training advertisements. For example, "Hell Week" in the Navy SEAL training seems like it would be torture if it was forced upon someone (like if the soldiers didn't sign up for it and didn't have the option to quit.). *Hell Week is when soldiers are training continuously for 5 days in freezing, wet conditions, with little more than 4 hours of sleep for the entire week, under insane amounts of physical and mental stress.

- If someone chose to be tested both mentally and physically, I feel like it wouldn't be torture. However, if the same exact conditions were forced upon someone else (testing their mental and physical limits without their consent or understanding), does your quote above mean that the person who did not have a choice would not reap the benefits of the training/testing? Or would the Navy SEALs be better soldiers if they didn't have to go through 'torturous conditions' during Hell Week, regardless of their choice to do so?

(I used Hell Week as an example, but I meant this question generally. I'm trying to figure out how to best train an elite soldier and avoid any harmful torture apologia tropes, while also making sure that they are able to handle insanely challenging situations)

- My other question has more to do with the definition of torture that you quoted from the UN in one of your master posts. If someone is being seriously injured (pulled fingernails, whipping, starvation etc), but not for the purposes of interrogation, punishment, or intimidation, is that still torture, or is that just abuse? And, regardless of what we call it, would the effects be the same as if it were torture for any of the three motives above?

Sorry if this is long and hard to understand, I can clarify if needed!

It’s not the longest I’ve gotten and it’s perfectly clear, duck*. :) Honestly this is a difficult topic with a lot of nuance, it’s better to take a longer and more thoughtful approach.

From the stand point of the legal definition and what we study/understand as torture any consensual activity, however extreme, is not torture.

But here’s where it gets interesting: consent and our attitude to an activity actually changes our response to pain. It may even change how much pain we feel.

I’m going to take a slightly different example to yours. There are a lot of cultures globally that have practiced scarification, ritual cutting to deliberately form scars. And this can be done for a lot of reasons: membership of a family or clan, coming of age, traditional medicine, religion, you get the idea.

A lot of people in these cultures describe their scars as incredibly important and the process of getting them as a moving, deep and positive process.

This does not mean they wouldn’t be traumatised if they were attacked by someone with a knife.

Being able to approach something painful and see it as positive really changes our perspective. It makes trauma and mental illness a lot less likely. And being able to back out, even if it’s just for a little while to take a breather, seems to make us able to withstand more pain then we would have otherwise.

The simplest and most famous experiment that dealt with this relationship between our mindset and pain asked people to keep their hands in ice cold water. They timed how long people could do it when they were told to stay silent and how long they could do it when they were allowed to swear. If they swore they could hold their hands under for longer. An average of forty seconds longer.

Looking back over O’Mara (Why Torture Doesn’t Work, a very good intro to how pain works and what it does to the brain) the way he describes it as by thinking of the experience of pain as a collection of three things. There’s the physical sensation itself, the nerves firing. But there’s also an affective component, how we feel emotionally about the experience and a cognitive component, how we think about it.

Did you ever play that game as a kid where you stuff as many chilis as possible in your mouth to see who would spit them out first? I… might have done. And from what I remember it hurts an awful lot. But those memories to me are mostly about messing about with my friends, I remember trying to be stubborn about it and I remember us laughing at each other.

This is a completely different experience to someone being held down and having chili stuff up their nose. But the difference isn’t necessarily in the physical damage done or the physical sensation of pain. It’s in the other components, the emotional response and the rationalisation.

I also had a filling drilled in my tooth without painkillers as a kid. I don’t know how common this is in the West? It happened in Saudi. Honestly my biggest memory of it is the language barrier between myself and the dentist.

These are anecdotes obviously but I’m trying to show that you probably also have experiences in your own life that back up the experiments too. The way we think about a painful experience really does make a huge amount of difference. And that means consent matters enormously.

These soldiers are going into this experience knowing what to expect, how long it will last and that they can stop at any time. That makes a huge amount of difference. Those same factors have drastically increased the time volunteers will spend in solitary confinement for research. I’m pretty sure if I dug even a little I’d find pain studies with similar findings.

Here’s the flip side: the physical factors are still in play.

Sleep is an important physiological process that’s essential to normal functioning. Studies on consensual sleep deprivation have shown massive negative impacts on memory along with a host of other things that you can read about here.

Let’s take a non torture example. A student who stays up all night cramming for an exam is not going to develop the symptoms of trauma that a torture survivors who was sleep deprived would. But the effect sleep deprivation has on memory is due to sleep playing an essential role in preserving memory (and learning more generally.) So they’re both likely to have difficulty remembering things in days just before and just after sleep deprivation. They’re also both more likely to have false memories and catch a bad cold.

As a result of this memory impairment I question the educational value of anything involving sleep deprivation: you can’t learn while messing up the processes that let your brain remember things.

There have been cases in the UK of people dying during training for the armed forces. Because while consent makes a huge difference, mindset makes a huge difference- our bodies still have limits. We can choose to push ourselves past those limits and, whatever our motivation or feelings, it can do real harm.

Personally? I’m unsure of the benefit of these kinds of exercises. As in I’m unsure there is a benefit. Learning is going to be shot, chances of injury are going to be a lot higher- I don’t see anything that could be improved by these sorts of exercises.

Anecdotally people do report feeling like a closer unit after going through these sorts of routines. That might be the benefit: moral and unit cohesion, possibly self-esteem too.

If you’re making up something for your story I think it’d be helpful for me to mention a little statistical effect that gets used to justify punishment pretty regularly. Get some dice out if you’ve got them and roll one. Let’s say the number represents performance in some kind of test (because effort and learning matter but our performance also varies because of things we can’t control.) A roll of 1 gets punished, a roll of 6 gets praised.

Now after you roll that first 1 statistically speaking the chances are your next roll will be better. And if you roll a 6 then statistically speaking the chances are your next roll will be worse. People observe this effect in real life and they often conclude that there’s no point in praising someone but that punishment leads to improvement. Really it’s just a statistical effect, after a particularly, noticeably bad day the chances are things will be better next and vice versa.

This effect can make it difficult for people to recognise overall, long term progress. Which is the kind of progress you should be paying attention to when designing a training program.

If you want good performance from people, whatever the metric, the most efficient thing to do is ensure that those people are; well fed, have access to clean water, get plenty of sleep, have breaks and have access to medical treatment when they need it.

I’d say the main things to keep in mind when designing this fictional training regime are:

Being honest about the effects you describe, ie if they’re spending long periods without shelter are they at risk from exposure? If they’re standing in cold water are they going to get hypothermia?

Remember that even if something is damaging or causes lasting trauma it would not necessarily prevent someone from doing their job. Torture survivors have serious, lasting symptoms but many of them still work.

I think I’m going to leave that there because I’m not an expert in militaries or training people. And keep in mind that I am a pacifist, read this with my biases in mind.

Getting to the second question, there is a little more to the UN definition then that. The primary factor is still who the abuser is. For it to be torture (legally speaking) the abuser has to be (or be ordered by) an on-duty government employee, part of a group that controls territory (ie an occupying force). Some countries also count international organised criminal gangs in this definition.

It’s also important to note that torture can be targetted at someone other then the victim. So if the police arrest the brother of a political opponent and beat him in order to intimidate the politician, that is still torture.

Basically there are a lot of factors in the legal definition of torture and it’s that way by design. The hope is that you end up with a framework that captures as much government abuse as possible.

But it also means that there’s a pretty high barrier when it comes to proving torture. Which means that things which are legally torture can be prosecuted as assault, bodily harm or equivalents to these, because it’s easier to get a conviction for those charges.

Technically you are correct: if abuse done by a government official doesn’t have one of the four motivations in the legal definition (attempts to obtain information, forcing a confession, intimidation or punishment) then it doesn’t meet the definition.

However in practice I’ve not heard of a case failing because of the motive.

I’m not a lawyer and I’m not an expert in international law. I won’t say it’s never happened. But it’s much more common for cases to fail for other reasons. Off the top of my head I’d say the most common reason is difficulty proving the abuse took place.

The most common types of torture today are ‘clean’, a term we use to indicate that they don’t leave obvious marks. If someone turns up with fingernails torn out or the skin of their back lacerated by a whip that is clear physical evidence of abuse. Nothing else causes similar injuries. But if someone turns up at a doctor’s with swollen feet or reddened skin, if they’ve lost a lot of weight or they’re so tired they’re struggling to stand… Well all of those things can be caused by common tortures. But they can also be caused by common illnesses.

A lot of the deaths from torture today are similarly hard to prove. Beatings and stress positions ultimately cause death by kidney failure. Which can mean that prosecutors are asked to prove a victim didn’t have an underlying health condition. Or take drugs.

Honestly my instinct is that the motive is the easiest thing to prove. It’s often harder to bring charges against people in positions of authority, regardless of the country we’re talking about. Bringing those charges, proving abuse took place and proving it was done by the person in question, those are usually the tricky parts.

The difference between torture and abuse is scale. Torture is industrial scale abuse.

The law doesn’t define that scale but that’s what we’re talking about when we talk about abuse from organised authority. Abusers might have dozens of victims. Torturers have thousands, tens of thousands.

If you want to explore a different motivation in your story, something outside the legal framework, consider the scale at which this abuse is taking place. Consider how organised it is. If it’s organised and large scale, with multiple abusers, with no prior relationship between the abuser and victims then torture will probably be a better model then abuse. If it’s smaller scale with a more personal relationship and if it isn’t supported by a legal framework/organisation then abuse might be a better model.

For victims and survivors the difference isn’t so much about the symptoms they personally experience as the… side effect of that scale. Abuse victims are often very isolated and may not know anyone who has had a similar experience. Torture implies a community of survivors and possibly generational trauma. There are also effects to do with access to support, access to medical care and how likely it is that someone will be believed.

Torture survivors are often systematically disenfranchised in a way that abuse victims are not. Torture survivors are often forced to leave their home country. Anecdotally, based on what I’ve seen globally over the last few years, I think that struggling to get citizenship is increasingly an issue for torture survivors. And without citizenship there’s difficulty finding legal work, getting accommodation, accessing medical care, accessing the legal system etc.

I do not know whether torture survivors are more or less likely to be believed by their community compared to survivors of abuse. I do not think any one has attempted a comparative study. I do know that the prevalence of clean torture means that many torture survivors are not believed and this puts up a further barrier, making it harder to access medical treatment and bring charges.

Rejali’s book was published in 2009, so things may have changed a tad. At the time he was writing the average wait for a torture survivor to see a specialist doctor was about 10 years.

Abuse is to torture what murder is to genocide. And there are difference on a wider social scale as a result.

I mention all that because I feel it’s relevant but the impression I get is you’re mostly interested in the long term symptoms? In which case, yes the legal definition makes very little difference. The physical injuries caused by particular kinds of abuse don’t change depending on whether it’s a private individual or a police officer holding the Taser.

The lasting psychological symptoms are not particular to torture; they’re what the human brain does when traumatised. The same symptoms can manifest in people who witness traumatic events but weren’t actually hurt themselves. They can manifest in people who were injured in accidents and they manifest in people who were neglected or abused. Hell, I have a couple of them, though no where near the severity a torture survivors would experience. A sufficient amount of stress is enough for these symptoms to start developing in anybody.

You can find the general list of symptoms here. There’s also a post specifically about memory problems over here.

The pattern I describe; that these symptoms are a list of possibilities not ‘every torture victim will get all of these’ holds true for trauma survivors generally. Anecdotally there is some variability with chronic pain being reported more often with some kinds of abuse. That might be because it can have physical causes, psychological causes or a mix of the two.

Whether it’s torture or abuse there isn’t any way to predict a survivor’s symptoms in advance. Much of the advice I have about writing torture survivors and their symptoms holds true for trauma survivors generally. Which is why I’ll still take a crack at some questions that aren’t about torture.

Pick the symptoms that you feel fit the character and serve the story. We can’t predict symptoms and that means that there’s no reason why you shouldn’t pick the things that appeal to you.

And I think I’m going to leave it there. I hope that helps :)

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Disclaimer

*This is a weird English endearment. I had someone ask if this was me trying not to swear.

#orphicphosphenes #writing advice #tw torture #torture as training #legal definition of torture #clean torture #military abuse #trauma #trauma and consent #pain #pain and memory #sleep deprivation #attitudes towards clean tortures #writing survivors #abuse within the military

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sineala · 3 years ago

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A Few Thoughts About Hurt/Comfort

I have been asked this month to make a post about hurt/comfort in Avengers comics. And I love h/c -- I actually have a massive number of WIPs right now that are h/c -- so I am very happy to talk about it! Anyway, this is not really all that planned out and this mostly turned into an excursus on Tony Stark's pain. I'm sure you're all surprised.

Like pretty much everyone else, I'm sure, I have found that everything lately has been... pretty tough. And the coping mechanism that really got me through last year and this year was reading and writing a lot of h/c, on the theory that, however lousy a day I'm having, I can absolutely make sure that Tony Stark has a worse one. And then I can make sure he gets hugs. Wish fulfillment? Why, yes. (Once at Hallmark I was trying to find a "get well soon" card, forgot what it was called, and described it to my wife as "a hurt/comfort card.") I think Marvel Comics -- the Avengers side, in particular -- is an interesting canon for h/c for a lot of reasons. Though, honestly, if you asked me to recommend you, a hurt/comfort fan, a new fandom, I would probably just hand you some Starsky & Hutch DVDs. Go watch "The Fix" and get back to me later. If you like that, there's way more where that came from. But there's still lots to love in Marvel! Superhero comics are really a goldmine as far as the hurt side of h/c. Because superheroes, and you probably have noticed this, get hurt a lot. They get hurt repeatedly, in fantastical ways that are probably impossible in real life both physically and emotionally (at least, I don't think anyone's invented mind control yet), and even the heroes without superhuman healing powers tend to get physically hurt a whole lot worse than actual people can take. Currently in Iron Man comics, Tony has a broken back and is dealing with this by locking himself into the armor as a backboard and injecting himself with massive doses of painkillers. He's busy! He's got stuff to do! He doesn't have time to lie around and heal! So, basically, if you name a kind of pain that you would like to see happen to a character, it's probably happened to superheroes. Multiple times. The downside, though, is that comics do not really deliver that well when it comes to the comfort part of h/c. They could. It's not inherent to the medium that they don't. But because of the serial nature of comics and also the fact the primary audience is dudes who want to read about people in spandex punching each other, a lot of the time they don't really feel the need to provide closure and write about people dealing with any of the hurt. (Raise your hand if you're still annoyed with the end of Hickman's Avengers run.) But at the same time, I think that's a quality that makes Avengers ripe for h/c fanfic. Because, generally speaking, fandom likes to provide the things that canon doesn't, and fandom is more than happy to provide the comfort. If you enjoy canonical h/c in comics, I think you really can't go wrong with Iron Man. One of the big innovations of modern Marvel Comics was the concept that heroes would also suffer from relatable human problems, and in practice what this means is that a lot of heroes start with a fully-loaded angst-ridden backstory and origin story, ripe for h/c. So Tony starts out by incurring a heart injury that he fully expects is going to kill him, which he responds to by vowing he won't get close to anyone so they won't be sad when he dies, and throughout the early Silver Age is constantly on the brink of death as his heart nearly gives out on him practically every issue. And then even after his heart gets (mostly) better, there are various plots involving his armor being detrimental to his health and him choosing to fight on anyway. It's hard for me to think of another superhero hitting that particular variety of h/c in exactly the same way. Sure, superheroes risk their lives constantly, because this is how superhero comics work, but Tony is the only one I can think of who is this constantly this badly off, physically. Like, think of all the other heroes who have had a continual solo presence as fan favorites across Marvel history -- Captain America, Thor, Spider-Man, Wolverine, maybe even Deadpool. You know what those guys all have? Healing factors! For the most part, they are not running around continually on the verge of death, and while there are certainly memorable arcs involving several of them being severely injured and/or dead, you really have to work at it. It's not their constant state of affairs, whereas Tony is the kind of superhero who shows up to a fight already bleeding out under his armor. Yeah, I know Extremis gave him a healing factor. But he didn't have it very long, and also he did some extremely dangerous things while he did have it; I'm pretty sure I've never seen Wolverine saying that he'll just solve a problem by cutting off his own foot. So, anyway, yeah, there are a bunch of good arcs involving h/c for Tony. If you're looking for physical injury, he has a whole bunch of heart problems over the years, gets several new hearts, then ruins his brain, et cetera. That level of hurt is basically the background pain of Tony's life; every so often, his heart will get damaged or he'll have to live in the armor or the armor will be killing him, et cetera. If you're looking for more unusual trauma, I am, as always, going to rec Manhunt, a relatively obscure arc in late v3 (IM v3 #65-69) in which Tony has an extremely bad week. His tech is stolen and used to bomb a building. Then he gets shot in the chest. Then while he's at the hospital a nurse tries and fails to poison him, and she then tries to beat him to death. Then he checks himself out of the hospital and a helicopter shoots missiles at him. Then he becomes a fugitive from justice. And then, oh, yeah, he has to fight the Mandarin. It is... a lot. (Volume 3 of Iron Man is pretty good as far as h/c possibilities. You've got a lot of physical pain, Carol's drinking arc, the Sentient Armor, both DreamVision arcs, and Manhunt. Manhunt is finally supposed to be out in trade this month, by the way.) There are of course the drinking arcs, which probably count as their own type of hurt. But if you haven't read the second drinking arc (IM #160-200), please do. Marvel likes to up the stakes on events (Fear Itself, Secret Empire) by making Tony drink, and it does work, I think. I feel like I've spoken at length about Tony's drinking elsewhere so I don't really want to rehash it all here. And then there's the emotional pain. Angst and drama is something that happens to a whole bunch of characters, yes, especially in comics, but somehow Tony seems to end up with possibly more than his fair share of it. Fandom likes to make a lot of Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, so much so that you might think, if you didn't know canon, that this was just fandom running with a throwaway mention of Tony's terrible childhood and making it worse. But, no, canon really does go there with a reasonable amount of frequency. Howard's actual first appearance is in a flashback where he's ordering teenage Tony to break up with his girlfriend because she's the daughter of one of Howard's business rivals. And then we get into the verbal abuse, and the physical abuse, and the time Howard made Tony take his first drink, and the part where Howard was a demon in hell who Tony fought while he insulted him. And more! Currently, in canon, Howard is alive again and is in league with Mephisto for the express purpose of ruining Tony's life. Also when Tony was a baby, Howard tried to trade him to Dracula. I think you can make an argument that fandom is actually showing restraint when compared to canon. Tony also has a whole lot of Terrible Exes whose presence and/or former presence in Tony's life can be used for a lot of hurt. If you've read any amount of fanfic, you probably know that the exes who get the most play in fandom are Sunset Bain and Tiberius Stone -- not that Tony and Ty were ever canonically a couple, of course, but fandom is definitely enamored of this idea. Ty and Sunset both have relatively similar interactions with Tony in canon, in that they are both liars and emotional abusers, heavy on the gaslighting, with the purpose of becoming more successful than Tony. They both also attempt to murder Tony, although this is after he figures out they're evil, at least. (Yes, I know, this is not how either of them usually appear in AUs.) Tony also has a bunch of exes who also have just straight-up tried to murder or otherwise hurt him, sometimes while they are dating, and sometimes before Tony dates them: Whitney Frost, Indries Moomji, Kathy Dare, and Maya Hansen come to mind. There are probably more I'm not thinking of! But, yes, if you want to write about a guy in a series of terrible relationships, please consider Iron Man comics. If mind control is one of your favorite flavors of hurt, Tony's pretty good for that too. We all know about The Crossing. I suppose when I say "mind control" I mostly mean "armor control" because there are an awful lot of plots where someone else makes Tony's armor do whatever they want it to do and Tony is along for the ride -- Demon in a Bottle, Sentient Armor, and Execute Program are the first things that come to mind. There is also a fairly obscure What If that is What If Iron Man Lost The Armor Wars in which Justin Hammer apparently really wants Tony in a mind control collar to take off all his clothes and lounge around in his underwear. No, really. I think a lot of pain for Tony often revolves around his issues with control, generally -- his alcoholism comes into play here again. The entire aftermath of Civil War is also notable for its propensity to hurt Tony over and over and over. Is he stoically soldiering on through his grief after Steve dies? Hell, no! He cries, like, six separate times. He 100% blames himself for Steve's death. It's great. Everybody loves The Confession and the funeral in Fallen Son, but one of my personal favorites is Avengers/Invaders, in which Tony is confronted with a time-traveling Steve from WWII and in order not to screw up the timeline, he can't tell Steve he knows him. He is clearly not coping well. He shuts himself in a room with a giant wall of pictures of Steve! Also there's a part where he has to try to convince Steve he can trust him and he ends up having to tie Steve to a chair to talk to him, and Steve looks at him and asks, "Who did you kill to get where you are?" and I feel like that is probably one of the worst moments in Tony's life. No wonder he gave himself amnesia. So now we might want to ask, okay, but why is hurting Tony in fanfiction so much fun? I mean, I can tell you why I think it's fun. I can't speak for anyone else. One reason is that he is very emotional and very affected by everything he does. Sometimes you will see people complaining that the heroes of m/m fanfic cry too much and this is not realistic. This is not a problem if you're writing Tony! He can cry as much as you want and it's perfectly in character. I don't think it would be as fun to hurt him if he didn't express so much of his pain. But he does. He also feels guilty, and for me that's a very satisfying character element. If he were well-adjusted and didn't blame himself for so many things, it wouldn't be nearly as fun as watching him blame himself for everyone whose death he thinks he is responsible for, whether or not he is. And then he just keeps going, and it's, y'know, nice to watch him be resilient, too. So, I guess, I think hurting him is interesting because it's easy to hurt him, his weak points are pretty obvious, and he reacts a lot. Steve doesn't hurt quite as much as Tony does, in canon. It's certainly possible to hurt him -- I mean, they did actually kill him after Civil War, after all -- but I don't think the canonical patterns of hurting him are as numerous. Obviously deseruming Steve is a fairly popular go-to in terms of physical hurt; he's been deserumed at least three times that I know of. I think's easy to see the appeal there of taking a character who is fairly physically resilient and making him... much less so. Certainly Marvel seems to see the appeal. But other than that I don't think he has any other really common way to get physically injured. Unlike Tony, whose origin story is basically "oh no, I've acquired a disability," Steve's origin story is "I drank a serum that cured all my disabilities." Which, I mean, great wish fulfillment but there's not really as much there to poke at. Pretty much all of Steve's pain is emotional, but, unlike Tony, his pain isn't often specifically in response to someone directly, purposefully hurting him. Hickman's Avengers run is a big exception, yes. His pain seems to come up most often as a kind of situational angst. He feels like a man out of time. He feels out of touch with the modern era, with people his own age. He feels guilt because he feels responsible for Bucky's death. He feels like he can't trust the government and therefore he can't be Captain America. He worries that he doesn't know how to have a normal life. And, yes, these are deep and important worries but it's different than, like, Indries Moomji dumping Tony with the intent to make him sad enough to start drinking. Very few of Steve's villains want to personally ruin Steve's entire life the way Tony's villains do; mostly they just want to do things like bring back the Nazis. In terms of Steve's potential for h/c, I think Steve is harder to hurt than Tony is. Physically, he is definitely harder to hurt. You can deserum him, sure, but unless you want everything you write to be a deseruming fic you're probably not going to want to do that more than a couple of times. And if you want to hurt him physically while he has the serum, you have to hurt him hard. Usually past the point where a regular human would ever survive it. He's also harder to break, emotionally, than Tony is -- which means it's very satisfying when you can get him to break, but this is a guy who's only cried twice (that I remember) in canon. So if you want to get him to cry, you really, really have to wreck him, and he doesn't have as many obvious weak spots. He also doesn't generally sit around blaming himself for things that aren't his fault, and the whole "stewing in guilt" genre of plots for him basically came down to "he was sad that he thought Bucky's death was his fault," and that's really the biggest regret he seems to have, and also Bucky's not dead anymore. The Steve/Tony relationship itself, I would think, is also appealing to h/c fans because canon provides a lot of ways for them to hurt each other. Some people only ship pairings who would never, y'know, take turns beating each other half to death in major event comics. (And for a lot of Marvel Comics history, that was also Steve & Tony, so if you want them to be BFFs who have never fought, you can just set your fic earlier.) They have definitely hurt each other both physically and emotionally, so if you're looking for something easy and satisfying as a h/c fan, you can just read or write something where they... make up. What about Marvel characters other than Steve and Tony? Surely some of them are angsty, yes? Well, yes, but also it depends on the particular flavor of angst that you like. If you like the way Tony hurts, you may very well enjoy Doctor Strange comics, because they have a very similar attitude towards life -- they are both former alcoholics whose origin stories involve physical disabilities, who routinely make tactical decisions that negatively affect their continued existence and/or happiness a whole lot. It's very much an "I must suffer alone in the dark and no one will ever know what I am doing to save the world but it's the right thing to do" sort of vibe. Like, you can read comics where Strange is lying in hell with two broken legs, hallucinating that Clea has finally come to save him. Strange's biggest fear, akin to Tony's control issues, is basically that one day he's going to be an asshole again, so he's out there trying as hard as he can to do good. Also, if you like tentacles, he has all of them. I mean that. Carol also occasionally hits similar angst spots, and her drinking arc is great. A lot of people like Natasha, too; I have read zero Black Widow comics but I get the impression many people enjoy her brand of angst. The mutant metaphor is a little different in terms of overall vibe, but some people really like it as a source of angst -- the whole "protecting a world who hates and fears them" thing. It may not work for you, but if you like your hurt to include things like systemic oppression, go pick up some X-Men comics. Start with something like God Loves Man Kills. I feel like I liked this sort of thing a lot more as a teenager but that I kind of aged out of liking the mutants quite so much. It's also worth mentioning that not everything that hits the spot in one universe will be the same in the others, and I'm mentioning this because I feel like I have to say something about MCU Bucky. MCU fandom seems to get a lot of mileage out of Bucky's guilt about being the Winter Soldier, everything he was forced to do, et cetera. I have definitely read my share of those fics, and FATWS sure went right for that angst too. But as far as I can tell, he doesn't hit the same way at all in 616. And I like him a lot in 616; I'm always pleased when he shows up on a team. (He was so good in Strikeforce. Everyone was so good in Strikeforce.) But the thing is, 616 Bucky is, basically, phenomenally well-adjusted, given everything he's gone through, and I'm including the time he wrestled a bear in a gulag. He gets over having been the Winter Soldier, and now he's just, y'know, a guy with a cool arm who likes to bring guns to every fight to horrify his teammates, and he snarks at Clint. If you're looking for that angst, that is really not him these days. He's all better. So pretty much all that is canon. So what do we do in fandom for h/c? Well, as far as I can tell, a decent amount of it is canon-based or very canon-close -- there are a whole lot of stories exploring the angst of Civil War or Hickman's Avengers run. Tony's drinking comes up a fair amount, and if one of Tony's Evil Exes comes back to haunt him, it's pretty much only Tiberius Stone. I don't think I've read a lot of fic with Steve getting deserumed; it doesn't seem as popular in fandom as in canon. When Steve gets hurt, he tends to just get physically whumped pretty hard, and there's a fair amount of that for Tony too, but of course Steve can take more. There's also a thriving, uh, subgenre of pain involving Hydra Steve doing terrible things to Tony, presumably the terrible things he would have wanted to do to Tony in canon if Tony had had a flesh body. There's the usual kinds of h/c setups that appear in basically every fandom as well -- sickfic, whump, dub-con/non-con. You get the idea. But since fandom in general likes to take specific inspiration from canon, there's a lot of fic where the hurt tends to resemble things that happen more in canon. Like, I feel like comics fic probably has more tentacle fic and more mind control than canons that don't come pre-stocked with those. Probably everybody has a whole lot of "tied up by bad guys," though. And then, of course, fandom brings the comfort that canon does not. This is true in pretty much every fandom -- I mean, you aren't going to find a lot of actual canons where Character A saves Character B from mortal peril and then there's gay sex -- but, like I was saying, comics don't provide a lot of closure before it's onto the next thing. Usually with a different creative team, who has no interest in wrapping up anything from the last team. Steve and Tony talked about the incursions exactly once after Secret Wars and nobody mentioned the part where Steve spent several months trying to hunt Tony down and kill him. Tony is never going to remember the events of Civil War. Hydra Steve died ignominiously in a fire and no one has ever talked about him again. Honestly, if you're looking for a way to get some comfort in your fanfic, picking an event, any event, and just having the characters talk about it will be way more than any of them get in canon. I feel like honestly that can often be a pretty satisfying to read. And even though comics canon physically hurts characters pretty often and pretty badly, they also often skip right past the recovery. Maybe you'll get one page of a character in a hospital bed at the end of the story arc. Maybe you won't. Demon in a Bottle has one splash page of Tony going through alcohol withdrawal and then he's all better. I think Manhunt skips to Tony getting out of the hospital at the end. That's just not a story that they want to tell very often. The second drinking arc is notable in that it devotes almost as many issues to Tony's recovery as it does to getting him to rock-bottom. Similarly, Steve is done with his Nomad angst way way faster than you probably think he is (though The Captain does go in for a fair number of issues). So one of the things we often want to do in fandom is focus on all the bits that canon skips over, both in the "why did no one ever mention this story arc ever again" way and the "wow, so how long are they in the hospital after that" way. That's really all I can think of about h/c! I'm off to write some more of it!

#posts i actually wrote

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costellos · 4 years ago

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author’s note: this wasn’t a request, just something super self-indulgent that I wanted to do! ❤⃛(*ૂ❛ัᴗ❛ั*ૂ) also this ended up taking 2.5 hours to write aldkf;j so much for unwinding at the end of the day. overall, I’m super proud of how this came out — please enjoy!

❥ ┋ ❝ bucci gang realizing that they’re in love!

bruno bucciarati.

Bucciarati realizes he’s in love when he sees you defending civilians.

he is a man made of love. for his people, for his community, for his goals — he firmly believes that everyone and everything can be built on yes, but more importantly, taken care of.

he sees you protecting an elderly couple during a stand battle. in a split second do you throw your stand at the couple, taking a hefty amount of damage in their place. you’re bloody and your arm is definitely broken, but you still turn to them. "you need to leave. now,” you say. although your words are harsh and hoarse, your smile reminds them that yes, everything will be fine, I just need you to trust me.

you didn’t have to protect them. any other gangster would have left them to die. they’re old, no one would miss them.

but you did. you put these two strangers, two no ones at the wrong place at the wrong time, before yourself. even if it meant you’d die.

Bucciarati would visit you shortly after the battle. Giorno had already tended to your wounds, evident by your lack of bandages. his hair is normally neatly placed, but it looks like he had been rustling it, with his clips out of place and the braid atop his head uneven. his concern is apparent; he’s wracked his brain waiting for your recovery. you knew that Bucciarati cared about his team, but when did he care this much? ↳ “I admit, your actions were certainly reckless,” he would say to you, taking a seat beside your bed. “you’re lucky that fight didn’t end worse than it did. nonetheless...” his voice is tired yet soft, comforting. “I’m glad you’re okay. I’m... I’m incredibly glad.”

leone abbacchio.

Abbacchio realizes he’s in love when he sees you upholding true justice.

although he would never admit it, he is haunted by his inability to save his partner during his time as an officer. as such, Abbacchio envies those who back justice in spite of the system Italy lives under.

you’re patrolling one of La Passione’s turfs with him when you see it: two officers harassing a young girl. even though Abbacchio tells you not to get involved, you quickly storm over to the scene. their voices are loud and clear, despite them being several meters away. the girl looks scared.

it turns out she had stolen a handful of painkillers from the corner store. the cops noticed her scurrying out as they were buying a pack of smokes. and now, they were threatening to take her into the station. “I need them for my family!” she explains, but the cops don’t buy it. they huff something about her bringing them to school and selling them to her friends.

“here. I’ll pay for her. just leave her alone.” Abbacchio watches as you flash 30 euros to the cops, more than enough to pay for the medicine. playing them at their own game, he sees. thankfully, they relent, pocketing the money and leaving the scene. and after you talk to the girl, explaining that if she needs more help to come find you, you both leave the scene too.

it’s a brief affair. truthfully, he wouldn’t have gotten himself involved. he wishes you hadn’t either. it would’ve been less of a headache, and now that girl is going to pester you again in the future. but he can’t stop replaying the scene in this head. how you willingly stood up for her, reassured her that everything would be okay. how you smiled and looked so content after the fact. ↳ “ I envy you,” he would say as you walked away from the scene. “doing the right thing is...” he pauses. stupid? naive? “...it’s not easy. you didn’t have to do anything but I admire your valor. just don’t be surprised if that girl comes up at your doorstep begging for more money.” nonetheless, he wants to learn more from you. to be good again, he thinks. maybe then he can be someone that he himself is proud of. and maybe, eventually, he’ll make you proud too.

giorno giovanna.

Giorno realizes he’s in love when he sees your ambition.

he prides himself on his resolve. to him, resolve is committing to something regardless of the difficulties that a person faces. seeing you be so goal-oriented would make him believe that he’s found his match.

it doesn’t have to be a huge goal, like dedicating yourself to a field of practice or learning a new language. it can be as simple as trying to keep your houseplants alive. in fact, those little things come off as more charming to him. it shows that you’re passionate about everything you do, no matter what it is.

seeing you continuously try despite numerous failures would make Giorno’s heart pound. you refuse to give up. even with everything against you, you still roll up your sleeves, take a deep breath, and pick yourself up again. he adores this about you.

he realizes it when you’re rambling about your next move in your goals. your face is so excited, your eyes so wide and bright. your mouth is voicing your steps a million words a minute but all he can focus on is how beautiful you look. the smile on his lips is unmistakable. ↳ “tell me more. I want to know everything. tell me about every detail, every step, what you’ll do when you’re finished... all of it.” he won’t say it — after all, he doesn’t want to come off as too desperate — but he wants to be there every step of the way with you. and when you’ve completed your goal, he wants to be the one next to you, the one to say, “I am so, so proud of you.”

guido mista.

Mista realizes he’s in love when you laugh at one of his jokes.

life should be simple. that’s the mantra he lives by. despite being a gangster, he just wants to have a simple life filled with simple pleasures. one of those ways is through telling stories.

it happens when the group is eating dinner at a local restaurant. Mista is telling some long-winded anecdote, something about how he heroically beat up a landlord for harassing his tenants over money. at the end, it turned out to be the set up for a really brief and really stupid punchline.

everyone is looking at him. “ah? ahhhh?” he muses, but no one responds. the silence in the air is unbearable. hm. wow. is it hot in here or what? finally, Narancia breaks the silence, muttering that he doesn’t get it. Fugo tells him that Mista could have made the joke so much shorter. Bucciarti exhales quickly from his nostrils, a half-assed attempt at laughing. Giorno and Abbacchio don’t say anything.

but then you. oh, you. it takes you a moment to get it, but when you do, your giggling disrupts the awkwardness. it sounds like bells, Mista thinks. sweet bells, ringing like how they used to at the church every Sunday morning in his hometown. it makes him feel warm, welcome, and he can’t help but feel his face flush when he hears your laughing.

Mista stays in place afterwards, pushing his white beans to and fro on his plate. he’s not hungry anymore. he keeps looking up at you, and while he had acknowledged you were attractive before, something about you was now beautiful. you were happy here, with your eyes bright and your smile wide. eventually, he would say: ↳ “hey, thanks for covering me back there. those guys never laugh at anything I say.” he rolls his eyes playfully, adding a slight shrug of his shoulders. “lemme make it up to you. what can I do for you?” he’s trying to be smooth, but he’s so giddy at the prospect at spending more time with you!

narancia ghirga.

Narancia realizes he’s in love when you don’t lose your patience with him.

he doesn’t have much of a formal education. hence, critical thinking skills don’t come easy to him. he tries his best, he really does, but it’s difficult when he’s hardly flexed his brain.

he’s writing a song. nothing fancy, but music has always been a part of Narancia’s life that he wants to give it a go himself. maybe one day he’ll be a famous hip hop artist, touring across Europe and maybe even the U.S. one day! the thought makes him excited. but for now, he needs to establish the lyrics.

rap is easier said than done, though. Fugo is teasing him about his inability to write poetry — what makes Narancia think that he could write a whole song? he grits his teeth and turns back to his paper.

that’s when you approach him. you sit down with him, asking him what he would like to write about. “oh, uh... growing up in the streets, I guess,” he mumbles. he’s taken aback by your help. plus, talking about it now makes him embarrassed. but you don’t judge him, no; you sit down with him and try to help him nail down the theme. and once you have that, you assist him in finding snappy lyrics and catchy rhymes.

you don’t criticize him for his ideas. you don’t yell at him for his suggestions. you just listen and add on. the encounter is foreign, to say the least... but not unwelcome. Narancia finds your help incredibly productive (much better than Fugo could ever offer him). and the time goes by so fast! within a few hours, his song is done. yet he’s not happy... no, he starts to feel lonely the moment you stand up, off to assist Bucciarati with whatever he needs. ↳ “wait, hold on, [Name]!” shit. his voice is way too desperate. he softens it as best he can muster: “can... can we write another song sometime? I have a lot more ideas and I can’t do it without you.” fuck. he did it again. but when smile at him and nod, promising that you’ll help him hit the Top 40, Narancia can’t help but smile back.

panacotta fugo.

Fugo realizes that he’s in love when you put him before yourself.

genius. prodigy. failure. Fugo is defined by how others see him. after his parents abandoned him for leaving an abusive establishment, he finds himself lost in the world. who is he? what is he worth?

he’s escorting you to your mission when his car is attacked by a rival gang. the assault is a blur. he can remember the car flipping over, tumbling off the road and into the Mediterranean Sea. it happens so fast. the salty water surrounding you both. the windshield cracking. the airbag goes off, suffocating him. he can’t see. he can’t breathe. and suddenly, it’s dark.

when he wakes up, he realizes that you’re both on the beach. “where are we?” he musters out. it hurts to talk. you hush him to take it easy, that he had most certainly broken a few ribs. and that’s when he sees it: when he looks down, his wounds are tended to. gashes have been tenderly wrapped in gauze and minor cuts treated with balm. a pain relief patch has been placed on his chest, no doubt where the air bag hit him. but when he looks at you, you’re bleeding through your bandages.

that’s right. there was a first aid kit in the car. based on his injuries, you spent the majority of supplies on him, even though you definitely had it just as bad. “why?” is all he can say.

why? you shake your head. “because you’re my friend,” you answer, adjusting the gauze on his wrist. “I’m taking care of you because you’re worth it.”

your words catch him by surprise. he doesn’t believe it, but... your face is honest enough. his thoughts are jumbled, as mixed as the sand and water at the shore just a few meters away. and when your hand touches his wrist... he shakes his own head.

↳ “you should’ve tended to yourself first.” his tongue tastes of nothing but blood and salt and his words show it. a beat, and gentler this time: “I appreciate your thinking of me. thank you.” that’s all he can say, at least for now. it hurts to much to talk, moreover think. so he places his hand over yours as a gesture of thanks. friends, huh? the idea before sounded laughable, but now... there was something warm about it. the answer to his question — who is he? — had come as quickly as the waves beneath him: a friend.

#bucci gang #jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #giorno giovanna #golden wind #bruno bucciarati #leone abbacchio #guido mista #narancia ghirga #pannacotta fugo #headcanons #part 5 #toya whisks u away

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imagine-lcorp · 4 years ago

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Take My Hand, Take My Whole Life Too (One Shot)

Request

Can I request something with a Paramedic reader attending to Lena's wounds after a car crash. Reader was on her way home from work still in her uniform when she sees the crash at night. Lena gets hurt and the other driver vanishes from the scene. R tends to Lena's broken arm or something. Drives them to the hospital, stays by Lena's side the whole time in the ER and then drives lena home. Lena is smitten by the woman in the uniform and offers R morning coffee since it took all night in the ER

A/N: Hello, my dears, back again with this one shot, as always thank you to the anon that sent this one, I hope I’m not to late (I know I am but pls forgive) and I hope that you like it! Let me know what you think, guys. I love y’all c:

Lena Luthor x Paramedic Fem!R//Word Count: 2,540 -------------------------------------------------------

When people asked you what was the best part of your job, you would always say it was being able to help people. Which came with its own reward as you could meet some amazing people along the way. The downside of it, however, was that your work was never done. Especially in a place like National City, between the usual medical emergencies, the occasional super-powered villain wreaking havoc and the rare alien invasion, you always had to be ready for anything. Including the car crash you had witnessed while heading home.

It had been a relatively quiet day at the station, your shift had ended at midnight and the only thing you wanted then was to go home, grab some dinner, strip yourself of your uniform, and go to bed early as your day off was waiting for you the next morning. The last thing you had expected once you got off work was to go right back at it.

You had been waiting for the light to turn green at an intersection when a blur to your left startled you, followed by the sound of tires squealing and the loud crash of metal against metal. A moment later, you saw two cars ahead on opposite sides of the road. The black one had a broken windshield, and the driver side doors were dented from where you guessed the red one, with the bent bumper and broken right headlight, had impacted.

When you finally caught up on what was happening, you didn't waste more time. All thoughts about rest and relaxation were forgotten as you started to assess the scene. You turned your blinkers on and moved your car, making sure there were no other cars about to crash on you and close enough to have a better view of the damage. Unfortunately, you didn't get the chance to examine both cars further as you watched the red one take the road again and flee the scene. You stopped your car and got out to check on the people inside the black car.

Approaching carefully, you went to check first on the driver's seat. Inside the black car was a single person. The woman, probably in her mid-twenties, wearing a sleeveless dress, with dark hair, pale skin, and who looked strangely familiar, was lying back on her seat with eyes closed. You took your phone from one of your pockets and called the emergency number.

As you described what had happened to the dispatcher, you examined the woman's condition as best as you could giving them a picture, as clear as possible, about it. She didn't seem to move but her breathing was steady. The crash might have not been as severe as there were no signs of cuts or wounds visible. However, with the airbag in front of her already losing it's shape, you noticed her left arm had a purple bruise. You moved the rest of the airbag with care and grimaced as you watched how big it was. It could be a sing of fracture.

The call was quick and after confirming your location the dispatcher told you there was an ambulance already on its way. In the meantime, you did what you knew best.

"Miss, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?" You said before trying to move the woman. When you didn't get a response, you opened the door and tried shaking her gently in the shoulders. A pair of dazzling green eyes fluttered open, focusing with some difficulty on you. You put your hands on her neck and face for support. "Do you know what happened to you?"

The touch of your hands seemed to shake her a bit, her eyes closing and opening again as if thinking this was some kind of hallucination. Something you imagined was the effect of the shock.

"Oh, you're pretty." The woman said with a drowsy voice.

A little smile formed in the corner of your lips. It wasn't the first time you had received a compliment like that. She was also an undeniably beautiful woman and you would have responded accordingly, had it not been for the current circumstances. Now you feared she had suffered a concussion.

As she saw the little smile in your face, the woman's clouded mind cleared in an instant. Her eyes grew bigger with surprise. It wasn't a thought she was supposed to voice out loud. Her head had felt foggy, as if waking up after a long nap in a bed made of rocks and rusty nails and it didn't help that she had started to feel a little headache, making her almost incapable of forming orderly thoughts, until she realized what she had said.

"Thanks." You managed in the end. "What's your name?"

"Lena." She said with a grunt, like she was finally realizing where she was and what was happening. "Lena Luthor."

At the mention of her name something clicked inside your brain. Of course you recognized Lena Luthor. Besides being one of the richest people in the planet, she was a very active philanthropist. She had made great donations and participated countless times in the charities the hospital you worked in organized. You made a mental note to thank her after all of this but, in the meantime, you proceeded like any other case.

"Alright, Lena. My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N), I'm a paramedic. An ambulance is already on the way, so I need you to stay with me, okay?"

All my life if you want, Lena thought along with some other things she was aware enough to keep to herself, only giving a small nod in understanding.

You started placing your hands in her neck, her shoulders, her back, and so on, asking if she could feel anything or if she was feeling any pain or discomfort. Most of the time the answer was negative as she only seemed to have a mild headache and some pain on her neck but, as the adrenaline and shock were wearing off, she slowly came to notice the the actual amount of pain in her body, especially in her left arm.

"Any pain here?" You said once you reached her arm.

She winced with a little yelp and for a second tried to pull her arm away.

"Sorry, sorry." You took her arm again in a gentler way, trying to move the rest of the airbag out of the way, placing her arm to a better position and your other hand under hers. "Okay, we are not gonna move from there. Can you feel your fingers?"

Lena nodded, trying to close her fingers around your hand. "Yeah, I can feel them."

"Okay." You moved your other hand, feeling her arm with soft touches. You still weren't sure if her arm was broken but anyway you needed to cover it. "I need to go get some padding for-"

"No, please." Lena quickly said. "I-I don't want to be left alone."

There was fear clear in her eyes and you almost hit your own forehead. For what you had heard around, most of the visits Lena Luthor had ever made to a hospital had been after a direct attempt on her life. With a crazy family and half the city against her, of course, she was scared.

"Alright, don't worry. Once the ambulance is here, we are going to give you something for the pain, get your arm splinted up and take you to the hospital. I promise I'm not leaving, okay?" You said with another little smile, reassuring Lena as much as possible.

"Thank you." She stopped holding her breath.

You tried to make some small talk as you waited, making more questions about trivial things to make sure she was alert and hadn't suffered brain damage. While doing so, you learned that Lena Luthor, for all the things the media some times tried to feed you about her and her family, was a nice person. She was answering every question you threw at her as best as she could, even making some charming remarks from time to time that you found kind of cute. Mostly, you were relieved to confirm she was in good shape.

The ambulance and police sirens could be heard on the distance and a moment later you had to step away to let the team of paramedics work. You recognized your coworkers as they came to your aid. You had to step aside to talk to the police about the incident, giving them the best description you could about the hit and run before some details faded from your memory and were glad to leave them to their own thing as you watched the other paramedics finally pull Lena out of her car.

They were moving her to the stretcher and towards the ambulance when you went to do a final check on her. She seemed calmer, probably thanks to the painkillers they had provided her, and a bit paler, which made you a little worried, but you were relieved to see her arm was already being taken care of. You had thought that was the end of your night and were about to leave Lena's side when she called you.

"(Y/N)?" She said as she was about to be loaded into the ambulance.

"Yes?" You frowned for a moment in confusion but got a bit closer to hear her through the sound of people moving around.

"Could you stay with me?" She asked with pleading eyes.

Somewhere, on the back of her mind, Lena knew this was nothing more than the effect of the drugs in her system. There was no other reason to keep you there, you had helped her so much, calling for help, attending her injuries, and making sure the medical team could take another look at her. And maybe that was the exact same reason she wanted you around for a little longer.

You raised both eyebrows in surprise, and the couple of paramedics did the same as they looked at each other and then at you.

"Well, I-" You hesitated for a moment but considering who was asking, and that the cutest puppy eyes you had ever seen were looking at you, you gave in. Part of you wouldn't admit it yet, but you had somehow grown fond of Lena in such a little time and you still had to thank her for all she had done. "Sure."

Since you couldn't just leave your car behind, you decided to follow the ambulance to the hospital where Lena was brought into the ER. She was placed in a bed and you sat by her side, waiting for the nurses to do a check up.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this." Lena spoke after an awkward moment of silence, realizing she may have overstepped your boundaries.

Considering her state of mind, she hadn't really thought this through but your presence seemed to soothe her better than the painkillers and that was all she had known at the moment.

"Don't be. I figured it was the least I could do for our biggest sponsor." You said this time with a bit of a tired smile, feeling the exhaustion of the night.

Your weary expression didn't go unnoticed by Lena who also didn't have the chance to ask what you had meant as the nurse and doctor entered the room. They started by asking her more questions and checking her vitals. When they noticed you there, still in uniform, the doctor figured you were one of the paramedics that had brought Lena and told you they would take it from there.

"She can stay, doctor." Lena's tone made it seem almost like and order. "She's a friend."

You were a bit surprised by her answer but both nurse and doctor nodded their agreement and moved on, probably because they knew by now who they were treating.

They moved Lena's arm again to take some x-rays and, through all the wincing and grunting, you instinctively took her hand in yours and you had no idea how much she appreciated the gesture. It had been a long time since another person had offered her a hand in comfort and even a longer time since she had let someone take care of her like this.

It was early morning when after all the necessary medical checks were done, you left the ER pushing a very tired and very beaten up Lena, with a cast in her arm, in a wheelchair through the hospital doors and into the chill of the night. As you pushed the chair outside, you took a moment, taking of your jacket and putting it over her shoulders.

"Here." You said and started pushing the wheelchair into the parking lot. "Now, we better get you home before it gets colder."

"Wait, (Y/N)." Lena said as you were approaching your car. "You don't have to, you have already done so much."

"It's okay. Like I said, it's the least I could do."

"For your biggest sponsor?" Lena asked.

"Yeah, I guess." You said remembering you wanted to thank her for that. "You may not remember but, last year, you made some big donations to every hospital in National City, Miss Luthor. Including the one I work for. That helped a lot of people so, yeah, this is just me trying to repay for all those you have helped."

"Then, if that's what it takes for you to take me home, I'll make sure to make more of those donations." Lena said, forgetting to keep those bits of inner thoughts to herself.

You stopped then, like finally realizing how unusual the situation was. An off-shift paramedic taking care of a car accident patient, accompanying her all the way to the ER, waiting all night beside her as her medical test were done, and taking her home afterwards, like it was the most natural thing to do.

You rounded Lena's chair and crouched in front of her. "It's not just the donations, Lena."

She got worried she had overstepped again but seeing the way your eyes were looking into hers, and the way you had said her name, made Lena feel secure once more.

"I cannot tell you how or why but I have ever done this with anyone I have ever met." You said with a sheepishly smile.

"Maybe we could discover it together." She tried. "Around a cup of coffee, once we reach my home? I mean, since you already have been with me all night. How does that sound?"

You seemed to ponder it for a moment and then you offered your hand. "Sounds like a good deal."

Lena took your hand in hers once more, closing what felt like the best bargain she had ever done in her life and hoping it would last exactly that.

"And now that I'm sure you don't have a concussion I can also tell you. I think you're pretty too." You saw Lena's cheeks turn red and didn't give her time to respond as you returned to the back of the wheelchair, with a grin plastered in your face and excited to star the new day with her.

#lena luthor #lena luthor imagine #lena luthor imagines #lena luthor x reader #lena luthor x you #lena luthor x female reader #Female reader #fem!reader #fem reader #one shot #request #take my hand take my whole life too #lena x you #paramedic reader #emt reader

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fangirlovestuff · 4 years ago

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An Apple a Day - Ransom Drysdale x doctor!reader

a/n - hey lovely people! this one is dedicated to @anobscurename because it’s her birthday!!! ilysm and i hope you had a wonderful day you talented soul! enjoy your murder boyfriend:)

disclamer: I am absolutely not a doctor, I don’t know anything about hospitals or medicine. This work is entirely fictional:)

Summary: you’re a doctor at a hospital, and there’s one patient that just keeps getting hurt. One obnoxiously handsome patient.

Word Count: ~2k

Warnings: Ransom isn’t a murderer in this one, but he’s still kind of an asshole, talk of injuries but nothing really graphic.

"Mr. Drysdale," you read from your notepad, raising your eyes to look around the hospital waiting room, "if you could please come in, you're next."

You weren't sure who you were expecting, but it's certainly wasn't this guy. He was dressed in what seemed to be incredibly expensive clothes, way too expensive to be at a public hospital. His eyes were a clear blue and he had a smirk on his face, one that turned into a grimace once he got up on his feet and limped his way into the room.

"We're sorry for the wait, but as you've seen there was a long line," you said, your voice level. You sat down and motioned for him to take the chair in front of you. Up close, you could notice his hair looked soft to the touch, and that big sweater he was wearing was stretching over broad, strong shoulders. "What brings you to the hospital today, Mr. Drysdale?"

"Mr. Drysdale's my father," the smirk returned to his face, "Call me Ransom."

"Okay then, Ransom," you raised your eyebrow, "I could see you had a bit of trouble with your leg coming in, is that the problem?"

"I mean, yeah," he shrugged. "It's probably sprained or some shit. I don't know. I just woke up this morning and it was hurting like a bitch."

"So your leg got hurt while you were asleep?"

"Probably not," he snorted, "I mean, I guess it happened while I was out last night."

"You guess?" you asked incredulously. You couldn't believe this guy.

"I don’t exactly remember what happened last night, so yeah, I guess," he said, signature smirk still on his face.

You took a deep breath and resisted the urge to roll your eyes. "Alright, Mr. Drysdale, we can check for a sprain or a fracture, but I just want to tell you that if your attitude is any indicator, it's probably not that damaged. You'd be in a lot more pain if that’s the case."

It was sprained, and he was just drunk enough, at 4 in the afternoon, not to feel it that much.

Two weeks later, you were called to assist with a case of a snakebite in the ER. You rushed over there as fast as you could, thinking something really bad is happening if they're calling for more help.

But there he was, drunk guy, as you remembered him, laying in his hospital bed looking… bored.

To be honest, you weren't even that sure how you remembered him at all, with the amount of people you saw in a day, let alone a week, you forgot most of them after a few hours, but something about him just stuck with you. Okay, honesty is the best policy – he was just hot.

"My favorite doctor!" he exclaimed when his eyes landed on you, seemingly bored no longer.

"Mr. Drysdale," you nodded, "here once more?"

"Indeed," he snickered.

"He has a snakebite on his arm," a nurse nearby filled you in. "We treated it, but he insisted you come inspect it as well since you did such a good job with his leg. Wouldn't move until you did."

You nodded in acknowledgment before coming closer to his bed, grabbing his hand and removing the bandages, inspecting the bite.

"Thank you for coming," Ransom said, smiling.

"I work here," you said in a flat tone.

"Aw really? No special treatment for me?"

"They did a good job," you commented, "you didn't need to bring me here, there are other people who need my treatment, Mr. Drysdale."

"But I wanted to," he shrugged. "And I always get what I want," he smirked.

"Somehow I don't doubt that. But I am surprised you remembered my name," you said.

"How could I forget? It's beautiful."

"Uh huh," you said, unimpressed. "Well, Mr. Drysdale, everything's fine with your hand."

"You're not going to ask how I got it?"

"What, so you can tell me how you "heroically fought a snake"? I don't think so." You were looking at his eyes now, his blue orbs boring into yours.

"Alright, you got me," he raised his hands, "I was trying to lift it up and it bit me. The sleek bastard."

"Where would you encounter a snake?"

"It's my mother's. She got it after she divorced my dad to keep her company. Apparently, she didn't know it was venomous."

"She sounds like a lovely lady," you couldn't contain your smile.

"She's really not."

"Well, Mr. Drysdale, not to be rude, but I hope you won't be coming here anytime soon." You started walking away when he spoke up.

"I already told you, it's Ransom. And if I won't come here, how would I see you?"

You ignored his question and walked away. Sure, from time to time a patient got a "crush" on you, but usually it was creepy old men you didn't dedicate a second thought to. Well, even if Ransom was by no means a creepy old man, you weren't going to give him any more thought than to any of your other patients.

It was a month later, and you had really nearly forgotten about Ransom. Until one day, you were rushed to the ER once more. Someone got beat up, badly.

You burst into the room, where you walked up to the hospital bed. The face inside it was so badly bruised it was barely recognizable, but you recognized it anyways – Ransom's.

His eyes were shut, his breathing shallow. You had seen hundreds, if not thousands of patients who were badly bruised, who were hurting, so you were near immune to it, your job demanded you be. Yet, the sight in front of you sent a wave of worry through your mind.

"Is he on painkillers?" you asked the nurse who was near the bed as well.

"Unfortunately not," Ransom rasped. He opened his eyes slowly, his gaze focusing on you. "I didn‎'t ask for you this time."

"Well, here I am," you replied, checking the initial report of his injuries.

"Could you lift up your shirt or should I do it?" you said, deciding his ribs should be the first order of business.

"Well, I thought you'd take me out to dinner fir-" his words were cut off by a whimper of pain when he tried to move his arm to do it himself.

"Alright," you said, lifting up his shirt yourself trying to ignore his toned abs as you inspected his torso, "does it hurt when i-"

Ransom groaned in pain as you rested your palm on the right side of his body.

"I take it that's a yes."

After going over his injuries, you concluded most of them were minor enough and would disappear after a few days, but he needed some stitches and his ribs were almost definitely cracked, so he needed to be kept in the hospital for another couple of days.

The first day went by and was uneventful, seeing as Ransom was hopped up on the best legal painkillers money could buy.

By the second day however, he was getting a little bit better and was more awake, so when you came to check on him in the evening he was a little more talkative.

"My favorite doctor!" he greeted you with a smile. "My ribs are hurting, could you-"

"No. I already told you Ransom, your wounds don't warrant 24/7 painkillers, despite your belief," you rolled your eyes. "It's not good for you."

"It was worth a shot," he shrugged and then winced at the pain from his rib.

"You should be good to go tomorrow. The rib won't completely heal until about a month from now, but there's no reason to keep you here for long. You'll need to be on bed rest and not make movements that can damage your rib more than you already have."

"Hey, I didn't do the damage. But you should've seen the other guy," he smirked.

"So you did some damage."

"I mean, yeah, but he deserved it."

"I'm not even going to ask," you rolled your eyes. "See you tomorrow, Ransom."

It's been two months since Ransom was released from the hospital, and thankfully, you hadn't seen him since.

It was one of your rare weekends off, so you decided to make the best of it and go out with some of your friends. Your job didn't allow for a lot of social downtime, so it was a good chance to catch up and have some fun.

The lights at the club were dim, the music blaring, and the drinks served quickly – just what you needed to take your mind off of work for once.

You were dancing with your friends when suddenly, you felt a pair of eyes on you. You dismissed it, probably just a weird feeling. But then you felt a hand on your shoulder, nudging you to turn around. You had half a mind to punch whoever it is, when-

"Hey there sweetheart." Ransom's usual smirk was on his face as he looked you up and down unabashedly. "I gotta say, that outfit's looking way better on you than these doctor clothes."

You opened your mouth to tell him they're called scrubs, but decided against it. "Stalking me, I see," you remarked instead.

"Not at all, I swear," he chuckled. "Although I can't deny it's a very pleasant surprise to see you. I was getting bored. A little more time and I would've faked some injury just to come and see you."

"Well, it's a good thing you didn't," you chuckled.

"Wanna dance?" he asked, extending his hand out to you.

You eyed him for a moment before taking his hand. He immediately pulled you closer, until you were standing chest to chest. You started moving your hips to the music as his hand left yours and came to rest on your hips, gently guiding your movements.

"You know, it's funny that we met here," he murmured into your ear so you could hear it despite the loud music.

"I know, at least when you were in pain you weren't moving," you smirked. You were teasing him, but you knew he wouldn't take it seriously. The man had moves, and he knew that just like he knew about every other good quality he had.

"Ha ha," he replied dryly. "But you can't tell me you didn't want to see me again."

"I never wish for anyone to get hurt."

"Of course you don't," he drawled. He pulled you impossibly closer, his leg sneaking between yours, his face so close to yours your foreheads were nearly touching. "But that wasn't the question," he breathed.

"And what if I did want to see you again?" you said nonchalantly.

"Well, that could be arranged," he smirked.

"Really?" you raised your eyebrow. He moved away from you for a moment, reaching for his phone and giving it to you. It was so expansive you almost considered taking it and running, but you obviously didn't. You typed in your phone number instead, and when you were done you put it back in Ransom's warm hand, your finger brushing against his for a brief moment before you pulled away.

"Call me," you said. You turned to walk away but stopped. "Oh and Ransom? If you decide to be an asshole about this the next time you'll be in the hospital will be because of me. Just a heads up," you smiled sweetly.

"That's harsh."

"I know you good enough to determine it's necessary," you chuckled and walked back to your friends, who were all dying to know who the hot mystery guy was.

You looked behind you to search for Ransom one more time. He was in the same place, watching you go with his signature smirk. He probably needed to be taken down a peg, but hey – you were definitely up for the challenge.

divider is by the awesome @firefly-graphics, who has dividers for every scenario possible:)

Taglist: @horny-nd-bored @shannon124 @perfectlyharolds @wintersoldierslut @iceebabies @sleepingpapermouse @steverogerswasalwaysworthy @holtzkinnon @angelicl-y @stydia-4-ever @thatoneperson5000 @fangirlfree @kaitcordx25 @bequeening @steve-barry-damon-logan @itscrazycherryblossomcollection @hollandxmarvel @stargazingfangirl18 @readsreblogsfics @onetwo3000 @beritmetal @harrystylesholland @jazbot2000 @anobscurename @xxxtwilightaxelxxx

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#chris evans #chris evans x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #chris evans x female reader #ransom x reader #ransom x you #chris evans x y/n #ransom drysdale x female reader #ransom x y/n #chris evans x you #ransom drysdale x you

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oliverwvvd · 3 years ago

Text

the devil in me, part ii

Back to writing these two, inevitably, at long last. This is for the lovely anon who dropped by and mentioned this one, despite it having been years since the last post. This is slightly trigger heavy, so sorry if the triggers contain spoilers, but people's mental health comes first so they can choose whether or not to engage with the content.

This is part of a series. You can find part one here.

pairing: Marcus Flint x Oliver Wood

premise: When Marcus wakes again in the endless white of St Mungo's, Oliver is still there, and his wand is still gone. Marcus thinks it's about debts owed, or at least, that's what he's trying to tell himself. Whatever other reasons might keep Oliver Wood at his bedside aren't remotely within a framework he's equipped to handle. [possible triggers: severe PTSD, hospitals, battle situations, Legilimency, implied invasion of the mind, implied intention not to survive]

When he wakes, one needle is back in his arm and Marcus’ first inclination is to be pissed off about it. Of course it is. Being angry is the best alternative, sublimation for all of the other emotions he should be feeling and isn’t. He doesn’t need any St Mungo’s trained therapist to tell him about that, mainly because it’s deliberate on his part.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. “I don’t want painkiller withdrawal on top of everything else. The dosage has to be sky-high for me not to be feeling anything.”

“So you’d rather have the searing amount of pain that makes you pass out within minutes instead? You’re right; being a masochist is a much better idea.”

He closes his eyes. “Why are you still here, again?”

“Waiting for you to take your head out of your arse, though it seems I’ll be in for a long wait.” The tart rejoinder in a lovely, rolling Scottish brogue that he instinctively wants to wrap himself in doesn’t help his temper. Neither does the fact that Oliver is still too earnest despite the familiar barb in the words, as though he thinks he owes Marcus something. The stubborn set to his jaw is familiar too, viewed more than once when facing him on a Quidditch pitch.

It makes Marcus want to push him away for his own safety, because don’t you know what I am? Instead, his gaze is sulky, as though he’s a teenager again in a way he hasn’t been in years, and it’s solely fixed on Oliver. “I don’t like you, and I don’t want you here,” he says, and if that’s not the biggest lie he’s told in the past couple of years, he’s not entirely sure what is.

Oliver shrugs. “That’s too bad, Flint, because I’m not going anywhere.” He’s wearing a poloneck jumper, just like he used to at school when it got to winter weekends out of uniform, and Marcus has the fleeting, horrifying thought that maybe it covers bruises or worse. A second thought just as horrifying resurfaces: he still doesn’t have his wand.

That thought makes him abruptly change the subject. “Alright, Wood, since you’re here, be a good boy and tell me why I don’t have my wand.” It’s not a question. He doesn’t phrase it as one. To punctuate it and make it clear he’s not asking, Marcus opts to verbally twist the knife for good measure. “You owe me. That’s why you’re here, right? To settle the debt. So start talking.” That’s not a question either, because why else Oliver might be there is more than he can possibly handle getting into.

Oliver’s (Wood’s, damn it) expression darkens momentarily, as though he’s about to pick a fight. Marcus wants him to, because at least that would be normal, but he sees it the moment that Oliver registers he’s in a hospital bed all over again, sees the way his gaze turns pained and then the shutters draw closed again so he’s at a loss for what the other is thinking. He doesn’t like it. Oliver was always an open book, no filter, no love lost on his side of the equation. He doesn’t know what this new thing is.

He clears his throat brusquely. “Well?”

Oliver sighs. “They’re concerned about your mental state as well. That’s why you don’t have your wand. They thought you might try something you’d regret.”

Fury is, of course, the quickest and most reliable reaction. “So they thought they’d improve things by taking away the only piece of autonomy I had available to me for months? That’s genius thinking, that is. Who do I need to see to recommend them for promotion?”

Oliver’s lips twitch briefly then, clearly catching the sarcasm, but at the same time seemingly unable to smile at it. That’s fine, because it’s not funny at all.

Marcus exhales a sharp sigh, one that’s less exasperated by this point than unimpressed. “I suppose they thought I’d curse the whole place down, eh?” This time, it is a question, and the smile that goes with it isn’t genuine, it’s mean and sharp-edged. It’s an echo of all the ugly things that have stained his hands and his mind, and it occurs to him that throughout that, Oliver has been the only good thing, a pure thing he’d constructed for himself, a secret he kept that was sometimes the only reason he didn’t give in altogether. Now that’s done and it’s back to reality.

To his consternation, Oliver shakes his head, as though he can sense what Marcus is thinking. “No one believes that after the battle. You threw yourself in the way of someone that would have been dead if you hadn’t, without knowing whether you’d survive.” The words seemed hard for Oliver to speak, as though it was like a demon lived in his throat for as long as they sat there. “They didn’t know if you were going to pull through, the first couple of days.”

An eye-roll is Marcus’ first response to that, and he averts his gaze from Oliver then. “That was sort of the bloody point, Wood.” The words fall heavily in the room between them, but this time it’s not out of malice, it’s from defeat, an admission that he should have kept to himself. The anger hasn’t emptied its well yet, but for the time being, it’s quiet, a savage thing made somnolent again by the fact that he can feel the needle in his arm start to pour more potion into him. Presumably, it’s going to knock him out eventually.

Oliver’s own exhale is shaken, as though Marcus has punched him square in the solar plexus and it hurts, badly. After all these months of silence, it’s as though the casually cruel words aiming to drive him away are doing more damage than even the war has managed to. “Flint, you can’t just…”

Marcus wants to sit up again but the potion, damn it, feels like it’s got him pinned in place. That makes him edgy, makes him feel the cold sweat of panic beginning to prick, and he absolutely will not have a panic attack of any kind in front of an audience. He swallows hard, and Oliver seems unable to finish the sentence. It hangs there between them, unfinished.

That’s the moment that the door creaks open and the healer walks in, oblivious to the conversation that had been happening beforehand. Oliver leans back in the chair beside Marcus’ bed.

Marcus’ lip curls just slightly. “Come to check I’m still breathing?” he asks snidely. “Sorry to disappoint. You can go now, your duty is done.”

The healer does no such thing. “I’d hoped you’d be asleep by now,” he says with a tsk tsk sound that reminds Marcus of the teachers from school whenever he didn’t do his homework correctly. It does nothing to endear the man to him at all. “Evidently we need to increase your dosage. You shouldn’t have ripped those needles out of your arm as soon as you did, but Mr Wood tells me you have a remarkably high tolerance for pain.”

That causes Marcus’ gaze to narrow in Oliver’s direction, and it’s as accusing as it gets.

Oliver, to his credit (the little of it that Marcus is currently willing to give) doesn’t look away. “I’ve been in the Hospital Wing with you multiple times,” is the reminder that unexpectedly arrives, softer than he’s ever deserved. “You never took your painkillers. You always cast Evanesco.”

On the one hand, Marcus’ glare only intensifies, because Oliver’s just ratted him out to the healer. On the other, what does it even mean that Oliver remembers; how there seems to be something dark and sad behind his gaze ever since a few minutes ago. It doesn’t correlate with his real life knowledge of Wood, only the fantasy version he constructed in his head to have a reason to go on, and Marcus is fully aware of how incredibly unhealthy that was and is.

It’s only the healer’s voice that interrupts their charged stare, clearly ready to go for another lecture. “Well, there will be no hiding painkillers here. What were you thinking, taking those out? Did you just not realise the degree of damage you took?” It isn’t an indignant pair of questions, instead asked with the tone of someone who wants to understand the subject they are studying. It presses all of the wrong buttons for Marcus, and he endures it in silence until he can’t.

This is the moment he snaps. But it isn’t like every other time he’s lost his temper. No, this is different; his voice is surprisingly quiet and unsteady when he speaks. “Why does everyone want to know what I’m thinking suddenly? I’ve just spent the last two years having my mind pulled apart at a moment’s notice. All that I want is for everyone to stop trying to get into my head because I don’t want anyone in there ever again. Got it? It’s none of your business what I’m thinking.”

Dimly, he registers that Oliver has gone pale as he starts to understand what Marcus means. The healer looks appalled, because evidently, this was something undetectable while he was unconscious, and he’s beyond lashing out, because this has hit places he doesn’t want to go.

“Get out.” The words are quieter still, and there’s a flat, dulled down, deadly note to them.

Even half-conscious on a bed, drugged by the potion, it leaves to question what Marcus is capable of, the one thing no one has dared to think about so far. It’s a weak threat, but his voice carries all of it, like it’s every atom of a star at the moment of destruction.

The healer leaves. Oliver doesn’t, because Oliver hasn’t learned to be afraid of him, even though he should have.

When Marcus looks at him again, he thinks that he sees Oliver flinch, just a little around the eyes, and he knows he’s going to say something unforgivable if he isn’t left alone. “I meant you as well.” The words are empty. You need to go before I do any more things that I regret, and I can’t live with any more.

Oliver doesn’t listen. Instead, he does something that Marcus can handle even less. He climbs onto the bed and rests there next to him, close enough for Marcus to feel him breathe. “You’re really not a good listener, Flint. I already told you. I’m not leaving.”

Marcus’ hands suddenly feel too heavy, utterly ineffectual when he tries to raise them to push Wood right off the bed. Land on his arse. That’ll show him. Instead, his head starts to nod forward, and Oliver, the scheming bastard, must have known that the potion would take effect soon, had kept him talking until he had no choice but to go back to sleep again.

He’s so angry. He’s exhausted. He’s repeating the same cycle, inescapable, stuck on a loop of his own making. There’s wool against his face, something warm against his back. Oliver’s voice is there, he can feel it rumble in his chest, but the words don’t even register. It’s a warm sound, like copper and firelight, and it’s the last thing in his dwindling awareness before the world is lost altogether.

The frightening part is that he’s starting to want to wake up again.

That wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

#the devil in me #ol writes things #flintwood #flintwoodnet #marcus flint #oliver wood #marcus x oliver

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years ago

Text

HASO “The Verdict.”

Put a lot of work into this, and now its approaching a close. I hope you all enjoy.

Again thank discord member Eddi for writing the experimental logs and coming up with the scientists names. I hope you especially enjoy what I have done with your work. I really appreciate it, and was super excited to collaborate on a work.

WARNING: Not really any violence in this one, but it does mention drugs, and suicide, so viewer discretion is advised.

“Are you alright?”

Adam barely heard the question eyes wide and watching as the lights glowed down from overhead inside the sterile, white marbled courtroom.

“Adam?’

He blinked and looked up, turning his head to stare at Admiral Kelly who sat at his side, a hand resting on his shoulder, “Did you hear me?”

“Sorry,, I’m fine.’

She went quiet, eyes narrowed in concern clearly not entirely believing him when he said he was alright, but having no proof otherwise. He had to take a moment to think about it himself, and determined that….. He did feel fine. In fact, he felt better than he had earlier. His palms were no longer sweating and his breathing was coming in a normal, even rhythm.

He was alright, he was going to be ok.

“The prosecution calls Dr. Wilkenson to the stand.”

Adam lifted his head in surprise, eyes narrowing as the slim man took to his feet, nervously adjusting his tie and his glasses in turn before making his way to the witness stand. This was one of the men who had helped to design the steel eye project.

“Dr Wilkenson, do you mind reading for us, the words that you wrote regarding the Steel Eye project.”

The man was handed a piece of paper, and he nodded it, taking it into his hands before clearing his throat.

Experimental log #1

I am shocked at the extent to which my ‘colleagues’ are willing to go for greater heights of recognition and achieving their goals. I am attempting to either reduce the pain subjects feel or in some way reduce the reliance on addictive painkillers. I fear however this will all avail naught. The pain induced by the interface itself means that one would have to redesign the entire system. To keep my superiors happy I will also be conducting movement tests.

-Recording break-

The tests went as well as expected, The soldiers who have volunteered are unresponsive and lethargic when they are wearing the full suit, this is likely to the immense amount of suppressive painkillers they are on. A mixture of fentanyl and Carfentanil, A mixture I would expect to find in painkillers for a horse or even small elephant. I am advising the introduction of a stimulant. However I am also voicing concerns over such a thing as the level of stimulants needed would be far higher than is safe.

“You seem to have had some doubts about the Steel eye project, Doctor.”

The man nodded, fidgeting with his glasses again, “I did…. Due to ethical concerns. I felt that the testnng was moving to quickly, and I also felt that the introduction of such potent medications would also be an ethical violation. As I worded in my original log, I felt that the dosages required to keep someone functional while wearing the Steel eye suit were well beyond reasonable.”

The lawyer shifted slightly on their feet, “Tell me doctor, why -- after you quite-- did you not bring these ethical violations forward to the proper authorities?”

The doctor shifted nervously, “I would have liked to, counselor, but -- before entering the project-- i signed a top secret nondisclosure agreement that stated: were I to introduct this information to any outside source, that I would be jailed for the rest of my life….” he looked down at his feet, “Obviously, now I regret deeply not having the courage to come forward and say something sooner.

Audio visual log transcript.

The researcher, confirmed to be Dr.Wilkinson approaches the test subject, attempting to wake them in various gentle manners before finally slapping them with an open palm. Once awoken and adjustments to the drug intake are made by Dr. Wilkinson which resulted in protests from the subject. The subject is encouraged to run laps on a large track which is timed by Dr. Wilkinson. After Which the doctor assists the subject out of the suit and hands him over to a medical worker who seems to have been held on standby.

The lawyer cleared her throat, reading.

Observers note:

It is to be mentioned to the Commission that Dr Wilkinson was sworn to secrecy and required to sign the statute of secrets until such a time the information was brought to light in any manner other than his own actions. Additionally Dr Wilkinson took part in the development of the Iron Eye project and was a vocal proponent of non-human test subjects and ensuring the users were as safe and stable as possible.

“We are not on trial here today for the actions of Dr. Wilkenson who has agreed to testify for the prosecution in exchange for immunity against legal action. We are, however, here to discuss the actions of those scientists who continued on with the steel eye project long after it became clear that there were ethical concerns, and that those ethical concerns were being routinely and blatantly violated.”

The prosecution shifted again, hands gripping the lectern, “The prosecution would like to present experimental log 3 for evidence.”

Experimental log #3

After reviewing James’s experimental logs and the currently used painkillers and suppressants the current stimulants suggested caffeine and amphetamine. It has been decided that the stimulants lack a level of strength to provide combat effective units. Thus the upcoming experiment will be focused on achieving the right cocktail of drugs to provide optimum combat functionality. The tested stimulants will be mixtures I have personally developed and calculated. As well as commercially available and recommended mixtures that James developed.

-Recording break-

As expected the mixtures that James developed did not aid in any manner and testing with those ceased after the first failure. The recommended mixtures are only marginally better. I have discovered however, to no shock, that my own mixtures are highly functional. Proceeding forwards, We will be making use of mixture 22c.

Audiovisual log transcript:

Several volunteers stood in a line in prototype Steel-eye suits, each seeming to be asleep. The researcher stops by each of them to place a second vial of chemicals in the drug port. The first subject seems not to react beyond several flickerings of the eyes and a pained moan. In response to this the researcher dumps several un-tested vials in to a large plastic bucket with ‘Failed’ on it in sharpie. The next few subjects react somewhat more, becoming semi verbal and looking round, however they are still lethargic an slow. Only responding in half words or gestures. The researcher dumps several more untested vials in to the ‘Failed’ bucket. The final few volunteers however become far more alert and aggressive, moving round, pushing each other and joking. The researcher struggles to persuade them out of the suits and is eventually forced to deactivate the suits by removing the power supply cables.

Observers note:

Mixture 22c appears to be a mixture of methamphetamines and cocaine. There also appears to be an addition of Dimethyl sulfoxide which increases the absorption rate of the drugs but also removes the requirement for precision with the needle insertion allowing for a larger needle to be used to increase drug delivery dosage.

The court room was silent, silent as the lawyer turned to look at the assembled audience and then back at the judges, “Methamphetamine…. And cocaine, two drugs known to be ‘highly’ addictive and grossly unethical. Drug experimentation on humans is strictly controlled by the EDA and that is ONLY involving the clinical use of newly discovered drugs. At this point it should be more than clear that the use of illicit drugs on unknowing test subjects in a developmental environment goes beyond gross negligence and into malicious tampering. Dr. Ayishat Abara has demonstrated great contempt for Dr. Wilkinsons moderate methods and gone on to produce a cocktail of drugs that is rarely found outside of crackhouses and meth labs.

With a solemn expression, the lawyer turned to look at the rest of the crowd, “This is not even considering the long term effects and the psychological damage caused to the victims of Steel eye…. Which led many men and women to take their own lives. Experimental log 18 being the prosecution's next piece of evidence.”

Experiment log #18

After extensive physical testing and further refining of the stimulant delivery system and mixtures of the stimulant and painkillers I have decided that it is suitable to move on to combat testing. The upcoming test will be a simple firearms test, I have requisitioned a modified 30mm rapid fire weapon that I feel will be suitable for use with the Steel Eye suit. This will be a live fire test. I have no intent on taking baby steps when such a project is due to draw such renown.

-Recording break-

The subject was more than capable of using the weapon. Though seemed to lack the force of will to maintain its use for long. To combat this I will be including small amounts of ritalin as well as increasing the stimulant dosage. This should counteract the negative reactions exhibited by the test subject.

Audiovisual log transcript:

The subject is active and moving around the test area. Different to all the prior times, however the subject also seems to be on edge or hyper aware of something. The researcher wheels in a large caliber short barreled automatic cannon Attaching it to the Steel eye suits arm and instructing the soldier on how to use it. After a few moments of instruction the subject seems comfortable and begins firing down rage at several targets, Displaying uncanny reaction speed and almost superhuman reflexes. This continued for several minutes, The subject however seems to grow more and more despondent and unresponsive as the tests go on. The researcher leaves the area for a short while seemingly to get more stimulants or ammunition. During the break the soldier places the short barreled against their own temple and discharges the weapon. This subject is registered as the test subject for the past 11 experiments.

The entire room flinched and gasped. Adam felt his stomach churn again, but less to do with fear this time and more to do with pure disgust and horror. He looked away again as the recording shut off and the lawyer stood before the room for a long moment allowing the footage to sink into the minds of those in the courtroom, “This test subject, this man, Dakota McCallister was on his 11th time as a test subject when this footage was taken. After reviewing all of the testing logs with Dr. Gladstone, we have found no evidence that the subjects were monitored for mental health concerns. Additionally none of them were even screened before testing began. None of the men and women involved in the Steel eye project were ever referred for mental health testing before, during or after the experimentation was complete.”

Experimental log #23

I have discovered the most efficient way to motivate the subjects is to offer further testing time within the suit and increased dosages of the drugs used to suppress the side effects of wearing the suit. This has prevented further unwarranted self removal from the project as occurred in experiment eighteen. The upcoming test is the first live combat test. I have taken one of the subjects and isolated them for a few days, preventing use of the suit. They will be permitted to use the suit and instructed that if they wish to continue using it they will attack a target of my choosing.

-Recording Break-

The experiment went far better than expected. The subject did not question the instructions given nor did they seem to show any lack of remorse for their actions. Short of a few further tests to ensure subjects can work together. Further testing is unwarranted.

Audiovisual log transcript:

Within the test arena there is a single individual they appear to be a military volunteer. Missing a limb. Quite possibly a earlier subject from the Steel Eye testing. The subject is nervous and clearly unstable. The researcher enters, alongside the Steel eye testing unit. The subject of the steel eye seems to be hyper alert and jittery. The individual spots the Steel eye suit and panics, attempting to move away from it. The researcher indicates the individual to the subject and the subject charges the individual, striking them with the backhand of the suit. The individual is thrown across the testing area to impact against the far wall. The landing angle indicates not only a broken neck but several other lethal injuries, including a crushed skull. The researcher, seemingly satisfied provides the subject with a vial of some kind, And leaves the testing area.

“Researchers and test subjects alike died during the experimentation, and yet the scientists did not stop.” She looks down at her notes, “The experiment went far better than expected? What is that even supposed to mean, you expected more people to die? YOu expected the test subject to be more unstable. Furthermore, the use of the suit and the drugs as a reward for the already unstable test subjects is a simple demonstration of how poorly this experiment was run and overseen. These ethical violations should never have begun much less allowed to continue.”

Discussion synopsis regarding further system problems.

The researchers confirm that all systems are working to their optimum capabilities given the research time and that they have done everything in their power to keep the subjects safe and healthy throughout the testing process and that no undue risk were taken. Dr Abara indicates disdain for Dr Wilkinson’s methods and suggests he be court marshalled for his attempted ‘sabotage’ of the project. This is dismissed by Admiral Ableman. Problems are mentioned regarding power sources and suggestions are raised including back pack mounted power units. This is eventually solved with Dr Nkosi suggests making use of injured soldiers and using the space where their limb would be to mount power packs. The next issue raised is the fact that the Steel Eye suit puts too much stress on soldiers in active combat scenarios as mentioned by Dr Abara stating that ‘subjects fell apart too fast.’ Again Dr Nkosi provides a solution by suggesting the use of augmetics. Dr Stein at this point provides a interface solution using the prosthetics. With all problems solved All relevant papers are handed over to the Admiral and Colonel for the production and shipping out of the combat capable Steel Eye suits.

The lawyer stood quietly before them, hands clasped at her front, “Experimental testing lasted less than a decade. The pain of the interface was never fixed, and yet they sold it off to desperate UNSC officials in order to win the Drev war. Fifty men and women were subjected to implantation. Thirty of those are dead ten of those are permanently psychologically damaged. Five are still in treatment while five more are the only ones who manage to be functional and hold jobs. However,” She motioned towards Adam, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “We also see that -- even then, they are not exempt from psychological dysfunction, though they were never compensated.” She shuffled her papers, “The prosecution has no further comments at this time.” She turned and went back to her seat, pausing to sit and speak quietly with her partner for a moment as the judges deliberated.

Amidral Kelly learned over, “If that was no reasonable doubt, then I don’t know what is.”

Adam nodded, he was feeling pretty good about this all things told.”

Off on the other side of the room, the defence took to their feet. It seemed mostly as if their strategy was not getting their clients out of trouble but simply mitigating the punishments related to the crimes they HAD committed. He heard a lot of tripe and waffling about supposed loopholes in the system and about how they had WON the Drev war after all. There was even a couple arguments about how everyone there had signed an agreement to participate so it actually wasn’t all that bad.

The entire thing seemed as if it was going to be tied up in a neat little bag for them .

That was until.

“The defence would like to call Admiral Vir to the witness stand.”

He froze in palace eyes wide and looked around in confusion. Of course this was perfectly legal and in their rights for them to do this, but he had no idea what they are going to ask. He stood slowly and made his way towards the witness stand staring at the defence as he took an uncomfortable seat on the wooden witness chair.

“ Admiral Vir, How old are you/”

He had to admit that he didn’t expect that question and paused for an unbelievable amount of time before answering, “Twenty six.”

“So young for an admiral.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

The prosecution stood, “Objection your honor, this information is irrelevant.”

“We will allow it.” The prosecution sat.

“And you are not currently taking any medications for your PTSD.”

“No, but I do have a service dog.”

“And do you receive metal evaluations often, as an admiral.”

He shifted in his seat not sure where this was going, and not liking it one bit, “Yes.”

“So you might say that it is safe to assume that the UNSC considers you mentally sound enough to command an entire armada of ships at the age of 26.”

“I…. yes.”

“Admiral, do you have any phobias.”

He swallowed hard unable to tell at all where this was going on, “No, councilor, I don’t.”

“Do you know anyone who does?”

“Yes, I have a friend who has claustrophobia.”

“And how does that person react in enclosed spaces.”

“They panic.”

“Do they actively seek out enclosed spaces, or do they avoid them?”

Adam shrugged, “They avoid them of course. They don’t even like elevators”

“Right, so it would be safe to say that if someone has trauma or panic related to a certain event or object, they would be likely to avoid that object or thing or association with that object at all costs.”

His hands had begun sweating again. A line of it trickled down the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades, “I would assume so.”

“Admiral Vir, would you please show the court your prosthetic leg.”

His hearing completely cut out and all there was was a loud ringing. He saw one of the defence object but then watched as the judges deny that defence.

He was ordered to stand out in front of the court.

His hearing came back slowly as, shaking hands pulled up his right pant leg.

“Admiral Vir, would you mind removing the prosthetic for us.”

He felt heat rising to the back of his neck and up onto his face. The defence argued for him, but it was no use. The Bailiff brought him a chair, and he nervously, and self consciously unstrapped the prosthetic with a soft snick, quickly moving to cover the injury. He felt about ten times smaller as he handed the prosthetic over to the Bailiff, paraded in front of the courtroom like some kind of freak show.

He tried not to think about it, keeping his chin high eyes staring straight forward.

“Please show the judges the serial number on the thigh.”

The Bailiff did as requested.

“Can you ready that out for us your honor, please.”

“SE490000.”

“Dr. Gladstone can you please examine this prosthetic and tell me what you see.”

Adam was held on standby as the doctor moved forward uncomfortably to examine the leg which the bailiff was holding, “It…. is a modified bioprosthetic with Drev Chitin, I don’t…”

“And who would you say was the manufacturer?”

The man paused before his eyes widened slowly, “This…. This is-” he looked up, “This is a steel eye prosthetic.”

There was silence in the courtroom.

“Thank you Dr. Gladstone.” The defence motioned the Bailiff to return the leg to Adam, who strapped it on with still-shaking hands.

“ Admiral Vir, the defence requests that you remove your uniform jacket. If you would be more comfortable that can be done in privacy of course.”

Adam stared at them in confusion. The prosecution stood to argue again, but again were denied.

“Would you like to step into the back room admiral?”

Running on autopilot he shook his head probably having preferred some privacy but being far too confused to actually request it.

He stood and slowly unbuttoned the front of his uniform jacket, staring with the high neck collar and then down either side.

He handed the jacket the the Bailiff, who held it form him.

He stood now in only a white undershirt.

“Admiral please turn around and hold your arms out to the side.”

He did as told.

The room muttered softly.

“Dr. Wilkenson, do you recognize those.”

From behind him, adam heard the weak response, “Those are iron eye interface ports.”

“Thank you admiral, you may put your jacket back on.”

He did as ordered feeling his neck and face turn hot red as he took his seat back on the stand.”

“Admiral, if steel eye had such a negative effect on you, then why would you be wearing a steel eye prosthetic and iron eye interface ports. Wouldn’t those exacerbate your condition.”

He opened and closed his mouth.

The prosecution stood, “Objection your honor, Admiral Vir is not the one on trial here, and this is humiliation.”

“Sit down, council.” The defence was looking rather smug, “presenting to the court footage from the Burg war on the Gromm homeworld.”

Adam’s head was filled with the sound of screaming and gunshots. The camera he was watching through was shaky and jostled this wa and that as the figure ran. Up ahead a massive bubble of force dominates the skyline and hundreds of borg ships swarmed around its top like an eruption of bees.

Drev and other marines ran up and beside, and just ahead of that.

He saw a familiar figure.

He saw himself.

Running at the front of the group. Even over the sound of the screaming and the gunfire he could hear the repetitive hydraulic hiss and whirring of the servo motors as the steel eye suit spurred him to impossible speeds. The Steel eye prosthetic hissed the loudest as he was propelled over the ground.

His heart began to beat faster and faster inside his chest, lines of sweat poured down his back and the halo of lights overhead was growing as if to encompass his vision. He felt sick and dizzy all at once, feeling as if he was tiling sideways and going to fall over. He watched as the image of him ran headfirst into a burg, grabbed it by its slimy centipede limbs…. And ripped it apart. His vision blurred and his ears were ringing.

Muffled gasps filled the court.

He gripped the sides of his chair willing himself to stay in reality, to not pass out or be sucked into some horrific sort of flashback.

He wanted to throw up.

The ringing in his ears only stopped a few minutes later with the Bailiff gently shaking his shoulder.

“Admiral.”

He sat up straighter, his hearing still muffled, but at least he could see.

“Admiral, why did you put on the suit again if it had such damaging effects on you the first time.” “I…. It… i... “ He continued to stammer for a moment before stopping and taking a deep breath, “I thought it was the only way. I put on the suit because I thought if I didn’t than I was forfeiting earth to the Burg, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.” “And how would you describe wearing the suit.”

His heart was thundering in his ears. He felt like he was going to fall over, to be sick. Phantom shots of pain ran up and down his spine. He was shaking so badly he wondered if the entire courtroom could see it, “Indescribable pain….”

“But you didn’t tear it off.”

Soft, “No.”

“So, despite the alleged trauma that the Steel eye project caused you, you wear a steel eye prosthetic, iron eye interfaces, and you have even put on the steeleye suit a second time…. Based on those actions, it hardly seems like the behavior of someone who has received laying trauma from the Steel eye project. Could it be, that your PTSD stems from the war itself and not from the Steel eye project.”

His mouth opened and then closed. His ears were still ringing, and it was hard to think around.

No matter how hard he tried he couldn't seem to put two thoughts together. Even his internal monologue had gone silent.

“Admiral, please answer the question.”

That was when another side of him reared its head. Where the soft squishy 26 year old manchild could not answer the question, there was someone else there t pick up his pieces.”

The admiral, and the Veterin, and the Drev Sentinel,and the warrior stepped into his palace.

His hearing cleared very suddenly and he sat up turning his gaze on the defence.

The targeting system in his prosthetic eye snapped into focus placing the radicals just over the lawyers face.’

“Council, I can see that you are attempting to undermine my claim of PTSD related to the steel eye project to mitigate the lasting effects of the trauma on my person. Based on your argument, I would never have put on the prosthetic or the suit had it caused as much harm to me as I claim. I will have you know, however, that the leg was a gift from a Drev soldier following the war as a gesture of peace taken, discarded from the battlefield and modified. That leg later went on to save my life as it adopted me into the Drev clan. It is an everyday reminder of the war, and the things I lost. It took me months to be able to wear it for what it was -- as a gift-- rather than a reminder of the war. As for the Burg war, I have made mistakes in my time and that was one of them. THe Steel eye suit is a drug, and no matter how much one hates it you always want to come back. That feeling of power, being ten times stronger than you should be, it's like being a god, It is everything you hate and love all in one, and yes I was in ‘debilitating pain’ but i kept going because I thought at that time it was the only way to save the universe.’ He leaned forward in his seat, “So the next time I am lying in the dark prone in the fetal position because one of the pipes on my ship accidentally made a hissing noise, I will take a moment to think about whether it was te steeleye project or the war.”

His voice did not quiver or break, and instead of feeling small, he could imagine the defence shrinking slightly at his words, whose volume had never raised.

“You may take your seat admiral.”

He did as told again straight backed and unmoved by the eyes that stared at him.

Admiral Kelly was staring at him as he took his seat, but he didn’t acknowledge her.

Thedefence brought forward a few more points crosse examining Dr. Wilkenson before the prosecution stepped forward again.

“The prosecution would now like to call expert witness Dr. Lemar Dedtric to the stand.”

There was some shuffling for a few moments as another man stood from he crowd and walked forward taking his seat and sworn to truth before the eyes of the court.

“Dr. Dedric, tell us a little of your credentials here today.”

The man nodded, “For the past twenty years, I have headed the leading psychiatric foundation at the University of Northern Mericanda. I have practiced psychiatry for those same twenty years, published over 100 papers and founded more than twenty psychological foundations for veterans. At the university level I focus primarily on Post Traumatic Stress as related to combat with a secondary focus on the psychological effects of biotechnology implantation.” “And you also reviewed this case like Dr. Gladstone?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And do you believe that there were any psychological effects related to the use of the Steel eye suits on these men and women?”

He nodded, “Most certainly. I think the admiral explained it most clearly when he described the steel eye suit as a drug. As we know, Upgrade addiction was recently added to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental illness last march. Studies that led to the institution of this particular illness found that subjects who were exposed to extreme bio interfacing where more likely to continue adding interfaces as time went on. When asked the subjects reported that their desire to augment came from the feeling of power the interface gave them. The steel eye subjects, based on the notes presented in court indicate a proclivity to going back to the project or something similar despite degrading mental health.”

“The prosecution would like to present video testimony from a few of the remaining steel eye operatives.”

With these testimonies, the case lasted well into the day, and far into the night before court was adjourned and reschedule fo the following day. He slept as if in a haze nad returned early to listen to the rest of the cross examination He was called up multiple times for both sides, but never cracked once during that time. It was as if he was watching himself from the outside.

The defence never called up their own people to the stand, and were likely not going to call them up at all.

That was fine by him.

And then finally, mercifully the judges stepped off into the deliberation chambers staying there for a good half of the day before everyone was called back.

“After much deliberation the Geneva court has come to a verdict….. A verdict. A verdict of guilt on all charges which includes the maximum sentence of life in the Turma maximum security prison facility on multiple counts of Torture, mltiple counts of manslaughter, and multiple counts of gross ethical violation, Court Dismissed.”

Adam sighed sinking back in his seat to stare up at the ceiling.

What a long day this had been.

But at least now it was over

233 notes · View notes

nala-kenmore · 4 years ago

Conversation

Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Cold

Nala:

By the time I arrive at the party, my head is killing me! I’m not sure if it’s the noise of the crowds and the loud music, but I feel like I’m going to struggle to make it another five minutes here, never mind however long it is until Michael makes some sort of big announcement! But I think it involves his present to me, so I have to be here for it! Stressed and unsure what to do, I block my mind to him for now, and instead summon my other brothers for support. Tiberius had already sent Marcellus off to get his nails cleaned up (and not threaten Quicksilver/get arrested again), so the other three arrive first. By the time they do, I’m almost in tears, both from the pain, and the stress of letting Michael down on his big day.

(Caelus): “Are you ok, Nala? Do you want some painkillers?”

I tell Caelus no with my mind, since I’ve already had the maximum amount you’re supposed to take in one day, and they haven’t helped at all!

(Tiberius): “Perhaps it would be wise to go to the infirmary. You really do not look well, sister…”

I can’t tell if he’s really that concerned, or whether he just wants an excuse to leave.

“I don’t want to worry Michael! This is supposed to be his most important celebration of the year, and he seemed really excited about the announcement! I can’t ruin this!”

Hypnos is oddly quiet, giving no suggestions. However, I sense his mind is full of panic, and the sadness and guilt that always seems to be there now is stronger than ever. I try to reassure both him and myself.

“It’s probably just stress from the past couple of days. If I can just calm down a little, then I’m sure-“

(Caelus): “Nala, you’re bleeding…”

As he says it, I feel liquid under my nose and automatically reach up with my hand to wipe it away. As I look down to my fingers, I see deep red.

All of a sudden, I know what I’m supposed to do. Without a shadow of a doubt, I know where I’m supposed to go. Or rather, to whom.

“I need to see Michael.” I state to the others. I begin to walk towards him, but get stopped by Tiberius.

(Tiberius): “Nala, do not be ridiculous. Let us take you directly to the infirmary, and we can summon him-“

(Hypnos): “Leave her be, Tiberius. We can go and fetch a medical hybrid from the main hive, while Nala goes to find Michael. I’m sure he’s who she really wants to see right now…”

I nod along to his words, and have to fight the temptation to just yank Tiberius’ arm away and start walking. I’m supposed to go and see Michael right now, I’m sure of it!

(Caelus): “I’ll take her to him. I promised I’d look out for her. I can’t leave her alone while she’s sick.”

Hypnos opens his mouth to argue, but hesitates. He glances around at the crowd, that is slowly starting to notice what is happening, before looking down sadly.

(Hypnos): “…Very well, Caelus. Tiberius, let us go.”

He pulls me in for a brief but tight hug, and then gives one to Caelus. I can’t return it since I’m too on edge to go and see Michael, like I know I’m supposed to do!

Tiberius looks shocked at the situation. I sense some sort of mental conversation between him and Hypnos, but I’m in too much pain and too distracted by my new compulsion to bother trying to overhear the details. In the end, Tiberius also stiffly reaches over to hug me and Caelus, before allowing Hypnos to lead him away.

(Hypnos): ((Nala… little sister… I am so sorry... I never thought that it would come to this, truly I didn’t…))

His words barely register with me, since now Caelus is tugging me along to where we can sense Michael is standing. I’m lucky that Caelus stayed, I’m more than a little unsteady on my feet, and have to clutch onto his arm so I don’t fall over. It’s slow going at first, between my unsteadiness and with how busy the party is. However, the crowd parts before us as more and more people begin to stare. I’m not sure whether anyone else says anything to me, my entire focus is on getting to where I need to be. Blood is still pouring from my nose, and Caelus picks up a paper napkin on the way over to try and stem the bleeding. However, by the time we get close to Michael, it’s been soaked through, and I can also feel liquid dripping down from my ears.

“Michael!” I call over to him to get his attention, and as soon as I have it, I know what words I have to say. Words put into my head a long time ago, along with the mental commands. “I have a message for you… from Tiberius…”

From then on, my lips form the words, but I speak in a trance, and it is Tiberius’ voice… the real Tiberius… that projects from my head to all the minds in the crowd.

“/((Hello, abomination. I suppose you believe that you won a great victory, in recovering our sister… But did you really think I would allow you to take her back, when what you took from me can never be returned? Do you remember that day, ‘brother’? The day that you tortured Queen Vipsania for hours, and forced me to chop off her head. Afterwards, I did not wish for revenge, I begged you only for death. But you refused me even that. I promised you I would make you suffer for that decision.))/”

I can’t process the words as I say them, I can’t really think at all. My hearing fades, and Caelus has to fully support me, to stop me from keeling over. I feel blood start to pour out from my eyes.

“/((That’s why I took Nala, so that you would know the pain of losing a child. And if you were ever to find her, I had Hypnos come up with a countermeasure. A drug that would work as a cure to the memory loss, but also induce another effect. It causes an accumulation of toxins inside the blood vessels of the brain- indetectable by scans and with no symptoms to the host, until it is too late. After two weeks, the toxins reach critical mass, and cause extensive haemorrhaging. I thought that was just enough time for you to start getting complacent… but not enough for you to turn her into too much of a freak again.))/”

My sense of vision and touch fade, all that’s left is the need to finish obeying the mental commands.

“/((I’m sure you’re upset, Michael, but take comfort in the fact that I showed you mercy. These two weeks have been my gift to you, your own little ‘family reunion’, in return for the one you gave to me. And I shall take comfort in the idea that, no matter what has happened to me- whether you killed me or made me into one of your freaks- I know you get to watch her bleed. I hope you enjoyed your reunion, Michael, but I’m afraid your time is up. ))/”

For those last few seconds, I know that I’m dying. I try to reach out to the people I care about- Michael, my brothers, Quicksilver- to share my final thoughts. But my mind is too badly damaged, and then it is gone.

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gumnut-logic · 4 years ago

Text

The Tattoo (Part one)

Okay, this one is purely @vegetacide ‘s fault. She suggested a plotline. I volunteered to write it.

And because it involves both of us, it is Virgil!whump :D Though admittedly the Virgil!whump is only a plot device to lead to the main part of the story, but somehow I managed to write 1880 words of it anyway.

Warnings: Language warning for the first line. Virg was under some strain at that moment. Non-graphic whump.

Many thanks to @vegetacide @scribbles97 and @i-am-chidorixblossom for readthroughs and various cheerleading :D ::hugs you lots::

I hope you enjoy it.

-o-o-o-

“Fuck!”

Virgil closed his eyes and tried not to puke.

Even without sight, he could sense the hangar spinning around him. He had to swallow repeatedly as his left arm and shoulder, tangled above him, screamed.

His head spun in the opposite direction to the hangar and he had to swallow again.

But he had to open his eyes.

Had to.

So, he did.

The rock walls spun slowly past him. So familiar, just not from this angle.

Ow.

Shit.

The air was cool over the heat in his skin. He looked down. It was a mistake and he had to force his stomach under control again as the concrete floor and his toolkit, so far below, danced in and out of focus.

It was his safety line that had saved him from joining his tools.

He let out a painfilled breath.

It was a bat. A damned bat that must have found Two’s tail plane a convenient place to roost overnight, but had objected to Virgil’s intrusion. It had flown at him in a panic. He hadn’t expected it, had reacted badly, took a misstep, and over he went.

The world still lazily rotated past.

Carefully, he looked up at his arm, almost afraid to see what he would find. He could guess by the amount of pain he was in, but confirmation was going to suck.

Backlit by the overhead light shaft and the red of Two’s rear thrusters, the safety line was looped around his wrist, cutting the circulation off to his hand. Every joint in the limb all the way down to his shoulder was screaming.

Because it wasn’t the carbine at his waist that had taken his sudden wrenching halt mid-air, it was his arm.

He let out a groan. There was no doubt that he had likely dislocated his shoulder again. The pain was far too familiar for it to be anything else.

He let another moment pass before gathering himself. He couldn’t stay here. The thought of his brothers finding him like this was embarrassing. Gordon was never going to let it go.

So bats weren’t one of his favourite animals. Sure, they could be considered cute, in a snarly kind of way, but Virgil had never liked their smell or their ability to scare the living crap out of him.

Just like this.

Gordon was going to laugh his ass off.

Falling off his own Thunderbird because of a stupid bat.

The world continued its lazy spin.

He forced himself to focus. He could retract the safety line. This would pull him back up to Two and he should be able to clamber onto her fuselage and make it back to her overhead hatch.

But first he had to untangle his arm.

This was going to hurt.

He wasn’t wearing his uniform, something he was regretting right now. If he had, the tough material would have protected his arm much better than the flannel caught in his maintenance harness. His uniform had extra padding for a reason.

So, preferring his more comfortable casual clothes had earned him this. Not only was it a stupid accident, but at least a partly preventable one.

He swore through his teeth.

All his own damned fault.

Scott would have his hide, and Dad… shit , Dad.

His life may not be worth living.

He eyed the line above his caught arm. His wrist was wrapped in a simple loop. All he had to do was take some of his weight off the line so the loop could be widened and his hand could slip through.

His throbbing hand, attached to his dislocated arm that was pure agony to move.

He bit his lip.

He’d had worse.

He could do this.

He could.

He drew in a deep breath.

It hissed between his teeth.

Focus.

He grabbed the line he could reach with his right hand, and using every abdominal muscle he had, he flipped his body upside down, tangling his feet in the rope to take his weight.

The spinning rock walls echoed back his cry.

He hung there, boots looped in the line and willed everything to stop screaming. He ran his brothers’ locations through his head like a mantra of reassurance that they hadn’t heard him.

Scott was with Dad in his office. Alan was with John on Five. Gordon…Gordon was probably in the pool…though he did have that video conference this afternoon. Maybe he was in his office preparing?

Who was he kidding?

Kayo was in England with Penelope.

Brains was in his lab.

Grandma…

Grandma was gardening. Gardening.

His breath was harsh in his ears.

Get his wrist out of the loop, get back aboard his ‘bird…and work out what the hell he was going to do from there.

The loop came off deceptively easily and he was able to use his right arm to gently fold his left against his chest and secure it with his shirt.

The paramedic in him that wasn’t strangled by pain eyed the wrist under his controller with trepidation. He’d done a proper job of it. There wouldn’t be any piano for a few weeks.

If he had been wearing his uniform, his reinforced glove would have taken most of the punishment.

He groaned as he fumbled with his shirt buttons, trying to keep his limp arm still as gravity toyed with it.

The moment he had it secured, he lowered himself slowly and flipped back the right way up, letting the carbine do the job it was designed for and take his weight.

A shaky sigh and he hit the retrieval button.

The safety line retracted and drew him up to his ‘bird, her cool, green fuselage calming against his forehead.

God.

It took some struggle and not a little bit of pain to clamber back onto Two. Once he made it, he took a minute or ten and just lay there panting and squeezing the moisture from his eyes.

This wasn’t his first shoulder dislocation. Working as he did, there had been several prior incidents. It was one of the reasons he carried the exosuit with him wherever he went. It protected him.

Just like his uniform.

God, he was a moron.

He deserved to get his ass kicked.

But first he needed to assess the damage and work out whether he could get away with it or have to serve himself up for the lecture of the century, likely in triplicate.

He pushed himself up off her green hull and got his feet under him. The world managed to stay steady and his arm settled into the Bonaparte temporary sling. He tugged the safety line along its rail the length of his ‘bird and clambered up over the body of her cockpit until he reached the overhead hatch. It was with some relief he slid his feet onto the elevated platform and was able to finally disengage the blessed safety line.

He staggered a little as he was lowered into familiar surroundings, but he stabilised himself, made it to one of the overhead lockers and dragged out a handheld scanner.

A flicker of yellow light and he found out exactly what he had done to himself.

Definitely dislocated, that wasn’t really news, but his wrist and elbow…

His elbow was strained, but intact. His wrist, however, was already swelling echoing both the extensive bruising and the fracture.

Damn.

All for a stupid accident.

He stared at the wall and focussed on his breathing. He wouldn’t be able to hide this.

His working shoulder dropped and his injured one tried to do the same.

Ow.

There wasn’t enough profanity in his vocabulary.

And there was no choice. He was going to have to face the music.

Scott was with Dad.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe he could wait. Wait until Scott was alone, corner his brother and beg him to keep the specifics of how he had injured himself confidential. Keep it from the younger two at least and maybe even Dad.

Virgil knew how stupid he had been, he didn’t need to be reminded for the rest of his life.

The world shifted a little and he realised he was lightheaded. He really shouldn’t be on his feet.

He would go back to his rooms, message Scott to contact him when he was finished with Dad, and lie down.

As if to emphasize this last, the world wobbled again.

Rooms.

Message Scott.

Painkiller.

Bed.

He stepped back onto the hatch and lowered it. Steadying himself he made his way to the elevator. It wasn’t until he was hidden by its silver doors that he realised he would have to remove his arm from its makeshift sling otherwise one glance by any family member and he was doomed.

Gritting his teeth, he released the limb and lowered it with a groan until it hung. The level of pain doubled. Every movement was accompanied by white flashes and a stomach clenching nausea, but he only had a short corridor between the elevator and his rooms.

He could do this.

He could do it.

The elevator car slid to a smooth halt and chimed his floor.

Virgil stepped out and almost collided with Gordon running down the corridor.

A sucked in breath as he narrowly avoided his brother.

Gordon halted and smiled happily at him. “Oh, hey, Virg.” The smile turned into a frown. “I thought you were down in the hangars polishing your ‘bird?”

Virgil struggled to keep a calm façade as the world wobbled around him.

“Gordon…”

“What?” His younger brother frowned even more staring at Virgil. “You okay? You’re looking peaked.” Gordon had somehow managed to stand exactly where Virgil wanted to go.

“What do you want, Gordon?”

His brother was still staring at him, brown eyes suspicious as all hell. “Have you had your coffee this morning?”

Virgil opened his mouth, but another voice interrupted before he could say a word.

“Gordon Cooper Tracy!” Grandma’s voice echoed down the hall. “If you think I’m cleaning up that mess you left in the kitchen, you are dreaming, young man!” And his purple-dressed, eagle-eyed, medically qualified grandmother strode onto the scene.

Well, hell. Today was just not his day.

“Grandma, I was just getting my shoes.”

“Really?” The cocked hip and arms crossed across her chest screamed disbelief.

“Really. My new ones were rubbing.” Gordon held up a foot.

When did Gordon buy bright pink shoes?

“You can clean up your mess in bare feet. You left syrup all over the counter.” Grandma glanced at Virgil only to suddenly narrow her gaze. “Good morning, Virgil.”

“Hey, Grandma.” He tried not to faint.

It was his grandmother’s turn to frown at him. “Are you feeling okay, dear?” She took a step closer and Virgil forced himself to straighten.

He swallowed. Could he lie to his grandmother’s face?

“He’s good, Grandma. Just hasn’t had his coffee refill yet, have you, Virg?”

Virgil would have appreciated Gordon’s brotherly deflection gesture, after all, they needed a united defence against Grandma’s traditional cures for anything and everything, but unfortunately, Gordon followed his words up with a whack to Virgil’s arm.

His dislocated arm.

And everything whited out.

-o-o-o-

End Part One

Part Two

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Gordon Tracy #grandma tracy #Sally Tracy

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sanderssidesfanfiction · 4 years ago

Text

If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Ninety Two

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

September 1st, 2002

Theo was laughing with Emile, talking about his girlfriend, and his girlfriend’s boyfriend, and how they were trying to figure out living arrangements for that whole situation. “That’s crazy, Theo,” Emile said, shaking his head. “I never pinned you as bisexual, let alone polyamorous.”

“Hey, some people are full of surprises!” Theo said. “I’m just glad you’re cool with it.”

“I mean, listen. It’s not for me personally, but if other people enjoy it, who am I to stop them?” Emile asked.

Theo nodded. “It just kinda sucks that I can only marry one of my partners, and that’s if she’s a she,” he said. “Only get tax benefits from one person.”

“Also only get to visit one person in the hospital, one person’s bank account, one person’s credit score...” Emile continued.

“I know,” Theo groaned. “Being flippant is my way to cope, Emile, don’t be a dick and bring up the worst-case scenarios.”

“Sorry,” Emile said sheepishly.

“‘S all good,” Theo said, and conversation moved on.

October 30th, 2003

“I know it’s not Wicked, but it was still a good show, wasn’t it?” Emile asked as the crowd got to its feet in the theatre.

“Huh?” Remy asked.

Emile rolled his eyes affectionately. “The Broadway musical? Its opening night was tonight. I know this isn’t Broadway, but they still put on a good show.”

“Yeah,” Remy agreed. “It was a good date night.”

Emile’s hand reached for Remy’s and Remy smiled at Emile as they walked out to the front of the theatre. “All the actors and actresses killed it up there,” Remy said.

“Agreed,” Emile laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone quite as good on stage as that...uh...Marco? Was that his name?”

Remy flipped open the leaflet with all the actors' names and made an affirmative noise. “Marco, yeah. He was the lead.”

“Yeah, he was good. Could probably do some professional stuff if he really wanted,” Emile said.

The two of them exited the theatre, still holding hands. They laughed at their favorite moments of the play, and continued to talk until they reached a rougher part of the city. They had to park a few blocks away from the theatre, and they weren’t in Fairview, but a town over. Emile got the distinct sense that they were being watched. Remy seemed to be getting the same feeling, looking around. “We should get out of here,” Remy muttered quietly under his breath.

No sooner had he said that then some drunk guys staggered out of an alleyway. “Hey!” the leader of them shouted. “Haven’t you boys heard? Fags aren’t welcome in this city!”

Emile squeezed Remy’s hand slightly as the two of them turned to face the three guys who were clearly drunk and looking for a fight. “Then why are you here?” Remy shot back to the guy.

“Remy? Might not be the best time,” Emile hissed.

The man growled. “Listen to your pal, Remy. My friends and I aren’t fags. We served.”

Emile prayed Remy would keep his mouth shut, but Remy retorted. “You know, gay guys enter the military, too. ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,’ that whole deal? Yeah. Gay men serve. Probably more honorably than you, if there’s a war going on and you’re using ‘serve’ in the past tense.”

The man turned red and his buddies advanced on Emile and Remy. Remy moved in front of Emile. “Come now, boys. You can do more than intimidation, can’t you?”

One of them swung at Remy, hard, and Emile watched in horror as the world slowed down. Remy’s head collided with a fire hydrant, and he crumpled to the ground. “Oh my God, Remy?!” Emile exclaimed.

Remy didn’t respond, not even a groan. The three men looked surprised. “‘E’s not dead, is ‘e?” one of them asked uneasily.

“Better not stay and find out,” the first of them said. “You get off lucky this time, ya filthy queer.”

And with that, the three men ran off as much as one could run with excessive amounts of alcohol in their system. Emile knelt over Remy, scared to touch him. He pulled out his cellphone with shaky hands, calling an ambulance.

As the operator tried to soothe Emile’s nerves while the ambulance drove over, and Emile could hear the piercing wail of sirens. He couldn’t stop staring at Remy, who was bleeding from his head wound. Did head wounds bleed this much? Emile knew they bled a lot, but how much was too much?

The paramedics arrived and Emile fretted over what they were doing. He made to follow them into the ambulance, but one of them stopped him. “Sorry, we only allow family to come in the ambulance.”

Emile was frantic. “I am family! I’m his fiancé!”

“Unfortunately, fiancés don’t qualify as family,” the man said sympathetically. “You’ll have to meet us at the hospital.”

Emile ran his hands through his hair in frustration, but didn’t try to stop the paramedic as he ran to the front to drive the ambulance. Emile dashed the rest of the way to the car, tearing out of the parking lot and following the sound of the siren to get to the hospital.

Thankfully, they let Emile into Remy’s hospital room. Remy was still unconscious, and the nurse informed him that they were just waiting for an open room to do an MRI to see if anything had been damaged. Emile swallowed thickly. Brain damage. Remy could have brain damage. He tried not to laugh hysterically as the nurse left, or when she returned with another nurse to take Remy for a scan.

Emile waited for about twenty minutes, before Remy was rolled back into the room, slurring something unintelligible. “Your fiancé is here, Mister Picani,” the nurse said patiently. “Now please, stay in bed. The doctor saw no sign of permanent brain damage, but you still have a nasty concussion.”

“Emile!” Remy exclaimed, looking over at him and giving him a dopey smile. “You’re here!”

“Of course I’m here, Remy, I want to make sure you’re okay!” Emile laughed.

The nurse turned to Emile. “He woke up shortly before the MRI, and we had to sedate him to keep him calm. He may be a little loopy for the time being.”

“That’s okay,” Emile laughed, standing and walking over to hold Remy’s hand. “As long as he’s mostly okay and in one piece, I’m happy.”

The nurse gave him a curt nod and left them alone.

“Rem, don’t you ever instigate homophobes again,” Emile said sternly.

Remy groaned. “C’mon, Emile. Hardly the first time homophobes ‘ve taken a swing at me.”

“But it will be the last,” Emile said. “Understand? I cannot make you a frequent flyer at the hospital.”

Remy sighed. “Fine.” He did a slow blink, before giggling. “Mio amore, there was a nurse with a cute butt who cleaned the blood off my head. He also sedated me, though. That was kinda mean.”

“Apparently, you were freaking out before the MRI,” Emile said.

“Well...yeah. You weren’t there,” Remy said with a pout.

“They didn’t let me follow you,” Emile said. “The nurse didn’t even ask.”

Remy sighed. “I bet if we were married, they would’ve.”

Emile nodded. “I bet you’re right.”

They let silence envelope them for a minute. Emile felt his heart hurt. He wanted so badly for them to be married. But that still wasn’t a guarantee. The Massachusetts Supreme Court was taking its sweet time.

“Emile,” Remy said, capturing Emile’s attention. “Lie down with me.”

“Remy, I can’t—”

“Sure you can,” Remy said, scooching over on the bed. “Lie down with me.”

Emile sighed and laid down next to Remy.

“I’m okay. I have a concussion, but I’m okay. Understand?” Remy said. “Neither of us are super injured or super dying. It’s gonna be okay.”

“I hope so,” Emile said softly.

“I know so,” Remy said with all the definiteness of someone high as a kite on sedatives and painkillers. “You’re here. That means everything will be okay.”

Oh. That was...oddly sweet. “Thanks, Rem,” Emile said with a smile.

“Anytime, hot stuff,” Remy giggled. He wrapped an arm over Emile’s chest and hummed. “You’re warm,” he purred.

Emile laughed. “And you’re, apparently, a cat,” he chuckled, wrapping an arm around Remy.

Remy yawned. “The doctors aren’t going to let me sleep, are they?”

“I mean, they already know you have a concussion, so they might let you rest,” Emile said. “Truth be told, Rem, I don’t know.”

Remy grumbled. “My head still kinda hurts even with painkillers. I just wanna sleep it off.”

Emile lightly ran his fingers through Remy’s hair, and Remy leaned into the touch. “Try and sleep before they tell you that you can’t, then.”

Remy hummed. “Usually you’re a stickler for the rules, mio amore.”

“Usually you’re not in the hospital with a concussion and bound to whine about it, my love,” Emile said with a little grin.

“You just want me to stop whining?” Remy asked with a pout. “That’s so not romantic.”

“Well, I do also want you to rest up and heal well...” Emile said. “It’s just not my topmost priority.”

Remy stuck his tongue out at Emile and Emile stuck his out right back. “You mind if I call Mom and Dad?” Emile asked.

“No, go ahead,” Remy said, waving a hand. “I know you’re gonna want me to stay out of Sleep Easy and the home office, and you’re gonna wanna ask them about being my orderlies while you go to school.”

Emile sighed. “You are way too good at reading me, my love.”

Remy smiled dopily, “I should hope so, knowing you this long.”

Gently, Emile pushed up in the bed and left the room to make the call. He dialed the number and simultaneously hoped his parents would and wouldn’t pick up. “Hello?” his dad asked.

“Hey, Dad,” Emile managed to choke out.

“Emile? What’s going on that has you calling this late?”

“Well...uh...Remy landed himself in the hospital,” Emile said with a strangled laugh. “Moderate to severe concussion.”

“Oh my God,” his father breathed. “Is he okay?!”

“He’s awake now, thank God,” Emile said. “But I won’t be able to look after him when they release him from the hospital.”

“Your mother and I can come over and make sure he’s all right, Emile, don’t you worry about that,” his dad assured. “You need to make sure you keep passing your classes and that your fiancé is happy. Your mother and I are more than willing to be the bad guys in this situation if that means keeping him out of his damned office for a few days.”

Emile laughed. “Yeah, I don’t wanna be the one facing his wrath when he figures out that he won’t be able to work in the shop for at least two weeks,” he said. He sobered. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from your lawyer friends in Massachusetts?”

“Not yet,” his dad sighed.

“They wouldn’t let me ride in the ambulance with Remy,” Emile admitted tearfully. “I was scared out of my wits, there was so much blood, he was unconscious and they just...wouldn’t let me ride with him. All because we weren’t married.” He spat the last word. “I swear, Dad, I wanted to strangle them then and there if they weren’t helping Remy.”

His dad blew out a breath. “I can’t imagine, Emile. I can’t imagine what that must have felt like. Nothing I can think of would do it justice.”

“I was terrified,” Emile said.

“You had every right to be,” his dad said. “That’s a terrifying thing. Now, without discounting that, I want to remind you that Remy is alive, and safe. Understand?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Emile nodded. “I understand.”

“Good,” his dad said. “Because your future husband needs your support too, I’ll bet.”

“Once the pain meds wear off and he’s no longer high as a kite, yeah,” Emile said wryly. “That’s when I’ll ream him for pissing off the wrong homophobes.”

“What?!” his dad asked, incredulous. “Emile, you need to report that to the police. That’s a hate crime!”

“Lots of good that’ll do, Dad. These guys were homophobes and vets. The cops won’t care,” Emile spat.

“Did they start it?” his dad asked.

“They’ll argue we started it, but we were just holding hands while we walked out of the theatre,” Emile said.

“Then report it, Emile! That is a hate crime! Don’t take that standing down!” his dad snapped.

Emile blinked. “Is this a you being protective thing or is this a I’m a lawyer and no one is above the law thing?”

“Emile, I can get a lawyer for you, pro bono. All I have to do is call in the right favors. They’re the ones responsible for the hospital bills, they’ll have to pay for them. Report this.”

Sometimes, Emile forgot how scary his dad got when he decided to go into lawyer mode. He swallowed. “Okay, Dad. I will.”

“Good,” his dad said. “Give that husband of yours a hug from both me and your mother. We’ll drive over tomorrow.”

#if there's a place i could be #sanders sides fanfiction #remile #emile picani #ts sleep

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chikkou · 4 years ago

Note

What are your thoughts on Brad?

im assuming u mean brad from lisa, so i will respond with that assumption in mind LMAO

as a character, i think hes fucking fantastic. austin jorgensen did an absolutely AMAZING job making brad both empathetic and deeply fucking flawed, but flawed in such a way that it is really difficult to blame him for being how he is. he didnt get to choose any single thing that happened to him, except taking buddy in, and even that was something he managed to screw up. there is something very poignant about seeing a man who has been through so much pain and suffering struggle to do the right thing, to help those in need, to take care of someone and raise them with the love and kindness he never got... and fail.

he fails completely in everything he ever set out to do. the daughter he swore to love and protect both fears and hates him. he kills scores of innocent people for naught. he never manages to overcome his addiction (but in fairness to him, this is largely buzzos fault as he forcefed brad enough pills to guarantee that he would overdose eventually). all of his friends, even TERRY, turn away from him at the end because he is doing the wrong thing.

again, in fairness, SOME of the party members will reveal that they only agreed to help brad to get a “shot” at buddy themselves (rage is the only one i can think of rn, though i know there are others) - but there are also a sizable number of them (terry, shocklord, queen roger, and olan immediately come to mind) who were genuinely loyal to brad and cared about him, and only work against him because they sincerely feel he is morally in the wrong. and when brad fights those people, they barely fight back - they have unique, miserable-looking sprites for the final battle and spend most of their turns crying, being scared, or throwing out weak attacks that do little to no damage. they dont want to do this. but because of how far brad has fallen, they feel like they have no choice.

as a PERSON, i am highly mixed on brad, as one is obviously meant to be. as i said previously, i do sincerely empathize with him. he has experienced an unreasonable amount of trauma, to such an extent that its difficult for me to judge any of his actions, but that goes right out the window the minute he chose to adopt buddy. it was his decision to raise buddy instead of taking her to rando, someone who he could trust and who had the resources to keep her safe for many, many years. brad wanted to prove to himself that he could be better than his father, that he could love and treat a child as they deserved to be treated. but he couldnt. he never recovered from what happened to him. he is haunted by his father and lisa, with no means of tackling it in a healthy way, and he never trusted anyone enough to share his pain with them. we even see it in the flashback where he tries to buy painkillers off of sticky - sticky point blank refuses because brad is clearly unhinged and needs HELP, not more drugs to mask the pain.

he never should have adopted buddy. it was selfish of him to think he could simply fill the void in his heart with a child and that everything would be fine. by refusing to accept that he is broken beyond repair and in need of some serious help, he unwittingly perpetuated the cycle of abuse, and did unto buddy what his own father had done to him. its a very sad reality, but some people simply do not have the capacity to be good parents, and brad is one of those people. hed already adopted one child, and then abandoned him when the reality of parenthood hit too hard - why would he try to do the exact same thing all over again?

now, i wont be too harsh - i do believe that some part of him did sincerely love buddy. but his love for the real buddy was always overshadowed by his regret over lisa, and even up until the end, i know that when he looked at buddy, he only ever saw lisas ghost. that said, the boss battle that buddy has with brad in the joyful is so fucking perfectly written and full of love and sorrow that its making me emotional just thinking about it LMAO.... it was very clear there that even buddy, for all the resentment she felt toward him, knew how much he loved her and wished things had been different. it was a story that could never have had a happy ending. brad tried, that much is true - but perhaps things would have been different if he had accepted that he couldnt be the parent buddy needed right from the beginning.

tl;dr brad tried but he really shouldnt have

#anya's anons #long post #lisa the painful #lisa the joyful #i really wish austin would remake lisa the first to incorporate stuff from the later games #it would be interesting to revisit that story #lisa #drugs #abuse mention

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penpatronuswhump · 4 years ago

Photo

WHUMPTOBER 2020

No. 30

Fandom: Avengers

Whumpee: Tony Stark

Caregiver: Nebula, Steve Rogers

Title: If Steve Was On Titan

Part 2 of 2

By: PenPatronus // PenPatronusAooO

Steve held Tony tight and rubbed his back. The blue-purple alien was staring at the Titan soil. She looked as devastated as Steve felt. He realized, then, that he didn’t know her name, so he asked her. “Nebula,” she whispered. “Daughter… of Thanos.” She followed that surprising fact with a defeated sigh. “I… she said. She shook her head, then lowered her chin to her chest.

Steve kept rubbing Tony’s back. He hoped that his friend felt some comfort, even in his unconscious state. “Nebula… the Guardians’ ship – do you know if it has medical supplies?”

“Yes.”

“Can we use it to get back to Earth? My friends… I have to know if they – if they survived.”

Mute, Nebula stood and started walking east. Steve, still sore from fighting Thanos, struggled but did manage to lift Tony up into a bridal carry, and followed her. The Guardians’ spaceship was a hundred yards away from the vehicle that he, Tony, Strange, and Peter crash landed in. Even Steve could tell that the ship had been damaged in the battle with Thanos. Not only was it listed on its side because of the rocks that covered it but there was more than one hole in the hull. Steve was about to panic, but then he remembered that Tony had used that same mist of chemicals to seal the hull of the spaceship they’d arrived in. Steve instructed Nebula to take the device out of his pocket. He told her how to operate it and she walked around the whole ship, plugging hole after hole after hole.

Steve carried Tony inside, where Nebula gestured for him to put him on a center table. Steve lowered his friend down on it. When he stood up straight again, he found Tony’s slightly parted eyes staring at his. “Tony?”

Stark licked his lips. “For a moment there, right when I woke up, I forgot that I failed…”

Nebula walked over with what looked like a metal toolbox. She set it on the table at Tony’s waist, opened it, and started sorting through a variety of objects that Steve didn’t recognize. “I checked the engines,” she reported as she worked. “They’re damaged… I’ll do what I can, but at this point we’ll barely make it a lightyear.”

“Tony can fix them,” Steve said.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Cap, it’s an alien spaceship. It probably has components I won’t be able to make heads or tails of. You think I can just push a few buttons and turn a few knobs and hit it with a hammer and I’ll fix it?” Stark winked, then. “Damn right.”

Steve smiled at him, fondly.

Tony’s body shuddered, then. His spine arched upward and he cried out in pain. His hand reached blindly for Steve and Cap took that hand in both of his and grasped it tight. Nebula found what she was looking for – a device that looked like a medical tricorder from ‘Star Trek,’ Steve remembered, but it was horizontal instead of vertical. She held it over Tony’s wound and frowned at the screen. “Hmm,” she exhaled. Then she snapped the device shut, said, “We might as well leave him here. He’s dead,” and walked towards the cockpit.

Tony gave her a thumb’s up. “Appreciate the candor.”

Steve pivoted around the table and chased after Nebula. “Hey – HEY!” He grabbed her by the elbow. She whirled around, and Steve barely dodged a punch. “Easy! Take it easy!”

Nebula pulled her arm away. “Don’t touch me!”

Steve held his palms up. “Ok. All right. I’m sorry. Just, just listen, please. What do you mean he’s dead?”

Nebula gave him a look. “I mean there’s nothing I can do. Thanos shoved that thing right through his bottom ribs. He nicked the stomach, nicked the bowel…There’s nothing I can do.”

Steve’s face flushed and his nostrils flared. “Try,” he growled.

“I’m not a surgeon,” she said. “If I start messing around in his guts, he’ll probably just die faster! I’ve only used those tools a few times before!”

Steve could feel the heat increasing on his face. “So, there is a chance?”

Nebula snorted. “Why should I bother?” she hissed at him. “Half of the universe is dead – why bother with anything?”

Steve’s jaw clenched and unclenched. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I get it,” he growled. “You lost your sister today, and I assume the others were your friends?” Nebula snorted. Steve pointed back at Tony. “That’s my brother dying over there. If it were your sister on that table, wouldn’t you be begging for help, like I am?”

Nebula pursed her lips together. “I can’t promise anything. If he dies, swear you won’t kill me.”

“Why would I—” Steve shook his head. “I swear. What can you do?”

Nebula exhaled hard though her nose. “We have to suction out the blood first. Then – I think I found it – there’s a device that will sew tissue back together. I’ll close up the wounds as best I can, then we just hope he doesn’t get an infection.”

Relief made Steve dizzy. “Thank you,” he said. The pair returned to Tony. Stark’s eyes were closed, but he started awake when Steve touched his shoulder. Nebula put some tools on the table and dug for more. She took out what looked like a scalpel and examined it in the dim light.

“What happened to letting me die?” Tony asked. He looked up at Steve. “If you offered her sexual favors… I approve.”

Steve chuckled and shook his head. “Shut up, Stark.”

Nebula started tugging on Tony’s clothing. Steve helped her strip off Stark’s shirt and jacket. Tony’s naked chest was mottled with cuts and bruises. Steve removed the suit casing and set it on a countertop. Nebula examined the stab wound, scratched at the barrier covering it, and said, “I have to cut this open. Get that tube ready.”

Steve picked up what looked like a handheld vacuum. He laid the plastic tube on Tony’s stomach and prepared himself for the amount of blood he was about to see. Tony, who needed something, anything to hold on to, fisted his hand around Steve’s blue uniform. Nebula filled a syringe with some mysterious liquid and, to the shock of both men, stabbed the needle into Tony’s neck without a word of explanation.

“I like h-her…” Tony trailed off. The anesthesia kicked in, and he fell asleep.

Nebula counted to three and then stabbed the scalpel into the wound, reopening it. Blood bubbled out quicker than Steve could suction it up. The barrier had done nothing to stop the internal bleeding. Cap cursed and did his best while Nebula turned on what looked like a laser pointer. “I can’t see anything. Do it better,” she scolded Steve. “Stick that tube in there!”

Steve took a breath, tried to tell himself that this wasn’t Tony he was mutilating, and inserted the tube deeper into the wound. He must have done something right, because she aimed the laser device and moved it up and down. “I think I sealed the hole in his stomach,” she told Steve. “I’ll keep going…”

A half hour and a couple pints of blood later, and Nebula finished sealing up the exit wound in Tony’s back. She slid the tools into the toolbox, said “There!” and walked away.

“Uh, thanks!” Steve called after her. She didn’t respond. Cap looked around the ship for towels and a sink. When he found them, he washed the blood off his hands, then soaked the towels. He returned to Tony and gently washed the blood off Tony’s back and sides. Then he rolled Tony onto his back and cleaned his stomach, chest, neck, and face. “Hey, do you have any painkillers?” he called to Nebula, thinking about himself as well as Tony. No reply. Steve went looking and found a basket of bottles labeled in an alien language. He opened a drawer and discovered vials of liquid he didn’t recognize. He’d finished searching nearly even inch of the room when Tony woke up. Steve rushed to his side.

Tony’s white, shaking hands landed on his bandaged wound. “Am I, uh, intact?” he whispered. Steve’s face scrunched into an I-hope-so look. “Stellar confidence,” Tony mumbled.

“You’re going to be ok.”

Tony looked at him. “Are you?” he whispered.

Steve hadn’t asked himself that question yet. Thanos murdered half the universe, but Steve hadn’t stopped moving long enough to really think about what that meant. “No,” he concluded in a whisper. “No, I don’t think so.”

“He was a good kid.”

“Parker?”

Tony’s eyes watered. “So many good kids are gone,” he whispered. “Cap… What are we going to do?”

Steve swallowed twice. “We’re going to get you well,” he told Tony. “And we’re going to make it home. And… And then…”

“And then?”

Neither of them knew what to say.

The End

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