#anyone spends days torturing themselves with sleep deprivation just so they can go back to a socially acceptable rhythm

[theokusgallery]

Me at 10am: two more hours of sleep will fix me

Me at 6pm: what the fuck happened

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 8 - Sleep Deprivation

title: right beside you, blocking your way

fandom: hermitcraft

cw: torture

~

“Impulse. Hey, bud, you gotta stay awake.”

Impulse groans, his eyes fluttering open. “Tango.”

“You know I don’t want to.”

The only sign that Impulse hears him is the way his features harden just slightly.

Tango doesn’t know how much longer they’re going to be able to keep this up. At some point, Impulse will need to sleep, and there won’t be anything that anyone can do to keep him awake.

“Time’s up.”

Tango screws his eyes shut for a brief moment, willing the tears to go back to wherever they came from, not spill onto his cheeks. Then he looks up toward the blond man keeping them captive, glares hard at him.

“He needs to sleep,” he says. The blond man shrugs.

“Yes,” he says. “And it’s your fault that he can’t.”

That isn’t fair. That isn’t fair, and Mr. Blond knows it. Just because Tango won’t—can’t—help them design weapons of mass destruction, they’ve decided to torture Impulse.

It isn’t his fault. It’s their fault, for imposing a rule like that. Tango knows that. Mr. Blond knows that.

He just hopes that Impulse knows it, too.

He lets himself be led away, away to that tiny room with the bed shoved into it that serves as his cell in this torturous prison. He only spends his nights here, his days at Impulse’s side, keeping him from falling asleep.

He hasn’t seen anything of Doc or Ren. He hopes they’re okay.

They shove Tango in, the same way they do every night. The lock clicks behind him.

He stands by the door, buries his face in his hands.

He can’t keep doing this.

Tango’s the one to keep Impulse awake during the day, because at first he had just sat there and refused any questions, but then he saw how terribly Impulse was treated when he got too far gone to keep himself awake, and he begged the blond man to let him be the one to wake Impulse. He wouldn’t beat him, he wouldn’t burn him, he wouldn’t whip him even if they put the tool in his hands themselves (which they have).

But whatever they do to Impulse at night is even worse than what he witnessed during the day. Tango’s sure of it.

He swallows against the lump in his throat, pretending that he doesn’t feel the tears dripping down his cheeks.

It’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay. Someone will find them. Someone has to find them!

It’s been a week since they were kidnapped. An entire week. The longer they’re gone, the less likely they are to be found.

Tango slumps onto his cheap mattress, ignoring the plate of food on the floor beside him. Why should he deserve food and a bed, when he knows that Impulse is kneeling in the other room, barely fed and going on seven days without sleep?

He falls asleep crying, as he has the past six nights.

-

Tango gets to sleep.

Tango gets to go off to a nice room with a bed and sleep for as long as he wants. Tango gets to sleep.

Impulse hates him.

When Tango sleeps, they beat Impulse. They always do.

“Just an hour,” Impulse begs, even as he doesn’t know what he’s begging for anymore. “Just an hour, please. . . .”

The whip cracks across his calves. Impulse jerks up, trying to cover his eyes against the flashing lights.

“It hurts,” he cries, his arm hurts—

A hand pries his arm away from his mouth, from the pretty red spilling everywhere.

“Oh, poor Impulse,” a voice whispers. “Tango’s taking your sleep, isn’t he? He never lets you sleep.”

Impulse wants a turn. He wants a turn so badly that it burns the inside of his mouth, makes his teeth shiver and shake like they’re going to fall out.

There’s ants on his feet. There’s ants between his toes and he can’t stomp on them, he can’t do anything about it.

“Poor, poor Impulse. Tango keeps hurting you.”

The voice is green, green like grass and poison and good guys, green means good, green means go.

Green.

“It’s red,” he says, despairingly, and the green hums.

-

Tango pushes Impulse’s shoulder. “C’mon, wake up. There you are. Eyes open.”

Impulse’s eyes are not open. He’s deep into this sudden nap, head drooping to his chest.

Tango glances around at the guards. They aren’t paying him much mind.

“You gotta stay awake. Did I ever tell you about how much trouble it took to get the stream of Decked Out exactly the way I wanted? Usually water works pretty well for me, but it was so cold. . . .”

He keeps up the low monologue, eyes fixed on Impulse’s sleeping face.

Every time he leaves for the night, he comes back to find his best friend in worse condition. Today, he has a split lip, still bleeding sluggishly, adding to the black eye already there. His arms are wrapped in red-stained paper towels, messily stuck to his skin with scotch tape.

He doesn’t have to stand, at least. His arms are pulled behind him with scratchy rope, looped around a hook on the wall high enough to keep Impulse on his knees. It’s clearly painful, but he isn’t on his feet.

Tango’s not sure he’s capable of standing. Not with those whip marks on his feet.

He needs to sleep. Impulse needs to sleep before it kills him, but every time Tango begs for him to just rest for a bit, the blond man chuckles and asks if he’s reconsidered the demands.

The most he can do is be the one to wake Impulse when he slips.

Which will have to be now, as the woman at the door has glanced over at them twice in the past two minutes.

“Wake up,” Tango says, a little louder. He shifts, his mouth up to Impulse’s ear. “Hey, bud. Wake up.”

Impulse doesn’t wake. Tango’s eyes dart to the guard, now watching them suspiciously.

Tango sucks in a deep breath, pokes Impulse between the ribs. The man hisses, but his eyes don’t open, so Tango pokes him again, harder.

Impulse’s bloodshot eyes blink open. He glares at Tango, a tear slipping down his cheek.

“You’re red,” he says. “It’s all red. And purple. I hate you.”

Tango swallows back the tears so close to the surface. “I’m so sorry,” he croaks, reaching up to tuck Impulse’s hair behind his ear. It’s stringy and lank, crusty with blood. “I have to. Everything’s gonna be okay, Impy. Just you wait.”

Impulse shakes his head doggedly. “No. No. No. I want—please. No.”

“The moment one of our friends bursts through that door is the moment you can sleep,” Tango promises. “Soon, okay? But you gotta stay awake to see them.”

Impulse blinks at him, eyes either unseeing or uncaring. “I never want to see you again,” he says, clearer than Tango’s heard him sound in three days. “I’ll—I’ll leave. Too red. Red is bad. Stop. Red.”

He’s just saying it because he doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t mean it. Impulse would never say something like that.

It doesn’t stop Tango’s heart from breaking.

They’ll be saved soon. They have to be.

Otherwise, neither of them will make it out of this alive.

[scripttorture]

I'm trying to write a character who gets depression/anxiety after a few days of torture, but I'm worried that from an outside perspective the tiredness, lack of interest, and hyper vigilance are going to look like the character has been beaten down into meekness/compliance by the torture. Any advice on how to avoid the trope that this character was broken by their expeience when most days they're too tired to argue about anything and are slowly checking out of life due to the depression?

That’s a really good question. I think the best thing to do is combine several different approaches rather then relying on one particular thing.

 My first piece of advice holds true for writing any kind of minority experience. If you think you could be suggesting that an entire group has a particular feature/characteristic include another character from the same group who doesn’t. The more characters you have who are torture survivors the easier it is to show that they’re a diverse bunch with different symptoms and experiences.

 They don’t need to be major characters. They don’t need to be in the story for very long. But having them there makes a big difference.

 This is a lot easier if you’re talking about legally defined torture in a prison of some kind. But if that’s not the kind of story you’re telling consider bringing other survivors in during the character’s recovery. They could meet people while waiting to see the same doctor or mental health professional. They might be advised to join a group, either for group therapy or communal support. They might meet people while looking for financial support or jobs. If they’re religious they might be introduced to people through their priest or broader religious community.

 The next thing worth thinking about is: what can your character practically do?

 We have this tendency to conflate resistance with big, obvious, violent acts. Most of the time torture victims are not in a position to do that kind of thing. And in situations where people are held for a very long time (ie slavery, prisoner of war camps etc) what you tend to see are a lot of smaller or less obvious acts. Enslaved people did oppose slavery violently, with organised military action and with smaller acts of violence like poisoning slave owners.

 But they also did a host of other things. They sabotaged equipment or products they were supposed to produce. They broke valuable objects. They provided each other with material support and aid. They escaped and set up separate societies. They channelled resources into these societies. They aided others in escape attempts.

 It’s always worth thinking about what your character can actually practically do and what the risks or consequences of those actions might be.

 I talk about that in a post over here. Characters can take meaningful action even when they can’t take effective action. It’s worth taking the time to think about what would be meaningful to this character and figure out ways to show them prioritising it.

 It’s also worth considering what depression and anxiety can look like because yes, the features you describe are common in people with depression and anxiety. But they’re not necessarily constant and they’re not the only ways these conditions manifest.

 Depression can look like sleeping all the time. It can also look like not sleeping and a lack of sleep feeds into anxiety. Insomnia also causes paranoia after a while, makes it harder to interpret other people’s responses and can increase the risk of violent behaviour.

 Similarly depression can look like eating a lot, but it can also look like nausea, like being unable to eat full meals and struggling to keep food down. From the outside anxiety can be read as fear but it can also be read as aggression.

 It wouldn’t be unrealistic for this character to be more depressed at times and more anxious at others. It wouldn’t be unrealistic for them to be incredibly sleep deprived, paranoid and less able to see the risk in something like… spitting on a guard some days even if they’re generally incredibly tired, lethargic and apathetic.

 Basically even if this is the predominant way depression and anxiety manifest in this character there’s still leeway. There’s still moments when you can have them go against that. Even if it isn’t very often.

 The choice to use an outside perspective does make things harder. Especially if that perspective is a character who believes these kinds of tropes and has a poor understanding of mental health. One way to get around this is to have the point of view character’s perspective change with time and have them come to (and lead the audience to) the conclusion that they were wrong.

 But the character doesn’t need to reach that realisation if you work in enough signals to the reader that they’re unreliable. One way to do that is to contrast what the point of view character thinks with what the survivor character actually says and does.

 Let’s say the point of view character is having a conversation with another person who isn’t a survivor and they present the survivor as this sad case, broken by what they experienced because of a specific behaviour. Like sleeping a lot or being listless or not engaging with things in the way they used to.

 On it’s own that scene could easily back up these tropes (though it’s not an unrealistic scene because these tropes are commonly believed.) So let’s imagine the scene with the survivor’s response.

 They could respond that they sleep a lot because they have chronic pain or because their depression makes it hard to eat properly which leaves them exhausted. Physical symptoms like that are often easier for people to understand and it underlines the point that this is illness not some state where they’re permanently incapable. They can also respond with the steps they’re taking to try and make their life better. For chronic pain in torture survivors that can mean medication or physiotherapy. Perhaps they’re working on changing their diet or the schedule they eat at and sleep at, to work around these physical limits.

 You can apply the same kind of logic to the other points here, talk about why depression makes the character listless or stops them engaging and what they’re doing now. The aids that help them focus, how therapy is going, the new hobbies they’re exploring instead (perhaps because old ones contain triggers.)

 It’s harder to apply the same thing if the character is still imprisoned and still being tortured. But you can still do it. May be the dreams and plans the victim character had before seem meaningless now, but there will still be things they want to do and there will still be things they find meaning in.

 May be they don’t think they can be a Nobel prize winning doctor any more and may be to an outside perspective that looks like ‘broken’. But it’s harder for the audience to agree with that conclusion if the victim character is saying ‘My priorities are different now. I regret spending so much time working and I miss my family. If I get out I want to make them my focus instead of work.’

 A self aware character might be able to say ‘I don’t think I could achieve that dream anymore. But I think I could achieve this instead.’

 You can have other characters, doctors, psychologists or anyone who has worked with survivors for a long period, refute the idea these people are broken. Hurt, yes, but that doesn’t mean they’re incapable of living or of living well.

 If the perspective is more of an omnipresent narrator you’ve got more scope to show little acts of resistance the character might be engaging in. You’ve also got more scope to just straight up tell the readers what’s going on in this character’s head.

 It’s worth stressing that characters like this do still have and make choices. They are choices in incredibly awful situations and they are not free choices. But that capacity to choose is still there. And there are understandable, though not always rational, thought processes behind those choices.

 Depression doesn’t always mean checking out of life. I’ve known a fair number of people with depression who kept going with things they considered important. They just also… got no enjoyment out of it. They were miserable and in pain. But they were still trying to do the best they could for their kids or finish their degree. These efforts weren’t always successful. Depression makes most things more difficult.

 But a character willing to give up on themselves isn’t necessarily willing to give up on other things.

 At the end of the day the symptoms you choose for your character and how those symptoms manifest isn’t the problem. There’s nothing wrong with picking the symptoms that are right for your character and there’s nothing wrong with writing them in this way.

 The problem comes when we start telling people that there’s no hope, that nothing gets better. It comes when we imply that natural, physiological reactions to trauma are somehow the fault of the victim or that those reactions mean they are forever controlled by their abuser.

 Torture is an awful, effecting and life changing experience. It leaves lasting wounds.

 But humans are incredibly resilient, stubborn creatures. Our capacity for survival, to find ways to live well, is astounding.

 There’s room for optimism here and it’s worth making space for that in your story.

 I hope that helps :)

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Disclaimer

[cant-blink]

My Gigan’s Backstory

Gigan hardly knew his real parents. He still has memories of them, vague memories deep in his data banks. He knew enough to have imprinted on his own kind; he knows he’s a space-duck.

His Masters, the Nebulans, has taken him from his nest before he was even old enough to leave it. They took him in, fed him, raised him. They took lots of pictures of him, in all his babu floof glory, and made sure to save those photos for future use...

Gigan as a babu was damn near the cutest thing in existence, a cottonball with a face. He would instinctively seek cuddles for warmth and would waddle after anyone he laid eye on, chirping and peeping the entire time. He quickly won the hearts of every Nebulan that came in contact with him, and a great bond was formed between him and his adoptive ‘family’.

But good things don’t last long in my universe and when Gigan began approaching pubescence, he became increasingly more aggressive and violent. Tis a normal part of space-duck development, as the young start to learn how to hunt and fight amongst themselves. 

For Gigan, though, this natural change would become anything BUT natural. His Masters not only placed him in complete isolation in a ready-made enclosure, but also placed a ‘mind-control’ chip in his brain. A weak one, just there to ensure he doesn’t turn that aggression towards them. They deprived him of physical company, but still spoke to him through the chip. Although obviously, the conversations were rather sparse and one-sided. Most of Gigan’s days were spent sleeping or restlessly pacing around the enclosure. His only source of entertainment was when the Nebulans would teach him how to ‘hunt’. Aka, to attack anything that went through The Door. 

The Door was Gigan’s only contact with the outside world beyond his enclosure. The Nebulans would give him whatever he needed through The Door. Food, toys, or (his favorite) live prey to serve as both. He lived like this for many years, until he was a fully-grown adult. Then the Nebulans, his ‘parents’ that he came to look up to, told him that it was time for the Change. He didn’t know what this entailed, but he was excited and ready for this Initiation!

He was put under, and the modifications were made to his body, his senses, his brain. They took his natural weaponry and made them even more deadly by coating them in powerful alien alloys. They gave him power, in the form of lasers, fire, flight, teleportation, and a buzzsaw implanted into his chest. They gave him knowledge in his brain, able to access whatever information he could possibly desire (that they already had on record, of course). And most importantly....

... They downloaded his baby pictures into his memory bank. Just to humble him a bit, remind him of how cute he was.

Gigan was quite overwhelmed at first. His body stayed mostly the same in appearance, but the changes made took some getting used to. After giving him recovery time in his room, this overwhelmed feeling only increased as they FINALLY began letting Gigan out of his enclosure to practice in a training room.

This overwhelmed feeling quickly went out the window when he learned he was going to fly for the first time. He also began learning how to control his powers, and he took to the lessons pretty well. So many new ways to kill his prey, it’s great! He loved every moment of it!

Once he mastered his skills, he was finally allowed to venture into the real world to carry out missions. Much death and destruction was waged at his claws, all in the name of ‘peace’ as the Nebulans called it, and he loved every moment of it. After being confined to his room damn near his entire childhood, it was like he was able to release all that pent-up aggression on something other than his prey. And once it was all over, and his mission was a success, he would retire back in his enclosure and rest. Despite having been a prisoner in there for the longest time, he still took comfort in his nest. 

He was content living with his Masters for a while; he had food and shelter, and a purpose in carrying out whatever missions the Nebulans sent him on. 

But as time went on, he began to find that he wanted something more. He didn't know what he was missing, but something was wrong. There was a need in him, ever since he grew to adulthood, that he couldn't fulfill. It got so bad that just the sight of anything colored gold got him bothered and only agitated his aggression further.

Taking note of Gigan's increasing frustrations and unhappiness, the Nebulans came to the conclusion that he must have a mate. He deserved it and they pulled strings to obtain the finest specimen they could find, only the best for their pet space-duck! Importing the specimen, they let her into his room using The Door, and for the first time since being taken from his parents, Gigan saw another of his own kind. The Nebulans had their hopes up, for the interaction seemed peaceful as the two curiously met. All Gigan had to do was fluff out his feathers, fan his sails, and strut his stuff!

But that never happened. For this bioweapon did not court her and instead tried to force himself on her. It’s typical behavior for male space-ducks without a mate, but to not even try courtship? What's worse, when the female rejected his advances (who did this cyborg asshole think he is?!), Gigan only got increasingly more violent and with his enhanced strength and weaponry, it got real bloody really fast.

So fast, the Nebulans couldn’t even stop it from happening when Gigan killed his potential mate. It was horrified silence from the roaches, as their beloved pet finally found release on the corpse. He continued this until he tired himself out and turned to cannibalizing the remains.

Now that... was not normal.

But maybe the Nebulans did something wrong? Perhaps using The Door triggered Gigan to view her as a toy, as live prey? They tried again, and again, with different locations but with the same results. If anything, Gigan only learned how to keep his toy alive for longer. Kept in isolation most of his life, and trained to choose violence at every opportunity, Gigan had no real social skills among his own kind. His instincts to court and breed like a normal space-duck was severely stunted and the Nebulan’s repeated efforts only really reinforced in Gigan’s psychopathic mind that other creatures existed for his own personal pleasures.

They did come to accept that trying to breed their prized weapon was a lost cause. If anything, they’ll reward him with an opportunity to mate if he does a good job at his missions. Whatever makes him happy.

This arrangement made him very happy, and for a while, he thought he needed nothing more in life.

But one day, was the day something new awakened within Gigan.

It was an unusual mission; the Nebulans wanted him to help them capture a target, alive and unharmed. Their target was another bioweapon, just like him, created by a long-extinct race and flying around the cosmos destroying worlds. That kind of power could be useful, and best of all: it came with a mind-control chip of its own.

His name was Ghidorah. King Ghidorah.

The pictures did not do this dragon justice, as Gigan and the Nebulans tracked down the mind-control chip’s signature, and found the massive asteroid. From it, emerged the three-headed dragon. The GOLDEN three-headed dragon with MASSIVE sails that caught the light beautifully.

Setting his eye on the creature woke something in Gigan, for the very first time. He... He WANTED this creature, all to himself. Alive. And he can have him, once they brought this creature into Nebulan control. That was all the motivation he needed.

The battle was a dangerous one. The dragon’s intentions to kill were obvious, and for once in his life, Gigan had to hold back. He had one goal in mind, to incapacitate the dragon and bring him into Nebulan captivity. A swift and powerful strike to the middle head was all that was needed to finish the job.

The Nebulans went right to work with that mind-control chip. Gigan wanted something else, but was forced to sit out while the dragon was prepared. And when they finally did meet, the dragon spoke not a word to him. He just needed time to adjust, the Nebulans reassured the cyborg. They’ll be spending plenty of time together once their plan was ready to set in motion.

Their first mission was to Earth, to dispose of a creature called Godzilla. Ghidorah apparently already had run-ins on this planet, but was swiftly outnumbered. But now with Gigan at his side, surely the odds will lean in their favor.

And it very well nearly did. Together, Gigan, Ghidorah, and the Nebulans almost killed Godzilla. 

Until...

Something went terribly wrong. All of a sudden, Gigan lost contact with the Nebulans, for the very first time. The mind-control chips in both kaiju was de-activated, and Gigan was left on his own. Unfortunately for Godzilla, Gigan was no innocent victim under the control of malicious aliens. Mind-control or not, he functioned largely of his own accord and he quickly resumed torturing the fuck out of Godzilla.

Even dragging him to Ghidorah’s feet like a proud suitor showing off prey. 

Which Ghidorah promptly rejected and punted the fat Earth lizard away...

That’s okay, it was funny watching Godzilla fly anyway.

However, it quickly became obvious that Ghidorah was no team player and had a great disdain for Gigan. He made little effort to involve himself in the fight, beyond warding off Anguirus’s advances. This hatred even seemed to outweigh his beef with Godzilla as Ghidorah ignored his Earth-side enemy to argue against Gigan. Such vitriol from the dragon for what was an accidental collision- Wait, this wasn’t about Gigan accidentally flying into him. No, Ghidorah was blaming HIM for this whole entire mess?! THE FUCK!! 

This argument costed them the mission, Gigan attempting and failing twice to retreat back to the Nebulan ship. Only when Ghidorah was allowed to retreat did Godzilla finally let the cyborg flee alongside him.

It was a bitter blow to Gigan’s ego; not only was his attempt to impress such a beautiful mate a complete failure, but he never lost a mission so miserably. But things go from bad to worse, when Ghidorah followed him back to the ship and to his horror, proceeded to destroy it. Revenge for keeping him hostage.

It was at that moment Gigan had to choose, between his Masters, who were essentially his parents, or this beautiful dragon that he wanted so badly but whom didn’t seem to return the favor...

He chose his Masters and, despite being injured, he rushed to defend the ship with everything he’s got. Ghidorah seemed reluctant to engage in teeth-to-claw close combat, and when the hydra saw that it would take more than Gravity Beams to keep this cyborg at bay, it was what allowed Gigan to chase him off. The Nebulans were safe...

... For now.

For it was barely over a year later, after yet another failed Earth mission with an ally named Megalon, that Gigan returned to his Masters even more damaged than last time. And that’s when Ghidorah, lying in wait for the perfect opportunity, decided to strike.

The Nebulans were defenseless and a weakened Gigan could do nothing but watch as his Masters were destroyed. His home... The sight of it all was horrific, and yet... somehow beautiful, seeing this dragon’s full destructive power unleashed first-hand. After the carnage, Ghidorah turned to him, regarding him with six blood-red eyes. Gigan was ready to go down fighting, but to his surprise, the dragon turned and flew off into the void. Leaving him alone for the very first time.

His mind-control was lost completely. No orders, no reassurance that everything was okay. Nothing but silence. With everything he’s ever known gone, Gigan knew not what to do. Is this what it feels like to finally leave the nest? Was he ready?

........

Of course he was. His Nebulan ‘parents’ taught him all he needed to know in life, and he went forth to make his own path. He forged his own way, making a living as an assassin and a pirate. He met with old friends, recruiting Megalon into his crew, and made new ones, meeting a grumpy ol’ centipede. He also took those same friends and threw them under the bus when the law finally caught up with them.

He was totally going to come back for them, honest....

His career as an assassin came to an end, however, when the worst day of his life happened. It was like any other, coming to meet those who wanted a job done. However, this turned out to be nothing more than a means to trap the cyborg and put him through another Change...

This one, for the worst, as it completely stripped him of his space-duckness, his feathers gone, his sails tainted red. His new ‘Masters’ wishing to enslave him...

Needless to say, it didn’t end well for them, when they learned the mind-control chip was only ever mild and served more as a means of communication than anything. The Nebulans never needed complete control, like Ghidorah’s mind-control chip was designed for. They had Gigan’s loyalty because they were all he’s ever known. Like hell, he’s letting his freedom go for some no-name low-lives who think they’re hot shit.

Still, the whole experience left its mark. He quit the idea of working as an assassin, and went full-time pirate. Taking out all the anger and frustration on innocent ships, innocent worlds. Stealing their most important resources to sell on the underground space-market. Accumulating riches in the most dishonorable of means.

But every so often, the thought of a dragon would enter his mind. Those gold scales, those massive wings, a complete disregard for life. Everything he could ever want in a mate...

... He would have extra fun with his victims whenever he got that bothered.

Until one day, he decided he was finally going to act on those desires, make those fantasies a reality. He had the tracking information on Ghidorah, he just needed to catch up to him. Not too hard when the dragon would spend so much time destroying any life-bearing worlds he came across.

When he finally did meet his Master’s killer once more, he... didn’t really know what to do from here. His new Final Wars form made him a freak; even if he were to do a proper courtship, he was certain it wouldn’t be successful. Maybe play off his new look like it was an intentional change, something he labeled a “work-in-progress”? 

Would Ghidorah even recognize him?

Turns out, yes, yes he did. Despite Gigan’s attempts at friendly re-introduction, Ghidorah seemed just as hostile towards him as before, making it clear that he was still holding a grudge against the cyborg. But the dragon never really escalated that hatred into an actual fight.

This was something he can work with. 

And he was nothing if not persistent. Unlike all those other females the Nebulans would try to pair him with, this one was special. He wanted him, forever and not just for the night. For that, he knew he had to earn Ghidorah’s forgiveness. Maybe then, the dragon will be willing to give him a chance.

Worst case scenario, he still remembered how to activate that mind-control chip... 

[mythgirlimagines]

Come on down to the Animal Care Emporium, and meet this week’s talentswapped Myth! This is Myth, the Former Ultimate Breeder! ———-———————————————

BACKSTORY AND TALENT

Myth lived a lonely childhood with hardly any friends and a family that hardly gives her the time of day. However, Myth found solace in the stray animals that she regularly meets in her backyard and grew to love their loyalty and humbleness, something that many people in her life never even gave to her. Unfortunately, the lives of her pets were fleeting, and they regularly died, leaving the animal-loving girl heartbroken. This prompted Myth to find out all she can about animals, in order to help them. After school, she’d volunteer at animal shelters and veterinarian offices to learn all there is to know about animals, their behaviors, and their needs. Her growing expertise on animals reached its peak when Myth blew her employers out of the water with her care in handling and breeding animals to become stronger and longer-lived, and eventually opened a hybrid vet’s office and pet adoption center. This is what caused Myth to become the Ultimate Animal Breeder, although she’d much rather be called the Ultimate Animal Expert. Let’s just say that Myth encounters quite the odd number of customers during her workdays.

——————————————————-

RELATIONSHIPS

Wyre Anon, Graduated Reserve Course Student

Wyre was Myth’s first (and for a good portion of her life, only) human friend, also sharing an interest in animals (particularly dogs and lizards), much like the animal breeder. In fact, Wyre even kept the pet Blue Tounged Skink (which they named Blue, after the famous velociraptor) that Myth gave to them, as a sort of present for passing their Reserve Course exams. Unlike their talented friend, Wyre ended up going into Hope’s Peak as part of the Reserve Course, and ended up graduating in order to become a paleontologist. Even as young adults, the two girls’ friendship is still as strong as ever. In fact, Wyre loves to volunteer at Myth‘s animal center in her offtime, and Myth appreciates the extra pair of hands.

Outfit: Eyeglasses, a brown blazer over a messily-buttoned white dress shirt, brown pants, black shoes and socks, a paw-print necklace that Myth gave her.

Anon Scar, Ultimate Nurse

Scar is one of the most prolific nurses in the local hospital, despite her age, and for good reasons. Scar graduated from a prestigious medical school with honors, and made national headlines, because of her sheer intellect and sheer skill at all things medical. Her “Demon of Life” routine makes her a massive hit with sick and injured children. But that natural intellect came with a downside, for she was prone to stress attacks and sleep deprivation, during many parts of her career. After one too many, her employers suggested animal therapy, and this was how Scar ended up at the animal center and ended up adopting a black and wild-haired guinea pig that she named “Francois, Soldier of Life”.

Outfit: The mask, gloves, scarf and boots from her original design, hair cut to her shoulders, a long black overcoat over a purple sweater and matching pants, has a stethoscope around his neck.

Fusion Anon, Ultimate Gymnast

Unlike what his bony and gigantic frame would suggest, Fusion is famous for his skill in gymnastics and parkour, making him a several-gold-medal champion, that was even chosen to represent his country in the Olympics. Fusion always wanted a pet, but couldn’t get one for two reasons: because of the terrible financial situation of his family, and his intimidating and looming frame (and his unnatural stances he performs regularly) just scares off any potential pets. No matter how hard the breeder and gymnast tried, all of the animals just cower away at the sight of Fusion. That was until Fusion happened upon a fellow flexible outcast in a red-eyed albino ferret, that he eventually named Slinky.

Outfit: Bandages on his nose and arms, a blue and yellow sleeveless hoodie, red and black fingerless gloves, red and blue sweatpants, red, blue, and white sneakers, glasses from his original design.

Fusion Anon II, Ultimate Traditional Dancer

As the only child to a heavily-traditional family, Fusion II is very skilled in the art of traditional dance, and seems keen on reviving an otherwise dead mode of entertainment. Despite living in a very traditional family and her classy and feminine appearance, her snarky attitude and her love of modern internet culture, makes her far from your typical Yamato Nadeshiko. Just like the similarly named Fusion, Fusion II eventually adopted a younger albino ferret, that she named Kamaitachi (after the famous weasel from folklore), and she regularly slung Kamaitachi over her shoulders and strutted around with pride. But much to the dancer’s confusion and anger, the ferret seems to respond better to Slinky Jr..

Outfit: Hair in two small braids with a red flower accessory, a blue and silver kimono with a pink obi, white socks and tall geta sandals.

Just Anon, Ultimate Photographer

In spite of his sporadic and sparse uploading schedule, Janon is well-known for his scenic and downright photography that brings tears in the eyes to anyone gazing upon them. When he is not trekking the globe looking for places to photograph, you would mostly find him lying in bed or, if he’s not in bed and is far away from it, resting in whatever convenient spot he can find. Janon originally crashed at Myth’s animal center purely to sleep on a comfortable bench, but all of that changed, when a bunny scurried up to the lazy photographer and snuggled up next to him. And that was how Janon ended up with a new travel companion, named Lil’ Shizzdoodle.

Outfit: Same as the original, but with a Polaroid around his neck and the hair tied out of his eyes.

Sparkle Anon, Former Ultimate Swordswoman

With a bedazzled suit of armor she wears on the daily combined with a loud and boisterous tone of voice and a love for the histrionics, it’s very hard to not miss the presence of Sparkle Anon, who is revered amongst many circles for her expertise in only the most brutal of swordfighting tournaments. Needless to say, even Myth was a bit scared off by the suit of armor proclaiming in a loud and booming voice that she needs an animal companion that‘s as spectacular as she is. The only animals that were attracted by her suit of armor happened to be an animal the complete opposite of her aesthetic: a crow, that the swordfighter eventually adopted and named “Galahad”.

Outfit: A blue sparkly suit of armor with the cape from her original design, and a steel scabbard that houses her prized sword.

Egg Anon, Former Ultimate Yakuza, and Wet Sock Anon, Former Ultimate Mechanic

Considering what family they come from, and their generally fearsome and cursed personalities, it would make sense not to cross them, for Egg has expertise in all kinds of weapons and torture methods, and Wet Sock can lift an entire car and has quite the attachment to and collection of knives. For some reason, Egg fashions themselves as a sort of “mother hen” to the tens of hundreds of birds in the animal center and they all just flock to them, while their twin is the opposite, in which the animals of the center simply detest the mechanic. Myth is really confused as to how the yakuza can have control over all the birds, but Myth simply views as a conversation starter with them.

Egg’s Outfit: Hair shaved on the right side, a green pinstripe suit over a white dress shirt and a yellow and red striped tie.

Wet Sock’s Outfit: Hair shaved on the left side and brown goggles on their head, a black t-shirt over blue overalls, boots and gloves that match their t-shirt.

Curious Anon, Jr. Ultimate Musician

Famous for playing rock music for individuals of only the highest of classes, Curious has a dignified yet punk air surrounding them, which makes sense considering both their personality and the type of music that they play: this odd mix of classical and punk rock. Although they specialize in the electric violin, they can also play the guitar and keyboard. Surprisingly, despite their rough appearance and music, animals simply flock to them, whenever they play, and Curious is simply all too happy to let the animals fall and land on top of them. They eventually ended up getting a Rose-Breasted Cockatoo imprinted on them, that they named Amadeus, based on group consensus.

Outfit: Long and wild mid-back length hair with strips of hair dyed random colors, a red and black overcoat with long coattails over a white dress shirt and a fluffy white cravat with an emerald in the center, white gloves, a black cummerbund, white pants and tall black boots.

Anon Nerd, Former Ultimate Team Manager

Because of his loud and harsh demeanor, coaching only the most professional of athletes is right down Nerd’s alley. Unfortunately, years of coaching defiant and lazy athletes would definitely wear thin on anyone’s patience,  and that is definitely the case with Nerd, who is now hot-tempered and foul-mouthed from spending so much time around said defiant and lazy athletes, often taking all his pent-up rage on anyone who even slightly inconveniences him. Because of these experiences, Nerd prefers loyal and obedient animals compared to humans, and got particularly close to a fast and loyal greyhound. But he’d die before admitting that, and especially to the irksome yet adorable animal breeder.

Outfit: A red and black tracksuit with grey stripes and matching shoes, scouter from the original design.

Eldritch Anon, Ultimate Lucky Student

Despite being given the title of “Ultimate Lucky Student”, Eldritch considers himself far from lucky. Ever since Eldritch was little, he’s been haunted by extreme luck on both the good and bad ends. Because of all the traumatic events that are a result from his bad luck, Eldritch adopted a skittish, paranoid, pessimistic and very superstitious nature, and collects and hoards luck-bringing items and wears them everywhere that he goes. Eldritch seems to have the opposite problem as Fusion, for animals love him, but he’s very afraid of them, and wants to avoid them at all costs. Well, every animal apart from a two-legged, one-eyed, fertile, male calico cat, that he named “Hopespot”.

Outfit: A green hoodie over a black sweater, ragged white leggings with black spots, brown boots with white fluff, has good-luck charms and bandages on every part of his body.

Dream Anon, Ultimate Animator

Famous for being the big name behind just about every big sports anime in recent memory, such as “Volleybros” and “Dance Journey” (which were inspired by two of her favorite physical activities, volleyball and dancing respectively), Dream is a master animator famous for her fast drawing and animating speed and her ability to draw gripping action scenes and write only the most lovable of athletic high schoolers. Dream’s energetic and cheery demeanor means that she needed a pet to match that, and she eventually settled on a fluffy and energetic little Syrian Hamster that she named Wilson. Some people noted the similarity in appearance and demeanor between the owner and pet.

Outfit: A grey ski cap, a blue and orange vest with several patches on it over a pink sweater, black artist gloves, orange shorts and red, blue and grey sneakers.

Iris Anon, Ultimate Chef

In spite of being merely a middle schooler (and a pretty clumsy one at that), Iris is the star and beacon of warmth and positivity of her parents’ family diner (known as the Shooting Star Family Diner) and is revered as a great chef by anyone lucky to try her signature dishes, particularly the “Star-Steak” and the “Galaxy-Curry”. Unlike the rest of the regulars at the animal center, who come to the adoption center, Iris frequently goes to Myth‘s veterinary clinic with her pet dog, Roxie, in case the dog gets hurt or sick. The two girl‘s bonded over their energetic and earnest demeanors and their shared love of dogs. In fact, Iris is currently trying to make pet food to give to the animals at the center. 

Outfit: A white chef’s outfit with a galaxy-patterned bandana around her neck, and a blue apron with the logo of her diner on the front.

Purple Anon, Ultimate Gamer

Despite what her polite demeanor and heavily formal and outdated vocabulary would suggest, Purple is actually an online gamer who tops the charts of any game that she happens upon, particularly fantasy-themed turn-based RPGs. The timid attitude and busy schedule of the gamer meant that she needed a quiet, low maintenance, and normally placid animal, and a purple betta fish managed to catch the gamer’s eye. She chose only the finest glass fish tank that her influential parents could afford, and named the brightly-colored fish “Iridescent”. Myth may have trouble understanding the gamer, but she’s happy that she satisfied both the animal and the customer.

Outfit: Hair that reaches her tailbone, a black ski cap, purple headphones, a black hoodie over a white dress shirt and a red and purple tie, a skirt that matches her tie, black stockings and purple and white Converses.

In this AU, as opposed to the Kibo-Con, the Anons all meet up at Myth’s animal center, and Myth helps them find the perfect animal companion for them!

————————————————-——

PERSONALITY

In order to compensate for her lonely childhood, Myth adopted the outgoing and cheery personality of the world travelers, animal experts and animal rescuers that she watches on TV all the time. These eccentricities of her’s don’t stop her from being a practical expert in all things animal, and she is a respected researcher in the world of zoology. Because of her isolated childhood, Breeder!Myth is rather naïve when it comes to subjects of conversation apart from animals. Breeder!Myth has an inhumanly high empathy, which makes it hard for her to eat meat without thinking of slaughterhouses and inhuman torture. This means Breeder!Myth is a vegetarian, an avid animal rights activist, and someone who has a real connection with animals and what ever they need, showing empathy for even the weakest and most hopeless little whelps in the shelter. Nicknames for Breeder!Myth include “Modern Dr. Doolittle”, “The Beast-tamer”, and “The Pet Whisperer”.

——————————————————-

APPEARANCE

Breeder!Myth wears her brown hair down and wears a cerulean hat with cat ears and yellow dots for eyes. Breeder!Myth wears a green jacket with brown pawprint designs over a brown dress shirt and a bi flag bandana around her neck. Her short overalls are a darker green compared to her jacket, her socks match her jacket and her shoes are white with pink cat paws on the bottom.

———————-—————————–—

I hope you like this talentswap! I’d love to hear your opinions on them! In the meantime, stay safe and stay tuned for more content!

-Fusion Anon

[holyfuckthisfishcandrive]

Shots and Guilt

First, Previous(Chap. 23), Ao3

Word count: 3610

Warnings: Gun, Blood and Injury, (kinda) Torture, Knives, Bloodlust, Smoking, Underage Drinking, Drinking and Driving, Gore, Skipping a Meal, Alcohol (even more of it), Guilt, Choking, Mention of Past Murder, Panic Attack, Self Harm

This really isn't a nice chapter. If anyone needs it I can make a summary of it. Just leave a comment or send me an ask if that's the case. Stay safe.

Virgil listened to the sound of the rain pattering against the car and the radio woman report what had happened in Aunt Lian's block earlier this night.

Glitch monsters.

He dug around the glove compartment until he found Uncle Remy's cigarettes, hidden under the ammunition, lit one and took a drag. He watched the smoke curl and opened the window just by an inch to release it into the night.

Destroyed street lights.

He glanced at the Seven11 Remy had disappeared in about half an hour ago and lit his lighter again, watching the tiny flame dance in the stale light of the car lamp.

Messed up electronics.

A shadowy figure stood next to his window and Virgil glanced over at them. They were holding a knife. Good for them.

"Fuck off," Virgil mumbled tiredly and took another drag.

"Open the car door if you know what's good for you, kid," the guy demanded.

Virgil couldn't help but chuckle at that. He took his feet off the headboard and sat up slowly.

"If I know what's good for myself? If you know what's good for yourself you're going to fucking piss off now!"

"Kid-!" he thrust the knife at the window gap and Virgil kicked open the door hitting them square on the chest. They stumbled back and growled. "I'm going to fucking kill you, brat!"

Vigil stepped out of the car, taking the butterfly knife and the colt from the glove compartment with him.

"No, you're not," he stepped on his cigarette to put it out.

The robber was big. About twice as tall and five times as wide as Virgil, all muscles and heavy bones.

But at the sight of the gun, he froze. An uneasy smile took the place of the angry grimace.

They were in a lonely and dark parking lot. Nobody would look out of the window if they heard a gunshot or scream.

"Kid, don't do anything you're gonna regret. I'm part of the Trulow family. They're gonna hunt you down if you shoot me. No ones gonna find you're body! I bet yer mother's gonna get worried sick if her kid doesn't come home!"

Again Virgil laughed humourlessly.

The rain was cold on his skin and his hair stuck to his face and neck but he couldn't care less. There was that feeling in his chest again that he knew Papa knew well, even if he never wanted to talk about it, the feeling he couldn't imagine living without even after being told a thousand times that it wasn't normal, that he wasn't supposed to talk about with people outside of the family. That intoxicating feeling - better than any liquor, pills or joint but no less dangerous. "It's what makes our kind what we are," Uncle Emile had once said. The man across from him knew it too. Virgil could tell. Otherwise, he wouldn't flinch back. Wouldn't be able to see it in Virgil's smile and his every movement like a bloody red threat.

The bloodlust felt like a promise in his lungs.

"Jokes on you," he slowly walked towards the man. "My mothers dead. And if you're really a Trulow, how come I've never seen you on the Christmas card? I'm sure I'd remember a face as ugly as yours."

"What-?" the man stumbled backwards.

"If you want to make it in this city you really ought to learn who to threaten and who's out of your league. You're just another sewer rat. I'm like a motherfucking prince to you."

The man fell back on his ass, crawling backwards.

"Run along now, rat. Wouldn't want mommy to worry, would we?"

The man scrambled to his feet and turned to run.

Virgil raised the gun, aimed and fired.

A scream cut through the air as the man crashed into the concrete.

He sobbed and whimpered, staring at the blood sprayed over the ground as if he couldn't believe it was his. As if the realisation that there was now a hole where his foot connected to his leg hadn't quite made its way into his thick head yet.

"Sorry," Virgil said as he got closer and knelt down next to him. "Couldn't resist. You better not tell my Pa about this."

He dug his hand into the wound until his fingers found the bullet, ignoring the pained screams.

"He hates when I use guns. Which I honestly don't get. I mean, he uses them all the time! Bloody double standards," he inspected the bloody bullet in his hand.

"Who- Who the fuck are you?" the man sobbed.

Virgil grinned. "Have you ever heard those rumours? About Professor Logic having a child?"

The man's eyes widened in terror.

Virgil heard the doors of the Seven11 slide open and stood up.

Remy raised an eyebrow as he got closer.

"Jesus, can't I leave you alone for five minutes?" he asked.

"That was half an hour. And he started it. He wanted to rob the car or something. I only used one bullet if that's what you're worried about," Virgil tossed the gun over to him and Remy caught it in his free hand.

"Whatever. Just get in the car, hon. I got slushies and alcohol. We can stop at Crispy Creme if you want to."

"Sure," Virgil picked up the knife the would-be robber had dropped and jogged back to the car. "I hope they have warm doughnuts."

"They better. Oh, and there should be some baby wipes in the glove compartment. I'm not letting you eat with that guy's blood on your hands. Who knows what's been in that-? Wait, did you steal one of my cigs?"

"...No," Virgil claimed and was suddenly very interested in cleaning every crevice of his hand.

"Don't fucking lie to me. Just don't smoke in the car next time and ask before you take one. Emile doesn't like when the car smells," Remy handed him one of the slushies.

"Sorry," Virgil took a long sip until the pain of bain freeze bloomed behind his forehead before digging around in Remy's bag until he found the alcohol..

"Pour me some in too, would ya?"

"Sure," Virgil unscrewed the cap and poured some in his own then a bit more in Remy's cup. "More or is this good?"

Remy glanced over at him.

"Who the fuck do you think I am?"

"More it is."

"Exactly."

"I swear you're that "Two shots of vodka" vine," Virgil shook his head.

Remy chuckled. "I take zero offence to that. Also, I gotta make sure you don't drink too much. You have school tomorrow."

"You're literally drinking and driving. And I'm going to school trollied tomorrow whether you like it or not."

"I think this is why your father hates me."

"He doesn't hate you. He can't. You and Uncle Emile are like his only friends."

"Doesn't he also have that flower boy?" Remy pulled into the Crispy Creme's parking lot.

"That's his boyfriend," Virgil corrected and took another sip. Slowly he felt the alcohol kick in.

"You mean your new father, then?"

"I guess. Not officially yet but hopefully soon. He's nice. On the other hand, if he moves in I'll have to hide my skull collection."

Virgil followed Remy out of the car and into the shop.

The sugary sweet smell of warm doughnuts filled the air.

Remy bought a box, tipped a twenty and pulled Virgil back out with him.

"I'm not letting you drink any more," he decided. "You're not going to school drunk, kid."

"Yes, I am. Fuck off and give me a doughnut."

"Either you stop drinking or you don't get any doughnuts."

Virgil glared at him and took a doughnut.

"Fine."

---

He still had a headache when he went to math class later.

He wasn't sure if it was just the hungover or also something else.

Not that it mattered. He had already learned the shit, the man, whose name he couldn't remember, was explaining incredibly badly at the blackboard.

Instead of paying attention he stared blankly out of the window.

Slowly the sleep deprivation was also starting to catch up with him, making his eyes heavy.

Janus had texted him that they wouldn't be coming to school for the day, which made it even more dull than usual.

He should have stayed drunk.

Then it at least would've been somewhat interesting.

Virgil woke up again to the sound of the school bell. He blinked a few times, trying to reorient himself and sighed.

At least math was over.

His next lesson was English, then Chemistry.

Or maybe he should just skip.

It wouldn't make a difference.

Maybe he could find a nice spot for the graffiti design he'd come up with based on the last body he'd found in the sewers.

The rats had eaten the fuckers stomach out and Virgil had set the eyebrows or rather what had been left of the eyebrows, on fire before taking a few pictures for reference.

He'd just have to come up with something for when Janus asked where he'd gotten the idea.

Virgil left the classroom and ducked into the nearest bathroom, locking the stall door behind himself before climbing out of the window. He wondered briefly how long it'd stay locked before someone noticed that it wasn't occupied at all. Probably at least until the toilets were cleaned. Whenever that'd be.

A sports teacher was preparing a lesson by the tracks but she was too focused on the task at hand to notice Virgil sneak to the fence and climb over it. He gave the school a middle finger over his shoulder as he walked away. For all he cared, every single person in there could go fuck themselves. Especially the principal.

Papa was working - at the university today - so Virgil went home to drop off his backpack and picked up his graffiti bag, headphones and the sketchbook he'd drawn the design in..

He strolled through the streets of downtown, avoided a few coppers and took an underground to take him wherever. As long as there were big empty walls there he didn't care.

He got out at the sixth stop.

Virgil didn't make a habit of spending time uptown.

Occasionally maybe, for family celebrations or when he and Janus planned heists but other than that he stayed in the part of town he had been raised in.

But that didn't mean that he didn't know the streets and alleyways, the shops, public buildings and skyscrapers made of glass, like towers out of a fairy tale. Papa was of the firm opinion that knowledge was power and he'd made sure that Virgil knew everything he needed about Woethough.

It didn't take him long to find a good wall.

The back of the main police station was just painfully boring.

Virgil pulled the half mask he used for vigilante business over his face, partly to avoid someone seeing his face and partly because of the fumes. Then he opened the sketch book and pulled two spray cans out of his bag, shaking them.

This'd be fun.

He worked far slower than usual, the anxiety over being spotted by the damned pigs making him pack up the cans he wasn't using immediately, so he'd be able to make a quick escape, and check for witnesses every five minutes.

By some miracle no one came by. For a while, he had the insistent feeling of being watched but couldn't find anyone.

He watched the flames, body and rats take shape with every colour he added until he got to the point where more would only make it worse.

Virgil took a few steps back and grinned. He signed it with his usual spider and took a photo to send Janus. They weren't online so he didn't bother waiting for a reply and packed up his stuff.

It was around noon now and he was getting hungry but ignored the feeling. He could eat later.

Instead he walked around some more, pickpocketed a businessman he recognized from TV - Mr Grimm or something like that - and bought a few new markers from the stolen money, before climbing onto the roof of a library to test them out.

At eight he took a train back to downtown.

It was already dark thanks to autumn finally taking over properly and most other teens were probably either suicidal, gang members or at home.

This was the beauty of the city.

As soon as the sun went down the few laws that were actually followed became meaningless.

Now the city belonged to the street rats and the lawless. They were all animals. From the racoons and possums, over the henchmen and thieves up to the mafia and his family.

All animals.

Hungry for blood.

Greedy and destructive.

Virgil absolutely loved it.

He passed a few of Uncle Jeremy's men beating up a cop with a crowbar in an alleyway, greeting him as he passed, watched a woman smash a chair over the head some guy who had tried to grope her, dishevelled and angry, and grinned at the raven and racoon, which were fighting viciously over some small animal one of them had killed.

There was a light burning in the living room when he got home. Not the ceiling light - it was far too muted for that.

He unlocked the front door and shut it behind himself. It was warm in here.

"I'm home!" he called, taking off his shoes and jacket.

No reply.

"Papa?"

Still no reply.

Virgil frowned, waiting for a moment longer and went into the living room.

Papa was slumped on the couch, fingers tracing an empty glass. Next to it on the table was an empty bottle of whiskey, that Virgil knew had been more than half full just this morning. He'd opened it after all.

Slowly Papa looked up as if only noticing him standing in the doorway now.

"...V'gil," he slurred.

"How much did you drink?" Virgil asked with a frown. He couldn't remember ever having seen Papa drunk.

He blinked at the bottle and gestured vaguely with one hand. "J'st a little."

Virgil sighed.

"Well, you clearly had enough. You're fucking trollied. Let's get you to bed, shall we? You'll hate yourself for this tomorrow, you know?"

"Already do," Papa mumbled as Virgil put his arm over his shoulder to support him.

Papa leaned on him heavily and Virgil staggered under the weight slightly but managed to bring him to the stairs, where Papa could also hold onto the bannister, taking some of the weight of his shoulders.

"You look so much like your mother," Papa suddenly said, just as they reached the second floor and Virgil almost let him fall in surprise.

Papa didn't talk about her.

He never did.

"She had her hair like that for a while too," Papa continued. "Then she grew it out longer. She looked so beautiful. Like an angel."

Virgil kicked open the door to Papa's room.

He didn't say anything, almost forgetting how to breathe. Papa was actually talking about her.

Carefully Virgil let him slide onto the bed and ducked to take off his shoes.

"I didn't mean to kill her," Papa said, anguish in his voice as he began combing through Virgil's hair with one hand. "I really didn't. I  just- I just wanted to scare her."

His hand slid over Virgil's cheek slowly and even though Papa was looking at him Virgil had the feeling that he wasn't seeing him.

No.

Papa was seeing her.

"I didn't think it'd be that fragile," Papa's hand slid down further and settled on Virgil's neck. A jolt of panic shot through him. "I didn't think it'd break that easily."

Papa began to squeeze.

"I just grabbed her and pressed down."

His grip began to hurt and Virgil tried to gasp for breath, clawing at the hand on his throat.

"And then she was dead. Just like that."

Blackspots appeared in Virgil's vision and he swung out wildly.

His fist hit Papa on the temple and he collapsed onto the bed.

Virgil gasped and coughed, stumbling back towards the door and slammed it as soon as he was on the hallway.

He still couldn't breathe.

Why the fuck couldn't he breathe?!

His vision swam, from tears this time instead of lack of oxygen.

Was this how she had felt?

In her last moments, getting choked by the man she had loved and trusted?

He didn't want this. This panic in his chest keeping him from breathing and making the world around him blur. At least not because of Papa. Not him. Never because of Papa. Papa was supposed to be safe. Papa protected him. Papa helped him calm down.

Papa had just tried to kill him.

Virgil sobbed.

Papa had tried to kill him the same way he'd killed her.

Virgil barely remembered to grab his jacket as he ran out, slamming the front door and running down the dark street.

He stopped at the North Bridge and collapsed against the railing.

The air was now so cold it almost burned in his lungs as he finally managed to take a breath. His throat hurt. He carefully wrapped his hand around it. It'd bruise.

 "You look so much like your mother."

Virgil stumbled on through the streets. His reflection in a dark shop window caught his attention and made him stop.

His cheeks were streaked with black.  His eyes were covered almost completely by messy black hair.

So she had had shoulder-long hair at one point.

Virgil grabbed a hand full of hair and pulled at it until a few strands ripped off.

He stared down at them.

He didn't want Papa to see her in his place.

The lights of another store, also reflecting in the shop window he was standing in front of caught his attention.

Did they have bleach there?

He crossed the street.

The shop was empty and Virgil was barely aware of the song playing over the speakers, so quiet that it was drowned out by his mind.

He grabbed two cartons.

Bleach and the first hair dye his hand touched. He didn't care. He had no idea what colour her hair had been. He just didn't want black.

He didn't bother to wait for his change as he handed the cashier a twenty and fled the store.

Back at home, Virgil locked himself in the bathroom and ripped open the bleach carton, barely skimming the instructions.

The chemical smell filled the room as he spread it over his hair and when he was done he had to open a window to breathe.

He set a timer on his phone and busied himself with washing off his make up while he let it set.

Once he was done with that he began pulling at the skin of his arms and digging his nails into the scars to keep his thoughts from spiralling again.

The timer went off and he rinsed his hair out.

It was almost white now.

He ripped open the secong carton.

Purple.

For fucks sake.

He spread it over his hair, careful to get it everywhere.

If he was going to look stupid he might as well make sure it wasn't splotchy.

He wasn't hungry anymore but he still went into the kitchen and warmed up some soup, forcing himself to eat, despite the gag reflex that kicked in a few times.

Then he washed his hair again.

He didn't bother looking at the result before he grabbed the razor and scissors. Once he was done he pulled on a turtle neck to hide the forming bruise, poured a glass of water and grabbed an aspirin.

For a few minutes he stood in front of Papa's door, frozen until he managed to go in, put both items on the nightstand and immediately flee again.

Then he once again grabbed his jacket and left, locking the door behind himself.

He wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. At least not if he stayed here.

---

A knock on the window snapped Janus out of the half-asleep half-awake state they'd been in for hours.

Slowly they stood up, the floor cold against their bare feet, and frowned at the figure in the window.

They grabbed a glass water bottle as a weapon and cautiously opened it.

The figure slid inside.

"Virgil?" Janus frowned and set down the bottle. "The fuck are you doing here?!"

"You owe me," Virgil rasped. "Five nights. From that bet."

Janus blinked, their brain catching up slowly.

"The one we made for my parent's wedding?"

Virgil nodded.

He was upset. Even in the dark Janus could tell.

They closed the window, cutting off the cold draft, and Virgil took off his shoes.

For a moment they contemplated what to say.

They were sure that something had happened.

They just didn't know what.

"I won't ask," they finally said, "but if you want to talk... I'm here for you, okay?"

Virgil nodded.

"Thanks."

He didn't say anything else. His voice was hoarse.

Janus led him over to their bed and climbed in, letting him follow.

He'd cut his hair.

It also looked lighter than usual, though they couldn't be sure in the bad lighting.

Janus had almost fallen asleep again when they hear a muffled sob.

They looked over at Virgil again.

He was crying.

So something bad had happened.

For a moment they hesitated before they wrapped their arms around Virgil and pulled him against their chest.

"It'll be okay," they promised.

Virgil just latched onto them and buried his face in their shirt.

Next

Taglist:

@patton-cake , @isabelle-stars

[kimnamjooonz]

Blank Space - Episode 2.

‘’Look what you made me do 

Second episode of this.... fictional work. 

Songs used in this Episode:

Look What You Made Me Do - Taylor Swift 

Change - Taylor Swift 

I’m A Mess - Bebe Rexha 

‘’But I got harder I got smarter with the nick of time, baby I rose up from the dead, I do it all the time’’

Amanda and Taylor arrived at King's Cross station in very different states of mind. Taylor was looking fresh, ready to start the day while Amanda even though her make up and clothes were flawless, looked sleep deprived and annoyed. She had eaten all the food that Clint had given her in Cardiff but she was still hungry. To make things worse for Amanda, the day was pretty hot and was making her head hurt. And also Taylor was completely into the role of Amanda's agent/manager/mum and was keeping her under close watch. She had confiscated Amanda's phone as the last thing she needed was her protegee getting upset over that insanity of Sebastian Stan dating someone. Who even cared about that? Well, apparently Amanda, judging by her whole sleepless night listing to Beyonce's revenge songs probably imagining that she hit Stan with a baseball bat. Even though Taylor was just a couple of months older than Amanda, she was a lot more emotionally mature. She had been in an stable relationship for months, unlike Amanda, who didn't even try to make this a reality. If Amanda Ward-Prowse was obsessed with something, it was acting and she spent all of her free time perfecting her craft, dedicating only one night a week to go out with Taylor. That was why Sebastian Stan was the perfect man for her: he didn't know she existed, he didn't waste her precious time like a real boyfriend would do and he was a sort of a motivation for her. He was just the object of Amanda's affection. Both girls knew London pretty well as they've been there quite often in the last months thanks to Amanda's auditions. They stopped to eat something before making their way to the hotel, that was in Greenwich, a bit far away from where they were but it was one of the few places that wasn't so pricey and was quite nice. ''I still have no idea how can you climb stairs with those heels of yours'' said Taylor with admiration. ''Years of practice, pain and injuries. Now I can even run with heels'' Amanda had a self sufficient smile on her face.

Only when they were at the hotel Amanda noticed how tired she was. She threw herself on the bed, kicking her heels away. Taylor was in the bathroom so she took advantage of that to get back her phone. She needed to see Twitter to see what the hell was going on with Sebastian. She was about to tap on the blue bird on the screen of her phone with her pointy finger when she had  it taken away by Taylor, who tapped something on the screen and put it back in her purse before Amanda could complain. ''Before you say anything...'' Taylor warned her. ''I logged you out of Twitter and you're not logging in after your audition tomorrow.'' ''What was that for?'' Amanda was a bit annoyed. ''You're not spending another sleepless night stalking Sebastian Stan's love life.'' Amanda had the decency of looking confused. Any person that wasn't Taylor would have believed that she truly had no intention of doing exactly that. But Taylor knew her too well. ''Taylor! I was not going to do that! I don't even care about it... how can you even think of that? Sebastian is just someone I truly admire.'' she said with a conviction that was truly believable. ''I was going to see if I had any notifications.'' ''Amanda, you have a fan account. What notifications aren't you expecting to get that are not related to that guy?'' Amanda didn't have any explanation so she just sulked. ''Okay, you win. For the last time'' If there was something Amanda hated with a burning passion was losing. From a card game to her favourite team's football match. That was one of the reasons she was upset about the Sebastian Stan situation: someone else had won his heart even though she had absolutely no say in this. She didn't even know the guy in person, to begin with. ''You have everything ready for tomorrow?'' Taylor asked and Amanda just nodded. In her mind she was planning the audition again and again. But she was confident as she had had the audition planned for months. Amanda fell asleep almost immediately and she had to thank the previous sleepless night for that. She was so tired that there wasn't room for feeling nervous or anxious but the next morning those feelings kicked hard. She was trying to convince herself that even if she didn't make it into the RADA it was not the end of the world and she could audition again next year. But she couldn't lie to herself, she wanted to get into that school more than she'd ever wanted anything. It could be the beginning of a nice career in acting. Taylor tried to make her eat something with little success as Amanda seemed to be completely immersed in what was going to happen in the next few hours. ''Are you ready?'' Taylor asked and Amanda just nodded. They were in complete silence during the whole underground ride. Both of them were nervous: they knew that this was the end of the process, the now or never, the final audition. ''Here we are'' Amanda mumbled to herself when she and Taylor crossed the doors of the giant and imposing building that was the RADA. So many successful people had been exactly in the place she was right then. She could almost see a young Gemma Artenton or Tom Hiddleston being nervous wrecks just as she was right now. There were other auditionees at the place and no one was talking or even glancing at each other. There were limited places (only 14 men and 14 women) so it was natural to see the other as competition and no one really wanted to know against who they were competing. At least Amanda didn't want to. Them both took seats, far apart from anyone. Amanda immediately stood up. ''I need to go to the bathroom.'' Amanda basically ran there and locked the door immediately after getting in. Sorry if someone needed to get in but she needed to be alone and think for a second. And she was convinced that it wasn't the first time that someone had locked themselves in there. It was the RADA after all, full of dramatic people. ''You got this'' she said to herself, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She looked beautiful even if she was paler than death. This time she was not going to be defeated because she was in charge of the result. This was no football match or the Sebastian Stan situation in which she could do nothing about the outcome. She remembered the lyrics of one of her favourite Taylor Swift songs, Change. ''And it's a sad picture, the final blow hits you, somebody else gets what you wanted again, and you know it's all the same, in another time and place, repeating history and you're getting sick of it.'' But not this time. She smiled at her reflection. She wanted a place at the RADA and no one was going to take it from her. She had to laugh at the irony of it all. 24 hours ago she had been listening to Beyonce's Sorry, imagining that she was dedicating it to Sebastian Stan. Now she couldn't care less even though those emotions were going to come in handy for the audition. A little wound in the heart (and her ego) was enough to get extra motivation. Thank you very much, Sebastian. She had to laugh again, remember the next lines of Taylor's Change: ''Because these things will change, can you feel it now? The walls that the put up to hold us back will fall down, it's a revolution, the time will come for us to finally win.'' With much more confidence she left the bathroom.

''Better?'' Taylor asked her when Amanda got back to the seats. ''Yeah. I was having an epiphany.'' Taylor tried not to laugh. She was used to Amanda coming up with the weirder stuff. Like that time when they were twelve years old and Amanda hadn't got the lead role in the school's winter musical and she had tried to jinx the girl who had got the part with a pentagram. It had been a total coincidence that the girl had caught an stomach bug and couldn't do the play, Amanda ended up doing it (and shining) and to put the icing to the cake, a talent agent from the Royal Welsh College Of Music And Drama discovered and invited her to get acting lessons there for the next four summers. At that time Taylor had been totally on Amanda's side because the girl who had originally got the part only got it because she was the daughter of the school's principal, not because she was more talented than Amanda. And she really wasn't. ''You don't need epiphanies to ace this. You're a triple threat, you can act, dance and even sing. You have training and experience. You've got this.'' ''Yeah... but all of this people have training and experience too. Some of them more than me. Never underestimate them. They're here for a reason.'' Amanda looked around for the first time. Everyone there looked nervous, some were rereading their lines, other were praying and just a few were talking to whoever that had accompanied them. ''Do you know the order in which they are calling you all?'' Taylor asked. ''No. But they like to torture us so I guess the order is just random.'' She had just finished saying this when a formal looking woman that Amanda had seen before in the previous auditions, approached the room. ''Hello, people'' no one greeted her back. Everyone was just too nervous to speak. ''The order of today's audition was especially arranged by the examiners. They have their reasons, I suppose. More details will be given to you soon.'' she looked at the list. ''Amanda Ward-Prowse, you go first.'' ''Damn'' she cursed. ''Better first than last'' Taylor whispered. ''Go! You got this.'' Feeling in a sort of daze, Amanda followed the woman. ''There'' the woman pointed to a room and Amanda got in. The thing that surprised her the most was that there were five examiners instead of the usual two she already knew, that luckily were there. Maybe it was like that in the last stage of the auditions. ''Miss Ward-Prowse. You can take a seat. You probably remember us, Edward Branton and Sylvia Smith for the RADA panel of admitions.'' Amanda nodded. They were the ones she knew. ''And this is Katherine Mellows from The Juilliard School in New York...'' he pointed to a middle aged woman who greeted her with a smile. ''Christine Gilbert, a casting director...'' he pointed to an strict looking woman. ''...and Damien Chazelle, a director.'' Amanda thought she had heard that name before but she couldn't picture where. ''Miss Ward-Prowse'' said Sylvia Smith. ''I don't want to put pressure on you but these three people came all the way from New York City just to see you.'' Amanda didn't believe that for a second but she had to admit it was a nice way to make the auditionees work under pressure. Nice one there, RADA. ''I'm honoured'' she just said. ''They want to ask you a couple of things'' said Mrs. Smith. ''Do you mind?'' ''Not at all.'' she said. She wanted to start with her audition but if these people wanted to know more about her training in Cardiff and her experience at the Globe Theatre or in the Royal Shakespeare Company, better for her. ''Your resume says that you started doing summer courses at the Royal Welsh College Of Music and Drama at just twelve years old.'' said Mrs. Mellows and Amanda nodded. ''Impressive. And you've been in numerous Shakespeare plays at the Shakespeare's Globe Theatre since 2010, some minor roles in television and three plays at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. '' ''Exactly'' that was her favourite story to tell. ''I was Lady Anne in Richard III, Anne Boleyn in Henry VIII and Lady Macbeth in Macbeth.'' she tried to look humble and too proud of herself. Gilbert and Chazelle just looked at each other, as if they were sharing a secret message. ''And you shared the stage with Ian McKellen in Macbeth'' stated Mrs. Mellows. Amanda had no idea how she knew that. That information wasn't in her resume. ''Yes. It was a fantastic experience'' she was being humble again and with great difficulty. Mrs. Gilbert nodded and Chazelle looked impressed. ''That's fantastic'' he said. ''Even I want to work with Ian McKellen. You're really lucky, Miss Ward-Prowse.'' Amanda had no idea of what to say so she was relieved when Mellows started to talk again. ''There were strong rumours of a possible nomination to a Laurence Olivier award for your role as Lady Macbeth.'' This time Amanda was genuinely surprised. She had had no idea about those rumours. She had never read the critics of her performance as back on May 2016 she had been too busy planning how she could get to the Captain America: Civil War premiere to see the actors walking the red carpet and with good luck get Sebastian Stan's autograph. Of course that never happened as the night of the premiere she was on the stage being Lady Macbeth. She was cursing herself for being distracted with Sebastian's beautiful blue eyes and not noticing a possible nomination to a bloody Laurence Olivier. Maybe it was for the best as she hadn't got the nomination after all. ''They were just rumours.'' she said after a long pause. ''I wonder why you're not famous yet'' said Chazelle with admiration in his voice. ''One more question'' this time it was Mrs. Gilbert who spoke. ''If you could choose a dream role in a play, a movie and TV show, which one you chose?'' ''I'd like to be in one of those movies that become modern classics and no one ever forgets. I'd love to lead a movie like that'' she answered and by some reason the five examiners looked content. ''I'd love to play Elphaba Thropp in Wicked and... in TV, I'd love to be the fourteenth Doctor.'' ''So... if it's everything said... let's start with your audition'' said Mrs. Smith. ''What did you chose for the monologue? Classical of contemporary?'' ''Classical'' Amanda had decided to play it safe and do one of her best rehearsed monologues. ''Lady Macbeth Damned Spot from Macbeth. Act 5 Scene 1.'' Smith and Branton smiled at each other. ''I've been waiting to see this for months'' said Mellows with an excited voice. Chazelle clapped a little and smiled. ''Smart girl'' said Gilbert with an smile, knowing that Amanda had done that scene numerous times in the past with a bigger audience than five examiners. All this reactions sparkled Amanda's curiosity but she immediately took it out of her mind. ''Whenever you're ready'' said Branton. She stood up and with confidence walked to the centre of the room. She had done that scene so many times that it was natural to be under Lady Macbeth's skin again. And very relieving. When she ended her monologue she felt a mixture of relief with triumph. She knew she had aced it and judging by the examiner's faces she was not wrong. Damien Chazelle and the woman from Juilliard were not even trying to hide it. Both of them were clapping. The examiners whispered between themselves for a couple of minutes and Amanda stood there, waiting for instructions. ''Okay...'' it was Chazelle who spoke. ''We're going to chance the second part of the audition to something that you'd maybe like. Can you read this?'' he handed her a sheet of paper. ''It's a monologue from a movie that, of course, you don't know. Imagine that you're auditioning for it.'' She started reading, too concentrated to feel intimidated or overwhelmed. There was a whole paragraph explaining the settling of the scene.

New York City, 1985. Young Meredith Hathaway finds herself walking down under the icy rain of New York's winter, frustrated by another failed attempt of having just a little success of Broadway. She wondered if the best thing was to pack her things and go back to her country of origin. She had lost once again and she was tired about everything being so unattainable. At the front of Broadway's most famous theatre she vents out every single one of her feelings.

Amanda almost laughed. She could relate to Meredith Hathaway in so many ways... well, fifteen minutes before the audition she was almost having a breakdown in a bathroom singing Taylor Swift songs in her head. It was more or less the same.   ''I think I got it'' she said with a smile. ''Go ahead'' said Chazelle who, by some reason looked very happy. ''By the way, can you read it with your original Welsh accent? I think that'd go perfect'' the other four nodded and Amanda wondered what was this all about. Not that she cared, she was probably scoring extra points. Amanda took what she could about Meredith Hathaway's and started reading the monologue. The piece of writing was very witty and painful at the same time. Amanda could feel Meredith Hathaway's anger and frustration in those words. She could relate to it and at the same time go and shake Meredith's shoulder and help her to make her dreams come true. Of the whole paragraph the phrase ''It's not the first public breakdown people have seen in New York City'' got stuck in her mind. Playing Meredith Hathaway in a play or in a movie was what Amanda considered a dream role. When she finished the five examiners looked at her with unreadable smiles. ''Okay Miss Ward-Prowse, you finally finished your audition process'' said Mr. Branton. ''We'll call you back in twenty minutes to tell you the result.'' Amanda was more confused than ever. ''But aren't the results given to us in a month via email?'' she asked. ''Change of policy'' said Mrs. Smith. Amanda just nodded and left the room, still confused. The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts was the most traditionalist place in the world, it was hard to imagine that they were changing the policy from one year to the other. As long as she made it she didn't care about that at all. She found Taylor waiting at the same place she had left her. ''How did it go?'' she asked. Amanda thought about that for a second. ''It went well. Like, really well. But it was weird. There weren't just Smith and Branton, as usual. There was a woman from Juilliard and couple of directors. One of them a casting director. All of them from New York.'' Taylor covered his face with her hands. ''Oh my God, maybe they want you for Broadway!'' Amanda laughed. ''Don't make hyperventilate, Taylor. Just the thought of it its overwhelming. Damn, being on the West End would be a dream, I can't even imagine Broadway.'' ''But what was a woman from Juilliard doing at your audition?'' Taylor was thinking. ''For God's sake, maybe they want you there! Just imagine the RADA and Juilliard fighting for you!' Amanda laughed again. ''That'd be like having Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan fighting for my hand in marriage'' she rolled her eyes. ''I mean, I have some talent but I'm not Meryl Streep. Still... if that were the case, I'd choose the RADA. Yeah, I know that getting into Juilliard is harder than getting into Harvard but... I can't sustain myself in New York, I have no money for that. At least here in London I'm just two hours away from home. By the way, did you know that I almost got a Laurence Olivier nom for Lady Macbeth?'' Taylor almost choked. ''WHAT? I know you were good but... an award.'' ''Well, you're supposed to check on that, you're my agent after all. Anyway, I would have lost against Judi bloody Dench. You know that I hate losing but I wouldn't have minded losing against Dame Judi!'' Taylor suddenly imagined Amanda in the award ceremony pulling a Kanye West and interrupting Dame Judi Dench mid speech stating that it was her who deserved the award. Not that Amanda was capable of doing that as Judi was among the people she absolutely admired. ''I was thinking about inventing that stage name'' Amanda suddenly said. ''Now?'' ''Yeah, you never now what may happen next, God knows I had enough surprises today. I want a name that stands out, something that people will remember.'' Both of them cracked their skulls for five minutes. ''A witch name'' Amanda suddenly said. Taylor didn't question anything. She found the idea a bit insane but all of Amanda's insanities ended up being good ideas after all. She just started looking for witch names in her phone. ''You have Agnes...'' Taylor started reading and didn't look convinced at all. ''...Cerys... Glinda... Lily... Minerva... Morgan Le Fey...'' ''This one'' Amanda almost jumped from the seat. ''It's perfect'' ''Morgan Le Fey?'' Taylor was more lost than ever. ''Just Morgan'' Amanda kept thinking out loud. ''In the legend she was King Arthur's sister and a bloody powerful witch. And she was sort of an antihero, I mean, she wanted to see Arthur's dead body but at the end wants to save him.'' That was the image she wanted to give to the world: someone who trustworthy and nice but also powerful. Someone you didn't want to mess with. Taylor found funny Amanda's interpretation of the character. Of course that she was justifying the villains. ''Amanda, Morgan Le Fey was a villain. She betrayed King Arthur multiple times; fell in love with Lancelot and, as he was in love with Guinivere, she kidnapped him and not once but many times; sent one of her minions to seduce Merlin and steal his powers; exposed Lancelot and Guinivere; made everyone fight each other and only at the end when Arthur was dying she tried to save him. She was responsible for the destruction of the kingdom. She's the root of all evil! Yeah, that kind of fits you. You'll rock the name and make justice to it.'' Part of that rant was just Taylor roasting her friend. But she also knew that Amanda Ward-Prowse was a damn difficult person. She wasn't a goody-two-shoes, kind and humble girl. She was ambitious, had a big ego and could be manipulative if she needed. But that was just her dark side She had many good qualities too. ''I love it, I love it, I love it!'' Amanda started pacing up and down the hall. ''Now I need a last name. Something Welsh.'' Taylor started looking on her phone. ''I guess you want something with a meaning...'' Amanda nodded. ''You should use Llewellyn, that means 'leader' and was the name of several kings, including Llewellyn the Great that was the king of Gwynedd, the county we both come from.'' ''Taylor, you're a genius! 'Leader' has the word 'Lead' in it. Good omen. I love it.'' She kept repeating the name in her mind. Morgan Llewellyn. It had ring that she liked. She was silently clapping like a seal when the formal looking woman that had called her to the audition interrupted her. ''Miss Ward-Prowse, the examiners want to see you.'' With a nervous face, she looked at Taylor and followed the woman. At least she was going to have an answer, she just hoped it was a positive one. The five of them were talking with a more relaxed look than twenty minutes ago. It seemed that the only one that was tense in that room was Amanda. ''Miss Ward-Prowse!'' Chazelle looked absolutely thrilled for something she didn't know. ''Take a seat.'' Amanda sat down and looked at Branton and Smith. Her future depended from their answer. How nice was this. ''And...'' she shyly asked. Sylvia Smith smiled. ''Well... before Edward and I say something I think you need to hear something else. These two...'' she pointed at Chazelle and Christine, the casting director. ''...want to make you an offer I'm sure you won't reject.'' Amanda tried not to freak out. Maybe Taylor was right and they wanted her for Broadway. No, stop. She shouldn't get her hopes up because maybe they wanted her just for a Tesco publicity spot. Not that it was bad. Then she remembered that these people were from New York. Well, maybe it was a Target publicity spot. That wasn't bad at all. She just knew that nothing made sense anymore. ''I don't know from where to start'' said Chazelle, excitedly. ''I talk'' said Mellows, who surprisingly had managed to remain quiet for ten minutes. Amanda still didn't know what was her exact role in this mess but she guessed that the woman was the connection between the directors and the RADA. Somehow Amanda was in the middle of it all and she didn't know why. ''You may have noticed, Miss Ward-Prowse that this wasn't a normal audition. And you're still probably confused about what a woman from Juilliard, a C.D and the director of La La Land were doing at your audition.'' Amanda almost fell off the chair. That was why the name rang a bell. She had been standing in front of a goddamned Oscar winner without noticing. Add it to the list of the times Amanda Ward-Prowse had been an absolute idiot. It seemed that between the audition, the Sebastian Stan drama and being in the border of a breakdown, her brain had decided not to recognise Oscar winning directors. And then she remembered that Damien Chazelle had looked quite impressed with her audition. And he probably was not going to direct a miserable publicity spot for Target. It was something bigger than that. Damn. ''Yeah, I was wondering that'' Amanda decided to play it cool. ''It's a honour, Mr. Chazelle.'' ''The honour is mine, Miss Ward-Prowse. Soon you'll know why.'' he motioned Mellows to keep talking. ''It all starts with Ian McKellen. You see, he's a friend of mine and we get together to talk. One of this times he talked to me of an incredibly talented young woman from Wales that had starred with him in Macbeth. That was you.'' the fact that Ian McKellen had mentioned her name to influential people from the acting industry in New York City made Amanda feel a bit dizzy. ''He was the one who told me about your almost nomination to the Laurence Olivier. What is more, he seemed quite bothered that you hadn't got it. Then Christine and Damien enter the story.'' ''The thing is...'' Damien started. ''...I've been looking for the lead of my next movie, literally everywhere for the last two years. The lead character is a foreigner and I don't want an A-List American actress pulling an accent. I've met many people, well known and people who were just starting. But no one seemed to be the right person. Until my search led me to Juilliard and Katherine here who told me the story of a talented Welsh young woman that Ian McKellen swore that she was good. And I trust Ian's word. As I had nothing to lose, me, Katherine and Christine decided to find out more about you and learned that you were in the process of auditioning to the RADA. We called the director and asked if we could come and see your last audition and here we are. We also saw the tapes of your two previous auditions. We really came all the way from New York for you and let me tell you we're not disappointed at all.'' Amanda was speechless. What they had said didn't make any sense at all. Since when she was so important that the goddamned director of La La Land wanted to see her in person? She hadn't done anything remarkable yet, apart of working with Ian McKellen. Apparently that was enough. ''I'm making this shorter'' said Christine, looking at Katherine and Damien as if she was reprimanding them for extending the story too much. ''Remember the monologue we asked you to read before?'' Amanda nodded. ''That was Meredith Hathaway, the lead of The American Dream, Damien's next movie. And we want you to play her.'' Amanda wanted to laugh hysterically. That couldn't be happening to her, it was too good to be true. ''But... why me?'' she managed to mumble. Of all the questions she had in her head that was the only thing she could say. ''To be honest, I don't know'' Damien looked at her with sincerity in his eyes. ''But you're perfect for the role. During this journey I met incredibly talented people but all of them lacked something that you have: the star factor. You are a star, Amanda. You're absolutely mesmerizing when you act, and damn girl, you're going to melt the screen. You'll go far in this business and if you take good decisions, you can be one of the greatest.'' Amanda was still waiting for the moment when she had to inevitably wake up from the dream. She had had dreams before of being cast for the role of her dreams or even some minor role for Marvel. But this seemed to be very real. And she still couldn't believe it. ''Well...'' said Christine snapping her fingers. ''...now we have to wait for your answer.'' Deciding that this was very real and not one of her dreams or an hallucination caused by heat mixed with lack of sleep, Amanda didn't need to think too much to get the answer. ''Of course, I'm in.'' Katherine clapped and both Christine and Damien looked incredibly relieved. ''I knew you were going to say yes.'' said Sylvia with an smile. ''Fantastic...'' Damien clapped like an excited kid. ''Now, the overall details... we'll be talking about the more the more complicated stuff with your agent.'' Amanda thought of Taylor. She was probably going to flip herself to the sun. ''We'll start filming in the middle of September in New York.'' Damn, New York. Amanda wanted to laugh out loud. ''I want you there the last week of August so you can settle there, then we'll have the read through and the rehearsals. We'll be premiering this movie at Cannes next year.'' ''Wait a second... am I going to Cannes?'' this was one surprise after the other. ''Yes you are.'' Amanda wanted to jump with joy. Goodbye peace and quiet, say hello to the star treatment. ''This is incredible'' she said with all the calm she could muster. Now she had the doubt of who on were the rest of the cast for this movie. Thankfully Damien seemed to be reading her mind. ''You're probably wondering about the rest of the cast. I won't tell you yet, I'll leave the surprise for later. What I can say is that I still haven't found your male co-star. I have a couple of names around. I want someone quite known but not a Leo DiCaprio or a Ryan Gosling...'' Leo and Ryan. That was too much. ''Someone like Tom Holland?'' she said without thinking. ''Yeah, that's a good idea! Thank you Amanda! Christine, write it down. We have to talk with his agent tomorrow.'' Tom Holland. One of Amanda's golden boys. Now he was a potential co-star. The world had gone mad. ''Another name, Damien? Remember we're still in talks with Timothee. And are you still considering Sebastian?'' ''Absolutely. The problem with him is his goddamned agenda. The guy is booked, believe me.'' Amanda was on the verge of having another mental breakdown. If that Sebastian was Sebastian Stan, she could start considering herself a dead woman because for sure she was not going to make it. She would melt into a puddle at the sight of him. He had been his celebrity crush for years and working with him was stuff right from her wildest dreams that Amanda seriously thought that was never going to happen. ''Let's talk about this later, Damien. Now we have to talk to Amanda's agent.'' Christine reprimanded him. ''Can I use my stage name?'' Amanda asked before standing up from the chair. Damien smiled. ''Of course. Vin Diesel didn't make himself famous with the name of Mark Sinclair. You're really smart, Amanda. You probably have a remarkable name planned, I don't doubt that.'' With a wide smile she stood up, ready to go and find Taylor. ''One more thing...'' this time she looked at Sylvia and Edward. ''Would I have made it into the RADA?'' ''You were in since the first audition'' said Edward. ''You'd have made it into Juilliard in the blink of an eye.'' added Katherine. ''So, I suffered in vain'' ''Maybe...'' Damien looked at her, apologetically. ''But everything happens for a reason.'' She left the room, trying not to jump, followed by the serious assistant. Taylor, just had one glimpse at Amanda's smiley face and knew that she had good news. ''Taylor! They want to talk to you.'' Amanda was literally glowing. ''Why?'' she wondered what was going on. ''I may have been offered the lead role in a big movie... so, they want to talk to the agent'' she explained as if it was no big thing. ''That is you.'' ''What the hell?'' ''What I just said, Taylor. Oh, and remember that my stage name is Morgan Llewellyn. We'll get used to it sooner or later.'' With the most confused face in history, Taylor followed the assistant. The next twenty minutes were the longest in Amanda's life. She was waiting for Taylor to confirm that what had just happened was real and not her mind playing games. But she felt incredibly relieved and excited. Her life was going to change for the best. She'd have to say goodbye to the peace and quiet of Caernarfon and say hello to New York, the city that never sleeps. Everything was happening too fast. She didn't even dare to daydream yet. When Taylor got back she had the most stunned expression ever. ''I don't know how you did it. But you did it.'' she looked at her with her eyes shining. Amanda's triumph was in part Taylor's too as they were in this together. ''Are you a witch? Did you make a pentagram again? How did you do this?'' ''I have no idea'' finally, everything was starting to sink in. She was going to be in a movie. Her dreams were a reality. They left the place in silence, still processing what had happened. Taylor was starting to plan the next steps in Amanda's career because in less than a month she was going to be in New York City. They ended up at an Starbucks. Taylor was still thinking and Amanda couldn't stop talking. Suddenly, Taylor remembered something that darkened a bit her mood. ''What about Josh?'' she asked. Josh was her long time boyfriend, an accountant from Caernarfon that Amanda found horribly mundane. ''Who cares about Josh?'' Amanda seemed to be more focused on her pink frapuccino than on her friend's inner turmoil. ''I do care! He's my boyfriend! I can't leave him alone for God knows how many months!'' ''Of course you can. You're going to New York with a future celebrity and you'll meet dozens of people, all of them from the jet set of the acting industry, that are a thousand times more interesting than Josh Barrowman from Caernarfon.'' ''You can't be serious! I'm sure you won't be saying this if you'd have to leave your beloved Sebastian Stan for months.'' Amanda almost choked with the frapuccino. ''I'd leave Sebastian or any other person for a chance like this in a heartbeat.'' She didn't mention to Taylor that there was a chance that Sebastian himself was going to be her potential co star. And Taylor didn't want to admit that Amanda was right. Settling down with Josh in Caernarfon at just twenty five years old was mediocre, at its best. Going to New York with Amanda sounded much more tempting. ''Can you give me my phone back? There's no danger now.'' Taylor had forgotten that she had taken Amanda's phone over the Sebastian Stan drama. She gave it back. Taylor doubted that Amanda cared for that anymore. Amanda was about to log in her Twitter account to update herself on the drama but at the last moment decided that it was not necessary. Sebastian Stan wasn't not her unreachable celebrity crush anymore. Now she was in the same league as him. She was his colleague and she was convinced that they'll eventually cross paths something. And she couldn't wait for that day. Taylor noticed the sly smile crossing her friend's face and it was unsettling, to say the least.

P.S. I’m trying hard to cast someone as Amanda but I really don’t know someone that’d fit with the character’s personality.

[aweirdlisa]

The Overnight Watch

I’ve written a first part to a fanfic I’ve been wanting to write ever since the Overnight Watch stream. I haven’t written much as I focus more on drawing, but I felt like posting anyways as some of you out there might enjoy this. This is just a first chapter and the next ones will probably be shorter and more eerie, but for now I hope you enjoy! Reading in a dark room is recommended!

I included images to add to the experience.. <3

The Overnight Watch | Chapter 1

“You have been invited to participate in an interactive event organised by Jacksepticeye, will you be there?”

The mail had been sent to everyone’s inbox, but nobody within the fandom had any idea of what was going on. There had been no video, no explanation, no posts about this mysterious event, yet there it was. The biggest problem was: that was it. Just the one sentence without further details, an address or even a date, but it was sent to over 17 million people.

It didn’t take more than ten minutes for someone within the community to post on tumblr about an anomaly in the mail:

“I assume we’re all past the point of freaking out, so let’s do what we’re best at and dismantle this thing. Has anyone else noticed something off about the mail?

Look at the corner where the time is displayed of when the mail was sent. It’s not a timestamp, the numbers don’t make sense. Does anyone have any idea what it might be?

Other than that the sender’s address is fully missing and the mail was marked important without my doing. Anyone?”

The community was set on fire as per usual, but this time an unsettling feeling spread throughout the fandom. Sure, everyone was immediately thinking “Antisepticeye appearance!”, but this just seemed impossible to pull off and way too diverging from the usual pattern. Even though many dismissed it as a prank and moved on, a few individuals kept looking and replied to the thread.

“That’s strange, my mail is different, look:

The number isn’t the same. Does anyone else have a different one?”

But as the replies came in it was made clear that about half of them had received the same mail with the positive number as the other half had received the negative number.

“Anyone who’s up for solving this, join this discord, I think it’s clear that there’s more to find here.”

People from different time zones started to join the server as the noise grew with each person connecting. Theorists like these were used to the cryptic messages, the hidden codes and the zalgo text. It was almost a hobby to figure out what hints Jack had left to indicate an Anti appearance. In situations like these they would convene on a discord server, or multiple discord servers to scan through every little hint they can find.

Almost a year ago Jack had surprised them with a special stream lasting the entire time between the two charity streams they had set up. There was even a hashtag set up, so people could post their findings, this was #overnightwatch.

Everyone who participated in the stream had started calling themselves the Overnight Watch and loved it, despite the mental torture that had deprived many from their sleep. The hashtag stuck around and so did the name.

So it’s been almost a year and Anti hadn’t made an appearance yet. There have been the occasional subtle hints, but not everyone would notice them. Jack was just poking fun. The theorists believed this was part of Jack’s plan of letting the character settle for a while to come back with something bigger and better. Was this that something? A majority of the community had almost forgotten Anti was a thing at this point, so it would be ideal.

“Hello everyone, thank you for coming” a voice said as the ongoing chaos broke apart and everyone became quiet. “As you all know we received a rather strange mail today. So far we have collected the following information:

There are two different numbers where there should be a time stamp, these numbers are 51.509865 and -0.118092. Other than that the sender’s address is completely missing and the text has a few letters that seem to be marked. What are your discoveries so far?”

Not a second of silence went by as a latecomer stumbled into the channel and screamed out two words repeatedly:

“The letters! The letters! The-“

“CALM DOWN.” Two or three people yelled at once, surprised by the overwhelming excitement of the newest addition to the group. The person who acted as moderator of the whole conversation scraped her throat and gave the latecomer a chance to explain themselves.

“Alright so, the letters that are different, they are all in italic and in a very dark green colour. When you assemble the letters you have ‘v t e w l e’ which when put in order reads “twelve”. We are looking for the key elements of an event right? I think this might be the time. I’m not sure if it’s twelve AM or twelve PM though and neither do I have a time zone.”

“Interesting theory,” a different voice spoke up. “I think we can work with that as a start. We’re with 53 people here and I’m sure some of you are in connection with other theorists on different servers as well. Let’s try to figure out what these numbers might mean.”

As everyone started to work through their research, the discord server went quiet. You could almost feel the focus everyone had as they attempted to solve the puzzle. Some left the server as they had to either go to school or sleep. A mere 20 people remained, all working in silence, but the silence didn’t last long.

“Guys..?” A nervous theorists stumbled over their words.

“Yes?” the moderator replied.

“The time stamps? They’re.. they’re coordinates.”

An image was shared, it took a while to load, but when it did different sounds of shock and frustration were heard.

“It’s London..”

“Right”, the moderator collected her thoughts. “So, this thing is taking place at either midnight or lunchtime in London, presumably the local time, but that doesn’t really help us does it?”

“We still need a day and a specific location,” added another theorist. “But I think we’ve gone over everything in the mail. Not even the missing avatar has anything hidden.”

“Hold up, has anyone tried to actually respond to the mail?”

Voices started rambling through each other, which made everyone come to the conclusion nobody had come to that point yet. After furiously debating over what they should do, they decided that everyone should send a mail of their own to see what happens. But no matter what they sent, there just wouldn’t be a response, until one theorist loudly exclaimed victory.

“I did it! I just mailed ‘London’ and then the hour, kind of like I’m replying to the riddle and I got a response!”

The moderator shifted nervously on her seat, her throat felt like sandpaper: “What does it say?”

“It was an image. Let me show you. Here you go.”

Everyone went silent once more. They all knew what this was. The footage from that damned stream.

“It’s been a year, hasn’t it?” The moderator softly whispered into her microphone. “This weekend the night from Friday to Saturday. I think we’re celebrating the overnight watch.” Her eyes closely studied the picture as she recognized the cursed font they had all been screaming about each time they saw it on one of Jack’s video’s or posts.

“Time is broken”, the latecomer read out loud. “It’s all negative aswell. Are we actually going there? Like, there?”

The question lingered. Would they actually go there? Would something happen? Maybe they were taking it too far, maybe it was all a joke. Doubt made another share of the theorists leave the discord, some because they just couldn’t continue at this point, others because they didn’t believe it was a serious matter.

“I guess that makes six of us. Do you want to go through with this?” The moderator asked the remaining few. “Are we going? This Friday?”

The other five agreed, one of them lived relatively close to London, whilst the others were prepared to even fly over for this event. All of them were old enough to travel alone so if it turned out to be nothing they could always turn it into a meetup to hang out. They had been talking for over a year with all the Anti stuff going on, so they weren’t exactly strangers anymore.

“Let’s go for it.”

Friday – 5 minutes before midnight

It had been relatively quiet the days after the mail had been sent, Jack had been his usual self, posting video’s according to his schedule and nobody had mentioned the mail again.

The six theorists met up around lunchtime to spend some time together before they had to go to what they expected to be an event. It all felt surreal, but here they were, no turning back.

They were stood in front of the building and pressed the button of the intercom near the door. Instantly static began to break through the little box, followed by an almost deafening high pitched noise. As quick as it started, it stopped. The door unlocked and opened up on its own.

Hesitantly, one by one, they went inside.

“H-hello?” the moderator stepped into the front desk and looked around, but nobody was present.

Everything went dark.

The door slammed shut and nine monitors lit up in the corner.

The six theorists walked up to the monitors, displaying the same screens they had stared at all night exactly one year ago.

Except this time, they could see themselves, standing in the front desk.

Then something moved in the loading dock.

[nothingeverlost]

The Bastinado Affair (1/?) Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)

Summary: Illya is tortured with the bastinado, a thin rod used to beat the soles of his feet repeatedly. Confined to a wheelchair while his feet heal, Illya's future in section two is uncertain. What does the future hold for his and Napoleon's partnership, both in the field and closer to home?

Eventual Napoleon/Illya

“Who do you work for, Mr. Jones?” Fassem’s voice was calm, almost friendly as he asked the question. If it weren’t for the fact that Illya was tied to a chair, a guard standing on either side of him, the interrogation might have been a simple business meeting.

“For a small aviation company in France,” Illya answered just as calmly, sticking with his cover story. Silently he was cursing in half a dozen languages; this was supposed to have been a simple information retrieval mission, not much more than a milk run, and yet he was once again a prisoner.

“I don’t believe you. You were trespassing on my property, Mr. Jones, and I wish to know what your purpose is here.”

“I must have read the map wrong.” Illya furrowed his brows and twisted his mouth, trying his best to look confused. Behind his back, where no one could see, he began to work on the ropes binding him. “I thought I was still on government land. Your country is in discussions with...”

“Liar.” Fassem’s voice cut him off sharply. “There is no government land within miles of where my men discovered you. What were you doing there?”

“I word for an aviation company. We are thinking of expanding our routes, building more airstrips.” There was nothing to be gained by giving the truth. Being tied to a chair and questioned would probably be child’s play compared to what Fassem would do if he learned the true nature of Illya’s mission. Power hungary multi millionaires who funded Thrush plots don’t generally appreciate the interference of U.N.C.L.E. agents.

“Very well, Mr. Jones. If you do not wish to be honest with me that is your prerogative. Imar, please bring me the falaka. It appears our guest needs a little persuasion.” The words tumbled from Fassem’s mouth in a delighted hiss,

When the guard closest to the door left the room, Illya felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach. He knew what Fassem planned to do to him, and in desperation redoubled his efforts to get free from the ropes. There was no point in praying to a god he didn’t believe in, but he did offer a brief hope that Napoleon was somewhere nearby and would rescue him soon. His body bore enough scars without adding those of a new method of torture to the rest.

The rope was too tight, and he was still bound when a guard pushed him roughly to the floor, two other men grabbing each of his feet. He tried to kick them away but in less than a minute the falaka was locked around his ankles and his feet were stripped of socks and shoes. The first time the bastinado cut across the soles of his feet he flinched. The second and third lashes burned. Without closing his eyes - he wouldn’t give Fassem the satisfaction - Illya used all his training to shut off his senses and focus only on the thoughts in his mind. He was able to hold out for forty three lashes before the pain broke through his mental block and he fainted.

II

Something was wrong. Not the usual ‘my partner’s being held captive and I have to rescue him’ wrong. That was a scenario that he was all too experienced with. He knew how to slip into Thrush satraps or megalomaniac's secret hideouts, timing his movements to avoid the guards, dealing with those that he couldn’t avoid. He knew how to pick locks to release prison doors and handcuffs, how to untie knots even when he couldn’t see the rope. He knew how to field dress his partner’s wounds, splinting breaks and staunching blood well enough to keep until they reached medical help. Maybe that was why this felt so wrong. There were no guards to evade or locks to pick, and in the dim light of the room there didn’t appear to be anything wrong with the man asleep on the cot, half covered with a blanket.

“Illya,” he hissed, standing next to the cot but careful not to touch the Russian. There was the slightest change to the man’s breathing pattern, not enough that anyone besides himself would notice, but he knew that Illya was awake. “It’s safe to open your eyes, partner mine.”

“First time I’ve been allowed to sleep in two days. It figures you would pick now to stage a rescue.” The words and scowl that greeted Napoleon were comforting in their familiarity. Illya’s eyes were shot through with red, the dark skin beneath them a testament to the lack of sleep. He was still wearing the same clothing he had disappeared in, though the black suit jacket was gone. There were no visible bruises, cuts, or burns, for which Napoleon was grateful. Maybe sleep deprivation and interrogation had been the worst of Illya’s Turkish experience.

“I have to do something to keep you on your toes. Can’t let you get too comfortable, can I?”

Illya’s only answer was a soft snort.

“Speaking of rescue, would you rather go back to sleep or shall we get out of this place?” Napoleon paused and listened, but there were no sounds coming from the hallway outside the room. Why were there no guards?

“I’m afraid that is easier said than done.” Illya frowned, his lips pressed together as he sat up and with shaking hands threw the blanket that had been covering him onto the floor. A shaft of light from the hallway fell across his feet, illuminating them in harsh relief.

Napoleon’s face blanched and he closed his eyes reflexively against the sight. He forced himself to open them. Illya’s pants were rolled up to mid-calf. From his ankles up his skin was the usual pale cream, lightly peppered with golden hair so fine it barely showed. The ankles themselves were ringed in dark bruises, but it was the feet that filled Napoleon with horror. Shades of purple and blue and the almost black of dried blood covered the skin of the feet that were swollen twice as large as they should have been. “What did they do to you?”

“I will translate thy life into death, thy liberty into bondage: I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel,” Illya quoted in a sotto voce, not looking at Napoleon or his own feet. “The details don’t matter, not right now. The rather obvious problem is that I’m not going to be able to walk out of here.”

“I guess it’s a good thing that you’re so little; I can carry you,” Napoleon quipped, tearing his gaze away from the battered flesh. He had caught the word bastinado in the Shakespeare, and tried not to think about how many times the thin wood rod had been used to inflict this kind of damage. There would be time later to take care of the bastards who had been so brutal in their treatment of his partner. Now he had more important things to see to.

“Need I remind you that my fists are still in perfect working order?” Illya quirked a single brow, wincing as he moved slowly to the edge of the cot. “Be careful who you are calling little.”

“Save your threats for someone who’s actually afraid of you, my friend. Given how long you’re going to be spending in medical once we get home you’re going to have plenty of people to use them on.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to be rescued,” Illya groaned. “I’d rather stay here and sleep.”

“And deprive the nurses of having such a docile and sweet tempered patient? That would be cruel.” Napoleon ignored his partners muttering and kneeled on the ground, picking up the blanket that was next to the cot. He needed something to wrap around Illya’s feet, a kind of splint to keep broken bones from shifting as they escaped. The blanket was thin and easy to tear in half. “I’m sorry but I need to...”

“Just do it, Napoleon.” Illya raise his feet slightly and clutched the edge of the cot with both hands.

“First take these.” From out of his pocket Napoleon withdrew a small tin and opened it, spilling three white pills out onto his palm. They were only aspirin, and would help with the pain as effectively as a steak knife would cut down a tree, but they were all he had. Illya accepted them without questioning and swallowed them dry.

“So where’s Fassem?” Napoleon asked, in the hopes that answering questions would help to distract his friend from the added pain.

“Probably in his private chambers with a few of his wives,” Illya got out between gritted teeth. “There are a few men meant to guard me, but for some reason they don’t fear my escape and so they disappear as soon as they are sure Fassem won’t come back.”

“Obviously they don’t know you as well as I do.” Napoleon bound the swathed foot with a shoelace from one of the shoes that he found under the cot.

“Yes, I was just about to make a break for it,” Illya remarked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Nice of you to wait around for me.” The second foot bound, Napoleon stood up from his kneeling position.

“You know me; I go out of my way to be polite and courteous.”

“You could give Emily Post a run for her money.” Napoleon grinned, and when Illya returned a tight smile he couldn’t help but chuckle. After days of worry and tense silence the familiar banter felt so good. He leaned down to lift his partner off the cot, one arm snaking under his legs and the other moving behind his back. Illya wrapped his own arms around Napoleon’s neck, doing his best to help support himself.

“I hope for your sake the exit is not too far away.”

“I’d carry you a hundred miles if need be.” All the teasing was gone from Napoleon’s voice, only sincerity and resolve remained. Illya didn’t respond, but tightened his hold around Napoleon’s neck.

II

Every step Napoleon took sent waves of pain radiating from Illya’s feet. He tried to ignore the pain, to think of something else as he had learned in training. The pain was too constant, worse now than it had been while he had been lying still and almost as bad as it had been when the cane had been thrashing against his feet in a constant rhythm.

When he was seven his home had caught fire in the middle of the night. He had escaped but there was no time to stop even for a pair of shoes and he had run out into the snow, his feet bare. It had felt like this, but the white hot pain was a hundred times magnified now, as if he had walked across the whole of Siberia without shoes.

Dimly he heard Napoleon curse, something about a guard. They spun, the suddenness of the motion making him nauseous. A gun fired, the smell of burnt cordite hanging in the air, but before he could work up the energy to ask Napoleon if he needed assistance the world went black.

When he woke up he was in the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary, and he was alone.

[iamnotanartist1]

Advocating For Mental Health

Life is not easy but you learn to cope. However, there are people who have a hard time doing that. These people end up hurting/ cutting or starving themselves, bottling up their emotions leading to depression and even taking their own lives when nothing else works.

Being mentally healthy is important to not only function like a normal human being but to also keep your head above the problems you are facing. There are days that will really be too bad where you just want to curl up in bed and do nothing but eventually, you have to face reality and move on. That is the only way to live and thrive in this world we live in. It’s never easy but you got to keep trying.

Spending three months in a hospital bed is a tough pill to swallow for anyone. It's even more difficult when your anxiety kicks into high gear.

Joe Bietola has been anxious all his life. It came to a head when he fractured his leg, and was sent to Hotel-Dieu Grace Healthcare for several weeks. Confined to a room, unable to get around on his own, Bietola's anxiousness only got worse as each day passed. He described it like being a zombie in bed.

People cope differently. While we may all put up a good front on our social media accounts, deep down we are hiding our own demons we are too scared to face.

Bietola's leg injury wasn't the only thing getting treated. Mental health support was right at his fingertips.

"I wasn't sleeping. When they addressed it, I started to calm down, all the symptoms started to go [away]. They helped me really good," he said.

Simple things like talking with a trained mental health physician, being prescribed the correct anxiety medication or just getting out of the room helped ease his mind. A nurse and psychiatrist specifically focussed on his mental well-being saw him on a regular basis.

"A lot of times you don't feel like getting out of bed, but you have to force yourself," he said.

(Via: http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/windsor/mental-health-doctors-help-discharge-patients-on-time-you-feel-better-1.4045962)

It is not unusual for a person to exhibit physical symptoms when their mental state is not in good shape. Even the royalties who live in luxury and the admiration of the public understands the importance of mental health. And what’s even more important is for everyone to overcome the stigma associated with it.

When it comes to attitudes to mental health in Britain, we are now at a "tipping point", the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and Prince Harry have said today, as they recruit a host of high-profile public figures to help "shatter the stigma".

The senior Royals have today launched the next stage of their Heads Together campaign: a series of 10 videos designed to spark "simple conversations" about mental health.

Starring the likes of Andrew Flintoff, Ruby Wax, Stephen Manderson and Alastair Campbell, the videos are part of the Royals' ongoing battle to break down the "walls of judgement" they perceive to be standing in the way of progress.

(Via: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/men/thinking-man/changing-minds-young-royals-video-campaign-tackle-mental-health/)

More people now begin to understand the correlation between physical health and mental health. But despite that, many of us still struggle because the world is much different now than in the past. Overexposure to social media can do that to you. You never knew you had so many deficiencies and insecurities until you see the lives of every person you know.

"I had more people crying in my office the day after the election than honestly I've had since the day after 9/11," Dan Hartman, a Philadelphia-based psychiatrist, told Philly.com about his patients’ reactions to Donald Trump becoming president. Four months in, the wounds are still fresh, and the Trump administration, with its trampling of rights, unending legislative chaos and wholesale disregard for the truth, continues to cause millions of heart palpitations, insomniac nights and untreatable migraines.

The White House occupants also remain steadfastly committed to wreaking havoc on our mental states. As Republicans pushed an insurance bill that would have done lasting damage to Americans’ mental and behavioral health well-being, clinicians reported the psychic wages of the Trump war against U.S. citizens. “Add up the additional medications prescribed, extra ER visits, delayed procedures, missed work, plus the fallout from other illnesses being relegated to the back burner, and you have the makings of a major medical toll from this election,” Danielle Ofri, a physician at Bellevue Hospital and professor of medicine at New York University, warned at Slate.

(Via: http://www.alternet.org/election-2016/5-ways-trump-mentally-torturing-us-now)

And this is what we all get for not knowing any better - a president who knows nothing about politics and proves it for the entire world to know after assuming office. None of the policies he has pushed for, so far, will do good for the nation – not even his immigration policies can save himself from messing up early in his administration.

And the majority of the population who did not support his candidacy are now suffering from poor mental health because they can’t comprehend that he really did win. We are talking about the future of an entire nation, not just a business enterprise, so we can understand pretty well why people suddenly suffer from anxiety or depression after his win. Now, he’s adding more damage to injury by depriving Americans of affordable health care. Can it possibly get any worse?

Advocating For Mental Health See more on: IANAA

from I Am Not An Artist - Feed https://www.iamnotanartist.org/advocating-for-mental-health/