#but i still have a very disjointed sense of self and difficulties with grasping a proper identity

[scummrevisited]

not feeling like one person yet not having any dissociative disorder rlly makes you feel in a weird spot. like. well what do i do here

[teine-mallaichte]

Say 6 @augustofwhump @ prompt - confusion

The reconditionign process leaves 84 extremely disorientated and confused.

CW: living weapon, conditioning, manipulation.

Asset 84 masterlist.

In the sterile white medical bay, Asset 84 stood rigid before a wall of mirrored glass. The mirrors, pristine and unblemished, distorted their reflection, turning the once-familiar face into an abstract mosaic of shapes and shadows. The clinical lights overhead flickered erratically, casting sharp, jittery patterns that danced across the room, their disorienting play making 84’s vision swim and waver.

The buzzing of fluorescent lights was a constant, dissonant hum that seemed to vibrate through 84’s very bones. Each step they took felt strangely hollow, the reverberation of their movements magnified and unnerving. Their mind was a tangled mess of disjointed thoughts and fragmented memories, each one slipping through their grasp like grains of sand. The world around them, once sharp and defined, now felt like a hazy dream where nothing seemed quite real.

As they stared into the mirror, the reflection that stared back was unfamiliar. It was as if they were looking at a stranger—someone with eyes that seemed to be searching for something, but unable to find it. Their previously precise and calculated thoughts now fragmented, leaving them with an unsettling sense of disorientation.

The reconditioning process had been grueling, its details now a blur. The precise commands of Colonel Carter, the sharpness of her green eyes, and the cold certainty of her orders were the only aspects of their recent past that remained clear. Everything else was a swirling fog of confusion and uncertainty.

A low, dissonant hum filled the space, seeping into 84’s consciousness and further disorienting their fragile sense of self. They tried to focus on the mantra they had once recited with unwavering conviction—“I am 84. I am a weapon. I will endure”—but the words now felt like a cruel mockery of their current state. They were unable to hold onto the mantra’s reassuring grip, which seemed to slip away into the same obscurity that shrouded their thoughts.

84 grasped at the edges of their sanity, their hands trembling as they sought to piece together a coherent sense of identity amidst the chaos. The mirrored wall reflected their futile attempts, the distorted image mirroring their internal turmoil. Every attempt to ground themselves only seemed to deepen the confusion, their sense of self melting away like wax in a flickering flame.

Colonel Carter’s voice, though cold and distant, pierced through the haze of confusion. “Asset 84, status report.”

“Colonel… I… I am having difficulty… understanding…” The words felt foreign, as if they were speaking from a place far removed from their core self. The response was slow and labored, as though their mind was struggling to construct a coherent reply from the scattered fragments of their thoughts. Some part of them was aware that this was not how they were meant to speak to their handler, but their thoughts felt murky.

"Some disorientation is to be expected," the colonials voice sounded calm, her eyes intense, "Remember, I am here to guide you."

“Your reconditioning is not complete,” Colonel Carter continued, her voice a cold anchor in the storm of 84’s disoriented mind. “You are experiencing cognitive dissonance due to the recalibration process. Focus on your core directives, resist the confusion, and trust my commands.”

84 nodded slowly, their movements still jerky and hesitant. They tried to focus on Carter’s words, clinging to the fragments of their training that remained. The mirrored reflection, distorted and fragmented, seemed to offer a glimmer of their past self - a self that was now a shadow of its former clarity.

"Come," the colonels voice suddenly sounded clear, "we have a debriefing to attend."

[generation1point5]

Year 29

A year ago, I had resolved to fight in the tiny little ways I could in the situation I found myself in, and a year later I find myself spent, but hopeful. It is not the result of anything that I have done.

A year of struggle is a year spent understanding the futility thereof. I am free of my old job, and hopefully will never again have to wake up at 5am answering calls from the military-industrial complex to keep their brown-people murder machine running smoothly. I’m sure whatever good I had tried to do at that place has been utterly lost, and whoever of my co-workers who haven’t left yet want to. Everything I wanted my local and federal officials to do in the time and power they have been afforded have thus far been met with disappointment. I only have one vote, after all, and there are many people who hold less than admirable views or consistency in their politics that would allow us to get through the crises of our day. This is spoken from a supposed socialist haven in the United States. Goes to show what the Overton window is like here, and the difficulty in gaining any traction for left-wing progress.

I feel better than I used to, at least, knowing the familiar comforts and conflicts of the public sector. I see the struggles and the intense individual and disjointed reality of hundreds of people trying to make their way in life by helping others do the same, the only kind of tension you can see in government work (and very rarely, at that). It is a tragic admiration, and perhaps nothing more, but I see value in my participation thereof all the same. It is the human experience, valuable for its temporal novelty, never to be seen again after its passing. Many days I feel like the only thing I can do is to commit what I see to memory, knowing there’s little else to be done from my place and time.

By all metrics of career direction, I have returned to square one, albeit with perhaps more know-how wisdom than before. In a year I have processed my grief and rage through a deep binge into Souls-likes, and I’ve graduated from Night in the Woods to Disco Elysium, which is basically Night in the Woods for adults anyway. In a year I’ve turned far more left than I have at any prior point, no doubt alienating old friends and finding a contentious comradery with the rest. It wouldn’t be leftism if all its admirers got along.

The opportunities and moments for respite in these times are brief, altogether insufficient but by no means unappreciated. Self-care at this point feels more like coping, adapting, learning. It is like discovering the strength of the river current for the first time. You have to learn how to navigate it, as fighting it would certainly lead to exhaustion, if not expiration. I have spent a year fighting, understanding my limits and perhaps more clearly understanding the gap between where I am and where I want myself to be. I hope many others will benefit from where I want myself to be. I hope it’s a world that will be able to sustain its subsistence, and from subsistence, begin to truly live. 

I have long since suspected, and can conclude with some finality that the 20s are a blur for most people. In my last year of them I cannot even begin to comprehend that I am about to leave it. Even if there are times that it comes of as slow agony, there comes a point where you look up and realize it has all gone, the pleasant memories with the painful, blurred together in a sudden rush that any sense of that era can no longer be coherently grasped. I am not who I was when I was 20. I stare at him as a stranger, kindred only in our confusion of our identity and what we envisioned for the future, where we wanted to be. But I can still see a thread of the line that I had walked from then up until now, and what I will continue to do so long as I breathe life in these lungs.

I take another step in front of me, and another.