#i know this is a word salad; i'm rusty so don't bully me

[chitrolls]

I have no idea how to format this. Putting it into a post instead of an ask felt like the right thing because this turned out way longer than I thought it would. Thank you, @spectrology for the ask! I look forward to answering all the rest. This is really helping me knock some dust off. :)

CONTENT WARNINGS: Nightmares, mention of children in extreme poverty, immolation, and implied canon-compliant body horror that comes from being shoved in a helm, but nothing gory or detailed; just mention of the fear of it.

Running Delphi Electronics was a daymare in the early nights. It didn’t take long for word to get around that there’s a legitimate clairvoyant living around the Stacks and not another one of those boring psychics that flipped some cards and told people to think inwards. Things got so busy that you, Almaaz, and Lovelace (still only going by Rhiana at the time) went down to the old space docks to steal a bench. With things getting so busy, a bench was the only thing between you, your employees, your customers, and a fire code violation. One of the downsides of a combination psychic-electronics repair shop.

Now that you’ve long wizened up and keep your readings on an appointment-only basis, the bench doesn’t get the same traffic it used to. Sometimes the girls and Eli meet out there for their lunch. Or maybe you condemn Tyckho to the bench to keep him from ragequitting when he’s got to clean a spectacularly disgusting PC casing. Even you like to stretch out your long legs and have a quick smoke of herbs and dry mind honey when you feel like you’ve got enough privacy.

Tonight, you’ve got some gutter rat from Grub Town stuffing their face with a couple grilled cheeses. There’s no doubt Amoura is to blame for this. A Glossolalia lifer herself, she grew up in Grub Town until you took her in and gave her a job selling trinkets and oddities at your shop. Seeing scrawny wrigglers running around always gets her upset. Not being able to take it anymore, she put a bunch of sandwich shit in the break room fridge and bought a sandwich press. Kids quite literally started crawling up out of the sewers. It wouldn’t be so bad if they, at the very least, weren’t so sneaky about it.

Your loiterer stares up at you with this massive pair of gray eyes that say they aren’t afraid of you. Even as you take a seat on the far end of the bench, they continue to enjoy their sandwiches. You kind of recognize them through the grime and melted cheese. They know you aren’t a threat, but kids around here know they have to put on some kind of a tough front to keep the city’s adults from squishing them underfoot.

When they do start to ease up a bit, they open their little mouth.

“How do you know when, like. Your dream is a vision and not a dream?”

The streets have been talking about Delphi Vitale and speculating about how his amazing clairvoyant abilities work for sweeps. There’s also the crisp, laminated print affixed to the shop’s window detailing some of the services you provide. In-depth dream visions are one of them. You have to give the kid this stupidly animated shrug in response. It’s the only way to genuinely convey what you’re feeling with your face hidden beneath a heavy hood, some gaudy sunglasses, and a smog mask.

“You kinda just get a feelin’ for it, kid.”

What you’re not going to do right here and now is trauma dump on someone you don’t even know; especially when that someone is a kid trying to suck crumbs and the memory of cheese from beneath their fingernails. Still, you can’t help but wonder how well this kid sleeps during the day.

Growing up, you were a fitful sleeper. You were kept up all hours of the day by this terrifying daymare of a man on fire. You were half this kid’s age, maybe even younger, when the daymares began. Up until that point, you had most of your visions while you were awake with the occasional prediction shoved in some background scene of your rare “normal” dreams. You can admit to yourself that you still find the image of that man scary. Or maybe it was his presence that kept you unnerved.

In the early days of your burning man dreams, he’d be standing right at the side of your pool of sopor slime. You’d try to force yourself awake, but that just made things worse. It made his looming feel all the more heavy and even with your eyes just cracked open, you still saw him there and you always knew it was him by the sight and the smell of his burning flesh and his Empire-issue helmsman uniform.

As you got older, you learned ways to manipulate your dreams. It wasn’t much, but figured out how to fling yourself out of your body and watch your dreams like a fly on the wall. He still loomed over your body as you slept. Your dreams only changed to suit whatever in your life was different as you aged or moved hives. The closer you inched towards young adulthood, it was like the man knew you were not in your body anymore, so he started screaming for your attention.

By this time, you had surrendered yourself to the Empire to join the helmsman program. You felt there was no other way for you to survive with your chrome and, besides, you were doing pretty well for yourself despite it all. You didn’t have to deal with your sleeping daymares and waking ones that came with needing to live under the radar to survive. This new lifestyle also provided you with a small solution that kept you running for nights without needing sleep: charging stations. You’d just plug in for a while and last a couple nights on electrical currents running through your ports and brain without needing so much as a wink.

There were PSAs about running on charging stations for too long, of course, but you were fine. You figured out a system. You’d get at least one good day of sleep after several without and you were peachy. Really, you weren’t. Sometimes you’d get a bad discharge running through your ports that made you jerk and jolt about when the worst of them hit. Once you had a series of them that couldn’t have been more than half a minute, but there he was, just outside the edge of your vision. His screams became resigned sobs.

Maybe that’s why you were so off the night you were finally able to carry out your big assignment. The program wanted you hooked into some newfangled experimental ship built for navigating the more dangerous parts of deep space. A clairvoyant in the column meant they crew could more effectively navigate without getting torn up by microplanet sized space debris or sucked into a dying star.

You tell yourself things went south that night for a number of reasons. One of them being that your discharge was worse than usual. Shit, you were also pretty damn scared of being plugged into a ship for unknown stretches of time without someone around that’ll say it’s time to be dismissed for the night so you could rest your ports and get all your psionic energy back up. You didn’t want to wither away until your body let go of your extremities and eyes and senses to preserve and feed the part of you the Empire found useful.

Unfortunately, it was too late to worry about any of that. Too late to say you don’t want to be in this program. Too late to beg for a different assignment, something planetside where you could use your abilities to predict rebel activities. Too late to do anything about the sparks your ports sent up through the helms column that made an impressively long wick out of your ponytail. And it was way too damn late for you to finally be realizing why you spent your entire life haunted by daymares of a man on fire screaming for his life.

“Yeah… You get a feelin’ for it.”