#josiah doesnt learn about the regenerator at all so far and that is likely the only reason he confesses of his nature to ortega

[itskaist]

What is Josiah’s relationship towards his regene tattoos?

Thank you once again for asking! <333 Getting any asks about Josiah always makes my day! Took me a moment to reply because uhhh- [wilhelm scream], but I hope it also gave me the time to ponder some more on this topic.

Under cut as always, though not as long as before. Instead, got… weirder? Question mark?

(tw self-harm, and other Sidestep-typical dissociative issues)

Oh God. He hates them. Burns on his skin, bondage, fish suffocated in plastic. Of course, the most basic reason being that they make it hard to hide, the paranoia seeping in any time there was a rupture in his Sidestep suit. Wearing layers in the Los Diablos heat, too, unbearable. But most of all, the personal - the inhumanity marking him, staining him, can't wash it off, can't cut it out, just like he can't excise his own past. His own nature. The tattoos are a symbol of that, the final leash, a reminder that no matter how far he might run, how thouroughly he might try to remake himself, he will always be a sad little tool in the toolbox. Still cowering in the corner of his cell.

He just can't look at himself. Can't. He will brave it when he needs to, when he needs to sew himself up, but otherwise? Showering in the dark, though to him the tattoos might as well be bioluminescent. An anglerfish. Get close, get bit. Mirrors smashed on a bad day, then covered up in curtains or tape. Can't be bothered to replace them. Shaving in fractured reflections, a thousand funhouse faces. Can't look at his own face, no, no. Having a body at all, a body they made, they groomed, being touched, prodded, examined, evaluated, a racing horse. Gets lame, gets shot. …Proud of every single scar, though, marring their prize pet. Self-harm. Them-harm. A disconnect between the body and mind, body was theirs, I am my thought, I think therefore I am, therefore, therefore, by cutting the body, I am harming them, not myself. Blood down the drain.

The tattoos are an easy scapegoat, too. A convenient excuse. Couldn't get closer to Ortega, no, never, because you could never show skin, and this is what he would want, right? What normal people want. What People want. Not-People don't show skin and he'll either get bored with you and drop you, or get suspicious and drop you. Down, down, down the drain. A solid self-hate spiral, if you dare say so yourself.

Hates seeing his own face in the mirror. Wrong. Boney. Bones… wrong. Set and reset. Can't reset a face. Only, hah, you can. A prettier one. More familiar than this. No need to shave, no scratch, no itch, itch right under your skin that you can never reach. No, no burn; soft, pliant, yielding. Clay in your hands. More... malleable. A remaking, a rebirth. A breath. A step. Steadier legs, standing steady on the ground, no bones set and reset, too long, too tall, standing out. Being seen at last and not hating it. What a novelty. Could you ever do it? …No. Of course not. Only way for you to have is to pretend at pretending at pretending.

Replica of a replica of a replica.

You're Hollow Ground's younger sibling, he says.

Why couldn't it have been you? Why never YOU?

Show him. Show him the truth. Make him curl up in disgust the same way you do, every morning, every evening, every forsaken fucking minute of your sorry life. A burden shared is burden lessened, isn't it, Dr. Finch?

. .. …

…Being seen at last and not hating it. What a novelty indeed.