#maybe I have some sort of laundry based trauma to work out | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aarongoldenwrites · 5 years ago

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So, I watched Prince of Egypt on Wednesday night to celebrate Passover. Then, I noticed some people watching it to celebrate Easter, which, okay, fine. It's not like you're holding a seder and it is an excellent movie.

But along the way, it occurred to me that part of our responsibility to God and one another is to share the Passover story with others.

So I'm going to do that now.

My way. With a certain degree of fidelity and a certain degree of irreverence.

You have been warned.

Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat happens. Jacob went to Egypt, blah, blah, blah, the children of Israel settle in Egypt. Problem is, the land of Egypt is currently under the conquering foot of the Hyskos, so when the Jews helped the ruling class they helped the conquerors because those were the people in charge. The Hyskos were predominantly a sea-people who had also invented chariots and they terrorized the Mediterranean. We think they might have been Mycenean or a proto-Mycenean culture. A couple hundred years go by. Some Jews leave Egypt and matriculate to the Sinai or further north, to Canaan. We'll come back to them later.

The Egyptians have learned all about chariots and are now better at them than the Hyskos. They politely ask the Hyskos to leave, wait five minutes, and then use chariots to kill as many of them as they can run over. The rest show themselves out. “Eh, not our problem,” says the Jews. They were wrong.

And so four hundred years of slavery begins. The Egyptians use the Jews to build their homes and their temples and their statues and other structures, but not the goddamn pyramids (which had been there since the first dynastic age and this is about the middle of the second). The pyramids at this point were covered in limestone, which meant you could see them from freaking anywhere during the day and made navigating the desert a little easier.

What were the pyramids for? Well, other than being a shining beacon for land navigation, they also had some cool uses for astronomy and astrology. The Egyptians were big believes in astrology, with thirteen astrological houses (the Greeks would later condense it to twelve, because they had a thing about the number thirteen). So, with all this astrology going on, some Egyptian priests start warning the Pharaoh that the Jews might revolt. “Well, they're already revolting,” the Pharaoh says, and everyone laughs because the Pharaoh just told a joke and he is considered to be a literal god.

Anyways, they come up with a theory that someone will be born on such-and-such a day, under this astrological house or maybe that one, and will probably be a firstborn child, and that person will lead the Jews to freedom. “Screw that,” Pharaoh says, “Who will do the laundry or weave our fine linen? Do... do people expect us to change the nappies of our young?” A simple solution is reached: every firstborn male child (because a female leader? Hah!) of a given sign will be taken from their parents and relocated to the Nile, where they will be eaten or drown or probably both. Any parents that resist will be beaten and probably killed, which is okay because we're only slaves. This happens every few years. For four hundred years.

A woman named Yocheved (pronounced “Yocheved”) is born. She will later be voiced by Ofra Haza, and if you don't know you Ofra Haza is you should youtube her and listen to her sing; you're in for a treat. If you don't know who Yocheved is, she's Moses' mom. Moses' mom already has two kids: Miriam and Aaron (I'm named for him). Miriam gets out of danger of death by Nile by being a girl, and Aaron gets away from it because no one cares about Aaron (there's some thought that he's the second son of a previous marriage, and that Miriam was born of that marriage, too. Moses is the first son of the most recent marriage or the result of a not-wedded sexing, which might have been an Egyptian lover or the result of her being a sex slave, because we know that happens when slavery is a thing). Yocheved has been around a bit, and she takes her baby in a basket to the Nile because the Egyptians sometimes let parents do this – it was easier than killing a slave that someone important might like. Yocheved has sneakily made the basket buoyant, so it floats down the Nile and into the Pharoah's palace. Pharoah's wife finds the basket with the baby inside and decides that she's going to keep it because it's clearly a gift from the gods. They name the kid not-Moses (Yocheved gave him that name).

Miriam had a job working in the palace doing menial jobs like doing the laundry, weaving linen, and changing her secret brother's nappies. And if a slave is calling the young prince “Moses”, well, what does that mean, anyway? Silly slave.

Moses grows up with his brother, Ramses. There's no expectations for Moses, as he is an adopted child and cannot inherit anything, but Father-Ramses has big expectations for Son-Ramses and we're going to get some inter-generational trauma here based in vicarious living, good intentions, and cultural bias. Shall we do the thing? Moses is put in charge of some military efforts up north and to the east. He organizes some raids against people living in the Sinai and brings back slaves. Father-Ramses is pleased, but his big plan was to separate the brothers and give Son-Ramses a chance to mature. Son-Ramses is put in charge of some temple shit and does pretty okay.

The two brothers reconnect. Son-Ramses is named Pharaoh-to-be and no one is shocked. He awards Moses with one of the slaves that was taken by Moses, a woman named Tzipporah (pronounced “Tzipporah”). Tzipporah is an actual badass and escapes. Moses helps through inaction and, along the way, discovers he might be Jewish. Miriam is able to show him his basket, tell him what happened to his mother, and otherwise prove that this particular prince of Egypt is actually a Jew. Moses' reaction is so bad you'd think he was listening to Alex Jones. Father-Ramses finds Moses and negs him. “You're not like those other Jews,” says he. “They're only slaves. We feed their kids to the Nile. We did it just last week, you can still see some of the pieces floating in the water. See the red bits?”

Moses is not doing so well and wanders around a bit. He sees an Egyptian taskmaster having fun whipping some Jew to death. Moses grabs the whip and kills the taskmaster. The other taskmasters are ready to respond but Moses is a prince and they know they have to respect his authority so they do nothing. Moses freaks out and it becomes public knowledge that Moses is a Jew, so they banish him and Father-Ramses has Moses' name expunged from the records, and sets a law that not-Moses' name shall not be uttered on pain of death. Father Ramses says his adopted son's name again on his death bed.

Moses flees across the desert with almost nothing. He makes it to Sinai and comes across three lost Hyskos harassing three children. He uses “I'm a Prince of Egypt, bitch!” and it's super effective. The Hyskos run away. Moses pulls a Wesley from the Princess Bridge – he has no strength and falls down. There's a well right beside him, so why not fall into that?

Moses is pulled out of the well by Tzipporah and the kids. Tzipporah recognizes him and kicks him back in, because this is SINAI~! The kids explain that he chased off the Hyskos, though, and then she helps Moses out of the well and takes him home. Her father, Jethro, is one of those Jews that wandered away from Egypt back when and settled in Sinai. Moses is invited into the tribe because why not? It's just the sort of getaway he needs to find himself. He finds he enjoys being a shepherd and finds himself working for Jethro and the tribe, tending sheep. He tries to put his past behind him. Moses falls in love with Tzipporah. She also falls in love with him. Jethro is delighted by this. “What's not to love,” says Jethro. “He's a prince!” He presides over the wedding.

A sheep Moses is tending gets lost. He follows it to a bush that happens to not be burning despite being on fire. “Moses,” the bush says. “I am here,” Moses says. The proper nomenclature is “he nae ani”, for those wondering how to respond if God ever speaks to you. They have a chat where God tells Moses to go back to Egypt and Moses says that's not going to happen. Moses is arguing with God, though, so there's a good chance he's going to lose and go to Egypt.Edit or delete this

He loses and goes to Egypt. Moses brings his wife with him, and part of his deal with God is that he gets a security blanket. In this instance, that means his brother, Aaron, who he barely knows. Miriam ends up playing matchmaker and also gives Moses a place to stay while he's vacationing in Egypt, which is nice of her. You can always count on family.

So, remember Father-Ramses? He's dead now. Son-Ramses has taken over. Henceforth, he shall be referred to as “Ramses.”

Moses, Aaron, and Tzipporah go to the palace. Ramses recognizes Moses and welcomes him home because they do love one another. The priests point out that Father Ramses has Moses' name erased from history and he exiled. Ramses goes “No worries, this is my bro, bro. We'll call him by his slave name, and slave name bro cannot be tried for any reason. Word of Pharaoh, y'all, this is, like, a law now.”

And it was.

Moses needs security blanket Aaron to be there before he presents his case: “Um, God spoke to me and said to let His people go.” “Did he?” “Yes.” God turns Moses' staff into a snake because that's impressive. The Egyptian priests respond by doing the same thing, so Moses' snake eats their snakes and then becomes a staff again. Moses looks at Aaron and repeats the let my people go thing. Ramses is not impressed and decides to make the Jews' lives harder.

God turns all the water in Egypt to blood. The Jews get water, but if the Egyptians try to drink it, it becomes blood. The Egyptian linens are all bloodstained and also they are suffering from dehydration, so now the slaves are lacking off like they're the working class during a coronavirus outbreak and the Egyptians are the 1%. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, drinks some blood, and says 'no.'

God calls frogs. Everywhere there are frogs. Everywhere there are frogs. They are in your bed. Your bathroom. Your linen drawer. Your clothing. Your hair. Frogs. Frogs everywhere. The Jews do not have this problem. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, eats a frog, and says 'no.'

God calls lice. You'd think they frogs would get them, but the frogs leave them and the Jews alone and the lice are also not bothering the Jews. The Egyptians are shaving themselves everywhere to try and deal with the lice. It is not working well. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, scratching his bald spots, and says 'get out of here.' The Jews get super excited when they hear. The blood becomes water. The frogs go away. The lice vanish. The Jews pack up what little they have and get ready to leave, but before the bread they're baking can rise Ramses changes his mind. “Who will do the laundry?” Ramses demands. The Jews are forced back to work.

God summons flies. Flies clouds so thick they block out the sun. Flies in such numbers that you can't tell day from night. You open your mouth and choke on flies. They cannot be escaped. They do not bother the Jews. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, chokes on some flies, and says 'no.'

God inflicts disease on the domesticated animals of Egypt. They begin to wither and die, providing more breeding grounds for more flies. The stink is unbelievable. Livestock used and cared for by Jews are fine or recover, but those owned by Egyptians pus and scab and blister and peel. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, cradling a crocodile that used to eat Jewish babies, and says 'no.'

God uses boils on the Egyptians. It is super effective. Egyptian flesh begins to blister and burn and peel. It hurts. It itches. You scratch and you bleed. The Jews are not affected. The blood soaking your linens is now your own. Your skin is rotting if you are Egyptian and there is nothing you can do. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, his fingers sinking into his flesh, and says 'get the hell out of here.' The Jews get super excited when they hear. The flies go away. The livestock recovers. The Egyptians heal without scars. The Jews pack up what little they have and get ready to leave, but before the bread they're baking can rise Ramses changes his mind. “Who will weave our fine linen?” Ramses demands. The Jews are forced back to work.

Okay, so up until this point, the Egyptian priesthood has been waging magical war on Moses, and Moses has been responding in kind and kicking all kinds of ass. This is a forty-day magical duel, with a bunch of smaller plagues, hexes, and curses. The priesthood has done their best to match Moses plague for plague, and this is where they fucking fail. Why? GOD CALLS GIANT BALLS OF FLAMING ICE FROM THE SKY. We're talking treasure chest-sized chunks of ice that are also on fire. They slam into buildings and people, freezing what they touch, while the fire spreads and consumes everything that isn't frozen or Jewish. The Jews are fine. A little panicky, maybe, because it's clear God is done fucking around. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, standing in the Nile where he will not be on fire, and says 'no.'

God calls locusts. Demon locusts. Cicadas. They make THAT sound and also eat all the stores of food that the Egyptians have, and all their fine linen, and bite the Egyptians, and they're everywhere, and the priesthood has failed, and maybe Ramses should listen this time and do the thing. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, then asks Moses to repeat the question over THAT sound, and whimpers 'no.'

SO GOD PUTS THE SUN AWAY. The Jews still have light, but the Egyptians cannot see it, cannot feel it. There is no light or warmth, and the torches they steal or protect begin to gutter, their light seething down to nothing. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, alone in the dark, and says 'get the fuck out of here.' The Jews get super excited when they hear. The fires go out and ice thaws. THAT sound stops. The sun comes back. The Jews pack up what little they have and get ready to leave, but before the bread they're baking can rise Ramses changes his mind. “Who will change the nappies of our babies” Ramses demands. The Jews are forced back to work.

See, Ramses remembers he has a child. Moses has a nephew. And that nephew questions Ramses' commitment to sparkle motion, and by sparkle motion I mean Egypt. They need to make Egypt great again, and maybe the best way to do that is to take the Jewish firstborn children and adults regardless of sign and put them in a camp called the Nile, where they will drown or be eaten. And he tells this to Moses and Moses understands and begs – he begs his brother not to do this. Ramses promises a wail will rise out of Egypt in the morning that is like nothing anyone will have ever heard before or ever hear again. Ramses decides to kill every firstborn Jew in his kingdom. They're only slaves.

Moses tells the Jews to cover their doorframes in lamb's blood. He does not tell them why. The burden of foreknowledge is his alone.

God visits every Egyptian household and claims every firstborn male, a mockery of Pharaoh's threat. God takes the adults. God takes the children. The only firstborn he leaves is Ramses. Every other firstborn male dies. All of them.

Moses approaches Ramses. There are no words. What could he say? What comfort could he give his brother? How should he mourn his nephew? There are no words. Ramses whispers “Go.”

The Jews are not super excited when they hear. They are terrified and heart-broken, but they also possess enough pattern recognition to not bother with waiting for the bread to rise. They leave with unleavened bread (matzah), gather what they can carry, and go. Some of the Egyptians want to go with them, and they are welcomed. Moses leads the Jews to the Red Sea. The Jews are not sure where they want to go, but God tells Moses that he intends to return them to Canaan – they just need to make a stop in the desert first. God has told Moses what he has to do but Moses is reluctant after that whole mass murder thing. He cannot help but feel that he is responsible.

Ramses is torn by grief and anger. There are others that are likewise torn. He tries using the power of his gods and the priests to call back his son from death. His son is still dead. His son is still dead. He is Pharaoh. He cannot let this stand. The chariots are gathered. All the Jews will die. They ride.

The Jews are wondering what to do next when the Egyptian army starts racing towards them. A HURRICANE OF FIRE comes out of the Red Sea and creates a wall of flame between the Egyptians and the Jews. God tells Moses to do the thing. Moses does the thing.

The Red Sea parts, allowing the Jews to pass from Egypt to Sinai. As the Jews approach Sinai, God lets the wall of fire dissipate and presents Ramses with a choice: stay here and let the Jews go or die. Ramses believes he is a God, so he decides to charge with his whole army. As the Jews are pulling out of the water, they notice the army coming for them. The waters begin to close. Moses calls to God: “My brother spared me from his wrath, please do the same for him.” The Egyptians are crushed by the Red Sea – every single chariot is destroyed and all their riders are killed. Only Ramses survives unscathed, tossed by the waters back to Egypt.

In heaven, the angels sing God's praises. “Who is like you, oh God, to have freed a nation in bondage? Who is like you, oh God, to have stood against one nation to free another? Who is like you, oh God, to have fought evil directly-” But God silences the host. “The Egyptians were My children, too,” God says, and weeps.

Gods leads Moses, and Moses leads the Jews into Sinai. They hook up with the other Jews and begin making their way up to Canaan. Moses tells everyone they need to stop for a bit – there's a thing he's gotta go pick up. “My father-in-law can teach you how to stay alive in the desert,” Moses says, and Jethro smiles because he can. Moses leaves Aaron in charge and heads up a mountain.

God gives Moses the Ten Commandments. “Why ten?” Moses asks. “I'm trying to keep this simple,” God replies. “What happens if people disobey?” Moses asks. “From Me? Nothing,” God answers. “And what happens if we do obey?” Moses asks. “The world will be a better place,” God says.

“I AM THE LORD THY GOD.” Simple. Straightforward. The creator of everything and the person and place and thing who can worship or not as you choose. “THOU SHALT HAVE NO OTHER GODS BEFORE ME, NOR SHALL YOU MAKE ANY GRAVEN IMAGE OF ME.” This one's a little more complex. It's not “thou shalt have no other gods.” It recognizes other gods, but claims that those gods are part of the creation that God is. God is everything. There is nothing that God is not. By making a graven image, you would be trying to simplify an understanding of God and lying to yourself about what God is. Do not do that. “THOU SHALT NOT TAKE THE NAME OF THE LORD IN VAIN.” Don't talk with God's authority. You're a mortal, I'm a mortal, the best we have are guesses. Is God there? Does it matter? Don't claim authority that isn't yours. “REMEMBER THE SABBATH DAY, KEEP IT HOLY.” Take a day off. One day out of every sevem, just relax. “HONOR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER.” Be good to your parents. They're trying their best. Keep your promises to them and try not to stress them out too much. “THOU SHALL NOT MURDER.” Don't just go out killing people. You can defend yourself and your family, sure, but wholesale slaughter just leads to more killing. Chill out. “THOU SHALL NOT COMMIT ADULTERY.” So, bigamy was a thing back then, but we don't often talk about how that worked all ways. The real thing being talked about here is going behind people's back to have sex with someone; it's effectively don't lie about sleeping with people, be open and honest about intimacy and the needs of all involved. Honestly, it makes things simpler and would have saved Isaac and Jacob a world of misery. “THOU SHALL NOT STEAL.” Don't take stuff that's not yours. Try and get it back to who owns it if you can. “THOU SHALL NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS AGAINST THY NEIGHBOR.” Don't start shit. Don't spread rumors and gossip. Just be up front with people. It's not hard. “THOU SHALL NOT COVET THY NEIGHBOR'S SHIT.” It's basically spouse, house, and stuff. Don't compare yourself to other people, because you're not other people. Your metric of success is going to be unique to you, so try to live to that. Living to other people's expectations of what success looks like is only going to make you miserable.

“Simple, right?” God says. “Yeah,” Moses says. “What else you got?” And God has Moses provides a long scroll, some ink, and a silver pen. Then Moses writes the first Torah.

“This is tricky,” Moses says. “First, I die in the second book, and there's five of them. That's a little weird.” “Sorry about that,” God says. “Are you?” “No.” “What about all these other rules?” Moses asks, pointing at books three, four, and five. “A bunch of people are going to sit around getting drunk and formalize them,” God says. “But you're dictating them to me now,” Moses says. “Doesn't that make them the Word of God?” “No,” God says, “It just means I know what they're going to say in the future, because I am them in the future and I am you now and I am here now. All of these things are true at once.” “These books feel like a contract,” Moses says. “They are,” God confirms. “You set the terms of what our relationship is. I've given you the Commandments. The rest is up to you.” “No punishment for breaking them?” Moses asks again. “The only punishment is the world that comes from breaking them,” God says.

“What about the afterlife?” Moses asks. “What about it?” God asks. “What happens there?” Moses asks. “Don't worry about it,” God says. “I do worry about it,” Moses says. “The Egyptians had a whole book of the dead thing going on, and all the other religions have something to say about it.” “I'd rather you focus on what you do while you're alive,” God says. “That's what matters.” “Will we be rewarded in the afterlife for things we do here?” Moses asks. “No,” God says. “Then why be good?” Moses asks. “Why indeed?” Gods says. “Our Covenant is one you have to choose. It will not be easy. The point is to live well and try to make the world better than you found it. There's no special punishment or reward for either doing so or failing to do so.” “So, we're just trying to make the world better for everyone?” “Choosing to, or not. And you'll be surprised how many people won't get that.”

So, Moses finishes the Torah and grabs that and the Commandments and heads down to find the Jews have created a Golden Calf and are worshiping that. Moses loses his shit and thrown down the Torah and Commandments, destroying the calf. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Moses roars. “God literally just went into a nation and fought that nation for you and you decide to worship a fucking statue? Fucking Abraham sorted that one and... and... do you know nothing?” And Jethro says “They don't. They barely remember who they are, and we tried to tell them, but...” “Okay, listen,” Moses says, glaring. “I'm going back up the mountain. Jethro, Aaron, Tzipporah, Miriam, you guys start teaching everyone how to read. I'm going to go get our history and then I'll be back. Try not to worship anything else until I get back.” “Right, right, but we're thirsty,” some people say, so a very angry Moses hits a rock with his stick and causes water to spill forth from it. They start praising Moses, who does not correct them as he stomps back up the mountain.

“You should have told them I did the thing with the stick and the rock and the water,” God tells Moses as Moses gets back to writing. “They're going to think you did it with magic or something.” “They already think I do all the things,” Moses says. “You know how that ends,” God says, and Moses weeps because he does.

Moses comes down from the mountain. He presents the Commandments and the Torah. There's plenty of time to talk about the contents of both as they walk to Canaan. The Jews learn their history – the learn about Abraham's rebellion, Isaac's betrayal, and Jacob's children. They learn to read and to understand that they have to choose to be God's people and that it is an ongoing relationship, a promise to be good to show the world what it could be. They discuss and they argue and they learn how to kvetch and by the time they reach Canaan's borders they have chosen to be Jewish, have chosen to be Israelites. And then Moses says “I can't go with you.” “What?” asks the Jews. “I can't go with you,” Moses says. “You know this. You read the story. I can't be your parent or your shepherd – you all need to figure this stuff out, and you can't do that if you're expecting me to fix all your problems.” And the people that still thought that Moses had created water with a magic stick shuffled their feet nervously. “This isn't your fault,” Moses said, looking at them. “It's time to move forward, if that is your choice.”

And it was.

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eirabach · 5 years ago

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A Pen and Ink goodbye for @olliepig who enabled my need for ridiculous angst. It got a bit out of hand. Under the cut for semi-smut adjacent shenanigans. Apparently I don't title fic in this fandom idk why.

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Penelope has been on the island since daybreak.

That's not odd, not in and of itself. This is International Rescue's last day as -- as whatever International Rescue has been for the past eight years. Penelope has been a part of that from the off. Of course she's here.

It is sorta odd that he hasn't seen her.

He's seen FAB1 docked neatly in the corner of the space Two has left behind. He's seen Parker sat at the table with Grandma, the two of them blaring the old rock classics Grandma always favours when she's stressed. He's even heard Penelope herself, clipped and formal as she discusses practicalities with Kayo. He’s spotted the wag of Sherbet's rear as he disappears around a bend.

So it is odd that he hasn't actually seen Penelope herself.

It's odder still that it's on purpose.

Even he doesn't know why, not really. He's a people person. He seeks them out, whether they want him there or not, and he is, absolutely and above almost anything else, a Penelope person.

He’s spent almost all of his adult life following Penelope about like Sherbet on speed, and now, now when whatever he might say to her might actually matter, might actually change something, he’s hiding.

It doesn't make sense, but there it is.

It probably looks like cowardice. It isn’t.

The truth is his skin is too tight, his heart too large and too loud, and everything within him seems to be vibrating at a level and pitch that suggests immediate and violent combustion.

He takes himself off because he can't trust himself right now. Can't trust that he won't crack like a hull under pressure, turn into some sort of hysterical wreck and get himself grounded because what better reintroduction to his long lost father than Gordon couldn't come, dad. Gordon's gone mad.

He wonders if his dad would even be surprised. Eight years alone, maybe he might be right there with him.

So he hides himself away from Scott's demands and Virgil's concerns and Alan's excitement. Avoids Grandma's hugs. Plans to take himself off to his room and meditate himself back to earth. The irony isn't lost on him.

Except now Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward is sitting in the corridor, Sherbet in her lap and her head resting against his bedroom door. The strap of her Thai silk nightgown slipping from her shoulder and honestly, honestly, this is not helping him stay sane. Not at all.

"Um," he says. A positive opener. "Are you okay?"

"Did you know," Penelope says, because she never answers a question without posing one first, "that your brother has spent the last twenty minutes composing a farewell message of such overwrought emotional trauma that Parker almost wept?"

"Which brother?"

She lifts an eyebrow.

"Fair point. Who to this time?"

"An entire server's worth of people that he has never met." Her mouth twists wryly. “His very dearest friends.”

Gordon shrugs, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and watches the way Penelope curls her toes into the carpet over and over and over.

"Alan doesn't get out much. Well. He gets out in a rocket but for some reason I don't feel like that counts."

"That wasn't my point."

His eyes snap to hers, then, because there's something in the way she says it, something tight and sharp that pricks at the parts of him already spread too thin.

"He's under the impression that he may not return."

"He's dramatic like that."

"And you're not?" She stands, Sherbet tottering from her lap, the strap slipping further down her arm, and Gordon concentrates as hard as he dares on the space just below her left earlobe. "Gordon. Are you avoiding me?"

And of course he is, entirely, but telling her so seems like a really stupid idea. Utterly stupid. Stupid as his stupid eyes slipping down and along and following the curve of pale pink silk below her collarbone. He forces them upward, squints at the stain on the ceiling shaped just like Virgil's left foot. That had been a good Tuesday.

“Gordon!”

"No?" Not his greatest dramatic turn, this.

"Then you won't mind if I come in, then, will you."

"What?"

And this is really, terribly, excruciatingly unfair. Because if he was asked to count how many times he'd dreamed of this moment, of Penelope, flushed cheeks and a determined set to her jaw, her hand on the door handle and his bed six feet away, he'd struggle to settle on a number that didn't make him sound like a creep. In none of those dreams did he stare at her, mouth agape, and tremble like a virgin in a brothel. In none of those dreams had he ever, ever considered saying no. But to say he's not at his best, well, that's a level of understatement best left to Penny herself. And if he knows anything, more than his own name, more than the vagaries of Four's controls or the shades of Scott's moods, it's that Penny deserves better. Better than him at his best, and certainly better than whatever he's got to offer her now. Which seems, on balance, to just be a grouper's bug eyed stare.

Hot.

"Please, Gordon. I don't want to do this out here."

Oh. Well. Yeah, obviously. There are rules. Probably.

God, he’s never actually had to find out. That’s just embarrassing.

“I can see you thinking,” Penelope says. “Don’t be crass.”

“Can’t help it.”

“Gordon, please.” She sounds tired. Tired and strung out and there's a dark smudge under her eyes that might be jet-lag or might be something else all together. The daydream, such as it is, collapses into nothing under the weight of her hand, curled into a fist at her side, and the way her mouth turns down at the corners.

"Ah, shit. Come on, I'm sorry, come on."

He opens the door for her and sends a silent prayer of thanks to Scott, because Scott nags him about his room hourly (or at least he used to, back when Scott had time to care about such things) and probably the only way Penelope could look more any more out of place would be if she were surrounded by a month's worth of dirty laundry. It's bad enough that she's looking at his unmade bed.

He steals a look back through the still open door.

"Is Parker..?"

"Not invited," she states, and backheels the door shut. Sherbet scurries through just in time and sits looking from one to the other of them like a spectator at a tennis match. "We need to talk."

That, of course, is what he’s been trying to avoid. He’s immediately on the defensive. Twitchy. His eyes flick around the room and refuse to settle on her for more than a moment at a time. He can’t look at her and he can’t talk to her and if he doesn’t actually explode before she leave his room then he’s gonna have to consider this whole thing a success because he’s trembling so hard he can feel the floor shake.

"Super. I love talking. Love. It. What you want to talk about? Sunfish? Grandma’s chilli? Nepotism in the rescue industry?"

"Don't be factitious, Gordon. It doesn't suit you."

"My apologies," he offers a little bow. "Go ahead, your Ladyship."

She scowls. The hollows under her eyes are more obvious in the low light of the bedroom. His already leaden stomach roils uncomfortably to see them.

"Does it not strike you as odd that Alan is composing farewells to people whom he does not know, and you are refusing to look me in the eye?"

"We're gonna be gone like a day."

"Is that so?"

And maybe he should have paid attention to the way she says it, not cross, not at all, but just a little bit sad and a little bit uncertain, or maybe it's just that she's hit the crux of something Gordon hasn't quite dared to name, but something -- something just sort of snaps.

"The hell you getting at, Pen?"

"You know perfectly well --"

"No I don't!" And that's too loud, way too loud, would send a brother running any other time, have Parker hammering down the door. "I don't know anything anymore! I don't know how this is gonna work, any of it. I don't know shit about Oort clouds or, or what the point is in taking Four into space! I don't know what dad looks like, I don't know if he's out there I don't know what the hell I'm gonna do or he isn't or if he is, Penny! I don't know how to hold it together or how to hold my family together and I sure as hell don't know how I'm supposed to say goodbye." He needs his re-breather, he's out of oxygen, out of patience, out of time. "Not to you."

It's a confession, of sorts.

She takes it as permission.

Penny never does anything by half measures. She launches herself at him, bits of old scuba gear and half his shell collection going flying as his back hits his dresser, his hands scrabbling for purchase against the drawers as hers tighten in his hair and she crushes her mouth against his. Every ounce of blood in his body makes a sudden and impassioned journey downward and he's glad of the dresser because he's never gonna live it down if he faints.

She nips at his lower lip, and it's a damn close run thing.

Her tongue is hot and her grip is almost painful and he doesn't know what to do with his own hands, because if he holds her now he knows he's never going to be able to let her go.

Penelope, of course, is always two steps ahead.

She pulls back, just far enough to rest her forehead against his. Her breath stutters over his lips. He's not breathing much at all.

Slowly, so slowly, as though the process causes her physical pain, she releases her grip, her thumbs coming down to brush at his cheeks before she lets go entirely. She reaches up on her tiptoes to press a chaste kiss to his forehead and steps back, hands neatly folded, cheeks flushed. Gordon blinks at her.

"I'm sorry," she says. "That was uncalled for."

Gordon makes a sound that might generously be called a whine. "If you think that was uncalled for then I'm afraid you're wildly off base."

"It seemed a better idea than yelling."

"Definitely a better idea than yelling."

"Not that I'm not upset with you for avoiding me."

"Understandable."

"Only that -- I'm not awfully good at this sort of thing either, you know."

"I really, extremely beg to differ."

"Not that." She rolls her eyes and he can't help but smile. "The overwrought emotional goodbyes sort of thing."

"I dunno, I like your version. Better than Alan's I bet -- wait." He narrows his eyes, takes hold of her shoulders. Her skin is soft and warm and her eyes are warmer, distracting him from whatever stupid joke he was going to make. She isn't looking at him like this is a joke. “Do you have some ulterior motive here? No, never mind, stupid question. You always have an ulterior motive.”

“That’s rude, Gordon.”

“That’s true, Penelope.”

But she’s smiling, just a tiny bit, and his heart lifts just a little to match.

"I'm not going to ask you to stay if that’s what you’re worried about," she says, soft as a promise she knows he truly able to make. "Only to come home. Regardless."

"Not planning to stay," he says in lieu of lying. "I like gravity."

"Other planets have gravity, Gordon."

"Yeah I know. It's a metaphor."

"Oh?" She sways into his space, just a little bit, and he feels his body chase hers as she tilts away, proving his point. "How poetic."

"Alan gets it from me."

"Hmm." She leans in again, her hand against his chest, and the rawness of her touch fades to something sweeter and darker that curls in his belly and is really probably best avoided right now because -- because something.

He can't make himself care.

"I don't want to say goodbye, Pen."

He doesn't say ever, but she hears it anyway. He can tell by the spark in her eyes, by the catch of her breath. They're good like that, the two of them. Finding each other in the liminal spaces between words.

Words are pretty overrated anyway, especially compared to her lips on his, gentle and lingering, one hand above his heart and the other at his jaw.

He's the one to deepen the kiss this time, to cup the back of her head and draw her closer, tighter, silk between his fingers, the dresser at his back. Bed is comfier. Bed is close. Bed is -- probably pushing his luck. But then again, maybe not, because she's the one tugging at his shirt, pulling him after her even as she makes short work of the buttons, pushes the sleeves from his arms. She's the one settling herself against his pillows, smiling when he hovers with his weight on his elbows, and presses a finger to his lips.

"Then don't."

#thunderbirds are go #gordon tracy #penelope Creighton-Ward #pen and ink fic #is there an agreed tag for that?#idek #clare vs writers block #edited and written on my phone so pls forgive #i pray for the read more

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letmewritemylife · 4 years ago

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Like Father, Like Son (Part 1)

My name is revenge and I'm here to save my name. - Shinedown (My Name)

A/N Stephen only does a small appearance because his brain short-circuited for overload of cuteness (but can we blame him tho?)

TRIGGER WARNINGS Referenced abuse, referenced abusive parents

A blond guy throws Lara a look as she pummers the punching bag hard enough to almost break it, but he soon decides to move past her upon Jonathan's deadly glare. Lara smirks at him before kicking the bag. "Stay down, Fido."

Jonathan cocks an eyebrow, offended, and stops the punching bag from hitting his face. "Shut up and don't destroy your brand new muscle," he comments sarcastically and she scoffs.

She walks past him and reaches for her bag. "May I go to the locker room or you'd rather give someone else a dirty look before?"

He grins and follows her into the corridor. "If you wanted to kick his ass later on, you just had to ask." She giggles and swats his arm away playfully. "Also, it's either me or Dumbledore."

She sighs as she reaches for the door of the locker room. "I need no bodyguard, thank you very much."

He gasps, something he does way too often just for the sake of drama. "I'm your brother. It's my God-given right to-"

"Annoy me," she interrupts him before closing the door behind her.

The locker room is almost empty, the only women around being instructors or very loyal customers. Lara abandons her bag on a lonely bench in the corner of the room, a spot that allows her to see everyone and everything. She removes the bandages around her hands and takes a sip of water. She has barely the time to swallow that her phone is ringing. The screen shows Elize's contact information and Lara is fast to answer, sitting down before her still recovering leg starts aching. "Hey. Need anything?"

"Tony called me. He said he wanted to talk to you but you weren't answering your phone." The woman leans with her side against the windowsill, smiling when her gaze meets a black motorcycle parking by the house.

Lara secures her phone between her face and shoulder and proceeds to change from her training gear into her casual clothes. "He doesn't seem to have tried too much, since I've been training for what? An hour?"

Elize grins. "Actually," she points out, "you and Jon have been gone for three hours at least."

She sighs. "Fair enough, I'll call him back."

"Great. Now I have to go. Oh and tell your brother that I will not be home tonight," she replies with a wide smile as she walks downstairs.

Lara smirks. "Okay, whatever. But keep in mind that tomorrow I want absolutely no detailed description of whatever you've done." She lets her tank top fall in the bag, adding it to the pile of dirty laundry. "Or who."

The Avengers Headquarters are even more crowded than usual, probably owing to some mission that has just been completed. As she walks down the main hallway, Lara inspects all the agents around her. Sam waves his hand when he walks past her and she smiles, until her attention is drawn by a loud crash coming from the nearby room. Lara looks inside through the open door and widens her eyes at the sight of a teenager on the floor. He seems even younger than Parker and looks out of place as he suddenly sits up upon seeing Lara. He moves a hand through his pale hair and looks down ashamed, failing to hide the trail of blood coming out of his nose.

Something snaps inside of Lara and she crouches before him, wrapping a hand around his face and forcing him to look at her. "Are you okay?" she asks as she wipes away the blood from his face. She's almost surprised by how warm his skin is.

He nods, but immediately moves his gaze away from her face and back on the floor. In that moment Tony walks in accompanied by Nick Fury. "I see you've already met our new kid," the inventor says as she helps the teen up.

"Your what?"

Nick takes a step forward. "We found him in an Agency X base. We called you here to talk about his situation."

The boy abruptly looks up, a mix of fear and anxiety written on his pale face. He throws a glance at Nick, then Lara, then Tony and Lara again. She furrows her brows. "I'm not sure I understand what I have to do with him."

Nick gestures to her to come closer and the two retreat to a corner. "He was a part of a project by Agency X. We really don't know what they did to him as he hasn't said a single word yet. We only know he was the only one to survive whatever experiments they were working on and that he is supposed to have some sort of powers."

She arches a brow. "And?"

"And you could train him a little," he concludes, straightening up. "I mean, your powers may even be similar, don't you think?"

Lara scoffs. "Like I know what I do when I use my powers!" She takes a step back. "I can't even train myself properly, how am I supposed to train someone else?"

Nick crosses his arms. "Well, you better figure that out because from tomorrow on that kid's training is your responsibility." He walks past her and gestures Tony to follow him, then turns back to her. "I'll go get you all the information you may need, wait here with the kid," he says before leaving.

Lara sighs. She crosses her arms tightly on her chest and moves closer to the teen. "Looks like I'm your trainer now," she says.

He keeps his gaze on the floor. "Yes, miss."

"At least he is polite." She looks around the room and at the utter chaos around her, almost as if there had been a storm inside the place. "May I know what happened here? Just out of pure curiosity," she asks with a smirk, eyes still on him. He swallows heavily but doesn't answer. "Oh sh*t." She places a hand on his shoulder, which makes him turn his head slightly to the side. His eyes then set on her face, a look of extreme surprise on his face. "Listen, I have done way worse than messing up a room, so as long as you don't kill anyone in front of me we are fine. What happened?"

He stammers for a couple seconds, but finally manages to answer. "I- I don't know. I just… The lights were turned off so… I touched the switch and this happened."

She nods. "Are you okay?"

He looks even more surprised. "Uhm, yes miss."

"Good." She smiles and turns to the door. Tony hands him a folder and she brows through the pages, then she turns back to the teen. "Well, see you tomorrow then. Is nine o'clock fine?" He nods promptly and she smiles again. "Great, bye."

Back at the Sanctum, she abandons her bag in the corner of the library. She then collapses face first onto the couch, letting out a groan. Stephen stifles a laugh and gets up from his chair. "Long day?"

She looks up and gives him a dirty look. "Have you guys finally defeated Sauron?"

He rolls his eyes and sits down on the small portion of the couch not occupied by her. "Not without you, Frodo."

She gets up on her elbows and arches a brow. "Kinda called for it, right?" she groans loudly and manages to sit more or less properly, her legs on Stephen's lap. "I need your help."

He leans back, arms crossed and hands covered in his yellow gloves. Today his hands have really decided to start acting up. "What for?"

"How do I train someone who is one hundred percent scared of me, barely talks to me and that I know nothing about?"

Stephen laughs sarcastically. "Anything else?"

"Oh and an indefinite amount of traumas, for what I know up to now."

He sighs. "Well, you should probably start with talking with him. Don't go too deep and tell him something about yourself too." The cloak joins them and starts pushing him playfully against Lara. He lets out a groan as the sentient relic wraps around his arm.

She muffles a giggle with the back of her hand before proceeding to free him from his sentient restraint. "Anything else? Such as how not to get a falling skyscraper on my back?" She smirks at him, her hands wrapped in thick red fabric.

He rolls his eyes. "Abandon them in the first trashcan you see before getting emotionally attached and keep pieces of clothing out of your private life."

As the cloak abandons its mission of interfering with Stephen's displays of affection, Lara huffs. "He's too old for that," she chirps. "Also, you're welcome."

He sighs loudly. "Thank you."

"Much better." She gently grabs his jaw and places a quick kiss to his cheek. "Thank you too for your help," she concludes as she gets up, her fingers hurrying to move a lock of hair behind her ear.

She reaches for her bag and walks upstairs. Today she feels light, free, happy and she isn't even sure if it's because of her new task or her leg finally recovering. Before getting into the shower, she examines her wound, which seems to improve by the day. Now that she thinks about it, she hasn't asked anyone about Alex yet. She doesn't know whether he is in jail or not, when his trial will be or anything like that, but as hot water runs down her body she is sure she doesn't care. No, she couldn't care less. He will pay and that's it, she doesn't want to waste her time worrying about him. Instead she should start thinking about the teen she has met not even three hours before. She knows nothing about him and, judging by Fury's words, reading S.H.I.E.L.D. files won't be much help.

As she pours shampoo on her open palm, she starts wondering about what happened to him, about what in hell would make someone so scared of everyone and everything. Brad had once told her she was scary, but it was a joke and she was doing it on purpose. She had tried to be as kind as possible to him, but apparently her attitude didn't matter to him. Or maybe he already knows her, maybe someone from Agency X told him about her and all the horrible things she has done. But this wouldn't explain his behaviour being the same with Tony and Fury too. Perhaps because they are part of S.H.I.E.L.D?

When she comes back from her mind castle, she realizes she has been standing in the shower for way too much time. Quickly drying her body and putting on the first clothes available, she plops on her bed with a loud groan. She outstretches her arm and a second later the teen's folder is in her hand. Careful not to ruin the paper with the small drops of water falling down her hair locks, she starts reading. Agent 570. Born 18th July 2010. Project 82.

Lara rapidly brows through the pages, most of which are detailed pictures of the place he was found in: a big room with greenish walls and small windows. The almost total absence of light had been solved by hanging a couple of LEDs from the ceiling. Tables, chairs and other iron pieces of furniture were lying on the floor among the garbage, some mysterious prints left on the floor suggested a body had been there for a while. The following report confirmed, in fact, her hypothesis: the teen, whose real name had been written nowhere, had been found by a group of agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. who had stormed the place. Unfortunately the entire base was empty, probably evacuated. The only exception was the laboratory in the basement, where the poor boy was standing surrounded by corpses of scientists and other teens his age, the latter brutally slaughtered and the former electrocuted. The date coincided with his fifteenth birthday. How unfortunate.

The light of the Sun crept into the room through the small window just under the ceiling. The tiny opening was the only thing still allowing him to see the world outside his room. As he watched dark boots moving outside the base in the parking lot through the bars, he pondered how much his life had improved after his father's death. Despite all his problems, despite his violence and addictions, at least he allowed him to leave his room. Sometimes. The clicking sound of the lock opening made him turn abruptly just before a guard grabbed his arm and dragged him out of his room.

Lara tries her best to smile as brightly as possible when the teen enters the training facility. "Hey. Slept well?" she asks approaching him, trying not to think about Tony's comments on her being barely taller than a fifteen-year-old.

He nods, but upon seeing her tilting her head, manages to burp out a couple words. "Yes miss, thank you." He looks her in the eye. "You?"

"Not bad, thanks." She plops down on a weight bench, patting the spot beside her. "I wanted to talk with you a little before we started, do you mind?"

He shakes his head and sits down, looking down. "This is gonna be hard as hell," she thinks, biting her lip. "Okay, first of all: what are your abilities?" He furrows his brows, throwing her a confused glance with the corner of his eye, and she corrects the shot. "Do you have any kind of inhuman powers? Enhanced abilities? Former training? Anything on this line?"

He looks back down. "I- I am supposed to..." She leans forward, placing her forearms on her knees. "Electricity. I can- I should control electricity."

She nods, leaning back against the wall. "Good. I can work with that. And," she continues, "how often have you used your powers before?"

He gulps. "Once."

She nods and examines his behaviour. He may even look younger than he already is, all curved on his knees as to protect his vital organs from a possible attack. "Last but not least," she says with a smile. "I should have probably asked you this yesterday, but I'm not good at this kind of stuff. What's your name?"

The teen looks at her and back at the floor, extraordinarily surprised by such a banal question. She leans forward and lowers her voice a little, putting so much effort into soothing it. "I would hate to have to call you with a number, you know…"

He swallows heavily. "I'm Kevin."

She nods. "Lara," she replies with a smile.

Everything happened fast. They handcuffed him and brought him into a laboratory. He tried to understand where he was, but all he saw were bodies. Bodies of teenagers like him. Dead bodies. Slaughtered bodies. What the hell was going on?

"Okay, all you have to do is hit that target." Lara crosses her arms on her chest and tilts her head slightly to the side, examining Kevin's scared expression and his anxious gulp. "It doesn't necessarily have to be a powerful attack, just focus on accuracy. Got it?"

Her confidence in his ability not to tear the whole place down fails to reassure Kevin as he ponders the distance between him and the red target. No more than twenty feet, no wind, no one else in the room but him and her. He lets out a breath and turns to her, waiting for a sign to start.

"Whenever you're ready," she says with a slight movement of her head to the side.

He nods and looks forward, appealing to all his self-control. Energy is flowing in his veins, he can feel it, he just has to order it to hit the target. It's easy.

A thick needle pierced his skin. He screamed, a grey liquid flooding inside his veins and outstretched an arm out of instinct. Next thing he knew countless scientists, way more than he had seen at first, were pushed in all directions, their skin burnt and their eyes turned backwards. The smell of burnt meat was probably the strongest memory he had of that day, as well as the unbearable guilt. He clenched his fists, eyes wide open. What had he done…

As soon as he outstretches his arm a power discharge able to set a forest on fire leaves his palm, not only making a hole in the wall just a couple feet away from the target, but pushing him back on the floor too. He blinks his eyes as Lara rushes to his side and he brings a hand to his face, touching the trail of blood running down the side of his head. She has not even touched him that he's already sat up, staring at the wall repairing itself before his very eyes. He lets out a breath and buries his face in his hands.

Lara is about to touch his shoulder in an attempt to calm him, but a small sparkle of energy tingles her finger. "It's… not bad for a first attempt," she comments with what is probably meant to be a mouth-closed smile.

He pins his arms on his knees, a hand moving through his hair. "It's not my first attempt."

As Lara adjusts herself in a kneeling position, her magic repairs the light cables, severely damaged by the unnatural discharge. "You're talking to someone whose first attempt at magic included almost burning alive a cat," she smirks, but her joke fails to make Kevin feel better.

He laughs ironically. "You are not like me. You killed Thanos, you saved the Avengers, you fought more members of Agency X than I have ever met in my life. You do not compare."

"You're missing the part when I completely mess up everything, almost kill everyone and do nothing but training for years just to be able not to hurt others." Her expression turns serious as her gaze sets on Kevin. "You and I are more similar than I would like to admit."

"Because you're ashamed to be like a teen who can't even use his powers?" he teases, abruptly getting up and clenching his fists.

She sighs and slowly stands up, arms crossed. "Because I'd prefer not to think about the fact that there are still people who have suffered like me, if not more."

She takes a tentative step forward, but he jumps back, suddenly upset. "How are you so sure I've suffered? You know nothing about me!"

"I see you, how you behave, how you talk, and trust me when I say I was just like you, hiding my emotions in a stupid effort to look stronger or cooler or whatever, but it led me nowhere. I want something better for you."

"No you don't, no one here does. You all just want me for my powers, you want to use me," he whines as he starts to tear up, a knot forming in his throat.

She swallows heavily. "I- Is that what they told you?"

He nods and collapses on the closest bench, crossing his arms on his knees and leaning forward as he cries. She kneels in front of him, pondering what to do. After a moment of hesitation, she decides to sit beside him and caress his back. "I'm not here to hurt you, no one is. I just want to help you, I promise." He shakes his head as his breath hitches and his rave of emotions intensifies. She bites her bottom lip and she wonders if Stephen ever felt so powerless whenever he saw her tearing up. "I can go if you want me to," she whispers.

Upon hearing no answer, she gets up and, after throwing him a last worried look, she leaves the room. But not before having cured his wound from afar.

The water running down the tap is ice cold, almost as much as the breeze coming through the open window, but after all such a tiny bathroom cools down pretty quickly. As he rinses his face, Kevin thinks about everything that has happened the day before. The cut on his forehead has almost completely disappeared, but he tries not to be grateful for it. "She's an enemy, do not forget it." But it's hard to remember it when your enemies mend your wounds and your friends cut them back open. This unforgivable weakness may be the main reason why his father never trusted him with becoming an agent. Not that he had ever expressed some sort of distrust in his abilities. Well, he had never expressed much at all.

After drying his face, he runs out of the room towards the training facility. His plan is simple: training as much as humanly possible until he's strong enough to escape and go back where he came from. He has wondered more than once why he should do it, why he should go back to a place he has always despised with all his heart and soul, a place where he was treated like a lab rat or so, and he wonders what his mother would have done. That poor woman he never got to see much seemed to have been, according to what his father had told him, a smart and brilliant woman, someone he could have always gone to for a piece of advice. And now he could really use one.

The door of the training room cracks weakly as he opens it and he sticks his head inside, glad to see nothing but training tools. He walks in, but promptly freezes in place when his eyes catch the sight of a woman doing pull-ups in a side of the room, her hands wrapped around a metal bar and her whole body a good five feet above the floor. As soon as she hears his footsteps, she sets her blue eyes on him and he could bet his soul she's scanning his whole being. After a moment, she goes back to her training and Kevin stands there, staring at her muscles tensing and relaxing under her purple tank top.

He lets out a breath and walks to the punching bag. He clenches his fists and hits it with all his strength, exhaling a breath. One punch after the other, he tries to keep up with the rhythm of her sit-ups. He tries, he really does, to imagine her face on that punching bag, to imagine her livid body instead of that brownish material, blood trailing down her face and marks all over her skin, but that vision soon leaves place to that of someone else, a tall man with broad shoulders and no hair on his head.

One punch after the other, he pours his anger into those repetitive movements as a feeling of guilt takes over him because dang it, that's not the person he should hate. The person he is supposed to despise is currently placing her feet on the wall to better land on the floor. The person he is supposed to despise is walking over to him and throwing him an inspecting look.

"Hey," she greets him coldly. Kevin stops, he doesn't even know why. He should just turn to her and punch her on the jaw. "You're gonna ruin your hands by punching like that," she says casually, not even looking him in the eye.

He nods. "Why do you even care?" Her gaze moves to the floor and she shrugs, visibly hurt. Kevin doesn't know what happens to him, he just feels stupid, really stupid. He sighs and stops the punching bag with a hand. "I mean… how am I supposed to do it?"

She outstretches an arm and clenches her fist, rotating it slowly to show him. He nods and, after following her example, begins punching the bag again. “Go on, train me. It’ll only make it easier for me to kill you,” he thinks, but a part of him is sure he could never do it and not only because of her powers.

Lara examines his movements for a moment, then nods. “Better,” she mumbles.

She turns around and is about to leave, when Kevin stops again and calls her. “Miss?” He puts all his energy in keeping his voice from trembling. Her eyes set on his face and she locks her arms on her chest. He swallows heavily and fails to keep his gaze on her eyes, a senseless guilt taking over him. “I- Sorry… for yesterday.”

She tilts her head slightly to the side as her lips turn upwards. “Don’t worry about it, it’s fine.”

He nods and something crosses his mind, an idea he should be ashamed to even consider. Unfortunately he, just like his father, isn’t really one for thinking things through. “I was wondering if… you know… you still wanted to train me.” Upon her raising her eyebrow, his cheeks are lit on fire. “You don’t have to, I mean-”

She waits for a moment, pondering the situation. Finally, she decides she can still try and make it work. “Oh no, I will. I am not having another discussion with Stark about why I should spend more time with humans rather than sentient cloaks.”

Kevin widens his eyes. “What?”

She smiles. “Long story.”

#lara johnson #agata varano #scar #marvel #mcu #oc #original character #writing #mcu fiction #oc fiction #like father like son #stephen strange x original character

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thedcmonshead · 5 years ago

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All’s Fair...

WHO: Ra’s and Stephanie @itspciler

MENTIONED: Tim Drake @cleverbxrd, Bruce Wayne @xwxynxs

WHERE: An old meatpacking facility in Gotham’s industrial district.

WHEN: The day after Stephanie’s kidnapping.

WHAT: Stephanie wakes up to find out who took her and why. Ra’s uses the opportunity to make a statement to the Batfamily, and to get under Stephanie’s skin long after she’s sent home.

TWS: Oh, man. Kidnapping, torture, predatory behavior, blood, threats of grievous bodily injury (not enacted), psychological manipulation and trauma.

RA’S: He’d never been the type to take ’no’ for an answer.

He liked to consider it a virtue, despite the trouble it had landed him and those he cared about in on more than one occasion–it had been a refusal to back down from a challenge that had led him to the discovery of the Lazarus Pits in the first place, all those centuries ago, and refusal to listen to Sora that had led to the events that had transpired at the young prince’s healing. That had been, as far as Ra’s had ever been concerned, his fault, if not in the way the sultan and his pig of a son had tried to paint it.

But in all those centuries since, his refusal to accept ‘no’ had been a saving grace. There was no resource out of his reach, now, no item he couldn’t obtain, no person he couldn’t sway or break.

Not even, despite what the boy seemed to hope, Timothy Drake. The boy would become his Heir–it was, as far as he was concerned, an inevitability. The only thing that was in question was how difficult the boy was going to make it for him, and how much pain Ra’s would have to cause in turn to get him to yield.

He was no fool. He knew the training Batman gave to his children, knew that trying to break Tim’s will by attacking the boy himself was both unlikely to work and likely far too difficult compared to the other options–the boy’s genius and tactical abilities was a large part of why Ra’s wanted him, after all. And it wouldn’t do to damage the boy too much.

But the boy did get so very attached to his friends. Stephanie Brown, it seemed, even more so than most. Which was why the young woman was here, wrists bound above her head and head slumped down as Ra’s waited for the sedative his men had attacked her with to wear off.

He didn’t have to wait long.

STEPH: There was a certain sense of contentment Steph had been filled with upon leaving the manor. She had been staying there with Tim since they got together, likely being on the too clingy side but she liked to wake up Tim’s entirely too cute sleepy face and be around him while catching up on her own work. Eventually she knew she had to go back to her tiny apartment, do some laundry, and let Tim have some space. She wasn’t exactly thrilled to go, but it was fine.

She really should have expected that things couldn’t stay just that: fine.

Her phone and keys had dropped from her grip the moment someone grabbed her outside her door, lashing out violently, elbow connecting with a stomach and foot slamming down on someone’s toes, but it was useless. The needle plunged into her skin and the sedative was delivered, her body swaying and eyes drooping before she descended into darkness.

The girl’s head was pounding the moment she came to. Her stomach rolled and she had to take a few moments to gather her wits about herself before it registered her wrists were bound above her head and she was definitely not anywhere near her apartment. Don’t panic. It was a cardinal bat rule, panicking got you nowhere. Steph took a few steadying breaths, raising her head and opening her eyes.

Ra’s Al Ghul, of course.

The snarl was instantaneous. Steph spat at his feet and glared. “What the hell do you want, you fucking asshole?” She snapped, jerking roughly at the bondage around her wrists in hopes of finding any sort of give or a way she could escape. Her stomach dropped down to her feet and she sucked in a sharp breath; Tim. “If you touched him then I’ll kill Batman’s cardinal rule myself.”

RA’S: Well, that was an amusing surprise. Ra’s didn’t bother biting back the grin that curled across his face in response to the immediate flare of fury the girl lashed out with. "Oh, my, and hear I’d heard you were the sweet one,“ Ra’s drawled, clasping his hands behind his back and regarding her smugly. "I do believe you just answered your own question–quite correctly, I’m afraid. But don’t worry, I haven’t touched him yet.” He smiled, a bright expression that didn’t match up to his words or their surroundings. "He’s a bit slippery to get on his own, and the last time I tried, I got a base blown up for my trouble. This time I thought I’d have him come to me. Hence why you’re here.“

He paced forward, taking the girl by the chin and forcing her to hold his gaze, fingers digging bruises into her jaw. "Timothy may want little more than to stay away from me, but one of those few things is to keep me away from his loved ones. If he knows I have you, knows that you’re being hurt because of him, he’ll throw himself at my feet to keep you safe. And you know it, don’t you, Miss Brown?”

An assassin entered from behind him with a tripod, and Ra’s ignored the man as he began setting it up. “Of course, we’ll have to get the message to our little songbird first. I’m sure he’d figure it out on his own, eventually, but I think I’ve given the boy more than enough time to evaluate my proposition. I’m not particularly inclined to give him any more.”

STEPH: Steph didn’t bother to stop the glare on her face despite the dread creeping up her spine. “I live to crush men’s expectations of me.” She snapped, eyes narrowed and flickering around to try to take in her surroundings and get any sort of clue where she could possibly be. The overwhelming sense of doom was pressing down on her, making it almost hard to breathe through the panic that threatened to overcome her. “That’s because he’s smarter than you’ll ever dream to be, asshole.”

Jolting back, the girl tried to yank her face out of his bruising grip and snarled. The crippling guilt and dread took hold of Steph’s heart. She knew he was right and hated it. If she had been better, been more aware maybe she could have gotten away, or at least got a text to one of the bats. This is why she was a failed Robin, a failed Batgirl. The thought made tears sting at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall, especially not in front of him.

Staring at Ra’s for a long moment, not bothering to reply to his monologuing, Steph jerked forward and spit right in his face. “Fuck you, you absolute nut.” She said harshly. “He’ll never take you up on whatever insane idea you’ve formulated in that wonky brain of yours. I’d rather take whatever shit you insist on throwing at me then ever letting him even consider the shit you have planned.”

RA’S: Modern young women and their resentment of men. Perpetually tiresome–he hadn’t liked it when it had started showing up in his own daughters, and he particularly didn’t like it in a prisoner. He oughtn’t be surprised, though; anyone that Timothy hung around with for too long was apt to have the boy’s same resentment for authority and antagonistic style to dealing with losing control. "Smarter? No, no. Smart in a different way, I will give you that–which is, of course, why I want him.“ Amongst other things.

He was satisfied, for a few moments, at the sight of tears welling in the girl’s eyes, but then she was spitting in his face, and Ra’s grip on her chin dropped down to her throat. While he wiped his face with his other hand, that one squeezed. Centuries of training and use of the Pits had lent him strength enough to strangle someone with one hand, if he so desired, but he let her have just enough air to stay conscious. At least, until his other hand came slamming into her stomach, forcing what air she’d been dragging in from her lungs.

"The detective will take me up on my offer, because he will have no choice,” Ra’s snarled, leaning in. "I’ll tell you what–I’ll even let you see your little boyfriend give himself to me, just so you can have that image in your head any time you think of him. Him yielding to me because of a stupid little girl he thought he could have when I already laid my claim. And he knew it would be useless, too–he could have gone for someone strong, someone better-trained, but he picked you. You made it so easy for us to get a hold of you, he can’t have expected any less. Perhaps that’s why he chose you–the team won’t miss out if you don’t come back alive.“

STEPH: The satisfaction had lasted all of ten seconds before the fingers closed around her throat and squeezed. She jerked uselessly, and a whine escaped her as her body thrashed in an attempt to break the man’s touch. Black spots were starting to dance in her vision, then came relief, sucking in all the oxygen she could get. That is, until Ra’s hand slammed against her stomach and all air left her once more. She gasped and her chest hitched uselessly until her lungs remembered how to work and she gasped in all the air she could manage.

Ra’s face was entirely too close to Steph’s and despite the bruises forming around her throat and how shaken she felt at nearly being strangled until she passed out, she snarled and bared her teeth at him. His words were meant to hurt, to barb at her until she bled and lost all hope in Tim, in the bats, but despite the sting, she ignored it. "You’re one sick creep, Ra’s Al Ghul.” Steph managed to finally choke out, regardless of the harsh sting in her throat. “I bet it just eats you up inside that he can’t fucking stand you. That you left those scars on him and that not him, but we all want to see you taken down. He’ll do it do. If anyone can do, it’s him.”

Steph was from Gotham. She was used to villains, used to crime and the potential of getting hurt with her night job, but there was a deep fear in her she was hiding. She was dreading the torture Ra’s may likely inflict on her, the own scars she’d get from this, maybe even a matching one across her cheek like Tim if he was sadistic enough to do just that. It didn’t matter. Steph could do it, endure it. Anything to keep his grubby paws off of Tim. “Give me your worst, old man. You’re not touching him.”

RA’S: It was a pittance of recompense, feeling her spasm under his grip, listening to her choke for air. Fortunate, then, that he had plenty of time to punish her, for spitting on him and for Tim.

Her words earned a sneer, Ra’s leaning in to speak into her ear. “Eats me up? Oh, Miss Brown, you truly have no idea,” he breathed. “There isn’t a single part of my immortal soul that feels anything but glee at seeing those scars. Seeing my marks on him.” He pulled back, dropped his hand from her throat. “You will never know that feeling, I’m afraid. Because he will be coming with me.”

He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a sheath covered in intricate silver inlay. He circled behind Stephanie, drew the blade out with a snick. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave you some marks of your own to remind you of him. Of me.”

The blade sliced along her shoulder, the skin pulled open immediately despite the blade’s sharpness by the stretched position of her arms. “We have hours until I’m to meet him. We’ll give him something as pathetic to look at as your fighting skills, hm?”

STEPH: There was a grimace on the blonde’s face, stomach churning at his disgusting words. “You’re fucking sick. He’s not coming. I won’t let him. I’d rather you mark me up just like you did him than ever let you touch him. I would walk through hell and back for him. This is nothing.” She swallowed hard the moment the fingers finally left her throat, the moment of relief short lived as soon as she sees the blade taken out. Her blood turned to ice, dread crawling up her spine and rendering her momentarily frozen.

The muffled whine was out before Steph could stop it, biting down roughly on her bottom lip in attempt to keep it quiet, feeling the skin split open and blood start trickling down her skin. She let out a few shuddery breaths, trying not to shake with the fresh pain blooming across her shoulder. “You have a sick sense of humor, Ra’s. I’m from Gotham. You’re about as scary as a house cat.” She got out through gritted teeth, through the burn in her shoulders and arms, increased tenfold by the cut on her body.

RA’S: “Fortunately for you, my dear, it’s out of your hands. Otherwise you’d be going back to your family in pieces.” It was so very satisfying, the way the girl’s eyes went wide in fear the moment the blade came out, but not nearly as satisfying as the whine the first slash to her skin brought from her lips.

“Oh? I’ll keep that in mind.” Ra’s dragged the blade along her ribcage, next, breath warm against the back of her neck as her shirt and skin sliced open again. “Perhaps I should give the two of you some matching scars. He has quite a number. Not as careful as he ought to be.”

The next slice mimicked one of Tim’s scars with eerie accuracy, a stripe of crimson welling up across her collarbone as he circled back to her front. “Do let me know when you get bored, will you, Miss Brown? I have plenty of tools we can play with before my meeting with your boyfriend.”

STEPH: The mere thought made her stomach roll, fingers curling up into tight fists above her head where they stayed tied up uselessly. The fear was enough to practically choke her with it. She swallowed hard, unrelenting in her hard glare at the man before her. She had to be strong. For Tim. For all the Bats, but mostly, for herself. The blade sliced into her ribs, pained noise being pushed through her lips and breath hitching. Her skin felt like it was on fire with each slash. It was excruciating.

Steph wanted to cry out, but didn’t want to give Ra’s the satisfaction of it. The slashes were nothing compared to what he could do, what she was sure he had planned. “Cute.” She bit out through gritted teeth. “Might as well do the cheek one next if you really want us to match.” The snarky words were out and she wanted desperately to stuff them back into her mouth, swallowing hard. Sometimes she was too much of a smartass for her own good.

“Bored? Me? Never. I’m having a great time. Do you do this as a leisurely activity for all your brainwashed idiot assassins? Just curious. I mean. They’d have to be pretty stupid to think you’re someone worth following after all.”

RA’S: There were few things he enjoyed more than watching people’s instincts war with each other. Brown’s instincts to lash out with sharp tongue, to make herself seem powerful with confident words, fought clearly enough against her instinct to self preservation–the words she herself uttered often had her wincing in immediate, fear-laced regret. Action, equal and opposite reaction. Confidence and doubt.

“Do you know, Miss Brown,” he began, shifting the knife in his grip, “That I used to be a doctor? A surgeon, even, on the days it was necessary. Back then there was no difference in education, you see–the butcher down the street could serve as a surgeon in a pinch. For obvious reasons, I was preferred.”

The hand with the knife came up to cup her cheek, one finger wrapped around the tip of the blade to keep it controlled. Wouldn’t do to put her eye out on accident, not when they were so very expressive. Not given this.

“It’s easy, in the blur of battle, to get lost in the adrenaline, hm? To move on instinct, to strike out with unknown purpose but to knock one’s opponent back a step. I prefer being rather more deliberate with where I cut.”

His other hand shot up, and his thumb hooked around her chin as a finger pressed between her lips, forced her jaw down and held it in an iron grip before the thought to bite could even cross her mind. “I have half a mind to take your tongue, Miss Brown. It would probably do both of us a favor.”

STEPH: The fear was ever present. Ra’s was a dangerous man, Steph knew this, but he seemed to enjoy when she reacted as such. She could hear Tim in the back of her head, telling her to stop and have some goddamn self-preservation, but she knew it’d all end the same. Well, she had a sneaking suspicion that no matter how she reacted it was going to end the same way, bloody and her injured as some sort of sick present to Tim.

The flare of anger was instantaneous. Her eyes hardened and she watched Ra’s cup her cheek, resisting the urge to flinch away. “You talk a lot. It really is rather boring. Are you going to tell me about your childhood trauma next? Get in line, we’re all traumatized from shitty fathers, bad conditions, et cetera,” she deadpanned, a strangled noise coming from her the instant her mouth was forced open.

That is probably exactly what he meant. Steph didn’t know if this was a good idea in the slightest, but it gave Tim more time. To figure out a plan, to avoid whatever hell inducing idea Ra’s had for her boyfriend. She was a fighter, always had been even before her vigilante days. So there was a moment, a split-second decision, Steph’s hard eyes not flinching away from Ra’s. Her foot came down and slammed onto his, digging her heel in as hard as she could.

RA’S: She had the same attitude as Timothy, but not the same intelligence or self-preservation instincts. Not by half. Ra’s hissed, drew back from her and glared with a ferocity that would have any of his own men dropping to their knees in supplicant apology.

Ra’s considered the girl in silence, for a long moment, before finally moving to the winch in the wall. The building they were currently in had once been a meat packing facility, which meant plenty of useful equipment, for his purposes, and ingrained bloodstains more than ample to hide the new ones.

Her feet were pulled off the ground, leaving her weight to pull on her shoulders and wrists, where they were bound. Liable to be pulled out of their sockets, if he left her there long enough.

The smile sent her way was venomous. “That’s quite enough of that, I think.” The cuts would be pulling even more, in the new position. “Now, I think I’ll let one of my brainwashed idiot assassins keep you company for a while, hm? After all–I have a surgery to prep for.”

STEPH: Steph glared right back him despite the intense urge to shrink back and try to avoid the ferocity coming off of him in waves. Her heart was racing, the silence dragging for entirely too long. Then he was moving and she could feel her heart drop right down to her feet. The dread increased by tenfold. Her already incredibly stiff and sore arms screamed in protest the moment she was lifted off the ground, feet kicking and attempting to find purchase, only to make her wounds bleed further and ache in burning pain. She sobbed out in pain for the first time, not able to muffle it in the slightest.

The girl’s blood turned to ice, the words ringing around in her head. “No, no—” The panic threatened to choke her with what that could mean. She was sure it was what he wanted to accomplish, but the fight or flight instinct was draining out of her and leaving her with an overwhelming sense of doom instead. Her head was spinning with how much her body was screaming at her, the pain practically making her nauseous.

Steph just wanted Tim, but also wanted him as far away as possible. The reminder was enough to rekindle the fire that was snuffed out. “Fuck you, Ra’s Al Ghul.” She choked out, not as fierce as she had once been.

RA’S: The kicking would only make it worse, but it was irrepressible. Instinct, to scrabble for purchase, to try to reach for some ledge to alleviate the pain. She wouldn’t find one. She would find her company being kept by a man with an excellent propensity for handing out pain without breaking bones. Well. Too many bones.

Ra’s returned an hour later, with the blue mask of a doctor around his face and nitrile gloves snug around his wrists. Even behind the mask, a smile was evident by the expression at the corner of his eyes. “Miss Brown! How are we feeling?”

He had no intention of taking her tongue, no. But appearances could be even more valuable than the action.

STEPH: Swallowing hard, Steph could feel her fingers trembling as Ra’s left the room and left her in the hands of the assassin who looked entirely too pleased to have the reigns handed over to him. “Just you and me, ugly. I’m sure this is just thrill—” Her words were cut off by a fist to the face, a loud cry of pain as her nose immediately started gushing blood.

She lost time of it all, the hour Ra’s was gone was filled with pain and blood. Her left eye was swollen shut, likely already bruising from the ferocity of the hit she had been delivered. There was blood dried over her mouth and chin, her breathing considerably most labored due to one too many hits to her chest. She knew she had a few cracked, if not broken, ribs. Likely, at least one of her shoulders had to be out of the socket, but she couldn’t even tell. There was just so much pain she was having a hard time telling what hurt and what didn’t.

The moment Ra’s stepped into the room, donning gloves and a face mask, her stomach churned violently. A broken sob fell from Steph’s lips and she shook her head weakly, it flopping forward almost uselessly as the room spun from her movements. “No, no, no—” she groaned weakly, eyes shut tightly. “No.”

RA’S: “Shh, shh.” He closed the door after himself, issued his next order without even looking away from Stephanie. “Let her down. I can hardly do anything with her up like that." Stephanie was winched down to the floor–all the way down, arms still suspended above her while Ra’s watched her be lowered to her knees. He grabbed the girl’s chin, again, this time almost gentle.

"My, you are a mess, dijaaj. Is there something you want to ask me?”

STEPH: The relief off of her arms had the girl sobbing in utter relief, practically slumping back when her knees hit the ground. The room was spinning, black spots dancing in front of her vision, her whole world threatening to fade into darkness once more. She let out a harsh breath, looking up at Ra’s when he grabbed her chin, grimacing at the feel of his hands on her skin.

Steph was having a hard time even keeping what day it was straight in her mind, blood loss and pain making her mind scrambled. This felt like a trap. She couldn’t figure out how, but it was totally a trap. Right?

“What could I possibly want to ask you?” She slurred out, the blood and tears on her face and her words tripping over each other not reaching the bite she would want in it. There was the lingering fear of what could happen to her making it sound entirely too meek. She was so tired. So very tired, but she had to keep going. Tough it out, keep Tim safe.

RA’S: “What indeed, little one,” he murmured, patting her cheek. She was clearly barely conscious, barely present in this conversation at all, let alone up for playing games.

Almost submissive, the tone, there, the way that her gaze had lost much of its heat. “I would take your tongue, for being so sharp. But say something sweet, and maybe I can let you rest, hm? Would you like to rest?”

STEPH: There was a slight flinch away from Ra’s when he patted Steph’s cheek and the mere thought of resting was so very tempting. Her entire body was screaming out in pain, begging her to take the opportunity.

“Yes.” Steph admitted weakly. “But more than anything I want…you to stay the fuck away from Tim.” Her stubborn nature reared its ugly head, her protective nature she held for those she loved dearly giving her one last ditch attempt at this. It was increasingly hard to push through it, but she trucked forward. “What do you want? Is that what you want me to ask? What you gain from hurting me? Do you need the cue for the monologue? Go ahead. Can’t promise I won’t pass out.” She muttered, held flopping tiredly to lean against her aching arm that was still suspended above her. Her eyes screwed shut tightly, tears escaping and trailing down her cheeks.

RA’S: The girl really couldn’t stop herself from talking. Quite the inconvenient affliction for someone intending to fight Gotham’s brand of criminal (she said that Ra’s liked to talk, but clearly she’d never had dealings with Nygma). Ra’s clicked his tongue, brushing at her tears with his thumb. "Tt, no, you already know what I want, as you are so insistent on pointing out. I’m just asking for the magic word, proof that you can manage that tongue of yours so I needn’t take it.“

That didn’t mean he’d be leaving her alone, of course.

STEPH: Sucking in a harsh breath, the girl flinched back as soon as his thumb brushed against her tear stained cheek. "Magic word, huh.” She muttered tiredly, her head spinning. “Is it please? I don’t beg.” She got out, knowing she was definitely making this harder for herself.

There was a quiet sense of doom, of…acceptance. She hated that. “…I want to see him.” Steph whispered after a beat. “Please.” She finally said sincerely, black spots dancing in her vision.

RA’S: “It is, smart girl,” he chuckled, the mockery in the epithet evident. She didn’t beg, she insisted, but then a moment later, she cracked. As he knew she would.

She didn’t beg for what he’d been nudging her toward, but that was alright–he hadn’t been specific, he supposed, and she had done what he wanted. That didn’t mean she would get what she did ask for. "He isn’t here, dijaaj. And I won’t be bringing him to see you–who knows what ideas the boy might get if I did? You’ll just have to keep what you have here, I’m afraid,“ he said, tapping her between the eyes even as he reached into his pocket for a vial. He twisted free the cap, brought it up to her nose. "Breathe in.”

STEPH: Steph shuddered and felt something in her crack, tears starting to slip down her cheeks in earnest. Her bottom lip trembled and she let out a broken sob. “Please. Just—just one time. I don’t…please.” Here she was begging Ra’s Al Ghul of all people just to see Tim. She was sending Tim off to his death. She killed Tim. Why wasn’t she better? A better fighter? A better bat. She didn’t even deserve her Spoiler mantle, let alone any bat related one.

A truly broken sob ripped its way from deep in Steph, feeling the beginnings of a panic attack crawl its way up her spine and shake her to the core. “No, no! Please, just let me see him! One time, please!” She jerked her head back roughly away from the vial beneath her nose, shaking her head rapidly. The whole world tilted on its axis and she swayed, breathing hard and fast through it, trying to not pass out. “Please,” Steph whimpered weakly.

RA’S: There it was, finally. It didn’t matter how strong they started out–Ra’s had centuries of experience in breaking people on his side, and the willpower and time to keep pushing until he could tear down anyone else’s. Ra’s moved his hand around to cup the back of the girl’s head, keeping her from pulling too far away.

“Shh, shh. There’s nothing you can do now, Miss Brown. Perhaps next time you’ll be more careful.” He smirked. "Don’t worry. I’ll leave you that little cheek scar you kept asking for, just so you have a reminder of him instead.“ He tightened his grip, bringing the vial under her nose again. "Now sleep.”

STEPH: Next time you’ll be more careful. The words were ringing in Steph’s ears, her vision blurring with how hard she was crying. Even Ra’s could see she was an absolute failure. The words were on repeat, but nothing turned her stomach and made her heart rip apart more than the mere knowledge she was the death of the love of her life.

“No, no! Please, no—” Steph sucked in a breath rapidly, unable to catch her breath and did just what he requested without intending to. The world around her started to darken around the edges and as it closed in around her, with one last sob she gasped out, “Timmy.” Then it all turned to dark.

#f: discord #d: all's fair #c: stephanie brown #tw: kidnapping #tw: torture #tw: predatory behavior #tw: blood #tw: threats #tw: grievous bodily injury #tw: psychological manipulation #tw: trauma

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emmvline-blog · 5 years ago

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˙ ˖ ✧ jennie kim, twenty-three, cisfemale, she + her // was that EMMALINE BYUN stepping aboard the GUCCI jet? oh now it’s a party! we all know they can be pretty INSOUCIANT, but also pretty OPEN-MINDED on a good day, just like an ARIES. they’ll be blasting STORMY WEATHER BY TINASHE for most of the plane ride, i can already tell. i think they added IBIZA, SPAIN to the list of places to visit this year. let’s pop the champagne and get going!

trigger/content warnings: divorce, child neglect

hi babes! i’ve been so excited for this group to open so i could bring my absolute awful trash princess to life. she’s a total sasshole & is basically the product of money and a ton of trauma. a good fourteen years of her life were spent in the middle of a bitter divorce battle between her parents. her father was an exec for a record label, and her mom was a former model who seemed to know where every single skeleton in her ex-husband’s closet was located. that fact alone kept hefty alimony payments sent her way, and a blood feud between them that seemed never ending.

half the time, emmaline felt more like a pawn in their games rather than their actual daughter. any time spent with either of her parents would always wind up the same way: they’d grill her for information about the other, and create some sort of horrific narrative of them that emmaline was far too young to hear. fortunately, she spent more time with nannies and other employees of her parents’ than them, and whenever she’d question it, they’d just shower her in opulence any child would wish upon stars for. she knew nothing but being rewarded for venom and toxicity for much of her life, and the bulk of her behavior began to reflect the things she witnessed.

she constantly acted out in school; taking things from other children because she felt she was entitled to them, trying to embarrass any teacher who gave her a bad grade, her demeanor only growing colder as she aged. her parents didn’t do much to correct it, they’d only give her more presents to keep her quiet. as unfazed as she appeared to be, the fact that her parents didn’t seem to care about being around her or getting to know her was deeply hurtful. she figured if she had to feel that way, why not spread the misery around? of course it wasn’t the right thing to do, but the very people who were supposed to set an example did nothing but tear each other down. and she was nothing if not her parents daughter.

here are some skuhtistics

name: emmaline hana byun age: twenty - three gender/pronouns: cisfemale & she/her occupation: LOL like this bitch works sexual orientation: bisexual romantic orientation: biromantic social class: upper height: 5 ft 2 in weight: 116 lbs hair color: dark brown eye color: brown aesthetics: shimmering lipsticks, worn out credit cards, butterfly doors, corinthian column bed frames, black marble, gem encrusted high heels, lace bustiers, getting drunk in high end boutiques, backstabbing, twin holidays. hogwarts house: slytherin alignment: neutral evil mb: isfj favorite food: duck confit favorite cocktail: flaming volcano (will 100% try to house it by herself) favorite movie: st. elmo’s fire

i would really love any of the following connections for her!!

best frenemies - heavily inspired by this gifset. these two are each other’s closest friends and most bitter enemies. emmaline is extremely competitive and has a major inferiority complex so while she’ll smile in this person’s face and gossip with them about other people and do all the things annoyingly self-centered best friends do, she’ll also trash them behind their back, sabotage them at every turn and get extremely jealous anytime they get something she doesn’t, and vice versa honestly. i just want a super toxic dynamic where they both lowkey hate each other, but keep each other close regardless. whatchamacallit - inspired by this post, this post. romance has always just been a game to emmaline. her sexual partners are nothing more than toys for her to pass her time with. she is a legit fuckgrrl. this (and most of her other issues) stems from trauma she suffered as a child due to her parents’ highly tumultuous divorce that took up her formative years and beyond. she was used as a pawn in their battles with each other for over a decade, and it dealt a tremendous blow to her comfort with herself. she deflects this with an inflated ego and a lot of big talk, but i would absolutely love for there to be someone around her who renders those fort knox defenses completely inoperable. for her to have finally met her match, after years of playing cat and mouse with people’s feelings. to actually, maybe, possibly care for someone; another actual human?? and for it to make her so angry inside that she can barely stand to be around them, or she’ll get too flustered and start cussing someone. *chef’s kiss*

get in loser, we’re going shopping 1/?? - based on this post. just a big ol’ squad? THE BIGGEST SQUAD OF FRIENDS/ACQUAINTANCES PLS? emmaline is insecure, she literally always has to have people around her. shopping trips, yacht excursions, tropical vacays, ski weekends. what fun is any of it if you can’t invite ten of your dearest friends, half of whom’s name you can’t remember?? funding or planning the party has always been one of emmaline’s most tried and true ways of getting people to stick around, so a lot of superficial “friendships” based on that would be cool! - @guerrcros

thought you were bae, turns out you were just fam - a relationship that actually ended amicably for emmaline? the fuck you say. no, it really did happen, and they’re still pretty cool with each other to this day. this person knows all of her dirty laundry anyway, so it’s not like she can just dip, right?? nah but she can actually let down her defenses a bit with this person since they (for some god forsaken reason bless their heart) bothered to try and get to know her despite her treatment of them in their relationship. they learned that emmaline wasn’t all bad, she just hated feeling inferior or unimportant, and it often presented as rude comments and other venomous behavior. they also came to find that a lot of her treatment of others was a direct result of the things she’d seen her parents do to each other and say to and about one another. these things had almost been normalized in her brain, and this person actually takes the time to try and work with her on it. they have hope she’ll wake the fuck up one day and stop emulating the bad things she once saw.

and honestly maybe exes that ended badly, people she’s connected to through her parents, flirtationships, friends who constantly roast each other, neighbors who hate each other are some other things i’d love to ddu-du ddu-du. i’m honestly down for whatever so pls do lmk if you’d like to plot with this gucci garbage pail <3

#luxe:intro

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aliceslantern · 5 years ago

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Beyond This Existence, chapter 18

Summary: After Xehanort's death, Demyx finds himself unexpectedly human in Radiant Garden. With nothing but fragments of his past and a cryptic statement from Xemnas, he's left to figure out who he is. When Ienzo asks for his help with a project, the two find common ground, but the trauma and secrets in both of their pasts could tear it apart. Zemyx (Demyx/Ienzo), post-KH3 canon compliant Read it on FF.net/on AO3

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The weeks wore on, one into the other. Coping with the mass amounts of chaos in his memory never became easier, but at least it was bearable now that he was no longer so alone. Demyx’s days took on a quiet sort of comfort. Studying, songwriting, socializing, and yes, therapy. Telling someone else these things was hard, but keeping it to himself was even harder. Similarly, listening to Ienzo’s own stories was no cakewalk. Their lives had been infinitely complicated and troubling.

With all this behind them, there was a start of a real sort of life, not the odd buffering phase of the previous few months. The castle was no longer so dreadfully uncomfortable, conversations between Demyx and the others no longer so stilted. He was starting to develop real friendships with these people. Oddly enough, Demyx found that aside from Ienzo, he was closest to Even. He’d taken an interest in healing theory as well, though more as a pet fascination than a vocation. Every now and again, Even gave him tests. It was his own way of reaching out.

“... How’d I do?” Demyx asked. He hadn’t had much written education of any kind, but at least the tests were something concrete to work toward. More structured than Aerith’s “give me a call when you finish the book” method of teaching.

“In all? Not bad.” Even passed the papers back. “Chemistry is your worst subject. But you knew that.”

“It’s the math.” Demyx skimmed the results and found that, overall, he’d done better than he’d thought. “I just can’t understand it.”

“Well--when it comes to calculating molarity--it’s typically just memorization of the base compounds.”

“And algebra.”

“For some reason I highly doubt you’ll have to deal much with kinesthetics in your everyday work. And if you do I’m a phone call away. I rather enjoy figuring it out.” He started shuffling through the sea of papers on his desk. “It gives me something to break the endless tedium of my days, anyway.”

“You’re not going to work on the Replica Program anymore?”

Even drew the hair out of his face. “On one hand, I believe that project has reached its peak. The replicas have gotten to a point where they’ve developed their own personhood, and their own hearts. That was the goal, to a degree. I’m of course going to study them as they age to see if they live out the same lives as ordinary humans. On the other…” He waved his wrist, as though dismissively. “What right have I to create new life? Now that I am becoming human, I feel more responsibility towards the way these replicas are treated. It’s as if I were to give birth. I suppose there might be a medical application to the creation of vessels--say, if someone were to be seriously injured or lose all neurological function--but again, what right have I to continue to meddle with such forces?”

“I can’t help you with that one,” Demyx said.

“No, it’s something for me to puzzle over. In the meantime, I’m going to continue to reflect on the ongoing intersection between magic and science within my life. It seems… most apt.”

“Why did you become a scientist?”

“Hm?” The question seemed to throw him off-guard.

“You’ve been with Ansem longer than anyone else. Why’d you do it?”

Even thought about it. “Why is it you play sitar?”

Demyx shrugged. “It’s just part of me. Always has been. If it hadn’t been sitar it probably would have been some other instrument. That one just happened to be given to me first.”

“Precisely. It’s part of your core, perhaps for no real reason. Or many real reasons, if you subscribe to fate or a divine. That is how I feel about my research. I could not separate the essence that is “me” from it. This is merely another phase of my life, and so I need to adjust my work accordingly.”

“To what?”

“Something that I hope is meaningful. I do not yet know what exactly.” He smiled. “Learning to change and grow after nearly twelve years of stagnation is taking most of my concentration.”

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” he mumbled, more to himself than Even.

“Incredibly.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll quiz you on the next three chapters next week.”

Demyx sighed. “No problem.”

----

Demyx was headlong into these chapters when Ienzo found him. With half his mind he was trying to figure out how to make the song he played better, the other half trying to puzzle out the complicated terminology. He wasn’t aware of his surroundings.

“How is it going?” Ienzo asked.

Demyx jumped, a discordant note throwing him off the melody.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Demyx let Arpeggio disappear. “It helps me remember, if I play,” he said. “Otherwise I can’t focus. If I read a chapter enough while playing a certain song, it sticks. I tried it the other way. I don’t know how you guys learn stuff.”

“Everyone studies differently,” Ienzo said. “So you’re really going to do it?”

“That’s the plan,” he said. “She told me to read these before I came to her for the practical stuff.” Demyx shifted the books around.

Ienzo kissed him lightly.

“So what’s going on with you? I figured you were working on something, but I don’t know what.”

“Well, actually, that’s kind of why I came to find you.”

“The score? Ienzo, you realize I can just read it to you, right?” He hadn’t yet looked back at it. In a way, he wasn’t ready, even though he knew what the contents were.

He shook his head. “Not that. Though I would like to know what’s in it, if you’re not afraid to share. No.” He took the lexicon out from under his arm. “I’m afraid there’s something only you can help me with.”

He smirked. “What was it you said? “If you want to be alone with me you need only ask?””

“What? Do I really speak like that? Never mind-- no, this is something else.” Ienzo sighed. His cheeks were pink. “I want to go to the basement.”

Demyx bit his lip. He’d had a feeling this was coming. Ienzo had been making leaps and bounds dealing with his guilt. No doubt he wanted to make true peace with it. “Okay. Two things. First, not a great idea, all things considering. Second, why me? Why not Ansem or Even or someone else who was involved in the experiments?”

“You’ve got a weapon.” Very matter-of-fact.

He felt the blood drain from his face. “So--let me get this straight. You want to go to the basement--where it’s crawling with Heartless and god-knows-what-else, not to mention where you’ve seen enough horror to go gray prematurely--”

“I haven’t gone gray. This is my natural hair color.”

“Babe, the last time you remembered something half as horrible you went kinda ballistic. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I’ve healed since then,” he said. “I have this--” he held out the lexicon, “whatever it means. I think the only way I can find peace is by helping them. Talking with them. Maybe I can help them find some little bit of dignity.”

Demyx exhaled, exasperated. “And do you really trust me to defend you? I’m out of shape, and I have no idea how strong the Heartless down there even are.”

He frowned. “What is this really about?” Ienzo asked. “Are you truly afraid of a few Heartless?”

Demyx didn’t know what to say, just that his gut was telling him this was an awful idea. “I guess not,” he said. “I just… I’m afraid that going down there and seeing all that will change how I see you. And I don’t want that to happen.”

Ienzo took his hands. “I know that. And it might change your mind. But I… I need to do this. I hope you understand.”

Demyx knew what had happened in the basement. Maybe he didn’t know all the details--the how or why of it all--but he knew Ienzo had been involved in this dangerous human experimentation. He knew, factually, that Ienzo couldn’t really be at fault, that he’d been a child and too young to accept responsibility, especially since he'd been so manipulated. But at the same time, Demyx knew seeing all of it would be a different story. It would make it tangible. And yet. “You’d do the same for me. Alright. Let’s free some ghosts, or whatever.”

Ienzo kissed him. “I love you.”

“I can’t say no to you. But you knew that.” He marked the place in his book and set it aside. “I’d feel better if we got some supplies. And if you rested. You look exhausted.”

“So tomorrow?”

He nodded. “Tomorrow.”

----

Later that night, while Ienzo read in bed, Demyx headed down to Even’s quarters. Slick, hot anxiety was building inside of him, making him vaguely anxious. He knocked, was let in. Even was folding laundry. “Did you need help with something?” he asked. Then frowned. “You do not look well.”

Demyx didn’t know what to say. “Ienzo wants to go to the basement.”

He paused just the slightest. “Yes. And?”

“Well--what if something’s down there?”

“I thought you could adequately defend yourself now?”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.” He exhaled and pulled his hand through his hair. “He’s got the lexicon. What if he tries using his powers again?”

Even shook his head. “He’s aware of the risk. I doubt he’d try.”

“What if he doesn’t do it consciously?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I had the impression it took a lot of effort for him to traverse your memory.”

“But he couldn’t control it. I don’t know what this is going to entail. If I’m just going to beat up some Heartless, or maybe there’s nothing down there and this is just for closure. But what if.”

“Since when was forethought a strength of yours?” Even asked, almost bitterly. “Boy, now you’re making me worry.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

Even sighed. He set aside the socks he was folding. “Come along.”

They went down to his lab. Even pulled out a first aid kit, some ethers, and some potions. He approached another cabinet and took out a vial and a syringe still in its wrapping. He placed them on the table.

“You’re aware of the correlation at this point, of heart failure and overuse of power.”

“Well--yes.” The sight of the medicine made him shiver.

“I’ve been poking through our research. The reason why it struck Ienzo so intensely has largely to do with the fact that he quite literally grew up as a Nobody. Trying to adequately corroborate his humanity with a Nobody will served to heighten the risk. It may not happen again. Perhaps he’s adjusted. At the same time… it may.”

“What’s that?”

“A serum to induce sleep. Should he begin to exhibit the same symptoms, you should dose him. And then call for help. I’m giving this to you as a precaution only.” Even unwrapped the syringe, prepped it, and then capped it off. Demyx caught sight of the label on the bottle. He knew enough by now to recognize it.

“That’s a poison. Not a sedative.”

“Sleep akin to death,” Even said, as though quoting. “Better than actual death, is it not?” He held it out. Demyx didn’t take it.

“I can’t.”

“You must. This is--” He exhaled. “For goodness sakes, you might not even need it.” Even placed it on the table in front of him. “Have you tried convincing him out of it?”

“Yes. But how can we escape it? We live here. He’s reminded of it every day. If it’s not now, it’d be some other time.”

“The boy is… determined.” He sighed. “I’m trusting you with this. With him. Do you understand?”

Demyx nodded.

“So take it.”

He took all the medicine back with him, feeling sick. He hid the syringe in the first aid kit and tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

Ienzo was still caught up in his book. “Did you get everything you needed?” he asked.

“Oh, plenty,” he said breezily. “How do you feel?”

“Surprisingly, not as anxious as I thought.” He shut the book and settled down in bed.

“Can I… stay with you tonight?”

Ienzo frowned. “Of course.” He lifted the covers and let Demyx crawl in. He drew Ienzo close, breathed in his smell. “I’m not sure why you felt like you had to ask. You scarcely sleep in your own bed anymore.”

“Dunno. I figured you might want some time alone.”

“I have spent a lot of time thinking about this alone. I don’t mind the company.”

Demyx looked at him. His eyes bright and alive. He kissed him once. Ienzo settled down against him and was asleep before long.

Demyx did not sleep a wink.

----

Morning. Breakfast. He bathed, feeling vaguely numb and dissociated, slightly outside of himself. When he saw Ienzo in his apprentice’s coat, he almost wondered if this was a bizarre dream. He gathered up their bag of supplies.

“You sure you want to do this?” Demyx asked.

“Yes. I’m sure.”

He sighed. “Lead the way, then.”

He followed him through the corridors, through the familiar, then down dozens and dozens of stairs to a locked door. The air down here was cold, and it smelled dank and musty. Crystal sconces lit everything brightly, but at the same time he felt as though he was squinting in the gloom. At the door, Ienzo hesitated.

“Did you forget the code?” Demyx asked.

Ienzo summoned the lexicon. The soft rustle of its pages barely broke the suffocating silence. Demyx felt his heart in his throat. This was not a good sign. Ienzo meant business. Demyx tried to tell him then what might happen. But he had to know. There was no way he couldn't, right?

He punched in the code, and in they went.

It did not look dissimilar to the containment cells of the Castle that Never Was. Gray floor. Black and silver doors. Stark, harsh fluorescent light. A couple of these spaces were offices, and what looked to be a small lab. Papers were everywhere, all over the floors. Beakers had been smashed, a computer screen cracked. Ienzo took it all in with little emotion.

The smoky, musty smell only ever got stronger. “They smell us,” Demyx said. He brought an arm up in front of Ienzo automatically. He pushed it away.

“Not yet.”

They moved forward bit by bit. Ienzo absently touched the numbers on the cells, peeking inside here or there. Demyx didn’t see anything, but he could taste it. The cells were riddled with scratch marks, places where the floor had been gouged away. A sink bad been torn out of the wall. A mattress ripped to shreds.

“There’s no one here,” Demyx said.

“Don’t speak so soon,” Ienzo said.

A silhouette of pure darkness crawled out of the ground. It looked weirdly human in shape, more like a Novashadow than the little Shadows he was used to. It did not give chase, but seemed to merely watch them.

Darkness began to slither out of the back cells, forming yet more Shadows. “Freaky,” he hissed. The Keyblade snapped into his palm. One rose out of the pool and shuffled towards them. “Stay behind me.”

“Not yet,” Ienzo said. He crouched down, and Demyx almost screamed, but the darkness on the floor didn’t crawl over him like it normally would’ve. “Do you remember me?”

Was he talking to the Heartless? It paused, tilted its head.

“I was little then,” Ienzo said. “Not anymore.”

The Shadow twitched and shuddered. A few more peeked out. “What are you doing?” Demyx asked.

“Giving it the Sora treatment.” He exhaled. “Put that away. We’re not here to hurt you all. Isn’t that right?”

The blade in his hand trembled a little.

“Demyx?” Ienzo prompted.

He let it disappear. Raised his hands, as if to show how empty they were.

Ienzo smiled kindly at the Heartless. “You’ve been here for such a long time, so alone.” The lexicon opened to a random page, of a little girl. “Isn’t that right, Jamie? That’s you, right?” He held the book out to the Heartless. It seemed to stare at the page within, of the photo. “I wanted to apologize for all we put you through. There was a bad, bad man. He made all the people around him sick with evil. And they took it out on you. On me, too. And my friend next to me. That doesn’t make it right, but the bad man’s gone and everyone wants to help you.”

The Heartless seemed to convulse.

“I can’t imagine it’s fun down here. There’s nobody and nothing to play with. But there’s another place with lots of friends waiting for you.”

The Shadow raised a claw.

“Ienzo,” Demyx hissed. Ienzo held out his hand.

The Shadow placed its claw on the photo of the girl. It was not twitching anymore, not in the way Heartless usually did.

“Do it now,” he whispered. “She’s ready.”

He slashed. The Heartless had no defense; it was almost made of smoke. Its heart rose and vanished into nothing. Demyx was shaking. “Oh my god,” he said. “Are you… are you okay? I should’ve given you my coat.” He gave him a good once-over. No threads of darkness, no injury.

“I’m fine. Let’s keep going.”

“How many are there?”

“Left? I’m not sure. But these aren’t ordinary Heartless. This was the genesis.”

The Heartless, having seen all this, did not flee the way they were akin to when their brethren died. They came forward in a lump. They did not attack. They left plenty of space between them and Ienzo.

“They’re making a line,” Demyx said.

“They want to be free.” He smiled. His eyes were watering. “Who wants to know who they are?”

It took hours.

Ienzo gave nearly every Heartless the same speech, but he altered it slightly, peppering in details he must have read somewhere--information about a beloved pet, a favorite color, updates about loved ones who were still alive. Humanizing them. It was only once this semblance of humanity was found that they could go. Peacefully.

Even though the Heartless were weak, the fact that there was so many of them and that this was stressful to watch tired him. He waited for one to break rank, to attack and injure. None did, though.

“Are you alright?” Ienzo asked. Demyx had been standing to his right and noticed his full face for the first time in hours. He was sweating, his complexion washed out. Demyx swallowed. No.

“Just a bit out of shape,” he said breezily. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine.”

More speeches. More Heartless. Demyx was wondering if it was just his eyes playing tricks on him, or if Ienzo was looking worse. Pale. Shaky. No blood yet. But soon? The darkness was getting thinner and thinner until there were no more Heartless waiting.

“Is that it?” Demyx asked hoarsely. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“Yes, that was--” He calculated quickly, then furrowed his brows. “Ninety-nine. There’s one left. Maybe it’s hiding? Can you handle one more?”

“I think. You?”

He nodded. When he stood, his knees shook, and Demyx helped him up. He was getting weak. They had to get out of here, to get medical help. Demyx tried to covertly steer him in the opposite direction. “Why did they forgive me?” Ienzo asked.

“What do you mean?”

“The bitterness… they just let it go. Without fail. There was not even one rogue Shadow that tried to attack.” His eyes were wide.

“They’ve been here ten years,” Demyx said. “That’s a long time to suffer. Sometimes you have to let it go to make the pain stop.”

He looked at his trembling palm. “I see. I… understand.”

Demyx glanced over his shoulder. “I think we’ve found our stowaway.”

It was the humanoid Heartless, the first one they’d seen. They approached it slowly.

“We’re here to help,” Demyx said. “Do you want to go be with your friends?”

The Heartless paused. It twitched irritably.

“Ienzo,” Demyx said nervously. “Maybe start working your magic, yeah? My buddy here seems a little agitated.” He was positive that it was stronger than the last. Strength sapped, Demyx didn’t know if he could honestly take it on.

A hint of panic crept into Ienzo’s voice. “I can’t--” He started manually shuffling the pages. “I can’t find their--”

The Neoshadow hissed. Demyx drew his Keyblade. “Come on. Let’s talk this out,” he said. “I’m offering you a get-out-of-jail free card here, friend.”

Once it lay eyes in the Keyblade, the Heartless screamed. The sound almost incapacitated him, harsh, like razors against his eardrums. It leapt at him.

Demyx found himself awash in darkness.

#beyond this existence #demyx #ienzo #even #zemyx #demyx/ienzo

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hootpoop12 · 6 years ago

Text

Theory time

Alright, so we all know through the context of this being written in a fanfiction/a03 format that this is all a play about canon VS fanon. What is a little hard to decipher is what are the things that are plays off fanon and which qualities are the true aspects of the characters(canon)? ANYWAY here are just a few of the things I am ASSUMING are plays off fanon based on my years in the fandom and sheer obsession of consuming this shit (trigger warning for everything taken place in the epilogue FYI):

-Dave: I think some of the main aspects of fanon influencing his epilogue version is intertwined with “woobifying”, “Slow burn”, and even possibly even “sexuality”.

-Woobifying is a fandom concept of reducing a character to “a cinnamon roll too pure for this world” someone you wanna baby (often applied to trans guy characters whether canon or headcanoned). This one is a bit of reach I’ll admit because it DOES makes sense that after years of living with Karkat the dude would soften up but there were times in the epilogue even Dave admits he’s gotten softer and the dude just plain out was very passive. In my time I’ve seen tons of depictions of Dave as a lot more emotional than shown in the comic or a lot more woobified in fics (like in meteor fics where he often has very dramatic emotional outbursts) By the way this is NOT me shitting on you if you like viewing Dave in that way because a lot people with trauma relate to him and use him for “cathartic release”(me fucking too lol). It’s more a guess/observation of maybe why he’s developed in this way due to the comic now being a strange sponge absorbing all fanon, good and bad, into it weird ass grasp.

-Slow burn is likely the trope that plays into why the hell it took so fucking long for him AND Karkat to admit their feelings. If you have literally ever consumed Davekat content I’m sorry but 99% of it is slow burn lmao every meteor fic is pining, every coffee shop AU is the budding of a lifelong partnership, and every Harry potter furry inflation pwp crossover WHATEVER fic is 10k words building of sexual tension like......To bring their other relationships in canon into this we can see that Dave was able to flirt with Jade and Terezi and entered a relationship with them at a pretty normal rate WHICH can totally be attributed to the fact he views them as girls and himself as heterosexual so was much more comfortable making a move- sure. Looking at Karkat, however, and you see the dude is a little shy about romance sure but he was still able to flirt with Terezi and make awkward moves on John so like......I can’t help but to feel like something outside (us?) was influencing them?

-Sexuality is another sort of reach but I think it’s something to consider. In terms of the comic....when exactly DID canon end? You could argue at the end of act 7.......or the moment John used his retcon powers to create a new timeline. Fandom Dave (on the tumblr side at least) was usually consider queer and a lot people shipped Dave with another dude. Perhaps John going back and rewriting canon helped bring our influence over Dave’s sexuality into the comic? I remember finding out Davekat was canon and confirming my “Dave is bisexual” headcanon and just thinking in wonder how it felt like Hussie was plucking my desires straight from my head and incorporating them. Which made me HAPPY by the way. If this is anywhere even near truth it’s not like he didn’t do a fantastical and natural job of incorporating it into the comic which shows how “incorporated fanon” is not a totally horrendous thing. The comics always done it with fandom memes and such.

-Rose Lalonde. Not too sure what fanon influenes were brought onto her to be honest? In candy she was almost like a creepy stepford wife which is. Bizarre to me. Rose is the most contrary and rebellious character so seeing her settle down like that (OR FUCKING DOING SOME GUYS LAUNDRY) is a little strange. In meat she insists that she is an individual despite being married but that could have EASILY been Dirk’s influence? Also her biggest fandom stereotypes off the top of my head is Know-it-all smug meddler, alcoholic, and elegant. Really none of that was applied so still need to consider her more. The most damning thing however is where is all the piss?? If you look at the amount of piss kink rose fanfiction one has to wonder......and I can’t even continue this joke.

-Jade Harley: Gonna keep it real with ya’ll. I feel like this epilogue gave Jade Harley way more character. She wasn’t given much in canon except for lonely silly girl so it makes sense to me why she’d grow up desperate for physical bonds and inserting herself into relationships. I liked her telling John that she wasn’t some princess in a tower anymore cause it shows she KNOWS how everyone has always viewed her and that’s a little sad. As for tropes around her character.....yep people pleaser, silly girl, hippie, shoved aside for literally any other character......Need to think about her more, too.

-Jake fucking English. What even is there to say? He more than anyone was influenced by fanon and it doesn’t take too much thought to see how. In a lot of fandom jokes and in fanfiction he is basically treated as a stupid piece of meat. I genuinely don’t read much fanfiction about him except from a trust few fans who I know care about him and will write him in a full rounded way. In any case we see a single moment in which Jake has this oppressive narrative taken away from him and it was when he was talking to Dave and Karkat during their election conversation. If that wasn’t already hard enough to read we can look back at the implied rape that took place with him in the beginning of Jane’s relationship with him or over the course of it. John, the one person supposedly not influenced by fanon as he’s still tied to the comic via retcon powers, is even the one to tell people that Jake is basically being raped. So yeah. Good times. I’ll get to Dirk in terms of Jake in a moment L M A O. Imagine that being the saddest lmao you ever just read.

-Jane Crocker: Welp hope you weren't a Jane fan lmao. What can I say except it FEELS like all the subliminal messaging really got to her and she’s like......warped by the condesce? I think if in the comic they showed more of her political takes then maybe this wouldn’t have come as such a shock. Like, I flat out am disgusted by her character now? She’s a facist, abusive, rapist(that was hint, unfortunately)? WOW good take homestuck writting staff?? I mean I know one of you used to write like incest pedo rape porn but aight??????????? Anyways in fanon Jane is treated as the girl who gets in the way of dirkjake so kinda that early 2000s bitchy yaoi girl brand, boring person in the background, or the hottie. They obviously kept saying she was “easy on the eyes” so there’s the hottie trope but that’s about it.

-Roxy Lalonde: Out of ALL the Alphas they fucking escaped with their goddamn dignity PFFT. So in terms of tropes: trans Roxy, alcoholic, and flirty “boy obsessed”.

-So with trans Roxy this is like Dave’s sexuality thing I discussed where a widely celebrated headcanon influenced canon and that not necessarily a BAD thing. Like I said, this theory is that canon is just absorbing fanon for better and for worse. I saw people were bummed they weren’t a trans girl but I am actually down with this for two reasons. 1) being all those memes “what’s your gender?” “the void” and 2) a part being friends with someone who’s trans is.....not being used to seeing them as the gender they actually are but taking the time to learn these new unfamiliar pronouns- and get the fuck over it. It’s their choice and you just gotta accept it despite your feelings.

-alcoholic Roxy was not at all incorporated which is the biggest fanon about her (not as much in recent years thankfully) so honestly? Kinda diminishes my argument. It’s not like the writers were worried that tossing out their progress as person was bad writing lol look at Dirk.

-Flirty Rox. In candy they were SUPER fast moving in their relationship with John and despite towards the end they said that Dirk dying made them wanna do something with their life I just....don’t buy it? Mainly because john who is uninfluenced by the fanon tropes even noticed how fast they were moving and how stepford agreeable wife she’d become.

-Dirk Strider. Aight. So. Here we go. fandom tropes are controlling puppet master, abusive, and cold/uncaring.

-Dirk is a naturally controlling man, yes. Every version of himself struggles with this, yes. Even if we work on issues does not mean old flaws will never leak out, yes. However, after in the comic itself we see conversations with some of his closest companions and the effort he was making and ready to continue making was completely obliterated. Dirk is someone who takes his projects a little too seriously so why would he toss out this one- the most important one in his life? ANYWAY........Dirk in canon is shown that he’s also not great at multi-tasking or really anything that he really makes himself out to be AMAZING at. Don’t get me wrong I actually view Dirk as a complement dude cause he did get all the alphas into the session in a smoothish fashion (yes hal is him so it still counts) but, like, even when Dirk sounds like an AWESOME engineer to Jake he even admits that he basically had the future’s technology to help and it wasn’t that impressive. So now he’s claiming he’s the BEST? Wack.

-Abusive Dirk......The sheer amount of people in the fandom who still misconstrue his character as heartless and the sheer amount of fanfiction of sociopathic Dirk might’ve done something. If he is truly becoming his “ultimate self” and he is heart aspect.....all these fanfiction splinters are getting applied to him as well, ya’ll. INCLUDING one of the epilogues writers who literally used to write fanfiction depicting Dirk as a brutally abusive and manipulative version of himself. With the similarities between their big fic and the homestuck epilogue I can’t help but to wonder if they’re subtly trying to incorporate that? After all Alt Calliope goes into detail about how the writer/narrator is IMPORTANT and when one is someone who enjoys viewing dirk as such....well who’s to say pfft Everything about how Dirk treated Jake was some of the most shocking to me. How did you get the guy taking most of the blame for a relationship gone wrong to a man who in a very rapey way makes someone obsessed with him, stupid, and unable to ever receive respect? Horrifying stuff to read, lads. It makes much more sense to me if you look at this fandom’s perceptions on DirkJake. My god there are some bad takes and there’s a whole section of the fandom who was hellbent on making the ship out to be the most problematic ship to ever occur. So whereas in the comic you have Dave pointing out that both sides had issues and everyone was willing to talk things out you had half the fandom insist that it was all Dirk’s fault and he just COMPLETLY forced himself on an unwanting Jake. Yep, sound familiar?

-cold uncaring. yep tons of depictions of Dirk being cruel to his friends and family and sorry but go reread Homestuck I don’t even know what to tell you if you actually believe that. There’s literally nothing here I could write to help you. As if the whole thing about his character isn’t about how the people around him helped prevent him becoming like that and he hasn’t said in a dozen different ways how much he loves them and wants to treat them better. Get out of here with that shit lmao

I guess all can be said about Dirk at this point is either 1) the absorption of the vast amount of terrible Dirk depictions from ascending to his ult self has warped him 2) he’s playing a villain just because Homestuck being over means not existing which TERRIFIES him and existing is a higher priority than treating the people around him right or 3) caliborn influence

1) For the ascending I’m pretty sure this is the theory that’s gonna be right

2) playing the villain is probably not what it is because on twitter all of the writers are saying the transphobia is literally just him and they’re boosting a lot of theories say “this is a story about friends you love disappointing you and you moving on” So. Yeah. Take that depressing nugget of information. (I literally will be fucking dead inside if that really is where this story is taken. No joke I will probably quit this fandom lol don’t know if any of you really know how big that is for me to say

3) Caliborn? eh maybe who the fuck knows after typing that last bullet point out I’m too bummed to continue this hah

#Homestuck #Homestuck epilogue #upd8 #dirk strider #personal #fyi I love people who tell me when they disagree so if this seems like utter bullshit do not hold back

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justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog · 6 years ago

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A Necessarily Sober Night’s Ramblings

I’m sitting here in my bed, writing on a shitty, hundred dollar netbook that rests on a book thicker than my fist to prevent overheating. The floor of my room is covered in a disgusting salad of dirty laundry, trash, and books, all sprinkled with a frustrating amount of cat litter from the box a few feet to my right. A space heater with more personal space than anything else in the place keeps me warm in the mornings and nights, and the fan that’s blowing my hair at the moment keeps me cool during the afternoon and whenever else I’ve been drinking.

I’ve got Altered Carbon playing beside my word processor; just started watching it. It’s impossible for me to focus on any one thing, so its there just to keep the excess ‘brain energy’ or what have you busy while I try and write this all out. All this nonsense. The lamp resting on my nightstand, which is currently sitting in the midst of the chaotic disaster that is my floor rather than being pressed up against a wall, is annoying but helps keep the anxiety down a bit.

The anxiety is still drumming my heart and shaking my hands, but it would be worse in the dark. I enjoy knowing what’s surrounding me. If I turn off the light, I can only assume what rests in the darkness. I don’t think there’s any monsters hiding beneath my bed amidst the beer cans and paper plates, I’m not a child. But there’s knowing, and then there’s knowing. When the light is gone, the whole world becomes Schrodinger's fun house.

Plus, if I turn out the lights, the odds I step on a sharp piece of aluminum on my way to the bathroom magnify ten fold. Foot lacerations are the fucking worst. Slicing your palm isn’t that bad because you don’t always have to have your dick in your hand. Plus, for the most part, your always aware of the palms of your hands. You forget the bottoms of your feet, and the trail of blood you leave behind is a bitch and a half to clean up.

Not that I’d clean it from my own carpeted floor, but there’s certain expectations for the world outside the stained and battered walls of my bedroom. Smiles required, pleasantries demanded; it’s a whole other ball game out there. That’s not some dramatic piece of speculation either. When I was a child my parents threatened to beat the frowns from my face and decried my silent coming and goings as disrespectful disobedience. Now that I am a man in age and burden if not status however, I am free to move more freely. The habits have already taken root though.

Despite my already volcanic anxieties simmering and sizzling beneath my flesh, I’m having another energy drink, my third of the day. I went to the store earlier for something fizzy and calorie free to drink, and despite knowing I must be wary of caffeine, I was swayed by a little sticker promising ‘3 for $5!’. It’s a rare moment that I’m without thirst, but unless I have sweat through my clothes in exhaustion (an even rarer moment) or am exceptionally hung over, drinking water gives me heartburn.

It’s a touch allegorical, really. Water, that most basic material of life, burns the ever living shit out of my throat.

People don’t take caffeine seriously enough. It’s just like any other drug, if a bit milder. At first it puts a bounce in my step, then in a few minutes my mind will be racing with dark thoughts and fears, and if I go without it for too long my head feels like someone is taking an ice pick to the top of my skull. Sometimes the initial jauntiness is worth it though. That ‘sometimes’ keeps me coming back.

There it is. Reading this back, you won’t remember the pauses between sentences, the distraction filled minutes as Altered Carbon takes priority over writing between paragraphs. I say that so it won’t feel quite so jarring when I say that anxiety is carving a butcher’s knife through my gut and up my sternum after just mentioning the jauntiness caffeine can bring.

Anxiety and just a hint of anger are filling me. Thinking on it now, and exploring this idea for the first time (though I’ve brushed against it like a virgin schoolboy ‘accidentally’ bumping into a pretty girl before), I’m realizing there’s always anger somewhere in this stack of flesh. Anger I was bred into, that was taught to me, beat into me. It’s always there. Just, I keep it buried away and hidden. Once, I did that so that I wouldn’t get in trouble, so that I would be safe. Now I do it so that the people around me will be happier.

The only people I’ve ever intentionally physically hurt are my male family members. My younger brother, in adolescent rage reminiscent of my father’s, has been strangled, punched, thrown, and kicked. It was never unprovoked, but always unearned given the severity. I never bruised or truly damaged him, but still. Trauma is trauma. The words I spewed at him were instinctively and specifically chosen to hurt him, to damage him. It’s left me with a quandary similar to that of the chicken and the egg. Did his little man complex come from my infrequent but scarring abuse, or were the assaults unleashed by his constant needling and provocations?

Then there’s my father. Him I tried to kill once. He was drunk, and violent. He was roaring and screeching with anger at my mother, worse than normal. I went to figure out what the fuck was going on, he put his hands on me, and I snapped. I threw him to the ground, and amidst his punches and slaps and scratches I began to choke him. Tears and spit pouring from my face I bared my fangs and produced more animalistic sounds than actual speech.

My mother was futilely trying to pull me off, begging me to stop. I didn’t care. I was beyond reason at that point, my id was in full control. Like a flare in a moonless night however, a thought brought me to a stop. I had my second day of work at a new job the next day, and couldn’t afford to spend at least the night and next day in jail for murder. That lone, paragonal thought amidst a sea of frothing rage was all that saved my father’s life.

Other than those two examples however, I’ve never allowed myself to be a violent person. Or rather, I’ve never had the courage for it. I get the fight or flight shakes just from passing a slow moving vehicle, let alone a face to face confrontation. I wonder if that’s who I am, or who I was made to be.

My first girlfriend, who could technically be called my ex-fiancee if you don’t dismiss a six month, hormone-fueled, teenage puppy love engagement, was victim to some verbal abuse throughout the two or so years we spent together. She was a piece of work herself though, and although I cringe to think back on my words and feelings back then, I don’t think less of the man I am today for them. I see it as character growth. She cheated on me, lied to me, and was certifiably crazy herself. She and I have both come a long way since then though, and I’ve learned to be a better man based on the awful example I set for myself.

I say we’ve both come a long way, but in reality, she’s got a college degree and is dating a successful musician while working for a governor. I’ve got a GED, am entirely alone, and as of the end of March jobless. There was a brief spike in my life a little over a year ago. I only weighed one-hundred and sixty pounds, I was on the second rung of the company I worked for’s ladder, I had a girlfriend, I was happy. That’s all long gone now though.

See, even though I hunt for zero calorie sodas and energy drinks, I still eat too much food. I drink too much alcohol. I lay around in bed like a fucking pile of ooze. I was going to call myself a slug, but even those invertebrates get more exercise than I do. I probably weigh Two-ten by now. Two-fifteen maybe. I’m sure if I were sitting on a scale right now it’d read in the two-twenties, between my clothes, belly full of spaghetti sauce-drenched pizza, and general fat ass.

As of today I’m twenty-two years old, five-eight in the morning and in shoes, with short brunette hair and just the one tattoo, a coyote on my left arm. My upper right arm and my left ‘tit’ are covered in scars. I have a handful spread over the rest of my skin; faded ones all across my legs, one across my stomach, one on my right ‘tit’, three partially faded bands on my right forearm. All self-inflicted, obviously. I have a small patch of fur all across my chin that struggles to reach the center of my lower lip, stubble spreading back from it towards my throat, and a curled moustache above my mouth.

I fucking hate when television shows have non-English parts. It prevents me from being able to just spend the extra ‘brain energy’ on them, and instead I have to divert more of my direct attention to follow along.

Sometimes I want to carve out my own eye. Even though my left eye is (diagnosedly so) the weaker of the two, whenever I envision it, it’s always the right one I slice out like an avocado pit. The cut would start close to the center of my forehead and run all the way down to my jaw, stopping just a hair over the line and onto my throat.

I don’t think that comes from any weird sort of mutilationist fetish, or one of those weird (Ha, who am I to judge?) mental illnesses where a part of your body feels alien. I think its just a desire for attention? If that’s the right way to phrase it. I want to be special, look special. All those bad-ass pirates and fantasy characters have facial scars, typically over their eyes, and I want to be like them. I want to be special.

I want to be special. I want to be important. I want to feel like I actually matter. No amount of self reaffirmation has ever been enough for me. I’ve always needed ‘affirmation’ from others, and I’ve rarely ever received it. And it can’t be just anyone who gives it to me, it has to be someone special, someone whom I respect. The words of those I subconsciously deem as ‘below’ me mean absolutely nothing, no matter how reverential or supporting.

As for who I respect, which isn’t the right word at all, I’m not really sure. Beautiful women. Impressive men. Members of authority. People with experience in fields that I respect (this time it is the right word). I’ve had coworkers who practically begged me to hang out, less than attractive women who nearly molested me in their flirtations. All it ever did was annoy and nearly disgust me.

It’s a strange dichotomy, my ego and self-loathing. On one hand, I’m disgusted by myself. I look in the mirror and see a hideous, fat, disgusting, waste of human existence who could die tomorrow without the world so much as blinking. On the other hand, I recognize my intellect, sense of humor, virtues, and what few skills I have as being exceptional.

I hate myself, but somehow still place myself above others.

It’s funny how little self control I have compared to what little drive I have. I crave love, yet haven’t been able to muster the willpower to eat healthy and exercise. I crave fortune, yet haven’t been able to finish writing (Really writing, with editing and everything) a book. I crave attention, yet stay hidden away in my room and when out in public avoid standing out at all. When I crave a McChicken, I’ll drive to the McDonalds across town at 3 AM for it.

I guess I’m just short sighted. Back when I still played chess, I could never think more than a single move ahead. When a problem has a single-step solution, I can find it near instantly, no matter how obscure or obfuscated it is. Throw in just one more step, however, and suddenly I’m lost as an orphan looking for his mother in a department store.

That applies to long term goals too, even when the answer is spelled out for me step by fucking step. Step one, cut the calories down to less than two-thousand. Step two, take the dog(s) for a walk everyday. Step three, repeat steps one and two for the next six months. Just like that, I go from fat lard-face to looking like a young Leonardo DiCaprio.

But I just don’t do it. The one time I succeeded with a diet, it was based on routine. Every morning on my way to work, I’d get two McDonalds burritos with mild sauce and a large diet coke, no ice. Every night after work, same thing. Right now, jobless and hopeless, there is no routine in my life. That’s just an excuse though, I know that. Doesn’t mean I fucking do anything about it.

It also helped that back then I spent every night with a woman I was in love with. Kira. Black haired, thin as a skeleton, cheek bones like daggers. Her nails were more like claws, and she’s never without her eyeliner that stretch out like wings from her beautiful brown eyes.

When we met, she hated me, so of course I sought her approval. She hated me just because I sat in her spot one time. She, never to my face, called me an inbred hobbit. After several random encounters at work (which is where I met her), we also bumped into each other at the vape store. A casual, friendly conversation lead to her messaging me at work the next day, and a friendship quickly formed.

After that, it didn’t take long for love to form. One sided love. I asked her out, she rejected me. My love diminished but quickly re-blossomed. I confessed full-blown honest to god love to her. Again, she rejected me, with a full (and requested) letter explaining why. That letter tore me to pieces. Not because it destroyed my hopes for ever having her, but because every reason she listed was (to my eyes) nonsense.

She said I wasn’t artistic, I consider myself to be a great story crafter and a half-decent writer. She said she thought I’d be controlling and possessive, when I am nothing of the sort. She said I wasn’t ‘edgy’ enough, in so many words, even as I carved my flesh into ribbons. Even to this day, when she describes her perfect partner’s personality, she describes me to a T, or at least to a lower-case t.

I treat our bond as though we are siblings, and I believe that’s how she sees me, though I feel a much stronger love than that for her whilst single, and she feels nothing for me. She treats me like garbage. One time I begged her for company, knowing that if left alone I’d make an attempt on my life, and she said no. No one else came either, but I thought she of all people would understand and care. But she didn’t. And despite the handle of vodka, bottle of nyquil, assortment of pills, and sheer amount of blood loss I endured that night, I lived to suffer the pain of her betrayal.

With her it’s always apologies and broken promises. She’s sorry she abandoned me for the millionth time to be with her new abusive boyfriend, she promises it won’t happen again. She’s sorry she disappeared without a word of warning, and promises she’ll warn me in the future. She’s sorry that she broke her promises, she promises it won’t happen again.

And yet I love her. I’ve given her thousands of dollars. I’ve bought her over a hundred meals. I take care of her when everyone else abandoned her. I helped her get her shit together when agoraphobia had grabbed hold of her. I’ve given her everything I could possibly give, sacrificed everything she’s ever asked for or needed that I had.

But its never enough for her. It never will be. She will never care about me and my needs. I don’t need her romantic love, as much as I would enjoy it. But never once has she sacrificed for me. Never once has she gone out of her way to make me happy. She gave me a stack of ‘coupons’, to be redeemed for things such as ‘a guaranteed hang out session’ or ‘You can pick the music all day’. The one time I tried to redeem one, the first one I mentioned, she blew me off.

But of course, she moved to a whole other state for her drug addicted, physically and verbally abusive boyfriend. Then when she came back I took her back following a promise that she was completely done with him. I’m sure she will, or already has, broken that promise.

Despite all that, she is the most important person in my life. The thought of her killing herself makes me genuinely want to die too. Without her, there’d be absolutely no one in my life that I truly love. She is a fire amidst a barren tundra without which I’d freeze to death, even if she flickers in and out of existence that I’ve wished to die in her absence.

My only other friend is Whitney. The strangest person I’ve ever known, and one of the most genuinely wholesome and good people you could ever have the pleasure of meeting. She’s sweet, kind, caring, generous, intelligent, and fun. She’s also asexual, so there’s no hope for romance there either. She lives a busy life, between college and work, so it’s rare I ever get to see her.

Everyone else in my life is temporary, fleeting. They either abandon me purposely or drift away like clouds.

My last girlfriend, the only other serious one I’ve had besides my ‘ex-fiancee’, abandoned me out of the blue. One moment, she was saying that she loved me and that I was her perfect man. The next, she provided a list of issues she had with me and said that they were irreconcilable. She left me with trust issues that have plagued every attempt at romance I’ve had since. I lost my virginity to that girl.

And when we broke up, you know what happened? Her shit head best friend went and spread all of my personal information to our mutual friends, in a horrific way that painted me to be a violent and hurtful man who was ruining her life. And they believed him. Even though he was known to be an over-dramatic, hyper-aggressive piece of shit, they believed him. In spite of all the good things I’d done for them and absolutely no personal experience with me to back his words up, they took it as gospel. I had non-romantic commitment issues before then, but damned if they weren’t magnified ten fold after that.

Every other romantic trist I had after her has had its issues. One time, whilst I was seeing a shrink and given pills that amplified my anxieties to levels beyond my control, I went full blown crazy with a girl. Demanded to know where she was, why she was ignoring me, sent over thirty texts in as many minutes. I quit that medicine the moment I ‘came down’.

Another I ‘broke up’ with after we agreed that she couldn’t handle just hanging out in my car, and I can’t handle going to clubs. Another couple ghosted me. Another was even flakier than Kira, and far more blatant about it. Another just wasn’t that into me, even if he (an FtM transgender person) wouldn’t admit it.

Right now, the biggest source of my anxiety is the fact that Kira has yet again disappeared. I’m used to that, but this time she explicitly said she would text me ‘soon’ when we hung out three days ago. The girl is a fucking suicidal drug addict, and doesn’t care about the pain it causes me when she disappears like this. The fears and anxieties that fill me hurt so bad you wouldn’t believe it. I’ve told her this countless times. She just, doesn’t, care.

I want to punch something, tear my room apart. Its a disgusting mess now, but the mess is settled at least. A path to the door amidst the refuse, big piles pushed against the walls. It could be much, much worse. I feel like I’m about to explode, all these feelings bursting out of my fucking rib cage. But she doesn’t care about that. All she cares about is herself.

There’s only two people in the entire world I’ve truly cared for, like really, wholly, undeniably loved and felt empathy for. My ‘ex-fiancee’, and Kira. But even for those I didn’t feel that way for, Whitney or my ex-girlfriend, I treat them right. Better than right. I buy them gifts, I look after them, I tell them I love them, I do my best to be the best friend or boyfriend I can be.

I’m a heartless monster, but at least I have the manners to act better than that.

You know something, I legitimately can’t remember the last time I cried. Probably when Kira and I first started becoming friends, she demanded I open up and tell her everything if I wanted her to do the same. So I did, and I broke down. Since then, not a drop. I just don’t have it in me. I’m tired. I’m tired of being alive, but outside of drunken and seemingly random spikes of suicidal ideations, I’m too scared of death to try and kill myself tonight.

The thought of death, of everything just disappearing, terrifies me. It has since I was a little kid, we’re talking four or five years old. I don’t want to die, I never want to die. I want to live forever, or at least to know that there is reincarnation or an afterlife. I fear the ocean too, specifically being in the middle of the water with no land in sight and seeing a silhouette approaching me. But that’s not what my fear of death is. That’s a shock, a jump in my seat when I watch a video on youtube.

My fear of death is primal, unadulterated terror. It keeps me up at night, it forces me to keep a light on when I want to sleep, it gave me a love for twilight hours as they brought an end to the darkness when I was a child. It brought me peace.

Kira finally texted me back, simply saying ‘’I love you’. It could be her last words, it could be an apology for going back to her shit head ex, it’s definitely a lie to either herself or to me. It brought some measure of peace, though left a trail of underlying fears in its wake.

I just wish I could be happy, but for that I need at least one of the three B’s. Booze, blood, or betrothal. The last B is hyperbolic, I don’t need that much of a commitment, just some sort of romantic connection with someone. Gotta keep the pattern going though. When I’m drunk, my troubles fade away. When I’m cutting, the pain distracts me. When I have a girlfriend, I feel accepted.

Right now I have none of those things. I might cut my arm here in a bit, but I doubt I’ll be getting a girlfriend sometime tonight; and its too risky to be drinking on a night like this. So, I’ve just got to wallow in my own misery.

I meant to write chapter two of a new book I’m working on tonight. It’s a dark, nautical comedy set in a fantasy-ish world about a dull yet narcissistic pirate captain and his misadventure to regain his fortune. I started writing it to keep myself busy while I wait to distance myself from the first book I wrote, a more serious piece. That one’s about a man and his new apprentice facing a rebellion of monsters who are supposed to coexist with humans, but are sick of their treatment as second class citizens.

I need to distance myself from it because every time I look at it I want to delete the whole thing. It all feels too fresh, too personal. I can remember every keystroke that I put down, and since I was the one who typed it all, it must be trash. That’s how my mind sees it. I need to forget.

I’ve just started episode five of Altered Carbon, haven’t paused it once, haven’t stopped writing except when they speak in another language or I don’t know what to wrtie next or when Kira texted me. I’m starving. By starving I mean I’m hungry, just enough that my stomach hurts. I’ll probably go grab more food like the fat ass, no-self-control shitstain that I am.

I hate when people tell me I’m not fat, or when people say it shouldn’t matter. I am fat, and it matters to me. I don’t find fat people attractive. Never have, never will. I remember once, back when I was dieting and nearly at one-sixty, a (fat) girl said to me “Why are you still dieting? You look great.” I responded by lifting my shirt up (I didn’t have the scar on my stomach at the time) and jiggling it, which immediately elicited an ‘Ew!’ from her. I said, “That’s why.”

It’s not a crime to be fat, nor do I treat fat people any worse than their skinny counterparts. I just think its extremely unattractive, just like me. I don’t want to be fat. I just don’t have the willpower to put a stop to it. And I hate myself for it. Maybe if/when I get a new job I’ll be able to get back into my routine. It’d be a lot easier if I lived on my own, and could choose the pantry and fridge’s contents myself.

But for now I’m stuck living in my parents’ house. I thought once I bought a new car, I’d be able to save up and move out. Then I met Kira, and spent thousands on her. Then I allowed myself to be talked into going to therapy, a waste of time that I put a stop to after being told that I’d never be happy and to keep on cutting, that put me in debt to pay for. Then my car broke down, and I’ve had to open a new credit card for over nine-hundred dollars and spent another four-hundred up front, and her check engine light is already back on.

Oh, and I don’t have a job anymore after getting fired for spending too much time helping coworkers, so its not like I can get a place with the two-hundred and twelve dollars I get a week with unemployment. I’ve dreamed about living on my own since before I was even a teenager. I’ve always hated my parents. Every time I think everything’s about to turn around fiscally, life comes around and shits down my fucking throat and cuts a hole through my trachea so it can fuck my feces-stained esophagus. Every, single, fucking, time.

God that therapy was fucking worthless. I did what the guy said in regards to cutting. I tried rubber band snapping, icing, writing out my feelings. None of it had the same sense of distraction and gravitas. So, he told me if it helps and I’m being safe, keep doing it. So I have. I wanted to stop though, not for my own sake, but because the people who say they care about me (in other words, Whit) don’t like it and I can understand why. Again though, no will power.

When it came to my moods, I told him about as much as I’ve told anyone in my life about myself. At first it felt good, he looked at me like some sort of specimen. By our last session though, it felt more like I was a chore to him, a frustrating waste of time. Although I didn’t bother to remember the words verbatim, he more or less told me that sometimes there just isn’t anything you can do to stop being miserable, and you’re just stuck that way. So, since that was the case, I stopped going.

There was another professional I saw there, a woman who was there to actually prescribe medicines. After the first one ruined a budding and potentially great relationship, I was hesitant to try another. Given the fact that it was also expensive as fuck and I was constantly broke, with or without hesitation I couldn’t try another kind. She refused to prescribe me medicine for my ADD either, even though she did diagnose it. Said we needed to get the depression under control first. Maybe I’d be less fucking miserable if I could concentrate on one thing at a time instead of constantly having my attention diverted between two to three things every waking moment of my life.

It’s funny, when I finished my first book, I thought I’d be happy. Filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment that would spur me forward in life. So I rushed it. The last couple chapters were far below my typical word count. Whitney pointed out that fact, and the fact that a lot of the earlier chapters were subpar comparatively, so I went back and finished it ‘for real’. I rewrote most of the earlier chapters, filled in the later chapters, got a real, proper first draft done. And still nothing.

Now I’m telling myself that once I can edit it properly instead of just grimacing through the prologue I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe it. Maybe if an agent wants it, I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe that. If it were miraculously published, then, then I might feel a hint of genuine joy, but I don’t believe that. I keep pushing the goal posts of finding happiness further and further back to excuse my failure to do so.

Fuck, I don’t even know why I wrote all this. I don’t feel any better. I feel like an overdramatic, self-important, delusional cunt. Same old same old I suppose.

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acyborgkitty · 7 years ago

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I just finished watching Jennifer Brea’s incredible documentary Unrest on Netflix. Watch it now. Everyone should.

My story.

I became ill suddenly, and severely, in September (I think) of 2016. I had just moved to Providence in August from San Francisco, without my partner of 10+ years, to take a teaching job at Brown University. I was teaching a poetry workshop for Frequency Writers, a community writing group, as well as a class I developed for Brown’s Literary Arts department, Experimental Poets of Color. Providence is a city I love, and even though the gig was adjunct (i.e. no job security, no health insurance, etc.) I wanted to be in Providence, and I wanted to be teaching in my fiend. I had health insurance through the ACA at the time, and though I had been diagnosed with several mental illnesses many years before (major depression and general and social anxiety disorders) I felt that my hearth was well managed with the medication I was on.

I was so happy to be back in Providence, I would walk for hours around the city, sometimes 7 miles in one stretch, listening to music and books. I was thrilled to be teaching the class I desperately wish I had been able to take at any point in my education (which includes three masters degrees), and to be nearer to my friends and family who live in Boston and the surrounding areas. I missed my partner, but we’ve been long distance for much of our relationship (the price of being an artist in academia), and it seemed like he was getting ready to leave San Francisco and head back east himself.

It was the second meeting, I think, of the Frequency open poetry workshop. It was Wednesday night. I walked to the community gallery space on Carpenter St. where we held our meetings early, unlocked the doors, and made myself some tea. It was a normal night. At some point during the workshop I started to feel exhausted, sick, like I was getting a cold. I pushed through, but took a Lyft home. I woke up the next day and still felt bad. Worse, even. I cancelled that day’s class and stayed in bed. By the next week I still wasn’t feeling any better. I went to the CVS clinic to see if I had the flu, which was going around and apparently quite bad that year. I didn’t, I was told it was just a bad cold, and to take some cough suppressant for the bad cough.

I thought maybe I wasn’t sleeping well - I was tired all the time - and maybe that was making the cold last longer than normal. I had had (undiagnosed) chronic pain for years which had started in 2007 in my first year in grad school. It was especially bad in my neck and lower back, so I had spent years and a lot of money finding a really good mattress. But I had housemates that were young, noisy, up late, so I invested in an eye mask, noise-cancelling headphones that I slept in, and a white noise machine. I had to teach my classes, but I would show up, teach, and come immediately back home and stay in bed until I had to teach the next class. I spent several weeks like this, thinking it was just a cold, until someone pointed out that colds, even very bad ones, don’t last for several weeks.

I made an appointment with my primary care doctor in Boston. I’ve struggled finding doctors that take me seriously, like most women and non binary people I imagine, especially with chronic and challenging illnesses. This doctor listened to me, and was gentle, and that was pretty much all I could hope for. He examined me, and tested me for mono, strep, walking pneumonia (which I’d had before, and which was basically the closest comparable experience I had). I had none of them. Then we tested my thyroid, my B12 levels, and my immune functions. He found nothing wrong with me.

A digression on chronic pain, including a digression on trauma.

I had gone down a diagnostic wormhole several years ago when I’d first started getting tests to see if we could find an underlying cause for my chronic pain. It started in Iowa City, where I did my second graduate degree, and included MRIs, x-rays, testing for immunological disorders, cancers, and basically anything they could think of. Eventually I was referred to a psychologist, because they determined my pain might be a physical manifestation of trauma. And I’d had my share of trauma.

A digression on trauma. I grew up with an emotionally abusive mother who, though never diagnosed, meets all of the criteria for narcissistic personality disorder. I ran away from home as a teenager, living on the streets for most of a year, before re-establishing a relationship with my family, primarily my father who helped me get an apartment, back into school, and eventually into college. At that point my mother re-entered the picture, and my father stopped helping me pay for college, so I worked sometimes as many as 5 jobs while completing my undergraduate degree. I met my partner in undergrad, and he has been an immense help for me in recovering from my trauma, but like so many who were experienced long-term abuse as children, I probably will never be un-affected by my experiences.

So the trauma angle seemed at least plausible to me, and I went to a year’s worth of sessions with two different people, one a psychologist who specialized in and studied the manifestation of trauma as physical pain, and another who practiced CBT and meditative mindfulness therapy. Both helped immensely with my emotional state, but my pain persisted. So when I moved away for my third graduate degree (my first move to Providence) I transferred care and we started the diagnostics all over again. This time I saved all my records - I have my MRIs and my X-rays still in some box somewhere. We did CAT scans and I went to scores of specialists including an orthopedic surgeon who recommended surgery; a chiropractor who works with the Boston Ballet Company who diagnosed me as hyper-flexible and gave me strengthening exercises to do that actually seemed to help somewhat; and a neurologist who found nothing wrong with me at all. After four years of referrals and diagnostics, I found a integrative care physician who listened to me break down in her office, prescribed an anti-depressant that is also a sedative to help me fall asleep, and helped me come up with a plan to manage the pain. Massage, chiropractor, walking and stretching, the anti-depressants, 800mg Ibuprofen when I needed it, and Vicodin when nothing else helped.

After all of this, I wasn’t eager to go down another diagnostic chase.

Back to 2016.

By this point it was the middle of November. I was so sick that I couldn’t feed myself, I couldn’t do laundry, I couldn’t leave the house except for to teach, and then I spent the next 24-48 hours recovering mostly in bed from the fatigue it caused me. I was experiencing sever cognitive deficiencies, most notably my ability to process and retain information, and my ability to speak. It felt like I had dementia, or what I imagine dementia to feel like. I would read the same sentence over and over again and not understand it, or not remember it when I started the next one. I would fight to get up to go into the kitchen, only to forget what I was there for. Did I need water? Had I fed the cat? Did I need to use the bathroom? My father and brother were taking turns coming down to my house to prepare food for me for the week, and to get my groceries, and to do my laundry. I needed help with everything. I could do one, maybe two things in a given day. Those things included brushing my teeth and feeding the cat.

I couldn’t even research my condition, given my cognitive symptoms. I was angry, and many days I felt like it would be better to die. I couldn’t read or write, so I took up embroidery as a way to try to keep my life worth living, a way to keep making art.

In January, 2017 when my partner came to visit for his winter break, we went to my doctor together. I couldn’t remember the questions he wanted me to ask, and I couldn’t have remembered the answers anyway, and I certainly couldn’t get myself there and back without help, so him coming was the only way I was going to get there. I don’t remember much of the appointment, but I do remember my doctor suggested that I might be experiencing a severe prolonged depressive episode. Based on my previous diagnosis of depression. Based on the fact that there seemed to be nothing wrong with me, physically.

My partner didn’t buy it. I sort of did, or at least I didn’t have the energy to dispute it. My partner started researching, aggressively, and a few months later he came up with something. Maybe, he said, it was my copper IUD. Maybe I had copper toxicity. My doctor said that was impossible, that the IUD can’t cause copper toxicity, but my symptoms aligned, and there are thousands of women on the internet who have experienced copper poisoning from their IUD. So one day in April, my best friend took me to the hospital and I had mine removed. The next day, I felt better. Not 100% better, but maybe 40% better. The next day my partner and I went for a walk, the first time in almost a year I had felt able to do that.

I kept feeling better. Not getting better, but I stayed feeling about 40% better. A few days I felt almost entirely myself, but then the next day I would be exhausted again. I could do things, but if I pushed too hard, I would collapse and pay for it for days. I learned about spoons, and disability culture and activism. I learned about setting my limits, and prioritizing. I said no to almost everything, because almost nothing was worth the risk of incapacitation for me.

My brain started to recover too - I could read. I started writing in my journal, not poetry but at least writing of some sort. I felt hopeful that I was recovering. We bought a house, a big old Victorian that needs TLC, and I moved in there with 4 other queer artist friends. I didn’t get the tenure-track job at Brown, but I did get another adjunct offer to teach Book Arts, and I accepted - something I definitely couldn’t have done at my sickest, given that it’s a 15-hr a week studio course.

But now, a year post-removal, my memory is still a problem. And I still get exhausted a lot. A lot more than I used to, before I got sick. But the anecdotal evidence on the copper IUD detox forums says that it could take years to fully process the toxicity out of your system. The most severe days might be attributed to “dumps” - when the body releases stored copper all at once - and those days feel like my worst ones did when I was at my sickest. I had thought that when I felt better, I would start to do things again, go to poetry readings, have dinner with friends, go for walks, be part of the community I’d moved here because I loved. But I still say no to most things, or write them down in my calendar and don’t go. I know that if I push too hard, I’ll pay for it for days. And “too hard” is a moving target - it changes seemingly randomly, and I don’t know when I’m approaching it until it’s too late. Then I’m in bed for days.

I’ve been having an especially bad few days. Maybe a week. Maybe more. My memory, my brain isn’t good at sequence anymore, or keeping track of time. It’s frustrating, because I can’t keep track of my own symptoms. Sometimes I remember to write them down, and sometimes I forget, or am too tired. And there’s no one here to watch me, or help me - my partner doesn’t move here until June. Today, for example, I got up at 11 and I fed the cats. And I was so tired that I lay down, and just...passed out. I don’t remember falling back asleep, but then I woke up at 6 pm. I fed the cats again, and then had to go back to bed. The last week has been similar: do just what is necessary, then back to bed. It feels like I’m sick all over again.

I have had my period, which can be associated with copper dumps. I’m not saying it’s not copper “dumps,” or that it’s isn’t related to copper poisoning. But I watched Unrest and thought: “maybe this is what I have, too?” So many of those scenes were heartbreakingly familiar. I wept through most of it, because Jennifer was saying the things that I’d been feeling. About feeling like it was a good day when all I had done was survived it. About feeling like my life had ended, and that I had a new one now, one that sometimes didn’t feel like a life at all, but one that I still didn’t want to give up. About not being listened to, about not being believed. I wept at the thought of having a diagnosis, after all this time. Of maybe finally at least knowing what is wrong with me. Maybe.

But I don’t know how to find out. I don’t currently have health insurance, because the premium on my ACA policy from last year went up by 50% and I couldn’t afford it anymore, and adjuncts at Brown who teach fewer than 4 classes a year don’t get health insurance, and I’m only teaching 3, and I am barely able to do that; this semester teaching 2 classes took every bit of energy I had. I will get health insurance starting in September when my partner starts his new job in Providence, and maybe then I can get some answers. If I have the energy for it.

My story doesn’t have an ending yet. I’m in bed, as I have been all day. Writing this was the most writing I’ve done since I got sick. I’m grateful for that. It feels like, thanks to the work that Jennifer has done, an important story is at least starting to be told. Not just mine, but one that is shared by millions.

#chronic fatigue #chronically ill #m.e.#m.e./cfs #me/cfs #unrest #millionsmissing #iud copper toxicity #copper toxicity #spoonie #chronic illness #meaction #disability

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narrans · 4 years ago

Text

One Shot | September Prompts

ONE | Idiot

Neither Virgil nor Patton weren’t quite sure what to expect once arriving. After Remus and Roman gave them the spiel of who they were and what the mission behind the Tiny Shelter, they escorted them to their room. It was more spacious than their previous home, but not as large as the cage. There were already nails embedded in the walls near the entrance and what looked like a sink made from the base of a plastic cup. There was even a set of washcloths and what looked like memory foam on a popsicle stick frame in the corner.

“I know,” said Remus. “Absolutely drab. I told Thomas to bring us some paint or chalk. Something to spruce up the joint but…”

“It’s perfect,” interrupted Patton accidentally, speaking more to himself than the others. Roman’s grin reached his ears.

“Excellent. See?” said Roman as he slapped Remus’ shoulder. “I knew they’d like it. We’ll leave and let you two get settled. Logan. Jay. Your rooms are a little farther ahead and up on the next floor. Sorry it’s a little way up, but it’s a good problem when the closer rooms fill up, right?” The four of them nodded, still adjusting to the idea they were finally free – at least, free in Thomas’s home. Just as Roman and Remus turned to leave, Roman snapped his fingers, remembering something.

“Oh, one quick thing. It’s certainly not mandatory or anything, but our resident medic will probably want to take a look at your leg,” said Roman as he pointed to Patton’s injured leg. “Don’t worry. She’s really sweet and gentle. Knows practically everything about science and all sorts of random tidbits, but not braggadocios or arrogant.”

“Yeah,” agreed Remus, interrupting his twin. “She’s worked some serious miracles with injuries. From broken to dislocated, she’ll get you back on your feet.”

Roman sighed and continued his initial thought. “You can go see her tomorrow or, if you want, we can come back and you can meet her today. Whatever you feel like.” Virgil and Patton exchanged unsure glances, torn between getting some well-earned rest and helping Patton’s leg get back to normal. Even Jay and Logan seemed interesting in meeting this magical physician.

“Could she just come by later tonight? After we get settled?” asked Virgil. Both Roman and Remus bit their lower lip simultaneously, looking reluctant.

“That’s going to be kinda hard, you see, because she’s human,” said Remus. At the word human, all four borrowers flinched, a static tension enveloping them for several seconds.

“Way to be smooth,” muttered Roman. “Anyway. Yes, Ali is human. She’s a paramedic by night, resident medical professional and material provider during the day. She even fills in as chef when Thomas is busy.”

“She’s really good about the ‘no touching, holding, grabbing’ rules we’ve set in place,” chimed in Remus. Their positive spin did not negate the fact the borrowers absorbed first. Human.

“Look, we know the last thing you want to do is go reveal yourselves and talk to a human, but, like I said, it’s not mandatory. She just likes meeting newcomers and will do basically anything to make adjusting easier,” said Roman. “You don’t have to show yourselves if you don’t want to. My brother and I were going to get some supplies anyway and thought we would extend the invitation. Just think it over.” They all glanced nervously at one another.

“We’ll talk it over,” said Patton as he leaned into Virgil’s shoulder. Logan and Jay simply nodded. Remus and Roman nodded before pointing up the wall.

“You two are up this way,” said Remus. Finally, after months of torment and captivity, Virgil and Patton were alone in the privacy of the walls of a place they could call home. Virgil helped Patton to the bed. It was soft and smelled like fresh laundry. The Christmas lights which hung in the room provided a warm, homey feeling to their one room.

“So… what do you think?” asked Patton as he tucked his good leg up to his chest to remove his shoes. Virgil felt a rush of emotions simultaneously.

“If I never saw another human for the rest of my life, I’d be good,” he muttered, yet his eyes locked on Patton’s injured leg. Patton wasn’t a complainer. Even in captivity, he often refrained from bringing up the negative or would remain silent to keep Virgil from thinking about every possible negative scenario available to them. Could the human help?

“I agree with you there,” said Patton. He adjusted his glasses before leaning down and removing his other shoe, wincing and letting out an involuntary yelp of pain when he turned his leg the wrong way. “But…” he continued. “Thomas is human, and he helped us. So were the others who brought us here.” Virgil, too tired to feel frustrated, admired Patton for a moment. After everything, he could still find something to believe in.

“Let’s just sleep on it,” said Patton finally. “Roman and Remus said we didn’t have to talk to her; and they didn’t seem to be bothered by going to see her.” Virgil nodded, shutting their makeshift door, removing his shoes, and slipping onto the bed. They were out within minutes in a peaceful slumber they had not known for months.

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Roman and Remus brought Logan and Jay to the two vacant rooms on the second floor, ensuring they were settled, before heading off to Ali’s room. They were in a heated debate as to whether they should have brought up meeting Ali so soon after the new arrivals were freed. Roman argued it was a good idea to mention her and that Remus shouldn’t have immediately brought up the fact that Ali was human while Remus argued the newcomers should have been settled and that he was just being honest. They continued their heated discussion even as they exited from the door behind the plug and onto Ali’s desk. They hadn’t checked whether she was there or not, which she was.

Ali, after pulling another late night, had only been awake for a few hours. She was still in her oversized pajama shirt with the sleeves cut off and was sitting at her desk with a cup of warm coffee while taking inventory of her supplies. Her long, brown hair hadn’t been brushed, remaining a fluffy mess parted carelessly onto one side of her head. Both legs were in the chair, one propped up against the desk and one crisscrossed under to make a suitable table for her list. She listened to her playlists passively, always keeping one headphone out just in case someone needed her attention in a hurry. Even before they entered, she could hear Roman and Remus arguing. The side of her mouth tugged into a cocky grin as she watched the twins exit from behind the electrical cover and onto her desk. She refrained from laughing, though she didn’t know what they were arguing about except that they were arguing. Both Remus and Roman jumped in surprise when they noticed she was sitting only a few feet from them.

“Criminently! I didn’t see you there!” exclaimed Roman. Remus, trying to compose himself faster than his brother, played off the incident.

“I just… wanted to get you reaction, brother dear,” he said with a wink.

“Usually you two knock before coming in,” she said, keeping her tone lone and quiet as to not pierce their ears with her voice. She removed her headphone and paused her music before drawing in her arms as to make sure the borrowers felt secure with enough room. Even though she knew Roman and Remus for the past seven months, it was imperative she demonstrate appropriate behaviors in case other borrowers were watching to establish trust and mutual respect.

“Anyway, what were you two discussing?” she asked, slowly moving to grab her coffee cup on the edge of the desk. Roman and Remus exchanged wary glances before Roman spoke up.

“We had four new arrivals today. Two from pets, two from the lab, all four from that wretched relative of Thomas,” said Roman.

“Yikes, that witch has had one too many doses of her own psychotics. At least they’re here now,” remarked Ali.

“And fancy pants over here let it slip that you’re the medic and that you’re human,” chimed in Remus. Roman glared at his twin before nodding and walking over to the drawers of materials Ali kept stored on the desk.

“I said that you like welcoming the newcomers and that it was optional for them to come see you,” explained Roman as he opened the band-aid drawer and sat on the compartment lip. Ali took a moment to absorb the information, keeping her features as neutral as she could, though her concern showed in her disgruntled eyebrow.

“Well, that’s alright. They don’t have to come if they don’t want to. I’m sure they’ve had more than enough of doctors, let alone humans,” she replied, slightly disappointed she wouldn’t get to meet the four new additions.

“Yes. But the problem is one of them has a really bad limp from an injury the witch probably gave him. He’s obviously uncomfortable walking on it and if it goes untreated it could very well be permanent if it isn’t permanent already. It’ll affect his quality of life. I guess…” Roman quieted himself in his thoughts. “I guess I wanted to get him here so you could help. I guess it didn’t occur to me what it might sound like. ‘Here. You’re free. Go talk to the humans now. Obviously, months of trauma are overridden the moment you walk through the door.’” Roman moaned and buried his face in his hands. Ali sighed.

“Don’t sweat it, Roman,” Ali said gently. “If they want help, or need it, I’ll be here. Do you have any idea of when you were going to bring them here to show them where some of the supplies are? I’ll make myself scarce.” Roman gazed thoughtfully at Ali, a smile radiating from his face. Though all of the other humans were fantastic, Ali certainly never let the borrowers’ constant apprehension and fear weigh on her.

“Maybe tomorrow; and I know they’ll warm up to you. I shall make it my life’s mission!” declared Roman. He stood as tall and as proud as he could.

“How will you do that, Sir Sing-Along?” asked Remus. “You saw the look on their faces.”

“We shall let them see what kind of person Ali is! Surely they would not be so callous to disregard personal testimony from the others. Their words shall be the foundation of their trust for you,” stated Roman, sounding as though he could conquer the world with a single swipe of his sewing pin sword. Ali felt herself smile and giggle at the thought of Roman running for office or, at the very least, becoming a motivational speaker.

“Regardless, I’m in no rush, and they shouldn’t be either. They probably just want to be left along for a while. Actually,” a thought occurred to her. “They probably don’t feel like borrowing at the moment. They might be too exhausted to leave for the next few days.” Ali set her cup delicately on her side table before dashing over to some of the borrower friendly shelves which lined the room. She thought quickly as she pulled out four of the borrower sized satchels she and Hickory had been working on and began slipping small odds and ends into them. Remus and Roman watched Ali curiously, relatively unaffected by her quick, darting movements around the room.

“You said there are four of them, right?” she asked.

“Yes, but two of them are a couple so really we only used three rooms,” replied Remus. Ali nodded, her mind moving faster than her body as she collected a few other materials. Simple things. A small matchbox, bottle caps, a tea bag, a couple of safety pins, a thread filled bobbin, and a couple of small, a pinch of tin foil, and glass jars with lids she obtained from her last craft store visit. She mentally praised herself for spending the extra five dollars.

“What are you doing?” called Remus, now growing impatient to see what Ali was up to. She returned with the four draw string satchels, each slightly overflowing.

“Housewarming gifts,” she said quickly. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. They need supplies to get started. Usually we just leave them out, but it might be nice to have them brought to their doors.” Remus and Roman both quickly saw what Ali was saying, yet possessed two different reactions.

“Brilliant! You’re right. Usually we would just leave these things out for the newcomers to borrow or to ask. This gives them a head start. We’ll need to bring them a few fishhooks, but I know where those are,” Roman said, pleased with Ali’s intuitive thinking. Remus, on the other hand, stared at the bags slightly displeased.

“You want us to carry those through the halls? They’re heavy!” complained Remus as he heaved one onto his shoulder. Ali, suddenly remembering the strength discrepancy, bit her cheek in frustration.

“No worries!” Roman chimed in. “Ali, if you take them to the nearest entrance, we can get them the rest of the way. It’s not too far if we don’t have to pack them up and down and across.” Ali smiled gratefully at Roman.

“Thanks,” she grinned. “Just, one thing. Don’t tell them it was from me.”

“What?! Why not?” asked Roman.

“If you tell them it was from me, it’ll seem like I’m trying to earn their favor.”

“Isn’t that the point?” asked Remus. He stood in the top drawer, rummaging for the things he and his brother had come for in the first place.

“No. The point is to make them feel welcomed,” replied Ali. “All they need to know is that they’re safe and they don’t need to worry about the little things… sorry, wrong phrasing…” Ali rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Just, say it’s from you. From everyone here. If they want, they’ll figure it out.” Roman grinned.

“I didn’t get a goodie bag,” whined Remus after landing lightly with a sash of rubber bands and wire.

“You don’t need one. Now, come on! We have some deliveries to make. Ali, would you take these to the top of the second-floor stairs and the other right behind the fern.” Ali nodded and hastily gathered the satchels, leaving Remus and Roman in her room alone.

“You know, she’s not so bad for a human,” muttered Remus. Roman smacked his brother playfully on the shoulder before grabbing some supplies himself.

“We knew that already.”

They delivered their personal borrowings to their shared room before retrieving the packs Ali created. Jay seemed grateful, but also suspicious. Logan too seemed grateful, satisfied with the materials inside the pack, but also seemed skeptical. While Remus and Roman didn’t see Virgil or Patton’s reaction, they received one the next morning at breakfast when Patton hobbled out of the room and hugged them. Patton spent the entire morning going through the bag’s contents and could not feel more welcomed or grateful.

“Just a little something to get you all started here. Some of the others had supplies when they arrived, and you seemed worn out from yesterday,” replied Remus. Patton, though still weary, was already regaining his signature spark back in his eyes. Logan arrived next, joining in the conversation as needed but more often than not made silent observations. Jay was the last to arrive. After they exchanged pleasantries, Roman and Remus led the way through the kitchen, showing off the stocks and supplies. Where things were. Where to avoid if they didn’t want to interact with their human allies. How to request supplies. In short, the morning was an interactive open house. The twins provided a map drawn onto a folded Index card of the different rooms of the home as well as entrances and exits they could use as quick getaways. They shuffled through the vents and hallways, meeting a few other borrowers along the way. Though they didn’t stop to talk for long since they could see Roman and Remus were giving a tour, they welcomed the newcomers and offered to show them some of their favorite places to borrow as well as have them over for dinner once they felt up to visitation.

Patton could not feel more pleased, seeing so many new faces. His excitement overrode his exhaustion and apprehension of their new home. Even as his leg pained him and his limp grew worse every few steps, he could feel this was the right place to be. Virgil, on the other hand, would rather rest alone. Seeing so many faces. Being with so many new people. The information was overwhelming. He found himself shrinking further and further into his patched poncho, hunching closer to Patton, who held his arm reassuringly. Jay seemed disinterested at times, almost as if he wanted to go off and explore on his own. Logan, on the other hand, absorbed every piece of information he could as they traversed the halls. Before they knew it, they were at the final room of the house.

“Now this,” said Roman as he pointed to the back of an electrical cover. “Is the entrance slash exit to Ali’s room. She’s the one we told you about yesterday.” While they had gone by Thomas’s room and the rooms of the other shelter workers, something seemed different about knowing where Ali’s room was. Maybe it was her knowledge of medicine combined with their experience with human scientists. Maybe it was because of the twin’s comment about meeting her. Sensing the tension, Roman gave a confident smile and stepped to the cover.

“Here, I’ll see if she’s in.” Without another word, Roman pushed the cover open and stepped out onto the desk boldly. Remus trailed behind him. “Ali! Are you home! Ali!” The four newcomers glanced hesitantly at one another.

“I don’t know how I feel about this,” hissed Jay, shying away from the lamp light through the crack in the cover. Logan, stiff as a board and as hard to read as ever, barely managed a nod. Patton could have sworn he could see both Jay and Logan trembling slightly. He knew Virgil was apprehensive by the way he stepped behind him and placed his arm across his chest. Patton was frightened. There was no question; but it wasn’t him who was shaking. He tried to help Virgil’s breathing by focusing on steadying his own and tapping lightly on Virgil’s hand. After a minute, Remus peered back through the opening.

“She must’ve pulled another double shift. You can come on out. Ali isn’t home yet,” smiled Remus reassuringly. The four could not bring themselves to step forward. “Look, this is the last room with all of the medical supplies. We’ll be really quick. Pinky promise.” Logan straightened, shaking himself out of whatever daze he had fallen into, and stepped forward.

“Very well. Quickly,” he said. The others followed his lead with caution through the electrical cover. The moment they entered, they found themselves completely stunned.

The other rooms, which were set up in the traditional human fashion with the addition of borrower friendly furniture, were vastly different than the room before them. They stood on a wooden desk aglow with a lamp with a gentle white light. There were books ranging from size and subject propped up around the room by plastic and wooden devices holding the pages apart. There were shelves illuminated by Christmas lights all around the room filled with books and small drawers filled with what looked like rubber bands, band-aids, thumb tacks, and other essential items borrowers would need. Some of the shelves were attached to the desk; but, something that was surprising about the shelves was the stairs. Borrower sized stairs with handrails connected all of the shelves at some point or another. There were nails in the sides of nearly every piece of furniture from the desk, the chair, and even the bed. To a human, these nails would be an inconvenience. To a borrower, they were built-in hook holds. Some of the nails seemed to have permanent lines attached for quick access to the floor. The room itself was tidy and well organized. A curtain hung around what they assumed to be the bed.

“Yeah,” Remus interrupted the silence. He stretched his arms behind his head, resting them there as he took in the newcomers’ reactions. “These things were sort of her idea. She knows we like our privacy and want to continue borrowing, but this makes it a lot easier. You don’t have to worry about losing your hook here at the very least. Plus, these stairs make it a lot easier to carry things back to the panel.” Jay shifted uncomfortably as did the others. To think someone, a human, put this much effort into accommodating for them was odd. There were things, from a borrower’s perspective, that she accounted for which a normal human would not have thought of – the embedded nails as easy hook holds being one of them.

“Right, I can point out what we need from here,” said Roman. He began pointing to different shelves, naming where different items resided. Thankfully, like items were already placed close to one another – yet another thing an average human would not have thought of incorporating.

“Did Ali come up with all of this?” asked Logan, his curiosity peaked. Roman and Remus glanced simultaneously. They thought about the question for a moment.

“Well, yes. For the most part, she came up with the designs. She and her roommate Hickory,” replied Roman.

“Hickory?” piped up Patton.

“She came here with Ali. They’re kind of an odd box set,” explained Remus.

“Why odd?” asked Virgil skeptically.

“They’re not an odd box set,” retorted Roman.

“You could’ve fooled me by the way they interact,” muttered Remus under his breath. Roman glared at his brother before continuing.

“Ali is human and Hickory is a borrower. That is what Remus is referring to. They came here together,” said Roman. The four found themselves oddly curious at this piece of information. “Yes, they interact differently than you or I would with Thomas for example, but I think it’s just how they show their friendship. It doesn’t make them odd.” Remus rolled his eyes as he walked to the nearest Post-It note.

“Whatever you say, brother dear!” he called.

“Ignore him. Hickory and Ali are close friends and interact as such. Sometimes it involves teasing and pranks,” explained Roman before making eye contact with the back of his brother’s head. “It might be a bit of a shock for some, but I promise it’s just how they interact. Anyway, that is all we have to show you unless you have specific questions. If not, let’s get you all back for some lunch and well-earned rest.” This seemed to ease the rising tension until they heard a few quick, soft knocks on the door. Virgil and Patton froze. Jay made a dash for the electrical cover while Logan could only force himself a few steps backwards before freezing. Roman and Remus both turned to the door before moving to their fellow borrowers’ sides.

“She’s here…” said Remus, his voice eerily sing-song like.

“Remus! Stop it. You know she always knocks. It’s just Ali,” scolded Roman. He quickly jogged to the edge of the desk. They heard him inhale deeply just as the door cracked open. “ALI! Hold up! Don’t come it yet!” Roman’s shout was surprisingly loud and, to the astonishment of Virgil, Patton, Jay, and Logan, the door stopped opening and quickly shut again.

“H… hurry…” stammered Jay. “We need to get out.” He turned back toward the outlet just as Roman turned back around to the group.

“There’s no need to hurry. You can leave if you want but know that Ali is one of the good ones.” Something in Roman’s voice was endearing, ringing true within each of them. Jay nodded, yet continued his retreat to the walls.

“I understand that, but would rather take a moment to observe unseen,” said Logan, still unnerved, while walked calmly to the electrical wall cover. Virgil, still clinging onto Patton, watched as Patton turned around, cupping his face for a moment, before offering the smallest of smiles.

“It’s okay. I know you’re nervous. You can go, but I want to stay.” Virgil could hardly believe what Patton was saying. He was stunned to say the least. “I know. I’m terrified. But just on our little walk around, my leg has gotten worse. If she can help…” his voice trailed off.

“We were going to talk about this,” hissed Virgil under his breath.

“We still can, but I don’t see the harm in talking with her now. Virge, I don’t want to be a burden. I want to help. A new start. A new life. I can’t do that if I’m injured.” Patton knew it hurt Virgil to hear because he blamed himself for Patton’s injuries. “Go. I’ll be okay.” Virgil stared into Patton’s eyes.

“Like I’d leave you to face a human on your own,” he muttered. They turned back to Roman, steeled and as prepared as they could be. Roman smiled kindly, but it was Remus who spoke up.

“You know, if it makes you feel better, you can wait just inside of the cover and let her introduce herself,” stated Remus plainly. “She knows not everyone enjoys waiting in the open. Just, come out when you feel comfortable. That’s what she’d say.” Hesitantly, Virgil and Patton agreed and stepped off of the desk back into the wall with Jay and Logan. Virgil only now noticed how bad Patton’s limp had become, agitated by the exercise they were deprived of for months. A wave of guilt and resolve swirled in him. He was going to help Patton, even if it meant going out and meeting a new human so soon after they were freed.

With the others waiting in the wings, Roman turned back to the door and called out. “Alright! We’re good! You can come in!” There was a pause before the same knock wrapped against the door. There was a pause before they heard the door creak open. Ali poked her head into her room, spotting Roman and Remus on the table as well as the ajar electrical cover door. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail and there were dark circles forming by the lids of her eyes. She had a backpack slung over one shoulder, but refrained from letting it drop to the floor to avoid making more noise than she already had. She wore a dark navy blue uniform resembling scrubs.

“Good morning,” she said. Much to their relief, her voice was vastly different than their captor’s voice. Though it was pleasant and smooth, it was also upbeat while being soft. So far, the only alarm bells were that she was human and she worked with medicine.

“Morning!” called Remus and Roman one after the other. “Sorry to keep you out. We’re just leading the grand tour.” Ali’s smile seemed to illuminate the room all on its own.

“That’s great. I hope you haven’t bombarded them with too much information,” said Ali, keeping her movements slow as she moved to sit on her bed and lay her backpack on the floor. From where she was, the other four had a perfect view to evaluate her facial expressions and body language. Roman chuckled.

“No, I don’t think we have anyway. Your room was the last place on the agenda before heading back for lunch,” said Roman. “Did you want to introduce yourself?” Ali pulled her shoulders back from their original exhausted position.

“Um… sure. I mean, if they want me to. I now not everyone is keen on meeting new people on a good day,” said Ali. Patton couldn’t help but smile up at Virgil. The description fit him well. Roman glanced through the door, gauging each borrower’s reaction. So far, so good.

“Go ahead,” stated Roman. “The floor is yours.” Ali’s eyes fixed on the electrical cover for a fraction of a second, swearing for a moment that she caught a glimpse of them all huddled by the entrance. She looked away, not wanting the borrowers to feel uncomfortable with her staring at them. Instead, she folded her hands in front of her and elected to stare at them, only glancing up every once in a while to see how Roman and Remus were reacting.

“Alright. Hello, my name is Ali Jefferson. I’m one of the residence and workers here at TS. I also work for an emergency response unit tied to some of our hospitals here in the area That’s where I just came from. I came here about seven months ago with my current roommate Hickory. Um… anything else?” Roman and Remus shrugged, forming identical creases in their foreheads and clothes.

“Alrighty. Well, I like butterflies and reading. I try and leave books propped up in case anyone likes reading; and, usually, I rotate the books so there are new works available. So, if you are reading a book, you can take one of those sticky notes and use it as a place holder and I won’t move or touch the book until you’re done. Same with materials you might need. I try and keep everything well stocked but if you need something specific, you can ask Roman or Remus or, if you can read and write, just leave a note on my desk. Um… Right. I know the last thing you probably want to do it talk to a human; but, as resident medical professional, I might be able to help. I know injuries are no joke and they can become more serious if they’re not looked after. I have tons of medical supplies around, Roman and Remus should’ve shown you the drawers on the shelves, so you should be good. If you don’t want to talk to me, you can talk to Roman or Remus or my roommate Hickory, wherever she’s hiding, and I can pass along some advice on treatment and stuff like that.” Ali paused, glancing around the room.

“I think that about covers it,” said Roman cheerfully.

“How boring. You didn’t incorporate anything fun,” teased Remus as he walked back toward the electrical cover. Ali looked away, grinning and shaking her head.

“What should I have included?” she asked.

“I don’t know! How to best hide in your room? Weird collections of socks in your drawers? Secret secrets? Something juicy.”

“Don’t say that word. You know how it bothers me,” muttered Roman. Ali caught herself chuckling at the brotherly banter.

“I don’t really have any secrets. You can ask me pretty much anything and I’ll answer as best as I can. My door is always open, any day, any time,” replied Ali. Before Remus could take her up on the offer, Roman interrupted him by pulling him toward the door cover. Roman glanced at the other four borrowers.

“Well? How do you feel?” he asked simply. Patton glanced back outside to Ali. She seemed nervous, but also genuine. Those nerves might be just because she didn’t want to mess up, much like Virgil’s nervousness. He glanced back at Virgil, whose resolve had not wavered even as his anxious nature crept higher and higher. Patton knew it wasn’t easy for him – for either of them – but he needed to be back to full health if he was going to help at all. He couldn’t leave the burden of taking care of them both on Virgil. It plagued him while in captivity and now in this moment more than ever. Still, Virgil had been so brave all day. He had interacted more in one day than he had in their nine months of captivity. Patton pulled back into him with a smile.

“Let’s just wait and see. Maybe I just need to rest,” he said. Virgil looked relieved and exhaled his held breath. His body immediately seemed less tense. Roman smiled at them before turning back to Ali.

“Thank you, Ali, for that introduction. I think we’re going to head back for the day. You ought to get some rest. You earned it,” said Roman. Ali returned Roman’s smile and gave a thoughtful nod.

“Yes sir. It was a pleasure meeting you and, like I said, if you need anything, the door is always open,” she said. With that, Ali began prying her shoes from her feet and laid down on the top blanket. The group watched for a minute as her breathing slowed and she fell asleep. Roman and Remus closed the electrical cover and began leading the way back to the kitchen in time for lunch. Patton, who leaned heavily on Virgil, lost himself in thought. He thought about his impressions of Ali. Who she was. The things she said. From what he could tell, she was being completely honest and seemed disappointed but understanding when they didn’t come out to meet her. He was still nervous about interacting with a human, but Thomas wouldn’t let her stay if she weren’t trustworthy. His limp ached and sent a jolt of pain as he landed on it wrong. He winced, which caught Virgil’s attention.

“You okay?” he asked. Patton shook off the pain with a quick shudder before smiling back.

“Just landed wrong. I’ll be alright.”

`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

Despite his best efforts, Patton was not getting better. His leg had gotten worse. After lunch that day nearly two weeks ago after meeting Ali, he and Virgil had a long discussion about letting Patton rest but not letting his skills go to waste. Patton spent a full week simply walking around their room organizing various borrowings Virgil brought back. The rest seemed to help as long as he didn’t try to move too quickly; however, Patton found himself more and more incapable of making long climbs. Even short runs to the kitchen became excruciating. His times of being immobile were useful, however, because he was able to speak with other borrowers and get their perceptions of Ali.

Patton sat through hours of conversation with other borrowers from around the home and had come to the same conclusion each time after bringing up the humans who lived in the house – Ali was, indeed, one of the good ones. Nearly all of the borrowers had some sort of interaction with Ali at some point or another. Some spoke of injuries she was able to help with. Others simply had a conversation with her. Patton listened to how Ali was respectful of boundaries, her always knock policy, and her overall pleasant attitude. Logan, who came by from time to time, spent time observing Ali from the secrecy of the air vents and could find nothing negative about his observations. Even Virgil spent some time observing Ali and found nothing overtly alarming about her presence other than the fact she was human. Patton hadn’t had a chance to meet her roommate, Hickory, but felt certain she would say the same thing. He knew Virgil wouldn’t like it, but it was decided in his mind. He needed to go see Ali.

That afternoon, when Virgil came home, bag over his shoulder and hook on his hip, Patton sat him down and explained his thought process. Virgil seemed more reluctant than before but listened patiently until Patton was finished. Virgil’s counter argument resided in that he didn’t mind borrowing for both of them; however, Patton pointed out that he needed to contribute to feel productive. The point was he wanted to go with Virgil, not sit on the sidelines. Patton reminded Virgil that he promised to wait and see whether he would heal on his own, which he hadn’t. Reluctantly, Virgil nodded and agreed to go with Patton to meet Ali.

They met Roman and Remus on their way. Both were pleased as punch to see Virgil and Patton out and about and offered to go with them to meet Ali to help break the ice, to which they agreed. Remus was on his way to greet another round of rescues and prepare for their arrival, so Roman along accompanied Virgil and Patton to Ali’s room. Before they knew it, they were outside of the familiar electrical cover.

“She came in a while ago and should be awake now. Do you want me to go check?” asked Roman. They both nodded. Roman smiled reassuringly before knocking loudly on the cover and stepping out onto the desk. Virgil felt his heart pounding in his ears. His hands trembled, anxious as to what Ali may ask or request of them. His mind flashed back to his captor, the Witch, telling them what to do under penalty of punishment. “Ali?”

“Oh, hello Roman. How are you?” they heard the two conversing on the other side of the wall.

“I am well. You?”

“A lot better after some sleep. Where’s Remus? Aren’t you two supposed to be on the welcoming committee today?” Paton felt himself shaking involuntarily. He steadied his breath with the knowledge that he needed to stay calm and confident for Virgil’s sake.

“We are on the welcoming committee. I’m actually here to help break the ice. You have some people who would like your professional, medical opinion,” said Roman. “I assume you’re free at the moment?”

“Yes, of course. Are… are they…”

“Yes, they’re just inside,” Roman replied with a quick point to the electrical cover.

“Great.” They heard Ali say before hearing shuffling on the other side of the wall, most likely from a chair being moved backwards. “Uh… whenever they’re ready I suppose.”

With a quick squeeze to his hand, Patton limped to the door.

“You sure?” asked Virgil, slightly resisting Patton’s press forward. Patton nodded. He wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. The others seemed to like Ali or, at the very least, trust her. Virgil moved quickly to help Patton back down onto the desk.

Ali watched as Roman stood back and two new borrowers she hadn’t met stepped out from behind the electrical cover and onto the desk. The first, much taller borrower, wore dark clothing and a patched black and purple poncho. The second leaned heavily on the first and dressed contrary to him with his light blues and greys and he wore glasses, something Ali had rarely seen.

Roman leaned over to them as they took a few cautious steps forward. “You two alright? Do you want me to introduce you?” Patton shook his head. His heart pounded dangerously fast in his chest, yet he didn’t feel as though he were in danger. Ali was maybe three feet away from the desk sitting in a chair. Her hands were folded in front of her and resting on her legs and, rather than sitting at what Patton assumed was her full height, she was leaning forward slightly. Ali smiled, thankfully not revealing any teeth, and glanced quickly from Virgil, to Patton, then back to Roman.

“Well, if you two are alright here, I need to get back to Remus. Hopefully Thomas and the others haven’t arrived yet. I’d hate to think Remus was their first impression of the place.” With a quick bow and a dashing smile, Roman ducked back into the walls. Now Virgil and Patton were left alone with Ali. To Virgil’s surprise, Patton was the first to break the silence.

“H… hello. I’m Patton, and this is Virgil,” Patton felt himself leaning against Virgil’s front for support. In response, Virgil placed a protective arm across Patton’s chest. Patton could feel him shaking, but continued to smile as confidently as he could.

“Pleasure to meet you both,” replied Ali. After another moment of silence, she continued, but averted her gaze so she was not staring at them. “Roman said you needed a medical opinion. Is that right?” Patton felt Virgil’s grip tighten. Just being asked a question by a human was chilling, even if her tone was pleasant and soft.

“Uh…” Patton forced a calming breath before speaking up again. “Yes. Um… we… er… before we came here, we were with this doctor…” Patton couldn’t help but shudder. “A…an… anyway. She… um… broke my leg. I thought it was fine, but it’s been getting worse recently.” Virgil watched Ali’s eyes dart up from her hands to survey Patton. It was quick. It was precise. Almost calculating. Much like the doctor they were rescued from. Virgil’s breath quickened as did his pulse.

“Your left leg?” asked Ali. She suddenly shook her head slightly as though trying to shake away a thought. “Sorry, I should have asked if you’re okay with answering my questions. Is it okay? If I ask you questions about your injury?” Patton felt himself smile. The way she shook her head reminded him of when Virgil was trying to negate something he was thinking.

“It’s okay,” replied Patton. He felt a little more relaxed. At least she was asking for permission. “How did you know?”

Ali smiled before responding. “You’re putting more weight on your right side and leaning back into Virgil for balance.” For a human, she was very astute at picking up on their interactions. “One other quick question. Are you two okay with eye contact? Or should I look somewhere else? I know being watched isn’t the best feeling, especially by a human.” Virgil bit his lip, but could only maintain his guard.

“Uh… eye contact is okay. But, maybe not for too long?” suggested Patton. Ali nodded respectfully before glancing back at her hands.

“I’ll keep that in mind. How long have you had that injury?” she asked.

“A couple of months actually. We thought it was getting better, but it it’s only gotten worse,” replied Patton. Ali’s brow raised.

“That’s impressive you’ve managed for so long without needing assistance. So, does it hurt more when you’re active or when you’re sitting? Like, on a scale of one to ten, how much pain or discomfort is it causing? One being a mild inconvenience and ten being you can barely walk on it?” Ali asked the questions slowly, giving Patton time to think about the answer.

“Um… Me just standing here is… uh… a three?” Patton felt himself shrinking back, not quite sure if he was responding correctly. “Walking is maybe an eight?” Ali nodded, somehow able to compute this interesting method of measuring pain without making physical contact, a feature Patton and Virgil were exceedingly grateful for at the moment.

“So, just standing it is causing pain. Okay,” Ali muttered to herself. “Is it a sharp pain? Like a jab or a punch? Or more like an ache or a throbbing?” Her eyes flicked back to them.

“Uh… both? All? It’s a bit of all of them, especially if I accidentally hit it against something,” replied Patton.

“Was the break higher on your leg? Or lower? Like, below the knee?” Ali gestured to these parts on herself. Patton pointed just below his knee to the top of his shin. He didn’t realize how many questions he needed to answer. Ali nodded and sat back in the chair slowly and placed her clasped hands over her lips. She looked pensive, but also something else. Cautious? Reluctant? Virgil couldn’t quite place the emotions on her face, but he didn’t like not being able to read her. She sat up cautiously and looked back at them.

“Would it be alright if I saw where the injury occurred?” Virgil’s arm tightened again against Patton’s chest. Patton didn’t realize how tight Virgil’s grip had gotten. Heart accelerating. Mouth slightly dry. He didn’t like the idea of another human touching his leg. “You can say no if you want. It is whatever you are comfortable with. It may help, that’s all. No pressure.” Ali’s statement was reassuring, but not calming.

“You’re not going to touch him, are you?” asked Virgil, speaking for the first time to Ali, who shook her head.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” said Ali. “Like I said, it may help, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Virgil leaned closer to Patton.

“What do you think? Are you… good… with that?” he asked just barely above a whisper. Patton glanced back to Virgil before slowly nodding.

“Alrighty. If you could sit over on the lamp base and pull up your pants leg, that would really help. Also, is it alright if I get closer to the desk?”

“Yes, it’s okay,” said Patton. They felt Ali’s eyes on the as Patton hobbled to the lamp, Virgil assisting him every step of the way. Ali stood and pushed the chair closer once the two were settled. Virgil kept close to Patton’s side, hand on his hook for security measures. He watched Ali like a hawk, even when she kept her hands behind her back, as her eyes analyzed every aspect of Patton’s injury. There was bruising and swelling, but also a slight misalignment of the bones. However, for an injury which was much older, Ali was impressed Patton hadn’t collapsed in pain much sooner.

“Did you set this break?” she asked Patton, intentionally keeping her voice lower than before. Virgil tensed and geared himself up for a glare.

“I did. What about it?” the words came out as an unfriendly growl unintentionally. Ali glanced up into Virgil’s brown eyes.

“Nothing. You did it perfectly actually.” Virgil’s expression softened in a mix of confusion and pride at Ali’s statement. “Really. This is excellent. Patton would be in a lot more pain if you did it incorrectly. Good job.” Patton beamed at Virgil’s praise while Virgil himself looked unsure as to how to receive the human’s complement. With a quick nudge from Patton, Virgil glanced away shyly.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

“Alrighty, I have a few ideas to help,” she said. “One of them does involve using a brace. You would put it on and keep it on for the next few weeks to avoid accidentally twisting it. Keeping it immobile is important so it can finish healing. Rest is also really important as well as stretching. I can show you some effective stretches if you want.”

“Will the brace hurt?” asked Patton, not sure he knew what a brace was.

“Not at all. It’s like tight fitting pants that will keep your leg from bending unnecessarily. Here,” Ali stood and retrieved a cylindrical device about the size of Patton’s leg. The sides were held together by straps and it looked uncomfortable. She held it as close as she dared without frightening the borrowers further. “You would set your leg here and tie the straps. This way, your leg won’t bend at the joints and risk further damage.”

“Did you make this?” asked Virgil, noticing how the straps were significantly smaller than Ali’s hands.

“My roommate Hickory helped design this. She’s a bit reckless at times, so we’ve based a lot of designs from getting her healed,” replied Ali. “Do you want to try it on? See if it fits or if I should make a new one?” Patton wanted to recoil, but was also curious about the device.

“How will I walk if I have this on?” he asked. He almost wanted to avoid the answer.

“You would use crutches,” replied Ali. She reached up to a different drawer and retrieved two popsicle sticks which were cut into an odd triangular shape. “It’s like a walking stick you put under your arms. You’d use this instead of your leg. If Hickory were here, I’d ask if she could demonstrate,” Ali sighed as she set the crutches onto the desk near them.

“What if we don’t want to use these?” asked Virgil. He didn’t like questioning the human or potentially provoking her, but the thought of a forceful restraint seemed too much like being constantly held and touched. Ali nodded.

“That’s okay too. It may take longer and will keep you in bed for longer since you shouldn’t move around too much with your injured leg, but it is possible. There are some stretches which could help keep your muscles loose around the area. You would need to help Patton with this.” Virgil stared at Ali for a moment.

“What stretches?” he asked stiffly. Ali began describing different stretches and where to apply pressure. Virgil practiced on Patton’s good leg a few times, following Ali’s instructions and taking in Patton’s reactions, before attempting it on his injured leg. Though the exchanges were tense between the human and borrowers, it was manageable. Ali’s praise was reassuring, unlike their captor’s praise which was demeaning and condescending. By the end, the tension between them seemed to ease, even if it was only by a little.

“Any questions?” asked Ali once they went through the stretch sequence a few times.

“Um… yes, actually,” piped up Patton. “Do we need to come back to see you if the stretches and the brace and those… things… are working?” Ali shook her head.

“No. I mean, I won’t say no to a visit, but you don’t have to come back if you don’t want to. If you have any questions, you can always stop by,” smiled Ali. Somehow, Patton and Virgil felt at ease with this smile. “Did you want to try on the brace?”

“HEY! CATCH!” a sudden, piercing female voice from above them. Ali’s eyes filled with sheer panic. Instinctively, Ali looked up and stood, left hand extended, palm up. Virgil and Patton both flinched at her sudden movements. Something glinted in the light and, in a flash, Ali managed to grab it from the air. The instant she did, however, she winced. Her right hand slapped over her mouth to stifle a muffled yelp of pain. Virgil and Patton stared dumbfounded as they both caught a glimpse of a thumbtack embedded in Ali’s left palm. Frantically, they looked up and spotted a borrower they hadn’t met before standing on one of the ceiling fan blades. She had short, light dirty blonde hair and an elusive grin spread from ear to ear. Ali looked up, a disbelieving and frustrated expression on her face.

“Hickory!” Even Ali’s scolding voice was not as loud as a human’s normal speaking voice. She sounded annoyed more than anything, much to Virgil and Patton’s relief. “Gosh darn it, that hurt.” Ali removed the tack and curled her hand to keep pressure on the puncture wound.

“I’ve got to keep you on your toes,” called Hickory. She craned her neck and spotted Virgil and Patton, both looking apprehensive and on guard. “Oh! Are those the new guys? Heyo!” Ali glanced back at Virgil and Patton apologetically.

“Sorry for the sudden movements. It’s okay. Don’t worry. It’s just my roommate, Hickory,” apologized Ali who turned back to Hickory. “Where did you even get one of these? We’re out. They’re on my list.”

“And how do you think you ran out? Huh?” retorted Hickory. She stood boldly on the fan blade, hands on her hips. “Now, be good and hand it over.” Ali rolled her eyes as she cleaned her blood from the end of the thumbtack.

“I’m not giving this back. You chucked it at me,” countered Ali. She turned back to Virgil and Patton. “Do either of you want or need a thumbtack? I hear they’re good for daggers, climbing, and coat hangers.”

“HEY!” Hickory shouted. She knelt down on all fours as far as she could over the edge without falling. “You can’t give that away.” Virgil did like a good thumbtack, but was still caught up in measuring the dynamics of Ali and Hickory’s relationship that he timidly shook his head. Patton was too stunned to utter a single syllable.

Hickory, at this point, stood once again and backed up out of sight. Any rational borrower would have assumed she was going back into the ceiling to come down or to leave. This Hickory seemed far from rational, however. “I’m coming down! CATCH ME!” This was the only warning Ali received before Hickory took a running leap off of the fan blades. Virgil felt his knees weaken. Patton gasped as he clutched Virgil’s hand. Ali, however, was prepared. In a breathless moment as Hickory entered a freefall, Ali’s reflexes kicked in. Ali reached out with her uninjured hand and caught Hickory. Rather than a quick stop, however, Ali timed Hickory’s descent and kept her palm open. Without injury. Without so much as a bruise, Hickory turned onto her back and simply burst into a fit of laughter.

“You should have seen the look on your faces!” she said between bouts of laughter. A smile of relief spread over Ali’s face.

“You ought to be ashamed, scaring our guests like that,” scolded Ali gently after a sigh of relief, her voice returning to it’s original, quiet and even tone. Hickory sat up cross-legged on Ali’s palm.

“Ashamed? Me? I’m doing you a favor. Now, put me over on the desk so I can give a proper welcome,” instructed Hickory. Ali sighed and, much to Virgil and Patton’s surprise, obeyed. Hickory stood up the moment Ali rested her hand on the desk and walked toward Virgil and Patton.

“Hello,” she said cheerfully, her eyes bright and her tone pleasant and alarmingly loud. “I’m Hickory. Pleasure to meetcha.” Patton and Virgil stared, eyes as wide as saucers, at Hickory. Never had they seen a borrower behave in such a way. Hickory, seeing their expression, turned back to Ali.

“Now look what you’ve done Ali. You’ve gone and spooked them. Go and sit on the bed!” commanded Hickory. Ali let out a breathy chuckle.

“Me? I’ve spooked them?” she asked. Patton snapped out of his stunned stupor, eyes switching from Ali to Hickory. His heart pounded in his chest and he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. Virgil was also stunned into silence.

“N… no, you d…don’t need to…” Patton managed to stammer. Ali shook her head and smiled.

“It’s okay, Patton,” said Ali. She moved backwards slowly and sat on the edge of the bed.

“All the way! Lay all the way down!” called Hickory. Ali partially rolled her eyes, but once again obeyed and laid backwards onto the bed. Hickory, beaming with pride, turned back to Virgil and Patton. “Sorry about that. My roommate means well, but…” Hickory was cut off by Virgil, who finally managed to find his voice.

“Are you out of your mind!” he hissed, steadying himself on Patton’s shoulders. “You’re purposefully antagonizing a human!” Hickory folded her arms and leaned on her hip.

“I don’t appreciate your tone. First, Ali isn’t just a human. She is my roommate and my friend and I can antagonize her as much as I want. It’s just the kind of friendship we have. Second, you don’t have anything to worry about. She won’t hurt us,” replied Hickory.

“W… wh… what makes you s… so sure?” asked Patton, nerves catching up with him. Flashbacks of his captivity with Virgil sent chills down his spine. He and Virgil both stared at Ali, who laid on her bed and seemed to be waiting patiently for some kind of cue to come back.

“Think about it. I can pull random stunts like jumping off of ceiling fans and throwing thumbtacks at her and all I get is a grimace,” said Hickory plainly. “I’ve pulled those stunts for months. She wouldn’t be here as an ally if the others, like Thomas, didn’t approve of her. If anything, she would get angry with me; but she won’t, because she’s Ali. Now, I don’t think we’ve properly introduced ourselves. I’m Hickory, and you are?” Patton and Virgil seemed unsure of whether to trust this new borrower or not.

“Oh, come on. Here,” Hickory reached down and picked up the thumbtack Ali left on the desk. “Here’s a peace offering. A housewarming gift. You can’t say no to a good thumbtack.” Virgil reached out and took the thumbtack from Hickory. Still, it took Patton and Virgil a minute to collect themselves as Hickory stood, arms folded, and waited for their response.

“Well… I’m Patton, and this is Virgil,” said Patton quietly. His eyes left Ali to look back at Hickory.

“Patton and Virgil. That’s nice,” Hickory held out her hand for them to shake, which they did hesitantly. “So, what brings you here? Talking to our resident idiot for medical advice?”

“Yes, actually,” responded Patton. He stroked Virgil’s whitened knuckles on his shoulders as if it would calm the dagger filled glare he held at Hickory. “Ali suggested using a brace and those… things… I don’t remember what they’re called, and bedrest.” Hickory grinned and pulled the brace over, holding it up and sizing it against Patton’s leg.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. Have you tried it on yet?” asked Hickory.

“Uh… no,” Patton said.

“Ali just suggested it when you showed up,” growled Virgil under his breath, surprised he preferred Ali’s interaction to someone of his own kind.

“Well, do you want to try it on?” asked Hickory. “You’ll need to know how to adjust the straps and someone’s fingers are too big to handle it.”

“Uh… yes. Thanks,” said Patton, now realizing his role as peacemaker. Patton winced as he lifted his leg and slid it into the brace which Hickory positioned strategically. She showed them how to adjust the straps and how to use the crutches before surrendering them to Patton to try. Nearly twenty minutes passed from Hickory’s first interaction to Patton being able to move easily with the crutches and the brace. The entire time, Ali lay on her bed staring at the ceiling remaining quiet and patient.

“Well, unless you have any questions for the resident idiot, I think we’re all set here. And look, all kidding aside, Ali is pretty great. She is human, but she’s on our side.” Hickory’s hushed voice contrasted greatly when clapped her hands together and walked to the edge of the desk. “Did you want me to invite Ali back over?”

“You know this is my room too, right?” Ali said after her extended silence.

“Hush or I’ll make you stay over there all night,” Hickory called. Ali raised her hands over her head in a motion resembling her surrendering, but made no further comment. Patton watched their interaction, confused. Ali was kind and sweet while Hickory seemed rather brutish at times. He saw how Ali obeyed. It reminded him of when he and Virgil were ordered to act or perform while in captivity. Something rushed over him as he hobbled to the edge with his crutches and braced leg.

“Thank you Ali! I hope we see you soon,” it wasn’t until Patton said it aloud that he realized he meant it. Virgil gathered up their belongings and joined Patton on the ledge.

“Uh… yeah. Thanks,” said Virgil before pulling Patton along.

“You’re welcome,” they heard Ali say before they ducked back into the walls. They could hear them continuing their conversation, but they couldn’t quite make out their words. It was Virgil who spoke up first.

“What a complete moron! Provoking Ali like that. And while we were there too! Who does she think she is?” Virgil was fuming and slightly trembling in an effort to shake off the experience; though, Patton picked up on something Virgil said. He called Ali by name. Not just “the human.” Patton elected not to bring it up and simply tucked it away in his mind.

“Well, at least talking with Ali was nice,” Patton muttered. “She was really helpful and listened.” Virgil’s steps faltered for a moment when he turned and smiled at Patton.

“It wasn’t the worst thing we’ve ever done,” he said with a wink.

Meanwhile, back in Ali’s room, Hickory began walking along the shelves of books. Her hand brushed the spines of each novel. She knew how to read the important words at least and the massive library surrounding her didn’t possess a lot of the important words. Hickory did, however, enjoy the smell of the paper and the look of the Christmas lights above her.

“You can get up now,” she called after a minute. Ali sat up and watched Hickory for a moment.

“What was all that about?” she asked, her tone still low and soft, yet slightly annoyed.

“You know the drill. I have to show them you’re not dangerous. I have my own way of doing things just like you do. What’s the big deal?” replied Hickory, pausing in front of one of the many series of books Ali possessed. She admired the artistic spines and how they created a mural of a sunset.

“Yes, and be that as it may, you need to be careful.”

“Yes mom.”

“I’m being serious. They were from the lab and that Witch scientist,” Hickory paused and glanced at Ali.

“Those two?” asked Hickory.

Ali nodded. “Yes, and I’m not trying to baby them or treat them differently; but, it took them two weeks just to come by. I’m a big enough hurdle as it is.”

“You are pretty tall,” muttered Hickory.

“You also need to be careful with yourself,” encouraged Ali. Hickory rolled her eyes and continued walking along the bookshelves. “I don’t want you to get needlessly hurt. Yeah?” Hickory glanced over her shoulder with a mischievous grin.

“Aww you must like me a lot to feel so protective. You should just say it. You really like me,” Hickory began her typical teasing, beginning with the lines from Miss Congeniality. “You want to hug me. You think I’m gorgeous.” Hickory recited the lines over and over until she reached the bedside table.

Finally, she stopped and stared long and hard at Ali. “That’s cute that you think you can tell me what to do,” she said finally. Ali rubbed her tired eyes, a breathy chuckle catching somewhere in her smile. “Now, if you would be so kind as to give me a lift over to my shelf over there.” Ali nodded and extended her uninjured hand. Hickory stepped onto it, laying against her palm as Ali transferred her over to an imbedded wall shelf next to her bed.

Before hopping off, Hickory sat in the center of Ali’s palm. Her usual, jovial expression sank into one of sadness and regret. Before Ali could ask what was bothering her, Hickory looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry for throwing the thumbtack at you. I’m… I’m sorry I hurt you.” Ali smiled her familiar half grin followed with the smallest shrug.

“It’s okay, but thanks.”

With that, Hickory slipped off to her bed while Ali slipped off of hers and back to her desk. Her reading wasn’t going to do itself. But first, she needed the peroxide. She refused to get tetanus or an infection from some janky thumbtack Hickory borrowed.

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nicklynch3 · 5 years ago

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Week 9 Photography in London

Activity 1 - Cropping

Before Cropping

There is a lot going on in this photo. There is the baby in the stroller, the couple on the bench, the trash all over, and the woman on the right pointing to something. Everyone seems to be emotional, alarmed, or somewhat upset based on their face. For example, the baby is crying, the couple is looking at something with a disturbed look on their face, and the woman on the right appears to be on the phone and pointing at something. Although it is hard to tell what they are thinking about, they give the sense that something is wrong. It makes the viewer more curious about what is going on.

This photo could be about anything. The scene appears to be something similar to a bus stop of some sort. It looks like there is three or four groups of people that don’t know each other, which is typical at a public bus stop. The old couple look to be annoyed by the baby and the parent who is cut out from the photo because the baby’s face looks like he/she’s crying. The woman on the right appears to be on the phone, maybe waiting for someone to pick her up. There’s also a group of people in the background circling up together which, in my opinion, gives the impression, they are discussing whatever is going on. The trash in the foreground brings the scene together because it makes it all look messy and no one wants to be there.

After Cropping

After cropping this photo, it focuses in on one subject: the old couple on the bench. Without previously seeing the original image, there is less to think about. The only question that remains is, what are they staring at? There is no longer trash on the ground or a baby crying so it is easier on the eyes to know what to look at. Even though it is stereotypical to assume that elderly people are upset and annoyed often, that is exactly what this photo shows. It appears to be a sunny day based on the shadows and the natural light of the sun is shining directly on them. You can tell they are older people because of the way that they dress and their faces.

They seem to be calmly enjoying their food, but have abruptly been distracted by something. They seem to be comfortable and keeping to themselves because of the fact that they are eating food on a bench outside. When you look at their faces up close, they look more bewildered than they do upset. This couple is old-fashioned and minding their own business, but something grabbed their attention.

Activity 2 - Captions

1. Ellie and Jacob on vacation in Florida, 2004.

This caption makes it look like two cute young children are near a pier on the ocean and are on a family vacation. You would assume it was taken by one of their parents to record memories from their childhood.

2. Messy isn’t always a bad thing.

The two children look to be enjoying their ice cream as it falls down their face. Even though they are messy, they seem to be enjoying the ice cream. The caption emphasizes the ice cream.

3. Keep your loved ones close.

From one perspective, it looks like the car is about to hit them. This caption puts attention to the car before the kids get hit by it.

4. Look both ways.

This caption makes sense because they are both nearing the street. The caption puts emphasis on the boy as he looks to the side before he crosses with his little sister.

1. Dozing off into space.

This photo could be about the boy who works at the laundromat who is bored out of his mind. “Dozing off” in the caption makes the viewer look at the boy’s posture and facial expression.

2. Just hanging on.

This caption references the boy’s attitude and posture, as well as the socks hanging from above. Which one is it about? The artist leaves it up to the viewer to decide.

3. Chores

Laundry is a common chore done by kids/teenagers so it gives the feel that the boy is just waiting for his laundry to be done. It makes you notice the laundry basket next to the guy and think back to your own personal chores that you had as a kid.

4. All red, everything.

This caption makes you look at everything that is red in the photo and realize that the boy’s entire outfit is featuring red.

Gallery Activity

Mohamed Bourouissa

1. The main message of his work is to convey the societal differences in society and to make people recognize that marginalized people are not given the same attention as others. The premise on most of his work is that these people are not bad, they’re just different. His photos are inspired by a lot of previous art in history.

2. Depending on the photo, there are various techniques that he applies. In most of them, light is a key tool that he uses to create the mood. In the photo of the man getting arrested, he uses hard light, which looks that appears to be glaring in the window from a sunrise, to make it more dramatic. From my perspective, it looks like the man was sleeping and the cops broke in and arrested him. He looks scared and undeserving of this action which ties into the theme. Also, I really like the one where the light from the sun is shining in, but on the other side of the photo it is raining. I would assume it is making a connection between the happiness of the city and the dullness of the banlieues (suburbs). The shadows in this photo do a great job of separating the two sides from one another. Also, he purposely dressed those two guys in all white outfits to show the contrast between their skin colors and outfits. They’re smiling to show that they are good people that aren’t given a chance. In the last photo from the website, he uses the hard light from the sun shining on the man’s face to show the contrasting skin color as well.

This photo by Bourouissa has focus on the entire photo. It is more blurry in the background, but still easy to tell what is shown. The contrast between the sunny day and dreary dark rainy day is unique and is appealing to look at. The light and shadows are the most important part of the photo. The natural hard light from the left creates shadows that separate the dry warm setting from the rainy, dark one. It also separates the one guy from the other group of guys. You would probably need to read the exhibition text to understand the underlying message that Bourouissa is trying to convey. This type of photo really intrigued me because I had seen nothing like it before so I thought it was genius.

Anton Kusters

1. The message that Kusters is trying to convey is the difficulty of representing trauma and sorrow. In The Blue Skies Project, there is a lot of contextual meaning that goes along with the series of photos. He is trying to document the history of the death camps and his personal connection with his grandfather who was a victim of the Holocaust.

2. When you look at the series of photos, you can see how each photo is subtly different. This makes each one unique and makes it aesthetically pleasing to look at as a collection. There is a lot of context behind each photo. For example, the collection is made up of 1078 photos from each last-known location of concentration camps that existed throughout Europe. Also, each one has individuality by using the blind-stamping process and GPS coordinates attached. As far as each photo, I think that he was able to capture a lot of different tones of blue in the sky by taking them at different times of day, slightly different angles, and various shutter speeds. Even though the sky is beautiful in most of them, I think using the color blue represents sadness and dullness, which is what most people feel when thinking about a death camp. The fact that there are so many photos also makes the viewer realize the impact that genocide had on the world and that group of people.

The focus in this photo seems to be inconsistent throughout. Some of them show clear cloud shapes, while others show just a more hazy color of blue. the light influences the mood in each photo. It represents different weather and different times of day. The darker, the more melancholy. The lighter, the more happier. But, when you attach meaning to the work, none of it seems happy. The consistent shape and colors from this piece make it all form as one. The separation by the white lines are essential to individualize one another. You would probably need to read the exhibition text to understand the message and the title doesn’t help the audience understand any better. I feel like I have seen this style done before, but this is unique because there are so many.

Mark Neville

1. The purpose of Neville’s work from this project is to document the town of Guipgang. He was amazed by this small town and the community that lives within it. He states that the town is famous for football and farming and so he incorporates this theme clearly with almost every photo in the project. In an interview, he discusses how photography should have a social ambition

2. He conveys this by putting this collection in a photobook, targeting non-art audiences. He likes the notion of community and he uses many different parts of the community other than football and farming which they are most famous for. He was drawn to the baton twirlers, nuns, beauty pageants, and simple families on an ordinary day that all make up the community. By taking photos of other photos in front of the football stadium and showing community members on the farm in their natural environment, he is touching on all aspects on the community. By having his subjects pose, it makes it more dramatic and appealing to the eye. As they look into the lens of the camera with a straight face, it gives the feeling that the surrounding area is theirs, which draws back to the sense of community.

This photo by Neville is a good representation of the series. The techniques used were probably thought out carefully. The light is coming from the sky, probably behind the camera towards the man’s face and also from the right. You can tell because the right side of the man’s face is lighter than the other side. The contrast between the grey sky and the green trees make the trees appear darker. The foreground seems to be a lot lighter than the background, making the audience focus on what is happening in the foreground. The man’s posture and the fact that he is centered is a great way to make it clear that he is the subject. Also, the angle at which it is taken gives the feeling that all of the land is his. The lines on the fence and the lines between the dirt and green grass separate one another. The audience would need to read the exhibition text and the title does not help anyone understand. The word “parade” seems like it has nothing to do what is going on in this photo. It reminds me of other photos, but not one in particular.

Clare Strand

1. The message behind Strand’s work is to represent the failure of communication and misinformation that occurs between people. She used a complicated method to work on this piece, which adds to the meaning of it. The work is meant to show her personal struggle with interpreting information and to display the struggles that the audience can relate to. This poor quality of communication leads to confusion and issues between two parties; some of which are miniscule, while others are significant.

2. She conveys this by the way in which she did this work. She made the process complicated on purpose to show how she can relate to the audience and to show how everyone experiences miscommunication. It would be hard to understand the meaning behind this if it were not explained. It is, however, easy to understand the different tones of colors that are put together to create one image. ‘1′ being the lightest tone and ‘10′ being the darkest.

This photo by Strand is done very carefully with different tones. The black and white gives the feel that it is from an older time and the fact that the subject is someone taking a photo circles back around to the message that she is trying to convey. You would probably not know by the title or individual photo what her message is, but after reading the exhibition text, you could understand easily. The red numbers make the photo look raw and natural and bring some color to the black and white. There seems to be a lot of shadow and especially darkness in the background, making the audience’s eyes shift to the woman. The black and white create contrast that separate the pale white woman from the background. Everything is in focus, but the subject is clearly the woman and there doesn’t seem to be anything else going on in the photo. It sort of reminds me of the blue skies photo by Bourouissa because how each little piece on the grid is uniquely different and has a special number, similar to how he stamped numbers on each photo representing the location of the camp that the photo was taken at.

Who should win?

Each of these artists showed incredible works, but I believe that Aston Kusters should win. The way that he was able to capture a photo from 1078 different sites and compile them into one piece of work shows determination and commitment to something he is passionate about. He organized the work very well by making every shot symmetrical to one another and the same size. It is visually appealing to see the different tones of blue from each site and the context behind the work is purposeful and something that everyone is familiar with. Not everyone has a special connection to the Holocaust, but everyone knows the impact that it had on the world. Lastly, using so many photographs is a key approach to conveying the impact that this incident had.

Personal photo about something important

Captions:

1. Friendship

2. Coronavirus quarantine, 2020

3. Get outside!

The captions can drastically change the emphasis on the photo. For the first caption, Friendship, the audience focuses on the three guys and their relationship, gestures, and facial expression toward one another. For the second one, Coronavirus quarantine, 2020, I think about looking back on this photo years from now and thinking about how we all stayed inside to prevent the virus from spreading. The third caption, Get outside!, changes the meaning because it looks like a nice sunny day out with the river in the background and these idiots are sitting on the couch!

I chose to crop the photo like this because I think that it emphasizes the interaction that they are having with one another. The two on the end appear to be smiling and talking about something while the other has his head down and sucking on his e-cig. Before cropping it, you can tell he isn’t being antisocial or upset, he is just watching something on the laptop in front of him. After cropping it, he looks more antisocial because it looks like he just has his head down. Cropping this photo also erases the huge mess that they’ve made in the living room and therefore there are no assumptions that people can make about their lifestyle and how messy that they are. They just look like they are enjoying themselves rather than camping out in the living room for days. I think when you have a photo like this that is up close, it makes the audience think about each person’s personality and what they are like.

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