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only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are · 2 months ago

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Redwood Psychiatric Institute - Part 6

MASTERLIST - PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 - PART 4 - PART 5

CWs: THIS IS A HEAVY ONE PLEASE READ THESE AND PROCEED WITH CAUTION - medical gaslighting, ECT mentions, disordered eating, forced NG tube (nasogastric) intubation, description of forced intubation, IV cannula, forced drugging

"I know you're lying to me." James ground out.

"James, you are ill. You are schizophrenic, and you have trouble telling reality from hallucination. I am your doctor, and I know what is best for you. And right now, what's best is for you to continue your treatments here."

"No, no, none of this is can be real, I'm - my name isn't James, it's- it's-" James stuttered. His hand trembled in the straight jacket he had been restrained in. "Why, why can't I remember?" His unruly dark hair obscured his wide eyes, pupils dilated from the medications.

"You're making things worse for yourself, James. Take a deep breath, and take some more medications. It'll make you feel much better." Doctor Wilson held out a wax paper cup filled with pills.

James shook his head as he backed into the padded wall of his room. "No, get them away from me. AWAY!" He began to scream, and realising he was trapped there rendered his flight instinct inert, he began to rock back and forth on his heels in a desperate attempt to soothe himself.

"James. Calm down. You are being dramatic. You need to take a deep breath."

James began to attempt to tear himself free from the straight jacket to no avail, letting out a frustrated animalistic cry.

"Why-"

"You can take a nice long nap and calm down." Doctor Wilson put the cup down, realising James wasn't going to let himself be soothed easily. The doctor instead pulled a hypodermic syringe out, and the boy began to scream.

"Can I have some assistance?" He called to the orderlies standing outside the cell. They rushed in, effortlessly pinning James to the floor. The orderlies pulled James' pants down to allow the Doctor access to his patient's bottom. Doctor Wilson swiftly jabbed the hypodermic into the muscle, earning him an indignant cry.

"No.. no.." James stuttered, as they pulled away from him. He attempted to pull himself to his feet, but tripped over himself, the drug already leaving him unsteady and out of it.

"Sh, my boy." Doctor Wilson soothed, helping his patient onto the bed. "You can rest now."

James eyelids, with his pupils blown wide, slowly drifted shut as he slumped over on the bed.

----

When James awoke, he decided to make a plan. He didn't trust Doctor Wilson anymore. There were gaps in his memory, and things that just didn't make sense.

And he was sure that his name wasn't really James - but what was it then?

He started by figuring out how to stop his meds. The nurses would check that he had taken them. He started crushing one or two in the side of his jaw, and swallowing the rest. The crushed pills were small enough that they weren't super noticeable, and as long as the nurses didn't see whole pills leftover. Once they left, he'd spit out the crushed tablets. Eliminating one or two of the medications certainly help to clear up his fatigue and drowsiness, but he had other symptoms instead - headaches, fevers, sore eyes. He just had to deal with it. He needed to stop the medication more.

Then, he stopped eating. Just in case the food was also drugged. But he also did it as a protest. He wanted to show Doctor Wilson that he was still in control. It started with a sausage here, some oatmeal there. He would just cut down gradually, and one one would notice until it was too late.

----

"For the last time James, eat up." The orderly, Dan, sighed as the boy pushed his tray away from him.

"'Mm not hungry." James muttered.

"You're being stubborn. You haven't eaten in 4 days. Eat up, or I'll have no choice but to call Doctor Wilson."

James didn't look up. "Don't care."

"Fine. I give up." The orderly picked up the walkie talkie hanging from his white scrubs. "Doctor Wilson, James is refusing to eat again and he's refusing meds."

"Take him to Treatment Room 2. I'll meet you there." The Doctor commanded.

The burly orderly bent down and scooped up James in one arm.

"Dan, please, please don't do this!" James began to sob.

He screamed and kicked, but he was a fairly scrawny young man, and with the lack of food, he was no match for the orderly, who dragged him down the hall with ease.

"Here." The orderly tapped his keycard on the door reader, and pushed the door open, revealing an exam table reminiscent of a dentist's chair. He place James onto the table, and began to strap him using the standard medical restraints, straps at his forehead, wrists, chest, hips, legs and ankles.

"Let me go!!" James screamed, fighting against the restraints with all the strength he had left. "You can't do this!!"

"I'm sorry buddy. It's for your own good." The orderly patted his forehead.

Doctor Wilson stepped into the room and locked eyes with James. Dan immediately backed away, planting himself in the corner of the room.

To the doctor, Jamess looked absolutely feral, his eyes red raw from crying and sleep deprivation, his hair greasy and unkempt, and his frame thin and wiry.

"Oh James, I was so hoping it wouldn't come to this." Doctor Wilson tutted, as he walked up the exam chair. He tilted James' chin, examining the boy's face closer. "You're sneaking off your meds, too." He said - a statement, not a question. "You had been doing so well.. All that progress we've achieved. Gone."

Doctor Wilson sighed, then nodded to the orderly, who began to set up a cart with medical tools and devices. Both men snapped on nitrile gloves and then pulled on medical masks.

"What are you doing?" James asked in a high-pitched tone, clearly frightened.

"Getting you back to health, my boy." Doctor Wilson smiled sadly behind the mask. "Clearly you can't be trusted to do the right thing for yourself."

Dan unpackaged a sterile butterfly needle, which he passed to the Doctor. The orderly wiped down James' elbow with an alcohol wipe, then tied a rubber band above the area. Doctor Wilson brought the needle to James' vein, and the boy whimpered.

"Relax James, you're in good hands." Doctor Wilson hushed, before sliding the needle into the vein.

It smarted, and James winced, looking away as a drop of blood bubbled up from the wound. The Doctor removed the needle and replaced it with tubing, setting up an IV which he hooked to a bag of solution on a stand. James looked to the bag as the solution began to drip through the tubing into his vein.

"What's in there?" He asked weakly.

The Doctor ignored him, and instead began to pull more tubing out from packaging. He held it up and measured it in front of James' face, who squirmed uncomfortably against the strap across his forehead. The Doctor then covered the tip in some kind of gel, held the tube under James' left nostril, and before he could react, the tube was being shoved up his nostril.

Shocked, James began to try to wrest his head away, but the restraints held tight, even as the tube slid further and further up his nose, down the back of his throat, and further, further down. James couldn't help but cough and gag on the tubing, the foreign sensation awfully unwelcome in his system. Even when he thought it couldn't possibly go any further, it did. Finally, finally, it was over. He drew in choked, panicked breaths through his mouth as his body was wracked with silent gasping sobs.

"All done." Doctor Wilson said, his voice void of any care or emotion for his patient. The orderly stepped up and helped the doctor tape the other end of the tube against James' cheek, then attached the tubing to a container sitting on the IV pole, which was filled with an odd liquid. Before long, the liquid began to trickle through the tube and down his nostril. He shuddered at the horrible sensation of the cold liquid sliding down the tube, straight into his stomach.

Doctor Wilson then adjusted the settings on the IV. "Get some sleep. You'll need it."

The Doctor left. Dan stayed for a moment, making sure the Doctor was out of sight before he bent down to whisper in James' ear. "I'm sorry it had to come to that. But you left me with no choice.." He wiped a tear from James' cheek. "Get your rest while you can."

Dan stood, and with a sad sigh, shut the door behind him as he left the room.

James was left in silence. He stared up at the cieling, the odd tear slipping down his cheek, James felt his head becoming cloudy. His limbs felt light, as though they weren't tethered to his body anymore. He was floating. His eyelids however, were heavy as lead. The longer he stared, the harder it was to stay awake, and before long, his consciousness faded and he slipped into darkness.

----

"How are you feeling, James?"Doctor Wilson greeted as he stepped into the room.

James lifted his head slowly to look up. His limbs felt less sluggish than they had several days ago, but the feeding tube had begun to disperse the liquid down his throat and his stomach churned at the uncomfortable sensation. James mumbled incoherently, a single tear slid down his cheek.

Doctor Wilson ran a hand through James's hair, sighing softly. "Oh, James. This is what happens when you don't behave. We are doing what is best for you. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be for you."

----

James sat in Doctor Wilson's office, his eyes spaced out and staring distantly into the wall.

"James." Everything was fuzzy, blurry. His head pounded. And something was slipping down his chin. Was that-

"Wipe that off his face, please."

An orderly bent into his face, and wiped his chin, then stood up. James didn't even twitch.

"James. Are you with us?"

"Huh?" James finally responded, though there was no physical response.

"You're feeling better, aren't you? No delusions?" Doctor Wilson asked.

Taglist:

"Iambetter..." James slurred.

"Good."

------

Taglist:

@jazatronasmr @onthishamsterwheel @bumpthumpwhump @bloodsweatandpotato @whatiswhump @jancameforthewhump @dream-whump @ratking-whump @inkstainsonmyhands12 @halsteadshaw13 @sparrowsage @sowhumpful @whatwhumpcomments @caspersdelusion @everythingsscary

#whump community #whumpblr #medical whump #noncon drugging #whump fics #pyschiatric hospital whump #asylum whump #medcore #forced psychiatric treatment whump #forced medical care #forced drugging #forced sedation whump #redwood psychiatric #forced intubation whump #eating disoder trigger warning #disordered eating mention #nasogastric tube whump #whump

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barb-aricyawp · 6 years ago

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6 and 12!! Steve force-feeding Bucky?? 💕

Thanks for the requests, y’all! This ended up getting away from me and it’s pretty torture-light. Hope you don’t mind.(this is a continuation of the winter soldier being force fed.)

trigger warnings: cachexia, weight loss, starvation, eating disorders, feeding tubes…I really, really don’t want to interfere with anyone’s recovery. Eating for yourself and without guilt takes enormous strength. It’s possible.

Washington DC, present

“Captain Rogers?” Shuri’s voice is clear and chirpy over the phone. But if she’s calling, it can’t be for a good reason.

“Princess Shuri,” Steve says, matching her level of formality.

His voice is calm, but his jaw twitches. He excuses himself and turns his back on Sam’s dubious stare.

“Is something wrong?”

He doesn’t speak of the weight on his heart. He doesn’t say, Is something wrong with Bucky? Because of course there’s something deeply wrong with Bucky. That’s why he’s in Wakanda’s care.

“He’s doing well,” Shuri says, hearing what Steve won’t say. “But we have a small problem.”

Steve pins the cell phone between his ear and shoulder. He’s already chartering a plane to Wakanda. Shuri doesn’t call with the “small problems.” She calls with the big ones.

—

Wakanda, present

Bucky doesn’t eat.

At least, not of his own volition. He won’t refuse if he’s told to eat, but unless he’s instructed to and monitored, Bucky won’t eat.

He won’t admit why to his Wakandan care team. But when Steve asks, as gently as he knows how, “What makes this so hard to do on your own?” Bucky crumbles.

Bucky tells Steve about the ration bars. About being commanded to chew and swallow a whole case of them. He tells him about the distended pain in his stomach. About the sick feeling under his skin whenever he lost control like that.

After he’s done, Steve isn’t sure what to say. So he butchers it, “But it’s your choice to eat now.”

Bucky shakes his head. “No, it’s my choice not to eat.”

—

“I don’t want anyone ordering him to eat,” Steve tells Shuri in a whisper. They are right outside Bucky’s room. It’s likely he hears anyway.

“No one is ordering him to do anything…”

“Even a request sounds like a command to him. Nobody tells him to eat. That’s something he gets to decide on his own.”

Shuri sighs and rolls her eyes. It’s gestures like that that remind Steve she’s actually a teenager. “Fine. But if he won’t eat on his own, we either tell him to or it’s the tube.”

“The tube?”

“A nasogastric tube,” she says. “A feeding tube.”

—

Eventually, success comes in a small form: unknowing of Steve’s mandate, a new doctor tells Bucky, “Eat the oatmeal.”

Shuri flinches and Steve’s brow darkens, but Bucky doesn’t move.

“I don’t want it,” he mumbles, as if trying it out.

Then he smiles, a real smile just for himself. He looks up to Steve, light in his eyes. Somewhere along the way, they broke the conditioning.

Steve doesn’t look at Shuri. He knows she’s not thinking about Bucky’s psychological process. She’s thinking about what this means for his eating.

—

The situation worsens. Bucky loses weight by the pounds. At first the weight seems to drop off him, muscle mass sloughing off him by the day until Bucky is the weight he was before the war.

Then it plateaus. He wastes slowly after that.

“Steve,” Shuri says one afternoon. They’re on a first name basis now that Steve has been here for several months. “It’s time.”

—

“Steve,” Bucky says, eyes closed. “Please.”

“We could sedate you,” Steve says. His voice is pitched as low as it can go; he’s trying to keep it from shaking. “You’d wake up and it would be–”

Bucky’s eyes flash open. There’s something hard there. Something metallic. “If you sedate me, I’ll leave.”

Steve flinches. “Okay. But you’ll let us…”

Bucky looks out the door window into the hall, where a circle of doctors are waiting for their decision. His lip curls up in cold fury. “If you put the tube in yourself,” he says, turning to Steve. “Then I’ll let you.”

—

Washington DC, 1982

The Soldier doesn’t eat.

So, he must be forced to eat.

They strap him to a chair. They hold his head still. The doctor approaches cautiously, fearful. She doesn’t often interact with the Soldier, but today she drew the short straw.

“I’ve never done this before,” she admits quietly to the Soldier. “I’m sorry if I do something wrong.”

She measures the distance from the tip of the Soldier’s nose to his earlobe, frightened all the while that he might bite her. She’s heard the Soldier bites.

In her fear, she forgets to lubricate the tube before pushing it in. The friction of the plastic against his nasal cavity must be uncomfortable. But she doesn’t want to admit her mistake when her superiors are watching.

The doctor just wants to get this over with, until she realizes that the Soldier is flinching. A cringe that clenches his whole face. When she pushes the tube in too hard, forcing the wrong angle, he gives a soft grunt of pain.

In the field, the Soldier could snap her in half like a toothpick. She’s terrified of him. All the lab techs and doctors are.

But now she’s the one who’s got him flinching.

And that’s interesting.

She works the tube out backwards, savoring the light vibration through the tube that signals friction between the plastic and the Soldier’s nares.

Then she pushes it in all at once, down towards the clench of his esophagus. She eases it down deeper, just feeling the angle of his nasal passage down into his throat. She meets resistance. His eyes bulge, rim with tears. She should tell him to tuck his chin to widen his esophagus.

She doesn’t.

“Open your mouth; it’ll help,” she says, but it’s not at all true. She wants to see if the tube is visible down the back of his throat.

It is.

The doctor works the tube back and forth for a moment, watching the tube move behind the Soldier’s tongue. He gags.

The doctor doesn’t know what comes over her in that moment. She laughs.

—

Wakanda, present

Steve can usually hold a steady hand. But as he rubs lubrication over the end of the thin polyurethane tube, his fingers tremble. At least Shuri looks as anxious as he feels.

It’s better than the cold absence in Bucky’s face.

He wants to apologize when he sees that face. He wants to get on his knees and beg at his feet. Instead he lines up the tube to Bucky’s left nostril.

Shuri tries to go through the procedure, tries to remind Bucky that Steve will stop if Bucky needs him to, but he simply raises a hand. Stopping her.

“I mean no disrespect when I say this isn’t my first intubation.” He’s looking dead at Steve. “I doubt it’ll be my last.”

Steve’s calm cracks open like an egg over his face. He winces. “Buck, c’mon…You’re not–” He sniffs, nose watering. “You’re not giving me much of choice here.”

“In all fairness, you’re not giving me a choice at all.”

Steve’s next exhale comes out watery. A sob. “I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to help you.”

“Go slow and don’t force the angle,” Bucky says. “Otherwise you’ll rupture something.”

[this now has a continuation]

#glittercrow3 #torture tuesday #hydra trash party #implied #whump bucky barnes #eating disorders #stucky #feeding tube #nasogastric tubes #thanks so much for the prompts!

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kim-poce · 3 years ago

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📔 for Eri. Bonus points if its about his new responsibilities and how hard it is to find someone to help Little One

Full House 18 - Dear Diary

Previous | Next

Masterlist

CW: pet whump, death mention, disordered eating mention, fear of food mention, feeding tube, caretaker new master.

=-=

Dear diary,

Forgive me for the lack of entries the past three days, I had been busy (even if I barely got anything done), but since I got enough time now, and principally since I'm not too anxious tonight, I'll now explain how the last days went.

Now for context, I didn't want to call Beckett, I really didn't, the fight over the morality of owning a pet (aka A WHOLE FUKING HUMAN BEING) is too clear in memory (and I'm sure that I could find an old journal describing each detail of that fight) so believe me when I say that I wouldn't have made that call if I had another choice.

The doctors (the "people" ones, seriously I can't stomach how fucked up this all is), anyway, the "people" doctors refused to take the youngest... fuck it, the youngest person that I fucking own in, and I tried to change their mind, be it with my parents' name or money, I tried everything, but it didn't work.

The "pet" doctors were sick assholes, I swear, the number of times I heard them recommending that I should, and I can't stress it enough, PUT THE BOY DOWN was sticking, and I'm fairly scared of talking on the phone now.

Beckett was my last, and only, hope. I was lucky that he agreed to come, he swore that he changed his mind about the whole pet thing, and, Dear Diary, don't blame me for my trust issues but after days of talking on the phone with those asshole doctors, I wasn’t so sure if I should believe him. ANYWAY, "people" doctors can lose their license for treating a "pet" and Beckett said he would help anyway so I called him in.

I, as you know, have been done everything FUCKING WRONG so OF COURSE I fought him, of course he would find out about my plans of "not letting Beckett alone with the boys" and for a second I was sure he would simply go away, I was ready to fucking beg him not to, maybe watching people beg every day lately made me think that when in stress > beg.

I didn’t need to, tho, Beckett said he wouldn’t simply leave the patient alone, although that from that moment on he treat me as Patient Companion rather than an old friend (as he was treating me before) I won’t lie and say this didn’t make me sad, but to tell the truth, I’m too exhausted to feel anything but despair lately (which proved itself to increase the more tired I am).

Now, about the still unnamed boy (I swear I want to call him by a real name, but I don’t want to give him a name without his consent) he is… alive, and will (hopefully) stay alive. Beckett put a nasogastric feeding tube on him, which is meant to solve the worst problem (food, seriously, I know they were my parents but I just can’t- forget it, not the point).

I don’t want to be pessimist, and much less pretend I know those people I’m living with now, but I’m sure the boy will pull it out, he doesn’t care about orders as the other do, if I had to guess it was because following rules never kept the pain away. I don’t want to restrain the boy, but if, once he wakes up, he try to pull the tube out and doesn’t stop doesn’t matter what I say I’ll have no choice, I don’t want to think about it but from the way things are I’m sure I’ll add on his traumas, and I don’t think I can handle it (not that I have a choice but to handle it all.)

The other boys are on their own for the past days, I know, I’m horrible for not giving them the attention I should, but if I see that door of a man shivering at my feet or that poor guy begging to be hurt AGAIN I’ll fucking lose it. I’m trying to tell myself that I can do it, but do I really? I’m looking up some safe houses just in case, but after those calls I doubt I’ll ever allow other people around them.

=-=

Taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain, @whump-blog, @wolfeyedwitch, @octopus-reactivated, @sufferfictionalcharacters, @rat-father, @badluck990, @onlybadendings, @inpainandsuffering, @mazeish, @neuro-whump, @freefallingup13, @sideblogformindtrash, @extemporary-username, @jadeocean46910, @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @neverthelass, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whumpfessional, @sinning-shipping-trash, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @scp-1296, @dont-touch-my-soup, @endlesscyclezz, @nicolepascaline, @rose-pinkie, @latenightcupsofcoffee, @dyingisbadforyourhealth

#whump #pet whump #caretaker new master #caretaker new whumper #death mention #disordered eating mention #fear of food mention #feeding tube #my writing #Full House

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lizzyverydizzyyo · 3 years ago

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D.E.A.N | Chapter 8 - Legality

Masterlist and overall summary of the whole novel is here. | Prompt on trope-appreciation-tuesdays that inspired this is here. | @whumptober-archive

Fandom : Original Work

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (V) (VI) (VII) (VIII) (IX) (X) (XI) (XII) (XIII) (XIV) (XV) (XVI) (XVII) (XVIII) (XIX) (XX) (XXI) (XXII) (XXIII) (XXIV) (XXV) (XXVI) (XXVII) (XXVIII) (XXIX) (XXX) (XXXI - END)

AO3

A/N Hi welcome to the second update of today because i’ve been having life... and i haven’t update for a long time. enjoy (here is chapter 7) also happy ides of march in which caesar was being irl whumped

Wordcount: ± 3247

TW : Discussion of Homophobia, Discussion of Slut-shaming, Emeto, Respiratory Illness

Mark is faced with highly uncomfortable possibility that his team, the “good guys” in this battle, might be the ones on the wrong side. Even more so as they watch their rescue struggles to get better because of them.

Whumptober 2021 Tropes:

Day 6 — Touch and Go | Hunger

Day 7 — My Spidey-Sense Is Tingling | Helplessness

Day 8 — Coughing Up a Lung | Pneumothorax

Day 11 — Just Keep Swimming | Dehydration

Day Alt. 23 — Regret

Day 15 — Feed A Cold, Starve A Fever | Delirium

Day 17 — Field Care 101 | Dread

Day 29 — All Work and No Play | Too Weak to Move

This story is set in the last half of 2016.

------

Something seems to have changed in the atmosphere inside Nick’s new bedroom. Everyone seems to hold an understanding, respect even, for Nick’s bright future that was robbed off him.

Not that other kidnapping victims didn’t have bright future ahead of them, but Nick in particular is a more special case.

If on his social media profile, he seemed so self-assured and excited for the life ahead of him, this one seems dejected and surrendered. And also exhausted and desperate for respite for once.

It’s even more pronounced now that Nick is lying on the bed weakly, his body withered and full of pain.

It's day 5 after he was brought to D.E.A.N’s closest medic facility, and he has no improvement. Even his fever is still at around 103 degree while his apparent pneumonia on top of his pneumothorax hasn’t subsided either.

Doctor Lowe has decided to leave a tube in his chest as his pneumothorax gets worse, and now he needs constant relief from the pressure building up in his chest cavity. The surgeon has also deployed antibiotic mists with his oxygen mask in effort to combat his respiratory infection and prevent further ones.

Nick coughs weakly once in a while, now with nasogastric tube in his nose, on top of the oxygen mask, going straight to his stomach. With the level of vomiting he is going through now, he can’t rely on normal food or the IV drip to fulfill his calorie and other nutrients intake need.

His oximeter attached to his ring finger says his saturation fluctuates between upper 80s and lower 90s, while his last blood pressure check with the automated machine by Mary says 65/40 with 30 bpm pulse an hour ago.

Mark sits with his cheek resting against one knuckle, eyebrows furrowed in worry unknowingly.

“How is he?”

Mark looks up at Luke, just realizing he is way past his time to watch over Nick and now it’s Luke’s turn.

He still doesn’t get up, a sense of responsibility gluing him to his seat.

Luke understandably sits on the other chair next to him.

“He is not…getting better at all,” he replies hopelessly.

There is a moment of silence as both men stare at the young, fragile body in front of them.

“You know, we all contributed to sending him here. Don’t hog all the guilt,” Luke tries with a small chuckle.

Mark doesn’t react.

Luke sighs and enters another silence with Mark.

After a while, Mark unsurely talks, if only to fill the silence.

“I… did the worst, I think.”

Luke sighs predictably again while rolling his eyes slightly. He opens his mouth to respond, but Mark beats him to it.

“He was able to eat, to get up, at least. Then I—” Mark gulps deeply and looks down, “I almost killed him. Then he couldn’t eat or get any sustenance in him anymore. Because his throat hurt too much.”

Nick coughs again weakly, pulling the alertness from the other two men in the room.

After a while of nothing happening, Mark deflates again.

“It’s…probably why he now has severe infection. Because he was too malnourished to fight it off. Now it gets real bad.”

“Mark,” Luke looks at him deeply, “We all made him worse. We probably destroyed his only hope of getting saved. I’m sure when he saw us he was expecting to be rescued instead. Not—” he gestures around, “whatever this is.”

Mark doesn’t reply, his mind engulfed by guilt and fear. Fear that Nick…

Ah, no. He shouldn’t think that.

“I would suggest you to pray, but I think you’re too atheist for that.”

Mark chuckles, even with heavy heart.

“Lifelong homophobia by religious institution will do that to you.”

Luke gives a ‘you got a point there’ face.

Another tense and depressing silence passes with both of them awkwardly looking down at their own hands while playing around with the fingers.

Something flits around Mark’s mind. It’s not really important, but he is itching for something to break the tense atmosphere.

“Who do you think VL is?” asks Mark.

Luke looks up with furrowed eyebrows.

“The friend, in the article. The one who said Nikolai was supposed to meet.”

Luke stares at him for a while, deep in thought but also confusion.

“I have no idea. Why?”

“His last post sounds like he was meeting this… VL for a date. But the article makes it sound like it was just a platonic hangout.”

Luke thinks for a while as he digests Mark’s words. Eventually, he widens his eyes slightly in realization.

“You think Nick is gay?”

Mark doesn’t answer, letting his silence speaks for itself.

Luke narrows his eyes as the tip of his lips lifts up in a cheeky smile.

“You really have crush on him? Trying to figure out if you have a chance with Nick?”

Mark rolls his eyes. Of course, he would go there.

“No, Luke. That’s not—” he runs his fingers through his hair almost in frustration, “What I mean, is that it’s hard still for people like me, people like Lena, to get acceptance, from our surrounding. Or ourselves.”

Luke listens raptly, his face now serious and patient.

“Despite Glee,” Mark chuckles, “or, you know, Brokeback Mountain,” he pauses again, “or hell, even an Olympic diver coming out three years ago. And gay marriage legalized last year. Despite all of that, it’s still hard for queer kids to get acceptance.”

Mark stares at Nick’s sickly body again.

“If I’m right, and VL is a boy, it means Nick was about to take that step. To try to accept himself, even if his environment possibly didn’t.”

Luke stares at Nick too, forlornly and sympathetically.

“Do you think, with everything he most likely went through with Helga, he will ever be able to do that again? To accept himself without shame?”

There was another silence as if both of them were mourning for Nick.

“Maybe. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m thinking too far.”

“No, no, you’re—” Luke straightens up in his seat, “you’re right. That’s possible. That’s…tragic.”

Luke turns to him with earnest look. “Maybe it’s because I’m not part of LGBT community—though I’m black so internalized racism gets to me sometimes—it just never crossed my mind for dilemma like that to happen to anyone else. I just, I don’t know. I look at you and Lena being self-assured, and I never questioned that that might not be the norm.”

Mark chuckles sadly. “Trust me. It’s not, not even for me for a long time.”

“How…,” Luke considers his words with furrowed eyebrows, “how long did it take for you, to accept yourself?”

“I don’t know, 16, 17 years of my life?”

“I thought you came out in middle school.”

Mark chuckles again. “No, I was outed in middle school. That wasn’t my choice.”

“Oh, that sucks.”

“Yeah. It does. I only started to look at other boys without that, you know, instinctual shame and the need to hide it, like at my last year of high school or something.”

“Wow,” Luke says thoughtfully, “can’t imagine still being embarrassed about my crush in high school.” Luke stares at Mark again. “Not to mention, genuinely ashamed.”

“Good thing college changed everything,” Mark reminisces with slight smile blooming on his lips.

“How?”

“I fucked, like, two, three different guys almost every week in college.”

Luke bellows in laughter.

“So, you’re a gay Casanova, huh?”

He smirks. “Got it from my mom, probably. She used to jokingly call me her ‘little baby slut’.”

Luke laughs again as he lets out a ‘what the fuck’.

“She was like, ‘Oh, I’m so proud of you! You’re learning so well! Go get those hotties, baby!’”

Luke cackles again before saying, “No fucking way.”

“She did!” Mark insists with his own smile.

“Oooh, she sounds delightful!”

“She absolutely is, no doubt.”

“Sounds like she doesn’t give a fuck about what society says, huh?”

Mark reminisces again in endearment but also mourning. “She had me out of wedlock in early 90s. She probably has the same contempt for society as I do because I’m gay.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Luke replies as he calms down a little.

Another silence lapses again as they look down once more, the implication that the boy in the bed will never have that freedom earning another forlorn atmosphere.

“Was Jackson okay with that?”

Mark looks up at Luke.

“With what?”

“With you being gay and all.”

Mark furrows his eyebrows in puzzlement. “Yeah, absolutely. Wasn’t it pretty clear that he knew and didn’t care?”

“Oh, yeah, probably. I just, I felt uncomfortable being nosey about you both, you know. Feels like intruding in father-son relation.”

“Why does everyone think Jackson was my dad?” Mark questions absently as he stares at the bed again.

“Well, wasn’t he?”

Mark thinks for a while. “I don’t know to be honest, I never bothered to find out.”

“You don’t want to know if he was your dad?” Luke asks incredulously.

“I mean, if he weren’t my biological dad, I wouldn’t want whoever that is to be my father anyway, since, you know he just bounced and never cared at all.”

He thinks more as Luke stares at him in anticipation.

“And if Jackson were my biological dad, I’m satisfied with the rate he was in my life. All in all, it’s good outcome either way. So, I never cared.”

Luke looks at him questioningly. “Does your mom know?”

After a little contemplation, he answers, “No, I don’t think she does.”

“Did Jackson know?”

“Pretty sure he didn’t know and didn’t care.”

“And you also don’t know. Or care.”

“Yeah.”

Luke faces the bed again, almost in understanding.

“And at this point, you’ll never find out. And you’re okay with that.”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“That’s… strange. But, I mean, if it works, who am I to judge?”

Mark looks back on his childhood when Jackson first showed up in his life, and his mom just introduced him to Mark without a single care in the world.

It’s almost like she was introducing a professional acquaintance to him at the rare times he went out with her for work-related outing. The kind of acquaintances that she knew she would never see again—or at least very, very seldom—so she was cordial but uncaring. She was probably only humoring Jackson for Mark’s sake, so that he would at least have one father figure in his life.

It almost felt like he had co-parents who were divorced, but without the toll of the divorce itself.

So, yeah. It worked, really, really well. If anything, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Um…” Luke starts again unsurely, pulling Mark’s attention to him, “I know that Jackson might or might not be your dad, but he was the closest thing to a father you had, right?”

“Yeah?” Mark replies, curious and confused.

“Do you…I don’t know, ever sometimes regret following in his footsteps?”

It's a loaded question, the one he never allowed his mind to wander to. He… has always prepared himself for this, and he doesn’t know any other way.

“I mean, if you think about it, D.E.A.N pretty much goes again the most foundational grain of what this country stands for. It’s a blatant constitutional violation, you know?”

Mark knows, of course. He has just always thought there are some people who can’t be dealt with constitutionally. He never thought too much about it.

“The entire point of justice system is so that it will allow defendants, any and all defendant, to confront their accusers. The witnesses. D.E.A.N is designed to circumvent all of that. You ever thought that maybe we are wrong?”

He has always had the conviction to do the ‘right’ thing, that for some circumstances, the ends really justify the mean. Like Helga being defeated justify the existence of D.E.A.N.

But now, he is not so sure.

“What if we were given the same rules, same protocols, same legal limitations and accountabilities, like, say… FBI? The army? You ever thought about that?”

The implication of Luke’s words is clear. He almost doesn’t want to explore that direction, but…

The casualty of D.E.A.N’s ‘freedom’ is right there in front of them, lying on the bed with severe ailments. Ailments that are preventable, if only they all followed the same protocols applied to any other institutions.

Sure, there are corrupt and hush-hush people and projects in the government since the dawn of time, but those are the exception to the rules. The ones that are considered violations and the masses are allowed to critique, know about, and hold accountable. D.E.A.N is designed exactly to operate using that violation with no repercussion, as its core function.

If they were given the same rules, made to follow the same law of interrogation and intel gathering, would they be able to do the things they did to Nick? To just bulldoze through all humane and empathetic conventions established in justice system and criminal laws?

Would they be able to tell since the beginning that Nick is innocent in all of this, because they didn’t just go straight to using violence to get the truth out of him?

He…

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t like to think about the implication that all this time, the value and preparation he’s had almost his whole life are wrong.

That Jackson was wrong.

Maybe he is a coward and a naïve man, but he doesn’t want to think about it.

***

There are two more tense days after that talk he had with Luke. Everyone has been operating with bated breath and high anxiety. Even Anna and Don start to seem like Nick’s condition gets to them, sending them into visible guilt and fear of being responsible in an innocent person’s eventual demise.

Horace tries to be a leader to them, pulling them into focus after their last discussion about Helga’s pattern, but even he knows that’s hopeless. Both because, unfortunately, he lacks the grace and leadership skill needed as commanding officer and because Nick’s condition is just too depressing.

Mark is scrolling again through Nick’s social media accounts, finding several more on other platforms. Some he had to trace and find using some hidden and possibly illegal means (for civilian, of course, not for government’s employee with high clearance like D.E.A.N’s agents) because Nick was using alias, and the others are openly available with his real name and identity.

Nick loves French macarons and cats, especially black cats because ‘those furballs look like very adorable abyss and I love them to bits (fuck the superstition, they are totally lucky charms lol)’. He also likes border collies but thinks that chihuahuas are shitty little gremlins who are bitter about being weak enough to be bested by celebrities’ purses.

He has never had pets, though, because his parents think they’re going to be dirty and smelly and will ruin the house furniture. He swore that he is going to be salty about it for the rest of his life and is going to get revenge by adopting an entire shelter worth of cats and dogs when he moves out.

He is (or was) also prolific young athlete and active student, apparently being part of his high school track and swimming teams and is the student body president who was in the process of transferring the leadership to his future elected predecessor as he was already a senior in high school.

Outside of being extremely proficient in several programming languages, he is also fluent in human languages like simplified Mandarin, Spanish, Russian, and conversational Vietnamese. Oh, and ASL too, as pointed out by George.

He also never shut up (and at this point, Mark just chuckles endearingly instead of getting irritated) about possibly becoming valedictorian and going straight to the country’s (and possibly world’s) best university after graduating high school.

Even if he wasn’t humble, at least he has a lot to show for it to back it up.

He feels proud for young Nick and affectionate, almost, towards him, but mostly his heart is filled with sadness for what became of that bright and accomplished young man.

His life (and most likely, even his body and mind) has pretty much stopped being his own tragically for the last almost four years.

All of that hard work, ambition, passion, and confidence just went down the drain the moment Helga took him. And even after that, he had to endure D.E.A.N’s cruelty when they should have been his savior.

Now he’s most likely never going to get the chance to experience those glory days ever again, even if he survives his current infection.

Mark squeezes his eyes and rubs his face roughly. He’s got to stop thinking like Nick is on his way to the grave. There is still chance, he has to be sure of it.

With all of those in mind, Mark walks in again to Nick’s bedroom, even if now is not his turn to watch over the sickly boy.

“You really are having crush on him, huh?” the bald Navy veteran asks him jokingly as he steps into the room.

Mark doesn’t give Don a reply.

“You know that kid doesn’t exist anymore, right?”

“What kid?” Mark asks, even if he knows who Don is referring to.

“The kid that you’ve been learning about. The one with the Facebook profile, the twitter, the photo website—”

“Instagram.”

“Yeah, that. And that other website with confusing appearance. And unhinged posts. Whatever that is.”

“His tumblr.”

They stay silent while they watch Nick’s body as he is swallowed by the blanket with so many tubes attached to his body.

“Whether he willingly went into Helga or was kidnapped, he is never going to be that kid ever again. And you know that.”

Of course, Mark knows. It doesn’t mean he can’t try to learn about him if only to reminisce, weirdly enough, on behalf of the young man with broken spirit.

“Stop holding on to that illusion, son. It’s going to disappoint you more when you are eventually faced with that reality.”

“So, what, we just give up on him?”

Don contemplates a little bit.

“It’s too late for the current victims, unfortunately, whether he is one or not. But if you really care about those innocent kids, look forward and focus on destroying Helga so that future potential victims don’t fall into the same fate.”

It doesn’t mean he can’t try to save the ones already in Helga’s hands. There has got to be a way to do that somehow.

“I know you’re still young, and naïve. Blindly hopeful, even. The truth is, there are just some people we can’t save. That’s the reality. If we keep focusing on the ones that are too far gone, we’re just gonna end up abandoning the ones that can be protected still.”

Mark still doesn’t respond, his mind stubbornly holding on to his conviction. Maybe desperately.

“Maybe one day, when you get to my age. But I hope, for the sake of the people that need our protection, you realize and accept it soon.”

No. Don is wrong. He is sure of it. They all can still try to save them all, both the old and the future victims. There has to be a way. D.E.A.N must be created for that reason, regardless of its name. That’s got to be what D.E.A.N is for, right?

***

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (V) (VI) (VII) (VIII) (IX) (X) (XI) (XII) (XIII) (XIV) (XV) (XVI) (XVII) (XVIII) (XIX) (XX) (XXI) (XXII) (XXIII) (XXIV) (XXV) (XXVI) (XXVII) (XXVIII) (XXIX) (XXX) (XXXI - END)

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