#required listening to understand me i think

[black-crested-jaybird]

I will have "learned nothing" from that because the amount of time it takes to complete a task once I have started it has nothing to do with why it takes so long to actually start doing the task. For me, it's usually not doing the task that is hard. Starting the work is what's hard.

Tactics I (a very extroverted person with late-diagnosed ADHD) have developed over the years that help with this difficulty include:

- doing the work in public places (e g. coffeeshop, university study lab)

- inviting friends over to talk to me while I work/work alongside me (either at the same task or at a task of their own)

- listening to music/audiobooks/podcasts/videos/TV (the visual media are less helpful for me in particular as I can get "sucked into" watching and stop working)

- talking to a friend on the phone while working (this can help even more with task initiation as talking with the person becomes associated with working; I was once recovering from a cold and sitting around complaining about how awful I felt when a friend called. I almost immediately got up and started washing the dishes out of sheer habit)

- setting a timer to trick my brain into starting for a short time (usually once I begin I don't want to stop even though the timer has gone off)

- working on a task while waiting on another process (e.g. putting away clean dishes while waiting for the kettle to boil)

- doing a completely unrelated activity, especially one that requires physical movement but not mental concentration, e.g. going for a walk (good for breaking out of a state of inertia and for helping the brain process information in a new way; less good for task initiation but sometimes coming back to the task after this kind of break helps)

- ADHD medication (genuinely amazingly helpful when one has ADHD; at first there were moments of "magically" starting tasks, but after having used it for a while it's more like I'm able to better understand the way my brain functions and begin to build systems that support healthy productivity - including task initiation without deadline-induced panic, but also including being able to notice when I'm getting less focused and need a break, and building the confidence that not doing something the moment I think of it does NOT mean it won't actually happen [this confidence does not, however, translate to waiting to add things to my calendar. That still needs to happen IMMEDIATELY]

- allowing myself to engage in a fun or relaxing activity when I recognize that I'm struggling to initiate a task, because giving myself a reward in advance of the work can, despite everything I was ever taught, actually make it easier for me to do the work (this can be tricky if the reward is a particularly time-sinky activity, so timers or other external prompts to stop are helpful here. Also ADHD meds)

- working on a task in service of another task (e.g. cleaning the kitchen because I want to bake bread and need the counter cleared and the bowl washed to do that; the bread may or may not actually get baked, but the kitchen will be cleaner)

[adhd-fandom-hyperfocus]

✧₊⁺ Bath ✧₊⁺

Pairing: None

Author's Note: Raserei is my oc, who is the lost primarch of the 2nd Legion.

Warnings: slightly nsfw because it's taking place in a bath house. Nothing happens though, Much to the despair of some serfs.

18+ ONLY

★。------ ＼｜／------。★

If he were not aware he was on a ship, Raserei could be convinced he had stepped into one of the great bathhouses on Macragge. The fake sunlight shone perfectly through the fake glass ceiling, casting a beautiful ray of light onto the crystal-clear water below. Giving a glorious view of the blue marble of the bath floor, accented with regal gold veins. Steam rising from the water, and clinging to the marble pillars offering the same vibrant blue. Drapes that bore the Ultramarine symbol with pride were hung about the room, as well as chairs of leisure for Astartes to take their required rest.

The walls were covered in stunning art that heralded the beauty of Macragge, and fountains were covered with plants as water flowed from them, a calming sound. His nose filled with the alluring scents of oils in the waters. While Raserei would not accuse Guilliman of opulence, the man was not Spartan with his tastes, at least within reason. Something Raserei secretly admired. His brother understood the line between beauty and pure grandiosity.

Slowly the primarch of the second removed his robe, letting it fall to the marble floor and let his body sink into the warm water. While communal baths were not foreign to him, he did value his privacy. Now more than ever. A ghost in a world he didn't understand. A pariah among his brothers. His large frame sank further down and he rested his arms on the sides of the bath, letting his head tilt back. Throne he needed this, this moment of peace...

Oh but what was that movement? They locked gazes ever so briefly before she ducked back behind the pillar, and muffled giggles could be heard. So that's where the bath attendants were. It would seem he had an audience after all. Strange, he was under the impression he scared baseline humans. He unsettled most Astartes.

Nonetheless, if they were watching might as well give them something for their bravery. He started humming idly, slowly giving way to words. His deep voice carried and filled the bathhouse, the high ceiling allowing such a deep rolling voice to vibrate in the chests of his onlookers. How easy his voice carried when he wasn't even trying. Truly his voice could be a weapon if he wished it to be.

"Feed my fire, let me put some ash on your face. Feed my fire..." he sang softly.

Now listening to the pounding heartbeats behind him, thinking they are safe behind the pillar. It was cute; he thought they would know that such things would not be lost on someone like him, but Raserei guessed ignorance was bliss.

But his performance was cut short when a group of rowdy Ultramarines only in their undercloths, came stumbling in, calling for the serfs to get them some robes for when they get out of the bath.

Raserei rose from the bath and only used his robe to cover his lower half. As he walked by the marines and past the pillar where his hidden admirers were he waved at them. Their cheeks all rosy and their pupils blown out.

"Try not to drown them ladies." he joked as he left the area.

One of the serfs cast a glare at the Ultramarines that would give a Khorne daemon pause.

"Did you see him get in sisters?" one whispered eyes still lingering at the exit.

"I did," one replied holding her hands up as if they were cupping something large, "Never have I seen moons so round."

They all nodded in silence, mourning the loss of such a sight to some loud and boorish marines.

"They do not make them like they used too."

[snazzy-snapple]

Arcane Season 2 was great and all; there were definitely some stand-out moments, and the animation GOD THE ANIMATION *chefs kiss* I can't fault anyone for loving it. But honestly, I was kinda disappointed with alot of it. Especially the ending. Piltover's treatment of Zaun has been historically shitty; Zaun should've left their asses by the end. 

Even after the war Piltover is still screwing Zaun over like- one seat at the council-one???? Idk how accurate the maps of Piltover and Zaun are, but they look to be about equal size; some even portray Zaun as bigger. The amount of Council Members representing/ from the Undercity should equate. Also, from my limited understanding of the lore told outside of Arcane, there is fluctuation in the amount of wealth and comfort in the layers of Zaun, so not every part of it is in desperate need as the Fissures. Maybe the places more well-off wouldn't mind Piltover representations- but honestly, I feel like this only adds to my argument. Every part of the Undercity has a differing aspect of and problem that needs to be addressed and well… represented. (congrats to Sevika though she deserves it).

 Honestly, I don't even think an equal Zaun/Piltover council is enough for me; let's take a look at Piltover's leadership, more specifically, how they picked. We only really get one example of this when Jayce replaces Heimerdinger where the other Councilors vote on the decision. The circumstances around Jayce being added, while unorthodox, shouldn't have that different of a system from when a Council member just dies. This means all the power and decision making of thousands and thousands of people is put in the hands of 8 rich assholes who get to pick who they make said decisions alongside. No wonder corruption is a problem. Piltover's own system of governance is in dire need of repair, which would never happen voluntarily because it'd require the Council members to give up their own power. What Arcane needs is a good old-fashioned social revolution. And maybe an actual revolution in Zauns case. 

Please keep in mind I'm looking at this from a show-watcher, not a LOL player pov, and I didn't take the time to learn all the lore surrounding the games. What I know mainly came from the show itself. Not to mention because Arcane is tied to LOL the characters and story have to follow a certain trajectory. 

Anyways, Arcane should've ended with Zaun and Piltover Divorced, Ekko in charge of everything everywhere all the time, and Jinx/Viktor are alive, The End. 

In all seriousness, though, I had a lot more problems than this. Piltover's bullshit is what really hit me hard with recent historical events and my own fears about the future. I hope no one takes this the wrong way; I'm pretty good at ignoring problems in media and just loving it because, well.. loving stuff is fun. Its fun to turn your brain off and be happy. And I've definitely done this with this Season at times. Thanks for listening; overall, the Season felt like a mess. But hey, I had fun.

[pyromance]

it's kind of my song actually

[thatonebirdwrites]

Gosh, I can relate to this.

I think about what fandom is a lot since I sort of lurk in a lot of spaces (until I feel brave enough to speak or share).

First off, the point of this addition isn't to guilt trip anyone, but to get people thinking about what community means. What inclusion means, and what engagement means. And how those are interconnected.

One of the crucial pillars of fandom, and the reason fandom exists at all is because of community.

Writing fanfiction and sharing it for free is about building community with one another. It's people who loved a show/movie/book enough that they wanted to play in the world longer, so they play together in that world with other people who love it too. That's what fanworks are -- it's people playing together in community because of a love toward a specific series/media.

But community requires communication. It requires building connections. It requries engaging one another.

I write long fics. In fact, adding up the word counts of my fics in AO3? It's well over a million words in two different fandoms. These are free novels written because the community had been welcoming at first and it had encouraged me to keep going.

But I made a mistake. Two of these projects (in two separate fandoms) I made into a series. Because of how each part in a series means the sequel gets less engagement, it feels like I'm watching a community dissolve, and that's painful. I don't get paid for this. It's all free, and part of the reason I went to fanfic writing was because of community.

Lack of engagement gives, often unintentionally, the author the message that they aren't really part of the fandom's community. At least not anymore (if they ever were).

Some say, "Well, don't write for your readers!"

Well, no, I don't write for my readers, but the act of sharing for free is me giving to the community and building up community.

But part of building up community requires people to give back in turn. Oherwise the community will fracture and fall apart.

The reason fandom exists at all is because of community.

It's the community part of fandom that has helped me to heal enough to write again, but when that community dries up or no longer engages with me, then what am I to do? I've lost that community, and if I continue to engage with it and get very little (if not nothing) in return, then at that point, I'm throwing my energy into a void in hopes for a scrap of community.

It ceases to fulfill the need. It leaves me feeling lost and alone. And finding out later how much people loved a fic I wrote but that fic received very little engagement? It tells me that I'm not loved as a person within the community.

I have watched and listen to people talk about how much it hurts when the work they put in so much effort in for the community gets little to no engagement. It often pushes them to engage less, to stop writing, and watching that happen? It hurts to see.

Community requires communication. Do not treat an fanfic author like a kiosk, where you grab the story and run. Treat them like they are part of your community. By doing so, by including them, you bolster their sense of belonging and are more likely to get stories in return.

Community needs to be reciprocal. And I fear fandoms are losing that understanding of what community is. They expect and sometimes demand more, but what are they doing to support that fanfic writer or artist? Are they engaging them and uplifting them within the community? Or are they not engaging them?

If you read an author's work and love it, include them in that community by sharing your thoughts in a comment. You don't necessarily have to comment on every chapter of a longer work (Though it is so lovely some do), but to at least offer up comments here and there to be inclusive of that author.

Engagement bolsters the community bond.

The lack of engagement breaks the community bond.

And that's a sort of grief. Us writers came for community and to share our love of the fandom with others. When we fail to be included in that community, it will hurt. It's a type of rejection that people may not even realize they are doing.

Community requires communication, and for fandoms, part of that communication is comments, kudos, (and gosh, even tumblr asks).

I hope that helps give people another perspective to consider.

Think it over. Think about what you'd like to give back to the creators in your community.

And please understand, if you can only give back one or so comments? That's okay and valid, and that too builds up community.

Even little actions matter.

Never think your small action doesn't matter or that your comment or kudos doesn't matter. It does. It helps build community too.

Thanks for reading. Be safe.

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

[carcarrot]

having another one of my job-related crises

[tianshiisdead]

im happy my post is garnering discussion but honestly i wasnt around for 2018-2021 fandom on tumblr and i was mainly talking about how its kind of silly to get mad at people for portraying colonizer countries as mean, or calling it demonization and stuff. like its okay not to like personally portraying ur fav characters as mean or part of the state, but getting irritated at the fact that it exists or is popular imo kind of misses the fact that this… is the state and nation personification fandom. and its hard to say its not canon when canon did once portray the characters in uniform and at times involved in their state activities… like the early strips discussing western imperialism in china is literally ‘china being bullied by the allies’ ‘france wanting to grope china’ ‘china being treated like a maid’ etc etc like they were very much. the state LOL also china and japan’s canon relationship, as much as I have my issues with it, has an entire thing about china being stabbed by japan… i do feel like hetalia started out as a history nerd’s history exploration that blended humour with ‘what i find cute’ with satire etc etc, which inevitably involves illustrating the personifications as vessels of state and culture, and although the modern strips have deviated quite a bit… well, different people will approach this series for different reasons, right? Whether its serious or comedic content showing the characters as mean or imperialist or unpleasant, it’s not something that deviates too far from canon (if we take all canon eras into consideration) nor is it surprising given how history laden the topic is.

[girlivealwaysbean]

so tired of being a shitty bandaid for my parents' loneliness. like have u ever considered you passed your curse to me and some days i feel so lonely it's like i can't breathe around the emptiness in my chest????

[tankgotstuckinthecircusgate]

2am thinking about aglaya lilich who executed people without any pity had an insane amount of power but also always knew she's just a doomed marionette with no actual will

"The desire to put people out of their misery by restoring the broken logic of the world is what drives her to action."

"There is an eternally predetermined order by which everything goes as it should along a predetermined path."

This is from patho 2 which i didn't play but fr..

"So how do you build a perfect world if you're going to have less than perfect people living in it?

The Inquisition has no answer to that question. All I can do is protect the system, keep it from collapsing and burying millions of lives under its rubble."

"Betrayal is death. Next. Treason is betrayal. Betrayal is death. Left. Next. Death. Next. Death. Anybody not on any of these cases?There are no other crimes. There is no evil, no murder, cannibalism or violence. There's nothing worse than betraying someone who's trusted you. And everyone with a confession like that goes straight to the left. It's death. It's out of the question."

"Are you kidding me? I'm an automaton. This is an unsolvable city. I don't know how to do that. Listen. I don't have much time left. If I can't solve this city, I have, uh. ampoule. They sent me to do this on purpose. There's no winning this thing. "Resolve" means… well, bring the matter to an end. Inquisition. You know what I mean? It was - and now it isn't."

_

"Aglaia is a God-fighter. Those whom she touches begin to rebel against the established order of things. At the same time, Aglaia is the voice of the law. She sees the universe as a machine. She asserts that the logic of the universe is above all, and to hell with polyhedrons. God-fighting for her is also the restoration of justice, the law of nature. Those she touches begin to realize that there are limits to what is possible and one must obey them."

[depresseddepot]

trying to determine which parts of my relationship with sex are asexuality, which are trauma, and which are autism is like trying to have a conversation with three people talking loudly and all at once

[timeisacephalopod]

Lol out of curiosity I looked up my old job on Indeed and yes they ARE urgently hiring for the position and if I didn't get treated like dog shit for expecting a stress free work environment with reasonable expectations and not wildly cunty management who seemed to be under the impression they were doing THE most important job at THE most important store ever maybe I wouldn't have just not shown up one day 🤷🏻‍♀️ asshole thing to do to my poor coworkers but I didn't even have the energy to quit right after spending a month and a half feeling deeply surveilled at every aspect of my job lest I get another frivolous writeup no one else got for doing their jobs worse than me so fine. You want me gone enough to threaten my livelihood and SHRUG when I point out I have rent to pay, fine, but I wouldn't put up with that behavior from anyone in my life generally and I LIKE those people so my JOB pulling bullshit? Oh hell no, if I wouldn't take it from people I CHOOSE to be around on purpose I ain't taking shit from a fucking JOB. I refuse to be in a work environment that's unaware it's a GROCERY STORE, not a 5 star establishment frequented exclusively by world leaders or some shit. Like Sam, my job is cooking food at a fucking sobeys and you're acting as if I'm disarming bombs it's so important get reasonable priorities and standards for employees and then apply them equally to managers and not EXCLUSIVELY minimum wage staff 🙄

Which is funny because my new job everyone seems surprised with how fast I've caught on to stuff down to a coworker yesterday telling me he thought I worked in a shoppers prior to the pharmacy I'm in because Im catching on so quick. This isn't unusual for me either, some time in the last five or so years I've found every workplace I'm at I end up being heavily relied on because I'm good at my job, so fucking sucks to suck for sobeys because it took me some week or so to be consistently praised for being better at the job than the guy I replaced only for them to throw that out because they think management should be able to do whatever the fuck they want while they shove minimum wage staff under a fucking microscope to ensure they're doing their shit right and even that isn't consistent. They punished me exclusively because I did not lay down to be treated as a door mat and dished the treatment I got handed. If you treat me like shit I WILL treat you the way you treat me, no worse, and sometimes a little better because I don't lose my moral standards in that treatment either. Just because I'm being an ass doesn't mean I'm willing to do whatever the fuck, just enough to ensure that the person who's decided I'm their new plaything knows that'll be going both ways so fuck off. I've never had a job so willing to keep on shit management they had at LEAST a dozen meetings with regarding performance and I was the one who got punished for being frustrated about that. But I will take a new significantly less stressful job 🙌🏻

[sateurn]

😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

These sobs really limited my tags?????

I have so many more thoughts this is so so much less than 1/2. Broski. Big dislike

[salemdotcom]

Why is it that every time I talk to a straight person they’re like “so how long have you been a lesbian?” And I’ll be like “Never been one. I’m not a lesbian. I am nonbinary though.” And they’ll be like “ohhhhhh I see. Wait how does being a lesbian fit in with that though.” And I’ll be like “IT DOESNT. ON ACCOUNT OF IM NOT ONE.”

[mokeonn]

Sorry about all the posts about people not educating themselves. It's a topic im deeply passionate about and have a hard time understanding the opposition on because I am a fundamentally curious person who went and practiced the research techniques I was taught so that I may research better.

Plus I have autism so "researching to understand the world around me better" comes with the territory.

[kittykatinabag]

I wish I could remember exactly what happened to make me so avoidant to go on deep dive research tirades and write up my thoughts on stuff. It used to be a fun thing I did at one point, even if back then it was 90% the world building of various anime series, the other 10% was other Wikipedia rabbit holes I'd go down on like history or evolutionary biology or geologic records or space stuff or attempts at understanding metamaterials.

But at some point actually writing down these explorations stopped. My logical reason is that since this avoidance started either sometime in late high school or freshmen year of college, the whole plagerism lectures and absolute insistence that citing every single source and justifying every single thought in your head with evidence absolutely fucked my thought process up. But that can't be the only thing. There must have been some event or some person that affected me so much that I internalized the conclusion of "ok, anything I remotely feel, think, and especially speak about has to have some connection and evidence to it or else it doesn't count as valid"

But when I frame it in the justification way, that feeling stretches way back before I was initially doing deep dive research tirades. It stretches back to childhood and probably originates among one of the many times my parents called me a crybaby or disapproved/didn't care about something I liked because when answering the question of "why do you like [insert thing here]?" whatever answer I gave was either too vague or "wasn't a good enough reason." Or that time when I was 12 and after weeks to months of research on depression when trying to broach the topic of depression and therapy and the innate sense I had that basically boiled down to "I think I'm broken", my mom instead went on a rant about how depressed people don't exist and they just need to 'do things and talk to people' and they won't be depressed anymore.

She's a lot better about mental health stuff now but still not exactly the most receptive as I think she's never experienced it for a prolonged period of time. Which is why I still don't really divulge just how bad my own mental health was at certain points in my life.

Tangent aside, it would be nice if I could pinpoint a moment or the stretch of time when the avoidance fully started to manifest. Even when shouting into my various voids of shouting where little to no eyes see, whether it be this blog or the various spiral notebooks that I treat as a catch all for diary-ish entries, scrap paper, and other thoughts, I can't shake the feeling of not wanting to put down my thoughts. Perhaps it's like the way I explain my anxiety, the eyes in the walls feeling. Think panopticon but instead of one tower seeing everything, everything is seeing the one tower that is my physical being. I say physical being because for the most part as long as it doesn't transfer to my facial expressions or body language, I'm fine with whatever knowledge I can remember knocking about in my thoughts. Perhaps it's the observation of it all, even if the only observation is my own eyes. Something about the physicality of it makes me pause. Perhaps it makes it real, and when it's real it's a lot harder to fix if it ends up flawed.

Because god forbid anything be flawed right? /s

[dawnwriterimagines]

The Guilty Plea

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x FEM!READER

Traitors Among Us (Part 1) and Innocents Among You (Part 2)

Verdict Due (Part 4) Clear Skies (Part 5)

Summary: As you're discharged from the infirmary, under watchful eye, you head to Laswell to talk on the rest of your now ruined military career. Of course, you're forced to confront your team as it happens, the last people on earth you'd like to see.

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

Running your fingers along the raised, pink scar across you cheek, the feeling of it...it really looked terrible. A part of you thought it would disappear, hoped it would, but it didn't. It just became severely more noticeable. Looking at this, you knew you'd always have to think of it. You'd sport this reminder for the rest of your life.

Looking away from it, you find your own tired eyes in the mirror, you haven't been sleeping well. Or at all. You can't remember the last time you got 4 hours, let alone 8. Dark circles still surrounded them but at least the bruising and the swelling had gone down.

You couldn't recognize yourself. Not really.

This woman looked so exhausted, so frail and so goddamn angry. It was accurate, it was how you felt. All of it. So, you supposed that the mirror's reflection was the truth, this was you indeed.

"If you need another day or two, no one will ask questions."

You glance over towards your psychologist, your fucking therapist, a nice little 'gift' sent over by the bureau to check in on your mental state after your ordeal. Glaring at him through the reflection of your mirror, he sighs, putting down his pen that slaps against his notepad, "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

"I'm going to Laswell." Ignoring his statement, you speak. "I'm ready. I'll pack up. Get back to base. Vera had me discharged from the infirmary. I can start ov--"

"Vera?"

"My nurse. You met her," you continued, annoyance spiking at the interruption. Your wrist brace squeaking quietly under the pressure of your fist tightening beneath the table.

"Right..."

"Do you listen to a word I say outside of...my 'trauma'?" You wonder, bluntly.

Your psychologist blinks, surprised, before clearing his throat, appalled. "If you feel I can be more attentive to your state of well-being throughout our process, than by all means--"

"Oh, so 'no'?" you lean back into your seat, a strained laugh leaving you. His lips press together and you continue before he can find the words. "Because whenever I mention leaving this fucking team, you either adjust our schedule for another two weeks or suggest hypnotic therapy, as if I need anyone else digging around to fuck up my mental state."

"I never meant to imply--"

"Oh, you implied it," you interrupted, gritting your teeth. "I know what I want. And I want off Task Force 141."

He taps at the leather of his notebook. "Scars heal, just remember that, Ms. (L/n). The reminders of your experience shouldn't have to haunt you."

"It's not the scars, I've had my share way before this," you admitted, rising to your feet. You exhale deeply that tells to the effort of it, the steel gear hinges along your leg braces shift with your change of position. Still getting use to them. "It's the person."

"Has she changed, you think?" the psychologist begins to write, getting somewhere.

"She doesn't exist anymore."

Finally, placing the mirror down and onto the side table, you pushed off of the table, rolling your IV pole along with you. Passing the chair your psychologist sits on, he closes his notebook with a frustrated huff, looking over his shoulder. "Session over for you already, Ms. (L/n)?" he sighs. "We've still got the hour."

"I'm done," you take the knob in your hand. Turning.

In more ways than one.

"You understand that, informing your captain on your leave is required of you. Have you spoken to any of them, in the last few weeks?" he spoke up, quickly. "I'm sure giving them a space to open up, share from their view--"

"Why should I care--"

"--will give you better understanding, better clarity of the situation they were in--

Appalled. "What the fuck?" Jamming the door closed with a loud, shuttering thud, you whip around. "IT'S NOT ABOUT THEM!" you could just rip your hair out. "Who--who says that to someone?!"

Your psychologist sits there, eyes wide in confusion. "What--"

"Christ, can you hear me? Can you--can you see me? I've got metal plates in my spine, braces holding my knees in place and nerve damage that'll never heal! Who gives a fuck about them!" your skin feels red hot, your face twisted in rage. "I gave my life! My life to this! And then I'm tortured, I'm threatened, drugged and beaten by my own team, my f--my family for eight fucking years..."

You continue with a heavy chest. "And I'm supposed to invite them for dinner to talk and listen them bitch and moan about why they thought it was necessary to beat me to death for two weeks?! Fuck you!" you spat. "I don't owe them anything!"

"That's not what I was trying to say, Ms. (L/N). I apologize, I overstepped. Come sit down--"

"Of course you meant it," you interrupted, mock humor. "Don't be a pussy, own up to it. Revel in your truth. Be tter yet--" you snatch a journal from the cabinet. Tossing it his way. "Make a note of it."

Turning the knob, you leave the room with a slam of the metal door.

---

You were officially famous. On the base, you were now a legend.

A story that would be mentioned and told at lunch for months. Probably years.

First, you were a rat. Next, you were innocent. This was the most gossip any of those in service had ever seen in their years of service.

An interesting reminder to those in service that you weren't safe off duty either.

You learned a few days ago that there was an update put into the interrogational unit, something about how to properly go about dissecting evidence and being on the lookout for enemy spies in the militia.

You guessed you had been told about it in an effort to be appeased by the thought that the head of control paid attention to anything beyond their own noses for once. But, you had little to no faith in a system that's nearly killed you on and off the field by now, so it didn't matter.

You doubted the new rules would be followed though, there was a plethora of things they'd done to you in that cell that were both illegal and unsanctioned. Most of all, that were expected towards an enemy, a prisoner of war at best, and not a fellow marine.

You arrive at the housing quarters, swiping your key card, pulling the handle and entering the wing. Immediately, you're greeted by a dozen eyes, conversations stopping short and clothes ruffling to silence, suddenly whispers fill the space and eyes turn away.

"Oh, god, it's her..." says one man in the far corner.

"Shut the fuck up, man!" came a harsh whisper back.

"I didn't know it was that bad..."

All those eyes on you, makes you pause in your step, looking around at all of your fellow soldiers, the men and women you've served with for years. Many you recognized, ate with, fought beside that turned their backs to you now. Out of respect? Out of distaste, morale, nerves, pity, it all didn't matter. It all felt the same.

The wheels attached to your IV pole suddenly sounded much too loud on the polished flooring, as you walked down the hall as fast as you were able to.

Breathing out deeply, you get to an elevator, pushing on the button, once, twice, three times, just open goddamn it.

With a ding, the metal doors open, and suddenly you're aware that people could be in the elevator, they could be in this elevator, he could be in this elevator. Your eyes flicker down to the floor, your grip on the pole of your iv tightens, your shoulders stiffen, waiting for a blow that will never come.

You stand there as the doors open up, the small space empty, the metal walls reflect only her and a streak of lighting from the ceiling.

Looking up slowly, finally taking a breath, before sliding the iv up and onto the elevator, following it as you press your floor number along the way.

The ride up is fast, a little rumble as it stops, and then the doors open. Faster than you were prepared for.

Peeking out down the hallway, luckily no one to bump into, which you were thankful for. But, it didn't make this hall any less haunting. You'd been cornered in this same hall, you could recall being hauled out of the room after the solid handle of a knife hits your temple.

You don't go down fast enough, whipping around as you stumble to take the wrist of your attacker, mostly for balance, it's Price. In shock, you're unprepared as Johnny's arm encircle your neck, locking you into position as you both stumble backwards onto the floor. He blocks your airways, hushing you harshly as you struggle, feet kicking out and your vision blurring as your team surrounds you. Your family.

That was quite the headache to wakeup with afterwards.

You hadn't quite remembered until now. Being back served as a hell of a kickstart to your memory.

Just a few more reasons to get the fuck off of 141.

Getting off the elevators, the metal doors sliding closed behind you, you make your way down the hall. The polished flooring creates a subtle squeak through the wheels of your iv pole, your hand absently running over the fading stitches along your side.

Passing the shadows of your tortured memory, the doorway of the office was closed, locked.

You pass Kyle's room.

Johnny's.

Finally, you rush up to the next room on the left, grabbing the handle, before beginning to twist, but then you're yanking your hand back as if the metal had burned you. Your back ramming into the back wall, catching yourself, this wasn't your room.

It was Simon's.

You'd spent hours, days, in that room. More than your own.

Why wouldn't you? You were about to get married to the man. You had more in this room than you had in yours.

Sharp breaths leave you, shivering in your effort to keep yourself together, your head goes back into the wall, swallowing down the ache in your chest.

You wait, muscles tensed and your body pressing back into the wall, hoping it'd absorb you if that door opens. Listening for every sound, any pin drop, even an exhale from beyond that doorway. Luckily, Simon seemed to be out for the day.

Hurriedly, nearly running, you steady yourself against the wall as you rush down to the corner of the hallway, finally finding your room.

Turning the handle, it's not locked, it's broken. It opens with ease.

Entering the room slowly, pushing the doorway aside, the crackle of glass beneath your boots as you step forwards, clothes and picture frames laying scattered.

The mattress flipped and ripped open, springs and cotton cut from it. Your wall of metals and certificates, from acts of bravery and mementos of valor, discarded, later you'd find them in the trash, one with a bullet lodged into the gold.

Sniffling as you leaned down, picking a specific frame off the ground, the only one that hadn't been broken. Laying along the ruined rug, with no care for the glass digging through your jeans, you stare at the still shot of your family.

The only family you had outside of Task Force 141, your father and his sister, military brats themselves, until their retirement. Your mother had passed, or just up and left, days after your 5th birthday, you weren't completely sure, the story kept changing every year. But, these two were the only family you've ever known, ever had, until you joined the military, following in their footsteps.

They'd been so proud when you arrived back after your first assignment, in truth you were heavily traumatized, but seeing them, you just had to smile. Having a family that understood the harsh toll on the line of a trooper, now a lieutenant, it was always easier to bring your troubles to them. But, they were also military nuts so "suck it up" was also a quick go to answer from your aunt, while your father was the smoother talker.

They had met Simon, loved him, his rank, his love for you, his seriousness. They trusted him completely with your heart.

So, when he called them, after the evidence leaked...

They believed him.

"What're you talking about?" You took the handle of the chair in your grip, easing you down into it as your legs do weak at what you were hearing. "I didn't...I didn't do it, Dad."

"Do you know how humiliating and disappointing--how it felt to hear him say that to me, hm?" he says, static crackles on the reciever. "My daughter...my own flesh and blood...working with terrorists--"

"I'm not working with anyone! Are you-" you huff out a breath of disbelief. "Are you even listening to me? I've never betrayed the code. How can you think that way of me?"

For a moment, he's silent. "Alright, then," he began. "Than, what'd you do? huh?"

"What--what..."

"Oh, come on, (Y/n)!" your father yells. "What did you do?! What could they possibly have had on you that made you the most likely target? You had to have had done something, been somewhere, were with somebody you weren't supposed to be with! They didn't just get that information from anywhere."

"What the fuck--" Your expression twists with frustration and misery, running your hand through your hair, pulling at it. "I've sacrificed every part of myself for this job, for this team, what do I have to gain from throwing that all away? They send me everywhere, places you've never heard of, places you'll never hear about and people you'll never have to meet, because of me! Why would you just believe Simon? Why couldn't you just wait to talk to me?!"

Hearing your father scoff at your words was painful. "What reason do I have not to believe him? He knows you, maybe even better than any of us. Besides, he was going to be my son in law--"

"I'm your daughter! Fuck Simon, what about me? You'd believe him instead?"

He sighs. "Listen, you're upsetting Cass. We didn't expect your call. I gotta make this brief..."

"You're upset?" pulling at your hair, sucking in sharply. "I'm the one who's permanently fucking altered here. What do either of you have to be upset about?!"

"Watch your fucking mouth!" he seethes. The anger in his voice isn't new, but the way he spits it at you is. "You did this to yourself, I didn't. Maybe that's what your nightmares were about, am I right? Your guilt?"

Wiping the streaks of tears that had fallen down your face, lips quivering and chest aching with sobs you frustratedly shoved down. "Why don't you believe me?"

"I don't deserve the disgrace that will come with you as my kin, I've lived my part of this war. No daughter of mine should even be in this fucking position," your father spat, disgusted into the receiver. Suddenly, he was the cruel, bitter old man your mother had always known him to be, you wished she had stayed to at least remind you of that. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt as much. "You should be ashamed of yourself, but at least you got yourself out it. The least you could do for us."

"Well--what does that mean?" you spoke, quietly.

"Don't call again..."

"Dad, no--" you break this time, a sob escaping you.

"Me and your Aunt Cass..."

"Daddy please, don't do this--"

"..We've decided to cut ties. We're not taking any heat from this, you're on your own," he finishes, clearing his throat, waiting a moment, listening to the pleads and cries of his only daughter, his once pride. "You take care of yourself. Goodbye, kid."

"Why can't you just believe me? Why?!" you cried.

"Don't come to the house."

"No, no,--" the line goes dead. And staring down at your phone, his caller id going blank and the call disconnecting.

Your phone all of a sudden feels heavy, the device and your hand falling down to your thigh, before the phone slips out of your grip and onto the floor. You sit there silently, until your tears drop up and even after.

Staring at the photo now was haunting in its own way, it was just another painful reminder.

Using the bed frame to stand to your feet, your grip on the frame is painful as you squeeze it, the glass cracks audibly.

"Bonnie..."

Whipping around at the sound of John MacTavish's voice, you back up a few steps at the sight of him, your back hitting the edge of your desk.

He reaches out as you stumble, before his fingers curl back into his palm as you find your balance, his hands receding back to his sides. He doesn't enter the room, just lingering just beyond the doorway, his eyes flickering around the room, guiltily.

"I didn't know--we didn't know you were out," he speaks quietly, as opposed prideful personality that translated into his voice usually.

You say nothing.

In the dark, your eyes are wide and your shoulders are tensed up, he can see the glint of your leg braces, the iv pole at the side, the scar beneath your eye. You looked terrified to see him.

"We were coming back to clean up today, just got back from...from a mission..." he stutters on his words, shifting his feet.

"It's been a week."

His lips press together hearing your voice. "I know..." Johnny glances around at the room he'd let those officers destroy, it hadn't been them, but they might as well had done it. "I know...we just...didn't know it was so bad."

"Really?" your voice is mockingly sweet, drawing out the word. "You didn't know? Well look..." you hold up your family photo, the light in the hallway catching on the glass. "You missed one."

Your hand dropping, the heavy frame comes down just as fast, ramming into the ground, the glass practically exploding on impact.

Johnny flinches, the photo of your family...He looks back to you, surprised. "Bonnie..."

Snatching the next closest thing from your desk, a ceramic cup. "Oh, wow, can't believe you guys missed this one," you chuck it into the wall. It breaks on impact, the remains scatter along the flipped mattress and onto the floor. "That used to be my favorite mug by the way."

The Scotsman worriedly steps forwards, 'Lass, I'm sorry--"

"FUCK YOU!" you spat, coming into the light. You're sure you look deranged, and you didn't care. You could've wrapped your hands around his throat, killed him right on the floor and you wouldn't have blinked. "It doesn't mean anything! 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', over and over and over again! As if you shouldn't be! Your apologies mean fuck all."

"I know...I know," he breathes. "But, I've gotta say it anyway, bonnie. I should've believed you, there was no reason not to. I know that now. I just--"

"Believe me!" you cut him off with a yell. "Trust me! Fucking 'HELP ME'!" you screamed with the same fever as your days in the interrogation room, that terrible cell, the cold, the burn and pain. "I cried it all to you, to all of you, and nobody came. Nobody came for me," you breathe in sharply. "It doesn't matter what you should've done. You didn't do it!"

Johnny's eyes are red, he opens his mouth, closes it and then swallows down whatever chokes him up as he looks at you. "I should've came for you. I wish I did. I wanted to, Bonnie..." he steps forwards, and you recede back away from him, your eyes narrowed with violence. "I'll never forgive myself for not listening to you. For not coming to help you. For laying a hand on you. I'm so sorry, (Y/n). I'm sorry..."

I'll never forgive myself... "That makes two of us," you assured.

Johnny's eyes widen, before they close, his guilt ever consuming. He can't help but understand, to respect your decision, to know things can never be ok again. "(Y/n)...."

Grabbing hold of the nearest thing, a pencil cup, you hurl it at Johnny. He doesn't put his hands up, flinching as it hits him, the metal clinking against his kevlar, eyes closing then opening, he stands still. "I don't forgive. I don't accept your apology. I don't fucking care about it!" with each sentence you throw something else his way, a broken frame, the trash bin, a pillow, the CD player.

His hand has to come up for the knife you unsheathe, a memento from one of your missions, it's rusted, ancient probably. But, you hadn't given it up to a museum or to pawn, you had nearly died on this mission, saving Johnny ironically. You had to keep it.

Seeing the weapon, his defensive position is instinctive but his hands drop just as fast, he understands, you need this. You deserve this. "If you need to..." he speaks. Your eyes flicker up to him, away from the knife. "If you need to, I get it..."

And you need to. You really fucking do.

Your grip on the knife is dangerously hard, it hurts.

Looking at Johnny, he'd been your brother in more than a few ways on and off the field, he had been your comfort, your friend, your family. You had bled with him, held onto him as he carried you from the battlefield, joked, laughed, screamed and cried. You've loved him for years.

He'd had a rough few nights you could see that. He was quieter, reserved. Almost as terrified to see you, as you had been of him.

And you could kill him right now and never bat an eye.

And so, throwing that knife was so fucking easy.

Johnny's eyes close as you do just that, fists clenching and teeth biting down on his tongue to prepare for the pain.

The ancient weapon whiz's through the air, the sound is sharp and he knows it will cut through him like butter.

The thud rings in the room, and Johnny's eyes blow open wide, holding his breath as he collapses to his knees, before turning to you.

You dig into the pile of clothes that had been cast aside, a pair of sneakers and a new shirt. You don't look at him a single time as you take it all, stuffing them in a bag, and leaving the room, passing him completely, a limp in your step.

Johnny releases a pained breath, tears finally leaving him as he looks up, the knife lodged into the frame of the doorway, just barely missing him. The sleeve of his uniform ripped open.

He sits there in the quiet, destroyed room. A testimony to the relationship he's destroyed between you.

Part 4!! OUT NOW