#sorry mcyt people i gotta do something else sometimes
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Recovery One
Washington undergoes experimental surgery: installing Project Freelancer's AI program into his head. Epsilon tries to break his way out of Washington's skull. Washington deals with the symptoms of a thing that wants nothing but to escape.
aeuhmmm so I got a little silly with the freelancers again and decided to write something about what wash and epsilon might've gone through before it was extracted for obvious reasons. this is chapter one! tagged this pretty heavily on ao3 but tw for blood, injury, medical procedures, emotional hurt/comfort, and trauma. (3238 words) (read it on ao3!)
The walls of the Mother of Invention seem colder tonight. It's like Washington's body is a heat source, and the hard beds of Recovery One are the sink, drawing every last shred of warmth from where his flimsy surgical clothes meet cloth. He can feel the handful of sensors stuck to his skin, along the inside of his left wrist, keeping careful track of his heart rate, his oxygen, and his blood pressure. The base of his skull is still aching, a thrum that settles equally in the channel of his spine.Â
Cold, shivering, curled pathetically on that hard mattress, Washington is trying to sleep. He's twitchy, stomach twisted into rough knots, and every time he shuts his eyes the spinning of the world only gets worse. The gravity on Invention is generated by a massive column of constantly pulsing electricity, but if Wash were to step foot onto the ground below him, he's certain he'd float upward far too quickly. Or fall face down. One of those would definitely happen.Â
He tries to breathe through the wave of nausea that passes. It's all a byproduct of the chip in his skull. The voice is quiet for now. They're fighting to use the same bodyâhis body, with all its human joints and mostly untorn muscles and surficial bruises and just a handful of really broken bones. It hurts like something electric shudders just under the first few layers of skin, or like someone took his nerves and ran them through the shredder. He kind of feels like the paper in the shredder, or the shredder itself. Or maybe the paper when itâs half in the shredder and half out. When's the last time he held a piece of paper? Did people still shred paper? He breathes again.
He's under a 24 hour watch. Twenty four hours of this. He screws his eyes shut and the ship around him swings back and forth on a pendulum. He digs his fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and tries to breathe through it. The stars start to fade after a moment of breaths through his teeth. North used to joke about how anxious Theta made himâthat swing of artificial fear through his nervous system, how he had to breathe through the waves of adrenaline to keep himself level. Little spikes happened now and then, making a purely perfunctory condition ten times worse, but North seemed to nurture himself until the feeling gave way to something productive.Â
Wash isnât having that much luck.Â
It wasnât something easy to pin down. He wasnât just anxious, or sad, or angry. He wasnât happy, or disgusted, or a middle combination of the emotions he knew how to regulate. It felt like a swirl of everything, of nothing, completely out of his grasp. The AIâEpsilonâwas having a field day as he tore open the synapses of Washâs standing memory and tried to make room. And Wash was fighting back. The lines had already begun to blur and Wash could only assume the after-effects were due to that unalignment, that unmeshed surface. Epsilon needed a blank slate. It was the only thing Wash wasnât able to offer.
When he breathes again, his stomach turns violently. He lurches, hands grasping at the cool bedside, swallowing hard. His hands shake as they hold onto the smooth surface below him. Okay, fineâeyes open. Another breath out of his teeth. He can taste sour in the back of his mouth.Â
The world is foggy when he opens his eyes again. He drags himself up slowly as his head continues to spin like a wobbly top. The top sheet comes with him, wrapped over his shoulders as he drags himself into the bathroom. Thereâs a moment where he wobbles, stepping forward for the first time, socked foot firmly set on the floor. He canât even thinkâthe quiet that was there seems to settle into a background of whispers he canât make out. He speaks out loud to himself, trying to get a word into his crowded brain, or to force himself to step forward.
âI need a drink, thatâs it,â he says, in a voice heâs not sure is entirely his own anymore. He swallows again. Anything to get the taste out of his mouth. He can hear that echo of a voice bounce around inside his skull as he drags himself forward uneasily.
âPlease,â Wash manages to garble out. âI canât⌠I canât help you.â
He manages to stumble to the doorway of the bathroom, sheet left crumpled at his feet as he braces hard on the edge of the sink. His breaths come fast and hard as he stands upright, fingers white-knuckled where they grip the countertop. The world tilts, and he feels his body slump into the wall beside him. The white light of the room does little to obscure the sheen of sweat on his face, or the way his hands shake as he tries to turn on the faucet. He cups his hands. The water is cold on his flushed and feverish skin. He presses his cool, damp palms to his eyes and drinks from his hands. Washington breathes. The world seems to settle as the cool air hits his skin. Heâs not seeing double for now.
The moment of reprieve is short-lived. His stomach folds over itself, rolling a cold, then hot wave across his skin as he doubles over the sink. The voice inside his head is slamming against the walls of his skull like it could break through. He canât understand the words, how they crush and morph together against the new spike of pain behind his eyes, but it sounds like screaming. Something scared, and horrified, and desperate, pleading. But maybe thatâs him.Â
He gags. The rest of his dinner comes up in the sink. He coughs, trying to swallow it back down, nose stinging. He heaves in a breath. His eyes water and he doesnât stop them from dripping off his cheeks.Â
Breathing heavily, Wash drags his hand over his face. It comes back damp, still shaking. He can taste iron in the back of his throat. When he looks in the mirror, eyes dark and sunken, itâs like he can barely recognize the face looking back at him. Wash shuts his eyes tightly. He holds to the edges of the sink, breath shuddering and whistling as he inhales. More tears fall; fear, grief, nothing actually his.Â
âI canâtââ he says, he sobs, as the voiceâEpsilonâpleads. Pleads for him to make space, to be something other than he is, to let him out, to let him go. âThey wonâtââÂ
Across the room, thereâs a quiet knock on the door. He jolts, eyes darting to the closed door. Another knock. Wash brings up a shaky hand, wiping the tears from his chin. He rinses off what he can from his hands, pulling tissues to dry his face. He can still taste the film of bile in the back of his mouth. Washington steadies, blinking his eyes fully open.
âWash, itâs North. Came to check up on you.â
North. Oh. Wash shudders as he laughs, just a little. Sure. He leans back from the sink, lowering himself gingerly to the floor to grab the sheet. As he steps carefully to the bedside, he replaces the sheet and begs that he finds his sense of composure before he opens the door.
âComing,â he manages, voice wavering.
He makes his way around the bed, hand braced slightly on the wall as he steps over. The door slides open as he stand in the doorway.
North is standing in his pajamas, a concerned sort of pull to his face. He smiles a little when Wash opens the door, but Wash is too busy staring at his own socked feet and Northâs boots to really notice. Northâs voice is soft when he speaks. It reminds Wash of the one time South blacked out during dive training and North wouldnât leave her side.
âHowâs it goinâ, buddy?â North says gently.
âBest day of my life,â Wash jokes, laughing weakly. North huffs out a laugh, folding his arms.
âI know theyâve got you under watch, so youâre in good hands,â he says, inclining his head. âHowâs the headache? The tingling? Anything blurry?â
Wash takes a second, sighing and shutting his eyes. Itâs funny that North would say that, isnât it. He gets the shuddering feeling of something not his own as he stands propped against the wall, trying to hold himself up.
âStill painful,â he manages, pressing his hands to his eyes. âEverythingâs blurry.â
âYeeshââ North says, sucking in a breath through his teeth. âYouâre taking it slow though, right?â
Wash nods.
âIâm trying to,â he says. âBest I can given the circumstances. Itâs hard to sleep with all theâŚâ He waves his hand around listlessly around his head, as if trying to get his point across. The voice. The emotions. Whatever chugged through his memory and forced itself in. It was an almost-physical, painful sensation. North nods knowingly. Wash doubts that he knows much at all.
âIâm sorry, Wash,â North says, his concern sincere. âItâll get better with time, though. Youâll have a few days to settle in before the Director sends you out on missions, Iâm sure.â
Wash nods again. Itâs the most he can really do. His head feels like itâs full of soup gone sour.
âRight,â he says slowly, the words thickening in his mouth to a paste. âRight, I hope so.â
North smiles. He can tell, all of a sudden, as he does every time North summons Theta to the front, how right he was for his AI, how much the nurturing nature he so eagerly kept hidden blossomed when it was needed, when it would be properly appreciated. That smile alone settles a warm swirl through Washâs chest, trickling into his lungs and his heart. The same happens when North reaches out, cupping his shoulder with his broad palm and squeezing, just enough to feel the heat of his hand. He jostles Washington slightly as he does. Wash manages a smile, huffing out through his nose, his eyes falling shut again as he lets the comfort of touch sink in for just a moment. As North draws his hand away and Wash straightens, North says:
âAlright, Iâll let you get back to resting, okay Wash?â
Wash hums in response.
âYou let me know if you need anything. Weâre all just down a floorâIâm sure York and I wouldnât mind stopping in.â
Wash sighs, finally pushing himself to a stand, away from the wall. He doesnât say anything, but a creeping realization settles in the pit of his stomach, right next to the warmth that used to pervade his joints. He swallows. Instead of feeling nothing, he feels burning in the back of his throat, up his nose. He nods regardless.
âGood deal, buddy,â North smiles. He nods, just a curt bob of his head. âAlright, Iâll be seeinâ you.â
âIââ And all of a sudden, the feelings pervading, the ones not his own, rear their head. He swallows roughly, trying to make out a sentence. He mumbles out his next words, vision blurring. âPlease donâtââ
âWash?â North asks, startling, the twinge of concern now laid thick in his words. Wash startles too, blinking hard. What was happening to him? He shakes his head, turning it from North for a moment as he wills himself back to the present. He isnât leaving, North lives here. He wonât just abandon him. But he can still feel the weight of the word goodbye. The weight of see you soon.
âSorry, Iâm justâŚâ Wash shudders out a sigh, trying to find a viable excuse. âIâm on edge I guess. Donât worry about it.â
Northâs eyes widen.
âWash, your noseââ he says, moving forward to help him. Wash takes an instinctive step back, cupping his hand around his chin. He can feel the warm dribble of blood now, the taste of iron in the back of his mouth. He shakes his head as he keeps North at armâs length, turning to fetch tissue from the bathroom.Â
âItâs fine,â he croaks out, fumbling for the sink. He runs his hands under the warming water, tipping his head forward. Blood drips into the sink but his eyes are screwed shut too tight to see it. Wash can barely hear Northâs voice above the running water, but he hears the door to his room slide shut. Reaching for the tissue, Wash swabs gingerly at his nose, still tasting the metallic tang on his teeth. As he turns back to the room, North is hovering at his bedside, concern written across his whole face. Wash watches his jaw work, his upturned eyes wide and searching Washâs expression. Washington shakes his head.
âItâs fine,â he says again, barely a sound at all. He jams part of the tissue up his nose, swallowing back whatever was left in his mouth. North gestures to the glass of water still half empty at Washâs bedside. Wash sits, his legs giving out beneath him, and he drinks.
North takes his time getting to the space in front of him, circling the end of the Recovery Bay bed like Wash were an injured animal about to bite him. Luckily for him, Washington feels far too heavy to move any of his limbs, as if all the energy had been siphoned out of him and into the air, leaving it charged and staticky. He couldnât find the strength to bite even if he tried. He smooths his hand over the pant leg of his hospital clothes in calculated movements. The scratchy fabric is so thin he can almost feel his body heat through it. Or lack thereof.Â
âI donât know how fine it is, Wash,â North says, folding his arms. He leans against the arm of the chair across from Wash, not exactly sitting, but not really standing. âI certainly wasnât getting nosebleeds like that with Theta.â
âWell,â Wash manages hoarsely, shutting his eyes tight again. âWith all due respect, Theta was a little more⌠stable.â
âEpsilonâs unstable?â North asks. Wash flinches. He can feel that paper shredder sensation again as he shrinks back. âWash?â
âItâs okay,â Wash mumbles. âItâs justâside effects.â
Northâs face grows taut and stern. When Wash flicks his eyes up to read his face heâs met with a strong set to Northâs jaw. North shakes his head, sounding unconvinced.
âItâs not supposed to be this bad,â he says. He drums his fingers against his arm.
Wash sighs. The sound is curt when it leaves his chest. Itâs all the energy he has left to expel before it dissolves into an empty hollow in his chest.
âItâs nothing,â he says.
âWashington,â North starts, leaning off the chair and moving toward the bedside. Wash curls further over his lap, as if trying to move away from whatever suggestion North could have for him. Itâs not something so easy to fix. Itâs just. Itâs justâ
âItââ Wash takes a long, laborious breath in. He feels something very small break inside his chest as he breathes out, his exhale shuddering. His vision goes blurry in the few feet in front of him, from knees to floor, that he can see. âI donâtââ
âHeyâŚâ North soothes. He lowers himself to Washingtonâs side, hand coming to cup his shoulder. Wash leans, half intentional and half not, into the touch as North squeezes his arm.
âThe memories arenât mine,â Washington babbles, unintelligible to anyone but himself. âI donât want them in my head.â
âI know,â North placates regardless. And for a moment, it feels like he means it. It doesnât really matter if he does or doesnât. The arms that come around him are strong and warm and solid and friendly as Wash makes contact with the hollow of Northâs shoulder. He doesnât mean to collide and fall so easily, but the arms around him hold on, and hold firm, and he begins to think through the haze of memories not his own that he really didnât have much say in the matter. North draws him in regardless and Wash sinks himself into his side. He cries and no sound escapes him. He squeezes his eyes shut. Faintly, he can hear North whistle out a breath, through the shff of fabric as he slowly and gently drags his palm over the line of Washingtonâs shoulders.
âI just need it to stop,â Washington chokes out. It doesnât matter whoâs speaking. The relentless tug of war continues on in his head, even if he canât hear it, even if it wonât really surface. It doesnât matter who wants their memories back. It just matters that his body feels like heâs been electrically shocked: drained, shaken out, and hurting.
âBreathe, Wash,â North soothes. Washington does as heâs told, the air scratchy in his throat. He shudders out the breath, trying to keep each stable and even. North doesnât say anything for a while. He lets Wash breathe and lean into his shoulder, and the silence gives Wash a moment of reprieve as his mind goes quiet. He just focuses on breathing, in through his nose and out through his mouth. North leans just slightly back into him, cheek resting on the top of his head.Â
Wash blinks his eyes open. He stares into the middle distance with his vision still blurry, and Northâs weight against him keeps him, rather than whatever threatens to invade his memory further, grounded. Wash makes an unintelligible sound as North sighs.
âGreat, Wash,â North says lightly. âDoing great.â
âWell, I feel like shit,â Wash manages, almost amused.
North hums softly in agreement, but doesnât really respond. His hold around Wash grows a little tighter, though, firmer around his shoulder and forearm as Wash sags. His eyes shut again as his breaths remain even, face pressed to Northâs shoulder. Heâs a bit too large for them to properly fit together, even as they sit side by side on the bed. He lets go of a long breath as the rush of previous anxiety, the new bubbling fear, and exhaustion slip out all at once. In their wake is a pit of nothing, absent of emotion, in his stomach. Tired lingers instead in the same space, around that nothing. He can feel his body grow heavy against North and he has half the mind to mention how tired he actually is. But North hasnât moved, regardless if heâs noticed or not, and the hand on his shoulderblade, and the head resting against his, remains. The world goes blissfully soft for a moment, his body heavy and his mind quiet. Itâs only when he blinks his eyes open again that he realizes heâs lying down. North is gone.
He squints at the room around him, lifting his head slightly. Heâs on his back with the sheet draped over him, comfortable against the pillows. For once, his body and head donât ache, and whatever voice that might be screaming is silent. When he lifts himself further, the room spins, tipping violently this way and that. Wash lets himself back down. For now, he decides that the comfort he has is better taken than lost, and he shuts his eyes.
The world goes muted and grey around him. His body sinks to the mattress.
He has a feeling he wonât wake again for some time.
#red vs blue#rvb#rvb wash#rvb agent washington#agent washington#project freelancer#text#fics#yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay yippeeeeeeee#i am. perhaps a little crazy about him. in a way that is normal and healthy and not insane#its fine guys dont worry#i didnt sit down and write 10k+ in two weeks from three very different perspectives.#haha!!!!#anyway oooh you wanna talk to me about rvb soo baaad#sorry mcyt people i gotta do something else sometimes#there is more xisuma on the way pspspspsp#i prooomise#tw blood#tw injury#tw medical trauma
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Hi kip can you help if itâs not too much trouble? I need to drop a hyperfixation real quick. My current hyperfixation is mcyt and after learning this stuff about dream & other content creators and despite liking some other creators iâm Not Prepared to get my heart broken or support these people. For context i like ranboo (please look up ranboo trevor project) and i was grateful for that because ive needed the trevor projectâs help before. But i cant do this anymore bestie i gotta leave mcytblr
Yeah get out of there bestie, Iâve already seen the dream stans defending his trump supporting reddit account on twitter And is it weird that Iâm excited to see people try to defend him on tumblr? Maybe itâs just me? Like I donât want it to exist, but if it comes on my dash Iâm gonna be laughing so hard that thatâs exciting. Anyways
Iâm not really an expert on this? So uh...all I can say from personal experience is that if you want get rid of your hyperfixation, just hyperfixate on something else. Pour all your energy into another fandom, I know hermitcraft is another mcyt series that isnât problematic (to my knowledge) if youâre into that. Or it really doesnât need to be minecraft, it could be something that you love already, now just double down on it.
And honestly, people sometimes give too much power to the word âhyperfixation.â Like obviously Iâm not referring to you, because youâre trying, which is great!--but Iâll see people like âI canât drop dsmp because Iâm hyperfixated.â Itâs not a magical curse, alright? It just requires more work for certain types of people, but itâs certainly not an excuse. If you donât put in the effort to rid yourself of a fandom/content creators who made jokes about rape, blackface, police brutality, and the holocaust and more, while also supporting Notch (transphobe, white supremacist, q-anon conspirator, antisemitic) and fucking DONALD TRUMP, at that point itâs not an issue of mental illness, thatâs people just actively choosing to accept these things as ok because they were too lazy to find something new.
So yeah, donât view this as the âstruggle to get rid of something you loveâ itâll be a lot easier and more effective to see it as it really is, in that your removing your support for millionaire assholes who donât give a crap about you. These bitches make like 3 million dollars a month, they wonât miss you and donât even know you.
Sorry if this is really harsh, Iâm sure thereâs silver linings, like you said you like some of the things they did--but if you really want to break out of that hyperfixation you gotta just put the pedal to the metal and ignore the sympathies, block the tag, block the blogs, do everything, because they donât deserve anything.
âOh but Kip theyâre not a cliche evil villain everyone is a human being with flaws who can change and grow and we can see the best in them--â Itâs not your job to decide how bad or how good of a person these people are. You donât know them, they donât know you. What you do know is that if you continue to attach yourself and support them, youâre supporting their shitty ideals, and the thing you need to do is book it 180 degrees ASAP.
You donât get a medal for sticking beside an asshole through thick and thin, and you donât get crucified if you block someone who is maybe a decent human. I promise you that you have nothing to lose, there is worlds upon worlds of content out there that can and will satisfy you.
So when you detach from them physically by pouring your sights into a new fandom, and blocking the tag, as well as detaching emotionally be realizing that theyâre a bunch of rich youtubers who will be fine without you and deserve to be called out for their mistakes, then it should be all the more easier to have that hyperfixation fade away. So take out the gasoline and get to burning, my friend
#anon i know half of this might not even apply to you but I just wanted to rant a bit cause HH#Kip answers semi-coherently
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