#so it's like either i go on autopilot or i just completely fail to function | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

folkloreguk · 3 years

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Shower Thoughts

A/N: I like writing about personal emotions a lot…this feels a little like writing a diary but also like self-therapy and it really helps me. I hope anyone who also feels this way knows that they’re not alone with those feelings. Also happy birthday to the sweetest @sunghoonied!! I wrote this thinking of you and I hope you have the best day ♡ PS. I didn't proofread this so if you find errors kindly lmk please! x

genre: optional bias (male), meant to comfort you, angst, fluff, talk of loneliness / anxiety but with a good ending!

words: ~ 2.5 k

taglist: @lovely-ateez, @mochi-ficz, @soundsofminho, @runaway-fics

People said that walking was supposed to clear your mind. But then why was it, that you had gotten so lost in your worst thoughts out there? The time spent in fresh air was meant to let your mind wander to calm places and smiling at strangers should have made you feel less lonely. But with every step you took and with every passing face your body felt heavier. Not only did you carry your figure, but the crushing burden that had been nagging at you for weeks.

Watching others stroll around the streets seemed so easy. And perhaps it should have been easy, after all. It made you wonder, maybe you were the only one whose mind was constantly covered in dark rain clouds. Maybe everyone had their place in the world, and they knew just where and with whom they belonged. Surely, they didn’t overthink every conversation they had with a random stranger. Did their brain also function merely on autopilot in public, while the back of your mind was chaos of doubt and fear? Was there anybody else who spent day to day worrying about never finding someone who could deal with the burden of you and your issues? How was somebody else going to love you if you were this sad?

Those people that care about you are the ones you should be honest with, after all. There was no brushing off the How Are You question with a quick “I’m fine”. How could someone deal with the real answer you would give? You didn’t want to pull anybody down with you when you were hurting. So then again, maybe it was for the better your apartment was always empty when you came home. With no one to ask you about your feelings, you couldn’t cause anyone else agony and worry. Your own pain was enough – one person was enough to deal with it.

You shoved your shoes in the corner next to your door. If it wasn’t for your mental state, you would’ve guessed your jacket was a hundred kilos heavy. But even after you had peeled it off, nothing changed. You dragged your body to the bathroom.

You’d be so proud if only you could go one day without crying. And you had almost made it, had it not been for the godforsaken shower water. There was something about seeing the droplets on your skin and on the tiles that caused your tears to come out freely. The noise of the shower made you feel shut off from the rest of the world. Now it was just you and your salty ocean tears. The tears united with the shower water. It was hard to tell which drops on your cheek had originated in your swollen eyes and which had fallen from the shower head. This way, it seemed almost as if there was an invisible force that was wiping over your face, trying to appease your sobs.

But there was nobody. And that was why you only cried harder. If only you had listened to your own words when you tried to cheer yourself up. Then maybe you would feel better when you wrapped your arms around your own body. You were desperate. The notion that someone could hold you like this, one day, should have gifted you at least some form of hope. But no, you knew it wouldn’t happen any time soon. Not with this mindset and your sadness.

You hiccupped helplessly. This was all so tiring. Before you knew it, you sat down on the shower floor under the hot stream. At least there was no one waiting to get into the shower after you. So you wouldn’t have to feel guilty about blocking the bathroom and wasting all the hot water. For a few minutes you remained on the floor, drowning out your cries under the splashing sound. You felt the impulse to scream. Look, I’m here! I’m a person with interests and passions and emotions! Doesn’t anybody see me? I’m sick of only existing! Won’t somebody teach me how to live?

But at most, that would cause you a noise complaint. If only you weren’t so terrible at talking to people. Maybe you could make a friend someday – when your anxiety got better. Like in a trance, you finally switched off the water and grabbed your towel. You were so utterly lost in your thoughts, that everything went by as if you were only watching from the sidelines. You got out of the shower, dried off, put on some body lotion – an attempt at self-care – and got dressed in the most comfortable, baggy clothes you owned.

What on earth would you do tonight? There really were only so many ways you could have fun (or rather distract yourself from feeling down) when you were all by yourself and everything reminded you of how lonely you were. The option of just going to sleep slipped past you. But you weren’t tired enough. You knew you’d lie awake for hours, left alone with your thoughts. And crying yourself to sleep was the last thing you wanted right now.

So you opted for the most mainstream idea: Netflix. You plopped down on the sofa, a steaming hot cup of tea on the small table in front of you. Now you only had one thing left to do. You needed to choose some stupid show and let the problems of tv characters invade your brain and pray they would shove out your own issues. You weren’t even hungry. Although there was a part of you that wished it could have eaten your weight in chocolate, but you knew that had little to do with hunger.

Just as you reached for the remote control, the sound of your doorbell made you jump. I’ll just let it be. They’ll think I’m not home and leave. Those thoughts came right away. It made you curse yourself. You had just cried over feeling alone, but now you’re shutting out some random neighbor who probably just needs some tiny favor from you. Way to go. So, more to prove a point to yourself than to be friendly, you stepped to your door and opened it.

“Hi.” It was your neighbor. Your handsome, kind neighbor, who you always met at the local grocery store. You were so mentally exhausted you didn’t even feel self-conscious about looking the way you did. Although you hoped your eyes had recovered from the redness, at least a little. “Hi,” you greeted him back.

“Look, I really don’t want to be intrusive. And if you want me to leave, I will,” he said. He fumbled with his hands, as if he was nervous about his words. “But I kind of heard you…cry…in the shower. And I know you live alone, and I figured if you’re crying you probably don’t have any company. I guess I just wanted to check whether you’re okay. Do you have someone to talk to?”

With every word your heart only sped up. You felt like a trapped rabbit in a corner and the meaning of his message only sunk in slowly. Yes, of course. I’ll call my friend and talk to them,you wanted to say. But that would have been a massive lie. And you just couldn’t lie to him. Not when he stood there, in his fuzzy sweater and fresh-out-the-shower damp hair, with eyes so worried and attentive. You weren’t sure if it was from how touched you were by his concern for you, or if it was your sadness catching up to you again. Before you could swallow your tears, your eyes filled to the brim and your vision turned blurry.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, not sure what for. Hurriedly, you used your sweater paw to wipe your leaking eyes. You didn’t want him to feel bad for you, but now you had achieved just that and more. Your embarrassment set in and you finally came out with the truth. “I don’t have anyone to talk to.”

“No need to be sorry. It’s alright. We all have those days, don’t we? I just want you to know that you’re not alone. And I have nothing to do…so if you need someone to talk to, or even just to keep you company…I can stay with you for a bit…or you can come over to mine. I just don’t want you to feel alone. But if you would prefer to be by yourself, that’s okay. People deal with things differently.”

You were so baffled that your ability to speak completely fell through. The idea of someone, an almost-stranger, going so out of their way to make sure you were okay blew you away. He knew nothing about you. But here he was, taking a chance on you, nonetheless. Only then you realized you probably looked like a fool, staring at him but failing to answer. Quickly, you prompted yourself to open your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.

“What were you doing just now?” he asked. “Any plans for the evening?”

“I was going to watch a movie, I guess,” you said. “And I think some company would be very nice.”

He smiled at you like was your childhood best friend and you had just reconnected after years of being apart. That’s why it felt the more natural to let him enter your apartment. You got into small talk about what it was like living in the building and how his apartment had a mirrored structure to yours. The simplest conversation took your mind off your sorrow right away. You felt like thanking him would be a little dramatic after he had barely settled on your sofa, so you kept it to yourself. Either way, the small smile on your face felt like warm, soothing sunlight on your skin after eight consecutive days of rain.

“Do you want to talk about anything?” he asked. You thought for a moment.

“No, I think I’d rather just distract myself,” you said. Even though you were grateful for having him here, you feared if you spilled your guts to him you would only scare him away.

“Alright,” he said without judgement. “What film were you planning on watching?”

And so you started your movie. There was a respectful distance between you on the sofa. But his simple presence next to you was more than you could have asked for tonight. He was like a heater, providing safety and comfort in the coldest winter. Hearing someone else chuckle at the jokes in the movie along with you was magnificent. His laughter sounded like a rainbow. It seeped into your body and your soul straightened up and bloomed like a parched flower being watered after all this loneliness.

But even under all the light, your problems were still here, waiting to nag at you. You knew they would consume you when he returned to his own apartment later. They would laugh at you for trying to socialize but staying closed off as always. Just because someone saw you didn’t mean they understood you and who you are. And how was one supposed to make human connections if they treated their thoughts like strictly confidential information in front of everybody? No, you had to tell him.Impulsively, you pressed the stop-button on the remote. He shot you a questioning gaze.

“I- I think maybe I do want to talk about something,” you confessed.

“You can tell me anything. I promise it’ll be safe with me. Let out whatever bothers you,” he said. His lovely, warm eyes were inviting like a haven for you. So you just started to talk. All your frustrations and reasons for anxiety were exiting your lips, floating all around you in the room. Airing out your weary brain finally, after holding everything in for weeks, was uncaging and nothing had felt this good in so long. Although your sadness wasn’t something that could be fixed by doing a task, the more thoughts and worries you explained to him, the easier it became. It wasn’t long before you felt your tears well up once more.

“It’s okay,” he said with his hand on your shoulder. This time, you didn’t try so hard to blink them away. Where there were emotions, there were tears, and he was right. It was fine to let them out. Through sniffles you finished telling him your issues.

“Is this okay?” he asked, gently putting his arm around your shoulder to hold your shaking figure. You hummed and nodded in agreement. His warmth was like a blanket to shelter you from the anxiety, if even just for a short while.

“I don’t expect you to know a solution,” you said. “I need to wait for it to get better. It’ll get better, eventually.”

“You’re right. It will all resolve,” he said. “I’m sorry things are so difficult. But you’re not alone, okay?”

You nodded again.

“Time will heal, I promise,” he said. “And until then, you have to hold on and keep going. The world’s a little cruel sometimes, when it shuts out the ones who struggle and don’t do as well as others. But you’re as much of a part of it as any other human on the street. And you’re just as important as them. You weren’t born to be successful or to achieve things. You’re here to live and be happy. So promise me to take care of yourself, and be gentle to yourself. Because you’re the only person that will be with yourself every second until the end. Please don’t be hard on yourself and have patience for good things to come around. And if it all feels like it’s too much for you, don’t feel guilty about reaching out for help. You can always ring my doorbell if you need something.”

“Thank you so much,” you cried. Your cheek rested on his shoulder and you sat in silence for a while. It was unbelievable which wonders such a small conversation between two people could do. Your heart felt lighter and the thoughts were no longer racing through your head. Peace was settling in, and you welcomed it more than ever.

“Now that I’ve told you about me, what kind of person are you?” you asked through tears. He chuckled a little. All you knew until now was that he had a heart of gold. Which, to be fair, meant your impression of him was off to a pretty good start already. Your thoughts were cautious as you wondered…Maybe he could be my friend.

You abandoned the movie. Instead, you spent all evening chatting about whatever came to your mind. You discussed childhood dreams, favorite dishes, your best playlists down to the cutes dog breeds you had ever seen. It felt great, getting to know somebody. And your suspicions came true. His big heart wasn’t the only thing admirable about him. He was funny and knew just what to say when you felt awkward or shy. When you slipped into bed that night, you did so with a smile on your face. You had always told yourself that you weren’t alone. But sometimes, the most optimistic person needed a small reminder coming from somebody else. Here was yours.

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caffeineghostie · 3 years

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𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 - [1]

Pairing: Bucky x female!reader

Word Count: 1496 (i’m sorry lol)

Warnings: just fluff, mentions of sleeping troubles, bad writing

A/N: the title of this series was inspired by this song (Sure Feels Right - Sixx: A.M.). This episode is mainly a flashback, but I hope you like it! As always, feedbacks appreciated! :)

https://open.spotify.com/track/5b11bMeduZGRAAuSeK1Aay?si=a40f424f9cc04e42

Masterlist

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“Ms. Y/L/N”

Still asleep in the coziness of your warm bed, you hear a familiar voice making its way into your subconscious. It sounds like Friday. Why would you be dreaming of Friday? Maybe it’s just your imagination, you think. Checking the time on your phone with one e, you groan: it’s barely 6 in the morning, so you roll over in your bed trying to go back to sleep. It’s too soon to function, anyway.

“Ms. Y/N, your presence is required in the briefing room,”. So it wasn’t a dream. You wonder what could be so important to bother you at this ungodly hour. “It regards Mr. Barnes,” the AI adds.

Now suddenly awake, you jerk up and scramble your way up to the bathroom to make yourself at least look presentable. Thank God you sleep in just a hoodie and leggings, quickly checking yourself in the mirror you figure out that they will do. You hurry to the conference room, worried that something terrible might have happened to Bucky during the night.

/flashback/

Your room is situated directly above his. You learned that one sleepless night, just after your relocation from the S.H.I.E.L.D. Head Department. You had to take a physical test the day after, a test you’ve trained all your life for, and that was the only thing separating you from fulfilling your dream: becoming an avenger, and the anxiety wouldn’t let you sleep. After tossing and turning for hours, your eyelids finally decided to close at 4 in the morning, when a loud repeating thud startled you. You couldn't place the source of the noise at first, but it seemed to come from the ground. While considering whether to get back to sleep, the noise was driving you mad. Cursing under your breath, you ran out of your suite, trying to locate the origin of the disturbance.

Wandering around the dark compound, sparsely lit up by the daylight, you found yourself outside a bedroom. The banging sounds louder now. Hesitantly, you knocked on the door, the thump suddenly stopping.

"Come in, Steve!" you could hardly make his voice out, hushed by the door. Turning the cold doorknob, you entered the room.

You didn’t expect the former Winter Soldier to have such an excellent taste in home decor.

The first thing you notice is the giant window that opens up on the city; ivy decorates the walls, its ramifications spreading all around the room. Your gaze fell on the bed, over which was stationed the inhabitant of the room, who was now looking at you, confused.

It wasn’t the first time you saw him, having noticed him in the common room just that morning when you first arrived. But you hadn’t been properly introduced.

"Uhm, hi" you hint a smile, waving with your hand.

"Sorry, I thought you were Steve," he excuses himself

“No problem, I’m Y/N.” you introduce yourself

“Wait, you’re the new girl, right? Nice to meet you. I’m Bucky” he offers you his right hand, and you get close to him to shake it, noticing the small ball in his left hand, reminding you the reason you came down here.

"You can't sleep?" pointing to the ball he has in hand with a tilt of your head. You knew his story, you couldn’t blame him for having nightmares.

"Yeah… I have troubles sometimes,” he started fiddling with the toy, looking down, embarrassed, then he finally realized, “I’m sorry, did I wake you?” he asked, holding up the ball, now looking at you ”I didn’t think there were bedrooms upstairs” he apologized.

“No, don’t worry about it. I wasn’t getting much sleep, anyway. I have this test in the morning and I’m nervous,”

“Right, the placing thing, isn’t it? Good luck with that” he wished you, smiling.

"Thanks,” a lightbulb lights up in your head, grinning, you say: “I have an idea. Follow me”. And with that, you leave the room.

Bucky comes after you, confused but curious, up a couple of flights of stairs. The bedroom floors are on the highest level, so there’s no need to take the elevator. Arriving at the end of the corridor, you stand in front of a small red metal door, holding the handle with a hand. You turn around to face Bucky. and you find yourself on the roof.

“When I was little and I couldn’t sleep, my dad would always show me the sky. No matter if at night or in the morning, there was always something spectacular to watch. Like this” you say, opening the door. You are on the roof, gesturing at the scenery in front of you. Obviously, the stark tower was the tallest edifice around there, so you could enjoy the view without obstacles. The sun was coming up on New York City, its rays bouncing all over the buildings in front of you, creating a work of art in front of you.

“It's amazing,” Bucky is at a loss for words. Leaning on the metal railing that perimeters the roof, he takes in the scenery. “You know, I’ve been here for months and I’ve never thought of coming up here,” he scoffs, smiling and shaking his head.

“It made me realize that no matter what happens in life, the sun is always going to come up. Or the moon for what matters. It’s cheesy I know,” you chuckle, looking at him.

“Nah, it’s inspiring actually” he looks at you and his gaze lingers on you a couple of seconds longer than usual. You open your mouth to say something, but the beeping of your watch interrupts you: it’s 6.30.

“I gotta go, I have to get ready,” you say, looking back at Bucky.

“Right, the test. You’re gonna do great, doll, trust me,” he says smiling at you. “Oh, and thanks, for this, you know,” he adds, gesturing to the landscape.

“No problem” you laugh, “see you!” you go back to the door, turning one last time and catching sight of Bucky waving at you.

Just a handful of hours later, you nervously enter the gym. Your assigned supervisor is Steve Rogers, aka Captain America, is already there. Not exactly the person you were keen on disappointing.

The exam consists of completing a set itinerary in the minor time possible, and you were currently holding the highest record, that’s why your supervisors at shield sent you to the stark tower when a spot opened up amongst the avengers.

“Ms. Y/L/N, it’s a pleasure to have you here” Captain America holds out his hand to you, seeing you appear in the gym.

“Thank you, Captain Rogers, it’s an honor to meet you,” you shake his hand

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thank you” you reply nervously. What if you failed?

You enter in position, giving a quick glance at the door, and you notice Bucky leaning against the doorframe, smiling at you and holding two thumbs up.

Captain Rogers blows the whistle. Time to start. You know the course like the back of our hands, you’ve been training in all different combinations for years, and your mind goes on autopilot. Still, it’s an examination, and the fear of failing in front of your possible next boss is always at the back of your mind. But now it’s not the time to reconsider everything. You’re there now, you might as well give all you’ve got.

Just as you arrive at the finish line, Captain Rogers blows the whistle again, stopping the chronometer. You’re out of breath, hoping to have made at least the same time as your record.

“Seven minutes thirty-eight” he shouts from the other side of the gym, smiling at you

“What?!” it’s your personal best. You can’t believe it.

“Ms. Y/L/N, you’re officially part of the Avengers, congratulations!” Steve announces, smiling at you.

Looking back at Bucky, you see him mouthing a silent “Told you”, grinning at you.

You’re an Avenger now.

/end of flashback/

This was three months ago.

Ever since then, you and Bucky have become good friends. Every time you heard him playing with the ball against his ceiling, you would go downstairs and spend the night in his room, either talking or watching a movie, and then you’d go on the roof to watch the sunrise. It had become like a special place for the both of you.

Over time, your affection for the super-soldier grew more and more, but you didn’t dare to say anything, in fear of ruining your friendship with him. You were okay with suffering a bit if that meant you didn’t have to lose him.

Little did you know he felt the same.

Lost in your thoughts, you had arrived outside the conference room. What could have required your immediate presence? Is Bucky okay?

Pushing the glass door, you make your way in.

#Bucky Barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel #marvel fanfiction #fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes x you #james buchanan barnes x reader #spilled ink #captain america #steve rogers #steven grant rogers #bad writing #writing #sure feels right #sure feels right sixx am #sixx am

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sunlightxing · 3 years

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Show Me Some Respect

After working for years as a secretary to General Hux aboard the ship, the Finalizer, life could not have been better for you.

That was until Hux informed you that Commander Kylo Ren would be joining you on that ship. Almost immediately, you both resent eachother, but after being forced to spend more alone time with him, you begin to wonder, what's so bad about him after all?

Chapter 4: Filthy Little Thing

An unexpected trip to Starkiller Base alongside Commander Ren takes a strange turn when you find yourself in his quarters, with an outstretched hand clenching your new uniform. A uniform only meant to be worn, by his secretary.

It had been almost a week since you began working directly under Commander Ren. Yet, things hadn't gotten any easier. Though he had described your work on the Command Shuttle as serving some sort of purpose, that was hardly the case. You felt like a complete waste of space, spending your time doing nothing but twiddling your thumbs. The only thing keeping you going was a strong, desperate longing to be back on the Finalizer. There you had a purpose, and you wanted it back.

"Will you stop that?" Commander Ren groaned from the pilots' seat. You slowly shifted your gaze onto him, rolling your eyes as he continued to stir. Every little thought that crossed your mind, he was there listening to it, searching for it. It didn't matter what time it was, or what exactly you were thinking about. He was listening, thirsting after every little intimate detail.

"I can't really stop thinking, Commander," you responded harshly. The last thing you wanted right now was an argument, but you were sick of his crass behavior. You didn't have to be here on this shuttle, stuck with him. He acted as if it was a chore to bring you along, as if he didn't want to. But obviously, he did. He could've waited to get a new secretary. He could've picked anyone but you.

"I didn't choose to bring you," he hissed, the words shooting off of his tongue and into your ears like thorns from a rose.

"Well you actually did, sir, and I doubt you'd like to return me, unless your ego can handle admitting Hux was right." You batted your eyes at him with playful sarcasm, hoping that would gain his silence for a long duration of time.

He paused, clenching his fist tightly against the arm of his chair. "Hux wasn't stuck listening to your ridiculous pondering," he responded, pulling himself away from the controls. You scoffed, viciously biting your tongue as to not lash out and throw numerous amount of insults and curses at him.

"Then why don't you just take me back?"

"I can't."

"Uh, yes. You can," you replied, crossing your arms with the same level of intimidation as that of a youngling. The Commander sat up from his seat, switching the ship's function so it would now be on autopilot. With a grunt of displeasure, he walked away towards the door, turning back to face you for a brief moment before his exit.

His breath was stagnant, heaving in his chest with an indescribable amount of rage. Tension built between the pair of you, a fiery sensation wafting over your back and surging across your spine. He was waiting for you to look at him before you left, but a tiny voice in your head was begging, pleading with you not to. Against your better judgement, you did, staring at his corpulent figure as he stared back at you with dismay.

"There's an alarm on that," he stated, gesturing towards the switch he had flicked to engage autopilot. "So if you touch that, or anything, I'll know."

You shook your head at him, rolling your shes as you slouched back in your seat. "You really don't trust me?" You questioned, throat burning hot, stinging your tongue with every word that floated off your breath.

He paused, now standing maybe a couple of inches out of the doorway. A rapid twitching arose from his hand, shaking and rather convulsing as he held his tongue, trying not to snap. "No," he projected, an asthmatic hissing noise protruding from his breath, "I don't."

Before you could get a word of rebuttal in, he violently slammed the door shut, the clashing of the metal causing you to flinch. Yet again, Commander Ren had very over-dramatically left you all alone, of course making sure that he had the last word. You sat back in your seat, stunned that this was your life now. It was uncertain as to how long this trip would last, and if you'd ever return back to the Finalizer at all. The Commander had made it clear from the start he wanted you away from the home you had known for so many years, but none of that made sense.

Yet, the fact you wanted to return back to that ship made no sense either. The thought of Hux raising his hand to strike you kept flashing into your mind. The terrifying look in his eyes, the way his teeth gritted against themselves. It had been so long since he had responded to your mistakes in that way, roughly two years ago.

You remembered that day like it was any other, though it wasn't even comparable. The morning had started off as anything but smoothly. Your alarm had failed to wake you, the shower water was simply not in function. Nothing was going right, and to top it all off, you had shown up to the bridge five minutes behind schedule. Hux stared at you blankly as you tumbled into the room, hair disheveled and uniform improperly fastened. You tried to explain to him what had happened, but he didn't care. His hand rose and struck you hard across the cheek. His cold, raw skin sensing a horrid stinging sensation throughout your whole face. That day he hit you, it had been the first, and the last.

There was no immediate regret after what he had done. Instead, he turned back to the window of the bridge, and after taking the time to pull yourself together, you did to. There, standing in front of you, was Starkiller Base. It was the first time you had seen it, and you were speechless, captivated by its' expert craftsmanship and beauty. Both you and Hux went aboard that ship, where you sat outside a vast meeting room, unable to enter because you were so new to your position. Tens of other Generals and Captains' flooded out of the room, but Hux did not, not until much time later. He came out looking as if he had just been mugged. His hair was unkept, his lip was busted and bleeding, and his left eye was swollen beyond belief.

You gasped in horror upon looking at his face, but before you could ask if he was alright, he cut you off, simply apologizing for his behavior that morning. The pair of you walked back to the Finalizer, and never spoke of that day since. From then on, Hux treated you with nothing but care and compassion, until last week, when history repeated itself. Maybe the stress of having to see Commander Kylo Ren made Hux act on that hidden rage, as you knew, all high ranking officials were taught that violence was the way to demand respect, and punish misbehavior. Though that didn't excuse what they had done, or continued to do, it offered an explanation. Deep down every one who faced that scrutiny, especially yourself, knew the abuse you ensued was not even close to that of the men enacting it.

It was why you had such an understanding for why both Hux, and Commander Ren, behaved the way they did. But, you never even tried to call out Hux on his shortcomings, yet for the Commander, you did every chance you got.

It didn't come off as much of a surprise. From the get-go, you despised him. You still did, you hated him. Hated his attitude, the way he gave out orders, the way he seemed to care for no one but himself. He was the opposite of everything you valued, and yet, he had managed to infiltrate your built-up walls, and knock them down with his temptations.

There was weakness in you, and he sensed it, the aroma wafting off of you, so strong he could taste it, and he wanted to. Every time he looked down upon you, no matter the mask that blocked his eyes, there was this hunger, this pining that presented itself on his face. You liked it, invited it, never wanted it to stop. Yet, you still hated him, but the thoughts, your mind was what really said it all. Every second you were around him, thoughts danced through your mind of inappropriate and unspeakable acts the two of you could perform together, and on one another. You tried so desperately to make them go away, but they refused to leave, just like the Commander.

It was wrong, so disgustingly wrong that a part of you wanted to stay with the Commander. There was no real motivation, except for the longing to act out on all of your whoreish dreams and fantasies. You didn't understand how you managed to get where you were. Lusting and thirsting after someone so horrid, immature, selfish, and unkind to everyone he knew, even you. It was ridiculous, and you hated yourself for it. Absolutely hated that your life had been reduced to that. A filthy, disgusting, little slut who wanted nothing more than a man, who was your boss, to fulfill all of your unholy desires.

You stared out the large glass window that sat above the control panel, looking for some answers in the stars. Life had seemed so black and white before this trip, before you gazed upon the Commander. But now, it was a whirlwind of technicolor, confusing and confounding every part of your mind. Nothing made sense anymore, nothing you did made sense anymore. It was almost as if that day you met Commander Ren, you lost apart of yourself.

Or maybe, you had gained the loss back.

"You're putting too much thought into it."

You darted your gaze from the galaxy and beyond to the doorway, Commander Ren standing there rather menacingly, back from whatever little trip he was just taken.

"I'm glad you were never one of my school teachers," he remarked, walking over to reclaim his seat.

"You, went to school?" You questioned, a large amount of surprise exuding itself from your voice. "Was that separate from your little sith training?"

The Commander groaned in annoyance. You always knew just the right things to say to tick him off. "Before I," he paused, nearly choking on his words as he went to speak. You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, was the man having a stroke? Or did he just suddenly forget how to speak?

"I used to, and I hated it," he responded harshly. His hands gripped the sides of his seat, almost denting them. You could sense by the tone of his voice, and also by his violent demonstration on the arm of his chair, that he didn't wish to speak more on his past, and you weren't gonna try and force him to.

"I went to school a bit when I was younger," you quickly responded, trying to change the subject onto your past instead of his. Though yours did hurt to talk about, it wasn't to the point you were going to enter a fit of rage and break a chair with just your hand. "I didn't like it much either, it was boring. I'd much rather have been outside running around with nothing but a wooden stick" you said, thinking back on all those good days, playing with your friends in the forest.

Commander Ren didn't respond, but his grip loosened on the arm of his seat. You let a muffled sigh in relief, happy that you were somewhat able to get him to calm down. A smile began to curl up on your lip, one of satisfaction and praise to yourself. The Commander turned around to face you, and you quickly tried to change your expression to a more plain one, as he would call you out for smiling at him.

"Do you miss it?"

"Miss what, sir?"

"Your old life," he said, keeping his gaze on your now pale white face. You hadn't thought about it in a while, but you didn't know if it was best to.

Sure, your old life was grand. With your village, your parents, and your friends, but it was gone now. You were apart of something much bigger now, and more important. "Sometimes," you answered, staring off at the wall, thinking of your mothers' warm embrace, and your fathers' contagious laugh. "It was good for a while, and it helped make me who I am, but it's gone now. I'll always miss it, but I'm happy I even had it at all."

The Commander rose from his seat, standing above you. Your eyes quickly shifted upwards, so you wouldn't be staring at his belt. He gazed down at you, reaching out a hand for yours. You batted your eyes at him, slowly taking your hand off of your thigh, and gently laying it down on his gloved palm.

"There's some business I need to finish at Starkiller base. We'll be going there," he stated as he wrapped his hand around yours, completely engulfing it.

"Yes, Commander." Your gaze darted from his eyes to his large, leather-coated hands, your mouth watering at the sight of them

He let out a grumble in amusement. Sadly for you, he overheard every little thought that just presented itself in your mind. He turned away from you, removing your hand from his own as he headed for the doorway. Before you could even get a word of defense in, he was out the door yet again.

You frowned, turning back to the ship's control panel. Just when things got enjoyable, he decided to storm out, leaving you to your own devices.

Much time had passed since the Commander had dramatically left you alone in the cockpit, and it wasn't getting any easier to stay awake. It felt as if 10-pound weights had been tied to your eyelashes, and you struggled to keep them open. You could've been in your room an hour ago, drifting off into a deep sleep, and yet you chose to stay sitting in the cold and musty cockpit. The Commander made it very clear he wanted you to stay put, which made little to no sense since the entire point of having a secretary meant you would be following him around. It was no wonder the fool couldn't manage to keep one for more than a couple of weeks.

You felt yourself slowly drifting off, and there wasn't any stopping it. Besides, a quick nap couldn't do any harm, and the ship's alarms would wake you up when you were close to Starkiller, and the Commander would come strolling back in and land the damn shuttle. Wrapping a blanket you found on a shelf near the back of the cockpit, you turned back to your seat, and flipped back into the metal chair, resting your head against the control board. Gently, your eyes shut down, and all noise around you began to fade, until there was nothing.

"Cadet."

"No," you groaned, burying your head into your arm. "Just five more minutes."

"We're here. Now get up."

You sighed, picking your head up off of the control grid, imprints from the ship's buttons had molded into the side of your face from how deeply you had sunk into the panel. Even though it seemed like the most uncomfortable place to get some shut-eye, that nap was probably the best dose of sleep you'd had in years. You looked out the window groggily to see the landing bay on Starkiller, it was so much bigger than you imagined.

You turned to face the pilots' seat, expecting to see Commander Ren staring at you in dissatisfaction, but he wasn't there. In fact, there was no seat.

You spun your head around the other way, seeing the co-pilots seat, your seat, completely empty. You slapped your hand over your mouth, turning around slowly to see Commander Ren sitting in the pilots' seat, with you on his lap. You let out a shriek in panic, stumbling out of the chair, and flopping onto the floor, and directly onto your ass.

"You fell asleep," he stated plainly. "I needed to fly the ship."

This was completely embarrassing, how could you have fallen asleep on the job in the first place? It was only supposed to be a short nap, and the ship was supposed to go off, and you expected it to be loud enough to wake you, and cause you to wake before the Commander even entered the room.

"I shouldn't have fallen asleep, sir. I'm sorry," you whimpered, hoping this wouldn't land you in a monstrous amount of trouble.

He sighed, rising out of his seat so powerfully it nearly caused you to choke. "I expect that it won't happen again," he said bluntly, outstretching a hand to pick you up from the ground you laid helplessly on.

"Now come on. There's business to attend to."

The part of Starkiller Commander Ren was taking you through was a completely foreign area. Though the times you had been there having only been for repairs, you still felt a moral obligation to know more than you did, especially since you were there with someone so high up the ranks, he made Hux look like a joke.

Unexpectedly, he took you by the arm and dragged you into a dark, but vast room. A large glass table sat at the center of it, lined with at least a dozen chairs, with the one at the head of it looking more like a throne. The area reminded you of his quarters you had visited all that time ago. A glint of light caught your eye from across the room. A bed frame, the headboard a shiny, black material, and the sheets followed that same color pattern, but with a matte texture.

Breath escaped you as you finally put the pieces together, this was his living quarters.

"Stay put," he instructed, waltzing off into another room connected to the one you were in. You gave a nod in agreement, though he was out of sight before you managed to get that signal out. Like a child in a candy store, you gazed up at the tall, chandelier decorated ceilings, your mouth drooling at the sight of them. The room seemed so plain upon first glance, but the craftsmanship put behind it was unlike anything you had seen, far greater than anything you had seen on the Finalizer. It was majestic, elegant even. How could he ever afford to leave such a gorgeous and comforting place, just to venture out into such horrid wasteland?

The Commander presented himself from behind a large, blackened metal wall, with a mirror placed directly at the center of it. You looked at him, realizing nothing had changed about him. There was no file in his hand, no confidential reports. But there was one thing, and once you had noticed it, he slipped it from behind his back. In his hand was a solid black uniform, a small black cap alongside it. This piece of clothing was exactly like what you were wearing, but with his insignia on it instead of Huxs'.

"Your new uniform," he stated, reaching his hand out to bless it upon you. "If you're going to work as my secretary, you'll need to look the part."

You reached your hand out, ready to take it from his grasp, but you paused. Levitating your hand above the uniform, you tried to force yourself down to take it, but some unknown entity wouldn't allow it.

"Why do you hesitate?"

"I- I don't know," you whimpered, straining yourself in an effort to push your hand down to take the uniform. He stood there for a moment, watching you struggle to grab it from his hands. But after just a few more seconds, he grew tired of the waiting and snatched it away from you. The fast and rapid motion sent you flinching away from him, worried a gloved hand would slap you across the face like before.

"After all this, and you still want him?"

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, staring upon him with a lack of understanding. "Sir, what do you mean?" You asked, watching as his body began to shake with rage.

"Hux. He still infects your mind like the mangy vermin that he is."

"Don't call him that."

An invisible force wrapped around your neck, ripping you off of the ground and into the Commander's grip. His gloved hand tightened around your vocal cords, cutting off the blood circulation to the rest of your body

"And what will you do about it, pest?"

Your spit curdled in the back of your throat as you tried to painfully intake even the slightest amount of air. The seems on his gloved hand dug into the sides of your neck, practically slicing it open.

"P-put me down," you stammered, unable to move any part of your body to fight back. He shook his head, clicking his tongue as the grip became so tight your vision became hazy. So much pressure was building up in your head it felt as if you were seconds from explosion.

"Take the uniform."

You wanted to scream for help, get anyone who might be outside his quarters to rush in and stop this. This wasn't supposed to be permanent, you would go back to Hux soon and finally be rid of the Commander. But Gods, you foolishly didn't want to be away from him. Part of you wanted him in such an unholy and disgusting manner, more emotion than you had ever felt for another man. If getting him to stop behaving towards you in this way, meant you had to wear a new garment, then so be it.

"Fine," you choked. "I'll take it. J-just please, put me down."

He purred in excitement by your agreement, this time carefully placing you back on the floor of the room. You massage the parts of your neck that his gloves grip had dug into, hoping that with somewhat soothe the pain. His hand returned into an outstretched position, displaying the uniform to your gaze once more. You snatched it out of his hand, showing him this wasn't your actual choice to take it.

"I need to change," you stated, looking around the room for any place to go. "You got like a bathroom or something?"

"No. You can change in front of me."

You paused. "I'm sorry, what?"

He raised his hand up in the air, causing the invisible force to swirl around your body. It squeezed at almost every inch of your body, including the most intimate parts. It paused on your throat, stroking down your gullet like a knife. "Would you like that wrapped around your pretty little neck again?" He asked bluntly. "Do as you're told."

You nodded, knowing that again, you had no choice in the matter. Bending down, you slipped off your long, black, and shiny boots from off of your feet. Since you didn't receive a change of socks with this new uniform, Commander Ren would not be seeing your bare feet. If he was into that sort of stuff, you might have to run.

It was a slow effort to remove your belt that was tightly fastened to your waist. A pool of sweat began to form against your brow bone, and your back felt burning hot, practically on fire. This was the most degrading task you ever had to complete, and what purpose did this serve? Was this an act of ridicule so the Commander could show you were in submission? Or, did he genuinely want this?

Commander Ren walked slowly towards you, reaching down for your belt as he hastily unfastened it.

"Is it that hard to remove?" He asked, now having it fully unbuckled. With a loud clatter, he dropped it to the floor beside you, and with a swift motion, your pants were long gone too. He groaned with pleasure as he stared down at your bare thighs, studying them with lustful intent.

"Now, the top," he grunted, reaching for the bottom of your shirt as he lifted it up over your head. The cold air of the room brushed against your exposed breasts, giving you flashbacks to that day in the washroom. You hated this, you knew you hated this, and that you wanted nothing more than to put that new uniform on and be done with this whole ordeal, and yet, the way he gazed upon your body without judgment or ridicule made you feel so...

Wanted.

You stared back at him with a feeling of lust sparkling within your eyes, and he could sense it, see it. His hands rode up against your body, his chest pressing against your own. Firmly, he squeezed both of your breasts, flicking your nipples in search of a playful response from your throat. He got it. You let out a soft moan in response. Gods, he knew how to get you off.

"How unnerving," he groaned, grinding his length against your extended thigh, pressing himself deeper into your flesh. "If only Hux could see what a filthy slut you've become." Your face flushed with red, embarrassed of how much pleasure and excitement you were getting out of this. Whimpers protruded from your lips as he circled his gloved fingers around your body, his concealed cock pressing against you, filling your clit with unmatched desire.

"You want this so badly," he whispered, biting sensually at your ear, causing all breath to escape your lungs. "Tell me how you want it."

You could hardly speak. Your legs were trembling, the only way you were still on your feet was the fact Commander Ren had pressed you up against a wall. "I-" you went to speak, but another moan escaped your lips as he began to claw at your neck, his fingertips coated in leather gliding over your veins, squeezing on every inch of your bare flesh.

"Say it, pest."

"I want- I want you, Commander.."

"How do you want me?" He insisted, pressing himself deeper into your legs, his cock pulsing against your trembling body. You weren't ready for that mass to enter your tight cunt, he knew that, he had to know that. No matter how many lustrous thoughts danced through your mind, it wasn't time, you couldn't handle it. Despite the fact your body craved it, your clit throbbed for it, you simply couldn't.

"Mm. Can't take it? Can you, whore?" He grunted. "There's still, something else you can do for me." With abruptness, he forced you down onto your hands and knees, and you knew what was coming next. You looked back up at him with that same, filthy look of desire in your eyes.

"Commander..."

You went to speak, but he cut you off by shoving his thumb, coated in his leather glove, down in the back of your throat. The initial forcefulness of the blow caused you to gag as a response, even more embarrassing. You tried to play it off like it didn't happen, now sucking and swirling your tongue around his thumbs tip, treating it as something else.

"Filthy little thing," he teased. "You must've dreamt of this."

You couldn't speak with that mass in your mouth, so a simple nod sufficed. Though you could've afforded to get off on ducking nothing more than his thumb, and maybe he could've as well, the leather encasement dried out every part of your mouth, making it impossible for you to gain anymore saliva to continue the act.

"Not a fan of the leather?" Commander Ren asked, pulling his thumb away from your mouth. You reached out in displeasure, not wanting him to take it away from you just yet. You were needy, hungry for his blissful touch, and lusting to satisfy his needs.

"Hush, little one. So clingy," he remarked. Reaching for his waist, a terror filled expression spread across your face. "I have something better to fill that filthy mouth of yours," he purred, unsheathing his hardened length from the inside of his trousers.

You kneeled there in horror as you gazed at his monstrously sized cock, completely speechless at the fact you would have to fit that mass inside of your mouth. The first thought that crossed your mind was "I'm going to choke on that." But the Commander liked to choke you, so that shouldn't be a real issue.

"Don't think you can take it?" He cooed, gripping the back of your head as he pulled you closer to his cock.

"You will."

Without another moment's hesitation, Commander Ren wrapping his hand up in your hair, and burrowed his cock deep inside of your throat. You gagged the second it rubbed against your uvula, it seemed so much bigger on the inside. "Flattering," he chuckled, sliding his cock in and out of your mouth as if it was your hole, violently face-fucking you.

You encased your lips around his length, trapping him inside of your mouth. He moaned out in pleasure as he began to thrust harder and faster into your throat. Your clit began to pulse, a stream dripping out of your entrance and onto your underwear. His breath grew heavy, his throat producing huffs in between his groans as your tongue swirled around his tip, hoping for him to bust all over your face. You reached a hand up, wrapping it around the part of his cock your mouth was not encased around.

"Fuck," he huffed, his breath growing more sporadic with every thrust. This was beyond fucked up, you knew that, he had to know that. You, down on your knees in nothing but your undergarments, your Commander, your bosses' hands wrapped up in your hair as he fed you his cock. It should've never happened, any of this, but you wanted it to, and he knew that.

His cock began to surge inside of your mouth, his legs trembling in place. One last time, he forced your jaw open by ramming himself inside of your throat, his tip gliding down the hull of your esophagus. With another powerful grunt, his seed burst in your mouth, the taste stinging your lips. Such a salty, yes sweet sensation gliding over every single one of your tastebuds. He pulled out gently, tilting your chin up to face his.

"Swallow," he instructed, now squeezing your jaw with his hand. You did as you were told, swallowing every bit of his cum that filled your mouth. "Look at you," he purred as he reapplied the bottom half of his uniform. "To think I believed you would be a waste of my time."

You rolled your eyes at him, thinking back on your midlife crisis that took place in the cockpit earlier that day. Your assumption was completely and utterly correct. His cock was all worth the degrading and abuse, so fucking worth it.

The new uniform he had lain out for you was now scattered throughout the room. You bent over to pick up it's pieces, wrapping each layer of clothing over your nude body.

"Come now," Commander Ren asserted, ushering for you to join him at his side once your uniform was finally fastened over every inch of your body.

"We aren't finished yet."

#kylo ren x y/n #star wars smut #star wars #kylo ren #armitage hux #ben solo #the force awakens #stormtrooper #general hux #rey skywalker #poe dameron #finn star wars #leia organa #star wars fluff

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writehardwhumpharder · 4 years

Text

The boys decide to play a drinking game with Z2 as their victim, it doesn’t end well.

Disclaimer: These are @deluxewhump OC’s not mine. It takes place in the same universe but it’s not necessarily ‘canon’ and might diverge from the story a bit. Also the characters Brian and Jared I made up just to be side characters, it was easier than calling them frat boy #1 and frat boy #2.

You'd think finals week wouldn't be that big of a deal in a frat house but when that time came at the end of the semester, everything dissolved into chaos. Z noticed a shift in atmosphere immediately. The guys left him alone more, having no time to mess around with him. But when he did see them they were unusually tense and hostile. Z found himself shrinking under their presence. Even Alex and Dominic were irritable with him but he could tell that they were just stressed and tired.

"Bro, since when did you care about political science?" Jared asked.

"Look man, if I don't ace this final I'm gonna fail the whole class and have to retake it." Brian explained.

"So?"

"So college costs money dickwad, now go away, I need to focus."

The frat boy rolled his eyes and left the room, trying to find someone else to drink with no doubt. He almost ran into Z2, forcing Z to jump back and slam into the wall. He glared at him. "Watch where you're going."

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Hey Z, are you out there?" Brian called out from his room having heard them talking. "Come in here."

Z2 entered slowly, coming to stand a few feet away from the desk as he awaited more instructions. Brian shuffled some papers around looking for something in the mess of books, journals, and packets.

"You're gonna help me study," he said, finally finding a stack of notecards hidden under a textbook. "Ok so you read the question on the card and I'll guess the answer which is right below it, see?" Z nodded.

"Wait... can you even read?" He asked suddenly.

"I don't know... I guess," Z said. It was difficult for him to do but this was a direct request from one of his masters. His training waged an internal battle with him. He was supposed to forget all that and not know anything, it was part of keeping him dependent. But Brian asked him for help so he has to try.

"Guess we'll find out, first question."

Z2 sat down on the floor next to the bed and looked at the first question. "Um, who is the leader of the house of re-represent..atives," he stumbled over the last word. An internal block in his head throbbed as he said the words but he forced himself to do it.

"Nancy Pelosi."

"Yes," Z2 flipped to the next card, "How many c-cabinets does the president have?" He asked, brows furrowing in confusion. What does it matter how many cabinets there are in the kitchen...? He looked at the answer and a little note written off to the side trying to make sense of it.

"14."

"This says 15," Z responded, a little afraid to contradict him. "There's a note."

"Okay what does it say?" Brian asked.

"15, including the vice president."

"Right, right.. I forgot. Continue."

"What is the order of the presidential line of... s-sus-se...." Z2 tried to sound out the final word. He was completely at a loss for how it should be pronounced or even what it meant. He glanced up to see that Brian was in fact looking down on him like he was a total idiot.

Z thought he'd been doing pretty well so far but now he just felt like quitting.

"Well what are you waiting for?" He teased. "What's the question?"

"What is the order of-"

"Yeah I got that part," he clipped. "This is bullshit anyway."

Z stared down at the ground in front of him feeling like he'd failed. Can't even read some stupid cards.

Brian twisted back and forth in his wheely chair deep in thought, "I have an idea that could make this a lot more fun," Brian smiled mischievously. "Let's play a game. Every time you get to a word you can't read you take a drink."

The door opened wider and the same guy from earlier poked his head in. "Did I hear the word drink?"

"Were you waiting out there the whole time? God, Jared, you're such an alcoholic." Brian said.

"I just happened to be passing by, but, I think I like the sound of this. I'll go grab my biology homework, he won't last the night." Jared laughed.

Brian rubbed at his face with annoyance before conjuring up a bottle of vodka seemingly out of thin air. He set in down in front of Z2 and unscrewed the cap. "Take a sip for the one you already missed."

Z picked it up reluctantly. He hated it when they made him drink. Bringing the bottle to his lips he made a sour face as the foul liquid splashed his throat.

"You call that a sip?" Brian said, tilting the bottle further. More vodka poured into his mouth and Z had no choice but to drink it. When Brian took his hand off the bottle Z2 set it down quickly. The taste made him want to throw it right back up and the burn spread all the way into his lungs. He was still sputtering when Jared came back with his own study materials.

"Where were we?" Brian asked, nodding towards the notecards.

Z picked them back up hastily, looking for the one he had just read. "Uh, line of su-sess.."

"Line of succession," he corrected, "President, Vice president, speaker of the house, president something something of the senate, then the federal department heads." Brian answered. As he said the answer out loud Z matched it up with the words on the card, not really reading them.

"Hey let's alternate." Jared suggested. Brian didn't look at all happy to share his study buddy, but whatever, alternating questions would just confuse Z2 even more.

"S-sarco… sarc- omer is the..."

Jared made a buzzer noise and slammed a hand down on the floor. "Wrong, drink."

Deep down Z knew that they were doing this on purpose, it didn't really matter if he got it right or wrong. He took a swig of the vodka to get it over with as quickly as possible and continued. There was a brief window of time when the vodka actually made it easier to read. It became more natural, like he was on autopilot. The skills were there… they just weren’t very accessible to him.

"... is the smallest functional unit in what kind of body tissue?"

"Muscle." Jared answered, looking pleased with himself.

This went on for a while until Z2 started having a hard time even seeing the cards. They kept alternating between topics and he found that Brian's questions were a lot easier to read than Jared's. To be fair he was using a bunch of words Z2 had never seen before. Anyone other than a biology student would have a hard time reading them, at best he could sound them out and hope he was right.

Every time he got something wrong they they smiled and laughed at how dumb he was. If he didn't feel so sick Z2 would have drank the vodka willingly just to escape this situation.

He looked back down at the paper swimming in his hands, either the handwriting on these cards was getting sloppier or his vision was getting blurry, probably the latter. He had to open his heavily lidded eyes wide and hold the paper up close to his face. "What is the.. difference between.. mmm" he started to doze off mid sentence. Slurring even the easy parts.

"That counts as a fail, take a drink," Brian said. Z2 eyed the bottle and reached for it with uncoordinated hands. He managed to bring it up to his mouth, taking another sip of the poison. It didn't sting anymore.

Brian and Jared had been sipping on the vodka as well but not nearly as much as they made Z do.

"I really.... don wanna drink no more." Z2 said. He knew it was a risk but he had to say something. The more he was forced to drink, the harder the game got, forcing him to drink anymore. It didn’t take long for things to spiral out of control. The frat boys have made him do things like this before but usually it was with something weaker, like beer. This was straight vodka, hard liquor.

"We went over this already Z2, if you don't help me study I'll fail my class. You don't want to be responsible for that do you?" Brian said.

Z2 was so drunk now that he didn't even pick up on the manipulation behind his twisted logic. All he wanted was to please his masters.

When Alex was ready to take a break from studying he got up from his desk and stretched, just now checking the time. It was 2am, he'd been studying for hours straight. No wonder his brain felt like mush. He paced back and forth at the end of his bed a few times to restore circulation and headed out to find Z2. It was best not to leave him alone for too long, you never knew what the other frat boys might do to him.

"Zee zee?" He called out at the top of the staircase where noise traveled the best. No response. It was possible Dominic was sheltering him in his room. "Hey Dom, is Z in there with you?" He asked.

"No." Dom called out from inside.

Z2 had a number of hiding places in the house Alex could look in but usually he responded when he called him. It was arguably the middle of the night, most guys here considered 2am mid afternoon, but it was possible he was just asleep somewhere. He heard talking from one of the other rooms upstairs.

“Hey have you seen…” Alex started as he walked into the room. His face twisted into anger and disgust once he realized what was going on. He had found Z and the boy was on the floor leaning against the wall, slowly listing to one side. Brian and Jared sat around him surrounded by papers and textbooks somehow oblivious to the fact that Z2 was passed out and pale as a sheet. He hadn’t even perked up at the sound of him entering.

“What the fuck is this?” He demanded.

“We were just… studying,” Jared said with a laugh. “You can take him now if you want, he stopped reading the questions a little while ago.”

Alex forced down the panic welling up inside him at the sight of Z2 slumped against the wall with a nearly empty bottle of vodka at his feet. He probably just fell asleep... “Zee, wake up.” He said, leaning over to pat his face gently but as his hand made contact with the boy’s skin he froze. “Why is he so cold? And clammy? Do you guys even realize how dangerous this is?” Brian and Jared looked at each other and shrugged. “Zee, it’s Alex, open your eyes for me.”

Z2’s head just lolled against the wall giving no indication that he’d heard him. This was bad. If they couldn’t wake him up he might need to go to the hospital but Alex didn’t even know if you could take pets to the hospital. He had to do something, and fast. Alex picked up the boy with ease, carrying him just a few doors down to his own room. Finding his phone on his desk he sent Dominic a frantic text. “My room. Now.” If it was anyone else he would have called an ambulance already or somehow gotten him to the car to take him to the hospital. Alcohol poisoning was no joke. But with Z it wasn’t that simple. It made Alex feel guilty, like deep down he didn’t think Z was worth the trouble.

He got him comfortable on the bed and pulled a blanket up to his shoulders to keep him warm. Then he emptied out the trash can under his desk having a feeling they might be needing it. Dominic skidded into the room a minute later.

“Go get water, and some gatorade!” He ordered. Dominic turned on his heel and rushed to the kitchen.

“Zee zee, you have to stay awake, open your eyes.”

“Hnnnh,” Z groaned.

“Good! Good, now open your eyes,” he told him again. Alex’s voice came to him through a long dark tunnel. He couldn’t really tell what he was saying but some instinct deep inside him compelled him to listen, no matter how difficult. It only felt like a couple seconds but it took him much of the next five minutes to do the simple task of opening his eyes. They were glazed over and unfocused but at least he was somewhat responsive.

Dominic burst through the door again carrying supplies, “Is he okay?”

“No, but he’s waking up a little. If it’s not too late we should try to make him throw up to get some of the alcohol out of his system,” Alex told him.

“Okay how do we do that?” Dom asked,

“Good old-fashioned fingers down the throat I guess. You hold the trash can and get ready.”

Alex sat to one side of him and Dom sat on the other holding the small bin under his chin. Z2 was still very disoriented but he did manage to trail his eyes between the two, making an effort to stay awake despite the warm fuzzy feeling trying to pull him under.

“I’m sorry for this, Zee, but I have to, okay? For your own good,” Alex said. He grimaced then sat him up a little straighter and proceeded to finger the back of his throat. It didn’t take long before Z started gagging from the unpleasant sensation. His body already desperately wanted to throw up but it needed a little help to do it. Dominic made sure he was in a good position the whole time. With gravity on their side there was far less of a chance of him choking.

“There you go, that’s good,” Dom said as he patted Z’s back in a comforting manner. Alex sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “What?”

“Nothing… it’s just. This is such a dangerous place for him you know? These guys do some of the dumbest shit, it’s amazing they’re here to go to college.”

Z2 heaved over the bin until he had nothing left in his stomach to bring up. It was lucky they got to him when they did because if his body hadn’t managed to purge the insane amount of liquor they made him drink he would have just gotten worse and worse.

“How do you feel, Zee? You still with us?” Dom asked.

“Mmm,” Z responded. They both sighed in relief knowing that he was listening now. He shivered under the blanket, trying to nestle further into it.

“No, no, you have to stay sitting up.” Alex said. He grabbed the water and gatorade, opting to start with the water then in a little while he could have some of the gatorade for sugar and electrolytes.

Alex brought the bottle to his lips and told him to drink. To his surprise Z turned his head away and shuddered, “I don’t… want to… no.” He said. A single tear fell from one of his eyes. He must think they were still trying to give him vodka.

“It’s water, you need to drink it,” Dom added. Z blinked a few times, willing his eyes to focus on the two boys in front of him. Seeing that they were his friends he started to drink from the water bottle with blind trust. After only a few swallows though he had to stop. Everything was spinning, he felt overheated, any more than that and he’d just lose it again.

“What happened? Who did this?” Dominic asked, taking the bottle of water from Z and setting on the bedside table.

“Brian and Jared, they made some kind of drinking game out of studying I guess. So stupid,” Alex said.

“Stupid,” Z2 echoed.

“What?”

“Wouldna happ’ned if I wasn’t so dumb.. if I could read better. ‘s my fault,” he choked out.

“It is not your fault.” Alex said firmly. He wasn’t there for it but he had no doubt that once Z was drunk enough not to notice they made him drink for no reason at all. They thought it was funny seeing him like that. They thought it was funny to almost kill a person. “I’m gonna go bash their brains in.”

“What? Hold on,” Dom sputtered after Alex’s sudden change of mood. He wanted to follow him but he also didn’t want to leave Z alone so he just watched as Alex stormed out of the room.

He kicked the door in to Brian’s room. The knob scraped across the doorframe from the unnatural motion. Brian jumped up in surprise. He and Jared were still lazing about in his room, making a passive attempt to study.

“Woah. Someone looks mad.” Jared laughed. Alex crossed the room and knocked Jared onto his back. He didn’t even have the words to yell at him. He ended up just sitting there with Jared pinned under him. His chest heaved and his eyes burned with rage. A look of fear crossed over Jared’s face, finally realizing that he was serious and Alex was probably a few seconds away from strangling him.

“Dude stop, that’s enough,” Brian said, tugging at Alex’s sweatshirt.

“Wait your turn, Brian,” Alex spat. Unable to let this go without some kind of punishment, Alex punched him in the face twice. He could have done a lot more damage but violence wasn’t really in his nature.

“Keep hitting him like that and he’ll lose the only two brain cells he has left,” Dom said suddenly from the doorway. “I don’t think we should risk that. Come on, Zee is asking where you went.

“Oh how swe-” Brian didn’t get the change to finish that remark before Alex got up off of Jared and hit him too on his way out. Brian fell back against his bed frame, holding his jaw protectively, looking dumbfounded at what just happened.

They didn’t waste any more time getting back to Alex’s room. Without someone there talking to him Z could fall asleep and he was still in far too bad of shape to take that risk. Z looked so small in the bed tucked under the blankets. He smiled drunkenly when Alex came back to sit on the edge of his bed.

“You should have some gatorade too, and some saltines later,” he said. Z nodded obediently.

Dom stood off to the side awkwardly with his hands in his pockets, “So uh, I really need to get back to studying. My first exam is in less than six hours.”

“Shit, me too. But I don’t know how I’ll focus now. Someone should watch him for a while longer at least.” Alex said.

Z picked up bits of pieces from their conversation making him feel more and more like a burden. He struggled to sit up, his arms didn’t want to cooperate with him. “I’m okay.”

“You are not okay.” Alex said.

“If only there was someone here who already took their tests…” Someone piped up from the hallway. Cam poked his head in as if to respect his privacy before throwing the door the rest of the way open in a grand display of how little he gives a shit.

“You? Took tests?” Dom said skeptically.

“C’s get degrees,” Cam shrugged. “You guys look pretty busy. I’ll take Zee zee here off your hands.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Alex argued.

“What? You don’t trust me? I’ll make sure he drinks his water and eats his crackers. Don’t worry,” He paused to look right at Z2, “I’ll take good care of him.”

#box boy universe #frathouse boxboy #pet whumpee #Z2 #drinking game #alcohol poisoning #passed out #vomiting #all that fun stuff #not my oc's #but I'd happily adopt Z2 #mild violence

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anthonyed · 5 years

Text

soulmate au: where your soulmate’s name is written on your skin [part 3]

[part 1] [part 2]

One thing keeps running in his mind; Stevie’s out on a mission.

He’s red in face, damp hair clinging all over and the sheet beneath him is soaked in sweat. It has barely been half an hour since he laid down, and he didn’t at all mean to sleep. Sleep hasn’t been on his mind. Not, when he can survive without it.

But his body betrayed and dragged him down over that one line that he dreaded and now he has decades of pain bursting out of his pores with a sludge for a mind.

And Stevie is out on a mission.

Clenching his fists in a feeble attempt to contain his shaking, he sits up.

His eyes immediately go to that blinking red light in the ceiling's corner.

He’s been told that it’s some sort of surveillance camera. Not meant to spy but is there, dormant, to only intervene when something that necessitates intervention happens.

James wasn’t entirely convinced about it. But he’d just been invited to bunk in someone else’s home for free with free food and safety. He wasn’t entirely on the side to get fussy and complain about things.

Besides, he had Stevie.

Now in his absence, the paranoid is acting up. Suspicions climb higher walls and his skin is prickling with the need to rip that surveillance camera off its wall.

He’s sliding his fists beneath his thigh to keep himself from reaching for anything to encourage that vandalising thought when three steady knocks reverberated the bedroom door.

His senses shift focus, momentarily distracted by the red light overhead as they scream at what or who could be behind that door.

He bites hard on the inside of his lower lip, contemplating what to do – it’s his first time being without Stevie. Alone. When an entirely too familiar voice speaks up, “James, it’s me,” and all his senses go limp, almost purring in the overwhelming comfort it brings.

His feet tremble when they touch the floor and he has to reach for support to get some kind of bearing.

Outside, Anthony’s voice rises with worry. “James?”

And he wants to say he’s fine. That he’s alright and it’s just that – Just that. He just, cannot stand up.

But how embarrassing is that.

Then, Anthony says, “I’m coming in, okay.” And the sheer thought of his soulmate catching him in this pathetic state sends him sinking down in the mattress. Wet sheets curling uncomfortably around his palms as he supports himself upright and he bites down an ashamed groan.

What is wrong with him?

“Hey. Hey? Look at me.”

Brown eyes wide and earnest, demanding for his attention. And James gives. Unfractured. Because Anthony deserves everything, whole.

“How’re you feeling?” He asks. His too rough fingers skating across James’ stubble covered jaw and cheek as he cups his face in place and looks up at him. At only him. From his place, with his knees on his floor – when he should be tall. When James should be the one grovelling at his feet, because Anthony deserves more.

Because James isn’t whole.

He’s fragments of broken something. One of two pieces of them and he can never attached only those two and pretend to be complete.

He can never be complete.

That’s the sickening truth of his story.

But for Anthony, his soulmate, he grunts. Something akin to a positive response, to indicate that he’s alright.

Since his tongue is still stuck on the roof of his mouth from the shame that rattles his core and now he can’t even look into Anthony’s eyes.

The hands around his face doesn’t waver. The grip remains grounding yet gentle as the skin under his eyes prickle from looping circles being rubbed around it.

“Wanna watch a movie with me?”

“I remember my mother’s hot chocolate recipe and I maybe a few years too rusty but I’ll make it good.” Anthony whispers.

Their foreheads touching and James willingly leans into it. A short graze of skin on skin – up and down – is all the answer that he can manage for the question.

“I think we have all the ingredients for it...,” Anthony muses as they ride the elevator together. James silent by his side, but sufficiently calmed by the contact of their fingers intertwined together.

“You have everything you need, boss.” The blinking red light quips and James shoots it a suspicious look.

At his side, Tony hums in satisfaction, giving a tiny squeeze to James’ hand. “Thanks, baby girl.” He smiles upwards, eyes closed in serenity which puts a little smile on James’ face.

He never understood the red light. He knows that it’s capable of thinking by itself. A form of intelligence. An artificial one, according to Stevie.

Which, his soulmate brought to life. Something unfeasible at that time, but he proved everyone wrong. It makes James swell in pride.

But it doesn’t make him explicitly trust the product. Even if it was Anthony’s creation, James struggles with trusting in general and it’s simply, tough. What more when he cannot even begin to understand how it functions.

However, as long as it keeps making Anthony smile, James thinks, he can start somewhere with the trust.

In the communal floor, Anthony sets to work in the kitchen while James resists the urge to hang by the hem of his shirt and follow every footstep and sits at the dining table.

He lets his eyes follow instead.

From the stretch and flex and riding of material up tanned skin.

He watches Anthony work the stove, jittery on his feet as he hums under his breath and measures and mixes all the ingredients he gathered on the counter.

James lets his head fall on the table, cushioning it with the fold of his arms as his eyes slide half close. “I’m sorry about killing your parents.” He relieves that’s been on his mind for so long.

Something clatters onto the floor as Anthony comes to a sudden halt. A whisper of curse fleeting through the air before he picks up the utensil and runs it under the water, rinsing.

“I remember it without the weight of emotion. I’m not sure about how I exactly feel about it but I’m sorry.” He frowns at the stiffening of Anthony’s back. “I’m sure once I’ve figured out all the emotions and stuffs, I’ll be more sorry but for now -,”

“Doesn’t matter.” Anthony turns. The tight smiles on his face failing to match the wild haggardness in his sunken eyes.

James clenches his fists, the discomfort of his soulmate bearing down on his shoulders as he lifts his head up, straightening up in his seat. “It looks like it does.”

The utensil in Anthony’s grasp slips again and lands with another loud clang. Anthony closes his eyes, breathing out another swear word.

His entire body begins to tremble then. Which is probably why James stands up in autopilot, closing in to his soulmate, seeking and wanting to give comfort.

“I’m sorry.” He says, cupping Anthony’s cheeks and bringing their foreheads together. Inhaling the air in between their space.

He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for now.

Is it for his parents’ death or for putting Anthony in this tortured position?

He doesn’t know.

Either way, “I’m sorry.” He murmurs, stroking the apple of Anthony’s cheeks. Round and round in small circles, wishing his soulmate will let him in. Let him take care of him.

Make him feel better.

The front of his shirt is fisted and he’s pulled in closer as a small shudder of exhale fans across James’ face. Their cheeks meet as Anthony nuzzles into him. “I’m okay” He whispers back shakily. Circling James’ wrist with his fingers and rubbing at its pulse point with his thumb. “We’re okay. We’ll move on.” He nods against James, breath stuttering when he inhales and exhales.

It is then when something hisses and sizzles in the background and at once, Anthony pushes away in alarm.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. It’s boiling. Shit!”

James struggles a little to wrap his head around the sudden shove and panic. His fist clenching and unclenching at his sides minutely until a warm brush of skin skids pass, spreading calm through his artificial nerves.

Anthony’s still dancing around with nervous energy as he stirs the pot on the counter. Free hand reaching for the scattered ingredients and he mumbles consistently under his breath.

But with each millisecond pause in between cleaning and salvaging the beverage, he reaches out for James. Allowing tiny brushes of skin against metal and sometimes lingering, even in his distraction.

James heart swells dangerously in his chest.

They’re curled up on the couch after. When the hot chocolate is done and the television is playing something that Anthony thought James will find enjoyable but, all James can think about is the weight over half of his left side where his soulmate is curled into a ball.

“I forgot how bad the CGI was in the 90s” he murmurs. Completely unaware of what he’s doing to James.

Just by snuggling with his metal arm. Something that has been installed as a weapon for the winter soldier, to aid with his mission; in murders. And here he is – a ball of light, James’ personal haven - wrapped warm and soft around it like he doesn’t even care about the mass of sin lodged in between each silver plate.

James wants to shake him off. Shift him so he’s on the right. Not on the wrong side.

For Anthony is a whisper of purity wrapped around hell and that is not proper at all.

But hells likes the taste of heaven.

For all the cold that surrounds the metal, it thrives from the warmth and heat that Anthony willingly gives and James – He, aches for it.

It’s wrong, but it feels so right that he can’t keep his eyes and mind off of his soulmate.

“You don’t mind the arm?” He whispers over dark curls, lips brushing over soft strands which he leans into until his mouth’s pressed over them.

Anthony hums, leaning into him in return. “It’s a part of you.” He says easily. Like he’s never ever been bothered by it. Even once.

James struggles to breathe. “What are you doing to me?” He murmurs his thought out aloud, unbeknownst to himself.

The chatter from the television comes to a sudden stop. Two vertical line appearing stark white at the top left corner when James looks up. “What do you want me to do you?” Anthony asks, whisper soft, looking up at him.

James’ throat spasms shut, then opens and he swallows audibly. “Everything.” He breathes out honestly. Flesh fingers reaching to brush away the curls fallen over Anthony’s forehead and he follows his gut, pressing a kiss over the stretch of exposed skin.

Anthony shudders in his hold. “If I ask you out for dates?”

“I’ll say yes.”

“If I ask you to kiss me…,”

“I’ll say yes.” James answers without a hesitation.

Anthony closes his eyes and breathes. When he blinks open, a new kind of vulnerability is etched along those golden specks littered across his big brown eyes. “And if I ask you to stay.” He asks softly.

James tips his head up, holding his gaze, “Then I’ll stay.” He whispers faithfully. “But I can’t do all the others when you have Ms Potts.” He shakes his head, heart aching in his chest. “Not when you’re both engaged. It’s wrong.”

“What?” Anthony jerks away, peeling himself off of James’ side without warnings. “I’m not engaged –,” He protests before realization dawns upon him. “Have you been reading the gossip columns, James?” He squints at him.

“It was on the news.” James frowns at the where he’s still connected with Anthony; his left arm.

Anthony sinks back with a groan, head tipping backwards into James’ shoulder, his body back to pinning half of James’ like it had been before and James allows himself to breathe again, in relief at the weight of his soulmate.

Anthony curls all his metal fingers into a fist. “They lie.” He says, uncurling the trigger finger. “Rule number one on living in this century, snowflake, is to never trust the media as it is.” His thumb runs along James’ index absently.

James spreads out all his fingers and link them with his soulmates’. Half of him feeling nauseated looking at the way wrong envelopes all the rights in the world; evil intertwined with goodness, while the other half of him cannot help but be enthralled by it.

Anthony curls further into him, head tucking beneath James’ chin as he squeezes James’ hand, smiling dopily when he looks up at him. James stutters, “Wh- What’s the second rule?” He asks, drinking in their proximity – something warm coiling deep within his lower belly.

“The second rule -,” Anthony inhales shakily, his eyes fleeting downwards and James realizes where he’s looking at, his own gaze following Anthony’s lead, dropping to pink lips longingly. “The second rule,” Anthony repeats, much closer than he’s been before.

Too close. And James gives in to the thrill of wants pounding inside him, ducking his head, just a smidge away and –

“The second rule is you kiss me.” Anthony whispers, snapping the final thread between them. Blinking widely when he pulls back after just a peck, much to James’ frustration.

So he drops all his worries and doubts and presses his mouth over Anthony’s. Soft and slow at first then increasingly coaxing until they part and he swipes a hot tongue into the space between his soulmate’s mouth, licking in, getting a taste of him – just a tease, before he pulls away, smirking when Anthony follows, “And you kiss me back.” He brushes a thumb over the swell of Anthony’s bottom lip.

To his delight, his soulmate snorts, before giving into a fit of giggles, leaning into him – spreading warmth and happiness all over and James smiles endlessly, pressing his lips over the mess of curls tucked beneath his chin.

He’s wrong. He knows. He can never be complete. He’s aware.

But he has a soulmate who wants him for him – the way he is; broken and scared and covered in sins.

A soulmate who wants him to stay. And stay, James will. Until Anthony throws him away, James will stick by him, give him everything he has and makes sure nothing else matters over him.

#soulmate au #this is completely unnecessary but i started it anyway #this is for richieleeparker #whom idk if it's okay to tag so i'm mentioning you in the tag #aaaanyways #buckytony #reminds me of that soulmate winteriron fic i read that has soulmate identifying marks #fluff so much fluff ofc #i feel like bucky needs a standalone fic with friday just bonding and developing trust between them #in my mind it revolves in his room and whenever he's alone and wondering in the night and just glaring but not actually glaring at the #red light and watching how tony interact freely with it so one day he decided to give it a try; swimming between the urge to leap off the #roof (nothing suicidal. simply curiosity) and trying to distract himself; he asks what tony likes. what he dislikes. his fave food. colour #just everything about tony that he's too shy to ask and slowly it becomes about howling commando. then he asks about the 21st century slurs #what's urban dictionary. what do i do to irritate barton etc and eventually fri and bucky becomes partners in crime. fri knowing what #to do or play for him when bucky is in one of his mood and neither tony nor steve is avavailabe and before bucky realises #friday has become his second most closest person/not person - beating stevie even #winteriron

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ccyans · 5 years

Text

Lionheart chapter 4

AO3

There’s no other plausible explanation for it, Law decides, very abruptly. Clearly, evidently, he's still stuck in the dream.

Or the hallucination. Or... the mental breakdown. Whichever it is, whatever this is. Law had not thought he'd been anywhere near a psychotic snap, especially now, safe again amongst his crew, but the past two months had been very stressful. Doflamingo as a trigger point makes sense. Nothing else does.

There is literally no other plausible explanation.

Because Cora-san’s eyes are on him. Cora-san, one hand braced against the metal frame of the doorway, all giant limbs and ruffled hair and motion, wide-eyed, expression frozen in some rictus of surprised upset. His eyes catch Law’s, very briefly. They’re dark amber under the crimson glare of the hallway lights. His eyes catch Law’s, and then they flicker past him.

Sweeps left.

Sweeps from Sachi to Nico Robin to Bepo, where it lands, finally, and hesitates, but only for half a heartbeat of a moment.

The next liquid second has him moving. The shhk of his fingertips leaving the metal of the doorframe, the brisk clack of his heel hitting the metal of the hallway floor. The near invisible breath of his passage, rustling Law's hair, as he brushes past Law altogether.

And says, voice raspy and urgent to a very startled Bepo, “I need the doctor on board. Is there a doctor on board?”

“Um?”

“My kid — he’s — here — he’s got a really bad fever and he needs medical attentio n right now—”

“Uh mister please calm—”

“Please he’s burning up too much I just need some medecine I’ll pay you back —”

“Mister please I—uh — Captain?”

A sideways glance Law neither sees nor registers, up until Cora-san’s attention redirects to spin him around, and the full force of his worried desperation lands onto Law. His bare, vivid eyes. His pale, bloodless face. He looks the same. He looks exactly the same. And his lip is still split. And his cheek is still bruised. And his throat is still mottled purple where Vergo had fucking smashed it in, the outline of a palm strike drawn in off-yellow and rupture purple where white gauze ends, and Law --

-- is flinching before he can help himself, even as Cora-san says, “I’m sorry, are you—?” reaching out, Law twitching sharp and near-imperceptible to Sachi’s warning snarl of, “Hey, don’t touch— "

Law isn’t aware Sachi moves. Law isn’t aware Law moves.

He doesn’t blink but the next moment his hand is braced around Sachi’s wrist, and Cora-san’s hand is on Law’s sleeve, and someone, in the distance, is saying, “.... captain?”

Cora-san is saying, “You’re a doctor?”

“... Yes,” says Law, through the haze that’s this dream or hallucination or mental breakdown.

His voice comes out remarkably clear. Actual control of his bodily functions seems nebulous at the current moment, so it is very, very remarkable. “Yes,” he repeats, “I’m a doctor.”

And then he looks down from Cora-san’s face, and registers, for the first time, the ragged little bundle of blankets and dried blood that’s his younger self.

Dirtied winter coat. Skewed hat. A scatter of white spots on sickly skin. One hand curving upwards to clutch at a loose leaflet of bandages near Cora-san’s collar. Cora-san, who’s holding it very gingerly in the crook of his arm.

“He has a —”

“Fever,” says Law, staring at it. The result of auto immune responses failing in the latter stages of the Amber Lead. He remembers it well, both in himself and Lami, small and shaking in the curtained shade of the hospital bed.

For half a second Cora-san pauses. “That’s— Right. I already said that.” Law’s head lifts. He finds Cora-san’s gaze zoomed, very intently, on his face . “So can you — give him some medicine? Or a saline drip? It’s just temporary. Look, if afterwards you don’t want us here we’ll be outta your hair as soon as you want, and I’ll pay you back of course.”

Cora-san’s eyes are on him. Law wonders kind of blankly if he should mention that neither saline nor fever medicine would help. The fever a symptom; it won’t go away as long as the metallic buildup is present. But this is a dream. And Cora-san is asking.

“Yes. That can be done.” He hears himself say. Hears himself add, inanely, “We… have the equipment.”

“I swear to -- ”

Cora-san stops. He blinks twice.

“Oh. That’s -- thank you.”

He sounds almost surprised. Startled. To what, Law can’t imagine. The number of things Law can imagine or process clearly at the moment is somewhere in the negatives though, so he doesn’t think too much about it.

Cora-san’s gaze lingers on Law for a moment longer. The grip on Law’s sleeve loosens, falls away.

Then he looks down, abruptly, and takes two hasty backwards. Perfunctory distance, so that he’s no longer hovering close enough for Law to smell the antiseptic in his hair, see the strain of the stitches on his cheek. His heel goes sliding underneath him on the second step, of course. It always does. He nearly bangs his head on the metal door frame of the operating theatre before Law’s hand snaps out, catches his wrist, yanks him straight.

Law is almost surprised when it works. He’s never been big enough to act as a counter weight before.

Cora-san gets both feet under him and one shoulder against the doorframe before he regards Law again, a touch sheepish this time.

“Right. Sorry about that.”

“Your balance is still shit,” says Law, without reflection, almost half reflex, through the haze.

“No it’s —” A beat “ ... Right,” says Cora-san very slowly.

Law isn’t listening to him either by then though, because he’s finally caught a glimpse of the operating theatre.

It looks like something Law would normally never allow, not in a thousand years. What’s supposed to be meticulous is, right here and now, definitely not. Blood trails tacky on the floor, feathers scattered across the room along with emptied syringes, half bloodied scalpels, and finished IV packets. Cora-san’s coat in the corner, next to gloves crusted with enough dried blood that the blue latex underneath isn’t even showing.

“Right—” Cora-san says, “you know what. Nevermind right now. can we just get saline? For the kid?”

Law doesn’t answer. Law barely hears him. Or Bepo. Or Sachi. Both of whom are possibly saying something in the whitenoise of the background. He doesn’t pay attention to it.

The operating room has him narrowed to tunnel-vision.

Blood, and the smell of antiseptic, and Cora-san's shirt a shredded heap on the tiles. The operating table, with the IV lines all tangled up among a dark spread of blood. Details of the operation filter back as if through a sieve, in sutures and scalpel light. The red-stained sight of shattered bone. The dim blue glow of Room .

A half turn of his head allows him to face Cora-san again.

Cora-san, whose face is still pallourless. And whose blood Law can smell, underneath the disinfecting agents.

A muscle in Law’s eye twitches.

Distantly, he remembers the frustration rolling over him to be the kind endemic at thirteen, a sort of flashback in itself, at least concerning this giant dumbass. “Oi.” He says. Hears himself say. Voice low and ominous.

“ Where is your oxygen mask ?”

Cora-san blinks and —

Law does not wait for an answer. He already knows the where and what of the answer . He’s planting one shoulder against Cora-san’s side and shoving before he can think beyond the why are you like this , and that— that’s familiar too, some age old habit returning— expect he’s a hundred pounds heavier and Cora-san’s shaky enough that he actually moves, this time, instead of just standing around like some obliviously annoying wall.

He squawks. Law shoves harder, herding him inside, pushing him back into the theatre. “Why are you standing ,” he hears himself say, between gritted teeth, followed by Cora-san's bewildered, “um." The soles of his shoes hit tile instead of the chink of the hallway metal. White light filters down in lieu of the Polar Tang’s crimson night glare. And it's coming back now, all of it, through the haze and the banking of the shocked incredulity. The details of the surgery, unspooling like film from a reel, crashing over Law and pulling taunt.

The clink of the bullets on the floor. The latex of his surgery gloves wet with blood. Slicing open Cora-san’s chest underneath the blue glow of Room , and finding the damage beneath his scalpel a broken ruin. Remembering: The subclavian artery, shredded. The pulmonary artery, shredded. One lung collapsed from lacerations, from both bullet and shattered bone fragments alike. A rupture in the gastrointestinal tract that spilled fluid, and made Law pull up, autopilot, the fatality rates from peritonitis, from bacteria infection. And he’d been lucky still, Cora-san, or perhaps Law had been, because a bullet had grazed so close to the heart it’d nicked the muscle of the lower left ventricle, but thank God not the aorta, thank God not the vena cava, a miracle perhaps of Law’s imagination, that made it so this Corazon did not bleed out and die on his operating table.

Five hours ago and Law had just barely had him stabilized. If it’d been any other surgeon’s, they would have managed not even that. He shouldn’t be moving. He definitely shouldn’t be walking. He should be dead to the world with the intravenous antibiotics hooked up and the blood transfusion packets hooked up and the oxygen mask on, and not — standing around protesting like a stupid.

“What? Wait. Hold a minute. I'm fine it’s my kid that— aaak!” and Law pushes harder, because no he’s not. He's not fine at all. He's a dumbass, that's what he is.

“That's the morphine, you moron,” Law snaps, and gives a final shove to sit Cora-san back onto the operating table.

Metal legs screech backwards with the weight. Cora-san screeches backwards too, as the additional momentum takes both the natural and completely ridiculous course of events to send him windmilling over onto the floor. And that’s — that’s familiar too. Just this scene, Cora tripping over absolutely everything. And Law is reaching out again, thirteen year old instincts coming back on a wave of alarmed exasperation, both hands on Cora-san’s wrist to pull him up straight. A flicker of surprise when he actually manages it — again, at thirteen Law didn’t weigh enough to counterbalance— but then there are more important things to tend to.

“Sit,” he says, and goes rooting through the IV lines.

He finds them mostly empty, and thus in need of replacement even disregarding how they’d been torn out. A quick shambles gives him new packets which he hooks up to a promptly stripped IV pole. He ties a tourniquet to Cora-san’s arm, already sliding a needle out of its packaging as he does so. He ignores what Cora-san's saying irrelevantly in the distance.

“Look. Doctor. Doctor? I appreciate this, I do, but if you can look here at the kid—”

Law takes his hand and slides the needle in in one practiced motion

“— This kid. Right here. The little boy? — “

Tapes it down and screws on the extensionIV tubing

“—He has a fever? He’s ill. He just needs a saline drip, for rehydration and exhaustion. He— I've already explained this. Are you listening to me?”

Starts a new line immediately after: tourniquet, needle, IV, vein

“You're not listening to me. Okay. look— ow no stop.”

And doesn't get any further than the vein.

The hand squeezing Law's wrist is cool and calloused. Long fingers, broad palm, a fresh IV needle pushed into the back and taped down. It leads up a bandaged arm to a half-bandaged throat to Cora-san’s grey-pallored face, eyes staring out red as emergency lights, lips pressed thin and brows furrowed, thrusting the bundle that is Law's younger self — whom Law had completely forgotten about — up aggressively with his other hand.

“The child.” he emphasizes. “Right here? Should be your first priority.”

He sounds halfway beyond himself with frustration. He sounds exactly as Law feels. The glance Law sends down is wholly perfunctory and completely devoid of his attention. His younger self, yes, whatever, but more importantly: how much blood Cora-san’s still lost, how delicate the stitches holding together his insides are. How and why the fuck is he still moving .

How many IV lines still need inserting.

Law registers the important thing, and says: “I'm going to need that arm later.”

The noise Cora-san makes is like a strangled wheeze.

Law moves his free hand to reach for the adapter end of the IV tubing, touches cool plastic. Only makes it that far, before he’s suddenly being reeled in, yanked down, the hand not used to grip Law’s wrist hard enough to bruise clenched in the front of Law’s coat collar.

“Listen to me, ” Cora-san says lowly.

In the background, Sachi and Bepo make alarmed noises.

“I am this close to punching you in the face right now, okay?” Law gives a long, slow, blink. “The kid’s— you’re still not listening to me.”

Of course he’s not.

This close Law can count the minute cross-crossing of the stitches on Cora’s cheek. See the black mix with the arterial red in the ring of his sclera. His pupils have constricted to pinpoints. Constricted pupils can be, in order, a symptom of the narcotics: morphine, codeine, oxycodone. Pupillary reflex against harsh lighting.

Emotional distress, such as anger, or pain.

White-clenched jaw. Wide-blown eyes. The look on his face is familiar as hospitals burning. Familiar as Minion island, that brief-flash moment before he’d smiled, broad and laughing, and looked at Law saying, it’ll be okay, kid, I’ll be okay, pressing their foreheads together, saying, bruises at his throat and the bleeding cut on his cheek. That brief-flash moment Law had not thought anything of when he should have, beyond anything else in the world. Because afterwards he’d put Law in that treasure chest and stood up and let himself be fucking s hot .

He still smells of the snow. He’s close enough Law can nearly taste it. The cold and the musk of age-old wood, the devil fruit like battery acid on his tongue.

Gunshots in the dark.

Law registers, kind of distantly, that he’s being shaken by the collar. Bepo and Sachi, equally distantly, are hollering and scrambling forwards. Cora-san is swearing. He registers that . “Fucking Blues, and after I thought you were a decent—”

His eyes catch Law’s.

The pause in both shaking and swearing is abrupt. Hesitation flickers across his face.

Cora’s brow furrows, sharply.

His grip — one hand on the collar, the other on Law’s wrist — slackens a margin.

He stares. Law stares back. After a long, slow beat, Cora-san says, expression still flickering, “Hey, are you… alright?”

His voice is slow and very careful. Law blinks, again. A reflection of his own face stares back at him from black pupils. An arrangement of mouth, and eyes, and nose. Precise expression: unknown.

His mouth is very dry. Familiar voices taper off in the distance. A close distance.

And then the grip on his collar disappears entirely, which is when Law realizes that’s all keeping him upright. He nearly buckles, but there’s still a hand on his wrist and half a second later one steadying him on his shoulder. A beat. The strength in his legs return.

“Okay,” says Cora-san. “You okay?”

Law opens his mouth and says: “Your IVs—“

The expression on Cora-san’s face flattens.

“-- need replacement.”

“Captain, what the fuck,” says Sachi.

Law does not hear him at all or in particular. The IVs are the only tangible thought he can hold on to at the moment.

Very briefly, Cora-san’s eyes close.

The ridge of his brow doesn’t lose its tension when he re-opens them. His mouth is tugged down at the corners into a frown, blood still flaking at the corner of his lip. “Okay.” He gives a little shake of his head.

“Okay,” he repeats, before once again he looks at Law.

“So you… want to replace my IVs.”

His voice has taken that careful, soothing tone again, as if Law is some kind of wild animal that needs to be calmed. Which he isn’t. Law doesn’t need to be calmed. He needs Cora to stop moving and get a proper blood transfusion.

“Yes,” Law hears himself say.

“Nice to get that outta the way. Alright… doctor? Doctor. Let me tell you, I’m... perfectly willing to let you do that, provided--” His hand leaves Law’s shoulder, gestures in the direction of his lap. It leaves a void of heat near-immediately. “You treat the kid first. You see the kid?”

Heat: the indication of active metabolic processes; life.

Law looks though, dutifully. His younger counterpart is curled up at one dirt and blood splattered knee. Law had forgotten about him. He likely would have even if this were real and the boy not some sort of hallucinatory placebo. As it stands, he just feels vaguely detached.

“Yes.”

“Oh, good.” A very brief pause, before he continues, voice like a metronome and gaze like a spotlight. “Now, this kid is very important to me, alright? And he needs a saline drip. You…. have saline right there. I can see you holding a packet. Can you give it to him?”

Law looks at his hand. He is, indeed, holding a saline packet.

But it's not for —

“I’ll let you do my IVs right after,” adds Cora-san.

In the end the procedure barely takes half a minute. Law strips the boy out of the blanket and his winter coat, finds the vein in one thin, knobbly Amber-Lead ridden arm, and slides the needle in. At thirteen and as a hallucination the boy is papered skin and the gauntness of dying things. He looks surreal. He is surreal. His hat, Cora-san takes, and puts to the side. It’s matted a little with blood at the rim but otherwise untouched.

“Wait.” Sachi says in the distance. “Wait. Wait a minute. Isn’t that —?”

Bepo makes a weird, short, squeaking noise.

“Someone punch me.” Sachi again, even as Law shakes out the adapter end of the saline and screws it in. “Bepo — ow, okay thanks. Annnnd…. Nope. Everything’s still happening.”

“Mmmmrgh,” says Bepo.

The hallucination of Law’s younger self takes thin breaths, head lolling. Cora-san rubs its back while murmuring soothing things. Law Shambles a separate IV pole from across the room. He hangs the saline solution onto a metal hook.

“Thank you,” says Cora-san, when it’s done. He settles the hallucination more comfortably by his side, in a nest of half-ripped cloth and a coat Law dimly remembers having been swiped from one of a myriad of ports when the autumn was still settling thirteen years ago: dark green, heavy wool, too big at the shoulders.

Cora-san considers it, and then sighs. Gives Law a sideways glance, just a touch wry. “Hey, I don’t suppose you have any extra blankets around here?”

Law looks at him.

Cora-san looks back.

A beat.

Room expands. Blankets appear, somewhere from a storage closet or maybe Unni’s room. Law doesn’t particularly care. Law just needs Cora to lie down and get his antibiotics lines back in.

Cora-san, who blinks, brightens, and says, “Oh! Thanks.” And then, after a significant pause, “Hey, can you do that for a thermometer too? And ibuprofen. And — “

The noise that erupts from Law’s throat is something unholy.

“No,” it comes out as a bite. Patience snapping. The buzz in Law’s head reaching crescendo. And then his hands are on Cora-san’s shoulders, pressing down. “Lie down sit back you’re going to reopen all your stitches none of this is going to fucking help anyways. It’s not a simple fever it’s the fucking Amber Lead it’s —”

Me me me

Eyes flash arterial red. The glint of humour is gone like a tide wash from a beach. Cora’s face is white and sharp with fury when he says, “well if you waste of medical licenses had a single shred of empathy and actually tried to cure it— ”

He doesn’t lie down. He doesn’t fucking budge.

Of course he fucking doesn’t because he never ever ever does.

To have forgotten that Cora-san was like this: an impossibility. Except for how Law had, somehow, and Cora-san is always like this. He won’t change and he doesn’t change and he won’t ever change even after it got him killed, got him dead, and why the fuck had Law expected otherwise. The futile effort of screaming at him to just stop caring, you stupid dumb clown, SToP, coming back flash-moment, thirteen years old and getting dragged from one North Blue hospital to another, Cora-san not listening because Cora-san never listens. Like Law banging his own head against a goddamned brick wall. Cora-san on the other side grimly deciding that Law’s going to live, Cora-san deciding that if tries and hopes and refuses death for Law hard enough the impossibility of it will become reality. And the stupid fucking thing is that it’d worked, he’d done it, he’d died to do it, and he’s going to die here and again to some hallucinatory hallucination because he’s too worried about the Amber fucking Lead —

“Scan. Shambles.”

— to worry about himself.

The boy floats to Law’s snarl. Every single iota of Amber Lead dissolved in his bloodstream and clogged in his arteries

dumps

itself

at Law’s feet.

The boy’s barely thumping back onto the operating table half a second later before Law’s pushing Cora down by the shoulders again, snapping, “There. It’s done, he’s cured, the buildup is gone, now lie down and get your IVs in and your oxygen mask on,” through the rage and frustration and the incoherent buzzing in his own head. Cora-san, of course, does none of these things and instead seizes Law's collar in a way that definitely strains something .

“What the fuck did you— what ?”

“Lie down.”

“You said — you did what ?”

“Your IVs.”

“What do you mean cured him ? Do you know how many hospitals we went to said there wasn’t a cure?”

“There isn’t . It was a toxic metal buildup and I have a devil fruit. Now lie down. ”

Cora-san doesn’t.

The IV pole screeches across the tile. He whips around with enough force to snap a line and puts a hand to the boy’s forehead and regards him very closely for one long slow beat, very still and crumpled yet but with the white spots gone from his skin, now. The rest of the symptoms, Law knows, will recede as well; the fever and the coughing at speed, recovery of the immune system and liver more gradually.

Cora-san brushes long fingers over the fringe of his counterpart’s bangs. Presses a hand over the boy’s ribcage, the boy’s heart.

Lets it rest there, for a beat, before

wheels around

again

and it’s

yet another whiplash. To Law, this time. Cora-san’s face like the edge of a new dawn, the sun rising through the grey and the mottled purple and the red-edged stitches on his cheek, mouth opening, a broad flash of white, and Law doesn't realize what’s going on until his knees smack the edge of the operating table from being reeled in and his arms are squeezed limp at his sides from being hugged tight and his vision is gold, all gold, tickling his nose and in his eyes, and he can hear the rumble of Cora-san’s laugh through his chest, half delirious relief and half delirious delight and a third delirious gratitude, saying, “thank you, thank you thank you.”

He smells of cigarette smoke.

Cigarette smoke and the lingering afterbite of the snow; the nearby scents of the operating room: antiseptic, disinfectant, plastics mixed with the blooming copper of iron in the blood. But above that or beneath that or perhaps intertwined, still smoke, sharp and sticking acrid, and something of the salt of the sea. Cora-san’s golden hair in Law’s eyes and pressing against the bridge of Law’s nose. Cora-san’s arms thrown tight around his neck and squeezing, very fiercely, very tightly, a sense-memory of heat, safety, and for the long elastic stretch of that moment Law is thirteen years old again hearing the rustle of invisible feathers mingling with the laugh in Cora-san’s chest.

Before he is, just as abruptly, wrenched away.

“Shit, sorry, I'm. I’m just so glad. Thankyou thankyou, I didn't even get your name, please —”

Heat, and then the absence of. Law neither cares for nor particularly enjoys being touched, but this time the deprivation is a vacuum. He sways.

Cora-san babbling.

“I can’t even begin to express my gratitude. You won’t believe how many stupid-ass hospitals refused the kid, seriously, just — thank you — “

Cora’s hand still on Law’s shoulder though. Cora-san’s hand leaving Law’s shoulder as he motions in a short arc.

Law’s hand snapping up and closing around a gauze-wrapped wrist, trapping the IV line before it can snap.

Heat: an indication of life.

Cora-san’s gaze follows, lands on the wrist. “Oh, frick, I should really stop moving around shouldn’t I? Just undid all your hard work.” He gives a little shake of his head, grinning, looking up at Law. Sitting down on the gurney table which makes Law taller, for the first time in memory. The reflection of light in his eyes; the edge of a sunrise smile.

The wrist trapped in Law’s hand, gauze and scar and skin and bone and heat, so very solid.

All of him is, Law thinks abruptly, to the point of suspension of belief. The texture of the bandages underneath Law’s hand, the hard yield of the wrist bone. Like a repentance, or an impossibility, or perhaps a respite. What Law wishes to be true more than anything else right now, so real he can deceive himself in the emotion of the moment.

Except Law, thirteen years ago, hadn’t saved his Corazon. Except it is very hard for Law to deceive himself.

Except —

“Except you're not real are you?” says very abruptly the strange doctor with the gold eyes, grip still hard enough on Rocinante's wrist to creak.

He gives a little laugh.

#lionheart notes #one piece #lionheart update #cyan ficstuff #trafalgar law #trafalgar d. water law #donquixote rocinante #donquixote corazon #heart pirates #bepo #sachi

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kareem-mohammed · 5 years

Text

[Monday, Sept 24rd, 2019]

I wish I can explain it to you, but I still don't have the words for it.

It's been weeks of feeling this way, as if I'm functioning on autopilot, as if I'm not there, someone/something else is occupying my body, controlling it, since I seem to be failing to do so.

Weeks of feeling utter numbness, with sudden intervals of feeling everything. Nothing and everything. Innocence and Instinct. Enemies and familiar friends. And yes I am referring to RED, since it is some sort of a fight inside. Only I haven't really chosen it. I'm not doing anything, sweety. Not ignoring my feelings, not bottling them up, not distracting from them. And yet, I am forced to bear this fight I didn't plan to fight.

I was on my way to get a few books, today, when I noticed where I was. Last time I was there, it was night, and I couldn't be sure where exactly was that, only that it was familiar. The sudden flashbacks I got once my brain registered it is, in fact, the same place, unsettled me. And while the scorching sunlight made it an almost alien place, I still panicked. So, on instinct, I looked up to the sky, expecting to see the dark grey of angry clouds, but saw clear, blue nothingness. Then, why was I feeling the burn of raindrops on my aching skin?

___

‘For much like Icarus and the Sun,

When it rained I cursed the skies.

Fearing it would put out your flames,

Even if it would heal my burning pains.’

—My subconscious recited these at one of my recent dreams, and I wanted to have a word with it; mostly because of how cliché these lines were.

___

Accepting things doesn't necessarily mean they'll stop hurting. It only means that now when it does, we'll understand why it's hurting. It doesn't lessen the pain, doesn't prevent the panic attacks accompanying the unexpected resurfacing of the to-only-be-accepted shit. It's easier to accept our mistakes, our shortcomings, because we've got something to blame it on, even if it's ourselves—especially if it's ourselves. So, we acknowledge the mistake, and work on not repeating it again, or at least not too many times. Basic actions and reactions. You make a mistake, and the universe makes you pay for it. Except it never really required any actions on my behalf for the universe to beat the living hell out of me.

See, we've all been raised on the idea that bad things happen to bad people. And then we grow up, and we find that bad things happen to almost everyone. Bad things happen to us. Does that mean we're bad people, then? Or does it mean that shit just happens anyway? To everyone, every time, everywhere? Whichever concept is true, can you accept either of them?

________

[Tuesday, Sept 25th, 2019]

[23:57]

Heart, it's raining. Again.

And so, I am stuck between the raging storms behind my shutters, and the siren screams echoing against my brain walls. Again.

Triggered. Again.

And I don't know when is this absurdity going to stop.

A couple mornings ago, I started my day with school it is raining that day.

And:

___

‘I hoped it was wrong, but I opened the shutters and there it was: The static, the weighted atmosphere, the greyness—it is going to rain, sweetheart, and I'm not sure I can handle a single raindrop descending on my skin.’

___

That was what I wrote at that moment, the first thing I've written in month of silence.

And I almost caved in again. Because, see, ever since then, every time it would rain, I would hide in my room for even longer.

It is that bad, and, I don't know what to do.

________

[Wednesday, Sept 26th, 2019]

It's 03:35, now.

And something is happening to me.

My brain snapped into a sudden shutdown once that rain continued for over 2 hours, and I can feel it slipping deeper and deeper, and I don't know how to stop it before it's a total shutdown.

It's still raining.

In fact, it's getting even heavier now.

I'm not panicking, yet.

But I feel like I'm drowning.

I am breathing.

But..

Do you know how it feels to take a breath underwater?

Every breath I'm currently taking, feels this way.

I've got a lot of things to do.

I've got a mug of chamomile in front of me. I currently have 4 different types of chamomile at home. And while none of them currently helps me sleep, they just help in keeping me calm. And right now, I'd do anything not to panic just because it's raining again.

That's why I'm writing. Actually, I'm forcing myself to write.

Much like I've been forcing myself to do everything lately.

study. Exercise. Go to walk.

Except, I force myself into starting, and my subconscious forces me to overdo it. Last Sunday, I sat for too many hours overworking on some drawings. I finished 47. I didn't even notice how many I've finished until my hand was tremoring bad enough and I realized I couldn't make a straight line. Last time I exercised, I overdid it until I collapsed breathless. Last few times I forced myself to go to school, it forced me to walk for nothing less than 2 hours on my way back.

And , there must be a reason why I'm beating myself up that bad.

___

‘Nolan: Logically, people punish themselves for something they did, or something they didn't do. So what have you screwed up?

House: I don't know.

House: Okay.. there may be a problem.’

—House M.D., Season 6, Episode 21 ‘Baggage’.

___

And heart, it's not just a ‘september’ in my case, because there IS a problem. It's that rain have been a major trigger for me the last month. I know my triggers. Some of which I outgrown, some I know how to handle, some I still struggle with but can be managed, and some I avoid at all cost because they'll take me back places I'd rather forget ever existed. Rain had never been one. And right now, it makes no sense for one natural element to encompass every single trigger I've fought to avoid. Now all it takes is a thunderclap, a raindrop on my skin, the smell of the earth during rain, and they're all unleashed at me, and.. I'm not sure if I'm really that sleepy, or if I'm just losing consciousness bit by bit..

It's 18:00, now.

My subconscious won.

The triggers came one after the other.

Thoughts of putting an end to it all became louder.

At some point I couldn't fight it anymore, and I surrendered to it, lied down and felt it all. Listened to the thunder claps echoing with my screams; the muffled ones, and the ones which slipped out there to pierce the atmosphere.

I don't remember when I slipped, only that suddenly I wasn't awake, and I was stuck in a self-created hell.

My subconscious trapped me into a total shutdown disguised as sleep. 15 hours of it, in which I wasn't there. Hours in which it shut me out of the world completely. Hours in which I fought with it, wanting to wake up, and it refusing.

And I know it's a coping mechanism. But I hadn't noticed the triggers were that much that it required a total shutdown for my brain to keep me sane and alive.

It makes no sense.

It's childish, and absurd.

I don't know how to stop this.

I don't even understand the root of it all so I could stop it.

‘Traumatic coupling’ was what my therapist called such incidents.

But this is the most fucked up coupling my subconscious created.

___

‘“What’s going on in that head of yours?” He wrapped himself around me. “I don’t know what to do,” he said again. “I don’t know what to do.”’

—Sylvia Day, Crossfire: #5 One With You.

________

I'm writing this part now, the time I'm posting this.

You might be wondering why I'm using my tumblr post format, with dates and timestamps. I'm even mixing it with my hamlettings format, with quotes and lyrics. It's just because I've been writing bits and pieces the last few days. Pieces that aren't even connected. And connecting them will be hard.

Because these pieces make no sense.

But they do, in my head.

They should do, in yours as well.

But they won't.

Much like the last time I wrote you should've but didn't.

Why writing again the last few days?

Because the rain thing became too stupid it's making me angry at you, myself, and the universe. After all, I haven't written about anything more of importance except the rain thing. Because nothing has changed since the last time I wrote you.

Perhaps I'll add that one too, and stop this madness rollercoaster right there, what do you think?

_______

[Thursday, Sept 27st, 2019]

sweety,

I'm only writing this time because I'm hurting. I'm knocked down with pain. In every sense of the word. And I hate you, just as much as I currently hate everyone. and i love !

I was scared that what's been happening would trigger my cynicism again. And I tried, heart. I tried. But to fucking hell with it. Humans are fucked up. We are fucked up. Yet at least we have the decency to admit it. To not take it out on others and pretend like we're not. To put them in hell, then blame them for burning.

___

Do I need to tell you I'm shutdown again? Or has it become a given, once I'm reaching you this way? Have you noticed I'm shutdown? Have you noticed the difference this time? No. You'll have to see me out of this virtual world to see it. Because over here, I'm functioning, nothing is wrong. But the truth is, everything is wrong. And I stopped functioning fully yesterday.

You're wondering if this has anything to do with you, right? And you expect me to tell you it's not, even if it is, because I am that kind. Right? Well, I'm never kind once I'm in this state. I'm only true. And the truth is, you caused this. Whether deliberately or just by your mere haste.

See, sweety,

I think I've avoided this for enough time, now. Or at least that's what my brain decided. Most probably because there were no more distractions to use. And the latest novel series I picked to distract me, in fact, triggered me. I didn't know it would. There were no trigger warnings anywhere. And I'm still trying to understand how the fuck there were none if everything was going to be that detailed. But I'm not angry because of the novel. I'm angry because it made me realize why I was distracting to begin with, why I was avoiding reacting to what you did, why I treated it all so coolly as if it was nothing.

You triggered me.

Heart, you triggered in me a feeling I prayed to never feel again as long as I lived. The only feeling I knew I'd never manage to fight because it's the only one that's true. The only feeling I never doubt. Yet the only feeling I pray was just wrong.

________

Back to meantime.

It makes sense why I stopped writing, after this. Nothing has changed since then. It's the same cycle. No matter what I do, no matter what choices I make, it remains the same. I hadn't noticed I never finished writing this one, though. But then again I remember why I stopped. At that time, I didn't want to share it with the world, and I later sent you everything I didn't write in it, directly. An attempt I tried to help you understand what was happening, so we could find our way around and through it. But you failed to see it that way. And as the days went by after that, I started noticing the effect of it all. There was something worse than the triggers. But it won't make sense to anyone but those who've dealt with it directly; my instinct. Heart, it never failed me. My gut feeling had always been on point. My instinct is the only thing I never doubted. Never. Yet, somehow, it failed me big time with you. And I'm still not sure if it's just been a human error of misinterpreting the signs, of if it really backstabbed me.

___

‘Ziva: I almost died.

Gibbs: But you didn't. You've got to trust your judgement, Ziva. Moment you don't, it won't be “almost”.’

—NCIS, Season 5, Episode 16 ‘Recoil’.

___

But none of that matters,

I just find it worrying that a big part of me taking a step and publicizing my My photos and my drawings was a mere distraction I needed. And my worry grew after that day I overworked myself beyond my limits and didn't know when or how to stop.

I always worry that I'll be the end of me, sweethear.

And I'm finding that to be the ultimate truth, with every passing day.

You know what's another, more important, ultimate truth?

None of what I just wrote matters.

None,.

None.

#pain #broken heart #love #art #Feelings #Poetry #writing prompt

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howtofightwrite · 6 years

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Q&A: There's no such thing as an accidental stabbing

I have a taller, drunker, more experienced, overconfident person try to stab a shorter, sober, less experienced person (they have SOME experience, but knives/close combat isn’t their specialty so they’re better at Disengage-and-Get-the-Hell-out-of-Dodge than prolonged fighting). I’d like it to go Shorty: Yeep?! A knife? Both: Struggle over control of knife. Drunky: Loses control of the knife Shorty: Accidentally stabs Drunky in the chest/heart. I’d appreciate advice on how to have it go. Thanks!

Someone who is experienced with a knife knows precisely what it means when they draw one, even when they’re drunk.

They want to kill you.

If they’re drunk enough to be tipsy with their judgement impaired enough to commit murder in a public place but not drunk enough to be tripping over their own feet, then they’re going to be a very dangerous opponent. Knives are very good for killing at close ranges and drunken people can be very difficult to anticipate. Think about this, Drunken Fist is an entire martial art built around learning to move like you are drunk while being sober. This is because the way you move when you are drunk will throw experienced fighters off. A drunken person is looser, faster, and has their tells muted by the strange movements of their body. (Writing drunken characters is made easier if you yourself have ever been drunk, or been around people when they’re drunk.) You end up in a place where things will either go fantastically well while you’re on autopilot i.e. performing complex gymnastics you were too afraid to do before or driving yourself home without incident, or horribly. Drunk crashing, murder, falling to your death, and all other terrible to straight up weird things that can happen when your brain is not firing on all cylinders.

Just remember, when they’re drunk they have all the skills they possess when they’re sober. Their inhibitions are gone, which makes them more dangerous and not less. An angry drunk person is more likely to run you down with a car because they’re running on impulse and the concept of consequences is a distant third. Martial arts retrains your reflexes so you can function without thinking, react without thinking, and do what you want in the moment when you want to do it. Alcohol takes away the inhibitions that will stop you from doing what you want in the moment when you want to do it.

Now, here’s the worse news. Being able to anticipate your enemy’s movements in order to intercept their strikes before they reach extension is necessary when you’re looking at any kind of disarm, but especially with knives. You have less than a second to recognize what’s happening and react, which requires you see the draw coming from starting movements in their eyes, shoulder and chest muscles rather than when they actually pull the knife.

Knives are no game, they are deadly and you are much more likely to get stabbed while attempting any disarm than you are to take the knife away. Knife disarms are less dangerous than gun disarms, but that’s like saying your 99.9% chance of failure has been bumped down to 95%. You’ve got slightly better odds of survival, but they’re not great. You’ve got a better chance if you know what you’re doing than if you don’t, but the likelihood is that you’ll still get stabbed or accidentally impale yourself trying the disarm. If you’re not used to working with knives, you’ll lose track of the knife and its length. Your body’s reflexes won’t be trained to move completely out of the way, and you’re likely to get stabbed just trying to stop the blade from hitting you. It’s important to remember that knives are very dangerous even when you’re practiced, and in a scuffle it is easy to misjudge distance. If you fuck up, you’re getting stabbed, possibly multiple times in rapid succession. If you grab the blade, you’re getting cut or stabbed. If you fail to stop the arm before the attack gains inertia and don’t get out of the way, you’re getting stabbed. If you block the knife with your arm/forearm, you’re getting stabbed.

Knives are often portrayed as the smaller, less dangerous brother of the sword. That is not at all true. They are more dangerous, more flexible, more vicious in close quarters against unarmored/unarmed opponents, and do not require much skill to wield effectively. They are fast, they’re blink and you’ll miss it fast. This is zero to sixty in a fraction of a second with a bleed out following not long after.

Knives used in the hand range and are supplemental to fists. The fight begins in the range where the knife will have access to the entire body, and it is a weapon that can puncture your gut, sever tendons, and cut open muscles. Not only that, but you’re not going to get stabbed the one time. If they get the opportunity, you’ll most likely be stabbed six or seven in rapid succession.

Remember, if someone pulls a knife on you, they are threatening your life. The same is true for your characters. If they are in a situation where someone has pulled a knife on them, their life is being threatened. If they pull a knife on another character, they are threatening that character’s life. Regardless of the character’s intention when they draw their weapon, it is important to understand what the action means and what the threat is.

So, let’s talk about knife disarms.

Some Golden Rules of Knife Disarms

Don’t. Touch. The. Knife.

In knife combat, your target is the arm that holds the blade and not the blade itself. This is especially true if you are unarmed. So, don’t grab the blade. Grab the wrist. Grab the arm. Then, once the arm stops moving, you can take the knife by grabbing the handle and rolling it against your attacker’s thumb to forcibly release the grip.

Get Off The Vector!

You have to get away from the blade when that blade comes at at you. Your choices are to go forward, back, or to the side. Forward to stop the arm before the swing begins, backward to keep from getting stabbed while you go for the knife, sideways to get out of the way. You always want the knife off an attack vector on your body so that when you try to take the blade they can’t just lean into the attack a little harder and stab you.

They will do that, by the way. If you get a bad grip or they twist out of it, they can just roll over and finish what they started. Meanwhile, depending on which angle you stopped it, you risk getting cut/cutting yourself just moving the knife into position for the disarm.

Your combat reflexes are also a problem when dealing with knives, most of the traditional ways you’d move to block an attack will get you stabbed (albeit in a slightly different place than your aggressor intended.) One of the big issues with knife disarms is if you’re not worked to working with knives is that you’ll walk right into the strike even if you successfully “stopped” it.

Catch Before Extension or After. Do Not Try The Disarm During.

The rules of blocks and deflections are necessary to grasp if you want to write knife disarms. Against fists the difference is getting hit. With a knife, failure means you will be stabbed. Blocks and deflections are not about physical strength, they rely on disrupting the body’s mechanics.

In many martial arts, a punch or kick is broken down into stages.

Chamber. Extension. Recoil.

Chamber is when the arm or leg is bent before they extend into the strike. Stopping a punch or kick must be done before the arm or leg extends. If you want to stop a knife thrust, you need to catch that thrust in the moments before the arm fully extends i.e. while the elbow is still bent.

Extension is when the arm extends into motion, when it has gained momentum, and the moment before the elbow or knee locks into place.

Recoil is when the arm or leg withdraws after the strike, pulling back into the chambered position before returning to position.

The easy one to conceptualize is the overhead strike where the arm cycles into a downward arc to strike at the throat or shoulder. You catch the arm while it’s still behind the head before it reaches the zenith of the circle and begins to come down, i.e. while the elbow still points behind the head instead of facing you. This is the stage before the strike gains momentum. If you catch it too late, the strike will go through your block and hit you. With a knife strike, the stakes are higher. If you fail, you’re taking a blade to your shoulder, chest, or neck.

The second option with a knife is to catch the arm after it has extended, which means you must get out of the way of the strike first. The strike goes past you, and you catch the arm before it recoils for another strike.

Keep Track of the Knife.

You can deflect knife strikes, and that works under similar principles as a block. You redirect the arm somewhere else. The issue with this method is you need to have pinpoint precision for exactly how far the blade extends as part of their arm. In order to cut you, a knife just needs to connect. If any body part is within reach, it risks being cut. If your body is on line or on the same vector as the knife when you stop it, you risk your opponent pushing past the catch and stabbing you anyway. You need to track the extra reach of the blade at all times or risk being stabbed even when you do everything right. You always want your body off the knife’s vector, and the knife away from you.

When you’re writing knife combat this step is crucial to conveying tension and necessary to remember when you’re positioning your characters. In a fictional world, your characters will only be stabbed when you decide they will be. They only fail when you decide they will. This can lead to sloppy writing and negation of danger, which negates your tension if you’re not abiding by the rules. To convey that sense of danger, you need your audience aware of the knife; where it is, how close it is, what it’s doing, if your character let it stay on attack vector, tried to stop it, and didn’t get out of the way.

It’s All About The Thumb

Don’t fight four fingers when you can fight one. If you’re going to take a one handed weapon held in a forward facing grip away from someone, roll that weapon back against the thumb and twist. Focus on the weak points in the grip rather than attacking the whole grip.

Gotta Go Fast.

You don’t have time to play around with a knife, if you imagine a prolonged scuffle for the weapon or if your character gets into one then they significantly increased the likelihood they were getting stabbed. The closer that knife is to your body, the greater the chance of penetration, and even surface level nicks are deadly. They don’t need a single finishing blow, they can just cut away quick enough for you to bleed to death. This is the point of first blood, by the way. You take a wound to your body where you begin bleeding, no matter where that wound is, and you are at a serious disadvantage.

The longer this fight goes on, the more the advantage gets handed to the person with the weapon.

Onto some other problems.

The chest is not a good place to stab someone, you’re not getting to the heart unless you’re damn lucky. You’ve got an entire plate of bone called the sternum protecting it. The more necessary your body parts are, the more protection they get. You need a lot of force, and it’s just not worth the effort. Not when you have the stomach there and much readily available. Though, that’s not a quick death. You’re character can try but between their inexperience and the difficulty of the target, this drunk character isn’t going to die. The other major arteries are the same way, there’s not a lot of chance you’ll get them if you’re not experienced at finding them.

With a knife, you need to be skilled at using it in order to deliver sudden and immediate death otherwise you’re stuck with lingering, painful death from a slow bleed out after your major internal organs have been turned into chunky salsa.

Now, this fight is happening in a public place, so there’s a greater likelihood of this character receiving medical aid quick enough for them to survive or someone being close enough to intervene. More than that, where are their friends? And the other bystanders? And the bartender? I have a hard time imagining these two characters being the only ones duking it out in an empty bar.

A character used to disengagement isn’t going to take the option to fight a dangerous opponent against whom they’re outmatched if they can run away. That’s just… smart. A bar provides you with a lot of opportunities to do just that. There are a lot of options to get objects between yourself and the person attacking you in order to create the opening needed to get away. They’re also in the kind of tight quarters where they can’t control their own movement and could get forced into the knife by someone else in the environment or the environment itself. They’ve got no margin for error, and the bar is a situation where there’s a chance all the errors will occur.

You’re basically trying to engineer a situation where this character is forced to kill this other character. The goal is to use alcohol to force the situation and then level the playing field. The problem is you’ve got a character, by your own admission, where this kind of fight isn’t their forte and a situation where knife disarms need to be for them to be successful.

Taking a knife from someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing with it is difficult and you’re at high risk of getting stabbed. Taking a knife from someone who knows what they’re doing, even if they’re drunk, is almost impossible. They’ve trained their body and their reflexes to do this, even when they’re in no condition to be doing this. The drunken fencer accidentally killing another sober person is ironically more likely than the drunken fencer getting killed. Depending on how much they’ve drunk and what their tolerance is, the alcohol actually makes killing easier because it removes their inhibitions. They don’t have to second guess anything, they can just do. They call it liquid courage for a reason.

Now, that’s from a practical standpoint. From a narrative standpoint, this piece of violence will be trivial unless the death of this other character leads somewhere interesting with real, severe consequences for your protagonist. If the violence doesn’t go anywhere and just exists for cheap guilting or to prove the character can kill then it just isn’t interesting. Violence is a high risk tool with high risk consequences that you can use to create real stakes, but when violence is misused you also cheapen your entire narrative. You can destroy your stakes, wreck your tension, and end up boxed in by your own writing.

What’s the point?

Did this other character have a real reason to draw their knife on this other character and attempt to kill them? Or are they just a puppet sacrificed to establish the protagonist?

It better be a really good reason, let me tell you. Alcohol takes away inhibitions, but it doesn’t make you do anything you weren’t already prone to doing. The beef better be real, and based in the sort of emotional reaction you’d be willing to ruin your life over.

Where are the other characters?

Where is the bartender?

Who else is going to intervene?

When setting up a versus in your head, it is really easy to over focus on that and forget about everything surrounding your characters. A drawn weapon is a danger to everyone in the room, not just the character who is being threatened. Other people, whether they’re friends, allies, enemies, or strangers, will be inclined to jump in. A bar fight has stakes for the owner and employees of the establishment, they can’t stay in business if their bar isn’t safe. Drawing a weapon represents a direct threat to that safety for the social order.

These consequences and considerations are part of your world building. Ask yourself, is there someone close enough to stop this fight?

You may not see it that way, but you should be aware of the fact that the bar brawl scene is cliche. One countless other writers have already used for some cheap, consequence free violence to show how their protagonist is a badass. The violence in fictional bars rarely goes anywhere. Cheap violence damages your narrative.

So, don’t be cheap.

You don’t need a character behaving violently to show that the character is dangerous or knows what they’re doing. In fact, doing so runs counter to showing that.

Lastly, there’s no such thing as an accidental stabbing. This is especially true when you’ve killed the other person. Knives are like guns. They’re weapons used to kill the other person. Characters who have any experience with martial combat know that. They know what holding a knife means, the threat it represents, and how the combat is going to end. They or the other person will be seriously wounded or dead. Even when you’re wielding one in self-defense or fighting someone else with a knife, that is the outcome.

“Oh, but I didn’t mean to do that” is not a good justification, legally or narratively. “He was going to kill me so I killed him first” is better. “I killed him because I had to.” “I killed him to protect someone precious to me.” “I killed him because I wanted to.” “I killed him because he threatened my life.” “I killed him.” “I… yeah, I did.”

If you’re going to have your character kill another character, you need to put on your grown up pants and have them mean it. This is especially true when they’re trained. Accidents are not a get out of jail free card, or a great way to show your character knows what they’re doing but just couldn’t control it, or particularly meaningful way of raising the stakes.

Killing another person requires commitment. You don’t get there through half-measures. Humans are actually rather difficult to do in. We’re impressively good at killing each other, but it takes a fair amount of work. Besides, I mean, this character is drunk. He’s got a better than average chance of stabbing himself with the knife or falling on it and killing himself, or falling into a table and stabbing some innocent bystander long before this other character has time to take the knife from him.

You gotta commit. Whether in martial arts, or in your writing, or in life, you won’t get anywhere with half-measures. We cross the threshold by acting, by believing we’ll get there, and by committing to what we’re about to do. The same goes for your Shorty.

There aren’t clean endings to knife fights. Violence requires you be willing to hurt and even kill another person. The same is true whether or you’re on the giving or the receiving end. If they can’t commit, they’ll never stop that knife to begin with.

-Michi

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Q&A: There’s no such thing as an accidental stabbing was originally published on How to Fight Write.

#knife combat #knives #writing advice #writing knives #writing reference #writing tips

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wellkepteden · 5 years

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Prompt 01: Questionnaire

(content warning for: suicide mention and uhhh brain washing? kind of? idk how to warn for that, and some mild like.... referenced medical gore idk)

01. Tell us about your character’s name. Was it given to them or chosen? Does it hold any special meaning? If your character has aliases or nicknames, how did they get them and what do they mean?

“What do you want to be called?”

“I don’t understand the question, sir.”

“Well, I can’t just keep calling you Sixteen.”

“Technically my full designation is PM-16-21A.”

“That’s not a name, you need a name, kid. What do you want to be called?”

The Keeper wasn’t really a man that cared for names, so he never bothered naming his charge either. It wasn’t until Eden reached the cybernetics expert, Sargo Hemmel, that she received a name. It was a long discussion, but ultimately she begged off deciding on a personal name for long enough that he gave up and named her after a dancer he’d known in his youth.

As for surname, Eden had a stronger opinion. It’s really just a pun on the fact that she was partially raised by the Keeper. She thinks she was very well kept. Hemmel tried to convince her to pick a more common name, but she does have her stubborn moments.

02. What is your character’s relationship to their homeworld? Do they hold fond memories of it, or do they hate it? Are they still here, and if not, do they miss it?

Eden didn’t get to see the outside very much while she was on Dromund Kaas. She remembers frequently listening to the rain, but even before she was stolen she was kept carefully away from public view. Now, it’s just a place that’s too dangerous to ever return to. A wistful dream that was never really a reality.

03. Describe your character’s relationship with those who raised them. Was it positive? Negative? Neutral? What sorts of ideologies were they raised with, and do they still stand by them now?

Even without the extra mental programming, Eden is a pretty naturally friendly person. She got along well with the scientists that watched over her in her first few years, and she absolutely adored the Keeper no matter how hard he could be to read and reach. Even though she was almost an adult by the time she reached him, she always considered Hemmel to be just as much of a parental figure, too. Luckily, she’s allowed to keep in contact with him even if the others are now far out of reach.

Growing up, the message was hammered into her that she should never trust anyone and that the world was a harsh place where you could never relax your guard. It never really took. Somehow, Eden remains a font of optimism almost no matter what happens. Just about everyone that helped raise her is convinced it’s going to get her killed someday (if they don’t think it already has).

04. What is your character’s relationship with the Force? Is your character Force-sensitive? Whether or not they are, do they believe in it? Do they lean more towards the dark or the light or are they somewhere in between?

Eden is force sensitive!! Not extremely, but enough that had circumstances been different she probably would have been picked up by either of the large force sensitive organizations. Hilariously, though, despite her own sensitivity to it she’s still not completely convinced it actually exists. She has a hard time with things that she can’t quantify in a way she’s comfortable with, and the implications of the force’s existence and so on make her Very uncomfortable so she tries not to think about it.

For the most part she only really uses it to convince people to help her, or to grab things that are out of reach. She doesn’t do much fighting, and was never really trained, so that’s about the extent of her abilities.

If she was trained more, though, she would definitely lean towards the light side. Not necessarily because of any inherent goodness, but because she’s not near as in touch with her more unpleasant emotions as she would need to be to harness the dark.

05. What three word would you use to describe your character? What three words would your character use to describe themself? What three words would someone close to them use?

me: bubbly, absent, brittle

eden: tall, pale, blonde

hemmel: never shuts up

06. Describe your character’s aesthetic. Do they tend towards fashion or function? Do they like to accessorize? How does this extend into their own personal spaces, such as their home or their workspace?

Eden tends towards whatever is going to help her complete her current job. That pretty much always comes first. Outside of that, though, she does very much like dressing up in things that make her feel good, and will often spend paychecks on nicer clothing. Textures tend to be more important to her than looks, but feeling like she looks good is important too.

Since others are rarely welcome on her ship it’s become one big cozy nest though, honestly. She likes to keep trophies and anything, really, that catches her eye. It’s important to her that she gets to do Whatever she wants with her space, after having grown up without a real space to call her own.

07. What are your character’s vices? Guilty pleasures? Bad habits? Weak spots?

A love for all things luxurious has followed Eden since her first time inside a rich person’s living space. Not that she ever wants to go as wild as so many of them do, but she does have a serious weak spot for the finer things in life. One of the quickest ways to her heart is well crafted gifts, whether they’re food or clothes or something else.

Outside of that, she has a particular fondness for cybernetic modification and loves to be filled with the latest tech. (in more ways than one ;D o god what did i just say)

Also there is her habit of sleeping with... Just..... A Lot of the people she works with. And the people she doesn’t work with. She doesn’t consider any of that a bad habit, though, so I’m not sure it belongs in this section.

08. Tell us about your character’s relationship with food. What are their favorites? Do they enjoy cooking? Are they adventurous? Will they eat absolutely anything or are they hard to please?

Growing up, food was for nourishment exclusively. So, of course, now that she’s on her own she’s abandoned that philosophy completely. Good food, it turns out, is delicious and makes her feel good and Eden is happy to indulge whenever she can. That being said, she doesn’t have all that much experience cooking because she would much rather let others do it for her, BUT she has helped others out a good few times and she loves working in tandem with people in the kitchen.

Also, she’s unlikely to try something new unless someone has specifically recommended it. Getting her to eat something she dislikes is very difficult, and she would much rather avoid doing it to herself.

09. How does your character feel about engaging in relationships—romantic and / or sexual—with others? What is their history like? Do they fall in love easily? Are they constantly in and out of relationships?

Eden loves easily and lightly, and her attitudes about romance and sex are basically identical. Both are very fun! She loves people, and she loves affection, and for her sex is not much more serious than dancing (though she’s never pushy about it, either). Commitment is never on the table, though. From the start of any given encounter, it’s very clearly stated that Eden is probably going to be moving on in days or weeks, off to the next planet and the next job.

She does have a few off and on partners that she falls into familiar patterns with when they occupy the same space, but even those fall much more into a friends with benefits area than anything more serious. If asked, Eden will say very dismissively that she’s loved many times, and it’s true that she comes to love and adore people very easily, but she’s never related to the poems and songs about romance. She’s never really missed someone when they were away from her, or had her heart ache for them. Frankly, she thinks it sounds unpleasant.

10. What is your character’s pain tolerance like? Can they hold their own in a fight, despite injury? If someone hurts them with the aim of gaining information, how much can they take before they cave?

Don’t hurt Eden !! She hates it and will do anything in her power to avoid it. She’s not even particularly into spanking in the bedroom.

Poor Hemmel has to like fully knock her out every time she comes in for an upgrade, too, cause she’s very.... Reactive. Horrible at staying still.

That said, lying and disobeying direct orders already literally physically hurt her so someone wouldn’t need to torture her much to get information out of her. Although, on the other hand, she’s also physically incapable of sharing certain information. Regardless, in the event of an emergency she has several kill switches set up that she can activate to remove herself as a liability if it becomes clear that she’s not going to escape.

11. What is your character’s weapon of choice? Are they more skilled as a melee fighter or do they have more skill with ranged weapons? What’s their fighting style like? What sort of training do they have behind them?

No weapons!! If Eden is in a fight then she’s already failed, no weapons! She keeps a knife on her but it’s a utility tool not for fighting. The Keeper and Hemmel both tried to teach her to fight so she has Some training in blaster handling and etc, but she mostly refuses to even entertain the idea. If there’s any chance of avoiding a fight she’ll take it, every time.

12. Does your character have any words or catchphrases that they say frequently? Tell us about how they picked them up.

When on autopilot she tends towards Very Polite, so between that and her time spent with Hemmel I’m sure she has a number of stock phrases. I just don’t know what they are yet, so I’ll get back to you on that.

Outside of that, though, she does have kind of a particular way of speaking about her. Often, when speaking to someone she'll have an air about her like she’s sharing a very special secret with them, or a joke that no one else gets to be on. A hushed, amused tone comes to her most naturally.

EDIT: i forgot sometimes in the middle of a conversation she’ll get a strong urge to drop in a “For the good of the Empire” but usually she manages to resist...... it’s just muscle memory honestly

13. Tell us about a negative experience your character has had with either the Jedi or the Sith, and how this has affected their standing. Whether currently aligned or unaligned with either faction, if forced to choose, how would they side?

Eden was raised on horror stories about the Sith-- though he worked with them, in his private moments the Keeper was not very fond. Perhaps because he worked alongside so many. However, out in her daily life Eden hasn’t had the opportunity to meet all that many Sith or Jedi individuals, and so remains largely neutral on the subject.

That being said... You can’t miss the destruction that a Sith leaves behind, and that is something she’s witnessed on any number of occasions. So, between the Sith and their horror, and the Jedi who she views as similar to any other authority figure, if forced to choose she would lean towards the Jedi. At least, as far as she knows, they kill people less.

14. How would your character react to seeing a relative or friend on the opposing side of a battle or mission?

If a friend is on the opposite end of a mission, then either Eden is currently working a con with them, or she has royally screwed up. Regardless, it’s not as though she’s going to be any more willing to fight them than she is anyone else.

15. Describe a memory that your character finds embarrassing.

Shame doesn’t actually come all that easily to Eden-- she’s not self conscious about many things. However, there were a couple of moments in which she deeply regretted not doing more research ahead of time. Though he taught her many things, there were ways in which the Keeper neglected her education, and Hemmel didn’t necessarily know that she had those gaps.

What I’m saying is she had Absolutely no idea what she was doing the first time she had sex and was very much trying to learn on the fly, which is a terrible idea and resulted in a very embarrassed and giggly end to the evening.

16. What goals does your character hold for themself and what steps have they taken towards achieving them? How far are they willing to go to reach them? What is their be-all and end-all?

Though she would say that survival and fun are her only goals, Eden is also fervently searching for a way to undo what the Empire did to her head. Cybernetics have proved unhelpful in that area, and it’s difficult to find any experts that don’t have pre-existing Imperial connections. At the moment, her search has stalled and she’s trying very hard not to think about it, but she would do almost anything to de-program herself, barring hurting someone she cared about.

17. What is the one thing your character would change about their life if they were given the chance? What other lives could they have lived as a result?

Honestly, Eden doesn’t much regret the way she was born or the way she was raised, at least not in any way that she would admit to herself. But she does sometimes dream of a universe in which her head and her actions were entirely her own.

18. Living in such a high-conflict time, how does your character feel about doing what they must to survive? Will they hurt or kill others—either directly or indirectly—to protect themself and / or those close to them? If so, do they regret it when all is said and done?

This is an area in which Eden is Highly Conflicted! Honestly, fighting is a very bottom of the list Last Resort for her, and in 99.9% of situations she’s convinced that there are alternatives and that she’ll find them. Usually, she’s right. A good stealth field can solve a lot of problems.

19. What is the biggest problem your character is currently dealing with?

Well! Her head isn’t entirely her own! But that’s more of an ongoing issue. Right now she’s low key wrestling with the morality of continuing to stay aggressively neutral as the galactic fighting seems to be only getting worse instead of better. This may be something she solves by going Robin Hood sometime in the near future, but that’s still hugely up for debate.

20. Give us 3+ headcanons of any length or subject matter.

1. Programming: As referenced multiple times in the questions above, before she was stolen away the Imperials did manage to fuck around with Eden’s brain a fair amount. It’s mildly experimental tech, but so far largely successful. Unfortunately, they didn’t finish in Eden’s case which actually leaves her in considerably more danger than she would be otherwise. To avoid doing damage (psychological or physical), they were moving slowly with the Watcher kids, implementing broad ideas at first and then refining them once they had really settled in.

Eden never got to the refining stage, so she’s left with broad strokes programming like “no lying, no hurting others, no disobeying a direct order, no sharing government secrets”. Had she managed to keep going for another few years, these things would’ve been refined in scope to things like “no lying to a superior officer, no hurting others unless threatened,” and so on. But, it is what it is.

Violating any of these rules, as it is, leaves her with a blinding headache that is very rarely worth it. Luckily, her Keeper was careful to teach her ways of talking and thinking around some of the programming, as like many things of this nature it can be finicky and there are loopholes to be found.

2. Seams: Eden has very many scars, all of them thin and almost invisible, which she affectionately refers to as her ‘seams’. They’re almost exclusively surgery related, long thin lines down her torso and along her limbs where skin was peeled back to allow for cybernetic enhancements. They’re faint enough that it’s uncommon for anyone to notice them unless they’re in bed together, as her doctor does very subtle work.

3. Enhancements: Speaking of the reasons for the seams, though-- having partially grown up with Hemmel, Eden is fully stocked up on high tech enhancements. There’s very little of her body that remains completely untouched, and she does have a fondness for experimental tech which has led to mild short outs in the past. Every few months she returns to Hemmel for a check up and maybe an upgrade, so her list of capabilities is ever-changing.

Some of the things that she’s had for a very long time and will probably always keep, however, include: False eyes to allow for enhanced vision and a useful HUD, several stealth systems that range from masking body heat and vital signs to cloaking her entirely, enhanced hearing and sensors in her fingertips that allow her to collect very specific information, and a few types of ‘kill switches’ as she calls them that can either knock her out or kill her completely should the situation call for it (none of these are able to be activated by anyone but her and maybe Hemmel). None of her tech is dangerous to anyone but herself.

bonus. Give us a list of any length telling us why our “fave is problematic.”

i’m not convinced that she is !!

sure she steals a lot but is that really that bad?

maybe she’s accidentally broken a few hearts but that’s not rly her fault is it?

so what if she has just decided she’s friends with a good number of people without asking for their input??

who cares if her ship is a mess and she might not be able to fight to protect the ones she loves!!

#sidereal prompt 01 #2 #3 #4 #5 #prompt #musing

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stevensholt3-blog · 5 years

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fmdtaeyongarchive · 6 years

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↬ and i gotta get to rock bottom.

date: various in december 2017 & january 2018 (all specified below & over the course of his solo promotions)

location: various

word count: 1,777

summary: your daily reminder that ash is a mess! anyway, this is basically a summary of what ash went through during his solo promotions for i’m young since i wasn’t very active during them.

notes: tw: implied alcohol abuse and vomiting, anxiety attack, panic attack, depression, but everything is in brief segments and pretty surface level (other than the depression obviously which is always there). he’s not suicidal but if some of the thoughts he has that could come off that way so a hesitant suicidal thoughts tw? title credit to hard times by paramore. this has been almost finished for weeks now and was supposed to end in a major plot development for him but i was too lazy and too late so now it’s nothing more than even more ash angst !! (everyone groans in the background)

December 15, 2017

It’s the end of the first weekend after his album release and he should be out celebrating with friends or getting sleep, but instead he’s vomiting the contents of his stomach into a toilet in a gross bar bathroom until his whole body is shaking. He’d known what he’d been doing when he’d downed more drinks than he could count with the highest alcohol content he could find, so there’s no regret mixed in with his raw throat and his burning stomach.

He’d felt too much before but now he wants to feel something, anything, but it’s still not there. He’s numb as hot tears run down his cheeks and he knows he’s done for if anyone finds him and recognizes him, but he almost wants them to.

He doesn’t care if picture of him wasted and disgusting end up splashed on the front page of every website the next day, as long as no one else is hurt by it.

But he does care.

He gets to his shaky legs and arrives back at the dorm with thirty minutes to shower and get into bed before his manager shows up to start the day’s schedules.

“Rise and shine. How did you sleep?” his manager greets.

“Not long enough.” The smile he pastes on his face passes it off as a light-hearted joke and his manager rolls his eyes fondly.

It’s when his manager leaves to wait for him in the kitchen that Ash realizes he forgot to brush the smell of alcohol and vomit out of his mouth earlier. He thanks whatever deity exists that his manager wasn’t close enough to tell. He curses whatever devil is enabling him that he hadn’t been.

December 24, 2017

The room is dark as the credits to “Love, Actually” scroll down the TV screen. Ash pulls the hotel comforter tighter around him as he stares at the screen, failing to take in any of the names or roles in front of his eyes.

He’s alone and lonely. (They’re two different feelings, mingling in the worst way now.) But it’s his choice. It’s his twenty-second birthday and he’s in a country he can barely speak the language of, performing for crowds that don’t make him feel like anything other than a disappointment lately.

Any offers from his group mates or Knight’s team to partake in birthday festivities have been declined politely. “I have other plans already. I’m sorry!” he’d apologized with an empty smile. He doesn’t have any other friends in Japan to have plans with, but he doesn’t mention that.

The happy birthday texts on his phone have either gone ignored or received little more than a “Thanks so much!” in reply. A few who wouldn’t be fooled by such a simple response got a “Celebrate when I get back?” too, a suggestion he has no intentions of following through on.

It feels like the sort of artificiality he’s tried so hard to avoid ever since BC began conditioning it into him, but now it’s his shield. He tells himself so often that he’s evaded the robot BC wants him to be, but it’s nights like these (his birthday) that he wonders if thinking that is further proof of the very opposite.

He isn’t as strong as he thinks he is.

It’s his own fault he’s in this situation and he shouldn’t pity himself.

It’s his own fault that he can’t shake the feeling of being a hollow shell, even on his birthday, a day when he’s supposed to be happy.

He can’t imagine this is what living is supposed to feel like.

December 29, 2017

He’s been here before plenty of times. The end of the year broadcasts are just another schedule to him, although he knows countless other groups would do anything for the chance to perform at them. He has friends who have never been chosen to be on one.

If he was good, he’d feel grateful, but he’s not and he doesn’t. Again, he doesn’t feel what he’s supposed to feel.

Instead, there’s nothing.

And then, gradually, there’s everything.

It’s as if all of the stress of his solo promotions and all of the feelings he’s been numb to come rushing into his chest at once.

Afterwards, the only word he can think of the describe the dominant emotion that grips him is fear.

It’s like he can’t breathe, that his lungs have forgotten how to take in air and his heart has forgotten how to pace itself. He’s too cold and too hot at once, feeling everything and nothing at all. He’s outside of his own skin and yet the knots in his stomach try to pull him back inside his own body. What turns out to be eight minutes feels like an eternity and an instant all at once.

He’s lucky it happens after the broadcast is over. He’s lucky it happens when he stays behind after all of the other members have left back for the dorm. He’s lucky only a handful of people witness it.

His manager suggests they take him to the emergency room only a minute before everything begins to fall back into place. Ash can breathe again (barely), but he’s aware enough to be embarrassed. He says they should leave.

He begs his manager not to tell anyone even as the panic is still ebbing from his muscles.

He doesn’t cry at all that night, but he can’t stop replaying it in his mind.

The feeling he’d experienced is familiar only from a day nearly two years prior, in the midst of his scandal. He’d watched as falsified accounts of him using and toying with fans had popped up and he’d watched as some believed them. He’d thought the worst was over, but he hadn’t anticipated the anti-fans waiting for the chance to drag him down further than the press had.

He’d almost passed out that night. He’d thought he was going to die from the intensity of it.

But he’d survived then, and now he survived again.

At this point, he doesn’t know why the universe keeps letting him.

January 3, 2018

It’s after a variety appearance filming that he finds himself curled up in the back seat of one of BC’s vans, sobbing. The tears had crept up on him unexpectedly. He’s no good at these things—acting funny and charming with ten cameras pointed at his face and studio lights beaming down on him, but this time it’d been worse.

Playful jests had started to feel like jabs and he didn’t have another member or a friendly face to save him. It’d been far too much at once and he’d been lucky he hadn’t broken down on camera.

He’s been through worse and the small logical part of his brain still functioning knows the hosts hadn’t meant anything by their comments but the rest of his brain is screaming anything but that.

They hate me because they believe all of the rumors.

They hate having to work with me because I’m not funny enough.

I’m going to get completely cut out of this episode and BC will remind me I’m a waste of time.

They must have heard how bad I am at this from other hosts.

No one laughed at that story and now I look stupid and self-centered for even telling it.

They’re asking me about Dax because they’d rather BC sent him instead.

All the thoughts blur into one stream of reasons he shouldn’t be here (on the show, in Knight, in Korea, existing at all) and he has to excuse himself early to hide himself in the van. He knows it had looked rude, that they must have seen him as entitled and irritable instead of crumbling from the inside out.

By the time his manager slides into the front seat, Ash’s tears have stopped falling, but he’s pulled on a dark hoodie from the backseat (kept there for when it gets cold) with the hood pulled down over his face.

Despite his best efforts not to look at his manager, their gazes meet in the rear view mirror and Ash panics for a moment, thinking he must have seen his red face and the tear streaks in his makeup.

Neither of them say anything until Ash is ushered back into Knight’s dorm.

“Get some sleep,” his manager says.

Ash nods silently, before shutting the door.

He could have sworn he was supposed to have a meeting after the show.

January 6, 2018

“I’m tired. I’ll be fine.” Those are the first words he says to his manager all day, but with the tightness in his gut and the racing of his heart, he doesn’t believe them himself.

“You look ill.” There’s no unspoken “Nothing some more makeup can’t fix” or “Look happier” like there usually is when someone says those words to him.

“I’m not si-”

“I don’t mean you have the flu.” Ash’s manager has seen him through a lot. He’s his manager, not the group’s, mostly only around when Ash has a lot of individual work, but he’s the same manager who first told Ash he needed to see someone after his scandal. There’s an unspoken understanding between them that he’s seen Ash worse than most, and that that worse is just between them.

Ash swallows thickly. Although he knows his front has been seen through, he can’t find it in himself to agree. He tries to imagine himself nodding, letting himself crack, admitting he can’t keep doing this, but he reminds himself that everyone else is going through this. He isn’t the only one having a hard time. He'd be self-centered to think he is.

Instead, he takes a deep breath, holding himself back, and shakes his head. It’s autopilot and he’s not quite connected to anything he’s doing now.

They could tell the media he has the flu and cut back on his activities, his manager suggests. He can tell what’s going on and it’s a more sympathetic plight to the public than the truth.

“I’m fine. I promise.” He’s still barely hanging on to believing the words, but he knows he could crack at any instant. Before the other man can respond, the door to the waiting room opens and a woman sticks her head in.

“Taeyong? Are you doing okay in here? We need you ready and out on the stage in three minutes.”

“Yeah, I’m great. Thank you. Can you point me in the direction of someone who can fix my microphone?” he asks, following her out of the room, quickly forgetting the previous conversation to paste on an empty smile.

He’ll get through this. He always does.

#&& when you're screaming but they only hear you whisper | self para #&& bring color to my skies | character development #honestly this has been in my drafts so long i wasn't going to post this but i kinda need it as background for something else so ://///

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shishmishimachji · 4 years

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I wanna!!! ... or why do we go against ourselves?

So, why do we do all those things that makes us feel so bad? In this category belongs all the food we know we shouldn’t eat and our stomach will hurt, yet we greedily swallow it. Also, do you know that moment when you want to say NO but, somehow you end up accepting something which should be somebody else’s responsibility, right? Oh, and yes, all these moments when your gut is telling you not to do something or go somewhere or please someone, but you still do that? So why do we do these things if we already experienced in the past that we will be hurt, sad and so pissed off?

Actually the answer is simple. Either we want to punish ourselves for doing something, like in the first scenario. Maybe we are so bad at saying NO just because that means that we will make a fool of ourselves, we will not appear in someone’s eyes as we would like to. Or maybe we are overwhelmed with fear of being left alone and worthless. These are just some answers which are the most common in my environment. This is not something that is conscious. It is all about the unconsciousness. So what can we do about it?

So, actually, what you need to do is, firstly accept that you are doing everything for a reason and that reason might not be what you actually want, but what you are use to, what is familiar. That means that, if I am experiencing my parents’ behaviour as a kid and I am implementing that in my life (which is a common thing to do, they are your role models of an adult male and female) as a “normal” behaviour it is going to stay there and it is going to become your models of behaviour. You will eventually function by those rules on autopilot. Most likely we accept to clone the behaviour/thinking process/approach or to do the complete opposite.

When you start to acknowledge what are your models, what are you copying/doing the same or the opposite from your parents and why, that can actually help a lot. The only way you can do that is to kick yourself out of the comfort zone and be honest with yourself. For example, in my case, I was copying to be small, fragile and left alone puppy if the situation goes bad and in that way I was actually seeking for attention. My mom does that, also. I labeled that behaviour as asking for confirmation of love from the male, which he always provides to her after she acts like this. So I thought, unconsciously, that is the way it works. But then I tried that with many partners and it did not work. They were all annoyed by it and I was not sure what I am doing wrong. I will be pissed off at them telling them they were not god for me. It turns out my nature is to be strong, emotional, independent, resourceful and flexible. So when I act like a small fragile chicken, that is confusing the male and they do not buy it. Actually, it makes them feel like I am tricking them and they lost interest and trust.

So what I described up here is from the objective perspective. It took me years and multiple relationships to understand what am I really doing here. It took me effort and time to make the unconscious decision become conscious so I can understand it and do whatever I want with it. So it finally makes sense now. Here is another example. Let’s say you’ve just accepted the arrival of the new neighbour, although you know your husband find her more interesting and attractive then you and you will not feel so great in her presence. Your gut is saying NO, your ego is also endangered. But, you just said YES because you find it rude or you do not want to disappoint your husband by letting him see your insecurities and jealousy. What next? Now you are having all this conversation with yourself like: What to do? How to deal with it? What if I fail? Yet, you did it because you do not want your spouse to be mad at you and feel you are being antisocial or preventing him to meet new people. So you want to be a perfect wife and understanding so you do it even if you are not so happy about it in order to not loose credit in his eyes, basically. While you are processing this, the time is come and she is here. It really happened the way you imagined it. She is being so confident, enjoying the company of your husband and not paying much attention to you, nor does your husband. So you tried to take away the stage by acting like you need him to help you in the kitchen or maybe act out like you are filing sick or just go out for a walk and battle with a panic attack. At the end, you are pissed off, you feel weak, left alone and thinking about lots of stuff, exaggerating everything. For example “he is going to leave you over her and what does she have that I don’t” or maybe “I’ve could die there and he would not even notice it”, “he doesn’t love me any more” and so on. Your fear and insecurities are growing. Your emotions are hurt and your ego is pissed off and wants a revenge. You are blaming both of them for their behaviours but mostly her, right? How can they do this to you? You feel bad because of them. They are the ones to blame!

Actually what is really happening in your unctuousness, is that you are being so frustrated and mad to yourself because you put yourself in an unpleasant/dangerous situation yet you knew you were naked and unarmed. You were not prepared. Therefore, they are not to blame for your decision - you were clear that you are FINE with them meeting in your presence. You were fine to be in the same room with them. So that is why you are angry at yourself. You will decide either to leave everything inside and not express it - which is an act of trying to control your emotions, or you will just explode and let it all out - which is an act loosing control over your emotions. If you decide to control it, and you will naturally not be fine surprising it, your anxiety will grow and eventually all this pressure will cause you to implode or explode. In the first scenario, you will have a panic attack and in the second you will go crazy and act out childish not knowing how to control yourself. Either way you were pushing your limits until you no longer can keep it together. That will make you feel bad, embraced and even more weaker and exhausted. Sometimes you will say something which is not thought through. You will just spit out the raw material of your inner thoughts. In order to avoid to put yourself in this position in the first place, you have to go back to the begging which is - you sad YES to something you wanted to say NO. After analysing what just happened, analysing your acts and feelings, sequence of events and understanding yourself better, you can start practicing to change the core. So next time react at the very begging of the “game” you’ve fallen for so many times. When you hear the question on the other side that might put you in this or similar scenario, stop for a second and ask yourself: “What do I want? Do I have any benefits if I say Yes? Are they worth my nerves? Am I really fine with this?” And try to answer it with a sentence. Be precise and concise. Be direct and basic. Be honest here. If you have a fear of becoming stupid, incapable or rude, think about what that might bring you good, but on the longterm. If it’s an idea that someone will not ever bother you with their problems then great. Congrats, you’ve just get rid of one parasite! Or if that makes you reserved, then fine, the other side will next time think twice before they load a full bag of shit on you. Respect yourself and others will, too.

Remember, whatever you do, you always have the choice and after you chose, the responsibilities are on you.

#self acceptance #inner growth #learn to say no #my experience #psichotherapy #psychology #respect yourself #put yourself first

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illegiblewords · 7 years

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And after a full rewatch of Ergo Proxy point is yeah postmodernism is hell, tradition and connecting to dat collective unconscious is good, too many fucking clones holy shit.

Everything is fucking clones.

Also.

- I think the despair of Ergo Proxy might be that the artificially grown humans could never reproduce on their own despite his efforts, probably this ties to proxies themselves actually not being able to reproduce. The mimicked humans were based off of their DNA but not actually full-functional humans.

-Note to self and the interested, when I mention the pulse/pulse of the awakening this is a physical phenomenon in the show. It’s a biological timer placed in proxies by the humans who first made them, an instinct that recognizes the earth is habitable once more. The pulse signals to proxies that it is time to die upon exposure to natural sunlight. Proxies who feel the pulse usually go crazy because it means death is coming and sends them into intense fight or flight response.

- Apparently advanced aging is really weird tech so I actually need to look into this for real. Daedalus has the technology to do it, hence Monad being recreated as REAL, but it seems to be somewhat taboo and not generally utilized if Raul’s reaction is anything to go by. So if I’m going with that assumption, then timeline wise (seriously this is the most hellish point of the whole series it makes me so fucking upset, they put so much thought into so many things but the timeline holy shitfuck) is like this:

- Proxy One is made, realizes reason for proxies, gets fucking upset, clones himself to make Ergo Proxy. Ergo Proxy has a lot of Proxy One in himself, like a LOT to the point that when he kills the pulse in Proxy One it counts as negating the power of the pulse over him, but is not identical.

- Monad Proxy falls in love with Ergo Proxy. Monad is the proxy of Mosk. Ergo Proxy had tried real fucking hard to make a perfect city in Romdeau but 1) could not perfect it due to his own physical flaws/incomplete nature (humanity, while not strictly opposed to engineered humans or autoreives the way they were to proxies, saw them as more guinea pigs) 2) was having insane existential crises tied to his own knowledge that he was doomed to die for his success and was born with no purpose but to clean up someone else’s mess and die. Basically intense postmodernism headache that got so bad and was genetically ingrained, he literally ran away to Mosk to be with Monad--abandoning his own people because he saw himself as a failure of a god and them as failed creations.

- Romdeau got fucking pissed about losing their proxy and went to war with Mosk. I think during the war was when Ergo Proxy’s despair peaked, he’d brought shitloads of death to both peoples and had utterly failed not only at what he was trying to do but he was never an authentic proxy of humans to begin with so that only made it sting worse. He’s basically a postmodern abomination who should not exist in nature and he knows it and he thinks he’s cursed every genetic aspect of his being to destroy. So he asks Monad to take his memories, and leaves his memories with the autoreive Amnesia as a backup plan just in case before she does this. Before having his memories stripped Ergo Proxy also assumed the physical body of Vincent Law so essentially looked like just a dude and had the vulnerabilities of just a dude more or less.

- When Monad strips Ergo Proxy of his memories she takes them into her own mind and was basically going insane. I think it’s critical that first, Vincent had a huuuuuuuge period where he just has no memory. He full on cannot remember years of his life after Monad wiped his brain. I mean, chick removed thousands of years of info I think she actually damaged him a fair amount. The split personality bit is only part of it. But yeah he was probably in a ???? state for a long time while Mosk was at war.

- Insane!Monad was taken before war with Mosk ended. Mosk as a city under a true proxy I think was actually a little more stable than Romdeau without a proxy was, although it still would have died out eventually. Monad was taken at least nineteen years prior to the plot if not slightly longer. My personal theory is that Vincent was probably in a full coma for a lot of it (likely being attended by autoreives in a hospital or something), woke up toward the end of the Mosk-Romdeau war but was basically in a stupor on autopilot for that time and remembers very, very little of that period. Monad being taken nineteen years ago allowed for Re-L Mayer and, by connection, Daedalus to be born. It also meant that technically speaking some humans in Romdeau have full-proxy DNA happening--including Daedalus.

- Mosk continues fighting without a proxy of their own for a long time, falls within a few years of the plot beginning. Re-L was familiar with the fact that Romdeau bombed the hell out of them at her grandfather’s direction, and there was enough stigma about Mosk and immigrants that I don’t think it’s reasonable to believe Mosk fell more than a decade or even five years prior to the plot. Frankly it would more likely be between one and three years before the story starts. The population of Mosk, that said, would have had no children for that period and would have a significantly crippled population due to casualties. They literally would have been dependent on the mercy of Romdeau for their survival when it became clear they weren’t winning. Romdeau, for their part, kept fighting because they wanted Ergo Proxy specifically back and at that point Vincent was incapable of delivering. In the end Romdeau just accepted Ergo Proxy was lost.

- Important to note, Proxy One was in his own city that was not Mosk or Romdeau, but was pretty close to Mosk. Proxy One’s location was pointed out at the end of the game show episode and that was the location bombed by Raul. Raul meant to kill Vincent, he actually destroyed a random city out of nowhere and Proxy One had to scramble hard in the not-dying game. Basically, MCQ was a magnificent dickhead whose dying words were fuck you Proxy One and he deserves a moment of silence.

- Daedalus and Re-L were created around the same time while war with Mosk was ongoing, both aged naturally. Vincent did not enter the city until comparatively recently in their lives.

-Anyway, after Raul bombed the fuck out of Proxy One’s city Proxy One went to Mosk himself, killed Amnesia (a relatively recent occurrence to the point that he might have been there at the same time as the trio) and went back to Romdeau himself to continue playing puppet master. Note, Proxy One was in Romdeau at the story’s beginning as well and was fucking with Re-L and possibly lured both Monad and Ergo Proxy to Re-L’s house to begin with. Why? He was being a dickhead and trying to start fights between strangers to get them to fuck each other and their cities over more. Literally all of Proxy One’s actions come down to “I got screwed so Ima fuck things up for everyone else” at a certain point, he isn’t exactly anti-Vincent but he wanted Vincent to kill him so he would no longer be bound by the pulse so Vincent would serve as a fuck you to the original humans. And he also wanted to make sure Romdeau was destroyed, and probably would have destroyed his own dome at some point anyway if he didn’t make Raul blow it up on purpose.

- REAL is mostly a true proxy, the form she took in the last ep was more because she’d heard the pulse of the awakening although her skin being different probably she’d been made with some alterations. Also I mean Monad didn’t have wings. But yeah she just shifted because of having a human and proxy form. I think she had some if not all of Monad’s memories at death because of knowing about shit Daedalus most likely would not have told her, also behaving older than a one year old. But she still acted like a child with a string obsession so her copy was probably not complete either. Re-L was much less complete as a clone of the living Monad and basically turned out as a baby human with no memories and was adopted by her grandfather.

- Re-L thinks Ergo Proxy set himself-as-Vincent up to be an immigrant so he would be rejected upon trying to join Romdeau without memories, making him suffer horribly. She thinks every single thing he did was an exercise in the highest masochism to punish himself for leaving and being a failure. I think he probably didn’t think that far ahead and just wanted to pretend to be human in a similar way to how the two amigos wanted to be customers in Smile Land. He didn’t want the responsibility anymore and didn’t want to have to think about what he was made to be or how he would die.

- I think Raul actually deliberately unleashed cogito everywhere because he wanted to make humans more natural in Romdeau or something and because he was reasonably sure Romdeau would eventually die without a proxy. I’m still not positive here though. He did a dumb thing.

Some bonus points from a previous analysis that still seem fair game:

- Pino undergoes a wardrobe change after gaining sentience, and that in and of itself is nbd, but I was ??? about her hair going from brown to purple. She had a time gap and in an advanced world like the one she’s in lbr hair dye exists. That wasn’t a sentience-induced hair color change she prob just did it herself for rule of fun.

- Immigrants happened in Romdeau after Mosk was defeated. My big question in the past was logistically what is the deal with immunity to the outside world vs susceptibility to disease etc. etc. and how did the immigrants happen at all. I think probably the whole immigrant population came from Mosk and also probably Ergo Proxy went into Mosk dome when he created his identity as Vincent. As Ergo Proxy, in that form, he would not have been vulnerable to the outside world but in Vincent form he is. So basically Vincent in his squishy human body had no immunity to shit. Also probably there was insane transporting of immigrants from Mosk to Romdeau after the war. EDIT: In Vincent’s flashback he shows himself and other immigrants walking outside but Vincent’s memory is shit so either there is stuff in Romdeau itself that causes poor reactions with the outside air through prolonged exposure or else Vincent’s brain is basically a collage of trying to fit forgotten things together. Going with the latter here because I think the former has consistency and motive problems.

- Daedalus confirmed he was created specifically to run the proxy project and watch over Re-L. I think he probably is the same age as her roughly for that reason. Vincent also saw Re-L when he entered Romdeau to get work. Therefore either it took a weird long time for Vincent to enter Romdeau, like almost two decades during which he did not age and was unaware of what was happening, or else Re-L and Daedalus had rapid aging. I personally lean toward natural aging partly because ages are listed in spots, partly because I think it’s more fun when characters have to learn from direct experience generally. Also this allows more time for emotional ties to happen between characters like Re-L and her grandfather and Re-L and Daedalus.

- The way Ergo Proxy is said in the last line makes grammatical sense and the whole thing being a tie to postmoderism also makes sense so this is acceptably not fancy garbage latin/english/greek/idek dudes. Also though postmodernism is spiritual death and doom and shit and Vincent is like postmodernism incarnate that just went fuck this I want to tap reality.

- Autoreives existing and being robots and all and having the ability to reach sentience and praying upon reaching sentience foreshadow that basically even things that become heavily derivative can still strive for truth and spirituality and reality and shit also I think there’s additional religious subtext in the whole “humans in image of god, robots and proxies in image of man, Vincent and Re-L in the image of proxies”. I think it might be showing that the ultimate connectivity and spirit of the divine still echoes through all of it if we’re getting religious here but I mean they got so much religious imagery in the show anyway so lbr.

- Also for new readers who might be tuning in, it’s common in both today’s western education and in a lot of media for people to assume that postmodernism (things being copies of things, critiques of critiques that grow increasingly distant from direct life experience) is the only truth and there is no reality at all, that failure to be wholly unconnected to others and unique is a tragedy. People who subscribe fully to postmodernism tend to believe that the alternative is being anti-progress or worthlessly derivative. However, looking into Jung in particular with concepts like the collective unconscious, the real alternative is tradition, community, instinct, and finding inspiration in the shared experiences life has to offer while simultaneously combining those experiences in unique ways. Two people in mourning doesn’t mean one is more important than the other, just that they both know what it is to mourn and can talk to each other and understand the feeling in some capacity. Ergo Proxy as a narrative shows a world where reality has been constructed on postmodern principles that ultimately fall apart because life itself by nature is a tradition, and Jung is shown to be right. Vincent and Re-L and Pino, although all copies of copies, are no less part of the tradition than the original humans would have been. Also, the original humans’ belief that proxies, clones, and autoreives have less worth than them for being copies is shown to be hugely unjust and incorrect through the narrative.

- I think there might also be some kind of Adam/Eve thing with how Vincent and Re-L work metaphysically but I’m not touching that right now and frankly it’s a scary analysis for a show full of scary analysis. Seriously I swear to god this concept must have been made by sadists or masochists or something holy shit this is like clone saga in spider-man if it was done by intelligent people on purpose to make a statement.

- Point of the story and all the Jung and shit is that this is a world that literally went through a postmodern apocalypse and a trio of the most postmodern bullshit copies of humans go out together and actually succeed in tapping into the primal collective unconscious and powerful storytelling/instinctive/psychological truths that had been so disregarded by the original humans. They manage to become real where the original humans had become fake.

#I love this show but I swear to god #Ergo Proxy

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anoverloadofmusings · 5 years

Text

To Make Some Sense Of This Year

I’ve lived two very different lives, like many of my generation. I have the presence everyone can see. My social media feeds. The version of my experiences that I get to shape in the retelling. I travel the world, confident and charming. Then there’s the other side, the confusion, the struggles. The loves and the losses. I find this disconnect between the two difficult to handle sometimes. This year, often. It is hard to pretend to be one or the other. Maybe that’s why I’ve finally decided to put this all down. To connect the dots and accept the contradictions, and be comfortable with the multifaceted person I am. It’s cathartic, in a world where it’s a virtue to not find catharsis in a public, online outing. But I want a release from the dualism I’ve been carrying with me and hope this will help with that. I’m sorry if it seems intense, but sometimes life just is.

I hope also, that whoever decides to read this can give me the benefit of the doubt, and believe me when I say that I understand my life in comparison to others. I know where I have benefited where others have not, just where I have struggled where others have not. I do not blame a single person in my life for my struggles this year. I have no bitterness, just feel a hell lot of regret, and a hell lot of love. I am constantly growing, constantly making mistakes. My experiences might have contributed, but I am full, rounded person, and I could’ve done a lot of things a hell lot differently. Feel free to criticise me and my actions, just know that I have often done the same.

The most appropriate place to begin this I guess, is admitting that I’ve been on autopilot for much of the last ten years. After my Dad died in 2010, my Mum married again and moved back to France within three years. That relationship never really healed, after clear, incomparable differences between my stepdad and I, where he insisted through his actions that my Mum would have to choose between us. I let it go though, and got through University, lived abroad for a while, built up an impressive portfolio of photography and filmmaking, before moving back to London in 2017, and I felt generally happy with the way I had restructured my life. I was generally well liked, had interesting travel stories to entertain people with and assumed like everyone else I would fall into journalism.

I was 26 by this point, and was carrying with me an awkward truth I was extremely ashamed of. Not only was I a virgin but I had never even kissed a woman, never been intimate beyond a few chosen words and glances. What might seem trivial to many now at the time was a heavy weight. That summer that finally changed, and though it was a lovely experience with a fantastic woman, I did question why I had put so much emphasis on this for so long. It was intimate yes. But it was fun. Light. There was no earth-shattering sensation. If there was something behind that heavy weight - it wasn’t sex.

A couple years passed, and I did well in my masters, my subsequent job, along with a few dating and hookup experiences along the way. I guess by this point I felt like I had cracked the right autopilot switch. I had given up trying to understand what that heavy weight had been to me for so long, as I had enough fulfilment in my life, enough goals to keep me focused. I just kept busy, barely remembering to count the days as they passed.

Then, in early winter, I started seeing a girl. I then - miraculously - mended the incredibly complex relationship with my stepdad, after years of fighting. In early spring, I left my job and tried somewhere new - in the city. By the end of March all these things had crashed down around me. All the support I had gotten used to, it vanished. I fell into a place where I am only now beginning to recover from. Some words used for this have been depression, deteriorating mental health, emotional immaturity, quarter life crisis etc. Whatever it is, it triggered something extremely deep lying in me. Now I have had anxiety issues - like many people - for a long time, but these were all under my control by this point and I had worked myself into a healthy place to deal with them. This breakdown ruined it all. I lost all control of those anxieties, lost all motivation in my job and the two following jobs. My relationship with my family broke and has not yet recovered. I became so, unhealthy dependent on this girl for my validation that after she left, I felt so inadequate, and all those anxieties from my past swarmed back, infesting into all the corners of the structure of the strong life I thought I had built up, and multiplying like a disease. I do not want to burden any reader with the technicalities of this mental state, as I do not want to indulge them anymore, but for those who can’t identify - you lose interest and passion in everything, so nearly all of those photos and smiles you’ve seen me pull since then have been some of the hardest and forced I’ve ever had. I never hated myself as much as I did then.

I let those issues wreak havoc over my entire life. I dragged friends through months of apathy. Of speaking to them about the same, limited topics. Colleagues had to sit and watch me struggle knowing I could not reach the potential I showed in my interview and they would have to let me go. I saw myself weigh heavily on this girl, even suffocating her and draining her energy. But for so long, when family and work left, she stayed and she cared. When she finally decided to take her happiness into her own hands and make up with her ex, I realised what had happened that I had never experienced before. I had fallen in love. Not the way I imagined I would have, and honestly not how I would’ve wanted to. Not when I was like this, completely unable to show anyone my best self. And not a healthy love either, not a love built around my dependency.

I think I can rationalise the impact people can have on our lives if you consider we are all built up of experiences. Some of them are fleeting, they happen and we forget them with ease. Other experiences, days or people leave a mark. Sometimes that mark hurts, which we then try to hide or run from. It can ache to remember it, so we burry it. Other people can awaken those hidden away experiences. This girl, she wasn’t perfect, but she did not leave a hurtful mark. I can still barely think of a time she insulted me or deliberately tried to hurt me. I still find it so easy to reflect positively on my time with her. What she did - unknowingly to herself and to me - was give me a certain affection I had never experienced, throughout all those years since my dad died, and perhaps before. I think it was so normal for her to give, it’s probably normal for most people come to think of it. But it was quite profound to me. I’ve been fortunate with my friendships - some of them are deep and will last a lifetime, but I did not realise I had lacked what she gave me. It was given even more significance for happening at the same time as the relationship with my family - seemingly the rock that our strength and love is meant to be built on - diminished in the form of multiple emails from my stepdad labeling me a leech and a failure. In the face of that, her affection was an intense reminder of what I did not have from my family. It was a short relationship, and its significance will probably fade in time, but while she was in my life I was endlessly confused. And just because I had no idea how to manage feeling appreciated like that.

It’s easy now to understand why I’ve fallen so far back this year. Without sounding unbelievably cheesy, I’m really not sure what the fuck I was doing before this year began. I was a functioning member of society but I rarely had a moment of pure happiness or fulfilment, satisfied with just feeling good. And that’s not to say a relationship is fundamental to happiness, it’s just, to me, I just felt like a passerby until then. Realising now, that the lack of a constant family figure showing me love in my life - especially in the last ten years - has meant that I just stopped expecting it, if I ever expected it to begin with. And for so long since March I have felt the same, perpetually trying to find the same level of purpose in my life without a lover’s validation. This core understanding about the necessity of self validation takes everyone their own timelines to figure out. And even then, once you realise you need it, it’s another thing finding it. Initially I dated a bit and found myself transferring all that affection and need for validation onto other women so quickly, despite knowing how unhelpful and wrong that was. I’m sorry for the women who had to experience that. I’m sorry for the friends who saw me suffer and said all the right things but knew they would just have to watch me suffer a bit longer before I worked it out for myself. My purpose was gone, and I couldn’t find it anywhere, as I didn’t have a clue where to start. Then I started to indulge it, I started to ‘like’ being so low with no self esteem. It felt familiar, more familiar than confidence or success. Sympathy from others brought out similar feelings of comfort that she had given me. It became like a cruel addiction, as if I wanted to see how far I could dislike myself and drive off the rails. I failed probation after probation, not able to feel even slightly present behind a desk. I somehow kept getting jobs but continuously found faults in them, and indulged them too. I saw issues with managers which were not issues. I lost myself and argued when I didn’t actually care about my point, I just wanted to feel anger. I gave up so easily, so quickly, and forgot all the things I loved, hobbies, friendships.

But this isn’t a sad recollection. At least that’s the paradox I find myself in sometimes. Perhaps another reason why I indulged this negativity for so long was because it felt good to feel. I had never felt as good as I had felt over that winter, with her, in my job, with my family, and never felt as low as I did in the months following. Even in the miserable moments there was a part of me which loved feeling so emotional. It just felt good to realise I wasn't just a passerby anymore. I’ve always been sensitive but I had never felt that level of emotion. And it was a different level at times, both the highs and lows. I still remember a tear falling down her face as we said goodbye and the force of emotion which hit me like a hurricane. I indulged it all. I let the vulnerability which I had once tried to champion completely define me.

There’s a lot of things that could’ve happened differently. I could have gone to therapy years ago, and not dismissed my anxieties so easily. I could’ve acknowledged the emotional impact my Dad dying and my Mum leaving would end up having on me in the future. If I had done that I could’ve taken sick days at work this year and breathed, reflected, then gone into work the next day. I could’ve made better decisions, chosen better places to move to, better jobs to apply for. I could’ve done a lot. If I had tackled this all before, things might have turned out differently. Then again, maybe they would’ve happened just the same. I know now though, that things happened the way they did because I was unaware what I had been missing for most of my life, and when it came I was overwhelmed. But it had to happen at some point. It’s really because of that that I just can’t hate this girl. She was not perfect. Somebody else with different baggage maybe could’ve maybe helped me get through this. They could’ve loved me back. Her preference of talking through social media was tough to deal with at times. But what she did do was help me realise what I had denied, while on autopilot for all those years. In a way, that was her saving me. And she did it with kindness, and a warm heart. If there’s anything I’ve held onto throughout all of this, it’s that I will not let anything that happens after make me forget the countless phone calls to make sure I was alright, the encouragement when I was at my worst. She deserves her happiness now and I’m proud of myself that I can focus on that, when I could’ve hated her for leaving. That gratefulness helps me sleep at night. She is a good person. As traumatic as it all turned out, I am grateful she was my first love.

And people do get better. Sometimes it takes going through an experience like this to give you all the tools you need to get better. And it doesn’t just switch back on like a light. I am building my life up again now, but instead of rushing to the top I’m taking my time firming up the foundations. Bit by bit. I recently dated someone for nearly two months and though things could’ve developed, I found myself controlling my feelings while I was seeing her. I managed to get to know someone while not making them my emotional dumping ground. I kept that in check. That might seem small, but to me that's a success. It’s one small victory on the way to being the Jeremy I know I’m want to be. I know I considering other people's mental space better now. Therapy is helping. Learning how to move on from people who don’t understand your value, even when I want to help them find theirs, is helping. Slowing everything down, is helping. It’s still a terrifying idea, to be out in the world - standing tall and pushing through a challenge again. But it is achievable, and it is achievable because I know so much more about myself now. I don’t quite love myself yet, not to the extent I know I should. But I like my voice. I like my mind. I like how I empathise with people. I like how I earn peoples’ trust.

If you’ve got this far, thank you. I hope you can sense what I’ve felt through writing this. I don’t really want any sympathy anymore for what I’ve been through. I just don’t want to carry this around, in a lengthy, confused state of mind anymore. I want this out there, written down, where I can see the words whenever I lose focus and remember everything happened the way it did for the best. People entered and left when they needed to. I let experiences drag me right down and almost wreck my entire life, and I need to remind myself, and anybody who reads this who doubts me, that no matter how trivial this experience might sound, that pulling myself back up - with the help of a few, extraordinary people - is a sign that I am not broken.

Fuck knows I’ve made mistakes. Fuck knows we all have. I’m sorry for those I’ve hurt during all this. I hope you can forgive me, and understand I will become better because of it, and will reward you for your belief in me if you wish to give me the opportunity to do so.

And finally, though this is purely cathartic, and I am speaking more to myself than to anyone else, I hope if anyone reading can relate to any of this, to reach out like I did. To friends, family, therapy, whichever. You’ll be endlessly amazed about the capacity that people have to love and to help. There are some people I haven’t named here but they know who they are. Perhaps not appreciating that in the people around you, and expecting it purely in the arms of a lover is where I got it all wrong. But I got plenty else wrong too. And now I have a lot of time to make up, and do it all better this time.

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

Text

Failing to Distinguish Between a Tractor Trailer and the Bright White Sky

James Bridle, Untitled (Autonomous Trap 001)

Tesla customers who want to take advantage of its cars AutoPilot mode are required to agree that the system is in a “public beta phase”. They are also expected to keep their hands on the wheel and “maintain control and responsibility for the vehicle.”

Almost a year ago, Joshua Brown was driving on the highway in Florida when he decided to put his Tesla car into self-driving mode. It was a bright Spring day and the vehicle’s sensors failed to distinguish a white tractor-trailer crossing the highway against a bright sky. The car didn’t brake and Brown was the first person to die in a self-driving car accident.

Autonomous cars have since been associated with a growing number of errors, accidents, glitches and other malfunctions. Interestingly, human trust in these technologies doesn’t seem to falter: we assume that the technology ‘knows’ what it is doing and are lulled into a false sense of safety. Tech companies are only too happy to confirm that bias and usually blame the humans for any crash or flaw.

vimeo

James Bridle, Autonomous Trap 001 (Salt Ritual, Mount Parnassus, Work In Progress), 2017

James Bridle, Installation view of Failing to Distinguish Between a Tractor Trailer and the Bright White Sky at Nome Gallery, Berlin, 2017. Photo: Gianmarco Bresao

James Bridle‘s solo show Failing to Distinguish Between a Tractor Trailer and the Bright White Sky, which recently opened at NOME project in Berlin, explores the arrival of technologies of prediction and automation into our everyday lives.

The most discussed work in the show is a video showing a driverless car entrapped inside a double circle of road markings made with salt. The vehicle, seemingly unable to make sense of the conflicting information, barely moves back and forth as if under the spell of a mysterious force.

The work demonstrates admirably the limitation of machine perception, the pitfalls of a technology which inner working and logic is completely opaque to us, the difference between human and machine comprehension, between accuracy and reliability.

I sometimes wonder how aware most of us really are of the impact that self-driving vehicles will have on our life: soon we might not be able to read maps not just because GPS have made that skill superfluous but because these maps will be unintelligible to us; we might even be seen as too unreliable behind a wheel and be forbidden to drive cars (we’ll have sex instead apparently.)

Taking as their central subject the self-driving car, the works in the exhibition test the limits of human knowing and machine perception, strategize modes of resistance to algorithmic regimes, and devise new myths and poetic possibilities for an age of computation.

It feels strangely ominous to write about autonomous machines on the 1st of May, a day celebrated as International Workers’ Day. After all, these smart systems are going to ‘put us out of job‘. And truck drivers, taxi drivers, delivery drivers are among the professions which will be hit first.

James Bridle, Untitled (Activated Cloud), 2017

I asked the artist, theorist and writer to tell us more about the exhibition:

Hi James! I had a look at the video and not a lot is happening once the car is inside the circle. Which is exactly what you wanted to show of course. But for all i know, the machine could have stopped to work just because it never worked as an autonomous vehicle in the first place and you could be hiding inside making it move a bit. Could you explain what the machine sees and what causes the car to stall?

The car in the video is not autonomous. My main inspiration for the project was in understanding machine learning, and the system I developed – based on the research and work of many others – was entirely in software. I kitted out a regular car with cameras and sensors – some off the shelf, some I developed myself – and drove it around for days on end. This data is then fed into a neural network, a kind of software modelled originally on the brain itself, which learns to make associations between the datapoints: knowing the kind of speed, or steering angle, which should be associated with certain road conditions, it learns to reproduce them.

I’m really interested in this kind of AI which instead of attempting to describe all the rules of the world from the outset, develops them as a result of direct experience. The result of this form of training is both very powerful, and sometimes very unexpected and strange, as we’re becoming aware of through so many stories about AI “mistakes” and biases. As these systems become more and more embedded in the world, i think it’s really important to understand them better, and also participate in their creation.

My software is developed to the point where it can read the road ahead, keep to its lane, react to other vehicles and turnings – but in a very limited way. I certainly would not put my life in its hands, but it does give me a window into the way in which such systems function. In the Activations series of prints in the exhibition, which show the way in which the machine translates incoming video data into information, you can see the things highlighted as most significant: the edges of the road, and the white lines which direct it. Any machine trained to obey the rules of the road would and should obey the “rules” of the autonomous trap because it’s simply a no entry sign – but whether such rules are included in the training data of the new generation of “intelligent” vehicles is an open question.

James Bridle, Untitled (Activation 002), 2017

James Bridle, Untitled (Activation 004), 2017

It is a bit daunting to realise that a technology as sophisticated as a driverless car can be fooled by a couple of kilos of salt. In a sense your role fulfills the same role as the one of hackers who enter a system to point to its flaws and gaps and thus help the developers and corporations to fix the problem. Have you had any feedback from people in the car industry after the work was published in various magazines?

The autonomous trap is indeed a potential white hat or black hat op. In machine learning, this might be called an “adversarial example” – that is, a situation deliberately engineered to trick the system, so it can learn from and defend against such tricks in the future. It might be useful to some researcher, I don’t really know. But as I’m interested in the ways in which machine intelligence differs from human intelligence, I’ve been following closely many techniques for generating adversarial examples – research papers which show, for example, the ways in which image classifiers can be fooled either with entirely bizarre random-looking images, or with images that, to a human, are indistinguishable. What I like about the trap is that it’s an adversarial example that sits in the middle – that is recognisable to both machine and human senses. As a result, it’s both offensive and communicative – it’s really trying to find a middle or common ground, a space of potential cooperation rather than competition.

You placed the car inside a salt circle on a road leading to Mount Parnassus (instead of on a car park or any other urban location any artist dealing with tech would do!). The experiment with the autonomous car is thus surrounded by mythology, Dyonisian mysteries and magic.Why do you embed this sophisticated technology into myths and enigmatic forces?

The mythological aspects of the project weren’t planned from the beginning, but they have been becoming more pronounced in my work for some time now. While working on the Cloud Index project last year I spent a lot of time with medieval mystical texts, and particularly The Cloud of Unknowing, as a way of thinking through other meanings of “the cloud”, as both computer network and way of knowing.

In particular, I’m interested in a language that admits doubt and uncertainty, that acknowledges that there are things we cannot know yet must take into account, in a way that contemporary technological discourse does not. This seems like a crucial form of discourse for an interconnected yet increasingly complex and fragmented world.

In the autonomous car project, the association with Mount Parnassus and its mythology came about quite simply because I was driving around Attica in order to train the car, and it’s pretty much impossible to drive around Greece without encountering sites from ancient mythology. And this mythology is a continuous thread, not just something from the history books. As I was driving around, I was listening to Robert Graves’ Greek Myths, which connects Greek mythology to pre-Classical animism and ritual cults, as well as to the birth of Christianity and other monotheistic religions. There’s a cave on the side of Mount Parnassus which was sacred, like all rustic caves, to Pan, but has also been written about as a hiding place for the infant Zeus, and various nymphs. The same cave was used by Greek partisans hiding from the Ottoman armies in the nineteenth century and the Nazis occupiers in the twentieth, and no doubt on many other occasions throughout history – there’s a reason those stories were written about that place, and the writing of those stories allowed for that place to retain its power and use. Mythology and magic have always been forms of encoded and active story-telling, and this is what I believe and want technology to be: an agential and inherently political activity, understood as something participatory, illuminating, and potentially emancipatory.

James Bridle, Installation view of Failing to Distinguish Between a Tractor Trailer and the Bright White Sky at Nome Gallery, Berlin, 2017. Photo: Gianmarco Bresao

Your practice as an artist and thinker is widely recognised so i suspect that you could have knocked on the door of Tesla or Volkswagen and get an autonomous car to play with. Why did you find it so important to build your own self-driving car?

I think it’s incredibly important to understand the medium you’re working with, which in my case was machine vision and machine intelligence as applied to a self-driving car – something that makes its own way in the world. By understanding the materiality of the medium, you really get a sense of a much wider range of possibilities for it – something you will never do with someone else’s machine. I’m not really interested in what Tesla or VW want to do with a self-driving car – although I have a fairly good idea – rather, I’m interested in thinking through and with this technology, and proposing alternative pathways for it – such as getting lost and therefore generating new and unexpected experiences, rather than ones pre-programmed by the manufacturer. Moreover, I’m interested in the very fact that it’s possible for me to do this, and for showing that it’s possible, which is itself today a radical act.

I believe there’s a concrete and causal relationship between the complexity of the systems we encounter every day, the opacity with which most of those systems are constructed or described, and fundamental, global issues of inequality, violence, populism and fundamentalism. Only through self-education, self-organisation, and new forms of systemic literacy can we counter these currents: programming is one form of systemic literacy, demonstrating the accessibility and comprehensibility of these technologies is another.

The salt circle is associated with protection. Do you think our society should be protected from autonomous vehicles?

In certain ways, absolutely. There are many potential benefits to autonomous vehicles, in terms of road safety and ecology, but like all of our technologies there’s also great risk, particularly when control of these vehicles is entirely privatised and corporatised. The best model for an autonomous vehicle future is basically good public transport – so why aren’t we building that? At the moment, the biggest players in autonomous vehicles are the traditional vehicle manufacturers – hardly beacons of social or environmental responsibility – and Silicon Valley zaibatsus such as Google and Uber, whose primary motivation is financialising virtual labour until they develop AI which can cut humans out of the loop entirely. For me, the autonomous vehicle stands in most particularly for the deskilling and automation of all forms of labour (including, in Google’s case, cognitive labour), and as such is a tool for degrading individual and collective agency. This will happen first to truck and taxi drivers, but will slowly extend to most of the workforce which, despite accelerationist dreams, is currently shredding rather than building a social framework which might support a low-work future. So, looked at that way, the corporate-controlled autonomous vehicle and automation in general is absolutely something that should be resisted, while it fails to serve the interest of most of the people it effects.

In all things, technological determinism – the idea that a particular outcome is inevitable because the technology for it exists – must be opposed. Knowing where the off switch is a vital and necessary complement to the kind of democratic involvement in the design process described above.

The artist statement in the catalogue of the show says that you worked with software and geography. I understand the necessity of the software but geography? What was the role and importance of geography in the project? How did you work with it?

The question which I kept returning to while working on the project, alongside “what does it mean for me to make an autonomous car?” is “what does it mean to make it here?” – that is, not on a test track in Bavaria or a former military base in Silicon Valley, but in Greece, a place with a very different material history and social present. How does a machine see the world when its experience is of fields, mountains, and winding tracks, rather than Californian highways and German autobahns? What is the role of automation in a place already suffering under austerity and unemployment – but which also has always produced its own, characteristic responses to instability? One of the things I find fascinating about the so-called autonomous vehicle is that, in comparison to the traditional car, it’s really as far from autonomous as you can get. It must constantly return to the network, constantly update itself, constantly observe and learn from the world, in order to be able to operate. In this way, it also seems to embody some potentially more connected and more community-minded world – more akin to some of the social movements so active in Greece today than the atomised, alienated passengers of late capitalism.

James Bridle, Gradient Ascent, 2016

In the video and catalogue text entitled “Gradient Ascent”, Mount Parnassus and the journeys around it becomes an allegory both for general curiosity, and for specific problem-solving: one of the precise techniques in computer science for maximising a complex function is the random walk. Re-instituting geography within the domain of the machine becomes one of the ways of humanising it.

I was reading on Creators that this is just the beginning of a series of experiments for the car. Do you already know where you will go next with the technology?

I’m still quite resistant to the idea of asking a manufacturer for an actual vehicle, and for now my resources are pretty limited, but it might be possible to move onto the mechanical part of the project in other ways – I’ve had some interest from academic and research groups. I think there’s lots more to be done in exploring other uses for the autonomous vehicle – as well as questions of agency and liability. What might autonomous vehicles do to borders, for example, when their driverless nature makes them more akin to packets on a borderless digital network? What new forms of community, as hinted above, might they engender? On the other hand, I never set out to build a fully functioning car, but to understand and think through the processes of developing it, and to learn from the journey itself. I think I’m more interested in the future of machine intelligence and machinic thinking than I am in the specifics of autonomous vehicles, but I hope it won’t be the last time I get to collaborate with a system like this.

Thanks James!

James Bridle’s solo show Failing to Distinguish Between a Tractor Trailer and the Bright White Sky is at NOME project in Berlin until July 29, 2017

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