#Drug Misuse

[tvshowspoilers]

SEASON 2 SPOILERS

Did some research on rhino horn cause I was curious.

According to Google the drug came on the scene in 2012 (but had existed long before that) and “is made up of keratin.”

Rhino Horn connects to China, according to two sources:

“According to traditional Chinese texts, such as Li Shih-chen's 1597 medical text “Pen Ts' ao Kang Mu”, rhino horn has been used in Chinese medicine for more than 2,000 years and is used to treat fever, rheumatism, gout, and other disorders.”

”For centuries, rhino horn has been used in traditional Chinese medicine (TCM) to treat a wide variety of illnesses”

And Vietnam:

“The belief in Vietnam is that drinking a tonic made from the horn will detoxify the body after a night of heavy boozing, and prevent a hangover” so “users aren’t getting high”

—————-

Soooooo maybe Ed has been having nights of crying and drinking and the rhino horn refreshes him? Idk it seems like it makes him unhinged actually, like Hornigold. It does have “adverse effects.” Or it could probably be DJ putting his own spin on it.

So like what made DJ chose that? I assume because of the Chinese influence he is weaving through season 2. Tbh I’d do so just because of the name. Totally fits.

Part of the reason I researched rhino horn was to see if it caused withdrawals? I couldn’t find anything on a surface level google search. It doesn’t seem like it is quite a drug drug like I was thinking

But either way…did Ed go through withdrawal that quickly? It was just one night? I doubt it…but if rhino horn is that type of drug in this word…I kinda hope we see him going through withdrawal and recovery as a part of his healing because who knows how long he was using.

Also also, apparently there is a myth that it was considered an aphrodisiac.

Annnnnnd apparently rhino horn is considered a “status drug” and I’m not even going to go into how they get the substance cause I’ll make myself cry. But the implication fits with the toxicity of Ed in the first 3 episodes.

Feel free to share your thoughts! I would love to know y’all’s speculation. And if I’m wrong or mistaken, correct me!

[noirineverysense]

Whumptober 2022 - Adverse effects / "This wasn't supposed to happen"

He really didn't want any of this. He just wanted a nice night of watching a girl shiver as he took out his knives and demonstrated how each one worked on her pretty unmarked skin.

But instead he's with a doctor who's prepared with a thick scarf and jacket after previous visits to the basement he liked to keep cold. They both stared at the woman on the ground, unresponsive, her breathing shallow.

"She needs to go to hospital." the doctor sighs tiredly.

"No, not again. Listen, I pay you to fix this stuff, what's wrong with her?"

The doctor rubs the bridge of her nose, her glasses shifting with the movement. "How should I know? What the fuck did you give her?"

"Ketamine, man. And I did the dose right this time I swear."

"Was she-"

"Drinking, no. I told you I did it right this time. She doesn't take meds either."

The doctor shoots him a look, "How long were you stalking her, creep?"

"I didn't. Not that much anyway. I just threatened a pharmacist to tell me."

The doctor sighs again before approaching the woman on the ground. She begins to examine her heart rate before pulling open an eyelid. Then she gently tips her head up and opens her mouth.

"What's wrong?" he asks after a moment.

"Look at her face."

"What, her makeup?"

She rolled her eyes, "No, idiot, look! Eyes red, sore throat, runny nose-"

"So, she took flu medicine?"

"Or an antihistamine, a sedating one."

"Well, shit."

She crouches over to put her ear over the woman's mouth, listening for her breathing. "She's in respiratory depression. Call an ambulance."

"Fuck."

The doctor looks up and raises a brow at him. "It's either that or you can get a shovel."

He rubs his temples, "What's the story this time?"

"That is not my job."

He sits on the ground cross-legged and pulls out his phone. "Why is this so complicated? I just wanna cut someone."

"Fucking knit instead."

[boredandmedicated]

Blaming the DEA for the adderall shortage does nothing

I am in my 20s and have been diagnosed with ADHD since 2008. Taken stimulants since 2008 with brief periods of trying nonstimulant medication in hopes of not needing to take stimulants anymore. I’ve been on adderall since 2016 and never had an issue obtaining my prescription until the past few years. Now, I blamed the DEA at first. Couldnt fathom why they wouldnt just raise the fucking quotas. Surely it isnt a supply issue. But as time goes on I honestly understand why more and more. Not to say I agree with it or LIKE having the stress I get every month, nor am I saying the dea is blameless here- seriously, they certainly arent blameless, okay? Dont take this to mean that.

But in large part this is because of the original, extremely loose standards surrounding an adhd diagnosis in, say, 2000-2005. Kids could get a diagnosis and a prescription for doing shit that normal kids do. Not wanting to read a book. Wanting to play outside. Normal kid shit. There were a substantial-though perhaps not a majority- of parents who obtained a diagnosis for their children like so despite knowing that their child did not have it. There were multiple reasons for this, though from anecdotal accounts it seemed more common for kids aged 12-17; whereas parents with children under 12 years old seemed (again, anecdotal, not statistical) to be seeking that diagnosis as an easy answer.

Prescriptions were booming and the kids were predictably not getting better after being given adderall- in fact, many were WORSE, unable to sit still entirely, having been given an amphetamine that just boosted their energy and didnt help with focus at all.

Following the realization that this was because a lot of kids that were prescribed adderall and diagnosed with ADHD did not, in fact, actually have it, the measures for prescribing and diagnosing ADHD were significantly tightened up. One requirement I recall is that an in-person visit and evaluation was required before any diagnosis or prescription for adderall. This would continue until COVID, when they declared a state of emergency. This allowed people to bypass the usual requirements for obtaining adderall and an ADHD diagnosis- so, no in-person, lengthy evaluation and comprehensive exam with a questionnaire, puzzle-type things, and verbal questions with open ended answers.

At the same time, as COVID quarantine extended beyond the original short-term that people were expecting, people were realizing quarantine fucking sucked. It is hard for ANYONE to work at home as they normally would at the office. Flexibility is incredible at home, but people were going stir crazy. And many attributed that stir-craziness, either validly or less so, to undiagnosed ADHD. ADHD became “trendy”. Platforms like Done would advertise on tiktok and twitter with little videos about how easy they make getting a diagnosis, how quickly they can get you adderall, how its all online. How with quarantine in place, it can get you where you need to be, easily diagnosis within an hour, a prescription within the week.

As a result, as shown by this graph (somewhat), there was a significant jump in adderall prescriptions for young adults aged 22-44.

I dont know and cant say how many of these are attributed to misunderstanding normal human behavior with ADHD, as opposed to valid diagnoses. I can say this: Adderall is not a joke, and abuse of adderall, people seeking diagnoses because they just want the drug itself, thats not uncommon. Its not uncommon for any drug. The DEA will not risk another drug crisis after crack, and especially during the fentanyl crisis now- and not to mention, tranq on the rise.

For that reason, I think blaming the DEA is a fruitless endeavor. We should be focusing on things that we CAN do. One idea I’ve had is, maybe we could make nonstimulant medications the first line of treatment. Wellbutrin, for instance. Nonstimulant medications tend to work much better prior to having any stimulant medication treatment for ADHD anyways. And bringing back the in person evaluations and lengthier diagnostics. I really do understand the classism arguments made about that requirement. But I think its honestly necessary. It is much harder to “fake” or “exaggerate” ADHD symptoms during an hours long in person evaluation, than it is to do so on an unmonitored, five question quiz and a 20 minute zoom call.

Taking adderall without needing it is not only selfish, but also, harmful to others AND yourself. Heart issues, anxiety, lack of appetite, and the “focus” doesnt work the way it does in people with ADHD if you take it without needing it. Not to mention, longterm stimulant use in someone without ADHD, when that person stops taking it, withdrawal symptoms from it can look remarkably similar to actual ADHD. Then we get stuck in this perpetual cycle. And frankly, Its not fun to wake up and see posts from people who made fun of me for my ADHD in elementary and middle school, suddenly glamorizing their own sudden onset ADHD and posturing as though theyve had it all along. Especially when I know theyre the ones contributing to the stigma that not just me, but many people face today when trying to simply… get the medication we need to do work at an even remotely functional level. And even more so when I know that shit is why doctors are hesitant to even recognize an adhd diagnosis as valid anymore. They see any adult with adderall now as the epitomal pill pusher, pill seeker, addict that just got a fun little upper to stay up and be energetic.

So yeah. Dont just blame the DEA. It is people too. Its people you know, sometimes even your friends.

And, you can acknowledge the bad ones without dragging the people with valid prescriptions and true intentions through the mud. So if this post doesnt apply to you, i promise im not talking about you.

[just-until-the-sun-sets]

trying to get so inconceivably high that you never have to reenter the real world again and can coast through life unbothered and blissful and utterly unaware of just how fucking miserable it all is

but your tolerance just gets higher and higher and the world gets crueler and crueler and you get more and more desperate to be anyone other than yourself

and so now what

[silly-art-stuff]

bong water Stark again cause it's April Fools day :3

[neuroticboyfriend]

don't know how to put this into words that make sense but addiction feels like a really long train ride. you just get farther and farther from home. you know you have to go back. you know the farther out you go the more time, money, and energy it'll take to get home. you know you have things to do at home. you have people you miss and hobbies to do and things to take care of. but you're already so far out. so you just keep going and telling yourself it's better to never look back. you try to find comfort and joy gazing out the window at all the new places and scenes, but you really just keep getting more lost. nothing is familiar anymore - except for the train. except for the mother fucking train.

you know every nook and cranny of that god damn train, but nothing about yourself or your future or what you really want out of life. and the worst part is, if you don't turn around, one day you'll hit the end of the line. but there will be no train back. you'll never go home again. you'll never go anywhere again.

[glowinggreeneyes-e]

if it’s not already out there I need a modern Robin/Julian AU where Robin is Julian’s dealer for, well, anything.

and they eventually hang out together, because Julian can actually be himself around Robin, there’s no expectations and he’s fun and puts up with him! And Robin doesn’t really trust anyone but the untrustworthy MP, who has put his reputation in his hands. His life in his hands.

so try new strains and imports at Julian’s second or third or fourth house, get high off whatever, and eventually make small mistakes - falling asleep in the same bed, roughing up hair just to feel the other man, fumbling open buttons to get out of clothes because the air con isn’t working but neither is my body, craving intimacy when it’s only one more half-hearted drunken shoulder massage away, trying to remember if they actually did touch each other last night or hallucinate it or dream it because everything is melting together now

until the dam breaks

[mxnster-soul]

(I was a bit hesitant to share this here since there's a buncha other WH OC's out there that have a blue/night theme with a nightcap.)

(But when I made this fella, I was fully unaware that there were already OC's with the same theme)

Anyways-

This is Bloozy Snooze!

Made em earlier last year when I just got hooked onto WH, on roblox lol

[Images: Roblox screenshot of the OG inspo for the design, ref V1, and ref V2 (uses the canon colors/current design)]

Basic info: They're agender, very aro-ace, fave food is blueberry overnight oats and milk with honey and cinnamon, Doesn't talk much, in general a very eepy fella.

[No 18+ stuff]

[mihai-florescu]

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

why is it only “guy who only watched boss baby” where’s the appreciation for “guy who has a very diverse media intake and deep critical thinking skills but also happens to have an intense special interest on boss baby” where are the memes and tweets for us

[that-0ne-loser-ky]

lmao, they gave me a starter dose of some adhd med so i forgot to take it of course so i did the resonable thing and took five on new years and i thought i was having a heart attack and i might have but at least i tryed to make a soldering iron (failed)

[ghostlyschizophrenic]

!!! tw: drug misuse !!!

i’m high off my ass on ativan and weed and my brain finally feels quiet. kintsugi kid “ten years in a chemical haze i missed the way i felt nothing” by fall out boy vibes tonight. fall out boy make me feel better like you have for the last 10 years of my life please god

[saturnaous]

hey you guys suck(not actually) so I have to ask

I'm adding. the actual answer of what it is under the cut.

since I keep seeing people be like 'rOlLeD a. BLuNt tOdAyy pAsS tHe BlUnT' and shit will obviously be a joint. I think you guys just really really like the term blunt. you are wrong

So a fucking BLUNT. Is a weed cigar. It's rolled with Cigar paper. and then a JOINT is a weed cigarette. it's rolled with Cigarette paper. Okay? The difference is the type of PAPER. okay? okay?

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My website

Chapter 83: June 2017

Running was difficult. Running away was more difficult. Running away in the gathering dark was even more difficult. Running away in the gathering dark from someone with a significantly better knowledge of the area was almost impossible.

Doing all of this while sopping wet and covered in blood was an added challenge Martin could have done without.

The shack had turned out to be in the middle of a swamp, and running in the opposite direction than he’d been brought had brought Martin to the edge of a river that flowed alongside the interstate. The Christina River was clean, as rivers went, which was fortunate even if he didn’t have any open wounds. He’d thought at first to simply walk in the river for a bit, to hopefully throw off his pursuers once they got free of the ghosts—he didn’t know what they were going to do and wasn’t going to waste time trying to find out—but in his haste he’d slipped on a rock and lost his balance, and at that point swimming for a bit had seemed easier than fighting the current. By the time he dragged himself out at a point where the river got shallower and lazier, almost two miles of river from where he’d started, the sun was going down, and Martin was a little annoyed to discover that his shirt was still bloodstained from the knife wound.

He had to get to an airport. Somehow. Wilmington International Airport was probably a good choice, but he wasn’t entirely sure which direction he needed to head. The current had carried him back the way he’d originally come—which was probably not a bad thing, they would be expecting him to continue on towards DC—and he genuinely didn’t know where anything was from here, let alone an airport. He was, at least, on the other side of the water, so he turned his back on the setting sun and started moving. If nothing else, maybe he could make it to the ocean—he had no real clue how big the state of Delaware was, or how close it was to the Atlantic—and at least get his bearings. If all else failed, surely there was a tourist information kiosk somewhere.

Logic said he should probably conserve his energy as much as possible, since he had a long way to go. Panic said he should put as much distance between himself and the Hunters as he could as quickly as possible. The result was that, as soon as he had solid ground under his feet, he started running at a pace that he definitely wouldn’t be able to sustain for long.

He was still reeling a bit from the shock of having met his father’s ghost, but he set that aside to think about later. The list of things he was going to have to think about later—the information he’d got from Max Mustermann, the idea of Julia and Trevor being the Bookmasters, the implications of his hand healing so quickly despite having been stabbed clean through—was getting long. Luckily he’d have a long flight back to England to think over most of them. Instead he could think about things that were immediately important—like that he didn’t have his phone anymore and thus had no way to either call for help or find his way. Or that he didn’t have his bag with him and thus couldn’t even change out of his wet clothes, and if he walked into a shop like this, there would almost certainly be awkward questions.

As he reached to check his pocket and confirm his wallet was still in there, just in case, the realization of what else he’d left in his bag nearly made him miss his step and fall to the ground.

His passport. His fucking passport. Which meant that, even if he had enough money to cover a plane ticket back to London, he wouldn’t be able to board it.

Okay. New plan. He needed to get to the nearest British consulate, or possibly the British Embassy. There was a consulate in New York, the Embassy was in DC, and Martin was aware without really trying to be that he was about equidistant between the two. He would get to civilization, get his bearings, maybe find a pay phone—there were seven hundred forty-four of them in Wilmington, he could surely get to one easily enough, and okay, that had to stop or he was going to spend all his energy too quickly—and then go from there. The Amtrak went through Wilmington, surely he could easily get from there to one of his two options.

He forded a small creek, threaded his way through some trees, and came, unexpectedly, on what looked like a walking trail, or perhaps a bike trail. Regardless, it ran more or less in the direction he needed to go, and while there seemed to be some construction going on up ahead, it didn’t seem to be going on at this time of night, so he was likely to be able to get through the area without too much trouble. Stepping onto the trail, he took a moment to stretch, then started running north.

Naturally, the “construction” in question was building a bridge across the river. Still, there was enough completed that Martin was reasonably certain that, with care, he could make it across. It was the “with care” bit that was going to be tricky. Between the quickly falling darkness and his size, it would be extremely easy to miss his footing and plunge straight into the river, and he had no idea how far up he was, how deep it was, or what lay beneath the surface.

Nothing for it. He had to try.

Martin took a deep breath, slid his hand into his pocket and gave the recorder a reassuring squeeze, and ventured onto the first tentative overtures at a footbridge spanning the river.

It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared in some ways, and in other ways it was worse. The pylons had been sunk into the riverbed, sturdy and evenly spaced, and the beginnings of the framework had been laid, twin beams running parallel to one another about two meters apart and braced with long crosses between each set of pylons. The trouble was that all of it was narrow, and none of it was close enough that he could do anything but walk across it one foot in front of the other. Slowly, carefully, he began placing his feet as carefully as he could, taking long enough steps to keep from wobbling but not so long he overbalanced. The going was slow, and he was definitely exposed out here. A memory—or was it a memory? Had he ever actually read it, or was the knowledge just there?—surfaced in Martin’s mind, something about lowering your center of gravity, that it might be less dignified to cross a span on your hands and knees or scooting on your butt but was definitely safer.

“Fine time to tell me,” he grumbled to himself, swinging his right foot around to take his next step. “When I’m halfway across the damned river and as likely to fall if I try to get down than if I just keep going.”

The knowledge that he was, in fact, exactly twenty-seven percent of the way across the span popped into his brain with the smuggest tone a soundless thought could possibly have. Martin took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and tried to shut the Ceaseless Watcher out of his mind for five goddamn minutes.

With the aid of a crane that had obviously been left for the next day’s work, Martin was able to successfully navigate the last few meters of the span and make it to the other side, at which point he sank up to his ankles in water. Something told him that he definitely wasn’t supposed to be here, but screw it, it wasn’t the first time he’d broken a law in the name of safety. In a pinch he could claim disorientation from blood loss and at least get taken to a hospital, which ought to be easy enough to escape if he played his cards right and would get him closer to where he needed to go.

He was probably getting way too comfortable with that sort of thing, but it was a bit late to worry about that.

The sun had fully set by now, and the light pollution from the city was too great to see the sky clearly; Martin squinted desperately up at the sky, but he couldn’t pick out the North Star well enough to navigate. Instinct said that he’d wasted way too much time, that if he didn’t hurry and get to an Amtrak station or something, he’d be dead. His best bet was going to be to head towards that glow, which would at least be some kind of urban center and somewhere he could get some help, assuming he didn’t get killed on the way. This looked like prime hunting grounds. He set off towards the glowing horizon as fast as he could, considering the squishy terrain.

Eventually he came to a walkway and managed to haul himself onto it. It led around to a large, glass-walled building, obviously locked up for the night—not a problem, Martin didn’t plan to go in. He was starting to make his way around it, on the theory that he would almost certainly find a road on the other side, when a light suddenly shone itself in his face and a voice shouted, “Hey!”

Martin threw up a hand to shade his eyes instinctively. Running would be the smart option—but where? Back into the wetlands? The person with the light was between him and where he needed to go. He took an uncertain step back as the light drew closer and lowered. Now Martin could see the figure behind it—a barrel-chested man with a shaved head, not quite as tall as he was but probably about as heavy and all of it muscle. He wore a shirt and vest declaring him to work for a security company and a scowl declaring him to not want to put up with this.

“What are you doing here?” the man demanded. His voice was harsh and grating, but also sharp and firm. This was a man who expected to be answered and obeyed, or he would know the reason why. He wasn’t a Hunter—Martin could sense that without even trying—but that didn’t mean he was safe. Plenty of perfectly ordinary people were dangerous in and of themselves.

“J-just, just a bit lost.” Martin tried to sound as nervous as possible. It wasn’t exactly difficult. He was nervous, although he couldn’t have exactly said why.

“Lost,” the man said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. “This is a wildlife preserve. And it closed at dusk. How did you get in here?”

Well, didn’t that just figure. Martin crossed his arms over his chest and took a deep breath. “I was just…out for a walk. There’s a trail that goes right to here…” He trailed off, hoping it was convincing.

It wasn’t. “That trail isn’t going to be finished for another year. You’re trespassing. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t call the police on you.”

Somehow, Martin didn’t think I’m trying to save the world and going to jail would be bloody inconvenient was going to be good enough. That left him…well, technically it left him several options still, but he was in a hurry, so he chose the path of least resistance, which he was definitely going to regret later. He reached for the Beholding again. “I don’t know…what’s something you don’t want the police to know about?”

“I’ve got an appointment with a dealer in an hour to pick up some heroin,” the security guard said automatically. His face immediately flushed crimson. “What the hell?”

“Right, well, I’ve got that on tape.” Martin waved the tape recorder at the man, hoping he wouldn’t be able to see clearly enough to know that it was waterlogged, and possibly not even on—certainly Martin hadn’t turned it on, and he didn’t know if whatever was behind them considered this important enough to record. It must have worked, because the man lunged for it; Martin jerked it back. “So here’s the deal. You let me walk out of here, you tell me the way to the Amtrak station, and this stays between us.”

The security guard wavered. Then his gaze sharpened, and he angled the light at Martin’s front. “Is that blood? Did you kill someone?”

Martin cursed inwardly. Of course, he hadn’t thought about that. He didn’t have any visible injuries—the knife wound on his hand wasn’t exactly healed over like it had never happened, he was definitely going to have a nasty scar from it, but it didn’t look like he’d got it that day—so naturally, the guard wasn’t going to believe the blood was his. Fear and anxiety mingled to cloud his judgment, and Martin drew himself up to his full height and fixed the guard with an intent stare. The static crackled in the air and actually made the beam in the torch flicker and dim.

“Do you want to find out if I can?” he growled.

The guard’s face went from crimson to white, and he took a step back; Martin couldn’t even begin to imagine what he looked like—wait, no, he could, he could almost see it in front of him: a dark, shadowy figure suddenly larger, eyes glowing green, with more glowing eyes peering from behind it…okay, no, that couldn’t be right, it—

“No,” the guard whimpered. “No, no, I don’t know anything, please—”

“How do I get to the Amtrak station?” Martin interrupted.

“Through the visitor center and turn left, right on Judy Johnson, left on Market, right on Rosa Parks and it’s across from the park,” the guard said immediately. “Don’t hurt me!”

“Then I suggest you move,” Martin said forcefully. The guard complied, and Martin strode away at as fast a clip as he could.

The sudden surge of adrenaline carried him forward until he had to cross a set of railroad tracks, and then all his energy seemed to desert him at once. Christ, he’d used way too much of himself on that, and he’d given in to the Eye, that wasn’t good either. He hadn’t needed to do that. He could have claimed the blood on his shirt was from a nosebleed, the guy probably would have bought that…he could have even explained the blood loss and resultant disorientation as why he’d somehow stumbled into a wildlife preserve without noticing. He’d had options. But he’d gone for the quick solution, the easy one…well, for a given definition of easy. Whatever he called it, it was the reason that put him further under the thrall of the Ceaseless Watcher. He could almost hear Gerry and Tim’s scolding, Jon’s worried protests, Sasha’s barely disguised curiosity, Melanie’s vitriol…and God only knew how Elias would feel about knowing Martin was binding himself harder and deeper. Smug, probably, which was the last thing he wanted.

He took as deep a breath as he could and forced himself onward.

He was definitely disorientated now. The road wasn’t lit—was he even on the right road?—and he couldn’t see any street signs. He was dizzy, and tired, and his hand was starting to hurt again—not bleed, thankfully, but definitely hurt—which didn’t help his state. He was going to be easy pickings if anyone caught up to him…

The sound of rushing water caught his attention, and Martin stumbled towards it. A minute or two later, he barely managed to catch himself before he toppled straight into the smooth inky blackness that was water at night.

Great. He may not have found the right road yet, but he had, at least, found the river. Surely that would get him closer. Surely.

Martin followed the curve of the river, gasping for breath. Finally, finally, he saw lights up ahead, and slowed down just a bit to make sure he didn’t run out into traffic. As he got closer, though, sudden misgiving struck him. He came to a stop and began patting down his pockets, his movements getting more and more frantic…but no, it was exactly as he’d feared. There was nothing in his pockets but the recorder. He’d lost his wallet somewhere, possibly back in the shack, possibly somewhere in the river. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he officially had nothing—no ID, no money, no proof of who he was, no proof he was even here legally, no way to get home.

Fucking. Fantastic.

“Ahoy there!”

Martin almost leaped out of his skin at the voice. He whirled around quickly, the movement making him lightheaded, and saw a shadow looming a few feet away.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, then almost bit his tongue at the static. He forced the Eye back. Using that any more would almost surely kill him.

“A friend,” said the voice, which—again—sounded almost like home; definitely a British accent rather than an American one. The shadow moved closer and stepped into the light, revealing an older man in a blue raincoat and white pilot’s cap, which shielded his eyes. All Martin could clearly see was his neatly clipped beard and impressive mustache. “I’ve come to help you.”

Martin stood his ground, as best he could when it seemed to be swaying beneath him. “Have you now.”

“Elias sent me.” The figure—man, whatever—clicked on a very small penlight and pointed it towards the river. It just caught on some rough boards, a bit of glass, some very weathered rope, and faded letters Martin couldn’t quite pick out. A boat. “You need a way home, don’t you?”

Elias. Damn the bastard. First he’d known Martin was going to need a statement, and now—wait, hang on, that didn’t make sense. “How—how did he—how long have you been here?”

“Oh, I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while,” the man said, almost cheerfully. “Elias knew I was here, and when he caught wind that you might be in…a bit of a bind, shall we say? He suggested I come find you. It’s Martin Blackwood, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Martin replied. There didn’t seem to be any real point in lying. He eyed the boat. “I…I don’t have any money with me. Or…”

“Or ID?” the man supplied. “Yes, I know. Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to be checking the boat looking for you.” He beckoned. “Come on. I have the perfect place.”

This was a trap. Of course it was a trap. There was something going on here, and it wasn’t going to be good for Martin. But he was also exhausted and scared, and he needed to get home, so against his better judgment, he followed the man to the boat.

The man opened a hatch and indicated for Martin to climb down a ladder. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay down there until we’re back in England, but don’t worry. It’s not too closed in.” He chuckled comfortably. “You’ll be perfectly safe.”

Martin didn’t even need the Eye to know that was, if not a lie, at least a gross misrepresentation of the situation. But he didn’t get the tight, panicky feeling he always got when the Buried was nearby, so at least that part was the truth.

He took a deep breath and headed down the ladder.

The space was…not exactly large. Martin’s head and shoulders were still above the hole when he stepped off the ladder, meaning that he had to drop down to his hands and knees to be fully into the area. He estimated the dimensions were maybe three meters by three meters by one and a half, giving him enough room to move around—or more accurately crawl around—but not get a lot of exercise. Still, as the man had promised, it wasn’t so enclosed he felt sick or trapped, and there was a comfortable-looking bed. The bed was even right beneath a porthole, rather a large one for a forty-foot dinghy, the lower third of which was underwater but the top part of which gave a good view of the horizon…or would, during daylight.

“I’ll come and get you when we arrive,” the man promised. “Get some rest.” With that, he closed the hatch, leaving Martin, somehow, in even darker darkness than before.

Martin peeled himself out of his still-wet clothes and spread them out to dry. As an afterthought, he pulled the tape recorder back out of his pocket. It lay still and silent in his hand, but it still made him feel at least marginally better. With that, he crawled towards the bed and got into it. It was very comfortable, and soft and warm and dry, and smelled faintly of something that might have been lavender.

He was far from stupid, despite all current evidence to the contrary. The boat’s captain was almost certainly touched by the Lonely, and the fact that Martin hadn’t been able to compel his name out of him—even though he hadn’t really been trying hard—meant he was likely quite powerful in it. He vaguely remembered that one of Evan’s uncles had a boat or some such, and if Elias had really sent him…well, Elias needed him alive to stop the Unknowing. He had to trust that fact, as bad an idea as that was. Anyway, he’d already been Marked by the Lonely long ago, so it wasn’t like being down here could hurt him all that much. It wouldn’t be easy, but maybe having the tape recorder would help keep the worst of it at bay until they made it back to London (oh, please let them actually be going back to London). Maybe he would take a look around once he’d got a bit of his strength back and was sure the exertion wouldn’t kill him, but for now he decided to accept the ride—he smiled grimly at the thought—Sight unseen.

He pulled the covers up over himself, turned onto his side, closed his eyes, and willed himself to sleep.

[8blud]

                                                               𝚛.𝟺-𝟷𝟸𝟶

                                                                    ‘ raru. ’

𝚊  𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍  𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖  𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚊  𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕  𝚢𝚘𝚞  𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝  𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛.     𝚊𝚗  𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚜  𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚘𝚞𝚝  𝚘𝚏  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚜  𝚘𝚏  𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛  𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜,   𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗  𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛  𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔  𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎  𝚊  𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛.     𝚊  𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔  𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎  𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔-𝚠���𝚒𝚝𝚎  𝚊𝚜  𝚒𝚝  𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜  𝚏𝚘𝚛  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜.

basics.

given  name.     rowan  rockwell. real  name.     r.4-120. nickname.     ‘   raru,   ’   give her more. label.     the  synthetic  lamb. (   perceived   )   age.     thirty. gender  identity.     agender   (   she   +   any   ). orientation.     bisexual. occupation.     clinical  statistician  at  anunnaki  pharmaceuticals   &   political  spy  for  the  red-eye,   unknown. moral  alignment.     lawful   /   neutral  evil. character  inspiration.     frankenstein’s  monster   (   frankenstein   ),   rei  ayanami   (   neon  genesis  evangelion   ),   david8   (   alien  franchise   ),   amy   dunne   (   gone  girl   ),   kd6-3.7   (   blade  runner  2049   ),   antigone   (   greek  literature   ),   victoria  neuman   (   the  boys   ),   glados   (   portal   ),   makima   (   chainsaw  man   ).

background.

vivid  memories  that  flicker  into  view,   like  an  old  movie  reel  settling  into  its  camera.     a  swing  at  the  back  of  her  garden,   frayed  at  the  ends.     a  person  standing  over  her  bed,   touching  her  neck  and  squeezing  her  nose  shut.     her  mother  on  a  damp  bed,   pills  strewn  between  the  creases.     a  man,   her  father,   bending  down  to  kiss  her  forehead.     a  boy’s  glob  of  spit  flying  into  her  face.

innocuous  little  images,   unfelt  and  unreachable.     a  dense  forest,   with  an  endless  amount  of  branches,   still  yields  finite  endings.     they  were  written  when  her  arm  could  rigidly  write  her  name,   without  curves.     she  cannot  taste  her  mother’s  sweat  and  tears;   she  cannot  feel  her  father’s  lips,   whether  they  were  chapped  or  moist.     without  help,   she  couldn’t  name  people  in  a  picture  that  captures  her  smiling  face,   fat-cheeked  and  wide-eyed.

in  some  dreams,   she  reaches  for  her  mother’s  pills  and  swallows  them.     the  taste  would’ve  stained  her  little  tongue  for  the  rest  of  her  life.     her  young  stomach  should’ve  lost  its  lining,   until  her  blood  spouts  from  the  organ  like  it’s  gasping  for  air.     drowning  in  her  enclosed  body,   breathing  for  the  first  time.     her  finite  endings  feel  created,   even  when  they  are  missed.     a  possibility  that  was  never  actually  possible.     and  yet,   this  is  where  she  should’ve  died.     the  end  screen  would’ve  been  red,   and  she  would’ve  cried  blood-tears.

bitten  by  curiosity,   she  swallows  those  pills  as  an  adult.     no  side  effects.     her  spit  yearns  to  foam  like  it  did  on  her  mother’s  lips.     her  hands  are  not  her  own  as  she  swallows  more.     and  yet,   nothing.     no  nausea,   no  loss  of  awareness.     not  even  lethargy  sets  in.     just  as  awake,   just  as  alive.     steady  heart,   steady  hands.     untouched  by  pain.

the  years  seem  to  wear  on  and,   interspersed  between  these  images  of  her  life,   are  bare  flashes  of  white  pain.     no  picture,   all  sensation.     three  times,   she  tries  to  focus  on  the  feeling,   before  she  learns  how  to  remember.     if there’s  a  shock  in  the  memory,   her  arm  jerks.     when  it’s  the  simple  feeling  of  temperature,   her  arm  doesn’t  move.

months  pass,   she  thinks,   and  she  begins  to  hear  voices.     they  call  her  an   ‘   r.4   ’   unit,   the  120th  model.     it  changes  nothing.     fear  doesn’t  sit  at  the  base  of  her  throat;   her  parents  remain  un-grieved.     they’re  just  another  statistic,   another  nipped  bud  that  wouldn’t  serve  the  ending  that  was  written  into  her  code.     if  it’s  perfection  she  was  made  for,   then  it  is  perfection  she  will  strive  for.

(  as  an  aside,  i’m  imagining  her  as  a  slightly  earlier  model.  a  very  good  rendition  of  a  person,  but  ‘lacking’  human  empathy.  a  bit  more  in  line  with  blade  runner’s  other  replicants,  like  the  interrogation  at  the  beginning  of  the  movie.  )

(  i’m  also  not  imagining  her  as  a  ‘fighting’  model,  more  of  a  supporting  unit.  she  would  struggle  to  feel  pain,  and  she  would  always  get  up.  in  a  fight,  however,  if  the  other  person  has  more  training  ( … )  they  got  her  coach.  )

(   commissioned  by  the  red-eye  to  be  their  intel  droid  and  political  spy.     she  was  built  to  endure  anything,   to  ‘  die  ’  and  be  able  to  come  back  again.     hence  her  further  increased  invulnerability  and  hindered  empathy  skills.     the  emphasis  is  on  gathering  information,   and  getting  out  physically  unscathed   –   even  if  she  is  caught.   )

[neuroticboyfriend]

this just in! substance use disorders don't exist only when someone uses substances. there are a bunch of other experiences that come with a substance use disorder. this includes cravings, withdrawal (physical and psychological), tolerance, dependency, obsessions with substance, anhedonia, needing to recover from use, and more! recovery isn't as simple as not using substances (especially since not everyone's recovery involves not using)! and, as with other conditions, it is still possible to lead a fulfilling life without full recovery <3