#Polaris ‘talking’ to Jesse and Jesse speaking back

[xylathesilkwing]

Was it just me, or in the North Star episode Jesse says fuck more often? It has been a few months since I played control, but it seemed like she said it a lot more(not that I’m complaining, this is a /positive)

I love my paranatural wife that curses like a trucker. Me core

but also it made me do MATH?? I hate math y’all. hate math. stupid roasting temperature

[whatsarasaid]

I’d love your take on anything related to Jesse + Polaris! Also now that you’re into Control feel free to send prompts in trade, I’m always keen to see more about this game!

I could never tell if the FBC were the ones who put Jesse into the psychiatric hospital or if Jesse wound up there on her own and the FBC got a hold of the recordings. I went ahead and assumed the later for this ficlet.

title: cut through the cream. fandom: control. rating: teen & up. word count: approx. 800. characters: jesse faden, polaris.

—

“Beyond the shadow you settle for, there’s a miracle illuminated.”

     — ‘Thomas Zane’

—

Everything was white.

Not an offensive color, but one of which Jesse was quickly growing weary. The halls were white. Her bed linens were white. The thick sock booties with sticky grips on the bottom they had issued her upon arrival? Also white. The only color was her shock of red hair (which she caught glimpses of every now and then—there were no mirrors here) and the rainbow of pills in a tiny plastic cup they forced her take every day. Those made her shaky and disoriented and talkative. Unlike herself.

Zoning back in, she realized she was in an office.

How long have I been here?

And how did I get here?

The psychiatrist sitting behind the laminate wood desk adjusted the lapel of her (very white) coat, disturbing the glossy credentials which dangled from it. Dr. Schneider. She was composed and sharp, the opposite of how Jesse felt—loose with grease building at her scalp. The doctor’s questions were clinical but coached in fake diplomacy. She made no attempt to understand Jesse’s perspective. Sure, the doctor wanted to understand the information that came from her mouth, but see her point-of-view? Get her perspective? Hear the truth she was speaking?

It was infuriating.

Of course, she was usually more careful with whom she shared what, having earned many raised eyebrows and scoffing laughs in her lifetime, but things kept spilling out these days. One thing she had learned since being here was that psychiatrists were not therapists. Not there to listen per se. They were there to assess and prescribe for any number of mental problems. Jesse was sure they were useful in their own right, but she knew they looked at the world through psychotropic-tinted lenses. They were there for people who needed the capsules and the caplets.

And Jesse was not one of those people.

The problem was the more she tried to be honest in a mental ward, the crazier she sounded.

“Jesse,” the doctor looked up from the monitor of her Commodore to lean in and ask in a modulated voice, “let’s go back to your imaginary friend.”

Not imaginary. “Polaris.”

“Polaris, yes.”

“Sure.”

“Tell me more about how you view that experience.”

Even the way she phrases things makes me sound crazy.

In response, a tessellation spiraled and refracted and sang like a finger drawn across the rim of wet crystal. It cut clear through the cream of Jesse’s medication-addled mind and circled the psychiatrist. Not seen by the doctor, but there. The woman’s mouth kept moving, and it was Jesse’s turn to not listen. Polaris’ resonance strummed against her in whorled waves, taking her attention inward. To a frequency that seemed to be exclusive to them. A private line of connection. Only there if one knew what they were listening for.

But most certainly not just within her own head.

I know. Time to go. To New York. But I don’t know how to make her understand. Believe. And thinking is…impossible. Please, just tell me. Tell me what to do.

Polaris coiled again, a conical burr of rough glass, and the movement lulled Jesse into an unexplainable peace. Experiencing her was like touching something cool and comforting—an icepack on a sore limb. It sparked as much serenity as it did awe.

Okay. Okay, then. That’s the plan. Why waste any more time on people who want to stay in the room anyway? It’s comfortable here. No unknowns to confront. No looming questions. Just…what you know. What you think is safe.

Jesse’s face betrayed nothing but resolve hardened in her chest, her mind set on a clearer goal than it had been in months.

The quartz radial spun and swelled one last time, as if the deepest parts of her recognized the deepest parts of Jesse. It was a harmony to Jesse herself, notes meant to enhance one another, meant to be sung as a chord. It reassured her that she was not alone. Never alone. No matter how many rolled their eyes or scribbled ‘psychosis’ on legal pads or shoved psychopharmaceuticals at her.

Even if there had been years of silence in the past, Jesse could trust this.

This one thing.

Polaris.

Jesse leaned back in her chair and it creaked against the weight. She then crossed her legs, stretched her hands to the ends of the padded arms, “When we were little, Dylan had a blanket. Wasn’t anything special, but he carried it everywhere. Even when we climbed trees or played in creeks. It got really dirty, but he wouldn’t let it go. Made him feel safe. I think…, I think I’m realizing that Polaris is my security blanket.”

The psychiatrist tried to hide a small smile as her fingertips clacked against the keyboard.

And your security blanket, lady, is this room. This room you think to be the world.

That night, Jesse began to tuck rainbows in her cheek and spit them into the toilet.