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gold-onthe-inside · 5 months ago

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pair programming

A software development technique in which two programmers work together at one workstation. One, the driver, writes code while the other, the observer or navigator, reviews each line of code as it is typed in.

part one: driver

who? spencer reid (s1) x analyst!reader what? prequel to greylist; you invite yourself onto a case to help penelope after an unsub runs a blackhat operation onto her set-up, getting to know your best friend's team in the process. word count: 3.9k (sort of turned into a case-fic) content warnings: elle's shooting is mentioned, reference to SA a/n: this got seriously long, i'm so sorry, i hope you all like it, and part two will be coming - based on when penelope gets shot

“What kind of MIT graduate is a technophobe?” you asked, even as you were plugged in next to Penelope's workstation. Your eyes are glued to the screen, parsing through each line of code as Penelope wrote it. It was rare for you to get this attached to someone, but Penelope's hard not to let in with her funky earrings and sparkly glasses and chunky bracelets.

"The kind with three PhDs, apparently," she replied, before cursing softly as she notices you correct her code.

"Ugh, that sounds insufferable," you mutter, curling your upper lip, rubbing the small ache that was growing in the back of your neck. You've been at this for hours, helping Penelope develop software that can identify the tiniest detail from CCTV footage, invasion of privacy damned. You knew it's an ethical line you have to blur in counterintelligence. But you've found your groove and if you lose track now, who knows when you'll both get a chance to sit and write again?

"He's not that bad, actually," Penelope said, blue eyes watching her screen intently, manicured nails clacking over her keyboard, chewing the same gum she had popped in when you'd both started. "He's not exactly a looker, not like my darling Morgan. Did I tell you he called me baby girl?"

"How romantic," you said dryly, reaching for the packet of Twizzlers you were both sharing. "He didn't know your name."

"You haven't seen him," Penelope said, her voice dreamy. "He's beautiful, the Adonis to my Aphrodite--"

"You know Adonis died, right?" you asked her, raising a brow and she tossed a Malteser at you.

"Stop ruining my fantasies!" she cried and you snickered under your breath.

"I'm not picking that up. Anyway, more importantly, what's Agent Greenaway like?"

And so it goes for another hour, until you both swap roles, and you're complete focus and drive and determination as you get these codes out, and Spencer Reid is nothing more than a name picked up in conversation.

You're good at your job; clean, organised, a hard worker with an eye for detail and little else in your social life, and so when Penelope's picked for the BAU, you're working your way up in counterintelligence, surrounded by more testosterone than Penelope. She's unorthodox, hasn't come up the way you have; you were astonished when you found out that she taught herself to code, dropping out of CalTech a year after she joined. It's why you offered to be her navigator, and you only really stay at your desk if you're working with privileged information. Otherwise, you're spending off-time with her, writing programs and algorithms, helping her multi-task when there's an overwhelming amount of information to track.

"My co-workers never get me flowers," you said, walking in with your laptop under your arm, a hand going to the yellow flowers arranged in a bouquet by her station and she spun in her chair, grinning giddily.

"They're from Gideon," she gushed and you raise a brow as you smell the daffodils.

“You know I don’t judge age gaps, but isn’t he starting to bald?” you asked and Penelope was already rolling her eyes as you picked up the card to read it.

“It’s not like that,” she insisted, watching you frown at the neat printed writing. “What is it?”

“Agent Gideon doesn’t write like this,” you said, wrinkling your brow, showing her the handwriting and Penelope shrugged.

“Maybe he wanted it to look nice.”

"I know I can be challenging, but your work is appreciated. J. Gideon?” you read out skeptically. “A) he’s not self-aware enough to call himself challenging, and B) he doesn’t sign off on messages like that. I’ve seen your Christmas present from last year.”

“You don’t know that,” Penelope retorted and you cock your head at her. “He-He was apologising for last week, when he was on crutches and—”

“Was being a total pain in your ass?” you asked with a chuckle, sitting down and opening your laptop. “What’s the going rate for daffodils these days? 10, 20 dollars?”

“What are you doing?” Penelope asked, then looking horrified as you’d already hacked your way into peeking at Gideon’s recent debit and credit purchases.

“No florists here,” you declared, showing her. “Although, he goes to the Smithsonian a lot.”

“He likes the bird exhibits, what are you guys doing?” came a confused voice from behind the both of you, and your eyes fall on a gangly, tall man, with a very unflattering yellow shirt with beige lines that matched his tie and trousers, brown hair tucked tightly behind his ears.

Penelope quickly slammed your laptop shut with a quick “Nothing!” and he furrowed his brow, spindly fingers fidgeting in front of him. You glanced at Penelope, trying to follow her cue.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?” you asked, the kind of tone you’d use with your own co-workers who linger around your desk, trying to copy your programs.

“Considering Gideon’s my boss, I’d like to know why you’re investigating his finances,” Spencer said, doing his best to exude confidence, but he didn’t quite manage it, his hands going to his pockets, and your cool stare makes him swallow. Oh, he’s going to be fun to play with.

“We’re just evaluating whether Gideon’s gonna ask Penelope here on a date,” you said, just to mess with him and keeping a straight face even as she shoved your shoulder, and he choked, his neck flushing red. “Oh, maybe he’ll take you to his cabin,” you add, looking at Penelope excitedly. “A couple glasses of wine, a nice dinner, light some candles—”

“I’m gonna shove this keyboard so far down your throat, all that’s going to come out are bit strings!” she cried, trying to clap a hand over your mouth as you laugh and by the time you look back at the door, he’s gone. “I think you’ve scarred him for life,” Penelope sighed, exasperated, smacking your shoulder hard and making you wince.

“Ow, no sense of humour, any of you,” you grumbled, rubbing your shoulder, and actually getting down to do the work you’re supposed to be doing. You like Penelope’s company, more than the kind of guys you’re surrounded by in counterintelligence.

You’re supposed to be parsing through online communication on a website potentially linked to a terrorist organisation in Somalia, waiting for your decryption program to finish running it, walking into Penelope’s den to find her pulling her apart her CPU, muttering to herself. “All work and no play?” she demanded at her array of screens, “All work and no play, huh? You just wait till I’m through with you!”

“Um… you good?” You asked, leaning against her doorway. You haven’t seen Penelope this angry since she’d been called into work the night they had tickets to the Pixies’ reunion tour.

“Someone had the nerve to run a blackhat op into my computers!” she cried, looking at you, red streaks in her crinkle-cut hair. “They hacked me, okay? But you can bet your sweet ass, I will find them. I've got honey pot farms hidden behind UML kernel data packets and a first generation honeynet I personally programmed. My snort logs list every visitor, every server request, every keystroke on this entire network. If I have to back-hack his I.P. all the way to the frickin'stone age, I will find this son of a bitch, okay?” As angry as she sounded, her blue eyes were welling up and Somalia was forgotten as you pulled your own chair up.

“What can I do?” you asked and her phone rang, Penelope groaning as she stood up, jamming the answer button with the back of her screwdriver.

“What?” she demanded irritably.

“I need a rundown on a guy,” Morgan said and you frowned — as far as you knew, the rest of the team was on vacation, what with him telling everyone on the floor, including yours, about all fun he was gonna have at some Jamaican resort in Montego Bay.

“No,” Penelope said, shortly.

“No?” he asked and your hand came up to Penelope’s elbow.

“I can take care of this,” you offer and it seemed to take some steam off of your best friend. “Talk to me, Morgan,” you said, rolling your chair over and setting up on your own laptop. “What do you need?”

“Run a Frank Giles for me, would you, sweet thing?” Morgan asked and you huff, pulling up your deep background check program to run his name.

“Call me sweet thing again and I’ll feed your fingers to Clooney,” you replied, hearing him chuckle over the landline.

“My bad,” he said. “What do you have for me?”

“Hey, I’m working on a CPU half my usual size, gimme a minute, will you?” you replied.

“You’re a hard woman to please.”

“No fun in making it easy, is it?” you quip back as your results get back to you. “Frank Giles left Jamaica last night on the red eye. He flew to Florida, then got onto another flight to Virginia,” you relay to him.

“He’s from Virginia?” Morgan asked, confused.

“He’s got an address in Arlington,” you continued. “Long criminal record too; murder, robbery, sexual assault.”

“A guy was murdered in the resort here, head was cut off,” Morgan explained to you. “What are the chances you can find him for me?”

“Please, this stuff is child’s play,” you retorted, glancing down at Penelope on the floor. “This is what you do all day? Look people up?”

Penelope looked up from the floor at you. “Hey, I’m in a very vulnerable position right now!” You suppress a snort, working on ID’ing the victim.

“The room’s rented to a man named—”

“Marty Harris,” you said. “Also classic bad guy, fetish burglar and registered child sex offender. TSA flagged him, he was travelling with Giles.” You flex your fingers, cracking your knuckles, your blood not quite up.

“Alright, thanks, mama,” he said before hanging up and you scrunch your nose at being called that. Derek liked to flirt, and despite your best efforts, he’s not averse to being threatened. You spend the rest of the day backhacking the guy, Frank Giles on the back of you mind.

“How’d he get in, anyway?” you asked, frowning at your laptop. It’s not as well-kitted as your cubicle downstairs, but you can’t leave Penelope in the lurch like this.

“I don’t know,” Penelope cried, “all I know is I was in Camelot with Sir Kneighf again—”

“At work?” you asked, looking up instantly and the colour leeched from Penelope’s face. “Pen, no!”

“It was my personal laptop, I didn’t think—”

“Your laptop doesn’t have the same security, Pen, Christ!”

“I know that!” she yelled, her face fierce. “God, you don’t think I feel horrible enough already, and I can already see Hotch’s face when he finds out—”

“Hey, no, I’m sorry, listen,” you say automatically, scooting forward to comfort her. “Listen, it’s gonna be okay, alright? Whoever this guy is, he took advantage of you, alright? That’s what these guys do. They wait around until they find the weak link and strike.”

“I’m the weak link!” Penelope cried and you tutted, putting your laptop away and hugging her.

“Hey, no, you’re not,” you insisted, taking her glasses off so they wouldn’t get in the way. “You know how many cases these guys have solved because of you? How many lives they could’ve lost if you hadn’t found the right guy or the right address in time? Don’t beat yourself up over one mistake.”

And that’s exactly how clear you make yourself when you hear Gideon call her stupid — standing right by her side when she tells the entire team the truth. You’re not part of the team, Gideon’s not your supervisor, and it’s the first time you’ve met most of them face to face really, which makes it easier to stand your ground.

“You’d all be lost without Garcia’s technical skills, and you know it,” you said, defending your friend. “So, yeah, she made a mistake and the hacker got into your personnel files. It doesn’t explain how he knows all the other details of your life. It doesn’t explain how he knew about Morgan and Greenaway going to Jamaica, or your appreciation of the Chicago White Sox , who, by the way, haven’t won a championship since 1959 until last year.” There’s a moment of silence where Gideon just blinks at you, Elle suddenly very interested in her fist as her brow raised, and Aaron’s gaze bored into you. Spencer didn’t know whether to look at you or Gideon; you with your firm gaze and fingers curled around Penelope’s, or Gideon with his worn out expression.

“So, how did he find all this out?” Aaron said eventually, and the heat passes as they all move on. You glanced at Penelope, nodding subtly as she mouthed a ‘thank you’. Elle caught your gaze as you started to leave the profilers to their work, dimples forming on her sleepy face as she tried not to smile.

You have your own work pending, writing up a program to feed the decrypted communication through that would flag recurring keywords, in Penelope’s den still. This close to evening, your supervisor wouldn’t care anyway. The hours you put in excuse you from actually having to sit in your cubicle. With the only two seats in the den occupied, Spencer was pacing behind Penelope who was busy backhacking Sir Kneighf.

“The card we got of Nellie Fox was from 1963,” he was saying to noone in particular, and you had the feeling he just didn’t want to be in that conference room alone, but his pacing was starting to get on your nerves. “But the team that Gideon’s fond of is actually the 1959 team.” You shared a glance at Penelope, slipping into telepathy.

“Can’t we get rid of him?”

“Not without making a mess,” she said with her face and you repressed a sigh as he kept going.

“So the code has to be from a book from 1963,” he said, twisting on his heel to face Penelope. “Is there a database that lists all the books published in a given year?”

“Individual publishers have lists, I don't think there's anything like a master one,” Penelope answered him. “Plus it would depend upon the year, because the further back you go, the less likely there'll be any database at all.

“And definitely not for 1963,” you piped up, Penelope nodding along and Spencer looked at you with a furrowed brow, then back to Penelope, leaning over her shoulder.

“Could you do me a favor? Type something into a search engine for me?” Spencer asked and Penelope scowled at him.

“I’m kind of in the middle of something,” she replied and as if you could tell the work would be shifted onto you, you attempted to surreptitiously leave, but Penelope’s hand latched around your wrist. “Weren’t you just wishing you had something to do?”

“No,” you tried in vain, “No, my program’ll be done in a couple of—” Neither of them were falling for it and Spencer was starting to pull out this puppy-faced look and you groaned. How did you keep getting in these situations? “Fine, put your face away,” you said irritably, sitting back down. “What am I Yahoo-ing?”

"Never would it be night, but always clear day to any man's sight,” Spencer recited, watching you type rapidly.

“It’s from ‘The Parliament of—”

“Fowls!” Spencer exclaimed, “I knew I’d heard it somewhere.” It was too late in the day for you to handle his excitement with any kind of grace, sharing a look with Penelope who simply shrugged, like he was always like this. “Yeah, yeah, Chaucer, my… My mom used to read it to me,” he said, not quite meeting anyone’s gaze… like he was ashamed of something. “It’s widely considered the world’s first Valentine’s poem.”

“Your mom read you Valentine's poems? Hello, therapy,” Penelope muttered under her breath and you smacked her arm playfully, Spencer too deep in thought to see it.

“The poem’s not long enough for it to be the book,” he said, still looking puzzled. “The code we got referred to it having at least 283 pages—”

“And it’s not from 1963, either,” you added dryly.

“Something published in 1963. A butterfly indigenous to Great Britain, so something from Great Britain,” he said to himself and you furrow your brow.

“Fowles,” you said, and it was like everything made sense. “With an e, Fowles. He wrote a book, The Collector, in the 60s,” you kept going, Penelope looking at you with an impressed gaze, Spencer hanging onto your every word. “It kind of matches your case. This lonely young man kidnaps a young art student and holds her in his cellar at his farmhouse, keeps her there for years, and she assumes he’s going to torture her or sexually assault her, but he’s waiting for her to fall in love with him, and he’s convinced she will, and by the end, she falls ill and dies. When he finds her, he wants to commit suicide, but he reads her diary and realises she never loved him so he buries her and the book ends with him thinking about abducting another girl.”

“Oh my God,” Penelope gasped, looking horrified.

“Yeah, it wasn’t great,” you replied, frowning and scrunching your nose. “The whole thing was in first person. It was weird to read.”

“Right, that’s the icky part,” Penelope said, dryly.

“We need to check it with the code, and it has to be the exact edition he has,” Spencer interrupted before either of you got side-tracked and you rolled your eyes, going into your bag to pull out your e-reader, connecting it to your laptop. Spencer hovered right above your shoulder, so close you could hear his breathing, feeling warmth flutter against your cheek, and you cleared your throat.

“Ever heard of personal space?” you asked irritably, turning to look at him and he looked back down at you, barely an inch between you two, and then he stammered out an apology as he stepped back, all while Penelope smirked at the two of you. While the book transferred, you worked on quickly creating an algorithm that would search and flag the given word on a given line, on a given page, and despite yourself, you’re a little impressed when Spencer recites each number from the code that the unsub had sent Haley.

“Show off,” you muttered under your breath as he quickly wrote the resulting poem onto a legal pad in chicken scratch writing.

The path to the end began at his start. To find her, first calm her long broken heart. She sits in a window, with secrets from her knight.

“Well, that isn’t medieval,” you said and Spencer frowned at it, scanning it over and over again. Without another word, he darted out of the office, leaving both of you bewildered. “You were right, he is an odd duck,” you murmured, staring at the open door.

“Should we follow him?” Penelope asked, looking at you.

“I’ve put off my own work long enough,” you said, shaking her head and Penelope nodded, understanding.

“Thanks. For sticking around,” she said softly and you smiled at her faintly.

“Always.”

You should go home. Shower. Sleep. But Elle’s been shot and you can’t leave, not in good conscience. You hate yourself for being this sentimental, this soft but that’s what Penelope does to you. She softens you, makes you kinder, makes you laugh. If it had been you who had lost a teammate, Penelope would have been glued to your side.

So you stick around, blinking sleep out of your eyes, settled in the BAU’s kitchen with a cup of coffee and a bagel, both stale, looking for coded messages. Not for the first time, you think about where you could be. Coding for Apple, or Microsoft. Developing software in Silicon Valley. They don’t have stale bagels in Silicon Valley.

You stretched uncomfortably in your chair, gaze flitting up to the conference room, the bullpen stretched out between you and the BAU. You’re not a people person, or you weren’t before you met Penelope. You preferred the solitude of your cubicle, or you thought you had. The very virtue of your profession had left you without other female friends, and the ones you had before this job had drifted away. Counter-intelligence was by its very nature an isolating field, and Penelope was one of the few who didn’t mind your secrets. But seeing this team rally, even if Gideon had yelled at her, seeing them work together, as irritating as it had felt in the moment, filled you with a sense of loneliness. All you had was Penelope, but you weren’t the only one she had. Far from it.

That’s what prompts you to approach the older woman sitting alone in the conference room with her journal. Sitting by the window. “Hi,” you said meekly, stepping into the room, clocking the visitor’s badge on the woman’s sweater. She’s wearing a pale flowery dress, her bag sandwiched between her side and elbow. Her hair was short, like a boy’s, and blonde, and yet, something about her painfully reminds you of Spencer. Something around the eyes and the shape of her face.

“Is it lunch time yet?” she asked without looking up and you frowned, looking out the window to see the sprawl of Quantico blanketed in the dark blue of the night.

“Uh, no, not yet,” you said, sounding lame even to yourself. God, this was such a mistake.

“I'm lecturing everyone in Tristan and Iseult. They're all gathering in my room after lunch.” the woman said, looking up at you, and you offered a smile.

“Which version?” you asked, pulling up a chair as the woman gave you an impressed look.

“Malory’s. Beroul’s seemed too long to assign. You’ve read it?” she asked and you shook your head.

“Not in its entirety,” you replied somberly. “Not a lot of downtime with my job. But I know the gist of it.”

“Shame,” the woman said, letting out a sigh. “I always say, the best way to read a book is to listen to someone read it.”

That’s when Reid rushes in, relaxed until he sees you sitting in front of his mother, his temple creasing, and you raised your hand, waving it at him with a sheepish smile. “We uh, we found Rebecca,” he said, looking between you and his mom, two worlds colliding sooner than he would’ve liked. “You saved her life, Mom,” he said softly.

“Who’s Rebecca?” she asked and his smile evaporated, glancing at you for explanation but you shake you head.

“She’s not lucid,” you murmured, watching him swallow, his cheer dissipating.

“Oh,” he said quietly, blinking as he processed it, looking at Diana as she continued to write, and you stood up to leave. “Thanks,” he murmured to you as you walked off.

“I didn’t do anything,” you said, brow creasing and he looked at you with a boyishness that stops your breath.

“Thanks anyway,” he insisted and you nodded curtly.

“Elle okay?” you asked.

“She will be.” So you pat his arm and leave him with his mom, shaking off the fondness you’d started to feel for him.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x analyst!reader #analyst!reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #my fics

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angeliteria · 1 year ago

Text

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒.

pairings — fem!reader and rafe cameron.

summary — after rafe takes your life, he tries to move on, and simply pretends he’s the one who didn’t do so. eventually, hauntings and truths will lay themselves out to remind rafe just how sickening he is.

warning tags — adult language. details of gruesome m*rder & m*rder itself. mentions of DV relationship, (brief) child ab*se & awful parents. talks of religion and god. reader’s pov from heaven (?? just stick w the program). rafe actually going more insane than usual. overall dark content.

author’s note — this is based on and inspired by ethel cain’s song ‘strangers’ and while this song has multiple interpretations to go by, i’m taking mine by the main and common one (just without the c*nnibalism!). this also gets super dark and depressing so if you cannot bear any of it, please click off! this also isn’t revised at all so my apologies for grammar mistakes.

likes, shares & reblogs are very much appreciated ⋆୨୧ ₊ﾟ

you had tears in your eyes, body shaking to point you thought you’d convulse. you tried to be obedient by keeping in rafe’s secret of what he had done on that tarmac. he beat you to make sure you kept your mouth shut for good.

he said, “i’ll kill you if you say one word,” and it took enough fear to believe him, but you didn’t think that day would come.

murder is an evil thing, and everyone can attest to it. rafe murdered sheriff peterkin as if she was nothing, as if she was a problem in the way. bad enough, he let john b. routledge — one of your best friends — take the fall for it.

you continued to keep your mouth shut, but after rafe tried to invade the police, ward killing himself, you didn’t see a reason to keep quiet. ward was the only reason why rafe could stay out of prison, and now that he wasn’t around, you could speak.

your father preached every sunday to live by righteousness and good, to never let evil win.

rafe was that evil. he was the devil himself.

the devil that you danced with, let make love to you, kiss you, but also beat you until stars twinkled in your vision, and your breath kept getting caught in your throat.

your mother would be horrified to know that, your father too. but it was their fault in a way that you accepted this cruelty as love; your father, especially to blame.

if love is not meant to be hit at you, does it even exist? your father showed you that when he’d slap or punch you for falling out of line, but go to church the next day, and preach about being a good servant to god.

you wanted all evil out of your life. it was suffocating, it was drowning you.

rafe had to be eliminated first.

“you killed peterkin, and i’m tired of knowing it,” you said, picking up your car keys. “we are done, and i won’t even show up to your trial when you go down for it.”

rafe just stared at you appalled and puzzled, sitting on the edge of his bed. you were close to being far out enough to your car until strong, violent hand seized you.

you screamed and kicked, not being new to this routine, only knowing that he was going to harm you.

you could never predict that his violence would lead him to murdering you.

“let me go, rafe!” you screamed, being pulled inside, your pleas and cries echoing in the empty home.

expecting to be physically berated, you were being led downwards.

to the wine cellar basement.

and for once in a while, you prayed to god, and hoped he would finally listen to you this time. that he would save his child, and perform a miracle.

but a miracle never came as rafe manhandled you, pinning you down on the cement ground of the basement.

“shut the fuck up! stop crying!” he yelled, a solid punch coming to your cheek, and you yelped, an easy gush of blood rushing out of your mouth. “you’re a fuckin’ backstabber. after everything i’ve done for you, gonna treat me like that?”

you cried, shaking your head. “r—rafe, please! i’ll be good, i’ll stop!”

“don’t trust you, little one. can’t let you ruin everything,” rafe said, reaching for something out of his back pocket.

the more you fought back, the more angry he got; the more you fueled the fire that rested in his hands and body.

before you could let out another plead, a sharp pain was made into your abdomen.

rafe stabbed you — and he wasn’t planning on stopping there.

god wasn’t there. you would show up to his gates in this condition, and ask him why he let it happen. if god is real, why did he bear witness instead of saving you?

rafe doesn’t recall killing you.

he remembers grabbing, and dragging you down into wine cellar basement, but couldn’t be able to tell anyone what happened after that. all he knows your blood was quite literally on his hand, knife shaking in his grip.

your babydoll white dress was now stained with violence and scarlet red blood.

the sight should’ve made him sick, but it didn’t. he just stared at you, breathing heavy, and it didn’t strike him until a while later that he had killed you.

rafe cameron had killed the love of his life.

he only panicked when it came to how to dispose your body, take off any evidence that could trace back to him. he was more than willing to dump your body in the woods, let any gators eat at you for supper.

he tossed your body only hours later in the depths of the woods, and it didn’t take long until you were reported missing.

of course, he was questioned first. it was easy for him to play the concerned boyfriend, crying because he also hadn’t heard from you, saying he had been texting and calling you for hours.

your parents sobbed on the news and asking anyone to come forward with any information, that they’ll give up however much money for their child to come home.

rafe just stared numbly at the television screen, a cup of scotch in his hand.

your best friends, the pogues, sobbed for days, and even started a search party for you. rafe made sure to dig you levels down in those woods when the ground was wet enough to dig up, and cover you up.

sarah cameron had a feeling her brother had something to do with your ‘disappearance’ but it was only just a gut intuition, she couldn’t prove it. she always questioned why you got with her brother, always emphasizing how horrible and violent he was, but you would tell her, “you don’t know him like i do; you don’t know how much he loves me, and takes care of me.”

kiara knew how bad rafe was — for god sake, she momentarily went to the academy around the same time he was a senior. she knew he wasn’t destined to be a boyfriend, let alone even in a fucking relationship.

the boys of the group were beyond furious, the three wanting to round up and take ahold of rafe, beat some information out of him. but they knew you wouldn’t want that, and that rafe would easily get the police to arrest them.

however, months passed, and you slowly became a memory to not only the town, but to rafe himself. he went on with his days like nothing occurred, that he didn’t violently take the life of his girlfriend.

you weren’t on his mind anymore, and he didn’t have to worry about you anymore.

or so he thought.

karma and revenge go hand in hand together; they mingle and burst out, they make sure they arrive at the doorstep of the people who deserve it.

rafe always thought getting rid of you would avoid his downfall, but the murder of you was just the beginning of it all.

he slept peacefully like he had done for a while now, with him about to drown into a deep sleep. he rested with his hands laid atop of his stomach, comfortable and at solitude, a female whisper woke him up.

he peeked around, but saw no one. he assumed he was just sleep deprived and imagining things, his eyes closing again for sleep.

“do you feel sick yet?” the voice that sounded like yours came through, more clearer and visible. he shot up, and turned on his bedside lamp.

nothing. no one. not you.

why would he have to feel sick? you were gone, you were no longer a problem.

rafe shook it off, and was able to go back to sleep.

you were angry in the afterlife. you stared at rafe from heaven, trembling with rage and regret. a man you once loved, had acted as if you never existed. you adored him, and he disposed you like garbage.

you just wanted to be his, wanted him to tell you that you were his only; that he loved you as much as you did to him, that he would change and better himself for you.

that the violence would dissipate, and his rough hands would be nurtured with love and softness.

but no. that never came, and never would.

you were taunted by your murder, burning with the need to remind rafe of how sick he was.

your violent lover let you bleed before him, and without tending to your wounds or simply sitting with immediate regret, he soaked in his actions and dismissed it.

why couldn’t he be gentle? was him painting you blue and purple not enough? did he have to go as far as killing his lover to satisfy the disdain and vexation he held for you?

was that enough? was that enough to make you enough?

rafe’s nights slowly turned interrupted and sleepless. your voice was always there, and time to time, he thought he saw you standing in his bedroom, drenched in blood and with tears streaming down your face as you kept asking him, “do you feel sick yet?”

sick. not regretful. fucking sick.

sleep deprivation was catching up to him, making him more mean and angry than usual, more out of control.

the coke wasn’t even helping either, only making everything worse.

he was at barry’s trailer, snorting endless lines of the white powder, trying to shake off the sight of you from last night.

“country club, you good?” barry asked, and rafe didn’t respond. “you don’t seem well, bro.”

“just need this shit, okay?” rafe mumbled, separating another drop of cocaine. “just… just want to sleep, need it.”

barry didn’t want to push him with more questions, minding his own business as the blond haired boy snorted up excessive amounts of lines.

rafe ended falling asleep on his couch, barry mindlessly scrolling on his own phone as he laid down on his bed.

the cold air from the air conditioner ran around in the basement, making it more freezing and chilling than usual.

rafe could smell strawberry perfume, indicating you were around. he looked around, and saw nothing of you.

“where are you!” he screamed. “you can’t scare me, you bitch!”

“i’m not here to scare you,” you talked, rafe spinning around to find you perched in the corner of the basement. you careened closer, the dim light emphasizing on your mangled body.

rafe stared at your stomach, where immense stab wounds laid on it. he swallowed thickly, his breath shaking and jagged.

“do you feel sick?” you asked, and rafe looked up at you. he couldn’t move in this dream, he was paralyzed and a witness to your lacerated body.

nausea and despair washed over rafe, almost consuming him entirely.

you were finally face to face with him, your hair disheveled and bunched, face stained with tears and runny makeup, all for him to look at.

rafe could feel your physical touch, your soft hand grabbing his, and made his palm touch your abdomen. he almost fucking threw up.

you could see it, you could see he was wanting to vomit everywhere. “am i making you feel sick?” you asked, and rafe shivered, forcing his hand to put more pressure on your stomach, blood rushing out onto it. “am i making you feel sick?”

rafe screamed and lurched up, his eyes opening and alarming barry. “woah, what the fuck, rafe!” barry shouted, and rafe breathed rapidly, his heart thumping against his chest, a need to vomit.

rafe brought his face into his hands, trying to shake everything out of his hand.

your face, your touch, your blood — he felt it all. he was being reminded of you, when he didn’t want to.

barry kept asking him what was wrong, why he was crying, if he was okay, but all rafe could focus on was your voice asking, “am i making you feel sick?”

he was no longer immune to his destruction. he was becoming infected by it. you were a disease that he couldn’t treat, a parasite that ate at his brain.

he would never get rid of you — and you would make sure that he never did.

it was month seven without you, and you became a faded name to the outer banks. the only people who lived on to tell your name was your parents, and your best friends. the pogues carved your name into the chateau’s tree, a ceremonial bench placed at the high school.

your body or you weren’t ever discovered, but the police had listed you as deceased. you weren’t a runaway, you were eighteen, and had nothing to runaway for. when you couldn’t be traced anywhere on the grid, the police pronounced you dead, and that was that.

pictures of you and any sort of evidence remained in a cardboard box somewhere in the police station. you were left to rot in every way.

you were tired of being forgotten, but more exhausted that nobody knew that your boyfriend did this, and you probably weren’t going to be the first girl he killed.

rafe cameron needed to know what he did, and you wanted to do everything you could to make him drag himself to the police station, sit down, and say, “i killed her — and i enjoyed every fucking second of it.”

madness was becoming rafe. he was already an insane, depraved fuck before, but the lack of sleep and memories of the murder were catching up to him for good.

dark circles were around his eyes, hair greasy and messy, his body tired. he felt like he was going to snap any second.

he kept drinking, smoking weed and doing coke back to back, surprised that his heart didn’t give out yet.

a random exhaustion toll pushed over him, laying him down on the floor of his bedroom, and his eyes threatened to snap shut.

he didn’t want to sleep, he was afraid to. he was afraid to see you, with your bloody dress and sad face, making him touch your wounds.

rafe didn’t win the fight of sleeping, and he knocked out cold on his bedroom floor.

he wasn’t in the basement, he was in his bedroom, and he could hear your feet padding away to the front of the house, to your car.

oh, he was reliving the night. and he couldn’t stop. he couldn’t get out of the memory — he was facing everything.

he saw you bloody by his doorframe, and you tilted your head. “why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice sounding as if he was trapped in a void.

you only frowned. “so you know.”

like a reflex, rafe hurriedly rushed over to you outside before you could get away, seizing you away, and taking you to the basement.

he pinned you down to the ground, and screamed at you to stop crying, upset and angry you were willing to betray him when he did everything for you.

you were sobbing, but it became echoes and his ears rang, everything around him becoming silent except his own heavy breathing. he grabbed the knife that sat in his pocket, and he could see your eyes widen with fear to the sight of the object.

“rafe!” you screamed in the first stab. he hit you sharp and right in the abdomen.

he held his knife there for a second, like time was freezing him, and he felt a hot breath at the side of his face.

it was you.

“am i making you feel sick?” you asked, and rafe proceeded to stab you as you sobbed. you cried out his name, trying to fight away the knife, promising to be good and for him to stop.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

rafe couldn’t stop, he couldn’t control himself. he kept stabbing you as you screamed. he was a monster, with the inability to suppress his anger or violence.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

a part you thought you were making him feel sick because of how mutilated your body was; that the body he was once desired, was now filling him with disgust. you wondered if how butchered you looked, was making him uncomfortable and sick. he didn’t deserve your concern, but it happened anyway. was it making him sick?

rafe wanted to cry, but couldn’t. he was revisiting the person he was in this moment, and could see life vanish from your eyes, death taking you away.

he took one last stab, and held it there like the first one. you kneeled in front of him, looking over at your corpse for a moment before your eyes settled into his raging ones.

he held prolonged eye contact with you as you inched your face close to his, but kept a safe distance. you placed your hand on top of his murdering one, and with a blank face, lastly asking him, “am i making you feel sick?”

rafe broke eye contact with you to look at your deceased body, and realized and remembered this murder. your organs could be nearly seen, blood gushed and poured out everywhere, your body cold and still.

he dropped the knife, and eyed you. “i’m sorry.”

you shook your head, and sighed. “you will revisit this everyday as long as you live,” you said, sniffling. “all i wanted was to be yours, and be good enough, rafe. was i no good?”

he didn’t have an answer, and with that, you got up, staring over at your body. “i want you to know,” you chuckled softly to yourself, “i never blamed you for loving me the way that you did. i forgive you, especially since i’m happier where i’m at.”

“heaven?” rafe asked.

you nodded. “you won’t make it here, but i’ll still hope and wait that you do — because i love you too much to let god be angry with you too.”

“he’s an angry man?”

“he’s angry and unfair,” you responded. “like someone i know. i loved god, i loved you; two men who didn’t view me as much, who don’t deserve for me to believe in them.”

rafe went quiet, and enough time went by for you to disappear for good to let rafe cry, and scream. he cried and sobbed, dry heaving as he vomited everywhere to the sight of you.

he killed you, and as long as he kept it to himself, you would drive him mad and insane with the knowing of it.

rafe cameron confessed to your murder only hours later. he drove himself to the police station, and confessed to every detail, telling sheriff shope where your body was.

they found your maimed body in the exact location where rafe told them it was, your body already decomposing into near bones, eaten by critters and bugs.

the earth was consuming you.

he was hated forever, the town wanted him torched or given the death penalty. it would be a while until he got a trial.

your funeral could be proper with your body in a casket, given a rightful way to be down in the ground, protected and secured by a box stuffed with silk fabric.

you could see your mom cry, and you wish she wouldn’t. your father had to give the prayer at your funeral, your best friends sobbing, and hating themselves for not getting you away from rafe sooner.

however, your death was simply inevitable. if rafe didn’t kill you, your love for him would. he was everything to you.

even when he was murdering you — getting a vile satisfaction from it — you were worried about him, if you and your maimed body was making him feel more nauseous and sick than the actual murder was.

rafe would live with the knowing that you truly loved him, and he took your life every single day that he spent in a prison block cell.

and your ghost would continue to linger and haunt him, never letting him know peace and serenity as he never did to you.

#rafe cameron #outer banks #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron outer banks #obx #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fluff #drew starkey obx #drew starkey one shot #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x you #rafe outer banks #outer banks fanfiction #drew starkey x reader #outer banks imagine #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron x female reader

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anya-nya-nya · 2 months ago

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NSFW themes but without detailed description of intimacy so GN! reader, heavy angst, mention of alcohol, mention of Aventurine’s past > !heavy! mention of SA, SH, slavery

please contact me if you think I missed something!

⚠︎This work is focusing more on Aventurine’s trauma than in relationship with the reader⚠︎

Our brain is an amazing thing, organizing and explaining the world around a person the way the sliver of info that reaches the self aware part of our mind would be shaped to our liking. Our eyes are blind upon the image of reality, as we can only rely on the picture our brain creates for us to contemplate and base our opinion, feeling, mindset on. It's the ground of our survival: shaping the world to have less problems to deal with.

In short, neuroplasticity.

And no matter how childish it would sound, Aventurine hated this ability of his brains: how can he be a mastermind among people when he can't take control of his own head? Surely it wasn't his fault: how else could his brain rewire his neurons if not in some twisted ways after a decade of pure abuse? Even after learning a long forgotten freedom, the ground of his character wasn't changing. It's like finally installing new channels on your tv after having only one: you have freedom of choice but your finger presses the same familiar button automatically to watch the same program all over again.

Pieces of his childhood, memories of only time when he wasn't burdened by mental or physical shackles, help him to now fall completely to the abyss. It was enough for him to not justify the advantage his owners took of him, but not enough to stop his body getting used to it. Cause this is where his brain did their stupid job, helping him adapt and survive, survive thanks to hideous pleasure shoved down his throat by his own brains - by himself, at this point.

After the nightmare turns to just a bad dream: from serving for master to serving for IPC, Aventurine found the most repugnant need to get back and felt unwelcome touches. Having his own private room, that then transformed into a whole luxury penthouse as time passed, makes the recently released boy feel out of place.

It's not his fault: if we can get something, we make it. The familiar, the only knowledgeable love through pain and rough usage was now inflicted by his own hands.

He cut himself so many times, both in chase of miserable memories and attempting to prove himself that what HE needs. What HE desires. He choked on his own fingers as such stimulation both in his mouth and another, abused hole was necessary to at least cum a little. When his status in IPC was small enough to consider him just another white collar without name recognition, he let himself get wasted in bars so strangers would drag him in alleys and do anything. They even let him scream names of his masters, so kind of them!

But dozens of people who warmed his bed after he became an IPC worker didn't have enough impact to revive the need in him. Someone loved him, someone - most of his lovers, honestly - used him, and with helpless loathing Aventurine felt more gratitude to second ones. Thanks to reminding him about his place as a fuckdoll! Don't worry, he loves being used!

So when he meets a new face - your face - neurons in his brain already filter and mark you as another person interesting enough to hook up with. Not like he sensed the required danger in your looks or actions, but the most rabid wolves always adored in the most pure sheepskin, so chit chatting with you in a bar seems noteworthy.

How stupid he was, thinking someone like you would take the bait? You take care of him without any tries to have your reward for toiling thanklessy as a babysitter with him as your hands remained on your side and he woke up next morning with his pants still on his ass. Fuck, you could at least rob him or something, no?

As the desirable goal wasn't reached, Aventurine tried to cut ties with you and continue his promiscuous lifestyle. He even gets irritated: don't redo his already established impression of people with your angelic care, for Aeons’ sake! Or you will face his hysterical side: past experience with a few devotees like you confirm that the mask of an ungrateful cruel brat will crack any sanity sooner or later.

Maybe that was just another path in his brains that was engraved in a basement of his own persona: everyone playing roles. Maybe projection of his own well decorated facade onto others becomes another defense mechanism to neglect trauma - he's not broken, everyone likes that! Everyone craves pain and abuse, but in different ways, they just mask their desire to not use him like a whore! And you're lying too!

…The more persistent you're with your patience, the more stubborn and fierce Aventurine would become, until he crack up. Lancing a boil is never pleasant, especially the one that root so deep in his guts. In the end, you inflict much more pain to his soul that all these jerks who raped him to their hearts’ content. You dare to step in shadows of his nightmare and pour light here, force a hope Aventurine afraid not to take but even think about. For the first time the shameful dreams of being loved and cared for took a more vivid shape: your visage become epitome of it. For the first time Aventurine wants someone to actually reach out to his soul and purify it from all the dirt he held dear.

How long it would take you to help him find out the world around can not only bite but kiss? The answer was unknown to him as even with growth of connection between you two his past beliefs interfere occasionally. Your attention is definitely taking a toll on softening Aventurine up, maybe even too much: the switches of his mood are pell-mell, as now the needy part of him is alarmed with hunger. No one before taught him how good foreplay can be, how ache from soft lips on his neck beat the pleasure he felt from choking, how entwined fingers can hold him more secure than any shackles.

His real self is almost palpable now with a level of vulnerability he never dared to show before: it's not the same as taking on a role of limp body in the bar, but the opposite. It's stop in taking a role and choosing a mask.

Oh, and how eager he is to learn everything from a scratch with you!

#it's so messy in the enddddd uhhhh #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #honkai star rail x you #hsr x reader #aventurine x you #hsr aventurine #aventurine x reader #aventurine honkai star rail

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outnumberedsins · 4 months ago

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OEA Terms - Clinical/Academic vs. Community

This post aims to provide comparisons and sources for OEA community terms and their academic counterparts. This is not a post that serves to say what terms are more valid or not, just a review. I may not be able to find references to everything, so if I say a term isn't clinical and it has been mentioned, feel free to correct me. This is a long one, so buckle in. This may be updated.

Overarching Acronyms

for the sake of clarity, im going to use 'OEA' throughout this post to serve as the general acronym.

RAMCOA - Ritual Abuse, Mind Control, and Organized Abuse

RAMCOA stems from the ISSTD developed special interest group, the "Ritual Abuse Mind Control Organized Abuse Special Interest Group" (RAMCOA SIG) in 2008. [1] This, along with OEA, is the most common acronym used. There is a lot of controversy over this term, and much of the community has begun to switch to OEA.

OEA - Organized Extreme Abuse

From the ISSTD as well, emerging in 2020 as the previous SIG was renamed to "Organized and Extreme Abuse SIG." [2] This is believed to be because of the controversy surrounding the previously named group.

SRA - Satanic Ritual Abuse

An outdated term that comes from the satanic panic era in the 1980s. Much of the content that used this term is conspiracy-like in nature. However, some early OEA research (typically from 1990-2000) and books use this acronym and are genuine, so it requires a lot of critical thinking. [3][4]

RA, SA, CRA, ORA - Ritual Abuse, Sadistic Abuse, Cult (and) Ritual Abuse, Organized Ritual Abuse

These are more casual terms used in the 1990s-early 2000s before RAMCOA was established, when 'Satanic' was no longer accurate, and when there was a search to coin a new overarching term. Despite the name, these terms were used as overarching acronyms for things outside of RA as well. I've included these all in one due to their similarities and/or due to the fact they weren't used frequently. There are also a variety of other terms mentioned that I've noted in one of the sources below.[5, CRA] [6, SA][7, RA as a general term ][8, ORA, review of other terms]

DIDMCSRA - Dissociative Identity Disorder, Mind Control, and Satanic Ritual Abuse

A barely used term from 2016 coined by a community member. It seems to have existed very briefly and didn't extend past a couple of members. However, the community aspect provided is interesting.

MC-Specific Terms

terms specific to mind control and programming

Programming

Programming generally has the same definition between the community and clinicians. It is defined as "systematic torture that blocks the victim’s capacity for conscious processing, and then employs suggestion and/or classical and operant conditioning to implant thoughts, directives, and perceptions in the unconscious mind, often in newly-formed trauma-induced dissociated identities, that force the victim to do, feel, think, or perceive things for the purposes of the programmer." [9]

TBMC/TBCMC - Trauma/Torture Based Mind Control/Trauma Based Coersive Mind Control

TBMC is a term that clinically describes programming. However, within the community, this term can expand to include other types of mind control as well. The earliest mention I can find of this term was in 2007. [9]

Scripts - "Structures."

The term 'Script' is a community term to describe a phenomenon in programming where programmers will utilize certain media to program system structure. I have a whole other post on this. The term Script itself comes from an unreliable source, svalispeaks, but the idea itself is mentioned in literature under terms such as "Structures" of the innerworld. I'm just going to leave a link to my post about it if you want to explore the sources themselves, as this one is complicated.

Side Systems / 'Left' and 'Right' Systems

Sidesystems are a community made term that describes a structure in programmed systems where a set of alters are completely separate from the others, functioning as a completely separate system. In the clinical sense, this is sometimes referred to as the "left" and "right" systems, with one side being full of programmed parts and the other being daily life parts. However, sidesystems don't necessarily have to be to the left or right of each other. I'm also going to link my post that goes into more detail about them, but it doesn't provide any more clinical sources, so just take it how you will.[10, pg 131]

Screen / Cover Memories

Screen Memories are created memories that programmers use to "cover up" the abuse. They use impossible or highly improbable events, for example, an alien abduction, to discredit the victim and hide real memories of abuse. This is also called Cover Memories/Programs, and it is the same within the community. [10, pg 197]

System Reset / Epochal Division

Epochal Division refers to the phenomenon of where major life changes cause systems to replicate some or all of their alters, with the previously existing alters either remaining active or becoming more covert/dormant. OEA survivors sometimes call this a system reset if it derives from programming, though this term is the same as an endogenic coined one and is often frowned upon when used in reference to OEA. This is first documented by Kluft in reference to polyfragmented systems. [11]

System-Hopping

In the OEA sense, system hopping refers to the action of a part traveling from a sidesystem to the main system and vice versa. I am unsure of the origin of this term in OEA spaces, but it seems to be a community-made term that shares the name with an endogenic term. As far as I'm aware, this did not originate as an OEA community term and has existed in endogenic spaces years prior between the years 2001-2003.

Program Names

i won't go through all community terms for specific types of programming, only the most common ones I've seen specifically mentioned in literature or other official sources, as well as any very common within the community. these are not the only possible programs, but this section is already very long. if desired, i can make a separate post going more in detail about all of them. Sources here are triggering and often repeated.

Greek Letters

The greek letter system of programming originated from the community and is not used in clinical literature. Many of the terms originate from very untrustworthy sources (Fritz & Svali) but have expanded to be commonplace. I have also found evidence of Greek letter terms used in the community in 2003 and 2016.

Alpha / Base

The earliest mention of 'Alpha' in reference to programming I can find is from a book I don't consider a reliable source. However, it is described as "base" programming and similar terms clinically. The term refers to newly formed splits that have gone through basic programming (ex. loyalty to the group, following orders).

Backups / Doubles

Backup programs are the presence of programmed parts meant to replace other programmed parts should they fail or be 'disobedient'. Often, these parts will be the exact same as the one they're replacing and receive the same training. Both of these are used as clinical terms, though doubles less commonly. [10, pg 110, pg 144]

Beta / Sexual

The earliest mention of 'Beta' in reference to programming I can find is from a book I don't consider a reliable source. Within the community, this refers to any sexual programming, which is very commonly talked about academically. I'll link one seperate example. [12]

Callback / Re-Contact / Return

Return programs are very much talked about in literature, and all three of the above terms have been used both inside and outside the community. These refer to any programs created to have the victim return to the group/programmers. [13][10][14, pg 115 ]

Delta / Violence

The absolute earliest mention of 'Delta' in reference to programming I can find is from a book I don't consider a reliable source. However, violence programming is referenced in multiple official sources. In the community, Delta programming refers to any programming that revolves around violence towards others. [15]

Epsilon / Nonhuman / Paranormal

Epsilon is the community term for nonhuman programming, or parts that believe they are animals or other nonhuman creatures. This is used for a variety of reasons and doesn't have a specific term, mainly just listed as "parts who believe they are animals/nonhuman."[10, pg 51][14, pg 74 ]

Internal Handlers / Programmers / Enforcers / Organizers

While "Internal Handlers" seems to be more of a community term, Internal Programmers, Enforcers, and Organizers are used in a clinical sense. All of these things refer to varients of programmed parts that internally enforce, replay, and replace programs and programmed parts in some way. These are also often called "higher ups." [10, pg 160, pg 133] [14, pg 63]

Monarch

Project Monarch refers to an alleged subset of Project MKUltra. The idea is created by a conspiracy theorist. However, within the community, "Monarch programming" either refers to: 1. The government-led mind control that occurred during MKUltra/Project Artichoke itself, or 2. Any programming that is government-controlled, government-funded, or that came from a government connected group. It is also referred to as "Monarch-like" programming.

Omega / Suicide / Self-Injury / Lethal

Omega is the community term for all types of Lethal and Self-Injury programming. This is referred to in many different ways academically, but stick to the same general theme. [15]

Organization / Hierarchy

Both in community and clinical senses, there are various types of organizational programming mentioned. Most notably, soldiers, religious alters (angels, demons, etc), and cues such as numbers, shapes or letters, and colors. Usually, these organizations will correspond to a hierarchy. This is used as a way for programmers to more easily organize the system and keep parts in check. There is no 'one size fits all' when it comes to organizational programs, so those with the same type of organization may have completely different meanings to them. [10, pg 49, pg 131 ]

Reporter / Observer

Reporter programs refer to the same thing in community and clinical terms. They describe programmed parts whose duty it is to report back to the group and/or update them on the systems habits. This often ties into callback and routine programs.[13][10]

Routine / Internal Calender

Routine is the community term for programmed behaviors where the victim does things on certain times, days, etc. Often, this pertains to rituals. Routine programming is sometimes also referred to as an 'Internal Calender' in clinical literature and can be linked with callback programming. [14, pg 57] [15]

Scramble and Varients

In this section, I'm including any sort of programming that causes specific disorentation to make this shorter. Scrambling, Flooding, Rapid Switching, Spinning, Trance, Mist, 'Dead Head,' and other terms have been created and used to describe types of programming that cause the victim to become heavily disoriented, confused, foggy, or otherwise not able to think. There are a wide variety of clinical terms used for these types of programming, but the terms most commonly used in the community are scramble, flood, and spin programming. [14 , pg 88][15][16]

Shell

Shell alters are simplistic parts that function as a 'screen' that other alters speak through. This is used to make the victim not seem multiple and mask other symptoms caused by programming and multiplicity. There is a brief mention of "shell" parts in the context of OSDD, and some non-programmed systems may have experiences that are similar. However, a programmed shell is much different from other described experiences. [14, pg 56 ]

Silence / Speaking Programs

I've included all programs that mention voice in this section. Silence and group-specific speaking programs (programmed responses) are the two I've seen mentioned clinically and may tie into reporter programs. Terms such as hyperverbal are also used in community spaces. [15]

Theta / Religious

The absolute earliest mention of 'Theta' in reference to programming I can find is from a book I don't consider a reliable source. However, it has been widely used within the community outside of that. Theta is a community term that refers to any kind of religious programming, which is well documented in the clinical sense, often just referred to as religious programming or specific examples of programmed parts.

Other / Misc Programming

Things like Body Illness Programs, misc Emotional Programs, Recycle and Amnesia programs, and Isolation programs have been listed in sources provided, among many others not listed here. These are the ones I see mentioned less frequently, and thus, I haven't given a full section. If desired, I'll create a specific post going over all of them.

System Types

as a note, i do not think systems who have been through OEA are inherently more complex. as mentioned, i personally disagree with HC-DID and its creator. this is simply grouping terms i've seen together.

C-DID / Complex DID

Complex DID is a term referring to polyfragmented DID. The term is mentioned by Bennett G. Braun and R. P. Kluft. It is not specific to OEA victims, and many use it as an alternative to polyfragmented.

EC-DID / Extremely Complex DID

EC-DID is a term initially coined by R. P. Kluft in reference to polyfragmented systems, very similar to C-DID. It is not an OEA specific term. However, ritual abuse is mentioned as a cause of said complex system structures. [11]

HC-DID / Highly Complex DID

HC-DID is a community-made term coined by someone later outed as a racist and being inappropriate with minors. For the term itself, the words "highly complex" have been used to describe some system structures and cases in literature. However, it is not a separate clinical term itself and was never said exclusively about OEA survivors. The idea that all programmed system structures are highly complex is also incorrect, as there are small systems that have been programmed. Some members of the community still use this term, while others discredit it. Please keep these things in mind when considering using this term.

RA-DID, OA-DID / Ritual Abuse DID, Organized Abuse DID

These are community terms I've seen used as an alternative to HC-DID as an attempt to create a term specific to OEA survivors. These terms are rarely used and are completely community based.

Thank you for reading. If you have any questions or additions, feel free to send an ask or reply to this post. A reminder that I am not a professional, I am flawed, and I am just doing my best. This post, in particular, is likely to be updated, and I will reblog with changes.

#. my posts #ramcoa #oea #. terms #. programming #cdid #programmed did #programmed system #tbmc #tbmc survivor #hc did #ramcoa survivor #oea survivor #oea system

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k4is4rion · 1 month ago

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In the Wake of Us - PROLOGUE

Parent!Bucky x Child!GN!Reader x Bob Reynolds

‼️⚠️TWs: Canon typical trauma+violence, brief allusions to SA, Brain washing, MCD (or so you think)⚠️‼️

HELLOOOOO MY NEW GAGGLE OF FOLLOWERS! YOU HAVE BEEN HEARD! Ask and you shall receive, I must give the people what they want. I’m still working out how I want this fic to go with how early or late in the timeline it starts, though I might mess around with the idea of flashbacks when they’re relevant. Bob’s not quite in this yet, but it felt necessary to provide a little somethin somethin beforehand. I hope I am up to Tumblr’s standards as a long time reader of fanfic, because I cranked this out over two days between prepping for finals and other activities (and wrote this entirely on my phone)

I am not very confident in this one because it is just providing basically a summary ofthe necessary information the best I can to set stuff up for the future, rest assure the normally paced story will be MUCH better 🙏

Feel free to comment suggestions or feedback (but please be nice to me I haven’t posted publicly since wattpad in 2019)

WC: 2540

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The faint buzz of the lights was the only sound in the room as a moment of silence passed between the two who sat across from one another. The woman with the clipboard looked up at you overtop her glasses, which now sat on the lower bridge of her nose. She shifted her position slightly, still looking at you with the usual intensity— or rather the lack thereof. She had an unsettling air of neutrality about her that always seemed to irk you.

“Barnes, for the last time, if you do not participate fully and truthfully in this session, you will not be given release. I don’t want to delay you any further, but rules are rules. I have to make a final report.” She spoke, her pen sat between her index and middle fingers as she gripped the clipboard. You meet her eyes for the first time as you slouch back in your chair.

“It’s been.. what, five years and you’re still calling me that? Even though I’ve told you that calling me anything else is fine? Barnes doesn’t belong to me. You wound me, Doc.”

“It’s what you selected to be put on your official documents.” She adjusted her glasses before looking back up at you. “Consider it for old time’s sake, then. But still, Y/n, you’re avoiding the question. In your own words, describe a brief history of your life. Including everything you’ve begrudgingly discussed within our sessions. We’re doing this so we can send a transcript to your next specialist. Wouldn’t you prefer to give your side of the story instead of just your records?” Taking in her reasoning, you glance at the microphone recording this session. They were usually recorded for security purposes but this in particular was for just for documentation. With a deep breath, you reluctantly began explaining your very.. humble beginnings.

Your conception was begun roughly around the late 60s, although conceptualized much earlier with the apparent success of the winter soldier program. A series of roughly twenty children were to be conceived from hand-selected pairs of up-and-coming male and female super soldiers, all based on their first and only success; the original Winter Soldier. You were lucky enough to receive your genetic makeup from the blueprint; as well as a promising young woman. It was an unfortunate truth that your conception was not a happy story. Genetic engineering was rudimentary at the time and they did not care to what extent their “donors” suffered. Even with this reluctant knowledge, the intimidating man with the metal arm has cared deeply for you even in the circumstances you both found yourself in. He said you were a beautiful little test tube baby from what he remembers. Hydra quickly introduced you to one another in hopes of forming an early bond between soldiers, primarily in pairs with their best-suited parent. This was to not only establish partners that functioned perfectly together but to have something to hold over these people even when they previously had nothing. You called this guardian of yours “Soldat”, but much like you, he had no real name.

One by one, the adults failed the program or their children did. One by one there would be one less soldier. It was survival of the fittest, not only for being put against one another but for general survivability. Genetic modification was a large factor in many of the children’s deaths until few remained, then in your early childhood- only you. You were all that remained. In a desperate attempt to not have this all been for nothing, they put everything they could into you. Biomechanical enhancements to help your physical condition and functionality and a steady stream of serum to keep you healthy. For the first several years of your life, it was spent exclusively learning and training. Occasionally when the winter soldier was due for a mission, his break from cryostasis would be extended by higher-ups to train her. It was rough, of course, being a child training with such a violent force, but he cared whenever he could. For some reason, kneeling down before you to aid your wounds felt oddly familiar. Like he had done it routinely before to another little girl he cared deeply about. Hell, you even looked similar. But at the end of the day, his thoughts were irrelevant. His job was not to think, his job was to do as he was told. You learned this very quickly as it became clear that failure to understand this would result in something awful. You were a quick learner— you had to be if you were to continue surviving.

Once they decided you were adequate enough to be functional as a weapon, you began your cryogenic stints, only being woken up when it was time for another task. This wore heavily on your already fragile condition, even despite your inhuman strength. This also happens to cause another subsequent issue with you, your aging being incredibly messed up. Yes, you were conceived nearly 60 years ago, but you’ve only been conscious for a small part of that. In 2014 you were still practically a young teenager when the Winter Solider made his great escape. In his emotional distress, he made perhaps the most regretful decision of his life. He left you behind in the hands of the enemy, escaping without you. You only followed much later after being sent after him to end his life, but when you were met with the opportunity to, you simply couldn’t. You ran off, not back to Hydra, but going into hiding for the time being. You used what skills they taught you in case you needed to be self-sustainable until you could be recovered by backup, but it was hardly enough. It was incredibly challenging having to figure out how to get by on your own after being constantly monitored and treated by professionals. Not only that, but you were suffering from withdrawals due to Hydra forcing your dependency on the serum, as well as an injury from when you dug out your tracker from your bicep. You had a nasty infection by the time your “Soldat” found you, but he was joined by a strange new man who offered you help. His name was Steve Rodgers, that Captain America fellow you and the Winter Soldier were sent after a while ago. He was incredibly kind to you, even if you didn’t trust him. He was patient with not only you but him as well. The two seemed close- you hadn’t ever seen this side of him. This is also when you decided on your new name; Y/n Rebecca Barnes. Bucky chose your middle name, saying it was after someone special.

This is also when you learned a lot about the man you previously thought you knew. It turned out his name was James, James Buchanan Barnes. Even if his name was James, he seemed to prefer Bucky. He was also from New York City, where he grew up alongside Steve during the Great Depression. Over time you felt more and more distressed upon the realization that you didn’t know Bucky at all, let alone yourself. You realized early on that you were a reminder of a profound amount of trauma for a man who got mixed up with something he never deserved. You desperately tried making yourself better, especially for his sake, but there was only so much you could do. You still stuck to your habits, your purpose— to serve alongside the winter soldier.

You fought valiantly for your freedom, doing what you could to protect Bucky against these people who wished to get ahold of you both. Between half of the Avengers coming after you as well as the United States government, you were stretched pretty thin. Bucky swore that you both would get through this, that he would give you the life you deserved. He struggled to believe himself sometimes, but he knew he had to try. He would get better for you. He would atone for his sins by doing what he can for you. He had a life outside of Hydra before being captured, but you never got the chance. Without realizing it, you both became devoted to the safety of one another.

It would become apparent the world was against you both, as during a fight attempting to exit Siberia, you were wounded as you defended him from a harsh blow. Steve and Bucky were forced to decide between saving you or escaping, but you pleaded with them to follow through with the latter. They did, albeit begrudgingly, after Natasha promised Steve that she would look out for you until they could come back for you. Nat did this as best as she could and for as long as she could, but instead of going to the raft with the others, you were imprisoned in a top-secret base to be studied. You only got to experience freedom for a short time prior to this, so even if the conditions were considerably better than Hydra, it was still awful. You spent so long wondering if Bucky was alright, hoping your sacrifice wasn’t for nothing.

Nearly two years later, you were allowed visitation with Steve. It was a sweet reunion, almost immediately bringing your worry over Bucky to an end, but it ultimately was to discuss something very important. None other than your possible pardon. There was something brewing and all hands on deck were needed; including you. After all, you were a world-class assassin. Plus, Wakanda was developing a cure for Bucky whilst being a refugee there. It was nice to know he was somewhere safe even if he missed you as much as Steve said he did, based on what he’s heard from communicating with T’Challa and Shuri about his condition. With vague permission from the United States government, you headed out with Steve’s team to Wakanda. You and Bucky were going to be together again and fight together, just like it was for old time’s sake.

When you walked through the central part of Wakanda, your mind was elsewhere, not taking even a moment to admire your surroundings. You were only focused on getting back to him as you walked silently behind Steve. You weren’t used to being in foreign places without Bucky so you were completely on edge, even with Nat doing her best to make sure you didn’t freak out completely. Steve was the first one to greet Bucky as he was led by T’Chally. The two were happy to see one another again, Steve giving him a hug and exchanging fond remarks. Once they parted from the hug, Bucky saw you standing there. You had grown up slightly, a sight he wasn’t used to seeing. It made his heart ache as he took you into his arms as tightly as he could without harming you. It was hard not to allow the tears brimming your eyes to fall in front of your allies, but Bucky still held you close and buried his face into your hair as you instinctively nuzzled into his neck. Quiet exchanges of how much you missed one another were shared. As you both parted, he moved his hands to your shoulders. He looked at you with the most love you had ever seen before quietly remarking. “You’ve grown up. It’s good to see you, kid.” It was a very genuine sentiment he shared, as for the entirety of his time caring for you, your survival was not guaranteed. He never thought he’d be able to see the day when you look like you’ve gotten a chance to regroup yourself.

You spent what time you could together discussing what life had been like over the last two years for the both of you. He lived a peaceful life as a farmer, while you were under the care of the United States government. You both received very different treatments for your brainwashing, with his somewhat holistic treatment being more successful than your purely clinical and scientific one. Your brain was poked and prodded, while he received therapy. Bucky told you that once this was all over, the Wakandans said they could help you too. It gave you hope, more than you’ve had in a very long time. Soon after this conversation, it was time for what you came here for. Saving the world.

Loss was a thing you had become accustomed to a long time ago. But this felt incomparable. The fight was over, Thanos had won. He had successfully removed half of all life and with just the snap of his fingers, you watched the only person you’ve ever trusted turn to dust. He was gone and it felt like you had nothing left. With the chaos that followed this, you returned home with Steve. He did his best to console you but he was struggling with the loss of his best friend for the second time. Because of the aforementioned chaos of the situation, the government essentially went on lockdown while it attempted to regain control over the situation. This unfortunately meant your incarceration for the second time with no end in sight. You had no one left to fight for you. Steve certainly tried, as he knew that’s what Bucky would’ve wanted, but he could only do so much. He was spread thin after the blip and you fell through the cracks.

You would remain in prison for five years, with constant experimentation traded for frequent monitoring performed. It felt as though you were forgotten about and would never taste that sweet, sweet freedom again. You always thought you’d die alone and without any freedom, but after having it for such a brief moment in your life, it only seemed to twist the knife into the wound. You forced yourself to adjust and get used to it, just like you always had. You grew accustomed to the monotony of constant scheduling very quickly. It became a cycle of government-mandated therapy, frequent checkups, and doing what you could to use up the passage of time. You received permissions for good behavior that were enough to keep you somewhat sane for the most part. Steve visited you when he could, but one day he stopped coming. You learned why when you saw the news: the 50% that had been lost were returning.

Now here you were. About a month or two later, still in here. The only word you got was from the news on the television, making the theory you genuinely had been lost to time all the more real and fearful. That was until a week ago. You received mail for the first time in a long time— an official government document. Your case of a pardon was being reopened; alongside Bucky’s. That’s what brought you here. You were having your last mandatory session within your prison before you were being released, and boy were you thankful to get out of here.

“Well, aren’t we both glad I remembered to hit record? I believe we are just about out of time.” Doctor Miller spoke as she placed down her clipboard.

“What, no ‘same time next week’?”

“Not this time. Enjoy your long-awaited freedom, Y/n. It was good treating you.”

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koolades-world · 7 months ago

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making a part two for my solomon birthmark fic because i was already tempted and 1 (one) person agreed with me lol. shoutout to my birthmark twin @mahi-does-obey-me. i know i said i'd post something else today but the temptation was too great. i worked on this instead of doing my data analysis for my lab lmao <3

part of this was partially inspired by me actually missing a couple birthmarks on myself because I just forgot, or didn’t know they were there until like yesterday lol. just like before, leans suggestive (more so than part 1 i think) but it's very cute. this is probably the raunchiest i'll be getting for a while lol. i feel like i really cooked with this

faded scar

"I don't know about you, but I'm starving." Solomon stretched his arms high above his head. His muscles gleaned with sweat, highlighting his surprisingly toned torso. He scooted to the edge of his bed, and swung his legs onto the ground.

"Can it wait just a few more minutes?" Despite being tired, you sat up and leaned against his back. You threw one arm over his shoulder, and the other was braced against him.

"It can. We can just order in instead." He reached for his D.D.D.

"You were planning on cooking?" You raised an eyebrow.

"I thought it would be cute to present you with a home cooked meal. Because I love you."

"That's alright. You do enough already." You laughed at that thought. You were glad he was deterred from cooking so easily today. You'd like your house to not be set on fire today.

"What do you want for dinner?" You peaked over his shoulder at his screen.

"Can we get Italian please? From my favorite place?" You fluttered your eyelashes at him when he glanced over at you. It worked every time, although you knew you didn't need that extra convincing.

"Of course, my love." He'd do anything you asked him, regardless if that was ordering your favorite food, or abandon the exchange program. It was funny how that worked; a demon started this in order to bring the three realms closer, and as a result, he just brought two humans together that could pose a real threat to what he'd created.

'You're the best!" You pressed a kiss on the back of his neck. He already knew exactly what you wanted, so no more words needed to be said. You studied his back profile. It was littered with countless old scars and pact markings. It clearly displayed the long life he'd lived.

“Sorry about these.” You traced your fingers over the angry red scratches on his back that were beginning to puff up.

“I’ll wear them like the badges of honor they are.” Solomon chuckled.

"You can't do that! The others are going to see." The idea of everyone seeing the marks and connecting the dots mortified you.

"That's not what you said when you gave those to me." He remarked. You smacked his back in response.

"Solomon!" You squealed.

"I can't promise anything." He held the hand that was dangling over his shoulder and kissed it. "Food will be here in about half an hour." He set his phone back down, but he didn't move. He let out a deep breath, and relaxed his back muscles. You watched as the tension left his body.

Neither of you spoke, and instead, you charted each and every mark on his back with your finger. In this searching, you found a line of birthmark down his back. It wasn't very neat, but it followed a pattern, starting at the base of his neck and ending at his hips. Maybe it was a result of all of the magic he'd done over the years, since you'd gathered he didn't know he had them.

"You didn't tell me you had so many birthmarks on your back." As you drew a line from the first to the last mark, a shudder wracked through his entire body.

"And you didn't tell me you had a birthmark on the front of your shoulder, and under your lip." You could hear the smile in his voice.

"I do?" You placed your head on his shoulder, to which he gently thumbed the spot where it must've been.

"How'd you notice that?" You reached up to touch the spot for yourself, not sure what you were expecting to feel.

"The same way you noticed mine. I did a lot of staring at your face for little while." Solomon admitted.

"You stared a lot of other placed too." You playfully rolled your eyes. You went back to staring at his back. You could only think of doing one thing to return the favor of what he'd done for you.

Carefully, starting at his neck, you kissed each and every birthmark, making sure to linger just long enough to make him itch for more. He let out a shaky breath, and seemed like he was suppressing another shudder. You giggled, but didn't stop. "Just remember, food will be here soon." You reminded him of the order he'd placed.

"You're the worst." He sharply inhaled.

"Love you too, baby." You played with the wisps of hairs at the nape of his neck. He squeezed your free hand a couple times, but made no move to stop you. Once you'd made it to the last birthmark, you lingered for a moment, letting your breath fan out over his lower back.

Solomon let out a gasp of what you could only describe as frustration. He threw his legs back up onto the bed, and laid down on his back, yanking the covers over himself. You stifled laughter and draped yourself over his torso. He gave you a peck where he'd pointed out your new birthmark, before letting you settle into him. He checked his D.D.D. quickly for the time.

"We still have twenty more minutes before food gets here." He let you know.

"So that means we have nineteen more minutes of cuddling." You hummed.

"We have fifteen more minutes of cuddling. I need time to put clothes on, dear." You grumbled at his response. You didn't verbally answer, but you knew you could get your nineteen minutes of cuddling whether he liked it or not.

The activities of the day had begun to catch up to you, and you felt your eyelids begin to droop. A couple times, you felt yourself falling asleep, and shook yourself awake, much to Solomon's amusement. You weren't sure how much time had passed before he spoke to you again.

“I think love is being by your side.”

“Huh?” You mumbled, already half asleep.

“When we first met, you ask me what I thought love was. I never answered you.”

“You’re adorable.” You planted a kiss on his neck, since your face was already buried in it.

You were glad you’d chosen him.

#gn reader #drabble #obey me #obey me!#obey me x reader #obey me shall we date #obey me solomon #omswd #obey me! shall we date #obey me! shall we date?

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wondwaeland · 9 months ago

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The Purge AU (official title TBD)

WARNING: due to the original Purge franchise being rated R (films) and TV-MA (tv), this AU will contain violence, mentions of t°rture, SA, murd°r, and gore. This AU is rated for MATURE AUDIENCES. Please continue at your own discretion.

Character Profiles under cut

The Circus - a Purge group that functions as more psychopathic vigilantes, targeting false companies, hate groups, and other NFFA groups

Aren't government officials off limits?

It's the purge where nothing is legally binding for a twelve hour period, that rule does not make sense. In my au, the government should be fair game.

Caine Eden

Age: 35; Son of a NFFA politician, participates to a send a message to the NFFA and other government officials that they aren't safe; leads a crew dubbed "The Circus" under the name "The Ringleader;" he targets corrupt power in the government and everyday corporations || "Bubble" - Caine's fly on the wall program installed in every NFFA software that makes him one step ahead.

Rebecca-Agatha "Ragatha" Hansen

Age: 30; Code Name: "The Ragdoll," Agatha started participating due to bottled up tension and anger, she joined the Circus after her old team "The Dollhouse" was disbanded two years into the Purge era; she mainly goes after convicted sex offenders; during the normal day, she's nurse in a senior living home

Jackson "Jax" O'Hara

Age: 22; Code Name: "The Rabbit," Jax was one of the first to join the Circus having worked for the NFFA alongside Caine; he joined in order to cause chaos and destruction with no ramifications, if people benefit from his kills...bonus; he currently works in IT for the NFFA

Gina "Gangle" Engleman

Age: 26; Code Name: "Ribbons," Gina was roped into The Circus by accident, Jax commandeered her backseat and told her to drive as his getaway car soon after the sirens rang, Caine provided her refuge for the night; she doesn't participate every year, but she when she does its towards a specific group of people, more often than not she drives the mobile base to pick up stragglers and bring them to a safe zone; she normally works as a kids' theater director and daycare attendant

Zayne "Zooble" Tetsuo

Age: 22; Code Name: "The Amalgamation," Zayne is The Circus' tech expert and makes all the fun weaponry for each person's task for the Purge, they joined The Circus after Gina enlisted them for their string of hits and stayed ever since; they rarely take to the field, but will hop on the mobile base to pick up stragglers and bring them to a safe zone with Gina; they normally work in IT at a hole-in-the-wall tech repair shop; no one truly knows how they got their Purge name

Reginald "Reggie" Henry

Age: 48; Code Name: "The King," he was once part of a duo with a close friend but after she was downed, he joined The Circus after Caine invited him, hearing that he Purged for charity - targeting false charities; he is a retired veteran and works part time at the youth center; he is currently retired from Purge activities but acts as an advisor to the rest of The Circus

"Pomni"

Age:25; known as "The Jester," she is feared in the streets due to her kill count and no clear loyalty to the NFFA's agenda or to the Circus, she currently works in tandem with the Circus but shows no permanent ties just yet ; during normal hours, she works as a teller for one of the most targeted banks of the night

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creature-wizard · 10 months ago

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hi!! i saw ur take on DID programming being a conspiracy theory, and i'd like a further elaboration if that's fine with you. i'm just curious and a bit confused, since i've met numerous systems claiming to be victims of programming

Sure! It's kind of a long story, but I'll try and summarize things as best as I can.

So, back in the early 20th century, mystical types were looking at hypnosis, trancework, and even drugs as a way to retrieve memories of past lives. The idea that you could retrieve lost memories made it way into ufology communities, where people tried to remember alien abductions. It also got into actual psychology, with therapists attempting to help patients retrieve lost early life memories. There was never any real evidence that these practices actually worked the way these people thought they did, and today we know that you can get people to confabulate memories of just about anything under the right circumstances. (If you need evidence, I can show you some very obvious examples here and here.)

Edit to add: In 1952, the book The Manchurian Candidate came out. It was basically a political thriller about a guy who'd been captured by Russians and brainwashed into being their secret assassin, complete with special triggers to activate his programming and everything. This had everything to do with the US painting communism as something subversive that people were sinisterly brainwashed into. In 1962, a film adaptation was released to theaters.

In the 1950s, Dr. Cornelia Wilbur started treating her patient Shirley Mason for seeming DID. (Which, Mason did not actually have.) Dr. Wilbur was extremely irresponsible and unprofessional in general, and very notably gave Mason sodium pentothal to help her remember. (Yikes!) Dr. Wilbur would push the baseless myth that DID could only be caused by severe childhood abuse (such as SA), and push drugs and hypnosis as methods for finding said abuse if the patients didn't seem to remember it. The 1973 book Sybil was based on Wilbur and Mason.

In the 1970s, radio host, notorious prankster, and platformer of weird fringe content Long John Nebel apparently started using hypnosis on his wife, Candy Jones to try and figure out the reason for her mental health issues. Supposedly, he helped her "remember" being a CIA agent, whose alter Arlene had been trained as a spy. The 1976 book The Control of Candy Jones describes what they supposedly uncovered. Also, here's an article that talks about some of their claims, and the context around what happened.

Also in the 1970s, Dr. Lawrence Pazder (who was inspired by Sybil) attempted to find the source of his patient Michelle Smith's issues by helping her remember supposedly lost memories. Under his coaching, Smith "remembered" being abused by a Satanic cult. They didn't use hypnosis as most of us know it, but Smith was putting herself into a kind of trance. Now like, this whole book is extremely discredited. They made a lot of claims that were very easy to check, and each time somebody checked said claims, it turned out they were full of shit. Like just for one example, her school yearbook picture from the year she was supposedly being tortured by the cult doesn't show any sign of the abuses she claims she was suffering, which would have been very, very obvious.

Then in 1988, Mark Philips used hypnosis on Cathy O'Brien to help her "remember" being a mind-controlled slave for the New World Order under the CIA program Project Monarch. They published what O'Brien supposedly remembered in the 1995 book Trance-Formation of America. O'Brien claimed that she and her daughter were tortured to induce DID, with the alters being programmed to carry out specific tasks for the CIA/NWO. The whole thing was an extremely racist crock of pure conspiracy theory bullshit; it claimed, for example, that the NWO was letting Mexicans ruin America and shipping white women off to Saudi Arabia as sex slaves.

In 1994, Fritz Springmeier used hypnosis on Cisco Wheeler to supposedly uncover her memories as a member of the NWO/Illuminati. In their three books published across the mid to late 90's, Springmeier and Wheeler gave an incredibly elaborate narrative around alter programming, incorporating elements from just about every other conspiracy theory you can name. They claimed alter programming was an ancient practice developed by pagan priests, and used in modern times by a global cult that intended to enthrone the Antichrist in the year 2000. The pair of them made so many claims that are absolutely beyond ludicrous, and I posted a sample of them over here.

Basically everyone who claims that alter programming is a real thing these days is downstream of Springmeier and Wheeler, whether they realize it or not. One reason we know this is that a lot of them cite a blogger who calls herself Svali, or cite people who cite Svali (such as Dr. Alison Miller and Dr. Ellen Lacter). Svali first popped up in the early 2000s claiming to be a former Illuminati/NWO programmer. She described the same kind of Illuminati and the same kind of practices as Springmeier and Wheeler. If you need examples, here she is claiming that color, metal, and jewel programming are things. And here she is claiming Disney moves are made for Illuminati programming.

Unwelcome Ozian is another clear case of someone who's getting their material from Springmeier and Wheeler; for example, their book Chainless Slaves not only describes the same methods and styles of alter programming; it even reproduces complete paragraphs from Springmeier and Wheeler's work. Edit to add: Unwelcome Ozian's other book, Rules of Programming, reproduces material not only from Springmeier and Wheeler's work, but also from a lot of literature on topics such as abuse, cults, and self-help in general. I have a post exposing this over here.

Basically, the whole idea of alter programming/trauma-based mind control has a long, long history of medical malpractice, pseudoscience, fraud, and conspiracy theory behind it. It just doesn't take very long to start finding it once you actually start digging. Meanwhile, real evidence just never turns up, and what we do find often just flat-out contradicts these claims. Like, many people who claim to have undergone brutal tortures or major surgeries at the hands of programmers don't have the scars to show for it. The sites, tools, and costumes for the elaborate rituals described by a lot of these people are just never found.

What's very notably missing are technical manuals for the actual programming process. I'm talking about literature that fully describes the actual procedures in full, step-by-step detail, rather than the vague, suggestive descriptions you find in conspiracist literature. The fact that nothing of the sort has ever turned up anywhere you might expect it to in over seventy years is pretty damning, because this isn't the kind of thing that a bunch of random, unconnected people would just independently invent on their own.

Meanwhile, what very demonstrably does exist are therapists who still believe the in the pseudoscience and misinformation pushed by Dr. Wilbur, Dr. Pazder, etc, who will push people both with and without actual DID to try and uncover repressed memories. There are websites and articles that suggest guided imagery and hypnosis for retrieving memories you think you might have suppressed. There are hypnosis videos on YouTube that will supposedly help you recover repressed memories. We have clear cases of memory confabulation within the New Age movement, where people vividly "remember" traumatic events that very obviously never happened because they take place in non-existent places such as Lemuria and incorporate narratives from the pseudoscientific and racist ancient astronaut hypothesis.

So, hopefully this should answer things. I tried to keep this post as short as possible, but there's just a lot of history and context here. The very, very short version of this is that there are a lot of misled people who've unknowingly run afoul of 20th century conspiracy theories and psychiatric quackery.

#answered #did #did programming #alter programming #trauma based mind control #tbmc #conspiracy theory #conspiracy theories #conspiracism #conspiratorial thinking #satanic ritual abuse #sra #pseudoscience #pseudopsychology #pseudopsychiatry #ramcoa

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contemplatingoutlander · 6 months ago

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By Morgan McKenzie | [email protected] PUBLISHED: December 8, 2024 at 6:00 AM MST

Nearly 18 years ago, immigration agents stormed Greeley’s Swift & Co. meatpacking plant to detain and deport undocumented workers.

Some parents never returned home, leaving behind children, while others fled into hiding to avoid the same fate.

As the anniversary of the raids approaches, some leaders in the community worry history will repeat itself with President-elect Donald Trump’s plans to carry out mass deportations of migrants living in the United States without documentation.

Mitzi Moran, CEO of Evans-based Sunrise Community Health, is one of several community leaders voicing concern over Trump’s plan to deport an estimated 11 million undocumented people.

Throughout his campaign, Trump said it’s time to crack down on undocumented Hispanic and Latino immigrants, once referring to them as “poisoning the blood” of the U.S. and repeatedly calling them “criminals.” He’s said he plans to declare a national emergency to launch “the largest deportation program in American history,” enlisting the help of the military.

Trump’s message that an immigration crackdown could improve safety, restore American jobs and reduce government spending resonated with about 50% of voters across the U.S. and more than 59% of Weld County voters.

Households with undocumented immigrants and many who work with immigrants, however, fear deportations will lead to forced separations of families, negative impacts on the economy and food production and the loss of diversity. And they say places like Greeley, with its larger populations of Latino and Hispanic immigrants, would suffer.

In Weld County, Hispanics or Latinos make up 31.3% of the population as of a July 2023 estimate from the U.S. Census. In Greeley, that number rises to about 39.9%. In Greeley-Evans School District 6, nearly 70% of students identify as Hispanic or Latino.

Echoes of 2006

On Dec. 12, 2006, U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement conducted raids at six Swift-owned meat processing plants, arresting nearly 1,300 workers who lacked documentation. At the Greeley plant, which is now owned by JBS, ICE detained 273 undocumented workers out of 2,200 employees.

Concerns about Swift employees engaging in identity theft sparked an investigation that led to the raids, according to the Center for Immigration Studies. [...] Across the nation, undocumented workers stopped reporting to work out of fear of future raids. Swift, with an estimated 23% of undocumented immigrants serving as production workers at the time, had to replenish its depleted workforce, the Center detailed. [...]

The day of the raids, more than 200 children in the Greeley area were left behind at school as they lost one or both of their parents. The separation of families shook the community, and organizations like United Way had to step up to figure out what to do for children who had nowhere to go.

“Everyone was involved,” Juan Gomez said. “Not just the parent was affected, but the family was affected … the community was affected.”

[Below the cut are more excerpts from this excellent example of local reporting by Morgan McKenzie for the Greeley Tribune, Greeley, Colorado.]

Gomez serves as the vice chairman of the Sunrise Community Health board and works with Sunrise’s migrant farmers program.

Repercussions of the raids lasted for years. Undocumented residents and people with undocumented family members were too afraid to seek services or report crimes against them, Moran said. [...] At an election watch party, Deb Suniga, who runs public relations for the Latino Coalition of Weld County, felt the room full of women, members of the LGBTQ+ community and those who identify as Hispanic or Latino “go numb” when the first round of results came in with Trump in the lead. [...] They anticipate Trump will move forward on mass deportation plans with full force based on recent moves like naming Tom Homan, former acting ICE director, as the incoming “border czar.” Trump also promised to utilize the National Guard to assist with deportations, despite federal law typically prohibiting the military’s role in engaging with domestic law enforcement, which includes immigration arrests and deportations. [...] Other community leaders who work with immigrant populations question what mass deportations would mean for families and the workforce.

The Sunigas worry entire families, no matter an individual’s citizenship status, will be forced to leave. [...] Economists expect mass deportations to drive up inflation and undercut economic growth, according to an article from Foreign Policy.

Long-term deportation costs are estimated to be $88 billion annually if 1 million people get deported per year, according to the American Immigration Council. This surpasses the Department of Homeland Security’s $62 billion budget in fiscal year 2025. [...] Supporters of deportation say it will give jobs back to Americans, but opponents like Gomez argue citizens won’t fill the roles, citing low pay and harsh conditions. If migrant workers get deported, Gomez anticipates a huge void in the agriculture industry, which is important to Weld County. [...]

Challenging negative stereotypes

Gomez wants Trump and his team to focus on the positive contributions immigrants bring to America just as much as the negative.

Those in support of mass deportation based on the concept that immigrants take advantage of America’s resources are misinformed, Gomez said. Some benefits are available to undocumented immigrants, like emergency Medicaid or free school lunches, but for the most part, they are ineligible for federally funded support. This includes the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, regular Medicaid, Supplemental Security Income and more.

Undocumented workers get taxes taken out of their paychecks without getting a tax return, Gomez added.

“That’s what a lot of people don’t understand, they’re still contributing to society, but for the most part, they’re not able to get anything in return,” he said.

A 2024 study funded by the National Institute of Justice examined Texas criminal records from 2012 to 2018. The study found that “undocumented immigrants are arrested at less than half the rate of native-born U.S. citizens for violent and drug crimes and a quarter the rate of native-born citizens for property crimes.”

Research shows no correlation between undocumented immigrants and a rise in violent or property crime from 2007 to 2016 in metro areas around the nation, according to investigations by The New York Times and The Marshall Project.

The American Immigration Council also looked at data from 1980 to 2022, finding crime rates declined as immigrant populations grew. In 2022, immigrants had doubled to 13.9% of the U.S. population, compared to 6.2% in 1980. However, the total crime rate was 5,900 crimes per 100,000 people in 1980, dropping by 60.4%, to 2,335 crimes per 100,000 people, in 2022. [...] As the nation sits “in a dark cloud” waiting for January, Deb foresees key people from all different groups that represent Latino, LGBTQ+, Black and other populations will come up with “game plans” together.

But first, these communities need to heal and prepare for the changes in a time of anticipation.

“We are stronger together,” Moran said. “We’re stronger united. We’re stronger when we welcome our neighbor.”

#greeley tribune #migrants #immigration #trump #mass deportations #effect of deportations on agriculture #morgan mckenzie

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