#char so detached from the concept of a home she really went “wait is this even my place” while unlocking the door

[absensia-archived]

SHE DOESN'T THINK OF IT AS GOING HOME. THERE'S JUST NO SUCH THING. THE WAY BACK BETRAYS HER EACH AND EVERY TIME, TWISTING, WRITHING, LIKE A PIT OF SNAKES. CHAOS THINKS THIS IS A GAME AND, IN A WAY, IT IS. JUST NOT A FAIR ONE. CHARLOTTE COULD NEVER HOPE TO MAKE IT OUT OF THIS MAZE. SO SHE PICKS A CORNER IN THE DARKNESS AND CALLS THAT HOME. / CONT. / @thefixer .

it was a matter of convenience. as a body, as a force of an ancient kind of nature made real, ( though not really real, eh, charlie? don't get ahead of yourself now. ), this was something she had to reckon with a long time ago. over the years, she had come to learn what it meant to have belongings; to have places and objects that depended on her to take care of them, and that there was this truly fucked up way people liked to get to know about each other. how did the saying go? oh, yeah. YOU CAN TELL A LOT ABOUT A PERSON BY WHAT THEY LEAVE BEHIND.

but what if what they left behind never made any sense? what if what they leave behind paints an impossible picture, of a woman who was never there, of a faceless, nameless body? she wasn't there even as she trekked through the fading twilight towards the building. the building winced at a phantom pain when she wrenched the first and second doors open, and ascended the curved staircase like a ghost on its well - trodden path, feet lightly pressing into the old, cracked marble. this place was nicer than what you might expect charlotte to be able to afford, but the unit that she moved towards was well and truly hers. ( or rather, a version of her. ) bought and signed for and the papers then buried deep - along with the news stories of. . .

no, never mind that. no, please, make yourself at home in the darkness; IT IS HAPPY TO HAVE YOU. the sound of the ice in your glass plays like music and the warmth of the lamp - light looks upon you almost lovingly. IT IS SO NICE TO HAVE COMPANY. it is so nice to have more than a mere body, for then what really is the difference between a house and crypt? a home and a grave. . .

charlotte keeps her hand on the doorknob as she stares back at mia, at first not believing that she was really there. herself, not mia. it occurred to charlotte that she might've opened the wrong door. her keys have been known to spontaneously change shape before. the wrong keys to the right doors, the right keys to the wrong doors. the entire world was her funhouse. WELCOME HOME, LOVER. she smiled at the words and figured that even if this place wasn't hers, she'd be hard - pressed to find a welcome like that anywhere else. so fuck it, this must be home. charlotte pulled the key out, and in a series of well - practiced motions, dropped her heavy backpack to the floor, shut the door with her hip, and ran her hands down the long column of latches, deadbolts, and locks.

" you look comfy. how'd you get in this time? " this was their little game. no one except for charlotte ( and even then, sometimes not even her, ) had the keys to this place. sure, she could hand a copy over to mia and save herself the hassle of replacing jimmied window locks, ceiling covers, and dry - wall, but where was the fun in that? " and I hope that's not the whiskey you're drinking. is that the whiskey? from the bottle with the gold label? "

[bellygunnr]

Calculating Twilight

Aile knew that Greye was fragile-- just how fragile, however, she had not measured until that very night. It was a long-haul mission on a technicality, requiring Aile and Greye to stake out an old watchtower for the better part of a day. They were nearing their tenth hour, and Greye was nearing his last straw. He curled up against her with tired, baleful eyes, Model A resting on his boot. The thick cables protruding from his chestguard wrinkled in his hands.

“When can we go home?” Greye finally asked, his voice a bare whisper.

“Our shift ends in an hour. It’ll be okay,” Aile murmured. “At least there hasn’t been any activity, right?”

Greye’s eyes steeled. “No,” he said. “We had mavericks twice today.”

He pointed at his blackened, charred shoulder as if to prove his point. He had been grazed by the blast of a missile-launching fellow about three hours ago, yet had refused to retreat. Now it looked like he was preparing to use it as leverage.

“Well… yes,” she agreed. “Once we get home, we’ll get you fixed up, okay?”

The boy nodded. An hour could not come quick enough-- but thankfully, their mission concluded without any further action.

*

The narrow nurse’s office was comforting to Greye, if only because he slept in the back room. Aile picked through his hair as the doctor fixed up his shoulder, fussing over him like a worried mother. He didn’t protest, but he didn’t acknowledge her either.

“Feel better?” she ventured.

“Tired,” he responded after a long pause. “What time is it?”

“A little after eight in the evening…” Her fingers caught on a tangled knot of silver hair. Mindful, she picked through it gently. “You should get some rest.”

Greye did not get some rest.

*

The next time they met, Greye was on a solo mission. Smoke billowed freely from a festering wound in his back, dual pistols steaming from overuse. Worried hunters back home had been trying to contact him for hours to no avail and in a fit of desperation-- they called Aile. She would be able to get through to him.

Hopefully.

Aile hadn’t been able to get close to the youngster either, not until he was finished with the fight. Pain radiated out from his frame, grey eyes dim with the weight of the world. He barely recognizes his senior.

“Kid, you look like you need to get home…”

“There’s more to do,” he hissed out. “This isn’t finished.”

Model A-- she can’t hear him, but his energy pulses slightly. Greye shakes his head vehemently.

“I need to keep going. I have a spare tank, it’s fine.”

Aile couldn’t bite back the impressed whistle in time. Greye hisses again then tosses his head back, clumsily downing that spare tank. Most of it spills onto the front of his vest, bubbling where it hits open wounds. Jesus…

Before she can speak, Greye fills the room with light. He seems to swell to twice his size before she can see again-- and well, she had forgot about the Model’s little skill. Where once a fourteen year old boy stood, a hulking stag panted in his wake.

“Shit, are you sure that’s safe, kiddo?”

No response.

The wall crumbles into dust as the boy-turned-Pseudoroid charges forward.

Greye is fast in this form. Aile can hardly keep up equipped even with ZX, their gentle chatter keeping her focused and alert. She leaps in the wake of Buckfire-but-Not’s craters, finding purchase and propulsion. She takes out what enemies Greye misses.

“He’s really... “ her voice trails off.

Reminds me of you, Zero, chirps a small voice.

I was never so bad!

He really was so bad, once upon a time.

*

The lines between Greye and Buckfire blur as he embraces the Pseudoroid’s data. Memories not quite his own feel real and he relishes in the pleasure of moving. His mission objective is a thing of the past-- what was it? Why was he still out here? Had he not already beat the last enemy? No…

There was something he had to find.

An item, yes-- a flower for a child. She was small- maybe six or seven- and she had never seen a flower before, beyond the artificial plants within the bounty camp’s homes. That was a shame. Even Greye had seen a real flower, and he was… undeserving of it, to say the least. He must find a flower.

The concept is easy enough for Buckfire to grasp. Flowers. Find a flower without harming the flower. Bring the flower back home-- that’s where things became nebulous. Home was either his chambers in Weil’s castle, or the medical center of the camp. The two minds deliberated together.

Ah.

The buildings are beginning to recede now, reducing their high-altitude footholds until they are forced to land on solid ground. Greye charges forward with a roar, sweeping blindly across the ground, flame jetting wispily from his antlers. Flowers… Plants, something, had to be here! Yet he saw only barren earth.

WARNING:: ENERGY at CRITICAL LEVELS Abruptly, power is sapped and rerouted from his hydraulic legs, forcibly drawn into the most essential functions. Buckfire/Greye collapse harshly and Model A detaches with a strained cry, leaving Greye sprawled on the ground.

What is wrong with you, Greye?! Jeez!

*

Aile is grateful when her charge’s mad dash comes to an abrupt halt, his diminutive frame sprawled and unconscious against scorched earth. She kneels beside him, fingers pressing to the center of his belly where you could feel a Reploid’s fuel pump. Even when they were inactive, it still flowed, but Greye’s was terribly still.

“HQ, this is Aile. I think we need a direct link back to the-- Airship.”

“Right away, ma’am. Two passengers?”

“Indeed,” she says gravely. “Right to the medical ward,” she adds.

He looks even more pitiful like this… Like a wet rat, Model A says mournfully.

What was he looking for, A? X asks gently. They float together, hovering just above a pair of surgeons operating on Greye.

A flower, A says. But he was going in the wrong direction.

If the situation weren’t so dire, X could have laughed. Instead he merely sighed, flipping himself upside down so his gem was in the direction of the floor. By the time Aile had confronted him, the boy was already half-dead. And by the time she had apprehended him…

Well.

It couldn’t have been any more timely.

At least dear Model A didn’t seem overly worried about his partner.

*

Aile kneels before a tombstone, head bowed and hands clasped, her thoughts slow and meandering. The stone is a simple affair- a titanium post, arms folding across it, paying homage to a Reploid who had lived a short life. Her heart twists in her chest.

“Giro,” she says, and her voice is frail. “I’m training him. Trying to, at least. He’s a tough nut to crack.”

Her voice cracks, and she splutters a laugh. Of course.

“That boy is crazy, though, Dad. Not in a bad way, but more of a Vent way…”

She swallows. Greye was something special, and he was her kid now, and fucking up was not something she could consider right now.

“He’s in the medical ward, right now. Intensive care. His fuel pump was ripped out by some Pseudoroid, but he went tearing off halfway across the city for a flower!”

The stone is silent and cold. She heaves a shuddering sigh. The tombstone was never as warm as the real thing, but Giro had moved on, and that was for the best. If only she could do right by his memory.

“I’m really trying. He’s just a kid! He’s fourteen, dad, but his eyes are the angriest things I’ve ever seen. Even in the operating room... But he’s angry at himself, isn’t he?”

Words slide from her mouth like water, uprooting and filtering the contents of her heart after months of keeping it in. She was some kind of parent, some kind of influential figure, and barely scraping her twenties.

“What would you do, Giro? If you had to help Greye, what would you say?”

The tombstone leers at her as she leans back, the nameplate glinting in the sunlight.

[ GIROUETTE ]

“Yeah, me too,” she sighs. She wipes at her eyes with her gloves, swallowing down a quiet sob. Damn it. She was supposed to be past that by now-- Giro had died so long ago. But her heart still burned with the loss.

Aile slowly stands up, brushing away the dirt and grass that had collected over her clothes. As she does so, she sees something move beneath the arm of Giro’s gravestone, a flicker of color in a shadow. She kneels back down to inspect it--

A daisy has sprouted beside the titanium testimony, its head weighed down by its own bud. The petals are still closed, though she can see slips of white peeking through, and several more bundles of unopened flowers curled beside it. Her hand brushes along the stem, and the daisy jumps, the petals abruptly unfurling like a small sun.

“Awh, Dad…”

*

The Bounty Hunter’s camp is the same as the last time Greye saw it. There’s a few more residents, of course, but he had quickly learned that to be the nature of such a camp. Bounty hunters moved around a lot. A lot of them didn’t come back, either, though he was fortunate enough that all his friends were still here. He smiles at them now, waving enthusiastically yet never stopping long enough to chat.

He has some place to be. There’s a flower in his hand.

It’s a delicate daisy, thin and frail. Its petals are barely unfurled from its bud, the roots not yet taken into the pot. Greye is mindful not to move too fast for fear of scaring the plant. It has a lovely home waiting for it, with someone small and brave and deserving. She’d probably even name it…

The tower stretches high into the sky before him, a stone testimony. He flashes a smile at the Reploid who guards it.

“Eh? You look chipper today, kid…” The guard says, baffled.

“Do you know if Emi is still home, Elliot? I really need to see her,” Greye asks imploringly. He ignores the comment.

“She’s upstairs, with Clyde,” Elliot supplies. “Go get her.”

*

“A, you gotta A-Trans with me before we see her,” Greye hisses.

Wh-why?! I thought you didn’t like doing that in camp!

“Emi likes it. She said I looked cool!”

Well, it’s nice to be appreciated…. By some people!

*

Clyde is leaned against the wall, Emi in his ginormous lap, a book held between his hands. The cover is tattered and faded, yet the words still seem to be fresh, as the big Reploid reads them theatrically to the child. His rattles and booms conceal Greye’s approach, though the little daisy seems to recoil in on itself at the sound. He teases the petals reassuringly.

“Er, Clyde,” he says gently. Now that he’s here, he feels slightly awkward in full battle regalia.

(It looks cool, he reminds himself. Got to do it.)

“Clyde,” he says again. The big man finally pauses mid-word, arms haphazardly dropping back to his sides, Emi giggling in the abrupt silence--

“Ah! Greye! I wasn’t expecting you here! What’s that in your hands?” Clyde booms. The book closes with a snap and his expression is confused, searching out the silvers and oranges of Greye’s armor.

“It’s a gift, er… Emi, I found this for you,” he admits. He drops to one knee, proffering the flower pot.

The moment hangs in limbo.

Emi’s eyes sparkle, honey-gold in a shaft of sunlight, her cheeks rosy with excitement. Her hands are held together against her chest, quivering, hesitating, as if the flower might wilt and shatter if she were to reach out and touch it. She reminds Greye of the daisy, and he wishes her to grow as strong as the daisy.

“It’s okay. You can hold it, it’s in the pot,” he urges quietly.

Emi finally reaches the pot, accepting it gingerly from Greye’s gloved hands.

“It’s real?” she asks in awe.

“It’s real,” Greye promises.

*

[mbtizone]

Troy Otto (Fear the Walking Dead): ISTP

Dominant Introverted Thinking [Ti]: Troy is obsessed with killing people of different ages, sizes, and ethnicities to see what he can learn about the turning process. He wants to collect data, which he then goes on to categorize, or draw conclusions from. He is confident in his assertion that it will take him 87 minutes to die, because of his age, weight, and BMI. He’s so obsessed with collecting this information that when Nick threatens to kill him, Troy begs him to time how long it takes him to turn. He cares about accumulating knowledge and, when Nick wants to know what’s wrong with him, Troy simply responds that Newton stabbed himself in the eye just to understand the nature of light. Troy wants to know why people spoil. He seeks to understand what is going on around him and remains callous and detached in his quest for answers. Troy’s way of thinking about things is subjective. He does what makes sense to him. He wants to take out the horde that he spots on the side of the road because they can’t risk allowing them to reach the ranch. Cooper argues with him, trying to tell him that it’s not on their to-do list and says that they’re on the clock, but Troy doesn’t care about their schedule. He’s guided by his own internal logic and is able to arrive at likely conclusions quickly. He spots shells from a gun that was owned by Phil, which leads Troy to deduce that Phil had engaged an attacker before retreating to the outpost.

Auxiliary Extroverted Sensing [Se]: Action and adventure are exciting for Troy and he likes to be in the thick of things. When he spots the horde on the side of the road and leads his men to take them out, he doesn’t allow them to use their guns because it’s “too much noise” and “not enough sport.” He enjoys taking risks and living in the moment. Troy is often reckless and puts himself and others in dangerous situations. He enjoys a good fight and is skilled with weapons. Troy is always aware of his physical surroundings and knows how to engage with them. His constant vigilance allows him to make many observations about his environment. Troy has very keen senses. He’s the first one to notice the smell that leads his men and Madison to the pile of charred bodies. Troy tells Madison that he’s “always been a bit of a nature boy.” He notices what’s going on around him (Se) and makes note of it (Ti). Although he is aware of the severity of most situations, he tends to treat the new world like a personal playground, with Madison noting that it’s like a “game” to Troy. Troy is impetuous and has trouble controlling his impulses (slaughtering the Trimbol family in the heat of the moment). He doesn’t believe in dwelling on the past. When someone dies, they’re gone. All you can do is get your revenge and move on. When Troy sees what Walker did to their people, he immediately wants to hit them back.

Tertiary Introverted Intuition [Ni]: Troy’s singular focus is on studying, observing, and acquiring information about the dead (Ti-Ni). He is consumed by it. He has a good sense about people and he sees right through Madison’s speech. Troy realizes that she said what she said to garner sympathy and remind the people at the ranch that she’s a victim. She didn’t say what she said to memorialize him. She had a reason and Troy saw right through her manipulation. He usually has an idea of what will happen in most situations (though, having a concept of what the consequences may be is rarely enough to stop him). Troy thinks that what he does is his “calling” in life. He believes it’s what he’s meant to do. It’s his purpose.

Inferior Extroverted Feeling [Fe]: Because he is so wrapped up in trying to comprehend the world around him, Troy doesn’t typically display empathy. When Madison is upset after seeing where the helicopter went down, he admonishes her, saying “there’s no room for grief.” In certain instances, he can become extremely emotional and throw a tantrum. He killed the Trimbol family because they left the ranch and Mike couldn’t even do him the courtesy of looking him in the eye and talking to Troy about it. He has a hard time dealing with his feelings and they cause him to lash out. Troy can be very good at understanding people (seeing Madison’s real motivation for her speech about Travis). Troy does genuinely care about the people at the ranch and wants to help them and protect them, but because he’s so unhealthy, he sometimes ends up doing more harm than good. He’s genuinely upset when he finds the heap of burned bodies and when his group comes across Phil. When Madison tells Troy that his mother never loved him, he later holds a knife to her throat in her sleep, but is unable to go through with it. When he returns to the ranch after their encounter with Walker, Troy wants to keep the truth from them. He only wants to tell Jeremiah, and Troy tries to keep Mike from telling everybody what happened, to no success.

Note: Troy is unbelievably unhealthy. He’s also very complex. Troy has sadistic tendencies and it’s difficult for him to control himself. He didn’t intend to kill the Trimbol family and he means what he says when he’s saying it. He’s just extremely damaged and probably one of the worst examples of an ISTP on television. It’s hard to separate what parts of Troy’s personality come from his cognitive functions and which parts stem from whatever psychological disorder he suffers from. I actually considered high Si for him, because he believes in preserving the ranch, serving it, and doing what he believes must be done in order to protect it. He also talks about the importance of “order, discipline, chain of command,” but I think he means that more for other people and not necessarily for himself. He doesn’t embody those values and tends to just do whatever he wants in the moment. His past has a huge, lasting impact on him, but I believe anyone of any type would be affected if they had the same experiences as Troy. He’s a stickler for “the rules” and how things should be done, but I think that might be part his illness. He uses his loyalty to the ranch as an excuse. They “don’t have enough resources” for Travis, but he’s okay with allowing Madison and Alicia in. I believe Jeremiah and Jake didn’t want to allow Luciana inside because that’s “not how they do things.” Troy hid behind this reason as well, but I think it probably had more to do with his desire to kill people to “learn.” He was probably already thinking about how long it would take Luciana to turn. The same goes for when Vernon, Mike, and the rest of the Trimbol family left the ranch. He was angry and upset, so he used the rules as a crutch. He berated them for leaving with “ranch property.” He didn’t really care about protecting the ranch in that moment, as Jake pointed out. He just used that as his reason because he didn’t want to get into the truth – that he was hurt and felt betrayed. It was also hard for me to decide what his dominant function was – Ti or Se? But there are strong signs of inferior Fe, and nearly everything he does is to feed his Ti curiosity, so ISTP seemed the better fit. Troy can be interpreted in numerous ways, so I used my own analysis of the character, as well as what I’ve read in interviews or heard on Talking Dead to form my judgments. He hasn’t been around very long, though, so I may see something that will cause me go back and retype him in the future. Time shall tell.

Enneagram: 8w7 5w6 3w2 So/Sx

Quotes:

Troy: Did you have contact back home before comms failed? Travis: No. Troy: Oh, shame. New Zealand’s isolated. I just thought, uh maybe your people – maybe they dodged all this. Maybe they turn different or not at all. Eh, could’ve learned something. We may still. Nick: Where’s my mom and my sister? Troy: Being processed. Nick: Don’t hurt them. Troy: Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, ease your mind. I’m not a savage. Travis: That’s that’s good to hear. This woman needs attention. Troy: Yeah, she’ll be taken care of. Travis: No, she’s dying. Troy: Everyone here dies. It’s the only mercy I can offer for the sick and the maimed. Now, you can take a seat.

Madison: What are you writing? Troy: Oh, it’s just observations. I’ve always been a bit of a nature boy. I just I mark things down. It will matter later.

Troy: Two ways it cuts, huh? You can’t sleep ’cause of what’s weighing on you or bad times just waiting for you when you wake. Madison: What do you want? Troy: This area’s burned. You shouldn’t go back out there. Madison: Troy. Troy: We’re leaving. I can take you home with us. You and Alicia. Madison: What about Travis? Troy: Our resources are limited Madison: Is he alive? Troy: I’ll release him. I will… if you come.

Nick: Luci, hey- Man: Not sure she can hear you. Nick: What what do you mean? Troy: She’s not going to make it is what he means. Nick: Help her. Troy: No. We take her to the infirmary, she may turn. It’s against policy. Nick: It’s your fault. You shot her. Troy: I was defending my people. I’ll do it again. I know what to do. Nick: No, no, no, no. Troy: This is how it has to be. Nick: No.

[Madison enters and sees who she thinks is Nick in bed.] Madison: How’s Luciana? Troy: Oh, still alive. I liked your speech. I liked how you said his name. Travis. It makes him matter. Makes him real. Madison: He was real. Troy: That’s not why you said it, though. It wasn’t out of grief. It was pointed. You wanted to remind us that you’re a victim, too. Madison: You feel like a victim? Troy: Are you analyzing me now? Madison: No. Troy: What did you do in the old world? Madison: Guidance counselor. Troy: At a high school? [Madison nods] Oh. I never attended. “Certain social aspects of academia proved challenging for Troy.” Madison: You must have been lonely. Troy: No, no. No, I, uh I had this place. Everything that I do is in service to this place. Madison: Does your father believe that? Troy: Yeah, he understands. You know, complicated problems call for complicated solutions. Madison: Killing people’s not complicated. It’s simple. Troy: Do you see? You understand this world. You understand me. That’s why I picked you. But I didn’t – I didn’t pick Nick. Madison: He comes with me. Package deal. Troy: Why were you separated? Why was he with strangers and not his family? He doesn’t deserve his place here. I think you know it. Madison: He’ll earn it. [referring to the bed] That was made this morning, Troy.

Jake: Stay away from Madison and her family. Troy: They’re my friends. Jake: They came here under my invite. They trust me. Troy: They came here not to get eaten. I wouldn’t flatter yourself. Jake: Yeah, but they’re staying ’cause I said I’d protect them from you. Troy: And how are you going to do that? Jake: Please don’t do this. Troy, please. I’m the one that still believes in you. Troy: Well, I don’t need you to anymore. Jake: Yeah, you do. You do. If the ranch knew what you really are- Troy: And what am I, Jake? Jake: Do you really think that you were helping those people out at the depot? Troy: I think I was helping all of us. Jake: Troy when Dad’s gone, this is all on us. We have to take care of this place. We have to lead – Together. Troy: Together. Jake: Yeah. But I need you to do something for me. I need you to stay away from the Clarks. Do you hear me? Troy: Yep. I hear you. Jake: Do you mean it? Troy: I always mean it, Jake.

Troy: The ground’s soft. You could dig a grave real easy. I mean, people would suspect you, but well, they really wouldn’t know for sure. Nick: I wonder how long it’ll take you to turn. Troy: Eighty-seven minutes. Eighty-seven minutes given my weight, BMI, age. You know, if you do do it, you should time it. Journal’s in my pocket. Nick: You are not a scientist. Troy: Time it. Nick, please. Nick: What is wrong with you? Troy: Newton stabbed his own eye to understand the nature of light. I just – I need to know. I need to know why we spoil.

Troy: Cooper, are you seeing what I’m seeing? We got a party to attend! Cooper: It’s out of our way, Troy. We need to get to the Huey and back. Over. Troy: No, no, no, we leave them, they could migrate up the highway toward the ranch. We can’t risk that. Cooper: Not on our to-do list. We’re on a clock, man. Madison: I’m with you. Troy: We’re not making this someone else’s problem, Cooper. We’ll be in and out in five minutes. That’s it. Oh, no, no, no. No guns. It’s too much noise. Not enough sport.

[after he, his men, and Madison take out a horde] Troy: Oh, it’s a beautiful thing. It’s a beautiful, beautiful thing. Who timed that? Man: It was just under a minute. Troy: Eh, it’s good work. Short work.

Troy: You ready for what comes next? It’s gonna be living, not dead. Whoa, you’re gonna need more fight in you than that. Madison: I’ll have fight. Don’t worry. Troy: You sure? Madison: Seeing where it happened was harder than I thought. Troy: Oh, you need to let that go. There’s no room for grief. Madison: If it was your father, you wouldn’t mourn him? Troy: Big Otto is immortal. Madison: And you didn’t grieve for your mother? Troy: Nah, if someone is dead, they’re dead, you know? There’s no point dwelling. All you can do is take out the assholes who did you wrong. Madison: Eye for an eye. Troy: Ah, a tooth for a tooth, amen. Madison: It’s just a game to you. Troy: No, it’s not a game. It’s my calling.

Madison: Your men are tired. Troy: Yeah, well, newsflash so am I. Listen, Walker and those assholes will make it back before us if we don’t move double time. You want that visited on your family? Huh? You really think Nick can handle something like that? Madison: We’re not gonna make it back. Troy: You’re overstepping, Madison. Mike, will you pick your ass up? Just wrap your foot and hoof it. Come on, let’s go. Madison: You want them to follow you out of fear or respect? Troy: What did you just say to me? Madison: Being a leader is knowing when to stop. Troy: Okay. Okay. Come here. This is my mission and these are my men. Madison: Yours or your father’s? Would he back this play? Troy: Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m not your son. Madison: But you have such a strange fixation on him. You wanna be a mama’s boy, Troy? Was your mother too cruel for that? Troy: Shut up. Madison: She hated you, didn’t she? Troy: Shut up. Shut up. Madison: Even in the end, when you cared for her and bathed her, she still didn’t love you, did she? Who says we should rest up? Troy: I’m the only one who knows the way back. So you better pick your asses up at first light because I will leave you. I’ll leave you all for the wasted.

Mike: They’re dead. They’re all dead. Troy: Mike, lock your shit down. Lock it down. Mike: They’re dead. And we’re gonna die, too, if we don’t leave! Troy: Shut up! Man: Is that true? Mike: If we stay, we- Troy: Mike, shut the hell up. Mike: If we stay, we die!

Troy: No, no, no, we go after them. Now. We hit them back. Jeremiah: So you can stroll into another ambush, Colonel Custer?

Madison: I was worried you might do something rash. Troy: To my family? No, no. Never. Madison: Can’t blame my worry. Troy: No. All I’ve ever had in my – my whole life is this – this place and these people, and I don’t know, it just I don’t understand, you know. Like, the world out there, it’s, uh – it’s burned. Madison: They wanted to see for themselves. Troy: Anyone who leaves is dead to me. Now, Mike, he was – he was soft, but he was – he’s been my friend since I was a kid. He stayed in school when I got – I got pulled. But he never quit on me. Never. Even when others did. Madison: He didn’t quit on you, Troy. He just stood by his family. Troy: He wouldn’t look at me. He just… Hard to know how to react to something like that. Madison: You make sure no one else leaves. Save them from the same mistake. I’ll help you.

Troy: I didn’t go out there to do that, I swear. I – He owed me. He had to look me directly in the eye. He had to say it to my face, say it like Vernon said it to my father. He owed me that. Madison: He didn’t want to do that, did he? Troy: He said some things, and I did some things. Then it went bad. Not what you want to hear, is it? Madison: You could run this place, Troy, but not if you let things break like that. Last night you had command. I saw that. Your militia saw that, and they responded. Your brother doesn’t have what you have. He’s not of this place. You’re the survivor. You’re the heir. So, no, the last thing I want to hear is how you lost control. That can’t happen. I don’t care how you did it. I don’t care why you did it. All I care about is that you can control it. There’s a fight coming, and you have to save us. Can you? Troy: Yes, ma’am.

Troy Otto (Fear the Walking Dead): ISTP was originally published on MBTI Zone

[paranoiakrp]

         CITIZEN FILE RETRIEVED: MAE JINSOL ...

STATS

name / mae jinsol d.o.b. / 10.31.93 age / 25 pronouns / he/him job / layabout societies / monstrous › possession groups / n/a

TW: violence, blood, infidelity, possession

WHATS YOUR WEIRD?

that mae jinsol. there’s something off about him.

have you heard? it wasn’t a cat that scratched up the mae family’s nanny. it was that jinsol boy. it’s so strange. he’s only ten, isn’t he? what could’ve possessed him. something’s not right with him. have you seen the way he stares?

have you heard? they say some kid fell out of the second story window, but nobody was playing. jinsol pushed him. and he just stared and stared, until the teacher pulled him out of the room.

have you heard? they say jinsol set his own house on fire. he’s so fucked. seriously.

have you heard? have you heard? have you heard?

jinsol has. to match the echoing inside of his own head. blackouts and waking up in the middle of the forest. clothes too thin, bare feet numb, arms torn raw from bramble bushes. an ache in his head. dried blood underneath his nails. it’s like sleepwalking, but worse. childhood memories suppressed. washed over in too many pills and the forced concept of religion.

an urge for violence that creeps up his spin. a reckless abandon. a will to catapult himself out of his own body. lost memories. lost time. a shift in setting, a shift in personality. his body moving unbidden (or is it bidden? maybe he’d like it to, after all). electrical surges and rattling objects and jinsol can’t remember any of it happening. 

mae jinsol has always been off. it’s hard not to be when he’s gripped with possession. when he shares his body with terror, uninvited.

WHATS YOUR STORY?

there’s a box locked away in a safe. inconspicuous. it holds too many papers. the carboard’s bent. a disfigured crumple near the edges. the safe’s locked away in the mae family home. an illustrious looking building. as illustrious as any building can be in a offshoot suburban sort or town. but the family is an important one, connected to the mayor. or, the man of the mae household is. mae youngchul. known for his charismatic nature and ability to put out fires while simultaneously sweeping anything less-than-pretty underneath the rug. no bones left out in the open in the soot-scattered aftermath. long buried in a makeshift grave, a toppled tombstone of easily palatable lies.

layered away are bundles of papers, documents. letters with thick, waxy letterheads. contracts and secrets spilled on fading ink.secrets meant to be kept out of sight. secrets that can be built up to construct the twisted life of mae jinsol.

it starts with a birth certificate. the first lie of jinsol’s life.

born to mae youngchul and kim kyunghee. 

the painstakingly handwritten letters underneath that immediately betray the truth of the situation. secretive whisperings drawn out at the tip of a pen. hidden romance. fun and games, and then not. then she’s pregnant. an apology letter. she’s unimportant in the grand scheme of the town. religious, despite being a married man’s mistress. infidelity, a sin. until you repent, then it never seems to count anymore. jinsol never really understood that. but he’s yet to be born, so it doesn’t matter what his slow-forming opinions are.

i think i need to keep the baby. i don’t have any other options. we need to place him in god’s hands. with all my love,

and here, the name is smudged. lost to time. but her name isn’t relevant to jinsol’s story anyway. mother by birth and not much else. not that it was her fault. not that he even knew for the grand majority of his life.

but with elaborate lies comes elaborate stories. 

the deed to a house, worn and water stained near the corners, in a provence shoved even further out in the countries. bowed apple trees and the promise of pure air ushered in on the coast of an ocean. the papers confirming that a sale has been made for the same property ten months later. 

pregnancy checks and health documents for a woman who is, decidedly, not kim kyunghee. but that’s not the story. the story around town is that her health was declining. she needed better air. more room. and she was spirited off while waiting for the baby to come. there are rumors, of course. some that circle around the truth, or accusations of plastic surgery. 

jinsol’s birth mother is a footnote. the legacy she leaves behind are suspect love letters, and a receipt for a hefty deposit placed into her bank account the day before she left town. 

wonder what happened?

but that question fades with time, too.

jinsol’s life is built from lies.

the house is sold, kyunghee returns with a wailing baby. colicky and fitful. he is hers. they all swear up and down. 

after that there’s paperwork and tax forms for a stay-in-home nanny. because it’s presumably hard to face a child your husband had out of wedlock. jinsol is passed off, and jinsol is largely unwanted. a man who’s focused on a career, a marriage broken and held together with layers of tape. his eyes still wander. despite his circumstances, jinsol is their only child. 

as he grows, his personality doesn’t mellow. he’s fickle and small. sickly, with wide eyes that read peculiar and unsettling when he stares. he has a temper. there’s a few scattered pictures of jinsol as a child in the box. posing awkwardly near his mother’s elbow. a length of space between them. discomfort, something that looks unnatural in a picture with a four year old. 

his nanny raises him. proof is in the forms tied tied with fraying rubber bands. documentation of what they’d done on the day-to-day, or if something went wrong. notes between her and his parents. 

there’s a home video of his birthday party at the park. the tape is scuffed and jumps with static. his parents aren’t there, but his nanny is along with a few similarly aged family members. he looks to be around seven, eight. he’s sitting in the grass, pulling up tufted handfuls while the other children jump and scream. eventually, fingers and hands climb up tp his head, press against ears. an angry expression. and a heavy toy truck locked in his grip as he winds his arm up and brings it down on top of the child nearest to him. the camera shakes, tumbles, clicks off.

the payments to the nanny stop by the time jinsol’s ten. 

there’s also a letter from the doctor, and another receipt for a large sum of money directed into another account.

a detailed account of pain and suffering, costs for potential cosmetic surgeries in the future. slivered gouges left by tiny nails in a fit of fury along arms and face and throat. 

why did you do it, jinsol? 

but jinsol doesn’t know. he’d wanted to, at the time. there’s a build up sometimes. something that compels him. he can’t remember it now, exactly. the sensation as a child. how very easy it was to give in. to let that curiosity for the macabre take over. but jinsol doesn’t remember a lot from his childhood. like spilled paint across a canvas. colors bleeding into each other, until it’s nothing but a blurry mass, a dependency on others’ second hand accounts. 

the lies build.

another receipt. a signed, makeshift contract. a payout to the head of a school and another teacher detailing a nondisclosure agreement. it was all a big accident, don’t you know? how that boy fell out of the second story window.

jinsol wasn’t smiling down at him at all.

gossip is diluted overtime. but strangeness sticks. 

he plays by himself in their home. there are only a few scattered pictures to document his life during this time. his crumpled, forgotten drawings are tucked away too. faces with gaping holes for eyes. intensely scribbled out masses of color. jagged lines, and trees that bubble bright with fire underneath a twelve year-olds unlearned hand. 

his dad tried to occupy his time. keep him out of trouble in a disinterested second-hand sort of way. there were days spent with family he was being pawned off on. and he’d turn a blind eye toward the next girl his father wanted to chase, a slow-growing understanding of infidelity that’s hard to nail down entirely as a child.

he’d get a playdate if they had a kid, too. 

more receipts. a fistful, by now. failing report cards when he got into high school. slips from the principal. missed blocks of classes, and one time jinsol didn’t come home for a week. didn’t go to school either. that time’s lost to a void, but most people called him a stubborn runaway. 

but jinsol never had many friends. just a reputation, and enough money doled out to him that he could pretend like he might’ve whenever he got lonely enough for it.

it was his third year of high school when he pushed the limits too far. when his father snapped. 

there’s another deed, for another house. bundled with it is an insurance payout. a chunk of small-town political documents that have the edges burned off, dusted with soot. the other’s are missing.

their home engulfed in flames. jinsol’s hands smelled like gasoline.

he’d been smiling. his father saw it. 

more lies.

it was a gas fire. a miracle everyone got out alive.

ignore the burnt tips of jinsol’s fingers, and ignore the charred edges of his bangs.

to ensure that this goes according to plan, send him away.

there are stubs for a train ticket, one way. a hospital far enough off where nobody might run into him. if they did, it would ruin everything. after all, his father told the town they sent him away, off to america to study abroad. a blatant lie, but what’s one more too add to the pile?

not that they discovered anything but a seemingly deranged teen. they gave him scripts anyway. enough to zone him out. a detached sort of consciousness. his father wasn’t okay with that, the no definitive answers (who cared about the pills). not for the typical reasons, like jinsol’s well being. he was angry, a destruction of his property and apparent documents. the tipping point, a selfish reaction. so he kept him there, under the supervision of a long-care doctor. 

three and a half years later, and they said he was cleared to go home. that he was cured. or as close as he could be.

there’s a medical report confirming this. confirming his lack of outbursts, that his leaning toward violence has diminished. that he keeps to himself. that the medication must have made a difference. that his father should keep him on this continued regimen. 

so he’s sent back. but whatever unholy thing inside of him isn’t gone. pulled away and dormant, a lulled state under a medical cocktail. 

it is, perhaps, unsurprising that eventually, jinsol weans himself off of them. the pills. handfuls of them stashed away in boxes and loose floorboards. but the act of this, along with the consequences, take drawn out years to come to fruition. there’s still that excuse, that he studied abroad. his suspicious lack of english language skills don’t add up well with the story, but he’s an outlier of a person now. who cares to ask?

for a while, he’s cured. strange still, perhaps. an intense desire for attention, something undoubtedly born from being removed from his life and removed from his own self. growing up all but estranged from his own parents. he spirals. 

another receipt, paid off small town police for parties thrown too loudly. he tries to make up for lost time, an added urgency of recklessness. 

it continues on. 

he’s forced into the small college in town, if only for an excuse that he should be doing something. his grades are still terrible. he’s not sure what he wants to do with himself. what he cares about. everything’s confusing.

and then it builds when the blackouts start again.

the beginning of the year, and a new snow dusted the ground. the crackle of dead, frozen grass underfoot. jinsol can feel it, because he isn’t wearing shoes. it burns through the soles of his feet. an ache he can’t escape. body shivering, a bag of bones clacking together unruly. swollen knuckles and a bloody nose in the middle of a meadow. 

he doesn’t know how he got there. 

but he doesn’t tell. he doesn’t want his father to send him back there. he doesn’t want to lose his mind again. not in that way.

he wakes up again two months later in his own bathroom. there’s blood on his hands, underneath his nails. pools of it across the floor. he scrubs everything down with bleach until his skin’s raw. body trembling. nauseous, inescapably nauseous. he’s already dry heaved six times, but it refuses to leave him.

he won’t tell.

more lies.

jinsol isn’t sure who he is. a collection of lies stitched together. a being that isn’t whole. a paper-doll cutout of a man.

but selfishly, he continues on. he reaches out, an attempt to grasp at people. anchor them to him. a strangeness settles over him. his own paranoia. his own doubt. shapeless memories, a voice that sounds like his own rocketing around his skull. goading and vile. 

jinsol can’t run from what’s in his own mind. 

it’s a secret.

but his father always loved secrets. maybe he’d be proud of him.