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professor-vanad · 4 years

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Alright, I've made you a guide for having the old guy over. Its relatively lengthy though so I've posted it too my blog under the title "old man porygon care guide" with some pokemon and porygon tags if you need to search for it. So check that out and save it to your blog for later.

As for your question, I did get in contact with silphco when I was doing my whole tedious detective work adventure (and Gordon is asking I let you know that he's making fun of me for "asking silphco" ending up being like step 14 in my figure out porygons past and why he's acting like an old man research quest despite it being the most obvious first step to take)

But they were less than helpful, saying how a lot of the stuff surrounding porygon and how to make them are some sort of company secret not available to the public.

(And from the way you're talking, it sounds like they might not be being completely transparent with researchers either so oof.)

And when I talked about stuff like health concerns for old dude, I couldn't seem to get anyone to even consider them being a beta porygon at all, instead only working under the assumption that he's another failed modders attempt at a porygon evolution like the original context of the dubious disk.

Even after I went through all that effort of tracking down machines able to read information stored in pokeballs that typically isn't displayed publicly when viewing them in a pc, but is instead usually used by law enforcement for returning lost pokemon, which put his first date of capture a good time before porygon were released to the public.

So it would be a heck of a task to pull off a bootleg of something that wasn't publicly available yet.

And I was able to track down and talk too previous owners dating back too 19 years ago, and none of them were particularly tech savvy either.

So that still brought up some worrying stuff that if his weirdness is a mix of being really old AS WELL as from being modded, then he would have been living with the mods for a minimum of 19 years, and still wouldn't have made him NOT a pre-release beta porygon, which was a lingering issue with attempts to talk too silphco people and them not taking me seriously.

They also offered for me to send them the old guy to attempt to repair him, but pretty heavily implied I wouldn't be getting him back if I gave him up, presumably as a way of discouraging irresponsible modding of porygon.

So that's hella suspicious, and I'm not gonna be doing that.

As for proof of chansey eggs improving general porygon quality of life?

I literally only have the few years I've spent with old man porygon for reference, who's apparently super weird for a porygon anyway, so I'm probably the wrong person to figure out that sort of thing. I just know he became a lot less spacy and tired all the time when I switched him too eggs, and later too berrys/pokebeans that are still on the tree/vine once I was able to start growing those myself and the sanctuary pokemon were able to help themselves instead of me buying fruit from the market (though pretty sure that was more an improvement of getting them reasons to go outside on their own regularly instead of napping indoors. Since it wasn't as dramatic a change as the chansey eggs).

But when it comes to fixing him, I guess if it comes to it, and all that can really be done is essentially build a new porygon out of the corpse of the old one, well.... I'm usually all about pokemon being able to learn enough to make their own decisions, but I'm not quite sure that's a concept the old man would really be able to comprehend in his current state.

Regardless though, the obligation would still be to try and have him understand as much as he can and see what they want based on their options.

Although if they imply something like " I want to go home" don't be jumping to conclusions about them asking to die with dignity at home.

He is not very smart and is terrible at euphemisms, so chances are what he would actually mean is "I would rather do difficult thinking on my pillow in the living room at home".

Trust me, I've been burned by their thought process before.

Don't jump to conclusions that they have things figured out or that they understood you unless it's a very simple statement you can get immediate results from like saying "come here" or "do you want food option A or B".

And it wouldn't surprise me if what it took to actually get their consent to such a thing, would be to literally have you travel to the sanctuary and have you sit there with porygon in the houses living room, drawing on whiteboards and using videos and explaining it over and over in slightly different ways until it clicks with him and he gives a straight answer.

I mean I've gotten used to having to go out of my way to find ways to deal with his senility, but that would be a hell of a rigmarole to rope some stranger into.

Heck, I've already gone and frightened my employee Gordon about the possibility of a long and tedious porygon detective adventure part 2 just talking about this stuff.

That post was brilliant! Thank you. I may have a few follow-up questions down the line but this is a great start.

Woof. I... you know, I’ve had multiple run-ins with Silph that have left me uneasy. i can empathise with wanting to “crack-down” on modding for the Porygons’ sake, they’ve had people come to them to fix their lousy mods since the first generation. So, I mean it is a problem of sorts but not as widespread as that attitude would have you believe. Being that blatant is surprising. That’s not to say I don’t believe you, I absolutely do, but I’m surprised that they were that dismissive off the bat. I think you were right to trust your gut there.

There’s a lot about your case that isn’t adding up with what I know, which is only a problem because it’s likely we won’t have a previous case to work off of. 19 years and at least two trainers who, I’m guessing, didn’t really notice anything unusual about Old Dude apart from his size and catch record prior to Porygon’s official release is the most complete dead end I can think of. I reckon I’ll be able to find some information when I take a look at his programming. Though, that will depend on how willing he is to co-operate there.

Which brings me to the possible “fix”. Rest assured, I have no intention of doing anything that Old Dude is uncertain about or uncomfortable with. It’s still only a possibility rather than a certainty and if it came to it, I’d be able to give you both more detailed information. My warning was as much for you because I don’t doubt I’m going to need your help, especially when it comes to communication. Whatever it takes to help him understand, I’m happy to do it. The ‘rigmarole’ is part of the job. He’s no hassle. Even if he was, Arceus knows I have practice. Four of them.

#old dude porygon #mumblingabomination

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renegadewangs · 5 years

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Ace Mindhunter - 4th Interview

Characters: Simon Blackquill, Athena Cykes, Shi-Long Lang, and a rogues gallery of AA villains. Fandom: Ace Attorney Pairings: N/A. Warnings/rating: 16+, I would say. Talk of heavy themes such as death and abuse, plus cursing. Spoilers for every AA game up to Spirit of Justice, AAI2 included. Gratuitous amounts of headcanon for antagonists. Summary: Simon Blackquill is roped into a Behavioral Analysis project along with Athena Cykes. They must sit down with convicted murderers for interviews, in hopes of finding out just what drove them to their convoluted crimes.

4th Interview Luke Date: June 16th 2028 Time: 3:00 PM Location: Interpol H.Q. - B.A.U. Office. Simon returned to the B.A.U. office after a very long, calm weekend and a morning of indicting a common burglar for tomorrow's trial. He would've counted himself lucky to still be handling any court cases on a part-time basis at all, were it not for the looks he was getting from his colleagues at the Prosecutor's Office. Even worse than that; he was certain Winston Payne was getting more murder trials as a result of his little venture with Interpol, and that notion chilled him to the bone. He walked through the door to find that Athena was already waiting for him, seated by the desk and a cup of coffee in her hand. “Hey! Right on time!” she said. “And you are early for once. Am I merely dreaming, or have you earnestly adopted a sense of punctuality?” “Very funny. I wrapped up my investigation with Mr. Wright early, so he dropped me off here. How was your weekend?” Simon slipped himself into his own desk chair and heard it creak under his weight. He really wished Interpol would invest in furniture that hadn't been around for three decades already. “... It was uneventful. And yours?” “About as eventful as a weekend at the Wright Anything Agency is, really.” Athena paused, took a quick sip of her coffee and proceeded with visible discomfort. “… Listen, I thought we should discuss our interviewing strategy before we take on our next subject.” “Our strategy?” Simon asked, uncertain why such a thing would need discussing. “Let's face it, our interview with Furio Tigre was a mess.” “Was it really? We got answers, did we not?” “We could've gotten a lot more if he hadn't stormed out! I don't think either of us really knew how to approach him, so we were all over the place. It's no wonder he got upset.” Simon sniffed loudly. “It's hardly our fault that he has such large toes to step on.” “He was right, though! If we keep working like that, at some point it will go wrong. Now, I know you feel like you need to play the bad cop, but I just don't think that you should. Don't take this the wrong way, but... You're not the bad cop to them.” Tempting as it was to pinch himself for verification, Simon knew he couldn't possibly be dreaming. This was real. Athena had uttered those ludicrous words to him. Well, perhaps he couldn't fault her for her ignorance. She hadn't witnessed his time in prison. He wouldn't have wished her to, either. Still, he could illuminate the situation a bit. “You must be joking. Simply because of the Tiger's attitude problem, you believe our subjects won't take me seriously? For seven years, I was one of the most notorious names in death row. Even the guards knew better than to cross me. I had inmates currying favor with me, groveling for my approval and my mercy.” “Yes, and that was when they believed you actually killed someone,” Athena said in the bluntest of tones. “But you yourself outright said it to Mr. Tigre; you never stained your hands with blood. They know now that you're bluffing. So... I'm really sorry, Simon, but you can't be the bad cop when the person you're trying to threaten knows that you're, well, a good cop. Or prosecutor, in this case.” “And I suppose you would be more intimidating to them? A colorfully-dressed teenage girl? Yes, I'm certain someone like Engarde will be shaking in his manacles at the mere sight of you,” Simon snapped. He knew he was being immature, but it was better to contradict Athena now than to let her make a fool of herself in front of a more dangerous inmate. She'd already pushed her luck with Tigre. “Nobody said we had to play good cop and bad cop in the first place! Gosh!” she huffed at him. “There's other ways to get a person talking, you know. We just need to gain their trust. And I'm not really talking about speaking their own language, either. Think back to Ms. Vasquez and Mr. Retinz. Remember how we got them to be more open with us?” “... We engaged them on their interests,” was Simon's conclusion. With Athena's questions about the Diva Producer's movies and Simon's urging for magic tricks, that seemed to be the common denominator. “Kind of? I think, to put it in broader terms, we gave them what they wanted. We asked them what they wanted to hear; the sort of thing they would want to respond to. Their emotional states played a big part in that too. Mr. Retinz was angry, so of course he'd want to let off steam about his family and the Gramaryes. So what's most important when we first meet with a subject is that we analyze their emotional state and what interests them.” Simon thought back to the interview with Tigre and how this strategy would've been applied to him. The resulting hypothesis led to a mean grimace and he tapped a finger against his forehead. “Hmm... So, had we complimented the Tiger on his absurdly small dog's fashion sense, he would have opened up to us more?” “Hah! You know what? I honestly think he would've!” Athena replied with a wide gin. “Seriously though, you may not be a convicted killer, but you spent all those years in death row anyway. I think that's the best way to play it. Just let them know that you understand what they're going through, and you'll do whatever you can to make it easier for them. Like when you got coffee for Mr. Retinz. That was a smart move.” “What does that make me? The sympathetic cop?” “I think sweet-talking, manipulative cop has a better ring to it, don't you?” “Hah! Manipulative cop is the sort of title I will settle for.” The door to the office opened and in walked Lang. He was carrying a box under one arm and something told Simon they weren't about to be treated to pastries. Sure enough, when it was set down on the desk, there was a distinct rustle of paperwork. Athena greeted him with a cheerful tone, Simon merely hummed in acknowledgment. “So I've got good news and bad news. Which do you two want to hear first?” Lang asked. “Uhhh... I guess the bad news, so we can recover from that with the good news,” was Athena's reply. “Right. I'm needed overseas. Big assignment, can't say too much about it. The bottom line is that I'll be gone for at least a week.” Simon smirked and leaned back in his chair, once again enduring its creaking. “Why, Agent Lang, I believe she asked for the bad news.” “Hah. Very funny, Blackquill. The good news is that I got a few inmates to meet your criteria. You can find the profiles in here,” Lang said, patting the box. “And you can schedule most of the meetings whenever it suits you. Just call the prison, tell them what it's for and they'll arrange everything for you in my place.” “Really?! Thank you, Shifu!” Athena pumped both her fists into the air, then reached for the box. Lang didn't release it just yet, instead pulling it closer to his end of the desk. “Ah. Just one more thing. The profile on top? You gotta do that one first.” “Hah? Why is that?” “Because the subject specifically asked to be included in the project and after looking over his profile, I don't see why not. If it fits, he sits- before you, that is.” Simon's eyes narrowed. “Someone specifically asked to be included? Who told him about the project? I cannot imagine the Cowardly Tiger was singing our praise.” “He sure wasn't, and I'll let your indiscretion slide because from what I hear, nobody listens to Tigre's ranting either way. No, apparently he heard about your work from Roger Retinz. You came 'highly recommended', even.” “Highly recommended? By Mr. Retinz?” Athena looked as if she'd just stepped through a portal into some sort of alternate dimension. Indeed, Simon felt quite the same way. “Yeah. Sounds like you made a friend in there,” Lang said with a shrug. Athena leaned in closer to Simon to whisper under her breath. “The manipulative cop strikes again.” “Mmh, I will have to wind every single one of those butchers around my little finger,” Simon remarked in turn, smirking. “Anyway, the guy wants to see you as soon as possible, so I booked you in for tonight.” And just like that, their amusement had vanished as if it'd been subjected to one of Mr. Reus's magic tricks. Athena threw both arms forward, onto the desk, and put her head down. As for Simon, he'd started so badly that he was sure some vital part of his chair had broken. Without a doubt, something had made a snapping noise. He was now sitting as still as possible so as not to test the structural integrity of the construction without drawing attention to himself. This chair was free to come apart once he was standing upright again. “Tonight?!” Athena wailed against the inside of her left arm. “But I was going to help Mr. Wright sort through clues from our investigation!” “And I must do battle in court tomorrow morning. My case requires due preparation,” Simon insisted, though it was only an excuse. The trial for such an obvious burglary could've been prepared right there in the prosecutor's lobby and he'd still have time to spare. He simply didn't want to spend his evening at the prison. “Well, then you'd better hope this interview won't take long. You can report to the usual place at 7 PM. Once you've worked your way through the rest of the inmates I compiled for you and you've got some results to show for it, I'll see about getting you playdates with the bigger fish.” “Uuugh... Fine...” Athena grumbled. “Good luck, and I'll see you when I get back.” With that, Lang left the office. Almost a minute had passed before Athena mustered up enough energy to reach for the box and open it. She took out the top folder, flipped it open and skimmed the papers inside. Simon, who was still attempting to assess whether his chair would hold or not, didn't dare lean in for a glance of his own. “... Oh, this looks like fun! I mean... as fun as meeting with a convicted killer can be. But the way he tried to cover up the murder and abuse a loophole in the law was pretty clever. I guess that makes sense, seeing as he was some kind of ace detective.” There was a loud crack and a thud as Simon fell to the floor. ------- Date: June 16th 2028 Time: 7:02 PM Location: Interview Room. When he'd first accepted to take part in the project, Simon had dreaded a lot of scenarios- and still did at this very moment. He dreaded that Athena might be hurt, either physically or emotionally. He dreaded facing someone who would be quick to draw a shank. He dreaded failing to bring results to the table, thereby disgracing Interpol's name and betraying the trust the Chief Prosecutor had bestowed on him. To some degree, he even dreaded facing the Phantom, should that day ever come. What he hadn't considered, up until that afternoon, was that he might face the most irritating inmate of all. Luke Atmey. Roger Retinz was no friend of theirs, he knew that for certain now. That damned Greasy Producer must've run his mouth about the project on purpose. There was no one in death row who could stand Atmey's long-winded boasting. Those who would pass him in the hall would avoid making eyecontact to the best of their ability. Those who were doomed to sit at his table in the cafeteria would instead stand in some faraway corner. Those who were scheduled to share a workroom with him would feign acute illness. When it came to being avoided like the plague, not a single violent psychopath in prison could hold a candle to Atmey. This little interview would cost Simon and Athena their entire evening, and for what? For absurd tales about Atmey's elegance and grace? This would be the first and last time that Lang would schedule their meetings for them. Atmey entered in the most flamboyant manner possible, his enormous nose stuck high up in the air and one hand held up like a limp animal paw. At first glance, he might've seemed the sort of man who hadn't been dented in the least by almost ten years in prison, but a smug grin could only hide so much. The dark lines beneath Atmey's one visible eye told Simon more than enough. He came to a full stop before the table and instead of sitting down, he leaned forward to assess the both of them up close with his magnifying glass monocle. Already, Simon's first instinct was to leave. He fought it. “Zvarri! The elegant truth has been revealed to me!” Atmey proclaimed. “The both of you were sent by Interpol, on behalf of the Behavioral Analysis Unit!” “We were not sent by Interpol such much as we were sent for. By you,” Simon replied dryly. “Naturally! I, Luke Atmey, heard whispers of your professional psychological project and saw its powerful potential. That you had not come to me sooner is beyond my grasp.” Simon had quite a few things to say about including pompous, pretentious pricks in their professional psychological project, but held his tongue. He wasn't supposed to be the bad cop. “Haha... Well, we're still getting started, you know,” Athena explained. “Baby steps.” “Aaah, you wished to save the best for last? Understandable! I, Luke Atmey, am indeed the finest dish on the menu, so to speak. But you needn't be intimidated by my greatness! We are all only human!” Athena shot a most impressive Look Simon's way. Something between incredibility, amusement and secondhand embarrassment. The only response he could think to give was a helpless shrug. He had warned her beforehand. She hesitated, then turned her attention to the recording device, only to find that Atmey had already taken hold of it. He pressed record and placed it on the table in the most meticulous of fashions. “There we are. This is Luke Atmey, reporting to you live from the Los Angeles prison. With me now are Prosecutor Simon Blackquill and...” Atmey trailed off, slid the recording device at an arm’s length and cupped a hand to the side of his mouth to shield it, speaking to Athena in a whisper. “What was your name, Miss?” “Ath-Athena Cykes...” “And Miss Athena Cykes!” Atmey finished. “Now, I'm sure you'll want to hear all about my daring, elegant adventures in the field! An Ace Detective has many superb, scintillating stories to share!” “Actually, I thought we should start with this statement Interpol prepared. You see, we’ll be asking you about your family history, antecedent behavior and thought patterns surrounding the-” “Yes, yes, I got the gist of it from Sir Retinz.” “Not the most reliable source of information,” Simon pointed out before he could stop himself. He needed to put their new strategy to the test, he knew that, so he changed his tack. “Perhaps an Ace Detective such as yourself would like to review the statement, so as to be certain there are no loopholes we might employ?” Atmey removed his monocle and began to polish it on the sleeve of his prison garb. “Hmm... Well, I suppose I have ten seconds to spare. Very well.” Athena shot Simon another Look, this time one of excited accomplishment. Following that, she issued the full statement to Atmey, psychological profile, statistical analysis and all. Judging by the furrow of his brow and the way his fingers slowed their movements, the man appeared to be listening intently. “Mmh... What does Interpol's confidentiality clause entail, exactly?” he asked once Athena was done. “Well, ah... The specific answers to our questions will be kept within Interpol and can't be shared with outside sources, I guess?” she looked unsure even as she said it. Had she not read the details at all? “Those outside sources include other types of law-enforcement,” Simon supplied. “It is for that same reason that anything you say here cannot be used against you in your applications for parole. If the LAPD or the Prosecutor's Office were to request so much as a sample of these recordings, their request would be struck down without delay.” “Well, that's a shame, isn't it? This is about posterity! I, Luke Atmey, do hereby give anyone who has a desire for it full permission to review the recordings!” “... Right.” “Now, you'll want to know all about some of the amazing cases I've solved!” Atmey stated, lacing his fingers together and stretching them in a leisurely fashion. “Oh! Yes!” Athena opened her folder and tapped at it with a finger. “In particular, we're interested in your involvement with Mask☆DeMasque and the death of-” “No, no, no no no nooo,” Atmey tutted. “How boring! I've talked about that case so often, it would dry my tongue. No, let's talk about some other cases, shall we? I, Luke Atmey, did not gain the title of Ace Detective for nothing.” “I was under the impression you knighted yourself an Ace Detective,” Simon remarked. Atmey pretended not to have heard him. “Let's start from the beginning! My very first case! It was the year 2011! I was a mere twenty seven years old at the time and I had only just opened my doors to the world as a private detective. A fresh-faced rookie, I was eager to prove my worth. In came a woman wearing a red dress- and I remember this distinctly. I have a very keen eye for details, you see, as any detective ought to have. In she walked, and I could see on her face that she-” Simon refused to listen to any more of this tripe. He drew a few calming breaths and leaned back in his chair. Atmey's voice droned on and on in the background as if it were the chatter of distant birds. He closed his eyes for a moment. ------- Date: June 16th 2028 Time: 7:38 PM Location: Interview Room. Sudden pain exploded near Simon's shin, starting him back into awareness. He was sitting. He'd just been kicked. Athena was glaring at him and... Atmey was still talking. The man must've been oblivious to what'd occurred, as he looked quite carefree. “-And so ended my second case, which I like to refer to as Luke Atmey and the Missing Macademias. It is a reference, you see. Quite clever, if I do say so myself. Wasn't it just the most thrilling thing you've ever heard? Now, for the third case I tackled single-handedly-” Athena nudged his arm with her elbow, her eyes narrowing even further. Evidently, she'd been unable to stop Atmey's rambling and was now looking to him for assistance. Tempting as it was to shout the word “silence” loud enough to shatter windows, this was not at all the strategy to stick to. He had to give Atmey what he wanted, so... what did the man want? A listening ear, obviously, yet it was more than that. Atmey wanted a chance to boast. If that was the case, they simply needed to change the way they formulated their questions. “If I may interject,” he said, moving his chair closer to the table and leaning forward. “These tales are all quite interesting, but I do believe the details of your detective career were already recorded in your autobiography.” “Oh! You've heard of my autobiography?” Atmey looked positively delighted. “... I have heard of it, yes,” Simon said slowly, as there was only one source who'd kept bringing it up these past seven years and that source was sitting right in front of him. “However, as I've been unable to attain a copy for myself-” “-Oh, what a shame!” “Yes. A shame. As I was saying, I have not perused it myself and I find myself wondering... Does this autobiography also describe the illustrious Atmey family? As the apple does not often roll too far from the tree, I expect that they must all be successful go-getters such as yourself.” A cringe flashed across Atmey's face, just for a second. Then he was right back to talking. “Yes, yes of course! I'm afraid they aren't mentioned all too much in my book, as their ventures would be too elaborate to describe. Why, every single one of my siblings would be deserving of their own book, and so... Well, I would hate to bank on their glory.” “How many siblings do you have?” Athena asked him. “Seven,” said Atmey. “SEVEN?!” “I have four brothers and three sisters, yes. I was the youngest of eight.” Atmey removed his monocle as he spoke, once again idly polishing it with his sleeve. The most it accomplished was that a greasy blur spread itself out across the glass. “Just as Sir Prosecutor theorized, the Atmey family is quite known for its success. One of my brothers is working with the GYAXA space project to design rockets, another is a top plastic surgeon in Miami... Two of my sisters are the CEO of their own companies... As I said, each one of them would deserve their own biography.” Athena pumped both her fists, excited. “So... Are you like rivals? Do you all compete to show off your best accomplishments when you get together for Christmas? Ooh, I can see it now!” “No, no... Such a thing would be petty and quite beneath the Atmey family. We each value our own worth. There is nothing to prove.” “Even if there was nothing to prove, you must've tried very hard to live up their standards, right?” “Hum... Success comes naturally to any member of the Atmey family, or so they say.” Simon cast a quick glance towards Athena, wondering whether Atmey's voice might've betrayed some sort of emotion, but she was unreadable, just as the notes were that she was taking. When Atmey placed his monocle back before his eye, it was so smudged that one had to wonder whether he could see anything at all. “The Atmey family sounds a formidable, elegant group indeed,” Simon remarked. “They must have come to visit you in prison, yes?” Once again, Atmey cringed. “Ah. Well... They are quite busy, as anyone in our family tends to be. None of them live in Los Angeles, currently, and so it would be entirely too... Too much of a hassle. I have received letters, of course!” Simon glanced towards his partner and this time, Athena did show dismay. Whether it stemmed from Atmey's words or the feeling behind them was debatable. Regardless, she took a few more notes. “What a shame. Family may be considered one of the most important things in the world,” Simon mused. Then he realized that he was speaking to a convicted felon. “Though... Whenever my darling sister visited, she would rub my situation in my face. Quite a vindictive one, she is. Perhaps limiting communication to courteous letters would be a blessing.” “Perhaps...” said Atmey. Interesting. Taking into account a situation where eight siblings were all too occupied to pay notice to one another, it made sense for the youngest of the lot to be thirsty for attention. Atmey must've scrambled to keep up with their reputations quite a bit, as well. With those conclusions in mind, Simon attempted to divert the topic back to the murder of Kane Bullard. They were about to enter the thick of the jungle. “If I may be so bold... I took the liberty of reading through the transcripts of the Mask☆DeMasque trials. You fought some fierce battles, I must say. Your attempt to target a weak spot in the law's armor by utilizing double jeopardy, in particular, I found to be a stroke of genius.” “Oh... Did you really? Coming from a prosecutor, that is quite the compliment indeed.” Atmey smiled at him, but it was not at all a pompous smirk. It was, if anything, born from gratitude. “Yes, I had hoped... Well, no criminal is meant to get away with their crimes, of course. It just goes to show that I am an Ace Detective, not an Ace Murderer. Don't quit your day job, or so they say. Even so, it's disappointing that one man could see through my ruse.” “Mmh, what's important is that you went down fighting. Isn't that so?” “Yes... Quite right. Atmeys are nothing if not determined and I, Luke Atmey, am perhaps the most determined of the lot.” “Now, there was one thing in particular that caught my eye in the transcripts. I had hoped that you could clarify the matter for me, as I find it quite puzzling.” “Ooh, a puzzle?” Simon had Atmey's full attention, now. The former detective looked beside himself to be presented with a conundrum, his fingers drumming along the table. How unfortunate, then, that Simon was sure this was one mystery Atmey might wish to leave unsolved. The only way to be certain would be to ask. “... You said, and I believe this to be a direct quote: “Take a good look, everyone. Unable to find a rival worthy of my genius, I was forced to create one by myself. Here I am. The tragic clown.” Do you recall these words?” Atmey's complexion had drained quite fast. He withdrew from the table, looking as if he was suffering from pain, or perhaps embarrassment. “Ah. Hum. Yes. That does sound like... something I may have proclaimed in the courtroom, yes.” “Then, my question is as follows. Why did you identify yourself as the tragic clown?” “Elementary! It is a reference to Pagliacci! It's a well-known opera. The tears of a clown! Have you truly never heard of it, Sir Prosecutor?” Simon had expected that answer. Athena, it seemed, was missing the point. “I think I've heard of it...” she mused. “It's that story where a man and his wife are part of an acting troupe, known for a play where a clown finds out his wife is cheating on him. Except then, just before going on, the man playing the clown discovers that his wife is really cheating on him. He murders her on-stage, and the audience believes it's all part of the play.” “Yes, yes! That is Pagliacci! See, your assistant knows of it.” Athena hummed quietly, tilting her head. “... It is strange that you would compare yourself to Pagliacci, I suppose. I don't see what it has to do with blackmailing Mask☆DeMasque into working for you, or with killing the man who was blackmailing you.” “That is not what caught my eye about the proclamation,” Simon said. “What puzzled me is that a brilliant detective would lower himself to the same level as a clown at all.” “I beg your pardon?” Atmey asked, looking rattled. “Oedipus, MacBeth, Death of a Salesman, the Great Gatsby... Ah, yes, Javert from Les Misérables is another good example... My question is, why choose a tragic clown when there are more than enough tragic heroes to choose from?” Atmey was so startled, the monocle sprang away from his eye and hit the ground a few feet from his chair. “I... I... Well, that is to say... I don't know...!” There was a very long silence. Nobody dared to speak. Finally, Athena got up and reached for the monocle. There was a crack running along the glass. She frowned down at it, then handed it back to Atmey. “I see,” Simon concluded. “Well, no matter. Be it as a clown or as a hero, I'm sure you will be remembered as a tragic figure all the same.” “Yes... Ah. Thank you.” Still shaken, Atmey was no longer meeting their eyes. Instead, he peered down at the monocle in his hand, forlorn. They'd gained enough to think about from this interview, and apparently, they'd returned this sentiment the other way around. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Atmey,” Simon said, pushing himself to his feet. “Yes, thank you!” Athena chimed in, more cheerful and less formal than the situation might've called for. “We'll visit again if we have more questions.” “Oh. No, that... I don't believe that to be necessary. You must have other things to do.” It wasn't until about five seconds had passed and Athena was already reaching for the recording device that something inside Simon's head clicked. He froze in his tracks and his hand shot towards the device as well, shielding the 'stop' button from Athena's finger. There was one more question to ask. One thing which Simon had overlooked, because he'd categorized it as 'frustrating' and nothing more. “Why did you insist on scheduling this interview today? Could it be...?” “They didn't inform you?” Atmey paused, then raised his cracked magnifying glass to observe Simon closely. “Aaahhh, zvarri! You've figured it on your own, have you? Marvelous! You would make a wonderful detective.” Simon cringed. A prosecutor had no place deducing these sorts of things, he felt. A prosecutor was meant to deal with the truth after it had already been exposed. Athena, as it turned out, hadn't followed Simon's train of thought. She peered back and forth between the two men, her nose crinkled with concentration. “What? Figured what out?” she asked. “Why, he's realized that soon, the opportunity to schedule an interview would be lost,” Atmey said. Simon had never liked Atmey, yet that didn't stop the cold chill from running down his spine. This turn of events was inevitable, a fact of life and horrible all at the same time. He remembered the screams of those who were about to be subjected to that same fate. He could close his eyes and visualize how they would be dragged down the halls of death row by several guards, their attempts to dig their heels into the ground nothing more than futile scrapes. “How soon?” he asked, unable to keep a strained, anxious tone from his voice. Atmey spread his arms out, almost as if he were welcoming what was about to be said. “My execution is to take place two days from now.” To Be Continued

#my fanfiction #aa #aa spoilers #simon blackquill #athena cykes #AA mindhunter

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thoughtdumpshitposts · 3 years

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Emotional Breakdowns Lead To Passably Poetic Ramblings

26.06.21

word count: 2.15K

I never write because I need everything I write to be evocative. I need it to be painful. What's the point of writing something if the reader doesn't hurt? It hurt me to write this, and I hope it hurts you to read.

I've always imagined putting my thoughts into words, but I don't know if I want them to be on paper or my phone. Digital is easy, it's good, it's clean. It's easy to edit, to navigate, to save; it'll probably live on forever. It won't erode and disappear like the writing journal I had for six years, eaten away by the same termites who ate my entire closet from the inside. His name was Reggie, and he deserved better. I'd kept him safe in the closet, but I learnt too late that nothing was safe in the closet. Nothing physical, existing is ever safe from the World and it's beasts – Man or insect.

But paper is personal, it's real. It's beautiful. Sure, sometimes my brain and heart think of words faster than my hands can keep up, and the words are barely legible and my hand-writing's not pretty anyway, but that's the beauty of it. That's what makes it mine. But someone I know can stumble upon these words and read the truth of my existence. But maybe I want them to stumble upon it, one day. Maybe I want them to find my words and understand, really understand, who I was and what I am and what I kept locked up inside of me. That I wasn't some selfish, ill-mannered brat. That I really loved them, but sometimes it was hard. My mother always tells me no one can ever trust anyone but family, that even if she screams and shouts and scolds at first, at the end of the day she'll always have my back, and I know that's the truth.

But my cousin molested my other cousins and I, and she cried when she found out after years because she had to hear it from the other side of the family, and she cried because she'd told me so many times that she'll always have my back if something like that happened to me and she keeps saying family and family and family, and trust and trust and trust and how family is my parents and brothers and that's all we can ever trust but how do I tell her that the reason I said nothing when my cousin did it was because I was used to staying silent when my brother did? It's all so funny because I was blessed enough to have been born to parents who would never blame me for being abused in a society in which the blame- and shame-game is prevalent, but what do you do when the victim is your daughter and the abuser is your son – your firstborn, the first "nawasa" in the family, your pride and joy, the prince charming. You've loved him for seven more years than you've loved me. I understand. You don't deserve to suffer the truth. I saw how you were when you found out the truth about the cousin, I remember the things you said about family and trust. I know you have your own issues. You don't deserve to suffer. You don't. I love you all. So much. So so much. I won't let you suffer. I won't let you be the collateral to his sins. I'll protect you, and you'll never know.

And I'm okay, so why would I say anything? When we're happy and whole and great? Why would I say anything when I'm actually, genuinely fine and unaffected? Why would I ruin us? How could I say anything? And I'm fine, I really am. I'm okay. And I know my friends think I'm gaslighting myself when I say that I'm fine and it hasn't effected me much and it wasn't that bad because I was never actually physically hurt, but it's true. I'm used to laughing and loving the people I hate. I'm used to hating the people I love without an ounce of real hatred. I know what it sounds like, but it really isn't that way. It's okay. I'm okay, and no one should worry, even if sometimes I want everyone to worry. Even if sometimes I want everyone's pity and attention and love and sympathy, and I want them to hurt for me, like I hurt for the people I love. Sometimes I just want validation, I want people to know everything so they understand me. But everyone wants to be understood, so that's nothing special. I'm okay, and that is the only thing what matters.

I wasn't raped; I was molested. There's a difference.

I wasn't raped, and honestly I only remember a few instances with clarity. Everything else is a blur – it's all just snippets and flashes of memory spun together to make a vague, dramatic montage. But I wasn't ever physically hurt, and of course I know that it was still terrible and horrible and I didn't deserve it, but understand that it wasn't as bad as it sounds. I'm fine and genuinely, actually okay and I'm only affected when I have a mental breakdown, but that's almost always because I'm pms-ing. And it hasn't happened in a while now. It stopped. I think it's been four years? And it happened for five? six? I was 9 or 10 when it started? And he was 16 or 17? Okay, that – Oh, God oh fuck that sounds bad doesn't it? I'm 18. My younger brother is 10. I couldn't imagine– I can't. God.

But it actually wasn't as bad as it sounds. I was asleep – of course I wasn't asleep (but I think sometimes I must've been? I don't know) – but I was "asleep" when he did what he did. And he did do a lot, to be honest. His hands, everywhere on me. His mouth – everywhere. His–

Why is it so hard to write? I think it's harder to write than it is to think and speak of it.

But I don't know what happened to me. I don't know. I don't remember what happened. I wish I'd kept a better record, but I didn't. Oh, I remember a lot of things that happened, but I don't remember it all. I wish I did but I really don't. I wish I could read and revisit and do a shitty psychoanalysis of him. But I can't, and now he's the only one who knows what really happened, and I'll have to live with it.

There were no words. Never any words, never any pain. So again, I'm fine, and I'm okay. And he's great and fun and funny and I love him and I care about him and I'm always joking with him and he's a terrible person and I hate him and I wish I knew how his brain works and what he was thinking and still thinks and I'll never forgive him, but it's okay. It's really okay. As long as I was the only one who suffered. As long as I'm the only one who continues to suffer for my silence.

I think the only reason I still think about it so much is because I never got closure. I never got an explanation. I never understood why. I don't know if he's an irredeemable monster or if he at least feels guilty. I don't know what he was thinking, because there were never any words. And I'm glad there weren't any words and I was "asleep" because it makes it easier to interact with him and pretend it never happened, that it was someone else and everything's still okay.

But there were never any words, so I don't have anything to work with. Nothing to draw conclusions from, nothing to psychoanalyze him with. I don't know what he was thinking, I don't know what happened. I want closure, I want to understand. But I'm scared of whatever will lead up to the conversation, and the conversation itself. I'm scared of the acknowledgment and how it'll change everything irrevocably. I'm scared of getting closure, but I need it too. I need to understand.

Did you feel bad? Did you think of how it'll hurt me? Did it hurt you? Or were you indifferent to it all? Did you just not care or –fuck–was it some big joke? Was it funny? Was it amusing? Do you feel entitled to me? How fucking dare you? How could you? How fucking could you? You loved me. You were great to me, you still are sometimes. You're my big brother, man. I loved you. I love you. You were supposed to be my hero and I fucking swear to God you were. What the fuck happened to you? What made you this way? How could you do that to me? How could you do that and still look at me in the fucking eye? How? Why? I deserve to know.

But please don't tell me. I don't know what I'll do if I find out the extent of your monstrosity. I don't want you to fall even lower. I like to think you can't, but I know that's not true. Especially after what I learnt about Z- There's always room to fall.

But anyway – Reggie. I'd been brave enough to write a chapter of my life for the first time in that journal. It was the last story Reggie got to know. I'd never been brave enough to actually write about how I'd been hurt. I could never even write his name when I tried to make a record of what I went through – I was always smart (or sentimental?) enough to try and and keep a record, some proof, dated and organized. I was smart enough – but not brave. Maybe because my coping mechanism was pretending he was two different people, or maybe because writing it would make it real; I'd lived long enough without acknowledging it (even more so without understanding it), maybe if I ignored it long enough it would just go away. But the story I wrote in it wasn't even about that exactly. It was an older story; It was about how all of it might've been my fault. About how maybe I was always a fucked up child. But the story also brings me comfort – it reminds me that I've always been me, that the person I am today is because of the person I always was. That there was no influence that made me this way. I am what I was.

The termites consuming Reggie also reminded me of the old Islamic story about how the Boycott of Banu Hashim ended – the parchment holding the banishment declaration by the Meccans had been eaten by termites, except for the word Allah – the name of God. I thought it'd be interesting if this was God's way of sending me some message I have yet to decipher.

But I don't believe in God. Maybe life would've been easier if I did; if I could have found peace in He who I could not see, could not touch. If I could've found the same relief that my friends and family find in His words, His presence.

But I never felt His presence. I tried, I really did (maybe I didn't, maybe I should've tried harder?). During my last try, I made the resolution to offer all my prayers one Ramadan. I thought if I manage to nail down all the worship obligations, actual faith might follow somehow.

I lasted two days. I cried on the prayer mat during Fajr both times, like my mother does all the time, but I doubt it was for the same reasons as her, or lead to the same result. I did not feel at peace, and I did not feel seen and heard by the Creator; I had never felt more alone, more abandoned. My heart did not feel a little less heavy; it had never felt heavier.

I cried because I was desperate the cycle wouldn't repeat. I wanted to believe there was someone who could make it stop, someone who could make sure that others didn't follow in his footsteps. It did stop, eventually. But I think that's just how it was supposed to be – not because some deity cared enough to make it stop. He doesn't care about us, but if you don't agree with that, I envy you. I wish I believed what you believe.

But I'm also glad I don't. So I will just exist, till one day I don't. And you won't remember me, and He won't care, and no one will greet me at the Gates of Heaven or throw me in the depths of Hell, because neither exist.

I hope.

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woozletania · 7 years

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Sanctuary (RR/GOTG slice of life)

It started one day in the most innocuous way imaginable: nothing more dramatic than an E-mail. "Hey Rock," Quill said, slumped back in the pilot's chair idly scanning the screen as he helped Rocket work on a problem with the Milano. "Got a letter from your doctor friend." "Those're always good," Rocket replied, his head and body down to the armpits inside a panel working on control connections. "Try the upper right aileron control." Star-Lord obediently pressed a control and Rocket made a happy noise from inside the console, his ringed tail twitching in not-quite-a-wag. Peter went on. "Weird thing is the subject line is public but the body is locked, or I'd read it to you. All I can see is 'P. Foster' and 'It's happening again'." There was a dull bang from inside the console as Rocket's tail went stiff. Peter watched curiously as a hand appeared, set down a wrench. Rocket's voice was deadly calm. "Read that again, Pete." "'It's happening again.' That's all I can read, man." "Oh. Okay then." The hand grabbed the wrench and Rocket worked briefly, then slid back into view. As usual he was covered with dust and smears of grease but a spot of bloody fur over one eye showed where he'd hit his head. "That'll hold it. I gotta hit the can." Gamora came up the stairs just as Rocket went down and the little raccoon pushed past her with even worse manners than usual. The green-skinned assassin took one look at the open panel and discarded tools the raccoon left in his wake and came to the obvious conclusion. "In the middle of something? Mantis has lunch ready." "I guess.". Peter fiddled with the controls, watching the indicators as he tried the various control surfaces, thrusters and engines. "Looks like it's all working. Figure Rocket will want to work on it more though, he doesn't leave his personal tool kit just lying where everyone can get at it unless he's in the middle of something." But Rocket didn't show up at lunch and didn't answer when Mantis knocked on his door. Weirdly enough he'd even locked Groot out and the tree, a little taller than the raccoon now and going through early teenage crankiness, spent two minutes banging on the door until Rocket finally swore and opened it. "What? I was just doin' some stuff." Groot handed him back his tools, which got a grunt of something like 'thanks' from the raccoon, who then finally emerged and locked the door behind him. Drax happened by just then and the three made their way to the common area for a belated lunch. Peter, Gamora and Mantis were all there around the table and Mantis reached out without thinking to pet Rocket, seeing from the angle of his ears that he was in a bad mood. Rocket was a lot more likely to let someone pet him these days but this time he flinched away and sat by himself, grabbing one of the sandwiches from the platter without a word. Seeing Rocket in a bad mood was nothing new but he was usually nicer to Mantis than this and Peter spoke up. "Was that letter bad news, Rock?" "Oh that," Rocket grunted between bites. "Not really. He did say he met another guy who's up on my model of cybernetics and that I should have him take a quick look next time I'm in the area. So I wanna swing by Kopleth today, since we're between money runs." "Kopleth? Dull place, but I guess," Peter said. There was nothing but the sound of munching and Drax loudly slurping soup after that until Rocket finished eating. The second the door to his room closed, though, the conversation started up again. "You don't believe him, do you?" Said Gamora. "Not for a second," Quill replied. "I am Groot," said the sapling. "Yes," rumbled Drax. "He had his weapons out and a bag of bombs half packed when I saw into his room for a moment. Whatever he's going to Kopleth for, it is not to see a doctor." Gamora's smart pad beeped, and she read the message before turning the screen so the others could see. It was from Nebula. 'Not supposed to tell you this, but he's in your crew. Rocket just asked me to help him kill some people. Something going on I should know about?' Rocket should have known that on a ship this small it was impossible to keep secrets. Perhaps he did, because when they arrived on Kopleth and he made his way down the docking ramp, bag-full-o-guns over his shoulder, it was an expression of resignation more than anything else that crossed his face when he found his friends waiting at the bottom. "Before you say anything," he said. "This isn't anything you want to be a part of. It's personal business." Gamora held up her smart pad once more. 'If you are reading this I am dead, on the run or in jail. The bounty on me will be huge if it's the middle one, so I'll understand if you come after me. It was something I had to do. No apologies.' Rocket groaned. "That was supposed to be time locked until tomorrow." "Not when I know to look," Gamora said. "And I knew something was going on." "Yes," said Nebula as she stepped off her ship. "What is going on, fox?" "It's happening again," Rocket said a little later in the Milano's common area. "I can't let it happen again. Never again." "What's going on, buddy?" Rocket sat with his ears down and his little clawed hands between his knees. He counted the grenades on his belt, twice, before continuing. "Doc Foster got a job offer. They knew he worked at Halfworld and gave him a virtual tour of the new facility. Animal Uplift. Cybernetic implants. Vivisection. Euthanizing the subjects when they were done. Somehow they had data files from the Halfworld complex. There must have been a backup elsewhere and now it's all happening again." There were no tears in the raccoon's eyes. Just determination. "If I have to spend the rest of my life in a cell to stop this, I'll do it. Every one of these bastards has to die. But research like this is legal on Kopleth. I'm going, but the rest of you oughta get out of here now. 'Cept maybe the lady who already has a giant bounty on her bald head," he said, nodding to Nebula. "You're not going, buddy," Star-Lord said. "Not without me." "There will be heavy security, yes?" Drax asked, and Rocket nodded. "Then I will not be left out of a good fight." "And if my sister goes, I go," said Gamora. Nebula just smiled. "You don't get it," Rocket said. "We spent the last year building up a reputation. This could destroy it. If it's just me you can say I was a rogue. I'm expendable." "No," Gamora said, and everyone (except maybe Nebula) said together, "You aren't." Rocket sighed. Not surprised, just a little sad. Peter spoke up next. "So you got a plan, little buddy?" "'Course I got a plan," Rocket mumbled. "Always got a plan." "One that involves all of us, not just you?" "Told you," Rocket said with the beginning of a smile. "I always got a plan." And that's why it was that Drax, armed with a missile launcher of Rocket's own design, Gamora with her plasma rifle and Quill with his pistols stormed the front of the complex to draw attention away from the back, while Rocket, Rocket-sized Groot and Nebula, whose cybernetics made her eerily flexible, entered via the ductwork Rocket had identified from the schematics he'd studied. Some of the vents were too small for even Nebula and so they soon separated with a whispered "Kill only when necessary," for Rocket eventually allowed himself to be reminded that not everyone they encountered would be a monster. Yet the first thing he did was drop out of an air vent onto the shoulders of a Xandarian who was cutting open a black-furred creature, dig his claws into the man's throat and rip it out. "Nod if you understand," he whispered, undoing the furry thing's restraints even as the researcher toppled over. It nodded, and Rocket slapped an emergency medical patch over the hole the "doctor" had put in the long-eared creature and gestured for it to follow him. There was a thump against the wall nearby, probably Nebula shattering some fool's skull, and a black-clad security guard popped through a door only to get a chest full of Rocket's hand-made APX - Armor Piercing Explosive - rounds. The next room had nothing but a few empty cages and bloodstained operating tables, though Rocket reflexively pocketed a handful of servo components from a table. Distant shouts and gunfire meant the other Guardians were fighting their way in and this place clearly wasn't built and staffed to withstand a major assault, which was just what you got when Gamora and Drax led an attack. "I am Groot?" The black-furred test subject jumped when a three-foot-tree man man his appearance but Rocket just smiled. "Yeah, can you get that door?". He'd been about to blast the armored portal but Groot's strength was all out of proportion to his size and his tendrils ripped the thing from its hinges. "Jackpot!" Cages, test subjects - and a couple of guards. Rocket got one before they recovered from the sudden disappearance of the armored door and speed and small size gave him the advantage he needed to take out the other. "Get 'em out, get 'em out!" He blew away what he recognized as a cybernetics jammer mounted just outside the row of cages and Groot ripped the door off the nearest just as a white-jacketed researcher appeared. Rocket hesitated to shoot an unarmed man and thus made a mistake that would make him wake staring at the ceiling and shaking for years afterward. The man didn't need a gun to smash his hand into a panic button and the result was clouds of green poison gas spraying from nozzles on the ceiling. "Shit! Hurry!" The furthest cages were already out of sight in a cloud of poison, as was the researcher, and Rocket resorted to shooting the locks off the cages he could still see. Half shaved, cybernetic implant-studded animals of several unfamiliar species leapt out and ran for the door and Rocket cursed as he shot the lock off a cage that held a shivering yellow-furred creature curled in a ball as far away from the bars as it could get. He had already breathed more of the green gas than he liked and all he could do was grab the thing and yank it out of the cage. Mistake. He should have known it would panic and with an animalistic shriek the long, flexible yellow creature wrapped around him like a snake and sank sharp fangs into his neck. The spray of red told him he was in real trouble but Rocket was no stranger to pain and he grabbed a gas-added creature from another cage and staggered for the door, weighed down by two of them and passing the handheld one off to Groot as he made it through the doorway and slammed it shut. Everything still alive in that room wouldn't be that way for long and he wasn't doing so good either. The whiskery muzzle was still clamped down on the side of his neck and Groot had to help him run the few dozen yards to daylight. What he saw when he burst into the light astonished him. Not just the Guardians but hovering Nova fighters, not to mention ground troops who had rounded up a dozen white-coated researchers and were similarly trying to keep track of at least that many research animals. His keen ears picked up the argument going on between a Nova officer - he recognized Dey - and what must be the head researcher. "No authority here - research animals, perfectly legal," and something about "Murderous thugs." Rocket ignored the blood running down his chest, got his fingers into the scruff of the yellow thing slowly killing him with its bite and whispered, "Listen - all of you Subjects, listen, say this -" "Rocket!" Quill came running as Rocket's vision began to gray around the edges, blood loss and gas, and Gamora right behind him. No sign of Nebula of course, she'd wisely taken a powder. Just then the yellow thing's fangs came out of his neck and it said, slowly and clearly to the nearest Nova corpsman: "In accordance with the Uniform Sapience Act -" "No!" The head researcher tried to intervene, only for Drax to clothesline him to the ground. "I request sanctuary on the basis of inhumane treatment," the yellow thing said, and the other animals repeated "Sanctuary, sanctuary," and the less Uplifted or vocal ones spitting out the syllables the way he used to, "sanct-u-ary," And then Rocket was falling over, weighed down by the yellow thing and never so happy in his life to hear one word. It'd all been worth it. Live or die, it was so worth it. ***** 'So, not dead,' were Rocket's first thoughts when he woke. His neck hurt, his chest hurt, and oddly enough his leg hurt too. And the second thing that passed through his mind when he opened his eyes was how familiar the metal ceiling looked. "Why am I not in jail," he mused, and Peter jerked upright in the chair next to the bunk, dropping the Zune headphones he'd been tinkering with. A strange animal chirp came from low down, out of his range of vision, but it hurt to turn his neck so he couldn't see what made it. "Rocket! Hey, everybody, he's awake!" In an instant the room was crowded with the crew, and even Nebula, and Rocket realized he was in Peter's quarters on board the Milano. The captain's cabin, if you could call it that, was about fifteen percent larger than the space he had before he turned it into a lifeboat and started sleeping in his round padded bed. "I have lots of questions," Rocket said, and then there was another, because a sleek yellow head sporting long, familiar whiskers popped into view as well. He'd never gotten a good look at it but this was indisputably the creature that nearly killed him. He was too tired and sore to hold that against her. "I guess they all fall under 'what happened'." "Peter had an idea," Gamora said, and Mantis smiled as she gently scratched Rocket's ears. "A good one, for a change." "Thanks Gamora," Pete said sourly. "I called Nova Corps before we went to the compound to see if I could get them to look the other way for a little while as we took off for our new outlaw lives. When I explained what was going on to Dey he said the following," with that he pointed at Drax. "Animal research is legal in many places," the giant intoned. "But as far as Nova is concerned, Uplift, or at least the abuse of the resulting sapients is legal nowhere." Peter grinned. "Since Kopleth has no military to speak of they couldn't do much when a Nova troop transport and escorts showed up. Even medics who patched you up, though it was a near thing. You had nerve gas in your system, a nicked artery in your neck and a splinter from a ricochet or something in your calf below the armor." "So we're not outlaws," Rocket said wonderingly. "What about the research subjects?" "Under Nova supervision," Gamora said. "To be granted full sapient rights and a share of the penalty fines being assessed against the company. And we get a share of that too." "Free money!" Pete cheered. "A reward for just doing good things!" "What about her?" Rocket looked at the whiskery creature, seeing the bolts almost concealed by her fur where the artificial collarbones lay. He had bolts like that, too. "Her?" Pete looked puzzled. "You mean 96L02?" "Subject Nine-Six-Lima-Zero-Two reports as ordered, sir," the creature said, and stood up as straight as its long cylindrical body allowed. Rocket winced. "Damn it Pete, you know better than that. That's not a name and she - yeah, you bald bodies have no noses I know but she is a she - is conditioned to respond to that number. I don't want to hear one of you say it again. Ever." He reached over to see how she would react, careful not to touch, and webbed hands/forepaws clasped his fingers. "Rocket," she chirped. "So so-ree I bit you." "I woulda done the same thing," Rocket said. "Ask Pete. He got the scars to prove it. Now we need to get you a name." She stood bolt upright. "Subject Nine-Six-Lima-" "No!" She shrank back, her little low-set ears sinking. "That was what they called you. You don't belong to them now. You can have any name you want." "But I don't have a name," she chirped. Do you know the names of the researchers?" "Rocket," Peter said firmly. "You are not naming her after guys you killed to get her out." "Hey, it worked for me. And I only killed four anyway." "I am Groot." "That guy killed himself," Rocket said, and that brought back bad memories. "How many got out? Test subjects that is." "Thirteen," Gamora said, "But one died from gas exposure. Before you ask, including the one in the operating room there were twenty-six in various stages of Uplift." Rocket swore, but Peter cut him off. "Subject-" and the yellow creature stood bolt upright, "Er, Lima told us what happened. Rocket, I was the one who told you not to shoot people who weren't a threat. It's my fault. And if we'd all gone in the front, which was my plan, they would have gassed them all. Your plan got some of them out and would have got them all out if you hadn't listened to me. So blame me, not yourself." "It's all right," Rocket grunted. "I woulda hesitated anyway. Didn't think a guy would kill himself just to get rid of some Subjects." Lima stood bolt upright at the word. "Why is she doing that, Rock? You don't do that when people say 89P-" Rocket let out an inarticulate growl and Pete stopped. "Oh yeah, you killed all the people who called you that." "Except Doc Foster," but then Lima was gripping his clawed hand again in her webby ones. "Why are you so angry, Rocket," she chirped, and Pete smothered a laugh. "'Cause I was made to be angry. To be a weapon. You don't have to be like me, Lima." "I'm not," she said immediately. "I am for linguistics, and diplomacy, and companionship. I am to be cute." And with her whiskers and ink-dark eyes she certainly was. "No! You don't gotta be what they made you. You can be whatever you want." "I don't know what I want to be," she chirped, and Rocket smiled sadly. "Welcome to the club, lady." One by one the others wished him goodnight and left for their beds, for it was very late indeed. He'd apparently been granted Peter's cabin until he recovered, though he protested that he didn't need anywhere near that much space. "You're in no shape to curl up to sleep," Peter said. "You need a real bed." I've got a real bed, and it's round, Rocket thought but did not say. That brought it to mind when Lima dropped down to all fours and curled up on a wadded-up blanket. "Groot," Rocket mumbled, and then spoke up despite his sore chest. "Groot!" "I am Groot?" Naturally, the tree had been resting right outside the door. He wasn't going anywhere until he was sure Rocket was fully recovered. "Get my bed, please." "I am Groot?" "No, it's not for me. Pete will yell at me if he has to sleep on a bunk and I don't use the bed he's lent me. And yeah, I'm too sore to curl up. But look," Rocket said, and gestured at Lima. "I am Groot." "Thanks, pal." A moment later the tree was back with the round, padded bed, the one embroidered with "Rocket" and the Ravager symbol. Rocket knew perfectly well it was a pet bed Pete picked up on Earth but Pete never lorded that over him (which showed he had an active survival instinct) and the thing was damn comfortable. "Lima." The yellow creature - Rocket was sure there was a species name for her, but he had no idea what it was except that she was clearly designed for an aquatic life - popped her head up out of the nest of blankets. "Use this. It's comfy." She slithered out of the blankets on her short web-footed legs and gave it a sniff. "It smells like you, Rocket." "Yeah, I sleep in it, but you need it more than I do right now." "Are you sure?" "Yeah." Rocket smiled as she curled up in a ball in the padded bed, just as he did. She was long and sinuous compared to his more humanoid build, but she still fit perfectly into the thing. There was a time he and Groot shared the thing every night, but Groot was too big now. That had taken a lot of getting used to. For years he'd slept in leafy beds Groot grew each night, then he and mini-Groot shared various beds, and then ultimately it was just Rocket, and now it was just Lima, or whatever her name would eventually be. "Good night, Lima. Tomorrow we'll talk about your name." And that would have been the end of it, except that later, when the ship lights were turned down to a dim glow, Rocket was woken by a familiar sound. A nervous chattering, whining, and the sound of claws on fabric. Lima was in the midst of a nightmare. He'd heard all these sounds before from himself, and heard them described to him. She twitched in the round bed, and whined, and he had all too good an idea of what she was dreaming about. He'd always been the one to wake screaming, or shivering. Peter had the occasional nightmare, and with good reason, but he was stronger than Rocket. Or maybe his nightmares didn't involve being strapped down and cut open. Rocket didn't know what Pete had nightmares about. Ego? The Ravagers? His mother dying? Yondu? He did know how Pete had helped him with his own night terrors, though. Rocket winced as he sat up, and using the cabin chair as a stepping stool (not something he'd normally need) finally made it to the floor. He was tough, he healed fast, but the nerve gas had really done a number on him. Stapled-up wounds in neck and leg didn't hurt half as much as his chest but he dropped to all fours and padded over to the round bed an its occupant. Peter, much larger than himself, had just petted him or rubbed his back to get him to relax. Lima was as big as he was, though, and the only way he could see to make her feel safe was to crawl into the round bed and snuggle up next to her. She moved in her sleep and soon her whiskery muzzle rested on his shoulder next to his own. Bit by bit she shifted and he moved with her until they were curled up together. If it weren't for their dramatically different fur colors and body shapes it'd be hard to tell where one ended and the other began. By the time they were snuggled up together she had relaxed, the shivering tension gone from her muscles and her breathing slow and relaxed. 'What I should do now is wriggle out of here and bed back on the bed,' Rocket thought. But he was tired, and sore, and there was something about lying here snuggled up with another furry creature. 'Safe,' Rocket thought as he drifted off to sleep. 'I feel safe. I hope she does too.'

#Rocket Raccoon #lylla #Guardians of the Galaxy #Groot #Star-Lord #gamora #mantis #nebula #death

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