#tw: suicide by firearm

[ixtral]

They should invent an at-home suicide method that works 100%, is painless, and is easily accessible for everyone.

[starspice-y]

TW!: Suicidal Imagery / Firearms

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AP artwork!

[unicornpopcorn14]

Dazai and his (dis)association with Guns

It's interesting to me how Dazai conically wields no firearms on him, neither in the PM nor in the ADA.

I mean, taking how dangerous both jobs are into consideration, and how he isn't as physically capable as the strongest ability users out there, you'd think he'd at least ensure a safety measure with him at all times.

But every gun he wields in the series is someone else's.

Every. single. one.

Even the handgun he wields in the Azure messanger arc, despite belonging to the agency, he doesn't constantly use:

While in Stormbringer, Dazai uses a tazer gun before meeting Adam and relying on him:

I've had many speculations regarding this pattern (feel free to add onto them), one of them being that Dazai thinks he doesn't even need guns, since strategies are his weapons, his hands alone are his weapons. In a world of crazy abilities, and users completely relying on said abilitis, being a nullifier might be considered the biggest threat, and a pretty sturdy weapon to rely on.

After some thinking, however, I found that while this might be part of the reason, it isn't enough to just disregard firearms as weapons entirely. Dazai's plans/predictions aren't foolproof, and as he'd explained, they are full of uncertanties, contrary to Fyodor's plans.

And Dazai's ability can't be relied on all the time. Having to touch the enemies/maintain proximity in order to activate it is definitely a hindrance. Besides, some enemies can be physically competent without their abilities, some might not even have abilities, but are formidable. Firearms in these situations would be extremely useful, given their range, and a good precaution.

Aside from combat, tw: suicide Let's not forget that a shooting oneself is subjectively the most painless way to die. So if anything, Dazai should be eager to have one on him and even attempt with it. But he doesn't, he never even seems interested in using guns at all in his suicide methods, hence he would have succeeded long ago...

So if it isn't out of unnecessity, then what might be the reason? I mean, having to count on your enemies to have guns in order to use one is rather inconveniet, right? Why can't he just carry the agency's gun or, before that, any of the countless PM's firearms? Well...

Here is what I think: Killing with guns is triggering for Dazai

Let's rewind a little...

15!Dazai is the earliest we see him using a firearm, and one of the few times he does shoot with said firearm, resulting in this fiasco:

He's clearly having a mental breakdown, spiraling, can't stop, and most importantly: can't think straight. This is Dazai's lowest moment in the whole series.

Thing worth mentioning: in the manga/lightnovel, Dazai does stop after shooting the man one time (basically killing him) and pauses, before he continues again and again and agian...

So I believe the triggering factor is either the death/corpse itself, or how the recoil felt.

We can't exactly determine what it might be, since remember, this is before Dazai even joins the Mafia. He's known Mori for mere weeks at this point. Whatever Dazai's going through in this moment has to related to his past prior to the mafia that we have yet to (or might never) see.

You'd get why Dazai, a person whose greatest ability is his mind above all else, would never wish to go through a moment where he can't keep his thoughts in check. Where he'd lose control.

And you know what's crazy? Dazai seems to avoid that outcome since then, as This is the only moment we see him actively kill someone with a gun in the series.

18!Dazai, through his (abusive) teaching moment with Akutagawa, shoots three times in hopes the other finally uses his ability defensively. There is a cause, and a motif, that a gun has to be involved in. And he knows Akutagawa is going to succeed in repelling them, he knows that won't kill him. Which is why wielding a gun is safe along with shooting it.

While in the ADA, in the instances Dazai wields a gun, he doesn't even shoot:

And that checks. Each one of these example were mere empty threats, but now I see that, as much as it's a threat to whoever he's pointing the barrel at, he's also under the mercy of it. Which means that every time he's used a gun since fifteen was a means to scare and not kill, if only to avoid the worst outcome which is losing control.

Dazai's sanity is on the line whenever the trigger is at the tip of his finger...

So why would he carry guns when he never even plans to shoot? When properly putting them to use threatens to send him into a breakdown, to overthrow his entire line of thinking?

One moment out of control might cost him his plans, his objectives, his subordinates, the lives he wishes to protect. And unless there is a motif for the gun (other than of course, killing) using it is a threat looming over him.

[bloody-cupcakes]

Can i get a yan!jd (and or Veronica) with a very hesitant reader? Like theyre willing to join in with JD's murders but they extremely doubtful/hesitant with with commiting the act cause they dont want to mess it up?

Sorry if this is too much or not what exactly you want, just shooting my shot here 🐊

No no this is perfect! It's not too much at all, I really enjoyed writing this 🥰 I went with both JD and Veronica because who doesn't love a good murder throuple

Tw: yandere/dark content, gender neutral reader, typical canon related warnings (murder being framed as suicide, several gun mentions, swearing, etc.), the reader is very easily persuaded into helping to commit/cover up a murder, suggestive stuff near the end

"What if we get caught?"

It was the fifth time you'd asked in the past ten minutes, and JD was getting very close to strangling you.

"We won't get caught as long as we stick to the plan," he hissed out in annoyance, trying his best not to snap at you.

"Okay, but what if-"

Veronica cut you off so JD wouldn't pop a blood vessel and give her another suicide to stage, with you as the intended target. "I wrote the note in their exact handwriting, and you already did part of your job by telling Heather Duke that they've 'been acting weird' lately. I'm sure half of Sherwood must know by now, so their death shouldn't come as too big of a surprise."

"Who knew that for once it would come in handy that Heather can't keep her damn mouth shut," JD added with an eyeroll as he counted the bullets in his gun. "It certainly doesn't help their case to have such a big obsession with firearms. And given their track record of firing them all throughout the night, I don't think they'll be missed much."

You slowly nodded your head in understanding despite the look of hesitation in your eyes. "Yeah, but... I just don't want to mess anything up and get you guys into trouble."

It was clear to Veronica that you still seemed a bit apprehensive about everything, so she gave you a reassuring smile and said, "You're not going to mess anything up. If we thought that might happen, we would've left you at home."

"Then you wouldn't get to enjoy the show, and what fun would that be?" JD piped up with a grin as Veronica rolled her eyes.

"Don't worry about it, okay? Everything will be fine." The sincerity of her tone did its job of starting to relax you. She was right, they'd never invite you along if they thought something bad might happen. If there was one thing they could agree on, it was making sure to keep you out of harm's way.

"If you say so, but I still don't understand why they have to die."

"Because they were getting a little too close for comfort in study hall, that's why." JD came up behind you, wrapping his arms around you as his chest pressed against your back. He had his gun in his hand, but you weren't worried. You trusted him not to hurt you. "They were asking inappropriate questions and practically undressing you with their eyes. Only we get to do that."

It was hard to keep your expression neutral due to how flattered you were. Other people might find it to be smothering or unhealthy, but you loved how protective they were over you.

"Okay, you remember the plan, right?" Veronica asked as the three of you approached the intended target's house. "You just go up and knock on the door. They'll let you in-"

"No doubt with the assumption that they'll score," JD butted in with a scowl. Veronica ignored him and chose to continue.

"-and when that happens, I want you to ask them about their firearm collection. Once you get them feeling vulnerable and safe, ask to see one of their guns. Make sure you get close enough to shoot them in the head so it'll look like a believable suicide. Do you remember what their dominant hand is?"

"They're ambidextrous (meaning they use both) so it won't matter which side it's on." You felt proud of yourself for being able to remember such an important piece of information. The time you spent in study hall with them didn't turn out to be completely useless after all.

"Well, aren't you a cute little schemer in the making," JD teased while giving your cheek a playful pinch.

"Shut up," you muttered while giving him a light shove in response. "You guys promise to come in once the gun goes off, right?"

"Of course we do. As soon as we hear it, we'll be inside to help you." Veronica took your hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Good luck," was the last thing she said before her and JD went to go hide while they waited for you to enact your part of the plan.

You put on your most convincing smile as you made your way to the front door, knowing your acting game was going to need to be on point in order for this to work.

Much to your relief and delight, things ended up going a lot smoother than you'd anticipated, and that included the act of murder itself. When JD and Veronica entered the house, you were still holding the gun used to shoot them with, their blood splattered on your face and clothes.

"I did it!" You announced in surprised disbelief, your eyes wide as you stared down at the dead body now lying on the floor. "I did it..."

"You did, good job." Veronica took the gun from you to stage next to the body as JD cupped your face with his hands, completely unbothered by the blood there. "I'm so proud of you, baby. You did it."

A shiver of pleasure went down your spine at his words of praise. "Yeah, I did." You could tell by the way his pupils were blown wide that he was ready to devour you where you stood.

"Hey, I still need your help with this," Veronica's voice interrupted whatever kind of moment you were having, causing JD to let out a groan of disappointment.

"I'll give you your reward once we're done," he murmured lowly, giving you a hungry yet restrained kiss before letting go of you to help Veronica.

You watched the two of them as they set everything up to make it look like a suicide, from the weapon to the note. Despite your earlier worries, everything played out perfectly, just like it was supposed to.

It made you feel excited for any potential outings like this you guys might have in the future.

[agent-calivide]

I kinda roll my eyes whenever I see posts mocking the whole "don't spam like" "unalive" tiktokification of social media, but not in the genuine "it's a fucking travesty that people have to self censor and think about algorithms that actively tries to screw over the users" way but rather in a "haha, new social media is dumb, I'm a bitter 30 year old" way.

Like, yeah, on Tumblr getting the response of "don't spam like" is fucking annoying because it doesn't do shit other than just show that someone's looking at all of your stuff, but spam liking is not binging a page. It is specifically when someone goes onto someone's tiktok and proceeds to mass-like videos without actually watching them all the way through, it's just scrolling and liking without actually watching the content, which communicates to the algorithm "hey, this person's videos suck because people stop watching at the 3 second mark" and stops pushing your videos.

This doesn't matter for people who are doing it for fun, I don't care personally on my tiktok, spam like away, but when people are trying to make a career out of it by either being an influencer or advertising their small business or trying to show music they've written or just wanna share work they're proud of it's annoying to get screwed by someone showing misplaced love. Especially when there was a window of time were people would spam like as an attack to try and fuck someone over and "shadowban" them.

And the making fun of the censoring is even more fucking stupid. I have posted 2 videos that got dinged for having inappropriate content and got two strikes on my tiktok that I've been running for about 5 years. Anyone who has seen my tiktoks knows I am as inoffensive as you get, I don't do thirst traps, I have Content and Trigger and Flash warnings, I hand-type captions on all of my videos and if I do use the auto-generated ones I watch the video back to make sure they're all correct, I just lipsync to silly audios and basically make video versions of incorrect quotes of whatever my hyperfixation is at the moment.

One was me painting a nerf gun and a nerf crossbow to look like a real gun and real crossbow to be props, which was dinged for showing firearms. My video of me painting a neon yellow gun and bright pink crossbow to black and woodgrain was marked as dangerous content because either someone chose to report me or whatever scanners they use to pick out "dangerous" videos misread and assumed I had real firearms and wouldn't repeal it. My other video, with multiple content and trigger warnings, had an audio that went "For my next trick, I'm gonna fucking kill myself". And while the audio was allowed to stay on tiktok and other people were allowed to use it, because I had a caption and a description that read: TW: Suicidal ideation and properly typing out captions, I got penalized.

But with tiktok, your post isn't just taken down, you have a limited number of strikes and if you get too many, you're entire fucking page is eaten. Just gone, erased, and there is no way for you to get it back. And I have two strikes for: painting a toy black and lipsyncing to a popular audio.

People aren't arbitrarily using "sewer-slide" "grapist" "unalived" and "pew pew" because they wanna infantilize this serious issue, it's because they want to talk about this serious issue without being silenced and, like it or not, tiktok is where word travels fast and to the biggest audience these days. Being "shadowbanned" and having all of your messages get strangled because you used the proper terminology, if not getting kicked straight off the platform, is too high a risk for someone who uses that platform. Especially if they do also use it to advertise, to squeeze a few pennies from the creator fund, to try and make it big or even just to fucking have fun.

I don't know if shadowbanning ever was actually a thing, I just do silly costumes to songs for fun, but there were many people who'd be trying to get traction to show work or get sales or speak out about a bad situation and suddenly they'd go from getting hundreds of thousands of views on every single video to maybe a couple hundred because they had the audacity to say "this shooter is a fucking monster" rather than "this [pew-pewer] is a [bad bad person]"

And if TikTok was their first social media platform, of course they're gonna think other platforms are also ruling with an iron fist. I still feel weird being allowed to say shit like gun and murder on Tumblr because there's a voice in the back of my head that says I'm gonna get my entire blog taken away for daring to use the proper words.

I don't know, maybe I'm missing something, but I think the most well known and most encouraged to use platform of these last few years is also one that's so highly regulated that people are pre-emptively trying to figure out how to talk about important things without it totalitarian-ly beating them into a fine paste with the algorithm so people just see the silly little dance videos tiktok would rather push over the people communicating real world problems is more fucked up than Stacy saying "unalived" on Reddit out of habit.

[jeridoesntdourls]

hmm oh forgot to specify 20 for all three :)!

THANK YOU!! Reversed endings mean talking about their worst traits which i love so much- I'm not 100% sure about how I would like them to play out but the story beats are the same independently. Might be a bit weird but i always imagined bad endings as more of bad routes where the story itself changes as you make your choices. Never thought I'd be saying this but suicide tw on Attis' bit and desire to be physically hurt expressed on Medea's. This one is LONG. (also yk disclaimer that despite the church being used as a "villain" in Medea's route, I am not criticizing the concept of belief or of religion. Despite my problems with the church, I would still consider myself religious)

BOREA

When valued by the player only for her achievements and making jokes during moments of emotional intimacy, Borea will become cold and distant, thinking her feelings do not matter and that she can never be understood. She goes on to establish contact with Vesuvia before the Brass ring can agree, which causes the group to rebel against the Syndicate and then be slaughter en mass by the new government. Borea then tries to lead the syndicate alone and is mutinied. The nation erupts into chaos and the ship captains and crew are nowhere to be found, stranding the MC on Tua. Without any other hope, Mc seeks out Borea, who awaits her death in the syndicate meeting room. She pulls MC into an embrace, crying for all that they could've been, for all the nation could've been. You have the option to shield Borea so that she can look over the city. You die before you can see if she does as well.

ATTIS

When his escapism is encouraged, Attis will leave his sister to sort out the situation between the Brass Ring and the Syndicate, making plans to escape with the MC to Vesuvia and start anew there. He will try to ignore the rising tensions and tour the city with MC until all hell breaks loose when his sister takes her own life. The Brass Ring, now without a diplomat, begin infighting and sporadically attacking members of the Syndicate. Attis begins fabricating weapons for the Ring because he believes that is the only thing he is capable of doing well. The MC begins to reveal the plans of revolt and on the dawn of the first attacks, Attis tries to abandon Tua but is unable to because of the blockade. When MC catches him, he tries to play it off but if they insist on asking him why he's making these firearms he admits that he doesn't know what he's doing, he misses his mother and his father and his sister and he thinks this is the only way they could ever be proud of him now. He tries to settle things down but they're too far gone. He creates even more of a divide between the Ring which leads to full out duel between the two. There is finally an opening where he is able to leave Tua but returns from the port to protect MC.

MEDEA

If you treat her as being unable to do harm and feed into her self sabotage, she will regress into the strict morals of the old Heilist church and support the outside attempts at foreign intervention from the nation of Insulinde, believing that she is saving the city from damnation. There isn't any change at first but then, Insulinde begins to pay off members of the Syndicate and assassinate the others(Borea included), launching campaigns to elect newly integrated officials of their own and members of the church into the Syndicate. Every philanthropic donation from Insulinde is just a way to solidify it's power over Tua and begin to capitalize off its exploitation once again. Medea is assigned the Reinado seat in the syndicate, a newly invented position that installs a religious authority to oversee the making of policy. Their relationship with the MC becomes strained as the Insulinde officials are weary of Vesuvians and the prospect that maybe the country could offer the rebels aid. After the Brass Ring begins to riot, Medea cannot convince themselves that their actions are justified, so they seek out the MC for the validation they once gave her. If the MC chooses to go against Medea, her self hatred that's been brewing since the beginning of the story makes it so she begs the MC to hurt them in an attempt to make the MC just as morally corrupt as her. This prospect keeps them in their position of victim and makes it so she can be with the MC without feeling that they are a better person than them. This ultimately does not work but makes Medea resign and become targeted by the new government. They have the choice to join the Brass Ring's revolts but the weight of defying their religion and their victimization tendencies make it almost impossible. Route ends before you know what her choice is.

This was such a good question and I've been thinking about it non stop and I don't think these are the final editions of how they'll be but if I keep rewriting I'll never post this and you'll never get your art :( hope you like em!

[21stcenterry]

✺ — what's up, danger?

the unfazed everyman of foundationhq, as penned by DORIAN.

perfect stranger dossier / fhq. task 001

basics

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 Terence "Terry" Okello

𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 Aforementioned "Terry" but if you want to save some syllables "Terr" is an option

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌 Daniel Kaluuya

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 Hair styled in short sponge twists and low fade, trimmed stache and beard, and a thousand-mile stare

𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒 / 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 A half-arsed one on their wrist from some bloke in bristol that Terry got while three sheets to the wind. Terry can't even make heads or tails out of it. Calls it "the scribble you make when checking if a biro ran out of ink"

𝐀𝐆𝐄 / 𝐃.𝐎.𝐁. 34 / December 21, 1989

𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂 Sagittarius

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 Southwark, London, England

𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 Dembe Isabirye (Mum), Solomon Okello (Dad), Julian "Juli" (Younger Brother), Cornelia "Nelie" (Younger Sister)

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒 Non-binary, they/he

𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 Gray-ace

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 Single

𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒 Reserved, easygoing, tolerant

𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒 Indifferent, passive, incurious

𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒 Clicks their tongue at kids, something he picked up from babysitting his younger siblings. Reads magazines and leaves them around after. Midnight cravings for sandwiches. Wired like a night owl. Sleeps through movies at the theatre

𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 Sleeping, staying warm and alive, betting drinks on a round of billiards, rubbing his shitty tattoo when he gets nervous, which is rare

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐒 (𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄) None

the foundation

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄 Junior Security Officer

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍(𝐒) Worked at a lumber mill, car mechanic, small dairy farm, Sainsbury's, various pubs, food cart, janitor, bouncer, overnight stocker, telemarketer, waiter, dog groomer, horse groomer, ferret groomer

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 Guard work at Site-91, turned out a tad dodgy for his fellow mates

𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 Basic firearm training, keeping calm during security protocols, basic office duties, has a food hygiene certification (expired), able to dissociate on command, can tell the difference between coke and pepsi

extras

𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘

TW: divorce, death, dark humor referring to suicide

Terence "Terry" Okello, born in London Town, is an un-special bloke. They'll even tell you that. Low middle-class household, working parents separated rather mythically by the crack of dawn and graveyard shifts, their adolescence jiggered up babysitting a younger brother and a sister as a teen. They whip up chip butties to stretch their food and sit in front of the telly to distract themselves from a life bound to go nowhere. It was what it was, you know? Some people were winners, and some people were Terry.

Their Mum and Dad split up when Terry turned 18, citing irreconcilable differences; their brother went with Dad, their sister went with Mum, and Terry's new girlfriend they met at a trade school broke up with them, so they were really in a pickle by the time they became an adult in the eye of the Law, weren't they. Well, stiff upper lip and all that. Can't cry or complain, relationships are fickle. Love is dead! Carry on! Terry went paycheck to paycheck, job to job, couch to couch, doing God-knows-what to survive and get a cheeky extra for a pint.

No one liked a jack of all trades that much, though. Recruiters and their ilk despised it, actually. Asked Terry questions like why did you only stay for 4 months at Sainsbury's, and what are your foreseeable goals for the future? Sneering at their well-traveled CV, Terry could only get entry-level things because they didn't show enough of that charming Hooray Henry spirit for the white-collar positions, namely a branded suit and tie from Harrods. Terry couldn't give a damn. These interviews were a load of tosh.

So, after bouncing around for a few years, Terry finally stuck to a job. Err, instead, a job stuck to them. It was a security position at a privately owned manor in Rural Yorkshire. The amount of money they listed felt comically scammy, but Terry was racking up a bit of debt. While they weren't the biggest and meanest, they knew how to project their voice and appear threatening. Ish. They filled out a resume, spent a week faffing about, and surprisingly got through the phone interview all right. All the bloke on the phone wanted was someone who could keep mum about the work. Easy enough, Terry said.

Wonderfully, the job was! No shady dealing bosses, watering hole gossip, middle management power trips, and the greatest spooks Terry faced on the job were a couple of drunk teenage vandals. Being able to send Mum cash instead of asking for money for once felt good. So they stayed as a nightshift guard at the Eckhart House for a couple of years.

Little did Terry know their golden goose was hiding a rotten egg. Underneath the manor was a Foundation facility known as Site-91, and Terry found out the hard way when they agreed to trade shifts with another guard, who was a bit too happy to see his daughter's first-grade play recital. While running for their life, Terry realized this was why they avoided chumming it up with coworkers wherever they had worked. Work "friends" made their business your business, and Terry didn't want any business that involved xenobiological specimens and thaumaturgical artifacts. What kind of bonkers story was this? And why did it almost tear Terry's arm off when they waved their flashlight?

Following the traumatic encounter that left even Terry, the one who can't be arsed with even reporting someone hitting their motor, a bit rattled with a broken arm in a plastic cast, they received another call- the recruiter from years ago.

The first thing they asked was, Did you tell anyone?

And Terry said, No? ...Aw. Aw. Fuck, you're gonna kill me, aren't you, mate. Well, can you make it seem like none of my family was involved, at least? I can write a note to add a touch of realism...

Good for Terry; they weren't slated for an abrupt end to their mundane life. Bad for Terry, though, because their simple life was going to change. They were introduced to SCPs and what the Foundation truly was. Terry had thought "The Foundation" was just some kind of marketing ploy, a catchy name for the security business, of words that didn't matter but sounded like a right dream, like Vigilance, Safeguard, and Integrity.  

As they had told the recruiter at the start of the job, Terry kept their head down and, at times, looked slightly off to the right. Just so to not accidentally witness some time travel portal swiping up lab coats left and right. Their job was to guard a single hallway, and fighting some space god was rightfully- thankfully- out of their pay grade. And they'd be fine keeping in line for the next so many years... But some people were nobodies, and some people were Terry. 

The Ethics Committee called, lad. Pack your things and kiss Mum goodbye.

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 I like all sorts, but I'd love to write a friendship that contrasts with Terry's no-nonsense demeanor, some work buds grabbing a drink at the end of the shift if we have shifts... someone that Terry drives crazy, vice versa. Honestly, anything.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 / 𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 poster child for unfazed everyman, unlucky everydude, fish out of water, dull surprise, action survivor, weirdness magnet, apathetic clerk, conditioned to accept horror, safety in indifference, terse talker, bystander syndrome, the slacker, closest thing we got, subverted red shirt, sarcasm mode

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 OJ Haywood (Nope), Shaun (Shaun of the Dead), Arthur Dent (The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy), Squidward (Spongebob Squarepants), Garfield (Garfield), Charlie Brown (Peanuts), Isaac Clark (Dead Space), Sokka (Avatar the Last Airbender), Winston Zeddemore (Ghostbusters), Conway (Kentucky Route Zero)

𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒

[dzthenerd490]

File: The Happening

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TW - Su1c1d3 mention

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SCP#: AJD

Code Name: Nature’s Revenge

Object Class: Keter Somnum Apollyon

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-AJD suddenly stopped and thus no containment procedures are needed anymore. However, since it was not stopped by Foundation means or any other organization from the ACPA it is right to assume it can happen again. Foundation satellites are to monitor similar activity to the SCP-AJD incident and countermeasures are to be made immediately to prevent it from spreading or at the very least evacuate those in the affected area safely. 

Update 2009 - a virus has been created and is being distributed into the public that will grant them immunity to SCP-AJD’s effect. However, if the simulations are correct, approximately 0.007% of the population will either be immune or grow immunity to this virus and thus become victims of SCP-AJD regardless. Furthermore, there is the possibility the virus will mutate into something the Foundation cannot predict. This is unfortunately the best course of action to take currently. 

Description: SCP-AJD is an event class anomaly, seemingly seasonal in nature, that is spread via plants around the world. During the right time of the year a random place in the world will suddenly have its plant life release a strange pheromone. This pheromone is normally only released in and targets large groups of humans. When the human group number is seven or lower the pheromones will not be released and surprisingly even if they are released, they will not target individuals of lower numbers. However, an SCP-AJD oddly enough doesn’t just affect the plants but the weather as well.

An SCP-AJD event makes wind’s blow for longer, farther, and harder than before; allowing the pheromones to spread to everywhere even to places where plant growth is minimal or non-existent. Should the pheromones blow within this wind then when the group size is eight or higher, whoever is hit will become under the influence of the pheromones. 

Once a victim has breathed in the pheromones of SCP-AJD, they will immediately try to kill both themselves and everyone around them. They will also start speaking nonsense such as repeating the last thing they said or repeating a phrase that has significant meaning to them. For example, when someone is holding a firearm, they will shoot everyone around them and then themselves. When someone is outside but there are people safely inside a house, they will slam their heads through the windows killing themselves through the blunt trauma while also allowing the wind to get in and further spread the pheromones. When they are around aggressive animals, they will continuously provoke the animal until it eats them. They will always go with the most logical choice that will lead to an effective and inescapable death. Shockingly they will never scream even if their attempt only leaves them horribly crippled to the point that they are not dead yet but will be if they don’t receive help. 

Thankfully SCP-AJD only lasts for about two to three days afterwards it ceases all activity, and the pheromones wear off allowing those who somehow survived to return back to normal. However, it will start again in another part of the world where it is the spring season or a season with the most prime condition for the plants of that area. How exactly this works is not well understood. 

SCP-AJD was discovered in 2008 when the Northeastern area of the United States fell under SCP-AJD infection leading to mass suicides in the area. The Foundation and Global Occult Coalition quickly went to action, cutting off all communication in the area to prevent the spreading of knowledge regarding the anomalous incident. However, the next problem was the massive death happening in the area as there was no way to explain any of it. 

The Foundation and the Global Occult Coalition worked together to create false news reports and keep up the work of the politicians in the area to make it seem as if the area was still alive even as everyone was dying. Once the event finally ended all survivors were amnestied and sent to hospitals told that they suffered a horrible accident.

In order to quickly populate the area again Protocol "Real People" was implemented into the area. SCP-AVC is assisting in organizing and coordinating this plan; this includes programing the memories of AFA-3 units used for "Real People" so they can perfectly replace those that have died. The area will be repopulated and set back to normal by the end of the month. Those given the cover story of being in accidents will then be sent home and life should resume normally.

However, SCP-AJD did not go away by Foundation means nor was it contained. In the off chance it returns, a virus has been created to prevent SCP-AJD from killing a majority of the population again. However, there will be those that will be immune to the virus and end their lives suddenly without explanation. Should this happen suicide notes and cover stories will be prepared by the Foundation. 

“SCP-AJD is a prime example that despite all the power of the Foundation, we still aren’t in control. There are forces out there and in the earth that are stronger and smarter to the point it's practically incomprehensible. Then there's just the nonsense of plants making people kill themselves that we can never hope to explain and only barely contain. As much as it pains me to admit it, the Foundationists are right, we need more power, and we need it fast. I just hope that when we get that power, we all remember that it’s meant to protect humanity, not subjugate it.” - Department Director Wyllt

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SCP: Horror Movie Files Hub

[lizzyverydizzyyo]

D.E.A.N | Chapter 30 - Peak

Masterlist and overall summary of the whole novel is here. | Prompt on trope-appreciation-tuesdays that inspired this is here. | @whumptober-archive

Fandom : Original Work

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (V) (VI) (VII) (VIII) (IX) (X) (XI) (XII) (XIII) (XIV) (XV) (XVI) (XVII) (XVIII) (XIX) (XX) (XXI) (XXII) (XXIII) (XXIV) (XXV) (XXVI) (XXVII) (XXVIII) (XXIX) (XXX) (XXXI - END)

AO3

Wordcount: ± 8086 [Also very action-heavy, so I can’t cut it into two chapters]

TW: Suicide Pact, Suicidal Ideation, Depression, Dread, Minor Character Deaths (antagonist), Blood, Injury, Weapon, Gun, Firearms, Shooting, Drugs, Graphic Depiction of Violence, Gore, Explosion, Medical Instruments and Treatments

He can sense it’s nearly over, although he doesn’t know on whose favor fate will fall into: his side or the enemies’. All who remain are now left to lick their wounds pitifully, wondering if they’ll ever get back to the way it was. Mark tells himself that, at least, ones dear to his heart are still breathing on this God’s green earth.

Whumptober 2023 Themes (last 4 and Alt. Bonus only):

Day Alt. bonus — Aftermath of Failure

Day 28 — “You'll have to go through me.”

Day 29 — Troubled Past Resurfacing

Day 30 — Bridal Carry | “Not much longer...”

Day 31 — Emptiness | Setbacks

Whumptober 2022 Themes (post-event, not completionist):

Day 11 Alt. — Ambushed

Day 24 — Fight, Flight or Freeze | Blood Covered Hands

Day 26 — No One Left Behind | Separated

This story is set in the last half of 2016.

——

Once they’re in the open, they whip their heads left and right, trying to figure out which vehicle Angie and Doctor Lowe are near to. There are two vans: one on the far side of the left, and the other on their right but close. It’s probably not helping that everything is dark.

He didn’t realize how late it is. No wonder many sections of the headquarter looked dark before. What time is it anyway?

Suddenly, they see Angie’s head poking from behind the van on their right. Her arm follows, showing up from the other side of the van to wave to them.

“Angie!” Mark calls out happily, although he still makes sure he keeps quiet.

Anna and Mark sprint to close the distance.

He doesn’t know about Anna, but he feels warmth washing over him with his heart feeling a little lighter. Like giant boulders are lifted off his shoulders. Like hope.

“How did you get here? How did the bomb go?” Anna blurts out quickly.

“Long story. I survived. That’s all that matters.”

“Okay. True,” Anna replies.

Mark gives himself a few seconds to scan Angie and Doctor Lowe quickly, seeing some cuts and bruises here and there, and scratches on their clothes, but they’re alive and well and standing firmly. They’re all okay. Mostly.

Across him, Angie throws a slight look towards Nick in Mark’s arms, one arm lolling on the side and dangling weakly. Nick is quiet and not moving, his head laid against Mark’s chest, but his own chest still rises and falls. Angie stares at the bloody palm of Nick that’s hanging down. She doesn’t point it out.

Which is probably for the best because they can’t afford to panic and spread the anxiety towards each other. They need to be steady and quick now.

“Get in,” Doctor Lowe tersely instructs Mark while Angie walks towards the back of the van to open the doors. It’s not locked.

Mark frowns while looking at the van, pausing a few steps away. He scans their surroundings and sees no one else beside 5 of them.

“What?” the surgeon turns around to him exasperatedly.

“Is this safe?” he asks. “Did any Helga people get to it?”

“It’s fine. I’ve been here all the time we were separated,” Angie says urgently to Mark. “The agents in charge of guarding the backyard just left for the inside not too long ago, so the vehicles were still protected from any sabotaging.”

Mark contemplates for a few seconds, but ends up closing his eyes and sighing as he accepts Angie’s explanation, so he steps forwards to approach the van.

“The keys?” Angie asks him.

Mark faces her fully to give her better access to Nick’s pockets on his utility belt. Nick stays still, eerily silent. He doesn’t react at all to Angie rummaging her hand through his many pockets until she gets to the one with the handful of metal keys.

“Okay, good, lay him down there,” Doctor Lowe instructs him once Angie has the keys in her palm. The surgeon points to the far side of the van’s interior.

Mark bends down his body a little so that he can fit into the back of the van as he steps into it. He climbs into the van’s inside while crouching, still with Nick in his arms, but when both of his feet are firmly on the floor of the van and he is pretty much squatting, he starts shifting his legs one knee at a time to kneel. He shuffles that way a bit until he reaches the divider between the back of the van and the driver section so that he can deposit Nikolai on the floor.

Nick is still unmoving with face leaning against Mark’s chest and one arm lolling around, even until he gently lays Nick down.

“No, no. Sit him up a bit. His legs can’t be higher than the rest of his body,” the surgeon interjects, pulling on Mark’s arm a bit to stop his movement.

Nick finally makes a sound by groaning weakly when Mark tries to pull his body up into sitting position, while Doctor Lowe pulls his legs straight from slightly bent position. It seems to be very important that Nick’s legs are lower than his torso as he is bleeding like this, as said by Angie too before the first surgery.

Once they’re settled inside, Doctor Lowe turns back to pull the doors in and slam them closed. Only then does Mark take off his helmet and put it away. He takes off Nick’s helmet next to see his face and gauge how he is doing.

Nick’s eyes are half-lidded, blinking sluggishly once in a while. He looks extremely pale with cold sweat drenching his body and wetting his hair. Even his skin is cold to touch.

“Kid, just last a little bit more, okay?” Doctor Lowe now says as he crouches to sit next to Nick across from Mark, both facing the weakened boy. The old face uncharacteristically shows strong emotions and non-clinical concern, for once.

Nick’s thin hands are on top of his own abdomen, but they’re not really pushing on his wound strongly, probably because his energy is completely depleted. Mark kneels on one knee in front of him as he puts his own palm on top of Nick’s to push at it firmly.

Nick winces and weakly shifts his head to the side.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. We need to put pressure on your bleeding,” he tells Nick softly.

Nick turns his head forward again to look at him, face seemingly half-conscious. His breathing is labored and dragging, and when Mark takes Nick’s left wrist to feel his pulse, it’s faint but abnormally rapid.

“Why the fuck are we not driving yet?”

He sees Doctor Lowe raising his head to look over Nick’s head towards the divider, his face urgent with a somewhat angry look. He has never been a patient man in all the time Mark has known him, after all.

“Hey,” the doctor calls out again, “what are you waiting for?!”

He bangs on the divider, making Nick wince and moan in pain again. Mark glares slightly at the surgeon, but the man doesn’t seem to care.

“We’re looking for the key!” they both hear Angie’s muffled voice.

“Do it fucking faster!”

Even with the divider, Mark can hear Angie and Anna frantically mumbling with each other, “Where the fuck is the key? Is it this? No, that doesn’t fit, fuck! I don’t know which one? Did they not say which key is for which car! Oh my god…” with metal jiggling.

“Jesus fucking Christ, are you serious, you dumb bitches? Go now!” Doctor Lowe yells out incredulously.

“We’re trying, okay?!” follows with more metal clanking from both women in the front.

“For fuck’s sake, just cut the cord and start with it!” Mark now screams in turn in frustration.

“Are you fucking serious? No! It’ll just destroy the car!” Angie responds from the front.

Nick shifts his head to the side again, weakly gasping with eyes barely open.

“Angie! Anna! Come on!” Mark yells again after looking at that.

He hears more metal jiggling and hissed arguments from the front, and he is about ready to get out and sort the problem out himself, but then he hears the van sputtering then humming to life.

“Gotcha!” he finally hears from Angie.

Mark and Doctor Lowe unconsciously exhale in relief and sag their bodies at the same time. He can even hear Nick exhaling weakly too.

He turns to Nick again with a tight smile, trying to be calming and reassuring.

“This is it. We just have to reach backup team and it’ll be over. You’ll be okay there,” he says softly.

Nick simply looks back at him, seemingly fighting against his exhaustion so that he can keep his eyes open. He winces a bit before blinking weakly, then his eyes stay half-lidded until they all can feel the motion of the car starting to be driven away.

Of course, in ideal situation, it’s better to drive slowly and carefully so that Nick isn’t jolted around while bleeding like this, but there are still dozens of Helga people they’re trying to run from in here, and possibly even more who are still trying to reach this headquarter. They don’t have any other choice but to accept Angie hitting the gas and speeding up along their path until they reach Central Hub’s backup team.

Doctor Lowe and Mark have just taken off their guns and put them on the floor when they simultaneously push at Nick’s shoulders instinctively. He is whipped from side to side at a sharp turn Angie is taking, so they’re making sure Nick isn’t knocked around—especially on the head—and injured more.

“Argh…” Nick immediately yelps in pain at the sudden movement.

“Sorry! Sorry! I’m sorry,” he soothes Nick.

He can see tears flowing from the corners of Nick’s swirly blue-brown eyes as they’re squeezed shut. In turn, Mark squeezes Nick’s shoulder a little to calm him down. Eventually, the van is going at a more even pace with less bouncing as it seemingly settles on an established road.

“You keep pushing on his wound. I’ll try to connect to backup,” Doctor Lowe eventually instructs him.

He simply nods and sits down with crossed legs so that he is in a more comfortable position to hold Nick. His own right shoulder is leaning against the divider as he keeps his left palm’s pressure at Nick’s abdomen. Mark sees Doctor Lowe sit on his heels while clicking on his watch for a while.

The old surgeon tsks.

“The reach is too short with this,” he comments.

“Well, yeah. It’s for a contained network. It’s not meant to be far,” he responds.

“It would be nice if it can. I was hoping its reach is far enough considering we don’t have any of our heavy-duty laptops.”

“There is our satellite map on the dashboard, isn’t there?” he inquires.

“For them,” the surgeon nods his chin to the front to refer to Angie and Anna, “but not us. We can’t see where we are from here. Can’t prepare.”

Oh, that makes sense.

“I guess we should just keep our comms open to connect to backup’s network.”

“I’d rather not do that for too long. We can be intercepted. There are only 5 of us here,” the old man informs him, finally clicking the button on the earpiece itself, seemingly disconnecting from 1034’s headquarter’s network.

Mark too ends up clicking on his earpiece to disconnect it.

There is no point in connecting to 1034’s headquarter anymore since they’re leaving that place and won’t need to communicate with any of them. He knows they’re not going to send more chaperone agents for Nick because there simply are just not enough agents to fight Helga in the headquarter itself.

It’s better to make sure their connection isn’t intruded on by any non-authorized party by turning it off completely.

He almost falls asleep due to his extreme exhaustion and lulling silence for a while when Doctor Lowe suddenly talks to him.

“Shift him a little,” Doctor Lowe instructs Mark.

He furrows his eyebrows.

“I need to see behind us,” the doctor explains, pointing at the screen on the divider that’s supposed to show the back of the van through the small camera on the door.

“Oh.”

Mark gently slips his right arm between Nick’s back and the divider to circle Nick’s body from behind, pulling him closer almost to an embrace until Nick’s head is lying on Mark’s right shoulder instead of covering the screen.

He doesn’t realize the intimacy of the gesture until Doctor Lowe stares at him for a few seconds.

He is about to push Nick away a little bit to minimize the too-personal sense of their position, but when he sees Nick’s closed eyes on the pale exhausted face, he just doesn’t have the heart to do it. Who’s going to have a problem with it anyway?

Doctor Lowe ends up shaking his head and rising to kneel so that he can get closer to the screen and turns it on.

It crackles a bit before he sees the screen coming to life. Not that it’s going to help in telling them where they are, especially since it’s dark outside, except just to see if their environment is safe.

For quite a while, all they do is just glance at the screen every so often while mostly ignoring it in favor of laying back and closing their eyes to get a little bit of rest. They’re not really expecting anything noteworthy to happen, but he hears a bang on the divider from the front.

He and Doctor Lowe furrow their eyebrows and look at each other.

“Look at your watch! What colors are they?” he hears Anna inquire.

“What? What color? What are you talking about?” he shouts back with a perplexed expression.

“There are incomings shown in our satellite map. Are they our guys?”

He immediately straightens up his back with an alert look, just as Doctor Lowe does. They whip their heads to look at the screen.

It’s not obvious in the beginning, but he can see some dots following them from behind that are getting closer and closer and eventually appearing like several vehicles that are not D.E.A.N issued.

Oh, fuck.

He looks at his watch over Nick’s head and shoulder who is still leaning against his chest, clicking a button on the side to turn it on again.

They’re all brown pulsating dots following from behind.

“Oh, shit,” Doctor Lowe whispers horrifically.

“Nick, Nicky, get off, I need to move,” he says to Nikolai, trying to be gentle even if he is about to lose his shit.

Nick flutters his eyes open and winces, seemingly having fallen asleep before.

He hates being rough with Nick, but he has to quickly shift Nick’s body away from him so that he can move to grab his rifle again.

Doctor Lowe is kneeling while slamming the seat covers up, seeing what’s inside their under-seat storage. He frantically grabs all manners of firearm cartridges, from long rifle ammo clips to boxes of handgun bullets from the inside. Mark can see that besides those, there are explosives too like grenades and some smoke bombs.

There are also different kinds of rifles there, seemingly more of a sniper rifle type, along with some rifle tripod mounts.

Sniper rifle be damned. He’ll use them when he has to. Bullet is a bullet once it’s in someone’s skull.

“Wha…” Nick mumbles with half-lidded eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says distractedly as he starts reloading several magazines worth of bullets for his pistols, then inserting a long ammo clip into the chamber of his rifle along with Doctor Lowe.

Not long after, they immediately hear shots hitting the back of their van.

Shit. He thought they’re out of the woods already.

Doctor Lowe frantically rummages through the storages again, muttering furiously to himself.

“Doc, you got bullets. What are you looking for?” Mark asks in frustration.

“I need sticky tapes for the rifle mounts.”

“What?!”

Doctor Lowe sits on his heels again while turning towards him.

“I’m not Addrianne or Mary who can probably shoot the fucking moon without rifle mount, all right? I need a steady mount.”

“Just shoot with your machine guns!”

“You do it! I’ll find some tape.”

Mark tsks incredulously, but he does grab his helmet to put it back on before pushing open the hatch on top of their van. He takes a slight look at the screen to get a feel of what kind of enemies they’re dealing with before popping his head up with his machine gun pointed to the back.

There are 5 jeeps following them.

“How the fuck did they know about us?!”

Mark ignores Doctor Lowe’s question to start pressing his rifle trigger, followed by resounding shots and strong recoils that hit him much harder than usual with his current shooting position. He mostly hits the windows and non-vital parts of the enemies he can see.

When he pauses a bit, he observes them and finds that they all look fresh and battle ready, maybe even more combat-trained than the ones swarming 1034 before. There are women there too, ones who look as military-trained as the rest.

He absently thinks about Doctor Lowe’s question.

He doesn’t like the thought that maybe there was a planned breach of information about their strategy. These enemies look especially prepared for this kind of battle, while the ones in 1034 look more like low level thugs of the syndicate who just happen to be given firearms.

He bows down his head under the hatch when the other side returns the shots, waiting until they stop so that he can shoot again. On his left a little bit behind him, he hears shotgun shots and cocking from Anna who is poking her head out of the window to shoot with him.

He feels their van swerving to the left sharply, feeling himself knocked to the side and hit hard on the chest by the metal opening of the hatch.

“Fucking hell, Angie!”

“I’m avoiding their shots!”

He breathes hard as he steadies himself, pointing his machine gun again to shoot mostly at the driver of the jeep closest to them.

They seem to know his plan, so that jeep also swerves to the side to avoid his shots.

“Move!” Doctor Lowe yells at him from under.

Mark looks down to the inside of the van and sees Doctor Lowe holding a short rifle tripod mount, presumably with sticky tape on the bottom of the feet.

He pulls himself down to allow Doctor Lowe to stick the mount to the top of their van, using the opportunity to pull another long ammo clip to be slung over his shoulder as preparation before the current one runs out.

“I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to install that!” he half-shouts.

“Shut the fuck up. I told you I’m not a sniper. I’m just doing what I can,” Doctor Lowe shouts with voice half-muffled by the windy surrounding. “Now give me that rifle!”

Mark looks down on the ground to see the different kind of rifle usually used for precision shooting. He simply grabs that and follows the surgeon’s instruction.

Unlike their automatic machine guns which can shoot endlessly as long as they keep pressing the trigger and have ammo clips attached, the rifle Doctor Lowe is using right now is semi-automatic. It requires him to pull the trigger each time he wants to take a shot, although he doesn’t have to keep reloading each time.

Mark kneels on one knee with his own rifle strap slung over his shoulder again, both of his arms holding the gun itself, while he faces Nick.

The younger man’s face is alert and scared, no longer has any trace of sleepiness as before. Mark’s heart clenches at the deep fear shown on that bony and pale face, undoubtedly in pain too at the sudden movements Angie keeps making.

Nick is holding the sides of the opened seats for dear life.

“What’s going on, Mark?” he asks shakily as he starts crying again.

“It’s fine. We’ll deal with it,” he softly says, once again saying it both for Nick and himself.

Eventually, Doctor Lowe removes his rifle from the mount and pops back down to gather more ammos and fill the chamber with them once again. Mark uses this opportunity to pop back out, and he starts shooting again.

He aims lower this time, trying to point at the wheels.

Their van swerves to the side once again, so he groans as the corners of the opened hatch hit him on the chest again.

“Argh!”

“Sorry!” Angie simply shouts.

He starts shooting again once he is sure Angie is done with her swerving. He hits one person, and he can see the man’s body flopping to the side and bowing forward. The driver next to him doesn’t flinch or look away from the road despite having her comrade shot to death next to her.

Mark starts pointing his gun at another jeep now, going for the passenger shooter again. He only manages to shoot the person’s shoulder, but that’s good enough. She’s not going to be able to shoot properly like that.

He pulls back, going down into the van again to take a break from the harsh recoils and avoid the shots from the other side, so Doctor Lowe rises again with his semi-automatic rifle after reloading it.

Doctor Lowe focuses on the scope, taking a shot more carefully and slowly. Mark can only guess what’s happening. The only way the people in the back of the van can see what’s behind is by looking at the screen, but that has a limited view.

He hears another shot from Doctor Lowe, followed by loud crashing, but before he can catch what’s happening, there is another bang to the back of the van, so now the screen crackles then goes black.

Oh, great. Fantastic. As if they weren’t already stuck and cornered before.

Even so, Doctor Lowe lowers himself again, gathering ammos to be inserted into the rifle chamber again.

“Your turn,” he tightly says as he keeps focusing on inserting some ammo clips.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Got one of their drivers.”

He furrows his eyebrows as he thinks about what Doctor Lowe means until he raises his eyebrows in surprise.

The driver shot by Doctor Lowe either got injured enough that they can’t steer the vehicle well anymore, or killed so the jeep swerved around uncontrollably until it hit another one.

Basically, taking two enemies’ vehicles at once.

Not like Addrianne, my ass, Mark thinks.

“Your turn, Hayden!” Doctor Lowe yells at him.

He immediately jumps up over the hatch to point his gun again.

As he guessed before, there are now only three jeeps still following them, while the other two are falling behind so far in the back. Still, that doesn’t mean they can’t change drivers and start chasing his team again. He doesn’t know if their jeeps’ engines are damaged enough to stop them completely.

He squints his eyes at the recoil of his rifles, still not used to how harsh and painful it is while being shot this way, but he keeps going. He quickly pulls the end of the other long ammo clip to start inserting it into his machine gun’s chamber. He cocks it after it’s inserted and starts shooting again.

He got two, but only some back passenger shooters, not any driver like what he aimed for.

“Here,” Mark hears Doctor Lowe call to him.

He pops in a little only to see the surgeon handing him a smoke bomb. He would prefer the grenade, but they’re still too close to throw it safely, so he accepts the smoke bomb anyway.

He pulls away the pin with his teeth and throws it far into one of the jeeps’ open roof. There is clanking and harsh hissing before smoke quickly seeps out of the can and fills the jeep. The jeep swerves wildly to the side after that and gets left behind.

Two more to go.

He starts shooting again for a while until his ammo runs out.

He only manages to simply graze the remaining chasers instead of causing substantial damage to his enemies. Behind the two jeeps, he starts to see the jeep left behind after the smoke bomb, and it’s gaining on them. He also sees another one, which is one of the two crashing jeeps that Doctor Lowe shot before.

Oh, fuck. It’s going up to four again, then.

Doctor Lowe and Mark keep taking turn shooting either with machine guns or sniping rifles, or even a shotgun they find after rummaging through the under-seat storage more carefully. Once the ammos for those run out, they take out their pistols, which are not ideal because they’re not as strong as machine guns or as precise as sniping rifles, but better than not fighting back at all.

He can feel his worry and panic starting to rise again each time he pops back down and sees more and more empty bullet boxes and used clips.

“Hey kid, you need to hold on really tight on this seat, okay?” Doctor Lowe cryptically tells Nick as he points at the jutting metal under the opened seat.

He doesn’t understand why Doctor Lowe is saying that considering Nick is already holding onto the seat so tightly.

Nick is no longer pushing down on his abdomen and seemingly hasn't been for a while, which means he’s been bleeding more than they would have liked compared to if he’d been pushing at his wound. He’s getting even paler, grimacing more often after every swerving and jolting from the speed of Angie’s driving.

He faces where Doctor Lowe is pointing.

“Wha… about—”

“It’s okay. Mark is gonna help you with your bleeding,” the surgeon cuts him off, instantly knowing what Nick means.

Doctor Lowe cocks his head to the side to point at Nick. Mark gives a questioning stare for a bit, but obeys the surgeon’s command.

“You hold on tight too,” the old man says cryptically again, but doesn’t wait for Mark to comply before popping out of the hatch.

Mark simply kneels down facing Nick with one hand pushing at the wounded abdomen and another gripping a handgrip tightly as the doctor tells him to.

He’s not sure what the surgeon is planning until he hears loud boom and a sense of this van almost being flipped over, roughly knocking him over to the floor. Thankfully, he pulls his left arm from Nick’s stomach quickly enough to throw it above his head so that it’s cushioned against the metal body of the under-seat storages.

Still, the force of it brings sharp pain to his forearm that can’t help screaming in pain. He feels like he has broken the bone in his forearm, or at least given it some deep musculature damage.

Nick thankfully gets thrown into his arm too, so his head isn’t knocked around too at the harsh bump the van was put through.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Doc?” he cries out angrily.

The doctor simply pops back down to bend down and grabs an item.

“We have no bullets,” he tightly says without a care towards Mark’s offense.

“And you didn’t think to warn us before throwing a fucking grenade?”

“I did.”

The surgeon knocks at the divider twice before popping his head back out while gripping another grenade.

This time, Mark is more ready.

He elongates his legs to tightly push against the under-seat storages on both sides. He pushes feet against the left under-seat while his lower back is pushed against the right one. Being tall has its perks, it seems.

One of his hands is holding onto a handgrip attached to the divider while his other hand is putting Nick almost in an embrace again. Nick too is holding on to a handgrip on the other side of the divider, while his other hand is pushing at his stomach.

He hears another kaboom and feels the van jolts around roughly, but without throwing his body around since he has good enough grip on his surroundings. It happens three more times, each time adding more and more aches onto his body due to the rough jolting, on top of his muscles being forcibly and endlessly taut.

Nick too keeps keening in pain, fisting Mark’s shirt desperately while leaning over and sobbing.

After the third explosion, Doctor Lowe bends down to frantically crawl all over the floor, repeatedly slamming the seat covering of the storage loudly. He keeps mumbling to himself like he is possessed, until he eventually reaches the one closest to Mark and Nick near the divider.

“Move over,” the surgeon tightly orders him.

Mark has to bodily carry Nick in his arms to move him away so that Doctor Lowe can turn that storage upside down too.

They wince when they feel harsh shots at the back of their van, now being dented by the repeated firings of strong firearms.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Nick’s half-lidded eyes land on the surgeon’s back.

“Wha… what’s—what’s going… on?” Nick stutters weakly.

Doctor Lowe’s shoulders slump again, giving Mark another jolt of fear. It’s never good when the surgeon slumps like that. The beer-bellied man then weakly sits on his heels with his head leaned back while exhaling shudderingly.

They hear more shots, and the dents get deeper.

The doctor still doesn’t face Nick or Mark, and instead bangs on the divider.

“Anna! Why aren’t you shooting?!”

Mark can feel his heart thumping on his chest painfully, faster and faster the longer it takes for Anna to reply.

“There is no more bullet,” they all hear Anna shout with her own resigned voice.

“Try to find more! Under Angie’s seat or something!” Doctor Lowe tries again.

“We tried, Doc. We can’t find more!”

Just as she is done talking, they hear more bullets shot in their way with clanging sound. Mark realizes that one manages to lodge itself into the door of the van.

He feels cold washing over him.

Nick shudders in his arms, and Doctor Low stares helplessly at that bullet.

Everything feels like slow-motion, or being submerged into a pool with a sense of detachment the more bullets shot in their way. There are now several bullets being lodged into the van’s backdoor. One of them is even pushed out into the inside of the van by another bullet shot to that hole.

“No…” Nick whispers horrifyingly with tears starting to flow from his eyes again, “…no, I don’t—I don’t wanna… go back…”

He whimpers again.

Mark hopelessly stares at the closed doors with many bullets lodged into them, as does the old surgeon in front of him. He feels a sense of cold dread in his chest. In his arms, Nick turns away from the door and pushes his face into Mark's shoulder instead.

“No… I don’t want them to take me again… please, I don’t want to…”

Mark squeezes his eyes closed at Nick's muffled and desperate mumbling and tightens his arms around the fragile body, accompanied by more shots towards their van.

“It’s okay, everything’s gonna be okay. You’re not going back. You’ll be okay,” he whispers gently to Nick as the boy keeps crying in his hold.

He moves his hands to rub Nick’s back up and down, tucking Nick’s head into the space between his neck and shoulder, cradling Nick like a child.

“It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, don’t worry, yeah?”

He knows it’s a lie, of course.

There are four jeeps worth of highly trained Helga members on their tail. Maybe more, considering their screen is broken and they can’t see outside if there are more jeeps coming. They’re cornered. They have no weapon—no bullets, no protection, no means of fighting back.

God knows how long they still need to go to get to Central’s backup.

They…

They lost.

But he keeps rubbing Nick’s back up and down, continuously telling Nick that everything’s going to be fine.

Eventually, Nick whimpers, “Just… just kill me… please… I don’t want them to take me back…”

“No, don’t say that, come on,” he whispers gently to Nick’s ear, hating that Nick is trying to shatter his self-made illusion.

Across from him, Doctor Lowe stares with just as much emptiness on his face. The man even looks scared with glistening eyes.

Nick pulls back to face him fully.

“Just kill me…”

“Nicky, don’t—”

“I know we’re stuck, Mark.”

He stares back at Nick’s sure face, even if it’s wet with tears and pale.

“Don’t let me go back to them, please…”

Mark breathes out shakily, wincing once in a while when he feels more shot at their van.

“Just kill me…”

Nick chokes on a sob after that, face terrified but resigned at the same time.

Behind Nick, he sees Doctor Lowe digging into his pants then pulls out four glass vials.

Mark stares at them, catching a glimpse of ‘morphine’ and ‘100ml’ on the labels.

“No,” he firmly says to Doctor Lowe.

“You know we’re done, kid,” he tells Mark gently.

“No, we’re not. We’ll be fine.”

Doctor Lowe gives him a heartbroken and pitying look, but…

They’ll be fine. They have to be fine. He doesn’t have to kill Nick to prevent him from being taken back. They don’t have to kill themselves so that Helga can’t torture them back. They’ll be okay.

They’ll be fine. They’ll be fine.

Even if there are more bullets lodged on their door, they’ll be fine.

They’ll be fine, they’ll be fine, they’ll be—

“I’m too old for this shit, son,” Doctor Lowe says with palpably heavy sense of exhaustion as he takes one bottle from his palm and keeps it in his own vest pocket.

Four bottles and one taken by Doctor Lowe already.

He gulps painfully.

Nick… Nick has to have one. He deserves that, at least.

It’s either Mark, Angie, or Anna whose fate in Helga’s hands will be uncertain.

Mark bites his lip, feeling terrified too with cold realization seeping into him. He feels his eyes getting wet, suddenly thinking about his mom and how he never got to say a proper goodbye to her, or Jackson. Or the others in his team.

How Nick will never get to taste freedom, except by taking one of those bottles.

It’s so unfair. Why is it all so unfair?

He hugs Nick tighter with his own closed eyes and tears flowing down his cheek.

“It’s okay,” he continues softly again to Nick’s ear, “you’ll be okay. They’ll never take you again. I promise. You’ll be okay.”

He keeps doing that, delaying the inevitable, trying to find it in his heart to help Doctor Lowe injects the content of that bottle to Nick’s vein when push comes to shove. And it will come to shove.

There are more shots to the van, and he feels deep plunging in his chest again.

Maybe he has never been cut out for this. For being a D.E.A.N agent. He doesn’t think a true D.E.A.N agent should be this shaky and terrified at the face of danger they supposedly signed up for.

“Wait.”

He opens his eyes and stare back at the surgeon.

The old man’s face is confused with furrowed eyebrows.

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Mark asks back.

“There are shots fired,” the surgeon replies with widened eyes.

Mark glares, feeling angry at the fact that he’s emotionally being yanked around. The surgeon is the one forcing Mark to come to terms with what they’re going to face, but he is now the one being obtuse and playing around.

“I can fucking see that, Doc,” he harshly replies.

“No, look,” the surgeon says, curiously with a smile blooming on his face, “there are shots outside.”

Mark glares even more at the surgeon’s demented game.

“I’m aware. I have ears and eyes.”

“No, listen,” the old man emphasizes.

He stays glaring with Nick crying in his arms while refusing to look at the door with bullets lodged all over it. He doesn’t understand the point of Doctor Lowe saying all of these stupid shits.

But then he furrows his own eyebrows. There is something strange about the gunshot sounds.

Obviously, he can sense some bullets being shot in their way, be it through sound or the vibrations once they hit their van, but he still turns his head towards the doors along with the surgeon.

“These are not shot towards us,” he concludes.

On top of that, he finally hears some really loud whooshing above them, enough to penetrate the metal body of the van and into their hearing.

Mark quickly clicks on his earpiece comm, almost missing it in his haste. Immediately, there is a crackling sound of it connecting to a network.

Mark clicks on his round button.

“This is CC75 reporting in. Are you 1056? Over.”

“Oh, god,” he immediately whispers out.

“I repeat. This is CC75 reporting in. Are you 1056? Over.”

Mark shakily clicks on his square button while looking at his watch, seeing light blue dots all around them.

“We copy. Confirming this is 1056. Over,” he shakily replies.

“What’s your code? And is the informant with you? Over.”

“This is MT56. And yes, the informant is with us. Over.”

At that, Doctor Lowe jumps up and slams open the hatch again.

Mark immediately looks up, now realizing that the whooshing sound are from several helicopter blades.

“YOU’RE LATE YOU FUCKING BASTARDS!” Doctor Lowe screams with his hand thrown upwards while cackling like a maniac. “WHOO HOOO!”

Mark chokes out a half-laugh half-cry at the surgeon’s excited yell.

They still hear more shots, but it’s clear that it’s more between backup’s heli and the Helga members chasing them, rather than between those members and their van. He can even hear slight booming while their van is jolted around a little. He can only guess that it might be from backup’s grenade launchers.

Doctor Lowe pops back in and basically lets himself drop to his ass while leaning back on his arms, still laughing once in a while. He has tears too on his face despite the weirdly soothing chuckles.

Mark closes his eyes and lets more of his own tears drop to his cheeks, but out of relief. He hugs Nick even tighter while burying his face into the black hair.

“I told you we’ll be fine, right?” he whispers to Nick’s ear, now being honest.

Nick wraps his own arms around Mark too and pushes his face deeper into Mark’s neck, sobbing too out of relief.

Mark hears more crackling, so he clicks his square button again. He hears a different person talking this time, with a voice he is more acquainted to even before going into D.E.A.N.

“Agent Hayden, I have informed Agent Kingston and Agent Basset that you should drive forward for 20 more miles with two of our helis and three other backup’s vehicles, totalling 40 protection agents until you reach our rescue station. There are Medic agents ready to treat the informant’s puncture wound on his abdomen and other injuries all of you might have sustained. Do you copy? Over?”

“Yes, we copy, Agent Callahan. We’ll meet rescue teams in 20 miles. Over.”

“Good. Unfortunately, we can’t send all of our backup with you because we’ll need to assist 1034, but I think 40 agents are plenty enough to protect 5 of you. Do you copy? Over.”

“Yes, we copy. Of course, Sir. We’ll manage with that. Over.”

He is about to click circle to turn off his comm, but he hears another crackling signifying another request to connect to him.

“Good to hear you, son. Would love to hear Jackson too, but I bet he’d be proud of you anyway.”

Mark chuckles.

“Thank you, Sir. I’m trying my best.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are.”

He waits for a bit, but eventually the familiar senior agent says, “CN94 over and out.”

The van continues to go for a while, with the shooting sounds eventually ceasing to the point that the bumping motions have become calming and lulling them all into a state of half-asleep. Mark makes sure to continue staying awake for the most part so that he can help Nick put pressure on his wounded stomach.

He doesn’t have the energy to think about what it means that Nick is leaning slightly to the side so that he can keep lying on Mark’s chest. Nick’s black-haired head is tucked so deeply under Mark’s chin that he can feel his lips slightly touching the dark sweaty strands. Mark’s arm is also still circling around Nick’s back and putting pressure on the wound that way.

He doesn’t even realize it when the van starts to slow down until it comes to a stop.

Suddenly, the doors to the back of the van are slammed open with lights flooding the space. He has to squint and put a palm over his eyebrows to adjust to it.

He sees several people wearing D.E.A.N’s standard uniforms with bulletproof vests on top who are pushing a gurney towards them, rolling it until it touches the back bumper of the van. Some step into the van itself to help Mark and Doctor Lowe shift Nick around until they can deposit Nick onto the mattress.

The bed is adjusted into a position where it bends upwards in the middle so that Nick isn’t completely lying down. An oxygen mask is quickly fitted onto his face with his head raised a bit so that the elastic band can be pulled behind his head. They put his head back to the bed again after that.

He doesn’t really notice Doctor Lowe walking away to be treated himself.

They immediately start wheeling Nick away, but before they can move far, Mark already steps forward quickly to approach the gurney without thinking. Nick too suddenly lifts his head with a desperate whimpering while reaching out to Mark. When Mark is close enough, Nick quickly holds his hand and grips it tight.

“Sir, we need to insert IV in him for the transfusion and other medications.”

“Let me go with him,” he insists, ignoring the other Medic agents who are trying to get him to sit down and be treated too.

He can’t be bothered to think about himself until he can see Nick safe.

“We’ll need to get him to a medic facility and into a Central Hub HQ. He is a critical informant.”

“He is a 21-year-old human trafficking survivor with PTSD. He is not just an informant,” he replies firmly with a little bit of offense and anger on Nick’s behalf at how they just reduce him to another mission object.

“Yes, sir, we’re aware,” the agent firmly responds to him without reacting to his impassioned words, “but he is still our critical informant, and we need to transport him to a safe confidential location as soon as possible.”

“Let me be with him until then,” he insists.

The Medic agents stare at him then at Nick who is still gripping Mark’s hand, no inhibition in his exhaustion and severe blood-loss. One of them sighs.

“Just until he is ready for transport to a medic facility.”

“Thank you,” he responds with deep relief and gratitude.

“And you’ll need to be treated too in one of the tents.”

“Yeah. With him.”

They give him an unreadable look, but he is too exhausted to think about what that means. They end up simply wheeling Nick into one of the medical tents with Mark on the side still continuously holding Nick’s hand.

Mark can see other agents being wheeled into some tents too, some arriving with helicopters. He assumes those are agents from 1034 and their backup after they decided Nick had plenty of backup agents protecting him already. Some of those arriving agents are able to stand and walk by themselves, but some have to be helped to move around. Some don’t move at all.

He doesn’t know what’s their exact status, and he is too afraid to think more about it, so he focuses on Nick again.

The Medic agents start pulling at Nick’s clothes to unzip his bulletproof vest and outright cuts up his shirt to get to his wound. Nick whimpers a bit at the sudden touches from strangers around him, so Mark squeezes his hand and whispers, “It’s okay, they’re not hurting you, they’re taking care of you, don’t worry”. Nick seems to calm down at that, and the Medic agents give him another unreadable stare that he is starting to get irritated with.

Is it so strange that he wants to calm Nick down and make sure that he is okay?

Nick reaches out shakily to move his hand out of Mark's grip and closer to the lower side of his bulletproof vest. He furrows his eyebrows seeing Nick's movement until the pale frail hand eventually hovers while the boy mumbles half-consciously, "Hmm... you... your bleeding..."

Mark feels warmth in his chest, relieved that Nick is safe enough to be able to feel concerned for someone else. And touched that in his muddled sense, Nick still cares about his condition.

"It's fine. Just lightly grazed. I'll be okay," he says as he bends closer to Nick's ear and squeezes Nick's palm lightly.

One of the Medic agents frowns with a disapproving look, seeing as the blood is copious enough to warrant a guess that it's slightly more than a superficial wound. Whether it's because he is minimizing his injury or because he keeps refusing to be treated until Nick is done, he doesn't know.

Nick shifts his head again to stare more directly at his right waist.

"Hurts? Doesn't... hurt?"

"I'll be fine," he chuckles, "don't worry about me."

"Hmm..."

Nick continues looking like he hardly has wits about him, unfocused despite trying his hardest to cling to consciousness.

The Medic agents keep treating Nick regardless, cleaning up his wound and entire front torso with disinfectant. He is guessing it also contains anaesthetic so that Nick isn’t too in pain when they cauterize his wound with the cauterizer. One of them lifts Nick’s palm that’s not gripping Mark’s palm and starts palpitating the skin to find a vein until she settles at one spot. Another Medic agent brings her a plastic pan with IV attachment instruments and materials in it.

After that, it’s pretty straight forward until the saline and blood bags are attached to Nick.

There are agents firmly walking out of a newly arriving helicopter, and the Medic agents who are caring for Nick turn to look at those agents slightly before looking back at Mark.

“He is going to be transported now.”

A firm dismissal.

But Mark doesn’t really care. He still walks to follow Nick’s gurney even when Nick has let go of his hand, maybe because the mask also disperses sedative so that he doesn’t feel afraid anymore being bounced around between strangers without Mark.

Eventually, they lift the bed to raise it and insert it to the heli with Nick being shifted around a bit. Mark sees that those swirly blue-brown eyes are closed, and his breathing is steady. Nick might have fallen asleep or unconscious, but he seems okay overall.

The helicopter’s blades are spinning again, creating strong gush of wind around. Mark has to put an arm over his face to soften the blow, then it takes off.

Mark would have liked to follow Nick all the way to the medic facility, and maybe beyond, but he does understand the need for the separation and confidentiality, so when some Medic agents clear their throats, Mark turns to them to dutifully follow them into a tent and sits on one of the beds as instructed.

Mark closes his eyes and leans his head back while they fuss over him. He takes a deep breath, finally letting himself feel the entirety of his shaky body, along with his exhaustion and the pain of the last many hours—and maybe even days or weeks—washing over him, but also deep relief.

When he opens his eyes again, he fittingly sees the dawn breaking with the sun starting to peek out of the sandy landscape.

A new day. A symbol of everything horrific happening before, now over.

Not everything is well and good, of course, considering there is still the question of Nick’s condition—which he doesn’t know whether he is allowed to be told or not after this.

There is also deep grief when he sees agents being wheeled on gurneys into several medical vans and helicopters, some of them fully covered by white sheets as their bodies and the fabrics are smeared with deep red, while the others are in varying degrees of being injured.

Even after this, there will most certainly be many more missions to deal with the rest of Helga. Undoubtedly going to be much more difficult than this.

But the yesterday of chaos is over. It’s really over.

It’s all okay now.

He can finally breathe easy, until the next mission.

***

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (V) (VI) (VII) (VIII) (IX) (X) (XI) (XII) (XIII) (XIV) (XV) (XVI) (XVII) (XVIII) (XIX) (XX) (XXI) (XXII) (XXIII) (XXIV) (XXV) (XXVI) (XXVII) (XXVIII) (XXIX) (XXX) (XXXI - END)

[mossrotts]

tw for mass shooting, suicide ment, depression and anxiety, self harm, irl body horror ment?, heavy stuff in general

(i am okay, i will be okay, i have good support in my life; but i know that writing out stuff and like, getting it out tends to help so this just kind of talking about some negative stuff that's been happening--some more intense than others)

at the start of january, there was a mass shooting in the town i live. the town i live has a population of 7000 people.

the way i found out about it was this: i went into work and was assigned the route that i'm always assigned on sunday and a coworker came up to me and was like haha, wow, how do you feel about having the murder route? obviously confused i asked what and he said there were some murders on my route. he said it with a weird glee so i wasn't sure if he was making a weird boomer joke i didn't get or if i was just. not reading the social cues right or what.

worried about it, once i loaded up with packages i looked it up and found that there was, on my route on a street with a total of eight houses, a mass shooting. eight people dead; the oldest 74 and the youngest 4. a man killed his entire family before taking his own life. i don't interact with many people directly while delivering mail and so it was with some surprise that i realized i knew them--i interacted with the seven year old son on a weekly basis.

looking up the news that soon afer was. rough. the way it was portrayed immediately was the same way i've always seen it portrayed in Utah--an issue that is prevalent throughout the US, particularly with white male aggressors, but especially in Utah--the picture used showed the man in a happy, peaceful family portrait with all his victims. the article talked about how there was no indication how this would happen, that the wife had begun divorce proceedings two weeks prior to her murder but never indicated any violence. the article mainly focused on what an upstanding member of the (mormon) Church the man was and what a loving father he'd been.

i had no clue the full scope of things and didn't know how the event had happened, but it still felt disrespectful for how much the articles focused on him and integrated him so much with the family he had killed.

and, of course, there was a plea in the article to 'not make this tragedy about politics', and not talk about gun control because they'd had multiple firearms and the wife had asked the husband to remove them (which he said he did, despite keeping one for himself privately) and if she hadn't have done that then "the victims would have been able to protect themselves".

i'll remind you that the youngest victim was his four year old son.

after this, soon all around my town were little yard signs that said '#enoch strong' or 'we <3 enoch!' and that was. that was the only difference. the crime tape was up that one day while i delivered, then gone the next. it was like it never happened.

i've seen that before--though through different tragedies. my best friend killed himself. i loved him--i thought i was going to marry him because even though i didn't feel attraction for him, the way the mormon church is i knew that i would have to get married to a nice mormon boy someday and i would rather it be with him than anyone else. that's a different can of worms though. he killed himself; he set his car on fire, sat in it, and used a firearm to end his life.

my friend suffered from BPD without support and with the direct pressure of his abusive father and mormon Church societal expectation. no article surrounding his death, no memorial, no nothing mentioned the idea that either there should be more support for mental illnesses--and gun control was never even mentioned.

his father, a bishop in the mormon church at the time, headed my friend's memorial. he talked about how much he loved his son, but that he knew his son was at peace now. he talked about how if we turned to jesus we could make it through any trial we were given, even one as harsh as losing a son.

pj hated his dad. i wonder how many people knew that.

and that was it. it was like he just disappeared after that. swept under the rug. no one talked about him, there was no change, nothing to fill his void. there was no burial, no place for closure, and nothing to suggest anyone would try to make sure this didn't happen to other kids after him. i tracked down his mom about four years after his death and was able to find out where she spread his ashes. she picked a good place and i visit it yearly now.

two years before i was born, there was a murder in the college town next to my current town. almost a decade before matthew shepherd, gordon church was brutally sexually assaulted and murdered and his murderers both used the gay panic defense (though, due to the brutality, was in this case ineffective and they were sentenced to prison). a gag order was placed on many parts of the case--further silence pressured by the mormon church--due to gordon church being mormon and his sexuality. the crime was so silenced that many people don't know it happened. years ago i had a coworker, whom i liked and was generally progressive for utah, who didn't understand why the gays were fighting for the right to get married and why they acted like they were still being oppressed--crimes like that didn't happen anymore, and they clearly had never happened here.

it felt like it was happening again. another crime that utah and the church would just hide it again. sweep it under the rug. just don't talk about it. #enoch strong and we <3 enoch is all we need.

i cannot imagine how much the family and loved ones of the victims felt and hurt, how much they still do. as far as i know they've not requested any help and so i'm not going to be posting any gofundmes or anything here, but god if you're able to advocate for gun control and safety or see programs providing support for those with mental illness; please help there. we need it more than ever. and god i know i was not and am not as personally effected as so many involved in this, but i don't know if i can describe the just. idk, heaviness of the thought that it's happening again. that this would be the only thing i'd hear of it and this entire family would be gone like they never existed.

but perhaps something good--i say that with the largest grain of salt--is that people with far more reach than me cared and they felt the treatment of the victims was wrong and they have worked to get more information out. and that comes with two sides. one is that this isn't being swept under the rug, which will hopefully give both the victims the attention they deserve and help to prevent something like this from happening again. the other side is how horrific and depressing some of that information is.

people pushed for the obituary praising what a good member of the Church and upstanding father the killer was to be removed. they did not, as far as i know, try to degrade him or anything. just wanted it removed. and it was. at the funeral the victims were buried together while the killer had a closed ceremony elsewhere.

more information about the situation got out. acab as usual--but apparently neighbors had to all but beg cops to go do a wellness check on the family after thinking something was very off. i can confirm that a cop lives less than a block away.

one of the daughters, 17 years old, apparently claimed her dad was being abusive and that she was "afraid [her] dad would kill [her]". her dad was apparently quoted saying jokingly afterwards "oh, she's so mouthy". we don't have any thoughts from the mother, but i think it's important to know that divorce is pretty fucking rare in mormon communities. and i hate knowing that--i hate knowing that one of the daughters spoke up enough that we have it RECORDED that she was scared--that she was brave enough to say something and she was fucking right and no one listened to her and now she and her five younger siblings are dead. it's not fucking fair.

i don't know where i was going with that, but it fucking sucks and i hate this.

i've also been having financial issues; i wont get into it too much but essentially my meds have jumped up to $200 every time i get them, and for whatever reason the pharmacy accidentally double charged me when i picked them up--which i barely had the $200 and i did NOT have the $400. went into the negative and my bank immediately started charging overdraft fees. i had to call the bank and get it sorted out but god it was awful. also even though i'm not going into depth please look at this hilarious conversation i had with walgreens pharmacy

00:00:26 system : BOT : [...] how can I help you? USER : I recently purchased my prescriptions and in addition to the expected charge I have a duplicate amount pending in my bank account. Why is the system trying to double charge my account? BOT : I haven't learned about that yet. I’ll get someone to help you [...] 00:00:28 Therisa : Hi! My name is Therisa H. How can I help you? 00:01:58 Therisa : The pending charge will fall off for you 00:02:03 USER : Hi, I recently picked up my prescriptions from Walgreens. In addition to being charged the expected amount in person, I have an additional charge (the same amount) pending in my bank account. Are you able to check why I'm being double charged? 00:02:34 USER : I've been charged an overdraft due to the second charge; will this money be returned? 00:02:36 Therisa : The pending charge will fall off for you 00:02:51 USER : Do you know when? 00:03:08 USER : Or how to prevent it from doing a pending charge in the future? 00:03:12 Therisa : 3-7 business days 00:03:51 USER : Thank you. And do you know how to prevent it from doing a pending charge in the future? 00:05:49 Therisa : there isnt a way 00:06:19 USER : alright, thanks.

what a good time. the amount i make per hour at the post office is good, but for some reason they're not calling me in for more than one day a week and i just. haven't been able to keep up financially so i have to start looking for a new job.

and god, if you've heard at all about my personal life you probably have heard about the uh. idk, not great ways my jobs have ended. last job, where i felt like i was doing some good for awhile, i had to report for neglect to adult protective services and when the company refused to change the situation of abuse i had to decide whether or not i wanted to stay on the chance that i was helping people but being a part of a corrupt system or leave. the one before that (honestly the more normal of these) was shit and i quit after a manager attempted to reprimand and punish a coworker and i for talking in private about some of the negative aspects of the job. and the job before that i quit after finding out that a manager was using me to lure in girl coworkers for him to sexually groom/live with. after i and my friend (who lived with him after he'd set himself up to be just a chill place she could rent from for a bit, and who escaped him thank god) gave all our evidence over i left. he was arrested and lost his job, thank god, but i couldn't stay there.

anyway, i have some anxiety when it comes to starting a new job. it gets pretty bad when job hunting and gets real real bad like the first few days before i actually start working. but i haven't had enough money at my current job, working just one day a week, so i need to find a part time job. just started looking this week and i was nervous as my roommate was helping me look and i just kinda started picking at my nail polish. having nail polish is kinda nice because otherwise i start picking at my skin. and i wasn't paying much attention and i was just peeling/picking it off of my toe nails when i looked down and realized i had peeled an entire toe nail off. (well, almost, it was just barely connected at the end) and idk, it was bad. i have a history of self harm and i've... accidentally gone too far with it in the past without meaning to and it felt like that, even though i really wasn't trying to self harm at ALL in this situation. and also i didn't fucking know that was a thing a person could do? just pull off a nail?

anyway i'm okay and my roommate helped me wrap it up and we'll see if it like reattaches or what to do from here (it's still wrapped up rn, hasn't gotten worse if nothing else) but like.

idk where i was going with that either. capitalism sucks so much that i pulled my goddamn toenail off? wild???

or maybe just. like, all of writing this is just parts of realizing that i haven't been in an emotional/not good mood lately for no reason--it's been a lot of stuff that i was handling on its own but has been building up and i'm kinda in a rough place. and i'll be ok. but man it sucks right now.

[be-ca-lm]

Tw: self harm, suicide, religious stuff

Easter is a weird holiday for me. To me, it reminds me of the day my desire to kill myself was at its strongest, most visceral, most possible, most dangerous. I was maybe 14 or 15. I had discovered I liked girls. I had also not discovered a genuine relationship with God beyond faking it like the adults around me did.

I was dressed up. Texting a friend from summer camp. Expressing that I saw no point, no value. I had attended church and I had wept while singing hymns, trying to wring out comfort, realism, something tangible. It never came.

I sat in the nice backyard of a nice house of a nice family, by a nice pool. I was by all intents and purposes, pulling it off. I was devout. Determined. Committed. Sold out.

Inside, nothing made sense. I really did blame the music I was listening to at the time. Too much Death Cab, not enough Life Eternal. Too much Slipknot, not enough Slip Not. Too much Bring Me The Horizon, not enough being able to SEE a horizon where clarity and peace prevailed.

The only reason I did not attempt to kill myself that day was because I had no means. I had the will, because I've done nothing in my life in half measures and I don't intend to start. I did not have enough access to potentially lethal doses of any type of pill or drug. I had no known access to a firearm. I did not have my full license to drive myself. I was also very set against taking anyone else with me, so traffic and cars were ruled out.

The day passed and the feeling passed. But all I did was double down on trying to be a good Christian, faithful and pure.

It wouldn't be for years later that I'd set myself free.

So I didn't kill myself on Easter. I lived and I lived until I discovered a life actually worth living. It was not quick. It was not easy. It is STILL not easy.

But I lived.

So fuck easter.

Fuck church.

Fuck God.

Fuck Jesus.

Fuck the cross.

I'm the one who lived and stood back up again.

[guarddogutena]

Please welcome Utena McCormick (THEY/THEM) to Huntsville, WV. They are a 38-year-old VISITOR who lives in TOWN. You may see them around working as the STOCK WORKER AT HUNTSVILLE SUPPLY WAREHOUSE. Poor unfortunate soul. We’ll see if they survive.

quick facts

Name: Utena McCormick Nickname: Mickey (only by close friends) Age: 38 Faceclaim: Dominique McElligott Pronouns: They/Them Sexuality: Same as gender, fuck that Moral Alignment: Neutral Good Occupation: Stock Worker at Huntsville Supply Warehouse Role: Hunter

[+] reliant, anticipative, forthright, brave [-] cynical, morbid, stoic, abrasive

background

TW: child abuse, depression, suicidal ideation

Utena was one of many children who were fostered by a wealthy couple, however this wasn't out of the goodness of their hearts. The plan was to find their next heir and one to uphold the family legacy. Every few months they'd have a family meeting where the children not meeting expectations were sent back into the system. They learned early on not to trust anyone else in the house, especially when one of the other kids stabbed Utena in the ear with a pencil to try to one up them.

It was cutthroat at home and at the private school they attended, everything was about getting ahead. Eventually they were the last one standing, their next step being gaining a law degree at the school their parents had chosen. After that they secured a position at a law firm, intent on continuing the same way they always had, now helping others be just as cutthroat in the world of corporate law. Their boss running the firm with an iron fist where any mistake not only could cost you your job, but your reputation and career as a whole

Mental health had never been discussed at home, it was something to work past and shove back into the closet. When Utena had a mental breakdown, they hid away with the realization that with all their career success they were really just alone. No family, no friends, just connections to be used and an empty title. They drove and ended up at a bar intent on having one final drink, running into Ventus Rawlins.

It was supposed to be just a temporary thing, help him with one of his videos then proceed as planned. One video turned into two, and so on. Until they'd been away from work for over 6 months, finally putting in their notice. When their parents found out it turned into a screaming match that ended with them disowned.

It was fine by them, picking up a new name on a whim and driving off with Ven. When Imogen joined they were wary at first, but eventually warmed up to them. Their crew is now 4, with Asuka the newest member, but this is their family. They'll do whatever it takes to keep their family safe and happy.

misc

Forced everyone in the crew to take firearm safety and self defense courses. Had their own concealed handgun license just in case during all shoots.

Is partly deaf in their left ear from the pencil incident, manages with a hearing aid.

Is fluent in English, Spanish, German, Italian, French, and ASL.

Dyed their hair red on a whim and for the fresh start with Ven, kept it up once Imogen joined so there would only be one blonde.

[abaharashi]

Tw for talks of Sui' Death and descriptive imagery

Listening to Sayonara by Tipper and it fills me with this odd sense of longing, sadness, joy, and acceptance all at once.

I had the imagery of falling stuck in my head almost all day because of depresso. And i had this song on repeat for like 2-3 hrs at work and... i could only imagine how others may think of me if i decided to go out on my own terms.

News flash: The methods are poetic in a way. Terrifying in others.

Atmosphere jump with no parachute all the way to the ground.

Going to challenger depths and just opening the airlock while inside and letting the instanious forces force me into almost nothing.

Going for a space walk and just drifting out into the void.

Im not sure what it is about these methods that speak to me, but they do. I would prefer not to go out with firearms or pills or car crashes or anything. But i most likely wont have a say in the matter.

No, i dont think its problematic to discuss these kinds of topics. I have severe depression but ive never gotten to the planning stage of suicidal ideation. Just strong ideation.

Ive had an interesting fascination with death for a large portion of life. Not in the "blood shed and violence" type like some might immediately think of. But a sense of familiarity and comfort with the subject.

Those situations do occur when i think of death but it never a prominent desire or anything. Just another acknowledgment that the subject is violent and brutal sometimes. Sometimes it is calm and quiet. And some times it is a spectacle and a sense of poetry in motion coming to a halt.

Ive had some people ask me if being a death dula was a thing i'de consider.

No.

My relationship with death is finding the peace that it will always be there. It will nevee leave us. It will always be waiting. Like an old friend you reconnected with after years of no contact. Eager and with open arms.

General societies relationship with death is so skewed. And this is NOT to say that atrocities commited to ethnic groups or minority groups are ok. They absolutely are NOT. This is not a means to justify genocide or hate crimes. Do not get it twisted.

But the subject of death, our relationship with it, and why we sometimes feel the urge or need to arrive to it sooner, should be talked about more. Its an innate facet of nature. Of the universe.

You cannot speak of life and pleasentries while ignoring death and finality it holds.

I know i know. "Everyone knows death is final and no one wants to focus on dark subject matter" and thats a shame i feel.

You cannot have the good without the bad. The sunshine without overcast skies.

Im not sure how to end this so ill jist leave it with this.

I want to open a dialog that others can feel comfortable talking and discussing the subject in. We have to learn how to actually talk about death again and not see it as this horrid monstrosity to be averted. It is the final slumber after a difficult life. A warm blanket in cold winters night.

[makingthistoventsorry]

*TW: s/a, child abuse, addiction, eating disorders, death, suicide*

For quite some time now, I’ve been debating if writing this will benefit me in some way. I feel as if I have no one to turn to, I don’t see my family much. My only friend is a mother who is always busy. I always feel guilty venting about the struggles in my life to her, because we are living two totally different lifestyles. Everything is just weighing on me, I’m used to it, but I’m really tired. This is going to be long, so if you’re not dedicated to the read, it’s not for you.

I’ll start off by explaining my background and personality a bit. I was born into poverty. My birth mother was 17, and my father was a war veteran almost in his 40’s. He was a family friend while she was a young child. She was groomed emotionally over that time, until it evolved further sexually. He had a wife. All that should explain a lot in itself. He divorced her and married my mother. When I was three he died. My birth mother became very abusive and neglected me in every sense. Her substance abuse boomed out of nowhere, so I was often in drug houses, or brought to the darker parts of the city. There were many times things got violent, and I had to stand there watching her get beaten or jumped. Other times she would leave me alone at houses, or forget me places.

Sometimes she would drop me off with my aunts and grandmother. I would be there for a few months while she had fun without me. When she was ready she’d show up randomly and drag me back, police with her in support. My family would always cry, not knowing if they would see me again after we disappeared.

As I was growing up she would always expose me to evil men, you can guess. She would even preform ‘acts’ with them in front of me, or on the floor beside my bed. My mind has been a catalog of dark memories my whole life. My first memory was my father’s funeral. I have never had a childhood, and I desperately crave a natural ecstasy. It’s strange, but I’ve felt like the same person my whole life, I was matured too early, so my adult life has felt stagnant. By the time I was in kindergarten I had saved her from OD’ing multiple times. I had moved 20+ places by this point, never anywhere for long. She would hide me from the rest of my family, staying with random men or other drug addicts. I constantly smelling like cigarettes, and would have makeup put on me often along with her straightening and dying my hair.

I was a quiet child who was not to speak unless spoken to. I fed myself when there was food. After I started elementary school, I would read a lot. My grades were advanced and lots of teachers took interest in my abilities. I didn’t get too close to them, I kept my distance as to not expose my home life.

I suffered this life on repeat until I was 10 years old, then my brother was born. I knew immediately I couldn’t let him live the same life. A new instinct to escape was planted into my mind. I was terrified to betray my birth mother, I can still feel my heart pound thinking and typing about it. It’s a reflex. After seeing her use knives, knowing she had used firearms, I knew I could be facing something horrific. I will never forget the look on her face when CPS got involved. I spent some time in foster care. Back then they made me tell them everything right in front of my mother, after they left you can imagine how she treated me. After a long battle we were placed with a relative who we still consider our mother to this day. I often think the one good thing that has come out of my life was my fierce drive to protect my brother.

I was diagnosed with severe ptsd, social anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and an eating disorder before middle school, but I suffered from it years before.

Sadly, I still ended up getting sexually abused by a trusted man, almost as soon as I was taken in permanently. It went on for two years before I broke down and told out of guilt. I feared being thrown back into foster care, or that my family wouldn’t love me anymore after they fought so hard to get me. He was kicked out and I never saw him again, still to this day. It was very unfamiliar, being protected, and even tho it was almost decades ago, it still leaves a strange feeling in my chest. Sadly I still haven’t figured out what that is. I feel disconnected and unable to have that ‘shock’ or ‘wow’ factor of happiness, it always been like that. I’ve never felt the relief.

When I became a teenager, I started really thinking about everything that I was subjected to. Mad was an understatement. My brain has always resorted to numbing itself, as a way to protect me. All of that was busted wide open for quite a long time. Anyone who hurt me or others, I resorted to violence for the first time. Seeing other people experience the pain I held, just reminded me of how disposable I always felt. It angered me to an unexplainable degree. Maybe I became violent because I couldn’t face them with words at that time.

I started experimenting with sex as a teenager because it was the only way I felt I was wanted. By the time I was 16, I had consensually had sex with almost 20 people. Some my age, some way older. As an adult, I now know the older men that slept with me then, were completely in the wrong. I was the perfect victim, I was willing even. I was an abused kid who was desensitized to what is acceptable or not.

After graduating high school I was urged to go to college. My grades were in the top percentile of my school still. I knew my adoptive family wanted the best for me, and I had a partial grant from my father’s death. I compromised on a year, to try it. Going to college I quickly became addicted to alcohol, I discovered it numbed me even further. I could tolerate being around people, and I even started being social of my own volition. I started throwing parties every week in my apartment, sometimes multiple times a week. Locally there was no hiding who I saw, and I latched on to it. But, I would close my eyes and suddenly I was back to my childhood. However instead of my birth mom, it was me putting myself under the influence to survive my own life. After a year the rug was pulled under me, I told my family I couldn’t do it anymore.

I started selling pictures and videos of myself when I was 19, and kept drinking heavily. I despised my birth mom my whole life for slipping to addiction and making my life hell, but soon I was on the same path. I started abusing harder powders and other substances, until I had a heart attack when I was 21. I started smoking weed and stopped attending parties/raves/festivals. My ‘friends’ still begged me to come and would offer me drugs. I kept my silence, deep into the self hatred and hypocrisy I was feeling. I sobered up and used weed as a coping tool. Everything had seemed to come full circle, and I just felt the world lived to mock me. ‘Hahaha look at you! In your mothers shoes!’.

I found myself sitting in my apartment for months on end, I would stay awake for days, just taking videos and pictures of myself to sell. Video chats, phone calls, kinkwork that I didn’t particularly enjoy. I kept it a secret from my family. I became addicted to the money, it seemed insane that I could see hundreds hit my bank account in one day. I spent more of it on clothes and weed to make myself feel better. Another escapism. I was diagnosed with schizophrenia.

During this time I distanced myself from them, they still tried but also understood my silence. I wish I wouldn’t have worried them so much, now that I’m older. I started getting more into my art, I had always drawn, but I started to paint. A decent amount of people were interested. Not sure if it’s because my art was good, or I was known for being a sex worker and they just wanted on my good side. Probably a mix of both.

I met a guy and we started seriously dating, everything was ‘fine’ for the first 6 months or so. We started recording and selling content together. After a year he started to become physically abusive, and would manipulate me. Cheat on me. Whatever else he wanted. He moved in with me not long into us dating, and I supported us both by selling the content that whole time while he sold weed here and there. I bought him whatever he wanted, I thought he loved me.

Eventually he started getting jealous and feeling inferior, alot of issues stemmed from me selling content. I shared my phone with him, he didn’t let me spend one day alone with my singular friend or family. I felt like a prisoner. I felt myself revert to my child self, silent. After so many months of me being mentally checked out, he went off the deep end and held me hostage with a gun. I can’t forget the look in his eyes. He smashed my phone, held the gun to us both at points, and counted down from 5, for two hours. Watching me flinch each time not knowing if either of us were going to be shot if he pulled the trigger. After so long my survival instincts kicked in, I saw he was in the height of his episode and was talking to himself, so I ran out of my house barefoot. Maybe around 2 am. I don’t drive, and there’s a hospital maybe a 5 minute walk from my house. He grabbed the gun and chased me on foot, trying to drag me back by my clothes. I pushed him off of me and he tried to just be done with me by throwing me into incoming traffic. I pulled myself out of the road and kept running. I neared the hospital so he threw the gun into a ditch and ran after me inside. It took 4 officers to restrain him, and we went to court the next day for an emergency restraining order. He was in jail for only three months.

The three years that followed, I didn’t date, talk to men, leave my house, or socialize much at all. Not that I even did before. My paranoia grew, I suffered the most from my schizophrenia at that time. I through myself into making content even harder. The restraining order was for two years, shortly after it was up I found him stalking my social media.

The years I was alone, I had nightmares of him almost every single day. I couldn’t sleep, eat, or do anything without feeling that moment. I realized maybe I did want to live, and that’s why I felt I was suffering so much. I started getting more into my art and sold a decent amount alongside my content. I was known as a local adult model, and accumulated maybe 10k followers on the internet at this point. No one knew how much I suffered since I’ve always been a private person.

I’m still alone now. Still making content. It’s been around 6-7 years since I started. I feel trapped. Unable to function in society under a different job. Every day is so mentally exhausting. My existence feels meaningless. I kept doing kink requests, but after making a video where I was payed to insert a knife into myself, I completely broke. I started domme work, I was tired of acting submissive to my customers. I make less money now, but enough to survive. Every couple of months I cry and agonize to myself, will I ever be more? I wish I could depend on my art, but it takes too much emotional effort to make it to the standards it used to be. It just reminds me of all the darkness. That sounds very cringe I know, but I’ve lived in it so long that I try to zone out of the awareness I have. I had one retail job and didn’t last for more than a couple of weeks before my social phobia and schizophrenia made it unbearable to the point of wanting to off myself.

I suffered the death of one of the only people who has ever believed in me last year. I rescued a dog shortly after, and she’s been the only source of happiness in my life. I couldn’t imagine myself leaving her alone in this filthy world.

I feel like I was destined to make men cum, and to shoulder it. I was groomed into that thought very early. I know I’m an adult that makes my own decisions, but the hatred for my birth mom flows through my whole body when I think of what my life could have been. Who would I be? Was I doomed from the start? I know people say, it can’t always be like this, but for some unfortunate people, it is. To some people, this is all we can ever be. This is all I can ever ‘achieve’. Happiness and peace, a moderately happy life, can’t be for everyone. Or else there wouldn’t be so much ugly in this world.

Lately I haven’t wanted to off myself, or live, I’m stuck in an in-between state of just existing. I hope one day I can accept my life for what it is, or that eventually I’ll crawl out of this deep fucking hole. I haven’t lost hope completely, or else I wouldn’t be sharing this. Being the first time I’ve written something this long about my life, I feel a bit of weight off of me.

If you ever feel alone, it’s okay, just don’t give up. You don’t have to feel alive, you don’t even have to fake smile. Just keep breathing, that’s been my mantra. As long as I still breathe, the people who abused me don’t win. As long as I breathe, there’s still a fighting chance.

[perpetual-fool]

tw: suicide (not that anyone's gonna read this)

I'm not really a musician yet (to keep it short), but I like the idea screaming out my frustrations, my anger, my pain. Not that I'm any fucking good at it, but I like singing. It's like it allows me to be expressive, and to feel things, in ways that usually aren't allowed. Not like people will give me shit for talking but not for singing. Like it's locked off from me, I can't feel those things usually. But I feel like what I went through isn't good enough.

For years I've had this voice in my head that will scream at me "fucking kill yourself you stupid piece of shit" over and over, triggered by seemingly any little memory. It's been better and worse. Sometimes it's been basically throughout the whole day, sometimes it's only once or twice. It's gotten quieter and louder again. I think it's like, I used to be way more numb to everything, but as I've made progress and the voice got more quiet, I got more sensitive to it. But my life isn't bad, by other people's standards. I could've been a happy productive member of society, if only had been fucking normal. I have a bunch of hash marks on my arm from cutting, but it wasn't that deep, that doesn't mean anything. I've wanted to kill myself a bunch of times, but I could never go through with it, so I can't have *really* wanted to kill myself. I tried to drink myself unconscious with paracord around my neck once, but if I was really serious I would've done a better job with the knot. I've gotten cozy with firearms a few times, but I could never pull the trigger. I must not have really meant it. as I have been told. It's all just bullshit, right?

And what I went through wouldn't be considered abuse. It was pretty normal, probably. I'm what's not normal. As far as I can tell, I'm just very sensitive. I connect to things a whole lot more than other do. And others being.. I dunno, clumsy? Everything they do is violating and invalidating. But it's all my fault, I'm just weak. And, I actually looked up what happened to Chester. That's legitimate abuse. That deserves being in pain over. What I went through doesn't count.

And maybe I even really had a chance at connecting with someone. I still don't have a good answer for that one. I couldn't fucking think. Everything was locked off from me. Nothing was allowed. But she really gave me a chance. So I just didn't try hard enough. I should've just not been paralyzed. I should've just not been a piece of shit.

So, it's all my fault really. I don't deserve to be in pain over it. And I was making it all up anyway.

(real pain: https://youtu.be/7NK_JOkuSVY)

* And aside, I remember the meme that Crawling was. And it's only now that he's dead that people take things seriously? Are you just assumed to be lying, exaggerating, until you fucking prove it? And it's.. disgusting? I guess that's how I feel. to see people like 'wow, this feels so different in hindsight' as if screaming "put me out of my fucking misery" for longer than most people are physically capable just wasn't clear enough.

[lovely--lori]

Azrael Clay's criminal record

TW CRIMES, TW CRIMES, TW CRIMES

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Organ trafficking Illegal gambling Terrorism Manslaughter Thievery Enforced suicide Murder By Proxy Vandalism Prostitution Attempted murder Assault Smuggling Goods Drug possession Theft/Obstruction of Criminal Investigation Armed robbery Violation of Firearm Laws/Threatening with a deadly weapon Arson Grave robbing Kidnapping and false imprisonment Unlicensed Surgery Medical Terrorism Piracy Breaking and Entering Credit Fraud and Identity Theft Embezzlement Hit and run Resisting Arrest Shoplifting Blackmailing Framing False Evidence Plagiarism Hitchhiking Bribery Stalking Harassment ———————————————————————————————————— In full, he has done 36 crimes

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